ph_logs | [Open] And Did the Countenance Divine

[Open] And Did the Countenance Divine

Who: Angel and You
What: Properly priesting, or trying to at least
When: July
Where: Yes!
Warning(s): None yet

1. I will not cease from mental fight [Temple Matters]
With Degas on his sabbatical, Angel is taking on the full mantle of Priest of the Mothers. He’s wearing the brown robes of a priest and the green stole with braided knotwork patterns similar to Celtic designs along it, even though doing so makes him feel a little like a child in their father’s shoes.

Still, he’s here if you need guidance or blessing, trying to fill the role.

2. Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand [Milk and Honey]
As he’s trying to fill the role of full-time priest, Angel’s still in his robes as he brings products from Kasprak farm into town. Vegetables and fruits, eggs and goat’s milk. And, of course, honey, in small glass jars all with a wax stamp on top–a bee with a pair of stylized feathered wings.

He’s visiting stores and restaurants, but if you catch him on the carriage Arcadia’s pulling, you might get tossed a ripe tomato or offered a melon. There’s plenty to go around.

3. Till we have built Jerusalem [A Day Off]
Sometimes, it’s all a bit much. Angel occasionally runs away from his duties. Never on days when there are services planned, never when he’s scheduled for something. But when restlessness strikes, Angel’s feet take him to the wild parts of the island. Paradesium, Lockwood Forest near Elsie’s Tree, and even nosing around the cave near Tawny Beach, though it’s been caved in since he and River had their adventure. He isn’t wearing his robes, he hasn’t combed his hair, he might be up a tree or sitting on a rock, and he surely isn’t expecting company.

But still, if you approach, there’s a sheepish little nod and a wave.

4. In England's green and pleasant land [Wildcard]
[find me on discord at darkersolstice to plot]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Why? It's how I've felt ever since I woke up."

Not here, but back there. Since she realized she was a thing with a name and a consciousness.

"I'm not saying I don't understand it, Fever. I'm not saying I don't remember existing in isolation wandering from here to there after digging myself out of a shallow ditch. But, like. It's pretty ass only to know that. And it's kinda okay to have a place to call home."

"But you've got to have it in the first place, before you can call it that."

Which draws them back to Angel's point about this place, about setting down roots, about the idea of a community in the first place. Wallpapering her apartment and redecorating some didn't stop the disconnect she feels inside when she steps into a place that feels like someone's home.

"Putting it like that, you make it sound like home is something you just get and have, out of nothing." Angel's head tilts to one side.

"Isn't that how it goes, though? You're born into it, or you drift around looking for it, or you stumble across it."

She shrugs.

"Some people aren't going to fall into any of those situations. It's a matter of chance."

"...no? No."

The look on his face is the one you get when you're tasting something in a dish that's not the main ingredient, but is strong and there and you want to describe it, but you're not sure if calling it out is a done thing.

Her brow furrows in confusion, looking at him.

"What do you mean, no?"

It's an honest question, despite the circumstances. She doesn't understand - like she's told people, she's not the smartest. What part is she overlooking? If this entire morning is just her being wrong about things, she kind of hates it, but she's still here.

"You left out the possibility of building it. Of actively working to create home. It's not easy, it's not instant, it's not something that happens to you, on this path. And I think that scares you, because...trying means you might fail, and it just never happening at you means it's not your responsibility. It means committing. It means considering what the long haul looks like, instead of just what-comes-next. And you balk at that, Fever. I don't think I've met anyone else so scared shitless of the idea of the long term."

She's gone still. Too still. As still as Angel himself is, having felt it all rise up behind her teeth. This has been fine, this has been working out for her so far, why does she need to change it? Her head throbs uncomfortably, threatening to crack - it had all surged up back from where she'd put it when he said you might fail, something wound to that so intrinsically that she needs to fight back.

Long-term has never been in the cards. Why is that so difficult for other people to grasp?

(Where does that certainty come from?)

He needs to stop. And she sees an easy way to make it happen, wants to know if he can't cry, can he scream, can she spill blood in front of the Mothers and have them let it happen, say this is what you're risking, keeping me, and it'll all end in corpses and calamity. She could do it, she could, and she wants to, so very badly.

Her jaw has gone so tight that she feels nauseated, there's pain and her organs writhing, and she's barely even breathing, bloodless. Looking sick, instead of rested. She has to fight up while the broken limbs of every dead soul want to drag her down, to where it's better, it's better, it would feel so much fucking better than sitting here and listening.

And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man(?) with him until the breaking of the day. And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob's thigh was pained, as he wrestled with him.

Angel sees that Fever is wrestling, with herself more than with him, and he waits for her to decide if she's going to do him violence or not. He doesn't show worry or concern. Not because the pain wouldn't hurt, but he is here, safe, in one of the places where his borrowed body will knit itself together if harmed. He is silent, watching her unblinkingly.

It would feel so right. It would be so good. It's coming and she can't stop it, she's too exhausted and tired to fight it off, and she barely feels attached to her body. She's slipping, slipping, holding onto a ledge while finger by finger is pried off. She wants it, needs it, she'll kill him and Degas too and that mousy little one who scurries about, she'll defile this place with their deaths and crack them into pieces and scatter their organs across the altars, ruin and ruin and ruin and-

"...I need you to bind my hands, and get me away from people. Please."

Her voice is hoarse, forced out. Getting the words out feels impossible, her head feels as though it weighs a thousand pounds and every one of them is made of knives that turn inward. They don't have much time. This has been looming, hasn't it, since that fucking ship. Since she stood there drenched in someone's blood like a twisted baptism. Standing on the edge, clinging to it, and now so near to letting go. Fever feels like fainting, but she has to hold on. Just long enough. She wants to hurt him, and she doesn't, and she wants to rip someone into so many shreds they no longer have a face.

He hears the request and doesn’t argue about it, standing up.

“For the moment, side room. The one with Drelasa’s altar. I’ll be back with something for your hands.” He indicates the room. Small, space for a few people kneeling, no more than that.

They're still alone, and it's how she makes herself get up. Holding back the force of a great river with only her two hands, her movement's awkward and stiff, but step by step, it can be done. Step by step. What did Daisy say? Listen to the quiet. But it's so damned loud, it's screaming in a voice that is and is not hers.

Stumbling through the doorway, she presses her forehead to the wall. It's cool, which says more for the effort she's exerting than for the actual temperature. Twitching, trying to breathe. She's going to suffocate like this. The only way to breathe is to steal it from someone else's lungs. Her skin is going to crawl off of her body. But she's trying, she's trying - doesn't that count for anything?

A few moments later, Angel comes into the room behind her.

“You don’t need to turn around. Just give me your hands.” If she does turn, though, she’ll see he grabbed a length of black leather cording, on which is strung a silver jingle bell with a black velvet bow at the top. The cording is long enough for this operation, and strong enough that she would need to actually strain to break it.

Behind her back is better. It'll take more effort that way, and without a word, she complies. Tight, he shouldn't be afraid of hurting her, it should be something meant to hold. Only once they're bound does she turn, trying to lower herself down to the ground. Standing isn't preferable for this.

Go, she thinks, and shut the door. Hammer and war drum, in her head. In her bones, in her blood.

Angel with a hand on her shoulder, helping her fold to the ground, and shutting himself in the small room with her. The bell jingles quietly, sounding somehow cold. It is a gift from Mortanne, after all.

"You listen here, Fever. The community that I want to build is one with room for you. One where you don't have to struggle alone forever with this, or with anything else. I'm not saying it's going to be easy or perfect or instant, but I am going to put in the effort, for you and for me and for everyone who doesn't know how people is supposed to work."

He kneels behind her, in a position that would get painful after a while for someone with a circulatory system, and holds onto her bound hands just as tight as the cording does.

Restrained, finally, and her shoulders sag as she feels the bindings. Her hands twist on reflex, an exercise in futility in this position, though he'll still feel her trying their strength.

"...you're playing the frog, Angel."

The sound that comes from her is humorless and low. If he knew her thoughts, he'd reconsider such pretty words.

Edited 2024-07-29 23:34 (UTC)

"Yeah? Maybe I am, but I have you here. I have you and I'm not upset that I've got to have you." One hand moves away from hers, bound, and lifts to her hair. Gently running over it for a moment, watching her reaction. "We'll ride it out."

Instinct makes her head jerk in the direction of his hand, trying to twist her upper body after it. Her eyes are wide, and there's the sense that if she could actually reach it, she would have not hesitated to bite him.

"Didn't ask you to stay."

She lunges for his hand and he grabs her hair with a solid grip, like controlling the head of a horse--no give, no tenderness at this point.

"I know you didn't."

It's not comfortable, not with the pounding in her head, but a different thought somehow cuts its way through - he's more bite, less bark than she'd given him credit for. Good.

(And that's space, that's the tiniest crack to breathe through.)

"Why, then?"

Go do what you have to do. Whatever priest shit is left undone - he could no doubt wait for her to tire herself out. Though how long the bindings would hold would be a problem.

What she doesn't see: this is priest shit, too.

"Because I am not going to abandon you while this is going on." His grip remains firm.

In a time like this, she reaches for the wisdom of madness, as she desperately tries to unbind herself. Her wrists will be chafed raw, afterwards, but there's nothing for it. And she breathes in, and madness whispers, don't fight what you feel.

"I hate you."

Bitter and acidic and numbing as venom. She hates everything, everything living. It's vile, how it all endures. But right now, she despises him the most. The force of it has her hands clenching. He needs to bleed needs to have his tongue removed needs to be the scared one-

"You're allowed to. Hate me with everything in your heart. Hate me as much as you fucking hate yourself, if that's possible."

Angel's grip with the hand against hers tightens, when her hands clench. He's ready in case she tries something, and has a few surprises up his sleeve.

"You don't get to fucking talk like you know me."

From this position, she can't kick him, can't bite him, but she can try and thrash, trying to twist her upper body - how she's going to get the concealed dagger at her back, what she's going to do with it, the plan will make itself known if she can just lay her hands on him-

"Why do you even care, I'm not anyone to you. "

Just some fucked up woman who came in and started making her problems his problems. If she lets go, then there won't be the pressure on everything else. It's as if the moment something like being welcome is held out, she has to dash her own chances and prove everything she thinks is correct.

(This should have been expected, really. So far away, but it's all still here. Right where it always is. Everything wants to crack apart, after being so good for so long, after fighting for months and months, and it's over this. This. Gods, does she remember shame?)

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