westwhere | [ ACTIVE ]

Its never truly silent in the keep. War stops for no creature, and while the intensity of the battles waxes and wanes there are always people coming and going.

Its late now, dark outside, and Wrathion has commandeered a rickety table away from the barracks and is working by a small lantern. The shadows, at least, go some way to disguise the dark circles under his eyes as he frowns. All of his concentration appears to be on a number of stones, laid out in a line that he's inspecting and discarding. To one side of the table is a pendant, a softly glowing orange stone around which is wrapped a dragon. He picks up one of the stones and channels a thread of magic into it, causing it to levitate briefly in his hand. After a moment, a hairline crack appears in the stone. Wrathion lets it drop into his hand, lets out a slow breath of frustration and sets the stone to one side. Glancing up, he spots The Doctor watching curiously.

"Enjoying a late night promenade?"

He's not sure, particularly, if The Doctor requires sleep -- or even as much as the average human. Either way, there are plenty of reasons to be awake.

"When don't I?"

As if Wrathion would have any idea at all. Though the Doctor's tone is, of course, nonchalant and airy, simply stating a casual fact. He's stumbled upon something immediately interesting to him, so he steps closer. To be fair, Wrathion could just be sitting there staring at nothing at all and the Doctor wouldn't ask before stepping closer and intruding upon him if he felt compelled to. And in such a trying time, he feels compelled to check in on everyone he cares about.

"My timing is, as ever, impeccable," he notes with a brief, self-congratulatory smile before nodding to the stones. "I'd hoped I'd see more of your magic soon enough."

Since the stone has been set down to one side, the Doctor also takes it upon himself to reach for it, intending to examine it a bit more, curious as ever.

Wrathion gestures openly as the Doctor takes the stone, allowing him to pick it up and take a look.

"Poor quality, unable to contain the enchantment. Hence the crack."

He tilts his head, watching the Doctor study it. Is it a specific interest? Or just a generalised curiosity about everything around him? He certainly has the air of someone who likes to learn for the sake of learning, for the sake of understanding as much as he can about the world around them all. Yet then again, he could well be fishing for something in particular.

"None of the stones here are particularly good. The mine has likely as not already lost its best over the years, and the miners are hardly focused on looking for more. All the same, some of them have been enough to last for a few tokens."

Trinkets to stop people falling to their death, to help wrench Irenia from the undead lord's control. He always hopes to achieve more, but here it may all have to be enough.

"You're doing your best under the circumstances then, I'd say."

Curious about everything, this one. Perhaps to a fault, although he'd never think so. The stone is examined with singular and enthusiastic focus even though there's nothing of particular note that he's able to discern from it personally. He's fascinated by the magic, the enchantment, and Wrathion himself. His thumb moves over the hairline crack before he levels a gaze at Wrathion again.

"And you've a way to keep people safe, you mentioned. You've been busy, of course you have."

Setting the stone down now, the Doctor's eyes wander again, catching sight of the pendant on the table, the dragon wrapped around it. He says nothing at first, only tapping the pendant lightly and briefly, a hint of reverence perhaps in the slightest touch. "For her sake, this one? For our dear Irenia?" He muses aloud.

Ah. Wrathion drifts his eyes over to the pendant, to the way the Doctor's fingers alight on it. It gives a light answering pulse of power, warm and expectant, waiting to be called on.

"That's a spare for the tower defenders. Given the focus on evacuation now it's unnecessary, but I made a variety of wearable styles to catch anyone who ended up falling. Irenia needed a... larger design, considering her size."

Not to be rude, but she's not on the small scale. Wrathion begins absently packing away his things, admitting defeat to himself. Nothing is getting done at this hour.

"She also needed hers to be... permanently attached. The affliction of undeath is not easily removed, and so long as she stays undead any of the liege lords here may try to take her under their control."

He draws open a pouch, begins collecting up gems he has yet to test for later.

"We settled on a horn ornament, large enough to inset several gems, but all it does is weaken the influence. She's not immune, should she end up back in Rathakku's range of power and find herself unable to flee before his grip takes hold."

"As free as she can be at the moment."

As free as an undead creature can be, trapped between fates, with the potential to be controlled by an undead lord ever a possibility.

His attention remains on the pendant, though. It's not that he's unfamiliar with enchantments, magic, and the like—and certainly not since being here—but every part of this is quite new to him. The pulse of power that emanates from it equally delights him, and the tip of his thumb lingers over it.

It's easier to focus on the small, tangible object that piques his curiosity. The longer he thinks about Irenia and any creature wielded against their will, the more it upsets him. For now, at least, she's safe.

But what then? What waits for her? There was worry amongst their group about Irenia being enthralled again; a valid concern, yes, but if she remains free of any control—as he hopes—what happens when she's left here?

"What becomes of her beyond this, I wonder..."

As Wrathion is packing up his things, the Doctor takes the liberty of offering the pendant back.

"Might have a chat with her a bit later, if I can."

Wrathion presses his tongue against his teeth, a barely suppressed flinch crossing his features.

As free as she can be.

He accepts the pendant, toying with it as he forces out a slow breath.

"She seems content enough, enjoying not having to do Rathakku's bidding, but she cannot stray far from our party. It seems her undead state requires a tether to a source of power. We've placed her in a gilded cage, of sorts."

He places the pendant in a box, expression pulled into a frown.

"I'd like to find some way to offer her a power source that isn't tied to our party, and I have some suspicions around what may do it but... it won't be easy. We'd be toying with power we don't fully understand. I find people get upset about that."

Edited (Decided I hated that wording!) 2023-04-06 20:38 (UTC)

"And for good reason, often." He should be concerned by the mere suggestion, and he is. Toying with power that isn't fully understood is a dangerous gambit. Context matters, though, and the Doctor has never shied away from meddling both with things he does and doesn't fully understand, if it means fixing what's gone wrong. He specializes in impossible things, after all.

"A sacred creature with a chance at life again," the Doctor muses quietly, though there's a tension to his features now, other considerations swirling about in his endlessly busy mind. "Rescued from Rathakku's thrall, we owe her that chance, I'd say. What are you proposing?"

They're just talking, after all. For now. And since the subject has been broached, he can't very well not follow that line of thought as long as he can. Whether he ultimately agrees with Wrathion or not is of little consequence at the moment. He'll always want to hear every point of view to the furthest extent possible.

He worries his tongue against his teeth again, closes the box and slides it to place into his bag.

"Two potentials," he offers. "The first, murkier and less likely to work. Along with all the other strange artefacts, our party has collected two undead body parts. One is a tongue, in endless stasis of sorts, that we know can summon a kraken. The other is a heart, still beating, that was used to seal a deal with the undead lieges. The tongue we stole from a captain whose mind had twisted, potentially related to exposure to said tongue. The heart, our party was asked to retrieve when we forcibly broke the deal a city had with the undead. They were trading endless weapons to the armies, who were then using them to attack other cities, in return for their own safety. The Merchant sent one of our number to find it and dig it up. So, two essentially undead body parts. We know Irenia needs to anchor herself to a source of magic the undead use. Perhaps these organs could have enough of that, and perhaps we could find a way to essentially bind her to one. The risk being... we have no idea why they remain living, what they do, who they belong to, or if some insane cult is shortly going to collect all of them and do something terrible with them."

Wrathion frowns, gathering up his tools.

"Option two, more dangerous, more likely to achieve something: mirrors. Mirrors are a known source of power. Mirrors grant wishes. Mirrors cured Haiva, but also likely broke his mind. Mirrors were experimented on in Ellethia, and likely destroyed Ellethia and started this whole string of disasters we're following after. Mirrors likely gave Matthias, The White Wanderer, the power we suspect he has to control and create undead. Which means they gave, in a manner of speaking, the undead the power they used to raise and control Irenia."

He shuffles his tools into a box, looks up and lofts an eyebrow at the Doctor.

"The risk there is obvious."

To start: "As ever, a wealth of knowledge, my friend."

Though the Doctor has gathered what he could of their party's history before he'd arrived, hearing about it and actually living through it are two separate things, and he values Wrathion's wisdom in this. He's been correct on more than one occasion. That he's cautious in both suggestions also serves to trouble the Doctor less. Whether either option is truly viable, he's careful in his approach, not gone mad with any sort of power or authority like many have before, in the Doctor's experience.

"Obviously we need to know more about all the aforementioned artefacts, and not only as it pertains to Irenia. Stating the obvious, of course."

Fidgeting as they speak, the Doctor laces his fingers together, back and forth a few times.

"Dear girl...she didn't ask to be raised from the dead. She was gone and it was over. Peaceful, one presumes. As peaceful as death can be. I wouldn't know." His own deaths have hardly been peaceful, but he imagines there's a peace in knowing that one might at last be able to rest. "Then she was brought back and used against her will. What's there for her at the end of all this?"

His voice is more distant, eyes troubled, not looking at Wrathion for the moment. A part of him can't help recalling the Star Whale, that beautiful creature who was the last of its kind. So much like himself. Death will come for the Doctor eventually, but it won't be over. As he's learned from Clara now, he gets another go at it, and he'd started accepting that would be the end at last.

Death would be a gift. Words that haunted him once, for the way they sat in his hearts, the way it felt to imagine there might be an end to the loneliness.

They can save Irenia from remaining tethered to their party, and they should, but what happens to her after that? When she's left alone? It's rare in his travels that he has time to ponder these questions; he saves the day and moves on quite quickly. He's quiet for a long moment, longer than he should be, longer than he generally is. And he catches himself, leveling a darkened gaze back at Wrathion.

"Tethered to a different source of power with either option, is that freedom? Happiness? Will she resent it? It should, of course, all be her choice. She's been given very little of that at all, it seems. So long as she remains happy and content, truly, we'll find a way."

Wrathion shifts, both hands coming to rest on the table so he can lean heavily into it.

"She's lived a long life, I'm sure. Most, given the chance, would fight for a taste of immortality. They fear the end. All the same, I wouldn't want this. The danger of being controlled at any moment. Living in a state of endless decay."

He frowns, fingers flexing unhappily against the table, then meets the Doctor's gaze.

"Where I am frown, undead creatures slowly lose themselves. Their bodies are weaker, but they also begin to forget what it was to be alive. The comfort of warmth. The ache of love and loss."

Something Wrathion would never want. He may struggle to control his emotions, may find them inconvenient and frustrating, but to live that way -- that way, he knows, would make him into the worst of creatures. Devoid of guilt, removed of all ties to the mortal races, a danger to everyone.

Slowly lose themselves and forget what it was to be alive. Well, there's nothing at all familiar in any of those words. Certainly not. It lives in him all the time—all the things he's done, all the countless selfish choices when he lost himself—and he needn't be undead to have struggled with such things, to still struggle in the moments when he has to make the hard choices far too often. The injustice of the universe, setting it all to right, forgetting the promise of his name at times because he's so old now, and he can't always see it anymore. He knows the beginning and end of all things and because it drives him mad, it's why he so desperately needs others, not only with him but all around him, to help him remember the beauty and the hope of it all. He sees it through them, all of them. What becomes of those creatures with nothing at all to anchor to? Wrathion said it himself—they lose themselves.

"I don't like endings, but for some, there can be far more to fear than the end itself. The getting there, as it were. Or...never getting there."

~~Not that he has any experience with that either. Why would you think that.~~

Leaning back against the table, the Doctor crosses his arms loosely over his chest as he matches Wrathion's gaze.

"Will it be a life for her? What she has beyond this?"

Had he the TARDIS, of course, most of their problems would have been solved the moment he arrived, not least of all what to do with Irenia. If she's to endure, he can't bear the thought of her lingering on with nothing and no one, susceptible to being made a prisoner again. He would take her with him. The alternative would be to remain here with her, should things turn that way. He's had that thought more than once, even before this.

"For now, she has the chance of something better than she's had in far too long. Imperfect as it is."

He gives a slight incline of his head at that, accepting it if clearly uneasy.

"We have improved matters, I hope. We give her no commands, we ask nothing of her."

Yet she is still... in her undead state. Still required to follow them. She is not, truly, free. He frowns in thought, dropping his eyes to the table.

"There were so few dragons left in Serthica. She's different to them, too. How many of her own are left, if any? Where are they? She might not even know, if she's been under Rathakku's control a long time."

He's projecting now, he knows. Seeing things where he has no particular evidence. Yet all the same, he remembers vividly the fall of his own flight. Dragons sent spiralling into madness, slain then dragged back as undead creatures to continue fighting.

He wouldn't want that for himself. That's why he made people promise him -- promise, back when the beastmaster terrorised them, not to allow him to hurt anyone. Whatever it took, if he lost control, he wouldn't want to be allowed to hurt anyone.

Even if that meant the end.

"Lonely business, that. Being the last of your kind."

There's far more going on beneath the surface for Wrathion, he suspects, and the Doctor takes careful note of it all. Their conversation is a bit on the nose in more than one way, and though it may have taken him a bit of time to get around to the finer details, he's not unaware of what he presumes to be a far more intimate knowledge of what Irenia may have to contend with.

"Happy at first, being free, but left in solitude for so long, under threat, well, it would drive even the most peaceful creatures to madness, anger, weariness. I know a bit about that, too. The fear of it."

Pushing off from the table, the Doctor paces in a slow circle, coming back to the heart of the matter, as it were.

"You'll tell me if I'm wrong—though I doubt I am—but I suspect you understand it far too well yourself. The undead creatures of your world, Irenia's fate—are there any others like her left? Are there any on your world like you that remain, Wrathion?"

Wrathion straightens a little at that, arms lifting from the table to fold over his chest and body language stiffening.

He's never said, directly, that he wasn't human -- but perhaps he's given himself away in other ways. They did discuss the Doctor being mortal, but regenerating, and he mentioned he thinks that he hadn't observed timeway based powers in mortal races. He'd displayed use of magic, but humans can use magic in Azeroth. Perhaps they cannot in the Doctor's experience? In Hermione's world, not all humans can. Or is it the eyes? Glowing eyes from exposure to high power magic sources in not uncommon in Azeroth, but seems to draw attention here.

Equally, he supposes, it's entirely possible the Doctor thinks he is human but his country has fallen and he's only similar in that respect. A population mostly wiped out by an invading undead army, the last of his people rather than a... species. He'll assume its that. He's totally got this. His cover is brilliant. His overinvestment in the undead dragon is just a coincidence, clearly, never mind the fact that Red already saw directly through it.

"We have undead lords on my world," he says, "and undead who have freed themselves of the control of undead lords. I have observed the cycle before, of those being captured, then freed and no longer quite belonging anywhere. We have a whole city the free undead took it upon themselves to congregate in, to populate as a new united faction. They call themselves the Forsaken."

Perhaps this information will distract the Doctor from the fact that Wrathion did not, in fact, answer part of that question. He does seem easily distracted.

It's all very fascinating and he almost—almost—latches onto it, because he does genuinely want to know more about that, too. He can be distracted easily, it's true, and it might have worked under different circumstances.

"I'm bookmarking that, for the record," the Doctor notes. "The Forsaken, we'll come back to that."

And they will, yes, but now he's locked onto Wrathion himself, for better or worse.

"I'm very old, as you know. Been around, seen a lot. Your magic—or what I know of it—is unique. Fascinating, extraordinary. Stick with me a moment, eh," the Doctor settles back against the table again, arms folded.

"Your red eyes—lovely—the dragon pendant, an understanding you seem to have not only of Irenia, but with her. The carefully crafted instrument suited to her specifically, the tokens you've made to help people fly. So much like a dragon. But here you stand before me, not a dragon. The rest of my point, I'm getting to it. I've met many species in the universe that could change form, shapeshift: Kymbra Chimera, Zygons, Axons, Rutans, I could go on. Different mechanisms, of course, different adaptations, but all variations on a theme."

The Doctor's eyes are both curious and soft. "So! You're a dragon in a different form. I'm sure I'm right, but I'm also sure and will insist that you have nothing to fear from me." Secret that it is; many must already know. "Secrets keep us safe, I know all about that. You can lie to me if you want, deflect, ignore all of it, you don't have to say anything else at all in fact if you'd prefer. You could stand there and glare or raise a withering and skeptical eyebrow, but I've found moments of truth don't have to be as terrifying as we imagine."

Ah, yes, because the Doctor is always so excellent at this himself, of course.

The simmering tension stays within Wrathion, increasing as the Doctor continues to talk until his top lip begins to twitch. Like a cornered animal ready to bare its teeth, he has an air of being braced to do something.

He controls it, just about, lets out a slow breath and runs his tongue over his teeth as he decides what to say.

"A small number are aware," he admits.

Anduin, Hermione, Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji and Red. Emilia perhaps, he's so far avoided talking to her about the fine detail of what she understood. The members of the tower team who saw him change by necessity, Strange and Stephanivien. The number is, slowly, growing. He's not entirely sure how he feels about that.

He's hit a nerve, obviously, he doesn't miss that particular cue, at least. No doubt the Doctor himself would feel a similar sort of way, and he has. But—good, he thinks. Best to get it out. He respects the need to keep secrets, he won't betray anything Wrathion's told him, but there's no need to hide from him, either. Everyone just needs to see it his way, of course.

"And what we know will be kept safe," the Doctor adds to reassure. Though, perhaps little comfort. "And you, your kind—are you all that's left?"

Though the question is asked with care, with a gentleness of tone, the Doctor isn't unaware that it's still intrusive and likely not altogether comfortable. It's not a subject he particularly enjoys himself, yet if he's at all correct, in some fashion perhaps they would share an understanding in this.

Wrathion frowns, worrying his tongue against his teeth. He wants to argue this isn't relevant, that it's unnecessary information. Yet people do, he's learned, like to talk about this sort of thing. To offer sympathy.

Sympathy has never helped Wrathion. Never brought back dead dragons, never solved a crisis, never made him feel better.

Still, he can indulge it if he must.

"I have one brother," he admits. Ebyssian. He's new to his life, only recently come forward, but Wrathion is glad to have him -- as different as they may be.

On some level, the Doctor is aware that it's not his business and Wrathion doesn't owe him more explanation, but that's never stopped him before. He could sympathize openly to a certain extent, perhaps, though how much he chooses to share of his own losses is always variable.

"I know a bit about that. Not the brother part. Well, I did once." The tips of his fingers skirt along the edge of the table for a moment. If they're sharing, well...he should share, too. He should. He's not always good at that, either, and only in certain moments. But if ever there was a time. "They're gone. I understand that, and I'm sorry."

In what way does he understand? He doesn't elaborate. It's definitely not important or anything.

"What you are, what you've shared, I don't take it lightly. Your secret is protected, and you'll be protected if I have anything to say about it. And I do have quite a lot to say, generally, as you well know."

"Quite alright," Wrathion says, in something of a tense undertone. "I've protected myself for quite some time now."

He's a black dragon, he doesn't need protecting. He protects other people, that's how it's all meant to work. How it should have worked, would have if everything hadn't all gone horribly wrong. He drops his gaze to begin packing up, movements stiff.

"You may think you understand, Doctor, but I sincerely doubt we are the same. Most of my kind died by my own hand."

There's something of a threat there, a warning. Don't underestimate me. Wrathion is capable of being dangerous. He may be here, mourning a creature he barely knows, sleeplessly trying to keep their party alive and together but he has done terrible things before. Will likely do terrible things again, in the pursuit of his greater good. Of the bigger picture, as he sees it.

And there they arrive at last, at a point the Doctor couldn't have entirely predicted when they'd started, but it satisfies the curiosity and the part of him that fully believed there was more beneath the surface.

"Well," the Doctor's lips briefly curve upward as though a darkened and humorless smile might make an appearance, but just as quickly, it's gone and his eyes are a starless night, his entire form tense as he grips the edge of the table.

"I know a bit about that, too. More than I'd ever care to, or for anyone else to, either, being honest." Jaw taut as he speaks, his words are a bit more halting than usual.

He doesn't admit this to people, he simply does not. Oh, the part about being the last, yes, he'll come around to it eventually, less easily than in his previous life. But this, this, this is a secret few know. And is he really going to share with Wrathion, is he honestly about to? He doesn't have to, he doesn't owe him anything at all, yet as guarded as the one across from him has been, he's shared this much about himself and doesn't he warrant the same in turn?

A question that will haunt him long past their time together here.

"I'm the last of my kind, Wrathion, and I'm the reason for it."

Wrathion frowns at the first comment, then slowly lifts his eyes as the Doctor clarifies.

The last of his kind. The reason for it.

Not something he expected, in truth, from the man's demeanour. Then again, do people expect it from him? He couldn't say. What manner should someone who had done such a thing even have? What would be expected?

Blood is not always visible on hands, even when you can feel it. The stain of it, the creep of corruption.

"Not everyone has the stomach to do what must be done," he offers. "Sometimes, some of us must stand alone against the darkness so that others may bask in the light."

Edited (just noticed that typo) 2023-05-19 18:43 (UTC)

Some of us must stand alone. Too right. Unfortunately.

He certainly hadn't expected the conversation to turn in this manner, either, but now he feels a strange and unfortunate connection to Wrathion borne of tragedy and mutual blood on their hands. For the greater good. Certainly a Pyrrhic victory, and not a win at all, at least in the Doctor's mind. No one really won the Time War, but it was a war against death itself, in the end, and so the universe going on at all was a triumph.

"And we don't stop. We can't. The darkness is always there chasing the light, the universe always needs saving, the choices always need to be made."

Curious as ever, the Doctor wants more context for what happened to Wrathion's people, but his own words tell him enough. Enough for now.

"You're not standing alone, Wrathion. Not here. And that's all we have at the moment."

What happens beyond this when they eventually leave here, the Doctor can't say. He imagines he'll be alone again himself because that's the fate always waiting for him; hard to imagine otherwise when you've seen the beginning and end of everything.

[ The forest is cold and unpleasant, and so far Wrathion has neither seen a single useful flower nor learned anything of interest. Icy leaves crunch under his feet, and the pervasive silence is periodically broken by unpleasant sounds.

He is thinking, somewhat against his will, about feet. About Haiva's obsession with feet. About the siren, or whatever it is. About the scaled creature in the lake. Their walking is blessedly silent as his mind whirrs, until finally he breaks it: ]

There's a tale, in my world, told by the sailors of the sea port Boralus about mermaids. The sailors of Boralus associated mermaids with disaster, claiming they were often seen before a storm. Boralus itself relied heavily on fishing, on sea trade, and it used tidesages to guide their vessels. Tidesages can tame the wind and waves, bring vessels through unpleasant weather by sheer force of will.

[ He glances aside at Lan Wangji. ]

Bear with me, there is some relevance. The story goes that one day, a tidesage by the name of Ery drew the attention of a young mermaid named Halia. Halia swum alongside Ery's ship and Ery instructed her crew to leave the mermaid be. The mermaid courted her, and eventually they met and spoke properly. Ery waded out into the water to offer Halia a gift, and Halia begged Ery to come live in the sea with her. When Ery explained she could not, for she cannot breathe underwater, the mermaid assured her she could. That if she cut her feet and waded into the water, she would grow a tail and become a mermaid.

( Bear with him, Wrathion says, as if Lan Wangji — possessed of rare appreciation for the frost motes that dance on his limbs, the crackling of iced branches underfoot — has ever throughout the maelstrom of their acquaintance deigned to take the vanguard of their conversations. No, no. It is Wrathion who is the storyteller, the fantasy shaper, the bard. Let him speak — and so, Lan Wangji waves away the concern for his patience and calmly, unflinchingly, carries on.

The river's a spread of ice clusters and spumes, unexpectedly rapid despite the frost of the season. He tip-toes by the time they crawl towards the ravines, hesitant to hasten, half descending, half holding himself at bay — )

Do all your tales involve lies and amputation?

( Conversationally, as a matter of cultural exchange, while still permitting the story to carry on. )

It wasn't a lie.

[ He moves further through the wood, eyes narrowing as he thinks. ]

A great storm came to Boralus, lashing the port. The tidesages all gathered, trying to hold back the waves, and the mermaids came to work with them. Many of both lost their lives trying to build a sea wall to protect Boralus from being swept away. Ery worked among them, Halia constantly swimming to her side and begging her to rest, until finally Ery falls from the sea wall down into the waves, unconscious. Halia gathers her body and swims out into the ocean, cutting along the bottom of her feet. All of the tidesages assume her dead as the two sink into the waves, but then Ery resurfaces and it is just as Halia said. She has become a mermaid.

[ A transformation, of sorts. ]

I've been thinking about that story a lot, and about our own prince and his obsession with feet. About the scaled beast in the lake and the tales of sirens. I have wondered if the prince is also being... transformed in some way, out of affection.

Only amputation.

( Gloom, doom and the thin line of his unwavering mouth, destined for a lifetime of certain judgement. Ery, Halia. Lovers sundered, reunited against the odds of man, of nature. Defying their fates, unconceding.

...after carving out a pair of feet.

And Haiva, the prince who, like the demon at Alem's gates, appears to wait. He sees the intricate filigree of similarity shaping, sees Wrathion's interest coalescing around myth and magic and all that which should not attract them, but invariably proves the cradle of truth behind every horror this world has shown them.

A man, tortured by love. Perhaps, if the mermaid is unknowing of the effect of her spell on a living man...? But then, the prince appears in passing health. )

You think him a... siren? ( A pause, to deflect the lashing of a beathing branch. ) They say they killed their mermaids.

( To be the heir of genocide. Ah. )

I think he's either undergoing, or has already undergone, a transformation. Either he is masquerading as a human, or changing from one into a sea creature as Ery did.

[ Wrathion thinks a moment. ]

If he was not meant for land, it might assume why he suffered constantly living among humans.

( It is... somehow, not implausible. Nor the most extravagant theory circulated before Lan Wangji's own soft-blinking, owlish and disbelieving eyes.

He hesitates, drinking in the possibility, before carefully pronouncing while drifting down the shoreline to toe the water's edge. Chilled, slushing, ice barely melted enough to sway. Even a man of Cloud Recesses might... hesitate to plunge.

They will have to, unfailingly. )

Do you intend to cut his feet off and send him in water? ( Conversationally, in the way one entertains all shapes, sizes and transparencies of Wrathion's madness. )

No.

[ Equally conversational. ]

I hope to learn his... expectations. I think he's aware of what is happening to him, and is lying to hide it. What I'd like to find out is why he is lying, and if he is being... misled in some way.

[ If someone else has lied to him in turn. If he believes in some end result that may be... incorrect, or exaggerated. ]

( Lying. Misled. As if a man grown, possessed of rank, education and possibility, might be steered unknowing towards circumstances that conveniently advantage him. As if Jin Guangyao were but a babe, blade ever wet-red in his hapless hands.

For a moment, he indicates none of his stupor. Then, carefully, the carefully neutral objection he had built on the bones of long-crafted discipline reshapes itself, unambiguously dismissive. )

Men who lie deceive themselves first. ( Enemies of their nature, of their name, of their purpose. Men who cannot abide whom they have allowed themselves to become. ) The deceived cannot be trusted.

( Allow him only a moment, shivered, when he looks into the welling, iced waters with the same petulantly murderous intent as everyone might. )

Shall we?

I don't disagree.

[ He doesn't trust Haiva at all. Still, Wrathion inches closer with a lofted eyebrow to the river.

After a moment, he steps closed -- slides a glove off one hand and crouches to touch a hand to the water. ]

You said they claimed to have killed all the mermaids here. I recall hearing the soldiers boasting of it, too. I wonder... did they fight for resources? Fishing, perhaps? Or was it something else.

( Not killed, but slaughtered in genocide. Removed to the hair and heart of one. He remembers the boasting of soldiers, the sinister, unctuous joy of the soldiers, as if all that warmed their bodies was the blood they did not even shed with their two hands. )

Sirens have attacked us at every encounter. ( In Sa-Hareth, Ellethia, the seas beyond. ) Precedent does not suggest innocence.

( But there are breeds of such creatures, branches on each tree. Perhaps these sirens were the rare flowers absent thorns, for all Lan Wangji permits himself a moment's presumption.

Like Wrathion, he drips to a knee, searching the waters unhurried — not with his hand, but the tip of sword, Bichen's silver nearly lost in the translucence of heavy, jutting ice sheets. Nothing, at the surface, unless animals have already collected the bloom. )

The flower might sleep in the depths. ( Time, then, to rush in. )

[ Sirens? Wrathion considers that a moment, hand withdrawing from the water. ]

Sirens and mermaids are the same thing to you?

[ They're different to Wrathion, but... If they were the same, here too, that might make other things add up.

He flicks water off his hand, thinking. ]

You're right about the flowers, unfortunately. I'm quite sure if they're in here at all, they must be down at the bottom.

[ And the water is icy-cold. Unpleasant. ]

( Half the gallery of this world's bestiary is one and the same deformed, claw-spouting, feral creature to him — but then, he need not show himself so crude. A nod, painstaking, poorly calculated.

And then, the waters. He steels himself, line of his back learned, rigid. Cloud Recesses have taught him the way of dipping into a cold stream, tumbling and coiling, until the whole of himself is dainty and small, no better than a babe. Until each breath in the fierce iciness no longer stings.

He thinks, for a moment, hands loitering by his belt, to offend modesty and shed the outermost of his seven layers in a single, timid concession to lace and embroidery. Reconsiders at the last moment, not even troubling himself to remove his sword beyond slinging it lower on his hip, so it does not impede the swim. )

My people care after restorative cold streams. ( Beautiful, renown. The chill so often numbs and pleases. This one, he knows, will sooner stiffen his bones. ) These waters will not heal.

( Much sooner, they'll curdle his skin. He plunges first, waving Wrathion to follow, aiming for the centre of the river's bed — if he must subject himself to this, let him at least shorten the path, tighten the need to rise up for air again, hasten this process —

...supervised by the golden, foreign eyes of a... woman, in the depths. This turns, when he flusters, fumbles and waves Wrathion over, it's with urgency and a lack of recourse. Underwater, he cannot shriek. )

[ Wrathion watches Lan Wangji submerge himself, fully clothed, with dismay.

The man is going to freeze. His clothes will be wet, and then walking through these icy woods with that clothing he will become ill. He will not warm up properly, and he will develop hypothermia no doubt. Someone will ask Wrathion why he let him get in, and he will have no answer beyond well he didn't ask my opinion. The man waves at him and Wrathion, disinclined to freeze longer than he has to, shrugs his bag to the ground. He begins to unfasten his coat, dropping it down and pulling his shirt over his head. He's just added that to the pile, thinking about how yes, these waters certainly won't heal, when the splashing gets his attention. The dragon is half expecting it to be Lan Wangji, emerged from the water angrily to make some abrupt comment about how his bared skin is inappropriate. ]

What is it?

[ As if the man, who is actually still submerged, might answer. He kicks off his shoes and socks to pad along the bank quickly, frowning into the water. The movement, then bright gold eyes, catch his attention. He gestures quickly, a sharp burst of magic hitting the top of the water to catch the mermaid's attention and then illusions filling up the bank. A small swarm of equally undressed copies of Wrathion, all pooling magic ready to defend Lan Wangji against this wet woman if she decides to pick a fight with him.

Hopefully, she decides the odds are decidedly not in her favour. ]

( ...Wrathion, who does not join him. Who waits and bides his time at the river's edge, as if a maiden facing disaster.

No. As Lan Wangji breaks water, lone — two flowers trapped in hand, one bloomed the other unfurling, should it make the critical, the impossible difference — he sees tens of Wrathion. An indisputable dozen.

Inevitably, he turns to face the wrong one, thinking foolishly that his voice comes somehow sharper, more limpid. )

A woman. ( Breathless, savage, raw. As if the shards of glass are ribboning his lungs, like they lick hurt onto his back. ) Come, then go. She... did not approve. Of something.

( Of his descent in her waters, or the collection of flowers, or something more distant, more indistinct. )

[ So she's definitely gone then? The illusions all look around, wary, then one by one begin to dissipate. The true form of Wrathion moves closer to the Wangji again, carefully beginning to work his way further down the bank. ]

Well, it seems you have your prize even without my assistance.

[ He'd been stripping off all ready to climb in! He's not sure if he's relieved or simply faintly embarrassed at having been no use. Even this close to the water, he shivers in sympathy. ]

Free yourself of the water. You will need to dry off, as soon as you can.

[ He holds out a hand, either for Wangji to hand off the flowers so he can steady himself or for him to take for leverage. Either works. ]

( His... prize. He hears the words but misunderstands them, gaze soft when it lands on the petals in his clutching hand, indifferent to the shivers that rattle him. Cold courses through him like summer storm's lightning.

He does not move to offer them to Wrathion. Withholds himself, paralysed by drippings of hesitation. )

I do not know... whether to relinquish what the dead do not wish gifted.

( These flowers, strangely lifeless in his stiff hand, joints stiff and steeled around them. He chokes them like he might a throat. If they are not present, if they perish —

There is no choice to fathom, to wonder of. What is it that the woman fears, that she denies, that she wishes undone? Is it Haiva's fate? Will the flowers give him death or ruin? Are they as likely to sabotage him as to bring him health?

...or is it that she does not wish him healed? )

[ Wrathion frowns in thought, gaze drifting to the water. ]

That I cannot answer for you. What did she look like? Haiva's missing paramour, perhaps?

[ Why would she stop them? The person who could tell them is her. Leaving Wangji for the moment, since he seems disinclined to move just yet, Wrathion drifts slowly along the bank to scan the water. ]

Did she threaten you?

The dead do not threaten me.

( A simple thing, born of generations of educated hubris: the men of Cloud Recesses do not bow their backs to spirits, do not flee them. They compel, they tame. The monster between them is not the one devoid of flesh.

He waits, briefly transfixed, for Wrathion to complete his search, starting the slow preparations of righting the many wrongs that have burdened his silks with cold water, his limbs with frost. First, a piece of talisman parchment ignited to warm him — insufficient to defend him from the worst of the chills, though his core will anticipate that danger.

Then, more clumsily, he starts to drip his steps after Wrathion, to move and force himself into motion. )

She bore a likeness to the missing woman. ( Whether he would name her Haiva's, Deimar's or her own is another matter. ) She felt... distraught.

( As spirits ever do, denied their closure. But then: ) Resigned.

[ Actually, on that note Wrathion turns back to Wangji. His expression is pulled into a frown. ]

Well, I suppose you've confirmed she died. We still don't know how. Drowned, perhaps, if she's here in the water? An accident, or something more sinister?

[ There are, as always, far too many questions. His gaze drops back to the water, thoughtful. ]

I'm assuming she lacked a tail?

[ Wangji, surely, would have mentioned that detail. ]

( A tail. He frowns, felled by the bluntness of his question — by his own impossible resignation before the debris of his answer.

He looks away. Shudders, once, and after, he will blame the chill. For all that winter does not visit him with a clutch as tight as the rest of their companions. )

It was mere blinks. I did not — ( Search, look down, think to. ) See.

( If he had to choose his priorities, he would not have numbered this as one. )

Apologies.

[ Well information is always Wrathion's priority. Details are important!

Unless it's other people asking him for them, then they need to stop worrying.

Still, Wrathion nods in acceptance. He shivers again and turns back to the bank, begins to pick up his clothing to... redress. Since he got undressed for nothing, as Wangji has mostly achieved this all himself. Wrathion is just moral support, decoration, half-undressed-man putting himself forward for the next Akhuras charity calendar of men performing daily activities. ]

You still have the flowers. The choice now is only if you choose to give them to the prince or not. Keep yourself warm, I can light a fire for you to dry off by if we gather kindling.

[ He pulls a tunic back over his head, shivering again. The fire is also for him to warm up a moment but he is not mentioning that. He is fine. ]

[ ACTIVE ]

The Doctor

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framing your tag btw it was everything I never knew I always wanted

Just The Right Amount of Suffering

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Lan Wangji

Re: Lan Wangji

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