𝟏𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐓. 𝐄𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fidior) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2026-02-06 07:54 pm
fidior) wrote in singillatim2026-02-06 07:54 pm
morning dreams are just like memory.
who: Jhey's Freaks + YOU!
what: various catchall things, inbetween threads, backdated logs, etc.
when: December - February
where: various locations
what: various catchall things, inbetween threads, backdated logs, etc.
when: December - February
where: various locations
HMU TO PLOT A THING! @ HAGFISHS
— Wynonna Earp. (late december)
Little hasn't been too thrilled about interacting with the great boar in the past, has only done so by necessity, really, but this time... this time there is a particular desire that's blossomed in his heart and taken hold. And so it comes to be that he finds himself in possession of a bouquet of flowers, selected meticulously by variety, colour, and texture.
It's a few days before Christmas, after the animal has granted its requests, and Edward's nervous as he prepares to gift the item to Wynonna. There's no doubts as to his feelings for her, but the gesture is.... deeply meaningful, for his particular time. Those in the modern era might consider it as "taking things to the next level".... A new confession, for him. One rooted in tradition, even if much to this whole act breaks his norms (it is not, for example, customary to acquire a bouquet from the bowels of an animal.)
Despite the fact they all but live together full-time now and he could give it to her literally at any time, Edward plans his delivery specifically, noticeably absent from his usual hanging around the saloon while Wynonna mans it. When he does make an appearance, it's later, when she's close to closing up, when all company has trickled out and the place is quiet.
He'll approach the bar where she's puttering about, in uniform: not with a thick sweep of his usual greatcoat but wearing the prouder uniform he still keeps, the one with tails and a more cinched waist. It's the finest clothing he has, though after all this time it's hardly in the same shape it once was. Still, it's closest to how he might dress back home, even if more formal than his casual wear — and he's even sporting the epaulettes on each shoulder, clearly having made an effort to look as presentable as possible. His hair is neatly combed, more manageable since Wynonna's regularly taken scissors to keep him tamed... ]
Good evening, Miss Earp. I have something I wish to gift you. [ He supposes it's evening; time is difficult to keep track of, with its perpetual winter darkness. Edward smiles shyly and raises his right hand, gloved as usual, to offer her the bouquet. It's a modest thing, as standard of his own time: a simple but meaningful assortment of red and pink roses, blue morning glories, and some greenery in the form of ivy and a few herb sprigs. The thing is wrapped in some twine and a neat lace handkerchief which he'd found in an abandoned home and has been keeping for years now.
This is... probably weird, with him all done up and approaching Wynonna so expectantly. It probably seems like A Big Thing. (It is A Big Thing). Politely, Edward tucks his other arm behind his back, leaving only his right arm extended. ]
no subject
Between it all, she's somehow managed to cobble together something resembling a life, here. They have, her and Edward together.
Wynonna's still not exactly sure how it happened. She remembers those first months here, the crushing loneliness, the way it still bled into everything, every wary friendship she managed to drum up here even a year later. She's been braced for an ending for so long she totally missed a beginning when it started, strung round with glowing red threads and gleaming with shifting colors pulsing over her skin.
March had warned her. Maybe he wasn't such a shitty detective after all.
Anyway, this place she and March had dragged into being has become something new. The little saloon is warm and cozy even against the impassable darkness outside, softened with all the little touches she's added over the months: a throw rug here, a few squashy pillows there, candles in the windows, beckoning people to come within. And upstairs... she hardly misses her little cabin anymore, with the changes she's made to the upstairs apartment. A comfortable double bed, a sofa she'd managed to wrangle up the stairs, a little table near the window where she can sit with her coffee or tea in the morning, rumpled in pajamas. A fireplace that half the time defeats her, but which Edward can almost always coax into flickering life.
And maybe that's the difference. Maybe it's not her touch at all that's turned this place from a shelter into a home. She can't imagine the space without him in it.
... though he's not usually dressed like this. Wynonna pauses where she's busy lighting a lamp, the match only just starting to burn down toward her fingers as her eyebrows shove up toward her hairline in surprise. He's all dressed up, as polished as he can get these days, and even having had her hands in that thick wavy mass of his hair just this morning she finds herself wanting to sink her fingers into it all over again, to slide her palm into the neat curve at his waist where the jacket pulls in so trimly. ]
Li– ow, fuck–
[ She swears as the struck flame burns down along the match length and kisses her fingertips, waving it out in exasperation before her attention goes back to him: Neat suit. Brushed hair. A... bouquet?
Wynonna prowls nearer, the match forgotten and tossed onto the coals at the hearth. Her eyes are locked on the flowers, on the colors of them, the brightest thing she's seen in months. She can smell them from here. ]
Where the hell did you manage to scare up fresh flowers, you nerd?
[ She loves them. ]
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Edward startles as Wynonna burns herself, eyes flitting down with a sweep of alarm and a tight-lipped expression that speaks for itself (Miss Earp, do be careful), but she's making her way up to him to bridge the gap and he lets his worried chiding go unvoiced (for once), left speechless for a few initial moments due to the knocking of his own heart. He's nervous all over again, now that she's so close and he's watching the distinctive stormcloud hue of her eyes look down at his gift.
(He doesn't know what a nerd is, but it sounds vaguely like an insult.)
It makes him smile, almost goofily, one corner of his mouth lifting up in a sharp-toothed grin. He exhales with a breathless sound, pleasant nerves tightening up his lungs. ]
The boar of supernatural origin. [ His fingers slowly loosen their hold on the bouquet, just enough that he can reposition them against it, and he keeps it held up like that for her. Hoping she'll accept it (some deep-rooted part of him that remembers the norms and mores of his time anxious by the thought that she might physically refuse, or take it in her left hand instead of the right, although the other part of him counters logically that Wynonna won't know his rituals and— he knows already how she feels about him, that there isn't any true danger of rejection.)
Still, he feels almost like a silly young man, boyish as he stands there in offering, cheeks lightly flushed. ]
Although I made the wrap myself. [ He lets his eyes roam all over Wynonna's face, drinking in every centimeter as though seeing her for the first time. Yes, this is all... a bit backwards; yes, his heart has already been accepted by hers and the need for decorum is arguably nonexistent, but... as he stands there watching her with a rush of excitable warmth and a bright, stupid smile he can't hope to suppress, it might as well be the first time he ever took her hand and felt a happiness he'd never thought he would experience. ]
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When was the last time someone gave her flowers? High school? Before? She vaguely remembers sitting in the sweet summer grass with Willa, each of them busily braiding wildflowers into the plaits of their hair. Some sweaty, nervous teenaged boy probably shoved a handful of pale, wilting blossoms into her hands once or twice, some pathetic bunch from a supermarket in the city.
None of them were anything like this. She tries to be delicate with it, fingers curling around the stems, but she can't resist lifting it straight up, ducking her face to press her nose into the blooms and the fresh green leaves, inhaling deep. The fragrance of fresh greenery is almost enough to make her dizzy. They smell like late spring on the prairie, when every inch of land seems like it's covered in something blossoming. New life. ]
They're gorgeous.
[ She'll just put that part about the boar out of her head. The flowers are pretty, that's all that matters. ]
You got these for me?
[ Her eyes are bright when she looks back up at him, cheeks a little flushed and deeply dented with her dimples; she can't control her smile. Little by little, he'd gently, politely, tapped away at the walls she's built up over years, almost three decades of life, and now when she looks at him it's like they were never there to begin with. Under that hard, glossy shell, it seems, is still a girl who can get bashful over receiving a bouquet of flowers. ]
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It's almost too much to take; it almost sweeps him off his feet. Edward's made dizzy from it, and he draws in another shuddery breath, the corners of his own smile twitching wider, before it all collapses briefly into a shy flicker of his tongue across his lips, head tilted forwards for a moment. ]
Yes, I— had been planning to for some time now. I regret I wasn't able to, sooner.
[ There's no new life in this place, at least not tangibly. Everything's cold and frigid and stuck in time — the way his existence has been for more years than he can keep up with, now. Until, of course, she caused flowers to bloom inside of him, and it wasn't even when he realised he loved her but before that — when he realised she was his friend, his companion, a needed person, a wanted person. Forming connection with someone in such a special way: a hand extended in the darkness, a rope's lead to follow, a person to protect and to be protected by. She's been flowers in his heart for a long time, now. ]
I'm pleased you like them, [ he adds, looking back up into her, still feeling warm and dumb and dizzy. There's a vulnerability to what he says next, and a realisation that she might not know the particular meanings to the colours, the flowers, the meticulous arrangement. ] They're... what I feel for you. Each one.
Or— do men of your time still present ladies with flowers?
[ It could be that they present them with other things, instead.... more scandalous things... ]
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Not these. Wynonna lifts her left hand to delicately trace the edge of one velvety petal. Roses, in the middle of another terrible winter, worlds away from any florist or even any rosebush. It's soft and supple beneath her touch, the scent heady as she breathes it in. ]
They do, just not normally to me.
[ Waverly, she's reasonably sure, has probably had the entire contents of Purgatory's nearest flower shop pressed into her hands over the years. Wynonna breathes in the scent again, drinking in the color as well as the aroma: that green, it's so vibrant, so alive.
She's still smiling when she looks back up, girlish in her surprise and delight. ]
What do you mean, every one?
[ The only flowers she can reliably identify in this bunch are the roses. The others are beautiful, but a mystery when it comes to identification. ]
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But there are still things to learn, and this is something that he can show to her — the meanings, the specific importance. It does make him nervous again; it would be.... easier if she knew the symbolism of the flowers, if he didn't have to voice those things aloud, because— because it's deeply vulnerable, but at the same time he's happy to do so. His heart has wanted to speak openly to her for some time now, and it's been a bit difficult to truly parse the nature of his feelings for her (he knows how he feels, it's the explaining that's difficult...) ]
Each has its own association. Its own language, I might say. [ It's all the rage, really, this language of flowers. He's seen it transform in his own lifetime, and arrangements have become much more extravagant in recent years, but Little is still drawn to the more modest bouquets he'd grown up familiar with, the use of greenery, a delicate touch. ]
For instance, the roses, the pink ones— ah, admiration, appreciation, affection... budding feelings of the heart towards someone very special. [ His tongue gives another little flutter across his mouth, and he smiles shyly. This is... quite the confession! ]
The blue ones are morning glories. Some of my favourites. They are very... sincere, very resilient. They also mean... an ending. They wilt daily, you see.
[ Little.... of course he would choose a flower that also has a depressing association. But it's Deep... ]
....But they rebloom just as quickly. A cycle, birth and death: they're given to someone that one would proclaim loyalty to. Trust. Devotion. It is a way of saying.... No matter what may transpire, I will remain faithful to you.
[ Sorry Wynonna, he is truly getting so real here... are you getting sweaty yet? ]
The ivy and herbs also mean endurance... trust. Fidelity. Affection, care. They bind the arrangement together — just as you and I are bound.
[ Oh god... He'll pause there to let her take all that in, and it may be noticed that he hasn't explained the red roses yet....... ]
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They'll be dead or wilted in days, won't they? And yet she doesn't care, just keeps lifting them to her face to breathe in their clean, sweet scent. It smells like long days, like the first few days of summer, like Mama's garden all abloom under the Alberta sun. The scent alone is so heady it almost distracts her from what he's actually saying.
Almost. Her glance flicks up over the blossoms to study his face as he licks his lips. He's looking a little more squirrelly than usual, even wearing that splendid uniform, golf fringe swaying gently at his shoulders. Wynonna has the absent idea that maybe he'd like those even more if she was wearing them — if she was wearing only them — before her brows crease into a frown. admiration, appreciation, affection... budding feelings of the heart...
Gross. Ugh. She lifts her head, mouth opening to stop him — what is he saying — but he cruises steadily forward. He can be stubborn at the most inconvenient times.
Her glance drops back to those flowers, warily flicking between them as he names them. The pink roses get a sharp glance of betrayal and the blue morning glories suddenly feel like they might be poisonous. She's got a bad feeling about where this is going, even before he gets to the last part. Just as you and I are bound.
It's a mark of how much she's grown, she thinks, that she doesn't fling the bouquet into his face and hurtle out the window to flee into the woods. The thing is, they are bound together; literally so. There have been times over the last few months when she's been lying awake next to him, idly studying the way his lashes smudge against his cheeks while he sleeps, when she could swear she's seen that red thread from a year ago come slowly winding around them again: twining around fingers and coiling around wrists, looping itself around their bodies.
Still, her breath is coming a little more quickly than is exactly cool. ]
Little, what exactly are you trying to say?
[ Her gaze falls back to the bouquet — there's one more flower he hasn't named. ]
What... are the red roses?
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And then there are the red ones. And he has intentionally left them for last. He's watching Wynonna, he's breathing in the questions, and then he's taking a moment to answer them. The red, in particular, represent things that a man might never say aloud, not so directly. ]
Ah. Those represent... the passions. The romantic... desires. [ Dear lord. It's almost comical how nervous he is to voice all of this when he and Wynonna have engaged in... passions many times by now, of a variety. He's never behaved with such outward carnality in all of his life...! ]
....The deepmost affections. [ Beat, and then it comes softly, with one hand lifted to touch the edge of the wooden counter nearest him, fingers curling against it. Here, too, is another word that he's never voiced aloud, amongst so many others. But it doesn't rack his nerves quite as much as the others have, because his heart has known it for some time now, and accepts it with warm welcoming, like an old friend. He smiles, the gesture filling up his eyes, warming them to a richer brown. ]
Love.
— John Irving & George Hodgson. (mid february)
While the world ends, Edward Little has never felt more alive. As February stretches longer, darker, colder — haunted by poison-green and the threat of something looming in closer and closer — what he's been able to keep muted (desperately holding on, he's always desperately holding on) now claws its way out of him.
There's a sharpness in his gaze now that doesn't belong in the soft, warm wet of his eyes. Something feverish, excitable, manic. Hunger is all he can feel, and a delight to know that he can satisfy it, even as the land around them has become so barren, even as people are going hungry. Not him. He can feed, because what he needs to thrive can be found in the life forces of most of this population. Of course, as of late, Enola's gifts are so much weaker within their hosts, barely flickering at all anymore. It means he'll have to search for them harder, deeper. It means he'll have to suck the life out of a body until it's a husk. It means—
He's dangerous. He's deadly. It's what Little's feared and dreaded for a long time now, and what he's known, not-so-deep-down, will happen. He doesn't want it to, but every part of him accepts it. His body, his mind, his— ....heart, the sole resistor, the fiercest and most resilient piece of Little, does it still beat the same? Fight to beat the same? He can no longer hear its voice if it does. It might as well be muffled entirely. What fuels him now is hunger.
The town is so quiet now. Most stay indoors, but not him. He can move easily in the darkness: he feels so strong. Hale, capable, senses blissfully alert, everything all wide-open and free. He isn't afraid of the Darkwalker, or of anything.
He stands outside of the home he used to live in, the one he used to frequent, because there are people he loves inside. (Less and less of those these days, though. So many are gone, and it keeps happening. Commander Fitzjames is gone now too. It will always happen; he'll lose them one by one by one by one, he'll be the last one left.)
He doesn't remember coming here, not fully. It's as though he's in a dream. Energy buzzes through him like a sentient presence, making him restless and strange. He moves faster than a person should. He's at the door, he's lifting a hand to the wood, gloved fingers curved in like claws, hovering for a moment. Then— parodying a respectable human being, because he's still able to remember what it is to be one, even if vaguely, Little's fingers form a fist and he knocks instead.
He's come home. He's so hungry. ]
cw references to disorded eating / starvation
In a manner of speaking, anyway, yes. Life apparently goes on, it finds a way, even after it should have already breathed its last. In all his time here Irving has struggled much with this dichotomy, this seemingly most unholy of contradictions, but then, what else can he do but carry on as he's been? Damned if you do, damned if you don't; one might as well take the option that asks less of them, that's barely even a choice at all.
It has been long, too long, since Irving last truly felt what it is to hunger, although this has been proving less and less true as the month wears on— as of late, his appetite has been returning to him with an aggressive, hollowed-out vengeance, reminding him once more of the need for proper rest and nutrition with each terrible pang that echoes and rattles through him like crashing cymbals. Yet despite the all-too-familiarly maddening pains of yet again hovering just shy of the very edge of starvation, Irving has given no thought as to how this may or may not complicate his, well, arrangement with Lieutenant Little.
Not that he's often a man inclined to break his commitments, nor would he want to simply abandon Little — or anyone else capable of falling prey to Little's dark, unearthly hungers — to his fate, so really, the matter has barely yet crossed his mind. It's been hard to focus on anything else but that ravenous, gnawing emptiness growing and growing at the pit of his belly, leaving him rather more dazed and lethargic than usual. He knows he should eat something soon, but part of him still wants to capable of rising above that necessary and all-too-human impulse and continue going without.
Was that a knock he just heard? ]
Hello? [ He sits up, taking a moment to brace himself before making any moves towards the door. ] Is someone there?
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But now... he doesn't want to turn into the wolf. Now, he wants to stay as a man, as Edward Little, or whatever Edward Little has become. (Something better than Edward Little, as a matter of fact. Something strong and capable, something that doesn't flinch, doesn't falter, doesn't freeze. Something that thrives in darkness and knows how to survive no matter the cost.) ]
John? [ Little sounds like himself, at least for now. ] It's Edward. I need— help.
[ It isn't a lie; even now, he remains almost ridiculously earnest. He needs help. John will give him help. John will give him anything. After a beat of pause, he adds, just desperate enough that it pinches his words into a quiet plea. This isn't a lie, either; he's desperate. He's so hungry. ]
Please.
[ Now he does let that one hand claw against the wood, dragging his fingertips downwards. His glove pads the touch, prevents it from truly scraping, but he repeats the gesture a few times, like a cat pawing to be let in. And he lets his head fall to the door with a soft thud, tipping into it needily, wanting to be let across that threshold, hunger pulling him forwards as his pupils swell, as his mouth tips open, anticipating. ]
— Wynonna Earp. (mid february)
Not that it's particularly easy to do so, with Enola's gifts fluttering so languidly within them all now. Those life forces are much less present now, and he has to search harder for them. But that becomes part of the thrill — like any predator, he realises he enjoys the hunt.
He's aware he's all wrong, isn't oblivious to it, but his mind fizzles and pops and burns out most days, until that's how it is most of the time. He's almost giddy with it, with how free he feels now. He's high-spirited, he's barking laughter and spending long hours gone to roam the town, to move and breathe as fast and untethered as he wants. At first he pretends that he's the same as always, that he's patrolling and maintaining his responsibilities, but there's a sharpness to his eye that doesn't belong in his usual soft, bruised stare, and when he watches people, it's with intent.
He's so hungry. Hungrier than he's ever been. His mind's filled with green fog and white-hot static and sucking noises. One night he follows a man, a recent newcomer to this place, and the hunger is all he can feel. Something snaps. Something snaps and then Edward's on him, slamming him against the wall of a building so fast that there's a cracking sound. The man screams, but Little's starving and he's ripping the second skin of his gloves off, pushing a hand to his victim's mouth while the other digs up under his jacket and shirt, finds the bare flesh of his side, presses his palm flat to it. He takes harder and faster than he ever has before, pulls into himself what he needs, feeds the gaping maw of the Darkwalker's curse within his skin. The man falls to it so quickly, the flickering force of Enola's gift drained out of him within minutes. And he's completely limp in Little's arms, head tipped back, no longer breathing.
There's a surge of shock, horror — What has he done? — he's shaking his head, he's all big eyes and trembling, he's laying the man down with an abrupt shift of demeanour, a gentleness. He's taking a step back, hands coming up to his head, and then a strange, rippling laugh bubbles up his throat. There's a thrill, there's a satisfaction as the hunger is satiated like a living creature quelled, as he feels its pleasure spill through every ounce of himself, as though spreading along his veins. He could tip his head and howl up at the black sky like an animal, he's so enlivened with it. He feels so powerful, and it makes him hungry in a fresh, pleasant way: hungry to keep going, to indulge in this sensation.
It's as he's moving forwards again, leaving the corpse behind to move with re-vigoured strength, that an ache starts to coil in his belly — the pain of need. One hunger's satisfied, what his supernatural curse needs to feed on, but another starts to rise, born of the feat he's just drained from his victim. This one is man's hunger, human's hunger, and Little's no stranger to it, but he hasn't felt it in a very long time. Not like this.
He ignores it at first, but it begins to grow at an alarming rate. It's enough to frighten him (he's right back out there on the ice in a relentless march forward, starving away beneath so many layers of wool, in a type of pain he's never imagined possible in his life.) Edward gasps, stumbling forwards, a hand to his stomach as it audibly growls beneath his fingertips: one beast tamed, another awoken. He feels scraped out on the inside, as though he hasn't eaten in weeks.
He needs food. Corporeal food.
He makes his way back to the saloon with some strange mixture of appetites: the rush of adrenaline from feeding on a man's life force, of sucking him dry, of appeasing the Darkwalker's curse so blissfully, contrasted against the desperate need of physical hunger, of needing to fill his belly. Food's so scarce now, rations dwindling, the poisonous fog of rot claiming more and more.
When he reaches the saloon it's empty of customers, as it usually is these days. The world's like a ghost town. Edward heads to the counter, crouching to search behind it; there's food stored in the small apartment kitchen upstairs, but he'll look here first just in case. He just needs to satisfy the hunger enough to stop the demanding snarls of his gut, to give it something to chew on. There's loud clanks and clatters as he nudges past stored bottles and knocks a box over sideways, eyes huge and dark. ]
— Aviendha. (mid february)
For so long now, he's staved off that darkness, but now... it threatens to consume him. And while some small part of him might still be holding on, the majority of it has crumbled inwards, accepted this fate. Perhaps he always knew it would end this way. It's... freeing, in its way. It makes him almost manic, excitable and strange, prowling the town with his own supernatural strength. There is no sunlight, maybe never will be again, and he's strongest like that. He can see, hear, smell in the darkness like an animal. He's never felt so alive.
His senses prickle suddenly with awareness of someone close by. And although Enola's gifts have dwindled and faded within Interlopers, Edward can still detect them. Those are what he hungers for — a true vessel of the Darkwalker, he yearns to feed on those feats, to drain them from a body, to satisfy his own dark hunger. He starts moving that way, fast and quiet, eyes sharper than they normally are. Meaner.
He barely registers who the woman is at first; his half-crazed mind and body can think only of its own hunger. Edward ducks behind a building, all but stalking her — following her for a little while until there's some need to play with her a bit, like a cat with a mouse. To try and stir up fear; fear makes everything taste a bit more delicious, after all. So he lets himself be heard, stepping into hardened snow so that it causes a sharp crunch to echo into the silence. ]
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When Edward spots her between buildings it's after a day in the forest, a disappointing one hunting without success. That had changed rapidly too, and it has her in a fairly bad mood. Two spears strapped with leather to her back over her thick winter coat as she trudges through the snow. The darkness that persists is still uncomfortable, perhaps more then the snow that she'd gotten used to. Aviendha's ears are finely trained and particular and she doesn't miss the sound behind her. Vigilantly her fingers slip into her coat for a sheathed knife, holding them there, not drawing as she glances around her trying to place the sound.]
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He wants it.
He creeps closer, and then— he'll move fast, disconcertingly fast in the darkness. Stronger than he's ever been, hale, stable, he's a big dark shadow, longcoat flashing behind the woman. He doesn't touch her, not yet, just approaches her swiftly like that. And he barks a laugh as he does — loud, unfiltered, the Darkwalker's glee rippling through him with soft spasms. It's funny, isn't it? So ironic. Everyone around him is going to die, one by one. They'll fade away, lose themselves to hunger. It's just like before, when the ships were trapped out on the ice, when his men were wasting away to skin and bones. He'll be the last one left alive. ]
You're out here alone — do you require assistance?
[ It's a parody of his usual earnesty. Now he can feel the woman's gift agonisingly close, faint but there. Edward's pupils are swollen, dark brown eyes blown black. He's so hungry he can barely stand it; he's shuddering. ]
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I was hunting.
[It's spoken firmly, her eyes flick from him, to the space around him. Checking for an escape route, or wondering if she'll have to fight her way out if it comes to that. She'd not hesitate to do so. Still there's something that keeps her from doing that. Instead she continues to be blunt and too the point.]
What's wrong with you?
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He flinches back, startled. A predator doesn't care who it targets: prey is prey. But he knows her and that shocks him enough to bring Edward back into himself a bit, some lucidity pooling into his strange eyes. ]
Miss Aviendha. I—
[ 'What's wrong with you?' Is something wrong with him? What is he doing? ]
I'm sorry. I'm....... hungry. So hungry.
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Have you not eaten?
[It's a simple question though she knows not how different it is from what he speaks of. The statement instead taken at face value. When you come from a land with scarce water you soon realize that simple things cause way more issues then the more complex ones. Surely it's just that, right?]
I've some food back home.
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He stares widely at Aviendha, hearing what she says but it feels as though he's halfway in some dream. He can feel the gift inside of her, so appetising, and all it would take is one touch. He could stop himself from taking too much, from draining her to the point of death; he could only take a little, couldn't he? (No, he can't risk that, he might lose control—) ]
No. [ Edward shakes his head quickly, takes a step back, the words spilling from his mouth even though he knows they won't make much sense. ] No, I— I can't. I'm not safe right now. The darkness, it's— it's too much. Too hungry.
I don't want to hurt you. You should leave me.
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I would kill you before you could even get to me, wetlander.
[Her hand motions to the spears strapped to her back. Still, she should heed warnings, her teachings with the wise ones had taught her that it is important to not jump to such things and to be more aware. So she focuses on what he says. The darkness and it makes her think again of the taint.]
What does the darkness do to you?
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He remembers, in this moment of lucidity, that it's what he's begged people to do, if they had to. To stop him by whatever means necessary. A few have resisted the idea, a few have accepted. It's a great relief that Aviendha wouldn't hesitate; it puts a sort of desperate trust in her. Enough that perhaps he can keep speaking to her rather than flee. ]
It makes me.... wrong. [ He realises, using the word she had a moment ago. 'What's wrong with you?' ] Too strong. Too fast. Too dangerous. I am—... [ He looks down at his hands. He'd been keeping them gloved, keeping himself covered up as much as possible. Why...? That's right. Because this... demon, whatever it is within him, feeds through touch. ]
There is a presence within me, it feeds.... when I touch another's skin. I have managed to control it for a long time, but now.... it has been freed. The Darkwalker—.... the green fog. Makes it stronger.
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Does the urge get stronger the more you do it?
[A parallel she’d drawn from back home. Losing control on something that’s too tempting to avoid, that’s how Rand had described it. Might it be similar?]
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When he says he's been keeping it controlled, perhaps that isn't quite the right way to put it. It's more like he's been keeping it tamed. But the need doesn't go away, and there's a particular... frustration about it. Edward's just infamously adept at suppressing himself. ]
I.... believe it does, yes. For each time I feed that hunger, it's never quite enough. It's only been... enough so that it cannot overpower me, [ he explains, feeling a hitch of sharp guilt at what he's done to Wynonna and John for all these months. Like a parasite, slowly feeding from its host, never enough to kill them. ]
Are you familiar with such a thing...? The Darkness from your world... [ He casts wide eyes to Aviendha through this moment of lucidity, remembering what they'd spoken about their first meeting. ]