singillatim | seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

JUNE 2024 EVENT

PART ONE — A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME: The Darkwalker claims another victim, and that is only the beginning of troubles for the Interlopers as they face a month of endless night and green gloom.

PART TWO — POLAR SUN: As June continues, Interlopers are faced with food insecurity as wildlife flees; tensions grow as they face hunger and the Darkwalker's continued influence. On the day of the Summer Solstice, the tension finally breaks and violent chaos descends upon Interlopers.

PART THREE — REPRIEVE: The end is in sight, and an ally comes to the Interloper’s aid.

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

WHEN: June 1st, then onwards.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area (Carter Hydrodam).
CONTENT WARNINGS: death of playable character; supernatural death; mention of dead body; themes of death; supernatural beings; themes of terror; themes of peril.

The evening is quiet and still. May draws to a close and while the sun does not completely set, it dips low enough for the sky to grow a little darkdim with twilight. The midnight sun is almost upon the Northern Territories, the air is warmer than it has ever felt — even if it remains chilly. If this is summer, it is but a gentle brush of reprieve against the unyielding winter. The Interlopers wind down for the night, many turn to their beds to sleep, others sit awake and ponder their existence in this world. They think of home, of loved ones, of their predicament here in this place. The Forest Talkers, the strange beasts and monsters they’ve encountered.

The moon wanes in the skies, nestled amongst the stars. For those still awake to notice, they can see it: slowly, one by one, the stars begin to go out. Then the moon's light is swallowed whole, and a blanket of green gloom descends upon the Northern Territories.

The sky is dark and green and terrible. Many of those will recognise it, what this means and what will come. Others will not understand it, not know what it is that awaits them all.

They will soon find out: the Darkwalker comes.

Under a green sky, a cold fear washes over you — squeezing the breath from your lungs. Interlopers will find themselves overcome with that fear, and everything in their bodies and minds tells them to run. To flee. And so you run, heading for cover. Curtains will be drawn, some may hide under beds, within closets or wardrobes. Some desperately attempt to conceal themselves, make themselves small, unseen. Some Interlopers, in that fear, may rush to friends or loved ones to hide with them, others may simply cower alone — crawling and whimpering away from the night. The fear is irrational, unable to be overcome — even by the bravest or most stoic of Interlopers.

For those within Milton, it is further away but is by no means less potent: Interlopers will find themselves frozen with the constant loom of the Darkwalker’s arrival — even if it does not come to Milton. Those within Lakeside, however, will feel the true force of this presence: more like a knife edge — painfully gripping your heart as it draws close.

The Darkwalker howls: indescribable, unnatural, demonic. Low moans and groans. It comes from the east, the faint booms of footsteps in the distance growing ever nearer. It is coming, once more. It's coming for one of you. And still, you are powerless, unable to do anything. And it is an agony, awaiting its arrival. You cry, you whimper, you cower. Curling up for some shred of comfort, and finding none.

For those in Lakeside, through the fear, they may be able to note the path: a straight line from the east towards Carter Hydrodam. It seems to go on forever, building into a crescendo. Your heart beats so hard you fear it may burst from your chest, as if you might die of fright.

There is an almighty sound; the Darkwalker devours and even with the distance you can hear it. The sound of gnashing teeth, and… laughter. There is no scream, no bright light in the sky — Enola is silent this time. There is only that laughter, echoing off into the night.

The skies do not return to normal. The green gloom hangs in the air. It is done, but it is not yet over. While the overwhelming fear dissolves away, but a kind of… dread remains on the air — almost palpable.

The Darkwalker has devoured another. Braver souls who go out to investigate into Lakeside will find just who has been devoured once they reach the Hydrodam — although it may be a day or two before they will find the body in the medical bay.

At least it is cold enough that the rot does not fully set in — but death will certainly be here.

And this is but the beginning of the Interloper’s troubles.

POLAR SUN

WHEN: The month of June, up to Midsummer’s Eve + Summer Solstice.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; food scarcity/food insecurity; supernatural weather; altered mental states; mental manipulation; themes of violence; potential character injury; potential character death; potential NPC death.

In the coming weeks and days, and weeks, the green gloom lingers. From the Darkwalker’s attack, there is no sun. No day, no night. No stars or moon or sun. No Auroras. Just the gloom and biting cold. Life becomes increasingly hard on Interlopers: higher expenditure on fuel — fires and lanterns are imperative to keep the darkness and the cold at bay.

With the green gloom in the air, the wildlife becomes more scarce — as if it has been frightened away into the deeper parts of the wilds. It will be harder to bring in fresh meat in both Milton and Lakeside, and Interlopers will find that they will have to rely on whatever stores they have — and perhaps even rationing for a while.

And it’s not the only thing frightened. Even with the debilitating fear that comes with the Darkwalker’s attack gone, there is still a kind of fear that lingers on the air that slowly eats away at the Interloper’s resolve over time.

Interlopers will find themselves anxious, on edge. Some will be prone to anger in their fear, others prone to fits of melancholy: tearfulness and sorrow. Between the cold, the lack of fresh game and the fear on the air — it’s no wonder spirits are low. Bickering and minor upsets between Interlopers are likely.

They call it the midnight sun, the polar day. It's opposite is the polar night. This is neither and both. On the day of midsummer's eve, that fear on the air is even more palpable. The air feels a little stifling at times, as if the pressure is all off — often quite oppressive, a strange kind of tension. There is something brewing, a low burning thing that begins from the moment Interlopers wake — heavy and sharp in their chest.

’So, Interloper. What will you do now?’ A voice sneers in your ear. The very same voice that has haunted Interlopers since the very beginning. The Darkwalker finally speaks after all these weeks of gloom since its most recent attack. ’When all is gone, when even the sun does not rise? What will you do then?’

A nervousness sits within you as you remember the Darkwalker’s words. What will you do if the sun does not rise? If the darkness is all that is left? If the food runs out? Your wonderings will continue to gnaw away within you. The darkness is hollowing.

’Will you lean on others, like you have always tried to do?’ the voice continues. ’What bonds you hold with them, the ones with those around you. But how strong are they, truly? Can you trust them? Will it matter when your belly is empty and your heart is low? Perhaps it is time to see.

’Never forget, Interloper. I am the Rot. And I will rot within you.’

As the day progresses into the Solstice, that tension lingers in the air, and the wonderings within you continue to wear at you. You find yourself becoming more and more agitated as time goes on. Those feelings that have been brewing for some time now have started to grow close to boiling. You may snap at others, grow restless, become enraged at the tiniest of things — the upsets wildly out of proportion for the smallest slights or issues.

You find your thoughts wandering, too. Perhaps it is to someone you know in this place, or perhaps it is to someone previously unknown to you. Maybe you have an issue with this person, or perhaps the voice’s influence extends further — not only adding to your agitations but creating them, too. A slight, a grudge, a bias.

You feel a bitter gnawing within you. The nightmarish green gloom above you persists and everything bubbles up from within. From the dark, the anger within you become too much. The tension finally snaps.

For some, it might come out as a vicious argument where you air your grievances, or finally let slip the things you’ve been holding close to your chest. A verbal beat down, incredibly hurtful in nature. For others, things may be drawn to getting physical. A literal beat down where your fists grow bruised and bloody, or perhaps even worse. Whatever it is, you want to do damage to someone else — there is darkness here, and so many things come out in the dark, don’t they?

Like a ripple, all around you: all hell breaks loose. Chaos erupts, and the air is filled with violence.

Let’s hope you might stop, or someone else stops you, before someone gets killed.

REPRIEVE

WHEN: Circa three days after the Summer Solstice.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: blood.

All things must come to an end, even the most violent of deadly storms. In the midst of the seemingly endless violence of the night, you find yourself outside. Maybe you're fleeing from another Interloper, maybe you're desperately trying to reach someone you care for, maybe you're simply trying to find somewhere new to hide. Interlopers are hunting one another, blood lies on the snow, bodies too — some breathing, some not.

Perhaps it is a trick of the light. Perhaps it's the Darkwalker’s influence still warping your already frayed mind. Or it's the blood in your eyes, your battered and bruised body struggling to get through it all.

In the gloom, you see it. See her.

A woman, dressed in furs, stones and shells glimmering on her chest like armour, stands in the snow before you. Thin and pale, eyes sunken. Her chest heaves with each breath as she looks around with wide eyes. Her hands are bare and bloody. It drips slowly from her fingers. Is it her blood? Or someone else's? You cannot tell, but you cannot mistake how thick it coats her skin.

Her head turns to look at you. You are stunned, but not frightened. Even through the gloom, after a moment or two, her eyes widen in recognition: she knows you.

Slowly and silent, other than her noisy breathing, she draws close to you. Maybe in turn you draw close to her, closing the distance between you. Up close, her eyes are blue, and sad. You cannot mistake the sorrow in them. She is tired, weary. Her hair is dark, worn loose and long. For some, you feel as if you've seen her before, but you can't quite place her face.

Softly, she says your name.

For some, there may be no recognition. This woman is a stranger, who knows your name somehow. She has been silent the past couple of months, after all.

For others, hearing her speak brings a sudden, jarring realisation: this is Enola.

She’s here. Enola. All this time, she’s whispered to you in dreams, in static, in the very air itself.

She raises one hand, dark and dripping in the green light. Lightly, her fingers brush against your chest. You don’t feel the pressure of them, don’t feel the odd heat of blood — only the weight of her stare as she holds your gaze. It’s a long moment of peace in amongst the chaos.

You feel her exhaustion, a tiredness that sinks into your very bones. Apologies, too. You have never known anything like it. But there’s something else too, something that takes a moment or two to put your finger on. Defiance. A renewal. Something shifts in the air, a growing tension, different from the kind that’s been held on the air throughout the month. It’s the coming of a storm, the rolling clouds, the growing rumble of thunder before the first lightning strike.

Enola nods, her expression grave. She pulls away and turns from you — her head lifting towards the skies as she walks. Her arms raise, bloodied hands twisting and tensing before her. They curl, almost into fists, and she makes a gesture: the slow tearing of something huge and invisible before her — a shriek spilling from her lips. A battle-cry, a last stand, a wail of agony. It echoes.

The sky cracks and splits open before you, dazzling light and colours blinding your vision into pure white. The world tilts too hard below your feet, and you don’t remember passing out.

When you awaken, Enola is gone. The skies are clear and blue, the sun is high in the sky. As you pick yourself up from the snow, in the harsh light of the polar day, blood has never looked so red. The horrors of the night laid bare. Interlopers are dead, but the Darkwalker’s influence is gone. For now.

In the wake of Midsummer, all Interlopers can do is try reconcile. Bury the dead, rebuild, lick wounds. But that feeling in the air still remains — that different, new kind of tension that has come with Enola’s appearance. The first of the lightning bolts has struck, but more are coming.

FAQs

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

1. Alexander Hilbert has been devoured by the Darkwalker. His remains can be found in the Hydrodam. The following note has been left by Kates concerning his death: ‘Sveta gets possession of his research notes + blood samples + creepy lab journal because it's all in Russian, lmao.’

2. Information on the Darkwalker’s attack can be found here.

3. Usually, after the Darkwalker attacks, the sky would return to normal. This won’t happen. Instead, the usual atmospheric changes that occur during Darkwalker attacks will remain in place as June continues..

POLAR SUN

1. For an idea how the setting appears for June, it's like what you see in the game during the Escape The Darkwalker Challenge. Inside, there'll be a degree of green shades to rooms etc via what comes through windows but with it being lit up via fires and light sources, the gloom will be chased back.

2. Characters are free to use this event to kill NPC Interlopers. Methuselah and Young Bill are off the table, as are two marked NPC Interlopers. Please let Mods know if you intend on doing this for record keeping!

3. These acts of violence can be physical or verbal altercations, players are encouraged to work with the prompt however they'd like! However, anything potentially world-altering (ie. building destruction) must be first discussed with mods.

4. Interlopers under the Darkwalker's influence can be stopped in a number of ways. Showing genuine care and compassion in the face of violence is one way. Knocking an Interloper out is another way. Sometimes killing an Interloper may be needed, or simply restraining them and keeping them locked up somewhere so they can't hurt anyone else until the night is over would also work.

5. Talismans made by Heartman back in March with a Ward Sigil against the Darkwalker will come into effect during this prompt. It's been an ongoing process, with new Interlopers being offered them from their arrival. Players are free to choose what kind of talisman they received, or if they chose to get one at all. Their effectiveness is dependent on the type of blood used on the talisman.

— Animal Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood from animals found in the world, such as deer, rabbits or wolves will find themselves more susceptible to the Darkwalker’s influence and disposition towards violence. They will be much harder to break out of the hold over them, and become almost frenzied state.
— Monster Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood from any creatures or monsters that Interlopers have encountered in their time in the Northern Territories, such as the Serpent from December’s TDM will find there are no negative nor positive effects. The talisman is essentially useless. and Interlopers will fall under the Darkwalker's influence.
— Interloper Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood for Interlopers will be offered protection/resistance from the Darkwalker’s influence and disposition towards violence. They may be slightly affected but will have their wits about them more compared to others. If the blood came from an Interloper with an Aurora Feat — this protection/resistance will be largely increased, an the Interloper may even feel braver, less affected by the fear in the atmosphere.
— No Talisman: Similar to the Monster Blood Talisman, Interlopers will be affected typically by the Darkwalker's influence in due course.

There are no additional affects with an Interloper using their own blood, just if they have an Aurora Feat or not.

6. Animals owned by Interlopers will be more frightened and will want to hide away in the build up — they will be disturbed by the world. Mostly lying down and whining/restlessness. They may display some signs of aggression on occasion, but not to the same degree of humans.

7. Forest Talkers are hidden away and will not be able to be reached during the Solstice.

REPRIEVE

1. Enola can only be met alone, but she will appear to all Interlopers in Milton.

2. Enola will be nowhere to be found afterwards, there are no tracks to be followed. She has simply vanished.

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The door's slammed shut but his heart won't stop pounding like he's still running. Edward stands there facing it, somehow managing to control the audible gasps of his own breathing — staying very still, everything tense and waiting. Wynonna counts silently, but he can practically hear those beats ticking by — one, two, three....

They're both waiting to see what might come slamming or scraping against that door. But nothing does, and it's only when his companion lowers her gun that Edward allows himself to breathe, really breathe. He exhales in a pained rush, one hand clasped to his own chest, feeling the relentless pulse of his own heart. For a long few moments he's rendered speechless with all of it (which is maybe a good thing, when Wynonna turns her head to look at him like that, and even if sometimes he still doesn't know how to take her, lately he understands more and more that there are nuances, at least, and when she calls him lieutenant this time, it's playful and warm, not cool to the touch.)

He exhales again with a loud, breathy sound, and holds her gaze longer than he ordinarily might be able to after she teases him with the slightest hint of the sharpness to her grin. He's too relieved to be too flustered by her, thinks of how she feels like Wynonna in this moment and how— relieved he is that he's found her (she's found him, they've found each other).

He finally breaks eye contact only when she's moving again, and he's moving too — to sit down at the first place he can see that will support his breathless frame. His head tips forwards a little and then a lot; things are still spinning, but this time instead of an odd static buzz that starts in his head and spreads through his skin and makes him feel like he's watching somebody else pilot his body, Little feels the ache blossom right in the center of himself. Like someone's fist has struck his core, hard and fast, and suddenly his eyes are wide and he's staring at the floor and he's breathing too hard.

Not fast, panicked, shallow gasps, but long and heavy, thudding, intense. The more he breathes, the more everything hurts in a place too deep to touch, and suddenly his eyes are swollen with a fresh flood of wet heat. Gravity works quickly with his head tipped down like that; moisture drips from his eyes, once, then twice. It's nothing that could be considered sobbing but something much quieter than that, much softer — small wet circles appearing against the wooden floor. ]

[ She hears Little make his way to the rocking chair near the stove, sees the movement out of the corner of her eye as she feeds small logs and kindling, as she sets it ablaze. Good, he looked like he was about to fall over.

But as she turns, mouth opening to tell him to go ahead and take the coat off, relax, another motion catches her eye: a drop of water, hitting the floor. Another follows, until there's a slow but steady patter of them, and for a moment she stupidly thinks it's raining, forgetting they're inside. It feels far more likely than what's actually happening when she realizes what it is — he's weeping, quiet but with an ache to each breath that sends a crack straight through her. Her hands pause, her eyes wide and bemused; she eyes the shining splots of damp on her floor warily. ]

Ah... what's happening?

[ It's drawn out, nonplussed, as she stares at those quiet droplets dropping one after another to her floor: whaaaaaaaat?. And, look: she's a modern, open-minded Millennial, okay; she's all for men feeling their feelings and shit. It's just that she's almost never seen it. Dolls and Doc are of the 'repress everything' and 'drink it away' variety of emotionally stunted dude, respectively, and Ward Earp dealt with whatever sadness he might have felt the same way he dealt with everything else: a bottle, a target. He had a heavy hand and a blunt tongue, her Daddy, a man who never seemed to feel much of anything aside from frustration.

The last man she saw shedding tears was Shorty. She... can't think about Shorty right now.

In fact, it's better not to think at all, because if she thinks about any of this, she's going to remember that she's crap at comforting people. She didn't grow up soothing Waverly's tears or getting hugs from her mother; she's not soft and feminine and motherly. Reaching to her for comfort is a little like curling fingers around a naked blade: the best you can hope for is that it'll be distracting, what with the blood and the pain and the yelling. But he's... Little, and every deep, shuddering breath he takes grips into her gut and squeezes. It makes her chest ache, like if he can't breathe, she can't breathe.

The other chair nearby is the armchair, and it's too far away, so she doesn't bother with it, just sinks to her knees in front of him, her jeans soaking up the tears that have already hit the floor, and she doesn't know how, where, if she should touch him, but he looks so miserable and alone hunched over there in the chair and she gave up on anything other than acting on pure gut instinct days ago. Wynonna reaches to cradle his face in her hands, coaxing him to look at her. ]

Jesus, we're having a day.

[ She has no idea what to do. Still, her touch is gentler than she thinks, her voice softer, as she runs the pad of her thumb over his cheek to smooth away a little wetness, as she ducks her head to meet his eyes, her own clear and steady and helpless.

She doesn't know why it drops off her tongue, isn't thinking about it, or about much of anything at all aside from how much she hates seeing him this sad. ]

Hey. Hey, Edward.

Edited 2024-07-02 00:44 (UTC)

[ It just happens, like it's always been meant to happen, without any conscious shift or effort. And it's not typical, for him — not him, who keeps things so tightly wound inwards. Emotion has never been devoid in Little, it's there, but it's kept controlled. The steeling of the jaw in anger and the tightening of fists contained only to that, and nothing more. The wide, wet blink of upset never quite turning into shed tears. He's always felt things, but so rarely acted on them.

But he isn't who he used to be — a process that's been ongoing since long before this place. Parts of him have eroded away, he's felt it happen, and as much as he's kept trying to hold onto that person, that man that he's kept tucked so closely and protectively to his own heart, something's been broken. The past months in this place have only made that fact known to him — when his shadowed double loomed so close and he let himself fade right into it, when he sat on the edge of his bed with his gun at arm's length. He slowly returned to wearing the parts of his uniform that make him Lieutenant Little, but some days they still felt wrong, like he was trying to fit into the wrong skin. Someone else's. He never outgrew that man, he just... lost him.

And now he feels everything, everything that's slipped away. Maybe it's because he's finally somewhere safe, with someone safe. Maybe that's why now it pours out of him like sand, like blood (Mikel's blood, too much, too red against the snow, god, what has he done?)

He's afraid. He feels like a child, like something small and hunched in on itself, body moving with those heavy breaths, like it has to take gasps inbetween the tears. Still, it's all very quiet, very unobtrusive; he isn't making much of a sound. Not until Wynonna is there suddenly, right in front of him kneeling down, and— cupping his face. 'Edward', she calls him. He looks up, surprised by the unexpected use of his name, but simultaneously not surprised at all. It isn't the first time she's found him.

It's only then that the leaking sand inside of him changes, that something snaps and cracks instead, and he makes a sound like an animal. ]

I killed someone. I shot him. He's dead— he's bleeding, he's dead.

[ He's not frantic, but the words come quickly, sloshing over themselves, wet and pained, and he weeps more freely now. He can't accept that it's real, he's devastated because he knows that it is, he doesn't know what to do— ]

I killed someone. I don't.... I don't know what to do.

[ Not just sad, she realizes as he looks up at her and as that sound comes ripping out of him, like his heart's breaking: lost. He looks lost, bewildered; he looks devastated. Words come stumbling out of him in a rush, and the tears come freshly hot and faster, washing over her fingers, leaving her hands slick and wet. It's fine. She'd rather have her hands wet with his tears than with the blood that's stained them for so long.

He doesn't know what to do? Neither does she. She doesn't even have a handkerchief to offer to him. Wynonna tugs her sleeve over her hand to try and dry away some of the tears, her touch awkward but gentle, like she's dealing with a crying child. ]

Shh.

[ It doesn't lengthen into shit the way she wants it to, but that's what's bouncing around in her head. Shit, shit; she knows a little of what happened — Kate was attacked, he saved her — but not the details. Did he get caught in it, too, like March, like Elias? Did this gentle man somehow fall into a murderous rage? She can't believe it, even having seen the effects take so many others, but the alternative is so much worse. She's never forgotten the kick of Peacemaker in her hands that terrible night, the way Daddy jerked and slumped, all the strength gone out of his legs, a living man turned into nothing more than a sack of meat and bones. She hadn't meant to kill him. Is that what happened?

Or was it even worse, did he know what he was doing, the way she did when she pressed Peacemaker's muzzle to Shorty's forehead, knowing the demon wasn't the only thing in him? She doesn't know, and there's only one way to find out.

She keeps her voice low and steady, even as each flood of tears and rambled word hits like a fist to the chest. ]

Take a breath, okay?

[ She demonstrates, even though she feels like she's going to be sick, like even breathing deeply and slow the way she is, through her nose, out through her mouth, isn't giving her enough air. ]

Tell me what happened.

[ He can't contain this. And he'll realise, later, that no matter how each of those words feel like agony to voice aloud, they came easily, to her — to Wynonna specifically. It's safe to tell her; he doesn't think for a second about trying to keep it concealed. He needs to say it, immediately, hard and fast, needs it out of him, even if the process is progressively messier. No cap, no gun, head bowed and eyes leaking; he's practically nothing, anymore.

He's not panicked, not yet, but there's something dangerously close — a particular black hole, a whirlpool, that Little's found himself able to resist falling into less and less over time. It began to happen out on the ice, then the shale, and then here — at Milton House, faced with crackling flame, unable to move. It takes so little to tip him right over the edge these days, and into a place he can't pull himself back out from.

But someone else does it, instead. Pulls him out, keeps him from becoming consumed. Take a breath, okay? and he does, grasps that guidance like a lifeline, matches her breathing for a few long moments, in and out. He's aware of her gentleness with him, sleeve patting his face, warm against the cool wet of his tears. Later he might be ashamed and embarrassed, among all of the other emotions he'll feel later, but for now it's only exactly what he needs.

'Tell me what happened.'

Edward draws a wet, shuddery breath, and feels it move through his entire body. ]

Miss Marsh was hurt. He hurt her, her face was— [ He doesn't know the injuries to Kate's face came from someone else, thinks it was Mikel. ] —he hurt her badly. Mikel Prather.

[ He draws in another breath, this one sharp and biting in his lungs. Mikel's a young man, kind, he's never been a problem. This wasn't him. ]

When I came upon them, he was— he had her to the ground. His hands were around her throat. [ Voicing it aloud is another sharp pain; his words catch at the end, a fissure that cracks and spreads into what he says next, each syllable barely held together. ]

I shot him. Once.

[ It only takes once, with a shotgun blast that close.

Little shudders again and lifts his hands, covering his face, fingertips pressing into his skull. He can't say he didn't mean to do it, that it was an accident; it wasn't, he knew what would happen. He could have knocked him out, could have tried to do anything else, but each second felt so dangerous, and all he could think of was that in any one of them, he could kill Kate. Still, the knowledge of what he's done makes him sick, and that animal within him moans again, soft and pained. ]

I'm sorry.

Edited 2024-07-02 17:32 (UTC)

[ His breath shudders, but he does breathe. His voice is thick and clotted with tears, but he does speak. And god damn this place, damn it all, for what it's done to this good man, to the people here, sending them scrabbling and fighting and killing. They're no better than Bobo's trailer park full of revenants; she's sure some of the murders of the last day were simply for the pleasure of it.

(She feels again the squeeze of the trigger under her finger, hears the crack of Peacemaker's report as it rolls like thunder beneath the trees, vibrating in her blood like an earthquake.)

But Little— he's an explorer. He's a sweet man horrified by violence of any kind. He's not a fighter, and he's not a killer. He's gentle and kind beneath the stiff propriety that's loosened, little by little, with her over the months that she's known him. She'd trust him with Peacemaker. She'd trust him with her life. And now here he is, a broken shell of himself, horrified at his actions and unable to take them back. She hadn't been really sure he'd ever be able to pull the trigger if he had to; now they both know the answer to that question, and she thinks she probably hates it as much as he does. He shouldn't have had to. It shouldn't have had to be him.

He puts his face in his hands, his shoulders shivering, his voice desolate, and those words pull at her, all too familiar. She remembers being twelve years old and horrified, remembers sobbing that she was sorry, sorry, she takes it all back, please be okay, Daddy while Waverly went into hysterics. There hadn't been anyone there to comfort her; there were no adults at all until the police came, until Gus came, and even then they spent their hugs and comfort and low voices on Waverly, the baby.

So she does what she wishes someone, anyone had done then: she pushes up on her knees and reaches to pull his forehead to her shoulder, her hand curving once more, this time more gently, against the back of his skull to bring him close, to let him clutch her if he needs, to give him something to rail against if he doesn't. And she knows her embrace isn't comforting, she knows she isn't, she's not warm and approachable and sweet, she's all broken edges and bared teeth and that gun at her side, heavy against her hip, but she's the only one here to offer it. She's all he's got right now, the poor bastard.

But he does have her. Her and her useless words and all her shattered pieces and the arms she can pull him into while he wrestles with his bitter tears and self-recriminations. She gets it. ]

Come here. I got you.

Edited 2024-07-02 18:26 (UTC)

[ Edward would be startled to learn that Wynonna thinks of herself as anything but comforting. When she reaches for him, and he lets her — hands lowering from his face, head bowed and tipping to her shoulder — all he feels is comforted. She's there, the way she's consistently been there for him. There have been bumps and bruises inbetween (maybe neither of them are prime examples of fully well-functioning adult human beings and maybe there are things both of them need to run away from), but they found each other again once, twice, a third time — again and again. They both chose to stay.

She stays with him now, reminds him he isn't alone, and it matters more than anything, to tell someone one of the worst things he's ever done and to be held immediately after. He sinks to her, fingers seeking out the material of her clothing, holding on, burying his face. In this moment, all he wants to do is hide. Escape himself — an impossible goal, and Edward's wounded by that fact alone; he can't run, can't hide, he's done something he can't ever undo, and maybe anyone else at all wouldn't be so affected by what was surely a necessary act, but it's the truth — he's not a killer. There's a weird open place deep down in his soul that's been ripped wider, more open, letting more things in — or maybe letting more things out.

He closes his eyes against Wynonna's shoulder and just— lets himself cry. It's all still very quiet, very soft. He isn't even sure how much time passes — long minutes, probably, time ticking by — but he doesn't move. Not even when he's aware thick strands of her hair are practically glued to his wet cheek and wetter eye socket, when he can feel himself all tangled up in her. It's all right, to be.

It's only after a while that he does finally speak again, after a hard swallow. ]

I couldn't let him take Kate's life. [ Not Miss Marsh, not Miss Kate. In the moment, the importance of such things fizzles away for even him, too. Kate is Kate — his Kate. ]

I couldn't. But... but he wasn't himself. This place made him hostile, cruel, it— He's just a boy.

[ His voice falls away again briefly, lost to the tightness of his own throat, and his eyelids are fluttering against the woman's shoulder. What he says next is obvious, probably, to anyone who knows him. But it still feels like a confession all in its own, the words pulled up and forced out. To admit it is to admit that now, such a thing has changed. ]

I've never killed anyone before.

[ He folds into her, and she lets him grip her however he needs to, his fingers clutched in her clothing and his head a warm, heavy weight against a shoulder that grows steadily wetter as the minutes pass quietly by and the fire crackles, the only other sound aside from his quiet, shaking breath. Her knees start to hurt, pressed as they are against the wooden floor and holding her weight and part of his, and she doesn't care, she doesn't move. All she does is put her arms around him in an embrace that's nothing like the breathless impact of before, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other curled to keep her hand against his head.

She hasn't looked at it head on; it's not something she's let herself want or even acknowledge, but after that first moment when she wasn't sure if he'd let her coax him to her shoulder, she allows it under the thin excuse that it's to comfort him: Wynonna leans her head against his and runs her fingers a few times slowly over and through the thick, rumpled waves of his hair, untangling a few strands here and there as carefully as she can. ]

I know.

[ It's quiet and compact and it works as a reply to everything he's been saying: he couldn't let Kate die, Mikel wasn't his normal self, he'd been so young, Edward had never killed anyone before. She knows all of it, as intimately as if she'd been the one pulling the trigger. She has been the one pulling the trigger. ]

You did it to save someone you love.

[ There's a terrible familiarity in her words, as the memories, never far away, spin through her mind again. Breaking glass, Waverly's scream, Willa's name ripping from her own throat with enough force to shred her vocal cords, anguished.

She doesn't try to tell him it'll be okay, that it was alright to kill Mikel in order to save Kate, that none of this was his fault, that he should forgive himself. She's not going to kneel here with his tears dripping down her collarbone and lie to him, not about this. She won't lie to him about any of it. ]

I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry you had to be the one to pull the trigger. I'd have done it for you if I could.

[ What's one more sin heaped on her head? She's been marked for hell since she was twelve years old. She'd have taken this hit to spare him in a heartbeat. ]

Edited 2024-07-02 22:55 (UTC)

[ There are fingers through his hair. He can't remember anyone ever doing such a thing. Perhaps when he was much younger, young enough to cling unashamedly to his mother or one of his older sisters. It's soothing, such a gesture — such an act of care the likes of which he's so foreign to; it almost makes him want to cry freshly.

And it helps. The ache in him gapes wider and wider, some awful mouth stretching open, but if he were alone... he wouldn't be able to do this. He needs this guidance, what Wynonna provides — I know, she says, and he knows she truly does. It means something, just to be seen, understood.

You did it to save someone you love.

Love. That word, too, is almost foreign to him. It's always felt too much, like too much sunlight, shining too brightly against his vision; it's a word that something in him flinched back from, a little. But not now. Kate doesn't feel too much or too bright; she's soft warmth, the glow of a sunset, gentle and safe. He agonises over how to define the people here, what they are to him, but really he knows — he has come to love her, that quiet, broken girl. He knows he's nothing now, only a ghost left to roam this place, but for as long as he roams, he'll fight to protect her.

And he had. (Is this the cost? To be a great man? To be brave, and bold? To protect others, truly protect them? Should he have shot Solomon Tozer that nightmarish foggy day out on the shale?

Whom might he have saved, if he had?)

Even knowing that, he can't see what he did as okay. As the right decision. He should have... tried something else. Tried to knock Mikel out, tried to reason with him — right? He could have tried. The Edward Little from a year ago would have tried. (But trying means there's the potential to fail, and with people's lives at stake.... Hasn't he already failed in that particular way once, and then more than once? Hasn't his failure caused others to have to pay the cost?)

He doesn't know how to feel. He only feels... lost, and wrong, and deeply sad. Deeply sorry. So when Wynonna says that she's sorry, it stuns him; he's blinking against her, eyes fluttering again, a fresh stab of something needle-sharp spearing his heart. She would have done it for him, made that sacrifice (because that's what it would be, to him, one of the most horrible things that a person can do, a stain to have to live with — and she would have done it in his place?)

It's this that finally has him able to move, a little. To draw back, enough that he can look at her. Even now, face to face, he can't seem to conjure up much shame, or embarrassment. He doesn't feel any of those things, somehow. ]

I wouldn't want you to have to do that, [ he says in a hush, throat aching, as tight as his chest. She would do that, for him. Him. He doesn't know that Wynonna already knows what it is to take a life, that even now she... knows more of how he feels than he could imagine. He stares at her, stunned and shaken and touched in a way he can't quite pinpoint. A long pause, and then something else comes, quietly. A knowledge that's been there from the start. ]

I deserve this.

[ She hates that she'll think of this later — his tears and his confessions, of course, and the way it feels to hold him this close, yes, but — the thing she's angry about, that she already wants to burn out of her memory and knows she'll never try because she's too selfish to give it up, is the way her fingers feel in his hair. How soft it is, despite the snarls and tangles, despite the sweat that's dried in it. She's going to remember it later, feel the ghost of it against her fingertips, and she's going to hate herself just that little bit more, she just knows it.

But he doesn't protest; if anything, he relaxes a little against her, which she takes as a sign to keep going, so she does, right up until he pulls back, leaving her hands on his shoulders as he tells her he wouldn't want her to kill for him, which is a thing she absolutely already knew. ]

Yeah, because you aren't a complete asshole. But if it's a choice between you or me taking that hit, there's no question. There's no debate. You shouldn't—

[ For the first time since she saw him and ran headlong into him, it's her voice that cracks a little, the thin, frail facade of her coolness fracturing and the frustration and anger beneath glimpsed, just briefly, and she is angry. She's angry that he was forced to take that shot, she'd angry Mikel is dead so stupidly, she's angry that she hadn't been there, she's angry that there's no end to any of this in sight, even with this brief reprieve. She doesn't believe it'll last. She knows it won't. ]

You should never have had to know what that's like. Never. If it meant you never had to use that gun of yours for anything other than a security blanket, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wouldn't even blink. There's no comparison, Little.

[ It is, very loosely, the same principle that's giving her such a stubborn drive to stay alive here; if she dies, the curse falls on Waverly, and Waverly would have to be the one pulling the trigger, reckoning with the people the revenants used to be, knowing she's sending them to a potential eternity of suffering, all for crimes committed a hundred years before she was born.

Waverly doesn't deserve that, and he doesn't deserve this, so when he says that, when he says he does, she shakes her hair back over her shoulder and sits back on her heels with her hands falling to fist loose and helpless on her thighs and blinks hard and fast, looking up at the ceiling for a moment to keep her own suddenly stinging eyes dry, or at least to push this abrupt threat of tears ruthlessly down. Her eyes are a little too bright, maybe, but she gets it under control. She licks her lip, shakes her head again, and can't quite look at him yet. ]

God.

[ It comes out half a laugh, without any amusement or warmth to it at all: it's bitter, so bitter, almost a curse. If Kate heard her say her Lord's name like that, she'd get another talking-to all about respect for the Almighty, probably.

But she doesn't give a shit. As far as she can tell, if there is a God, He or She or They is or are nothing but an enormous waste of space. Finally, her glance falls back down, meets his eyes again — they're red and sore and gleaming with tears and she still gets caught on them anyway. What's the point of trying not to? What's the point of anything, if she can't do the one thing, the only thing she can do, the only thing she's good at, and take the load off the people here she cares about? ]

You really don't.

Edited 2024-07-03 17:10 (UTC)

[ Not for the first time, he finds himself startled by how much his own words affect Wynonna — how much importance he could possibly hold to her. Her voice cracks just enough to be perceptible, subtle, but to him it feels like a huge split, something momentous enough to stun him a little, and wound him a lot. The upset there in her, that flash of anger. Little frowns deeply, brows knit together as he watches her work through, or against, something — his mouth tight and tugged down at the corners; everything feels so heavy, weighted.

'I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wouldn't even blink.'

She wants to protect him from it. She's visibly upset that she wasn't able to. He doesn't even know what to say, eyes just fixed right onto her as he watches. He's never known anyone, could never imagine knowing anyone, who would say something like this for him. Who would do something like this for him. Take a life, for him. His inability to do what other men have done has been some weakness carried, one that's taken on the shape of many things — guilt, regret, disappointment. He remembers a conversation shared with a man here in Milton once, during that storm — a man who'd been horrified, angered, when Little revealed how he'd failed to use his gun on someone once. How he'd failed to do what needed to be done.

But even now.... he can't look back and truly regret not stopping Tozer that way. He can't. No piece of himself could ever be okay with taking another man's life. It... he can't. And where he's only faced judgment for that decision in the few he's revealed it to, here....

...Wynonna understands. She would understand, if he were to tell her about it here and now. She wouldn't think of him as less, or as responsible for everything that came after, for all of the men that could possibly have been saved if he'd taken action and killed one of the mutineers who crossed his path. Wynonna wouldn't. Not her, who hasn't told him it's all right that you did this or it was necessary or met his upset with bewilderment and aversion the way others have when he's started crumbling.

She's... upset for him. For his sake. He watches her pull back in the ways she needs to for a moment, eyes going up and up, away from his — watches her strain to breathe, to function, like she's holding back a dam that's swelling too hard, too fast; it will burst in her any moment, and all he can think is that he wishes he could soothe it. It hurts to see Wynonna hurt this way, carrying what he can't quite understand, not fully, but the fact she would do that for him suggests at least a few things, and so when she says what she does next, finally looking at him again, the words come without him even pausing to consider them, his own voice strained and hoarse with upset, quiet but intense as his eyes search right into hers, trying to find something there in them, in her. To reach her way deep down. ]

Neither do you, Miss Earp.

Edited 2024-07-06 15:10 (UTC)

[ Little doesn't look at her the way March does, as if she's a puzzle box he's trying to figure out, as if he's peeling back each layer to expose her vulnerable core, like recognizing like. He doesn't look at her like she's a crime scene he's trying to piece together. When she lowers her gaze from the ceiling and finds his again, it's like he already knows... everything, as if somehow he's looked past the layers of bullshit and bravado like they don't even exist and straight into her bruised and battered heart to see— who knows what, but whatever it is, he doesn't turn away from it. From her. He never has.

He sees her, and every time she expects him to realize he should be moving away as quickly as possible, that he'd made a terrible mistake when he promised not to pull away from her again. She keeps waiting for something appalled and disgusted to surface in his warm brown eyes. Nothing in her is prepared for the way he searches her expression, her face, her eyes, like he wants to go even deeper. Like he truly believes there's nothing he could see there that would make him want to turn away again, even when she knows that can't possibly be true. He might be searching out her heart, the truth of her, but the truth of her is lined with traps and snares, spikes and blades. If he reaches for her right now, she thinks he'd pull his hand back scarred and bleeding.

Reaching up, she scrubs at her tired face with both hands, then runs them distractedly through her hair, all ten fingers sinking in, giving her some sort of anchor now that she's not touching him any longer. ]

No one does. No one who still has a soul. But you're—

[ What is he? What is it about him that makes this such a nightmare? Nobody's perfect, and he certainly isn't. She herself has thought he should stop carrying that shotgun around if he's not prepared to actually use it. And now he has, and it's heartbreaking, his anguish, his guilt. All she wants is to pry it off his shoulders and set it on her own and she can't. No one can. And he wouldn't want her to even if she could, because he might not be a perfect man, but he's a good one.

She lowers her hands and meets his glance again, offering the only aid she can: to let him lance this wound in a place where he's safe, with a person who gets it better than he could ever know. ]

Why do you think you do? Tell me. Just get it out.

Edited 2024-07-06 16:43 (UTC)

[ There are certainly mysteries to Wynonna — layers of them, things he's glimpsed pieces of here and there; she's the heir to something, and she.. knows things, does things, she has a gun, she knows how to fight, she's... assuredly an intimidating woman in nearly all aspects (but of course what would stand out the most is that softness underneath, it's never too far away really, or maybe he's just especially sensitive to it — soft, wounded eyes and a mouth tugged tightly to hide some inner feeling; she's intimidating but she isn't cold, isn't unfeeling, and it's all of those human parts he thinks of the easiest when he thinks of Wynonna Earp.)

He watches her movements, restless and tired and aching, and realises he isn't actively crying anymore — that what's left are remnants, soft and wet against the hair that frames his face and covers most of his cheeks. He's tired too; it all sought escape from him in that moment, made him overwhelmed, and now he's reeling gently from all of it, sitting there still leaned forward, watching her with his eyes glassy and sore and concerned. There's still so much upset in her — and he can't do anything to appease it. He's helpless.

Which is why maybe he even latches onto that question, the one that he'd always flinched from so fiercely. The one he was always afraid to be asked. He doesn't want the people here to know... what he's done, who he really is.

And yet here and now, he grasps for that question, because it's something to do for her — even if it's just this much, to answer a horrible thing. She asks him and he would never refuse to answer it. Not to her. So he tips his head forwards again, shoulders lifting with another full-bodied sigh, a movement that heaves everything in him, shifts it, and then settles back into the rocking chair with a heaviness. ]

I am not a good man, [ he all but whispers — and perhaps an ironic statement, all things considered, but one he wholly believes. How does he even begin to convey it? All of the things he's done, all of his weaknesses, his failings, all of the ghosts that haunt him? And so many of them here with him, in this place? So many of them that she knows? ]

Everything went... wrong. And I didn't... I wasn't enough. I failed them. [ He leans forward more, spine bent, hands moving up through his hair, almost an echo of Wynonna's gesture moments ago. Palms press into his scalp and he leaves them there for a moment, gaze wide and distant, thinking of something, somewhere else. One of the ghosts slips down over his eyes, and he blinks against a fresh coat of gloss. ]

When the mutiny began, there was... a man. Our sergeant of the Marines. He was a foundational part of it, with Mr. Hickey. And he— I chased him. I found him. I had my gun raised, but I couldn't... I could not pull the trigger. I could not kill him.

[ It sounds almost anticlimactic voiced like that, this particular dark thing. But he's shaking again, even if more softly this time. ]

If I had.... I might have stopped what came after. The mutiny, and what they... did, to our men. What horrible things they did. [ His eyes widen further; he'd only learned those nightmarish details after his arrival in this place. The... slaughter, the feasting of human flesh. Gibson. Goodsir. How can he voice it aloud? His mouth parts, closes slightly, parts again; his throat moves but no words come. Not for a long moment. When he speaks next, everything feels hollow. ]

But I let it happen. I let it all happen. The mutiny, and what came after, and— and they suffered because of me, because I am— I am nothing. Every man here in this place with us now has suffered, because of me. They should all have hatred for me, in their hearts. I am certain that they do.

[ There's more to it, but his voice falters, the secrets he's revealed to no one sticking up out of the soil within himself, like exposed bones. How he'd betrayed his captain's wishes. How Crozier had waited for his rescue, and none had come. How he'd walked away from the sick, the dying — how Thomas Jopson still haunts his nightmares here, two glowing sparks of blue set in a frame that can barely be called a face anymore, skull-like, skin too thin and too tight, and rotting away. He was still alive when they left, even if just. He saw them leave him. Edward knows that now. ]

And to take that young man's life now... Everything I... tried to be, tried to hold onto, it— none of it mattered. I should have died the way my men did. The way Thomas— [ He can't, the words falling away again in a soft, breathless gasp, and he blinks, that odd haze clearing a little, enough to find her again. ] —I'm sorry.

Edited 2024-07-07 02:19 (UTC)

[ I am not a good man, he says, and she can tell he believes it, right down to his foundations. Whatever image he'd held of himself before the expedition went so badly south has been wholly wiped away, leaving nothing but an impression of guilt and horror behind.

She knows it, because she's lived it. Everything everyone she knows blames her for, she's blamed herself for a million times over. And here's Edward Little, one of the gentlest, most forthright, most honorable men she's ever known, hanging his head and telling her he's nothing, that everything that happened after he didn't pull the trigger was his fault. And guilt is a heady drug, she knows it well, is all too familiar with the way someone can latch onto it and never find a way to let go. Her own is a constant companion, still, always, even if it hasn't taken physical form since those weeks back in the winter. Old Augie Hamilton would be feasting on them both, if he ever managed to find his way here.

I should have died, he says, and her blood runs cold; the way Thomas, he says, and everything in her lurches abruptly to the side. She doesn't want to think about what happened between him and Tommy. She doesn't want to know. What could it possibly help, when Thomas himself already forgave him?

But he won't forgive himself. She's seen Augie Hamilton in her own face in the mirror too many times not to recognize a fellow guilty heart. Wynonna lifts a hand, runs her fingers lightly over the thin white line of scar tissue at her throat, thinking about guilt, thinking about forgiveness, recalling the bright flicker of pain as his cold razor nicked her skin.

(Tick tock, tick tock. Forgiven? Or not?)

She's silent for a long moment after he finishes, thinking hard, as she thumbs that line of her scar before dropping her hand away again. ]

You know, if my sister were here, she'd know just what to say. She'd find some way to make you feel better, or tell you it's never the wrong thing to not kill somebody, or... I don't know, because she's not here. You're stuck with me instead, and the best I've got is... not great. But okay. Let's give it a shot, because Waverly might be nicer than me, but I know what it's like to ruin... everything. Crushing guilt and I are old buddies.

[ She sinks back onto her heels again, her knees and shins yelling. His eyes are on her again, glossy and sad and hurt and she's never felt so helpless, she's never wished so much to not have something in common with him. ]

Look, you couldn't have stopped a mutiny by shooting one guy. I mean, you probably couldn't have stopped it even if that one guy was Hickey. He'd just have been a martyr to the cause. And yeah, I know knowing that doesn't magically change things. That stuff all still happened.

But you are not nothing. [ She leans forward again, holding his glance with her own fierce and sore and steady. ]

You're not nothing. Not to me. Not to a lot of people here, including all the ones you think should hate you.

[ Her expression turns inwards for a long moment, seeing again in her mind's eye the way the good people of Purgatory cross the street to get away from her, feeling their glares linger. She thinks of Shorty saying they're wrong... you're a good girl, Wynonna, and doesn't quite manage to fully shutter the flicker of pain that surfaces along with the memory. ]

Don't ask for that. Just... don't. You don't deserve it. Because I think you are a good man. I know you are.

[ She would hate him if she knew all of the truths. Even if not wholly — some part of her must. How could anyone not? As much as he longs to be someone that others here can trust, the truth is that Edward knows no one should. If there were any goodness left to him — to that man whose rot was kept beneath all of it, beneath layers upon layers of wool as he clung so desperately to his role and the thought that he could still help others with it — it was lost on that last march.

And in this place, he's been... foolish, to think he could ever return to who he used to be, or at least to some semblance of that man. He isn't. He can't be, ever again. Perhaps he's already known that — after the death of Lieutenant Noonien-Singh, so much.... was revealed to him, and he gave up, for a while; he did, he gave up, and even if he eventually came back... not all of him did. Not really. More and more, pieces have eroded away. Perhaps this was always going to happen.

But he does listen to Wynonna as she speaks, and as some part of him still, still, wants to believe every word, to accept them — wants what she's offering, which isn't... forgiveness, necessarily, but something much more palatable. Logic, reasoning, 'you couldn't have stopped a mutiny by shooting one guy,' and she's right, he does know she's right. Even what came after — the... vote, the looks in those men's faces as he stared back in horror, the way Lieutenant Le Vesconte could not maintain eye contact with him for too long, the anger so severe every part of him shook with it; there was nothing more he could have done. Not really.

(Then he should have died. He should have sat down with Thomas, and the others, and let himself die.) What did he think could be done for the marching men? That he would truly be able to lead them to safety? To rescue? That he could do anything for them? He knows now that there were no survivors of their Expedition.

Then he should have died while he was still himself, and not a man marching towards the faint, impossible prospect of survival. Not a man who left his captain behind. If this is what it means to live, then he shouldn't be.

...But that, truly is what he deserves. To live, like this. Knowing what he'd done. Knowing what he'd lost.

And so, even as Wynonna Earp looks at him with eyes — somehow both like a steel trap and yet still so comforting for their familiarity — and tells him that he is not nothing, not to her, he knows that he doesn't deserve this, either. Doesn't deserve her. She understands (it isn't the first time he's known such a concept; she knows what it's like to ruin things, everything she says, and he believes her, because she's known what it is to fail to protect others — he remembers her telling him, has never forgotten, even if he doesn't know the particular details behind it) but she shouldn't have to see herself in someone like him. Not she, who is brave and good and would kill someone so that he doesn't have to. Would make that kind of sacrifice. ]

Whatever Hell this is, that dead men are allowed to walk again... that is what I deserve, [ he says softly. ] Not to truly die, but to.... live. As a ghost amongst the ghosts of the men I—.... I abandoned. [ The word catches, but softly. He... sees himself very clearly now. And his eyes narrow sadly down at her, at the disappointment he knows he must be to her — who has fought so hard for his sake. She shouldn't. There are others worth fighting for, far more deserving. ]

I see that now.

[ He reaches out, for the first time, eyes heavy and aching, and places a hand gently upon Wynonna's shoulder. (It's selfish, he knows, to want to keep her, despite everything he's just said and all of the things that have remained unspoken. Even so, he wishes he could.) ]

I am glad that it is you with whom I am stuck. [ 'You're stuck with me', she said, as though that was his punishment instead, as though she isn't the person he now so often thinks to first when he needs— anyone, for anything. There might almost be a glint of something light-hearted to the sentiment, for the way it's worded, a faint ripple of warmth to his wet gaze, but it fades quickly. His heart feels.... gone. Emptied. He needs to bury Mikel. (He can't imagine returning back to his cabin. He doesn't know what to do. He wants to run away.) He frowns, deep and miserable. ]

But I truly am not the man you think I am. I... barely deserve to stand in your shadow, Miss Earp. Whatever ruin you may have known before, when I look to you, I see only... what grows. What thrives, and lives. Not ruin. Only light.

[ He squeezes her shoulder, but softly, meant to be soothing to a woman who has revealed some of her own hurts and wounds to him, before he finally lets his hand fall away. ]

As much as I long to keep it, someone else deserves your mercy. Not I.

Edited 2024-07-07 06:07 (UTC)

Oh, that is all such bullshit.

[ All of it, all of it, from the way he calls himself a ghost to what he thinks he deserves to what he thinks she is. The first time he's ever reached out to touch her, and it's with a squeeze of his hand like he's saying goodbye, like he's shutting some door between them, and she can't, she won't let him. ]

You want to talk to me about mistakes? About abandoning the people who depend on you? You think I have a single leg to stand on with any of this?

[ She gets up with a swift economy of movement, pins and needles tingling through her legs as she takes the few short strides to the hearth, reaches for the framed photograph there. ]

We were home one night, all of us. Me, Willa, Waverly, all sitting around the table listening while Daddy told us stories about our great-great grandaddy, Wyatt Earp. He was cleaning Peacemaker and putting it back together. It was a normal night, quiet. And then we heard them outside.

[ She turns back to look at him, the frame in her fingers, her grip a little too tight. Her memory echoes with the sounds of breaking glass and screams, of Daddy's shouts. ]

There were seven of them that came to the Homestead. One of them smashed through a window and grabbed Willa. The last time I ever saw her, she was kicking and screaming as they dragged her outside, broken glass raining down everywhere, right before they broke down the door and grabbed my father.

[ The words come evenly, but there's a feeling of relief behind it, of something that's built up too much behind too fragile a wall; a dam about to burst, a storm about to break. But she measures it out, holding it back under ruthless control, keeping her eyes on him, waiting for the moment when whatever admiration — maybe even affection — shatters under the weight of all her sins.

He doesn't deserve to stand in her shadow? She shouldn't get to be that person to him. She shouldn't even get to touch him, no much how cleaner it makes her feel. She should never have turned around in that blizzard and let him find her, she should never have gone to his cabin with a bottle of Scotch and an apology on her lips. If she hadn't done any of those things, maybe she wouldn't be here cracking open her ribcage and reaching inside to offer her secrets, bloody and blackened, because if he doesn't deserve forgiveness, if all he deserves is to wander this hellscape they're in, then so does she. ]

They were dragging him away, laughing, they were gonna, they were gonna kill him. So I picked up Peacemaker for the very first time, and I tried to shoot them. I tried to protect him, I tried to protect Willa, but I missed. I took one shot, and it hit my father in the back. I killed him.

[ The few quick steps she takes feel like she's pushing against an invisible hand, but she takes them to stand in front of him and shove the photo at him, the photo that's all she has left of Willa, of the life she had before that horrible night. Three girls, dressed in white, carrying flowers and smiling. She taps herself; a coltish girl with her hair in braids, walking in the grass. ]

I was twelve years old.

Edited 2024-07-07 18:06 (UTC)

[ Whatever he might have been expecting, it isn't anger. Little startles, but mutedly, like so much else — not flinching back from her, only blinking there where he sits, not understanding.

Not at first. But then it comes — and Wynonna doesn't temper it down or sugarcoat; everything comes. He's stunned as he watches her stand and move, and for a brief, kneejerk moment he still wonders if she'll leave him, if she should be let go (hasn't be almost opened the door for her to, with these words? It's not that he wants that, he fears it, he aches at the thought, but surely, surely she should find herself pulling back away from a man who means so little, someone who truly doesn't deserve the mercy she continually, somehow, grants him.)

Finally, Edward sits up in the rocking chair. The movement's so slow that it barely causes any resulting momentum; he only rocks back a little, and then he's very still. He stares at the woman, watching her speak. She isn't running away from him. She's telling him something very important. Waverly, a name he's heard. Willa, a name he hasn't. Daddy and Peacemaker and the men (it has to be men, he thinks, as the horrible mental image plays out in accompaniment to Wynonna's words, and there's something sick and nauseated rising inside of him.)

Wynonna holds his gaze, expecting something to shatter, but nothing does. Nothing will. Everything only— softens, as he stares up at her, eyes big and round and filling with fresh, sorrowful wet. Immensely and deeply wounded — not from her, but for her. He looks heartbroken, and that's the way it feels; if anything splits open in the face of Wynonna's words, it's only his own heart.

She tried to save someone she loved. She tried, and failed. And her own father— It's almost too much to bear. Edward draws a shuddery breath, one he has difficulty truly finding air from; everything feels too tight in his chest. There's a flicker of another man's life, a parallel outcome, in which his bullet had struck Kate instead, and it was his loved one's body to fall limp and bleeding to the snow. He can't even— begin to process such a thought. But here it is, right before him; Wynonna Earp lived such a horror.

Wordlessly, he stares down to the item — a sort of daguerreotype that Wynonna brings to him, and whether she means for him to actually take the photo or not, he finds both of his trembling hands reach up to take it, slowly. Something in him needs to.

He stares down at the three figures. The photo may lack colour, but he can see the sun's shining warmth upon the sisters in white dresses. He can feel the grass at their feet, hear the wind that might shift gently through the soft blades around them. The smiling young faces, the fresh flowers in hand; it's the literal picture of innocence.

His eyes move to the sister in twin braids, and stay there, staring at this past version of the woman he knows now. She was just a girl when it happened.

With trembling fingers, Edward places the photo carefully down upon his own lap and crumples to lean forwards and down once again, but— towards her, intentionally, to her. Unless she steps back, she's close as she stands there in front of him — close enough that when he bows his head into her, he feels the slight pressure of her body against the top of it, but he doesn't pull back.

It's not a bold move so much as the only natural one, when he reaches to find her hand. No shame or discomfort exists, not in this moment. Her hand isn't some foreign thing he must coax himself to touch. He finds it, and— holds on. He holds onto her. No, he won't let her go. ]

I'm sorry. I'm sorry this happened to you. I— [ He doesn't know what to do with all of this ache. He feels himself weeping again, for her, and keeps his head bowed. Still, despite the gesture, despite his crumbling, the grasp upon Wynonna's hand is nothing subservient, nothing submissive or hesitant; he holds and squeezes it warmly, protectively. ]

My heart breaks for you.

[ She hates this story. It's in every tense line of her body, in the way she flings the words at him, clipped and clear. She hasn't told anyone here the whole story — and still hasn't, not really, but it's enough that she feels raw and overexposed. This was the start of it all, of every horrible thing that's happened to her, to Waverly, over the last fifteen years, and she impales herself on it, right in front of him.

Maybe he's the only person here she could tell, the only one who might understand how one terrible domino falling can ruin every life connected to it. And... he does seem to: he watches her, and he looks at the photograph, and then he slowly folds over himself, until the top of his head nudges soft against her belly and before she can react to that, there are fingers curling around her hand, warm and kind.

Wynonna blinks down at him, unsure what to do, unwilling to move and make him pull away. After a first surprised moment, her loose fingers curl warily around his. Her free hand lifts; hovers over his head, unable to settle there on his hair, unwilling to draw away; it lowers and jerks back, once and then twice, fingers curling in on themselves uncertainly. She'd just been holding onto him with everything she had, but this feels suddenly so much more intimate. There's a long moment where her chest feels too tight to breathe. ]

I didn't tell you any of this because I want sympathy.

[ Which might make it sound like it's unwelcome, but it isn't. She can't... remember a single time someone in her life told her they were sorry this happened to her instead of blaming her for it, even Waverly. Even when they knew it was an accident.

But Edward Little reaches for her and this time he doesn't shy away like he has so often before; his hand is warm and his grip is firm, like he knows that at any moment he might need to drag her up and out of the water before she drowns.

She can hear the tears in his voice, the thickness of it. No one's ever cried for her before. Because of her, lots. For her... never. It's a weird feeling, deep down in the pit of her stomach. ]

You keep telling me what you deserve, like you think you're damned. I've seen damned, Little. I know bad men, the kind that aren't happy unless they're hurting someone else. I know killers. And you are nothing like any of them, because this is how you react when you hurt someone. It is wrecking you.

But if you're damned, I'm damned. If you deserve this, I deserve it, too. Because my father wasn't the only man I've killed. He was just the first one.

[ Even as she says it, she hates herself for saying it, for still trying even now to find the thing that will shatter his good opinion of her and turn him into just another person who wishes she'd go away. ]

Look, I won't tell you to forgive yourself for any of this. If I tried, I'd be the biggest hypocrite who ever lived. But I'm not letting you crucify yourself and I'm not letting you face any of it alone, either.

[ It's there underneath everything else — beneath the careful and strict social constructions of his particular time, beneath his ability to swallow back whatever he might truly feel in favour of what he should, beneath even simply his own shy disposition. Somewhere under all of it is simply a human being, and this crumbling, pathetic display is what's human. It's more raw than he's ever been around another; everything's so raw. He feels opened up and exposed, nerves red and wet and aching in the cold.

But it's genuine, it's true. He can only feel sorrow for Wynonna, for what she's lost, and how. Whatever horror he sees is because of what's been done to her, not any act she might have committed. Not even when she tells him that her father wasn't the only victim, that there were more, and perhaps the deaths of those men were intentional. It certainly seems that way.

It wouldn't matter. He can't see her as a monster, as something damned, and— he's listening to her, quietly, staying just as he is for a very long moment. He can't find the strength to do anything else, not for a long time; he can only listen to what Wynonna... offers him, because that is the word. It's not forgiveness; it's something so much more than that, something so less horrible (he'd shirk from the concept like he'd touched something hot, couldn't bear to hear anyone say you're forgiven). No, it isn't that. She isn't only revealing what horrors and losses she's known, but telling him that he isn't alone in his. Even here, even now, this is her... fighting for him. Protecting him. He sees that; it almost cripples him.

He gives a few soft exhales, eyes pressed shut, and then he's opening them again, reaching his free hand up to his face, rubbing the wool of his glove across his eyes. He's a mess, more than he's ever been around anyone or anything. He can't remember the last time he wept freely. The last time that what he truly felt took over everything, left him reduced to this. Like a child. Through it all, her words stay right there with him.

'But if you're damned, I'm damned. If you deserve this, I deserve it, too'
'I'm not letting you face any of it alone'

Finally, he lifts his head again, and finally, he releases her hand. But slowly, gently, lowering it to the photograph that's still secured to his lap. He picks it up, carefully holding it up for its owner to reclaim, barely allowing his fingertips to apply any pressure to its surface, as though afraid to harm it, as though it's a living thing. It's a deeply precious item, for all that it aches. What a horrible thing it is, to know that one has lost who one used to be, that one single act was enough to... alter the course of things. To set a pathway that one's feet are unable to escape walking. How cruel it is that Wynonna knew it when she was so very young. ]

Then I am not alone. And neither are you.

[ His voice is worn and more hoarse and pained than before, but resolute. He looks up at Wynonna, eyes red, their surrounding tissue swollen, but he holds contact. ]

You have me. No matter what you've faced, or what you've done.

Edited 2024-07-16 23:31 (UTC)

[ He looks up at her, and her hand falls back away to her side without ever having landed back on the soft, tangled mess of his hair. Her other hand moves restlessly, fingers curling in and relaxing again, rubbing against each other, feeling strangely empty before she takes the photo when he offers it back to her. Then I am not alone, he agrees, even though she still has no idea how or why her company might be useful to him at all. And neither are you.

And neither are you.

They shook on it, last time. This time, she takes the photo and sets it carefully aside, then slowly sinks down once again in front of him, back to her knees, letting him look down at her instead of craning his neck to look up. His beautiful voice is ruined with tears and exhaustion and a cracked throat, but the richness still lends each word new weight, and she believes him. He's never lied to her; he might be the only one who hasn't.

That one curling lock of hair sweeps over his forehead and eye. She could reach up to tuck it back. Maybe she could let her touch linger; she could lean a little closer. She can't help but think of that moment in the woods, Levi and Fish and their deaths weighing on her, arguing with Doc about whether or not she's a killer, what happened next. The need for touch runs through her like an addict's desperation for the next hit, but— he's not Doc. He's something else, something new to her; she sees herself in him and she knows she can never measure up to his opinion of her, and she wants to try anyway.

She nods, lowering to sit on the floor, one knee up, her arm looping around it. Every part of her aches with exhaustion, gravity dragging at her bones. He looks as bad as she feels, worn and weary, his eyes red and swollen from his tears. He could probably use some water. She badly wants a drink. ]

You once told me there was a side to you that you wished I hadn’t seen. But screw that. There's no side of you I'm gonna turn away from, okay? Even the shitty ones. Even this one. So quit trying to push me away. I'm not going anywhere. You have me, too.

[ She reaches up to rub a hand over her face, then gives him a wry look, taking in the deep lines of his face, the weariness in his eyes, the nervous energy that's keeping him going. ]

Dude, you need to rest. You're running on fumes.

[ He rarely — if ever — considers what he wants. What's important is what is necessary, what is right, what aligns with one's responsibility and obligation.

It's probably for the best that she does turn away from him. He's a black hole; everything and everyone he's tried to help ends up ruined. Maybe once it wasn't the case — but it is now. He's a shell of whatever man he once was, and he isn't... strong, isn't good, isn't anything worth protecting. And there will surely be repercussions for what he's done; it would be better in that sense too if she held no association with him here...

But she won't, and he doesn't want her to, and he sits reeling quietly from it all, staring down at her when she returns from setting her picture back, telling him that she isn't going anywhere.

Loyalty. Why is she so steadfastly loyal to him? Him? Is it for those same reasons he is, to her? There's so much he can't define, so much that's confusing, but stripped down to the core of everything, it's just — the thing that they keep coming back to, again and again. They're important to one another. It sounds so simple, too simple, but that's what it is, beneath anything else it may be.

'There's no side of you I'm gonna turn away from, okay?'

And he believes her. What a dangerous thought — and one that aches, and one that he holds onto with a desperate tightness. Someone who would never abandon him, even when it's every single thing he deserves.

(She's a killer. What happened with her father was no... no fault of hers, she was only a girl, it wasn't fair, a gunshot that struck the wrong man, but — she'd killed more men, and these intentionally. He doesn't know how many.

Does it matter? Does he actually think killer when he looks down into this woman's eyes? No. Maybe he should, but he can't. Of course he can't. Whatever else Wynonna may be, she's good. He would trust her with anything. He would defend her without question.) ]

Please, worry not for my sake. I'll catch my breath for a while, and then return shortly. Make certain that others are all right, and—

[ He needs to... deal with Mikel (but no, he can't even think of that, not really. It steals his breath with another odd shudder; the words cut off). He finally lifts his arms, hands moving to the arms of the rocking chair, as though to make movement to stand. Everything feels so heavy, sore, strange through the weight of emotions spilled and red eyes, and a heart heavy for her pains as much as his own. He still, somehow, can't quite find embarrassment through the variety of emotions within him, maybe that will come later, but for now — he isn't embarrassed.

He bared his soul and she bared hers right back. He's never experienced it before. Not like this. His voice lowers again, soft beneath the hoarse edge. ]

...I'm sure you must be exhausted, yourself. You should try to find rest, as well. I'll not disturb you.

[ When he puts his hands on the arms of the chair and begins pushing up, she shifts back to her knees and puts her own hands none too gently on his shoulders, keeping him down. ]

Will you please chill out for two seconds?

[ She needs to think, and he needs probably about eight to twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. And some food, but she doesn't have anything here. Her cupboards have been empty for weeks now. It's visible, now that she's taken off her jacket and scarf; she's never been a big woman but her slimness has turned to thinness, now. Under her shirt it would be possible to count her ribs even without her sucking in her breath. Physically, she's a shadow of her usual self, and she doesn't feel all that much better on the mental or emotional fronts, either.

But she's still got enough left in the tank to keep Edward Little from getting up and exhausting himself even further. ]

Just stay here. Everyone's okay for now, and there's nothing you can do right this second that you can't do better in a few hours after you've gotten some sleep.

[ She tips her head at her bed, neatly made and tucked against the wall. Sunlight filters through the flannel curtains she'd tacked up months ago, casting a warm and welcoming glow over the soft blankets and pillows and the rest of her cabin. They're both too shattered to really appreciate it, probably, but it's nice to finally set some sunshine nonetheless. ]

We both need to rest, and then we can figure out how to deal with things. Okay?

[ "Chill out"

What does that mean—

But he garners enough of the meaning when Wynonna pushes him back down. Little blinks up at her, startled, but tired. The surge of adrenaline has crossed the threshold, a wave crashing so violently upwards and then falling back down, leaving him spent. The thought of sleep, however, is almost unthinkable — as much as his entire body wants to lie down and succumb to it, his mind still spins with thoughts of where he should be, what he should be doing.

His eyes follow the woman's gesture to her nearby bed, staring there for a long moment. It almost seems unreal, the sight of it — glowing warm and soft the way it is. The sun is... strange to witness, after so long without. He's reminded, at once, of seeing sunlight again after months without it in the arctic.

Back then, he'd thought that with it, would come hope.

But only back then. Now.... he doesn't know what he feels. There is nothing shaped like hope. He feels an emptiness, one that gapes wide and might gape wider still with time, only he's too exhausted right now to even truly face that much.

Even so — and perhaps he is still somewhat human and not fully ghost after all — the sight of a warm, soft bed draws forth some instinctive, yearning need. ]

...Okay, [ he agrees, finally, but only because Wynonna said 'we both' — she needs it just as much as he. And on that note— ]

You rest first. For as long as you need. I'll keep watch to make certain no one... To make sure it's safe.

[ It's not stubbornness (maybe a little), but more of what he truly does think is right. ]

What I need is to sleep for like two days straight, so probably better if I take first watch.

[ Like she's going to sit here and let him try to stay awake while she rests, even without the possibility that he might try to get out of here once she's woken up, before she can bully him into taking a break. Wynonna rocks forward to pat him on the knee, before leaving that hand there to brace her weight against him as she pushes back up to her feet. ]

Come on. My only rule is 'no boots in the bed.' Shake a leg, Little. The sooner you get some rest, the sooner you can get back out there.

[ Out there, back into a world that's settled for now but which is still filled with the detritus of the hurricane that swept through only hours, days ago. They'll need to deal with the man he killed, and maybe he'd be willing to help her with Elias, too... though she's far from sure she wants to set any of that on his shoulders when he's already dealing with so much.

Still, there's one other thing she can offer now: she goes to the kitchen and takes down a bottle of familiar golden liquid, splashes some into a tea cup. ]

Down this. Might help you sleep, definitely helps with everything else.

[ She comes back to offer the tea cup to him, a puddle of Scotch there in the bottom. She keeps the bottle for herself and taps bottle to cup with a wry lift of her wrist before she brings it to her lips for a quick swig, liquid sloshing against glass. ]

Well, it doesn't hurt, anyway.

[ He can't agree — if she's that exhausted, she needs to rest, not take the first watch, not let him into her bed while she stays awake and watchful. He knows Wynonna's fortitude, he's seen it in person more than once, but even she is merely human.

But for the immediate moment, at least, he seems like he'll follow her direction, staring at her hand upon his knee for the beats it stays there and then lifts — it seems to render him speechless for a few long moments — and he's slowly following suit, feeling strange and heavy and filled with too much static-y thrum.

When she hands him the cup, he peers down into it (alcohol in a tea cup, imagine....) but it is familiar, and for a moment he's just staring, remembering a time not so long ago (though it feels like a lifetime, now) that she'd shared such drink with him before. He holds onto the cup in both hands, throat feeling strangely tight all over again, though he thinks he's too exhausted to let it overtake him again. He doesn't think he could give any more to it.

After a moment, he obediently swallows the liquid, taking it in one rush, closing his eyes against the feel of it — much faster than his slow, cautious sips the last time. And then he's moving to her bed (he still wants to resist, but he's torn; this is her home, her environment, he needs to do what she says — and maybe more than that, he doesn't want to exhaust her further with arguing, knows it would be a losing battle anyway....)

He sits on the edge of it, places the cup aside, and leans forwards to undo and remove his boots, slow and quiet. When he sets them aside, it's neatly.

And then he stays sitting there, hands in his lap, gazing mutely down at the floorboards. Heavy-lidded and a little dizzy, dreary and strange, eyes still wet, even if they no longer actively leak.

He realises it quickly, blinks widely up at her. ]

I don't want to sleep. I'll—... there will be nightmares. [ It's such a pathetic, child-like thing to admit to. But again, he can't seem to feel shame in front of this woman, not now. Not this sort of shame. ]

There always are, [ he adds, mournfully. She'll have them too, he's certain of it. ]

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pacificator - 2024-08-21 21:48 (UTC) - Expand

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seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

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cw: mention of alcoholism, abuse

cw: nondescriptive mention of suicide themes

cw: mention of accidental patricide, murder by gun

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cw: mention of cannibalism

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cw: mention of accidental patricide, child abduction, murder

a billion words of Ned Thoughts and then crying again....

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