the littlest edgelord (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
inconsequence) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2017-11-25 08:52 pm
inconsequence) wrote in thisavrou_log2017-11-25 08:52 pm
points to spinal chord on brain diagram [open]
Who: Chara and YOU
When: 11/23 - 11/24
Where: Literally all around Avagi this child is wandering in a disoriented post-fight daze
What: Chara fought in a trial. Chara got a prize. No one is happy with this.
Warnings: Emotional distress probable, in addition to the usual Chara warnings.
The temples began to sing.
They emerged bloodied and ragged along the edges, one hand clasped around the rust-brown stains fringing every tear in their clothing. One side of their hair has become uneven where a hank of it was roughly and sloppily cut away mid-combat. They limp. Their eyes are glazed with hunger, with emptiness, with exhaustion. Their motions are stiff and automatic. Whenever someone draws near to them, they flinch and hold ready, a blade of red steel gleaming in their hand. A smile tears over their features in a blaze of forced and painted-on glee.
They emerged from the Trial of Life victorious, in a manner of speaking - in a very loose manner of speaking. They emerged from the Trial of Life, having not died or fled, and thus are eligible for something of a prize.
That is when the temples began to sing.
They ignite with a soft blue glow, ethereal, illuminating their surroundings in a cool sweep of runic light. The light takes root inside them, nestling like a seed in the center of their chest; not patience-blue, not integrity-blue, and certainly not determination-red, but something else entirely. It aches in solemn acknowledgment of itself. The child's eyes squeeze shut. The blood has begun to hammer in their ears anew, as if rejuvenated enough to feel like it ought to redouble its efforts to spill out from their torn veins.
The hum pressing across their ears has begun to vibrate in their bones.
As they cross through the portal's bridge of light back to Avagi, the whispers and fragments of other people's thoughts begin to trail after them, silver-tinted specters of other people's thoughts.
When: 11/23 - 11/24
Where: Literally all around Avagi this child is wandering in a disoriented post-fight daze
What: Chara fought in a trial. Chara got a prize. No one is happy with this.
Warnings: Emotional distress probable, in addition to the usual Chara warnings.
The temples began to sing.
They emerged bloodied and ragged along the edges, one hand clasped around the rust-brown stains fringing every tear in their clothing. One side of their hair has become uneven where a hank of it was roughly and sloppily cut away mid-combat. They limp. Their eyes are glazed with hunger, with emptiness, with exhaustion. Their motions are stiff and automatic. Whenever someone draws near to them, they flinch and hold ready, a blade of red steel gleaming in their hand. A smile tears over their features in a blaze of forced and painted-on glee.
They emerged from the Trial of Life victorious, in a manner of speaking - in a very loose manner of speaking. They emerged from the Trial of Life, having not died or fled, and thus are eligible for something of a prize.
That is when the temples began to sing.
They ignite with a soft blue glow, ethereal, illuminating their surroundings in a cool sweep of runic light. The light takes root inside them, nestling like a seed in the center of their chest; not patience-blue, not integrity-blue, and certainly not determination-red, but something else entirely. It aches in solemn acknowledgment of itself. The child's eyes squeeze shut. The blood has begun to hammer in their ears anew, as if rejuvenated enough to feel like it ought to redouble its efforts to spill out from their torn veins.
The hum pressing across their ears has begun to vibrate in their bones.
As they cross through the portal's bridge of light back to Avagi, the whispers and fragments of other people's thoughts begin to trail after them, silver-tinted specters of other people's thoughts.
[Chara scored the empathy reward for their participation in the Trial of Life, meaning that, to quote the info post: others stay inside their body, but gain a sense of those around them. This manifests not as telepathic knowledge of their thoughts, but an empathic resonance—ghost-vision showing their emotions in stark clarity.]
[This more or less gives them the ability to know and feel anything your character is experiencing emotionally so that's you know fantastic. Feel free to tag in with prose or brackets; I'll match you! Let me know here or over atarrpee if you want a closed starter or something more specific!]
no subject
Did no one ever bother to teach them that? Did no one ever draw them aside and casually say, hey, maybe you don't have to be a perfect and incorruptible savior one hundred percent of the time, Frisk! Did no one ever tell them that maybe, just maybe, they're not responsible for every person's every little problem, just as they're not responsible for fixing those problems?
Or did they simply never get the message through their own skull?
"You can't magically fix things through your touch alone, Frisk. I am not some variable you can rewrite at a whim. I do not have a preprogrammed dialogue tree that unlocks after you say and do all the right things. You cannot scrub away every mistake you have ever made just because you will it, and you cannot change me to be more agreeable, to be more pliable, to be more suited to your needs. You cannot force me to a partner or a companion or a friend simply because you wish it so."
no subject
Their seething anger and frustration presses down upon them, a miasma that they can't block away or ignore, and Frisk curls inward in a futile attempt to escape. There's something tangles up in their chest, a feeling they can't put words to, something that reaches out and cringes away in the same moment. They want to do something, to be something better for them, to know what to do and think and say but they can't--
They can't stop being themself. Never.
"Never...never wanted you t' change..."
no subject
Does it scare them, to know how angry they are, at every moment of every day? Does it scare them to know that there is nothing here, nothing in their chest but a storm of hateful, hateful embers guttering away in the place of a SOUL? Does it scare them to know that children are knives wrapped in brambles, and that there is no coming near them for fear that they sting?
"Then what is it you want from me?" They're shouting. Unbridled. Uncontrolled. Too late to seal a lid on it, now. "You can't help me. There is nothing here capable of being SAVED, no matter how much you spin back time. My story is past. The Fallen Human has always been dead long before you tumbled over their grave."
no subject
Frisk's hands tangle into their hair, pulling hard out of reflected frustration, of hurt and anger and confusion and too many things to name. But any fear, it's not of Chara but of themself; of not being strong enough, smart enough, good enough to be able to be what someone needs of them, of failing in the one thing they've ever known they needed to do.
"You're here now, you're living now! You deserve better, you always deserved better, and I always took it away! I just--I took them, I took Mom and Asgore and Asriel and no one ever--I never even tried, I never tried to give you anything!"
no subject
They stole their own happiness away. These are their consequences.
"You cannot SAVE me, just as you cannot SAVE everyone - and everyone was wrong to lead you to believe that you had to! The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can relinquish your hold on a fantasy that does not exist!"
no subject
The force, the emotion behind those words is heavy and deep-rooted, helplessness and destiny and identity. Regrets echo against rejection--it wasn't her fault, it wasn't any of it her fault, they were supposed to keep her safe and they failed they failed they failed--
"What else am I supposed to do?! It's what I'm for!"
1/2
Children should be silent. They should be seen and not heard, and some part of them knows that nothing good will come of this. They're railing and screaming and pitching a fit and making a mess and that will get them pulled hair, the roots aching at their scalp as that was the leverage that steered them down the hall and sent them trip-stumbling up against something that banged into their shins and made them shout.
And some part of them, some horrid, hateful, miserable part thinks: good.
If they're shouting, it means they're not shutting up. If they're angry, it means they're allowing themself to be.
2/2
It bursts like a floodgate, gaping wide.
"Children aren't for anything, Frisk! They're just KIDS!"
no subject
"Stop it! STOP IT! I can't, I can't be, I can't, I can't!"
If they're just a child, if they're just normal--
It has to be for a reason, there has to be a sense behind everything! They fell because they had a purpose to fulfill, they kept going because they were Determined. They made everyone happy because they were meant to, they hurt because they could take it. If Frisk couldn't stand it, that was their own failing, or else--
How are they even meant to just be?
no subject
A false question. A trick question. They already know the answer. They have never been taught to be anything else.
"That is their failure. That is the failure of every person who has told you otherwise. I don't care how deeply you loved them, or claimed to." They don't care. They don't care that Mr. Dad Guy could fill their heart with a raindrop-patter of delight when he beamed at them, because he called them the future of humans and monsters and placed the weight of ambassadorial duties upon the shoulders of a child he barely knew, beginning the cycle anew. They can't care, because he learned nothing, took nothing from the path he chose but the inevitability of his own mistakes in repeat.
"They taught you wrong."
no subject
It's terrifying--to even think about this, to even try to face the ideas that lay bare in front of them. To even try and confront it, to reconcile their love and their pain, it's insurmountable and leaves an ache deep in their chest, as if their heart were squeezed tighter in a vice with every breath.
Even if they ask, even if Chara demands and rails and shouts to the heavens for the injustice of it, Frisk...
"I can't...I...I can't..."
They can't give this up. Not after so long, not after all the pain they've endured. There's no other path left.
no subject
They won't.
One mind screaming its way out of the boundaries someone else imposed is hard enough; two is unendurable. So they cease to allow for it, exploding out from beneath the bed in a flurry of taut motion, of scrabbling limbs, of heavy breath and sweat-stuck hair and squeezed-shut eyes.
"Then come back when you can."
no subject
does nothing.
Flinching inward, they sob but do not protest--why should they, when it's them causing so much grief for the other? Why are they like this, why can't they just do as they should, why can't they just--
Listen?