(no subject)
Sitting on Padraig's bed is a long, skinny box. If moved, it will
prove to be rather weighted. There is no wrapping on the box, just a
lid to hide its contents.
Atop the box is taped a large envelope, with 'Read this first' inked
in bright, black marker.
The envelope contains a folded page torn from a history book, along
with a note paper clipped to it. The note reads:
My love,
The time of kings and queens, warriors and peasants, has come to an
end. Yet, no matter how many years past, the legends remain. We
fight for a cause in which we will find no glory, not as some seek,
yet that does not make us any less valiant. You are my hero, my
modern day warrior. Yet you seem to be lacking what every good knight
needs for their battle. Enjoy, as it is one of a kind.
All my love,
Amara
The page, when unfolded, is an excerpt speaking of a warrior from
centuries ago. Said warrior fought hard for his land, his family, his
country, and did so without taking reward. Often times he allowed his
emotions to guide him, at times appearing a berserker. He did not
allow such a thing to stop him, and instead valued it as a blessing.
He was well known in his country, and well loved by all those he stood
to protect. Unfortunately, he was not to die of old age. His life
was given in sacrifice for his country, and the people within.
The page speaks about how the man fought with honor, using a fine
blade given to him as a reward for all of his hard work. The only
reward the man took. Made from the finest metals, the blade was a
work of art, without being overly decorated with jewels. It was
stolen from his corpse during his final battle, and lost ever since.
That is, until a private collector somehow managed to stumble across it.
When the box is opened, it will reveal the blade, in all it's glory.
(OOC: Muchos gracias to the wonderful Amara for that bit)
Padraig lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to marshal his thoughts into something resembling cohesion. Fairly unsuccessfully. (OOC: And this is where I try to really get inside his head to illustrate partially why he's like what he's like.)
A rushing torrent of images. Amara. That sword. Emotion. Fear-anger-doubt-rage-happiness-love dance around each other, with a visible image of Padraig fighting off the negative, clutching that sword. Amara walks into the picture, and Padraig barely misses from cutting her, in his own stupidity and uselessness he almost kills the one he loves.
He stops, he sits, he waits for something to occur. Amara stands firm, watching and waiting and providing solidarity by her very presence. The emotions redouble their efforts, and Padraig springs into action, slicing anger and rage with a calm expression. Doubt remains, a sticky black tendril that clings to his throat, choking him and forcing him to weakness, while a few ghostlike faces simmer into existence and watch disapprovingly. Magneto, Toxin, Sabella all see his weakness, without spotting the monster that causes it. Their presences strengthens the doubt. In fact, the doubt is trickling from them in the first place.
Padraig stumbles back to his feet, fighting for all his worth. Fear is crushed beneath his feet, though it's snakey movements drift it to a position away from the focus, waiting to pounce but being held back by an invisible force. Love drifts around him, distracting him from his fight, but strengthening his body. Happiness. Happiness is the shield against fear.
But then Amara. A shadowy figure appears behind her, a man who's face is unknown, who scares her, who makes her cry. Padraig rushes to protect her with his new-found strength he pulls her away, taking her far from that shadowy figure. But it follows, it stops her from speaking as she wants to, as Padraig wants to hear, and the warrior's strength cannot hurt it, cannot break through the chain. The now visible chain that's locking Amara's voice away. The chain that Padraig attacks with all his strength, that bends, but doesn't quite break. Time. It needs time. It needs to be corroded by the love.
Words drift across the picture. Respect. Proof of strength. Proof. Intelligence. Stoic. A huge question mark settles into place, crushing Padraig beneath it as he sits up from his bed.
In the private journal:
What do I write? I have a sword to call my very own. A beautiful weapon, but one that must never be used for fear of breaking it. Unless... I'll talk to someone who might know about stuff like that. Amara sent it for me. With a letter and a clipping. Famous berserker, eh? I can see what she's saying... but... I guess my decision has been made already. Chrome /and/ Amara think it's a horribly bad idea. Last person to ask is Sabella. Once she's got a new face (how long is that going to take, anyway?).
I will learn to control my emotions when at work. That is all. And by control I mean not let them have an effect on me. This is my current plan. It may change.
But... I almost shouted at her. I felt horrible. Then.. later on, she told me why she is the way she is. I felt so shit for making her tell me. She cried all over me. Something I never thought I'd see. Horrible as it sounds, some part of me was overjoyed that she trusts me enough to cry, yet most of me was screaming to help her, protect her, teach her that we're not /all/ sick scum like that one. That one who I will find and do to him what he did to her. But more painfully, for longer, more degrading.
I could never imagine my family not caring. At least mine have the decency to hate me rather than be indifferent. And they allowed something like that to happen? Disgusting. Death was too good for them, to destroy a girl like her in such a way. Shit, would I ever have fallen in love with her if she was different? I don't know...
I love her. She knows that. That, and the Cause, are all that matters. I'm still waiting to see if Magneto has approved the mission. I hope so. Proof that I am useful, even if it's non-essential. Proof that I can do it. I need that proof. I need to know if I /am/ useful, or just a liability.
I refuse to be a liability.