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  1. #1
    Alice Hart's Avatar
    Presence
    (Disquieting)
    Mask of Tranquility
    Striking Looks
    (Pale Wraith)
    Alice Hart

    Baddacelli
    Acolyte and Valkyrja of the Circle of the Crone
    Danger Sense ●
    Status; City ●●●, Clan ●●, Cov ●●

    Lyssa Wolfe. Ghoul

    Curse

    Past her Albinism, Alice is naught but a doll, beautiful in her impossible perfection. Taking on a inescapable sheen of artifice, both movements and manner seem, hollow and fake. She's nothing but a marionette, limbs jerking and twisting as if pulled by invisible strings.

    Marring her unnatural beauty are her eyes, or the lack of them, vacant pits of visceral horror.
    Stats

    1
    OCC
    +1
    SL
    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    What meet his eyes, is a neighborhood neglected to the extreme. A slice of land forgotten by all but a scant few.

    After half a year gone, one of those few parks several block away as once was habit, but now needed a mental reminder to do so. Out of his town car, and walking the blocks, everything, it seemed was like it was, except the deceptive house that stood sentry Above the Kingdom Below. The house with it's faded siding, crooked shingles, and rotted wooden...everything, used to give way to a home that was worn, but clean and cared for. The furniture had once been newish, now each piece was rotten, sodden and home to vermin and worse.

    Moving from the crooked door in the entry, through the decayed house to the living room, where once there'd been a pile of corpses, then a clean inviting space, had returned to the corpses once more. A mountain of animal bodies lay here, in varied stages of decomposition. Near the pile lay heavy stains of blood. Continuing on to the once familiar steps to the shadowy, out of the way corner where the Door sits. Still locked, and the only thing that that seems to still be cared for in this rotted ruin.

    There's a faint hope, one clouded by cynicism and pragmatism, he doesn't truly believe that his next action with prove fruitful, but he tries and finds that his key still fits. Still works, Alice Hart hadn't changed the locks, and so Robert Cross enters the portal to the Realm Below.

    Metal grated stairs lead farther down, and down, and down, until a landing abruptly shifts his momentum as he take in the fork, though the choice has already been taken from him. One path is open, the other's tunnel has collapsed. The open path leads to the Caldarium. The place She built. The dark serenity the bathhouse gives off already presses against him, only to recede, like the tide.

    Eyes scan the area, the flames that Gilroy requested be kept lit is still flickering, off to the side is a very familiar sleeping bag, and sitting in the middle of the room is a figure, colored the water's glowing blue and the flame's flickering orange-red.

    Alice sits meditating in the room, she hears footsteps, but there is nothing of Lyssa's lyrical voice to meet her ears. A familiar scent teases her nose - charred skin and burnt hair, but the Hunger gnaws at her, and this wouldn't be the first time she imagined something like this, and she knows it wont be the last either, so the Blind Doll moves not, and gives it no mind.
    Health: | Willpower: | Vitae: | Mimetismo 1: Certain Sounds Active

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  3. #2
    Robert Cross's Avatar

    Robert Cross
    Presence
    (Stoic)
    Obfuscate
    (Mask of Tranquility)
    Allies
    (Emergency Services)
    Contacts
    (Emergency Services, Criminals)
    Status
    (Criminals)
    Robert Cross

    Nosferatu | Lancea Sanctum


    Nosferatu Curse: Cross has obviously been badly burned in the past with visible scars to prove it, and is that a faint smell of burnt hair and skin?

    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    “All is death and darkness, and hunger walks through them.”

    Cross has never known such torments as those experienced by Longinus. Though he still has time. All of eternity, in fact. And right now, as he enters the house above what was once the Deep Kingdom, the wrenching feeling in his breast seems like a prelude to all wretchedness. It’s not the squalor, the scurrying of unclean things, that alarms him. What sort of Haunt would he be if such sights caused him the slightest discomfort? No, it’s the physical reminder that, in part, this disrepair is his fault. The very real damage his disappearance has done to his Family’s holdings pains him. Of course, what lurks beyond that general feeling is the much more painful thought of what his departure might have meant for Her.

    And what if she’s not even here, Cross? What if she’s gone? What if she left as well? What if she’s… The Burned Man refuses to continue such speculation. Refuses to admit that, in fact, Alice may be gone from the city herself. Or worse. Instead, he falls into that mental posture which has always proven to be his best defense: pragmatic action. Keep moving. Keep searching. She has to be here. His senses heighten to that unnatural degree only the Kindred can achieve as he further explores the decaying house; slowly, thoroughly. And sure enough, there is the smell of old blood. As he approaches the door to the Underground, it grows stronger and stronger. Not human. And there, the pile of deliquescing animals, their remains. And just the hint of a deeper, richer scent. Beneath the blood, the Blood.

    What might present as a gruesome spectacle to an outsider sends a bolt of relief through Cross. She’s been here. And not long ago. That moment of happiness gives way before a flood of anxiety. Alice had largely abandoned this practice before his departure, what could it mean that she’d returned to the old habit? For a long moment, he stares at the small corpses, as if trying to solve a riddle. Then something in his dead mind clicks over and he steps beyond the little graveyard, moving for the door. The key still fits, still turns. As the passage to the Necropolis opens to him, a kind of unreality settles in. The familiarity of the way down, down, down. And yet, somehow, the feeling of intrusion. The reminders, everywhere, of a past decidedly gone. A past that he’d helped, in his turn, to destroy.

    Cross turns away from the cave-in. How long has he been surveying the damage? The approach to the Caldarium seems to take a lifetime. The faint flicker of candles in the distance slowly growing. And then, like so many times before, he is lingering on the threshold of that calming space, unsure if he deserves the serenity it offers.

    And She is there. Unmoving. Seemingly unaware of his presence, though surely she’d heard him, smelled him, felt his presence. Cross watches her, without speaking, without moving. In that moment, it seems that everything, his arrival in the city, his time in Sacramento, his departure, his conversion, and his return. All of it was a circuit, meant to be closed here and now.

    Finally, Cross musters the strength to step fully into the Caldarium. To utter the only word that he can manage at the moment, the only word that seems appropriate. Her name: “Alice…” With that, the Burned Man is frozen again. He does not feel he has to right to approach, to continue, without yielding the floor to her first. For him, everything hangs on her reply. And there’s nothing to do but wait.

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  5. #3
    Alice Hart's Avatar
    Presence
    (Disquieting)
    Mask of Tranquility
    Striking Looks
    (Pale Wraith)
    Alice Hart

    Baddacelli
    Acolyte and Valkyrja of the Circle of the Crone
    Danger Sense ●
    Status; City ●●●, Clan ●●, Cov ●●

    Lyssa Wolfe. Ghoul

    Curse

    Past her Albinism, Alice is naught but a doll, beautiful in her impossible perfection. Taking on a inescapable sheen of artifice, both movements and manner seem, hollow and fake. She's nothing but a marionette, limbs jerking and twisting as if pulled by invisible strings.

    Marring her unnatural beauty are her eyes, or the lack of them, vacant pits of visceral horror.
    Stats

    1
    OCC
    +1
    SL
    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    Her mind often played tricks on her in the beginning...before Robert's scent faded from his sleeping bag, and it became a token and a reminder of what once was. Now it was only when her mind turned to him that his scent sprung from her memory, but now his memory-scent wasn't dissipating. Alice's semi relaxed form stiffened, this was cruel. Her Punishment while fitting, was doing more then testing her control, it was playing havoc upon her mind.

    Alice's head shakes, the movement sharply jerking and completely strings pulled. She was better then this! She was Seneschal, Priscus and High Priestess! The Hunger wouldn't beat her!

    She starts to refocus, clearing her mind of thoughts, meditation was helping her ease the nights by where all she had was dregs of Blood reminding in her body, but before she could settle a achingly familiar voice says her name.

    In the lonely nights before the Keystones and Lyssa, Alice would use the strength of her Blood and pretend that Robert wasn't gone. It was hollow and fake - even for the Blind Doll, but it was a comfort, cold as it grew to be.

    But it wasn't her Blood moving, her lips didn't part.

    Were she alive, or feigning it, her heart would be palpitating, her body shaking, tears would gather, but she was dead and was as still as a grave. The Wraith hissed and coiled, threatening her control if the tears that wanted to well up and fall did, knowing how thin and frayed that cord was, she gritted her teeth and willed her bloody tears away.

    Slowly, deliberately, the broken Doll stood, sharp angles and twisted strings. She turns, the movement inhuman, the Doll's doing nothing to control her Curse, and stares at where the gravelly voice sounded. Her eye sockets, empty voids of the strength and horror at he depths of their Blood.

    "Robert." her voice, hollow and harsh. She needed to know that this was real, that he was here and it wasn't the Hunger, her mind fraying against the Wraith's strength.
    Health: | Willpower: | Vitae: | Mimetismo 1: Certain Sounds Active

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  7. #4
    Robert Cross's Avatar

    Robert Cross
    Presence
    (Stoic)
    Obfuscate
    (Mask of Tranquility)
    Allies
    (Emergency Services)
    Contacts
    (Emergency Services, Criminals)
    Status
    (Criminals)
    Robert Cross

    Nosferatu | Lancea Sanctum


    Nosferatu Curse: Cross has obviously been badly burned in the past with visible scars to prove it, and is that a faint smell of burnt hair and skin?

    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    What others so often found strange, stilted about Alice's movements, Cross had always regarded with a certain awe. Watching her rise now before him, the Burned Man is once again entranced.

    To him, this is not awkwardness, but a grace divorced from the Human. Alice's every gesture is a reminder that, no matter what other Pales may do or say, they are no longer Kine. In this way, she'd been one of his initial inspirations, a model of what it means to accept himself as Kindred, one of the first to spur him along the path of self-discovery that eventually led him to the Lancea Sanctum. Led him away from the city, away from Her.

    He moves closer. The sounds of his shoes, the rustle of his clothing, will let her know that he is dressed, as always, in that unremarkable black suit. His uniform, as it were. Some things never change. Even as everything else does.

    To hear her say his name, to hear her voice, hollowed out by her curse, is a revelation. Though its harshness sounds a warning that he can't ignore.

    "It's me." He's closer now, but still hasn't touched her. Can't bring himself to, as much as he would like. Undoubtably, she can feel the force of his attention, though, as his eyes take in her every feature. Hungry after all this time.

    "I'm back." Those two words, softly spoken and despite their brevity, hold an entire world of meaning. His normally flat tone is suffused with competing emotions: longing, regret, doubt. And fear. Yes, fear.

    And yet the words he wants to say, I'm sorry, the ones that matter most, won't come. Not yet. It seems wrong, somehow, to speak them now. Like he would be trying to gain an absolution he doesn't deserve.

    Finally, his eyes find purchase where her's had been, lingering on the pits that once held jewels. Memories of the night he came to find her, ashes on her cheeks.

    "It's good..." He trails off, his struggle to speak, to find the right words, readily apparent to her keen ears, "So good to see you."

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  9. #5
    Alice Hart's Avatar
    Presence
    (Disquieting)
    Mask of Tranquility
    Striking Looks
    (Pale Wraith)
    Alice Hart

    Baddacelli
    Acolyte and Valkyrja of the Circle of the Crone
    Danger Sense ●
    Status; City ●●●, Clan ●●, Cov ●●

    Lyssa Wolfe. Ghoul

    Curse

    Past her Albinism, Alice is naught but a doll, beautiful in her impossible perfection. Taking on a inescapable sheen of artifice, both movements and manner seem, hollow and fake. She's nothing but a marionette, limbs jerking and twisting as if pulled by invisible strings.

    Marring her unnatural beauty are her eyes, or the lack of them, vacant pits of visceral horror.
    Stats

    1
    OCC
    +1
    SL
    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    What is a nauseating scent to others is one that is made dear with memories.

    The scent-His scent comes closer, the sound of his boots on the ground, and the gentle rustle of his suit-armor as nearly forgotten sounds, strike her harder then the initial sound of his voice did.

    This is real, her mimicry didn't lend her to make sound beyond his voice as she'd surrounded herself with his sleeping bag.

    He speaks.

    He speaks every word she'd imagined him - and made herself - say.

    The Ice could have helped here, cooled everything, and brought it into a sharp clarity, but Bea, and the inelegant fight had between them had melted those walls, leaving a tumultuous sea behind, those waters by their nature and how she'd acquired them were hard to settle and still. Which is why she'd taken to meditation to calm them...and the Wraith living within them.

    Inside she fought the waters, it appeared not on the outside.

    Outside it looked like she was carved from stone.

    "I hoped you were dead." she says in that hollow voice. "If you were dead, that means you didn't leave." The words fly, and Alice, contrary to who she used to be, hoped they sliced the Burned Man like her fangs had sliced Bea's tender flesh. "But you're here...and that means...you left." she didn't care about him leaving the Domain, or his post as Reeve, kindred came and went like the tide, "You chose to leave." Me.
    Health: | Willpower: | Vitae: | Mimetismo 1: Certain Sounds Active

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  11. #6
    Robert Cross's Avatar

    Robert Cross
    Presence
    (Stoic)
    Obfuscate
    (Mask of Tranquility)
    Allies
    (Emergency Services)
    Contacts
    (Emergency Services, Criminals)
    Status
    (Criminals)
    Robert Cross

    Nosferatu | Lancea Sanctum


    Nosferatu Curse: Cross has obviously been badly burned in the past with visible scars to prove it, and is that a faint smell of burnt hair and skin?

    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    I hoped you were dead.

    Coming from anyone else, at any other time, these words might’ve drawn a sneer from Cross. It’s the kind of sentiment, betrayed by a turn of phrase, that he so often dismisses in other Kindred. Of course I’m dead, he might have said. And so are you. Act like it.

    But not here, not now. Not with Alice.

    Indeed, at this moment, Cross feels more alive than he could’ve thought possible. His mind races, his chest feels like it might burst. Not since adolescence has the Burned Man felt this way: utterly, completely exposed. It’s the kind of emotional rawness, vulnerability, that his father, fueled by drink and contempt for the weakness of his son, whether real or imagined, had tried his hardest to beat out of that damned boy.

    Even Cross had thought those beatings successful.

    Well look at me now, Dad.

    And why was he thinking of his father? The mind does strange things when confronted with that which it doesn’t want to process. Like the one you love wishing you dead. Or accusing you of something horrible, unforgivable; something, moreover, that you know to be completely and totally true.

    You chose to leave.

    “Yes,” he replies, simply. Honestly. “Yes, I did.” And now that wrenching feeling that’s been tearing him up inside since entering the house above them is audible in his voice. “And I’m sorry, Alice. I’m so sorry.”

    There, the words. Cross doesn’t care if he sounds like he’s begging for forgiveness anymore. Because he is. Even if he knows there’s nothing for it, even if he doesn’t deserve to be forgiven. And of course he doesn’t.

    It suddenly occurs to him that whatever he and Alice had built might not be salvageable. That the ruin of the Necropolis, with its collapsed tunnels, its abandoned and unreachable chambers, could prove more easily rebuilt than the precious thing they’d erected together, between them.

    A wave of grief paralyzes him, and it’s Cross's turn to try to keep bloody tears from staining his terribly scarred cheeks. Flat, grey eyes dart about the Caldarium, its serenity made grotesque by the pain of this encounter.

    “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says, staring at the candle flame positioned across the room, visible over her shoulder. His voice is very small now, very soft. “I wouldn’t ask that of you. Couldn’t. After what I did.”

    The flame gutters briefly, played with by some stray draft, before leaping back to its full height, his beast raging and straining in response is almost a relief.

    “But I would like to try to explain. To make you understand. If you can let me.”

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  13. #7
    Alice Hart's Avatar
    Presence
    (Disquieting)
    Mask of Tranquility
    Striking Looks
    (Pale Wraith)
    Alice Hart

    Baddacelli
    Acolyte and Valkyrja of the Circle of the Crone
    Danger Sense ●
    Status; City ●●●, Clan ●●, Cov ●●

    Lyssa Wolfe. Ghoul

    Curse

    Past her Albinism, Alice is naught but a doll, beautiful in her impossible perfection. Taking on a inescapable sheen of artifice, both movements and manner seem, hollow and fake. She's nothing but a marionette, limbs jerking and twisting as if pulled by invisible strings.

    Marring her unnatural beauty are her eyes, or the lack of them, vacant pits of visceral horror.
    Stats

    1
    OCC
    +1
    SL
    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    His gravely voice says things Alice couldn't have imagined from him.

    Apologies. Heartfelt ones.

    Faced with this she doesn't know what to do.

    Stillness and Silence. Yes. Silence and Stillness.

    Her mind races, and the waters within ebb and flow, a torrent circling her, hair's breath from becoming a maelstrom of emotion and instinct. The Wraith hisses, fangs descending even as her didn't.

    "Forgive you?" her hollow-false voice makes it sound like a question. He didn't have to ask her too. There wasn't a part of Alice that thought she wouldn't forgive him, but it would take time, and time was something they definitely had, but his words don't stop.

    The torrent spiraled and the Wraith still hissed.

    Her norm brakes shattering like the ice she no longer possessed.

    Her hand fly up, but she doesn't know what to do with them, so they fall to her sides. The movement still inhuman, still jerking, and strings pulled.

    "Yes." she barks, force making her hollow voice mean more. "Yes, tell me. Tell me what could be more important then-" red dresses and matching ties.
    Health: | Willpower: | Vitae: | Mimetismo 1: Certain Sounds Active

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  15. #8
    Robert Cross's Avatar

    Robert Cross
    Presence
    (Stoic)
    Obfuscate
    (Mask of Tranquility)
    Allies
    (Emergency Services)
    Contacts
    (Emergency Services, Criminals)
    Status
    (Criminals)
    Robert Cross

    Nosferatu | Lancea Sanctum


    Nosferatu Curse: Cross has obviously been badly burned in the past with visible scars to prove it, and is that a faint smell of burnt hair and skin?

    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    He matches his stillness to her's almost instinctively, finding a semblance of calm in the model she provides him. Though his mind is still roiling. Years and years of emotional unavailability have left him ill prepared for a confrontation such as this one. Unprepared for the fact that he loves her. Whatever "love" might mean for a walking corpse, it was and is the truth.

    Yes, Cross had considered this before, in the months of introspection afforded him by the process of his conversion to the Lancea Sanctum in LA. He'd left because of his desire to seek out a Priest who might bring him into the fold. But he'd also left because he was scared. Scared of the thing they'd built together. Just as he is scared now.

    He had turned away. He would not turn away again. No matter what.

    He lets her question about forgiveness fall into silence. That is something he has to let her figure out for herself: if, and how, she might forgive him. Likewise, he fights the urge to take her hands, to still them. He hasn't yet earned the right to comfort her.

    "Nothing." He answers, almost hearing the unspoken end to her sentence. "That's why I'm here." A long pause. Cross had spent months thinking over this explanation, and yet now nothing seems to come.

    Stop thinking. Talk.

    "I don't think I ever told you that, before," a loaded word, there are so many befores for them, "before Bishop Gilroy left, I went to him asking to join the Lancea Sanctum." Cross doesn't know why he puts it this way, he's certain they'd never spoken of it. She might've known, but not by way of any direct indication on his part.

    "I had it in my mind that the Church might help me understand who, what, I am. We are." She had to understand. That's why she'd gone to the Crone. But there's the problem. She'd taken one path, he'd chosen another. And they'd never actually talked about it. And Cross hadn't known how.

    After all, he's never been good at expressing himself. It's taking all he's got to do so now.

    "Anyway, everything that happened, happened. They all left. You awakened to the Blood. Joined the Circle. I..." he falters again.

    Say it.

    "...I fell in love with you. Then the Brood. The Hunters. Our duties to the domain grew. And the whole time, I felt this pull. This unanswered question."

    He stops again, seeming to consider something.

    "Do you remember when you left, last summer?" Another thing they'd never really discussed. The shift in topic, his sudden question, may seem jarring. But he's hoping she sees the connection. Makes the leap. "Can you tell me about that?" Perhaps, if she describes her own sudden departure, his might make a little more sense.

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  17. #9
    Alice Hart's Avatar
    Presence
    (Disquieting)
    Mask of Tranquility
    Striking Looks
    (Pale Wraith)
    Alice Hart

    Baddacelli
    Acolyte and Valkyrja of the Circle of the Crone
    Danger Sense ●
    Status; City ●●●, Clan ●●, Cov ●●

    Lyssa Wolfe. Ghoul

    Curse

    Past her Albinism, Alice is naught but a doll, beautiful in her impossible perfection. Taking on a inescapable sheen of artifice, both movements and manner seem, hollow and fake. She's nothing but a marionette, limbs jerking and twisting as if pulled by invisible strings.

    Marring her unnatural beauty are her eyes, or the lack of them, vacant pits of visceral horror.
    Stats

    1
    OCC
    +1
    SL
    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    Robert spent a lot of time in his own head, Alice knew this, and she knew that demanding him speak, to explain and not just read to her would be hard for him, but she needed to know.

    The words come slow at first, but they do eventually come.

    "You didn't tell me." but that didn't mean she hadn't known. She would have been more then just blind to have missed his questions.

    The chaos rising inside...stopped.

    Even the Wraith returned to the once known icy stillness.

    She wasn't alive, and her heart wasn't beating but it felt like it was.

    When Robert wasn't here, real, standing unbreathing in front of her, not the memory she'd sealed into a special place in her heart. Upon a pedestal and encased in crystal as The One. It was Fact. His memory wouldn't be sullied by anyone...and she would copse with him being gone. Even if her coping methods were nowhere close to healthy.

    But he was here. Saying he loved her. Though his voice didn't pause on it, didn't leave her time to respond. How could she? How would she? Did his leaving and return change anything within her heart?

    Her mind raced, and stilled and tumbled around, and around and around. Contradicting emotions tugging and withing at her heart and mind.

    Instead of saying something she didn't mean or might regret in her anger at him, and desperate longing to see him, she...lets it go. As he did.

    They had forever. And she needed Time.

    Then softly, afraid to shatter the delicate bubble that was surrounding them, she speaks. "I left for weeks. Not months. Not half a year." she shakes her head, strings lull as her head turns then they are pulled taunt as her head's pulled straight once more. "I was restless. I had questions. I needed to know." she doesn't tell him just what the Sisters Three did to her in the weeks as they tested her and she proved her devotion. "So I understand. But...you could have, let a note, a message. You could have picked up the fucking phone." the Doll curses, an event unto itself, even as she realizes the statement paired with it was a two way street. She could have picked up the phone and called him.
    Health: | Willpower: | Vitae: | Mimetismo 1: Certain Sounds Active

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  19. #10
    Robert Cross's Avatar

    Robert Cross
    Presence
    (Stoic)
    Obfuscate
    (Mask of Tranquility)
    Allies
    (Emergency Services)
    Contacts
    (Emergency Services, Criminals)
    Status
    (Criminals)
    Robert Cross

    Nosferatu | Lancea Sanctum


    Nosferatu Curse: Cross has obviously been badly burned in the past with visible scars to prove it, and is that a faint smell of burnt hair and skin?

    -1
    NOS
    2
    PRE

    How many hours, how many nights had Cross spent watching her, memorizing every feature, every gesture? Could Alice know that he'd done so? Could she know that, over the last six months, he would reconstruct her from memory every night? Does she know that, even now, he watches her, unblinking? Amazed by her every movement and amazed by her moments of stillness. That, even after all their time together, he could spend the rest of the night, the rest of untold nights, watching her?

    Amazed that, Monster that he is, he'd found her.

    "Yes," he replies, yielding before her point concerning the duration of their respective absences. But you understand, he adds silently. Nevermind that he had been worried himself at the time of her disappearance, that he'd had to fight, every evening upon waking, the urge to go out and find her. It is her understanding that matters now.

    They'd both had the same question. But they'd found different answers. Again, the problem.

    You could have, left a note, a message. You could have picked up the fucking phone.

    The accusation stings, but is also familiar. He's leveled it against himself countless time. It's never occurred to him to question why she hadn't tried to find him, though. As always, the Burned Man is ready to accept guilt, to blame himself.

    "I know, Alice. I could have. I should have. But..." For a moment, silence rushes in, "But I didn't. I couldn't. I..."

    I've never been good at that kind of thing. But that's a lie. An excuse. And he won't lie to her now.

    "I was afraid. Afraid that our...different paths would force us apart." Again, that awful, wounded note colors his normally brusque voice.

    And so I did it myself. As fucked up as that is.

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