["Olivette? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." The familiar drawl saunters out of the shadows, suit still crisp and clean, his usual resting glance of annoyance on his face. He studies Dahlia on the throne and raises an eyebrow. "I believe that's my seat."
Because why torment his mother when he could ignore her instead. That is a torment in and of itself.
Freya raises an eyebrow before glancing back to Rowena. Should they be concerned?]
( Why wouldn't it be Fergus. Her son. The former king of Hell himself.
"Why is everybody so preoccupied with leading a hellscape full of immoral black eyed liabilities," Dahlia asks, leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand.
Rowena doesn't seem fazed. Dismissing her son as he dismisses her. )
He's nothing to be concerned about. A dead son should be more concerned about his mother than a throne made of stone. I wanted it redecorated, you see. ( She turns to Freya. ) Hell's always been one style.
[Crowley raises an eyebrow, before leaning forward to meet her challenge. "Well, I think you of all people knows how power works. Power is power, even if it means you're surrounded by morons."
Freya's face softens to a small mote of sympathy. She does know a little something about dead sons, even if she never got the chance to hold hers. But she lets that slide and turns her attention back to the rest of the room.]
There's no accounting for taste, I suppose. People should redecorate every so often. Keeps things interesting.
And styles evolve. Though, some remain classic. ( Like her Grecian inspired gown. She even drops her arms to indicate it. Look at her.
Dhalia doesn't move from the throne. "Power is about what you take. Power isn't given. Only a fool believes power will stay with them without countermeasures. Loyalty is a lie, Crowley. Rowena. Freya." Finally, she addresses her niece. "It's good to see you, darling.")
["Found some worth promoting then? One would think that the idiots I remember weren't worth delegating to."
Which is the real struggle, in his experience. Most of them couldn't find their ass with both hands, and those that actually show initiative before getting tossed back to Hell again by morons like the Winchesters.]
Well, I don't rule with an iron fist. It isn't my way or oblivion. It takes a more delicate hand.
( The hand of a mother, you'd say.
Another door. This one accompanied by a wave of psychotic clown laughter. Rowena looks above her and around.
"An uneccesary component if you ask me," she says, moving to another.
Dhalia sits back again, watching the both of them. "You wove me that basket. A present, for the solstice. How fitting, is it not? Do you really think either of you will find what you're looking for?")
( There is something she recognizes, on one of the doors down the way. She would swear the knob matches the design on the clasp of her coffin. Or, maybe that's a trick of the light. )
They both have girlfriends and friends. An entire network of fingers in little pies. I'm very proud.
("You never once offered me help with anything, not until I extended that life of yours.")
["Look at them. All grown up and having lives. Who would have thought?" He doesn't sound pleased, but he is. He wouldn't want the boys to think he cared about them, but he's glad that they're doing well, now that all is said and done.
Freya can't help the petulance that creeps into her voice.]
I didn't want to help you. You didn't do anything that actually helped anyone, and I never asked you for that.
[She keeps her eyes on the doors, and slowly starts to make her way down to the one that seems familiar.]
Well, when Chucks take their eye off of you and their fingers off the keyboard, than it gives you time to live your real grown-up life. Elena's spunky. ( Another door. ) And Allison is an Argent. ( Another door.
"I don't remember you being this ungrateful," she says, sitting up straighter. "You wouldn't be here now if it weren't for me. You'd have died. Unremarkable. You could have frozen to death. Like your brother. Or become an abomination. Like all your siblings. I saved you, Freya. And one day you'll see it that way.")
Hard to have it feel like I was being saved when I never had a choice.
[Choice is really the crux of it in the end. She could live so little life in a year, then sleeping for a century and seeing all of her inroads erased. She never had anyone but Dahlia, never had anyone else to call her own.
Perhaps Dahlia got her where she needed to be, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt.
"Argent like the hunter?" Crowley considers for a moment. "I take it that's Dean's choice? If all you have to say about this Elena is that she's spunky, that seems more the moose's flavor of choice."]
("Well, we can both blame your mother for that, can't we?" she asks. Sure, she drew up the deal. But, Esther accepted. This is on her sister. In her eyes, anyway. )
Allison is Sam's girlfriend. Elena Gilbert is more than the sum of her parts. She's a doctor. ( She speaks like a proud auntie testing out her latest door. Running her nails along, she leans in, listens for what's on the other side. Nothing. Gliding left, this door is unmistakeable. ) You shouldn't be down here, should you?
[Esther may have been the monster who left her but Dahlia did enough damage all on her own.
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Dean Winchester landed himself a doctor? Wonders do never cease." He then glances back to her, tipping his head to the side. "Well, that depends on your definition of 'shouldn't'. In the grand scheme of the universe? No. Probably not. But in the sense of the spell? I'm here to provide a tempting distraction."]
("How righteous," Dhalia says with a role of her eyes.
Sorry, Crowley. )
I was talking to the door. This is my door, from my flat. Not in my combination throne room cottage. ( It's all very pottery barn. ) But, you're right. You shouldn't be here, either, us gossiping like hens.
( She grabs the handle to her door and looks back at her son. )
[He offers her a small smile, before nodding. "We'll see each other again. When you decide you're done being Queen." He's not expecting it to be anytime soon. But they will.
Freya runs her hand over the finish of coffin door, before finding the little hidden compartment she'd built into it over the years and flipping it open, letting the key slide into her hand.]
Believe what you want. But given that you're dead, your opinion no longer matters.
[The true exit appears in the middle of the room, and Freya makes her way back.
Crowley, on the other hand, just offers her a small smile, and leaves her to complete the business she came for. They'll have time after all, somewhere along the way.]
( Rowena, pleasantly surprised at the painlessness, joins her old friend in the middle of the room at the door, placing her key. With one last look at her boy, she turns her key. She pays Dhalia no mind.
Dahlia raises her hand up as if to wave, but doesn't. Her look says, 'I'll be seeing you.' )
[Freya does the same, sliding her key into the door and turning it. She doesn't acknowledge her aunt, and as the latch flips, she opens their door and she and Rowena disappear into the light.]
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everyonelives2025-07-26 07:05 pm
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Because why torment his mother when he could ignore her instead. That is a torment in and of itself.
Freya raises an eyebrow before glancing back to Rowena. Should they be concerned?]
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"Why is everybody so preoccupied with leading a hellscape full of immoral black eyed liabilities," Dahlia asks, leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand.
Rowena doesn't seem fazed. Dismissing her son as he dismisses her. )
He's nothing to be concerned about. A dead son should be more concerned about his mother than a throne made of stone. I wanted it redecorated, you see. ( She turns to Freya. ) Hell's always been one style.
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Freya's face softens to a small mote of sympathy. She does know a little something about dead sons, even if she never got the chance to hold hers. But she lets that slide and turns her attention back to the rest of the room.]
There's no accounting for taste, I suppose. People should redecorate every so often. Keeps things interesting.
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Dhalia doesn't move from the throne. "Power is about what you take. Power isn't given. Only a fool believes power will stay with them without countermeasures. Loyalty is a lie, Crowley. Rowena. Freya." Finally, she addresses her niece. "It's good to see you, darling." )
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[She finally looks her aunt in the eye, raising an eyebrow as she crouches down near one of the baskets to start rustling through it.]
Do you have some words of wisdom to impart?
[Crowley leans casually against the throne, watching his mother as she moves through the room. "How is it, managing my old house? Keeping you busy?"]
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Oh, I thought you'd heard. I delegate now. I call it self-care. You really should've tried it.
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Which is the real struggle, in his experience. Most of them couldn't find their ass with both hands, and those that actually show initiative before getting tossed back to Hell again by morons like the Winchesters.]
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( The hand of a mother, you'd say.
Another door. This one accompanied by a wave of psychotic clown laughter. Rowena looks above her and around.
"An uneccesary component if you ask me," she says, moving to another.
Dhalia sits back again, watching the both of them. "You wove me that basket. A present, for the solstice. How fitting, is it not? Do you really think either of you will find what you're looking for?" )
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[Freya sets the basket to the side when it comes up empty and continues to scan the room (14), moving on to the next box.]
I get to help now. Something you never really understood.
["Well, color me impressed. I hope it continues to work for you. And the moose and his keeper? How are they managing?"]
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They both have girlfriends and friends. An entire network of fingers in little pies. I'm very proud.
( "You never once offered me help with anything, not until I extended that life of yours." )
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Freya can't help the petulance that creeps into her voice.]
I didn't want to help you. You didn't do anything that actually helped anyone, and I never asked you for that.
[She keeps her eyes on the doors, and slowly starts to make her way down to the one that seems familiar.]
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"I don't remember you being this ungrateful," she says, sitting up straighter. "You wouldn't be here now if it weren't for me. You'd have died. Unremarkable. You could have frozen to death. Like your brother. Or become an abomination. Like all your siblings. I saved you, Freya. And one day you'll see it that way." )
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[Choice is really the crux of it in the end. She could live so little life in a year, then sleeping for a century and seeing all of her inroads erased. She never had anyone but Dahlia, never had anyone else to call her own.
Perhaps Dahlia got her where she needed to be, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt.
"Argent like the hunter?" Crowley considers for a moment. "I take it that's Dean's choice? If all you have to say about this Elena is that she's spunky, that seems more the moose's flavor of choice."]
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Allison is Sam's girlfriend. Elena Gilbert is more than the sum of her parts. She's a doctor. ( She speaks like a proud auntie testing out her latest door. Running her nails along, she leans in, listens for what's on the other side. Nothing. Gliding left, this door is unmistakeable. ) You shouldn't be down here, should you?
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[Esther may have been the monster who left her but Dahlia did enough damage all on her own.
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Dean Winchester landed himself a doctor? Wonders do never cease." He then glances back to her, tipping his head to the side. "Well, that depends on your definition of 'shouldn't'. In the grand scheme of the universe? No. Probably not. But in the sense of the spell? I'm here to provide a tempting distraction."]
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Sorry, Crowley. )
I was talking to the door. This is my door, from my flat. Not in my combination throne room cottage. ( It's all very pottery barn. ) But, you're right. You shouldn't be here, either, us gossiping like hens.
( She grabs the handle to her door and looks back at her son. )
I'll always miss you, do you know that?
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Freya runs her hand over the finish of coffin door, before finding the little hidden compartment she'd built into it over the years and flipping it open, letting the key slide into her hand.]
Believe what you want. But given that you're dead, your opinion no longer matters.
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( On the sconce hanging next to her door, Rowena reaches for her key, fingers sliding it closer, bringing it down.
"Give my regards to... oh, whomever has blasphemed this family the most this year," Dhalia says. )
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[The true exit appears in the middle of the room, and Freya makes her way back.
Crowley, on the other hand, just offers her a small smile, and leaves her to complete the business she came for. They'll have time after all, somewhere along the way.]
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Dahlia raises her hand up as if to wave, but doesn't. Her look says, 'I'll be seeing you.' )
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