ᴛᴡᴏ ✄ sweet things

[distorting]

[He's sitting cross-legged on a bed in a room that isn't very well lit. The only light that's coming in is from a nearby window, but even then, the dark seems to be crowding the room. Tate seems to stand out from the dark, his blond, messy hair being the only thing that really makes him stand out in the first place.

There is a long quiet that feels awkward and almost wrong as he slowly gets up from the bed to look around the room. He looks familiar enough with it, like he's been there for his whole life, but there's something in his eyes that suggests a longing for something more. It's like nostalgia had taken over him completely. He looks perplexed for a moment, staring down at the bed sheets before looking up abruptly, straight at a memory, or perhaps someone who's not supposed to be in his dream at all. ]

I'm sick of being here.

Comments

[distorting]

Because this isn't a part of my fate. I don't think it's a part of anyone's.

[drinkandforget]

Breaking fate isn't that easy. This is already part of yours if it's happened this way.

[distorting]

I don't think it's fate that brought us here.

[drinkandforget]

No? Then what do you believe it is?

[distorting]

Someone brought us here.

[drinkandforget]

People can be the hands of Fate.

[distorting]

They can. But they don't control it completely, or at all.

[drinkandforget]

You think it's possible to beat fate? [She sounds almost as if she's considering the possibility of it being true.]

[distorting]

There's a possibility of it, yeah.

[drinkandforget]

[For a single moment, she seems melancholy.]

What kind of power would that require, I wonder?

And who could find it?

[distorting]

I honestly have no idea. But I'm going to find out.

[drinkandforget]

If you find the power to go that far, tell me so.

[distorting]

What's your name?

[drinkandforget]

I am the guardian of the river of Oblivion, Sailor Lethe.

[distorting]

[That doesn't mean much to him, but...]

I'm Tate.

[drinkandforget]

[She means it literally, as in mythology: the river the dead drink from to forget their past lives before moving into their next lives. In her river, memories, and everything about those lives, are lost.]

Nice to meet you. [The courtesy seems distant, and just a second too late, as though she had to remember the proper words.]

I'll be watching your struggles with interest.

[distorting]

You take pleasure in watching people struggle?

[He raises an eyebrow at her.]

[drinkandforget]

It's simply a part of life.

[She has too many memories of war to quite say she enjoys it; but Tate's own struggles have some relevance to hers. She's begun to wonder if it could be possible to escape after all.]

[distorting]

To enjoy struggling?

[He's questioning her, that's for sure. He hasn't come across anyone who's said it just like she has.]

[drinkandforget]

Struggle is. [And she wonders how anyone reached near-adulthood without knowing it.]

[distorting]

[He never got the chance.]

That's right. But you wouldn't know each kind of struggling, would you?

[drinkandforget]

I've seen each kind at my river. [But not by direct experience, save for her own battles in the wars.]

[distorting]

That's not knowing it.

[drinkandforget]

Do you mean by experience?

One day, you'll lose those experiences as well. Are they that valuable?

[distorting]

[They shaped his life in so many ways. It's what made him who he was.]

Every past experience is valuable in some way, don't you think? Losing them would make you lose yourself.