isleofavalon | [OPEN] the stuff of montages

Entry tags:

original: cecelia ardenbury

[OPEN] the stuff of montages

🧙 WHO: Cecelia Ardenbury, OPEN
⚔️️ WHAT: A space for magical training/assessment and the viewing of the Calamity (ref: network announcement)
🕒 WHEN: Oct
🗺️ WHERE: The Ambassador office (Camelot), Red Spring, End of the World
⚠️ WARNINGS: In subject headers as needed

SIGN IN HERE is written just above the lines of names and dates of previous visits.

There is a small table setting by the window on the opposite side, where tea is still piping hot and waiting - just in case anyone is inclined to it. Miss Ardenbury prefers spiced, robust dark brews to anything light or floral, so novice tea tongues beware.

Where once was an empty wall is now a length of engineer's drafting paper, and upon it is the sketching of two views: One, the top-down topography of the calamitous end of the world; the other being a more man's-eye view of the location. There are a few representations of the fluctuating starburst in the sky as well, alongside some peculiar, indecipherable shorthand notes in small, neat lettering.

Miss Ardenbury herself sits at an oak desk further in amongst her stack of borrowed books and personal journals, likely still scratching away or having herself some of that tea. She doesn't even look up right away to greet - the bell was signal enough for her to call:

"Do be sure to sign in, thank you. What business do you have here today?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"If you're referring to the Ruins of Celliwig, I made sure to dump the ash out of my boots before walking in."

Which he did but there's still plenty of detritus on her once clean floors following the steps of those worn boots.

"I want to get better at magic. Blood magic."

"How fascinating to make such a claim in the state you're in." She can lean more and more into agitation than dismay and find that fits more comfortably; Cecelia puts her quill aside and sits back, glaring up and down at him.

"Do tell: When was the last time you slept?"

"I dunno. I've been using blood magic to keep my adrenaline up. When did the dragon attack?"

Whether that's an indicator of the last time he slept or just his general musing about not knowing what day it is....it's hard to tell.

"Can you train me?"

"In your current condition? Absolutely not."

Gods damn him, why does he do this?

...Rhetorical question. She has a good inkling as to why. She just doesn't like it. It's behavior better suited for fiction than reality.

Her glare flickers to the chair in front of her desk for only a moment before fixing back on him.

"Sit down."

Darin looks at the chair dubiously.

Not that he doesn't trust her. He absolutely does. It's the fact that if he sits he knows there's a very real chance he's not going to be standing up again any time soon. And he has so much to do...

But one look at the stern, adamant glare of the fiery-haired lady tells him that this isn't a fight he can win. Not in his current physical or mental state.

And so...he sinks into the chair, and almost immediately begins to feel the exhaustion wash over him.

On reflex, he uses his blood magic to keep his blood pumping fast. Sadly, there's no way he can hide the blatant surge of crimson magical energy and surges across his body.

"Fine."

Almost as if it were choreographed, the moment Darin sits, Cecelia stands. She heads to the door to her back room, vanishing briefly before returning with a damp hand towel, stepping over to where he sits and holding it out for him to take. Should he not do so in a timely fashion, she's just going to have to take his face in-hand and wipe it off herself, so it's up to his attention span and pride to make that call.

Meanwhile: "Explain yourself."

Sadly, Darin's bewilderment at the offering lasts too long and he's going to find himself getting his face washed like a petulant child. He tries to fight back, but he really doesn't have the heart, much less the stamina.

Wet bangs framing his face, he just stares off, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

"Explain what? I want to get stronger. If my blood magic were stronger, I probably could have stopped the dragon when we were on it."

"Exceedingly unlikely, but not an unsurprising assumption, coming from you." Her tone is less simmering discontent and more bitter resignation.

"So then why ask if you know what I want? What I'm here for?"

"Because you'll hear your thoughts aloud," she replies, folding the towel over to a clean side so she can wipe her own hands as she straightens up. "Because you've likely only heard them in your own head, answering yourself, painting the possibilities yourself with no outside input."

He falls silent but gives her an indignant look. For a moment, he forgets that she knows him far better than he can fathom. That somewhere out there, there's a much better, more wholly realized version of himself.

And that thought just makes his stomach twist in knots.

Without meaning to, he snaps a bit.

"I bet this future me you're so fond of could have stopped the dragon. I bet he would have been able to save all of those people as opposed to just saving that one idiot from himself."

In his anger, he gives too much away. He crosses his arms and sinks into the chair further in annoyance.

She can feel her temper flare in her gut, but it doesn't rise to the surface. She just draws a slower breath, holds it...lets it go.

"How much would you actually bet?" She arches a brow. "And what would you be betting, mm?"

"It doesn't matter. Gods above know that I can't live up to him now, even if I tried."

It was so damn frustrating. To know that there was a version of himself out there so...put together. That he's still this volatile, self-deprecating mess with no idea how to even take care of himself much less how to grow into someone respectable.

He drags a hand down his face.

"I just...I need to get stronger. Better."

She allows herself to roll her eyes at his presumptions, shaking her head a little.

"You won't get there carrying yourself around like this. And any training you try to take on in this state will be for naught."

"Can you not?"

Darin's not in the mood to be dismissed with eye rolls.

"I didn't come here to babied and have someone roll their eyes at me. I came here because you're the one offering to help people get better. Get stronger."

He struggles but manages to start pushing himself up and out of the chair.

"If you're not going to help me, I can just as easily go it alone."

"Act as a child and be treated as one," she counters, folding her arms. "What in the realms makes you think I'd be able to help you in the state you're in right now? Did you learn your finer forging crafts half-starved and beaten, too?"

She closes her eyes for a moment, drawing a breath, holding it, and letting it go. It's so damn easy for him to get under her skin despite her own efforts.

"That you thought to come here at all compels me to help you. And I'm telling you, none of it will be of use unless it's on the other side of proper rest. This isn't a novel notion and you know it."

"I can't rest! I'm trying but there's people out there huddled in hovels because a dragon I had a hand in saving went ahead and burned everything they had to the ground! I have to do something! I have to help them! I have to get stronger so something like this doesn't happen again!"

Adrenaline flowing through pure frustration as opposed to magic, he's up now and stomping around.

"Do you realize how hard it is for me to not stand in front of those homeless refugees and tell them to lay their blame at my feet?? I stopped someone who could have taken the dragon down! I had a hand in its survival and that led to all of this! The only reason I'm not declaring myself the reason Celliwig was sacked is because I have enough sense to know there were two dozen other factors! I know I didn't cause it and I stand by my decision to save my friend's life! But that doesn't mean those poor people don't deserve some measure of comfort! Whether it's being able to blame someone or put their trust in someone that this won't happen again!"

She lets him storm around and vent, herself rooted in place, unmoving save for what little turn of her head she must to follow his paces. It takes patience and mindfulness to keep her expression as firmly neutral as she can, despite a swelling want to cut in or, gods help her, weep, but she's practiced. The only practice she hasn't had is doing this sort of thing in front of the ghost of someone she dearly loved. Loves. Ugh.

But amidst the fuming, some key notions appear - things that make her heart squeeze in a different way.

"...Whatever you would have bet earlier, you lost." She speaks softly only when there is enough of a lapse of time in all of that to fill. "Because the words you speak now have far more sense in them than they would've, were you still the one I knew."

Despite his pain, or perhaps in spite of it, she finds she's proud of him. It won't do him much comfort now - maybe not ever, but it's something she can keep to herself, lock away for her own reflection. One more page.

It doesn't register with him now. Perhaps when he's more rested, when he's had time to reflect on his actions and this conversation so that he can properly apologize to her for exploding he will realize her meaning.

For now, he interprets 'you lost' a different way. Because he feels like he's lost. Like he's lost so much of himself, that he's put so much of himself into this world and its prosperity.

It's a massive blow to someone who just wants to do the right thing. To someone who is still wavering on the cusp of wanting to be a hero...it's enough to make him pull back. To see his interference as a reason to avoid being that great man he so desperately wants to be.

"Yeah...I lost. We've all lost. But that doesn't mean that the Celliwigians should go without. They need someone. They need something. I just..."

He looks at her, his eyes pleading.

"Lady Ardenbury...I can't do this alone."

At that prompting, Cecelia unfolds her arms and moves over. He can misconstrue her words and deeds all he likes, she can't keep fighting to fix it -- that'd be more open invitations to be understood and cared for more than an insufferable know-it-all too cagey to connect.

"You're right," she says coolly, placing a hand on his face. "You can't. And you aren't. You haven't been making any of these strides by yourself the entire time. Nor shall the burdens be carried forward on your shoulders alone. That's all true.

"You want a swift and sound response that can ease, if not outright fix, this dreadful happening in some meaningful way. I have to tell you it cannot be done without the pain of lying awake at night, agonizing over the lost possibilities until the sudden dark...and it cannot be done without surrendering your body to the recovery it needs before it can advance toward greater strength."

She withdraws her hand, but her gaze remains fixed and steady, undying embers of amber. She's had this conversation before, many times. Different people with different lives, holding familiar hopes and hanging by familiar threads. It's not the exact same words, but the beats are the same. Many different novels with similar routes.

"If you must, consider it part of the punishment that comes with this tragedy. It may as well be."

Before she can take it too far from him, he catches her hand in his, grateful for the contact; the reminder that he's so much more fortunate here than he ever was back in Anmaral. That there are people here that are willing to see the intent behind his actions rather than simply the end result as they would define him.

He holds her hand in his, the contrast between her carefully manicured digits and his dirty, calloused, thrice healed over hands is stark. He looks at the differences as if ruminating over something.

"I'll rest when I'm satisfied that the work I'm doing is enough. Another day or two at most..."

Then his gaze meets hers.

"When I'm rested, will you teach me?"

Gods dammit all. She'd had a glorious stink-eyed staring contest win streak going before winding up trapped in this glorified gilded cage full of ghosts and ritualistic disaster. And the last time she'd wept when it wasn't just for a show of humanity? Well, if one excludes involuntary silent grief, the record was pretty impressive!

Without her permission, her eyes moisten and her pulse quickens. She has to clench her jaw for a moment to give herself something else to focus on that isn't her captive hand.

With a defiant lifting of her chin, she attempts a scoff: "I daresay I will sooner hear of your...sudden expiration from exhaustion...before I ever hear you admit that any work you do is enough."

He knows when someone is trying to deflect. And he finally understands why after their conversation in the Hall of Mirrors.

Normally, he'd laugh off the jab, however true it was. But this is one of those moments that one just feels is too important for levity. Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Or maybe it was the fact that he's grown self-aware enough to know that if he's truly going to move forward, he needs to rely on others who care about him. Maybe it's the fact that he's willing to admit that there's something there worth caring about.

So, he moves to ask again. Only this time, he kneels as an inspiring disciple would to a master. He tucks both legs under his frame and peers up at her (though the height difference isn't as egregious. After all, he's a big man).

"Please, Lady Ardenbury. You're the only person I trust to know enough about me to guide me to becoming stronger without losing myself. Blood magic is a dark art. I know where it comes from. And I know that training in it could potentially stir some parts of myself I'd prefer to keep hidden."

He shakes his head.

"But...I need to stop dissecting myself. I can't ever be strong enough if I rely on only half of myself. I need to master the parts of myself that I don't like if I'm ever going to be strong enough to stop this from happening again..."

What IS he doing?! Egads. Cecelia bristles, eyes widening and then just as quickly narrowing. It's almost like he's trying to get her to break form and roast him alive!

But of course he's just being overly sincere. Because he's him. And she's just supposed to endure it.

So she does, her expression more severe through the effort she must make to keep it from conveying dismay; better to be assumed disgusted than heartbroken.

"Get up," she orders, tone rigid. "All the humility in the world means nothing if you intend to walk out the door and snub it. You'll get my aid only after you've ceased this...hex you've put upon yourself and you go recover. I don't train corpses."

Darin sighs. He wishes she wouldn't be so snappy sometimes, but he has enough sense to know now that this is the best answer he's going to get.

So, he bows his head and slowly, with great effort, starts to push himself to his feet. He's wobbling quite profusely and more than once, it looks like he might topple over or into her.

But finally on somewhat sure footing, he nods.

"Alright. Should I contact you when I'm ready or is this one of those 'you'll tell me when I'm ready' sort of things?"

[OPEN] the stuff of montages

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)