OPEN: Kirkwail

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Ghosts
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC post. More content warnings than you can shake a stick at, probably, including allusions to slavery and violence in the body of the log post. Please use appropriate warnings in the subject lines for your own threads.

The storm sweeps in like an assassin: unexpected, in the dark, and throwing sharp pricks of sleet at exposed eyes and noses with expert aim and enough force to almost draw blood if the angle is right. Half an hour after the clouds crest the cliffs is all it takes for the city to retract indoors and huddle around fireplaces, settling in for a long night that will, unforeseen, turn into a long two days.

The Gallows, too, is pelted with ice; the walls of the cliffs and the fortress protect much of it from the worst of the wind, but when it can find a path over or through the walls, it slams through windows or doors to scatter papers and snuff out fires.

In the dark, in the rain, hurrying between towers or already accustomed to jumping firelight casting strange shadows and the wind howling like a wounded animal, people might be forgiven if they don't notice at first. But there's a hanging in the courtyard, a dozen translucent wisps of bodies dangling from the idea of nooses, and there's a girl's voice in the basement of the templar tower screaming for her mother, and there's a ghostly man in the library holding the blade of a knife to his palm and whispering this is it, this is it—or maybe there isn't, actually, when you lift your head to pay closer attention.

But as the night wears on they multiply, and they brighten, and even if you haven't noticed them, they begin to notice you.

Comments

[shri]

"There is nothing to be - " Her eyes shift, from him, about - at this point, there is no secrets to how the walls are playing tricks, for them all. An undiscerning, brutalising, equalising shape of memories that waft through walls and crawls out of cracks. In every shape, taste, colour, and smell.

But still, the voice startles even her, when her head snaps - and she sees a child. Something in her twists. Vicious. How dare they, how dare anyone, speak of a child this way? It hardly matters that it isn't hers, if there is a way to end this nightmare, it is the way every child has stopped screaming.

There is just nothing she can do about it, her brow furrowing and her shoulders fixing. " - sorry for."

[altusimperius]

The screaming continues, piercing and angry and inconsolable in the way of a little child whose grasp on language is rudimentary at best, but there's one proven way to get what he wants.

A woman storms into view: young, breathtakingly beautiful, in sumptuous clothing that contrasts with her rigid, angry gait. "MICAELA!" she snarls, only to be hurriedly joined several moments later by a second woman, also young but plain and dowdy in comparison, her head lowered as she tugs straight one of her sleeves.
The well-dressed woman's hand cracks across her face once, then back, with a force and a sound that has Benedict stepping back uncertainly, looking almost incredulous. Then, pointing viciously at the still-screaming boy, the first woman hisses "do your fucking job," and whirls away.

Waiting until her mistress has turned, the one who must be Micaela presses her hands to her face and, eyes welling up, creeps over to the little boy, who reaches for her obliviously. He finally begins to calm as she embraces him, hands shaking, crying silently.

[shri]

She can't help but wonder - which of these women it was that he saw in her when she approached him just now. For surely one was far more offensive than the other.

Because there is only one response to it really, how something twists unhappily in her mouth as she looks over it. Disgust, wretched. "Is this how all are raised in Tevinter?"

Or was this a particular brand of misery to only Benedict's own life?

[altusimperius]

Benedict stands in silence, watching the tableau with a look both disgusted and horrified. He barely seems to react to Lakshmi's question, replying only, "that's... me."
As if for some reason it hadn't occurred to him that he was once a baby, cried like one, carried on and was what he would now consider an intolerable presence. The woman, known now to be Micaela, continues to rock him despite her own shuddering shoulders.

As if suddenly realizing Lakshmi is there, Benedict looks at her, then away, shocked and perhaps embarrassed. A sullen shrug is his answer to her question. He doesn't know-- he didn't even know about this.

[shri]

... Oh dear.

Her teeth set, unsure quite what to do with the information, or rather - what to give Benedict in that moment. Watching, the woman that was in truth his mother, it seemed, not that harpy of a bitch that shrieked before.

So she settles on the plainest offer. Her hand lifts to settle on his shoulder, squeezing, briefly. "Come." Away from this had to be better for him than standing here helpless watching.

[altusimperius]

Though Benedict is inclined to linger, to keep watching, Lakshmi's hand on his shoulder is enough to convince him; especially as the phantoms begin to change shape, forming something unknowable that drifts curiously after them. He'd rather not look at it.

[shri]

They especially need to leave.

Because he doesn't recognise those shapes, but she... she certainly does. Not that she turns back to look. She doesn't need to.

She would never forget her son's face.

Rather, she flexes her jaw and displays none of the impatience on trying to hurry away as soon as possible. Benedict has more to deal with than the little boy that laughs. The little boy that squirms joyfully in a young woman's lap. Babbling in half-formed words of a far different language to the ones spoken here.

Manages to get her back turned, ready on the step back, when the excited voice shrieks out. "Rani-ji!" When it stops her. Halfway through a step, on her toes, ready to keep going.

But she can't. She can't. Her fingers dig in on Benedict's shoulder. Gripping tightly, soundly, holding so hard it would bruise him soon if it hadn't already. "Rani-ji, krpaya chhoden nahin."

[altusimperius]

He's willing to be pulled away, but Benedict is confused by the urgency, even moreso as Lakshmi's fingers dig into his shoulder like talons. When someone calls to them, he turns back to look, but immediately winces as her grip tightens me.

"You're hurting me," he complains, gripping Lakshmi's hand with his own, trying to loosen it.

[shri]

She doesn't look back, her hand still dug in on her shoulders as the little boy keeps babbling. Soft, pleading, for his Rani-ji.

Because when Benedict does look back, the boy couldn't be older than Benedict the boy was. Desperately tripping over his feet, dressed as a prince ought to be. Fine white linen threaded with gold. His curls bounced over his head. His little shoes softly padding on the ground as he tried to catch up.

[altusimperius]

Having a stumble himself, Benedict is actually less bothered by the small spirit than by Lakshmi's behavior-- and her death grip on his shoulder isn't helping. "Stop," he implores, fear creeping into the word, though still he's dragged along.

[shri]

It doesn't. And in front of them, the boy runs, a woosh of ghostly material through their legs like they are the ones that aren't real. Running as fast as little legs can carry him past them - and shimmering out of air and dust, one woman, then another, then another appears.

But there is no mistaking it the face. It is Lakshmi, and it is not so much time is shaved off her. But some hard edge that cannot be so strictly defined, a softness to her, how she walks and talks and stands to the women and men that flank her. The corridor changing from the strict, harsh misery of the Gallows, to a beautiful, sunlight place, soft yellow sandstone, with sprawling designs over the walls, archways and windows that show a vast desert beyond them - shimmering like a mirage.

The men and women do not look so different perhaps, to Benedict's own mother and maid - save for one difference. These women, these men, there can be no other purpose to them. They dress for war. Lakshmi's hair wrapped up in a red turban, dressed in white, leathers, and brief re-enforcements of chainmail. Swords at both sides, a pistol shoved into her waistband. The women in the same kind of sarees she often war, the rifles balanced over their shoulders. The men with swords and spears in their hands and at their side, pistol placed as similarily.

A queen and her guards, and more than that, a Queen and her War Party. Ready to head out, flanked and to strict purpose, hard on each person's face. Orders are barked, orders are followed, and the little boy, soft curls bouncing, runs for his mother - his Rani-Ji, with another ghost chasing after him, in strict contrast to Benedict's own childhood, the nurse is swift after her charge.

Lakshmi swallows, trying to fight against this wallowing feeling, choking in the back of her throat, how clear a memory it is. One of the last, she remembers, from within Jhansi itself. The beautiful palace that had once been home. The hold on Benedict becomes less on of stopping them, and quite simply, the sort of thing to keep her upright.