undergrounds | (open) hell is deep lord, but we're heading deeper

[With new lords come new excuses to party.]

[Some time on the 19th, the fae stage a takeover of the club fabric in Smithfield. Invitations are sent out to all the fae in London, touting the glorious coming out of the Lords of Rivers and Illusions, Seelie and Unseelie respectively. It's one of those times where fae of both courts just want an excuse to throw a party, and the invitation is all the notice said new lords get that they are going to be guests of honour.]

[It's a typical fae affair; the magic is heavy in all three rooms, one of which is decorated like a ballroom in Other Realm fashion. The food and drink served at the bar remains untouched by fae charms, but the fae presence itself seems to be intoxicating. Some of the activities happening in dark corners seem to be a little beyond what's regularly allowed at any reputable nightclub, but don't pay attention to that just enjoy the party.]

[If you manage to cause any trouble, a team of large fae is here to escort you out. You may have seen them faithfully guarding the door, sniffing out those who may want to cause harm to the high concentration of fae inside. Vampires can be let through if they have a fae companion with them, and otherwise all types of humans and supernatural alike are allowed in.]

[The party goes on for precisely 72 hours, and on the 22nd the party winds down and mysteriously disappears. The club is left a little cleaner than when it started, the staff left completely befuddled about what just occurred.] (x)

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A meta-human, Finnick determines. A potentially strong one, but not a threat the same way witches are. Messing with him was fun the first time, and

"I'm only taking a break," he says, with the same smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. He puts his phone away and tilts his head at Lancelot, giving him more consideration now. "Have you come to celebrate?"

"I've come to try and remember. You can probably feel why."

He tilts his head thoughtfully, trying to gauge how to approach this.

"I grew up in the other realm. I just don't... remember it, it's blocked from me. I don't know why. Maybe for my safety. Maybe for yours."

His lips flick up, faintly playful still, then he shrugs.

"I'd like to find out."

He tilts his head in agreement when Lancelot infers that Finnick can feel the fae magic on him. It's an ability any fae has, though humans walking around with fae magic on them aren't entirely rare. Annie surely has traces of it on her for other fae to see - it could come from just about anything. Lancelot's runs a bit deeper, which makes him curious.

"And you think one of the fae here can help you remember?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "I should warn you, most of them are belligerently drunk."

That makes his smile grow more genuine and Lancelot lowers his eyes, tilts his head as if half accepting that yes that will make it more tricky.

"I don't doubt it. They don't necessarily have to do anything to cause it, though. I've had my memories jogged simply by the sight of something before. I suppose I thought.... being around fae might be a good start, at least. More likely to help than sitting at home where everything is familiar already."

The man seems so genuine, which isn't much different than what he saw in him only a few months ago, but this time he's friendly. Charming, almost, without his quest to leave the Other Realm and be free of the fae games. It reminds Finnick how easy it used to be to smile like that.

"Well, at least we are in our element here," he says. "No doubt you saw many parties before you left our realm. We seem to be infamous for them."

He laughs at that, although he can't really say why. Something about the way Finnick says it, about how infamous the parties are.

"Yes, I'm sure I did," he agrees. "It is a strange thing to think of, since I do not find myself one for parties now. Perhaps I went to too many, and that is why. I have seen enough, even if I do not remember them. Or perhaps the parties we have here are so small and weak in comparison I simply find myself underwhelmed."

Finnick laughs at that, genuine but dry. "Yes, perhaps that is it," he says, looking up at the sky. There are no stars to be seen tonight, but at least the air feels clear and crisp.

He takes a deep breath, musing on Lancelot's problem. After a moment, he ponders, "how do you know you want to remember? What if whatever you're forgetting is best left in the past?"

Lancelot sobers at that, drops his eyes to his feet and pushes his hands deeper into his pockets as he considers this.

"I've thought about that," he admits, "about what it might mean to remember. If it would change me. If... it would change how I see things, how people saw me if I told them. Yet..."

He tilts his head, struggling with the words for a moment. As much as he knows how he feels about it, its been a long process. One that's difficult to express.

"... It's a part of me, regardless. Ignorance is never a good thing. I cannot live not knowing if... if I am behaving as an unintentional hypocrite, if I have made promises I have forgotten, had friends once I no longer remember. Who am I to say these memories are unimportant? For a while I did not even recall that I had been to the other realm, that such a thing existed. I grew up and lived for years not understanding why I felt different. If I had known earlier, perhaps... I could have helped people. Perhaps I could have understood people or even saved a life. I cannot change the past, I cannot change the fact that I have not known until now. But I can try and make sure I remember now -- and if my memories are unpleasant, so be it. They are not my only memories. They do not define me."

Finnick watches Lancelot as he says all of this, and his expression changes subtly as it goes on. He goes from his eyebrows narrowed at him skeptically, almost patronizing, to a more sober, haunted look. Nothing Lancelot says is necessarily untrue, but Finnick has memories that he would banish if he could. Maybe it would make him a different person - maybe tempering them a little would at least let him sleep at night but leave him the same - but most of the time can only say they provide suffering.

"Some memories do define you," he says, sounding tired. "You should look if you want, but maybe there's a reason they're gone. Maybe you were spared."

"Maybe I was," Lancelot admits, "but I cannot know. I have already...." and here his breath catches, uncomfortable, awkward, "one of the first proper memories I unlocked was the night I was taken back to the other realm. It was the same night my family died in a territory fued. Perhaps, in that respect, I feel as if I have already remembered the worst of it."

His smile this time is thin, pained, as tired as Finnick sounds.

"We all make choices with these things. If we run. If we forget. If we take revenge. I ran for a while. I don't want to run any more."

Finnick finds himself with nothing to say. He can't relay his awful memories to make a point - it's hard enough talking about them with people he trusts. He still thinks Lancelot is perhaps on a fool's errand, but he won't push it.

"Who am I to tell you which choices to make?" he says, still tired. "If you think this fae party will conjure up some memories, I would get in there before the bartender starts serving drinks that do have magic in them."

Edited (NAMES??) 2016-03-10 18:07 (UTC)

(open) hell is deep lord, but we're heading deeper

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