Kaveh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ohthehumanities) wrote2023-07-10 10:15 pm
ohthehumanities) wrote2023-07-10 10:15 pm
Entry tags:
memshare: the withering
You've been watching the wreckage smolder for hours.
You'd been so close. So close to completion. Over halfway through--nearly two-thirds of the way. You've poured your heart and soul into the creation of this masterpiece. You knew, the moment Dori laid the offer at your feet, that you would never have another chance like this. She is your client, but this palace was yours more than it would have ever been hers. This was your chance to make your mark on the world. To fulfill the dream you had since childhood: to build something that would endure for centuries, long after your death. Something that would move hearts that way that beautiful things move yours. That would let people forget their pain, or at least remind them of why they endure it, as you have.
You're no stranger to the power of nature--you live in the nation of Dendro, after all, the energy of the earth pours out around you everywhere. The Withering is just a fact of life, no different than the warmth of the sun or the cycles of the rain in Apam Woods. You thought you'd done your due diligence. The Withering wasn't supposed to spread this far. Not this soon. It's why the Forest Rangers hadn't cleared the area.
But it did. Overnight, like an assassin, poisonous decay had stolen across the land. It wrapped around the skeleton of your beloved project, tearing it apart. Monsters had followed suit soon after--you don't know exactly when. All you know is that you'd arrived to find the Palace of Alcazarzaray in ruins, the earth gray with ash and rot, pulsing red and black flowers twining through the wreckage as Riftwolves and poisoned Fungi roamed the area.
They're gone now. The Withering has been cleansed, if only temporarily. But the ruins of the palace can't be salvaged. That is something only labor and money can fix.
This is your fault. Some would argue this point--they'd say that you think everything is your fault, and that it's absurd to take the blame for a natural disaster. But you have proof this time. Dori's fury had been palpable; you were the one who insisted on changing the location, she'd pointed out. You were the one who refused to budge on the highest quality materials, on the most skilled laborers, on paying everyone (except yourself) a generous wage. Dori wanted magnificence, yes. But she did not tell you to throw your very soul into the creation of this building. She merely expected you to do your job, and you failed.
(Perhaps you should have expected this. You poison everything you touch, after all. Why in the world did you think this would be any different?)
It was generous of her to listen to you beg. She is not convinced that you will come up with a solution. And why should she be? At the end of the day, she is a merchant. She did not become wealthy through altruism and goodwill. To her, you are a liability, a sunken cost. She does not care that this is the only thing that has brought you true joy since you were a child. She does not care that you are starved for freedom. If you cannot give her a solution, she will cut you off like the dead weight that you are. She is not running a charity--she is your client. This is on your shoulders.
But Dori does not know that you have one asset left.
You've barely spent any time at home since your mother left for Fontaine. In truth, it was empty before that; she'd been little more than a ghost after your father's death. (And that, too, was your fault.) You'd tried your best to care for her, unwilling to put the burden of your youth on her shoulders. (You destroyed her--why should she have to raise you after that?) But ultimately, she'd found peace in another land. You could not deny her that, not when you'd seen, for the first time in years, the spark of life in her eyes.
A home without people inside of it is simply a building. Loneliness has gnawed at your core for so many years that you barely even notice it anymore, but it's always so much worse when you're alone in the dark at night. What's the point of holding onto it any longer?
It won't be enough to rebuild entirely. But it will be a start. And maybe, just maybe, it will be enough to convince Dori to let you do this.
Rebuilding this palace will cost everything you have, and more. But then, who can put a price on ideals?
You'd been so close. So close to completion. Over halfway through--nearly two-thirds of the way. You've poured your heart and soul into the creation of this masterpiece. You knew, the moment Dori laid the offer at your feet, that you would never have another chance like this. She is your client, but this palace was yours more than it would have ever been hers. This was your chance to make your mark on the world. To fulfill the dream you had since childhood: to build something that would endure for centuries, long after your death. Something that would move hearts that way that beautiful things move yours. That would let people forget their pain, or at least remind them of why they endure it, as you have.
You're no stranger to the power of nature--you live in the nation of Dendro, after all, the energy of the earth pours out around you everywhere. The Withering is just a fact of life, no different than the warmth of the sun or the cycles of the rain in Apam Woods. You thought you'd done your due diligence. The Withering wasn't supposed to spread this far. Not this soon. It's why the Forest Rangers hadn't cleared the area.
But it did. Overnight, like an assassin, poisonous decay had stolen across the land. It wrapped around the skeleton of your beloved project, tearing it apart. Monsters had followed suit soon after--you don't know exactly when. All you know is that you'd arrived to find the Palace of Alcazarzaray in ruins, the earth gray with ash and rot, pulsing red and black flowers twining through the wreckage as Riftwolves and poisoned Fungi roamed the area.
They're gone now. The Withering has been cleansed, if only temporarily. But the ruins of the palace can't be salvaged. That is something only labor and money can fix.
This is your fault. Some would argue this point--they'd say that you think everything is your fault, and that it's absurd to take the blame for a natural disaster. But you have proof this time. Dori's fury had been palpable; you were the one who insisted on changing the location, she'd pointed out. You were the one who refused to budge on the highest quality materials, on the most skilled laborers, on paying everyone (except yourself) a generous wage. Dori wanted magnificence, yes. But she did not tell you to throw your very soul into the creation of this building. She merely expected you to do your job, and you failed.
(Perhaps you should have expected this. You poison everything you touch, after all. Why in the world did you think this would be any different?)
It was generous of her to listen to you beg. She is not convinced that you will come up with a solution. And why should she be? At the end of the day, she is a merchant. She did not become wealthy through altruism and goodwill. To her, you are a liability, a sunken cost. She does not care that this is the only thing that has brought you true joy since you were a child. She does not care that you are starved for freedom. If you cannot give her a solution, she will cut you off like the dead weight that you are. She is not running a charity--she is your client. This is on your shoulders.
But Dori does not know that you have one asset left.
You've barely spent any time at home since your mother left for Fontaine. In truth, it was empty before that; she'd been little more than a ghost after your father's death. (And that, too, was your fault.) You'd tried your best to care for her, unwilling to put the burden of your youth on her shoulders. (You destroyed her--why should she have to raise you after that?) But ultimately, she'd found peace in another land. You could not deny her that, not when you'd seen, for the first time in years, the spark of life in her eyes.
A home without people inside of it is simply a building. Loneliness has gnawed at your core for so many years that you barely even notice it anymore, but it's always so much worse when you're alone in the dark at night. What's the point of holding onto it any longer?
It won't be enough to rebuild entirely. But it will be a start. And maybe, just maybe, it will be enough to convince Dori to let you do this.
Rebuilding this palace will cost everything you have, and more. But then, who can put a price on ideals?