Skyline in Self-Pity

Characters: Elara, Terry (Birmingham NPC)

Location: Birmingham, South?

Date: 25 June 2021

It was a quiet evening. Or morning? It was night, anyway, the depths of complete darkness. Stars shone overhead, not that anyone could see them through city light pollution. Elara wasn't honestly sure if she could see them otherwise. Stars weren't alive or dead, after all, and were too far away anyway.

She sat on the roof of an abandoned, cracked house. Actually abandoned, not even echoes to keep her company. Down below, somewhere, Max would be prowling. Whatever that dog-thing was. Normally he'd be up here with her, but - well, whatever.

The roof creaked behind her, a soft, barely-there sound, easily attributable to the wind - wind that wasn't blowing. The ghoul startled, shoving herself to her feet and whirling; she flexed claws, sharp enough to cut to the bone. She doesn't relax when she recognises the man behind her. "Terry," she identifies, tone wary. Witch hunter. A known quantity, but also...

Was he a friend? No. No, surely not. He'd kill her in a heartbeat if need be.

"What are you doing here?"

“Checking on you.” The man’s voice was soft, but carrying, oddly warm. The kind of voice you’d expect from a young father or a teacher, but repurposed to military capability. “You’ve been acting strangely lately.” He approached, almost casual, until he was standing beside her looking out on the city. The sight of him nearly burned her, honestly, she wanted to flinch away. Life and death - he had a lot of both clinging to him, for a human. He was bright and shining in a way that made her so *hungry,* but the death that clung to him was permanent, not the liminality that trapped her. “Did you think we hadn’t noticed?”

Elara grimaced, looking away. Reckless, stupid. But if he wanted her dead what could she do about it anyway? “I do my work. What’s there to fucking worry about? Don’t you have more important business?”

Terry huffed. "For fuck's sake. Don't be an idiot, Elara. *Talk.*"

"About *what?*" What was there to talk about? What was there to do? Everything was shit. Everything was fucking shit, even the good things. Her *dog,* even. What was her fucking dog? She couldn't trust the best thing in her life, after all. And then there was that - that - that *something* that tried to offer her a way out.

And she did want a way out. She wanted it so fucking *badly.* But she couldn't... she didn't dare take a way out at the price of herself, at the price of failing this. She didn't dare it. She didn't know what they were doing here.

Fuck. She hated this. She hated all of this so much.

"Frankly, anything. You've been withdrawn for a while now. Not to suggest you were effusive before, but I think you're *worse* now."

Fucker. "I've been eating," she snapped. "I'm not going feral. I haven't snapped. I haven't changed sides. What else matters?"

Teeth ground. She was pissing him off. Good. An exhale, a puff of life out into the cool night air, quickly faded. "Maybe I should look through your phone then," and his voice was even. "See what you've been up to elsewhere. There were times you weren't even in the *city,* Elara. Are you even allowed to do that?"

Only technically. Her leash was short. But a technicality had been enough. "He keeps me in the city," she said, flatly. *Fuck* witch hunters. Fuck them and their lying tongues. "I'd doubt you'd find anything interesting in my phone. Lots of dog pictures, I guess, do you like those?"

"I do, actually," Terry agreed, still mild. "*Elara*. I'm trying to work with you here. Don't be an idiot."

What if she wanted to be an idiot? She sighed, and just dropped herself down back to sitting. "Going to kill me if I say something you don't like?" she asked, dry. She slumped, staring out.

"No."

Motherfucker could *lie.* No promise or oath was binding on him if he didn't want it to be. Damn it all.

"I want out," she said, brisk and simple. "I'm tired of all this metaphorical bullshit. We try and we try and we try, but are we getting *anywhere?* Are they any less than they were? I want... I want out. I want freedom. I want..." She cut herself off from her next sentence. There was being honest, and then there was just being *weak.*

*You've spilled more than that online.*

Yeah, well, that was online, wasn't it? None of those fuckers were *here,* watching her, holding her life in their hands.

Unlife?

Whatever.

"I want that," Elara said simply. "But I don't think you're going to give me it, are you?"

Teraldrin sighed, and sat down next to her. "No," he said, just as simply. "We can't let you go just like that."

Of course they couldn't. She was a thief, not that she'd ever had a real opportunity to be anything else. She was a ghoul - ignore the fact that people'd basically *made* her into that. She was *her* -

And yeah; yeah, she was guilty of that.

She was guilty of being the girl who talked too much, too sharp. Who liked dogs more than people and rooftops better than the floor. Outspoken and foolish and stubborn and fuck it all, fuck it all, *fuck it all* she was going to be herself if it killed her, because being the quiet little shadow who followed and loved *had* gotten her killed.

Or ghouled. Whatever.

It had gotten her betrayed into *this* slice of hell.

"Then what the fuck are you doing here, if you can't fucking help?"

"Just because I can't give you what you want doesn't mean I can't help, Elara," he told her evenly. "And I'm not just here to help you."

"Right. Checking on whether I'm still useful? Then fuck off. I'm still useful. Don't worry about that."

"You're *less* useful when you're distracted and pissed off."

There was nothing to say to that. No counterargument. She was so *tired* of this shit. So fucking tired.

Elara dropped her face into her hands and said nothing.

The silence stretched. She couldn't tell if it was awkward. Every moment was a possible second until he tired of her usefulness and killed her. That alchemist would be pissed, but not that pissed. Maybe he'd be *relieved* to no longer have to source the sheer quantity of corpses necessary to keep her consistently functioning and not in a coma 80% of the time. No longer dealing with her fits of pissiness and temper.

Fuck it all.

Terry sighed. "Why are you like this?"

"Who else am I supposed to be?" she asked bitterly. "The tame pet ghoul, doing whatever's asked of her for fear of dying? Oh *wait.*"

"The snark isn't necessary."

"I can't even *cry,* Terry," she told him flatly. "I'm sitting here, and I keep thinking about just how fucking delicious you'd be if I killed you right now." Even without that apple turnover charm she'd gotten from Starry. Just his raw flesh. He'd be delicious. She could gorge himself on him and he wouldn't be enough, not nearly enough, but he'd *feel* like it.

"Do you never get sick of all this self-pity?"

*All the time.* The words stuck in her throat.

He got to his feet. "I can't help you if you don't want to be helped," he told her, looking down at her. She looked up. His facial features were fuzzy behind the shine of Life. She'd heard his eyes were blue. She couldn't *tell.* It was life, and death, and dull monochrome grey. That was everything. "Think for a bit. You know where to find me if you change your mind."

She didn't, actually.

But she'd be able to find him if she needed to.