#th: genfødte sandheder

[menodoramoon]

That's the thing about Menodora. She doesn't grow. She holds all thought thoughts -- those seedlings of awareness and observations -- close to her chest and in the back of her mind. She doesn't allow them to morph and change and metamorphosize into new ideas, new actions, new intents. She's never allowed those crocuses to break through the snow. Never permitting those Irises to see the light. Oh… how charming, she thinks. How funny. How fitting.

She sees Tófi in different lights. The illusion of their human self and the truth of their monstrous one. They watch them closely, a look of contemplation of her face. In that alternate 1815, she's loved them as their true self. In that alternate game of gods and monsters, they'd been more human. But those dreams didn't happen. Tófi would chide her for letting her mind wander back.

All of that to say, reconciling who they were had always been difficult. It's harder now, to think of them as a person who felt. And what did they feel besides rage and a thirst for vengeance? Is it so cliche to say that Tófi felt misunderstood? As childish as that word may seem, it felt like the truest thing to her. She misunderstood them time and time again. Underestimated them, overestimated them. Didn't know them as she thought she did or perhaps knew more aspects of them better than they knew her to.

She's somehow charmed by the turn her mind takes, the vague recognitions and reacquainting they're doing. This is not like the beginning of the year where they renewed their friendship. They tore down their relationship today in fire to begin to forge it anew. Perhaps Tófi would burn her in the future as she'd burned them. But it would be earned. And that, in itself, felt right.

"You love more than those, Tófi of Septarsis," Menodora chides. Her tone takes on one where she may tease a wayward ambassador. Where she is delightfully coy with her knowledge. "Don't lie to us when you demand so much truth of me."

Those smiles she gives them hurt her head. Ping lightly, like a pin dropping to the floor, against her senses.

"If things were any different, we may be happier people. Or not," she says, her voice lighter. Pained, but lighter. This discussion is taking a toll on her, her wick was quickly being burnt through. "Because if I am happier, that must mean I'm being ignorant to your plight. And if you were happier or contended, I don't know if I'd be standing here."

She purses her lips for a moment, closes her eyes against the brightness of the hall. It feels like stepping out of darkness into the daylight, bright and blinding. She would love to live in her oblivion, pretend all was well and ignore the pain Tófi hides. She remembers how Tófi had reprimanded her in the dream, reminding her how light could blind. It revealed the worst bits of you, exposed you and laid every bit of you bare.

Could Menodora handle the truth of herself? The facts of matters she tried so hard to -- for so long succeeded to -- repress.

Tófi seems to hold tight to their even tone, their humorless tone. She can't help but raise a brow, even if it's ill-advised over her worsening headache.

"What I'm hearing, Mr Sethson," she says, with that same teasing, playful look as before, "is that you want to watch me sleep." But she's not serious. That much was written across her features. If she were bolder, she may have said something sharper. Something more accusatory. Instead, she hums a soft smile, the slight reverberation on her lips. "It's noble of you to offer keeping vigil, though. Almost sweet, though I don't think sweet is the word I'd use to describe you."

Every external upturn of her lips is a downturn of her mind. And eventually, she knows she'll give out. Her banter is temporary. Exhaustion is a shadow, slowly consuming her.

When she observes them, they're observing her back. She's watching for a hint of a smile. They're watching for the eventual overwhelming of weakness.

It was a dance they'd done when she was a child. Physically, she's only been as tall as maybe his heart when she first knew of their truest face. Now, she could stand on her toes and brush her nose against theirs, their familiarity eye-to-eye.

"Why, Tófi," she says, humor evident but her strength fading, "it almost sounds like you want an excuse to carry me."

Are they twenty feet from reprieve or two hundred? This house couldn't be that big, their manner of manor was surely not that expansive. Even if taking one more step felt like the effort of wading through deep water.

If they lingered any more in the hall, Tófi would have no choice unless they were content with 'rest' being synonymous with her crumpled, unconscious on their hallway floor.

She's a moment from a delirious laugh. Settles for an exhale. Shuts her eyes as the thrumming and drumming and darkness in her ears rises.

"I'll permit it, just this once, if you're still offering."

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

Everything feels so big. Their past. Their positions. Even Tófi's manor itself. She grew up in an estate far bigger than this -- almost castle-like in its sprawling design -- and yet, still, the flight of stairs feels like a longer trek than a traipse through the moors.

She has to ruin it with these feelings that were also too big. These memories that beat against her check, knocking against her ribs, begging to be voiced. She did so, and look where that has her. Look what it's gotten her.

Tófi's gaze, in that horribly penetrating way.

Even when they weren't trying, they could read her so easily. Well, it's easier to read something you're well-familiar with. There are few people alive who would know her more than them.

Her head swims with the implications. And the lost opportunities of that.

Tófi's voice cuts through the haze, the way his voice always could. She looks just slightly off of their vision, but their words hit their mark all the same. They speak about feelings -- the way they might shift and change. Their impermanence? Or merely their ability to evolve?

She nods numbly as Tófi likens her adoration for them to their rage. That stings. That stings in such a way that it only adds to Menodora's languid feelings, a looseness in her body that she really wishes she could fight off.

'I can feel too, Menodora,' they say, in a way that brings her mind to a steady halt.

Tófi's always been an enigma to her, even now. As a child, it made more sense. He was a Septarian, a monster. A civilized one, but still a monster. She wasn't meant to understand what was in their mind or heart. Their deepest thoughts and feelings were better to be left untouched. If she found out, it may frighten her.

Now, at an older age -- but still an insignificant one, she imagines, for Tófi -- she wants to know. She wants to know their thoughts and feelings. She has spent so much time trying to decipher Tófi's mind that she realizes she's neglected matters in heir heart. Rationality will only get you so far in understanding another person.

Is it possible that she's forgotten that Tófi was capable of feeling?

'Sometimes anger wins.'

'Sometimes anger burns brighter than any magic I can conjure, Tófi,' she wishes to say. It wouldn't just be true of them. It was Stella's temper, or Hekapoo's or Mina's that came to mind. Even her own. Sometimes anger did win… there were consequences to those blazes.

She gives the briefest exhale of a laugh. It's silly. Their Danish makes her smile, and she makes out the words even if it causes her to stall for a moment. They would always be more than her in that way. Danish. Or whatever came before…

"hvad kan du overhovedet elske, Tófi" She asks, with a wry smile.

It hadn't meant to be such a deep comment, but Tófi takes her seriously. She's reminded that there was a time when they were the only one who would.

They take her promise and speak almost kindly to her. She hesitates, but nods. The spreading quiet in her head is a relief to her. The way that she tries to allow herself to relax, even in their company…

'I just want you to fight,' they say. It's amusing. She feels they are no longer speaking of her resolve to rest.

'Wasn't there a time when you wanted me dead? Or to surrender? What happened to that, Mr Advisor,' she thinks. 'There was a time where I was little more to you than a pawn. Is that still true?'

Another thought.

Am I still an amusing game to you?

It's bitter. It's tart.

Her gaze follows their direction to the wound on their shoulder. Or, rather, where it should be. Would be, if not for their monstrous nature. It's obvious that her gaze lingers. She knows they can't see them, but she can. Those small motes and pinpricks of reagents, floating through the air. She often tried to mute her senses of them, a skill she'd been taught early by Glossaryck, but in this moment, she sees them. There's a fondness and hope dancing around her that she wishes she could pluck from the air and smother out. Small lights in varied hues that were intangible and impermanent... and so clearly related to Tófi...

But if Tófi couldn't see them… what was the harm in letting them stay?

"Alright," Menodora says, inclining her head. She's much more at peace than she had been, even if there are unanswered questions and unresolved feelings still hanging about. "Guided the right way... And you're wanting to guide me, Tófi?" She asks, with a slightly humored smile.

But then it eases, and her face once again shifts into tiredness. Her headache is threatening to return, rapping lightly on her temples.

She shakes her head slightly, her smile slightly tilted on one side.

"I suppose before you guide me on any philosophical journey, finishing the journey to bed would be preferred…" She inhales. Exhales. Lets out a thoughtful hum... Looks up at him with an earnest smile. "Nothing between us is ever easy, is it, Tófi? I fear I'm so used to them, I don't know what our relationship would be without these moments. Calm, perhaps? Peaceful, heaven forbid?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

'Min kære, there was not such thing as last time'

No matter how real the dream felt to her, no matter how vividly she recalls it, there was no convincing Tófi of its significance. Perhaps it wasn't a life that was tangible, but the impression of it so stubbornly stuck with her along with all the grief and emotion that she had experienced.

She doesn't want to fight. Menodora nods numbly, a soft, "alright," murmured. A concession of sorts. No matter her belief, she admits a quiet defeat, at least in this moment. At least with them.

They tell her they don't fear her. She looks up, warily, as Tófi explains. A wry, tired smile spreads across her lips. The detail that many people got wrong about Septarians, especially when going off of hearsay and vague recollection, was that they were immune to harm. Even that they were inhumanly resilient to injury. Menodora would argue with that.

The thing about Septarians was that they were resilient in will, not in their defenses. Limbs and organs grew back with ease. They were semi-immortal for their regenerative persistence. They were suspectable to harm, braving it, then coming back somewhat anew.

It had taken great strength and recklessness to have caused that 'permanent' damage. To inflict harm that did matter. Her gaze falls on where their ring finger should be, her wry smile turning tight. It was a drastic measure. It was a desperate measure. And it was a defiant measure, as she had aimed not for their heart as she had been instructed to do.

Even when the chance arose again to strike them down, while they had perplexedly attempted to regrow their lost finger, Moon the Undaunted would not reignite that 'Darkest Spell.' It was hers to use forever. If she wanted, she could whisper those words now and try to call upon it.

What she lacked to cast it now, besides the energy and magical stability, was conviction. Her weakness of will would not allow her to make another attempt. Her weakness in general could prove fatal, but not to them.

The darkness under her skin surges with her thoughts, the feeling of its residual ire dancing through her nerves, leaving discomfort and mild pain in its wake.

Every passing moment leaves Menodora feeling more and more unsteady. Sapped. The effects of her rogue, runaway feelings more and more evident as any lingering adrenaline drains away, leaving an aching emptiness behind.

'Do not pout, Diamanter,' they chide. She hadn't considered herself to be pouting, though the mild indignation of that statement almost fulfilled that prophecy. The use of one of her many soft names, in Danish no less, a particular trigger for the subtle blush that spreads further across her cheeks.

Though she had meant her quip about fairness to have been a wry sort of humor, a deflection laced with a weak attempt at levity, Tófi had considered it sincerely.

They acknowledged the exchange of physical pain for psychic, emotional damages. No matter the tangible harm she could attempt to inflict upon them, the sharpness and ruthlessness of their tongue could cut her tenfold. It was a staying sort of pain that recurred, playing unbidden in the back of her mind. Her loneliness allowed such recollections to fester, much like the memory of that haunting eye contact at the banquet. The look of raw betrayal written across Moon's face met with the haunting indifference of an expression, a remorseless wall.

Her mind had wandered, thoughts spiraling outwards, until Tófi drew her back, conceding only part way to her protests.

They would not carry her. They would still lead her to bed.

The note that it was the Master Bedroom did not escape Menodora, though her general weariness did not particularly fancy an argument about it. She doubts Tófi is the sort of person -- sort of Monster? That title of which they are so proud of -- to forego such luxuries as the primary bedroom in their own manor. All of which to say, she expects it's their room that they're leading her to. Would a guest room be more practical? It would certainly be more appropriate. For as overly pragmatic as Tófi claims to be, she wonders if they've considered the implications, however founded or unfounded, of their intentions.

More and more of her resolve slipped from her, and she is forced to wonder just how much of herself she's lost to that raw and explosive display. Just what sort of toll her violent temper had wrought on her.

They tell her to follow them, and Menodora just needs a moment. A quick moment to gather herself, to stand up again with her head held high because she does not desire Tófi's charity.

The Septarian takes two short steps forward before pausing, and Menodora, through an annoyingly imposing haze, glances towards them but does not meet their eyes.

They reach for her, first her wrist. Then her hand.

She really must look terrible.

They pull her along, supporting her through her abrupt bout of unsteadiness. She must admit that it is a humbling experience, though one she's in no position or disposition to fight. They already acquiesced to one refusal of their help. She doubts they'd do so with another.

Gods, she was reeling.

Guiding her as they had promised, they propose an exchange. They will make an effort not to start any fights with her when she is 'too tired to begin with' (likely too tired to fight back), and she must promise to rest, really rest, in turn.

Restlessness had always been a core failing on her part. Her face is impassive as they walk, mostly due to the words not fully settling for a moment's delay.

There's a momentary hum through her pensive half-smile. An acknowledgment of their words, without a commitment.

She has always been relatively perplexed by her former advisor's, former teacher's, opinion of her. So many concessions over the years for her benefit, yet they nurtured a not insignificant amount of doubt through their lessons. Of Mjaunie and all she knew. All she was part of because that system was all she had.

Menodora closes her eyes for just a moment against the light, trusting Tófi to maneuver her if needed. If she walked into a chest or sideboard, so be it. She probably deserved it for all the trouble she causes.

She stops where they are, holding Tófi's hand tightly in her tainted one. Signaling for them to please just let her stand for a moment. To allow her to be still because if they kept walking, even at that slow pace for her sake, she might very well be driven to some state of mental nausea.

That aside, an unbearable building of uninhibited emotion was roiling in her chest.

"I don't understand," she admits, eyes open again, the words escaping before she can revise her thoughts. It seems she's committed to this line of dialogue… she continues, "How it is that you can show such thoughtful care for me when only minutes ago we exchanged verbal and physical violence." She grimaces at the still-open emotional cuts. They hadn't scarred over yet, they were still too fresh.

"You can so easily call me pitiable and pathetic, yet offer quite sincerely to carry me to bed." It's an inconsistent relationship they carry on. Or was it that their rage and wrath, their verbal berating, was simply their version of her own magical outburst? "There was a time when my adoration for you, Mr Advisor, would have weighted your words so heavily that I don't know if I'd ever resurface again. I might have drowned under the impact if we were still within the halls of my family manor."

Such an admission felt forbidden, only possible due to her fragile mental state. They had never been terribly affectionate with each other, physical affection was not a virtue of her family and such closeness would have been deemed inappropriate between a monstrous teacher and the young Komtesse, yet care was shown through small acts or favors. Through shows of goodwill and confidence. Through Tófi's belief in her, despite the broad doubts levied against her by The Commission.

Had they been the one to first express concern for her accelerated training in Light Magic? Maybe they had had a point, given her unstable display.

Menodora remains rooted, the issue of rest having come back to her. She had not yet accepted Tófi's terms, which she's sure hasn't escaped their notice.

Their words were that she must 'promise to try,' which left Menodora with the question of what they consider to be a fair attempt at resting.

When she had initially asked to rest, her request was meant to suggest being able to take a moment off her fear in the sitting room to gather herself. She had never intended to intrude so much as to be led to their bed.

The implications of which, again, she did not want to voice in fear of them being perceived as rude. (A bold concern for a woman who had just stabbed them, but…) Besides, the nature of their relationship had never betrayed an intention of romantic attraction.

(Dreams of an alternate 1815 aside.)

"I promise to try," she says, abandoning her stubbornness (or was it her caution) and nodding softly. Squeezing their hand once more.

Even with her physical unease, her mind calms, even if only temporarily. She's grateful for the reprieve.

"Though I can't guarantee how rested I'll feel. You know how idleness and quiet only encourage my wandering thoughts." (A recurring truth from even her childhood.) "I fear I'll only disappoint you further, Tófi."

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

'It is just nature,' they say. Though, the thought of it isn't very comforting. To admit that it was just nature meant, in some ways, admitting that Moon had lost control. Is that what happened? Yes. Obviously. She'd lost control of her magic and had allowed it to spark and run away, plumes and blooms of fire erupting into the room.

But before that, it was her lost temper which had her summoning it in the first place.

There wasn't any logic to the action besides the desperate need for her to push him away.

They may not blame her for it, but she blames herself.

As a Countess of Mjaunie, Menodora's magic was meant to be tightly disciplined. Beyond that, Menodora herself was meant to always be in control. Her thoughts, her emotions, her impulses -- that was one of her biggest flaws in the eyes of The Commission. She cared far too much about things that didn't matter.

Runaway magic often left Menodora feeling dizzy and drained…

Her feelings threaten to runaway again as Tófi guides her to their kitchen, hand on her shoulder, lightly grazing it. It's familiar, and she wants for it to be comforting. How things stand… it's simply familiar. Tófi's presence in her life has never been consistent, but somehow, it's always been constant. Physically, perhaps not. But the memory of them, the ghost of them and their actions… those linger. They linger across every plane they've touched.

Menodora notices that Tófi doesn't exactly answer her question, but she doesn't begrudge them for it. If anything, she looks on, knowing it's not an easy question to answer. As logical as each of them believe they are, the contradictions in their actions make their failings all too apparent.

'Wait a second,' they say, leaving her for a moment. Menodora leans on the counter instead, watching Tófi's actions. Perhaps too closely. They'd offered ibuprofen. That's all. It's confusing to Moon, the different steps they take towards and away from each other. For all the reasons that Tófi might have to harm her, she can't bring herself to even consider the idea that they'd harm her now. Especially under the guise of offering her ibuprofen.

They hand her the capsule and a glass.

Menodora stares at both of them for a moment too long before ingesting the pill and downing the water, thoughts in her mind sparking off as she did. Little fears and doubts popping in her head, mixing and mingling with the small, airy lights she swears she can see behind her closed eyes.

She doesn't know how long she spends just leaning against the counter, trying to center herself. Trying to center herself and distract herself from the pain that's pulsing in her wrists, just under the skin. She needs to glamour her hands again, but she doesn't think she could even summon a guiding mote of light in this moment.

It's like there's a hollowness in her body where her magic should be. She wonders for a moment if the dark spell is eating at her, but that would be silly, wouldn't it? If anything, it would have to be guilt that's devouring her slowly. The dark spell can't do that...

The dark purple pulses once more before quieting...

It's not until they speak that she realizes they've taken the glass from her.

It's not until a moment later that she registers what it is that Tófi had said.

She opens her eyes, surprised from her distractedness.

Tófi's stepped closer to her and Menodora can only look up at them, disbelieving. Her eyes are wide and mildly bewildered. They're offering to carry her?

It takes a try or two for her to even manage words.

"My dear," Menodora starts to say with an attempt at humor, though she can hear the tiredness in her voice as she speaks and she loathes it, "the last time -- even if in a dream -- you carried me, I attempted to claw your eye out. I really don't think…" She trails off-- registering the other bit of what they'd said.

'I will guide you to bed'

She can feel a certain heat rise to her face. That was definitely the more pressing of the two statements. That definitely should have been the priority… Menodora knows they don't mean it in any particular way, and yet, they can't help but feel a certain number of rules would be broken just for accepting the offer.

Another dream comes to mind. Where such a thing might have not only been acceptable, but encouraged. A light kiss and--- Menodora, stop.

There's not exactly a tactful way to go about saying so, though. This break in decorum, should she allow it. And, what, she reminds them the difference between the two of them? Of Monster and, for the most part, Human? Of Dark Prince and Light Countess? The Civilized Monster and the Merciful Pseudo-Monarch? No…

That's a different sort of headache altogether.

Instead, Menodora glances towards the torn and scorched fabric at Tófi's shoulder. Her dagger would have burnt but also cauterized… that was a strange sort of affect only her magic had. Not her solid constructs, only her blades. She could summon daggers and swords of light, but near all of them had the same issues. They all felt just unstable enough, like there was too much fire to the aether. It burned as it pierced, reversing damage in some ways that Menodora had or hadn't meant to cause.

Unfortunately, it always seemed perfectly suited to the type of monster that Tófi was. She wants to believe that they couldn't have healed by now, the way her blade sunk into their shoulder. Yet, against that want, she knows they have…

Another slight ringing. Spreading to her ears...

"You really don't have to, Tófi," Menodora starts, shaking her head, conscious and aware of the dried blood on the other's shirt. "I'll be fine. Please don't strain yourself. I apologize. Please, I hadn't meant to impose."

It's all she ever seemed to do, isn't it? And look who paid that price...

She didn't need him to take pity on her. Especially after they had just called her pitiable. But her face stung and her head spun and she just... just, just just...

"I'll be okay. Really. I've stabbed you and you're the one offering me Ibuprofen. That hardly seems fair, now does it?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

She can't help but give a half-humored smile. Almost fair, they had said. Understandable. It was always somewhat uneven. Though, she knows what they mean. Perhaps she had all the magical defenses, but he could kill her easily. She could not come close without corrupted intervention.

The inside of her wrist begins to sting again, pangs of dread echoing in Menodora's heartbeat.

She can see the way he shifts as he touches to the wound on his shoulder. The one she had left there. Her loss of control haunts her now, the way that she had let go of her restraint enough to threaten him. Would she have done the same to anyone else who brought those harsh -- maybe -- truths upon her? Her feelings had been hurt but shouldn't be enough to want to cause harm to anyone. To kill or maim or injure. What kind of Countess was she to do something like that, to someone she at one point had sworn, as a person of Mjaunie, to protect.

Once upon a time, she had sworn to them that she would be a different sort of person.

It felt like that grief was mine, Moon doesn't say, because to replay those memories wouldn't be worth it. It brings them back to that cycle and she doesn't want that. Of harm to each other -- her oblivious nature which irks him, his vicious tongue. How had the two of them ever been friends with these key differences in who they are as people?

She'd looked up to him. They'd been under her power, even if she hadn't realized it at the time. The civilized monster of Mjaunie, aiding the lords and ladies by leveraging their understanding of history and politics. He was a good Monster, she was told. When he turned on her, it felt like a personal betrayal. But it's not so easy, is it?

He rejects her offer to pay for the damages, and while she opens her mouth to protest, she can sense it's far from a mere formality. The refusal is not a performative action, asking Menodora to come back and insist. Tófi was never that way anyhow.

Simply, Menodora nods, accepting. If they were to ask, she'd acquiesce immediately. But for now, she would leave it alone.

Moon's face burns with a subtle shame as she tries to steady her previously rage-filled breathing. As she tries to settle her elevated heart rate. She is angry and angst-ridden but it's not fair for her to feel so hurt when she had quite literally stabbed Tófi for stating things that, while having strung, were true. At least to the degree that Tófi believed them to be true.

"I'm not asking for an apology," Menodora says, meaning it. She flexes her fingers, where her daggers had begun to burn the inside of her fingers. Or at least gave the illusion of such a thing.

He steps towards her as that anguish takes over and she can't help but flinch slightly, taking a half step back. They made no move to hurt her, yet that didn't mean they couldn't. They had done so with their tone and harsh words. She is still reeling, but it's her own mistrust that betrays her. And for that, Menodora is deeply frustrated.

'I should have some ibuprofen somewhere in the kitchen,' they say as they rest their hand on her shoulder. Funny, she thinks. The same one with the phantom scars. But that's not something she'll bring up. It was merely a dream.

Has the darkness spread further up her arms? She feels a slight despair as the stains remind her exactly what she's traded to get them here.

Yes, her and Tófi's friendship, but any semblance of her sense of self as well. Every time she thinks she could be a better person, she's dragged back to the memory of that day.

Isn't that so self-pitying? Tófi wouldn't approve, and neither would mother, she expects.

Still, it hurts. It leaves a slight burning in her fingertips, unrelated to the knives. And pricks under the skin, like it was magic wanting to spill out the same way light does.

It's not shadow magic, something she could control if she only dedicated herself. It's something deeper, a flow of magic that feels unnatural within her body.

"I suppose I attacked you more literally," Menodora murmurs. They don't apologize. It doesn't evade her notice. They'd always been that way, the implication of a thing that was not meant.

Even now, they're concerned for her. She nods, a bit unsteadily. Instead of the half-sob, she's now wracked with an aching headache. Was it the feeling of being weighed down by that old magic, or simply an over-excited over-exertion.

Menodora glances around, looking for something to steady herself. It's only Tófi that she can learn on at this moment. So, she swallows her pride and does so, trying to relax her body and lean slightly into the hand that rests on her shoulder. Trying not to sway slightly. She feels ill and unwell and guilty. Not so bad as to see stars or small, dancing lights, or to see the edge of consciousness, but she feels the need to close her eyes.

She won't. Not yet.

"And what, dear Torvald," She murmurs, wincing slightly at the pinging headache that was forming, "makes such a biting performance necessary?"

She's not exactly looking for an answer, but it's an interesting consideration.

"I'm feeling… a little dizzy, Tófi," she says. finally bringing a hand to press against her temple. "Would you mind terribly if I rested for a moment so long as I promise not to set any more of your possessions ablaze…?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

What was it that he must think of her? The Light Countess of Mjaunie: burning their home, stabbing their shoulder, threatening their throat. She felt small and cornered at once, even if she was the one with some amount of perceived control.

No. Any instant, Tófi Sethson could easily overtake her. They could easily throw her from them, take her life. She knows they won't, they'd said as much.

But they could...

The key was the potential for the thing. Was her mistrust of the reality a matter of their monstrous nature? Or was it the fear of a familiar cycle, come back after some dormancy?

Lowering the light dagger could have been a mistake. It was giving up the facade of control, of fierceness and power. There was part of her that had often felt powerless around Tófi, even when she feigned bravery on the battlefield.

The moment they betrayed her had burned itself in her memory, and now look.

She was not even worth killing anymore. Isn't that what Seth would want? His dear son to deliver her heart to them?

The thought inspires a feeling of sickness just as much as Tófi's jest inspires a feeling of incredulous surprise.

"You confuse me," Menodora says simply, eyes focused on their hand on hers moreso than anything else. She can't look at their reptilian eyes. She'd only seen them a handful of times.

If she looked, perhaps she'd feel the phantom sting of their palm on her cheek again. Or perhaps she'd see more than an amused smile, like the one she had perceived in their tone.

A joke from another life. A recollection to before she'd let her temper rage and burn and blaze.

She could be particularly vicious.

But she couldn't bring herself to go any further.

Menodora retracts the light blade from their shoulder, correct in her assumption. (Her private inadequacy.)

It cauterizes the sound and she is left to wonder, exactly, what Septarian blood pooled like. Poured like.

"I know I'm resilient," she murmurs, her other hand falling to her side, "but it pales in comparison to your regenerative powers. It seems a bit unfair."

Said lighter, an awkward attempt at adding levity.

"I don't think I have it in me to scratch your eye out. That other me must have been much more ruthless. Or maybe her grief reached further than what I ever could."

Menodora tightens her grip lightly, the hand at his chest. Drawing the fabric of his shirt for a moment before releasing because she had to (and it would be rude to wrinkle his garments.)

"I'll pay for the damages," Menodora murmurs, though with the articulation to be understood. "I'm--" sorry? That's the word she might to use... It comes out more formal as she tries again. "I apologize. Sincerely."

Hopefully they know that that's true. She's not meant to let her magic spiral out of control, in bursts of flame and destruction. It was classic Mjauman, wasnt it? The fire. The burning...

Tófi may not remember, but they'd spoken to her about it long ago. Perhaps when she first picked up fire as a specialty, before the addition of aether? Was it a disappointment that their student took up a specialty that was so deeply tied to monstrous trauma?

Does she feel better now? She's had her outburst... does she feel better?

"I don't know," she answers honestly. In English. Despite it being a first language to her, Danish felt-- foreign again. She was losing touch with it in a way that stung deeply. "I fear my burning has burnt a bridge between us. I fear your sharp tongue had severed some ties before that."

She digs her nails into her palm, wincing as she does. Is it about the pain, or something else?

"I don't think we can go back to what we had, Tófi," she says, another part of her threatening to break. She can feel that rage dissipating from her body, leaving a weak and exhausted state.

It had been so long since she had used her magic in such a way. She felt the toll of it, the tax on her body.

"I'll miss it. Whether it was an illusion of propriety and friendship, or was genuine, I don't believe it can be salvaged. Or at least the same."

She doesn't break her skin, but damnit does she want to.

"I don't think I'll be the same after today. And I don't know if it's you I have to thank or blame."

They are dear to her, an interwoven part of her history. They are loathed by her, and intertwined part of her unraveling.

Gods, and then it hits her. A choked, anguished sob and laugh at once. Not a flood of tears, not a moment of hysteria. Like it's funny. Like this loss is funny. A cruel joke.

"Our friendship was nice while it lasted," she hums through a strained tone, her voice tight, finally withdrawing her hand and stepping back. "I'm sorry I had to burn it."

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

Menodora doesn't know whether Tófi's insistence that the dream is merely a dream is a relief or a twist of the knife. She's too distraught -- generally -- to believe it to be irritating. Actually, to find it irritating would be nice because she could believe it was only something so petty. There wasn't a luxury to be in incredulous disbelief.

There is a moment of validation, however. Tófi acknowledges her feelings, which does feel better than she had expected. She shouldn't seek such validation from someone with whom she shares such a complex history, but every dream seems to link the two of them in some inexplicable way. They are in love or they endure detestation of each other. Was there no middling acceptance of the other?

"I'm afraid of them," Moon says, "these feelings eat at me as if caustic, and I don't know where to put them or what to do with them." In a way that is so signatured as hers, she returns Tófi's searching gaze with her own. He looks to her to find her, and she is selfish enough to turn to them for answers.

Was it not enough that to feel them once in the dream? Must she endure them in this life as well?

She unfurls the dream's events -- the later events -- and it surprises her how much she is willling to say. How much she is willing to tell them. Tófi who constantly opposed her, who felt better fit as a child of Nemesis and an adversary to herself than whatever comforting relationship they shared in the last dream.

Yet, the way his hand is on her upper arm... Why does she find such a comfort in that? She shouldn't but she does. Is it the familiarity? Did they always know how to calm her or was it knowledge lingering from the dream?

Moon remembers the way they held her in their home last time. After she'd threatened them, they'd lightly held her, tried to calm her. It was painful, in this strange way. After they'd caused her enough grief to cry, she somehow found some solace in them anyways.

Something in her was broken, she was sure of it.

Much like something has stalled in their conversation. Tófi seems to be taking in the dream and its contents, the things Moon has said. The things she had experienced as Menodora, though the child of Iris, not strictly, only Comitessa.

Their stare feels too penetrating. Seeing Menodora, even if she is the one who volunteered the information. She finds herself trying desperately to keep Their gaze, because to look away felt like losing this connection between them. Or what little bit of a connection they had for being so out-of-sync. She tries to keep some semblance of somber or serene feelings, but she knows she is more than somber. It's a sobering amount of sadness that has taken over her. She feels wide awake, chilled by the dream. Yet reality hasn't replaced that Mist-Born reality.

It is the fact that she'd asked them to kill her that has caught their attention and their tongue. Specially, when Menodora asks them why? It is a question that she knows now will never get an answer. If the dream did not remain in Tófi's mind, then they would have no reason or way to answer and Moon would be left to speculate. What a horrid Zeigarnik effect. Another incomplete cycle...

'Did you really want me to kill you?' they ask. Followed by a harder question to answer, 'Do you resent me for not doing so?'

Did... She? On either count. Moon tries to look inwards, the rest of the room fading away. She tries to unearth her true feelings, finding the simple truth was that it was too complex to untangle.

"I believe I did," Moon says. "In the moment. I did, I pressed the dagger in your hand and hoped you'd be goaded enough. I insulted the tenants of your character, I'd acting unkindly. Unwisely. Recklessly."

But then, "Somehow, Stella came back. Somehow, some one else. As a shade? Is that what it was? Not wholly herself, but not an echo either. It was joyous, but to have felt all of it... I resented you in the moment." 

She looks to their eyes. Both of them. "I'd tried to claw our your eye, I think. Your only good one. I was not on my best behavior, I will admit."

Her attempt at humor was only so successful. It leaves a dull, stabbing pain in her... The feelings she was experiencing when Tófi had lifted her, wanted to carry her to the infirmary. She'd been consumed by pain-turned-rage. She had wanted to hurt them in hopes they would hurt her in turn.

(It is fair, she thinks. She deserves that hurt, even in a dream.)

Tófi goes on to exlain that she's not mad , not lost her mind. Though, they blame magic, which Moon finds both predictable and perhaps plausible. It was magic that caused the collective dreams. It was magic and monsters to tore mothers and daughters apart in her family for generations. 

Maybe she shouldn't mix monsters and magic and Mjaunie and summer camps this way.

"It's very unwelcoming of the town," Moon says, clinging to Tófi's pragmatic answer, as if that was a more merciful answer than the idea that Moon deserved such an experience. Or, worse, that Stella deserved such a fate.

The town was a cruel judge of character.

"It's painful," Moon says, her expression stark. "The one before had been beautiful," she says, whatever implications they want to draw from it, they can. "This one felt all too close to the things that haunt me. In that dream, I was someone else still better than the me I am now. Our Regency dream may have given me my mother and given us Aurora, but this past dream relieved me of the title and my focus was only on Stella."

Her voice shakes somewhat.

"I was a mother more than a Countess. I think I liked that infinitely better than the life I live now. To think such a thing, though, is selfish. But, still, what would it take to draw from that me as well? The town is humorous. It likes to show me all the ways I could be better, doesn't it? Who else I could be if I weren't me."

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

This is... exactly what she deserves for putting off speaking to Tófi about Aurora. Another dream. Another dream with some convoluted circumstances and a Greek-Hero themed summer camp complete with gods and monsters.

Aurora had wondered if there was an update with Tófi, while Menodora had entirely been avoiding the issue. Now though, with an entire other history thrown in the mix, Menodora figures it was better to speak with them quickly, lest something else happen.

(Besides. Speaking to them was better than going mad with worry hoping Stella would text her back. An unlikely scenario.)

She could call them, only there's one more element to it, isn't there?

Moon really doesn't want to be alone right now, even if the company of choice did happen to be them.

So, she knocks on their front door, doing her best to appear as un-dream-like as she can. She doesn't particularly want to inspire dream like... feelings.

And when it opens...

"Tófi, I know we're not close, and I know we're barely friends, but hear me out: I promise not to act like a rainbow, hippie child or try to claw your face and you keep me company because -- I'm so sorry-- I really cannot bear to be alone right now."

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

'There is nothing to apologize for,' they say.

To which Menodora is desperate to reply, 'then why am I so incessantly sorry?"

Their hand moves down Menodora's arm and her heart races. There is something so wrong about this. She should be with Stella. She should be knocking on Stella's door, begging that Stella let her in and hold her close… instead, Moon had texted her, wanting to give her space. (And, perhaps, afraid that Stella wouldn't answer.)

That sort of rejection would be a wound Moon isn't sure she could recover from.

"It may have been a dream, but it's an entirely other life as well. The feelings, the sensations… they're heightened, they feel real," Moon insists. She doesn't need to tell him that, he already knows. Yet, at the same time, it feels so impossible that she feels the need to shout it. To have some force affirm that she was right to feel so deeply effected.

Tófi calls such things inconsequential, but if they truly were, why did Menodora feel sick with it? With the knowledge and memory of the dream?

Perhaps it was a naive, silly hope, but Moon really had wished Tófi would remember that history. Sure, it would be bitter and mortifying, but it would be shared. They would both know it was the dream speaking, voice mingling with Moon's own. Part of her felt seen in that dream in a way that she doesn't thinks she's ever been seen before. She was happy as a perpetual camp counsellor, with siblings and something of pseudo-nieces and nephews and family. She had a big family that she could hug and help and be close with. And, even if it was in a strange, roundabout way… Tófi was family too. A child of Nemesis, which fit a little too perfectly.

They confirm they don't dream. Not outside of these magical glimpses into other lives… is that sad? Moon wonders where she would be without her dreams. The desire to just be someone else, this one realm of escape when the world is far too much.

Then they confirm they don't remember what Moon asked of them and she turns to them, searching for truth. Or maybe dishonesty. Would it be within Tófi's character to try to spare her from the recollection -- asking him to drive a dagger into her in her grief. She'd been distraught at that point, the world clouding over for her then. A thin mist descending over her senses at that time as she felt Stella's loss echo and break her, shattering her ribs as emotion rippled from her heart.

It's…. almost heartbreaking that they're telling the truth.

Tófi is being honest which means that Menodora really is alone in this recollection. At the Amphitheatre, in Stella's absence, there was Tófi and Menodora. And that was it. They'd taken her by the shoulders to shake her from her shock, and she'd winced back then, too. Or the fact that she'd begged them for some clarity, to see if she could have done anything to save Stella… there was nothing.

The gods had been a gift to her, but cruel at the same time.

Tófi continues to speak, but Moon finds herself unable to reply. She felt words fail her and the things she'd like to yell, that it was too real to have only been magic or that Tófi could never understand how cutting the loss Moon felt was… those words don't come. She's quiet. She's still shocked, somewhat, by what she's experienced.

"It felt real," she says, time having passed by. Moon doesn't know what she can say. She searches her mind for an explanation, but only slightly distorted memories echo back. The shape of them disfigured by grief. "It felt too real to only be a dream. No, it felt far too vivid. and visceral"

Instead of a lost finger… a missing eye. That other Tófi could understand… that other Tófi who couldn't understand Moon's constant levity, her bright whites and rainbow hues. Her laugh that lived in another atmosphere, the cares she buried deep before moving from Mjaunie. A different Mjaunie, where she was never in line to inherit anything and the Perhonens--… faded to nothing? What did happen to Mjaunie. That was a Moon that could walk away…

They regard Tófi, who seems so blissfully unaffected. Moon wishes she could be that way as well. But she'd rather have the memories. What is it that she's able to say to them?

"I lost my daughter in that dream," Moon says. And it seems her answer is that she would like to talk about it. Only 'like,' wasn't right. She needed to talk about it, or it would drive her absolutely mad. "I watched her fall from the sky during a monster attack. It was a summer camp, for the children of Greek gods, training to fight monsters."

She feels ridiculous to relay it. It sounded childish.

"And I lost my daughter. I watched her die and I couldn't do anything. And then you happened upon me and I don't know what you were thinking. I don't know what I was thinking. But I asked you -- no -- tried to compel you to kill me afterwards. Goaded you with things that I can't even remember if they're true." Moon pauses, the memories catching up to her more and more. Leaving her with an uneasy feeling in her blood. "I can't… I don't know what happened, what came over me, but you wouldn't. You insisted on helping me instead. I don't understand it. I had hoped you could tell me why."

Not just that, admittedly. Moon wasn't just here for answers. She'd come here to keep the haunting loneliness at bay, but it seems that she wouldn't get that…

"Tófi, I'm worried I'm going a little mad," she admits. "I haven't felt like myself, not since moving here. What's changed? I'm still me, but it doesn't feel like it. I don't feel like it. This place, it must have done something. You knew me better than anyone growing up, please. What's different?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

There's a phantom burn to it. Their hand on her shoulder. There's nothing there, but it's almost as if the ghost of those talon marks are still there. As if it burns, even under the layers of her clothes. She winces slightly but doesn't pull away.

Gods, she is jumpy.

"I'm afraid there's a great deal to apologize for," Moon says, though the exact deal of things, she doesn't say. It churns in her, a heavy mixture with each worry indistinguishable from another. The worry for Stella, for Aurora even... for her teammates, and a need to make amends with Eilonwy for something that she wasn't even sur happened. They felt distinct but intertwined, all threaded tightly with the dream's magic.

She is, as Tófi observed, so deeply shaken. She feels unsteady. Her footing grounded, because if she tried to move, she's sure she would disorient herself.

Tófi's admission, though, that they've mostly forgotten it leaves something else in Moon. It's not just a feeling of heaviness. It's a feeling of hollow-ness. So how much, if anything, did Tófi remember of her desperate plea? After Stella's dreamt demise, how much could he remember? And how much could he remember of Stella, who Moon had purposefully kept details of from Tófi's knowledge as best she could.

Her own darling girl with stars in her eyes and name. She wasn't like their Darling Light, Stella was someone else. A golden spark--

--A golden spark that Moon had been so close with in a dream while such a thing was untrue in the real world. And then Stella was ripped from her like a shooting star come home to Earth.

The thought of it has Moon holding back tears and she bites hard on her lip to keep some semblance of dignity in Tófi's presence. She just needs to be able to speak. To explain... or she could evade it entirely. Only, she can't, because Tófi asks if that's what it is that's bothering her and Moon finds herself saying, in the mostly simple way, "yes."

Yes, it is. And I cannot shake myself of it. I cannot free myself of these thoughts.

"You don't normally dream, though. Still?" Moon asks, still having a hard time imagining dreamless sleep. Every dream of hers is vivid, some worse than others. Even lately, she's realized she's started sleepwalking again. It's scary, she must admit... waking up somewhere she didn't fall asleep. Usually in a sitting chair, or at her table.

"This was so visceral," Moon murmurs then. She's having a hard time looking at them, again. "Not just the details of it, but the emotions, the feelings. You truly don't remember? You don't remember what happened -- and what I asked of you?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon