riverviewlogs | What Nightmares May Come

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What Nightmares May Come

Who: Ronan and open
What: Ronan brings back a bleeding flower from his dreams. Ronan tries to cover the evidence. Ronan is so in over his head.
Where: In or near communal housing first floor
When: Wednesday Morning, 3AM
Warnings: Brief description of a mutilated corpse, a bleeding flower, and Ronan being the traumatized joy that he is.
~~Why~~Notes: Prose preference but can answer back in brackets. You can grab him anywhere from inside the shared floor to just outside it while he figures out what to do with a magic bleeding flower.

Ronan dreamed of his mother.

He did everything he could not to. He tried sleeping pills (didn't work and made him hallucinate). He tried drinking (honestly, he already knew it wouldn't work and just wanted to get drunk). He tried working himself to exhaustion (didn't work and he woke the next day to fully body aches that lasted longer than the hangover).

In the end, it all came back to Aurora Lynch. He'd loved her beautiful golden hair. He'd loved it so much that when he dreamed his brother, he gave it to him. And in these dreams, he wished he could say it was he noticed first but he couldn't give it that honor. That went to the blood, the glimpses of crushed bone, the crunch of a vertebrae beneath his hand.

No, Ronan didn't dream of his mother. He dreamed of what used to be his mother. Then, he'd touched her broken body out of instinct. He did the same now, replaying the moment in this dream.

"Mom?"

His thoughts went back to the first object he'd brought back-- the first he remembered, in any case-- a flower. Something living to banish this from his mind. But it twisted, as it always did, and the stalks burst through his mother's corpse. Petals bloomed, their beauty tainted by spirals of blood.

Ronan woke. He stared down at himself, an invisible presence hovering over his body. He couldn't move but he felt the flowers in his hands. Worse, he saw that they weren't just covered in blood; they were bleeding.

Shit.

It felt a century before he returned to his body and only a half century extra before he could move his pinky. Then he jolted out of bed. Blood trickled down his fingers.

Jesus, why couldn't he dream of daffodils?

Ronan could be quiet if he needed to. Counting on that skill to overcome his rattled nerves and tremor in his hand, he slipped out of bed. Time to dispose of the evidence.

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"A great many things," Ivar replied dryly. It's true that there was something just inherently wrong with the young Viking warrior, something off-kilter even among his own people. Just what that was, he'd never been able to figure out. He only knew that the way he reacted to things wasn't the same way everyone else did.

Ronan should have never told him the truth to begin with. Vikings were naturally a superstitious lot, more prone to believing in fantastical stories than other cultures like the English or the Franks. If he said it came from a nightmare, then it had to be so.

"I've tasted blood often enough during sacrifices to know the difference. Humans taste more metallic then animals." Vikings had demanded human sacrifice on occasion to please the gods. It was a great honor to die for them and Ivar saw nothing wrong with it.

Wow. And people joked that Catholics were cannibals. At least Ronan waited for transubstantiation. He knew pagans, or well psychics and tree people, and he wasn't against sacrifice as a rule. But human sacrifice? Not something he had good experiences with.

"Tell me this is one fucked up joke or I'm not the one who's getting interrogated." As he spoke, his flower continued to drip blood onto the floor and, since he'd rushed out without shoes, his foot. But he didn't notice it because the more he looked at Ivar, the more certain he became. "Christ, you're not kidding. What are you?"

That was something that had been asked of him as well, only with the word creature inserted.

Ivar sat up a little bit straighter when Ronan asked just what he was, tossing his head back in a proud motion. "A Viking warrior." At least that explained the stark difference between the culture he had come from and the one he'd ended up in here. Vikings were different than anyone who had come before and any culture that would come after them.

His blue-on-blue eyes burned bright into Ronan's. "I might ask you the same question. What kind of man can make dreams into a reality?" The gods of his world could grant strange and magnificent powers. He'd seen even more since coming here, even among his roommates.

That answer actually helped, if not the demand that went along with it. Vikings? Ronan got. Well, he got the Welsh and Irish better but the Vikings were more than a little involved with both. He didn't approve of human sacrifices but it was a different time, different religion. Shit happened. That excused some, but not all of it. Tasting blood from his dream somehow felt like a violation.

Ronan didn't relax, but his shoulders were no longer wound quite as tight. The wild look diminished into one of cold anger.

"Next time lead with 'Viking warrior' and not sacrifices. You'll sound les like a crazy serial killer." Not that he was ruling it out, given the look in Ivar's eyes.

Fine. He wasn't going to be able to explain his way out of this one, not when he was dealing with a viking who was probably both superstitious and badass.

"When I figure out what I am, I'll let you know. I dream. Sometimes I bring shit back. If it's a blessing or curse, no one told me."

"How was I supposed to know that you people don't sacrifice?" He shrugged broadly. His culture was all he really knew about the world. Ivar was raised by a particularly xenophobic pair of Vikings, taught that anything different wasn't to be trusted. Only the Norse gods were the true gods and only they held the true path to immortality.

At the mention of being a killer, Ivar smiled. Under different circumstances, it might have been charming, but currently, it ranged more into the creepy territory. "What makes you think I'm not?" By modern standards, he already would have been one. Even among his own people, Ivar's bloodthirstiness and willingness to kill his enemies had earned him a reputation as a cruel man.

Someone from the modern era might have questioned Ronan's claims or dismissed him as being crazy. But Ivar had been raised to believe in impossible things and he was very superstitious. Plus, the proof was in the bloody flower right in front of him. "Perhaps it is both. The gods deal out gifts with both the right and the left hands."

"You see many Vikings around here?" Though maybe Ronan had taken it as too much of a given that there wouldn't be people who went around sacrificing people to heathen gods. "Stick with cows here." He paused, then quickly added "and ask first." He'd hate for his cows to get gutted.

Somehow, Ronan was coming back to himself more. The edge of panic faded more and more from his voice, replaced by the sharp bite it usually carried. It helped that he could date Ivar back in time, especially since Ronan had dealt with history less as a hobby and more as a favor for a friend with a hobby. But more than that, it helped to have distance in time from his nightmare and in thoughts. Say what you would about the creepy factor, but Ivar's stare was an excellent distraction.

Unfortunately, he'd already dealt with hitmen before. Serial killers were a step above, but the guy was in a wheelchair.

Ronan tilted his head back a fraction. He wasn't without his own intimidation skills. Even if it wouldn't work on Ivar, Ronan figured it wouldn't hurt. His grin was all teeth. "Never said I thought you weren't one."

Ronan's hands were drenched in blood by now. It wasn't a good look on him, but it was fitting for someone like him.

"I only believe in one God, but I'd buy it from Him. He is a 'vengeful' one." Ronan believed that quote from scripture more than the forgiving verses at the moment. "Probably on me for skipping communion."

Then, with barely a breath between words, he changed subjects. "Now that we've settled I'm not a crazy murderer like you, I need to get rid of this damn thing. I don't care if you come with me or not."

Just be glad he hadn't decided to broadcast a sacrifice live on the network. He was aware enough of the differences between himself and other people to have at least something approaching in the way of discretion. At least when it wasn't the dead of the night when he was tasting dream blood.

"Then you're right in that line of thinking." Ivar had killed more people than any normal modern day sixteen year old ever should have done, but times were different where he was from. It was a kill or be killed world and he was trying to survive in the middle of a war. Granted, he was only in a war because he'd wanted to cause one for revenge, but the thought process still stood.

"You worship the Christian one?" Ivar snorts. He'd always thought that He sounded like a far worse choice than any of the Norse gods, but his mind had been tainted by teachings from the time he was young. "Figures. Of course he'd give such a gift to one of his followers."

Ivar shifts around in his chair and releases the hand brake. "You're stuck with me now. I find you interesting." This was definitely not a good thing. Ivar's psychopathy had left him unable to feel much for most people emotionally. People were less real to him than they were to others, little more than characters in a story. Finding them interesting was as close as he got to connecting with them on a real level.

Ronan wasn't exactly a devout Catholic. He skipped Church if his younger brother was a no show, drank, enjoyed fistfights, hung out with pagans, and had a boyfriend. That said, he bristled at Ivar's dismissal of Ronan's choice in gods.

Yeah, so God gave him a shitty deal, but Ronan didn't see how Ivar had room to talk either.

His lip curled. "How are yours working out for you?" He didn't point out the obvious, that as it was Ronan towered over Ivar precisely because the guy was paralyzed. Or lame. Whatever it was he had going on. Ronan was not enough of an asshole to state that outright-- yet. Besides, he had things to do.

Ronan was just going to go dump his flower... somewhere. However determined Ivar was to creep him out, successful or not, Ronan was still just fine turning his back on him.

"Most sane people find me terrifying," he said because there was no refuting Ivar's assessment and Ronan didn't lie. Granted, terrifying was more exaggeration than truth, it was at least rooted in fact given the reaction of his former classmates' mothers and others giving him a wide berth. "And the rest stick around until I piss them off. We'll see how long you last." It was clear from his dry tone that he believed the answer to be not long. Or maybe just hoped it was.

Had he been just a shade more insulting, Ivar likely would have slugged Ronan for that question. There was only ever one thing people used when they went for a low blow regarding him.

Ivar knew he'd gotten the short end of the stick when it came to life. A prophecy made before he was born and fate given by the gods had conspired against him. "At least mine don't make any delusions about being kind or good. I know exactly what they are. They're not so lofty as to pretend to be so above mortal men."

He wheeled himself next to Ronan as he went wherever he was going to dispose the flower to. He seemed decidedly nonplussed at what he saw as Ronan's attempt to get rid of him. "Most people think the same things about me." It would take a lot more than Ronan's surliness and weird powers to scare him off. He was a tough son of a bitch, even more so than the average Viking.

Ronan didn't have much of a plan where he was going. He finally had the presence of mind to take off his shirt and use it to wipe most of the blood off his hands and then wrap around the flower. It wouldn't cut off the flow, but it was better than nothing. He ended up heading outside. Maybe if he just dumped it in the garbage, then waited Ivar out and went back for it...

Now armed with a rudimentary, if crappy, plan, Ronan responded to Ivar. "No shit."

He didn't believe for a second this attempt at bonding was genuine, even if he kind of wanted to. Just like he wanted to have something like Ivar must with his own God. How much easier easier would it be blame a fallible, immortal when things went wrong? He felt a sick jealousy at the thought of being able to hate a god just as much as they hated you. He picked up his pace as it he could distance himself from that thought as well as Ivar.

Ronan knew he wouldn't lose either, but he didn't make it easy for Ivar. He kept his pace as fast as he dared with slippery feet. He knew Ivar could keep up anyway.

"Do you they think you're giving them the evil eye with that look? Is that a thing with you Vikings?" His tone was, as ever, hostile. But that was just how Ronan was.

Ivar watched as Ronan took off his shirt, leaving him bare-chested. Something twitched inside Ivar's mind at the sight, something he couldn't quite place. He dismissed the thought before it could even fully form, blaming it on the late hour and the strangeness of the conversation.

He kept up the pace easily. He'd found it was much smoother keeping up with people here now that he had a wheelchair instead of just crawling around. He didn't give much more thought to the thought of the gods. He was secure in his own thoughts. Sure, he'd ended up crippled, but that was life. The rest of it would only be what he made of it.

"Couldn't tell you. That's just how I look." His strange eyes, icy blue irises with pale blue sclera that should have been white, marked his brittle bone disease. It certainly made him stand out whenever he gave someone one of his penetrating looks, the way he was doing to Ronan right now.

With his back to Ivar, Ronan's tattoo should have been visible. But in the dark, his entire back just looked like a jumbled mess of black. The ravens, trees, and a myriad of other shapes just weren't distinct enough. The lighting was enough to make out only hints of it. Unlike Ivar's eyes, they didn't shine.

Against Ronan's best efforts, he felt something like sympathy for this guy. At least growing up, Ronan hadn't looked different. Acted different? Yeah. But he had the opportunity to make a good first impression. It was his choice to waste it. Not that Ivar was doing a good job at putting Ronan at ease with what opportunities he did have. Sympathy or not, the jury in Ronan's mind still wasn't leaning toward a favorable verdict.

"Yeah, that'd throw people off." He turned his head so it was in profile to Ivar and pointed two fingers at his own eyes. "It's cool you don't need contacts for that." Oh right, Viking. "Those are things you put in your eye. They can change its color or make you see better, if your eyesight's shit."

Ivar could see only a little of the tattoo covering Ronan's back. It was extensive, much bigger than the tattoos he was used to seeing on other Vikings. He wondered what it would look like on the light of day. Night tended to hide people, but as proven by that bleeding flower, it could also reveal a lot about them.

Sticking things in someone's eye just sounded painful, so he'd have to take Ronan's word for it. "I got them from my father." Ragnar had the same icy blue shade as his son, something people had definitely first noticed about him, since he wasn't a very physically tall man. "He's dead now." It was all Ivar had to remember him by. His eyes and the few precious memories that he'd been able to form.

He wondered if Ronan was able to sympathize. It was hard to see past the prickly exterior. But then Ivar himself was known for using his anger and the chip on his shoulder to keep people at arm's length. It was easier not to get hurt that way.

Ronan looked away quickly so all that was visible of head was its back. His shoulders went tense and he exhaled, as one would after taking a drag on a cigarette, though Ronan had never indulged.

"Mine too," he said in a detached tone.

His eyes weren't ice blue like Ivar's. There was no abnormality. But they were blue and, like Niall Lynch's, they burned. The last time Ronan had seen his father's eyes, they were probably spattered on the floor with the rest of his face.

Why didn't he dream of that anymore?

"What a fucked up pair of orphans we are." This time when he spoke it was darker, a cross between bitter and sneering at his own self-pity, as if his own disdain for the emotiona made it any more acceptable.

Ronan carried himself like a coiled wire that had been stretched too tight. Ivar wondered what would happen if it ever snapped. The mention of orphans by him got Ivar to snicker. "Well said." Ivar had never allowed himself to wallow in grief. Anger is what had sustained him all his life, so he'd merely turned the slow-burning feeling towards making things right.

"Someday, I'm going back home, and getting my revenge on their murderers." England first, to deal with the king that had supposedly been his father's friend, only to stab him in the back. Then back home to Kattegat to take care of Lagertha, his father Ragnar's first wife, who had shot his mother dead just for ambition.

Ronan reached the door to outside. He paused, both to try and determine if someone was outside and to collect his thoughts. The more awake he got, the more aware of how fucked up this plan was and, consequently, how fucked over he was. But he had thoughts of revenge to comfort himself in, ugly as the process had been.

"If people tell you it's overrated? Don't believe them." Ronan wiped his hands on his pants again, trying to get the last of the blood off before opening the door. The night's chill didn't hurt but it hit his overexposed body hard enough that he shivered.

"Never did believe it. Getting revenge on one of my father's murderers was one of the most satisfying moments of my entire life." He felt the gust of air as Ronan opened up the door, but it didn't seem to affect him. Norway had six months of winter out of the year.

He didn't follow Ronan outside. Frankly, Ivar wasn't sure he wanted to know what Ronan was going to have to do to dispose of such a flower. This had been one of the strangest nights the Viking had ever experienced. As he went back up to the fifth floor, the one thing he kept remembering was the way Ronan's back had looked, muscles all tensed up and with a tattoo that he couldn't quite decipher.

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What Nightmares May Come

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