ataraxionlogs | eighteenth jump;

Entry tags:

eighteenth jump;

CHARACTERS: any and all
LOCATION: Gravity Couches and beyond
WARNINGS: maybe some swearing, or even some violence, and more than likely some implied (and possibly explicit) nakedness.
SUMMARY: Another month, another jump, another round of new faces.
NOTES: Keeping up with the tradition and copy pasted like always from the last one

You wake up in darkness.

There's a breathing tube jammed down your trachea, and you're suspended in a tube of clear blue fluid. Upon registering your level of consciousness, the gravity couch drains the fluid surrounding you and retracts the breathing apparatus; the doors in front of you open, and you're deposited on the floor of a stark, sterile medical bay.

You are not alone.
There are others who have come before you, others who are awakening beside you. Some may be familiar to you, perhaps even friends. Others have much less amiable plans. Some are merely alien and inexplicable, but there are always those who might mean you harm.

After you catch your breath and your vision returns, you notice a number on the inside of your forearm. Maybe it's a familiar number. Maybe it means something. Maybe it's just a number. But the number—completely unique to you—is a tattoo, and it does not come off.

If you enter the room adjacent to the medbay, you will find a small locker with your number on it, surrounded by rows upon rows of identical lockers. Inside, you will find a few of your personal items, a communications device, and a ship's uniform in your exact size. The comms device is fully powered and connects directly to the ship's network; it's your only means of communication beyond physical conversation. Upon turning the device on, a neutral, automated voice will say, "Please take the blue lift to the passenger quarters." Any other attempts at communicating with the rest of the network are met only with static.

This is your welcome party.

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So you've said.

... I have thought of it. It is all I can do not to, sometimes. I— I buried him. If anyone should have reason to doubt—

[He glances downward, some of the protest going out of him when he remembers why.]

He has no memory of that night, nor could he. For him, it has yet to happen.

[ Somehow that, as strange as it sounds, is easier to believe. Different times, Loras had said. As impossible as it seems, it is less impossible than the dead rising. And it's too specific, almost, such a peculiar way of thinking of such a thing.

She embraces him again because, whether or not he is mad, he is suffering. What can she communicate with mere words as things stand now? Questioning him further will only upset him, and she doesn't believe him enough to assure him, not fully, not yet. ]

[He knows how he must sound, and he can hardly blame Margaery for thinking him mad. After all, he had even suspected it of himself, at first. And so he returns the embrace, glad enough for the comfort after the painful memories, and wondering whether there is anything that he can say to convince her.]

[It's as he calms a bit that he finally processes everything. The brink of death, she'd said, and Cersei, and her surprise at seeing him...]

[He draws back by inches, enough to study her face.]

Something terrible has happened, hasn't it?

[ Her brow furrows. ] Terrible? No, you're here; you're safe... with Renly. [ a beat. ] While you were in Dragonstone, Cersei brought false charges against me. I'm to stand trial for my supposed crimes soon, but I've no doubt the judges of the Faith will find me as innocent as I truly am.

[ The confidence is evident in her voice. With Cersei on trial as well, her own men condemning her, Maragery is hopeful. Soon, she will be a proper queen and Tommen a proper king. The most dangerous of the Lannisters have lost their claws, if not their lives. And Loras is alive and well.

It seems to Maragery that the future is bright, gods be good. ]

[Then his worst fears were realized. What had he left her to? And how can he possibly tell her? He's quiet for a moment, lifting a hand to brush lightly through her hair. When he speaks, his voice is miraculously even, despite the guilt and dread that sit heavily in his heart.]

Would you walk with me? I would welcome news from home, although perhaps not here.

['Welcome' indeed.]

Of course.

[ Though she does not like his reaction to her good news, or the way his hand brushes through her hair, as if she is the one in need of comfort.

Nevertheless, she smiles at him; perhaps she is overthinking this. ]

[Then, with a nod, he turns to lead them both somewhere slightly kinder.]

There are gardens aboard. Nothing like home, of course, but pleasant enough. Shall I take you?

[ She loops her arm through his. ] I would like it, if you did.

[Off they go, then.]

They're a welcome change from all of this, I find.

Of course. [ with some irritation: ] We are not made for a place so cold and dark and lifeless.

[Likewise.] Indeed. Though truly, I cannot imagine anyone suited for this place.

Better suited, mayhaps, but not suited, no. [ at least we're pretty. ] Are there many others here?

[ It must be a large ship, after all, if there is room for gardens. ]

A few hundred, I think, and there is easily room for more.

And are they organized?

[ as an afterthought. ] Is it safe?

Safe? From the other passengers? [He hesitates, uncertain as to how definite an answer he can give — especially to her. It's Margaery, so naturally he's more cautious with her safety.] There is precious little hierarchy, but for the most part, things do seem peaceful.

Although... there was recently an incident with pirates, the aftermath of which led to some discussion of formalizing a system of laws. How things have avoided descending into chaos without that, I've no idea, but I hope that something comes of it.

[ She nods, listening closely. Naturally, she doesn't like what she hears, but she only frowns in response. ]

As do I. It would not do us well, to be caught up in trouble here.

You needn't worry about that with me here.

[Whether that was meant to reassure Margaery or himself, he isn't certain. But now they've reached the gardens, and he stops to gesture with his free arm.]

And here we are.

I know. [ She squeezes his arm lightly, before turning her attention to the gardens. ] They're lovely. [ Not like Highgarden, no, but nothing can compare to Highgarden. ]

[He smiles, pleased to hear it.]

They're very different. But still impressive, I think, in their own way.

[But they did come here for a reason, and remembering that, he falls quiet. There are things that must be discussed, but now he doesn't know how to begin. It won't be easy — of that much, he is certain.]

[ She notices, having been watching him closely. Though she has yet to catch on to the details of the situation, she frowns at him, ever the sympathetic sister. ]

What did you wish to speak of? [ said somewhat imploring, as if promising you can tell me anything. ]

[He hesitates, still, feeling almost as though he should be apologizing for something.]

The things you spoke of — Dragonstone, and the rest... for me, they have not yet happened.

[ All at once, Margaery is overcome with a cold, empty feeling. Dread, it must be. If Loras is from...before, then he is like Renly, like Robb Stark. Though they are not dead, they are dying. They walk now, but only to a bloody grave. Worse yet, they may know it — that their days are numbered, that their time will soon come to an end.

She takes a deep breath, composing herself as she reaches for Loras' hand. At the very least, he should not know. He deserves so much more than that. ]

Then it is fortunate I have your letters and the echoes of thousands singing your praise, promising a recovery from the battle of Dragonstone, to comfort us while we are uncertain of your fate. [ Lies, she carries them well. There are no letters. Those that sing, sing a song of death, of a brave boy who will certainly die a courageous hero. Still, it is not over yet. He musn't think that.

Her prayers have not been answered, so she must pray everyday, as before. ]

[He squeezes her hand in return. He'd always been confident — too confident, sometimes. And so it is hard for him to believe, truly, that he could have come to such harm that those who knew him best would be so worried. But she had been, and though he wants to be comforted by her words, and by his own self-assurance (naturally, his deeds would be praised by so many), the thought sits uneasily with him.]

And yet you were so surprised to see me well. ["The brink of death," she'd said, and it rings in his ears again. Gently:] How uncertain?

I cannot say. All news of your triumph was filtered through the lion's den. [ True enough. It would not be so surprising, if she had been tricked. ] Father, grandmother, and Garlan were gone, as were most of father's bannermen. With Lord Tywin dead, Lord Tyrion on the run, and Ser Jaimie away as well, I was left with neither powerful allies, nor reasonable consults. Cersei Lannister was in control, and she despised me — us, far more than I ever suspected. She delighted in our suffering; sought our deaths as a moth seeks the flame. [ She shakes her head. ]

I cannot distinguish between the truths, lies, and rumours of King's Landing any longer.

[It's so much to take in, and he has too many questions to know where to begin. It's disorienting, to feel like he's been absent from his own life.]

... All this time I've been here, I was afraid of what might happen to you in my absence. I had not thought it could be worse with me still there.

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