possessum | — 𝐜 𝐨 𝐧 𝐭 𝐚 𝐜 𝐭

[ Though it's only been a few weeks, Peter's physical appearance has seen some improvement. While still a little tender, his nose no longer looks painfully swollen and bruised, and he's been able to stop wearing the bandage across it.

His psychological state is... a different matter. When there's a knock at the door, he freezes, eyes wide with a heart that can't sit still. His housemate wouldn't need to knock, she has keys, and they rarely have visitors.

It takes a little while for him to answer, and it comes in the form of the door very slowly creeeeaking open, inky eyes peering around the corner of it, dark fingers wrapped against the side. Is it a haunted house that Diarmuid's come upon? It could seem that way, with the quiet ghost of a young man blinking at him from the shadows.

Then his mouth parts softly in surprise. It's the boy. From the dome, with the wounded arm, his gentle comrade for those few hours, against the predators.

The door opens wider, Peter taking in the boy's atypical appearance, his attire something the devout wear. Both of them are quite a different sight from before, Peter almost seeming the picture of an average teen in his tee-shirt and pajama bottoms, socked feet. Neither of them stained with blood this time. ]

It's... it's you. [ A hitch of breath. His eyes drop to the cast upon his arm. He's had medical attention, that's good, but Peter still asks, eyes searching him. ] You... you're okay?

[They're both healing.

Or, well. Healing as much as one can.

He hadn't really considered how different Diarmuid would look with his robes, how out of place and out of time he tended to look compared to all the other kids his age. The basket looks out of place, too, as if he'd weaved it himself, the smell drifting from it pleasant.]

I'm as well as can be.

How are you? I brought you lunch.

[He hoped he wasn't imposing. He admits, a lot of these visits are hardly pre-planned, but...]

[ He does look like something straight out of another place and time, standing there on the porch with robes and hand-woven basket, but it's what he says that really draws a reaction from Peter, eyes widening. He brought him— lunch?

His mouth opens; Peter is aware, cognizant in this moment, and yet he's having trouble processing things. ]

You brought me...? [ He can smell it: warm, cooked things, a rarity these days for him. When was the last time... His heart skips an odd beat at the concept of family dinners, a normalcy that seems so far away now. ]

I've been... going to school. [ He finally answers the question (sort of, more of a report of what he's been doing than how he's been doing, but that's the default way for him.) Peter then moves to the side, opens the door a bit wider. ]

You want to come in? Henry's— out, I think. Or maybe asleep. [ He should explain who "Henry" is, but Peter's terribly out of sorts with this whole business, with... communication. ]

Edited 2019-10-18 03:53 (UTC)

[Diarmuid could certainly relate to the thoughts in Peter's head; he, too, feels a distant kinship from the smell of the freshly cooked meal, and every time he eats he thinks of his brothers at the monastery. He steps inside tentatively at the offer, glancing around the home and feeling a little intrusive. Henry was the girl from the bathroom stalls, wasn't she? He sure hoped she wouldn't be upset with him for being here.]

If it's no trouble. There's enough here to leave for Henry as well.

[He smiles back at Peter, breathing out to relax himself.]

Sorry, I've been... skittish, in new places.

Would you like some now? I could collect some bowls...

[He's been very good at collecting and preparing things one-armed.]

[ He and Henry usually opt for the path of least resistance when it comes to food — aka there's a lot of bags of chips and heat up burritos involved in their diets. An actual homecooked meal sounds.. really nice, really, even if Peter isn't able to convey that as adequately as a typical person should. He's just— stunned, still, always a little bit lost.

But he's starting to ease back into reality when he lets the boy into the home. Seeing how nervous Diarmuid seems to be, how he has to breathe out in order to coax himself down. Peter's thick brows knit slightly. ]

I— understand that.

[ Then, after a beat, there's an attempt at reassurance, soft and careful: ]

It's okay. It's just me and Henry here.

[ No one else. No one who would hurt him. Peter moves towards the kitchen, which bears the mark of two teenagers who clearly aren't concerned with keeping things anywhere near pristine: a small stack of dirty dishes piled in the sink, some stale toast left on the counter. ....Peter thinks he might have had toast two days ago. ]

I can do that for you. [ Playing the part of house host is so new for him, but he won't let the boy with the busted arm finagle with bowls. There are some clean ones that he finds, setting them on the table. After a moment's pause, he fishes out two bottles of water as well, his movements still awkward and stiff and a little nervous himself. He stands there near the table, fingers fidgeting at his sides uncertainly—

— and his stomach gives a loud, audible growl, one that surprises him. Despite his mind floating away so often, his body still remembers what it needs. Clearly Diarmuid's delicious-smelling food is calling out to him and his stomach's calling back. For the first time in......a while, Peter laughs slightly, a soft breath of a sound, head dipped as he gives his lip a chew. ]

— I guess I'm hungrier than I even realised.

[Diarmuid smiles more candidly at that, pleased despite the concerning sound.]

Well, you're in luck today. I happen to have just the meal to appease your restless stomach.

[Ah, the joys of listening to a medieval teenager chattering. He sees the sink, of course, and wishes both his hands were freed up enough that he could help wash them up before he leaves; this cast has been a thorn in his side.]

I do apologize at how uneven the bread is, though... it had been particularly unpleasant an effort, to knead and bake bread with one arm held aside.

[ It's strange to have to remember how basic human functioning works. Peter hasn't been concerned with hunger much; it's been a mindless sort of activity since he woke up here — and he's only really eaten when he really has to. But now he's remembering what it's like to look.. forward? to eating?

He spoons some of the stew into bowls for both of them as he listens to the other boy, blinking at that. ]

I still can't believe you managed to do this with just one arm. It must have been so hard.

[ A pause. ]

And.. painful.

[ It must have been, right? To move around at all with that arm still broken up. He can still remember how the wound looked when it had been fresh. Slowly, Peter eases into a chair, wishing he knew something better to say to this kind boy, something... helpful. Dark eyes fall to the scarf, really noticing it now, and something dawns on him. ]

Did you make that, too...?

[He shakes his head, a humored smile on his lips.]

... I wish I could take credit for it, but my arm has not permitted me to knit anything.

I found it in a shop — ah, it's got little fish on it... It just reminds me of you.

[Perhaps he'll just always be Peter From Team Fish, considering it had been how they met. And it was a horrible way to meet, truly, but... it was also such a dark and dangerous situation, it's hard not to feel it had left a far deeper impact than some casual banter on a feed. They were trapped and injured in a dangerous place together. It does something to you.]

With winter coming, it gets so cold here... so I thought I would make sure everyone was prepared.

[ Fish— Peter hadn't noticed that. He leans forwards slightly so as to see the garment better, and then dares to take it into his hands — dares, because he can still hardly believe that any moment is really real. Everything is a dream, or a nightmare, but

but in this moment, this is real. Somehow. He can feel it's real in his hands, the soft fabric of it against his thumbs. He's staring (Peter's special skill, really), and then swallows again as he gently folds it with care as though afraid it'll break. Nothing lasts long in his hands, but he'll take care of this. ]

Thank you. You're very kind.

[ He's studying his lunch guest more closely now, drawn together by the casual, but meaningful, intimacy of sitting at a table together with good food between them. ]

You've been here a while? If... you know how winters are here.

Mm... It's been a year this month.

[It's strange to say aloud. There aren't very many left from when he'd arrived — perhaps no more than two dozen others who would be familiar with the last October in this place. And he'd only arrived near the end of it. Just in time to accidentally get drunk and need help going home by Wade... What a strange time it'd been. So overwhelming in such different ways from now. Now, he's certainly overwhelmed and stressed, but he's developed a routine and knowledge he'd never had before.]

When I arrived — there had been blood in the streets, but I had missed the worst of it in October... mostly, I had been alarmed by all of the... the 'technology' I had seen. The things that were so common... most of it wasn't invented yet in my time.

Even paper books... I had rarely ever seen paper in my lifetime, and even when I did, it would have cost more than I could have ever afforded.

[ After carefully setting aside the scarf, Peter's turned to the food, taking bites while he listens to Diarmuid speak. The news that he's been here a year earns a visibly startled response, Peter's eyes widening, but he says nothing, opting to keep listening instead.

He can barely comprehend that concept, right now. He's not even... entirely sure what this place is. The thought of spending a year here feels so foreign, but then, the thought of returning "home" is just as foreign.

There's nothing to return to. ]

Your time... What time are you from, exactly? [ He asks softly. He's stumbled across a couple of others who seemed to be straight from the past, in the way they dressed and spoke, rather like this young man. But Diarmuid still stands out even among them in his monk robes and mannerism. He'd woken to a completely alien world, then, one with advanced technology and dress and social norms. It must have been.... terrifying.

And then Peter adds, because he's wondered: ] How old are you?

... From 1209. The 13th century, in Ireland.

[He gives that a moment to settle between them, because it's usually a shock to most of the people he talks to — even with seeing him in his monk garb and listening to him speak.]

I'm sixteen, currently. A novice from the monastery — um, that is, I haven't taken any vows officially. I'm just in training, you could say.

[ It is a shock, but Peter has seen so many shocking things as of late, has been experienced to things he could never have imagined up, whether from a dream or a nightmare. He doesn't startle at the information, doesn't gasp or ogle him. He just regards Diarmuid with a thoughtful, almost calm stare.

Sixteen... so young. Just a boy, like him. And like back in the hell of the Dome, there's some unspoken clarification of trust towards this boy because of that fact alone: he's someone young and kind. Adults aren't... aren't trustworthy. They do horrible things. ]

Me too. Sixteen, I mean. [ He'll be seventeen soon, in a matter of weeks really, but Peter isn't really keeping track of that. His voice softens again, easing gently into conversation. It's one of the first he's really had since waking up here. ]

Did you like it there?

Sixteen... The age where everyone treats you like a child, even though you're often taller than them.

[He grins, humored and a little more at ease.]

I did like it. At the monastery, anyway... the world outside of it was... [Ah, well, the smile slips a little. Turns into something more bittersweet.] It was a difficult place to navigate. We're in the middle of a battle for land, where I'm from. The French, they've been conquering parts of Ireland as their own, and even the monks were not spared from their dangerous dealings...

.....

I suppose that's a bit of a grim thought to have over lunch, though. Sorry.

[ That earns a soft laugh — the second one from Peter that afternoon. ]

Yeah. Yeah, that's a good way to put it.

[ He's eating freely now, movements slow but no less enthusiastic, because this is really damn good. Though his eyes drift back up to Diarmuid as he leans over his bowl, taking in what he says next. They killed them? Jesus.... ]

...That's awful. [ His eyes gravitate down to the piece of bread he'd cut, watching it quietly. The apology has him giving his head the softest shake. ]

That's okay. I don't mind. Some.. some bad stuff happened back home for me, too. Um.. people being killed.

[ Is it strange to talk about? It.. should be, and it is in a way, but it's also.. not. Perhaps because it's just reality for them. ]

...Do you want to go back home? [ Perhaps an equally strange thing to say, but.. if this boy comes from a place of such turmoil... And it's a question Peter can't help wondering for himself, too. ]

[He bites his lip, thinking about the vision he and Max had witnessed, in the smoke... but even if he didn't fear possibly dying at the hands of the norsemen, there was just... a big blank space where his yearning for home should have been. Not that he didn't yearn to return to an easier time — to the monastery, where everything was simple and boring and safe — but... he never saw himself going back to the monastery now.]

I lost... a good deal of my fellow brothers. And my dearest friend as well.

And I think I would be disgraced to return to my home as I am.

So... I guess I don't. This place has taken a tremendous toll on me, but... home is not much better.

[ It's such an... odd, discomforting thought now. Peter isn't entirely sure what "home" represents for him anymore. His memory is... polluted; he so often loses himself, loses track of what is reality and what isn't. What happened to him back there, what happened to his... family.

Deep down is the weight of knowledge that they are all dead and he has no one left. But it's layered in the fog of his unstable mindset, his strange memories, of the dark thing within him. Perhaps it was all a nightmare. Just some bad, awful dream. He doesn't know. Perhaps he'll never know.

Peter slowly stops eating, eyes drifting down to look at Diarmuid's robes, quiet and calm and thinking through the odd ache in his chest as he listens to the other boy speak of his aches.

He's sitting here having lunch with someone kind, and he'd like to forget about the dark things for awhile, but he... can't. He can't. Even now as he's sitting here, he feels an odd shudder just there under his skin, one that makes him shift uncomfortably. Like a reminder that all of this is going to be short-lived. ]

If you're from a monastery, you.... you believe in God? Is that the kind of monk you are?

[ A beat, before he adds: ] Can you tell if someone's evil?

[He frowns down at the table, something uncomfortable forming like a mass in his stomach.]

... I do, yes. I believe in God. But — I'm not sure if evil is something anyone can truly measure. I try... to keep those things in the hands of God. To let Him say what is and isn't evil, because... humanity is a flawed creation, the kind that could misunderstand. The kind of creation that can be wrong. About what is and isn't evil.

[A held breath, as he dwells upon the words spoken to him, last he was in his world.]

If I may be honest, I had spent some time concerned if I had something evil in me. If my choices were actually the work of someone tainted by the Devil himself — and that I was ruined. [Glancing up, he considers the question, or rather, the reason for it.] Do you think you're evil?

[ Peter's aware it's a pretty loaded question, not the sort of thing he'd ordinarily just.. throw out there to someone.

'If I may be honest, I had spent some time concerned if I had something evil in me. If my choices were actually the work of someone tainted by the Devil himself — and that I was ruined.'

Peter can't hide the way his eyes widen and his breath hitches slightly, certain pieces of that... ringing very true for him. Uncomfortably so, but it's somehow relieving at the same time. Like... he's not crazy. And this is a chance to talk to someone who has... religious experience and insight.

The question has him pause, unexpected. It's a question that he's... wondered maybe, deep down, after everything that's happened and what he's been going through. But he hasn't ever directly addressed it like this. A tremour flutters through him, manifesting into his fingers, making them shake slightly. His fork clinks against the plate, and he sets it down so he won't drop it. ]

...I don't know. [ Spoken softly. An honest answer, but not... too honest. He's still afraid to voice it in more detail. ] I think maybe there's something... bad about me. [ His eyes dart away, suddenly apprehensive. ]

In your beliefs, if someone does something wrong — like really, really horrible wrong... does it open them up to be influenced by bad things? Like... kind of like karma, I guess. Creating bad energy? Does that make sense?

[He bites his lip, sitting in silence for a moment.]

I think... it can influence someone. I think the more bad that one does, the harder it can be to... to return to a better path. And certainly, I think there could be energies at work that make choices more difficult. But — I have to believe that no matter how much evil one may have inside them, or how much bad they do, that there is always a chance for redemption.

... My friend in my world, he had left a long road of bloodshed in his past; he killed people, hurt so many... but he repented. He wanted to make up for his errors in life. He served our monastery faithfully. And if he had not been there for me, I would have died.

[He puts a hand on Peter's arm, slowly, carefully.]

It does not matter what you are, what you're afflicted with.

It only matters what you do with it now.

[ He's afraid. Afraid to hear what this young man will say. Peter hardly knows him, but.. there's a certain weight placed in his words by default; Diarmuid has a certain... wisdom. He's from long ago, he's been exposed to different things. He knows about... the world in a way Peter doesn't. About the spiritual, right? So he's listening intently to him, even if afraid.

The hand against his arm is unexpected — as all touch is. Peter's like an open wound, even the slightest brush against him aches, but he doesn't flinch back. Not from Diarmuid. Instead, he feels, for the first time in a while, not quite so alone. It's harrowing, in a way, that realisation, something twisting in his chest. He tilts his head forwards, chin dipped downwards, giving a soft, slightly shaky exhale.

There's a lot.. a lot of questions. A lot to say. Too much; Peter's overwhelmed by it. Not quite ready to dip into those things yet. But... just this much alone has done something for him. He nods his head softly, a wordless reply to all that he's been told. A "thank you" is barely voiced, eyes unable to meet the boy's, almost as though submissive to him — then he repeats it, a bit louder this time, so Diarmuid can actually hear it. ]

Thank you.

It's nothing you need to thank me for.

[He smiles in turn, a warm and kind sort of smile, the kind that leaves little room for doubt that he's fond of the other teenager; Peter's a good person, he thinks. Whatever nightmares plague his history, Diarmuid is confident in what he sees in the other boy. He gives Peter's arm one more squeeze.]

Shall we enjoy lunch?

— 𝐜 𝐨 𝐧 𝐭 𝐚 𝐜 𝐭

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