this place of beholding.

instituteled:

mhmnhn

i’m currently remaking this blog even tho it hasnt been this long bc everything about it pisses me off rn, url is gonna stay the same, i’ll reblog this again when i’m done, keeping all threads & asks & i’ll attempt to refollow everyone as well. just moving and reorganizing, nothing else

     “AND YOU already made abundantly clear that you won’t help me know any more than necessary.” Needless to say, he loathes having to rely on Elias, but what he hates even more is having to do so blindly. He’s barely starting to put some pieces back together, let alone having a clearer view of what this is all supposed to mean, if there’s any meaning, even, and unfortunately for him the man sitting on the other side of the desk is the only one with answers in his pockets. If only he decided to share them instead of acting all cryptic, but well. He wasn’t expecting anything different, now was he.

     And he can feel all of them - all those eyes turned to him and their hunger and their tight grip that can’t be compared to the one delivered by claws and fingers and oddly shaped hands; no, no, far stronger than that one. Binding him. Trapping him. Far from being comforting. (How long will it take for him to perceive them as such? Is he already down that path and doesn’t know yet? Where is the line between humanity and-)

     “What if - I refused to accept any of this? Would that… would that kill me?” In any way that matters. If such thing still exists.

     Tʜᴇ ᴀɢɢʀᴇssɪᴏɴ, hostility even, is entirely uncalled for. He's just offered something, hasn't he? Maybe not enough to Jon's taste (and that in itself is excellent, really; he needs him to maintain that hunger for answers and to hunt them down, feed it just enough to make sure it won't fade away into something else, a flame licking and devouring), but it's been a start, with the faint promise of more, and immediately that gets turned down with all this... awful behavior. Naturally, there's no want to answer any question not asked (at least not out loud; some are so loud he can still hear them, even without looking for them.

     (The Eye cannot perceive itself; and it's getting harder each day to read Jon. Not that he needs to know, naturally.)

     "You already did, though." In a voice not unlike a father explaining the same concept for the twentieth time, posture corrected slightly. It aches in the back of his spine, slightly, and he's quite painfully aware of how long he's been inhabiting this body already again, and that there's not really any option to do something about it anytime soon — well, it shouldn't matter if everything goes according to plan. "You're accepting it with every question you ask, and with every time you use your powers. The Eye isn't like most others; it doesn't just pick at random. You have to reach out to it, and you did. Again and again." A pause, then, careful. "In honesty? I don't know. I'm assuming it wouldn't be pleasant, and there is some reason to think that, yes, it would kill you. But I don't know for certain. There's no ritual to rid yourself of your bindings, if that's what you're hoping for."

dragon age | @hivebody

     Nᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟʟʏ, sʜᴇ wouldn't.

     Supposedly, it makes sense. In some way. There's nothing appealing about the nature of rot and illness, of crawling things and the feeling, however abstract it must be to her, to be hollowed out, devoured alive (except, well, alive is not quite the correct word, is it?) to him, but there must be something towards every fear that draws people in, that makes them choose it. He knows this, logically, of course, just like he knows many things. But ah, knowing and understanding, truly, that's different from each other. He doesn't see why anyone would want this, just as little as he can understand the ache for solitude for months on end, just as little as he understands the want to burrow oneself beneath soil or waves. Maybe she does feel the same way, looking at him, impossible knowledge at any given turn, all eyes himself and all eyes on him, always watching, always being watched.

     That musing isn't to be mistaken for some sign of sympathy, of course. He has none of that for her: she simply has to play her role, and then there's no more usefulness gained. He's never made any attempt to hide the distaste he has for her changed nature, no matter how necessary it had been. Metamorphosis, in a much more literal sense than his own becoming.

midnight mass | @heyerald

     Iʀʀɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀᴛ the inquiry flares in his chest; not the kind that would come with a quiet anger later (his emotions much all over the place instead, and while he usually gets them under control easily and quickly, moving them under a practiced smile, sometimes sharp, sometimes not, they are not entirely hidden away), more the type that is genuine confusion, eyebrow arched in question.

     Of course he came back. What a silly little assumption that he wouldn't; as little regard as he might have for anyone that doesn't pique his interest, this foreigner with his strange words that sound much like English but aren't quite, with frames similar and unlike those his friends use for reading in dim candle light on his face and staring at him as if they know from a dream whenever he thinks he's unwatched sure did.

     "You're surprised?" Amusement sits in his tongue and on his features, even if there's maybe just the slightest, smallest hint of uncertainty as well. It might have been quite obvious to him that he'd circle back to this clearly lost soul, but maybe it hadn't been as much for him. But there's some questions still left open, and he's never been too fond of that: things beyond what he knows. Any open secret or mystery, no matter how small, is nothing but a challenge. And he assumes, what with the wide eyes as if he himself has become a ghost, there's nowhere else to go for this one, anyway.

midnight mass | @audaciiae

     Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴍᴏᴄᴋᴇʀʏ in those words, he's sure of it. Even if the tone doesn't indicate it; rare enough on itself, truly, but he feels it trickle over the back of his neck as sure as if it was melted wax, boiling hot and uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant. Well deserved, maybe, as well. After all, is this not a hell of his own making? Despite everything, he'll always come back, and they both know it. He's once been the one with that power over others; not caring what it would do to them, not caring what else would become of them, as long as he's sure he's the venom and the poison they don't know how to quit, and too sure of himself to ever believe himself to be held like that, an invisible leash.

     (There's not much of a heart in his chest, or so he likes to think. Nothing that cares for another person enough, and yet, he always finds himself returning, has been for the better part of two centuries. Back then, he probably could have quit, if he had wanted to; back then, Conall might have let him. Now, unlikely. Not that it matters much, not when they both know far too well that it's not an option, but even if he were to make an actual effort, not the playing and threatening of leaving or divorce that they are fully aware is no more than that, a game, something to pretend to keep his face; even if he were to do that, then the other wouldn't let him. When he's become someone else's, he cannot say. He dares not think about.)

     Fingertips run over the old wood. It looks good for how long nobody else has touched it, and it doesn't take an awful lot of imagination to remember how this place had once looked. There's something hidden in the walls he needs to retrieve, something not quite forgotten, but not of enough importance to deal with until now. Maybe it still isn't. Maybe he had simply been looking for an excuse to return to this wretched place where they first met (even if; he's keenly aware, the words had been much rather a dig at their relationship, not the physical place). Despite all he says to the contrary, he's always been a dreadfully nostalgic person. One just had to look at all the other things he held onto. The bones of the first (and only other than the man behind him, now, surely) lover that had meant anything to him, sitting in his desk for he cannot let go of things even in death.

     "I didn't ask you to come."

     He didn't, and he did. Mentioning it had been more than enough invitation as he very well knows, and it's when he turns back, eyes finally setting on his companion, he's painfully aware of the very fact he didn't need to speak out at all. He knows, as he'd known for long, that nothing he does holds any power here. Not over Conall, never had. Not when he had been someone else (himself, truly: he's not lost his self, but he changed it around so often and hidden it beneath so many masks it's hard to refind sometimes regardless), and not now.

     It isn't love. Not in the sense poets talk about it, anyway; not in the sense anyone seeks it out, not in the way words can convey. More true to it, surely, than any of those flattering things, but it's deeper and more complicated and twisted than that. In the most simplest of terms, he simply belongs.

     (The realization never hurts any less, though.)

     "Is that regret, though? From you, of all people? I thought you didn't care about anything enough for that."

towers & doors & eyes | @bornbreathless

     "Dɪsᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇɴ, Miss Morris. It is hardly your responsibility, neither did anyone ask your undoubtedly highly qualified opinion."

     The cold drips from his voice, eyes locked onto hers, and the expression on his face is clearly that of someone between annoyance and disappointment, not quite anger, although there does sit something else beneath it, something that's not quite matching it. Amusement, maybe, but still: it's hardly any of her business. Much rather, not at all. The smile that twitches up is sharp at the edges, nearly bleeding raw.

dragon age | @messofamulti

      Uɴғᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ʜᴇʀ involvement is required, but he does find himself repulsed by her presence alone, not to even factor the thing she's holding onto, something that surely was once breathing. It's not the gore that disgusts him, and most certainly it's not that she wears skin that's not hers (it would be a little bit hypocritical, after all, and while it would be hardly a new emotion, it's not about that). The very nature of the Stranger within these walls is something that's a nuisance; what with that other thing that he is vaguely aware of is still stuck inside the tunnels, but even if those didn't block his view, then the nature of it all would. Just like looking at Nikola: he can't really see much about something such as her than what his actual, physical two eyes tell him, and those are prone to lying. No; he's not too fond of having to deal with those that feed of not being able to be known, and yet, here he is.

      Which also means he cannot fathom who that might have been, but he's fairly certain it's nobody of importance. At least, none marked by the Eye; and that's all he truly cares for.

something flickers in the other’s eyes that slips cool fingers along the nape of Oliver’s neck, and settles there. not quite clenching, but not pleasantly either. it isn’t a thought worth chasing down, or knowing, so he doesn’t ( if he were to look for something to be horrified by, THAT wasn’t it ).

            “ ah, well. not you? ” it comes out as hesitancy, rather than a question. but the question mark still flutters around them, dancing into non-existence. in an almost abashed, and all too human gesture, Oliver licks his lips, then presses them shut against the obvious question of who, then? “ just visiting. ”

it isn’t incorrect, but he is still left with a palpable disappointment in…. words. for someone who, in another life, has made precision and accuracy his priorities in (his work) life, this sort of thing leaves a bad taste in his mouth. it isn’t easy ( it never was easy, but now it’s worse, and shouldn’t speaking, communicating with another being, be like riding one’s bike? even when out of practice, your should still be able to do it, find your center of gravity easily enough, and go along with it for a ride?  … …when was the last time he has actually ridden a bike? perhaps the comparison doesn’t hold. )

there’s nothing akin to riding a bike here. and this…. place…. is nothing akin to a pleasant public park where you could take a joyride.

his gaze wanders, as if following invisible paintbrush strokes around the room ( four walls now turned canvas. a canvas of dread. a canvas of swirling, pulsing, swaying dark. a puzzle built of intricate, confused strings ). but always, his attention gravitates back to Elias. gravitates back to Elias’s eyes, with knifepoint precision, as if it’s the only clear feature on his face ( or in this room ).

            “ I apologize for inconveniencing you. I’ll, well, be on my way. ” ( and yet, he doesn’t move. )

     Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ɴᴏᴛ a lot of things that have any true impact on him these days. Live long enough, and most things dull down into being barely of importance; dull down into little inconveniences and hiccups in a day, but forgotten soon enough. It's the rotten state of self; still there's that thought of not wanting an answer (what do you see when you look at me? Who do you see? Is it more than a walking corpse?) and the hunger of anything left unanswered. One of the few things still real, he assumes; that thirst to always know more, not necessarily for any reason other than to possess this knowledge then. A void, that; endless and never satisfied for there will always be more to learn, as insignificant as it might seem.

     This though; this whole encounter. It's uncomfortable and settling as an unrest inside his throat, tightening it up just so. Not quite fear, not yet, maybe not at all, but being so close to Oliver, it does make his skin crawl and his heart beat a little bit faster and his breath a little bit shaky. (Neither of them are your own.)

     It's shoved beneath a layer of irritation, of course, when the other still doesn't move. Death in the house isn't a good sign, even when not meant for him, and less when it lingers unnecessarily. He wants him gone, no matter in what way. Just gone and away, not longer urging this strange sensation of uneasiness that hadn't truly come to coil around his inside in such a long time.