middaeg | [closed] august catch-all!

[Those new appendages might hinder Berserker's ascension but taking the rear gives Diarmuid a good excuse to stare at them. The tail is impressive but he finds himself transfixed by those wings. The way the leather shifts from pitch to a crimson sheen, the delicacy of the membranes contrasted against the power of the muscles that must move them... he might not have attempted flight yet but there's no doubt in his mind that they could carry him far.]

Do I? [He's not being glib; there's a genuine note of surprise in his voice.] I think I go through exactly the right amount of trouble for someone I've sworn myself to.

[Truthfully, that perspective isn't one that he's given a great deal of thought to. Diarmuid can't argue with his point but his own efforts seem equal to Berserker's; in the allowances the Alter makes for him; the undeniable strain of opening up and trusting him; the wave of unwanted emotions that came with their bond. It's a mutual sacrifice. Besides, even if he has given more, it doesn't strike him as particularly strange. He does it for Cú and because he wants to.

In the end, he can only come to one conclusion.]

I like doing it. [He hesitates.] Does it make you suspicious?

[In the pivoting light of the beacon where it breaks through the cracks in the floorboards overhead, his eyes are bright with concern rather than accusation.

Is this how he's been made to think? Or how he's been forced to in order to survive?]

Edited 2019-08-11 19:26 (UTC)

[ That's the question, wasn't it? Is that why he's so unsure of the way Diarmuid treats him -- suspicion? He has no reason to question his motives, but he, too, can come to no other conclusion than that. It actually bothers him for once -- to think he's suspicious of the motives of the man bonded to him.

Berserker remains silent for a moment as he thinks of how to delicately answer this. ]

... I guess so. [ He frowns. ] I never know what to think when someone is kind to me or goes out of their way for me. I wonder if they're afraid of me and act the way they do to stay on my good side. [ His very small good side. Mercy isn't his strong suit. ] Or they want my power for their own gain...I worry you're doing it out of fear. Or some other ulterior motive.

[ He grabs for Diarmuid's hand, expression unreadable. It's not quite concern, but he's obviously troubled by his own feelings as well as the idea he worried his Bonded. ]

I'll stop questioning it, though. [ He closes the distance between them, his other hand coming to gently cup the Lancer's cheek. ] Your word is enough for me...You've never lied to me before.

[ A kiss, surprisingly gentle and tender, is placed upon the other man's lips. An apology, perhaps, for questioning him. ]

[As Diarmuid listens, any attempts at keeping the ache in his chest from showing across his face fail. Such a twisted, exhausting life this man has led. That of someone who shouldn't exist, a shadow to some and a tool to others, a wish born from the Grail's blackened depths. With so many faces, most of them imposed, how can trust ever be anything but a fragile and fleeting alliance based on power?

The witch had sworn himself away from anything or anyone tainted by that catalyst of destruction but that's not what he sees when he looks at Berserker. There's hope.]

... I...

[Whatever he had planned to say is lost as the gap between them closes. It's unbecoming of a Knight to tremble and yet, as Berserker reaffirms his faith in him both in words and in that kiss, he feels his entire body weaken. Those small acts of gentleness, of self-restraint and openness that would have seemed impossible before hold a weight all of their own; it's a privilege to receive them.]

You said it yourself. I lie beside you without fear- and those nights have been some of the most peaceful I've had. [It's unabashed romanticism, straight out of a chivalric romance, but, as Diarmuid speaks, he looks completely sincere.] My heart is resolved. Go raibh maith agat.

[The light completes another rotation. With another, shorter kiss, Diarmuid takes the last two steps in one stride and edges around Berserker to get to the door to the lookout.]

[ If it were anyone else, he might find those words trite and even irritating. It's different when it's Diarmuid, though; the sincerity written across his face is enough for him. He manages a brief, fond smile, then simply shrugs. ]

You don't need to thank me.

[ There's more he wants to say than that, but such things are better left unsaid right now. What he wants to say has been shown in the way he treats the witch and the vulnerability he allows him to see. There's no need for words of gratitude when their meaning is already known.

He follows after Diarmuid and through the door. The crisp, cool air strikes him first as he places his hands on the railing. It's a clear night, the view unobstructed by clouds. Berserker's not one for sentiment, but even someone like him can appreciate this. He lingers in silence, just watching the horizon for a few moments. It's the closest he's felt to being at peace in a long time. ]

I'm sorry, that was a little much, wasn't it? [A little embarrassed, he laughs.] I appreciate you indulging me- I've never truly gotten to court someone like this before.

[After all, his past relationships were usually brief and there was no time for such things when-

Ah, it doesn't matter. As the cool night air ruffles his hair, all thoughts outside of the darkening skyline and the company seem to drift away on the breeze. Diarmuid spends a few moments just drinking it in. Far below, the sea rolls against the rocks and cliffsides in a gentle, rhythmic hushing that reminds him more of home with every passing moment.

Diarmuid casts him a wistful look, head to the side.]

... you travelled so much further than I ever did. What was it like? Sailing so far north, that is.

[ Courting someone...That's really what Diarmuid is doing, isn't it? No one has ever tried to seriously court him before and for good reason: someone so broken and violent is not someone you generally want to keep around for long. ]

You're enjoying yourself and you're doing it for my sake...If I didn't indulge you, that would be a little cruel, don't you think?

[ As if cruelty isn't what Berserker excels at. It's only for those who deserve it, though. His cruelty is never without purpose and it's rarely directed at those who don't deserve it. Diarmuid definitely didn't deserve it right now, certainly not on this night.

He doesn't turn his head, but turns his gaze to the witch for a moment. Though he is an impossibility that could never exist, the memories of the true Cú Chulainn are within him and they are a part of him. Memories of events so long ago are fresh in his mind. In a time before he lost himself and the joy of just being alive, that's where those memories lay. A sharp, nearly painful pang of sorrow strikes him. He can only stand in silence for the moment. ]

It was like nothing else...I cared, then. It was somewhere I'd never traveled before and I was so eager to see what awaited me. Eager for what fights I could get into and how far I could spread my legend. To be so far away from home...

[ He looks back out to the water before them. ]

...This feels like home, doesn't it?

[ Now who was getting sentimental? ]

Edited 2019-08-13 22:39 (UTC)

[Such piercing vulnerability. Diarmuid feels it seize his chest and work its way through their Bond, leaving him temporarily breathless. Even without its magical influence, though, Berserker's words carve a deep impression upon him. It almost feels like the last funereal speech, spoken in frank but painful memory of a man long since dead.

No- he won't let it be so. He can't.]

I don't think that wonder has abandoned you completely, Cú.

[This feels like home, doesn't it?

Home.

He misses it. He misses the endless sea of green grass and the ancient ground on which it grew. Rainstorms in autumn and knee-deep snow in winter. The seas, grey and frothing with brisk coastal winds, and the cries of fallow deer in the woods. Some nights, he wakes up and expects to find himself lying beneath a tree, gazing at the wonderfully fickle sky of his homeland.

Without looking away from the view, Diarmuid reaches out and puts a hand over Berserker's where it rests on the railing.]

... it does. [His voice is soft. Intimate, almost.] It's grand, isn't it?

Edited 2019-08-13 22:51 (UTC)

[ Diarmuid's words surprise him. What does he see in him...? Why can't he see what he sees? All he can see is the corruption of the Grail and the influence of Medb's selfish wish. What good does the Lancer see and how can he see it? Berserker doesn't understand. His brow furrows in confusion for just a moment, but the feeling passes. While he can't see what he sees, the important part is that he sees something in him...That's what should matter, isn't it? ]

If you say so...I don't know what you see that I don't, but I'll believe you.

[ He draws his attention to less melancholy things. There is a certain sadness about being so far from home and yet finding what looks like a piece of home, though it doesn't bother Berserker too much. Nowhere is ever truly home to a thing that shouldn't exist, but this is the closest a place has ever felt to his homeland. A certain nostalgia strikes him -- for better times when he wasn't a broken shell of a man. ]

We'll never be able to return to that time and place, but this is good enough. [ A pause as he tries to think of a way to say this that isn't horribly sentimental. ] This place feels more like home than Chaldea, than...anywhere else. Your presence helps.

[ An attempt to make it less sentimental was made and ultimately failed. Oh well. ]

Edited (now I'm just changing icons SORRY) 2019-08-13 23:16 (UTC)

[Diarmuid squeezes his hand. Of course, he doubts that his words alone will change Berserker's opinion but there's always the hope that they'll resonate. He'd be satisfied knowing that they at least temporarily soothed what must be an endlessly existential ache. That's enough.

His mind is still half focused on as much as the dragon talks and he nods along, adding nothing until that last sentence. Abruptly, he looks up, startled by the sudden display of affection- and breaks into a smile that lights up his eyes even as the sun finally dips out of sight. To hell with the view. It didn't make his heart beat nearly as fast as Berserker did just now.

Still, his affirmation is, though no less heartfelt than his last, more restrained than his last.]

As does yours.

[Wasn't there something else he was supposed to... oh. Right.]

I almost forgot.

[With a rustling sound, he fetches the ale from its bag- Berserker might notice the glitter of runes across the lining, designed to keep the contents cool courtesy of Caster- and unscrews the top. It has a richly alcoholic, sweet but spiced aroma strong enough to combat the breeze as he passes it over to his companion for the first drink.]

[ Berserker manages another brief, fond smile; he's opening up while Diarmuid learns to hold back, how funny. The admission he just made would've been unthinkable just a short while ago -- it seems their bonding has had a deeper effect on him than he's willing to admit. Of course no one else gets to see these changes or at least not as intensely as this. Caster may have been the closest to seeing these things (it's hard to hide things from someone who is essentially yourself).

His focus is drawn elsewhere to the proffered ale. As he takes the bottle, it's the strong, boozy scent that strikes him first. It's warm in the slightly chilly, cutting through the salty sea air. The runes on the bag catch his attention for just a moment -- Caster would be proud of how he's using it, really. He takes a long drink before he passes the bottle back. The alcohol sends a pleasant warmth through him. ]

You picked a good drink. [ A decent taste and it's strong, a rare combination. ] And I'm in good company to drink it in.

[ Being nice feels weird. ]

[He takes the ale back and downs a healthy mouthful. The drink here is less malty than he's used to but Diarmuid doesn't find himself missing the hops. Rather the rich, fruity quality it has is pleasant in its own way, allowing the true alcoholic kick- and it's definitely a kick- make its entrance at the last moment.]

What better combination could you ask for?

[Many of his dearest memories involve the two, after all; surrounded by his fellow Knights, laughing and drinking, sharing stories and songs of love and battle from all corners of Ireland. As Diarmuid laughs, he leaves a fleeting impression of the man he once was; Fionn's favourite, a beautiful, spirited rose of red and yellow blooming at his lord and king's side. Those petals would wilt along with their friendship but he holds every memory from before dear.

With a chuckle, Diarmuid hitches himself up onto the railing, apparently undaunted by the newly blackened seas below.]

Perhaps I should have brought something to eat as well. [He tilts his head.] I'm still not sure what you like, though.

[ Seeing him laugh warms him more than the ale. It's such an unfamiliar sensation to share in someone else's joy. That warm feeling radiates through their Bond, one of the strongest emotions he's felt in recent memory. If he can't experience joy for himself, why not experience it because of someone else?

Berserker watches him mount the railing, not particularly concerned. If that's what Diarmuid wants to do, so be it. He could probably catch him on the way down if he falls...Probably.

Oh well. He takes the bottle for another drink. ]

I'm not sure what I like, either. [ As a Servant, he didn't need to eat, so he never did. The idea of "liking" particular foods isn't something he's bothered to think about. Eating was simply necessary for him in life and unnecessary as a Servant. ] But I'll eat anything you give me.

[ Because no matter the form, Cú Chulainn can't reject hospitality. ]

Don't fall off now. I'd hate for something to happen to you when we're having such a nice time. Someone might think I'm responsible.

[ ... Cruel jokes? Cruel jokes. ]

Ah, already thinking of ways to discreetly dispose of me? [He gives a bright little laugh and leans forward to press a light kiss on Berserker's lips, sweet and bitter all at once with the ale.] I'd take you with me.

[Just because he doesn't have a Servant's unnatural dexterity and speed, that doesn't mean he's incapable of keeping his balance- at least, he hopes that's the case. Maybe he shouldn't drink too much while he's up here after all.]

Anything, hm... [Diarmuid puts his head to the side.] We'll find something you like eventually. I enjoy cooking anyway.

[It's not a hobby he got to indulge much before arriving here for obvious reasons but he's gotten back into the habit since. Admittedly, that was largely motivated by wanting to be useful to Waver but that's not the point.]

I'd like to see you try.

[ It wouldn't be hard with the right leverage, after all. Berserker isn't concerned with that -- even if it did happen, it would give him a chance to test out his wings. He takes another drink as an idea strikes him.

He hops up on the railing alongside Diarmuid with what could be construed as a mischevious smirk. ]

Do you want to fly? [ He places his hand on the Lancer for a moment before kissing him. And then comes the sudden push. ] I hope you do.

Fly...?

[It was a very clever plan, he'll give him that. Diarmuid's so distracted by that kiss, so eager to lean into it, that he doesn't even question why he's suddenly decided to sit with him. Or why he placed his hand on him quite so firmly.

Or how goddamn ominous that question is.]

I-

[Suddenly, he's not on the railing. In fact, he's not even upright anymore. The last thing he sees is Berserker's knowing grin before the sky tips, double moons blurring across his vision as he drops straight over the side of the lookout.]

You son of a-

[It's about as far as he gets before momentum knocks his voice right out of his throat.]

[ Ah, there's something absolutely satisfying about that reaction. Sure, he could've picked him up and done this like a normal person, but he's a force of chaos. A force of chaos who will inflict it on everyone he can.

It's just a second or two before Berserker jumps off after him, though he's sure those precious seconds feel like an eternity to Diarmuid. His wings fold back to speed his descent, the motion coming to him with surprising ease. He's never done this before, but his instincts are finely honed to give him confidence in incredibly ridiculous situations.

Closer and closer he drops until finally the Lancer's in reach. Berserker grabs for him and hugs him close to his body. His wings spread to slow them down, the dragon swaying from the sudden force against the wind. It's more difficult than he'd admit to control this flight, especially with the added weight. It's fine, though -- it has to be.

His wing tips skim the water's surface as he flaps them to gain a little more altitude. Now that they're no longer in mortal peril, he finally says something. ]

You trust me far more than you should.

[Is it a few seconds? It seems like simultaneously far more and far less than that as he tumbles through the near darkness, furious with both Berserker for doing it and himself for falling- ha- for it. There's no way he'd actually let him hit the rocks, though, right?

Right?

At the last second, a dark shape swallows the stars overhead and, in a movement sudden enough to jerk Diarmuid's head back and catch his breath hard, he finds himself being pulled tightly against a familiar form. Of course he left it until the last minute. Berserker might be an Alter but he's still Cú, just with a considerably darker, crueler sense of humour. In spite of his pride as a Knight telling him to elbow him straight in the face there and then and opt for a late-night swim instead, Diarmuid clutches at the dragon to anchor himself to him even further.

A gentle spray of brine as they glide across the waves reminds him that he hasn't replied yet.]

... as soon as we're back on land, I'm going to punch you so hard Caster will feel it.

[It might be a little hard to take that threat seriously when he looks so indignant.]

Maybe you just take advantage of that trust more than you should. [Again, he undermines himself by resting his head against Berserker's neck with a huff.] Prick.

Edited (fcKING SubJECT LiNES) 2019-08-17 09:19 (UTC)

[ His actions completely deserve the indignant responses, though he finds them more endearing than actually bothersome. He leans his head down to fondly nuzzle against the side of Diarmuid's neck, almost as if in apology for being a completely reckless jackass. ]

I told you from the start that I would test you... [ His tone is soft and affectionate as he kisses where he'd been nuzzling, embracing him tighter for just a moment. ] And you've responded to every challenge I've given you so well.

[ He climbs higher in the darkened sky, letting stronger currents carry them upward. It's freeing to be able to experience such a thing...His new appendages had been nothing but a nuisance, though now he sees something far more practical in them. ]

At least look around you...I want to feel what you do.

[ An incredibly vulnerable admission. The experience has barely elicited a reaction from Berserker, which is normal -- wanting to feel something about it is decidedly not. ]

Oh? Well, I can't tell if I passed this one or not.

[There's still an edge to his voice, caught on the cusp of an unexpected near-death experience but it's hard to stay angry in the face of such affection- or vulnerability. Diarmuid makes a token attempt at resisting for the sake of his bruised ego but by the time they've found a comfortable current to ride, he's already settling back against him.

In much the same way as the tide rolls across the beaches and rocks, the movement of Berserker's wings has a gentle rhythm all of its own. In spite of his earlier admission about having not tested them yet, instinct must have kicked in because each beat feels strong and secure.

To say nothing of the view. Night has truly fallen across the harbour, allowing a host of stars to blossom across the sky, countless glittering lights in a sea as dark as the one they're flying over. Below, the tiny lights aboard nightime fishing boats create a skyscape to mirror the true thing. It was beautiful from the lighthouse but, out here, they're fully suspended within it, caught in an unreal, weightless in-between that silences anything he might have originally thought to say.

Thankfully, there's no need for words. Through their Bond, Berserker will feel every shift in his emotions. Amidst the wonder and excitement and delight, though, he'll sense something else; the fleeting crystallisation of affection into sheer, exuberant tenderness directed solely at-

Ah. He hadn't meant to let that slip through.

Diarmuid looks away with a short, self-conscious laugh. Perhaps he hadn't noticed...?]

... maybe I'll postpone that punch.

Edited 2019-08-18 18:24 (UTC)

[ It's still so strange for him to feel anything, stranger still to know it's someone else's emotions. Is this what's normal to feel? This sense of wonder and awe, just from something as simple as a moonlit night above the harbor? Some of these sensations are expected, one in particular not so much. Ah...Of course he can't let that go. It's unfamiliar, something he's sure Diarmuid's been trying to bury. ]

...What was that? [ A hint of confusion in his voice. It's such a long forgotten feeling that he almost can't comprehend it. A complication, but one he can't be upset about. ] Don't hide it.

[ Perhaps not a conversation to have in the air. He makes a wide, sweeping turn, heading back to the lookout this all started from. ]

[Of course he noticed. Expecting him not to would like like expecting a bloodhound to conveniently miss your scent in the midst of a hunt out of pity. It also won't escape Berserker's attention that for the journey back, he's not only silent but a little tense too.

Even when they get back to the lighthouse, he seems wrongfooted- metaphorically and literally, judging by that uncharacteristic stumble as he sets both feet back down on the platform.]

Don't- [A little helplessly, he shakes his head.] I-

[A flicker of anxiety. More than a flicker, even. How are you supposed to lock something away when you've already given the person you're trying to hide it from the keys? It's been so easy to colour his fondness with chivalry and loyalty and companionship but in those few, intense seconds, he let the depth of it bleed through. Infatuation is one thing. Lust another. But the beginnings of something more genuine?

It had unsettled him when he had felt it for Gráinne.

And now, with the memory of tusks, rent flesh and loss and loss, with the knowledge that it could destroy something precious to him as it did before, it scares him.

In the end, all he can do is wrangle his emotions back into some semblance of control and try again. With a sigh, Diarmuid finally lifts his head to meet Berserker's eyes again.]

Pay it no mind if it concerns you. It's my weakness, not yours. [He even manages a- shaky- smile.] ... I'm not drunk enough for this.

[ None of it escapes his notice. Not the tension and the silence, not the brief tinge of fear across their Bond. For once, it concerns him. This relationship of theirs moved far beyond the practical to whatever it was now. The fact that Diarmuid became so attached doesn't surprise him, he simply lacks the ability to know how to respond to it. Berserker has no need or want to spurn him, but he's unable to return such strong affection. The idea of loving someone is beyond him -- at least...for now. There's still a deep devotion and affection for his Bonded, for the man so willing to stand by his side and weather the chaos that is Berserker's existence.

He picks up the bottle of ale, forgotten before the impulsive flight, and hands it to Diarmuid. ]

Then drink more. [ He lets his hand linger, wanting to be close again but not wanting to push things right now. The vulnerability on display from the witch is a lot. ] But...feel as you wish. I can't control how you feel nor do I have the desire to. If that's what you feel for me, so be it...I won't push you away or tell you it's wrong.

[For a few moments, all Diarmuid does is stare at the bottle in his hand, unsure whether to be ashamed at himself for such a display or relieved by how well Berserker takes it. There's so much he wants to say but try as he might to pin down the words, they slip away at the like second like silvery fish disappearing into the depths of a lake at the sight of a shadow. The anxiety, though, has faded enough for him to act on at least one desire.

Quietly, then, the Lancer steps forward and wraps his arms around him, anchoring himself to him once more in a firm embrace. This time, it isn't their Bond he takes comfort in. Everything from the warmth of his skin to the drumming of his pulse and the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath and even his scent is soothing.

A final, gentle kiss- so dangerously close to loving, but he'll let himself have that much- and he moves away.]

Drink more, hm? Sound advice if I've ever heard it.

[Bottoms up. The man can hold his booze, that much is obvious.]

[closed] august catch-all!

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changed my mind he brought ale bc neat whiskey is nasty

you know what that's fair

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i cant believe that diarmuid is dead

rip never trust chaotic evil servants

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