Who: Fever, Helena, and those threading with them What:January non-event things. When: All month. Where: Across the isle. Warning(s): To be noted in threads individually
It takes a few days. There's the news to share, and Degas's birthday to put together, and naps to take as her body continues to adjust to the world in its new fashion. But she comes to Artemy's clinic soon enough, seeking him out.
In contrast to her demeanor before, full of nerves and strain, she's almost serene. Braced for how this conversation may go, what she is setting at risk by discussing it at all, but steady. He is owed this. And after what she's been through, speaking it aloud doesn't scare her as much anymore. Now it can be said. Now it should be said. Now it will be said.
"Artemy? Are you busy?"
(but there's been a shift in the Lines, hasn't there. something drawn as taut as a dog's leash while the beast strains, desperate for release, has been cut. changed. redrawn.)
He's sitting at his desk in the clinic, filling out some paperwork on one of the locals that's been seeing him. Boring clinical work, but he's happy to do it. He finishes the sentence he's on so he doesn't lose his place before setting the paper down and looking up from his work.
She looks. Different. There's a brilliance to her that he finds it hard to describe. Fever almost looks, free? Less encumbered. And her lines. Or the ones coming off of her. They look different. There is one in particular that always seemed heaviest to Artemy that is simply gone now.
It's none of his business, but somehow, he almost gets a sense that it's about to be his business.
"Can I help you?" He asks, trying to keep his voice light.
Better than she's felt in a very long time. Sleep with no aids. Room inside her head, even if it's still prone to aching. But to explain all of that would be putting the cart far before the ox.
"I wanted to talk, though, about some things I couldn't earlier. Things that were out of place where we were, but that you should hear about all the same. If you're willing, that is."
"If it's not any trouble, sure. Might ease the conversation."
Things she's learned from life - to never turn down free food or drink when it's offered. And she's far from too proud to sit on a cot, or even the floor, but she'll concede to his side of things.
He does have to leave to head to the back room to put on tea, but he comes back a short time later with two mugs. He hands Fever a slightly larger mug, with a chip off the rim of it, full of delicious tea.
"Whenever you're ready." Artemy says, leaning against his desk, half sitting on it, half standing as he sips on his own piping hot tea. There really isn't any rush, though he has a feeling she's been waiting to tell him whatever's been weighing on her mind.
It's not easy. But it must be done. She takes a drink of the tea first, and lets the warmth brace her a little. She can so easily imagine him turning her out in disgust, asking her to leave after he knows - and yet, she finds herself speaking.
"...I am a murderer, Artemy. I have killed enough people that even if I had my memory intact, I would not be able to count or name them all. Enough to build a tower from their corpses and still have more left over. There is blood embedded in my skin such that I cannot even begin to wash it away."
The door has been opened. Inevitably, she thinks, he will have questions. And her answers will be no comfort. But he is being brought this before he seeks it, told before something forces the words from her as an abscess may burst with infection. Lance it, and take care of it yourself. Even if it hurts.
And yet he doesn't turn away, not in disgust, nor in any other shameful manner. Instead he relaxes into his position a bit more, letting the edge of his seat lean into the desk a bit further.
"And so am I, though by number, you likely have me beat." He says, both hands around his own mug of tea, "Why do you bring it up now?"
Clearly she feels bad about it, so he's assuming that must be why. Though he doesn't know if he can do much to ease her guilt, he can most certainly try. Normally one would want to take such secrets to the grave.
The other possibility is, of course, that Fever wishes to kill him, but... call him soft hearted, the likelihood of that, the Haruspex assumes, is little to none.
"Because you are a man whose life, duty, and care for others speaks to being utterly opposed to something like me. Because I might call you friend, but it is a poor friend indeed who conceals such things."
This...isn't a reaction she expected. That much is clear from her expression, guarded and uncertain. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop for him.
He sets down his mug of tea before crossing his arms over his chest.
"You realize you owe me nothing, yes?" Artemy says, and it's so painfully honest of him, "You clearly are not that person, and do not wish to be that person anymore. What you do going forward matters more than the past."
The irony of him speaking of the past being irrelevant isn't lost on him, as someone who feels chained to his own past. He hopes she won't point out his blatant hypocrisy.
"... Do you just need someone to share in your guilt, to hold it with you?" Artemy asks sincerely. That's something he can do, at the very least.
"No." That answer is easy, at least, and she shakes her head while trying to figure out how to say it. "What I've done, it's mine to carry. That's the agreement I made with myself. I've forgotten enough - I can't forget this."
She can't forget, because it can never happen again. She can't forget, because it defines her. Because in the end, she's just something pretending to be a person - something people are indulging, being kind to, but she knows the truth of it. For some reason, none of them see it, even when she holds it up for them to see. Even when she's all but begging them to.
"It just...can't be that simple, Artemy. Deciding to live differently doesn't make someone better. Someone's owed something."
"And who would you pay it back to?" Artemy asks, and he's being so serious with this, "Typically, the dead stay dead, there's no reconciling there. Reaching out to the families affected might work, but they aren't here. And even if you could, can you imagine what the reaction would be?"
Artemy certainly can. He doesn't think it'd be the forgiveness that all parties could benefit from to move on.
"Honestly, it'd probably be salt in the wound." He concludes, "Living your life well and with virtue may not be enough depending on who you ask, but it has to be. From where I'm sitting, it's about the only option you have."
She wants to respond with something witty, something sharp, something that makes her seem like she doesn't care. Something that dismisses what he's saying, because it isn't enough. If she's not bleeding for it, if it doesn't hurt, if it isn't some kind of sacrifice, how can it be sufficient?
But this damnable feeling rises back up in her, chokes up her throat - and she wishes, fervently, that it never got removed from where it was hiding, that she could just keep it all in her chest again. Oh, it's stressful when she does. But it's better than feeling like she's on the verge of falling to pieces. Tears are more trouble than they're worth, Fever's finding.
Subtly, one of her hands on her lap tightens, so that she might dig her nails into her palm and focus on the pain of that rather than anything else. Glance away, so there's no obvious tells in her eyes.
"Who defines that virtue, then? What counts as living your life well?"
Good. Her voice is still steady. That annoying urge is being forced back down. She can make it out of this.
Yeah, she's not really fooling Artemy. But he's keeping his distance, for now, he knows the look of someone who's trying to keep it together. Perhaps the kinder thing is to let Fever think that she has him fooled.
"I think philosophers could argue for decades about that very question." Artemy says, "I suppose you're the only one who can decide that, if we're talking about soothing your own wounds. Only you can be satisfied with the result."
"My wounds? I don't have those." She scoffs, trying to center her mind around the ache in her hand. "The wounds that need to be soothed are the ones I inflicted, the ones I inevitably inflict. That's the bare minimum."
"If I have such a thing, it is black, shriveled, and rotten. Not the sort of thing to worry about, I promise."
She gets what he's after, but to admit anything is to crawl over broken glass, stripping any vestige of strength. Who is she, if she's not fearsome, if she can't protect herself? Not even this imitation being.
"I don't believe you." He says this, but it's not cruel, instead he gives you a very calm, kind smile. "If you were as you say I doubt you would know the pain and guilt you feel now."
"I could pick up one of your blades and show you the truth of the matter, but I'm afraid it'd make a mess of your clinic."
Whatever she feels, it doesn't matter. Or that it matters less than the fact that she has to, that she needs to do better, live differently - her emotions don't come into play with that, beyond the sincerity to see it changed.
"I've already butchered in this clinic, messes can be cleaned."
He says this with the straightest face in the world because it's absolutely true. Artemy knows the heart he'd pluck from her chest would be whole and fresh.
Her eyes stay on his face, focused and careful, before she sets the tea down and reaches behind her to draw out a thin dagger made of iron. It's a little strange, patterned after a feather as it is, but it's in exceptional condition.
He didn't actually expect her to take it that far. And he doesn't want her to. Really, what could would it do? How would it help?
"And what good will that do?" He replies, voice measured and calm despite an insane situation, "I can show you my heart, and you show me yours, but I'm certain I'd see beauty where you do not."
It's out, but she is absent any intent about the knife. Merely holds it, a device to make her point instead of severing flesh. Almost an accessory rather than a weapon. A knife on its own cannot harm anyone.
"What makes you want to hurt so badly?" Artemy retorts back, "Do you really think that will help? Furthermore, is that why you came here? To be rejected by me?"
Yes, he's really going there.
"If so, picking a butcher to condemn another butcher was a poor choice."
She has no answer to that, no good response, and she feels an awareness creeping back into her - the sensation that she might have gone too far again, let her inner thoughts speak when perhaps they should have remained in. Answering his questions seems more difficult than facing off against a whole host of mindflayers, and the only mercy that can be found is that everything's not being shouted down by the desire to kill, cut her way out of the situation.
(As if she could cut herself open with this knife in particular. It's like her fate would stay her hand.)
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early january.
In contrast to her demeanor before, full of nerves and strain, she's almost serene. Braced for how this conversation may go, what she is setting at risk by discussing it at all, but steady. He is owed this. And after what she's been through, speaking it aloud doesn't scare her as much anymore. Now it can be said. Now it should be said. Now it will be said.
"Artemy? Are you busy?"
(but there's been a shift in the Lines, hasn't there. something drawn as taut as a dog's leash while the beast strains, desperate for release, has been cut. changed. redrawn.)
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He's sitting at his desk in the clinic, filling out some paperwork on one of the locals that's been seeing him. Boring clinical work, but he's happy to do it. He finishes the sentence he's on so he doesn't lose his place before setting the paper down and looking up from his work.
She looks. Different. There's a brilliance to her that he finds it hard to describe. Fever almost looks, free? Less encumbered. And her lines. Or the ones coming off of her. They look different. There is one in particular that always seemed heaviest to Artemy that is simply gone now.
It's none of his business, but somehow, he almost gets a sense that it's about to be his business.
"Can I help you?" He asks, trying to keep his voice light.
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Better than she's felt in a very long time. Sleep with no aids. Room inside her head, even if it's still prone to aching. But to explain all of that would be putting the cart far before the ox.
"I wanted to talk, though, about some things I couldn't earlier. Things that were out of place where we were, but that you should hear about all the same. If you're willing, that is."
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He motions to one of the hospital cotts. It's a place to sit, at least. Somehow inviting her to the back of his clinic, where he lives, feels...
Well, let's just say that despite how sparse and utilitarian his clinic feels, his living situation is even worse.
"Would you like me to put on some tea?" He asks.
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Things she's learned from life - to never turn down free food or drink when it's offered. And she's far from too proud to sit on a cot, or even the floor, but she'll concede to his side of things.
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"Whenever you're ready." Artemy says, leaning against his desk, half sitting on it, half standing as he sips on his own piping hot tea. There really isn't any rush, though he has a feeling she's been waiting to tell him whatever's been weighing on her mind.
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"...I am a murderer, Artemy. I have killed enough people that even if I had my memory intact, I would not be able to count or name them all. Enough to build a tower from their corpses and still have more left over. There is blood embedded in my skin such that I cannot even begin to wash it away."
The door has been opened. Inevitably, she thinks, he will have questions. And her answers will be no comfort. But he is being brought this before he seeks it, told before something forces the words from her as an abscess may burst with infection. Lance it, and take care of it yourself. Even if it hurts.
no subject
"And so am I, though by number, you likely have me beat." He says, both hands around his own mug of tea, "Why do you bring it up now?"
Clearly she feels bad about it, so he's assuming that must be why. Though he doesn't know if he can do much to ease her guilt, he can most certainly try. Normally one would want to take such secrets to the grave.
The other possibility is, of course, that Fever wishes to kill him, but... call him soft hearted, the likelihood of that, the Haruspex assumes, is little to none.
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This...isn't a reaction she expected. That much is clear from her expression, guarded and uncertain. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop for him.
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"You realize you owe me nothing, yes?" Artemy says, and it's so painfully honest of him, "You clearly are not that person, and do not wish to be that person anymore. What you do going forward matters more than the past."
The irony of him speaking of the past being irrelevant isn't lost on him, as someone who feels chained to his own past. He hopes she won't point out his blatant hypocrisy.
"... Do you just need someone to share in your guilt, to hold it with you?" Artemy asks sincerely. That's something he can do, at the very least.
cw: negative self-image
She can't forget, because it can never happen again. She can't forget, because it defines her. Because in the end, she's just something pretending to be a person - something people are indulging, being kind to, but she knows the truth of it. For some reason, none of them see it, even when she holds it up for them to see. Even when she's all but begging them to.
"It just...can't be that simple, Artemy. Deciding to live differently doesn't make someone better. Someone's owed something."
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Artemy certainly can. He doesn't think it'd be the forgiveness that all parties could benefit from to move on.
"Honestly, it'd probably be salt in the wound." He concludes, "Living your life well and with virtue may not be enough depending on who you ask, but it has to be. From where I'm sitting, it's about the only option you have."
no subject
But this damnable feeling rises back up in her, chokes up her throat - and she wishes, fervently, that it never got removed from where it was hiding, that she could just keep it all in her chest again. Oh, it's stressful when she does. But it's better than feeling like she's on the verge of falling to pieces. Tears are more trouble than they're worth, Fever's finding.
Subtly, one of her hands on her lap tightens, so that she might dig her nails into her palm and focus on the pain of that rather than anything else. Glance away, so there's no obvious tells in her eyes.
"Who defines that virtue, then? What counts as living your life well?"
Good. Her voice is still steady. That annoying urge is being forced back down. She can make it out of this.
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"I think philosophers could argue for decades about that very question." Artemy says, "I suppose you're the only one who can decide that, if we're talking about soothing your own wounds. Only you can be satisfied with the result."
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His meaning is obvious. Her suffering is deeper than skin deep, but is still important, considering she's showed up to his doorstep to begin with.
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She gets what he's after, but to admit anything is to crawl over broken glass, stripping any vestige of strength. Who is she, if she's not fearsome, if she can't protect herself? Not even this imitation being.
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Whatever she feels, it doesn't matter. Or that it matters less than the fact that she has to, that she needs to do better, live differently - her emotions don't come into play with that, beyond the sincerity to see it changed.
no subject
He says this with the straightest face in the world because it's absolutely true. Artemy knows the heart he'd pluck from her chest would be whole and fresh.
no subject
Her eyes stay on his face, focused and careful, before she sets the tea down and reaches behind her to draw out a thin dagger made of iron. It's a little strange, patterned after a feather as it is, but it's in exceptional condition.
"I could always use this blade instead."
Would he let her, is the question.
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"And what good will that do?" He replies, voice measured and calm despite an insane situation, "I can show you my heart, and you show me yours, but I'm certain I'd see beauty where you do not."
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It's out, but she is absent any intent about the knife. Merely holds it, a device to make her point instead of severing flesh. Almost an accessory rather than a weapon. A knife on its own cannot harm anyone.
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Yes, he's really going there.
"If so, picking a butcher to condemn another butcher was a poor choice."
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(As if she could cut herself open with this knife in particular. It's like her fate would stay her hand.)
"...why do you call yourself a butcher?"
Easier to ask than to answer.
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