retrospec | (no subject)

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I know we've all been a bit distracted lately, not only from the abrupt loss of two colors from the spectrum, but all the usual school madness that occurs in June. Grades are coming in, summer sessions are about to begin, and that's an understandably stressful time.

[To say nothing of sleep loss. Rosalind certainly looks exhausted as she glowers into the camera. Behind her, chalkboards are filled with equations, and someone with a particularly clever mind might be able to spot a trend towards space and time.]

However. Let me give a few of you a piece of advice. I know several of you are in university right now, or about to graduate high school and enter into it. If you ever send a professor who failed you something like what I'm about to attach, you will not change their minds. Point in fact, they'll be even more determined to fail you. I know I certainly am, and I'm not even the one dealing with this right now.

Rosalind Lutece shared a photo.
6/16 near Recolle University

Honestly, I preferred the bribes to this.

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[Love. The emotion that never fails to complicated matters no matter how it rears its head -- whether in their reality, or experienced through second-hand memories, the feeling likely never loses its poignancy. Ardyn can only assume as much, as there was none in his memories that he remembers loving dearly, but if he did, how would he reconcile that? Even more so if he remembers losing that person?

For a brief moment, he's frustrated. Angry, even, that Retrospec would allow these experiences, personal and painful, to seep into their daily lives. To allow Rosalind to feel the way she's feeling now, uncertain and grieving for a man she doesn't even know. He feels useless, unable to help his friend in a way that feels beneficial, and that only spurs his irritation on further.

But he knows righteous indignation isn't what Rosalind really needs right now. Only an ear that will listen, and that he can gladly provide.]

And you still feel that love now, coupled hand-in-hand with grief. Is it of any comfort knowing that these are not actually your own emotions? Only those of a woman who might be an alternate you?

They feel real.

[She hates the words the second they slip past her lips. How pathetic they make her sound, how utterly vulnerable and needy and human. That's a child's answer, whimpered out and desperately in need of comfort, and she hates it. Rosalind's shoulders hunch, her fingers digging tight into her forearms, and she adds briskly:]

You're correct, though. You're absolutely correct, they're not my emotions.

[That's not what he said, but she says it anyway, her voice sensibly firm.]

I shouldn't be giving this so much mind.

They're not. [He knows he's right, but her counterargument in return was not something to be ignored, either.] But that's easily said, isn't it? Believing it is another matter altogether.

How do we draw a line between what we feel, and what we know isn't ours? This is going to be a growing problem as we continue to experience these memories. Not letting them affect us in any prominent way; is it possible?

[So no, Rosalind, you shouldn't be giving it that much mind. But no one will blame her for doing so anyway.]

It ought to be.

[That's not an argument, though. It's not anything really directed towards him; it's just a miserable little statement, spitefully said with a voice that's just a little too thick. It ought to be, because Rosalind wants nothing more in the world to wall off her emotions sometimes. They're inconvenient and messy, making her appear vulnerable and utterly weak. And she can't ever be that.

For a long minute, there's nothing but silence as Rosalind fights for control with her own emotions. Her fingers press tight against her lips, and she doesn't look at him as she takes in deep breath after deep breath, determined to stave off her grief just a little longer.

She can't stop herself from crying forever. But she can at least stop herself from doing it in front of anyone.]

I wish I could remember his name.

[She finally glances over at him. Her eyes aren't wet anymore, and she manages to get the sentence out with her voice firm and her expression resolved.]

Even his face. I've been trying to draw it, but each time I try and pin any details down, they escape me.

[Ardyn knows that's the look of someone who's warding off grief, tossing up a bulwark in hopes that the armor doesn't crack. His empathy spikes at the sight, even though he's fairly certain Rosalind would not want it to -- it doesn't matter. He can't help it, and his words slip through before he can stop them.]

You don't have to keep it all in, Rosalind.

[Trying to remember her gentleman's face, his name... he can ask about that after he's made certain that her emotions are not going to fall apart at her feet when she's no longer in his presence.]

[She laughs, at least, even if it's entirely humorless.]

Yes I do, Ardyn.

For whose sake? Your own?

[He refuses to believe that's very healthy, Rosalind.]

[She shakes her head.]

If I allowed myself to cry every time I was upset, Ardyn, I'd--

[No. How to put this so he understands? She presses her fingers to her mouth again, her eyes focusing on nothing, and then finally says slowly:]

. . . the academic world is sexist, as you know, but it isn't nearly as bad as the scientific world was. A woman wanting to work in the STEM field-- a young woman, ten years younger than everyone around her-- she has to be twice as clever as everyone else there, because of course she's only really worth about half as much as a man. She can never make a mistake, because the second she does, it reflects poorly on her, and they never let her forget it. And she can't--

You can't be emotional. Not a bit. You can't laugh too much, lest you be labeled as flippant and flighty; you certainly can't get angry, because then you'd be out of control. And if you cried-- if you ever cry-- you'll forever be the stupid, hysterical girl who couldn't take a joke.

[Now she glances over at him, her eyes sharp and her expression hard.]

I don't cry, Ardyn. Not ever. I keep it all in because I have to, because I've no choice, not if I want to ever be taken seriously. And that extends to here.

[Even if Ardyn did have a good argument against that (he doesn't), he wouldn't voice it. He cannot pretend to know what Rosalind's experiences are, or the bias that had been held against her throughout the years. The extra work she had to put in, simply because she was the "wrong" gender. He'll not belittle her by saying that he knows any better. He simply doesn't; he cannot relate.

But, if anything, there is one thing he can offer that he knows is true. Something that extends to him more than her.]

You can cry in front of me. [It's said rather... plainly for Ardyn, the man who likes to put all manner of flippancy behind each and every word. The statement is lacking it, this time.] I'd rather you not mistake me as one of those men who'd judge you for it.

[An offer, not an obligation. Nothing more, nothing less.]

[He's older, though. He's older and more experienced, and on top of all that, he's male; how can she possibly trust that he'll see her cry and not think any different of her afterwards? Oh, she has no doubt his words are genuine, but that doesn't mean they're true. How can she be certain that he'll see this and not automatically remember it each time he sees her? God, she couldn't live with herself if all he ever saw was the crying mess of a girl who'd broken down over something that isn't even real.

And yet, and yet . . . god, but his offer is tempting. He sounds so wonderfully genuine right now, his voice warm, and there's a very small part of her that wants nothing more than to give in.]

. . . I don't know how.

[What a silly thing to admit. Who doesn't know how to cry? And yet it's the truth. It's never come easily to her even when she's alone, never mind when she's with someone. She can feel it in the back of her mind, the way her eyes feel hot and want to fill with tears, the way her mouth wants desperately to tremble, but she can't help the automatic defense that comes immediately afterwards. Not in front of him, something commands, a rigid rule so strictly enforced over the years that it's become unconscious. She doesn't know how to release that.]

I've never . . . I don't understand how it comes so easily to people. I don't know how they can just allow themselves to cry, or-- or laugh, or react at the drop of a hat.

[It doesn't sound silly to Ardyn. He skirts between the two -- between open sincerity, a heart on a sleeve, and hiding his true emotions behind some sort of veneer, usually an airy irreverence. The best of both worlds, sliding between them when he pleases, or at least with enough frequency to confuse those who don't know him very well.

So it isn't silly, he thinks, for her to say that she doesn't know how to cry. He understands. That there are things that can get in the way between an instigation and a reaction. That moving from point A to B isn't always so straightforward.]

That's not a mark against you, by any means. It simply says that you possess more control, whereas many others do not. An enviable trait.

[However. There's always a however.]

But you know what they say. Bottling it up isn't always good either. Still, whatever your inclinations are, I just don't want you to feel anything close to ashamed if you want to express them, simply because I'm around. I'm a friend, after all. What else am I good for, if not a shoulder to cry on?

[Maybe someday, she'll feel comfortable enough to cry in front of him. Maybe not. But at least if she's ever so inclined to it, she can think back on this moment, this discussion, and know he at least in part understands why she's so reluctant to do so.

For now . . . Rosalind leans back, resting against the cushions with a force of effort. It takes further effort for her to allow herself to slide over, bumping her shoulder against his, halfway leaning against him.]

Well. You might be good for a distraction, if you feel up to telling a story.

[She still feels raw and shaky, but the inclination to burst into tears is passing, and she'd prefer to keep it that way.]

[That elicits a chuckle from him; his shoulders gently jostle at being bumped, and he returns the favor as a way to accent his reply.]

A story? Well.

[He never considered himself much of a storyteller, but heavens knows that he has the dramatic flair for it. A fondness of words, coupled with the motivation to do so, might prove entertaining to those who listen.]

Of course. What sort of story do you want to hear?

Oh, anything.

[She isn't quite leaning full on against him, but it might not be long until she does.]

Tell me about your chocobo, or what you and Prompto have done, or something you remember from your childhood. I hardly care what, I simply . . . let me think about something else.

[Free reign, then, the speak about what he wants. He considers for a moment the suggested topics, and immediately rules out the one about his childhood. About Prompto? Maybe. About his chocobo? He couldn’t remember many details of the creature, but…

Perhaps that lent itself better to the act of storytelling, even if he had to make something up, for the sake of romanticism.]

I told you I don't remember my chocobo's name. I still don't, but even then... I know it was a steadfast companion of mine. We travelled together, far and wide, and met many people -- rich and poor, old and young.

[Which of these parts does he actually remember (fragmented things, really), and which details does he just fill with his own imagination? He'll not say.]

And when I say we travelled, I mean that we travelled far. Many, many miles, sometimes. Through wilderness and open plain. At times, we'd even have to stop, and make camp in the night. And one had to choose their location wisely, because there were creatures lurking in the dark, always there, lingering. Dangerous.

[He can't see her face when they're positioned like this, Rosalind knows. And so, as he speaks, she allows herself the indignity of letting her eyes close.]

Did you fight them?

[Is he making all this up? Likely. But really, she doesn't care, not right now. She isn't asking because she wants to know about this other Ardyn; she's asking because she doesn't want to think about her gentleman.]

Or did you two ride away?

If camp was already made, it's a bit difficult to pack everything up when a behemoth descends upon you. You've a matter of... maybe seconds, really, to move out of the way. They have a fondness for eating chocobos, you know, so when they burst through the swaying trees, they've already a target in mind.

[This is very much 80 percent made up, 20 percent based on his own imaginings and conversations with Prompto about behemoths.]

So you flee. You leave everything behind, with no light to lead your way, and wait. You listen for its growling and its shuffling to make sure it hasn't followed you. And when you believe yourself to be safe... you return. And hope that your campsite hasn't been completely destroyed underfoot.

Mmm . . .

[She's not falling asleep, but there's something very soothing about the way he tells a story. It's a talent, heaven knows; he manages to weave his words in such a way that she's entranced.]

That's what you get for camping outdoors, you know. How big are they?

[If he senses her growing relaxation, he knows that's only a reason for him to keep telling the story.]

Large. Very large. Massive, towering creatures on all fours; at least two stories. Two great horns on its head, tearing through the forest, breaking branches and toppling trees in its rage. A forest, which by the way, was the only place for myself and my chocobo to camp. The next village was miles and miles away. I had to find a place to rest my head.

Well, an hour or two later, and it had left. And the camp and all of our supplies? Scattered, broken, useless. Barely anything salvageable. I would go to sleep hungry and cold, that night.

Poor Ardyn.

[She'd said that earlier today, when he'd jokingly whined about being made to clean the boards. It can't have been more an hour ago, if that, but Rosalind feels like it was ages. Half a day, at least.]

I can't imagine . . . I don't even like chocobos that much, never mind something so bloody enormous. Was it carnivorous?

With canines as sharp and prominent as it has? I would think so.

[That, he's not making up. He remembers the maw of such creatures. Terrifying, enough to engulf a man whole. Not that thinks he was ever dumb enough to have done such a thing, anyway.]

Still, I had my life, and I had my chocobo. In the end, that's all I needed. To say that I wouldn't sleep that night was an understatement; instead, I took what was still useable and simply continued my journey to the next village.

Edited 2017-07-14 19:13 (UTC)

[SWEET CHRIST]

You make it sound like you were some kind of heroic cowboy. Did you teach the villagers how to defend themselves from the incoming bandits, or did you have to wait for the Magnificent Six to join you?

Maybe I was.

[A scoff.]

The heroic, healing cowboy. On a mission to cure the world of an ailment running rampant, or some such.

[A shrug of his shoulders.]

I'd like to say that, but it makes me sound more heroic that I might've actually been. I didn't carry a weapon. I must've only relied on my wits to survive the wilderness.

Mm. A strategy I think might just work out well for you.

[Her head tips, and she settles just a little more against him.]

I think you'd do well playing at heroics. You're good at that kind of theatrics, and theatrics seem to be half the job.

True, the theatrics part I was able to indulge myself in quite well. Much like how I am now.

[At least he's self-aware enough to admit this; then again, this shouldn't be surprising either.]

It helps that I was amicable and charming, too.

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Rosalind Lutece shared a photo. 6/16 near Recolle University