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logsinthenight2019-09-06 04:19 pm
inthenightmods) wrote in logsinthenight2019-09-06 04:19 pm
Entry tags:
EVENT LOG: FOR EVERYTHING A REASON
EVENT LOG:
FOR EVERYTHING A REASON
characters: everyone.
location: the harbor.
date/time: september 6-7.
content: characters and forest spirits send off paper lantern boats in honor of those who have died..
warnings: character death
a somber kind of serenity.
When you arrive at the harbor, there are already boats in the water, and the lighthouse's red beam flares in slow pulses over the lake. The moon's a bright first quarter and the stars are out in force today, all reflected on the glassy surface of the water. It's uncharacteristically calm, this weather, so take advantage.
Rastus is down at the water's edge, tending to a large mound of pebbles that looks not unlike a miniature bonfire from a distance. The stones are all ordinary, having been collected from the beach, except Rastus has enchanted them to glow with a soft, yellow light. The enchantment will only last a week, but that's ample time for this little ceremony to send off those lost over the past two months. Or to send off something less literal, perhaps.
Next to the pile of stones is an array of craft materials—just the basic supplies like paper, markers, glue, and scissors, but more than enough to accommodate everyone in attendance. A handful of forest spirits (some you may recognize from the party!) are standing nearby to assist in paper-folding or boat-crafting if you're out of your depth there. They, along with Rastus, urge you to join in. This memorial is as much about you as it is anyone we've lost, after all. The boats can look like or represent anything you like.
Releasing boats lit with pebbles out onto the water will fill you will a sense of peace. It's a somber kind of serenity, but it's a relief nonetheless, whether you're mourning the loss of a friend or letting go of some other part of yourself. You're welcome to release as many boats as you like, too. It's not like there's a shortage of rocks around here, and even if the craft materials run low, there's plenty of other stuff around town that could be used in a pinch.
The forest spirits are in attendance, as well. Some are helping with the crafting, yes, but most are taking part themselves, building their own little boats to send out over the water. Their crafting involves more of a hands-on approach: Chomping and tearing and crinkling into unique shapes and textures. They stand out from the townsfolks' designs on the beach, but once the boats drift far enough into the surf, it's impossible to tell which vessels belong to which group. Feel free to NPC your own forest spirits for this event and refer to the OOC info post if you have questions about how they might behave.
On the final night of the event, a sound starts up along the treeline, one you haven't heard in some time, perhaps. Crickets. Cicadas. Katydids and beetles and the shrill hum of a mosquito in your ear. It seems insects have returned to Beacon from... wherever they were hiding, and the night air is now vibrant with their music. No more eerie silence back in town, where the sounds of the lake are snuffed out by the trees. It sounds almost like a real forest now.
And it will stay that way after this event ends, too. Maybe you were enjoying the time away from bugs or maybe you were longing for some sign that, yes, this world was alive once, but either way, the insects are here to stay. Well, until winter, at least.
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[As if that had been the point Eliot was trying to make, and Quentin wants it to be, just a little bit. He doesn't want to think about everything he's lost. Everything they've lost. But it's as if this whole night is pushing it at him, the ritualistic feeling to the scene playing out by the shore of the lake. The many beings making small tokens of grief to push in to the water, letting them sail away.
It tugs at him.
The want.
To be able to put his feelings about all of them in to little paper boats, light them up with magical rocks and send them off. To be a part of this, to mourn his dad all over again without the Monster breathing down his neck. Maybe make one for Arielle, too. He mourned her in Fillory. And again when they get the memories or the memories of memories back after the Throne Room and Margo's wedding.
Still resting against the solid trunk of the tree behind him, Quentin can almost see what the boats should look like. What he'd write on them, before folding them up.]
I've read a story about something like this once. About putting your last words to your dead loved ones in letters and sending them off? There's a place down there without a lot of people. Maybe-- [wistful sigh, and really, there's nothing stopping him but himself, but it just seems like a goodbye. Making a boat, and Quentin's not all that sure he wants to. Say goodbye.] we could make one? For the rest of them?
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[ really, if it were so easy to be rid of all those regrets, eliot thinks he could have maybe even liked himself before he ended up here. no, nothing ever really leaves. you just learn better to take only what you need from it, and let the rest of the pain subside.
what he says next is one of those rare moments, where he actually submits to the notion he might know more than he deigns himself to know as someone who isn't a nerd. only nerds can really be good magicians though. that's just how it works. ]
You know, in some cultures, they actually write messages to send because they think their loved ones will end up seeing them.
We can only watch the boats sail away, but. Maybe somewhere. Far, far away from where we could see or. Even feel. Maybe they can see the boats sail in. And maybe they're waiting every day, hoping for that ship with their name on it to come to shore.
no subject
[Quentin says it quietly, almost in to his sleeves because his hands are at his mouth, and the words come out on the tail end of a half-sob, voice wet and eyes stinging. What is it about this place, that makes him want to tear up? It could be the darkness, pressing in on him, on them, from all sides, but it's not bad with Eliot here. With two sources of light instead of just the one and it's pretty here, in a way that he never expected this fucking place to be. The points of lights in the distance and he wants, wants, wants.
To write the letters.
To write down everything he wanted to tell them all, but never did because despite everything the universe threw at him, he always expected to have time to do it later.]
It doesn't work that way. There's no magic that can bring the words of the dead back to you. [but he really, really wants there to be. Wants to tell them all how loved they were and how precious and how every last one of them (yes, even Penny) made life better in some way. Curling his arms around his bent legs, Quentin rests his head on his knees and looks at Eliot.]
But. I'm not-- I-- uhm, but we can try? Maybe? God, Eliot, I want to and I don't even know why I want to? There's just this part of me that has so many things to say to everyone and-- okay. [he wipes his arm over his eyes] Want to build a boat with me?
no subject
isn't that the heart of quentin coldwater, after all? that deep, boundless hope, even in the darkest of dark, that there has to be a good somewhere to believe in.
eliot's chest aches a bit, wanting to draw quentin in to comfort him but knowing he'd drawn the line himself that makes quentin try to hide away the sorrow as quickly as it had taken him. there's still time, though. maybe. for something less intimate, more chaste and within the invisible walls erected around them.
reaching forward casually as is his way, eliot offers his hand, to help quentin to his feet. ]
With all my heart, Quentin.
no subject
With practiced ease, Quentin forces his eyes and his thoughts back to the boats before getting up and grabbing his lantern off of the ground.
He shuffles his feet most of the way there, like he doesn't really want this, or like he can somehow trick himself in to not thinking about what they're about to do, as he gets sheets of paper and art supplies from the piles near the water. A few glowing rocks make it in to the pile as well.
He can't think of anything to say, not when the arts and crafts things clutched to his chest, but he shifts his lantern to the already overflowing hand and brushes the back of his empty one against Eliot's, not quite holding hands but close enough to find some measure of comfort. To offer it back, too, because Eliot lost Margo, and he can only imagine how that must feel.
He sits down crossed-legged on the beach and spreads the supplies out in front of him, picking up a piece of paper and a pencil, he starts writing in fits and starts, pencil moving unevenly across the paper as he writes a letter to his dad.]
I--uhm, you can make one? Too? There's like a lot of paper here. [Too much maybe. He'd really just grabbed a stack and hurried away.]
[Before turning back to write the lines to his dad, what he should have said and how missed he is, was, and how sorry Quentin was to have missed the final days of his life. He ends it with one large Q at the bottom before folding it in to a paper boat, the kind they used to make together when Quentin had been a kid. They'd made one, once, and painted it bright red and set it out in a lake, watching it together until it sank under the small waves because the paper got too wet.
With care, he draws out the tuts to keep the glowing rock from dropping out of the boat as he places it in it, and moves to stand by the edge of the water.]
Goodbye, dad.
[Almost as soon as his boat hits the water, this sense of peace creeps over him. Like he can breathe again and he turns to Eliot with a quiet gasp of surprise, mouth open on the exhale. Peace and something like calm warmth, like waking up in a pool of sunlight to a world without fear.]
Oh. Oh, Eliot--
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he gathers his own supplies as well, quickly so as to keep his focus on q as much as possible. when they sit, eliot sits opposite, his components parallel so quentin can just as easily borrow from what eliot's taken for them. he can't manage any words and instead nods when q invites him to make one of his own. but he doesn't know what to do, instead staring at the page and unclear of what should follow.
he makes the craft instead, debating what name to write at the end, and when q gets up to set out his boat, eliot stops to go with him, a shadow even insomuch as theirs are muted in the lack of light. at the gasp, eliot reaches out, hand to the small of quentin's back, drawing q in closer because he suddenly seems so far away. ]
I know, Q. [ he presses a kiss to quentin's temple. ] I know.
no subject
[Leaning in to the hand like he's done it a million times, Quentin can't take his eyes off of his boat, his one tiny boat among all the rest of them, sailing off and taking his goodbyes with them. That peace, that feeling of being just filled with it holds even as he twists against Eliot to just kind of breathe at him, head tilted back to look up.]
It's beautiful. It's. I can't even--
[And the soft, careful memories of his dad are there, just beneath the surface and raising up like bubbles. The time they tried to paint the hallway on their own, and failed so hard they had to use the backdoor for a week and let the painters do it. That time he'd broken a leg at thirteen and had been bound to the house for weeks, and his dad watching show after show with him on the couch in the living room to cheer him up. So many dinners and packed lunches with little notes in them until Quentin grew up enough to ask him to stop. Memory after memory and they're all lit up golden in his head, like something happy and cherished and not weighted down by what came later.]
I want. I want to make another one. For the others. For... you know. I think I need to.