weep not for the memories

[brushoff]

WHO: Everybody!
WHERE: all cities
WHEN: March 4 - March 6
WHAT: it's a catch-all log, sucka! Tag here and thread around for the Dorian Ruins Everything Guilt Extravaganza part of the overall March plot. Please check out this ooc post for details!
WARNINGS: Traumatic memories. Possible talk of murder, death, blood, other nasty things. I'll try to update if the warnings needed but please use content warnings if it gets super nasty!

It starts off on March 4th, the early morning before the sun's even risen. You know those weird mirages that were hanging around the day before? Well now it's getting a little personal.

These mirages come and go seemingly for no reason. They might stay for a minute, they might stay for an hour. The images vary between person but the unifying factor is that the mirages consist of people the player characters have hurt, whether people in-game or from their homes. Whether they murdered them, slandered them, or even had a petty little argument, the unifying factor is the guilt each character feels towards or about this mirage. After all, you know you hurt them somehow. You know their existence somehow makes you feel guilty.

Another unifying factor? The creepy way these mirages just seem to stick to you. They'll follow you if you try to leave, staring you down with their creepy unblinking mirage eyes. And whoops: everybody can see said mirages. Hopefully you're not being stalked by someone you and somebody else both know, wouldn't that be awkward?

Have fun confronting your traumatizing past and/or wondering why your buddy's got some creepy ghost guy following him, imPorts!

( ooc: this is a catch-all log! Make starters of your characters getting haunted by their creepy mirages, have other people react to said creepy mirages, ???, profit. Hit me up on the ooc post if you have any questions! )

Comments

[song_of_ice]

[It didn't seem like it. The ghosts remained as the days continued, only growing more agonizing and, sometimes, increasing the number of those seen.

It was difficult enough with Ygritte, but Rickon was a fresh wound, one that he hadn't recovered from. He had been the reason that Jon had fought. It wasn't about Winterfell alone, it was about saving perhaps the only brother he had left. Yet here was the physical manifestation of how deeply he had failed.

He doesn't catch Jorah's notice of Ygritte at first, only to see it all in the look he gave him. Jon lowered his head in shame. He broke a good number of his vows and had paid the price for it.]

I don't know where to go. I can't let my family see him like this.

[khaleesipls]

[ Jon dips his head and Jorah breathes deep, a sigh suppressed long and slow through his sinuses. He keeps hold, right hand braced to lock Snow into the present against freezing brick like a sad, woolly black pelt. ].

I’ve stopped trying to keep track of how many of you there are, [ he admits at a mutter between them. Honest, at least, if hardly the ideal attitude for a man whose house has bent the knee. But Lyanna isn’t here and he is. Presumably Baelish keeps some sort of dossier -- Catelyn’s arrival certainly didn’t escape his notice. ] I’m sorry.

[ For Rickon and Ygritte. Not for being a grouse -- never for that.

There are still cabs filtering through on the tail end of rush hour -- throwing up filthy slush and sending waves through the melt in the street. ]

I have a place, [ he says, and raises his helmet away to hail at the next cab on approach. ] A few blocks from here. Come on.

[song_of_ice]

[As much as he dislikes being manhandled, the hand on his shoulder helps him feel as though he is upright and steady. A memory flickered through him like a withered flame, an image of Davos holding him up as Jon pulled himself from what was his desk. There had been death than and there was death now. Death seemed to surround him and it was suffocating. His memories, his family and the dead that brought the storm.]

I don't know what to do. [It was said as a man looking for advice and guidance, as he had looked to Davos for support and advice. He was thrust into a situation he had never been before. Somehow he was head of the family with memories the others didn't have. What did he share and what did he conceal? It was one thing to look after Sansa and Winterfell when there was no Robb, no Lady Catelyn and no Lord Stark. But now? Shouldn't it be in someone else's hands?] Don't tell them about Rickon. They can't know.

[He accepts Jorah's offer, stumbling as though he is finding his footing again.] Thank you.

[khaleesipls]

[ Mormont says nothing -- an awkward nod must stand in for both reassurance and welcome.

There are a few onlookers to witness Jorah putting Jon down into a cab like a boozed up Justin Beiber, but none close enough to snap a photo or take in any real detail. He gives directions in brief once he’s let himself in on the far side, his motorcycle left locked at the curb. It ought to be fine, for a little while at least, conspicuous as it is in shades of metallic gold.

Anyone bold enough to steal it in this part of town would have to know what they were getting themselves into. ]

It’s your secret to keep, [ he says, once they’re moving. ] But you must know by now that time doesn’t move at the same pace for everyone.

[song_of_ice]

[He leans back in his seat, feeling almost an overwhelming sense of relief, as though he could sense the specters disappearing from behind him. There was no telling how long it would last, but even a brief moment was enough to help him regain his composure.

There was no one he recognized among the crowd as the cab slipped away. No one that could report on who he saw and what shadows were at his heels. It was still his burden to bear, sparing his family from discomfort and pain.]

I do. [He rubbed his hands over his face.] None of them know what happens. They don't remember what I do.

[khaleesipls]

That may be, [ Jorah agrees, easily, ] but you have no way of knowing what the rest of us remember.

[ Nor does he have control over what any of the others might let slip.

Something to think about, in the privacy of the grimy back seat of a hovercar in Maurtia Falls. The knight keeps his eyes on the road ahead, watchful over the driver’s shoulder, with his helmet at his knee.

True to his word, they don’t have far to go. The cab draws up to a row of housing units that look very much like every other row in the neighborhood, and Jorah thumbs cash out of his wallet like he’s been doing it all his life. Resigned to the new normal. ]

[song_of_ice]

I know.

[Baelish knew enough to tell Sansa if he wanted. Jon could only hope that Baelish would want to spare her that pain, the truth so horrific that it could ruin the small measure of happiness she had found here.

The rest he could face. Being king, having died, he didn't like to discuss them, but it was easier than explaining that another member of their family died and Sansa had been brutalized.

He spent the rest of the drive ruminating over what they had discussed. It was only when Jorah was paying the driver that Jon realized they had arrived. Slowly, he pushed himself from his seat and stepped back outside. The specters had caught up to them, not far from where he stood, still staring and still accusing.]

[khaleesipls]

[ Jorah doesn’t pay the dead much heed, busy exchanging wallet for keys as he leads the way up the walk. ]

Do you want to talk about it?

[ ...seems like the sort of thing he ought to establish before they’re boxed up in a flat together. They don’t have to. He expects the answer is no.

Through the front door, a narrow flight of creaky stairs leads from storage to a two bedroom flat on the second floor. He hasn’t done much with the decor -- a leather couch with a bearskin thrown over the back stands against one wall, offset by a coffee table and a bookshelf. No television. The books are in boxes. ]

Stay as long as you need, [ he says, as he slings his keys down onto the coffee table.

There’s a set of used sheets on the floor next to the couch. Also a pillow.

Clearly Jon isn’t the first. ]

[song_of_ice]

No.

[Yes. He wants to speak to Maester Aemon or Davos, to hear their council and advice. He feels adrift and unable to stand on solid ground. The influx of family meant that he had to actively consider what should or shouldn't be told. It made him feel like a liar, just as he had with the Free Folk. He needed someone to tell him he was doing what was right or to grab him by the shoulders and shake him...

...but deep down, he knew he had to do this alone.]

Thank you for letting me stay.

[He means that genuinely. His eyes take in the simplicity of Jorah's flat. The bearskin rug earning a small smirk before disappearing once more. It didn't matter whether Jon was the first to stay here or not. He needed somewhere to rest and to hide away until these shadows were gone.]

Have you not seen anyone from your past?

[Please not the Lord Commander.]

[khaleesipls]

You’re welcome.

[ And he is, if as much out of some bloodbound obligation as anything. There’s already wood in the fireplace -- a few blackened blocks for Jorah to grimace at once he’s dragged the wrought iron cover aside.

From there he crosses back for the stairs. Jon’s question catches him at the top.

The heat’s switched off, and typically stays that way, outside of the company of more brittle visitors -- cold enough indoors for his breath to drift in a heavier plume while he considers his answer. It’s gloomy to boot, the last grey fingers of daylight filtering through open shutters. Just enough to see by. ]

I have, [ he says.

Then he continues down the stairs.

His voice rises up after him, dim and dry through the floorboards: ]

I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.

[ Of course it’s the Lord Commander. ]

[song_of_ice]

[He is used to the cold and makes no complaints. The farmhouse had no heater as the homes in the city did, only fireplaces to warm the rooms. Similar to Winterfell, as he prefers it.

He should have expected that answer. He shut himself off from speaking about his own suffering, but asked Jorah about his. He knew the answer without even needing to be told who it is. Why then did he ask?

Maybe he did want to talk about it, even as he didn't know what to say.]

You remind me of him.

[He's Jeor's son, it's natural that he would be like his father, but for all Jon heard, he didn't know what to expect of Jorah. While it isn't so obvious, there is a loyalty and honor in Jorah that is like his father. It was painful and a relief to see at the same time.]

[khaleesipls]

[ Logs clatter in answer, shifting in a pile.

Jorah mounts the stairs with an armload of it, wedges of wood split thick and thin dumped in a heap beside the fireplace. Dust rises from the bark to mix with his breath; he scuffs it from his hands and sleeves, buried in the convenience of temporary distraction. ]

Better not to speak ill of the dead, [ he says, finally, humor bleak at his own expense over the wood at his feet. For all the delay, he doesn’t radiate anger, or upset, or true offense.

There’s a tinderbox in the kitchen, and he moves on to retrieve it. ]

How long were you with him?

[song_of_ice]

[He doesn't have such tasks to distract him, only the awkwardness of not knowing where to look, lingering on the couch. He watches Jorah for a moment before turning his gaze away, drinking in his surroundings with a measure of awe, as though he only just work from a long sleep.

For a moment, he could forget where he was and what was happening. All too soon, however, it was gone.

The question is met with silence at first. How long had he been with Jeor Mormont? How many years did he lose track of at the Wall where time seemed to have little meaning.]

I finished my training and served as his steward. I then followed him north of the Wall. We were separated not long after.

a million years later sorry sorry

[khaleesipls]

[ Steward? Jorah casts a lingering look over after Jon on the couch before he sets to putting the fire together, split wood thrown onto the iron grate, tender prodded into a crack. He strikes a match in place of flint, for simplicity’s sake, and watches to see that the flame’s willing to take before he pulls the cover back into place. ]

If you could survive that, hard to imagine anything you couldn’t, [ he says. Back to the kitchen.

There are candles, there. Here. Everywhere, really, mottled throughout the apartment where he reads, or eats, or sits around in sullen Mormont silence when he’s alone. He lifts one from the counter top to the bar, and lights up another match. ]

There’s beer in the refrigerator, [ he says. ] And pizza. [ He leaves the tenderbox out as well, set down plain on the counter for Jon to make use of as he will. ] I have to retrieve my motorcycle.