oo1. [ action ]
[ jack is dead. he knows he's dead. he's been dead for a hundred years, now, body split into pieces and soul shattered into memory-fragments, tied to the abyss and sablier and everything those two words entail.
a whole century. he's been dead a century. he knows. he's counted the years, the weeks, the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds-- counting them to the tick-tick-tick of a pocket-watch that no longer actually belongs to him. the watch he'd built to the song that man had composed to the words she'd sang.
ah, those ties that bind, wrapped neatly up together in gold and clockwork.
lacie, it whispered to him on the bad days, and he could see that man's face as clearly as if he was really there before him (instead of rotting away in a grave, bound and sealed and dead, oh god, dead, he's dead), distant and solemn and it's his voice that whispers that beloved (despised) name.
he loves that name because it had once made that man happy.
.. he thinks he despises it for the same reason. once that man had tasted happiness, he had learned the true depths that despair could bring him.
ah ah ah, though, this-- this is not a bad day. he's not sure what it is right now, because he's dead (he knows he's dead), but this is a dream that isn't a memory. he can touch his throat and feel the flutter of a heartbeat. he can draw breath and feel the flavour and texture of oxygen. --he exhales and it leaves him dizzy. there is weakness in his limbs, and his feet are sore from his aimless wandering (he remembers-- he'd died wearing house-boots, hadn't he? dressed in white, unlike the green he'd favoured in life). sore, but.. there's nothing else.
the searing pain of being so badly damaged for so long is.. gone. he's sure if he listens long enough, he'll hear the chime of the shards of his soul clinking against one another, held together inexpertly and so fragile..
but he is whole.
.. he's dead, isn't he? he knows that he's dead, and this is nothing but a beautiful dream. a brief respite. a moment of peace.
colours blur together, and he finds moisture dampening his lashes. his fingers, trembling, catch at a passing sleeve, and jack vessalius smiles, sunrise bright, for the first time (the first real time) in decades. ]
Is this your dream or mine, do you suppose--?
a whole century. he's been dead a century. he knows. he's counted the years, the weeks, the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds-- counting them to the tick-tick-tick of a pocket-watch that no longer actually belongs to him. the watch he'd built to the song that man had composed to the words she'd sang.
ah, those ties that bind, wrapped neatly up together in gold and clockwork.
lacie, it whispered to him on the bad days, and he could see that man's face as clearly as if he was really there before him (instead of rotting away in a grave, bound and sealed and dead, oh god, dead, he's dead), distant and solemn and it's his voice that whispers that beloved (despised) name.
he loves that name because it had once made that man happy.
.. he thinks he despises it for the same reason. once that man had tasted happiness, he had learned the true depths that despair could bring him.
ah ah ah, though, this-- this is not a bad day. he's not sure what it is right now, because he's dead (he knows he's dead), but this is a dream that isn't a memory. he can touch his throat and feel the flutter of a heartbeat. he can draw breath and feel the flavour and texture of oxygen. --he exhales and it leaves him dizzy. there is weakness in his limbs, and his feet are sore from his aimless wandering (he remembers-- he'd died wearing house-boots, hadn't he? dressed in white, unlike the green he'd favoured in life). sore, but.. there's nothing else.
the searing pain of being so badly damaged for so long is.. gone. he's sure if he listens long enough, he'll hear the chime of the shards of his soul clinking against one another, held together inexpertly and so fragile..
but he is whole.
.. he's dead, isn't he? he knows that he's dead, and this is nothing but a beautiful dream. a brief respite. a moment of peace.
colours blur together, and he finds moisture dampening his lashes. his fingers, trembling, catch at a passing sleeve, and jack vessalius smiles, sunrise bright, for the first time (the first real time) in decades. ]
Is this your dream or mine, do you suppose--?