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

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?"

Cecelia watches, hugging her arms to herself, still frowning. Her throat hurts now, godsdammit all.

"Recover from your exhaustion. Come ready to work, unfettered by whatever business you've been up to." Her eyes flick down and back up, giving the filthy state of him a second glance.

"And when you've done that, you simply return when the office is open."

It often is. Open and empty for hours - most have other things on their mind right now.

"Should I...bring anything? Any equipment? Tools?"

Showing up to train without bringing anything but himself seemed...odd. Out of place.

"Pen and paper," she replies, turning away from him to give herself a moment to swipe at her eyes and recompose. "And, I suppose, whatever tools you were meaning to try and incorporate into your magical craft. Though I'd advise to not get too far ahead of yourself at the onset. One step at a time."

Though he's more apt to leaps and bounds...

"Like...to take notes? And what do you mean 'tools?' I don't use tools to cast magic."

He looks completely confused. The pen and paper he can kind of understand. He has no problem with note taking. But he'd never heard of anyone using tools for spellcasting. Honestly, the notion had him intrigued.

She sighs.

"Notes, yes," she replies, moving back around the desk to her seat. "That'll do. Yourself, rested, and something for notes."

"...Alright. I can do that..."

He gathers himself up and slowly heads for the door. But before he takes his leave, he turns to her and gives her an exhausted smile.

"Thanks...I knew I could rely on you..."

For her part, Cecelia doesn't turn around to see it; she can hear it in his voice, and that's enough.

"For a price," she murmurs as the chime to her door tinkles, signaling his exit.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[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