035 || dictated;

[workaphilic]

[He spent the first full day locked in his room.

He didn't even try to wash it away. The outburst on the journals, with the way the stain faded against his skin -- it was clearly something not meant to be washed away. Streaks of red across his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his ear. Like he'd fallen from a great height and smashed his head against the ground.

He spent hours in front of the mirror, staring at himself. He can see the castle's little joke. "Blood" a shade too bright, close enough to be mistaken, but to a discerning eye.... To his eyes, perfectly trained, it looks like betrayal plain on his face.

He hasn't eaten, he hasn't slept.

On the second day, he doesn't care.

He goes about his business. He tends to his bees, he collects (steals) supplies from around the castle, back straight and eyes hard like he doesn't look like he made himself into a crime scene.

In the kitchen, sitting on the counter eating an apple, he opens the journal in his lap to read. Eventually, when he speaks, his tone is flat and bored.]

It isn't actually required that everyone come up with a sermon. As a reminder.

((Open over the journal or in person, if you like!))

Comments

[peacockherald]

And why not today, with it all so painted on our skin?

_{[ He arched a brow at him, waiting, because this one always seemed to have an answer. ]}

[workaphilic]

What difference does that make? They could have just as easily done it three days ago with some trusted confidant and spared us all the headache.

[peacockherald]

Ah, but today we all bear our sins on our skin, for all to see. It is a confession on equal grounds.

_{[ He sipped his tea and looked at Sherlock, asking him find fault in that assumption. ]}

[workaphilic]

[He lifts his chin.]

I've confessed nothing. A few splatters of color don't give any of you any more insight into my life than you had a week ago.

[There's an urge to say more -- "You might as well have walked up and confessed the whole story to me, though" -- but it's not a challenge he can match, and he's not so upset that he'd out his loss so sloppily.]

[peacockherald]

No, they don't, and I didn't say you had. I was merely pointing out logic for others. I have no wish to confess my own, though they are visible for those who know what has happened.

[workaphilic]

Everyone still has to say the words, then. In which case, it's better kept to people who actually care.

[peacockherald]

But isn't it also easier to confess to a stranger? The repercussions often seem less. What care do you have if a stranger hates you? But a loved one coming to despise you? That is much harder.

[workaphilic]

It's also easier to be betrayed by a stranger.

[peacockherald]

True, but the devastation is also less in that sense. Would I rather be betrayed by my aunt or by you? My answer would be you, simply because you do not mean to me what my aunt does. 

[workaphilic]

The 'devastation' isn't important. What's important is the reality.

[peacockherald]

And the reality is that feelings are less hurt by the stranger than by the loved one. And, for the moment, you feel better. 

[workaphilic]

The reality is that an unrelated third party now has information about, presumably, a vulnerable state. In that case, feelings are secondary, and you're foolish if you think otherwise.

[peacockherald]

Foolish and human. 

_{[ Another sip from his cup, delicate due to the ice on his fingers and lips, not wanting to drop it and cause a mess or miss getting the actual drink into his mouth. ]}

And you act as if the third party intends to use the vulnerable state against you. Have you so little faith in your fellow man?

[workaphilic]

It's my job to understand people. So, in a word, yes.

[peacockherald]

_{[ He looks down at the other's hands, then at his own ice covered ones. ]}

Forgive me then, if I do not quite believe you.

[workaphilic]

[His frown deepens.]

Then that's your own fault. Makes no difference.

[peacockherald]

_{[ He looked at Sherlock then, his gaze solemn. ]}

Perhaps. Or you could prove yourself. You've spoken with me quite a few times. Surely you have a measure of me. Am I found so unworthy of faith?

[workaphilic]

[The answer is immediate, and probably not shocking. He doesn't hand his trust out lightly, and the only people who have it are on the other side of a dimensional rift.]

Yes.

[peacockherald]

Heh. I suppose I should be used to it here. Back home, I'm so used to my Whites just automatically giving it to me. 

[workaphilic]

Congratulations. If it gets you stabbed in the back later, I won't bother saying "I told you so."

[peacockherald]

Metaphorically or in actuality? I've had the latter done enough already.

_{[ For serious. Karsites did not like the White Demons on their borders. ]}

[workaphilic]

[Either, both, he really doesn't care.]

God forbid you learn from experience.

[peacockherald]

The Karsite people might have a rigid religion, but their battle tactics are just fine.

_{[ He shrugged. ]}

[workaphilic]

[His attention goes back to his journal.]

Evidently not.