Gwynek (prime)/Toll for Thee
On the whole, he was thankful for the company - though he reckoned himself a poor companion more like than not. He tried to make small talk, smile with socially appropriate levels of sincerity or irony, and be no more strange than the situation demanded - though considering everything, the prevailing circumstances provided significant latitude for strangeness. Still, he hadn’t so many acquaintances of friendly disposition that he could afford unfiltered candor. He wondered, not for the first time, as he meandered the halls of the museum - rain-sodden boots squelching faintly and unpleasantly now and then - if being with others had always been such a tricky thing. He remembered it coming easier to him some years ago. But that’s memory for you, always selling a false bill of goods, making it so the easiest lies to believe are the ones we tell ourselves.
Gwynek admired Lissaya’s courage. Expressing frustration and vulnerability to a near stranger always presented risk - and the atmosphere of gloom and mania only heightened the danger. He spared a glance in her direction - neither subtle nor obvious. She seemed a well put-together sort in style and disposition, likely better educated than he - or at least a more adept study of the histories than he ever was. Spirits - he could only imagine what it would have been like had he reached out first. “Dear so and so, I am might be losing my mind over a vase. Are you also losing your mind? Let’s meet, eat cheese, and be mad. Maybe we will know something.”
He winced and returned his gaze to the various artefacts - examples of pottery many times his age, with neatly scribed plaques detailing their significance. The details, he found, were difficult to care about, at least those details. He sought patterns like those from his dreams or visions. Eyes flitting from one thing to the next, Gwynek noticed nothing new - no thread of insight, or pluck of kenning - just more stuff he didn’t know what to do with. He turned in Lissaya’s direction as he heard the tolling of bells in the distance, likely signaling the middle of the day, or the afternoon, or neither, but still presenting itself as a good excuse to wrap things up and compare notes.
The Bells tolled. Louder, closer.
She seemed transfixed or frozen in place, leaning against a wall with her back to him. Her limbs trembled as she gasped and choked for air.
The Bells Tolled. Louder, closer. He couldn’t hear his voice above the tolling. Gwynek shook his head, called out her name, but his voice was lost in the cacophonous din.
THE BELLS tolled. Closer. Louder.
The ground trembled beneath his feet, forcing his step wide to balance himself. Lissaya was still against the wall. How could she not hear it? Not hear him? It deafened.
THE BELLS TOLLED.
Singular, painful - a prison of sound. Gwynek screwed his eyes shut, ground his teeth. Did he taste blood? Did he bite his tongue?
THE BELLS.
He felt wet on his face. The sea. His tears. The rain. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything but the sound of it. Consumate. Roaring. Unrelenting.
BELLS.
An eternity lingered in the moment. Magnitudes of agony and panic. Above malice or cruelty, there it peeled, nearly perfect in its torment. And then it was gone. The blood rushed in Gwynek’s head. His breath came ragged, hands pressed to his ears with alarming force. Streaks of tears drying on his face as he opened his eyes to see Lissaya glancing about nervously.