[lapalcma]

DOVE

written by argo ( they / them, twenty-one, CST. )

“ SKELETON. BIOGRAPHY. CONNECTIONS. DETAILS.

[lapalcma]

oldhalo​:

Frustration simmered in Old Halo’s chest. If being kind was worthy of suspicion in Dove’s mind, what was she supposed to do? “I don’t keep the Faith anymore,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “Like I’ve told you. Whether you believe I care or not, I am an advisor, and I think consider keeping tabs on everyone’s well-being part of that. So consider this a professional obligation.”

All that frustration left her as Dove explained what had happened on the train, replaced by surprise. Dove had seen a revenant. A revenant who she’d known, in her past life. Perhaps even a revenant who had known her. And she’d let them go. Old Halo’s lips parted, then abruptly shut again, trapping the words she wanted to say behind her lips. You should have killed him.

It was a major risk, after all. The more information that the Faith had on any one of them, the more danger the whole gang was in. The more risk Old Halo, specifically, was in. If the Faith got too close, her whole lie might unravel. She had to wonder why the hell Paragon had persuaded her not to kill him. Perhaps she’d take it up with him when she saw him.

She’d been silent for too long. Finally, she nodded. “I see. Well. I’m…glad you found a way to spare a life,” she said, in a tone that was hardly glad. Subdued, at best. “You know, I’ve found that revenge rarely brings the catharsis we expect it to.”

. . .

Sure you don’t — the remark, dripping with cynicism, stops at her teeth. There was no point in arguing now, her point made long ago: Dove did not trust Old Halo. Any further expression of the notion would only lead to more futile dismissals by Old Halo. A never ending cycle, one Dove had no desire to waste what energy she had left on. 

She was not ignorant to the way Old Halo hesitated, the way she seemed so ready to speak. She wondered what sentiment lay beyond better judgement, what words went unsaid. And, for a moment, she considers prying it out of her. But, she doesn’t. Perhaps it is her own better judgement that keeps her from doing so, perhaps the words would remain better unspoken, perhaps they would have hurt more than what Old Halo instead chooses to express.

“I’m glad someone is, cause I’m sure as hell not.” It was a feeling that she had sat with, unwilling to truly accept. Dove was not a murderer. An accomplice? Occasionally. But she had not yet assumed the role of executioner. It was something she had been proud of, once, but now the lack of blood staining her hands brought only frustration and regret. Those feelings were accompanied by a smothering guilt — she had spared a life, but such an act brought no peace, only an anger that took over her very being. It horrified her. 

"You know, everyone seems to think that. Everyone seems to think that there’s some moral high ground over gettin’ back at those who wronged you, that revenge isn’t gonna fix everythin’. But . . . I don’t think anyone really gets it, not ‘til they experience it.” Somewhere, amidst the anger and confusion, a strangled sense of sadness begins to grow in the pit of Dove’s stomach. She can feel it, tightening like a stretched rubber band, one tug away from snapping. “I wanted to kill him, Old Halo. More than I think I’ve ever wanted anything. Maybe I would’ve regret it after, but it would’ve been a hell of a lot better than whatever I’m feelin’ now.

[lapalcma]

ofparagon​:

Paragon, the bright-eye underneath the wide brimmed hat and machiavellian grin, makes a mental note to check with Dove later—make sure that what this day’s asked of them hasn’t shaken them down to the bone. The Paragon he plays for these people? He’s only emboldened by the shot that rocks the roof and his collaborator’s strong-arming. Only disappointed in the sorry necklace that lands in his hat.

“She speaks the truth,” he remarks to that dark little promise. The hat fills, and fills.

“It sure won’t! S’why I brought these,” he unfastens two rolled-up burlap sacks from his belt and empties the hat into one behavior reseating it atop his head. As she hurries the passengers along, he brings the sacks aisle to aisle—one in each hand to streamline the collections process on either side.

Towards the back, a Revenant resists them, returning only folded arms and a steely stare. “What d’you think, Dove?” Paragon plays it off over his shoulder. “This one need a little more convincing?”

. . .

As the pair of outlaws traveled down the train car in tandem, Dove found herself wondering. Wondering if she would ever grow used to it — it, the cruel satisfaction that seeing the burlap sacks grow heavier brought about. She could scarcely look at the faces of their victims, not willing to bare witness to their terror. Each item relinquished to their care only emboldens her, fuels her facade. Then, a voice, familiar, lost to her, at the back of her mind spoils it — He’d be so disappointed in you. Her lips turn downward, smile dissolving into a frown — He would hate to see who you’ve become. She swallows, hard, trying to stomach the guilt slowing climbing up her throat.

She is elsewhere entirely, only brought back by the sound of her name. No matter how that voice may taunt or ridicule, there is an image to be maintained. It cannot waver, lest she be perceived as weak. Her attention is drawn to Paragon again, forcing her lips back into a grin. “Hm — thought I warned ‘em. Didn’t I warn ‘em, Paragon?” Later, she thinks, I oughta tell him what a good team we make . . . She blinks once, twice, three times to clear the brain fog that threatened to roll in. “Maybe he’ll have a change of heart after a bit-of —” 

The sentence falls flat, caught in the back of her throat, replaced by, “I know you.” Challenge transforms to confusion on the Revenant’s face. It is clear — the sentiment is not shared. 

Any thought of the mission at hand is shoved to the side, her mind swimming in feelings long repressed. Rage battles with anguish for control of the situation, and Dove is unsure who wins as her hand, steady and sure, raises, aiming the revolver at the Revenant’s forehead. “Smile.” Though she was sure he was one of them, she did not remember him like this: confused, cowering, so . . . weak. She remembered him cruel, she remembered his sick smile as they held Amos under water. She needed to see it, needed to see him smile, needed to know it was him. 

The Revenant sputters some paltry, half-formed expression of confusion at her command. Dove does not register what words are spoken, only his voice and her familiarity with it. She momentarily turns her aim left, shooting the wall beside his head. “Next time I won’t miss.” A promise. Her aim returns to the Revenant once more, cocking the hammer back. “Now — smile. Never an issue before, was it? Never had a problem smilin’ before, go ahead now.” Her words, vague but fervent, leave the Revenant growing frantic, desperate. 

[derangedrhythms]

Sara Teasdale, from 'Two Songs for Solitude; The Crystal Gazer' published in 'American Poetry, 1922: A Miscellany'

[lapalcma]

But I know the present will not last / and tomorrow will be kinder.   ;   A playlist for Dove.

[lapalcma]

oldhalo·:

“Dove,” Old Halo began, tone almost chiding until she caught her eyes. She wasn’t sure Dove had looked her in the eye since finding out about her past. It was incredible how much the knowledge had transformed Dove’s attitude toward her. Before…she’d almost begun to think they could be friends. Silly of her, perhaps. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. It didn’t matter what Dove thought of her. She had a job to do.

“I actually consider it my responsibility to check in on each and every member of this gang, regardless of who they are,” she informed her, not breaking eye contact. “But, beyond that…whether you believe it or not, I care about you. So, yes, I genuinely wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

But she hadn’t missed the second part of what Dove said. Dove had information, and Old Halo’s eyes grew sharp and hungry for it. She wasn’t going to let this go, that much was clear just from a look. “I may have. I’ve heard a lot of things, dear, so you’ll have to be a little more specific. Why, what happened on the train?”

She knew that Paragon had been with Dove, so she could always just ask him if she found her less than willing to talk. She would much rather hear it from Dove herself, though. Especially since she was the one to bring it up. Clearly, whatever it was, it was weighing on her.

. . .

I care about you — the sentiment leaves a bitter taste in Dove’s mouth. After learning of Old Halo’s past, there had been no attempt towards subtlety in conveying her newfound distaste for the woman. Somewhere, there is a part of her that knows her maltreatment is unfounded. Perhaps, it’s the part that could still be called Valeria that begs her to see the irrationality with which she acts. But, that is an argument that Dove, that anger, wins every time. Despite the plain, outward contempt with which Dove regarded her, she simply couldn’t seem to shake Old Halo’s unmerited kindness. 

“You don’t care about me — ” You don’t even know me. She licks her teeth, lips curling into a mangled, half grimace. Though the strangeness was self imposed, anger had a way of twisting it, absolving Dove of guilt by placing it all onto Old Halo. “If this is your attempt at keepin’ the faith, leave me out of it. I don’t want your Faith, don’t want your care, kindness, check-ins, none of it. ” It was difficult for her to believe any kindness from Old Halo was not pious in nature, proof of how she clung to The Faith she claimed to have abandoned.

Leaving crosses her mind once more; turning her back on the conversation, closing the door that threatened to let Old Halo in. But she stays. She feels it, that shift in Old Halo’s demeanor, her interest piqued. Either Dove tells her, tells her how she wants her to hear it, or Paragon does. Either way, Old Halo would learn. 

“Don’t play coy. It doesn’t suit you.” She considers exactly what she’s willing to relinquish, and what is hers to keep. Give her an inch, and she’ll take a mile. “I saw someone on the train that I knew, that’s all . . . Someone from before all of this, a revenant. He stole something from me once, him and a few others. Something real precious. I told myself if I ever saw him again, if I ever saw any of 'em again I’d kill 'em.” She pauses, shaking what remains of the apple from her hand before crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t worry, I didn’t. I was going to, had him beggin’ and everything . . . But, I let him go. Not cause I wanted to. Paragon got to sweet talking, got in my head, and I let him go.” Like a coward. Hostility seems to melt away as she speaks, giving way to genuity, guarded, but authentic. It gives Dove a strange sort of catharsis, betraying what feelings she had for Old Halo.

“That line up with what you’ve heard then?” 

[lapalcma]

RAVEN’S REST, EEL. FEBRUARY 6TH, AT APPROX. 11:30 PM. CLOSED W/ @zjlark​

There’s a quality of weariness just beginning to set in the circles under Dove’s eyes. She noticed it that morning, in a passing view of her reflection. She noticed it a second time over breakfast; an offer of coffee, unsolicited — “You’re lookin’ a bit tired. That’s all.” She stared at that cup of coffee for a long while, contemplating, dwelling. Half the drink was gone before she could stomach it no longer. A bit tired. The comment had a way of worming into her mind, making her awareness of the fatigue increase tenfold. Sleep had been impossible to come by since the incident on the train. The sun would set, and her mind would overwhelm with uncomfortable mid-night thoughts that made any worthwhile rest entirely unrealistic. 

And yet, despite the way the lingering fatigue had begun to physically manifest, she finds herself milling about the entrance of the inn fighting the urge to retreat to her room. It was a trap, despite how inviting the bed seemed. There would be no rest for her, only staring into the dark until the sun rose and Bug began to stir beside her. 

Almost mindlessly, Dove walks, back and forth across the wooden floor, listening as the planks squeak and groan beneath her steps. It is monotonous enough work to distract her mind from wandering, but rhythmic enough to tug down on her eyelids . . . And silly enough she was certain she looked a fool: dressed in her night clothes, padding back and forth, eyes half-lidded and yet intently focused on each step taken. 

The only thing that breaks this pattern in an addition of foot steps entering the room. Dove raises her head, attempting to blink that tired feeling out of her eyes.  “You’re up late.” She offers Lark a smile, small but genuine. “Trouble sleeping, or you just up wreaking havoc on Eel?” A joke, the smile pulling into a playful grin.

She crosses her arms across her chest, as though to warm herself from a non-existent draft. “I haven’t seen you since after we got off the train.” Dove was slowly beginning to piece together what else occurred during the robbery, through conversations had, and conversations overheard. “How are you? How was it?” Though genuine questions, Dove thinks that maybe, just maybe, if she can get Lark talking, any mention of her own time on the train may go unspoken. “I feel like we’ve got so much to catch up on.” 

[lapalcma]

oldhalo​:

@lapalcma​ FEBRUARY 4, 1:00PM. RAVEN’S REST, EEL.

Old Halo knew well that Dove wasn’t her biggest fan. It hadn’t been hard to figure out why, considering she only grew icy after figuring out Old Halo’s past — it was the exact same reason most outlaws who knew her background distrusted her. But with Dove, it seemed different. More vehement. Personal, if she had to put just one word to it.

If she hated her, someone who wasn’t even involved in the Faith anymore, it only stood to reason that she hated those Revenants on the train even more. She didn’t want to prod at an open wound, so she didn’t seek her out, but she couldn’t get the thought of her off her mind.

She was at the stables, watching her ugly old horse, Flea, and thinking about Dove and Revenants when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned her head and there she was, as if the Martyr himself had delivered Dove to her. And who was she to say no to the Martyr?

“Dove!” she called, smile warm and friendly as ever, despite the hostility she expected. “I’ve been meaning to check in. How are you settling into Eel? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Dove had resolved that night as the gang settled in at the inn, and Bug crawled into bed — a real bed — that all she needed was a good night’s rest to shake away the disorientation of the day. The . . . mess on the train had left her frazzled, a chagrined cloud following her off the train car into Eel. A good night’s rest, a reset of the mind, and all would be well again; she’d be back to herself.

When she woke the next day to Bug’s morning babble, the cloud had yet to pass. The frustration overwhelmed her. Frustration with herself for her cowardice, frustration with Paragon for his meddling, frustration that it was even a situation she had to endure. That frustration had permeated into her morning, mingling with her speech, her interactions. It was far from intentional, and with each snip or short turn of phrase, she only slipped deeper into her frustration. 

She wanted to be alone; to sit with her frustration, understand it. But their current situation made it feel impossible. She sought another member of the gang, implored them to keep an eye on Bug while she tended to her horse out back. Though it was a chore she had been meaning to do, it gave her an excuse to escape, even just for a few minutes.

Dove thought she had accounted for each member of the gang before heading out, thought she’d be the only one out back. It’s hard to hide her frustration, realizing that isn’t the case. And, out of everyone she could’ve run into, of course it was Old Halo. 

Her lips press into a hard, unamused line in response to Old Halo’s smile. There’s a moment where she considers walking away, turning around as if she simply . . . hadn’t seen her. Instead, she approaches her horse producing an apple from her pocket. “I’m fine.” A curt response, as she offers the apple on a flat palm, which her horse happily receives. “Eel’s fine, Bug’s fine, everything’s fine. Don’t need nothing from you, don’t want nothing I can’t get myself.” An attempt at pleasantry. 

She pauses, eyes trained on her horse, chewing away at the treat. After a moment of silence, she turns to look at Old Halo, really look at her, eye to eye — perhaps, for the first time since learning of the other woman’s past. Dove’s tone is harsh as she speaks, even for the distaste she holds for Old Halo, “What do you want? I highly doubt you just wanted to check up on me . . . Did you hear about what happened on the train — that what this’s about?”  

[lapalcma]

ofparagon​:

𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝟗:𝟎𝟎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 — FEB 3RD, 2349. 6:10PM. THE GRENVILLE’S FIRST PASSENGER CAR. | @lapalcma​

They say a man can’t shape the world as he wills it, but when the doors of the Grenville’s first car clunk open and Paragon steps on through: oh, he feels like he can.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery!”

Dove fires off that starting shot that splits the thickened silence. Sends his ears ringing and a strangled hush rolling out across the passengers. Sends his placid smile ticking wider. He tilts his head, slips his hat off, and holds it gallant-like over the heart. “Now, we don’t want to do harm—” he addresses his captive audience. Second row, left: a lady draws her child closer. Fifth row, right: a gentleman goes reaching for something. Paragon’s stare bores in, singling the man out as his brows tick up. “Assumin’ we can avoid it. We can avoid it, right?” The man’s hands withdraw, his sweat-beaded brow knitting in shame.

“That’s what I like to hear!” He commends their agreeable silence.

Paragon flips his hat down from his heart, unfurling his arm in a sweeping offer. “Now, this part’s easy. We’re here to relieve you of your burdens,” he drawls. “All that Divinity, weighin’ you down.” He steps up between the first row. Gives a resolute not and curt instruction. “Valuables in the hat, all of you. Or answer to my friend here, who, well—” to liven up the warning, he asks Dove herself—glancing over his shoulder. “You feelin’ charitable, today?”

Heart pounding in her chest, skin slick against the revolver resting against her palm — Dove did not possess the same grace in matters of criminality that seemed to come so effortlessly to Paragon. 

But grace did not matter now, not to her. She had a part to play, same as him. Paragon speaks in that soothing, honey soaked drawl and she reacts, sending a round straight through the roof of the traincar. She wants to wince, shake the deafening ring out of her ears. She has a part to play, and so she remains. Unwavering and steady — don’t let them see your hand shake. 

A nauseating cocktail of adrenaline, confidence and anxiety courses through her veins, only encouraging each step forward. Her gaze shifts from one passenger to another, watching as the more easily persuaded passengers recoil from the walkway, finding some sense of safety pressed against the walls of the train. There was a part of her that wanted to feel guilty, and yet . . .

"Charitable?” Dove chuckles, a sardonic smile taking shape on her lips. “Far from it.” There’s hesitation, she can sense it in the uncomfortable shuffling of passengers as they ghost over their belongings. She inhales, exhaling a loud groan as she raises the revolver back into the sightline of the passengers. Her trigger finger remains ready, hovering just over the trigger. A reminder, a threat. 

One of the passengers closest to her shoves a dingy looking necklace, dated by the warm patina glossed over the metal surface, towards them. Dove takes it in her free hand, dangling it just in front of her face to inspect it. It’s plain on her face just how unimpressed she is. “How embarrassing.” She tosses it into the hat regardless before addressing the rest of the train car. “Y’all are gonna like me a whole lot less by the end of this if I have to make you give my partner your valuables.” 

The shuffling of divinity, amongst other, clunkier valuables, almost erupts down the train car.  It made her feel . . . Powerful. Leaning over to Paragon, Dove smiles and speaks real low, “I’m startin’ to think that old hat of yours may not be enough to carry all the gifts our new friends are gonna give us . . .”

[derangedrhythms]

Sara Teasdale, from 'Two Songs for Solitude; The Crystal Gazer' published in 'American Poetry, 1922: A Miscellany'

[chuckhansen]