[In stark contrast of Mythos' insatiable glances, Barnabas has pointedly kept his from wandering. His eyes locked upon the Vessel's face and nothing else. Not that he is one to be influenced by visual nudity alone, considering his own restraint and the emotional arrest he's otherwise subject to. The annoyance is plain, but Barnabas does not care, if he did, he would not have interrupted his bathing to begin with.]
Is the Vessel incapable of multitasking?
[He knows that's not true, and so the question is as rhetorical as it is chastising.]
It will not be repeated. Whatever feud you mistakenly held with him has ended.
[This is not a question, this is clearly a statement, a command.]
[Thankfully, Clive was capable of some forms of self-restraint. He also didn’t enjoy futile attempts of flirtation, so he was more than happy to abandon any thoughts of a wet, naked Barnabas. He could do that later when he was alone.
Clive moves to retrieve the bucket he tossed, nearly resisting brushing his soapy shoulder against Barnabas’ damp one as he walks by. At least he held back a thought about a shoulder check.]
I am perfectly capable of multitasking. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy bathing in peace.
[Something Barnabas should be at least a little familiar with. ]
Thank you for taking the time to come to me and state the obvious.
[ He returns to the water and begins rinsing himself.]
It wasn’t pointless to me. He didn’t just kill Sleipnir, he tortured him. You didn’t see him when he came back.
[ Clive’s back is to Barnabas, shoulders tight. He was uncertain if he wanted Barnabas to see the mix of rage and anguish on his face, if he wanted to see Barnabas’ potentially cool indifference.]
You weren’t the one that was there to hold him as he fell apart.
[Okay, he was turning around. ]
You didn’t see because he didn’t want to hurt you. Nearly everything he does, he does for you, even if he is falling apart. He screamed. He cried. He shook so hard I thought he might be seizing.
[ Clive takes a step forward, anger winning out over sorrow.]
So you may think it was pointless, but I don’t. Accelerator only saw a fraction of the pain he caused that day. Am I going to pursue him? No. I never intended to, but I will not forgive him and I will not apologize.
[By the end of his rant he is standing nearly chest to chest with the other man. ]
[Barnabas is silent as he watches Mythos, as he listens. His gaze focused and transfixed upon him, but the cool grey of his stare almost feels like they bore into him with the intensity in which he watches him. Well does Barnabas know pain, knows suffering, of the torturing of existence itself, of what horrors life holds for any and all that dare to live within its bounty. For that is what he ever strives to save mankind from, what he strives to free existence of.
The very thing that Mythos, that Cidolfus, that all of their people fight to maintain. So that Mythos would try to speak this to him, as if to attempt to affect him or move him in some way, is almost laughably absurd to him. Except he isn't laughing.
Even with Mythos so close now, Barnabas does not budge, he does not even blink.]
I am well aware of what my Lord Commander does for me. You know precious little of us, speak not in such ignorance. [There is a slight click of his teeth as he cuts that word off. He is not particularly interested in hearing Mythos' thoughts about him and Sleipnir.] Moved as you were by his anguish, yet you sought to exact it in kind upon its source, perpetuating an endless cycle of suffering and all it might entail.
Such thoughtless action could have very well threatened our place within Etraya, the very salvation of our world. Yet you would let your meaningless and fragile emotions cloud your judgment to the peril of not merely Accelerator, but potentially all you claim to hold dear.
[Barnabas lightly scowls, his eyes scanning over Mythos' features.]
There is more than catharsis to consider. Control yourself, Mythos, lest your impetuous nature consign us to oblivion.
Edited (when you accidentally a whole word) Date: 2025-10-26 04:46 pm (UTC)
[Clive is well aware of the multitudes of pain that life can hold, his own has been far from gentle. All that he had gathered since Earth, all that he inflicted there, it sits heavy on him and he knows it. Clive bore the weight of being a bringer of death long before this, but to feel it so acutely, so personally, well. It has been some time since he has had to contend with these feelings.
Maybe that is why he is so volatile, why he has been so quick to jump from one intense emotion to another lately, why he had already been inclined towards avenging Sleipnir even without the Anomaly’s persistent nagging that dragged him further and further down the path of destruction there, a path he had begged Barnabas to take him off of.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Barnabas is here lecturing him on the perils of life, of jeopardizing their place here, of what little Barnabas understands of him. The anger in him makes his chest heave, his eyes blaze.]
I know more of Sleipnir than you realize. I don’t do what I did for people I do not care deeply for. Maybe you should take your own advice and not speak on things you know little of. [Clive narrows his eyes.] You know little of me and I know you don’t care to, not in any way that truly matters.
[All he claims to hold dear? Clive clenches his fists, trying to breath through the building anger. There was one thing that Barnabas was correct about and it was that his emotions have been becoming more and more fragile. It is the smallest thing that snaps what was left of his control. It has been some time since hearing ‘Mythos’ out of Barnabas’ mouth grated on him so, but with his compounding grief, guilt, and rage, breaks him. He grabs Barnabas by the collar and yanks him closer so they are nose to nose.]
I don’t claim to care, I do. [His voice is a growl.] I lost control. [His eyes burn, it’s difficult to breathe, there is fire everywhere, flesh crackling, screams dying from lack of air, the jelly of eyes popping from the heat dripping down faces trapped in agony. The smell the smell the smell– He shoves Barnabas away and turns, trying to breathe.
This time, when he talks, it is quiet, strangely steady for the war raging inside of him.]
I asked you for help. I begged you to help me.
[He looks down at his hands, sees them wreathed in flame and bubbling blood. He can’t breathe. He feels a dampness on his face that he doesn’t think has anything to do with the water dripping from his hair. He knows he will get no comfort here. That little voice whispers that Barnabas would need to care even a fraction about the man and not the vessel to offer even his cold words of strange steadiness.]
This hardly matters. [He’s trembling now, breath catching too frequently.] What’s done is done, and I won’t do it again. [Screams. Burning. Blood. He squeezes his eyes shut.]
[With ease he could evade Mythos' grab, let alone avoid that shove, but he sees no reason to fight it. If anything, allowing it to happen emphasizes the lack of threat he views the man as. The vessel as. He knows this won't turn into a full on violent conflict, even with those emotions roiling inside of the man before him. With all that pain and guilt burning deep within. After all, as he admits himself, he came to Barnabas, asked him for help—and Barnabas is here offering it, in his own way.
He could have chosen not to communicate at all. Could have easily watched and waited for when he might have stepped out of line again and merely visited his blade upon him in cruel and oppressive silence. Yet, here he is, speaking with him in his own way.
Though the claim that Barnabas does not know Mythos is almost humorous to him. By his measure, he knows him better than he knows himself. He did not spend the last three decades preparing the world for him, keeping a close eye on his developments, manipulate the political landscape so that he might grow to fill the role he's meant to take only to be told he doesn't care to know him in any way that truly matters.
He knows him in the only way that does!
He knows his history, he knows his pain, he knows his fate. None save his Master knows better than he about Mythos, of this he is certain! Yet, ever defiant, he can expect no less of him to claim the contrary, to seek shelter in his ignorance. To disparage the knowledge Barnabas has accumulated and hoarded like treasure...
Barnabas remain otherwise rooted where he stands, the shove not moving him beyond his shoulders in truth, he waits for Mythos to finish completely before he speaks, man of few words as he often proves himself to be.
Mythos is right that he will not find sympathy here, for sympathy will only feed the beast which means to swallow them whole. Sympathy is what bloodies hands beyond what is necessary, what fuels the fires of revenge, and what fills the barrows beyond capacity.]
This extends not only to Accelerator, but to all Etrayans come what may. Your emotions are a poison, and they will bring ruin to more than your enemies should you allow them to fester and rot your senses again.
[Barnabas tilts his head slightly closer to Mythos, his eyes betraying something behind them, the phantom trace of a conflicted emotion.]
We cannot fail them, Mythos.
[Their world. Their people. How can they save any of it if they destroy themselves first?]
[Barnabas may know of the world he shaped, the pain of Clive’s experiences, the pressures the younger man went through to be forged as he has been, more than any other, but that was not all that made the man. What could Barnabas possibly understand of what he didn’t care to know? Of his pain, yes, but also the shapes of his pain, of his joy, of his love, of what the world truly looks like through Clive’s eyes? Barnabas knows of his motivations for the grand things that he does, but what of what powers him through his everyday, what of his hesitations? Does he know what keeps Clive awake at night or what makes him laugh? What of the warmth and comfort Clive finds in touch alone, the depth of that, of the little things that make his heart flutter in so many ways? Barnabas knows of his drive, of his stubbornness, of the strength he holds behind his beliefs, but what does he know of Clive’s gentleness?
Would Clive show him if, for whatever reason, Barnabas asked? The fact that the answer isn’t emphatically ‘no’ in the privacy of his own mind is uncomfortable. Even when angry at the man, Clive couldn’t say, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t share any of that. But Clive knows Barnabas will never ask. He would have to care for Clive for that, not Mythos, not his god’s fated host.]
I already told you it wouldn’t happen again.
[Barnabas was right there, too. His emotions were a poison, one that ate away at those he loved, that caused people to cradle his blood-covered body, to tear them away from whatever important task to stop him from clawing himself open. To smile sadly and dismiss him, to find discomfort not in what his body could give, but his heart. What must it be like to have such minute control of oneself? Would he want it, or would he rather hurt?
None of it calms him, though he desperately tries. Barnabas is right. He’s right. This wasn’t just his life. It had never been. Had his life ever truly been his own? It would be easier to say that it wasn’t, to lay the blame of his actions at the feet of another, to absolve himself of the blood he was bathed in. Even still, he couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he breathe?
And in one motion, one subtle shift, one sentence, Barnabas pulls him back. Clive holds Barnabas’ gaze and can’t help but note one of the few glimpses of who the man behind the callousness was. In that conflict, Clive sees strength, follows it to find his own. His breathing calms and he nods.]
We won’t.
[Less than a second of hesitation passes through Clive before he takes one of Barnabas’ hands in his own. He looks at it, battle-hardened, work-worn. Strong. He traces the callused skin of Barnabas’ upper palm before letting go and looking back up. His hands told of his toils, but still, in those eyes, were the feelings that one might miss were they to fail to take the time to truly look. When had he begun to learn to truly look?
Clive takes a couple of measured breaths, the trembling slowly ebbing, the ringing in his ears quieting.]
Thank you. I haven’t quite been myself lately. Earth was… [A mess. Both terrible and wonderful. Freeing and condemning. Both passion and pain, sometimes entwined.] It’s been a lot to process.
[Matters of the heart like that have long since been abandoned by Barnabas. Raised as he was to believe in the gnawing rot that desires inflict upon the soul, along with the twisting and warping that emotions place upon it, putting any value into such things is madness without equal. Long as he seen the suffering it has all wrought, and to look upon Mythos' own suffering, whether as the Vessel or as the Man, does little else beyond fuel his own position.
From love is loss. From joy is sorrow. From pleasure is pain. The former ever more ephemeral than the their latter pair, and so for all the love, joy, and pleasure that Mythos might have, or felt, or experienced... proportionate loss, sorrow, and pain will eventually find him. Will likely take more permanent hold, for the ache never quite fades away...
Except when it does. The blissful relief of a heart stilled and a mind freed from such torments. If only Mythos could see, if only he could understand true freedom—
The hand suddenly touching his pulls him from his thoughts, though he does not react. Or rather, he does not outwardly acknowledge the touch. The warmth of Mythos' hand in his is odd, and part of him feels a twinge, an impulse—like the gentle pull of a delicate silk thread with how weak it is—to curl his fingers inward. His mind returns to that time on Earth, that violent and exhilarating affair. The painful and erotic heat between them, and how he all but drowned in emotions long since denied to him... yet his fingers stay still and neutral, as Barnabas is ever meant to be, and the rest remains but a tantalizing memory from which he can gain nothing.
Then the touch is gone, and the loss of contact returns the ever present cold to him.]
Your self-regard will only burden you. [He says this without any sharpness to his words, merely a gentle statement of truth, as far as he is concerned.] And I need not your gratitude, only the proof of your words.
[Which he will see for himself in time. However, with that said, with Mythos' agreement, he sees little reason to stick around. So, while he doesn't teleport away immediately, there is a slight pulse of aether that suggests the intention, should nothing else need to be said.]
[Even struggling as he is to balance everything, to navigate the minefield that was his mind, to separate his actions and emotions into smaller pieces that he can assess and digest, Clive knows that he would want the good. Everything ate at him right now, it had before, it would again, this was simply the pattern of his mind. Even still, he couldn’t imagine a world without the peace that comes with watching a lovely sunset, the joy that comes with watching Torgal romp around, the love that comes from hearing Joshua laugh, the exhilaration of what it feels like to free-fall, the bone-deep bliss he felt when he could lose himself in the sword or in a song. The way his heart warmed when he listened to Cid complain about one mundane thing or another, the awe he felt when watching Clea create something beautiful out of seemingly nothing, the contentment of both wrapping and being wrapped in Sleipnir’s arms.
Even Barnabas, who he had bucked against so recently, brought him things he didn’t quite understand. Strength and determination, yes, but also a juxtaposition of almost childlike joy and a full-body pleasure that came from freeing himself to the sword, their sessions with blades crossed lighting a chain reaction of flame within him in so many hues. And then there were times like these, where a simple word, a small gesture, could bank him and ground him.
Barnabas wants to share the peace of what it meant to let go of such entrapments. Clive wants to remind him of all of the wonder there is left in the world, that they aren't entrapments, but gifts in their own right. And still, he wants to understand. What does the world look like through Barnabas’ eyes? Is he truly at peace, or is he just as lost as the rest of them without the ability to balance the clawing emptiness with its fulfilling counterparts? It isn't about feeling nothing, it is about letting in the good and the bad and accepting that both are transient.
Yet still, Clive wants to know what it felt like, to feel as Barnabas does. It is a curiosity that only grows, but how much of it is wanting to see the world as Barnabas did and how much is wanting to see Barnabas? Why do words that only moments ago would set him spiraling now bring him an odd sense of solace? The answer is clear: it isn't the words, it's the tone. It's there again, that gentleness in the odd way that Barnabas seemed able.
He feels the caress of Barnabas’ aether, of Odin’s power, before he sees any of the shadowed wisps and is gripped by the sudden borderline need to keep the older man there. He searches for something, anything, that might get him to stay, eyes never once leaving those the color of a winter sky before the snow. Part of him wonders what shows there, in his own eyes, always so ready to share even when the rest of him wasn’t.
He’s running out of time.
He reaches to take Barnabas’ hand again, this time a bit firmer, his unspoken request to keep the other man there clearer in his actions than it could ever be in his words.]
[He shouldn't entertain this question. Shouldn't answer it. He has done what he came here for, more than that, really. Especially with Mythos taking his hand once more, there is an intimacy that he does not wish to chase.
No, that isn't quite right.
There is a thought, a thread that pulls him down a mental path which only serves to tantalize him with something that is not attainable. That which would only serve to distract and feed the black beast of desire, of suffering. Part of him knows he could control Mythos this way. Use this bond he wishes to forge with Barnabas against him, twist his heart like he's had to do before to achieve what is necessary. Yet, that is not what his Master instructed him to do. He knows how hot this flame burns, and that his time here in Etraya has left him... affected.
Compromised.
His steel grey eyes meet the deep blue of Mythos' own, and he frowns, his aether subsiding.]
[The relief that settles over Clive’s shoulders as he feels the spike of Barnabas’ aether dissipate is, somehow, not surprising. When had the other man’s presence started to become steadying? It wasn’t always, likely never would be considering their regular ideological clashes, but knowing that Barnabas was near, whether directly in front of him or not, was becoming it’s own sort of reassurance.
And he is choosing to stay. Even if only for another moment or two, he is choosing to stay. Clive wants to ask why, wants to understand. But is it to understand Barnabas or…?
Clive, lost in his thoughts, does not think to let go of the other man’s hand. His grip does loosen just a bit, but he does not let go. He wants to step closer, try and see more, understand more. He does not.]
I’d like to know if there is going to be someone out there watching me.
[He can’t help the very slight quirk of a smile, there and gone in a blink.]
Well, anyone else watching me.
[He knows Sleipnir does and wonders if Barnabas does the same. He doubted the other man popped up in various places until he found Clive in the bath. He knows that their aethers are all distinct, can be felt in the world around them, and that Barnabas seems to have a particular affinity for being able to parse out where the other Dominants are, but is that all of it?]
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2025-10-26 03:36 pm (UTC)Is the Vessel incapable of multitasking?
[He knows that's not true, and so the question is as rhetorical as it is chastising.]
It will not be repeated. Whatever feud you mistakenly held with him has ended.
[This is not a question, this is clearly a statement, a command.]
no subject
Date: 2025-10-26 04:00 pm (UTC)Clive moves to retrieve the bucket he tossed, nearly resisting brushing his soapy shoulder against Barnabas’ damp one as he walks by. At least he held back a thought about a shoulder check.]
I am perfectly capable of multitasking. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy bathing in peace.
[Something Barnabas should be at least a little familiar with. ]
Thank you for taking the time to come to me and state the obvious.
[ He returns to the water and begins rinsing himself.]
It wasn’t pointless to me. He didn’t just kill Sleipnir, he tortured him. You didn’t see him when he came back.
[ Clive’s back is to Barnabas, shoulders tight. He was uncertain if he wanted Barnabas to see the mix of rage and anguish on his face, if he wanted to see Barnabas’ potentially cool indifference.]
You weren’t the one that was there to hold him as he fell apart.
[Okay, he was turning around. ]
You didn’t see because he didn’t want to hurt you. Nearly everything he does, he does for you, even if he is falling apart. He screamed. He cried. He shook so hard I thought he might be seizing.
[ Clive takes a step forward, anger winning out over sorrow.]
So you may think it was pointless, but I don’t. Accelerator only saw a fraction of the pain he caused that day. Am I going to pursue him? No. I never intended to, but I will not forgive him and I will not apologize.
[By the end of his rant he is standing nearly chest to chest with the other man. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-10-26 04:40 pm (UTC)The very thing that Mythos, that Cidolfus, that all of their people fight to maintain. So that Mythos would try to speak this to him, as if to attempt to affect him or move him in some way, is almost laughably absurd to him. Except he isn't laughing.
Even with Mythos so close now, Barnabas does not budge, he does not even blink.]
I am well aware of what my Lord Commander does for me. You know precious little of us, speak not in such ignorance. [There is a slight click of his teeth as he cuts that word off. He is not particularly interested in hearing Mythos' thoughts about him and Sleipnir.] Moved as you were by his anguish, yet you sought to exact it in kind upon its source, perpetuating an endless cycle of suffering and all it might entail.
Such thoughtless action could have very well threatened our place within Etraya, the very salvation of our world. Yet you would let your meaningless and fragile emotions cloud your judgment to the peril of not merely Accelerator, but potentially all you claim to hold dear.
[Barnabas lightly scowls, his eyes scanning over Mythos' features.]
There is more than catharsis to consider. Control yourself, Mythos, lest your impetuous nature consign us to oblivion.
cw: gore, descriptions of burning bodies
Date: 2025-10-26 08:29 pm (UTC)Maybe that is why he is so volatile, why he has been so quick to jump from one intense emotion to another lately, why he had already been inclined towards avenging Sleipnir even without the Anomaly’s persistent nagging that dragged him further and further down the path of destruction there, a path he had begged Barnabas to take him off of.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Barnabas is here lecturing him on the perils of life, of jeopardizing their place here, of what little Barnabas understands of him. The anger in him makes his chest heave, his eyes blaze.]
I know more of Sleipnir than you realize. I don’t do what I did for people I do not care deeply for. Maybe you should take your own advice and not speak on things you know little of. [Clive narrows his eyes.] You know little of me and I know you don’t care to, not in any way that truly matters.
[All he claims to hold dear? Clive clenches his fists, trying to breath through the building anger. There was one thing that Barnabas was correct about and it was that his emotions have been becoming more and more fragile. It is the smallest thing that snaps what was left of his control. It has been some time since hearing ‘Mythos’ out of Barnabas’ mouth grated on him so, but with his compounding grief, guilt, and rage, breaks him. He grabs Barnabas by the collar and yanks him closer so they are nose to nose.]
I don’t claim to care, I do. [His voice is a growl.] I lost control. [His eyes burn, it’s difficult to breathe, there is fire everywhere, flesh crackling, screams dying from lack of air, the jelly of eyes popping from the heat dripping down faces trapped in agony. The smell the smell the smell– He shoves Barnabas away and turns, trying to breathe.
This time, when he talks, it is quiet, strangely steady for the war raging inside of him.]
I asked you for help. I begged you to help me.
[He looks down at his hands, sees them wreathed in flame and bubbling blood. He can’t breathe. He feels a dampness on his face that he doesn’t think has anything to do with the water dripping from his hair. He knows he will get no comfort here. That little voice whispers that Barnabas would need to care even a fraction about the man and not the vessel to offer even his cold words of strange steadiness.]
This hardly matters. [He’s trembling now, breath catching too frequently.] What’s done is done, and I won’t do it again. [Screams. Burning. Blood. He squeezes his eyes shut.]
no subject
Date: 2025-10-26 09:38 pm (UTC)He could have chosen not to communicate at all. Could have easily watched and waited for when he might have stepped out of line again and merely visited his blade upon him in cruel and oppressive silence. Yet, here he is, speaking with him in his own way.
Though the claim that Barnabas does not know Mythos is almost humorous to him. By his measure, he knows him better than he knows himself. He did not spend the last three decades preparing the world for him, keeping a close eye on his developments, manipulate the political landscape so that he might grow to fill the role he's meant to take only to be told he doesn't care to know him in any way that truly matters.
He knows him in the only way that does!
He knows his history, he knows his pain, he knows his fate. None save his Master knows better than he about Mythos, of this he is certain! Yet, ever defiant, he can expect no less of him to claim the contrary, to seek shelter in his ignorance. To disparage the knowledge Barnabas has accumulated and hoarded like treasure...
Barnabas remain otherwise rooted where he stands, the shove not moving him beyond his shoulders in truth, he waits for Mythos to finish completely before he speaks, man of few words as he often proves himself to be.
Mythos is right that he will not find sympathy here, for sympathy will only feed the beast which means to swallow them whole. Sympathy is what bloodies hands beyond what is necessary, what fuels the fires of revenge, and what fills the barrows beyond capacity.]
This extends not only to Accelerator, but to all Etrayans come what may. Your emotions are a poison, and they will bring ruin to more than your enemies should you allow them to fester and rot your senses again.
[Barnabas tilts his head slightly closer to Mythos, his eyes betraying something behind them, the phantom trace of a conflicted emotion.]
We cannot fail them, Mythos.
[Their world. Their people. How can they save any of it if they destroy themselves first?]
no subject
Date: 2025-10-27 12:16 am (UTC)Would Clive show him if, for whatever reason, Barnabas asked? The fact that the answer isn’t emphatically ‘no’ in the privacy of his own mind is uncomfortable. Even when angry at the man, Clive couldn’t say, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t share any of that. But Clive knows Barnabas will never ask. He would have to care for Clive for that, not Mythos, not his god’s fated host.]
I already told you it wouldn’t happen again.
[Barnabas was right there, too. His emotions were a poison, one that ate away at those he loved, that caused people to cradle his blood-covered body, to tear them away from whatever important task to stop him from clawing himself open. To smile sadly and dismiss him, to find discomfort not in what his body could give, but his heart. What must it be like to have such minute control of oneself? Would he want it, or would he rather hurt?
None of it calms him, though he desperately tries. Barnabas is right. He’s right. This wasn’t just his life. It had never been. Had his life ever truly been his own? It would be easier to say that it wasn’t, to lay the blame of his actions at the feet of another, to absolve himself of the blood he was bathed in. Even still, he couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he breathe?
And in one motion, one subtle shift, one sentence, Barnabas pulls him back. Clive holds Barnabas’ gaze and can’t help but note one of the few glimpses of who the man behind the callousness was. In that conflict, Clive sees strength, follows it to find his own. His breathing calms and he nods.]
We won’t.
[Less than a second of hesitation passes through Clive before he takes one of Barnabas’ hands in his own. He looks at it, battle-hardened, work-worn. Strong. He traces the callused skin of Barnabas’ upper palm before letting go and looking back up. His hands told of his toils, but still, in those eyes, were the feelings that one might miss were they to fail to take the time to truly look. When had he begun to learn to truly look?
Clive takes a couple of measured breaths, the trembling slowly ebbing, the ringing in his ears quieting.]
Thank you. I haven’t quite been myself lately. Earth was… [A mess. Both terrible and wonderful. Freeing and condemning. Both passion and pain, sometimes entwined.] It’s been a lot to process.
no subject
Date: 2025-10-29 09:33 pm (UTC)From love is loss. From joy is sorrow. From pleasure is pain. The former ever more ephemeral than the their latter pair, and so for all the love, joy, and pleasure that Mythos might have, or felt, or experienced... proportionate loss, sorrow, and pain will eventually find him. Will likely take more permanent hold, for the ache never quite fades away...
Except when it does. The blissful relief of a heart stilled and a mind freed from such torments. If only Mythos could see, if only he could understand true freedom—
The hand suddenly touching his pulls him from his thoughts, though he does not react. Or rather, he does not outwardly acknowledge the touch. The warmth of Mythos' hand in his is odd, and part of him feels a twinge, an impulse—like the gentle pull of a delicate silk thread with how weak it is—to curl his fingers inward. His mind returns to that time on Earth, that violent and exhilarating affair. The painful and erotic heat between them, and how he all but drowned in emotions long since denied to him... yet his fingers stay still and neutral, as Barnabas is ever meant to be, and the rest remains but a tantalizing memory from which he can gain nothing.
Then the touch is gone, and the loss of contact returns the ever present cold to him.]
Your self-regard will only burden you. [He says this without any sharpness to his words, merely a gentle statement of truth, as far as he is concerned.] And I need not your gratitude, only the proof of your words.
[Which he will see for himself in time. However, with that said, with Mythos' agreement, he sees little reason to stick around. So, while he doesn't teleport away immediately, there is a slight pulse of aether that suggests the intention, should nothing else need to be said.]
Wall of introspection, one sentence of dialogue.
Date: 2025-10-29 11:27 pm (UTC)Even Barnabas, who he had bucked against so recently, brought him things he didn’t quite understand. Strength and determination, yes, but also a juxtaposition of almost childlike joy and a full-body pleasure that came from freeing himself to the sword, their sessions with blades crossed lighting a chain reaction of flame within him in so many hues. And then there were times like these, where a simple word, a small gesture, could bank him and ground him.
Barnabas wants to share the peace of what it meant to let go of such entrapments. Clive wants to remind him of all of the wonder there is left in the world, that they aren't entrapments, but gifts in their own right. And still, he wants to understand. What does the world look like through Barnabas’ eyes? Is he truly at peace, or is he just as lost as the rest of them without the ability to balance the clawing emptiness with its fulfilling counterparts? It isn't about feeling nothing, it is about letting in the good and the bad and accepting that both are transient.
Yet still, Clive wants to know what it felt like, to feel as Barnabas does. It is a curiosity that only grows, but how much of it is wanting to see the world as Barnabas did and how much is wanting to see Barnabas? Why do words that only moments ago would set him spiraling now bring him an odd sense of solace? The answer is clear: it isn't the words, it's the tone. It's there again, that gentleness in the odd way that Barnabas seemed able.
He feels the caress of Barnabas’ aether, of Odin’s power, before he sees any of the shadowed wisps and is gripped by the sudden borderline need to keep the older man there. He searches for something, anything, that might get him to stay, eyes never once leaving those the color of a winter sky before the snow. Part of him wonders what shows there, in his own eyes, always so ready to share even when the rest of him wasn’t.
He’s running out of time.
He reaches to take Barnabas’ hand again, this time a bit firmer, his unspoken request to keep the other man there clearer in his actions than it could ever be in his words.]
Who told you?
It's just how it be when u a guy with so many feelings
Date: 2025-10-31 01:26 am (UTC)No, that isn't quite right.
There is a thought, a thread that pulls him down a mental path which only serves to tantalize him with something that is not attainable. That which would only serve to distract and feed the black beast of desire, of suffering. Part of him knows he could control Mythos this way. Use this bond he wishes to forge with Barnabas against him, twist his heart like he's had to do before to achieve what is necessary. Yet, that is not what his Master instructed him to do. He knows how hot this flame burns, and that his time here in Etraya has left him... affected.
Compromised.
His steel grey eyes meet the deep blue of Mythos' own, and he frowns, his aether subsiding.]
That is inconsequential.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-01 07:28 pm (UTC)And he is choosing to stay. Even if only for another moment or two, he is choosing to stay. Clive wants to ask why, wants to understand. But is it to understand Barnabas or…?
Clive, lost in his thoughts, does not think to let go of the other man’s hand. His grip does loosen just a bit, but he does not let go. He wants to step closer, try and see more, understand more. He does not.]
I’d like to know if there is going to be someone out there watching me.
[He can’t help the very slight quirk of a smile, there and gone in a blink.]
Well, anyone else watching me.
[He knows Sleipnir does and wonders if Barnabas does the same. He doubted the other man popped up in various places until he found Clive in the bath. He knows that their aethers are all distinct, can be felt in the world around them, and that Barnabas seems to have a particular affinity for being able to parse out where the other Dominants are, but is that all of it?]