week three | match ceremony

[marriagebroker]

We're back, baby!

The courtyard is lit up with lanterns all over and there is now a second special couch near the Furina and Ringo couch from last week. This is the Verso-Nico couch, if they want to sit in it. But they don't have to! Live your truth, boys! Go sit with your situationships instead!

Wei Wuxian is here, still looking happy after his absence this week, and he is dressed to impress in NOT a hanfu this time, but a modern look. He's liking it, honestly. Look at him sparkle!

"Congratulations, my friends! You are once again free from a blackout and losing a wish as you found a perfect match at yesterday's truth booth. Good job!" Wei Wuxian explains, twirling his flute in his fingers as per usual. "You might still get no lights again otherwise but, uh, let's hope not! I believe in you!"

... Does he?

Either way, he bounces on his feet and calls out, "Team Suibian, it's time to make your picks!" Looks like we're ready to go.

Comments

[anathemaw]

[ he's not stupid - he had an inkling that this is where Verso's question was leading. It's still faintly surprising to hear. A handful of weeks is a terribly short time to decide such a commitment. Messmer supposes people have followed him to hell for less compelling reasons. It doesn't keep his eye from briefly widening at the humble request, though his expression swiftly becomes more resigned. ]

... Mine intention is to return to the shadowed lands. My loyal knights yet remain; whatever answer doth await me, I will not abandon them to their fate. [ a beat. ] A fate that I will not have thee share. Thou wouldst trade one prison for another, O fool.

[ his tone softens towards the end, but there's a firmness to it, too. The lands beneath the Scadutree are as blighted as Messmer himself, after what he and Marika did - and, veiled beneath her powers, there's no way out, unless he manages to track down Miquella before his ascension and ask him, which is unlikely, at this point. It's no place to live: not fit for any but shadows and scavengers, and certainly not for a vibrant soul like Verso. ]

I would see thee to a happier beginning.

[reverso]

[There’s a part of him that isn’t surprised by the reply. Messmer speaks practically, out of concern for Verso’s own happiness, and it’s so easy for old tendencies to buoy to the surface and whisper: Maybe it would be better just to rest, anyway.

But it’s the other side of him, a renewed fragment of his soul—in no small part Messmer’s doing—that rails a little against this answer. Verso’s brow shadows as he takes this reply in, looking up at the demigod with his mind churning.]

Maybe it is a fool thing to ask, but we’ve well established that I am one. A fool who would like to choose for himself where he might derive his happiness.

[There is no hint of offense or frustration in him, though a little spark of determination underlines each syllable.]

If you say you live in a prison, let me help you and yours be free of it. It’s a fresh new purpose as good as any other. And a path full of trials is still better than one traveled alone.

[And that’s not even considering what Messmer’s wish could accomplish in tandem with whatever he chooses to do, once returned.]

[anathemaw]

[ Messmer listens, gazing down at Verso quietly. He doesn't know how he can properly convey to him the state of his homeland, in no small part because he hasn't seen it himself in an age. The Lands Between are no place for an outsider, especially one without Grace, and Messmer himself is widely loathed. If, by some miracle, he did return, he has no doubt that the populace would call for his head. Perhaps they would even be ordered to do so by Marika herself, he thinks glumly.

Despite Verso's words, he still shakes his head. ]

... The very land itself hath been severed by Mother's power - untethered from the world, and concealed behind a veil of shadow. Thou couldst swim at the horizon for a hundred years and arrive nowhere but the coast whence thou first leapt.

[ there's more keeping him from leaving than simple loyalty - though that loyalty is what binds him most. He can't imagine Verso there. He can't imagine bearing that responsibility, no matter how much Verso insists it's his choice. All he can foresee is misery. ]

I cannot bring thee, Verso, [ he says, gently, even sorrowfully. Still, there's an additional issue here. ] ... Nor will I suffer thee thy fate. I pray thee call upon another here. Thou art a man fair and well-liked by all - thou wilt be gladly harbored.

[reverso]

[Again, Messmer paints his world like a prison inescapable, and again, Verso should feel some manner of appreciation for both his honesty and his concern. But it's strange how hollowing these words actually are. He sorts through his mind how he should react to this—I cannot bring thee, Verso—and finds that nothing truly buoys to the surface. Maybe because it hasn't had time to sink in, this new departure from where he had hoped his future path would tread.

Or maybe because he thinks all this circles around the point at hand. The heart of the matter. Perhaps Messmer is aware, and it adds nothing to Verso's argument; but he feels the need to speak it clearly, besides, so that there can be no question.]

I'm not sure you're understanding the point I'm poorly trying to convey, Messmer. If I could go wheeling away into someone else's far-off world, I'll spend all that time wondering about you, thinking about you. Wondering how that flame I'm so accustomed to has fared. Missing it.

[It feels like it would be a fresh new regret, this what-if, to the start of a new tale.]

I want our footsteps to walk the same wretched path. I want— [agh, mon dieu] -I want you. I cannot be any clearer.

[anathemaw]

[ "I want you." How absurd - not the first time he's thought that about something Verso said or did, and probably not the last. Why? Of everyone here, why him? He has not shown Verso any special kindness; he himself is strange and undesirable, with a cruel history, although Verso's denied (or matched) those traits. Regardless, there's no reason Verso should be so ready to attach himself to to him after these few weeks. Perhaps it's the desperation of a man with nothing left to lose, chasing the trail of -- whatever happened between them last weekend, seeing something in Messmer that may not truly be there.

Or maybe it's Messmer who's wrong-headed, who is a fool for being blind to something, or everything. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened, either. For the first time in a long time, he feels something new: a sort of ache inside. Because Verso is indeed fair and well-liked and much too kind, and he knows that he can only disappoint him. ]

... Sweet fool. [ he forgets for a moment that they're in public; now his voice is quiet, apologetic, and he lifts one hand, tracing his fingers feather-light at the edge of Verso's jaw. His brow furrows heavily, the golden light of his eye dimmed. ] What thou seekest, I am not prepared to give.

[ love, desire, a future - he can hardly even imagine these things for himself, let alone for Verso in tandem. There's still too much he needs to decide. The idea of committing to this now - it's overwhelming. Even frightening. Even so... For the first time, he feels a reluctance to cast it all aside. His mother, and his purpose - he can't rely on either to be there when all else is gone. ]

... Yet, I would ask of thee... an indulgence.

[reverso]

[Verso knows what he’s asking is likely unfair, especially when Messmer has so much to tend to back in his world. When his future is unknown, shaped by a purpose he needs to seek anew. But it has to be said — he would regret not speaking his intent, his wants, if he didn’t underline them now.

But even so, Messmer is so certain of his inability to grant him anything that Verso’s heart feels temporary rent in two directions: a desire to quell the sorrow that seems to shadow Messmer’s resignation of this fact, and how his own dread disappointment wells up within, hearing only a gentle rejection a second time.

The sensation of his fingertips tracing his jaw, however, makes him close his eyes. His brow pinches, too, the desire to tilt his head into that touch only overcome when Messmer makes a request of him. His gaze shutters back open, looking up at him.]

What is it…?

[If he has more to say on the matter, it can wait until he hears this.]

[anathemaw]

To my comrades I must return, and... discuss what hath been known to us unspoken these years. Doubtless there will be much havoc and mourning. But so too will there be those who hath loyalty to me beyond allegiance - my boon companions. [ this is spoken with solemnity; Messmer values their loyalty, but he simultaneously feels sorry that they would place it with him, of all people. ] With them, I will confer... and with myself. I know not the road forward - the road home. Long hath this war extended; long may it take to conclude. Mine enemies are many, and my head may yet be taken in vengeful quest ere I set a single step upon it. Such is the fate I have hard-won.

[ his tone remains serious and thoughtful, but there's no denying the slight querulous undercurrent to it - he's scared of this. To even say it aloud is supreme blasphemy, a radical betrayal of all that was entrusted to him. Everything will fall out from beneath him the moment he enacts even the first action he spoke. The only person he's ever loved will have well and truly abandoned him, even if he'd pretended she hadn't up until now. And yet... ]

... Yet thou hast granted me... a belief... that I may one day find light anew, beyond that dark fate. So I would ask of thee... thy time. That thou might patient wait... and when I have found my path, if thy desire still holdeth true... I would... find thee, and with thee walk it. Wouldst thou grant me this?

[ it's a lot to ask, and he knows it, if his hesitant speech is anything to go by. But anything less would be to deny Verso, and Messmer can't bear to do it again. ]

[reverso]

[Is it touching, sad, or something in-between, that Verso's answer arises quickly in his mind and tumbles off his tongue nearly as swiftly? It's a different kind of commitment, yes, and far from the one he had hoped for. But in this moment, his heart aches for that bound connection — even if it may only manifest in an age from now.

What does an immortal have, after all, but time to spare? Quietly:]

Of course I'd wait for you, ma flamme. That's hardly an indulgence at all.

[Ultimately, if that's what Messmer truly desires, and he cannot be swayed in a different direction, he thinks he'd been an even bigger fool to deny him.

But...]

But is there no way for me to convince you to fight by your side? My blades would willingly be yours if it meant keeping your enemies at bay so that you can finally walk towards freedom, regardless of what my heart feels.

[Maybe Messmer thinks of him not unkindly, but still as a musician-artist with a sensitive heart, who has only lived as long as he has because of his immortality. He hasn't exactly given him reason to believe otherwise.]

I wouldn't be a burden.

[anathemaw]

[ he is so set on this, just as Messmer was set on returning alone to sort out his thoughts, his feelings. Isn't this a familiar story? He remembers insisting to Rellana that they would not meet again, that he was undertaking a grueling mission for the Erdtree and that she absolutely could not come, only for her to appear in full regalia with her small cadre of loyal retainers on the day of their first march, her homeland abandoned. His resolve had buckled then. He feels it bending now, too, in the face of Verso's insistence and his painfully-vulnerable words.

Messmer was never truly cut out for war; his heart is too soft. His nails reach Verso's ear, tucking a lock of hair behind it before his hand drops back to his side. ]

Thy sword-hand would not.

[ Verso would be no burden to protect - that's not what Messmer's anxious about. Verso would be a burden on his heart - another complicated knot to untangle, unfamiliar and frightening and new, along with everything else. And, just like Rellana and Gaius and the others who had followed him, Verso would be committing his life to Messmer's, even if he doesn't realize it entirely. It's frighteningly permanent for a man he's only known little more than a fortnight (or, perhaps, a Fortnite.)

On the other hand, Verso has nowhere to go, and he's come to him. He can't turn him away. Verso is even more alone now than Messmer has ever been in his life. And he'd wait. Ma flamme. ]

... If thou wilt truly not be swayed... I cannot condemn thee to wander oblivion.

the fact that verso has just become a skrunkly rellana is very funny to me sib

[reverso]

[Messmer’s tendency to cultivate loyalty in those closest to him has followed him across worlds and into these four weeks. Verso is ready to fight his enemies, throwing himself into his ravaged world for a purpose that he has finally chosen for himself. He, too, would make a loyal blade, in his own way.

But it isn’t mere loyalty that propels his stubbornness on the matter, his insistence. Their bond feels twined tighter than that, its roots running deeper. Commiseration, sentiment, fondness, attraction, warm attachment driven by loneliness — for Verso, all of these apply just as fervently. (As well as a fledgling feeling, a tiny bud in need of nurturing, that may someday bloom into a force that overtakes all of that completely.)

When Messmer drops his hand, Verso reaches out to take it in two of his own. He grips him tight in both assurance and certainty, hope once more alight in his eyes despite the seriousness of this... pledge.]

Then my sword is yours.

[As for the rest, the part that yearns, the part that promised to wait…]

And my heart is content to give you the time you need to heal your own.

(guy who has only had feelings for rellana) getting some serious rellana vibes from this

[anathemaw]

[ the unexpected contact has Messmer stiffen slightly in surprise, still unused to receiving it openly - or at all, really. But he doesn't resist, and when Verso squeezes his hand tight, he finds his fingers curling at Verso's wrist. One of the winged serpents slithers its way down Messmer's arm, tongue flickering curiously at Verso's knuckles.

His heart - he's this serious about it; the phrase makes his stomach squirm with anxiety and awe alike. He's earned none of this; he doesn't deserve it. Doubtless that's why he still wants to run. It's hard to believe that something like this could happen to him, after all these years of suffering. Verso is untouched by gold, but there's surely Grace in him all his own. ]

... Thou art captivating as the divine, [ he says quietly, almost humbly, in lieu of a response, his golden eye fixed firmly on Verso as if he's certain he'll find that holiness. ]