story_teller | IC INBOX: STORYTELLER

[Gladio turns to face the god, surprised after all of that that he'd expend the energy to appear for him. But he's glad, relieved-

That relief is very short lived.]

Tory?

[Logic dictates that he should probably not touch the godling until this quick change nonsense has finalized but he still approaches anyway, even more worried because Tory's never not settled on a form before coming down to see him.]

Tory!? [Frightened, worried, knowing there's nothing he can do and reaching out anyway, no matter that it hurts. Of course it hurts. Every movement no matter how small hurts but this is his friend.

And he jumps, startled by the clashing voices, hand jerking back and head tilting to the side to press one ear to his shoulder, his hands refusing to raise to cover his ears. Behind him, Leo turns, bolts out of the temple and roars back at the noise, terrified.]

What the hell!? [Gladio snaps back, heart racing, amber eyes wide.] I told you, I was worried... Hell of a lot more worried now. The fuck is going on, Tory?

[An amalgmation? No,]

[no,]

[preposterous --]

[ʇɥǝʎ ɥɐʌǝ ɐlʍɐʎs bǝǝn ʇɥıs ʍɐʎ]

What do you mean? You know very well what is happening. We are both wasting time. We must hurry. Hurry.

Hurry to do what Tory?

[He doesn't really know what's going on. Tory is clearly fighting with someone but who? Or what?]

What can I do to help?

[And... stupid as it may be... Gladio does, in fact, reach out to touch one furred patch of their back.]

Please.

No. No, no! Not this way!I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.
I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.
[The very air around them trembles, a quiet exhale that reverberates throughout the temple, throughout Gladio himself. Through everything.]
I thought we were okay. I thought we were okay. I thought we were okay.
Open your eyes.
[Could it truly be..?]
Please. One last time.
...A world is a heavy burden. Do not worry yourself.
Anta.
I will be fine.

[He gasps softly at the way vibration, letting his hand fall away in surprise, wincing at the strain on his arm.

A world is a heavy burden

For he and he alone would possess the power to purge our star of its scourge.]

No.

[For as worried and frightened and uncertain as he's been through this entire thing it's that last insistence. Don't worry. I'll be fine. It has to be this way. The vision of Noctis' body pinned to the very throne he would later sit on. It was enough to make him feel sick and there was a thread of steel in his voice now.

He shifts a little closer, puts a hand on Tory's shoulder, or as close as he can find. It doesn't matter what's beneath his hand, fur or feathers or scales. None of it matters because this is his friend and he will not stand by and watch them struggle.]

You're not fine. Let me help. You don't have to bear this burden alone.

[Firm, unyielding, all the things a Shield is meant to be. He was too late to save his King. He will not fail his friends, now.]

[That shoulder feels like everything - warm, hot, prickling static, wet, dry, soft, bristly. It is everything at once. It feels like nothing at all. The colors of their eyes flick from one shade to another, beetle-shell black and milk-white and rich brown like changing channels on a television screen.]

I'm...very sorry, to do this to you, but...

...who are you, exactly?
I'm afraid my time has run out.

[Between the sharp ache through his shoulders at raising his arm and the surge of conflicting, confusing sensations Gladio's hand falls away. Not jerking back but not able to force himself to maintain the discomfort and endure the sensory overload all at once. The physical discomfort is sidelined quickly enough because that question hurts so much more.

That does make him flinch back, hurt and confused only to clench his jaw, more determined by the moment.]

C'mon Tory... you know me.

Gladio? Shield? You gave me an' Iggy our Chocobos?

Of course. Yes.

[Their expression shifts, minutely, and they say again in a different tone:]

Yes. Of course.

Forgive me. You see, I need... [their attention flickers away from him, and they seem distracted for another long moment, as if perhaps trying to recall something, and all four of their taloned paws flex on the stone.]

... no, nothing. I am simply very busy at the moment. At all moments. Aren't we all, presently?

Bullshit you're just busy.

[Busy doesn't make it so hard for them to focus that they can't decide on a shape or eyes or forget things. They remember everything, all the stories, all of them. They've talked about this, about how hard it is because they remember everyone that's come and gone, even those that built this temple that Gladio's slowly been trying to patch up in small sections of adobe.]

Something is wrong. Please, Tory.... trust me, buddy. Lemme help.

I'm not leaving. So you may as well just stop with the platitudes, bro.

You thought I wouldn't notice? [The words shriek like a flock of vultures, bright and shrilling, magnified a thousandfold. Echoes upon echoes rebound against one another, and their tail becomes a bottlebrush - of feathers, of fur, of lashing scales, a writhing mass of chimerical, animalistic fury.]

You thought you could hide from me? You never trusted me! None of you!

You want to be free so badly? Fine. Fine! So why don't you just...get...lo -

[Click. Scratch.]

[Sorry, where were they?]

[A cloud-white puff of a kiwi bird. A wobbling-legged fawn. A snarling, baying hound. A squirming turtle. The echoes fade, layering upon one another, loud and crashing like waves against a cliffside.]

It won't last forever. But it will be enough to protect you, for a little while. Just for a little while. Whatever comes next...
I am so proud of you.
You will have to make do alone. You can, though. You will.
I have faith in that.

[Watching the violent changes between shrieking rage and something at least a little calmer, something wild to something so strained-

It reminds him of the differences between Ardyn, accepting his final moments, finally at peace, fading, dying, and the snarling twisted thing he'd been when he'd finally faced Noctis at the end.

But no matter what it was something that came on the heels of death and the twisting riddles that Tory is speaking in only makes his stomach drop, worried and scared and feeling so utterly helpless. All he wants to do is scoop them up, whatever the form, hold them close and protect them from whatever it is that is tearing them apart like this, forcing them into so many different forms and emotions and-]

Protect us from what?

[The way they keep lashing out, it makes him worry that he's just making it worse, that his presence, forcing Tory to split their attention, is only making things harder. It seems like it must be painful, feeling all those things at once, being all those things at once.]

We can get by but where are you going to be? And what are you trying to protect us from? Tory please gimmie somethin...

[And he's not going to cry, dammit, but he's man enough to admit that he's close.]

Don't you dare take this on alone.

Oh...no, there's...no...time...

Please.

[Something in them strains, like cracks appearing in the edifice of their form. Parts of them plying, pressing, aching to be made free. Their shape distends, swelling, and then - ]

[A lightning-crack.]

[They burst into thousands and thousands of pages.]

[Empty parchment and spattering ink, raining like confetti over the flagstones.]

There you are.

[Directly behind him, the Storyteller comes padding out from the shadows. They look...tired. Very, very, tired, very small, too - their shape is that of a large-eared fox, diminutive and buff-colored.]

[But they look quite normal. They cock their head, staring at Gladio with visible uncertainty.]

...who were you just talking to?

[Watching the strain, feeling so godsdamned helpless, the tears finally fall, slow and as much frustration as anything.

That sound is horrible, awful, tears a cry from his throat and has him diving forward as though he might be able to hold them together if he's fast enough, strong enough, if he's able to endure.]

TORY!!

[He ends up face down on the stone, arms splayed out and it hurts, gods it hurts so much but physical pain is something he can endure, physical pain means nothing. Not when there's nothing but scattered parchment where his friend should be. His hands curl into fists in the paper, ink smeared over his hands and chest.

And the voice behind him is so startling, so steady and solid and real he spins around so fast he tumbles backwards, spilling back over his heels.]

T-Tory...?

[There's so much that makes so little sense but for the moment it doesn't matter because this sweet little fox is stable and solid and Gladio is scrambling forward. He collapses once, arms giving out on him, pure determination powering him the last few feet so he can throw himself at the fox, wrapping his arms around him. He all but crushes Tory to his chest, breath hitching, locking up inside him as pain lances up his spine, through his shoulders. His fingers burn and ache but none of it matters.]

Don't fucking scare me like that.

Edited (html why) 2018-11-10 20:17 (UTC)

Oh - oh, could you - please not suffocate me, while I'm attempting to recover -

[They sound more vaguely disgruntled than genuinely pained, but it's clear they certainly weren't expecting this abrupt display of emotion.]

I did say I'd be away for a time, really. There's no need for this.

Away?!

[He hisses the word out, finally loosening his grip on the poor little fox, shoulders slumping. It's not nearly what Tory would want but he's at least going to try to position them in his lap, arms draped loosely around them as he finally breathes out a ragged breath, stretching his fingers as though it might make them stop tingling so much. Only to see the splattered ink smeared over his hands and his stomach drops again.

Of course a god of stories would have ink instead of blood.]

That doesn't fucking explain what the hell just happened. How are you okay after all of-

[Can he nuzzle you Tory? Please? Can he just... not stop touching you for awhile kthx He knows you're not a dog but gods above let him give you affections.]

I was...I was working. Mu is very unhappy with me at the moment and - for the love of all, would you...stop?

[They're discomfited, clearly, uncertainty making them more than a little antsy with this degree of physical contact.]

There's really no need for all this. I do apologize for the absence, but after a degree of balance, everything should be going back to normal.

I-

right...

[He winces a little, lets Tory remove themselves from his lap.]

Working... is that why you were so... uh... Fuck Tory I'm so confused. I don't understand. What are you trying to protect us from and what the hell was happening? I thought you were dying bro.

...no. No, I'm...fine. I'm quite tired, but Mu gets out of sorts easily.

[They look at him quizzically. Have you ever seen a fox look quizzical? It's quite the expression. Somehow, they manage it.]

I'm afraid the confusion goes both ways. Do you care to explain?

You were right here, you-

[He shakes his head, takes a deep, steadying breath.]

You yelled at me, a lot. It was weird though you were one thing and then another and everything all at once and you were so angry but also talking about protecting us and then-

[He holds his hands out, ink splattered up his arms, across his chest, smeared over his hands in thick blotches.]

And then there was nothing but ink and paper and you were gone and-

Now you're.... not?

I'm afraid you've...quite lost me. I'm not sure what sort of exchange that must have been, but I didn't hear a word of it.

[They glance down at his hands which look, from their perspective, quite clean.]

...is there something wrong with your hands?

[didn't hear a word of it

His stomach drops into his feet, a lead weight and for a moment he feels like he might honestly be sick. It's all too much, the emotional whiplash making his head throb and he's not entirely sure he can-]

Do you not-

[He closes his fingers, sliding two of them against his thumb, the ink still thick enough to be tacky, if not slick any more.]

There's ink everywhere.

[The Storyteller shakes their head, quietly bemused. It's plain they're struggling to make some sense of what's being said, and failing miserably.]

I'm afraid I don't quite see what you mean. Unless you mean - the blood and bone of the world? We are all made up of stories, in a sense, but...are you speaking metaphorically?

IC INBOX: THE STORYTELLER

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