repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (62)
Credence Barebone ([personal profile] repressings) wrote in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs2017-02-15 06:27 pm

Angels causing accidents;

WHO: Credence Barebone
WHERE: The edge of the village, the inn
WHEN: 2/15
OPEN TO: OTA with a closed section for Graves
WARNINGS: severe injury via explodey lightning, mentions of Credence's history re: blacking out, talk of severe abuse in the threat with Rory
STATUS: (Is it open to new threads?)



ɪ. ɢʀᴀᴠᴇs ⇼ ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ;
It's a strange sort of dance, pushing and pulling. Credence doesn't trust Graves, even if the man holds all of the answers. He hasn't lorded it from him, not yet, but he's waiting. It's a matter of time, he thinks, before Graves pulls the carpet out from under him. Soon, he will somehow turn into that blonde man, and soon, it will be too late and Credence will have to do what he wishes.

Now, though, it's peaceful. It's odd, but in the same way that the fact that speakeasies are illegal and yet there are thousands of them where he's from. A strange sort of familiar type of peculiar that lets Credence feel somewhat balanced. Despite everything, he finds the village peaceful. He finds the place safe.

Even though he should be more wary of Mr. Graves--and he is, extremely--he's walking along with him. Walks, Credence had explained to the older man softly, are the best thing to do around the village perimeters, so long as you had a knife. They clear the mind and you can either think about things or not think about anything at all.

"And Mr. Graves, if you'll let me be a little bold," he had inquired, "I think maybe if you had a walk without a purpose, you might feel better." That's how the both of them are near the village outskirts, Credence bundled in his peacoat and scarf and his wool gloves. He's relinquished his extra pair, made of fine fur, over to the older man in order to keep him warm.

They talk. It's quiet, and almost like more of their games in the evening. A question for an answer, and an answer for a question. Credence has learned that this is the best way to get information, and he's quite pleased that it's moving forward so quickly.

"If you can perform magic without a wand, then why do you need one?" He asks, and it's as he turns his head to actually look at Graves that it happens. White, hot light, and then a blazing heat surges down his spine, causing every part of his body to stiffen and spasm before he immediately drops to the ground. He doesn't know what happened.

Credence, struck by lightning, falls unconscious and stops breathing.


ɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟ;
He wakes up with a jolt. Panic claws through him, and there's that scratching, whispering, hissing voice in the back of his head that all but confirms his initial thought: he'd passed out again.

This time, he doesn't wake up in the subway, or in his bed at NSPS headquarters--this time, it's in the inn, sides bandaged and eyes wide. A hand immediately holds his injured side--burn marks, perhaps--and he whimpers from the unexpected pain.

"I did it again," he manages, trembling. His throat is sore, hoarse, and he has no idea how long he's been out. Hours? Days? His dark eyes scan the room, wildly, and settle on whoever is there, be it passing the hallway while the door's open or sitting in the room with him:

"Is everyone safe?"


ɪɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ Fᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀsᴄᴇɴsɪᴏɴs ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴘᴀᴄᴇ;
Credence will be recovering for a while, not just on the 15th. When he can make it upright, he'll be in the inn, closest to the fire and writing everything he can in his journal. He may even be staring at whomever's closest to him, friend or stranger, lost in thought.
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (17)

[personal profile] mund 2017-02-25 04:39 pm (UTC)(link)
Graves is patient, waiting for him to collect himself. He doesn't need Credence to force himself into a position he's uncomfortable with, and when he finally settles in -- albeit looking a little more defeated than before (Graves doesn't see why; he'd just survived being struck by lightning, which can be considered a near-miracle).

"I'm fine." Some very minor burns; it's nothing he can't take care of himself. And as for the tiredness, it doesn't matter. Graves will get over it soon enough, and Credence's gratitude is acknowledged with a faint nod. He had been concerned, worried -- beyond his abilities as an Obscurial, he is also someone MACUSA had failed, someone they were supposed to look out for. And while Graves doesn't personally take on the blame (it's a slippery slope, and you just can't save everyone), he takes responsibility for him here.

"Your heart stopped, for a little while. I managed to bring you back. Does it still hurt?"
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (29)

[personal profile] mund 2017-03-03 03:15 am (UTC)(link)
What a question to ask.

Then again, Credence has always been sharper than anyone gives him credit for -- it's the gift of the quiet ones, he thinks; they see more than you know. Graves studies him briefly, the pallor from the other evening that's lifted from his cheeks, and although he can't quite gauge Credence's threshold for pain just by looking at him, he's seen the severity of his condition firsthand, and even if he's helped ameliorate the effects of the lightning strike, he still must be in some degree of pain.

He doesn't look away, meeting his gaze squarely. Honesty is the name of the game here; Grindelwald has broken trust with this young man, this Obscurial in the name of personal gain and vanity using his face, and Graves will not do the same.

Mark this: this is how they differ.

"Both." He says simply. "I'm not accustomed to standing by and watching another wizard die." A beat. "There are people who believe that the community might be better served with your death. I disagree."
mund: (14)

[personal profile] mund 2017-03-08 01:32 am (UTC)(link)
"The President. You've met her."

It stands to reason that she's the only one who would do that, the one person above him who commands the Aurors as well. He gleans what little he can from what Credence offers, and realizes that it's no surprise how he's distrustful; they tried to kill him.

Not that he can blame her for that; her first and foremost duty is to her people, by preserving peace using all means necessary. They have always done this, within the inner workings of their government -- you get nothing without sacrifice, and while Graves doesn't believe in Grindelwald's madness, he's not naive.

This won't go over well with Credence.

He doesn't look away from him. "You must have posed a grave threat to the city." He's heard of how Obscurii work, even if he's never witnessed them himself -- they cause untold damage, hurt people because they've been hurt themselves. Graves wonders at how powerful he must be, that the President herself had come to give the orders.

Does she know about him, that there's a viper in the nest?

"The President is charged with keeping lives of wizardkind safe." He continues, meeting his eyes but leaning forward, just a little. All his life he has met evil head on, neutralized and exterminated all kinds of threats -- but never before had one of them been Credence; a young man dealt with such a lousy hand at life, who is more victim than villain. He is owed another chance.

"But I am truly sorry that it has come to this. You were a victim, as well." A beat. "Ours is a community shaped by fear, and violence. We are hunted down, hated. A little like you." Except they were afraid of him as well.

"I would like to help you."
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (19)

[personal profile] mund 2017-03-10 05:40 pm (UTC)(link)
"By teaching you all about magic. About who we are." Graves is quiet for a moment, regarding him thoughtfully. The gears are obviously working in his mind, as if Credence is a puzzle he has yet to solve. The look in his eyes is assessing but not sly, a subtle difference in the way Graves catalogs and how Grindelwald prepares to pounce.

"I've never taught an Obscurial magic before. Certainly not one your age." But the magic is there, latent, locked away, and if the Obscurus is present, thrumming under Credence's skin, still, then the potential to produce magic is still there. The energy doesn't go away, not really -- at least until it consumes its host whole.

But what if, what if he can somehow unwind the coil of that repression? What if they can reverse the process? Just because it hasn't been done doesn't mean it's impossible, and Graves is very aware of the daunting road ahead, especially without a wand. Credence is curious now, despite the distrust, and Graves takes care not to burn that bridge.

"It will take a lot of hard work, and plenty of time. Any projection of potential result is unclear to me, but what I know is this: you are very powerful. Strong. No Obscurial has lived to your age -- but strength is nothing without the knowledge to guide it."
mund: (13)

[personal profile] mund 2017-03-19 03:46 am (UTC)(link)
Graves intends for it to. He's playing the long game -- no lies, the truth up front and center. This is how they must work, if Credence is to trust him. Graves sees a ticking time bomb, more for Credence's own sake than others, a great affinity and gift for magic turned inward, breeding an Obscurus that has latched on. That it hasn't taken his life yet is its own form of magic, speaking to Credence's abilities, but it won't last forever.

"Obscurials don't typically live past the age of ten because of the parasite they carry." Or so he's read from the countless reports. "That you are 22 is unprecedented. Exceptional." He's quiet a moment. "I take it that's why Grindelwald had his eye on you. Tell me, how much damage did you do?"
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (Default)

[personal profile] mund 2017-03-23 03:39 pm (UTC)(link)
Why start now, indeed.

"No one knows." Graves says after a moment. There are a whole score of competing theories, each one as likely as another -- but the truth is that no one will really know. But the truth is this, there is no Obscurial who doesn't carry more than their fair share of tragedy, of pain and fear and a hate turned inwards. "Some say it's because the Obscurus itself becomes too overwhelming for them to withstand, and it continuously saps at their life force. Others, that the Obscurial simply didn't want to continue living anymore."

He leans forward, just a little, mindful to keep the space between them. Graves doesn't break his gaze, careful and deliberate. "Obscurials have not been seen on American soil in over two hundred years. We have never had the chance to understand more about them." A beat. "But all of them are tragic figures. Bullied and forced to keep their magic a secret from a young age; ashamed and fearful of the gifts they were born with."

Graves is quiet, contemplating him for a long moment. "Do you remember any incident at all, where you could do magic?"
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (18)

[personal profile] mund 2017-03-29 02:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Graves has seen many things in his line of work -- in the number of years he'd been immersed in it. Terrible, wonderful, bittersweet, the awful to the mundane, and Credence is right in the middle of all of it. He can see the way the truth sinks in, an undeniable presence that wedges its way into his mind and makes its home, forcing all others to accommodate the sheer presence of it, the fact that Credence Barebone is something else entirely, something unknown and a near perfect mortality rate.

Then again, everyone dies -- all in all it's just a matter of how, and when. He studies the play of emotion on the young man's face, the set of his strong jaw, the glitter of determination in those dark eyes, the set of his generous mouth. But then something else creeps in like a shadow, an uncertainty that corrodes, and Graves can almost see the turn of his thoughts, the inevitable decline towards the familiar.

"Yes." He says finally, his words even. He could be talking about the weather, for all the inflection his voice holds. "I assume you have been isolated. No friends, even though you're legally an adult. Your adopted mother has kept you under her thumb for years." A beat. "And there it is, something shaped like your salvation. Your shield when for so many years you've had none."

It's not difficult to divine the seductive nature of power, especially for someone this isolated, this lonely. Graves can see it in his eyes -- and even if he had not been there; he's more than half sure that this is precisely how Grindelwald seduced him.

Are they talking about the Obscurus now, or Grindelwald? Nobody knows.
mund: (14)

[personal profile] mund 2017-04-08 05:50 am (UTC)(link)
Even now, he sometimes sees the other man in him. Credence doesn't need to finish the sentence for Graves to be aware of what he means, and the young man proves to be much more empathetic and perceptive than he lets on -- the observation of which sets Graves on edge, even if he displays none of it.

Credence is right, of course -- all that he's done is taken away, stolen by a dark wizard that Graves will give anything to execute if he ever sees him. It's a little more unpleasant when the focus is turned back on him, he prefers to set himself in the shadows, whatever he feels on the matter secondary to what he sets out to achieve. But then again, what is there to achieve in a place like this, save for a way out and back home, and forging a way forward for Credence?

The Obscurial is a threat, but he's not so much of one right now -- when he's only human, despite the extended lifespan, so very young still. He picks up on his nervousness, the innate compassion that Mary Lou hasn't actually managed to beat out of him, and he wonders just what kind of young man he would have grown up to be if his path hasn't crossed with hers.

Then again, these thoughts are foolish: here is where they are now, and here is Credence, hurt but healing and still thinking of someone else. There is a common bond now, strange and new -- the two of them who should have known better and yet, left with nothing in the wake of Grindelwald's destruction.

"I'll be fine." He says simply. What is he without his work, his purppose? He's still trying to find that out. "What did he promise you?"
mund: (31)

[personal profile] mund 2017-04-10 03:28 pm (UTC)(link)
Graves is quiet for a moment, his expression a careful, implacable mask of schooled neutrality. Credence speaks the truth, of course -- his assessment of Graves' state of mind touches more raw nerves than he cares to admit, and he supposes the adage is true: when you look into someone, that person looks right back at you.

He contemplates that one desire -- the promise that he'd belong, this outcast of society who had been on the fringes all his life, and yet has somehow managed to cultivate in himself an odd gentleness, a compassion underneath tricky defense mechanisms that he finds himself surprised all over again.

"Looks like you're fitting in well here." He says instead, but the boundary is set -- this is where Credence cannot cross. He shifts, reaching for the bandages. "It's time for a change pf dressing. Let me take a look."
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (Default)

[personal profile] mund 2017-04-20 04:41 pm (UTC)(link)
Credence is safe. He's not admonished, but Graves will not allow him past the boundary he's set. It's obvious he understands, from the way he bows in quiet acquiescence, polite and thoughtful despite his evidently callous upbringing. Or perhaps it's a product of that very upbringing itself.

Either way, it intrigues more than it should. Credence is special, of this there is no doubt -- he is dangerous and powerful, but in moments like these Graves sees so much more to him. The young man has an uncanny knack of seeing into people, reading them -- a gift honed from years on the outside looking in.

Now, however, he's right here on the inside, and Graves watches as Credence retreats into himself, anxious, and he effortlessly conjures up fresh new dressings out of thin air (at least some aspects of his magic is working), swirling into his hand and wrapping itself into a neat little roll. Credence says he would like to try to do it himself, and Graves senses why.

He's seen the scars that have nothing to do with the lightning when he undressed, dressed him and got him comfortable -- his body is not ugly, every scar tells a story, reveals to Graves the depths of his resilience, the truth of his continued survival under a loveless, unforgiving woman.

They both find their own ways to continue surviving, and Credence's self-loathing does not go unnoticed.

"I've already seen your scars." He says to him, quiet and even. It's not possible for Credence to re-dress with fresh bandages all on his own, but Graves doesn't mention it, not in so many words -- after all, there are so many ways to get to the point. "My apologies." Because emergency or not, it had been an invasion of privacy, and Graves is very aware of what it means; how this had been Credence's secret. "I had to check you for injuries."
mund: (38)

[personal profile] mund 2017-04-22 05:01 pm (UTC)(link)
Credence is not wrong -- that is a unique kind of manipulation too, isn't it? Graves is aware of the wonder in Credence's eyes, the excitement and delight; displacing the pain from his wounds temporarily, it seems, but it's short-lived when he senses the discomfort, as if Graves has intruded into a secret that Credence jealously guards, one that is only for himself.

He understands the feeling.

"Easy." He says quietly, taking care to help him with it. Graves is gentle, focused, peeling the bandages off slowly to prevent any more discomfort. Graves can do more -- if he had been at full power, the wounds wouldn't have been too much of a problem, but there's no crying over spilled milk now. His attention, at the moment, is centered on how Credence is shaking, the curious tremble in his fingers, but he doesn't say a word. He patiently waits, assists, until all his bandages are in a pile, now filthy.

He sets the clean roll of bandages between them, gesturing briefly, but not making a move until Credence permits. "May I?"
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (16)

[personal profile] mund 2017-04-28 02:38 am (UTC)(link)
He knows it hurts -- he can see it in the way Credence grimaces and struggles to hold it in. Burns are different than lashes, the pain doesn't cut nearly as deep but it hurts much more than that. Graves takes it slow even if he's firm and deliberate, his only concession to softness is the way he knits together a wordless spell to take the edge off the pain, healing magic seeping into his skin where his hand passes, cool and clean and nothing like the cloying warmth of Grindelwald's attempt.

More of the flesh begin to heal up just a little more, open wounds slowly closing up, becoming smaller. Graves is still exhausted, but he does this for him all the same, wordless and conscientious. Credence is well-behaved, quiet and pliant, and he knows that he's fighting to be brave. He knows the look so well, and Credence is a young man quite incapable of keeping his feelings locked away if you know where to look. The village has done him good, and the fact that they're so close together now doesn't escape him.

He takes care not to make it hurt more than it has to, and he looks up when he apologises.

"There's no need to be sorry." Firm, but gentle. "This is not your fault."

But protracted silence, he supposes, will only make one dwell on that snippet of a thought during the treatment, so it's only a few moments after that Graves speaks up again, low and even. "You're fortunate it was only the lightning and not a dragon that got you. Some of them can have a terribly nasty temper."

Yes, dragons. Dragons exist in their world.

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