[open post for real]

[onthewillowsthere]

When the burning stopped he found himself alone. His memory of what happened is hazy -- aren't all his memories hazy? -- but he remembers the light and the fire, the way his hands and mouth were blazing, and even if he didn't remember the scorching on his blue tunic would tell a tale.

He remembers enough.

He can't seem to get warm now, despite the perfectly pleasant climate, and he builds a fire in one of the mansion's many sitting rooms with fireplaces, and then he huddles in front of it, his knees clasped to his chest.

Crowley couldn't make him Galahad again, but he doesn't feel like Damien any more. He remembers enough to know what he had wanted to escape -- whatever purpose it was that made him like this, capable of subsuming into flame or holding a brand-new weapon like a familiar part of his body -- but not enough to know why he's like this, and not enough to be the person Claudius is waiting for. He feels like stone, but a stone that has lost all the earth's heat.

If Crowley, who changed him in the first place, can't change him back, then can he be changed back? It seems to him from what Lan Wangji said that this is all there is now. He's incapable of being loved, incapable of knowing himself, incapable of the lit path that Lan Wangji exhorted him towards.

He stares into the fire, his fixed blue stare that might as well be a stranger's, and wishes he had been rendered in his own bonfire.

Comments

[timebethine]

Laertes had been looking for a cozy room in which to study a book on building boats, and at first the scent of woodsmoke and the warm glow of the fire seems inviting. But then he catches sight of Damien's huddled form, curled up in front of the fire as though on the precipice of hurling himself in. His heart sinks--where is the merry dancer he'd so recently left?

Laertes sets down the book and comes to sit down beside Damien, letting his footfalls be heavy enough to be heard. He doesn't reach out, but he sits close enough to touch, should Damien want it. "What ails thee?" he asks.

[onthewillowsthere]

He doesn't look over at Laertes. He doesn't even speak, for a long moment, because he doesn't know what to say. When he finally settles on something, it's: "I cannot be repaired."

[timebethine]

"Thy memories?" Laertes asks, still low and calm and quiet.

[onthewillowsthere]

He nods.

[timebethine]

Laertes moves just a little closer and wraps his arm around Damien's shoulders. When his fingers encounter scorched fabric, he swallows, but doesn't flinch away. "Whoever thou wert before, thou art now my friend Damien. If the pages of thy life are blank, thou'lt scribe new illuminations on every page hereafter."

[peaklordshen]

Shen Qingiu thinks for a moment that someone has lit a fire in a sitting room and then left it (dangerous, geez), or that the Mansion has lit one itself, in an empty room, some kind of arcane signal just as incomprehensible as any of the other happenings within its walls. But then he looks closer, and the huddled shape on the floor in front of it resolves itself into a boy, arms wrapped around himself, the firelight picking out threads of gold in his hair.

"Damien?" he asks, softly, and comes into the room. The expression on Damien's face is nothing like he's seen the boy look before—even when Shen Qingqiu had described his theory of what happened to his memory, Damien had just looked desperately sad, not this—hollowed out shell of a thing.

Shen Qingqiu steps closer and kneels, his robes pooling around him on the floor. He reaches out a hand, laying it on his arm. "Damien," he repeats, though perhaps that's not quite his name, anymore. "Are you alright?"

[onthewillowsthere]

He doesn't look over to Shen Qingqiu, but he says, quietly, to the fire, "I am gone."

[peaklordshen]

Oh, fuck. That doesn't sound good. Shen Qingqiu shifts the hand on Damien's arm to his face, cupping his jaw and searching his eyes.

He concentrates, attempting to push at the blockage in his meridians. If he could read Damien's qi, get some sense, any sense, of what's changed—but it's no use.

He smiles, anyway, shaking his head like Damien is a particularly foolish young disciple. "Nonsense," he chides. "I can see you right here."

[onthewillowsthere]

"My self. Crowley cannot recover it."

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji has had a great deal on his mind since Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu brought Damien to see him, and it has only been compounded by his discussion with Claudius, pleasant though that was. One couldn't accuse him of distraction as he strides into this sitting room in particular, but one might get away with accusing him of being lost in thought.

He shakes it off shortly upon the sight of one of the topics of his thoughts. His heart sinks just slightly. Had Crowley refused to reinstate Damien's memories? Or had something worse transpired? He had, perhaps foolishly, thought better of the demon.

Largely silent, but making just enough noise with each step so as to alert Damien to his presence, he draws closer. "Young master," he says, a quiet and careful deployment of the title.

[onthewillowsthere]

For the first time he lifts his head to see who is speaking to him. He doesn't speak.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji kneels, all the layers of his white robes floating down with him until his face is level with Damien's. He, too, doesn't speak again, but he is intent on Damien's face, his eyes hard but not cold. There has been a change to Damien's aura, and he cannot puzzle out what it is.

[onthewillowsthere]

"Crowley could not undo it," he says finally. "It's worse now."

[wickedwit]

So Claudius is dying.

He tells himself not to be so dramatic -- he isn't dying, but his life or death depends on the will of a fickle, peevish emperor who on a whim could awaken the parasites in his blood and his heart to kill him, and who has no reason not to. Which, truth be told, sounds no less dramatic. But he's not without friends or resources, not without avenues he can explore, and he's seeking Crowley.

But he's also seeking — heart thundering threateningly fast in his chest and God, he hopes that’s not the circulating blood parasites — someone who may have seen Crowley last. It might be better not to, better to leave him to relearn his own mind, to let him sift through his memories and make his decisions. Whatever words were whispered in the grass, Claudius won’t hold him to them.

Galahad could still despise him. And Damien — Damien already loved a man he didn’t know. He shouldn’t have to love a dying man.

But again, that’s a dramatic way of putting it. When he sees the familiar golden hair, the familiar slope of shoulders, he steps into the sitting room with a careful clap of his hands.

He doesn’t know what name to call.

[onthewillowsthere]

He wouldn't know, anyway, what name to answer to.

It's been hours since Nina bandaged his burned hand, and he's returned to the fire, though through the rest of the afternoon his body heat has returned and he's no longer cold to touch. He keeps thinking of how he remembers nothing but the kitchen in ashes, how he could go aflame again at any moment if he feels something too strongly, and he squeezes his fingers closed from time to time to feel the throb of pain, to remind himself to be afraid of himself. The person he least wants to see is the person who makes him feel the most.

He looks up at the clap and jumps to his feet, putting his hands out as if to ward Claudius away.

[wickedwit]

Surprise and fear and something like rueful acceptance all flicker through Claudius's eyes, then fade. He steps back, hides his hands behind him, and keeps his face carefully blank. "I suppose you know me now, then. Did you not wish to see me?"

Of course he didn't. Don't make him say it. A holy knight who panicked at the offer of a kiss isn't going to be happy he gave his heart away to a fratricidal murderer. But what happened to his hand? He doesn't want your concern, either.

[onthewillowsthere]

"I don't want to hurt you." He backs away. He wants to tell Claudius all of it, to beg him for help. He's still wearing the burnt clothes, and he wishes he had changed into something else, something that wouldn't invite questions.

[protagonisthalo]

There are very few people in the mansion who Luo Binghe would like to run into, but he takes a moment to ascertain whether the hunched figure in front of the fire is one of them.

Ah. The young man who was once rude, but has since turned pleasant and agreeable. Luo Binghe had thought to use him to find out who among their number was plotting against him. He knows it now to be Claudius, but it still may be worth speaking with the youth.

"Your emperor is present," he says, stepping toward the young man. "Will you not greet him with courtesy?"

[onthewillowsthere]

He glances up. He should rise, he should bow, but he's exhausted from holding himself together all day, from trying not to feel or forget, from the throb in his hand.

"You were right about me," he says quietly, putting his head down again.

[protagonisthalo]

Luo Binghe narrows his eyes, unsure of the youth's intent. "In what way?"

[onthewillowsthere]

Over the last few days, he's forgotten the exact words Luo Binghe used, only the substance of them, which has transfigured, as remembered words will, from the knowledge that he did offense to Luo Binghe to the idea that he was ill-mannered and quarrelsome to the confidence that there was something bad about him. So he doesn't realize that Luo Binghe may be somewhat confused when he says,--

"I was made to do injury. I can be wielded to hurt people I love. I am afraid of myself."

[ravkanwitch]

It's been a few hours after the incident, but Nina can't stop thinking about the young man with the burnt hand. She's been wandering through the mansion looking for him, hoping she finds him - wanting to make sure that he's okay. And then, just like that, she comes across him.

She's silent for a few moments. "Hello again," she says. "How is your burn doing?"

[onthewillowsthere]

He looks up. "It's-- it's the same. Thank you."

[ravkanwitch]

"Look," she says, genuinely, maybe a little desperately, "you don't need to tell anyone what happened - you don't owe anyone that. Just... please make sure you take care of yourself."

[onthewillowsthere]

"I hurt him," he says quietly. "Laertes. I burned his hand. I frightened him."