#daisyscape

It's times like these where Oyun is reminded to eventually teach Ariel a few Qestir signs, if only to save them from having to interpret Oyun's frantic and sometimes nonsensical gesturing. Instead, it turns Ariel's hand over, palm up, and presses its index finger there, tracing out words in a familiar tongue. "You've done well, Ariel. Rest your head and rest your heart."

Ariel is tired. He'll tell anyone who asks, anyone who'll listen. His feet hurt from his stupid Eorzean boots, his ears won't stop ringing from being knocked over the head, and he can't stop sighing--It's like something heavy is sitting on his chest. Ariel just wishes it would go away for a while. That he could remember what it's like to really breathe again. Yeah, even he knows it's dramatic. That doesn't make it go away, though. It never has.

But Oyun is always too nice to him. Most people put up with him more than they should because they have to. The words they trace into the un-bandaged skin of his palm make his otherwise exhausted expression stutter and crumble. Ever the open-book, his nose scrunches up and he chews at his cheek as he averts his eyes, hot tears welling in them quicker than he's ever nocked an arrow. Ariel doesn't pull away, but he does drop his face to his other hand and snivel into it.

a silly thing, really —— lacking in substance and meaning but for what is attributed by means of emotionality and other things that are becoming more and more familiar to her by the day. to liken the woman to the color pink and therefore think of her whenever it crosses her gaze is a bit ( ... ) pedestrian, mundane, without inspiration but, if the aether suits, you may as well eat, so on and so forth. she's not wholly certain what had possessed her to take the blanket and to present it to s'trawberri, but something had and she had carried onwards and forth with it, not pondering it so much as simply acting upon it.

SHE HAS BEEN A CREATURE OF INSTINCT FOR SO LONG —— perhaps, at the core of her, she will continue to be instinctive far more than anything else, still more voidsent than human or whatever adjacent thing her body may have mutated into sometime between thousands and hundreds of years ago, wandering in shadows.

s'trawberri —— is not shadows, rather a light in the darkness, stars dotting the sky ( y'shtola had once said when she had been squinting up at the sun, laughingly, that the sun was simply another star, simply NEARER and surely the thirteenth has a sun as well, somewhere, lost in the mire of the sky ) suffused in light and draped in darkness as a matter of course more than anything else. she is vivid, bright, brings to mind far off things that are long lost / long forgotten / laughter ringing in her ears and a hand in hers and soft grass beneath her feet and the scent of flowers in the air ( something learned / re—learned / remembered ) and she likes. soft things. pretty things. things that are not found in HER OWN PRESENCE, as if soft and pretty and fragile things were prone to wilting.

it occurs, briefly, that perhaps she should be embarrassed but this is not an emotion she is prone to. instead there is a surge in her chest as a hand takes her wrist, her hand, a kiss to her cheek, something soft and pretty / not fragile / s'trawberri ( l'orina? she's not certain which she prefers and perhaps she should ask —— she should ask ) is hardly fragile, too foolhardy and hardheaded to be such a thing, and she watches as she falls onto the bed, soft pink fabric wrapping around her, and there is something almost gentle in her chest.

something without a name.

well, it surely has a name ( ... ) one that she is not certain of.

nameless and formless / a curve to her mouth / she realizes distantly—belatedly that SHE IS SMILING, a small thing, an odd rattling in her chest, like something tapping against her ribs. ❝ if you would like, ❞ she wants to walk closer to s'trawberri ( l'orina ) and does / CREATURE OF INSTINCT / and reaches out and down and pink hair is soft between her fingers —— she's not sure why she's run her fingers through s'trawberri's hair, simply that she has, palm curving against her skull, that strange nameless formless thing curling in her chest like a quietly sated powerful voidsent.

❝ it will be here waiting for you, ❞ waiting, waiting, such a wanting word, strange word, is she waiting for s'trawberri? perhaps / not quite / there will simply always be a place for her, here ; a soft pink blanket / other soft and pretty things / anything that she could amass for her / this is the place that she returns and thus : she will always be here for her, as well. it's simply logical, isn't it? ❝ orina. ❞

Idia wants to believe that, perhaps a part of Idia even DOES believe that. Things feel different when Idia is with Titus. The world is less cold, less dark, less suffocating. Being with Titus always brings him back to the summers they spent as children together. Where rays of sunshine would keep them warm and light their way on their adventures. Idia hadn't felt like that in such a long time he could barely remembered what it felt like now. The only thing he had to compare it to now was Titus himself.

Perhaps that's why it frightened him so. Being reminded what life felt like beyond the cold and dreary was heartbreaking. It was as though life itself was telling him 'Look what you missed! Look at what can be taken from you again!' Life without sunshine meant no fear of losing that light when it came back. Yet to live with that joy only meant greater despair down the line.

Titus was different so incredibly different. But fate did not change. It was Idia's fate to live in solitude to go without peace so the rest of the world could go with. Titus was stronger the strongest person Idia had ever known. Yet Idia did not believe he was strong enough to defy fate. There was no power in this world strong enough to do so. Not will power, not hubris, not love.

"A little while" turns out to be that night, another voicemail coming in. This time Faust can be heard yelling over a cacophony of music and chatter in the background. "Merry ! Tried to call again, but you're probably busy, yeah ? When you go to sleep, don't forget to put on some socks so nothing nibbles on your toes. Sweet dreams !" Unfortunately, Faust forgets to click off the call, and for several more moments, his laughter and bubbly voice mix with the chatter around him.

The last voicemail comes in the early hours of the middle of the night. Unlike before, Faust's voice is layered with exhaustion and drowsiness yet still soft. "Merry, dear ? Sorry for calling again, but... are you okay? I'm worried about you." It's obvious he's hesitant, like testing tumultuous waters one shouldn't breach. "I know Florian and I probably aren't easy to talk to. But we're here for you, okay ? Call me whenever you like, I'll pick up. Love you." Click.  

it hasn’t always been this bad. not really. there’s always been something fundamentally off about merry, and they’ve been aware of it their entire life ⁠— it’s like they’re dislocated a half - inch to the left from where they’re meant to be in this world, and that difference has him brushing up against sharp edges with every movement. it tears into the very flesh of his being, and nothing heals so nothing can scar. he’s just stuck bleeding, more and more with every movement in this world.

and it’s one of those days where those wounds on its spirit are particularly tender and now there’s some blot catching in its throat.

the first time faust calls, merry’s hands are gripping the edge of the sink, chest heaving as he makes sure he’s done coughing for now. some black drips over his lips, the bathroom door magicked shut so they have a little time to clean up should anyone try to come in.

moments later the voicemail notification pops up, and it clicks play as it wipes the last remnants of blot from its lips and scoops water from the faucet into its hands to swish around in its mouth.

he’ll have to call faust back later.

he doesn’t.

---

the second voicemail is listened to in the forest that backs up to campus. their phone’s atop their jacket on the ground in this place they escape to when they need to.

they can burn off magic here. they can self - destruct. getting here’s not hard, even if other students might get lost on their way; but these woods aren’t that unlike those of the valley, and navigating them doesn’t take much for someone as good at getting lost as merry is.

merry’s all fire as it listens to the voicemail ⁠— listens to the music and chatter behind faust’s voice, listens to what it can hear when faust doesn’t hang up. the fire burns a blazing blue. the trees char. a half - inch becomes an inch, and something has to give.

merry curls in on themself in the middle of the burnt - black clearing, tears falling freely. they can’t tell if they’re choking on sobs or blot until they’re throwing some up, shoulders heaving and shaking.

---

merry listens to the third voicemail shortly after it’s delivered, staring up at the stone ceiling of his diasomnia bedroom. he hasn’t slept.

he cries again, but this time it’s less violent. this time it’s a hopeless sort of thing, aching and burning. he’s not good. he’s unfair and ———

[ text:Faust ] yeah i’m okay!! sorry for worrying you [ text:Faust ] busy time over here with interschool stuff coming up lol [ text:Faust ] i’ll call tomorrow

it was easier when they were closer, back in the valley.

“Did you get to see Jamil today?” Ruhee asks, and Najma laughs, nodding, scooping the tiny girl into her arms.

“There you are.  I’ve been looking for you.”  Ruhee gives a sheepish smile; she always seems to disappear around bedtime.  “And I did!  It was nice.”  Her smile goes a little mischievous as she considers how she’d tormented him; that’s her job as little sister, though.  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him in person.”

“Luckyyyyy,” Ruhee replies, almost pouting.  “We haven’t seen Kalim in aaaages.”

Najma shifts her against her hip.  “It’s not that long ‘til his next break.  Maybe your big brother come home this time.”  She hopes so — she’d sooner die than let Jamil find out, but it had been hard, last break, to be without her brother when she’d expected him home.  She can’t imagine it’s easier on Kalim’s brothers and sisters.  “How about I text Kalim tomorrow and we try to arrange a video call, so you guys can all see him sometime this week?”

“Yaaay!  That’d be so fun!  You’re the best, Najma!”

“In exchange, you have to go to bed really quiet tonight, and not give anybody any trouble, okay?”

“Booooo,” Rugee whines back, and Najma laughs.  “But okay!  I’ll tell everyone, and we’ll be soooo good tonight.”  Najma laughs again.  They’re all good kids — the Al - Asim family is, in a lot of ways, made up of especially good people.  They’re kind.  Kalim is kind; she knows that.  She grew up with her brother, serving the family like her family’s always done, and even if she wasn’t as close to Kalim as Jamil was, she’d never been all that far from him, either.  Jamil had protected her from becoming anyone’s personal servant, and kept her as far from Kalim as possible, but they grew up together; there had been times, between the distance and her own quiet resentment, when Kalim felt as much like her older brother as Jamil did.

Those moments never lasted all that long, though.  It only ever took a word from either of her parents — fearful in a way that she was too young to understand — or a thoughtless word from Kalim himself to remind her of what they were.  She — her brother — all of them...at the end of the day, they weren’t family.  They were servants, born into an impossible task, a role that none got to choose.  Najma cares for the Al - Asims, she does, but as she tucks Ruhee into the large bed piled with other children (  not because there isn’t madol and space enough for each to have their own room, their own wing, but because the siblings simply love one another in a way that’s all - tactile  ) she thinks of what she is.  She is their servant.  She is not their equal.  She’s not their sister.  At the end of the day, she’s not, really, even, allowed to be their friend.

And, every one of them, too sweet and too ignorant to see it.

She closes the door, she smiles, she stretches her arms above her head.  She misses her brother.  She misses Kalim, in between moments of splicing resentment she’s never been able to shake (  omah, omah, why can’t jamil play with me?  /  he has to entertain kalim, dear, you know that —  ) but above all, she misses her brother.  And she hopes he’s happy, with his friends.  He’d seemed happy when they met, in his own way.  He was away from Kalim, who Jamil ——

Who Jamil always said he loved.  Who, Najma noticed, even if no one else does, Jamil resents.

She wonders how things are at school.  She wonders if Kalim has figured it out yet, that no one can be his friend when they were born to serve him.  She wonders how long until she’s all grown up, when she can leave this place, when she can be more girl than servant.  She wonders that her parents never did, and wonders if it would be a betrayal to leave them.

Carefully dangling from their tail is a gift bag decked out in Savanaclaw yellows and browns. Inside rests a brand new paint set, a pallet, and an assortment of brushes. Paz sets it on the bed next to Leona as they begin tapping at his arm with the intention of waking him up. It would have been more efficient to go with one of their noisier methods, but since it's his birthday and all, they'll go easy on him.

At the first sign of Leona's eyes opening, with added excitement, they sign, "Happy Birthday !"

leona’s not unused to waking up to people in his room. for better or for worse, it’s a tradeoff for the freedom that night raven college provides. usually it’s ruggie picking up after him or waking him up in the morning, but he’s woken up to jack’s disappointment a time or two, and this is far from the first time paz has been the one in here staring at him all wide - eyed. 

he’s also not unused to being woken up, but that’s a task that’s not easy for the one doing it. naps he’ll stir from without a problem, but sleep is another issue entirely. so at first he doesn’t react to paz tapping his arm more than a simple shifting in his sleep and a little irritated sound of sleepy acknowledgement — but finally he opens his eyes, dark hair mostly covering them as they open to stare at her. he smiles a little, then shuts his eyes again before giving a big yawn. “ thanks, ” he says, signing it for good measure.

 “Whew,”  The back of Junpei’s hand wipes the sweat off his forehead as he works to recollect his bearings. His nervous system is riddled with adrenaline--even after going through a few other numbered doors, he can’t stand to activate the REDs and go on a mad hunt for the DEADs.   “Man...​that freaks me out every time.”  He pauses thoughtfully then adds on:  “Well, I guess it could be worse. The DEADs have been pretty easy to find so far.”  Thank god for that. If Zero had decided to hide them a little bit, or worse, require them to solve some puzzles to stop the activation of the DEAD...well...Junpei concludes there would probably be more than just one exploded corpse on their hands. And one was more than enough exploded corpses to deal with in a lifetime thank-you-very-much.