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inbox @ comesailaway
( shiptalk | direct messages | group messages | action )
( shiptalk | direct messages | group messages | action )
( shiptalk | direct messages | group messages | action )
( shiptalk | direct messages | group messages | action )
no subject
i've heard what they call you now.
alright wanheda, savior of us all. but maybe you forgot the last time you were saving us, i was saving you!
you are so out of your league...
clarke buttons her lips. jaw set, teeth grinding. thoughtlessly, a minor mirror as venti reaches to touch his neck, she brings a hand up to cover her mouth. one more blockade against inadvertent admissions, a mild attempt to crush the newest thing that's managed to betray her — her own tongue. then he's suggesting they go inside, and absently she nods in agreement. today's episode in fitness has come to an end, she's cold once the sweat starts to dry and heat just continues streaming from her body in vaporous tendrils. clarke will even lead the charge towards the elevator that will bring them under cover from the (treacherous, evil) rain and down towards warmer, more populated levels of the ship.
and the second the descent starts — )
Please don't ever call me that. ( honest enough imploring, though escaping the rain doesn't lift the curse. this one hour time limit really is going to throw a wrench in the works of figuring out how to avoid horribly uncomfortable conversations like this, and until they do, more truths will slip through the cracks. this time at least, it's only a painfully honest showcase of self loathing. ) I hate it. I hate it so much, and everything I did to earn it.
no subject
jinx had been called powder and threatened to shoot friday. he called clarke wanheda and for the first time...
he'd never seen that look on her face before, it nearly stunned him. of course she is a young mortal girl but it's almost incredible how composed or fierce or in-control she tries to be at all times, and almost all of that crashed entirely when he said her name. on the bright side, it'd snap him out of flirtiness, even as they're both dripping wet and normally he'd be a little more distracted with that. ]
Mm, I understand. I didn't know. But, maybe I should have guessed being called a 'slayer' of anything couldn't be that positive. [ she came from a cruel world after all. it was careless of him but then again when is he not? ] Not to worry, let's simply keep each others' names safely secret. [ as he follows her down, footsteps light, rain dripping off the edge of his cloak. he wonders briefly about whether he could offer it to her maybe just to dry off with, or is that too familiar a gesture or what? he really has to try to be careful around her. at least actions aren't subject to impulse truth. ]
You know... I'm curious about your world and life and story. [ whoops, this is probably something he should hold back from admitting until after a bit of time, to cool it from saying it just now, the name she hates. but maybe a tangent is all right if this counts as that? ] I'm a bard so~ I'll admit as far as I'm concerned, everybody has a unique and song-worthy story to tell, I'd be interested in learning about each one if only I were able. I'm certain this is true for you. You, especially...
I know Mizuki introduced me to you as a source of information. I've probably told more about myself to the both of you than nearly anybody else on the ship except maybe Jinx. [ w h o o p s did not mean to say that either, but oh well. ] It's a little funny, for me... I'd rather not say that much about myself at all. That you know more about me than I know about you is almost unfair! I wonder if we could balance the scales even a little somehow, someday.
[ all this to say, he simply wants to know more about her. that interest could totally be platonic. 100% friendly curiosity. ]
no subject
but ultimately, this is her own mountain of distrust to navigate. and if he did open his big mouth and let it slip, it's not like wanheda has any control over here except maybe making her cry. clarke lets venti just talk himself in casual looping circles for a short while, but at the voiced desire to know more about her homeworld, she just gives a shrug of the shoulders. )
There isn't a lot to tell. Fell to Earth, lost people, bled and fought over land and for the right to exist, went to war over and over again, and in the end none of it even mattered because the world ended. ( even more doggedly, a shake of her head, wet strands of hair slapping softly against her cheeks. ) I only had a year on the ground, Venti. That's not going to compare to your... what, centuries of existence?
no subject
I'm flattered that you think me that! I still have my lovely boyish charm, I see~ [ probably because he hadn't changed form for literally-- ] Two thousand years more than that might be more accurate but maybe I'm just that youthful at heart!
Time itself, living itself for so long brings an erosion to the self that's damnably natural, in my world and probably across realities. [ maybe it shouldn't be an ordeal to someone inhuman. maybe the problem comes when one might be so fond of humans, befriend and get so attached to them and then-- ] But how fiercely and earnestly people live and strive through their life. How creative they can be! Inventing song and art and wine. Then how easily they pass and die... then I just move on, travel across countries, meet more people. It seems I can't help it if I like you so very much and easily.
[ by 'you' he means humanity at large, but ugh these truths really are pouring looser from him, unexpectedly, freely. this really would bite him in the ass when the hour is up... he normally is more secretive about this. but maybe the farther they go from the topic of her name, the better. ]
I think even a year of a person's life could rival a century of mine in worth, I really do. That's why I like learning about people. Even your story so full of hardship and tragedy... it must have been struggle beyond imagining, even to me. Maybe your world really will end and there's nothing to be done. Maybe it's a tale without the barest hope of a good ending.
But you're here now, like providence, appearing here in another realm as questionable as this is. Maybe it's not the end for you. Something can change, right?
[ like a miracle. what gods wrought. ]
no subject
all of these being things she'd been taught as a patchwork sort of history. to live long enough to see them all from infancy to full blown ideas sounds... daunting. to live dozens of lives, grow attached to people and watch them die over and over and over — on the battlefield or safe in their own beds at an old age seems... cruel. death had only touched her in the last two years of her life, and often times that felt like too much to bear.
she has... questions.
aren't you tired of that? the cyclical heartbreak of loss.
aren't you tired? of having to press on after everything you loved has died?
but again venti goes from baring the stitching over his own emotional wounds to tugging on hers, and clarke feels more compelled to rebuke his optimism than chip away at the makeup of his soul. )
This isn't providence, this is purgatory. It wasn't divine intervention that brought us all here, it was one man's selfish quest to become like you.
( only, the rebuttal escalates. )
Only the Captain's got no love for humanity. He doesn't care about our stories, our hurts, or our sacrifices past whatever power they provide him. I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to wake up in another realm either. Especially not to just be faced with the options of being the suffering puppet of a sadist, or fight against the inevitable — at all cost — until I lose whatever scrap of humanity I have left in me.
( she doesn't mean to be yelling at him, but the volume and intensity in her words keep building and building until suddenly she is. there's nothing productive to do with her hands, but the urge to lash out and punch a wall is rising. maybe to spike her water bottle so aggressively into the ground the cap bursts off and further soaks both their feet. but for now, clarke just white knuckles the bottle and gestures sharply in the air with every single point. cracks in her compartmentalization appeared the second he repeated back her title, and now they're just branching out further like spiderwebs. )
But that's where we are! The only difference is I don't know what the hell I'm doing this time. If I did get to choose, between this tortured afterlife and dying alone on a burning planet knowing my friends stood a chance of making it, I'd pick —
( oh shit here comes the unfortunate truth again, because clarke means to say death, each and every time, but. venti is ultimately correct, things can and have changed. and instead of a strained loved poem to suicidal ideation and a tired resignation to death, what bubbles over clarke's lips is a list. )
Natsuno.
And Bellamy, every time.
And Mizuki, and you, and Darcy, and Palamedes, and Fio and Darlington and Diana and — ( what is happening right now? this is the horrible sort of self realization that she even catches as it's spilling out of her but has no real power to stop. ) — even Jade and Friday, Rita Mordio, maybe even Stede Bonnet and Jinx, and — god dammit!
no subject
it's like sitting in a garden and befriending and being attached to flowers, growing and blooming beautifully, then wilting and dying and he still remained there. with a lapful of fading petals and memories of every blossom he met and traveled with and sang to and loved in some way and they are gone. jinx will be gone, clarke will, mizuki will... all of them, within a century or so at most.
but he can't stop caring, even if it's tiring.
and it seems clarke might understand, on a more mortal scale. his smile is softly understanding, if--tired, the weight of years, ages. ]
That's exactly what I feel, too. [ you know what that is for her? growth. ] Exactly so... you said that when death is meaningless, life is worthless, you know I disagreed with that but perhaps you know now, you do too don't you?
If this is purgatory, even if we're all here for some attempted-divine punishment or simply energy for that Captain, isn't it a miracle that we've met some of the most remarkable sinners here? I think, actually, it's a miracle for any of us to meet at all. Out of the infinite realities, we were spirited away here. At the height of my power I would never have been able to meet you or Jinx or Mizuki no matter where I travel or where the winds blow. Even if the Captain doesn't care about us, I do... and you do, and surely all of us do, for each other.
If that care can be stronger than the death and suffering, even through the struggle... I think that would be greater than any divine providence. And you don't need gods to care, that's something I've always admired about people like you. [ he had been mindless, careless wind. it took a single humble bard to teach him about music, love, the world--
the wind wraps around clarke, warm and with that faint scent again of a foreign flower.
and then his cloak also goes around her. well, let's try to dry her. and it'd provide a maybe-more comfortable layer between them when his arms go around her too, the embrace from one god that cares if the attempted-god captain doesn't. ]
no subject
how?
by recognizing it for what it is. weakness.
what is? love?
—
i thought you hated that plan. that i'd get myself killed.
i was being weak.
she's been at war with this idea for the longest time. flip flops on the issue, had decided back on earth that loving and caring for a person was the strongest motivator there was to succeed and survive — maybe the only reason to strive for peace when all odds were stacked against you and suffering seemed immenent. then backslid upon waking up on the ship, alienated from her old friends by distance, death, and entirely different worlds. surrounded by strangers, but painfully alone. had figured it be easier that way, to fight recklessly and with zero regard for her own life (lives, plural) since there was no one here she loved and thus no one here to miss her when she died. but... that hadn't worked out. somewhere along her path of determination, ready to die for all of them, clarke had amassed a small group of people maybe worth... not dying for. not dying because of. she didn't want to see mizuki cry again like that, didn't want to leave natsuno behind to clean up the mess, and wouldn't want venti to mourn or darcy to feel like she failed.
that'd been a difficult pill to swallow. a hard upheaval in reality to accept. her well meant intentions failing, leaving people open to be used against her. and crossing dangerously near the point of willingly giving up any chance of success if it meant sparing them. she didn't want — any of that. for anyone here stupid enough to slot their lives alongside hers and venture into platonic intimacies like love, and care, and respect, and friendship, and trust. because that never, ever worked out well.
venti may be the type to sit in the middle of a garden and watch flowers bloom and wither, but clarke's more in line with the type to accidentally drop a lit match in a pile of brush and burn the whole sanctuary down with herself inside it. she understands, but also recognizes the metaphorical ash coating her hands to be blood, and doesn't want to hurt people like that again. i ruin everything i touch, she'd told him. and then just now proceeded to list out every single person she expects to hurt. )
I didn't — ( mean to build a life with any worth here. but not even the truth curse can push past the way her throat closes around sentiment, that heavy weight of swallowed tears burning deep in her trachea.
there is a desperate internal struggle to reign back in the outpouring of emotion; to patch the spiderweb of cracks in her composure and get back to the baseline of the pragmatic warrior that smothered the teenaged girl in her soul. but it's distracted when that gradually familiarizing scent of flowers sweeps beneath her nose, and the weight of fabric falls around her shoulders. then completely undermined when venti moves in to give her a hug and just —
if clarke were to ever understand what it felt like when mizuki glitched in and out of reality, this would be it. it's like every nerve ending is on fire, there's warring wants: to shove him away and to fall into tactile comfort like she'd fallen into bedsheets before. she wants to silently wallow in her familiar misery, and she wants to argue with every point venti'd spelled out, and she wants to fight, and she wants to cry. and she also wants to hug him back, twist the fabric of his ridiculous tunic between her fingers like a drowning man claws at a life ring. but her hands just twitch at her sides. )
Just because I don't need a god doesn't mean I didn't want one.
( where's the line between a forced admittance and an actual, genuine moment here? they're the same height, in the end it takes only the slightest drop of her head to slot her chin onto his shoulders. )
I'm so — ( angry, mad, furious, sad, lonely. ) — scared, Venti. All the time.
no subject
but that face, after he'd said her name, the unbidden truths that pour from both of them... he means everything of course and she must too. some of this honesty even he would try to be a little secretive about even when he's this bleeding heart and means every word, and apparently she would hide so much more.
baring truths like this is exactly the kind of confession of the painful inner self that is a connection to god. and he was a god who always welcomed and tried to guide the wretched, the lost, the oppressed, towards freedom. he hums almost hymnal as his hand goes to her hair in a gentle stroke, the gentle guide of her towards him. ] Mm, I know.
The truth is--me too. I've been uneasy, afraid, since perhaps the moment I was brought here as well. [ even after losing his godhood, the fact that a greater power than him could so easily capture him and trap him here in this realm... it unnerves him fundamentally even while he laughs and sings and drinks. ] See now, you surely aren't alone. All of us here are on the same boat, literally, it seems...
Clarke, perhaps you thought yourself and your world forsaken by God. Whether they abandoned you in your reality or their vision is cruel, you're here now and if you wish--
Place your faith unto me. [ and again there's the glow of his eyes, distant as clouds, the light of it touches the tips of his braids abreeze in the wind. his gaze to her as intent as the fathomless sky. ] We know each others' names. My stormeye is at your call. I could show you prayer to me, our hymns for freedom.
If you so want to believe, I'll give you something to believe in. The sky, my wings, so long as the wind blows.
[ of course it's a great idea to believe in the flightiest of gods, the weakest of them back in his own world. as reliable as a spring or summer rainstorm. the reliability of unreliability of weather and sky. she might prefer the steadfast of rock, foundation and stability, or the swift power and sharp cut of lightning of which few of anything could withstand in the world.
the caprice of a god who can actually barely be tied to a single person, and it's damning of him how he wants to comfort her again like he had, until she could vent stress and frustration on his fingers or tongue. and he wants, just as much if not more than her--her faith. ]
no subject
any flaw in this idea. any trapdoor in this invitation. any indication of terms and conditions. any slip of a micro expression, any blood-red flag on the playing field, anything, and hint of impending betrayal laced in warm words and pretty promises.. )
...I don't know if I really wanted religion, or if I was just hoping belief would make you strong enough to contain the Captain. To kill him. ( another bout of raw honesty she'd rather have kept to herself, but at the same time was that ever much of a secret? he's not that much of an idiot, and she is that much of a coldhearted pragmatist. but cursed or otherwise, clarke can't admit to thoughts she hasn't even fully come around to asking herself yet — why can't it be both? ) But I'd try it. There's nothing I could lose in believing in you, is there? I want to.
But I don't think I'm allowed to be around you. ( societal rules, that tight hand of guilt fisted around her lungs and constricting every time she looks at — ) I don't want to upset Mizuki.
no subject
[ there are awful or self-pitying or pathetic truths that might as well be lining up in the back of his mind or on his tongue right now. he doesn't think himself fit for love at all. he feels happiest, or most comfortable anyway, with temporary little flings. something as committal as 'love' makes him so nervous he wants to fly instantly and it's only after making mizuki so fucking miserable that he's finally trying to stop. mistakes after mistakes after mistakes... and craving faith from clarke might well be the most selfish thing he could want for himself. ]
Clarke, I won't be strong enough to kill the Captain. [ well, he's 99.9999% sure of this anyway. look at him, he's a silly green bard twink... he draws back from the embrace at least, takes more light steps back because she's right, he does have to put distance between them more. if there's a primal god's instinct to be close to a follower, he'd fallen to it. ] I hope that I'll be strong enough to overpower him if he's smoke. But, well...
You know, I've never asked people to pray to me. Mondstadt practically built religion from the ground up, with no input from me when I so rarely appeared. Even if you have no experience with it... even you should know, power is not something so easily received just by wishing for it. There are lots of different reasons why people believed in me. Some to pray for good weather for travel or farming or their livelihood. Some to respect Mondstadt's history, how I helped fight and win our freedom. A lot of people just live life without believing in me much at all and that's fine with me. And some people I think...
Some just wanted to believe there was someone out there who would listen to them, even if I never responded. [ whether he even existed or not--and those prayers are almost less for him than they would be for the followers themselves. ] There are a lot of different reasons why people believe. You could think over what yours might be... I'd be fine with whichever, or if you change your mind in believing in me at all.
[ that's the freedom and independence he values, maybe even more than faith. ]
no subject
(she misses it the second it's gone, but — ) )
Not alone, maybe. ( not that she could do much against smoke, and maybe even the boon of belief wouldn't be enough of a buff to allow him to deal a killing blow. but none of them are truly alone in this fight, right? alliance could be made — are already cemented, or in the making — and the extent of clarke griffin's optimism is that maybe, somehow, if forces joined in the heat of the moment, they'd be able to overwhelm by sheer force of will... and if they fail, they don't fail alone. the sentiment is unchanged regardless of the outcome.
venti moves on however, gives a lists of reasons his people prayed to him, and most of it just evokes small, dismissive shakes of her head. praying for a harvest has no worth here, the weather is beyond their control, travel is at the whim of the captain. this isn't mondstadt, and his loose agreement to the cause of overthrowing their captor here had yet to be fulfilled. not believing in him isn't an option anymore, she'd been blanketed in his wings and made that choice in a heartbeat. but that other one, the idea of never being alone, no matter how distant...
that snags at another deep, unearthed want — no, need; selfish, inherently human, desperate need — that she fights against almost every single day. truth can't be forced when internal truth hasn't even been realized yet, can it? apparently not, because clarke just lets out a breath she's held for too long in a sharp exhale. a sigh. )
I'll think on it, then. ( but in the meantime — ) Can I still hear one of your hymnals?
no subject
there are wishes for gods as well and that's what his might be. if he knew how to save them and her, here in this realm...
he landed into godhood but he chose to be a musician. and therefore how much easier it is to answer a request for a song--he taps a hand to his chest, the wind wraps around him and her both as he sings in a more ancient language, one that would be even archaic and untranslated by all but the most studious in deep history in his own country. while the melody familiar to all, the lyrics were in the tongue of lost time and sacred winds. ]
When flowers bloom, when leaves sway
That is me who sings the songs of freedom, of the winds
When lost winds blow walls of storms astray
That is my voice singing the wishes of time to unbind
Listen, to one day free yourself
[ she's right, that he shouldn't be around her. by now he's forgotten entirely her offer to remove whatever picture there was, when this... isn't quite absolution to a god, but almost a spark of purpose again, if he could give direction to a follower however vague. this a choiral song often repeated in his church with varying mantras in prayer, the one he recites is a more ancient verse from centuries past. he offers it to her now--the wish he had that humanity could free themselves, that he would be there as a seed of hope, a tailwind that would turn the tide. ]
no subject
but in the moment — that swirl of wind is just as fully distracting as always. then in the same beat, venti begins to sing in answer to her request.
they're beautiful words, no matter the disconnect between languages. she doesn't know what he's truly singing about, yet listens intently as if she might be able to parse out meanings in a different language she's unfamiliar with. mostly clarke just watches venti's face as he projects the aria in an enclosed space, and when the intoxicating strains of song fade, she has questions.
she always has questions, doesn't she. )
It's beautiful but... what does it mean?
no subject
It's a song of faith, mutual faith between my followers and myself. All gods have different values and mine is...
What I treasure most in the world is freedom. Long ago I fought alongside people to free from the tyranny of the storms, and when I turned god I would blow the neverending winter away to bring flowers and spring. But the struggle was a mutual one with my countrymen. So my wish that I carry with the winds of time, even if I leave the country for so long, is that my people could set each other free with my blessing. That's the hope and prayer that I sing, in that hymn.
I could teach it to you, and songs of prayer, and belief. [ oh, how he wants. he'd fallen from godhood. he'd been spirited away from his homeland. the wishes and voices and faith from his church and people have disappeared, like he has appeared in a windless land--or, this one where the winds are foreign to him.
his hand alights to the top of her head, but only briefly, featherlight. like he had back when he'd found himself in her room, and then-- ]
... But perhaps not in person. [ no, he really shouldn't be around her. ]
no subject
not that clarke's forgotten, she'd been the one to recently interject the idea of a need for space. but in this moment, coming down of the scent of foreign flowers and uncut oxygen whipping around them both in pleasant gusts of wind, well. that's like a bitterly cold splash of water to the face when she'd just been musing over the warm meanings of his song. )
...right.
( i think i originally wrote they took the elevator but this conversation is long af and better suited for a staircase so that's where we are now. magically. and clarke's now glancing towards the descending steps towards the next level specific door. they should... probably part ways. she even opens her mouth to offer some immediate excuse — she's got to go talk to another friend, or suddenly remembered needing to pick something up from somewhere. it would have been a lie artfully crafted too, not that it matters because what comes out of her mouth is — )
I resent that it's like this now. But it's for the best, for most of the people involved. Right?
( none the wiser of what exactly she'd just said, but at least confident in the closing argument vibe being projected, clarke gives a low effort nod. an i understand, because physical motion isn't impeded by the curse. then slides sideways to walk around him and grab hold of the railing and trot down a step. )
You know where to find — ( brain go truth brrr, tongue go waaaah ) — and how to avoid me.
no subject
gods of other worlds could possibly take what they want from people carelessly as higher powers apart from humanity. he'd always admired people enough to try to live as one for so long but playing by human rules could still be so tricky... he's the type to naturally, easily be fond of and affectionate to others. jinx, mizuki, clarke in the new light brought upon with faith. his laugh is a bit strained, there's a pang to him as well when, ] Mm, well as I said, I already know I'm not fit to be with anyone in a real way. [ mizuki apparently wants to play relationships on hard mode, or even lunatic mode, in two different and opposite routes. ] I don't want to say I'm sorry for being with you, I liked it. [ and then, a somewhat rueful smile as he averts his eyes, he didn't even satisfy himself but even so, ] I'm glad if I could satisfy your frustration even a little, for a night.
And I'm glad if you don't resent me... too much.
[ it'd already been difficult enough having his friendship break with jinx, his relationship suffering with mizuki. the difficulty of being so fond of mortals and when they too might be attached to him back it could only cause problems. ]
I'll talk to you another time, Clarke. [ just, likely, not in person. the wind runs through her hair once more as he gives a little wave; the next she looks away he'd be gone. ]
no subject
that he's gone before she can let slip anything so incriminating as i liked it too. like that wasn't prevalent in her stutter-stop forced truths centered around earlier i want statements.
that he's gone before she can rail on a tangent of healthy relationship dynamics, climb up on her psychological soapbox despite having never been in one. rage against this messy polycule on the basis that there can't be true harmony once there's been murder. that fighting against one's true nature and attempting to stuff yourself into a box never did anyone any measure of kindness. it's not even about chipping away at their relationship until she gets a firmer handhold on both mizuki and venti, it's that this amalgamation of guilt and feeling cut off from what she'd hoped to pursue as a power source has been corrupted by personal drama is putting a serious cramp in her plans.
that he's gone before she can turn around and say i'm still so fucking frustrated. and thus clarke's only left muttering that particular confession to a relatively empty stairwell.
then, even quieter: )
Bye, Venti.
( like that's the end of it. of this, all of it. at least in the moment, she means it to be. )