ataraxionlogs | And darkness be the burier of the dead

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And darkness be the burier of the dead

CHARACTERS: Heather Mason, the bereaved
LOCATION: the Oxygen Garden
WARNINGS: gloom?
SUMMARY: Heather forgoes her usual grief reaction of KILL SOMETHING and tries to make something instead.
NOTES: wiiiiide open. Come share your Hotspur feels, folks. edit: so, um, it's been pointed out to me that the gardens are hydroponic. All the resulting inaccuracies within are the fault of myself and my head full of Sunshine (and that can be taken in several ways, can't it?). /crawls off to vomit in shame

[Heather'd had plans for after the jump. After spending all of them so far either feeling angry and sorry for herself or flitting around trying to play helpful hostess – trying to be someone she wasn't – she'd had something to sink her teeth into. Something to do. One message, short and sharp, and it should have scared her but instead it had given her a purpose. She'd been excited.

That seems almost indescribably sick, now.

Missing that purpose and waiting to hear on something that might give her another, she haunts the gardens. Keeps her hands busy in an effort to still her mind. Barefoot and with a bottle – one drink for her and one for Hotspur, because somehow she doesn't think he'd approve of her using it to numb herself – and a patch of garden she's commandeered for the purpose, beneath a sketch someone's left. With her hair still wet and dark earth on her pale hands, she replants what she's stolen from other plots. Rosemary for remembrance, of course, and iris for faith and valor. If there were poppies they're either hiding or long since pillaged, and what wouldn't she do for some edelweiss?

It's tempting to stake it out, fence it off, make a big deal of it. Make it official. The Max Southey Memorial Garden. But somehow it seems truer to his memory to call it what it is: an attempt – possibly futile - to scrape something good out of the terror.]

Did I ever tell you I was sort of a saint? [Her voice is flat as she digs, buries roots, pats soil. The water she gives the plants will do in place of tears.] Back where I'm from, I mean. Saint Alessa. Kind of a crappy one, as far as saints go. And of a really terrible religion. But it counts, right? There's a saint mourning you.

Just so you know.

[She won't ask to see his body. Bad enough that her last image of him is sad and troubled, rather than the lively, laughing man she'd met. Who'd made her smile and listened to her rambling, who'd talked with her about dreams. Who'd complained of chicken pox scars in places no man should have scars and apologized for lowering the tone on the same breath. She never did find that ice cream to share with him.

She doesn't know what they'll do with him, either. Once they're done with whatever it is they're doing. Sliced his flesh and scraped his bones to see what they can see, trying to cut information out of a man who'd never have held anything back, not if he thought it could help someone. Airlock, she supposes. It seems right.]

Give you the stars.

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That's a shame. You would have got along.

[ She doesn't outwardly react to the movement of Asato's tail, but something is bringing her enough comfort that when she speaks again, it's with the smallest beginnings of a smile. ]

He got along with just about everyone, I think. The first time I spoke to him I was awful. Went on this big rant about Gods and how they could squish us like bugs and not feel a thing. Totally trying to burst his bubble. And he's probably the most religious person I ever knew who wasn't an active lunatic, but he still asked me why I felt that way and offered to help if it ever happened again.

It sounds like he was a good person.

[The kind of person he really would've wanted to meet and befriend. It feels selfish to mourn for the loss of that opportunity, but instead he'll mourn for the loss of that person as he was, loving others and loved in turn. A person who offered to help Heather, and whose memory made her smile ever so faintly. Even if he'd never known him, he was grateful to Hotspur for all he'd done, and for all he was to everyone else on the ship.]

I'm glad you knew him. Is that strange? Maybe it's strange, but I really am.

Probably the best on the ship.

[It's not just grief talking. Tragedy amplifies everything, dangles the temptation to make saints of normal people. She knows this; she's a prime offender herself. But she thought that way of Hotspur when he was alive. Told him so, even - she only regrets that she'd waited until he was at his lowest to do it, and even as he was thanking her for saying it she could see in his face it wasn't gonna stick.

Every touch leaves a trace. She knows she's better for having known him, that the others here who cared for him must be too.]

It's not strange. Hard to explain, maybe. But I think I get you.

[Asato's hands keep patting at the soil, digging it up and patting it down, digging, patting... He just needs something to do with his hands.]

Then this is a good way to say goodbye to him.

[It's odd. Cats like him believed that the most virtuous among them went on to become humans in the afterlife, joining Two Cane in his realm. So then, what happened to the most virtuous of the humans? He didn't understand it, but no matter what, Asato was convinced that there would be something good waiting for Hotspur on the other side. There had to be.]

Do we--what do we do? Say a blessing?

[Yes. There should be, for Hotspur - a blessing, or a prayer. But the only ones she knows are from before she was herself, scripture Alessa learned in the order. More like a curse, as far as she's concerned.]

We should, but I don't know any. Not any good ones, anyway. Do you think it's okay if you like... make them up?

I think so. That way, it comes from the heart. I think it means the most if you make it up.

[Cats of his tribe rarely spoke blessings or prayers regardless, so if he wanted to give them to someone, he'd have to guess or make one up. He never minded that much, and he didn't resent anyone for never being able to learn how to "properly" ward off evil. It was the sentiment that mattered.]

I'll join you and say one too.

Right.

[She sits back, takes a breath. Clasps her hands together in her lap, then thinks better of it and reaches for Asato's hand. He was a pilot, right? So...]

May your wings be strong and your compass always true. May every ship bear you home.

[It's wrong, once she says it. Too forced. Trying too hard. if there's one thing she valued him for above anything else, it was the way he'd let her be herself. He was the first person she told about her history, the one who made her think maybe it was okay to talk about. When she speaks again it's simpler, though her voice cracks and tears threaten.]

Safe flight, Lieutenant.

[He stays quiet and listens while she speaks, taking her hand in his own and holding on tight.

What she says sounds better than anything he could come up with, but that doesn't mean he won't try. If Hotspur really was such a good man, it feels wrong not to try.]

I wish you good dreams. A warm sun and soft ground. Good food. A comfortable bed. Wherever you are, I wish the flowers bloom like they do here. That you can look up at the sky and feel the wind on your face, and that you can be safe.

And wherever you are... thank you.

[Oh.

That's beautiful, and in this moment of stillness everything she's been trying to hold off by keeping herself busy catches up with her. The sadness and the anger and loss after loss, and now this - a friend gone forever. Someone she can never get back no matter how hard she tries. She dips her face to let her hair hang down as the tears start and for a moment she manages to cry silently, only her iron grip on Asato's hand giving her away. It doesn't last. Soon there's a hitch of breath and a quiet keening, and she's too tired to even feel embarrassed.]

Heather...

[Her grip on his hand now borders on painful, and he grits his teeth to keep from making a sound. It had been a long time since he'd seen a person weep. There's a tightness in his chest at the sound of Heather crying, but he doesn't join her, low as his ears may fold, still as his tail may lay. Instead, he draws his hand away from hers and puts his arms around her instead, nudging his forehead gently against her temple.]

Please don't cry.

[Heather leans in to those arms immediately, sadness bringing out the child in her and the child needing the comfort of a friend. She twines her own arms around Asato and while she can't quite make good on his request just yet she does offer a quiet, somewhat sniffly laugh.]

You don't want me to cry, you can't say such sweet things. You don't know very much about girls, do ya?

[Seeing how he only knew two women his whole life, and one of them was his mother while the other was the woman who adopted him, he... Yeah, he doesn't know much about girls at all, and Heather may feel him earnestly shaking his head.]

I'm sorry. I just don't like seeing you cry.

[It's understandable that she would, of course, but Asato can't stand seeing someone in that much pain. It just isn't fair. No one deserves that.]

Sorry.

[She pulls away slightly, scrubs at her eyes with the back of her hand and gives an inelegant little sniff. Now there's an edge of embarrassment creeping in; it's not like she doesn't ever cry. She does, kind of a lot. She just does it alone. Still, if she's going to get it all over somebody there are certainly worse options than Asato.]

It just seems so unfair.

It isn't.

[He nudges his forehead against hers solemnly, after she wipes her eyes. From this close, he can see how they've gone a little red from the tears. It's not a gesture that lasts; just a little push the same way any old house-cat would give one.]

But don't be sorry.

[Her eyes fall briefly closed when Asato's forehead touches hers. She never had a pet cat but she recognizes the gesture and it makes her smile, and he reaches a hand up to his hair - just a quick press of gratitude.]

Thanks, Asato. I really needed this.

[He gives her a small smile in response, pushing his head back against her hand when he feels it in his hair. It really is a little like having an overgrown pet cat around sometimes, being with a Ribika. At her thanks, he just nods. He doesn't feel like it's something that he really needs gratitude for. Anyone seeing Heather like this would do the same, he assumes.]

It's nothing. You're not still crying, are you?

It's not nothing, don't say that. I don't - I don't think there's anybody else on the ship I could be like this with.

[because Asato sees things so simply, sometimes. She cries in his presence and all he seem to be thinking is "Heather is sad". He's not judging her, thinking of her as weak or a child or a girl looking for attention. All the walls she's learned to throw up over the years, the defenses built of sass and sarcasm and hardness - they lower to let Asato through, without her even thinking about it. Maybe she oughta be concerned about that, but for now she's simply grateful.]

No, dude. Check me out, fresh as a daisy.

[lies, but at least she's not actually crying anymore.]

I see.

[People who know Asato well should understand what that means. Her words are something he needs to file away, to think about later when he has time to spend alone in silence. It's not an agreement or a denial, just an acknowledgment that she thinks of him that way and an admittance that he's not going to try to make her change her mind.

Inwardly, though, he's kind of glad. A little doubtful, maybe, but glad.]

Fresh as a daisy. [He agrees, as cheerfully as the occasion could allow.] Is it okay if I stay here a little longer?

[He already braved the feeling that he was intruding on her private time earlier, and he doesn't want to impose if she wants to have a quiet moment--quiet hours, as it may be--with Hotspur's memory.]

Of course. It's your garden too, now.

[and being here with somebody feels a hell of a lot less pathetic than being here on her own, talking to a dead guy. Asato can stay just as long as he wants, as long as he doesn't mind Heather's head on his shoulder.]

[He isn't bothered in the slightest by Heather's head resting on his shoulder. If it were a few months earlier, he'd be confused out of his wits, but now it feels normal, comfortable, to be close to the people he cares about. His tail curls around her again, its tip occasionally twitching in thought.]

What do you mean, [He asks after a minute or so of silence] my garden?

Because you helped make it. And because he meant something to you, even if you didn't know him.

[Really, it's calming just having Asato near. The warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Leaning against him, Heather decides to do something for Asato, just as soon as she figures out what. Not something equivalent - she hopes he's never in the same position. But something, still.]

I don't want this to be a sad place. I mean, I'm not gonna be dancing up here anytime soon, but he wasn't a sad person. He wouldn't have wanted us sitting around feeling sad about him.

It's still Heather's garden more. Everyone's garden.

[Something like that. He listens carefully as she speaks, shifting a little to get more comfortable against her. Not once had he been this close to someone in his home world. Not since his mother passed. It's nice. He doesn't want to get up.]

I understand. It's just a place of memory. And the memories were good, right? So it should be like that.

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And darkness be the burier of the dead

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