pv The fault in our stars

‘Fate?’ Archer repeated with a laugh, the bitter sort he had came across in theatrical performances but never thought he would express himself. He paused, not to ponder with an answer so evident in his mind, but to compose his reluctant words/ There was no suggesting otherwise, no doubt of fate when it had thrown the tea leaves into his life, thrown Charlotte into his life, thrown Matthew into his life, and now, decided to throw in this enigma of a girl just for good measure. He had a lot to thank fate for, that little thing working in mysterious ways, from elated reunions to deflating truths. ‘I do,’ he said eventually after a silence too long. ‘But,’ he added hastily, ‘I believe we can change it.’

Change - oh what a powerful word, what a powerful, life-altering thought. Hubristic as mankind always was, we thought we could change what was written in the undoubting stars above, the strings of fate already pulled into a perfect perfection, too taut to be played about with. Lifting his head to their stubborn formations, he laughed, not the scoffing sound he had let loose moment before, but something more, flowing and ebbing into the constellations themselves.’The fault,’ he started, quoting Shakespeare. Addressing Anastasia as if she was his troupe mate in some twisted rendition of Julius Caesar, he continued, ‘Dear Brutus-’ Confident smile spreading wide, Archer finished as he slipped into the role and skin of Cassius, ‘Is not in our stars, but ourselves, that we are underlings.’

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

"It's from Julius Caesar, Shakespeare, monologued by Cassius to Brutus," Archer answered mechanically, as if replying to a tutor from information memorised from a textbook. Eyes falling at the glum expression of the light-haired lady and her bare minimum of a smile, the Scot hurried to reassure, "Shakespeare wrote in Elizabethan English, and I believe here "fault" doesn't necessarily mean we are the ones to blame." In truth he was bending the analysis, whether because of his newfound ability to spin a white lie or the lateness of the hour. It, despite all its glory, only meant: the responsibility is yours, not fate's, so deal with it. After all, the consequence of having one's life in their control was the consequences will be theirs as well.

He paused to look back at Anastasia, making certain to share the moment as their eyes latched onto each other, as if looking for an anchor in each other's gazes, trying to find something to hold onto, "It's not our fault. Maybe the Moirai shoved this into our hands but we can make something better out of it." Halting once more, his eyelids fluttered downwards was his mind wandered away from him. Opening his eyes once more, he asked solemnly, "Why? What happened?"

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

“Did you kill him?” The question was Archer’s first reaction and one that would plague him with guilt. A blunt question, it may seem, but one direct enough to commence an investigation with. To his naïve mind it was simple, a binary question with only two possible outcomes: yes, or no. Say the answer was yes, she would undoubtably be guilty of the crime, but say the answer was no, her self-accusation could have sprouted from different factors. Even now with the corroding scent of death hanging in the air, it still seemed to be a phenomenon perfectly scientific, as logical as the coordinates that dictated his mother’s explorations. It was one, to the boy who had never experienced the merciless creature, such a thing too unattached to emotion to comprehend. And so, caught in the moment, Archer had blurted out the four insensitive words without any remorse or hesitation, still awaiting with those unblinkingly inquisitive dark hazel eyes.

“I apologise,” he hastily added, just realising the faux pas- more so, just realising she was no figure of study but a living, breathing, human girl, one who had lost someone. He tugged the locket, cold to the touch after having been exposed to the autumn breeze but still warmly comforting, out of his collar, fidgeting with the clasp until it fell open, the same way it had the first day he came across it with Maximillien. Expecting to see the encouraging smile of Maman - her tender face almost always occupied his mind, after all, he stepped back in surprise when finding the familiar (sometimes painfully so) face of a lad his year. They were alike in features, yet this was not him but the boy he had once perceived as an object of research, a mistake that had torn any hopes of friendship apart. Insisting in his reassurance, he tried once more, “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.”

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

Pressing his lips together was relief from her understanding of his faux pas - quite the understatement, considering his insensitive words - washed over Archer. Unable to offer comfort one way or the other, his eyes drifted away from the tear rolling down her cheek, a droplet she tried to brush away. Seeing others in pain, even this enigma of a girl he had only just known, was a stab to his heart.

"Only if you want to tell it," Archer said finally. Whatever tale of grief or self-hatred Anastasia would bring into delicate words, it was not his to hear. He knew only guilt would be uttered from her lips, but he was not the therapist or officer she should have confessed to. But perhaps she found solace in sharing her pain, then if so Archer would listen giving it his full attention. He would be unable to provide her with adequate comfort, but he knew there was enough consolation in lending her his ears. As they were moments before, conversation needn't have been the foundation when silence held its value. If she was to share, he would not judge or interrupt, not when he had his own demons hanging over him.

Apologies for this shorter reply, @Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

Archer just listened. What more could he have done? Always having quite fumbled up his emotions, the game was one to delicate for him to dip his toes into and play. Allowing her to speak for as long as she needed, he nodded, remaining in silence as she finished.

Admittedly he did not fully understand the story - though perhaps tragedy is a much more fitting word, but pain was not a thing pedantic enough to care for such details. His empathy was extended nevertheless, for if the wretched little creature demanded to be felt, it would be less hefty carried on the backs of two rather than one. Comprehension was not a requirement for providence of comfort, for there were still far too many things he did not have a grasp on, but would such a thing stop him from assisting one if it is hurt? And hurt was what she was. Her tone was kept at a monotone and her face a similar nature - not betraying any emotion except for her eyes. As they filled with regret, Archer need not have been a doctor to know they were not the eyes of a child.

After a long pause as her words soaked in, Archer offered what always warmed him on the unforgiving Scottish nights - and fate's unforgiving fist. His hands felt cold and numb, but his heart was still untouched and warm as he took a cautious step towards the girl in distress. "Would you like a hug?" It was no miracle to solve every problem, but it was a small reminder she would not carry the burden alone.

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney (oh god why do we subject all four of our characters to suffering T_T)