And I caused it

"But the flame in your eye, it is blue and cold And you risked your wrist to save my life And I should have kissed you that night But it ain't right Oh no, It ain't right" oc blog for sleepyxhollow they/them pronouns

[beaumiers]

Absence makes the heart grow hollow (open)

Francine felt utterly out of place in Sleepy Hollow. They didn't know what they should say or how they should act. They felt lost, and they longed for someone to just tell them what they should be doing. They couldn't remember what in their past made them so useless with out direction, but their sudden freedom to decide what do for themselves made them horribly uneasy. Only adding to their discomfort was the clammy haze of memories held just out Francine's mind's reach. They felt for some reason that they should be thankful for their amnesia, though, and so they did their best to avoid being left alone with themselves and their thoughts too much -- something that only made their distracting overabundance of free time more unfavorable. Francine tried to preoccupy themselves in cleaning, partly because it seemed to be something Francine was actually useful for, but also because no matter what they did they couldn't shake the feeling of a sullying, guilty darkness stuck to their fingertips. They were just sweeping up some of the dust that had collected outside of Inn 7, where they were staying, when they noticed someone approaching.

"Who's there?," they called out nervously. 

[thekingshound]

thanksgiving disguised as a feast [event open]

"This atmosphere…" …is distasteful. That was the thought in Miran’s head. Everything was horribly bright and loud, and it made Miran’s head throb painfully. His memories still felt jumbled and strange, and the raucous sound of merriment did nothing to help him untangle the mess.

Absently, he touched the ring on his finger. He still remembered how to use it, but even with the mist laid over his memories he knew that its power was a shade of what it had once been. In the privacy of his room he’d experimented with it and summoned two wolves, each no higher than his knees, that promptly curled up beside him and fell asleep. He was unsure how useful they would be in protecting him, but still the presence of the ring gave him comfort.

He ran his fingers around the pointed edges of the ring and the smooth stone in its center, focusing on the sensation instead of the suffocating press of bodies as he threaded his way through the crowd. He found a seat above the edge of the throng—close enough to observe and gather information, but far enough that it did not overwhelm him. He wondered what he could find out about how he got here, if he would see any faces in the crowd that would fill the holes in his memories, if he would find anyone of use to him. Those were the thoughts that occupied him as he scanned the crowd, watching—waiting.

[beaumiers]

Francine didn't know what to do with all the festivity around them. They got the feeling they were unaccustomed to such shows of loose excitement. The people and the joyousness made them nervous, and they did their best to avoid the bulk of the throng. Coming about the edges of the congregation they saw where Miran sat. He looked calm enough in comparison the the bustle of the horde behind Francine, and Francine decided they could use a break after pushing through so many people.

Upon getting closer to the man, Francine faltered a bit. The man seemed far more naturally regal than Francine had ever managed, and he carried a cold atmosphere that made Francine hesitant. Still, Miran's distant attitude seemed much more manageable and familiar to Francine at the moment then the merrymaking behind them, and so they decided to take their chance with the dark haired man. 

"Pardon me, but is that seat taken?" Francine smiled politically, gesturing at the seat next to the man, "And if it isn't, would it bother you to have some company? I'm not quite used to the crowd, you see."

[alathfarian]

the hounds are still in chains [open]

[alathfarian]

In his surprise Orestes nearly takes Francine’s head off with the block of wood in his hands. The person before him looks so eerily like the figure he’d seen in his dreams, the figure that stood outside of the bathroom in his hallucination.

"You," he says breathlessly, "You know my name. You…" His head hurts and the memories that he was afraid to touch now press against the walls of his mind. He clutches his makeshift weapon like a lifeline, focusing on the sensation of splinters of wood cutting into his palms instead of the memories that threaten to intrude on his peace. Peace. He is peaceful here, even though his mind is empty and his body seems to run on autopilot. He senses that memories will bring about an end to his peaceful existence. They will bring pain. He feels nothing right now and it aches in its own way, but he is frightened of what this new pain might bring.

In the end the decision is not with him—it comes without his consent. “Francine…” he breathes at last. “Francine.” He says it again, tasting it in his mouth. Then—“My apologies, Dr. Beaumier. It was not appropriate of me to use your name with such familiarity. I do not ask for forgiveness, for I do not deserve it.” The learned stiffness finds its way back into his spine, finds its way into his words and he bows—though even his lowest bow is still higher than Francine’s shoulders.

"As for what’s wrong—I have not felt myself lately," he says, by way of explanation, "Though that is no excuse for my behavior. Thank you for visiting me. I owe you so much already, and now this as well—you have brought me to my senses once again."

[beaumiers]

Francine lurched back at Orestes's sudden transformation. Orestes's old rigidness returning brought a rush of regret to surface in Francine's throat, and they nervously diverted their gaze from the sight. For a moment they had thought perhaps they had been forgiven by some greater fate, and that they could start over a new with Orestes and somehow bury their shame -- but then that dark submissive self-reproach fell back over Orestes's eyes and Francine knew he remembered. 

"Perhaps we both have been a bit not ourselves recently...," Francine responded softly. "You needn't worry about a thing -- you owe me nothing. I only pass on what the kingdom has taught me," they finish, the words leaving a bitter taste in their mouth.

Francine takes a deep breath and moment to compose themselves, to try and remember their place and how they must act. They don't remember when they learned to do so, but they fall into a casual stance and pull a silky, authoritative voice of nobility from their gut. "Orestes, how long have you been here? Do you know how we got here?"

[alathfarian]

the hounds are still in chains [open]

Every night the same dream. Orestes sits up, skin covered in a sheen of cold sweat. He hadn’t even intended to fall asleep, can’t even remember when he got into bed. His mind is foggy, and the dream is still so vivid in his head that it’s hard to separate from reality.

Giving up on dismissing the obtrusive thoughts from his head, he lets his body follow routine like clockwork; rises up out of bed, bathes, shaves. The face in the mirror stares back at him as he drags the razor across his skin. He’d dreamed about the scars, dreamed of being backhanded and thrown to the ground, dreamed of his back lighting up like fire with pain.

He sees movement in his peripheral vision in the mirror—the door behind him replaced with bars and a white-robed figure standing just outside. The cry dies in his throat as he turns around and sees nothing but a wooden door swinging wide. His skin prickles with anxious energy and he finishes getting ready in a hurry. He needs air.

It’s not hard to find a discarded piece of wood big enough for his purposes once he’s outside. The balance feels a little off in his hands but he adjusts to it without quite knowing how. He doesn’t have a conscious memory of doing any type of drills or exercises in his life, but his muscle memory leads him through a series of motions at once fluid and abrupt. Once, twice, again.

He fights an invisible enemy alone, entirely focused on each movement, trying to meet a standard he can’t verbalize. So immersed in his task is he that he doesn’t notice when someone (or something) approaches.

[beaumiers]

"O-Orestes!?"

Francine doesn't remember too much before they found themselves in Sleepy Hollow, but they remember that name, and the overwhelming sense of guilt and self-loathing that came along with it. Maybe this really is hell, and this was their punishment -- never being able to get away from the person they had failed the most.They try to quickly recompose themselves, and stuff down their disquiet with a familiar ease that only comes with practice. 

"Orestes, what's wrong?"