19 Jul 2018, 18:41
Praeteritus ad Praeteritum
"Nescio eo..."
Pater. This man was Dorian's father? I do not know him, that was what the words meant-- and she did not. She only had this photo and that memory. "I-I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know. The memory-- my flashbacks-- they're just memories coming back to me... and I relive them as they do..." The girl lowered her elbows onto her knees, supporting her head in her hands. A cascade of black hair obscured half of her face, blocking out the emerald eye, but she did not bother to brush it away.
"Hoc erit aliquam tempus.
"I saw... a house, my house, it must have been, I don't remember. A room, my parents' room, and the photo under the bed... and I took it, and it ended up here... I don't know where it came from. They took it, told me to leave it, told me it was the photo of a monster-- well, kind of, and sorry, it isn't my fault that I believed it at the age of six or so-- but I came back and stole it, and they did not notice that I did.
"Well, if this man is your father-- I don't know why I have this photo. I don't know anything," she finished, "And I don't know if anyone does. I take it you don't. And I don't understand French, even if I could tell it was French." Her words were true, except for the part where she said she believed what her parents had told her-- she only felt a simple wariness from the photo, yet her curiosity overtook her at the time, and she'd stared at it for hours one day before hiding it away in a pocket. She recognized something in that picture. She recognized it in Dorian too.
What was that something?
Why was this picture here? What did she see in them both? What, deodamnatus, was this all about? What was freaking happening? The questions shouted and raged at each other, each trying to claim dominance over the other, and she shut them out. For once, her curiosity was becoming a burden.
...All right, maybe for once wasn't so accurate.
Whirling through her head were exclamations of surprise and shock and exasperation and even exhilaration at the discovery, a violent, fuming hurricane of torn thoughts and inquiry. "Esne certus ut vos non scitis?" Cel asked. The words came out more plea than query. "Nullus?" That single word was spoken sotto voce but still legible-- she needed to know; she had to, not only for her present curiosity but for the pounding need to understand that ate away at her every time she went through one of her flashbacks. What if maybe she did know him, she simply didn't know that she knew him? Was that confusing? Did that make sense?
Quare? Why? Why was this happening? Why did she not know about this? Why did she not know this Dorian? Why was this picture of his father? Why did she still even have this picture? Why didn't she speak French? Calm down, she chided herself, hysterics will not aid anyone. And eat that chocolate. So she did, finishing the last smattering of sugary sweetness on her tongue. There was more still there in his hand, but it might be considered rude, and rather strange considering he still had that photo in his other hand.
"Unless..." She was not aware she had spoken the word out loud until she recognized the noise she could hear herself-- again she had voiced her thought. Her wall had fallen, her wall had shattered, like... shattered glass. Of her fear. Unless, she thought again, to finish the thought she had unknowingly, unintentionally began to share, we could ask his father. But she did not vocalize this, allowing the word to trail off unfinished-- unless, of course, he would later ask for it.
It could be possible; he would likely know, but what if he was not present, or something of that ilk? She knew nothing of Dorian's life; well, it would be rather strange if she did. Besides, it would really be awkward if he didn't know, which was of relatively equal possibility.
For now... there was nothing to do but wait, wait on the train, try to deduce what this might mean in her mind. She had come onto the train fearing boredom, a thing of the past now. This was not a riddle like the one Kaegen had given her, this was not a math problem like the ones she picked apart back in Oxford, this was a conflict in a story like the ones she spent her days reading, reading, reading over again.
And now she-- they-- needed to solve it.
Reducio
I do not know him.
This will take time.
Are you certain you do not know?
Nothing?
21 Jul 2018, 07:24
Praeteritus ad Praeteritum
✸
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Ea non fecit...
Dorian stumbled backwards as the train met some turbulence, landing ungracefully into his original seat, staring at his dad again in the picture. The boy's unsmiling mien was not one of shock or confusion, but rather, an excitement that he did not know how to channel. "Nos habeo tempus" he declared immediately, letting her know that now was as good a time as any to share their thoughts while the train persisted on its ho-hum course. He listened intently to her every word as if they were gospel, so absorbed that all else seemed to fade as she explained how she had come to be in possession of something so...private. For private it was.
And raised more questions than they could derive answers on a whim.
Her thoughts were overwrought as her words mimicked how she felt. But this Dorian understood. There were too many variables, too many questions that needed answering. It was frustrating to be in the dark, and that was exactly what they were at this moment. Trapped in the impending dark about things that would surely impact both their lives in some significant way or another. Rather than speak in answer to her question, Dorian looked away, shaking his head with infinitesimal twists to the left and right. She knew more than he did at this point. Dorian had never even considered the possibility that... What? What didn't he consider? A nagging feeling gnawed at the back of his mind as he thought.
A dangerous thing; errant thought.
While she upheld the silence and ate the melting chocolate, Dorian, again, obsessed over the picture in his hand for the umpteenth time, looking past his father this time at the mane of black hair to the side. Who was she? It wasn't his mother; that much he could tell. For as long as he had been alive he had never known his mother to grow her hair past a certain point, and she had such amazing hair that wanted to grow. When he had asked her she had retorted with: "Control, Dorian. Long hair is far too difficult to tame; short hair is an exercise in control. A woman with the good sense and enough control to keep her hair at a respectable length is denied nothing." He was sure there was some underlying meaning behind what she had said back then. There always seemed to be something extra in her words that he needed to listen very hard to hear.
That was not his mother in the picture.
His fixation on the picture met its end at the utterance of Cel's parapraxis, his head shooting up and his gaze landing on the top of her head. "Huh?" She didn't seem to have more to offer. Or at least, she didn't seem to have more to share. It was at times like these that Dorian saw it fit to release whatever grudges people held against each other in the pursuit of answers. Celynne Flores had rubbed him the wrong way earlier, on this their very first encounter. But his opinion of her had gradually changed over the course of their conversation, and he found that she wasn't what she seemed on the surface. She was more. So much more, and it was a crying shame that they had only just met. Thoughts flitted through his mind as we watched her eat the last of the chocolate, and then a thought came to him. Unbeknownst to him, his thought process mirrored her own, and he said the thing that she had not.
"Ut nos rogare illum."
It was that simple. "Ad tertium patet." It really was. The man in question was present to take the picture, and he would be the best person to ask. Why was he in a picture that Cel had managed to find amon her parents' things? "Ille poterit indicare-" the Latin words would not come, and the frown on his face made it evident that he was struggling to find the right words in the ancient language. He shook his head and embarrasedly resigned himself to revert to the common tongue. "He'll know what this means. If I know my dad then there's a really good reason why you have this picture." The man knew a great many things. Dorian's heart started to flutter when he saw through the windows in his peripheral and felt the train slowing. They had arrived. Their conversation and general shock had lasted for a greater deal of time than he had anticipated.
And now they were one step closer to discovering the truth.
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✸
✸ Ea non fecit... - She did not know...
✸ "Nos habeo tempus." - "We have time."
✸ "Ut nos rogare illum." - "We should ask him."
✸ "Ad tertium patet." - The answer is clear."
✸ "Ille poterit indicare-" - "He can tell-"
✧Improvidus, Apto quod Victum✧
Stam: 3, Agi: 3, Str: 4, Con: 7, Arc: 7, Acc: 6
21 Jul 2018, 22:39
Praeteritus ad Praeteritum
Ab uno disce omnes.
Silence reigned in the compartment for a while, the laughter and chatter of students in the adjacent ones penetrating the mahogony wood of the walls. The rough road did not shake her from her thoughts, though she always wished it did-- the curiosity she experienced now was unlike any other, for she knew she was on the brink of discovery, yet she could not reach it without help.
Once in the safety of Oxford, when she was still blissfully unaware of flashbacks and the pain they brought, Parker had told her that her curiosity would one day get the best of her. He had told her that one day she would need to fill in those blank spots in her memory, and that her own need to understand would not let her rest until she had uncovered every secret there was-- and those words were coming to light just now, both the warning and the praise in them, for even though her own thinking was getting her nowhere, she simply kept going around in circles, unable to stop and take a break. It was all for the hope that from one, she would learn all-- not the original meaning of the quote, but the words fit nonetheless, even if this hope would likely prove futile. A man who lives on hope dances without music.
The ground was her only vista, brown, dusty and trembling with movement, before Dorian's words jerked her from her shortcircuit of thinking-- the reflection of what she neglected to voice, the revelation she had come across but that she had chosen to keep in quiescence. Clawing all ten fingers through her hair-- and stopping as they met with a mess of tangles, hidden deep beneath the locks of smooth blackness; only touch could distinguish it from the rest of her hair. "Ita, recte dicis," she replied, a weary but for once true smile on her face-- not so cheerful or happy, but an expression of resolution-- the satisfaction of a decision made. How queer it was that he thought of what she just had, how peculiar for them to be on the same track of thinking-- this seemingly very easily irritated, salty as some would call him, boy. But in this recent conversation, his annoyed, vexed demeanor had shifted considerably.
The train jerked as it neared its destination; Cel grabbed at the armrests to keep her small weight from being jerked out of her seat. She had always been short and small-- or as much as she could remember, anyway. For the first time in her life, she had a stinging urge to recall even more of her past, no matter the pain her flashbacks brought, if only she could comprehend what had come of her history, but as soon as she wished it, it was denied to her-- it was extremely uncommon for her to have two flashbacks in the same day, or in the same week, for that matter.
But perhaps this Rasmus Gray, Dorian's father, could help them-- help them understand what this was, what the picture was doing under her parents' bed, cast away and forgotten, why her mother's hair was flowing down the edge of the picture, who had taken the picture, even. Why she recognized something-- and what that something was-- in that photo-- in them both. What a chance it was that she happened upon a compartment with Dorian, the son of the Man in the Picture-- the name she had taken to calling him before she had forgotten about the photo in pursuance of other subjects.
Screeeeeeeeeeeee. The sound of steel sliding on steel pierced the train, sending Cel's hands flying up to plug her ears as she grimaced at the noise. Most noises did not bother her, but this one was too reminiscent of the sounds glass could make when clawed by a number of sharp materials, including claws, nails, more glass-- in short, anything sharp. It was coming-- the view of Platform 9 3/4 whizzed past the window of their compartment, colored blurs turning into busy people, reddish brown masses shifting into dilapidated brick walls. And waiting outside were parents-- so many parents in the sea of people, waiting patiently for their children to come home for the summer.
So many. Parker would be there, as would the mothers and fathers of the people she had met at Hogwarts-- so many, compared to the number of people her own age in Oxford: Eris. Kaegen-- she wasn't sure what to expect of that, and counted herself lucky that she didn't need to expect anything-- and... her thoughts trailed off, coming to a different conclusion as they realized what their arrival meant, a significance that she likely should have gathered earlier. Rasmus Gray, Dorian's father and the Man in the Picture, would be there.
She had a great many questions, and now she would have her answers.
Reducio
From one, learn all.
Indeed you are correct.
Indeed you are correct.
25 Jul 2018, 04:24
Praeteritus ad Praeteritum
✸
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This was foolish.
The persistent sound of blood pumping in his head, prominent in his ears, was all he could focus on as the time drew near. Already the barrage of questions he intended to ask flooded his mind, vying for dibs in the prospect of learning a secret. The train had finally come to a complete stop, and the sound of giddy children pervaded the narrow hallway and diminished over time as they each made timely work of leaving the train and greeting their families. When all fell silent, Dorian cast a look at Celynne, so many questions shared in that single gaze. "Well... It's now or never." With that said, he rose from the seat that had since become the most uncomfortable cushion of velvet that he had encountered, gathered his trunk from where he had haphazardly left it, and exited the door of the compartment.
And all the while his heart was having a field day inhis chest.
Just who was this mysterious girl on the train? The ride home had been nothing like what he had been expecting in the beginning. A quiet evening spent alone or in a compartment with someone who would keep to themselves while he did the same. Silence would reign and when the journey ended he would descend and be on his merry way without a care in the world or any deviation from the norm. But this was as far from normal as he could imagine the train ride getting. A picture of his father in the hands of a perfect stranger with amnesia and an affinity for the dead language? There were far too many coincidences present for this to not be a pattern of sorts. And all this pondering only served to drive him crazy as his thoughts tried to make sense of it all. Best to leave it to the expert, his father, who would be better able to make some sense out of this nonsense.
Hopefully, it would not be a revelation that would hit him like the train he was leaving.
He took his first step onto the train platform with Cel not too far away, peering into the crush of people in search of a tall, muscular figure with a sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes. Suffice it to say, the search did not take long, and the man seemed to have spotted him too, for he was stalking closer with every beat of the boy's heart. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum... External sounds were muffled as the sound of his pulse, and ultimately his heartbeat became all-encompassing. "-rian? Dorian? Dorian." The boy blinked as the sounds returned. "Huh?" He was looking up into the face of his dad, Rasmus Gray, and the man was looking at him with a signature crooked raise of his eyebrow. "What's the matter, son? Tired of me already? I knew it was a bad idea to have you gone for so long. Now I'm old and sonless!" Despite himself and the eventuality of the situation, Dorian laughed.
One of those genuine laughs that came from deep in the gut.
If people thought Dorian was a jokester, then they would practically die of laughter when they listened to his father speak for extended periods of time. The man was a riot. In a moment of father and son telepathy, Dorian and Rasmus rushed forward simultaneously, Dorian jumping a little in a rare moment of sheer blissful glee as he wrapped himself around the man's torso as they embraced. "There he is!" They shared a powerful bond that most wouldn't understand just by seeing it, but sight alone could reveal just enough on the topic of how close they were. The boy was back on his feet now and his dad was looking down at him... And Dorian was looking away. "So uhh... Dad. There's this girl I'd like you to meet." Dorian stepped aside and pointed with his hand at Celynne, the bright little girl who understood Latin. He expected silence, confusion, unfamiliarity.
But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.
"Natalia?" Natalia? Who's that? The unasked question reflected plainly on Dorian's face as he watched his father take a single step, now standing directly beside him as he watched Celynne. And then it happened. Dorian found himself supporting his father's weight as the man passed out right then and there with nothing seeming to be the cause. At least, nothing that anyone could see. "Dad!" Dorian was struggling to maintain the dead weight, but lucky for him another man rushed forward to help, shouldering the brunt of the burden. Dorian exchanged a worried glance with Celynne, a look that asked the question before his voice mirrored the thought.
"Who the hell is Natalia?"
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✸
Both exeunts the thread
✧Improvidus, Apto quod Victum✧
Stam: 3, Agi: 3, Str: 4, Con: 7, Arc: 7, Acc: 6