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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
Worried about her. He's worried about her. She's not sure why that's so hard for her to understand. Yet for some reason it is.]
I do not want to cause you or anyone else concern. I am not sure what you want me to say.
[No. She suspects in a way she does know. He most likely wants her to unburden her heart. Instead of holding everything inside, which... is evident as to what she's been doing all along.]
I am fine. It was my dream and no one else's. And before anyone else should think to ask, it all happened. It was all true. That was me and not some manifestation of me. It was not an implication or a deeper, profound meaning. It was precisely as it was seen. I did what I did and I own that. I feel remorse for it now, but I did not at that time. And that is the way of it.
no subject
If you say so.
I am not trying to deflect blame or suggest that there was something else going on.
But if it is a dream that continues to linger...it is not something I want to continue to distress you.
no subject
[It's shockingly honest of her. She's believed it all along. She's known it all along. She'd even implied as much to Dohalim months ago.]
This is not a new occurrence for me. It is important that I continue to experience it that I never let it happen again. I am not in distress over it. It is a reminder. It needs to be there and it needs to be a part of me.
[She is not sure she would call herself an individual as in distress, but perhaps she is more than she claims to be.]
no subject
It can be a reminder, but at some point it also seems like a punishment.
[He's not sure how else to phrase it. Because he gets it. He carries his memories from the Keyblade War in the same way. And it is probably hypocritical of him to bring it up this way. Or maybe he's just projecting.]
no subject
[Because it has to be. It's what she deserves, in her opinion. It comes to realisation that she has no idea how to live in any other way.]
But that is not your problem. It is mine. You do not need to involve yourself.
no subject
I can't say that I accept this course of action, but I don't know if I have the words to change your mind.
But I am here and my original offer will continue to stand should anything change.
[He's not sure what else to say, but there is always the old standby of being annoying about it.]
no subject
[She thinks for some moments and drawing in a breath, she finds herself as she has been a few times this night. Not interested in playing a part anymore. She doesn't want to fully honest either. No one deserves that.]
I dislike being perceived of as weak. Perhaps one day I will speak more of Her Majesty's orders and my part in them, but right now, I need time. You may think of me however you wish to. Fondly. Negatively. I will not do anything more to change that. But I think what I would like most is for people not to ask me about it.
no subject
However, I have never thought of you as weak.
I think it requires a considerable amount of strength, to face something like this night after night.
no subject
Soldiers are oft touched by the repercussions of their actions. I may be a general, but I am still a soldier in many ways. I acknowledge that I am responsible for my actions, and though soldiers beneath my command may lose their lives, I am responsible for that as well.
I would not call it strength so much as it is necessity. I cannot remember last when I did not dream of Burmecia or the rains that fall there. It feels as if it is a part of me, perhaps because it is. We are all embraced by our experiences in different ways.
no subject
Someone with a weaker Heart may have descended into despair.
[Something he worries about, constantly.]
So even if it is necessity, there is still strength.
no subject
Perhaps there is. It is not an expectation I would put on others. It is not something I would want others to feel they needed to hold either.
I do not doubt that you have the same, or a similar strength, Ira.
no subject
But I do agree.
And I suppose dreams are one way of finding the strength to face such things.
no subject
I think, however, if you do not have need to face such dreams, that is for the best. There are other ways to gain and hone that kind of strength. Dreams like mine are not ones I would wish on others, especially not those I would consider close to me.
[Friends, she means, though the word still remains so very hard for her to use. At least she has an easier time thinking it, however.]
no subject
I agree.
And I do hope there comes a time when you don't need to face them either.
no subject
[Although she still obviously perceives such things as vulnerabilities.]
Still, where I expected no kindness, I have had a shocking amount of it. I suppose I can only be grateful, as embarrassing as it is to make that admittance.
no subject
I think that, like myself, there are those who know you to be different from the you you dream about. And don't wish you distress.
no subject
You may not be wrong, however. For one reason or another, others have put faith into me. Seen the person I am now. And thought the way you have. I am not certain I have earned that.
no subject
In my mind, you have
no subject
[As much as she would very much like to argue with him. If it were up to her, she would ultimately say that isolating herself, ripping and tearing the close kinship she's made with others down, is for the betterment of those around her. But that is selfish. And it's not for others at all. It's for her, because she knows she can't bear the idea of those closest to her looking at her with disappointment or judgement.]
I appreciate your honesty, though it is difficult for me to face or accept. I thought it would be easier if the rest of you simply loathed me. If you thought I was some horrendous creature. At least then, it would not have been so different from how Alexandria's people perceive me. Kindness and affection, these things are so much more difficult and weighted to wield. It was easier when others here thought I was simply unwelcoming.
[...And though she tried very hard to keep others from growing too close to her, from entwining their lives with her own, she was incapable of succeeding. Even in it, she found herself clinging to people who she thought were most like her, knowing she'd never had that before. She has deeply failed the 'Make No Friends' challenge.]
no subject
But I never would have guessed that making friends was the biggest challenge for you.
[It's hard to joke through writing, but he is.]
no subject
Why do I feel as if you are teasing me.
[Because he's either teasing or he's being sarcastic. Quite possibly both.]
no subject
It's been known to happen from time to time
no subject
I have earned your teasing, regardless. Although it seems you have long-since decided to share in my company. There may be no getting rid of you.
[...Not that she’d want to.]
no subject
But yes, you may be stuck with me.
no subject
Well, then. I suppose I can only express gratitude that you have chosen to do such a thing. I cannot say were I you that I would have done the same. You may be a serious man, even perhaps too serious at times as defined by others, but you have a good heart.
[He’s a good person. It’s a high compliment coming from someone like her.]
(no subject)
I think we can wrap this one up, too! (Pave the way toward October...)
Same, on to October!