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[Rindo blinks at Gladion's approaching footsteps and voice, then lifts his head to give him a bleary look. He seems lucid, but also a little haunted.

…Gladion, meanwhile, sounds worried, which makes Rindo realize he should probably say something in response.]

…Yeah?

[Quiet and strained.]

[Okay. He's still here. Even as Gladion's senses start to wander.]

It's ready. [Wander, and slip out of time, as if - as if this time is every other time he's come here. It's not the same, but it feels the same, like the woods swallow up the differences. He's not hungry, but he's tethered to something that lifts its head in interest, and sniffs after the smell of blood...]

Don't rush it, though. [If it's anything like his, he won't need to. Once it starts, it'll just...go. Or maybe Gladion just can't bring himself to goad someone into doing it, when push comes to shove, and he'll accept any reason to not have to? His ears are pinned; his hands are lifted like he can't quite decide if he wants to reach for Rindo's shoulders again.]

[Well, here it is.

A few seconds, then Rindo stands up, slowly. He's stayed in this one spot the whole time, so his roots have sunk into the earth a little. A foreign part of himself finds this comfortable, even as it turns his hungry stomach.

At this point, after all that was said and done, just getting through it is the easiest option.

He looks at the other Nymph. There are many things he wants to say to him.

"Thank you."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't look."
"Please stay here."
"Keep yourself safe."

Rindo opens his mouth a few times as if to speak, but no words come out. Eventually, he averts his eyes. Vulnerability is difficult at the best of times and this is… well.

One heavy, mud-drenched step after another, Rindo moves into the center of the ring, where he stands still and silent. His eyes are trained on his roots with single-minded focus, pointedly nowhere near the freshly-disturbed soil.

He stays like this for a while, occasionally taking deep breaths as if psyching himself up, his roots twitching ever so slightly. Nothing comes of it.

Some minutes pass.]

[After a few of Rindo's false starts, Gladion just nods. Maybe he doesn't quite know what would have been said, but enough of this is beyond words that it hardly matters.

He steps away when Rindo steps forward, giving him some room. Refusing the tug that prickles across his skin. Watching, though he feels like he shouldn't.

(Reassembling his scattered memories in real time, pasting them over the outline of what he's seeing. When he felt frozen, with the meat in hand, when he didn't know how long he'd been standing there - it probably looked like this.

It's uncomfortable. This makes it all...more real, somehow.)]

Edited 2023-05-25 02:41 (UTC)

[Rindo senses Gladion's gaze on him. He can't quite tell whether he wants him to stop watching or not. It's extra pressure, but… Gladion's both mentor and peer. Not quite fully articulated thought: if this lets Gladion ensure things are done properly and feel less lonely at the same time, then maybe it's okay.

In the end, he just lets it happen—it's easier that way. He forces himself to ignore it and focus on his roots instead, which he's kept under mental lock and key this whole time. Now, though, he's trying to get them to do something beyond little jolts and twitches, and it's not working. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why—he has to let them do whatever it is they want to do. He can tell. "Instincts, of some kind, come along with a lot of this."

It feels like giving in to the Fog. Passing a threshold from which there's no returning. Perhaps that's why he's so reticent.

But he's hungry.

A few more minutes pass—more attempts to work around the inevitable—before Rindo resigns himself. They can't spend all day here, and turning back isn't an option. Of course, knowing is one thing, and doing is another entirely. But eventually, a flash of boldness peeks between the cracks of his fears, and he finds the courage he needs. At last, he lets go.

It's like a rubber band that was pulled taut finally snapping. Much faster than he anticipated, the roots grow—and yet their speed isn't a surprise, as if he knew what they were capable of all along. Each "toe" becomes longer, sprouting thinner offshoots, all rushing along the surface of the earth, outward, spreading near-evenly toward their goal—the ring.

It is then that horror grips at Rindo's heart as he realizes Gladion's in the way—

However, when he looks in the other Nymph's direction, the roots are nowhere near him. They've gone around without Rindo's active, conscious input, as if avoiding Gladion deliberately.

Rindo barely has any time to process his own relief; all of this took place within the span of a few seconds. Now the roots have reached the edge of the patch. Just as quickly, they plunge into the ground with effortless ease, and into what's buried there, and—

the world stops.

Feeding had been such an inconceivable thought that any attempts at picturing the act ended at that exact point. Now he stands on the other side of that, rooted treelike into the earth with his awareness expanding, and the knowledge of exactly what it is he's doing sitting heavy in his mind.

There is no pain, no fanfare, as the roots begin to extract nutrients from the buried remains, carrying them back to him. The process is invisible—he can feel it happening.

As fear fades (he didn't lose control, he didn't hurt Gladion), shame and guilt take center stage. It shouldn't feel good—but it does. It fills a cavernous, primal need. Maybe "hunger" was never the right term for it, merely the closest analogue a human could think of.

And now… something in his mind is beginning to shift. A quiet slowness is creeping in around the edges of his awareness, enveloping him, dulling the sharp edges of his emotions. An invitation, imperious, to cease all thought, to disappear into the sensations of being rooted. (Sustenance. Dampness. The minute vibrations within the soil as bugs crawl and burrow.)

He isn't sure that he can resist, reject this. He isn't sure that he wants to.

Eyelids close on unseeing eyes. He can no longer hear the rain.

And so he loses himself in a trance, more still than a human ought to be. Because he's a Nymph, doing what it's meant to do.]

[When those roots split and splay, Gladion watches them without alarm—and that's the clearest sign of something having shifted in him, because fear always retreats to the edges of his senses when he goes to feed.

Instead, the sight is fascinating. There's something satisfying about the pattern. Something...healthful, or promising. It leaves a little spot for him, and that's vaguely satisfying too, like blue sky peeking through crown-shy channels.

Gladion watches. And, distantly, feels ill.

Closer to the surface, he itches to join in. The rest of him considers it from a strategic perspective. It might be safer to feed than to try to deny instinct for that long—

No.

He steps back carefully over the edge of the ring. Rindo is—he's fine. For now. He's conditionally fine, for as long as he's feeding. When it's over, he'll want to leave. (When it's over, Gladion will want to leave.)

...He ends up sitting on the cooler out by the bramble wall, trying to let his mind half-drift. Not far enough that he's not aware of what Rindo is doing, but...far enough to pass the time. Out into the grove, rather than into his own feelings.

As if that's any better.]

[In this state, Rindo has very little awareness of the passage of time. His eyes blink open to the same dappled gray light filtered through the canopy above. At least night hasn't fallen.

Coming back to his senses—his normal senses—is a slow process. It appears correlated with his roots' movement, which stir as they begin to contentedly retract to their usual shape and size. They travel along the mud, leaving diluted rivulets of blood in their wake.

The hunger that had been tormenting him since he woke up has vanished, leaving in its place a whole other kind of emptiness—one not so easily filled. He lets out a shaky sigh as thoughts swirl their way back into his mind.

It had been peaceful, in the end. The same could surely not be said of the people whose remains were buried around him.

…Eventually, he notices Gladion. He's hit with the sudden urge to walk right over and hug him. (Feel like a human again.) He does not act on it.

Instead he just takes a deep breath, and speaks. His voice is quiet, but it sounds far too loud in his ears.]

…Gladion.

[The roots are back to normal now. So unassuming.]

[In the space between Rindo's roots withdrawing and his voice calling out, Gladion disentangles himself from the brambles and their trees. Part of him expects to return to a world of shock and confusion, like the one he'd returned to from his first feeding. The ghost of that memory is heavy in the air.

It pushes him to his feet quickly, once his name is called. He wants to get out of here. He wants to never show his face outside of here. He almost replies, "welcome back", but the words go sour before they come up his throat.

He approaches instead, lifting his feet a little higher in the softened, soaked soil of the ring. Close enough that he could put a hand on Rindo's shoulder. He almost does.]

...Do you want to leave?

[Rindo just nods, too lost in his own head to process Gladion's agitation beyond merely noticing the fact of its presence. With Gladion close, the urge to hug him only intensifies, but he shuts it down. It's too much, in some kind of way.

This isn't the place for it, anyway. He just wants out of here. He glances at the spot in the wall of brambles where they'd entered from what feels like an eternity ago, wondering if he'll ever feel even remotely close to normal again on the other side.]

[Okay. Getting them out of here is something he can do. Forget the nagging feeling, as if he's forgotten something—

Gladion does put a hand on Rindo's shoulder, now, almost urgently once he has a direction to move in. First from before him, with the heel of his palm on Rindo's front. Then, within the seconds it takes to turn and start walking, the other way around, as if steering him from behind.

His hand isn't steady, but he can act like it is. Walk them to the edge, will the brambles to part. Awkwardly let go of Rindo to duck down and grab the cooler and tools. On the other side of the wall, a sodden Silvally jumps up from where it was sitting, tucking its chin to its chest and whistling tentatively at them.]

[The sudden contact startles Rindo, but he goes along with Gladion's almost-push without a protest.

His roots feel strange. Now that he knows what they're capable of, far more mobile and expansive than he'd ever imagined they could be, he senses them adjusting ever so slightly to the shape of the ground below with every step. As if, now that he's allowed them to do what must be done, he's also unlocked their more… mundane functions.

Once the wall opens before them, revealing a waiting Silvally, Rindo moves without thinking. He makes a soft, stumbling collision with the creature and throws his arms around its neck, pressing his cheek against it. If Gladion sees, well… that's perfectly fine.]

[Silvally grunts and sits down again, pressing its chin against Rindo's head, shooting Gladion a wide-eyed look over him. Gladion's reply is a grimace, heart sinking further, throat tight.

(He'd wandered home alone; then, past midnight, feeling as if he'd crossed through yet another world somewhere along the way, summoned Mana.)

He comes up behind Rindo, reaching up past him to rub Silvally's ear. Then another false start for Rindo's shoulder, until he's sure he doesn't mean to urge anyone along just yet.

He just means to—to connect. Maybe.

Gladion's grip is tentative, not wanting to crush the leaves he can feel under the fabric.]

...I'm sorry.

[He sounds miserable.]

[When Gladion's hand makes its return on his shoulder, Rindo turns his face to shoot him a lost and bewildered look, wondering just why he's holding himself back now, with one wall knocked down and the other rapidly crumbling.

Ultimately, after staring for a few seconds, it's the echo of Gladion's voice in his mind that pushes him over the edge. If he's going to be giving into impulses, at least this one is human and it's his. Before he can talk himself out of it, one arm unwraps itself from Silvally's neck and gets thrown around Gladion's back, pulling him… a lot more toward Silvally than himself, but still into some manner of a three-way embrace. His hold isn't firm, as if seeking permission; if Gladion wanted to slip away, he could do so easily.

…Maybe they both need this.]

[Gladion finds himself pulled in, and in—surprise? is this actually a surprising development?—doesn't resist, going sort of limp into it.

Silvally's feathers up against his face are a deeply familiar sensation, even rain-soaked. One more thing that's less like that day. The arm over his back is another. What should I do? he asks himself automatically, but his heart isn't in the answering; he feels dizzy, barely-anchored, still stuck on that glimpse of Rindo's expression. He doesn't know what to do about the hug, because he doesn't even know what to do about that look, and if he follows that back too far then he might find out he doesn't know what to do about any of this and hasn't come any closer to figuring it out.

An arm across Rindo's back, then. A little lower, sort of around his ribs so that he can hold on tight enough to call it a hug. The other arm low across the base of Silvally's neck, too.

Gladion closes his eyes, drops his face into feathers, and lets his head spin.

...It only takes a few seconds to forget that he's supposed to be doing this for Rindo's sake. It hurts in a good way.]

[Suspended in that short, terrifying instant in the wake of impulse, Rindo of course worries that he's overstepped. But Gladion's slump and the sensation of his arm over his back nearly bowl him over with relief, and without thinking, he tightens his hold around the other Nymph's side, a real hug now, breathless in its urgency.

Rindo buries his face into Silvally's feathers again, a mirror to Gladion. And it doesn't fix anything. The memory of what he's done remains lodged in his mind like a poisoned dagger. But—

…it inoculates him against it, perhaps. Just a little.

So he stays like this, motionless, for some time. A different sort of feeding.]

[It's how you come up from the trance and nothing happens except that you know what's already happened, and it's so horrific that there should be some kind of scar on you to make it visible, or some kind of karmic retribution waiting for you, but there isn't and there won't be. And you were down in the soil with the last of a person's remains, so you know firsthand there's—nothing left for them. No justice, no rest, just you.

Gladion wanted to apologize for that. For...he doesn't know. Not warning Rindo. For being party to it at all. For taking any kind of satisfaction at all in being validated about it. Or just for it happening.

He feels a little apologized to, instead. And when he remembers where he is and why he's there, he hopes that the contact is doing the same for Rindo.

It's Silvally who eventually calls an end to it. It doesn't seem to know what to do at first with Two Of Them, but finds a way to lay its head across both of theirs. And the rain pours, and it waits. And when it's been long enough for concern, it lifts its head again and chirps sadly.

Gladion sighs and peels himself away from the Pokemon's neck without shifting his hold on Rindo. He and Silvally share a look, exhausted on his part, pleading on its.]

...Let's get out of the rain. [His voice croaks a little. Still, he won't—he really doesn't want to let go. Not yet.

(He notices that two of his vines have twined themselves firmly around Silvally's leg and neck. He feels a little proud of his apparent self-control in not grabbing Rindo with them, but also a little hollow to see that at all.)]

[With the comforting weight of Silvally's head gone, it appears it is time to return to reality; Gladion's sigh is echoed as Rindo pulls away from Silvally's neck, blinking droplets of rain, and maybe some tears, from his eyelids. He doesn't particularly want to let go either. Not of Silvally, not of Gladion. But they're right—it's about time they headed back. So Rindo nods.]

…Yeah.

[His voice comes out a little strained, because he's thinking about how unfair it is that he feels so clear-headed, with his hunger gone. It's unfair that they get to just walk away.

In his guilty haze, Rindo spots some vines wrapped around Silvally—three of them. Gladion's? No, one actually belongs to him. …He hadn't realized it did that. In fact, another one's gone and loosely grabbed Gladion's forearm. He retracts the offending tendrils with an apologetic, embarrassed look, and brings his arms back to his side too, for good measure.

…Gladion is so… off-balance. The contrast between the air of confidence he'd been trying to project, and how he looks now… It isn't right. He was meant to be the anchor, but it's only a role he's stepped into for Rindo's sake. The truth is, they're in the trenches together and Gladion only has a little headstart.

And in light of this realization, he feels that he really should say something. It comes out haltingly, and he struggles to meet Gladion's eyes as he speaks.]

I—… Thanks. I mean it. I dunno how I'd have dealt with this if you weren't here…

[Or how Gladion could have done the same. Did he have to? Was anyone there for him, or did he figure it out on his own? He badly wishes it was the former. The mere thought of the alternative is… profoundly lonely.]

[Feeling all scraped-raw, Gladion only blinks at the vine leaving his forearm, not sure how to say concisely that he didn't mind it. There isn't a way to, so it doesn't get said.

And when Rindo starts to speak again—he looks up, tired enough to be able to stare evenly where Rindo can't—he doesn't have a good answer for that, either. Because his first thought is I'm sure you'd have made it through somehow, which is wildly fucking inappropriate and not even a good way of saying what he'd have meant by that.

There's no second option at hand.

So as Silvally crouches a little for them to get up on its back, Gladion goes for—not Rindo's shoulder this time, but his upper arm. Like when they left the patch, it's half gesture at help climbing on and half contact for its own sake, because he squeezes a bit, clearly as a reply to the thank-you.]

I'm glad. [Further thoughts are too...intangible right now. What exactly he's glad for, and the qualifications on that, all swirling around him, behind his eyes and in his frown, somewhere hollow where there's just not enough of him to put it all together and make sure Rindo is looked after in all the critical ways. Later, when he's built himself back up a bit, and if they can still stomach the topic, maybe.]

[Gladion's arm enters Rindo's vision as he's looking down, spurring him to glance back up. He should be used to the physical contact by now, but it's still somewhat of a surprise every time Gladion goes for it, and the effect of it is only magnified by the fact he's just spent… who knows how long hardly conscious of his own body, his awareness concentrated on his roots and their strange set of "senses" instead. Each touch drags him back out into the world beyond the patch, inch by inch, for better or for worse.

If he's glad… well, that's all Rindo could ask for. Words cannot possibly be enough, not for either of them. And what else is there to say, at this point? All that's left to do is to head back. Put this place behind them. (For now, says a nagging voice that refuses to leave him a single moment of peace. It's unearned anyway.)

With a heavy sigh, he nods, then gets on Silvally, vines wrapping themselves around its neck once more.

One last look at the patch. In it is a silent apology.]

[The trip back to the house is long in the way that trips can only be when you're too exhausted to make them, but have to anyways. Thankfully, Silvally does the walking. Riding still isn't an entirely passive process. Gladion is tired of sitting upright.

They return to the house they way they came. Halfway across the backyard, Gladion says to Silvally:]

Up onto the balcony.

[It asks fwee?]

Not jumping.

[Not expected, but sure, it can do that. It takes them around the house so that it can step up onto that first-floor balcony at one of the ends, then walks them around to the door into Gladion's room.

He slips off, drops his cooler and tools and whatnot against the wall, and slides the door open. The lights are off, inside, but against the wall there's a little jungle of potted plants.]

Wait here for a moment.

[And he sets to work, quickly; turning the lights on, taking a plastic sheet from a stack of gardening supplies in the corner, unfolding it to make a path from the balcony door to another door at the end of the room. There's a spacious bathroom behind it when he opens it.]

Go ahead and - the bathroom's yours for now. I'll get the towels, and the - whatever got left downstairs.

[Gladion seems a little apprehensive, wavering between staying and going as if he's trying to remember something he ought to do before leaving Rindo in his room. He glances at Silvally for a moment in there. But he does leave, and shuts the other door behind him when he goes.]

[The return trip is silent. Somehow, it feels dreamlike.

Seeing the house again marks an end. Here they are, then, scavengers back in the world of the living, to play at normality until the time comes again. Once Gladion's intent becomes evident, Rindo slides off Silvally's back and waits beside it, watching the other Nymph's preparations.

Gladion's unease is not lost on Rindo. He already felt like an intruder, and this is not helping. So, when he's given the go-ahead and Gladion disappears behind the door, he wastes no time in crossing the bedroom atop the sheet, only shooting a sparse few glances at the plants and the supplies and all the little signs of life scattered about. Though he lacks sensation in his roots, he's keenly aware of the tracks they're leaving in their wake.

…At least it's just mud.

Rindo leaves the bathroom door ajar behind him, heaving a sigh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob. He stands there for a moment, wondering where he should even start. Nobody taught him how to do this.

Eventually, he opts to sit on the edge of the bathtub so he can rinse the mud off his roots. The water that flows over their rough, saturated surface feels like nothing. He finds a small length of tendon caught in a groove, dislodges it with his claw, and watches it disappear down the drain along with the dirt and debris the rain couldn't get rid of. He continues to stare at that same spot for a while as the water runs.

None of this makes any sense.

After seconds, minutes, or hours, he turns off the faucet. The sound of falling droplets, dripping off the tips of his talons, is deafening in the empty house. The liquid is clear—his mind paints it red.

(You don't have to face what you've just done. The least you can do is remind yourself.)]

[Gladion feels jittery in a way that isn't familiar to—any of this. Coming back from feeding, for him, is slow and numb. He waits until he's a little less comfortable (a little less sated), and knows then that he's definitely himself again.

So now he's gone to the patch without feeding, and brought someone back from it, and instead of feeling alien comfort he just wants to crawl out of his own skin. He pulls his shoes off just outside his room, rolls up the cuffs of his pants, and either shuffles or hurries down the stairs. Tiptoes between the twins' rooms, as if that makes any difference. Gets the - the bag lying against the wall. Back upstairs to the second floor, dogged by the sense that he's missing something, there has to be one more thing, right, one more thing and if he attends to it then things will be a little less fucked.

He returns to find Silvally sitting primly on the floor tarp, having shut the door behind itself. The water is still running; when he glances up, it's a little shock to see the bathroom door not at all closed. He has to imagine that means Rindo is still clothed, but he keeps his eyes politely averted anyways as he moves along the wall towards the door, reaches in, and sets the bag down just inside.

From there...Gladion's still muddy himself. So he goes to Silvally and sits on the ground facing it, between it and the bathroom. Starts wiping bits of debris off its faceplate, out of its ears, picking them from between the feathers of its head.

Thanks, buddy, he whispers to it, bumping his forehead against its nose. I'm sorry you had to see this— (it nips at his hair) —but you helped, so much. You know I'm proud of you? (chirp.) Yeah. I'm glad you two get along.

When he hears the water stop, he falls quiet, still scratching Silvally behind the ear.]

[After the water stops, nothing happens for a moment. Then the bathroom door is quietly closed from the inside.

…

Rindo tries his best to wrap the towels around his talons to absorb the moisture, which is only mildly successful; the roots, for the most part, stay waterlogged. Looks like he won't be able to walk around without leaving wet imprints behind. That's not good. He lays the towels to dry on the side of the tub, save for one that he places on the floor to stand on.

Changing clothes is a slow process. There's resistance embedded in every action now. The sharp claws, the leaves, the roots and the tail vine have turned thoughtless, automatic motions into challenges.

It's like struggling up a hill as the ground crumbles apart under his feet. Everything is difficult and he is so tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing physical, as if he's run out of thoughts and there's nothing left in his head but a gaping void. Perhaps they've all gone down the drain along with the evidence of what he's just done.

Once he's done, he sits still for a few minutes, eyes fixed on some random spot on the wall. Eventually, it occurs to him that he probably should leave the room at some point, so he does.

The door opens and he steps out. He just stands there, his eyes sweeping across the room without really seeing it. He wonders what the next step should be. Should he be here? Should he be anywhere? Probably not.

…Are Gladion and Silvally still there? He wants to stay with them and he wants to never see any other living soul ever again. Or maybe he wants to lie down and sleep for the rest of eternity. He can't tell.]

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