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I — yeah, (Abby sort of sighs, and rubs the back of her neck.) I hope it's random. I don't think I can... save everybody, that's kind of a lot. (Like, maybe one or two people would be fine? Max.)
Or... (Shrug,) I dunno, it's kinda cool thinking that we were brought here because we needed it, not you guys. Sorry.
Or... (Shrug,) I dunno, it's kinda cool thinking that we were brought here because we needed it, not you guys. Sorry.
Oh boy.
Abby takes a breath and finds she can't quite look at him when she says this. "You got pretty angry with everybody trying to talk to you. Yelled a lot. And, uh — you were shitty to Xiomara, because she's an elf.
"We know it wasn't you," she hastens to add. "Just looked like you. I figured there was something wrong when you started calling me an asshole for no reason."
Abby takes a breath and finds she can't quite look at him when she says this. "You got pretty angry with everybody trying to talk to you. Yelled a lot. And, uh — you were shitty to Xiomara, because she's an elf.
"We know it wasn't you," she hastens to add. "Just looked like you. I figured there was something wrong when you started calling me an asshole for no reason."
Yes, he was correct. She takes a moment to assess that stance — both familiar in that she sort of remembers a way to get around it, but thinks it's more likely that she could smash through it and surprise him — before she lunges forward, all offence. She's not changed up her weapon either, she's coming at him with the training mace and no shield combination she usually rocks in battle.
And all of the power behind it, too.
She's gonna tuck in and try barrel hard through his shield and sword set-up, leading hard with one shoulder.
And all of the power behind it, too.
She's gonna tuck in and try barrel hard through his shield and sword set-up, leading hard with one shoulder.
Clarisse's voice breaking on her name dislodges Abby instantly.
"Hey." She scoots her body across the tent and opens her arms instantly. This time, she won't keep herself from reaching out to her best friend in the face of the worst happening (of course she's thinking about Granitefell; somehow, it was easier than this. Why is it easier to walk to your death than to lose somebody important?). She lets go of Clarisse's arm but only so she can wrap her in an embrace, pulling her bodily closer. Holding on. Holding them both together, tight as she can.
"I'm here," she says. Her voice is low, a little trembly. The rain is so loud on the roof of the tent. "I'm still here."
Shitty consolation prize, huh? But it's all Abby has right now. God, she hopes it can be enough.
"Hey." She scoots her body across the tent and opens her arms instantly. This time, she won't keep herself from reaching out to her best friend in the face of the worst happening (of course she's thinking about Granitefell; somehow, it was easier than this. Why is it easier to walk to your death than to lose somebody important?). She lets go of Clarisse's arm but only so she can wrap her in an embrace, pulling her bodily closer. Holding on. Holding them both together, tight as she can.
"I'm here," she says. Her voice is low, a little trembly. The rain is so loud on the roof of the tent. "I'm still here."
Shitty consolation prize, huh? But it's all Abby has right now. God, she hopes it can be enough.
She wouldn't have ever asked for it, but when Abby reaches out and pulls her into a hug Clarisse falls into it. She presses her face against Abby's shoulder and holds onto her like she's terrified of what will happen if she lets go.
When Silena died, nobody touched her. She just held the body and wept and eventually she got up and went into battle. And nobody touched her, even long after the enemy had retreated. Chris hung back. Waiting, he said later, for her to tire herself out.
This time there is no body to cry over. And it doesn't make sense. She can understand death, and tragedy, and loss. But in this way, where the other person just disappears, and there is no closure and no reason? She can't wrap her head around this. It feels like she's drowning in the contradictions of it, and the only thing she can do is cry into Abby's shirt and hold on tighter.
When Silena died, nobody touched her. She just held the body and wept and eventually she got up and went into battle. And nobody touched her, even long after the enemy had retreated. Chris hung back. Waiting, he said later, for her to tire herself out.
This time there is no body to cry over. And it doesn't make sense. She can understand death, and tragedy, and loss. But in this way, where the other person just disappears, and there is no closure and no reason? She can't wrap her head around this. It feels like she's drowning in the contradictions of it, and the only thing she can do is cry into Abby's shirt and hold on tighter.
She's faster than he is, no question. Age aside, they're the same height, so he doesn't have much of a reach advantage. But he doesn't need to go far if he's correctly gauged that she's committed her momentum.
He moves to the side as late in the charge as he dares, letting the mace glance off the shield instead of hitting it head-on. He has only a moment before she turns, and he tries to use it to get a blow on her arm as she passes him. It's a testing strike as much as anything; how much is she paying attention to defense?
He moves to the side as late in the charge as he dares, letting the mace glance off the shield instead of hitting it head-on. He has only a moment before she turns, and he tries to use it to get a blow on her arm as she passes him. It's a testing strike as much as anything; how much is she paying attention to defense?
Abby keeps feeling like Ellie's going to walk back in at any moment. She can sort of imagine Ellie coming in and seeing Clarisse in her arms — something out of a sitcom, funny and stupid, a misunderstanding. But she isn't coming back, the thought shattered, rebuilt, shattered again when Clarisse slumps her weight into her and cries into her shirt hard, holds her even harder.
This is so horribly familiar. Losing someone; the little moments where you look instinctively for them and realise all over again that they are never going to be there again; when you forget temporarily while you're distracted with something else, then remember and feel guilty. She's done this before, so many times.
Abby can't tell if she cries because she's upset, or if she's crying because Clarisse is crying and listening to her hurts. Either way she doesn't move. She holds onto her just as tight, wet cheek pressed against her head.
This is so horribly familiar. Losing someone; the little moments where you look instinctively for them and realise all over again that they are never going to be there again; when you forget temporarily while you're distracted with something else, then remember and feel guilty. She's done this before, so many times.
Abby can't tell if she cries because she's upset, or if she's crying because Clarisse is crying and listening to her hurts. Either way she doesn't move. She holds onto her just as tight, wet cheek pressed against her head.
Not at all. She takes that strike, grimacing, the brief chafe of the wood on her arm unpleasant but not enough to stop her from carrying the momentum through. Worth it, to be hit once but return a harder strike. In battle, Abby usually only needs one blow; this is not an actual battle but her reply is not testing, and she slams her mace down hard on Vanya's shield with the intent to knock it out of his hands (or him off-balance).
Out here, she doesn't have to think about anything else; it's safe. Her muscles burn, and Abby feels good.
Out here, she doesn't have to think about anything else; it's safe. Her muscles burn, and Abby feels good.
It hurts. Something wrenched out of her chest, replaced, ripped out again. It feels like the kind of pain that should, at some point, reach a peak and then start to recede, but it doesn't. It only seems to get worse, and worse, and worse.
She lifts her head and looks at Abby, trying to find some kind of reason, some kind of relief. There isn't one. Abby's crying, too. And later Clarisse will see that it was wrong to expect something so insurmountable from her. She'll understand that Abby is hurting, too, in a way that must be far more complicated and fragile than her own grief.
Right now she can't stop herself. The hurt is too huge.
"I don't understand," she chokes out, "I don't understand, I don't understand how she could just... leave, and be gone, in the middle of the night, and never come back, I—what should I have done?"
There has to be something she could have done to keep Ellie tethered to this place. She could have been better, done more, not taken it as a matter of course that she'd close her eyes and that Ellie would still be there when she opened them again. Not taken it so much for granted that someone had loved her, chosen her, out of everyone she could have had. She could have been someone worth staying for.
Clarisse puts both hands over her mouth like she's going to be sick, like if she presses hard enough she can keep her grief from spilling out. The sobs just keep coming, so forceful that she can barely breathe.
"Why wasn't I enough to keep her here?"
She lifts her head and looks at Abby, trying to find some kind of reason, some kind of relief. There isn't one. Abby's crying, too. And later Clarisse will see that it was wrong to expect something so insurmountable from her. She'll understand that Abby is hurting, too, in a way that must be far more complicated and fragile than her own grief.
Right now she can't stop herself. The hurt is too huge.
"I don't understand," she chokes out, "I don't understand, I don't understand how she could just... leave, and be gone, in the middle of the night, and never come back, I—what should I have done?"
There has to be something she could have done to keep Ellie tethered to this place. She could have been better, done more, not taken it as a matter of course that she'd close her eyes and that Ellie would still be there when she opened them again. Not taken it so much for granted that someone had loved her, chosen her, out of everyone she could have had. She could have been someone worth staying for.
Clarisse puts both hands over her mouth like she's going to be sick, like if she presses hard enough she can keep her grief from spilling out. The sobs just keep coming, so forceful that she can barely breathe.
"Why wasn't I enough to keep her here?"
Edited 2024-07-18 01:45 (UTC)
"Hey." Her voice breaks on the word and a few more tears well up hotly, skipping down her cheeks when she blinks. "Don't do that."
Yeah she's saying it for Clarisse — it's heart-wrenching, that she would assume this is somehow her fault — but she's saying it for herself too, because she doesn't know how to begin talking Clarisse down from the ledge of this idea. It's not like Abby can offer hard proof or reassurance of any kind, not when nobody even knows why rifters disappear when they do or like they do, with no warning, like they'd never been there in the first place.
She takes Clarisse's shoulders, smoothing her thumbs up and down her arms. Is reassurance even going to work when she's got tears in her eyes? Her throat hurts so bad, there's a spike in it. "It's not you. Okay? It would never be you."
Clarisse has her hands over her mouth. Her breath comes through her fingers in quick, ragged gasps. Abby changes track: she takes her wrists, eases her hands from her mouth and holds them tight. They're clammy from Clarisse's rough, wet breathing, filmy with tears, but she links their fingers together, she squeezes her hard. She raises her voice. "Clarisse, listen to me. If there was a way to keep people here for good, we would have figured it out by now. This isn't on you — or her."
But she gets why it hurts, why it feels like somebody should take the blame. The only thing they can point fingers at is a fucking rip in the sky.
Yeah she's saying it for Clarisse — it's heart-wrenching, that she would assume this is somehow her fault — but she's saying it for herself too, because she doesn't know how to begin talking Clarisse down from the ledge of this idea. It's not like Abby can offer hard proof or reassurance of any kind, not when nobody even knows why rifters disappear when they do or like they do, with no warning, like they'd never been there in the first place.
She takes Clarisse's shoulders, smoothing her thumbs up and down her arms. Is reassurance even going to work when she's got tears in her eyes? Her throat hurts so bad, there's a spike in it. "It's not you. Okay? It would never be you."
Clarisse has her hands over her mouth. Her breath comes through her fingers in quick, ragged gasps. Abby changes track: she takes her wrists, eases her hands from her mouth and holds them tight. They're clammy from Clarisse's rough, wet breathing, filmy with tears, but she links their fingers together, she squeezes her hard. She raises her voice. "Clarisse, listen to me. If there was a way to keep people here for good, we would have figured it out by now. This isn't on you — or her."
But she gets why it hurts, why it feels like somebody should take the blame. The only thing they can point fingers at is a fucking rip in the sky.
[ she laughs ]
No, you're my eternal lover. I think you got a solid 15 when I did it.
No, you're my eternal lover. I think you got a solid 15 when I did it.
[ pfft ]
Wow. Okay, see you back at the tent, lover.
Wow. Okay, see you back at the tent, lover.
Abby squeezes her hands tight and Clarisse takes a gasping shudder of a breath in response. Everything looks blurry and unreal. Her eyelashes are wet, her cheeks feel hot, her chest aches.
She can't speak to acknowledge the things Abby is telling her. She only listens, absorbing the words and tucking them away to go over again later, later when she's not so close to the knife's edge of this and can start to process it. Later. But the thought of the hours and days stretching out in front of her is its own gut punch.
All that time ahead of them, without Ellie in it.
Clarisse makes a little moaning sound, sick. "Don't leave," she begs, like it's something Abby can promise her, like by saying it out loud they can stop the worst thing from happening. Maybe it's even true. She and Ellie never said those words to each other: don't leave, don't go back. They never thought they had to.
"Don't leave. I don't know what I'd do."
She can't speak to acknowledge the things Abby is telling her. She only listens, absorbing the words and tucking them away to go over again later, later when she's not so close to the knife's edge of this and can start to process it. Later. But the thought of the hours and days stretching out in front of her is its own gut punch.
All that time ahead of them, without Ellie in it.
Clarisse makes a little moaning sound, sick. "Don't leave," she begs, like it's something Abby can promise her, like by saying it out loud they can stop the worst thing from happening. Maybe it's even true. She and Ellie never said those words to each other: don't leave, don't go back. They never thought they had to.
"Don't leave. I don't know what I'd do."
That one is going to hurt tomorrow; he keeps his shield, absorbing the blow between it and his arm, but the attack pushes him a step back before he can plant his feet. Templars are meant to hold lines. It's still his first instinct, but he shakes it off, moving a step or two farther back deliberately. If Abby isn't concerned with defense, he's in danger of her ending the bout while he's still considering, and distance is his best bet.
While he's moving, though, he's thinking. If she's careless of her defense, she may be easy to draw into a trap, exposing something vulnerable out of the inability to resist an inviting opening. It's just a matter of whether he can guard himself long enough to set up such a move when she's coming fast.
While he's moving, though, he's thinking. If she's careless of her defense, she may be easy to draw into a trap, exposing something vulnerable out of the inability to resist an inviting opening. It's just a matter of whether he can guard himself long enough to set up such a move when she's coming fast.
"I'm not gonna leave." This is wildly wrong of her to say, it's not something she gets to decide. Abby has already considered that Ellie arrived only months before her, is this... heralding something? Is this the warning shot? She has no idea but she does know that she doesn't want to go and wouldn't choose to either, if she ever got to. Knowing that makes it easier to hold Clarisse so tight. "We're gonna stay here, both of us. You and me."
Together.
It doesn't make losing Ellie so abruptly more bearable, but it will. Eventually it will.
God, she's basically implying that Ellie chose to go or left on purpose. How dare she, Abby would never do that, not to Clarisse. Ugh. It's not like she's any better, just that she doesn't know what else to do other than lash herself to Clarisse as tight as she can right now to ride out the storm. It's just for now.
"It'll be okay."
Not it is, but it will be. And she pries a hand away to pat Clarisse's shoulder, soothing, then her back. She rubs up and down her spine. She has barely-there memories of being a kid, soothed like this after a nightmare or injury. Something that could be healed over time.
Together.
It doesn't make losing Ellie so abruptly more bearable, but it will. Eventually it will.
God, she's basically implying that Ellie chose to go or left on purpose. How dare she, Abby would never do that, not to Clarisse. Ugh. It's not like she's any better, just that she doesn't know what else to do other than lash herself to Clarisse as tight as she can right now to ride out the storm. It's just for now.
"It'll be okay."
Not it is, but it will be. And she pries a hand away to pat Clarisse's shoulder, soothing, then her back. She rubs up and down her spine. She has barely-there memories of being a kid, soothed like this after a nightmare or injury. Something that could be healed over time.
It's not like it's anything Abby can control, but it still helps, hearing her promise not to leave. That they'll stay together. It takes what happened and twists it into something different, something that isn't predestined. Into a choice.
I feel like we were fated to meet, she'd said to Ellie over a year ago, sitting on a half-wall and watching the sun go down. But you were also my choice.
At the time it had seemed like a good thing, that strange intersection between destiny and free will. Maybe that's the trick of it. That she is fated to make the choices that will hurt her the most in the end, just like all the other heroes. She's no different from any of them.
Abby rubs her back, the palm of her hand following the curve of Clarisse's spine down and then back up again. She tries to match her breathing to it, inhale, exhale, repeat, focusing on that. And it works, sort of—a heavy exhaustion spreads through the core of her, making her feel weighed down in a way that feels almost good, because it means she's too tired to panic. She's aware of the way her eyes ache and her cheeks feel sticky with half-dried tears, and she wipes them with the hem of her shirt. Abby's still holding her other hand, and Clarisse could extract herself from it but she doesn't want to yet.
"We have to—tell everyone," she manages after a minute, grasping for something that makes sense. "Figure out what to do with all... her stuff."
I feel like we were fated to meet, she'd said to Ellie over a year ago, sitting on a half-wall and watching the sun go down. But you were also my choice.
At the time it had seemed like a good thing, that strange intersection between destiny and free will. Maybe that's the trick of it. That she is fated to make the choices that will hurt her the most in the end, just like all the other heroes. She's no different from any of them.
Abby rubs her back, the palm of her hand following the curve of Clarisse's spine down and then back up again. She tries to match her breathing to it, inhale, exhale, repeat, focusing on that. And it works, sort of—a heavy exhaustion spreads through the core of her, making her feel weighed down in a way that feels almost good, because it means she's too tired to panic. She's aware of the way her eyes ache and her cheeks feel sticky with half-dried tears, and she wipes them with the hem of her shirt. Abby's still holding her other hand, and Clarisse could extract herself from it but she doesn't want to yet.
"We have to—tell everyone," she manages after a minute, grasping for something that makes sense. "Figure out what to do with all... her stuff."
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