westfallcorndog | Here Because of You (For Isidor)

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isidor

Here Because of You (For Isidor)

It's only been a few days since returning to the Nexus from Tamriel, but Harrowheart can't stop worrying about Isidor. She came out alive from everything they saw, but it's what they saw that worries him. He remembers what it's like, of course he does. How utterly unsettling it is to be a living person faced with monstrosities like that. The fear of it has faded with time, but he still remembers how sickening it all was the first time he saw the Scourge.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and his first thought is, 'Fuck me.' He still doesn't have Isidor's number. This is getting to be bullshit. Viatorus is going to start getting wise to how often he asks to spend time with his sister, and then the whole thing is going to come tumbling down. At least this time he has the excuse of an 'adventure' to cover for him.

V my man how are you doing? Are people being nice to you? Do I need to beat Peenia or Sajean up for you? Anyone at all? And when are we hanging out next?

Good, good cover. And honest, too. The last time they did anything interesting was when they went fishing, and after everything on Tamriel that feels like a lifetime ago. A little casual time with Viatorus would be great right about now.

How is your sister? I need to talk to her about things that happened. Do you think you can get her in touch with me? If she can meet me tell her to come to the clearing where we worked on magic training.

He expects Viatorus will pull through for him. Of course he will. That's why he's already in the clearing lying on top of the picnic bench, his runeblade resting on the ground beneath it. Nothing here has changed since the last time she arrived, apart from the turn of the seasons... And the little area of ground that she flattened for a fighting ring. It seems Harrowheart expanded on her work, turning a circle of flat pounded ground into a large square of hard-packed dirt.

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That's so much worse. Hearing her say that and not knowing what she wants to discuss is so much worse than being surprised by a subject he's not ready to hear. His mind floods with the worst possible news. She can't handle it, can she? Being with a dead man after the things she saw. This is it. His eyes glaze over and he stares into the middle distance as if he can see the whole of the universe behind her. He doesn't blink, he doesn't breathe. Whatever he expects she's going to say to him has taken him completely out of this reality.

But eventually he shifts, blinks, and with it comes his focus. Now he looks at her, rather than through her, and in the smallest motion nods. "Tell me," he says.

Her grip tightens again. The dull pain as she cuts off her own circulation is oddly grounding. She stares at her hand, clenching hew jaw.

"Your soul... talked to me," she starts. That's it. That's the hard part over... isn't it? "When Felix and Jim came back... all these spirits appeared. You appeared."

No. This is the hard part. "You... You asked me to..." She can't say it. "Set you free." The deep breath she takes shudders. "It was like... like nothing that... that you'd been through here mattered. Like it all meant nothing. All you wanted was..."

Watching Isidor fret and stumble is incredibly difficult. That kind of body language... It isn't her. And as soon as she speaks he understands why. That wasn't what he expected to hear. He couldn't have guessed that given all the time in the world.

"My s–" He can't even say it. His distance turns to confusion. His eyes begin to dart around, searching the table, his hands, her hands, her face.

"My soul?..." His lips part and his eyebrows furrow. "But it's..."

His gaze drifts downward. He can't see the blade through the table, but he knows it's there. Knows it's resting right there at their feet. His lips come together into a thin line and he begins to rub at his sideburns. This time when he silently stares across the clearing it's not with distance in his eyes, but thought.

"I-I..."

He sighs, defeated, and looks to Isidor for guidance. "I never knew it wanted..." That. Another sigh, a shake of his head. "We're separated. Part of it is in me, part of it is..." In the runeblade. "It doesn't know what I know. It must still be feeling... The last thing it ever felt."

Elbows on the table, head in his hands, he stares downward.

"But it knew who I was," she insists suddenly only to go quiet again. She glances at his face but is quick to look at her hands again. "At least... It recognised me. Spoke to me, not the others. It knew I was close to you, but... Whatever it knew, it still... still wanted that."

His teeth grind as he tries to process this. Now it all makes less sense than before. The seconds creep past as he sits in total silence running this through his mind. His soul, which knows who Isidor is, begged to be released from the runeblade. To be gone. To be--

One of his hands drops to the table and he looks Isidor in the face. "Are you asking if that's what I want? Deep down?"

He sits in silence despite his overwhelming urge to answer for her and waits for her response.

Is that what she's asking? It's not a question she wants to ask. What if the answer is one that terrifies her? What if he tells her what she fears to hear?

She can't bring herself to look at him. It feels too... intrusive. Too cruel. "I'm... I'm asking if... if there's always going to be a part of you that's sad and desperate and lonely." Breathe. Keep it together. Breathe. "If no matter what I do or try there will always be that part of your soul... wishing for..."

The thought of it makes her feel sick.

It's a good thing he doesn't need air, because he feels his breath catch in his throat. His tension and fear slip away to something else. To the sickness and sadness of being right when he least wanted to be. He gnaws at his lip and, like Isidor, grips one of his wrists with a hand. He can feel it under the bandage, the slight separation. The way his bones move where they shouldn't.

"Maybe," he whispers, eyes on Isidor's hands.

What a worthless answer.

"Maybe," he repeats.

Eyes heavy with shame and worry he drags his attention to Isidor's face once more and tries for a smile that refuses to stick. "But not since I've been here. Not since I've been with you. I've been happy for... For the longest time I've ever been happy, and I don't want it to end."

He moves forward in his seat until his chest touches the table and he begins to reach out toward her. "When we were in Tamriel I wanted to fight to stick around. I've never wanted that before, not like I did then. I didn't wanna live just 'cause I was scared of dyin'... I wanted to live because I had reasons to live. I had someone who fought for me. Someone who made me want to be here. It's so different. Like nothin' I ever knew before. I – I am free, Isidor. For the first time ever. Now I'm free."

His fingers nearly graze hers, but at the last minute they ball into a loose fist.

"But if I asked you somethin'... Would you be honest with me? Would you tell me the truth, even if you think it's gonna hurt me?"

Maybe. What an awful, useless word. There it is again, repeated: Maybe. Like an echo, like emphasis, like the soul and the body communicating, agreeing.

She looks away, wishes they weren't having this conversation, but her gaze is dragged back to him as he speaks. Her eyes search his face, troubled but wishing he was right, hoping that the Harrowheart in front of her means more, means everything.

It's still with an uncertain hope that she watches him when she says, "Yes..." If they are to bare their souls... they might as well be honest.

"When you look at me," he starts, but he has to stop to be sure he wants to ask. He has to be ready for the truth.

"When you see me, do you think about what I told you that day in Stormwind? When I touch you with my hands does it bother you to know? When I don't wear my wrist wraps, is that what you see?"

Isidor frowns at him, tilting her head in confusion. "No…"

The creases in her brow smooth out and her eyes drift down to his hands. Now that she thinks about it, that isn't entirely true.

"Sometimes," she admits. Her voice goes quieter, softer. "When I wish you weren't… When I wonder… if I could have stopped it. Stopped you."

When I wish you weren't...

There's so much to react to here. He retracts the hand he'd held before her and runs his fingers through his hair. It's easier to keep his eyes on the table as his mind works through all of this.

In the end he rests his cheek in his palm and stares at her shoulder.

"I think you could have," he says. "But you didn't know me then. We can't change that. I am... The way I am. I did what I did. No matter how much we both regret it."

His hands scrub down his face until he finally drops them in his lap. He shakes his head and tries to force a smile that only comes off as a grimace. "I can't talk about this anymore." He huffs a halfhearted laugh and says, "Besides, Viatorus said I'm not allowed to talk about bad things with you today."

A few seconds of quiet pass as he redirects his emotions. None of what they were speaking of before. Something different now. Worrying about her is easier than talking about himself... And her opinions of him.

"He says you've been tired lately, but... If you're sure you're fine, I won't make you talk about it." And yet the expectant look on his face suggests he'd rather she would.

Viatorus should mind his own business. She thinks it before she can stop herself. Startled by herself, and ashamed, she looks away while the silence stretches on. It's just the tiredness, just the stress...

Oh yes. Very good, Harrowheart. Get me to tell you how I feel so you can feel bad about it. So I can be the bad guy, and you can be the one who gets hurt. Her jaw seizes up tight, her eyes a fraction too wide as she stares into the trees. She needs to stay in control but the thoughts, the anger, keeps going. I'm really struggling with this? This? I need to be strong, but I can't even hold myself together.

She blinks slowly, grits her teeth. If she says anything she'll ruin everything. She'll hurt Harrowheart. What if she can't stop and it just keeps going and she hurts everyone she knows?

After the longest stretch of time she answers with an unconvincing, "I'm fine."

She's so quiet. So quiet for so long, and so intense all the while. Isidor's expression tenses and twists, and Harrowheart's slips to guilt. He doesn't have to be empath to know she's angry. He said he wasn't going to force her to talk about it, and he's about to make a liar out of himself.

"Isidor," he tries softly, "I need to be able to be there for you. That's how this works."

He reaches across the distance between them and tries to rest his hand on hers if she'll allow it. It's difficult to smile, and he's sure she won't want to see it, but he does manage to push away his anxiety long enough to try for some joy.

"Let me help you this time."

He reaches over and she lets him. The gesture, small as it is, makes her shoulders sag, her expression soften and her heart ache. She lifts her fingers so that the back of them touch his palm... but then she drops them back onto her lap.

"How can I?" She glances at him from the corner of her eye but soon looks to her hands again. "You can't even talk about yourself. How can I talk to you about me? If you need space and time to deal with your problems that's fine." No, it's not. He should be talking to her about it. Why isn't he...? "But don't think I'm going to pile on my problems too."

"Pile on?" He huffs in surprise and shakes his head. Something colors his smile, turns it from an attempt at positivity to something difficult to discern. Amusement and concern at once.

Her fingers fall away from his hand and he stands, then rounds the table and takes a seat beside her rather than across from her. He loops his arm behind her lower back and his hand finds hers once more in her lap.

"Sometimes I forget you ain't ever been in a relationship before, and then you gotta go and say somethin' like that."

He shakes his head again and this time his smile is as genuinely charmed as it ever is when he looks at her.

"When you tell your problems to someone who loves you, you ain't makin' more problems for them. If you tell me that you feel bad, that don't make me feel worse. I'll hurt a little for you, sure, but... Ah Hell, I probably ain't smart enough to explain it, but I'd be happier somehow? If you told me when things ain't workin' out for you, I'd feel like I'm part of your whole life. I wanna know you're happy, but... I wanna know the bad stuff too. I wanna share it with you and help you carry it."

He laughs and with his free hand prods her bicep. "Just like you carried me in those ruins. How'd you manage that anyway?"

"My trainer isn't as tall as you, but he's heavy too," she answers swiftly. It's a brief, but refreshing distraction from talking about Feelings.

Isidor inhales deeply and exhales sharply, whereupon she straightens and turns to look Harrowheart in the eye. "Fine. But if we're sharing things then you have to share too. You can't expect me to admit things aren't going well if you're not telling me when you aren't all right. Understood?"

The way she orders him gets a raise of the eyebrows and a surprised little laugh. "Yes, my liege."

He opens his mouth wide and takes a deep breath... And in a rush says, "But you go first."

The raised eyebrow and narrow eyes she gives him is so quintessentially Isidor it must be a good sign. Playfulness aside, she breathes deeply and looks away.

What does she tell him? Where does she start? She doesn't want to say something that might start her blubbering. No. No crying. If there's one thing she's sure about it's that she doesn't want to cry in front of him. Not again. A small goal. Surely it's an achievable one.

"On Nirn. That was the first time I'd killed anything." She stops to wonder if that's an appropriate place to start. Or to stop. Her hands rub each other and then fold together neatly. "You've killed before. Is it always so...?" Awful? Disgusting? Terrifying? "I... don't know the word."

Harrowheart stares at the nearby trees. His eyebrows twitch with the workings of his mind. His idle hand rubs at her knee while his other quietly drums against the table.

"It's been a long time since I didn't like killin'," he admits as casually as if it were any other fact of life – and for him it is.

He tilts his head to look at her again and his eyebrows rise as he recalls something. "But I didn't like that we had to kill animals when I was a kid. I remember tryin' to go without eatin' animals for a while when I was younger, but times got too hard and I couldn't keep it up. And... I... Remember joinin' the military not wantin' to kill people. Even if I knew it would only be bad folks, I didn't wanna do it back then. But if you do anything long enough you get used to it. Sooner or later it's just... Killin' to eat, killin' to survive. It don't mean anything after a while."

But something about saying that makes his eyelids twitch. That doesn't... That doesn't feel like the right answer. But it has been so long since he felt otherwise. His mouth shifts to the side, disappointed with his own faulty memory.

That... was not the answer she was hoping for. She frowns and her hands curl up. What was she expecting? This is stupid. He'll just think she's weak. He'll think she's making a fuss over nothing. What happened in Nirn was just another day for him.

Another deep breath and she tries to think of this a different way. Killing means nothing to him, but surely the monsters they saw made an impact.

"But... when you fight, and you see things... things like what we saw... They don't bother you? They don't... haunt you?"

His immediate response is to shake his head, but he stops mid-motion and stares as he thinks. "Hmm." The sound moves his chest and shoulders.

"It used to," he says distantly, as if this is the first time he's remembering it in quite a while. "Yeah," he continues, nodding now. His certainty increases and he gains confidence in the motion. "Used to bother me real bad. I guess I do remember what it was like bein' a livin' man seein' the mindless undead for the first time."

"It's different with free-willed undead, ain't it?" He jostles her so that he can get quick a look at her face, but he doesn't linger in staring. "Seein' someone like me or those death knights you met in Stormwind, that's real different from seein' mindless undead. You can get used to seein' a dead body move if you can tell yourself they're just a different kind of person. But things like what we saw before we found Felix..."

His arm around her waist holds her just a little closer now as the shaking of his head slowly drifts his gaze away. "I woulda been real bothered by that if I was a livin' person. I'd wanna sleep with other people around, or with candles lit so I could see the corners of the room. I'd be scared of the edges of my vision. I'd get sick eatin' food with the wrong kinda texture. And seein' that sorta thing over and over didn't get easier. It only got scarier, cause it gave me more bad things to think about. It gave me bad dreams. Real bad dreams all the time. Evil shit walkin' around in the real world in the day, evil shit stalkin' around in your brain at night. It's too much."

At first she thinks he's about to tell her that he never thinks about it, that it doesn't bother him in the slightest. So when he says that he can remember it troubling him she feels her muscles relax with relief. It's not ideal, but even if he doesn't feel the same way now at least he can understand.

There's a light frown on her brow when he jostles her, concerns that he's just saying all of this to make her feel better replaced with the memory of when he looked like those mindless undead. Is it different? But then she's nodding. He's right. It is different when they're still people. When they're not… She hesitates to call them beasts, or monsters. She knows people who could qualify as both, after all.

She wants to lean into him, but instead she remains sitting straight, rubbing her wrist. After a long pause she swallows hard and says, "I didn't mean to snap at you earlier." It takes her another moment to continue. "I can't help it. I try, but I can't. I keep… losing my temper with people. I can't tell if it's because I haven't been sleeping or because of something else." She looks worried, but she sounds frustrated as she huffs and waves a hand. "I can't fix it if I don't know why it's happening."

Her apology catches him by surprise. She snapped at him? Yes, she did actually... And he was so willing to forget about it, to let it happen and move forward. For a flash of a second he wonders if he should have asked for this apology himself, but he immediately feels guilty for thinking it. Isidor is going through a difficult time. It's his job to forgive her.

But he's at a loss here. Did he go through this when he was alive? When he first saw people dying, when he first had to kill? No. No, he's sure he didn't. He went quiet. He kept away from other people. It's different now, of course. Different now that he's undead.

It's clear from his silence that he doesn't know what to say or do.

With a weak smile and a little laugh he jokes, "You sound like me on Azeroth. Maybe you're turnin' into a death knight."

Isidor presses her lips into a thin line and gives him a sidelong look. "I doubt it. If I were a death knight I wouldn't have to deal with the-." She stops herself out of habit, and then feels even more embarrassed for the awkward pause. In attempt to keep things casual, she shrugs and looks away again. "I wouldn't have bad dreams. I wouldn't even need to sleep. V would hate it, but I could get so much work done."

"So you are havin' bad dreams," he says with a small nod. "But you haven't gone to that boy who fixes 'em? What's his name again? Some kinda scholar... Think he might be a Durant..."

He scratches his sideburn and looks around as he tries so very hard to recall the boy's name.

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