superposition | (Redshift) Home for the Holidays

"So I have been told about many things," Carlisle insists, still standing in the doorway; though his eyes are on Qubit, his attention is on his periphery, as though he expects the room to change at any moment. Yes, that is the purpose of the room, or that's what he understands from the explanation he's been given by both Qubit and the "helpful" constructs manning the area, but he can't help but notice the resemblance to somewhere he's been before, a room he and Kabal found locked behind a bulkhead in the depths of Anchor.

He stifles a shudder. He'd rather not think about that room. Qubit wouldn't lead him into danger (knowingly), he reminds himself. Furthermore, he doesn't feel that oppressive presence here, a force bearing down on his own magic so heavily that it felt as though he'd be stamped out of existence in mere moments. No, this is not that room, but the similarity is privately noted and not appreciated.

Pulling in a breath, he finally takes a step into the room. It's just one step, but that's more than he's cared to take before.

Qubit just chuckles and shakes his head good-naturedly. Carlisle's technophobia has come a long way since they've met, but he's never truly gotten comfortable with tech - which will probably always cause some friction between them, given Qubit's nature is basically inextricable from it. Still, he tries, bless him.

That he was willing to come down here at all is a big deal, regardless of how much coaxing it took (i.e., a lot). Normally Carlisle's reluctant to venture further from the A.Z. than Qubit's lab. Though perhaps that's reasonable, he supposes; Anchor's hardly a safe place at the best of times, even if you don't factor in the behavior of certain residents. But, as Qubit has repeatedly assured him, there's nothing to be afraid of in here, certainly not while he's around. Just a simulation that he's been working hard on for weeks, on which he's eager to hear Carlisle's opinion.

It won't take long. Just a few minutes, a quick once-over. You can step out at any time, I promise I won't be offended. Come on, Carlisle, please?

Now that they're here, though, Qubit's a little more willing to back off, let him take things at his own pace. Probably best to try and keep some momentum going, though, just so nobody has a chance to get cold feet... He turns his attention to his wristwatch, fingers dancing across the tiny screen as he takes care of some last-minute configuration.

"Joking aside, I do appreciate you coming down here," he says. "I couldn't have put this together without you. Do you need a second? We'll boot it up whenever you're ready."

Carlisle nods. "Yes, another moment, if you would grant me that." He doesn't mean to keep Qubit waiting, certainly not after he's been so eager to show Carlisle this project, but the former clergyman can't help his apprehension. He doesn't like technology, that much is — and has always been — abundantly clear, ever since Qubit became the first person to speak to him via the communicator. As a person who spent the last bit of his life losing his tenuous grasp on his mind, his magic, and his perception of the world around him, he doesn't much care for illusions, figments, or unrealities either. However, he does care for Qubit, and so, he sucks in a breath and moves in another step, then another, and finally makes it to about where his companion is standing.

The room decides at that point that it's a good time to chime in. From an unseen speaker comes a peppy, albeit tinny voice, simultaneously mechanical and merry in tone:

"Welcome to the VR Room, here to make your dreams a reality! Though the room is safe for everyday use, remember that excessive or long-term exposure to the VR services may cause users to experience mental and/or physical damage, including but not limited to: itchy eyes, blurred vision, double vision, headaches, heartburn, nausea, upset stomach, diarrhea, painful rashes on the epidermal layer, fevers, chest pain, shortness of breath, confusion, increased loss of time, profound hair growth, inexplicable bodily transformation, and ceased liver function. Please report any and all suffering from unusual effects to the Medbay located on the lowest layer of Anchor. Thank you, and enjoy your stay!"

With that, the room falls into silence, though the discomfort etched into Carlisle's brow speaks volumes.

Edited 2022-02-03 02:47 (UTC)

Qubit nods, and waits patiently for Carlisle to make his way over. (Or at least, close enough to patiently. Patiently is not his strong suit.) Just as he's about to ask if he's ready, though, that's when the loudspeaker decides to come on. He folds his arms with an exasperated groan. "Could've sworn I muted you," he grumbles, talking over it.

He lets the disclaimer finish, sure, but he doesn't bother being patient this time, waving his hand in circles as if to say get on with it. Before the reverb from its voice has time to dissipate, Qubit's pipes up to replace it. "Look, don't worry about all that," he says. "It goes through that spiel every time it starts up."

"Every time?" Carlisle hisses, the aforementioned discomfort now mingling with disbelief. He keeps his voice low, as though the room could hear him and/or would be offended if it did. "As though all those repercussions were common enough to merit warning each time someone steps in here?"

Qubit's nose wrinkles briefly as he shakes his head, unconcerned. "Nooo, no no no. It's just a liability waiver, those always err on the side of exhaustive." But, being a stickler for completeness, he can't help adding, "I guess I could maybe see the headaches and confusion, with prolonged exposure, but - nothing in here is going to turn you into a werewolf, for Pete's sake."

"I would hope not," Carlisle replies, wondering just how similar the lycanthropes of his world are to those of Qubit's, and deciding it's best not to think about that when they're in a room that could cause 'inexplicable bodily transformation' under the right circumstances. He had enough of that caused by his death, and still hasn't gotten over the horror that is his face, thank you.

He pushes a sigh out of his chest. "If you say it is safe, and that there is nothing to fear, then I believe you. I will admit I'm interested in what has so sparked your enthusiasm that you would call me down here. Most of your work is in your lab, but I assume what you have to show me here involves a more, er. Immersive demonstration."

Qubit cocks his head, mildly nonplussed. "Well... yes. Don't you remember? I told you I was working on it."

He did consider making it a surprise, at the start, but soon decided against it. For one thing, Carlisle's not a fan of surprises as a rule - but for another, it'd be tough to build a decent simulation of a place he knows nothing about. And who better to ask for the specs than the place's owner?

"It's the house," he explains simply.

(You know. The house. The house belonging to Carlisle, the house Carlisle lived and died in, Carlisle's house. That house.)

"The house?" Carlisle repeats, the figurative gears in Carlisle's head turning another notch before clicking into place. "Oh, my house. I—"

He looks around at the blank room, his brow furrowing. "I will admit that I expected something along the lines of one of the visualizations from your lab. The mathematical ones you've made before that you could turn this way and that."

Catching on, Qubit lets out an unvoiced chuckle. "Aha. Well, yes and no. The tech's broadly similar in principle, but -" He pauses briefly, considering how best to explain, before deciding not to bother. Shaking his head, he says, "Perhaps I'd better just show you."

And without further ado (or any time to protest), he raises his watch and taps START.

The simulation takes only seconds to load, but it nonetheless does so in phases. First, rough shapes and approximate colors - the frontage in general outline, muted violet, and low grey stairs up to the suggestion of a door. Then the details begin filling in, bit by bit - stonemasonry and wood siding, shingles and paving stones, bare ivy stems weaving their spidery lattice across the surface. Opaque windowpanes turn transparent, then reflective.

And finally, there it stands: Longinmouth Manor, or close enough.

When Qubit asked Carlisle for the designs, weeks back, Carlisle delivered. Specifically, he delivered two or three hundred pages of blueprints, sketches, and diagrams, in minute detail, many of them crammed full of tiny handwriting. But from the looks of it, Qubit's done his best to adhere to the source material. Sure, he may have opted to automate some of the more tedious steps, but he expressly avoided taking creative liberties.

The area they're standing in now is the courtyard, just outside the front door. A cobbled path has its terminus here, allowing wagons and carriages to disembark; none are present, though, and given the weather, none seem likely to arrive. The yard itself is mostly clear, but high snowdrifts cling to the walls and trees in all directions, almost like a wall around the property, while fat white flakes drift silently from a gently overcast sky. The cold is less bitter than a true Dargaranian winter, but it's otherwise a decent likeness of one.

Carlisle is stunned into utter silence, his eyes wide, aglow as they take in the sight before him. Yes indeed, that is the house — his house, the Longinmouth Manor. It is a house of which he knows every inch and detail; it is where he lived, died, and rose into undeath. It is also worlds away, and yet, it stands before them both, so real that for the breadth of a second, he's not entirely certain it isn't.

Though normally not a fan of figments or illusions of any kind, Carlisle cannot help himself as he takes a tentative step forward, his hand pressing against his chest as he feels emotion stirring within him. There's longing and remorse, happiness and sadness in equal measure: the last time he saw his home was when Reynir entered his dreams, and he watched his garden wither before his own eyes. It hadn't felt nearly as real as this.

Carlisle closes his eyes, trying to compose himself. Qubit managed to translate every detail from his meticulous illustrations into this simulation, but the neural scan starts filling in even more minutiae: certain rocks beneath their feet crack and dry as moss forms on the overhang above the front entrance; one window on the left side cracks and mends, the former fissure still visible from an imperfect melding; a stone toad appears half-buried in the snow beside the front steps, having been hidden in the bushes in his drawings.

By the time Carlisle manages to open his eyes again, it is perfect. He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, his hand still at his chest.

"How- how thorough you were! This is... certainly not what I expected in any regard, Mister Qubit. You needn't have- you needn't have gone to such lengths to... to make my drawings—"

He cuts himself off, shaking his head as he looks back at his home. He's truly at a loss for words — a rarity. He finally figures out something to say.

"It's as if we're there. And I know I ought not trust my eyes, but- but I haven't seen it in so long."

For his part, Qubit doesn't even notice all the fine details popping in. Not that they don't interest him - he's been curious throughout this process what finishing touches Carlisle's memory might bring to the sim - it's just that right this second, Carlisle himself interests him much, much more.

Despite his eagerness, there's a private worry Qubit hasn't quite been able to shake - what if he doesn't like it? Carlisle's not a fan of illusions or technology, so obviously he'll just love a technological illusion. Great idea, no notes. With that in mind, he's tried to temper his expectations, made sure Carlisle knows he can leave anytime he wants, et cetera...

But as the momentary surprise in Carlisle's eyes gives way to wide-eyed wonder, that worry finally fades. It's an emotional moment for him, to be sure, and bittersweet - he can see the longing there, how very, very deeply Carlisle wants this to be real, despite knowing it isn't - but on the whole, positive.

Qubit's heart swells with ~~something he mistakenly identifies as~~ pride, and he rests his hands in his pockets, smiling broadly as he strolls closer. Whatever headaches this project may have caused him, all the finicky APIs and annoying disclaimers, the look on Carlisle's face right now makes it completely worthwhile.

"You like it?" he says smoothly. There's no reverb to their voices anymore, any echoes absorbed by the snow.

"I... I know not what to say."

Thankfully, Carlisle's actions are likely to speak for him: he steps forward again, pausing to listen to the crunch of the snow beneath his boot. Another step, then another, and soon enough, he's at the steps leading to the front door, his eyes still wide, still affixed on the estate before them. He rests his hand on the stone banister, and though he feels what he perceives as the cold through his gloves, his trembling isn't from the chill.

As he nears the door, he gives it a look-over: the aged wood is just as he remembers it. Carved into its surface are the visages of horned, bearlike creatures, their massive claws arced and poised around a circle of mountains. There are letters as well, scored around around the frame like an incantation — they are not those of the common tongue, but something more archaic. As Carlisle runs his fingers along the carvings, a quiet laugh escapes him, unable to be contained.

"How far does this go? How- how much of the estate is there, recreated as though it were real?"

"As much as I could manage." Qubit gestures out at the grounds. "Out here, it goes up to the snowdrifts. So the woods and the town aren't part of it, but the garden, the portal, the shrine, those are all here. And the house itself, of course," he adds.

"I see."

While that's a common response for Carlisle, there is awe behind his words that's never been present before; his expression is a mixture of profound gratitude and disbelief. His garden, the shrine — the whole house! He never thought he'd see any of them again, and yet, here they are, real enough that he can feel the wood beneath his gloved fingers, the handle against his palm as he gives it a push—

The door doesn't budge. It's apparently locked, as Carlisle so often kept it. He reaches reflexively for his satchel to fetch the key, only to remember he left it behind. He sighs, somehow both disappointed and unsurprised.

"Well." His other than remains on the handle, unwilling to release it. "Perhaps we ought break a window, otherwise, this will be a very short presentation of your fine work."

Qubit squints, puzzled. They're locked out? How? He knows Carlisle still has a manor key, he's seen it - that's how he modeled the lock to fit. (It had felt like a nice touch.)

"Your house key ought to - you don't have it?" Why wouldn't he-? Suddenly it hits him, and he feels like a moron for not thinking of it sooner. Why would he have brought it? He had no reason to, he hadn't expected a full-scale working replica of his own house! Qubit smacks his palm against his forehead. "I'm sorry. Oversight. Let me render in a copy-"

With a one-handed gesture, he summons a holo-keyboard and types in a line of code; then the keyboard vanishes, and Qubit holds out his hand just in time for the replica key to drop into it, seemingly out of thin air. To all appearances, it's identical to the original. He walks briskly up the steps to offer it to Carlisle, handle first.

"Here. If you'd like to do the honors," he says. (Granted, he could have just unlocked the door with the flip of a bit, but it feels important that Carlisle be the one to do it.)

Though Carlisle hesitates at first, eyeing the conjured key with the same apprehension he reserves for the gadgets in Qubit's workshop, he ultimately accepts it, his hand shaking despite his best efforts to keep his nerves calm. He's sure Qubit can feel the tremor as their fingers brush against one another. He reached too far, he thinks as he curls his hand back with the key, chiding himself for his carelessness -- and for why he cares so much -- as he turns for the door.

The key fits, because of course it does, and Carlisle gives the door a push. Much like the rest of the estate, the front hallway is nearly as Carlisle remembered it, albeit a bit cleaner. Along one wall are doors: the one to the armory is closed, but those to his father's study and the dining room are already open. On the other wall is the entrance to the trophy room, mounted animals peering at them from around the corner; further beyond is the south hallway, and beyond that are the main stairwell and kitchen. Between the doors are sconces, each one connected by thick grooves carved into the walls themselves.

Though the door is open, it takes Carlisle another second or two to will himself across the threshold. It's almost too precise to his descriptions, too immaculate from how it lives in his memory, but he's too taken with the thought of seeing his home again to criticize. He places a hand along the wall inside, finally finding the glyph for the lights: magic travels through the grooves to each of the sconces, illuminating them one by one until the entire hallway is flooded with a warm, inviting glow. With the light came other minutiae filled in by the program: spiderwebs in the corners, a few blackened spots on the hallway rug, and even a portrait on the wall he'd forgotten to include.

Seeing the house lit once more seems to give the clergyman the strength needed to step inside; his leather boots make barely a sound on the stone floor by the doorway. "It's incredible, Mister Qubit. You're incredible for- for doing this. And for me, of all people."

Carlisle takes the key with trembling hands, and their fingers touch, just briefly - incidental contact, less than half a second, nothing unusual - so it strikes Qubit, distantly, as strange that he even noticed it. But the thought slips from his awareness (or, perhaps, is pushed) as quietly as it arrived.

He doesn't rush Carlisle, but follows when he does enter, a couple steps behind him. He's already familiar with the foyer, of course, having built it. But he can't help noticing a few small differences, now, drawn directly from Carlisle's recollections. A cobweb here, an extra portrait there, and... something else? Something not quite so tangible...

Before he can put his finger on it, Carlisle's voice draws his attention back. As ever, Qubit's a glutton for praise; his back straightens as he grasps his coat lapels, preening in spite of himself. Why, yes, thank you, he is incredible - and hearing it from Carlisle, in particular, feels like really believing it again - but that's beside the point.

"Well, of course. I don't know anyone else who'd appreciate a one-to-one replica of your house," he quips. He's quick to follow up with something more sincere, though, beaming fondly. "Happy Holidays, Carlisle."

Carlisle nods as he takes a few more steps, looking into one of the rooms on the side. Creatures in the trophy room that he'd left out of his drawings — not because he forgot them when sketching the room for Qubit, but because he doesn't like them — appear as soon as he turns away, as though waiting politely for him to leave before fizzling into existence. He may have left them out of his drawings, but his memory knows better, and so too does the VR room itself.

"Yes, you um." Carlisle swallows, still too taken by Qubit's gift to piece together coherent thoughts just yet. He's still working up the nerve to go any further than the hallway. "You mentioned a holiday in your world would be soon. I cannot imagine what celebration would merit all this."

More pop-in, this time in the trophy room. While Qubit doesn't fail to notice it, he's not terribly concerned - there's a lot of detail appearing around them that Carlisle either forgot or left out, and a handful of taxidermied animals is hardly the most glaring omission from his diagrams.

"Hahah. Actually, gift-giving is a staple of several winter holidays," he replies, resting his hands in his pockets. "I suppose something like this could be considered a little over the top, but..."

He punctuates the sentence with a cheeky shrug. Honey badger don't give a shit! Anyway, who's there to judge?

"Didn't you have winter holidays back home, Carlisle?" he goes on. (Qubit, come on, don't just turn the question back on him. You keep doing this.)

Though Qubit turns the question back without much elaboration on that aforementioned holiday from his world, Carlisle allows it for now, so taken with the walls of his former home. He puts a hand on one as he steps further into the hallway, his fingers pressing into the old grain as he tries to feel the texture through his gloves.

"A few," Carlisle replies, "though what we recognized in Bear Den was fairly limited. The turning of the year, and both Third and Fourth Feasts, were you to include the holidays celebrated by the kind." And, of course, Carlisle always included the kitten-kind so near to his home. He smiles thinking of them, knowing that despite how nosy they could be, he truly misses the kind.

That smile fades when he glances into his father's study, his eyes landing on the tall portrait above the fireplace. On the far wall of the room, above the mantel, hangs a lovely painting of the last Longinmouths: Boris, Kevin, Benistad, and even a younger, fresher Carlisle himself. Much like Qubit when faced with the painting of his friends in the volcanic lair, Carlisle can't help but stare for a moment at the illustrated visages across the room, fighting back an emotion he's not sure he ought to feel as an undead: it's somewhere between surprise and remorse, a regret-tinged nostalgia that leaves him silent once again.

Edited 2023-03-02 02:50 (UTC)

Qubit shares that smile; by now, he's heard enough about the well-meaning but mischievous kind to understand where it's coming from. "Heh! I'm sure those were exciting, with their antics..."

But Carlisle's trailed off, and Qubit does, too, following his gaze into the study. And there, he spots some pop-in that does snag his interest.

He's heard many tales about Carlisle's uncles - even some that happened to include his father - but this is the first opportunity he's had to put faces to the names. The portrait here was included in the specs, but only as a rough sketch. Though a talented botanical artist and meticulous draftsman, Carlisle's always struggled when it comes to drawing human subjects.

Now, of course, with the sketch filled in, it's trivial to identify them. This one's Boris, with the enormous greataxe and gentle eyes. There's Benistad, flamboyant and mystical, and... handsome, but somehow aggressively so. Which makes the third man Kevin, Carlisle's father, his expression dour and humorless, practically looming over his round-faced, reedy son...

Presently Qubit finds himself leaning against the doorframe, having wandered closer almost without realizing.

For another moment, Carlisle can't help but continue to stare at the portrait; he used to see it every day, work at the desk beneath it on his sermons, nap on the couch on the far side of the room with his back turned to it. It loomed over him for years, reminding him of those he'd lost, those whose shoes he was expected to fill. He hasn't seen it in what feels like an age, and yet, it stares back at him just as he remembers it. He's taken aback more than he thought he would be upon seeing their faces again. Despite their warm expressions, he feels his uncles' judgment; he certainly feels his father's, the guilt hitting him as though his father were there before him, disapproving of what happened to their legacy, to Bear Den, and to Carlisle himself.

The silence lasts longer than is comfortable, and Carlisle opens his mouth to banish it, only to hold his tongue as Qubit steps forward. His companion leans on the frame of the door as though drawn toward the painting, and the clergyman's eyes hit the floor in turn, his nerves getting the better of him as his mind turns over what could be going on in Qubit's mind at that very moment. He's just now getting to put faces to the names he's heard so much about, seeing as close to the flesh as he ever will the giants within whose shadows Carlisle was constantly, eternally trapped. Is he finally coming to understand what heroes they were, and how the Longinmouth heir himself could never compare? Or is he fixated on the younger version of Carlisle in the painting, an individual still so full of promise, value, and life?

And is Qubit thinking what a travesty it is that none of that remains in the Revenant he is now?

Carlisle clears his throat reflexively; though he truly hasn't anything to say, he tries not to linger on those poisonous thoughts any longer than he has to. "My, ah. Uncles." He says that as though its an introduction; it may as well be. "And my father. And me, obviously."

It's not until Carlisle breaks the silence that Qubit notices it was there. Self-conscious, he stands up from the doorframe, reflexively straightening his lapels.

"I guessed as much," he says with a nod. But his eyes go right back to the painting, and after a second's deliberation he decides to voice what he was actually thinking. "It just occurred to me, uh..." - he gestures vaguely between it and Carlisle - "this is the first I've really seen of your face."

He's seen hints, of course, mainly in the form of x-ray images from their sleep experiment a while back. Attenuated bones, the dim suggestion of voids in the ghostly surrounding tissue - nothing concrete, though.

But even then, that's only what Carlisle looks like. This is his face. There's a big difference.

"... oh."

Carlisle hadn't even considered that, though the less thinking he does regarding his face (and what's left of it) these days, the better. His own gaze returns to the painting, his eyes meeting those of his former self.

"Well, I hope it's everything you imagined. Admittedly, I forget sometimes how red my hair once was."

Qubit glances between Carlisle and his portrait a couple of times, applying a palette swap to his mental model; up until now, his hair had sort of defaulted to "sandy blond" in Qubit's head, for whatever reason.

"Not precisely what I'd pictured, but it suits you," he says. "How old are you in that one?"

He indicates the painting once more with his head, but otherwise it seems he's ready to move on from it, stepping away from the doorframe at last.

Carlisle looks up at the painting one last time before turning from it, stepping back into the hallway to continue the tour.

"Halfway to fifteen, as I recall," he replies. "It was commissioned shortly before my father met his end."

He takes only a quick glance into the dining room as they pass by the door. The table in the center of the room is the sort one would use to host a whole family at a gathering, with chairs lining its long sides, the runner on its surface embroidered with more bear iconography; however, he remembers it only seating the immediate family at one end, and that was on the rare occasion they ate in there rather than at the smaller table in the kitchen. The days of the Longinmouth estate having enough members to fill that table were long gone. At least the tall windows on the far wall, ones with more stained glass depicting strange creatures (a bear, a long creature akin to a weasel, and a winged bird of some sort), were lovely, even in this recreation of his home.

He paused to give Qubit a moment to enjoy the room himself before moving on, feeling the need to elaborate more on his answer. "I'd nearly died earlier that year, and we had not yet realized that in my survival, I was cursed. My uncles thought it pertinent to have a portrait of all of us painted after the incident, should the worst come to pass for any one of us. We hadn't one where we were all together. Unfortunately, this became the only portrait like that."

Qubit only pokes his head into the dining room, finding it about the same as when he built it. Privately, he wonders if there were ever enough Longinmouths to fill it. To him, it more evokes the image of young Carlisle seated at one end of the table, his father at the other, half a mile away. He reserves comment, however, apart from offering a brief "Sorry to hear that" regarding Kevin's death. Truthfully, he knows next to nothing concrete about the man - but as with any unobservable void, there's a lot to be inferred from how he affected those around him.

Carlisle's affliction, on the other hand, he knows much more about. The correlation with near-death experiences, the slow turn to undeath, the scarring, the "black bile," the heavy social stigma it incurred... But one thing he doesn't know is how it happened. Carlisle's never volunteered that information, and given how traumatic it must have been, Qubit hasn't wanted to pry.

He now knows when it happened. (That young? He was just a kid.) From the sound of it, Carlisle's uncles reacted to their only nephew's near brush with death in about the way you'd expect: by making an effort to cherish him and build positive memories, because you never know how long you'll have one another. But Qubit doesn't miss whose idea the group portrait was... or, more importantly, whose it wasn't.

He isn't sure whether he should ask this, but the question's burning a hole in his pocket, and he can hardly stop himself.

"...What did your father think?"

"He—"

Carlisle stops, trying to think of how to phrase his answer. He initially went for immediate honesty, comfortable sharing such information with Qubit; however, there is a part of him who prefers to never even consider what his father may have thought, no matter how said thoughts utterly shaped him from a young age, haunting him even now. His father has been dead for nearly a hundred years at this point; perhaps, he considers, it would be best if he talked about him - about Kevin Longinmouth.

He pauses in the long hall, idly looking over one of the paintings. It depicts three individuals fighting a two-headed, serpentine beast, every one of them a more intimidating figure than Carlisle could ever hope to be.

"He thought me unfit to carry our legacy," he replies, his tone even, matter-of-fact, emotionally distant. "Perhaps, before the incident, he believed I could be shaped into someone worthy of such a task. When I failed my Hunt, he had no reason to delude himself any longer."

Edited 2023-05-17 20:07 (UTC)

Qubit stops when Carlisle does, and for a split second he thinks he's overstepped - Was that too personal? He opens his mouth to backpedal, but then gets a better read on his friend's expression - not upset, merely thinking - and shuts it.

It doesn't really come as a surprise. Qubit's long had the feeling that Carlisle and Kevin didn't get on; this just confirms it. The reason tracks, too. Carlisle never runs out of praise for his uncles, how caring and supportive they were - but none of that lessened the burden he felt from his family legacy, and simple process of elimination could tell you who was applying all that pressure.

"Your Hunt?" Qubit repeats, sensing the capital "H". Given that it's the Incident (capital "I") that nearly got Carlisle killed, he can take a wild guess where this is going, but...

"A tradition here," Carlisle explains, correcting, "er, or in the real Bear Den, rather." For a moment, the house around him seemed real enough to make him forget it was just a recreation, a facsimile. "Upon coming of age, one must journey — alone — into the wilds of the valley, tracking their way to a particular den to retrieve a token that proves their success. Usually, there is no actual hunting involved. It's only on rare occasion that something has decided to move into the den."

And if there's anything to be said about Carlisle, it's that he was unlucky even before he was cursed. His brow tightens.

"My father seemed so worried at first. Genuinely concerned in a way that was unfamiliar. He was the one who went looking for a healer, someone capable of..." He fumbles for a proper description. "... Piecing me back together."

Edited 2023-05-18 21:29 (UTC)

Qubit grimaces in sympathy; that's evocative even without 100% of the grisly details. (Dismemberment? No - he once said the scarring was abdominal. Evisceration, then?) The important takeaway is, whatever Carlisle had found in that den, it literally tore him apart.

"Well, considering you'd just been mauled by a wild animal, I should hope he was concerned." You know, like any halfway-decent father would be. It's odd that he didn't stay with his son in that time - anyone could have gone for the healer, he doubts it had to be Kevin specifically - but maybe he was the sort of person who couldn't stand to sit still during a crisis. That's a feeling Qubit certainly knows.

Carlisle hmms in reply, nodding. Qubit is right, of course — as he so often is — but old habits die hard as the clergyman continues, his expression sober, reserved. He tries to keep his emotions from his voice, as though it would help mitigate how he feels — how he has felt for years and years and years. Perhaps he'd have been better off if he had learned to express his frustration in a healthy way rather than always worrying what others — like his father, and the townsfolk, and everyone who ever heard of the Longinmouths — thought of him.

"He was distant after that, more so than before. Not just to me, but- but to all of us. When that portrait was painted, it was one of the last times he and my uncles were in a room together without argument. I think..."

He trails off with a quiet sigh. "I think he was more concerned for me as the heir of the bloodline, rather than as his son."

Qubit doesn't reply right away, turning over the words in his mind. It's odd, he thinks to himself, how frank and dispassionate Carlisle sounds about this... or perhaps numb is a better word. These are old wounds now, after all, ones that have had ample time to heal - although, knowing Carlisle, it's more likely he just got used to them.

How must it have felt to be him back then? Trying to recover from life-altering wounds, only to have his father openly reject him? And then having to watch, powerless, as his family - the core of his world - started to disintegrate before his eyes? It makes his chest tighten to imagine it. What is it called, again? That worst, most bleak and desperate feeling, trying to cling to hope, but slowly coming to understand that nothing will ever be the same again ...

... (and it's all your fault.)

He doesn't reply right away, but when he does, it's unusually subdued - brows drawn together, a frown that deepens the lines in his face.

"... And you blamed yourself, didn't you?" A question he already knows the answer to. Another pause. "I'm sorry."

Though he has long stopped looking at it, Carlisle's gaze remains locked on the painting; he closes his eyes, giving the slightest of shrugs. "Well," he starts softly, "spare no sympathy, as the saying goes." He realizes almost immediately that Qubit might not be familiar with an idiom of his world, and continues after a brief pause. "Spare no sympathy for those already dead, as they have no time for their own consequences. Though I suppose that's not been entirely true for me, now has it?"

He says the full saying so smoothly, his observation after presented with an air of levity. Maybe it's because it's been so long since his death, or that he's just so used to stifling how he truly feels about his lineage and his affliction, but he manages to keep the emotion from his voice, the waver from his tone. Better to not let his congregation, or his family, or Qubit see him that way, to know how much of his own loathing and bitterness he buried in his own heart as the years passed. His congregation might have suspected. His uncles knew, but were never sure of how to address it - and then they were gone.

But Qubit knows. He has known for some time, and what's more, he understands. When Carlisle finally manages to glance Qubit's way, he's taken aback by his companion's solemn expression, his own brows over his glowing eyes knitting together in silent surprise, then concern. "I appreciate your sympathy, Mister Qubit, but... you need not apologize. What pain I felt then over my father's words seems so distant now, and inconsequential compared to... well."

He gestures toward himself.

He's right that Qubit's unfamiliar with the adage, although he can sort of appreciate the black humor in it. Don't feel sorry for the dead; they're not the ones who have to clean up their mess. Cynical, pragmatic - attitudes you often see in cultures from very cold places. (It's context, anyway.)

Still, Qubit nods, resting his hands in his pockets. "Fair enough," he says. If Carlisle wouldn't rather go dredging up childhood trauma right now, far be it from him to force the issue. "Sympathy'll be here if you should need it, though."

With that, he'll gesture in the direction they were walking, and resume if there's no objection, returning his hands to his pockets. "Still," he adds after a moment, with a wry glance, "there ought to be a few pleasant memories around here, too, I hope?" This grand thoughtful gift of his isn't just a huge bummer, right?

Carlisle smiles behind his mask, grateful to leave the memories of his tenuous relationship with his father behind for the moment, and finally continues down the hallway. The end of the corridor bends in one direction toward another wing of the estate, while a door in the corner leads into what appears to be a kitchen with a dining nook.

"Down that way is the eastern wing," Carlisle explains briefly before stepping into the door in the corner. "And the kitchen, obviously."

There's a well-worn table on the far wall near a door to the outside, one with polished seats and a smooth, wooden top the color of warm honey. The door looks like it leads outside, with a path to the nearby conservatory just visible through the snowy haze. The kitchen itself isn't nearly as remarkable as the rest of the manor: metal pans and colored jars of otherworldly ingredients hang from metal hooks on the walls above the stonework countertop, with cabinetry all around and shelves built into the bricks near the window. Beyond the glass is more of the outside, though it's hard to tell what features of the estate it might overlook on a clear day. While most of the dinnerware is closed within the cabinets above and below the counter, there is an ornate tea set pushed along the back wall. The single cup on the tray matches the teapot, featuring gold filigree flowers around painted, ursine accents.

"I'll have you know I wasn't a bad cook, once," he admits. "Though I'm willing to bet most of what I cooked would've had your tongue curling."

Qubit follows him into the kitchen, mildly amused at being given the guided tour as if he didn't just get done building the place. (He does not remind Carlisle of this.)

It's a very different atmosphere in here compared to the cavernous dining hall. It's smaller, but cozy, rustic - it feels actually lived-in, unlike most of the house. There's even a fire in the hearth already, as if Carlisle had only stepped out of the room for a moment.

Qubit wanders the room, casually eyeing the ingredients along the wall, some familiar, some strange. But his eyes soon land on the tea set again - an oddity here, to be sure. The estate has its share of expensive-looking furnishings, of course, but very few of them live in the kitchen. The pots and pans, while sturdy, are very much unembellished, whereas the tea set just screams "Rococo."

(Or is it "Baroque?" Whatever, it's one of those old French art movements. They all look alike to him.)

At the mention of cooking, though, he perks up, the tea set practically forgotten.

"Oh?"

In all the time they've known each other, Qubit and Carlisle have never really talked about food. Not to say it's never come up, but Qubit's done his best to sidestep it when it does. It'd feel awkward at best, maybe even cruel, like discussing a painting gallery with someone who's just gone blind.

But now that Carlisle's brought it up, it's different. Qubit's interest is immediately obvious - the eager glint in his eye is the same one you'd normally see when he's talking about SCIENCE.

"You might be surprised," he says, leaning on the counter with one hand. "I'm nothing if not an adventurous eater."

(Redshift) Home for the Holidays

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