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dreamcrystals2022-09-02 03:24 pm
roseofmay) wrote in dreamcrystals2022-09-02 03:24 pm
Entry tags:
XX3 Entry - [A Dream within a Dream] - Early September
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.
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.
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
...Something akin to that.
[For a moment or two, she knows that her discomfort shows in her expression. And then she clears her throat, dipping her chin to set her attention elsewhere that isn't on him.]
How much did you see?
[She isn't even certain she really wants the answer to that.]
no subject
[Probably not the answer she wants to hear, but it's the truth. As far as he's concerned, it's also probably the most ideal scenario. He saw as much context surrounding the event as something like a nightmare will allow. It doesn't make what he saw better, necessarily, but it makes it clearer.
But he's not here to judge her. Not really. Her dreams may have hit dangerously close to a nerve, but that's not her fault. If anyone is at fault, it's the rules of this dream world. For the most part, he does enjoy living here. But no place is perfect, and this in particular is an aspect of it he loathes.]
This place has the unique cruelty of broadcasting dreams of us at our worst or most vulnerable. I'd smash every damned lantern in town to save us all the trouble, if I could.
[He still hasn't quite forgiven his dream lantern for showing Reverein the death of his father in nightmare form earlier this year.]
no subject
[She simply stares at him for several long moments. What else is she supposed to say? So instead, she simply listens, and maybe that's the best thing she can be doing considering the way things are. She waits patiently, shifting her weight and folding her hands together.]
Certainly something to be considered for the future, is it not. Something tells me it will not be that simple, Diluc.
[Shaking her head, Beatrix looses a sigh.]
No matter. What is done is done. I suppose it would be silly to overthink it.
no subject
[But it would be nice if it were, for a change. And the breaking of objects would be cathartic.
What she asserts is no less easy. It's one thing to say that there's no point in overthinking things, and another entirely to actually not overthink things. By his own experience and necessity, Diluc overthinks everything. He tends to assume the worst in most situations, particularly ones outside of his own control. Were he in Beatrix's position, he's almost certain he would be equally uncertain of how to react to him.
She sighs, and so does he.]
You can relax. My hands are no cleaner than yours, so I have no right to judge you.
[He doesn't like talking about himself or his past. But it seems only fair to make the offer, however indirectly, after what's been revealed to him. If it would make her feel better, he'll tell her.]
no subject
If she were feeling better about this, perhaps she would laugh. It wouldn't be a true laugh, of course, but... It never comes, naturally. Why would it? There's nothing amusing about this and Beatrix, for all of the pretending that she's done or has been expected to do, she's not going to insert humour where she can't feel it.
It would be very human to judge her. She wouldn't begrudge him for it either, as she won't begrudge anyone else who does. On the contrary, she will simply accept it. What would be the point, after all. Anyone who makes their judgement will have already done so. She can't affect free will.
...Although it seems such a thing will not be necessary where Diluc is concerned. Her head tilts somewhat uncertainly as she takes him in, transparently not sure how to respond to him. Clearing her throat, she shakes her head slowly.]
I would not have blamed you if you did. On the contrary, I would expect that of anyone who knows me. It may be easier to accept judgement as opposed to any of the alternatives.
[
punish her ponytail daddyPerhaps she handles punishment better than kindness. There may be no 'perhaps' about it.]no subject
Make no mistake: if I were Burmecian, I would go to the ends of the earth to make you pay for what happened there.
[He knows this about himself, because he more or less did exactly that for a far lesser offense against Mondstadt.]
But I'm not. What I saw was a small piece of a larger context that there's no way for me to know. You had your reasons, and your orders.
[And now, it seems, she has her regrets. Another thing they have in common, unfortunately.]
no subject
[She knows very well that no matter how many apologies she issues, no matter what actions she will take or could take, these things would not be enough to ever make up for her part in the fall of the Burmecian kingdom. Fortunately, she supposes, it is not forgiveness that she seeks or requires. It's not atonement that she seeks.
He continues and she listens with thought, lost in contemplation for some moments before she finally issues a subtle dip of her head.]
That is open-minded of you. Perhaps because it seems you have some understanding of such things. An uncommon perception, I think. There is context to it that could not have been known by way of my dream. There is context to it that not even I knew until I arrived here. But there is little reason for people here to be willing to hear of it.
[A pause and then she continues.]
It is not something I would expect either. I would urge those here to make their judgements as they wish to, with or without additional information. This is not something I have the strength to fight back on.
no subject
I've been here almost a year.
[As if that sentence alone explains the ways in which he's calmed down and learned to accept more shades of gray since he first arrived last fall. In many ways, he's aware that his tenure here has softened him. And he's come to realize that he had to soften; he had been so rigid that he was liable to snap one way or another.]
Other people can judge or believe whatever they want. Nothing you or I say will change that fact. I think it's practical that you seem to accept that for what it is.
[Or welcome it, if that suits her conscience better.]
If you'll allow me to pry a little... it seems that you regret what happened in Burmecia. What changed between then and now?
no subject
Including support. Not that she's ever made a habit of putting forth such requests.
At his question, he yanks her right back to the present moment and for some moments, she simply walks with him in silence. He's right. She does regret what happened in Burmecia, because the Beatrix she was at that time... is very much not the one walking with him now. It's a part of her, no doubt, but certainly not encompassing in any way.]
It is a difficult thing for me to explain and I am not certain that I can. I had information given to me here regarding how things will eventually occur in my world. Not necessarily about me, specifically, but the state of the world. The kingdom I serve. My queen. Her motives and the catalyst that set all of that into motion were a part of that conversation. I understand better now why things have happened the way they have.
[She shakes her head slowly.]
It is not something I would have uncovered back home until more damage was done. I also understand that the catalyst responsible for her motives was in part, responsible for my own behaviour. In this place, I do not have that working against me. As a result, I have clarity here. I am more in control of my mental faculties. It makes it significantly more convenient that I can reflect on my actions and experience regret.
no subject
Another party manipulated everything from behind the scenes, you mean.
[That hits a very familiar nerve. Twice over, in fact; both the Fatui and the Abyss Order qualify for that description. There's a reason why those are the two organizations against which Diluc fights; their underhanded mechanisms threaten to destroy everything they touch, regardless of if the ones they manipulate are even aware of it at the time.
(That, and the fact that his issues with them are also rather personal. Minor details.)]
Scum such as that deserves a far worse punishment than you do, if that's the case.
no subject
[Beatrix quiets herself for a breath or two. That feels like such an oversimplification of anything she did, but it’s not wrong. It was Kuja. She knows that now. And she’s knows why, though she doesn’t fully get it. She’ll need to hear that explanation a few times more, she’s sure.]
Well. Yes. It could certainly be said that way. It was part of a far greater scheme. Her Majesty and I both were simply steps on a ladder to something more than either of us could have known of at the time.
[The realisation that she wasn’t entirely at the helm for such things, however, seems to strike a personal note with him. Perhaps he can relate greater than she’s thought he could. She watches him, gauging his reaction, the change in his tone, the sharpness he always seems to carry with him.
One day, perhaps, she’ll ask.]
I suspect he has faced his own repercussions for such things. And perhaps he too, holds remorse.
no subject
Whether he feels remorse or not is irrelevant. He's a danger to your world, and I hope for its sake that he's received the punishment he deserves.
[There's a clear anger in him now, although it's not directed at Beatrix. It's directed at this specter of a man, scheming in worlds he cannot even fully contextualize. He's angry on principle.]
no subject
…She is almost willing to bet that she has.]
He is not here anymore, but there was someone else from Gaia here before and he experienced things that I have not. Knew a different version of myself. A better one, perhaps. He knew about situations and things I have never seen or even thought possible. It certainly seemed the one responsible for things as they went did see his comeuppance.
[She cannot possibly imagine how difficult things might have been for Zidane considering the nature of his relationship to Kuja. Things never are as simple as they might seem to be.]