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zelman clock

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[it's not a very nice place, Zelman's head.

the room is large, but still very much a room. the walls are all old, chipping plaster and peeling wallpaper and an odd rust, here and there. there's warping from water and old, dark stains from what's probably (most likely) blood. but that's all if you really look at it--the biggest and easiest thing to notice is that the walls are plastered in pictures and papers, clippings and photographs. taped up, tacked on, strung up in a few places, they show everything. at eye level, they're a strange mix of things about Earth and things about Paradisa, and sometimes things that wouldn't make sense to anyone. many of the photographs are out of focus, a lot of the writing has bled together.

that's not the worrying thing. what's worrying is what's written over them and under them and around them. every thought, every observation, every connection has been mapped out with marker or string or blood (only on bad or very very very good days) until the entire thing is like some convoluted artistic nightmare; scribbles and writing are layered on top of each other. lines are drawn and then more pictures are pasted over. many of the pictures with people in them have been X'd out or torn apart. the floor is littered with old paper, half-burned scraps, and ashes. it's somewhere between genius and an absolute mess.

looking up, the room just keeps going. the walls go up and up and up, plastered for what seems like miles. there might be a ceiling, but from here it just looks like the tiny flicker of a candle's flame, burning strangely clear despite the distance. is it really a ceiling...? the air is heavy, but the place feels... empty. it feels angry and arrogant and... unimportant. none of these things are important. all of these memories are useless, trash. uncared for.

and then there's the strange, oppressive feeling that someone, or something, doesn't want you here. you do not belong here, in this place so empty of sentimentality, so devoid of comfort. there's no joy to be found, here. just millions of empty memories and the scribbles of someone about as loving as a mechanical clock.]

[if you decide to venture into Zelman's room, he'll be there--a version of him anyway, barefoot and without a hat, flickering in and out a little as if he's composed more of flame than flesh. he's lying around on the floor, on his side, nearer to the far wall. his back is to the door. he's curled up a little, one arm protectively over a small box of newspaper clippings and photographs and stray pieces of scribbled-on paper. it's not much compared to the rest of the room, but one immediately gets the feeling that these things are important. precious. much more significant to him than anything else.

the contents of the box are spilled over a little onto the floor in front of him, but he doesn't seem to care. he's gazing absently at nothing, absolutely still except for the fingernail he keeps scraping across the floor. it makes a sound like a wire being tightened. again and again, a constant sharp scraping that is probably the only thing keeping him awake.

he looks a little annoyed, a little vacant. but mostly? bored out of his mind, no pun intended.]

[[ooc: gah, length. inner!Zelman is not a very nice person (just like his room!) but if you can handle that, feel free to look around or try to talk to him or whatever floats your boat.]]

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Until late, it was barred to me.

[Her voice changes and it's clear that she's quoting words that have been etched into her mind for thousands of years.]

"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains."

I have been an exile.

[the whisper is raised again, almost repeating her words in a voice that isn't his or hers. it ends as a breath, quieting, fading back into the walls. the oppressive feeling of the room doesn't disappear, but it eases up a bit. Zelman has reached a decision.]

You can stay.

[he finally breaks eye contact to turn, walk over, and tear a little something down off the wall. he burns it in the palm of his hand now that he has an answer.]

[She moves closer, examining the wall that Zelman has just altered. This occupies her for a few minutes before she speaks again. It's a sudden question and it seems louder than it is in the silence that has grown around them.]

Of what do I remind you and why does it cause you such distress?

[that part of the wall concerns the insides of peoples' heads that he's seen. it's likely that the paper he tore down had to do with her own head space and those boats. he was thinking about them, after all.

Zelman seems to have calmed down, at least. he checks up on other parts of his wall while she's looking, rearranging and removing a couple of things. it's kind of implied that this must take a lot of upkeep... or that Zelman thinks a lot. about everything. the question gets him moving to another wall, where he traces a line to a piece of paper with "Galadriel" written on it. that's been crossed off and replaced with "Lady of Light", which has also been crossed out and replaced with "Galadriel" again. any other names he's been given have been noted off to the side. while there are a few other notes about her, her space is filled with a peculiar number of arrows, all pointing up.

He looks in that direction too, towards that ceiling of his.] It's up there.

Beyond my reach, of course.

[She looks up anyway, straining even her Elven vision. When she glances back at him, she's wearing a strange smile.]

But is it beyond yours? Do you wish it to be?

... No. One could argue against it, but I think it's better up there.

[he kneels down and carefully puts the stray pieces back into his box. he picks it up, clutching it to his chest with a sort of defensiveness he rarely shows on the outside.

from there he only has to walk over and peel a photograph of a beautiful blonde woman (http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b342/stickxkeyblade/LiveJournal/01-1.jpg) off the wall. either the cieling starts to lower or the floor starts to move upwards, but there's a great shift as things begin to rustle and rush past them until they are suddenly near the top.

the ceiling is really a giant flame, twisting and dancing as if it has a mind entirely of its own. it doesn't feel bad... but it's hungry, as most flames are, and entirely unpredictable. this is the source of that noise, that protective feeling. there are some things above it, but it quickly fades into darkness. not even Zelman can see much back there anymore.]

"Distress" doesn't seem like the right word. You remind me of good things, things that I like.

[he's busy, sticking the picture of the blonde woman up on the wall. most of the pictures here are out of focus, and most of the wall has been scribbled over to the point of being completely covered. but these are his earlier years as a Black Blood at the end of the Dark Ages, back when things were... better. back when there were wars to fight and he was surrounded by comrades and enemies alike.]

[This is...fascinating. She never expected him to share this much with her. Again she finds herself drawn to the wall, her fingers tracing the lines of the scribbles, the heat of the flame beating down on her back and the light of it glinting off her golden hair.]

Yet you spoke of disgust for your respect of me.

Nothing is simple. One string is tied to a thousand others, but most of it's just deadweight. Sinks down, like it's rusting.

[he reaches out to touch a mass of scribbles himself. maybe he can read it, maybe he can't.]

You remind me of a great many things that don't rust, and that's dangerous. If they become weak, I will eventually rid myself of them and no one will have to think of it again. It's clean. Weightless.

[he grips the box a little tighter at the thought.]

There's so little I respect anymore. There's nothing of value left for me, and yet, here you are. If I'm not careful, I'll grow to like you, and then you'll go into the box. You'll weigh me down. And when this place takes you away, it'll be a mess. I'll have to pick everything back up again and rearrange everything and it's not fucking fair.

[oh, that was... his outside voice. oops.] ... Sometimes I think I really hate it here. My box never used to be this heavy. I can't carry this much with me if I want to survive. That's how it works.

That's what's disgusting. Despite knowing all that, I can't help but respect you anyway. [despite the odd smile that's crept up onto his face, he suddenly looks exhausted.] It's probably not even a problem. Asuka tells me that I think too much.

[She...understands more of that than she expected to. It's hard to care, knowing what will be lost. It would be easier, in someways, to lock her heart away. Her hand drops and she turns to look at him anew.]

You will survive, weight or no. You have seen my mind- my box. Did you not realize the gravity of it? Would you know how often I have lost those within it? I have shouldered this burden for well over eight thousand years. You have the strength to carry your own, I have little doubt.

[Zelman doesn't move for a few moments. oddly, the flame also stills itself. he's trying to think through it, he really is, but he's not sure what to do with it. how does he respond to something like that?]

... I made a promise that I would so long as someone else is here with me.

[the room starts to sink (or the ceiling grows higher) as they descend back down towards the present.]

We'll see if anything comes of it.

I suppose we will.

[And in time he will learn how to respond to her, in one way or another. She is a patient and persistent woman, after all.]

[his form shudders and flickers like the flame far above them as he moves to the other side of the room again, close to where he started. it feels like he's shaken something off, though more writing is appearing on the walls.

he puts his box down on the ground again, sitting next to it soon after.]

It's not always this messy. I haven't been cleaning as much.

[...but he said she could stay if she wanted, so he wouldn't stop her from looking around more.]

[She moves toward the door, speaking over her shoulder as she does so.] I have seen far worse.

[When she reaches the doorframe she turns to face him once again.]

I will intrude no further. You already have been more open and free with me than might be expected of you.

[She won't overstay her welcome. It would be...how did Zelman put it? "Cheating." And ungracious.]

... Fair is fair.

[but there is at least a shift in the mindset; Zelman starts humming something as she leaves. it's probably a good thing, better than that scraping sound earlier.]

[She gives one last nod and she's gone. He's given her a lot to think about as well.]

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