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[It is really just affront at his precious archaeological record. This is what archaeologists do on drugs, apparently.]

Angel's given me some. It's brilliant. She even says there won't be aftereffects tomorrow.

(Though you seem to have some c/p weirdness happening here)

...Doesn't that medicine have a more vital use as medicine right now?

[He doesn't mind recreational drug use - why would he? But last he knew it was kind of difficult to get those pills. They only showed up in one spot, after all, and surely House had a use for them that wasn't messing with his state of mind.]

((OOC: And fixed that too, idek what that was about!))

I can breathe without hurting for the first time in weeks. I'd say that's plenty medicinal.

[He sounds torn between chagrin at Enoch's implication, and just plain delight at the pain being gone. There's a lot else that the medicine helps with, but breathing really ought to be a basic right. For a mortal.]

((Who knows. Technical malfunctions happen!))

...Weeks? You have that stubborn illness, too?

[He'd just met up with Frisk and Toriel again, and Toriel had, judging by her child's reactions, been sick for a long while, herself. And Frisk seemed to have come down with it, themselves...]

You're at least the second I've seen now. Possibly the third.

MN poisoning. You can call it what it is. What I think it is. I won't die of the name. I might die of the poisoning.

[Snark gives way to some bitterness. He's capable of it even under the Vicodin's influence, when it comes to illness and dying.]

I saw Frisk. Toriel. The Joker, maybe. Who else? It's just a matter of time for all of us...

We'll find a cure, whether it's MN poisoning or something else.

[He thinks it's something else - his only encounters with it have been the mental afflictions. Luckily, Winter isn't far off from confirming what Beckett just said. With her corroborating it, he's likelier to accept it.]

We just have to keep looking. Keep moving.

That's what they all say.

[And the way he drawls it make it clear how much he believes that promise, even now when the pain is gone. It'll come back. Mortality is pain.]

I don't want a cure. I want to be me again. You and your bloody - free will, death, humanity...

We may yet find a way to restore what they've taken from us, too. But we can't give up. If we do, we consign ourselves to failure.

[It's slow and deliberate. Not the enthusiasm of naivete, but an optimism that has been battered at for centuries and still stands. He will not let go of hope, and he won't leave anyone who can't hang on behind.]

[It is the sensible and mature thing to say. If Beckett was not hazy and unguarded from the drug, he might merely have answered with biting sarcasm - or even seen Enoch's conviction and his point. As it stands, things spill out of him, thrust to the surface just because of that conviction, driven by something acid like envy.]

Of course you're so certain of that. You will go back and be God's messenger again... the only condition is your success. Easy to be an optimist when failure isn't an option.

No, death was not an option. There are more ways than dying in the effort to fail a task.

[He's firm in correcting this. The man who has no doubt at all is a fool.]

And I am not certain, except of the fact that giving up guarantees failure.

[That is true, lord, how true that is.

It silences him for a brief hard instance of something not unlike self-loathing. Stupid of him to have called up Enoch of all people, Enoch who understands the nature of his struggle better than anyone in the town. Enoch who has this confidence in him, which is not God's gift at all, just the man's own nature. Beckett can't match it. It's driving him mad.]

And if I don't care about failing anymore? What then? Why not give up?

Because these times of not caring always pass, and your continuing effort affects more than just you.

[This, if anything, is the one sense where success and his life were inextricably tied. In this, failure was not an option. He could sit down and refuse to go on. But the world would fall into ruin, and he would never age.

In this, his circumstances had a heavy hand in his outlook.]

That's not fair. [Plain, petty petulance. But he doesn't care. He's too far gone out of both his normal self-possession and the shadow of real despair, and apathy - dull, empty, restful - has its siren song.]

Why in bloody hell should it be up to me? I've done this for three hundred years. I should be free to stop if I want to.

Believe me, I know the feeling. And...strictly speaking, you are. All I can do is try to convince you not to, because I believe it's the right thing to do. It is your choice, truly. I just...

[He trails off, with a heavy pause. He knows Beckett's pain well. Keep going, no matter how many years, decades, centuries...

Because somehow it will be worth it. Somehow...]

...I can't leave you to your despair without trying.

Is that part of your mission, too? To bring doubters like me back to the fold of faith?

[There is a hint of hostility in his voice, which he'd regret when he sobers up. In his current state, complexities are stripped. Ever since he'd learned of the other man's past and mission, somewhere in him he's always envied Enoch, always resented him that which he doesn't even, himself, consider a gift. Here it is now, present in full.]

I have to live. I have to - I have to wait for Anatole. But I don't have to like it. Or be thankful for it.

There is no divine will in this effort, only my own. Only one man trying to help another.

[His voice seems to become softer as Beckett's gains an edge, as if in deliberate contrast.]

Beckett...it's all right, to feel that way. Many people resent living from time to time - so long as we find reasons to live anyway. I'm glad to hear you have.

Tell me about this Anatole. A friend?

[One man to another. Of course it is. And Beckett wearily wonders why he'd even asked the question. Enoch means his words as comfort. So many things should be a comfort. So many things.]

The memory of Anatole is sand through his fingers. Not for him. He grasps at it nonetheless.]

More than a friend. [His voice is very quiet.] A brother in the search. My guide, for as long as I have been - myself. He'd been speaking of the end for as long as I've known him. And somehow, in three hundred years of friendship, I haven't managed to actually listen.

Edited 2016-08-17 13:48 (UTC)

"The end"?

[Humanity in his day and age was a little too young to think beyond the scope of its own life often enough it became the go-to interpretation of "the end". Philosophy would have to wait while quality of life was striven for.]

Of...what, if I may ask? Your search?

[And there they are, to the thing itself. Sometimes Beckett forgets that the only people who know are himself and the few, the oh so few that he's told. Two, three people maybe? In all of Norfinbury. In all the world as it is. It's almost impossible to grasp, that it could have happened, and but for him, no one would know.

But he is the chronicler. Haurchefant had even suggested as much, that that is why he still lives. When the question is asked, he answers, even if every return to it costs.]

Of - everything. You don't have the concept - the idea of the end times? God's day of judgement - no, of course you don't.

[Not Enoch. Despite what the book might have said.]

We call it Gehenna. The prophesied end of all things. The destruction of all Kindred... and perhaps of all humanity and the world with us. It certainly seemed to be heading that way. Anatole always knew. And I always doubted.

[...He's not sure he likes this theme of God bringing destruction on humanity. That's the sort of thing that would need precedent. Does it mean he ultimately fails? Was Semyaza having only apparently died not good enough? They had Baraqel's special Nephilim to prove he'd been eaten. They had a shrine to Arakiel to prove he'd died. But for Semyaza? Just an empty life support system.]

I would doubt, too.

[And yet, here Beckett is, speaking in past tense. Anatole always knew... Suddenly, he's very audibly unnerved.]

Oh, you would. [Possibly it's the lingering effect of the Vicodin that makes Beckett fall back to that sardonic tone. Possibly it's the gnawing envy.]

Free will? The vast potential of humanity? Or God's assured forgiveness? Wait - you didn't even need His forgiveness. [His voice sharpens on that. And then drops off. It occurs to him that he is not doing honour to Anatole's memory, talking like this to anyone, much less Enoch. Not that Anatole had been a great believer in forgiveness, towards the end. Or maybe that was just how he'd twisted his friend's teachings to suit where his own path had led?]

I should have listened to him. Forget faith. I should have listened to him for his own sake.

...He was right. He was right, and for you it has happened.

[It's an observation full of gravity, his soft tone waning a little softer, almost hesitant to say the words, but these tablets have some powerful microphones, and it picks up his voice clear enough to be heard.]

[It doesn't get easier. It will never get easier. He's told any number of people - even near-strangers - that he has no home to return to, but that is nothing like talking about the end itself. The way Enoch talks, himself, makes it harder for him to keep any kind of distance from it. Everything that the end has meant opens to him again, like a gulping abyss.]

You say that God casts no soul away, not even the worst. But my kind were judged, and all of us are damned.

[There have been other people who have personally or by proxy met their own world's God in Norfinbury. And they said something similar. He is certain it is a difference between worlds. Therefore, there's only one solution, and he offers it without hesitation:]

You may not be human, but you are God's creation nonetheless. When we find a way out, come with me if you can. I will find a place for you.

Edited (Phrasing. Do not tag past midnight, self.) 2016-09-27 07:47 (UTC)

Snowblind Inbox

IMSOSORRY thanks for the heads up!

Don't worry about it!

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