logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: GRAVES

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

EVENT LOG:
GRAVES

characters: everyone.
location: Bonfire Square.
date/time: July 12-19.
content: mysterious shrines appear and bring visions of death.
warnings: likely violence and potentially gore.

time to pay your respects.

It happens when no one is looking, when most of the town is asleep and the rest are inside. A makeshift cemetery has come to Beacon, taking up residence in the middle of Bonfire Square. Each monument, shrine, and altar is dedicated to someone who now resides here, a memorial of their previous life.

Some may be drawn by curiosity, others by fear, and some may simply have to pass through this strange graveyard to get to the Bonfire itself. Whenever a person gets near, the altars beckon with a mysterious urge— an urge to approach, and an urge to leave something behind. They will feel compelled to make offerings at the various shrines, but doing so has a curious effect; it causes one to experience the death of the person whose grave they've honored.

Whether you resist the compulsion or give in willingly (or something in between), you'll also have to wrestle with the fact that a grave exists for you. Will you let your death be known, or try your best to keep it secret? Destroying it sure won't work, as it will return— with a duplicate somewhere else in town.

However you choose to deal with this, one thing is hard to ignore— this a tangible reminder of your death, and the fact that it's probably permanent.

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( the conviction's a welcome one. he turns into her embrace, just restin' a time tucked beneath her arm. when was the last time anyone held him like this? it's usually him offerin' comfort, not the other way around. he feels eight years old again, his mama tendin' to a scraped knees or broken bones. she always punctuated her treatment with a ruffle to his hair an' a kiss to the temple, an' he remembers feelin' like he could stand anythin' so long as she was there.

this is a different sorta hurt. a sickness of the soul, everythin' alight with misery. he'd realized, talkin' with kyna that as peaceable as he is on the matter of death, it's the dyin' that sat ill with him. he didn't want to go. he wanted to see the end of the war an' his family again besides, an' much as he's found folk here he likes honest an' keenly he sure didn't want to spend out the time followin' death in this lightless realm neither. )

I know.

( his voice is a soft rasp. )

I was. ( a pause. he tries again, with a little less wobble to the words, ) I was gonna ask if you wanted to learn some'a the hymns from my world. You've got a lovely voice, reckon you'd do 'em justice.

⟪ here is something: she knows she is not meant to learn this. his god is similar to hers, or so she reckons from what they each have shared, but he is not hers, and this is close to a betrayal of each her oaths. but her god has forsaken her, and the man in her arms has died too early a death, and she is a priestess. her calling is not a matter of blind devotion, but of devotion of the seeing eye, and what she sees is that he... he needs something of home.

more so, he deserves it.

the least she can do is breathe life into something that might offer him some semblance of a comfort. so for once, she chooses to do what she wants to do: ⟫

I would love to learn them from you. ⟪ she pulls back a little, just enough to look him in the eye, and she brushes her thumb against his cheek. ⟫ It has been long since I learned new ones, and we should all have a little of our faith here.

( he tips his head into that soft touch against his cheek. lordy, he really ought to shave. captain st amos would have his head for the five o'clock shadow. good man, but an absolute stickler for regulation an' with good reason. without a uniform, what are we? just a bunch of yanks with guns. he remembers angel'd protested that in his soft, laconic way, in a room that was a hundred degrees if it was an ounce, we ain't all yanks, jefe. but it'd gotten a round of laughter just the same. but angel died in holland, and there weren't a one of 'em been the same since. laughter's harder to come by, but most'a them are too numb by now to give in to cryin', neither.

every death leaves a mark. even the replacements. he's been with them since the beginning, fort benning on to north africa, seen men come an' go as casualties of one coat or another, but he's been a constant force on the field an' he knows his dyin' is gonna hurt those boys that've been in as long as him especially. an' ginny, good lord, he'll have to cover two platoons alone until they can haul some green medic in to shore up the line. vergil coaks is just about as good a medic as he's ever seen, but that'll push him.

an' then there's alex. lord, he'll suffer worst, an' won't have a soul in the 82nd what knows it, neither.

but dwellin' on the matter won't help none. ain't a soul alive what can bring the dead back to livin', least in his world. he shakes his head. focus, doc. )

Well, there's plenty to choose from. But, ah. The one that's been on my mind — it's called Abide with Me.

( he ain't no angel reyes, but his voice ain't bad. a bit rough if there's any expectation of range but so long as he can stay mostly in one pitch he does all right for himself. he eases himself away from her so he ain't tangled up for the singin', clears his throat. his voice still retains that rasp that dogs the heels of his withdrawal but otherwise it's sweet an' clear, his accent hangs on his consonants like frost in the eaves. he doesn't venture too loud about it, but it echoes some in the church just the same.

the song is maybe a little on the nose, but it's fittin' despite it all. an' he puts the whole of his heart into the utterance, though he leaves one hand clasped in hers. )

Edited 2019-07-20 23:40 (UTC)

⟪ unbelievers always ask the same one question first: why? and melisandre has answered it over and over again, even here, and will do so, over and over again, until she fades out and into smoke and ashes and silence. her god is not one with a plan, a grand design, no – her god is a force who built himself in the path of darkness, who sends his priests out like soldiers. he grants the capabilities and the space for miracles, grants the gifts needed for them. but it is not him who wields the sword of justice, and this is simply the way it is.

she speaks of god's love, for comfort, but she knows very well that she has spend many a lifetime numbing herself to feeling, watching all fall away who had to fall to make room for their salvation, for the grander scheme of things, for the one, singular end goal of keeping the end of the world at bay for yet another ten thousand years. he is here with her, wherever she goes, but he is driven, burning, pressing forward.

and now here she is, in a foreign temple with a foreign soldier who is no longer a boy, listening to his sweet voice filling the air above, echoing among the high walls, and she is asking why, like a girl with no better answers on her mind. could she have changed it? would it have been enough to take his hands in hers the very moment they had met by the fire, holding them like she does now, not asking his name, not knowing his history, and asking for him to be brought back? she knows the prayer, knows the words, all the rest is up to god, and if beric dondarrion may have half a dozen changes, why not him? he can't be done.

wishful thinking, she has to banish it. no tear may last on her feverish skin, may it be air before he can note it.

he finishes the song, and she encourages him to repeat it with a squeeze of her hand. there are points she can already join in on, her voice as clear as ever, warm and full. ⟫

( he takes her through it a few more times, an' the final time he lets his voice fall off while she completes the final verse. he listens in silence, head bowed, mouthin' the words along but as to singin' — no, he's done.

when she stops, and the last refrain finishes its echoing reign in the rafters, he squeezes her hand. )

Thank you.

( just that. soft an' gently said, with the fervency of genuine gratitude having a fair stranglehold on the words as they're wrung out of him. )

And I thank you. It is a beautiful hymn.

⟪ she had meant to learn it as a means to comfort him, but in the end, had found her own quiet comfort in the singing of it, in hearing his voice, in sharing the tune among the two of them and the church and a God for each. ⟫

You need to rest.

I can't.

( he says it quiet. somber, but there's somethin' furtive to it, too. he can't stop movin'. peace ain't his province no more. used to be he could while away hours in the wilds outside agathine, an' now? now he can't hardly stand to be inside his own head longer than an hour before he's puttin' his hands to work.

speakin' of hands, he's lookin' down at his. fingers clasped together. evidence of frost damage is still there along his knuckles an' in the lack of sensitivity to the pads of his fingers. )

Mel, I just. I can't.

( he doesn't want to explain why. but she's been in war, she'll understand just as well. )

⟪ the wall – the winter had made her acquainted with such injuries, but nothing she knew could help him with them, with the damage to the inner lines that ran through him to make him feel.

but what she can do is close red eyes, run a hand through his hair. ⟫

I understand.

⟪ not just for the war, though she understands more of his war now, too –– it's different than her own, there is no magic in it, but rafe told her of guns. tempting, those are, she can't say she doesn't covet the power, but they are unholy, too.

so no, it's not the war she thinks of, it's what came before. it's that she's only recently found it in herself to sleep, not just drowse, though she still doesn't go beyond an hour at a time.

she doubts her arrangement would work for him – it works for her mostly because teaching rafe the ways of shadowbinding meant she thought it unlikely he would kill her in her sleep, which is simply a fear that has persistent in her since she was a girl so many years ago. what matters is that she won't force quiet into him. ⟫

When the world goes quiet, it is easier to feel the darkness seeping into the mind. Memories buried, it is for me. We won't let such things win.

( he always thought there'd be an after. time to decompress. a trainride to agathine with the sunshine seepin' through the windows an' the hot press of bodies in the carriage. he'd imagined seein' his pa again, sittin' on the porch of his old house sippin' sweet tea in the heat of the day. seein' robbie an' john an' albert again, though he expects the latter will've been much changed by war.

aunt ysobel in the evenin', comin' by with her famous essig-fleisch. he wishes he'd gotten to hug her one last time. he wishes al'd come to the train station to see him off to fort benning in '42. he wishes he'd thought to tell alex he loved him, for all that he acted on the words he never said.

but instead of that, he's here. an' he ain't one to rail against his lot, but here ain't an easy place to abide. it ain't weakness to admit he's strugglin' with it, now more than ever with the scope of so much sufferin' around him that he can't hope to calm or soothe away. it's hell an' gone outta his wheelhouse not to be able to put hands to somethin' and fix it in some small way. helpless. like watchin' those boys drown in the surf outside gela, fightin' with their jump gear because the planes got the coordinates wrong an' the storm blew them off course.

he pulls a breath into his lungs that feels like drowning, and then he just leans in against her. he never used to accept comfort like this, but then, he'd never been to war before either, had he? )

No, we won't. ( soft, ) I appreciate you helpin' me see it. That's the point of community, ain't it? To hold folk up when they can't do it themselves, an' accept the same in turn.

It is. And if we shape a proper community in this place, it will be much less dark in time. ⦑ it's easier, she thinks, comforting someone else. easier to find words, easier not to get lost in a darker, more desperate corner of her mind. seeing good in someone else makes it much easier to believe it well and alive.

she lets him lean against him, lets him struggle with his breathing, lets him feel her warmth in the cool air of the church. feels him, too, real and alive and not gone.⦒

I am not sure of your world, but this is not what I thought where I would be, once I fall to the war. ⦑ it's only ever been the only ending for her, there would never have been a return ––

there was nothing to return to, either.⦒

And I thought it was cruel, at first. But in a way, I am glad for it now. It isn't easy, yes, it's not a reprieve, but I am glad to know I am among those who make it less lonely for you here.

( he exhales. the weight on his shoulders is eased by it, so small a thing, an' the faint, flickerin' smile he gives her is genuine enough for all that. )

Yes ma'am. An' I hope I return the favour in some small way to you.

Every time.

⦑ it's honest, and heavy with all the manner of things she does not say: that she has been lonely most all her life, that is has been her and her god more days than not. the distance it enforced.⦒

There is a game I would like to teach you sometime. It's a common thing, in my world, but it occupies the mind.

( an' he knows it, too. folks that know the soul of loneliness who can still be kind despite it are rare an' wonderful, an' he thinks that very much of her. )

Yeah? I know a few myself. We could call it a cultural exchange.

( what follows ain't quite a boyish grin, but it's a smile nonetheless, soft an' sure. they're here, an' they're healin'. it's all anyone can ask for. )

Do you know your way around cards? I saw them at the general store, but I would not know what to make of them.

⦑ dice, yes, she can handle dice, though what she intends to teach him is cyvasse –– it is fun, in its way, with its different figures –– but most of all, it's distracting. there is something to be said about an hour spent thinking of dragons and elephants and trebuchets, rather than death, and loss, and missing.⦒

Yes ma'am. It's, ah, one of those things most soldierin' men get up to in their down time. I know a game or two.

( ain't many folk believe it of him, but gene's perilous good at poker. )

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EVENT LOG: GRAVES

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