XX3 Entry - [A Dream within a Dream] - Early September

[roseofmay]

Sender: Beatrix
To: Everyone
Subject: Passive Dream Recording
Warnings: Likely potentially upsetting content. Implications of genocide. I’m going to try to explore this as gently, respectfully, and carefully as I can, but I do emphasise to proceed with caution.
Notes: A dream depicting Beatrix reflecting on some of the war crimes she committed in her home world. It is longer than I expected it to be.

Have some sounds of rain for ambiance.

It is not uncommon for Beatrix to patrol at night, usually following her dreams. It is safe to assume that post this dream, that’s precisely what she does. Feel free to encounter her in person (out on patrol, at her residence) or via journals, though with the latter, it is unlikely she will respond immediately. Assume journal responses are after an applicable amount of time, depending on circumstance.


Her dreams most oft are accompanied intimately by rain. Sometimes, it is the blistering sound of wind. Occasionally, the consistent roar of airship engines and the turning of gears. And every once in a while, it is the sound of wood splitting and cracking, followed by a flash of light and the deafening explosion that trails after in its wake.

Tonight, it is rain. A sky looms overhead, blanketed by dark clouds and the occasional tendril of lightning. The blue-grey cobblestone pathways are soaked, so much so that in places where the footpaths dip after years of wear and tear, they are filled with reflective and rippling puddles of water. The front entrance stone archway is intricately detailed and has been standing for too many years to count, established likely earlier than some native to the world may think.

Welcome to Burmecia, the Realm of Eternal Rain.

It holds nothing precious, except life. Life that Beatrix, general of Alexandria, has been tasked with taking.

This is something that has already happened. Beatrix simply replays it near nightly, and the dreams rarely seem to change. Her boots echo softly on the ground in a momentary eerie silence and behind her where she has already been, the environment simply turns to stone. A broken down cart knocked over, its wares splattered on the pathway and up against the wall of a nearby multilevel home, once in muted colour now sits in permanent disarray in chilling sculpture.

There are figures slumped. On the grounds. Draped over stairways and metal bannisters. Burmecians—a race of ratlike people, tall in stature, tailed, with pointed ears and pointed noses.

For years, Alexandria and Burmecia have waged wars upon one another. Pitted against each other, the concept of war is not so foreign, though perhaps disappointing when the continent at large believed to be ushering in an era of peace. What has happened here, however, is not war at all. It is only conquest. Only eradication of the Burmecian people. A simple little test conducted by Queen Brahne of Alexandria, utilising constructed black mage dolls with no will of their own and only the orders pounding in their doll heads. The leader of this charge, this show of overwhelming power and influence, is none other than Beatrix, compelled by order and the lust in her veins for something she cannot quite understand, a realisation that she will not come to learn for a great deal of time following.

The Beatrix of today, the one stepping through this replay of a chapter of her life that she has kept hidden and closely held to her heart, is not identical. Not different, but only a part of the woman who carried this out in so impeccably a fashion.

As she steps, there are voices, many words that are garbled and incomprehensible, blending in with the sounds of the pitter-patter of the rain as it strikes. If one listens closely, an occasional scream, a memory left over from an otherwise desolate and ruined city-state, disrespected and torn asunder by invasion. Some lines of memory highlight the tense air in voices that are not Beatrix’s as she continues this reunion with this intimate knowledge of her past.

”That’s Beatrix? The cold-blooded knight who knows no mercy. Beatrix…”

In the square of the city-state, the homes in the vicinity are worn down, most of them only partially standing. A curving bridge pathway leads to the towering, ominous, and impressive figure of Burmecia’s castle, stretching tall towards the sky as lightning flashes about it.

”...Beatrix of Alexandria, in particular. They say her swordsmanship is the best in the land.”

As she moves along, Save the Queen in the grip of her right hand, a chain that binds her to obligation and her role, there are but glimpses, moving images for just moments that betray the chaos that ensued upon her initial charge. The movement of feet and the blur of bodies before they’re cut down or subjected to the magicks of the black mages. As she takes to the bridge and its connecting path, the commotion freezes, transposing image and concept to stone and reality, like macabre decor in a courtyard.

Before the entrance, it’s her own voice that echoes in a stunning clarity. An embittered laugh, hand-in-hand with chilled tone. Unfeeling. Uncaring. So professional and emotionally detached that one would think Beatrix feels nothing at all in this exchange, except an irritation. In what, one can only theorise.

”I have never been so humiliated in my life.”

The castle stands above her and she finds in its centre, a couple of grandiose statues, some of the only things remaining that have yet to be broken down and destroyed. There is the lingering memory of Queen Brahne in search of Burmecia’s king, only to find by way of a charming and sinister man, the one who has provided her so much power to begin with, that the king has fled to the tree protected by the wind—Cleyra.

There are other things to note. A couple—Burmecian woman standing alongside a tailed statue that some may recognise as Zidane, the cunning and charismatic companion to many. They possess no movement. Only presence in colour doused in greys. And she hears herself again, the same chill wrapping her in tight embrace.

”I once killed a hundred knights single-handedly… To me, you two are nothing more than insects.”

Approaching them each, one after the other, Beatrix lifts a hand and she settles it to the forearm of the Burmecian she will one day come to know as Freya and it takes only touch for her to join her statued brethren. There is a moment’s pause as she examines a Zidane that once was part of her past. In Reverein, he may not have forgiven her, but he never seemed to hold her actions against her and Beatrix, to this moment, to this very breath, still cannot understand why. The only clue she has ever had is that the Beatrix of his future is different than the one who was the head of this calamity.

Settling hand to his shoulder, she puts him to rest, and lifts her chin to hear her voice once more. A woman who is only a part of her, but perhaps one she has yet to embrace. To this moment, she has only ever admonished and condemned herself, placing distance between her person and others, knowing that she would rather be hated than pitied, rather hated than forgiven.

”How ridiculously weak… Is there not anyone who is worthy of facing me?”

For the moments that follow, she simply stands in the rain, drenched, sword dropped low at her side, and she stares at the muted sombre sky, foreboding and dreadful. The words that follow are her own.

“The only thing I have granted to the Burmecian people is a grand tomb, forever frozen in time, place, and circumstance.”

They are the last and only words she manages to say before she too, turns to stone like those around her. This moment has no end. An interior part of her that refuses to weather and is only subjected to an infinite rain, marking the abrupt end to a dream that Beatrix never forces herself to finish.

Comments

late night, post-patrol

[menancia]

[When Beatrix returns home from her patrols, she will find that the windows are not dark as she had left them— there is a soft glow coming from the kitchen, though no sign of distress or forced entry. When she enters, she will find Dohalim sitting at her table with two teacups, one before him and one in front of the seat across, with a teapot set precisely between the two as he calmly leafs through his journal, looking up only when he hears the door itself open.

She may not be happy to find that he's made himself at home here, but knowing that she would likely be patrolling after such a dream, he had thought it best to give her the necessary space to process what she must and wait until she was ready to return home to speak to her.

Simply messaging her through the journals had not, apparently, occurred to him.]

How was your patrol?

[roseofmay]

[It is very likely, very probable, that she has yet to really understand just what has transpired. To her, this is all very routine. She has nightmares. She can't sleep. She makes herself useful and does her best to ensure that she doesn't take notice of anything untoward. And eventually, she returns home. Sometimes she attempts sleep again. Most of the time she does not.

Being greeted by the glow as she's pausing in the doorway, she hesitates before entering, setting hand atop the pommel of her sword. A thief, perhaps? Couldn't be someone intentional, she's sure. There are few who know of her residence and even fewer who would rightfully be visiting her at this hour when it seems like Reverein is in the midst of a dead sleep. Which is where she should probably be.

Finding Dohalim at the table with tea no less is probably the very last thing she's anticipated. Audibly, she sighs. Is that relief? Perhaps something very close to it. But it's interesting that he knows what she was doing. Perhaps he's seen her do it before. Or perhaps it's because he knows her so well. It's not as if Beatrix being on patrol is anything new, after all.]

Are you having difficulty with something? Just because we are—

[As per the usual, her words don't fully come out because she's simply not good at being forward. Instead, she removes her sword belt and its accoutrements before she moves to take the chair across from him. It doesn't take her long to reach for the tea.]

It is late, Dohalim. Thank you for the tea. What are you doing here?

[menancia]

[He shakes her head as she asks after whether or not he is having some difficulty; there is nothing she need concern herself with, at least not on that front, but he does not interrupt her, allowing her to change course and adjust her approach as she wishes.]

It is late, and I do apologize for the intrusion, but I thought tea might be in order.

[It's not unusual in the least for her to patrol at night, and yet tonight seems a different story altogether. He smiles faintly when she takes the seat across from him, adjusting his own angle so that he can look at her directly as he proceeds to at last fill his own cup, now that she is here to share the tea itself.]

I do not know if you are aware, but... I caught a glimpse of your dreams tonight.

[roseofmay]

[He's waited for her. This... It's all quite deliberate. And the words that follow cause a flutter of cold to dig right into her, eventually scaling up along her back as she says nothing for several moments. What is there to say? Should she even say anything? Yes. She knows. Diluc has made that apparent. Who can say how many people have had the opportunity to see such a thing?

There's a part of her, perhaps a younger version of herself that would like nothing more than to bury her face in her arms and disappear for a month and maybe people will have forgotten anything they've seen and heard. It's cowardly and telling. To think she's gone from an arrival where she only wanted to keep people at bay, and now at a point where she's fostered close kinship with many people and they are coming to learn of a truth in the woman they may have thought of so highly.

It'll all fall apart. Everything she's compromised herself for will just shatter, merely proof that she never should have tried to be anything much military to begin with.

Instead of doing any such thing, Beatrix drops her gaze into the innards of her tea, simply holding it between her hands.]

I see.

[After a breath more, she draws in her composure, fiercely holding it together, before her hold on her cup tightens.]

I suppose all of Songerein will be privy to the truth of who and what I am, then.

journals

[iracorn]

[At first, Ira expects it to be his own dream.

Rain features just as heavily, but when he finds himself at the gates of a city and not the open plain of what will become the Keyblade Graveyard, he knows it is not his dream. It is almost a surprise that he finds himself in Beatrix's dream. As much as they have shared, and worked together, Ira cannot say he knows a lot about her. She holds much close to herself and he is not one to pry into personal details. To observe a passive dream recording is always personal, but here they are.

It is a lot to take in.

Ira does not let himself look away, even if it is hard to reconcile the Beatrix in the dream with the one that he has come to know. After all, there exists an Ira who led his Union against his fellow Foretellers in a ruinous war. They are not same, but Ira cannot stop himself from dwelling on it.

As the dream ends, Ira awakens, knowing he will need to sit with this. And after some time, a small message appears in the journal.]

Beatrix,
I don't know if it was your intention, but the journals picked up a dream of yours. Considering what it was about, I thought you might want to know.

And, um, if you wish to talk, I'm available

-Ira

[roseofmay]

[She wouldn't say she's had a lot of time to give this situation the thought it deserves. Enough to understand the gravity of the situation. Enough to prepare herself for each and every possible outcome that may come her way. It feels as if it wasn't so long ago that she was thinking about the concept of fortune and how very fickle such a thing is. It would seem that her own has run out.

Or perhaps there is something about her that served as catalyst for just such a thing. In the back of her mind, somewhere behind the paramount subject, which is how to handle this, if she can handle it at all, there's merit in figuring out what projects a dream and how an individual is chosen. Unless it is merely coincidental. But as a woman who wants control over her own life, perhaps more than she's willing to let on, she's not fond of leaving anything up to 'coincidence.'

There's no denying that Ira's response comes as a surprise. He wants to... talk? Really. About what. Beatrix never likes talking about her feelings even when they're positive ones. Talking about negative ones is akin to pulling on the teeth. And it's very likely that others won't be taking this nearly as well.]

Ira,
I am, frankly, surprised you have any desire to speak to me to begin with.

[It sounds colder than she means for it to, but isn't this some kind of blessing in disguise? She's spent so long keeping people at bay that if this doesn't accomplish that, surely nothing will.]

You do not need to show me such niceties.

[iracorn]

[Ira had expected something of a response like this. It's not a surprise and normally, he might be content to let it slide. But he feels obligated to press a little harder.]

Well, after everything, I figured someone should make sure you are alright, and that you know.

And while it is difficult to admit, in some ways I suppose I understand.

the following afternoon

[hearthwarming]

[ Despite her better intentions, Ori is unable to visit Beatrix for some time following their shared encounter with Eustace's noctaere form. It's for the better, ultimately - and also prescribed by Diluc, for whom she had strongly suggested the same when he had his own close encounter with nightmare energy many months back.

But one of those evenings, she watches as her Dream Lantern glows and she closes her eyes, wondering whose dream it's going to be this time. There's a part of her, perhaps, that is anticipating that it might be one among those who were spurred into action to save Eustace and Tifa. After all, it wouldn't be surprising if any of them were made to have such strong dreams after everything...

When she realizes what she is seeing, however, she feels sorry that her suspicions were correct. And she knows that although she may not be fully recovered, she also knows that she needs to see her friend.

And so the following afternoon Oriphi waits, sitting beneath a tree with a basket full of healing potions where she knows Beatrix will pass by during one of her patrols. ]

[roseofmay]

[She doesn’t feel like she’s had enough time to process things. Not with Eustace and Tifa, though she’s checked in with them both. Not with her own personal affairs with Dohalim. Not with who knows how many people have seen whatever nonsense poured out of her when she dreamt of Burmecia. Beatrix keeps moving forward, which is something she’s always done in the face of adversity. Never a moment to pause because there’s no sense in it. She’ll think about it in her own time, just like she thinks and overthinks everything else in that same time and space.

She tries to live her life as normal. It’s the only thing she can do, whilst facing whatever consequences will come up. If they haven’t already, she can only brace herself for an impact, assuming it’ll come. It’s a very difficult way to life, she supposes, but somehow fitting for someone like her.

Better to never have said anything at all. Not… that she technically said anything to anyone. That will probably come to haunt her, she supposes. Too late to do anything about it now and Beatrix is not a woman who gives empty apologies. Or… apologies in general.

Oriphi is a face that is both welcome and one that causes a touch of apprehension in her. The hardest part about this is knowing how to react. But maybe it’s better to act as though nothing has happened at all. That she is, as she ever has been, untouchable by the things going on around her. And that’s precisely what she aims to do.

As she pauses by Ori, she rests her wrist atop where her sword sits. Same. Typical. Beatrix.]

Do you need help taking those somewhere?

[She means the healing potions, of course.]

[hearthwarming]

[ They'll all be processing things for some time to come, she thinks - at least, when it comes to that night. That Beatrix had such a dream so soon after... Ori can only imagine the turmoil that must be taking place in the general's mind...

If the woman gave herself even a sliver of a moment to allow herself to think about it all. But Ori has formed the impression, in the months that she's been getting to know Beatrix, that this will not be the case. That Beatrix will simply march on, soldier-like to her very bones. That she will think and think and think without allowing her thoughts to see the light of day, to give them the outlet they might need. Just like Diluc.

Ori remembers what that nearly did to him. And now she and Beatrix have both seen firsthand what it truly does to a person. Ori doesn't want that to happen to Beatrix.

But Ori knows that she must go about this carefully. Beatrix might need space, although she might also need... Some healing potions! As such, she shakes her head at the general as she moves to get up to her feet, taking the basket up in her hands. ]

No. They're right where they need to be - these are for you, Beatrix.

[disdelusioned]

[Diluc sees himself in that dream of Beatrix's, and he doesn't.

His service as a Knight of Favonius never required such atrocities from him. On the grand stage of Teyvat politics, Mondstadt is hardly the sort of player that could instigate hostilities. It's relatively small, highly deregulated, and more dedicated to its ideal of freedom than anything else. Conquering another nation would be entirely antithetical to everything the city and its Archon stand for. The Knights, for all of their flaws, are an organization for defense and administration.

Despite that, Diluc has absolutely stood among the remains of those he himself had laid to waste. There was a period where he was a one-man army of rage, tearing through Fatui camps as he ventured ever further north in search of answers, vengeance, and something to soothe the pain and grief that he had allowed to fester. Pleas for mercy fell onto deaf ears, and his destruction got to the point that it required the intervention of the Harbingers to put an end to it (and to him--he's only alive due to the intervention of a third party). Even now he is considered persona non grata in Snezhnaya, a menace to be dealt with swiftly and conclusively should the opportunity arise.

The way in which Beatrix is described - cold blooded, without mercy, unmatched - is undoubtedly how he's remembered by many in Snezhnaya, particularly those related to the ones he's killed. And the way Beatrix describes herself to the couple is certainly how he would have referred to himself in relation to those he went after.

Beatrix seems to hold remorse for her crimes. Diluc's not sure that he does, even after all this time. Quite frankly, it hasn't even occurred to him before now that he possibly should.

Regardless, there's no way he's going to be able to sleep after watching that. He leaves a note for Ori that he's going out for a walk, gets dressed, and slips out of the treehouse he shares with her to do exactly that. There's no point in torturing himself by remaining cooped up indoors; the fresh night air will hopefully do his head some good.

As luck (fate?) would have it, he sees Beatrix herself as he rounds a corner not long into his wandering.]

You're out late.

[Like he isn't.]

[roseofmay]

[Thoughts can only swim. Dreams are only the thoughts when one is sleeping. But when one wakes and has the same thought, have they ever truly woken up, or could it be that Beatrix just lives her nightmares every moment? Bodies don't have to be cut down to experience it or relive it. She supposes that sometimes it is just a sound that reminds her. A face. A voice. A word. Sometimes it is all around her in no shortage of capacities.

This is not the first time she has thought it and it certainly won't be the last. She's still considering it, spending less time patrolling and more time simply dissecting her thoughts, the voices that linger in her head, leftover by a dream that shouldn't be able to theoretically touch her, but still holds her tightly in invisible tendrils of obligation.

Diluc's voice, however, breaches right into her and he can't possibly know just how much of a grace that is. Temporary or not, it will allow her something else to focus on. Her hand tenses upon the pommel of her sword for only a moment or two before she establishes recognition and she scoffs at his response.]

Says the one who is also out. Late. Do not tell me we are doing the same thing? I thought I was the only one who turned nighttime dark patrols into a routine.

[Except she doubts that. There are probably plenty who do. She just rarely runs into them herself.]

[disdelusioned]

[Diluc shrugs. He expected no less than for her to call him on the obvious similarity.]

I don't patrol as often as I used to. But I couldn't sleep, and I'm not one who likes to sit idle.

[Especially not lately, with the constantly-nagging question of how to overcome challenges unique to this world hanging over his head. But he's too mentally distracted for research or reconnaissance, and there's something almost soothing about walking the streets at night, keeping an eye out for disturbances. It's productive. Familiar. And potentially, should he find an evildoer worth pursuing, cathartic to fight and work out his feelings physically.]

I suspect it's something similar for you tonight.

[Surely, she's aware that the dream was broadcast. There's little sense in beating around the bush about it.]

Journal, about an hour after the dream

[multidisciplinary]

[ Zelda's sleep is fitful as the dream lantern forces her to intrude on Beatrix's private thoughts. Normally, steady rainfall would help quiet the princess's often restless mind, but tonight it does the opposite. It's cold—the rain, the stone, the broken buildings and bodies. Even though Zelda isn't actually there, she feels a chill seeping through her skin as she watches Beatrix walk the silent streets of the conquered kingdom.

The snatches of disembodied voices make Zelda turn each time she hears them, but she never sees a speaker. There's no one there, no matter where she looks, no matter where Beatrix walks. No one living, that is. Are the voices coming from the ghosts of the Burmecians littering the streets? Are they memories from even worse atrocities?

'Wake up, Zelda commands. 'Please.' Are her pleas directed at herself or Beatrix? It's hard to say. Either way, they go unheeded. No matter how she begs, she can neither escape the dream nor make it end. She is forced to follow where Beatrix wandered, as helpless as the Burmecians, until Beatrix reaches the center of the castle and the statues of two figures she appears to recognize. As the general turns to stone as well, the dream finally ends and frees Zelda from its grasp.

She sits up in bed to find her nightclothes and bedding damp with sweat, which has been chilled by the cool night air coming in through her open window. Shivering, she leaves bed, wraps a dry blanket around her pillows, and goes downstairs to her kitchen.

Zelda sits in the dark for a long while, staring at her journal, open on a blank page as it lies on the kitchen table. The enchanted quill is next to it, as is a cup of weak tea that has gone cold. The dream runs over and over in her mind, making less and less sense as she scrutinizes it to try to make sense of it. She knows that Beatrix is a general; she has no misconceptions that the general has never seen combat. Even Zelda is not so naïve. But the implications of what she saw in the dream sit ill with the princess.

No, she must be misunderstanding. Beatrix is stern, but not cold. Unflinching, but not merciless. She is a fighter, but not a murderer. There must be more context to the situation in Burmecia than this dream is providing. Dreams are not always factual; they are mutable, like imperfect memories. Best not to jump to any conclusions just because of a dream. ]

Dear Beatrix,

By the time you receive this message, I expect you will already know that your dream tonight was shared among the dreamwalkers, myself among them. Please accept my sincere apologies for intruding on your privacy, though it was against my will. Try as I might, I could not leave until the dream concluded.

I [ Here there are several ink splots and scribbled out words, evidence that Zelda agonized over this message. ] hope you will forgive my rudeness, but would you tell me what transpired there? What I saw, I did not understand. [ Doesn't want to understand. ]

Yours,
Zelda

[roseofmay]

[Beatrix knows that it is only by the grace of others that she has had something so personal and something so deeply hidden revealed that it has come to make her far more known than she's ever wanted to be. In her own opinion, the events of Burmecia have defined her. It is not her decade plus of exemplary service to a queen she has served with loyalty and adoration. It is not her decade plus of impressive combat and the awe-inspiring reputation she has cultivated. It is the destruction of Burmecia.

Perhaps a bit ironic that one thing can weigh down upon her the way that it does.

Zelda's message is very befitting of a princess. Proper and to the point. And almost amusing that it is Zelda issuing apologies. If only because she understands how desperately Beatrix clings to her privacy. How very much Beatrix has been careful to keep many things about her quiet. But her request is a difficult one to abide by.

If Garnet were to ask... Beatrix would answer honestly, wouldn't she? Even against her deepest wishes to do so, out of fear of how her dear princess would perceive her. Zelda deserves the same honesty. The same respect. And Beatrix has no idea how to address any of it. So she sits with her journal at the same table she and Dohalim had tea at, wondering how to even begin and finding that no amount of words are appropriate or worthy.

There is no gentle way to put genocide.]

Zelda,

I doubt anything I could say about this could be so easily summarised in writing. I followed the orders of my queen. It was a path that I did not agree with, but the realisation for such came far too late.

My own part in it, however, does not absolve of responsibility. My queen issued orders and I followed them even with apprehension. I cannot hold her entirely at fault for the things that happened then in that time.

If you mean to ask me if it was merely a trick of the mind or if it truly happened, I will not hide the truth from you. I led the charge against the people there. It was to be an act of war, but it was only after coming here that I realised war had nothing to do with it.

I doubt there is anything more I could say that would grant you the satisfaction you seek.

[Suffice it to say that these journals are so inappropriate for such a deep and heart-wrenching conversation.]

[multidisciplinary]

[ After Zelda finishes her message to Beatrix, she puts down her quill and waits. Just waits, watching the journal page for the general's response to materialize. A long time passes—how long, she doesn't know. Zelda's message remains unanswered. She's stiff and cold from sitting too long in the kitchen chair.

Zelda forces herself to stand. She walks on wobbly legs once around her kitchen, then twice. It's still dark outside. It's been dark for hours. Are nights always this long? Should she go back to bed? No, sleep is the last thing Zelda wants. If she sleeps, she might see those horrible scenes again, whether from Beatrix via the accursed dream lanterns or from where they now reside in the princess's own memories. What she wants is a message from Beatrix, explaining to Zelda that she misunderstood everything in the dream. Assuring Zelda that the general would never slaughter innocents, even on her queen's command.

It's still dark outside when Beatrix does finally answer. Zelda has moved to the window seat in her bedroom, dozing lightly with the journal in her her lap. She jolts awake when she realizes she's nodded off and opens the journal for the umpteenth time to check for Beatrix's response. This time, it's finally there.

But it's not the response Zelda wanted. She feels a weight settle in her stomach as she reads, first skimming the words rapidly, then rereading them over again because surely she misread. No, this isn't at all what she wanted. She wanted to be wrong. Zelda has never wanted to be wrong about something before today, but she wanted this so badly.

It takes her awhile to answer Beatrix. Not hours, but a number of slow and excruciating minutes. Not a long enough time to justify the brief response Zelda sends. ]

Would you tell me why?

[discourtesies]

[The Beatrix of the dream somehow seems so separate from the woman van Zieks has come to know in this place. Thirsty for battle, perhaps even bloodshed for its own sake—and sharp, her edge meant for cutting others down rather than for the wit and strategy the prosecutor has enjoyed. But there is no denying that this is the same prideful woman, whatever has occurred between this dream and now.

Barok would very much like to assume that this is nothing more than an unfortunate nightmare brought forth from the horrors of war, but there is a sense to it that feels worn, like the marks left from treading old, familiar paths. The puddles that gather in those spaces reflect more than the cloudy sky, in her dreams and his own.

As familiar as van Zieks has become with death, he will never truly accept the loss of innocents. Are such atrocities as the destruction of an entire people ever forgivable, even for a soldier following the orders of her queen?

And so, once he wakes, he withdraws into his thoughts for a time—and then on the next day, and the next, attending to his typical tasks between. He sees little reason to ambush her with accusations and concerns, with the distance she has displayed from her own feelings. Others have likely already done so, regardless.

It's only a few nights following the dream that their paths finally cross, or rather—that Beatrix's late patrol crosses under the man's view from where he stands on the deck of his towering abode. He still holds onto some faint hope that this is all merely a misunderstanding of her psyche, but his sleepless musings and tense posture as he's watched for her reveal them for the flimsy things they are.

The glitter of a blue reflected from the glass in his hand may draw her attention to him, if she doesn't look up on her own. Even if she doesn't, he'll stop her with a short address before she steps out of sight.]

General.

[roseofmay]

[If she's honest, it doesn't feel like a few days have passed since the night of her ill-fated nightmares becoming public entertainment (and horror) for the population of Songerein. If anything, it feels as if time itself hasn't even proceeded since she first learnt of its spread. Every day feels the same. She wonders how she'll proceed forward. If she ought to simply keep herself from others. And she does what she feels she must, which is to move forward. To never stand still. To never give herself a moment to breathe or properly think or feel, because all of those things threaten to break whatever may be remaining of her.

She simply moves along in a space of time that feels infinite, doing the same routine, acting in the same manner, as if she has been and always continues to be the aloof and reserved, sometimes dry humoured and ever wine-loving Beatrix of Alexandria. And the night patrols continue, though she finds they only occupy her thoughts more of the past and how she's supposed to handle a future she doesn't know.

She wishes she'd had the foresight to interrogate Zidane over it.

On the night that seems like so many more before, Barok's voice finds her and she pauses in her footing. Lifting her chin, she halts where she stands, settling a hand atop her sword where it rests in sheath. How, in some ways, she has come to dislike that title, emphasising she has no such need for it there. The recent situation with Eustace more properly solidifying that for her in some strange way. As it did many other concepts that have yet to properly leave her.

...It is entirely possible that only served to exacerbate her nightmares. She has, since then, not felt quite like herself. At least, not a version of herself that she's comfortable being.]

Master van Zieks.

[Old habits continue to die hard. A hand folds over her chest and she bends at the waist in something of a bow. As she rises, she studies him. It was almost a year before that she saw him there in much the same way. Funny, how time seems to move as it does. How people change in the space of that time. How even she is not immune to it.]

...Surely my patrols are not keeping you up at night.

[discourtesies]

[Unlike the mild annoyance and exasperation in their early encounters, the look in his eye is as cold despite his attempts to keep his expression in its usual stony detachment.]

Not the patrols, no.

[And with that remark, there's an admission that something of hers has indeed kept him awake. The implication would be more than enough to direct the conversation on its own, and yet... it feels feeble, unworthy of the issue and of their relationship, however it might be defined. Like leading the woman to the topic with nothing more than a lamp through the fog.

He makes the decision to cut to the heart of the matter, but it hardly feels like a choice when he cannot abide the alternatives. He can no longer treat this as an English gentleman, but as he would in his capacity as a Crown prosecutor—a seeker of truths, no matter how difficult.

He takes a sip of the blue liquid from his chalice.]

I take it you have become aware of others witnessing your dreams.

journals;

[sleightofhans]

[Hans lets the rain soak him, not really caring about his clothes in a dream like this. A dream that obviously belongs to one General Beatrix, as he listens to her words cut through the atmosphere. Perhaps the weather is fitting anyway, based on what she's saying. An admittance to a large amount of death that she's personally committed. He imagines how some people might be horrified to know what she's done. Maybe he should be too.

But it really doesn't bother him. Guilt's something that's a work in progress for him anyway.

As the dream fades and he finds himself blinking up at his own room's ceiling, he decides to take a few hours before writing a message to Beatrix.]

General Beatrix. I imagine I'm not the only individual messaging you about the dream you've had. But I'd be willing to lend another ear if you need it.

[roseofmay]

[This is becoming oddly commonplace. People who want to 'lend an ear,' which Beatrix can only assume is a collective of those who want an explanation. They deserve it, even if she may not necessarily be inclined toward that. But this whole thing has been exhausting and she doesn't have the same fight in her that ordinarily she would hold.

She still can't help wondering how to respond every time someone says something like this.]

An astute observation. You are not.

[And the messages have been this way, that way, and all over. And then there are some people who have simply come to see her in person, which is... That's almost harder, honestly.]

Speaking on like matters never has been my forte. Given that I did not have the ability to keep others from seeing such a thing, I suppose on some level, I must apologise for the inconvenience.

[Not. That she's had any ability to stop that from happening.]

[sleightofhans]

It's of no inconvenience to me. I imagine that such a memory would not be something you wanted to share with anyone-- it's probably been most difficult for you.

My words are obvious, but your dream painted a rather grim picture, even if I'm quite certain it was orders made from your majesty.

sender: eustace

[flamekthunder]

[After what happened... Although Eustace never really tries to watch any dreams and avoid them if he can, he's a little...concerned about those who helped him when he had turned. Had the nightmare energy affected them? So he ends up watching Beatrix's dream with some trepidation, and after it...

...

It takes him several more moments to debate on whether he should respond or not. They haven't really spoken since then... Would this really be the proper time to reach out now?

...

Even if he did...what could he say? He knows how Beatrix is, and he can already imagine the kind of thoughts she's having right now in learning her dream has been seen by others.]

Don't let it get to you.

[roseofmay]

[He knows her well. And what he says is exactly what she needs to hear. Even if she's not necessarily inclined to believe it. The truth is that it's already getting to her. It got to her the moment she walked right into Diluc. Even more so the moment she found Dohalim at her home, in her space, at her table, waiting for her, all so he could speak with her about it.

She was in no emotional space to do any such thing. She still isn't, if she's honest, and she doubts she ever will be.

But she must play at her strength and her role. What more can she do?]

I am fine.
I suspect you have other things you ought to be doing at this time. Why not go spend it with Tifa and make up for lost time, Eustace.

[She does what she does best. She pretends.]

[flamekthunder]

[He knows. And he won't call her out for it because he would respond the exact same way. ...However, he's not so sure he can quite brush it off quite yet.]

We've been spending plenty of time together so that's not a problem.

[A small pause before another message slowly appears, reflecting the thought he's placing in his words.]

I'm not going to ask about your dream. All I want to know is if you're feeling any worse than usual.

[The reason...should be easy to guess.]