"I don't blame you. Given everything that did occur, you would have been the person people wanted to talk to. Since the other's not coming out of her estate to see a soul."
And if she's carefully watching to see Jean's reaction to bringing that up, then she's not going to make it obvious.
Jean shrugs, a little sheepishly. "I have made myself available to be badgered, in no small part to make it clear that I will not be tolerating mob violence any more than Comrade Daisy would. Destruction is remarkably easy to commit and very difficult to undo, so..."
Gebura had said: one more body for the pile is no great thing. But perhaps that depends on the body?
"Is that from your thoughts on wanting to keep things more peaceful for the community, or from any sort of personal place?"
She asks it gently enough to make it seem like a normal question that people ask. But she needs to know. Needs to be able to consider whether what she's been toying with since the Gala is a good idea or not.
"...Comrade Leeds is in a terrible situation. I will not countenance cutting her down until she is heard out."
It's said quietly, but with absolute conviction. Jean could, should, have been another dead Rat from the Backstreets, unloved and unmourned. They showed their ugliness to others here, and those people had the temerity to accept Jean anyway. They won't take that gift only to turn around and see it denied to others out of hand.
"...You never quite get used to it, only better at ignoring it," Jean answers after a moment. "It, haha, is and isn't like becoming another person? Their training fills me, their nature layers into mine, and by that nature there are changes. But how much of that is power and technique, and how much is influence? How much is the snapshot of a life? Can I even answer that after years of training to resist ontological attacks? I try to treat Pages as tools, and I suspect this is...a crime. But what else can I do?"
She nods, rolling this answer around in her head like a stone caught in a current. One of those things that she suspects only truly is understood when someone does it, mantling another and saying this is the shape of the self. A force of will that must hold, or all is lost in the consumption and pursuit of power.
"Have you ever been able to talk with someone who gave you their Page while you wear it?"
"Nn-" Jean begins, and then they brighten up unexpectedly. "Yes! Sort of! The Page of Kora's Avatar - I don't know how Manager Kora made it but I've spoken to her while wearing it! It's odd in comparison but yes!"
"So, it doesn't run any risk of harming you, or anything like that. It's not going to, say, cause some sort of strange overlap and trip us down into the isles of madness trying to figure out who is who."
If reality had any kind of narrative justice, the tea kettle would start whistling right now. As it stands, Jean blinks in vague confusion and asks: "Us?"
"...I still have the Page, Jean. I...oh, I tried to have some idea of how I wanted to say this to you, but I suppose the time is now regardless. In light of everything that's happened, what with you striking down the demon Prince and what we might be facing, I've been considering what it might do for you to use it."
It's not that Jean needs power, or another weapon. But it is a friend wondering how she might aid this fight that will be done one way or another."
"And I would want to see, and talk with you, but not if it risked harming you."
As if they had a completely normal reaction, Fever turns, goes to pour out hot water for them both, letting them sit with that knowledge for a while longer.
Letting them choose whether to accept or reject it. It's up to them.
"I assumed you would be reading it, if I placed it in your hands."
Glancing back to Jean, she thinks, and then opens the cupboards to hunt for where she placed the cookies. They don't have to be eaten, but it's part of the Polite Hostessing she has learned.
"And I assumed that what you found therein, you would pass your own judgement upon."
Ah yes, Jean's wise judgement. Which they are exercising right now by attempting and failing to sip their tea; they go after a cookie next to soothe the burn on the tip of their tongue.
After a great deal of silent thought, they nod, just once.
Notably, given her tendencies, Fever makes no moves towards the snack at all. She just waits, looking down into her brewing tea, letting them make their choice.
And then it comes, and she nods back.
"...I will answer questions about it, after you read it. But I ask that this information stays between us and us alone. You will understand why with all my strength I have chosen to stay far, far away from the Enforcers, and your militia as well."
She makes a sweeping gesture to indicate that Jean can sit wherever they want in this apartment, because she has to abandon her tea for a moment. Kneels down in front of the altar, opening it up and reaching into the back, feeling for where she's hidden the Page away, having rolled it into a tight scroll and made it difficult to get to on purpose. Unlikely that someone would break into her house, but not impossible, and she takes it out, still shining, in its roll.
Looking back at Jean, there's something in her face. Something perhaps only they can understand, the sensation of handing someone a knife and gesturing at yourself. Go on. Cut.
"Where will you keep it?"
It's still in her hand. As long as it's in her hand, it's safe.
Jean's eyes linger on the Page; the teacup is unusually still in their hands, steaming gently into the air. For a moment it seems like they perhaps did not hear the question. And then...
Then they touch the bag they took with them. "My Pages stay within my notebooks," Jean murmurs. "And those only leave my person when I am asleep." Beat. "Or, hahaha. Ha. Being intimate."
Before she can second guess herself again, she gives Jean the Page. Takes up the seat in the armchair, and closes her eyes.
This is a story. This is a story with holes in the middle, where every bloody stitch pulls the framework into something like grotesque lace. This is a story where you don't look down. You don't look to the future. You can only take the next step, then the next.
It doesn't precisely make a sound, not at first. One does not read a Page with one's eyes, and Jean has no need for memory aids such as mimicking reading any more. There is the faintest, almost bell-like sound of the Page being touched, the clink of Jean setting their tea down, but mostly they are concentrating. One minute. Three. Ten. Thirteen. Twenty -
To say that there is a shattering sound is to imply a violence that is not there. The Page comes apart like rock candy; it bursts like a bubble on a summer's day, the shards of it go flying across Jean the way a thrown icicle might. A different Page, a Page of a Siren, reforms in Jean's lap, discarded for now, as their body and outfit change to become like Fever as she remembers herself, in red robes of bone, wearing oddly thick gloves with their distinctive arrow designs, a circlet on their brow.
Jean's eyes remain closed as they focus on the story of Fever behind their eyelids.
This is a story where you adapt, where you have to improvise as the world itself is hardly familiar to you, though you know you were born here. You have a name, and something dark and unspeakable, deep in your heart. In your blood. Joy and delight sing to you from every kill, every act of cruelty. And your friends see, and do not hear. They do not hear how sleep turns traitor, how dreams are filled with butchery, how you keep waking up.
The inner eye turns to madness. Your head has so much empty space in it, scraps of meat rotting in brine. Fill it with whatever you find, if it drowns out what your heart sings for, begs for, whispers for. Never stop going. Never stop moving. You will live, and you will live, and you will live. You will live, because you were fashioned that way, from flesh death had once already claimed. You will live, because it's not time for you to die yet. This you know.
This is a story where you stand in a river of blood. Where you see your own reflection, and know what manner of accursed thing you are, what taint courses through your veins, and hold it as your shame. Your truth. Monster. You will never get the scent out of your skin. Fashioned to a sickening purpose. Pour all the world's blood into the abyss. You will obey. You have no choice.
And yet you will try. And yet you are trying. The world is still so beautiful. You want to know it again. You want to know it for the first time. Inch by inch, you are climbing up into the Light. Day by day, you climb. There are things to love. ---
The Page halts there, as if there could be more, the story not precisely drawn to an ending.
And Fever still sits, waiting for what comes next. Wondering what now she's brought upon herself.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2024-10-21 08:00 am (UTC)And if she's carefully watching to see Jean's reaction to bringing that up, then she's not going to make it obvious.
"Are they all badgering you still?"
no subject
Date: 2024-10-21 08:07 am (UTC)Gebura had said: one more body for the pile is no great thing. But perhaps that depends on the body?
no subject
Date: 2024-10-21 08:34 am (UTC)She asks it gently enough to make it seem like a normal question that people ask. But she needs to know. Needs to be able to consider whether what she's been toying with since the Gala is a good idea or not.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-21 08:40 am (UTC)It's said quietly, but with absolute conviction. Jean could, should, have been another dead Rat from the Backstreets, unloved and unmourned. They showed their ugliness to others here, and those people had the temerity to accept Jean anyway. They won't take that gift only to turn around and see it denied to others out of hand.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-21 09:17 am (UTC)She moves to go tend to the tea - the water is ready, by this point, and she'll set it up for steeping.
"Jean...what is it like for you, when you wear a Page?"
no subject
Date: 2024-10-21 01:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-22 01:18 am (UTC)"Have you ever been able to talk with someone who gave you their Page while you wear it?"
She's getting to her point. Slowly.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-22 08:41 am (UTC)The nugget beams.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-22 09:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-22 10:04 am (UTC)......
.........
If reality had any kind of narrative justice, the tea kettle would start whistling right now. As it stands, Jean blinks in vague confusion and asks: "Us?"
no subject
Date: 2024-10-22 10:24 am (UTC)It's not that Jean needs power, or another weapon. But it is a friend wondering how she might aid this fight that will be done one way or another."
"And I would want to see, and talk with you, but not if it risked harming you."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-28 12:04 am (UTC)They're a little dumbstruck. Now the kettle whistles, and Jean startles violently, leaping a good foot into the air with an undignified yelp.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-28 12:08 am (UTC)Letting them choose whether to accept or reject it. It's up to them.
After A Long Silence
Date: 2024-10-28 12:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-28 12:20 am (UTC)Glancing back to Jean, she thinks, and then opens the cupboards to hunt for where she placed the cookies. They don't have to be eaten, but it's part of the Polite Hostessing she has learned.
"And I assumed that what you found therein, you would pass your own judgement upon."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-28 12:40 am (UTC)After a great deal of silent thought, they nod, just once.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-28 01:20 am (UTC)And then it comes, and she nods back.
"...I will answer questions about it, after you read it. But I ask that this information stays between us and us alone. You will understand why with all my strength I have chosen to stay far, far away from the Enforcers, and your militia as well."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-28 06:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 10:05 pm (UTC)She makes a sweeping gesture to indicate that Jean can sit wherever they want in this apartment, because she has to abandon her tea for a moment. Kneels down in front of the altar, opening it up and reaching into the back, feeling for where she's hidden the Page away, having rolled it into a tight scroll and made it difficult to get to on purpose. Unlikely that someone would break into her house, but not impossible, and she takes it out, still shining, in its roll.
Looking back at Jean, there's something in her face. Something perhaps only they can understand, the sensation of handing someone a knife and gesturing at yourself. Go on. Cut.
"Where will you keep it?"
It's still in her hand. As long as it's in her hand, it's safe.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 10:44 pm (UTC)Then they touch the bag they took with them. "My Pages stay within my notebooks," Jean murmurs. "And those only leave my person when I am asleep." Beat. "Or, hahaha. Ha. Being intimate."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 11:46 pm (UTC)Before she can second guess herself again, she gives Jean the Page. Takes up the seat in the armchair, and closes her eyes.
This is a story. This is a story with holes in the middle, where every bloody stitch pulls the framework into something like grotesque lace. This is a story where you don't look down. You don't look to the future. You can only take the next step, then the next.
She's listening for them to open the scroll.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-31 05:12 am (UTC)To say that there is a shattering sound is to imply a violence that is not there. The Page comes apart like rock candy; it bursts like a bubble on a summer's day, the shards of it go flying across Jean the way a thrown icicle might. A different Page, a Page of a Siren, reforms in Jean's lap, discarded for now, as their body and outfit change to become like Fever as she remembers herself, in red robes of bone, wearing oddly thick gloves with their distinctive arrow designs, a circlet on their brow.
Jean's eyes remain closed as they focus on the story of Fever behind their eyelids.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-31 07:37 am (UTC)The inner eye turns to madness. Your head has so much empty space in it, scraps of meat rotting in brine. Fill it with whatever you find, if it drowns out what your heart sings for, begs for, whispers for. Never stop going. Never stop moving. You will live, and you will live, and you will live. You will live, because you were fashioned that way, from flesh death had once already claimed. You will live, because it's not time for you to die yet. This you know.
This is a story where you stand in a river of blood. Where you see your own reflection, and know what manner of accursed thing you are, what taint courses through your veins, and hold it as your shame. Your truth. Monster. You will never get the scent out of your skin. Fashioned to a sickening purpose. Pour all the world's blood into the abyss. You will obey. You have no choice.
And yet you will try. And yet you are trying. The world is still so beautiful. You want to know it again. You want to know it for the first time. Inch by inch, you are climbing up into the Light. Day by day, you climb. There are things to love. ---
The Page halts there, as if there could be more, the story not precisely drawn to an ending.
And Fever still sits, waiting for what comes next. Wondering what now she's brought upon herself.