It's Conditional || Nora & Regan
TIMING: Current LOCATION: Saol Eile, Cliodhna's house. PARTIES: Regan @kadavernagh and Hamstring @honeysmokedham SUMMARY: Regan is ready to go against her training. She's ready to tell Hamstring what Declan is supposed to be.
“Declan is going to die in front of you. That’s how it works. You are going to love him, and he will die because of it.”
The thought of opposing Fate, of even thinking about it let alone suggesting it, roiled in Regan’s stomach like her grandmother’s cooking. Yet she was doing just that. As if the clandestine plans she had made with Wynne weren’t bad enough (but she didn’t need to be part of them herself, she didn’t, she was going to think about it, and that’s what she was doing, not–) her attempt to convince the ham child that this place wasn’t what she thought, was in direct opposition to Fate. Declan was going to die, and practically all of Saol Eile knew it. How many banshees had screamed for him already? And even if, somehow, someway, he managed to escape his destiny, they could not let him leave this place alive.
Yet Regan was still going to try one more time. The way her chest felt loaded down with rocks was surely a response to the disobedience possessing her, and not out of the compassion she was still trying to exile. Regan waited until her grandmother had left – there was a highly-anticipated worm race in preparation of the holiday – and found the ham child in the guestroom, drawing something, and becoming less and less like a guest every day. That was about to end. “Who’s that one for? Declan? We need to discuss him.” She couldn’t count the number of times she had declared that, then been brushed off, or ducked away herself, too cowardly to say what was necessary and go against her kin. This was the first time she had broached the subject since actually seeing Declan, screaming for him, though. And if she had any hope of pulling the child out of here in the short window they might have soon, she had to strip the paint from whatever rosy walls the child gazed into all day.
She invited herself past the threshold of the door (was it inviting? This was her place of residence) and leaned stiffly against the wall as the child sketched out some of the finer details of a badger’s skull. The child was talented, there was no doubt, but something stung like dirt rubbed into an open wound whenever Regan walked by one of the drawings adorning the walls where there had previously been only blank space. Cliodhna was fond of them. She did not smile, but the small grunt of approval at that first drawing of a dead cow replayed in Regan’s head, where bitterness gnawed like it had teeth.
Regan watched, sternly, pointedly, before realizing the child was too absorbed in what she was doing to listen (and probably wouldn’t even so; it was no wonder Emilio let her do as she pleased). Had the child even heard her before? Regan cleared her throat, tight and controlled; it would have broken nothing. “I will first say what I’ve said every time I’ve spoken to you: leave, because I am not.” It was lip service at this point. The child wouldn’t, even though this was detrimental to the both of them. And as for Regan… she glanced down at the ring on her finger, the one she had almost lost in the lake for making her feel like even half a person every time she saw it, and she had lost the ability to pin her failures on it.
The child’s assent did not come; of course, the child would not go either. Regan had a decent idea of what would get her attention. “I met Declan. He had an appointment with me. Did he tell you about that?” She was probing for potential knowledge about what Declan was, the honor that awaited him (had the child been a banshee…). Her wings flicked in agitation. “You don’t listen. I’m doing this to you as a favor right now.”
—---
Each day the barrier between guestroom and her room was dissolving, the letters of guest morphing into something adjacent to home. After discovering, and approving of, Hamstring's drawing prowess, Cliodhna had supplied her with paper and charcoal, in return Hamstring had been making her art. The older banshee appreciated the grotesque and morbid art Hamstring was supplying, something the humans in Wicked's Rest would blanche at; shuffling away with muttered lines of distress because monsters were what haunted them and not what they appreciated.
This badger skull was a new one for Cliodhna. When she returned from the worm races, they would have bone broth and discuss banshee things. Cliodhna's English was confusing. Sometimes she spoke in easy-to-understand phrases that followed all conventions of English grammar. Other times her questions felt badly translated, "Is your flesh ready?" "Are you bonded?" To which Hamstring would employ years of media training. You see, telling interviewers you don't understand their questions is rude. It makes you look uninformed, and being uninformed means you don't care. Instead, you deflect the question, bringing up something new. Deflections were easy when Hamstring was genuinely curious about the giant worm statue and the story that goes with it.
The heavy thrum of instruments slamming and a "vocalist" screaming leaked out of Hamstring's headphones. Head down, her fingers worked on the fine shading of the badger's skull. Hamstring discovered that Cliodhna liked her bone art to be true to the source, but she still added a twist of her own, a break near the temple where a knife and worm were entwined. A whisper of words, catching on Declan, brought Hamstring to attention that she wasn't alone. Hamstring looked up, slipping off the headphones and staring blankly at Regan. This was new. Normally it was Hamstring walking into Regan's room every morning, asking the banshee if she was ready to go home yet. "Sup?" Hamstring was considerate enough to turn the music off, eyes plastering on Regan.
"I want to leave Regan." That wasn't true anymore, it was a lie that slipped easily from her tongue to dance in the space between them. A jester performing for his king out of duty and not out of joy. Because if Hamstring left, her days of lounging by the waterfall with Declan would end. That alone was enough to chain her to Saol Eile for the rest of her life, despite the promises she'd made to return to Wicked's Rest. But they wanted her there in one piece. Return whole, is what she had promised. Declan - and this was hard to explain- felt like a piece of her. Leaving him and returning would break something in her. A broken promise. A broken Hamstring. Those were too many breaks, it was easier to stay here, where life was simple.
"But we both know I can't without you. If you want me gone, say you're ready and we'll be out by tonight." Regan wouldn't call her bluff, Hamstring knew, Regan was still searching for something here. Hamstring suspected that something was supposed to stop Regan from feeling like an outsider and fit in. What Hamstring had found here. In Hamstring’s mind, the jealousy of seeing Hamstring fit in this place she was forced to run from, was tearing them apart. Constantly Regan would turn the other way if she saw Hamstring coming, avoid conversation with her, or simply make an excuse to leave her presence. But Hamstring understood. Hamstring knew the bitter feeling of watching someone else thrive where you longed to simply belong, so she didn’t hold it against Regan. Hamstring would also have given anything to help Regan find that missing piece. Maybe with it, she’d feel confident enough to return home to those waiting for her. Or happier with their life in Saol Eile.
“No, he didn’t tell me,” Hamstring answered, looking up with a question at Regan. Regan had been telling Hamstring to be careful around Declan since the moment they met. To leave him alone, give him space. So while Declan had told Hamstring about his doctor's appointment, the lie was once again easier. To stop a familiar argument from repeating. It would be a waste of time, a record on repeat forced to play the same song over and over again. Hamstring took a deep sigh, looking back down at her art and starting again. “And what is this huge favor, Regan?”
—------
Hamstring didn’t want to leave. If Regan said she was ready to go right now, would the child even go with her? (She wasn’t ready to go (she might have been ready to go), not unless– and even then, how– no, she couldn’t leave, even if she wanted to (did she? Did it matter? (yes, there were things that mattered, people that mattered, one person (Jade, it was Jade (did she get the message?). But her brothers were also (what about her mom? And her dad would have hated to see her here, it was what he spent his whole life trying to avoid))– and they would never know why, would never understand. (but what if they could?)) who mattered so much she–) Did anything matter beyond these short, wind-up toy lives the humans had?), and she didn’t want to, she didn’t, don’t think about the lake (the plan, there was a plan, a loose plan, but a–), focus on them).
Regan frowned, trying to ignore what was definitely indigestion (she was a medical doctor).
But no. Hamstring had Declan here. She had been able to reinvent herself even if it was as something she was not: the child was able to do what Regan couldn’t. No wonder her grandmother approved. Sometimes Regan wondered if Hamstring remembered she wasn’t really Hamstring. The way she looked at Cliodhna with admiration that Regan never possessed for her grandmother… it wasn’t going to last. Declan was going to die, and Hamstring had to be gone before his body grew cold. And Regan sat complacently by. She had. She held Declan up at the clinic for an unnecessary examination to keep the two of them away from each other, her efforts to tell Declan of what else was out there came from a half-stone heart, and if it hadn’t been for Wynne, for the lake, she was not sure she would have been brave enough to be standing here right now.
Bravery often felt like the worst kind of foolishness, didn’t it? Could a coward be brave? Would her grandmother have looked upon her boldness and declared that it came from a weak heart wrapped in undisciplined muscle and a body attached to wings and lungs she did not deserve?
Regan’s gaze dropped. The child’s question was not what it seemed – not only did Hamstring not really want to leave, but leaving without Regan was still out of the question. Regan wouldn’t play her hand yet. “I don’t know what your plan was. You can’t get out the same way you got in. They wouldn’t… even if I… they wouldn’t let me leave again. There is no walking out.” Which didn’t mean she wanted to go (but–). She couldn’t want. She didn’t. She hadn’t. She couldn’t. Yet worry about those back h– in Wicked’s Rest hooked onto her skin even more than the feeling of fae all around her, and that tiny, stupid, remaining ember of hope for something better kept sparking no matter how many attempts she made to drown it out.
She had told Wynne she would think. This was thinking. That indigestion really was homicidal.
Wynne left the lake yesterday, sensing that the purpose of this journey here had been worthwhile, feeling the victory of a successful mission, if only they could wait her out for a few more days. Regan remained deeply uncertain. When she came back here last night, Cliodhna’s eyes tracked her in. Her grandmother was silent, until she wasn’t.
“You breathe,” her grandmother had remarked, and Regan registered the concealed disgust in her tone.
“Yes.”
Regan had meant it as assent, agreement, that she had failed and would always fail. Her grandmother had raised a brow and let her slink upstairs. Only now did Regan recognize the defiant edge that had developed that day. She did not feel nearly as sharp as that single, cutting word.
Her disobedience made her feel the burn of the lie she’d told here weeks ago to keep the child away from her grandmother’s scream, it forced her to remember the other lie she’d told at the clinic to afford Wynne and Elias enough time to get out of here if they were smart enough to use it, it made her recall how she spoke of cremation with Declan in a voice so quiet it did not feel like it came from her lungs, it reminded her how obvious the message she’d sent yesterday had been, how even Wynne knew who Regan had been inspired to talk to. There was a common thread weaving all of these together, and it was not Fate, but something more tangible.
It made clear, finally, why she was standing here right now. Regardless of whether she remained here or not, she cared.
“Listen to me.”
Regan wasn’t sure how much she believed that Declan didn’t immediately run to the child after that appointment, but it almost didn’t matter. Declan wouldn’t have told Hamstring what Regan was able to tell her about the rites. All of Hamstring’s gratitude was reserved for Cliodhna, though, not her.
The child was as stubborn as Regan was desperate. “Put your pencil down and listen to me. The favor is information.” Information she was supposed to spill to the child weeks ago. She had tried, though, she had. Just… not that persistently. Not like this. Never like this. Regan rolled the back of her skull against the wall. She wasn’t supposed to tell humans any of this, but right now, Hamstring was not in a position a human would ever be in. Regan had put her there. “Declan is… he’s part of your an chéad scread. You’ve heard my grandmother mention that, yes? Of course you have. It’s all she talks about.” If Hamstring heard bitterness seething behind her words, no she did not. “It’s a rite. We all go through it. I did. And the second it happens for you, you’re going to be revealed as a fraud. You won’t scream. You won’t have wings. You will break, but not in the way you’re supposed to.” And Regan hadn’t even begun to think about what might happen to her for perpetuating this lie. “Let me guess. She’s asking you about how fond you are of Declan, and how prepared you are to accept what’s yours, or something along those lines.”
She had never asked Regan any of that. She just… she just…
Regan tried to stand a little straighter, pushing her shoulders up, but she wasn’t sure she’d be standing had the wall not been propping her there. Never had she spoken of this so plainly with anyone, and it felt like a betrayal coating her mouth with ash, even though her heart told her it wasn’t a betrayal at all; it was exactly what she needed to say. Like the protective lies, like telling Declan about her father’s smile, like sliding her ring back on her finger.
“Declan is going to die in front of you. That’s how it works. You are going to love him, and he will die because of it.”
—--------
"There is always a way out. We could steal one of the cars. We could walk. I can turn into a bear and you can ride me out. You have a personal entourage of talented people, and Elias. We'll make a way out for you." This was their impasse, the reason Hamstring knew she'd have more time with Declan. A rock pressing against a hard place, each expecting the other to move, each an immovable force. What was that book she'd started reading? Greek mythology was always good for comparisons. Perhaps Regan was Sisyphus, pushing the boulder Hamstring up the hill to send her home, and each day Hamstring would roll back down, starting the day in Regan's room, proudly proclaiming she was still there with her presence. Or the metaphor could go the other way. Hamstring had never been good at metaphors.
Regan had a serious tone. Combined with the fact this was the most Regan had spoken to Hamstring in days, she decided to take this seriously. Hamstring placed her charcoal down, and turned in her chair so she was facing Regan dead on. Blank eyes staring at blank eyes. A contest of emotionless presenting. Hamstring had heard of her chead scread, an event she assumed was the banshee equivalent of a debutante ball. Which, by the way, was something she only escaped having because of its roots in white supremacy and was not feminist, as her dads put it. Hamstring knew her dads would have loved to present her to all their peers in a ball gown with a dance. Actually, hadn't that been what happened anyway? This was not paying attention. Hamstring drew her mind from her past, the past that didn't matter now that she was Hamstring.
Hamstring took a moment to digest everything Regan was saying. It was a loud accusation. It felt like a slap. A sting of pain shot through her body. Hamstring had to sit with it for a moment. Why did these words hurt? "I ran away from my home." Hamstring looked away from Regan, her eyes searching the bright blue sky out the window. Anything but eye contact. "I wasn't good at being my fathers' daughter. I didn't fit into their idea of family and success. I'm a monster. And they are human. It was never going to fit. They loved me. I love them. But I could never love myself there." Her hand started tapping at the desk. The only sign, in a perfectly crafted mask of indifference, that something was wrong.
"Two years after I left, they adopted a new baby. She's... just a kid. But I think she'll be a better fit than I ever was." A moment, a pause. A silence. "It hurts to see her take my place. Fit in better. Be where I should be and do it right, knowing that I could never." A deep breath. "I'm sorry that's what I'm doing to you here. I would help you, if I knew what I was doing right. This shouldn't be you vs me. It's us vs them. Which is why I don't understand." Another deep breath, as the anger started to boil over. "Why you're trying to scare me again? Every time I do things you don't like, you do this. You tell me someone is going to die. I broke into your house, suddenly I'm going to die. I'm getting close to Declan, fitting in here, and you don't want me, so I better leave so Declan doesn't die?"
Hamstring was on her feet now, her monotone tinted with emotion. "I know it sucks. But that's not my fault." The anger was too much for Hamstring. She started shoving her way past Regan, intent on leaving the house, putting some distance between them and walking this big emotion off. Maybe then she'd be ready to deal with it.
—--------
“You will leave even if it’s without me.” Regan was firm, giving her final words on the matter, knowing that it would likely come down to this, and much sooner than the child thought. She would hate Regan for the rest of her life, but she’d be alive to do that.
Unlike… it wasn’t what Regan had expected, the way the revelation of Declan’s death seemed to wick right through the child’s face. It hadn’t been absorbed, only heard. If the child were to move her head, Regan might see the sentiment dripping out of her ears. “Are you listening? I told you to pay attention. Declan is going to die.” And as she said it, Regan realized her mistake. Not one right now (though she was sure there were many now too), but months ago. Why should the ham child believe her about someone’s death when, in a moment of perceived retribution, she had managed to make the girl think her death was near? That she had taken off into the mines shortly after – Regan’s words no doubt on her mind – was something Regan still tried not to think about. Even though Regan didn’t think she was getting to the child, Hamstring did still have a thoughtful look on her face, one aimed toward the past and not the future.
When the child did eventually speak, it was a seeming non-sequitur. Her being a runaway made sense. Regan always knew there was something, some personal interest, that kept her personally involved in Regan’s situation. In hiding in Regan’s luggage, she had been seeking something for herself, too. Regan didn’t even pretend to know where this was going, not that it mattered – the child was doing everything she possibly could to not even look in Regan’s direction. “Why… why would you run away if they loved you?” She probably shouldn’t have asked, but she did; she had known a family that loved her, and the only force that could have pulled her away from them was Fate itself. Something else slipped across her mind, but if it was irony, it was gone before she could see it. And Regan did understand not fitting in, never being able to measure up. She did. Was that the child’s point? No, that didn’t seem right.
It hurts to see her take my place.
That was it. A connection she never would have made on her own sparked, making her hair raise as if it generated static. “What?” The t came out hard, flipping out of her mouth. A couple of days ago, she might have been able to hold it back, to keep her lip from curling and her brow from lowering, but now the accusation skimmed off her epidermis. She stood up straight, pushing herself off the wall.
“Are you out of your blistering mind? You think I’m jealous? You think…” Regan had to bite her tongue to keep from snapping in the wrong direction, “This is not some adoption, dúisigh. My grandmother does not adopt. Have you watched her at all, downstairs, with the animals? The carcasses with blood crusted around their ears? She deafens them and hollows them out, displays their pelts as triumphs, and then she is proud.” Hamstring didn’t see it. “She is proud of her rows and rows of patellas, selected and cleaned and organized precisely how she wishes. The first words she spoke to me after she– after my– she said ‘at least your wings will be impressive’.” Desperation seeped from Regan’s voice in too many places for her to plug up. She had been leaking since walking out of that lake, shoulders hung in defeat, and it would take decades to undo it. If she ever could. She suspected she couldn’t. After all… it wasn’t working.
Hamstring was not tolerating any of this well either, though probably for other reasons. She had never heard the child speak this much of her past, and for it to surface in this way– did she feel robbed? Like she had bounced around looking for something like this for years, and finally found it? Regan didn’t care. She was going to feel robbed of so much more if she didn’t listen. “Stop!” It came out as a screech that sent a stab of humiliation through her. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The door swung on its hinges, Hamstring pushing out. Regan chased the child down the stairs and found the front door much the same, with only Hamstring’s silhouette ahead. “You’re not listening to me. He’s– he’ll– it isn’t about fitting in. He’s–” Outside. They were outside. And all of Saol Eile could hear this. Regan’s mouth dropped open. She debated following, but she couldn’t keep up with a bear, nor would it be good to provoke the child to become one. With one last breath, one last attempt, Regan called after her. “It’s conditional.”
