[He opens his mouth, closes his mouth. Those vivid eyes cloud over a little as he casts it down at the floor. Why didn't he tell them? It's a good question, and one that he brushed aside, again and again.]
[He grimaces.]
...I suppose...I was too happy with that pretend scenario. Where I was simply a caretaker. I didn't...want to be hated. As much I knew I deserved to be.
[ He leaned back slightly, an arm behind him to keep him up. He looked him up and down with that unwavering, eerie gaze of his own.
He's probably the wrong person to admit to being hated to. Silco has accepted being hated, and hating in turn. It's the way of things. It's the only way to live, to survive. Is to not care about what others think. Not worry about who hates you because of a few acts. ]
Why do you think you deserve it? Because you're a killer?
...I sought a sort of redemption in them, perhaps. A hope for the future. My garden to tend in a world that deserved to be razed.
[Again, those same thoughts come forth, unbidden, like a beating heart:]
[Since when did I begin to experience that feeling called guilt? Since when did I lose the place where I could let my head down? No longer do I have the strength to move. Only now do I realize that this life of playing house may have been my final struggle to protect my soul, to stop the guilt from consuming me. Because I know that the place I'm bound for will be too much for me.]
[He shakes his head, a hand moving up to brush through some of his bangs, back over his head.]
I hate that City. But in turn my sins keep the blood flowing that keeps it alive. In the end, I have perpetuated...too much to be forgiven.
Hm. [ He watches him brush his bangs back, leaving him under that constant, unwavering gaze. ]
I always thought that raising a child in a place so cruel was an act of defiance. To make something despite the filth that trickles down to consume everything, swallow us in all of its misery.
[ It's funny, how similar their stories are, their cities. Certainly, Vergilius has killed more than him directly, but he does not doubt that shimmer and his quest for full control of the undercity was a path of blood as well. Worthwhile blood, blood spilled for the cause, but blood nonetheless. Was it because there was a reason for what he did, that he did not feel guilt? Had he been a different man β the man he'd been back then β would he feel that same guilt settling like a too-heavy blanket?
Could he find a way to ease it? What good was guilt, if it served no purpose? What good did it serve? What point did it have? ]
Do you need to be? [ He asked, finally, a long moment of consideration, watching him, thinking. Like those gears turning in his head. ] If you had resisted, or been a different person, would the City be different?
Or would it have found a crueler man than you to fill its place?
[But that last part. Now there's a thought. He glances up at that, a little surprised. Because yes, there could always be someone to take his place. Someone with a pitch-black heart who was unaware of the sea of blood.]
[Does he need to be forgiven? No, not especially. But it is about his own world, his own paradoxically selfish soul. He is the perpetrator of hell for himself and everyone around him.]
[He scoffs.]
You know, I'm one of the cruelest there is. A monster who feels remorse is worse, you know.
[ He doesn't disagree. How could he, when he knew what kind of a monster came from someone who felt remorse for what they did? Who knew it was wrong, but did it anyway?
But was it wrong? That's what he wanted to know. Was it wrong to kill? Did he feel remorse because he felt that killing was wrong β or because the guilt made it easier? What would he be without that guilt? Would he be a monster, or just a man? He wished he could turn him inside out, and see what was inside, what made him like this. ]
Do you think that bothers me? [ Ah, but perhaps... ] How does a man like you end up in this predicament?
It's not about you, Silco. I could care less if it did.
[He says, both chiding and said out of a little exhaustion. This man does want to pull him apart. He has to keep reminding himself of that, lest he only follow his own emotions to feel like they're on the same level.]
[This man turned him into a vampire. He has to pinch himself with that fact time and time again.]
...I can't give you some nice neat answer. And even if I could, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction.
[ Despite being so spooked in the hallway, Silco only stared at him in that odd way he did, silent for a long moment, his two-toned gaze evaluating. Like he was reading the situation, or trying to read something out of him.
He does want to pull him apart. That hasn't changed. If anything, knowing more just makes him more curious, more driven to get his bony fingers beneath his skin and tug him open. Like he's looking to crack him open to find the meat inside to pull it out and reshape him.
All he had to do was let him.]
So? Don't give me the neat answer. If I were interested in tidy stories, would I tell you mine, raw wound as it is?
[ Devoid of context though it was, but still, he pushed, not swayed by being brushed off. Sorry, Vergilius, he has the scent of you now.]
[sometimes the specifics of your backstory are still obscure sorry silco the story is cucking you]
[But Silco's insistence brushes over him roughly, and his lip pulls back. A mark of aggrievance. He will resist him, no matter what. He has to.]
[This man can't control him, shouldn't control him, even though...he fails more often than not.]
All I will say is that I made a promise to an old friend a long time ago, when these eyes weren't red. A promise to make a paradise. Perhaps that's the reason. I won't share any more to sate your appetite. But to answer your question directly...I don't know when this guilt started.
[ It's not really a laugh. It's that same bitter little thing, seeing that way their two pieces fit together, two stories that were both so different, and yet time and time again they kept finding places where they matched up. Synced.
Itβs what keeps drawing him in, to find those odd spaces where two different puzzles could be linked together, if they compared the way they would line up. Like a story that matched up just enough would make it all that much easier to peel understanding out of him.]
Promises like that cut as much as they build, don't they? [ Again, that unblinking gaze meets his. So his eyes weren't always that color?
What a curious thing. What a curious man he was. ]
And yet. Paradise, a new nation, it doesn't matter what it is, does it? There is always something that seems to get in the way. No matter what we promise.
[ That's what it took, though, wasn't it? It wasn't kindness, camaraderie, or even community building that did it. Nothing but that base violence, a shock to the system violent enough that there would be no coming back. Change did not happen slowly, or gradually. He knew that better than anyone.
He met his eyes right back, that old, unblinking stare β that pit of an eye looks like pooling toxins in dark water. ]
Freedom, a nation of our own. Maybe not paradise, but... [ A small shrug of one shoulder. ] As close as a bunch of Trenchers could get.
Of course you haven't. That wouldn't be like you if you did.
[Because as much as he knows Silco, the man is determined to a fault. A creature of skin and bones ready to bite the throats of anyone who stood in his way. Only great tragedy could create a thing like that. A man like that.]
[His eye is inhuman. Vergilius doesn't say his own eyes are even more so, literally.]
He doesn't look away at the question itself, but they look his face over, darting as if he's looking for a spot of weakness, or maybe just a way in which he falters, even slightly. He doesn't find it, so he meets his eyes again. ]
If I thought it necessary, of course. [ He didn't think it would be. ] Wouldn't you?
I would. But only when I have succeeded. If you die before anything has been accomplished...
[A pause. The red moves downwards, but there's a bite of anger to it. No, he would rage. He would do so until he could confirm that paradise, as horrible as it may be.]
[ Verg, you literally can't say stuff like that to him. what the heck. ]
[ He was fighting too, but more than that, he understood. A fight like this required a monster, a beast willing to fight tooth claw and nail to make it there. No, there were no easy victories to be found, or compromises to be made. If it could be achieved, it would be paid for in blood. If blood was needed to flood the streets, power the engines, or even drown those that refused to make it happen?
Then blood it would take. A twitch of his lips. He respects him for that. ]
There wouldn't be one.
Give up everything for nothing? It's a poor deal, isn't it? You don't seem the type to make poor ones.
[See, this is the pitfall. Silco sees this, and understands. Explicitly, implicitly.]
[Silco can be a mirror sometimes, and it scares him, how well the reflection fits. The love for a child, the willingness to commit atrocity after atrocity without end.]
[He sighs, and it sounds like it belongs to someone who has lived through a thousand lifetimes. In a sense, maybe he has.]
So you see. You have to keep...following the flow. To its bitter end. Without rest. Without...obstacle. No matter whose death unfolds before me...I have resolved to walk down this path.
[ It's rhetorical. He shifted on his bed, leaned forward. His hands clasped before him, resting his elbows on his long, skinny legs. He looked smaller like that, but he didn't lack for intensity, even like this. Even small, almost turning in on himself. ]
No matter what the price?
[ He understands, in some way. Vergilius says he feels guilt, and perhaps he does. Does that make it bearable? The sacrifice needed? Perhaps it does. Perhaps without it his shoulders would cave from the weight. Perhaps he hasn't had everything truly ripped out from him fully yet.
Maybe he never would. Maybe Silco would try, to see the monster inside. Does it weaken him, this guilt? Does it stay his hand? (Silco, it should be noted, lacks the self-reflection to think that this would also keep him alive.) ]
We called it the base violence necessary for change. Without the fire, you cannot build something from the ashes. Without the wreckage, you cannot find growth in the rubble.
[He knows. That's why that voice had told him as much. That his "paradise" would ask for more blood than he had ever spilled in his entire life. Could he be strong enough for such a path? He was ready for it. Until a young woman came to him, holding a brilliant red gem...]
[He was close. Too close. And it terrifies him, perhaps, deep down, that he's capable of such a thing. But it would need to be done. If his children could not be saved....]
[Then that would be that.]
[Silco understood that, too.]
I know, Silco. I told you as much, before. In that maze.
[ Vergilius likes to take the wind out of his sails when it comes to his monologues. At least Jinx listens do them. And does the 'hand talking' thing but w/e ]
I know.
[ His eyes shift to the rest of the room, and then back to him. That felt longer ago than he would care to admit. When he'd... hm. Been so bold as to hold his hand, talking about ending the world. The possibility of such destruction still fresh in his mind, a nascent possibility that withered and died on the vine. ]
Do you think you will find it? The end of all of your fighting?
[ Was he tired? Silco refused to think of himself as tired, or worn. Would Vergilius? ]
This was where they differed, he supposed. When push came to shove, Silco knew what he would choose. When push came to shove, when he had to make a choice...
He hadn't cared about Zaun, in Kenos. It had been nothing when compared to his daughter. He would never have fought to bring it back without her.
Were his goals in alignment? He wondered... ]
What would you do... if your flow led you to an intersection? The paradise you want to build, or... them?
[As automatic as anything. Not even any hesitation.]
I did reach that crossroads. I was ready to move forward, but...
[His gaze dips to his own feet, welled with sorrow.]
She appeared, barely the same person she had been before because of the experiments she had been put through. And in her hands, she held up a brilliant red gem. Both of them, changed forever, and....my heart moved. It was like a lighthouse...a single moment of hope. And I have followed it for the chance they may return to me again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[Trying to save them all with the very thing that took away their lives.]
[He can't even begin to imagine what a child like that would feel. And now, that brings him to the question:]
Did you tell her...what you did?
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[ It was Silco, after all. It would never have been fair. But also... vander is frankly huge. So. Can anyone blame him?]
Yes, of course. She was well aware of who I was and what I had done, but it didn't stop her from reaching out to me.
[ A beat. ]
It's why I'm surprised that you didn't tell your kids what you did.
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[He opens his mouth, closes his mouth. Those vivid eyes cloud over a little as he casts it down at the floor. Why didn't he tell them? It's a good question, and one that he brushed aside, again and again.]
[He grimaces.]
...I suppose...I was too happy with that pretend scenario. Where I was simply a caretaker. I didn't...want to be hated. As much I knew I deserved to be.
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[ He leaned back slightly, an arm behind him to keep him up. He looked him up and down with that unwavering, eerie gaze of his own.
He's probably the wrong person to admit to being hated to. Silco has accepted being hated, and hating in turn. It's the way of things. It's the only way to live, to survive. Is to not care about what others think. Not worry about who hates you because of a few acts. ]
Why do you think you deserve it? Because you're a killer?
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[Again, those same thoughts come forth, unbidden, like a beating heart:]
[Since when did I begin to experience that feeling called guilt?
Since when did I lose the place where I could let my head down? No longer do I have the strength to move. Only now do I realize that this life of playing house may have been my final struggle to protect my soul, to stop the guilt from consuming me.
Because I know that the place I'm bound for will be too much for me.]
[He shakes his head, a hand moving up to brush through some of his bangs, back over his head.]
I hate that City. But in turn my sins keep the blood flowing that keeps it alive. In the end, I have perpetuated...too much to be forgiven.
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I always thought that raising a child in a place so cruel was an act of defiance. To make something despite the filth that trickles down to consume everything, swallow us in all of its misery.
[ It's funny, how similar their stories are, their cities. Certainly, Vergilius has killed more than him directly, but he does not doubt that shimmer and his quest for full control of the undercity was a path of blood as well. Worthwhile blood, blood spilled for the cause, but blood nonetheless. Was it because there was a reason for what he did, that he did not feel guilt? Had he been a different man β the man he'd been back then β would he feel that same guilt settling like a too-heavy blanket?
Could he find a way to ease it? What good was guilt, if it served no purpose? What good did it serve? What point did it have? ]
Do you need to be? [ He asked, finally, a long moment of consideration, watching him, thinking. Like those gears turning in his head. ] If you had resisted, or been a different person, would the City be different?
Or would it have found a crueler man than you to fill its place?
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[But that last part. Now there's a thought. He glances up at that, a little surprised. Because yes, there could always be someone to take his place. Someone with a pitch-black heart who was unaware of the sea of blood.]
[Does he need to be forgiven? No, not especially. But it is about his own world, his own paradoxically selfish soul. He is the perpetrator of hell for himself and everyone around him.]
[He scoffs.]
You know, I'm one of the cruelest there is. A monster who feels remorse is worse, you know.
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[ He doesn't disagree. How could he, when he knew what kind of a monster came from someone who felt remorse for what they did? Who knew it was wrong, but did it anyway?
But was it wrong? That's what he wanted to know. Was it wrong to kill? Did he feel remorse because he felt that killing was wrong β or because the guilt made it easier? What would he be without that guilt? Would he be a monster, or just a man? He wished he could turn him inside out, and see what was inside, what made him like this. ]
Do you think that bothers me? [ Ah, but perhaps... ] How does a man like you end up in this predicament?
[ He can't imagine anyone forcing his hand. ]
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[He says, both chiding and said out of a little exhaustion. This man does want to pull him apart. He has to keep reminding himself of that, lest he only follow his own emotions to feel like they're on the same level.]
[This man turned him into a vampire. He has to pinch himself with that fact time and time again.]
...I can't give you some nice neat answer. And even if I could, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction.
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He does want to pull him apart. That hasn't changed. If anything, knowing more just makes him more curious, more driven to get his bony fingers beneath his skin and tug him open. Like he's looking to crack him open to find the meat inside to pull it out and reshape him.
All he had to do was let him.]
So? Don't give me the neat answer. If I were interested in tidy stories, would I tell you mine, raw wound as it is?
[ Devoid of context though it was, but still, he pushed, not swayed by being brushed off. Sorry, Vergilius, he has the scent of you now.]
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[
sometimes the specifics of your backstory are still obscure sorry silco the story is cucking you][But Silco's insistence brushes over him roughly, and his lip pulls back. A mark of aggrievance. He will resist him, no matter what. He has to.]
[This man can't control him, shouldn't control him, even though...he fails more often than not.]
All I will say is that I made a promise to an old friend a long time ago, when these eyes weren't red. A promise to make a paradise. Perhaps that's the reason. I won't share any more to sate your appetite. But to answer your question directly...I don't know when this guilt started.
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[ It's not really a laugh. It's that same bitter little thing, seeing that way their two pieces fit together, two stories that were both so different, and yet time and time again they kept finding places where they matched up. Synced.
Itβs what keeps drawing him in, to find those odd spaces where two different puzzles could be linked together, if they compared the way they would line up. Like a story that matched up just enough would make it all that much easier to peel understanding out of him.]
Promises like that cut as much as they build, don't they? [ Again, that unblinking gaze meets his. So his eyes weren't always that color?
What a curious thing. What a curious man he was. ]
And yet. Paradise, a new nation, it doesn't matter what it is, does it? There is always something that seems to get in the way. No matter what we promise.
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[Its like fighting against the tide. Sink or swim. And even swimming can take you too far.]
[To achieve the paradise he wanted, he would have to be the biggest monster of them all.]
[He meets his gaze, something a little harder in them now.]
...What did you promise, Silco?
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He met his eyes right back, that old, unblinking stare β that pit of an eye looks like pooling toxins in dark water. ]
Freedom, a nation of our own. Maybe not paradise, but... [ A small shrug of one shoulder. ] As close as a bunch of Trenchers could get.
[ It would have been enough. Even just that. ]
I still haven't given up on it.
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[Because as much as he knows Silco, the man is determined to a fault. A creature of skin and bones ready to bite the throats of anyone who stood in his way. Only great tragedy could create a thing like that. A man like that.]
[His eye is inhuman. Vergilius doesn't say his own eyes are even more so, literally.]
...Would you die for your dream?
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[ He's not wrong, at least.
He doesn't look away at the question itself, but they look his face over, darting as if he's looking for a spot of weakness, or maybe just a way in which he falters, even slightly. He doesn't find it, so he meets his eyes again. ]
If I thought it necessary, of course. [ He didn't think it would be. ] Wouldn't you?
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[A pause. The red moves downwards, but there's a bite of anger to it. No, he would rage. He would do so until he could confirm that paradise, as horrible as it may be.]
Then what would be the point?
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[ He was fighting too, but more than that, he understood. A fight like this required a monster, a beast willing to fight tooth claw and nail to make it there. No, there were no easy victories to be found, or compromises to be made. If it could be achieved, it would be paid for in blood. If blood was needed to flood the streets, power the engines, or even drown those that refused to make it happen?
Then blood it would take. A twitch of his lips. He respects him for that. ]
There wouldn't be one.
Give up everything for nothing? It's a poor deal, isn't it? You don't seem the type to make poor ones.
No, it would be an insult.
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[Silco can be a mirror sometimes, and it scares him, how well the reflection fits. The love for a child, the willingness to commit atrocity after atrocity without end.]
[He sighs, and it sounds like it belongs to someone who has lived through a thousand lifetimes. In a sense, maybe he has.]
So you see. You have to keep...following the flow. To its bitter end. Without rest. Without...obstacle. No matter whose death unfolds before me...I have resolved to walk down this path.
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[ It's rhetorical. He shifted on his bed, leaned forward. His hands clasped before him, resting his elbows on his long, skinny legs. He looked smaller like that, but he didn't lack for intensity, even like this. Even small, almost turning in on himself. ]
No matter what the price?
[ He understands, in some way. Vergilius says he feels guilt, and perhaps he does. Does that make it bearable? The sacrifice needed? Perhaps it does. Perhaps without it his shoulders would cave from the weight. Perhaps he hasn't had everything truly ripped out from him fully yet.
Maybe he never would. Maybe Silco would try, to see the monster inside. Does it weaken him, this guilt? Does it stay his hand? (Silco, it should be noted, lacks the self-reflection to think that this would also keep him alive.) ]
We called it the base violence necessary for change. Without the fire, you cannot build something from the ashes. Without the wreckage, you cannot find growth in the rubble.
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[He knows. That's why that voice had told him as much. That his "paradise" would ask for more blood than he had ever spilled in his entire life. Could he be strong enough for such a path? He was ready for it. Until a young woman came to him, holding a brilliant red gem...]
[He was close. Too close. And it terrifies him, perhaps, deep down, that he's capable of such a thing. But it would need to be done. If his children could not be saved....]
[Then that would be that.]
[Silco understood that, too.]
I know, Silco. I told you as much, before. In that maze.
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I know.
[ His eyes shift to the rest of the room, and then back to him. That felt longer ago than he would care to admit. When he'd... hm. Been so bold as to hold his hand, talking about ending the world. The possibility of such destruction still fresh in his mind, a nascent possibility that withered and died on the vine. ]
Do you think you will find it? The end of all of your fighting?
[ Was he tired? Silco refused to think of himself as tired, or worn. Would Vergilius? ]
Is it nearly in your hands, yet?
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[He was tired, but....it was more of a weariness of the City.]
[Tired about his goal? The effort he would need to get there? No.]
[Not a chance.]
I'm not close, but...as we descend into the Inferno...I hope that flow of mine will lead me true.
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This was where they differed, he supposed. When push came to shove, Silco knew what he would choose. When push came to shove, when he had to make a choice...
He hadn't cared about Zaun, in Kenos. It had been nothing when compared to his daughter. He would never have fought to bring it back without her.
Were his goals in alignment? He wondered... ]
What would you do... if your flow led you to an intersection? The paradise you want to build, or... them?
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[As automatic as anything. Not even any hesitation.]
I did reach that crossroads. I was ready to move forward, but...
[His gaze dips to his own feet, welled with sorrow.]
She appeared, barely the same person she had been before because of the experiments she had been put through. And in her hands, she held up a brilliant red gem. Both of them, changed forever, and....my heart moved. It was like a lighthouse...a single moment of hope. And I have followed it for the chance they may return to me again.
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normal...........................
so Normal
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π
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