uprisings | ya’aburnee

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ya’aburnee

[So first, a timeline of things that may or may not be important]

[At thirteen, he meets his future matesprit for the first time. A sweep later they have won each other, and they are sure they will burn a path through the world. Or, he is sure anyway. Mindfang has the good graces to never tell him how it ends]

[At sixteen, he lets his hair go black again. The upkeep is too much effort lately, and time seems cut suddenly short. Nights pass him by with a sort of startling ease. The daymares catch him up more and more, and his body aches in the moments before the dawn. His faith in the revolution is still absolutely unshakeable]

[Twenty sweeps and an assassination is attempted. He nearly dies, but doesn't. The knife scar stands in sharp relief against his otherwise unmarked throat]

[He finds out his matesprit has betrayed him, and he loses hundreds for his trust. Twenty-three, and he remembers the feeling of the lance through her chest until the day he dies. A perigee later, he gets reckless and angry, tries to rip apart an entire platoon with his bare hands. He's struck across the face for his trouble, and once he wakes from the deep coma they put him in, he is left with a long scar that arcs up his cheek, through his eye and over his temple to break against his horn. He wears it like a trophy]

[But he never recovers completely. The revolution limps on for a sweep. Two. He loses the curve of one of his horns in battle, age turning them brittle enough to snap]

[And through all of these things, there has been a single person by his side. His moirail. A redblooded woman who remains young despite the sweeps and sweeps that have passed since he first met her. It is something he relies on. Her consistencies. She is always so pretty, and she comes most often when he is alone, so tonight he takes a walk out, wandering slowly through the hills that surround their current encampment]

[He has known this particular night was coming for a long long time, of course. If he's truly honest with himself, he expected it sooner then this. Amazing they got even two sweeps out of it, but he hardly knows who to credit for their tenacity anymore. He hardly remembers the days when he carried this entire, messy thing on his shoulders. They seem like better times. He doesn't like to think about it...]

[But there is something in the air tonight. A sullen quiet that hangs around his shoulders. He knows. He finds a the highest hill he can, sits in the grass at the top of it and waits, watching the moons and listening to the breeze. It would be very nice to see her one more time before he goes to die]

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[It could have come much more quickly than this, and honestly, she's toyed with the timelines more than once in an attempt to save him. Send him into exile, maybe, but spare his life. Every time Lord English finds out, as he always does, and every time the Summoner's exile ends in the unintended outcome. So he tells her to do it over and over and over again, until finally she resigns herself to the fact that he will never get out of this alive, just like she will never escape her fate.

More than a few times she considers stealing him away, hiding out somewhere in the middle of nowhere far in the past, or maybe the future. But Lord English would find her. He always knows where to find her, which is why she's forced to keep her meetings with the Summoner relatively short. A few hours won't pique Lord English's interest, but a few days will. She's kept her moirallegiance a secret for sweeps, though, more to keep the Summoner safe than herself. She figures that maybe, after his execution, she can let the whole thing slip and he'll finally kill her for her insolence.

But right now, all the Handmaid's thoughts are of her moirail, who seems to look more frail and weak every time she sees him. Somehow, the speed of his aging is more shocking to her than any other troll's. She hesitates as she approaches, again considering that maybe, just maybe she could whisk him away, find some way to protect him. But she doubts he'd want that anyway.

She reaches for his hand as she sits beside him, but stays silent. What is there to really say?]

[Indeed there really isn't... much to say. Not yet. He can tell from her silence that she already knows. Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe she has some other bit of bad news for him. He never really knows with her, and it has taken him quite some time to get used to the way she seems to be a step ahead of him...]

[When he sees her, he smiles wide enough that he looks... young again. Or younger at least, and really only on the side of his face that isn't scarred all to hell, but it's something anyway. He takes her hand once she's settled, drawing a circle into her palm, pressing his thumb up against her pulse. It's an old habit, checking for her heartbeat, one he has never been able to break. He has to reassure himself she is real, ever since he realized she wasn't aging, even if now maybe he doesn't care so much. She may be some delusion, but he isn't alone. That is enough]

[He lets the silence drag on for a good long while, only interrupting once to point up out a little cluster of stars that form the twin arcs of the Handmaid's symbol. And he laughs faintly, sadly, because he remembers doing this with her when they had first met - he, pointing out shapes in the stars, and she, scoffing for his childishness - better then he remembers what happened yesterday. He is just... old and tired, and normally he hates to be reminded of these things, but it's not quite so terrible when she is there]

[His voice is a faint, dry rasp when he finally does break the silence, squeezing her hand slightly]

There's something in the air tonight, my dear.

[Her heart aches when he points out the constellation, and suddenly she has to fight the urge to cry. She settles against him, taking her time as she struggles to regain control of her voice.]

Is there?

Mmhm. [He leans against her as well, turning enough to kiss the top of her head before returning his gaze to the sky]

I think we're coming to the, end of things. [...he doesn't stutter so much anymore, but he can't help the odd hitch in his voice this time. God damn, he had had so many plans... There's so much he still wants, not least the chance to see her again. One more time...]

[But that's silly. He can say one more time for the rest of forever and it still wouldn't be enough. And anyway, once more time does him no good when he is so certain he will be gone tomorrow]

[She hates the way his voice hitches, and she presses closer, squeezing his hand tightly. She wants to tell him it'll be quick, but that isn't really something she can reveal.]

...I think so, too.

[And then she feels that tightness in her throat again. She doesn't want to lose him. She doesn't want him to die. He's the only person in all of paradox space and time who actually cares about her.]

[He doesn't really care about how quick it is or not. Goodness knows he's seen enough pain in his life, a little more isn't anything to worry about. Hell, he's not even really worried about dying. It's more that... well... he doesn't feel like he's done yet]

[He nods faintly as she confirms it, clicking his tongue against his teeth thoughtfully]

You'll be okay afterwards. [Which is as much a statement as it is a question. He wants her to confirm that too, but he also wants to reassure her it's true... hm]

[She stays silent for a moment, tracing the ridges of his knuckles absently. She nods, not so much a confirmation as an acknowledgement of his statement.]

[Ahhhh what a terrible reaction. He sighs faintly, drawing a circle into her palm again and reaching, somewhat awkwardly, over to brush the back of his hand against her cheek. A little more assertive this time: ]

You'll be okay.

[The Handmaid nods, leaning over to press a kiss against his cheek. Usually, she'd be much more hesitant, but there doesn't really seem to be a point tonight.]

I know.

[She's only saying it to placate him. "Okay" is pretty much the farthest from what she'll be when he's gone, and she knows it. She tugs her hand away from his to wrap her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. There is nothing at all about any of this that's okay, and she knows it's her fault.]

[Lets her have her hand back, watching her curl up on him like that. He knows it's only to placate him. Really, he'd know anyway, but she makes it so obvious. And of course, he remembers what it was like to lose his first moirail. Okay is not really a thing that ever crosses your mind when you are at that point, but it gets better. He hopes... He knows so little about her, really]

Haven't you learned not to lie to me yet? [There is a desperately fond note in his voice, but... really Handmaid. Don't do this to him. Not tonight]

I'm sorry.

[Her voice cracks a bit on the last syllable, but she manages to keep her voice relatively steady.]

I'm going to miss you.

[His breath hitches at the crack in her voice, makes him ache with how much he wants to keep her from ever making such a sound. He looks at her for a long, long moment, entirely unsure what to say... 'I'll miss you too' is, of course, ridiculous. Death is death. He won't be thinking about anything once he's gone. So: ]

It was a good life. Well lived. [...well except for these past couple sweeps, but he's hardly kept track of any of that. Not since Mindfang died. He may as well have died at twenty-three really] I do not regret a single moment I have spent with you. [Read: you are precious to me]

[She nods half-heartedly, even though she knows if he had any idea about the hand she played in Mindfang's betrayal, he would hate her. But she nods again anyway, willing herself to believe it. Maybe, just for tonight, she can pretend she isn't a detestable waste of his affections. She has no way to articulate how important he is to her, so she simply lets out a shaky breath and tightens her grip.]

[That's okay. He can't really find the words for it either. Those were just the ones he could make work. So when she tightens her grip on him, he finally reaches around and pulls her closer, setting his cheek against her head]

[Being around her brings up... so many... emotions he was trying to ignore. Pile or no, he wants so badly to tell her what he is thinking. What he is angry about, sad about, the things he wanted to do. But he can't force that on her right now, not tonight so not ever. He just... swallows roughly, keeps his voice trapped in his throat. Silence is fine. Really]

[She frowns, trailing her fingers down his spine. He can't be completely at peace with this, there's no way.]

Are you afraid?

Hm. [Oh no. He doesn't... want to talk about this. But he does. She is his moirail, this is what they're supposed to do right? Guh, his voice is thin, quiet]

No. Not really. [...] Just tired. Maybe disappointed.

[She lifts her head up, resting her forehead against his temple. She doesn't know what to say to that. "I'm sorry" sounds pathetic and doesn't cover it at all.]

About what?

[There has to be more than one thing he's disappointed about, certainly.]

[Closes his eye, the one that still closes at least, as she leans against his temple. God, he just wants to pull her close and never let her go]

That I didn't. Get to do what I wanted. [...no. More then that] That I trusted her. [Loved her. That he ever let himself be so hopeful and so stupid. His hand tenses against his knee as the memory of her death hits him again. He is haunted by it, and he just... wishes it would go away sometimes]

[God, that admission gets her like a punch to the gut, and she reaches for his hand immediately, trying to coax the tenseness from it.]

Don't be.

[...well. His hand loosens up on his knee at least, though it tightens immediately around the Handmaid's hand instead. He lets his head bow, little shivers of... anger, pain, things he has not let himself feel since he got himself stuck in a coma for so long. He was supposed to be so... good. Everything was supposed to be better. He wanted so much to prove them all wrong, but in the end, the highbloods were right. He's just aged away before he could do anything important...]

I'm trying...

[She's never been good at pacifying or comforting, which probably makes her a shitty moirail, but she does her best for him. She doesn't want him to spend his last night beating himself up, after all. So she laces her fingers through his and presses a kiss to his cheek, shushing him softly.]

[Naw naw, he appreciates the effort. He knows usually this works in the opposite direction, so he can't blame her for being a little awkward about it]

[And awkward or no, it still gets to him. Hits him in the chest and his breath stops for a moment. In the past, he made rules for himself: he does not cry, and he does not ask his moirail about the future, even though he suspects she knows far more then she tells him. He has abided by these rules for more then a decade. But suddenly he can't seem to care about them anymore, and his shoulders fold even further. He slides a hand up against her neck and holds her close to him. His voice is a bare shivering whisper as two sweeps of desperate, defensive apathy start to give out to this sudden, overwhelming misery]

Does it get better? For us? [Lowbloods] Is there ever a revolution that succeeds?

[She can't lie to him, even though the way his voice drops and the way he holds her makes her wish desperately that she could, just to make him feel better. She hesitates for a long moment, closing her eyes as she struggles to figure out a way to make everything okay.]

It gets better.

[Not completely a lie. It does, just not in the way he'd expect.]

[Well that's... something. He doesn't regret asking at least, even if it makes his voice shudder even worse then before. He is not going to cry. He has not cried since the first perigee of the revolution, but that doesn't keep him from shaking with the effort to swallow it all down again]

When? Will you. Will you get to see it? [Sweeps of questions are all starting to clutter up his pan, and his hand tightens a little against her neck, still drawing her close]

[She doesn't want to talk about this--none of it is good news. She bites back a sigh, hiding her face in the curve of his neck, hoping that maybe he won't hear her answer and she won't make things worse.]

No.

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