Edgar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hate_gettin_older) wrote2025-11-01 10:07 pm
hate_gettin_older) wrote2025-11-01 10:07 pm
IC Inbox for Pumpkin Hollow
[Ping me to discuss starting a thread!]
The longer she waits the more likely it becomes that everyone will hear of it before she has a chance to deliver Max's letters. Even with their goodbyes and promises, it hurts more than she ever thought it would, even if she always knew something like this would happen eventually.
She's not sure how Edgar will react to what she has to tell him, to the letter that Max wrote to him, to the fact that Max spent the remainder of his time in Pumpkin Hollow with her instead of speaking to him himself. She hadn't even thought of it at the time, but she should have had Max call Edgar and allow him to hear his voice one last time.
But it's too late for that now, and honestly she had waited far longer than she should have. Edgar deserved to know sooner, but she never would have held it together.
So she simply knocks at the door.
"Edgar?"
She's not sure how Edgar will react to what she has to tell him, to the letter that Max wrote to him, to the fact that Max spent the remainder of his time in Pumpkin Hollow with her instead of speaking to him himself. She hadn't even thought of it at the time, but she should have had Max call Edgar and allow him to hear his voice one last time.
But it's too late for that now, and honestly she had waited far longer than she should have. Edgar deserved to know sooner, but she never would have held it together.
So she simply knocks at the door.
"Edgar?"
She doesn't know what to call October, aside from a nightmare she can't wake up from. Cold-sweat and the smell of kerosene jerk her from sleep. She dreams through dog eyes. She dreams of piecing herself off— trading limbs and organs for machine parts and the guts of old-fashioned guns. When she breathes, her lungs shudder on the verge of collapse. When she eats, she tastes soot and smoke.
The Fears, people call them. She knows that much from Gerry. Desolation, Stranger, Slaughter—
Carolina tries not to think about it. She shuts the door on last month and holes it away in some cupboard to be forgotten. She's trying and failing and trying again— every goddamn day— to think nothing at all.
No better place to repress a few week's worth of torture than on a farm, she thinks. Surround yourself with enough animals (and enough animal shit) and suddenly all your problems go away. Carolina sets out for just that, shouldering on a jacket and trudging through the yellow grass toward Edgar's, miserable-looking and hiding it badly.
She finds him in the barn. Knocks for show.
"Hey. Here for my shift." A beat. "Was hoping you could use some help."
"Yeah?" his voice calls from inside, over the sound of running water.
"I..."
She's not sure where to even start. She's spoken to families before after the deaths of their loved ones, but to speak to someone about someone she also loved is entirely new territory.
"I have something to give you, may I come in?"
She's not sure where to even start. She's spoken to families before after the deaths of their loved ones, but to speak to someone about someone she also loved is entirely new territory.
"I have something to give you, may I come in?"
Edgar is hauling a bale of hay up to the loft, one of several waiting; he's also miserable-looking, and also hiding it badly.
"Hey," he says, dully. "Yeah. Gimme a hand with those?"
"Hey," he says, dully. "Yeah. Gimme a hand with those?"
"Yeah, sure."
He looks tired. The sort of tired that drapes across your back like a wounded brother-in-arms— or a hay bale— heavy. She can't blame him. Worst month here, at least in her experience. Carolina hoists a bale up onto her shoulder, walks it to the base of the loft.
"Animals doing okay?"
"Sure."
She'll find him in the kitchen, holding a small pot under the tap to fill it with water.
She'll find him in the kitchen, holding a small pot under the tap to fill it with water.
Valdis can't remember the last time she was in this house, but it was probably with Max and probably not for very long. Luckily, Edgar is easy to find, and it's easy to swallow her irritation at needing to hunt for him instead of him just coming to the door. However, when she sees him, the fact that she made him get off that train to see Max, even for just a little while, gives her some peace. It would hurt far more if he hadn't been able to see Max at all, if he had refused to leave the train, if she had failed to even halfway convince him to do something different.
"Edgar, can you put that down and look at me, please?"
"Edgar, can you put that down and look at me, please?"
It shouldn't be possible, for the absence of something to have this much weight.
"Yeah, they're good. Dunno what the Fears bullshit was like for them. Probably missed the whole fuckin thing, lucky little bastards."
The words would sound like bitter spite if not for the tone, which sounds more like weary relief; like a parent whose strayed child has been found, none the worse for their adventure.
"Yeah, they're good. Dunno what the Fears bullshit was like for them. Probably missed the whole fuckin thing, lucky little bastards."
The words would sound like bitter spite if not for the tone, which sounds more like weary relief; like a parent whose strayed child has been found, none the worse for their adventure.
He heeds her request, if in the wrong order; looks at her first, over his shoulder, then frowns and reaches to turn off the water, and sets the pot down on the stove.
"What is it?"
"What is it?"
She knows it's not so much that she's frustrated at him for not paying attention when she has something important to say as it is she's trying to keep her own mourning in check. He doesn't know why she's here, he couldn't know, but he will know soon enough.
"Max is gone."
"Max is gone."
She lifts the bale up to him, then crosses the barn for another. In their pens, animals toss themselves languidly on their sides to breathe and sleep and kick their legs. She watches them over one shoulder.
"Tch. Lucky. Maybe something— put them somewhere. To keep them out of the way. I don't remember seeing any of them during— you know, everything."
Carolina hefts up another bale.
A blank stare. "What ...?"
She can see the words begin to sink in, see the dawning understanding collide with a wave of instinctive rejection. "No. No, what do you mean gone?"
She can see the words begin to sink in, see the dawning understanding collide with a wave of instinctive rejection. "No. No, what do you mean gone?"
It hurts to see the expression on his face twist with his emotions, but she keeps her composure doing her best to be there for him.
“He left on the ferry early yesterday morning.”
“He left on the ferry early yesterday morning.”
"Maybe," he says, reaching down to take it, "yeah."
A grunt, heaving the bale up and onto the loft.
"Don't think I saw any of em in the safe zone, but ... wasn't there all that long."
A grunt, heaving the bale up and onto the loft.
"Don't think I saw any of em in the safe zone, but ... wasn't there all that long."
"Yesterday --?"
Disbelief, struggling to maintain itself and keep from collapsing into something much worse.
Disbelief, struggling to maintain itself and keep from collapsing into something much worse.
Bitterness begins to sink in, she's not sure how she can explain it any differently. Shock makes it difficult to process bad news, but she's really not built for this and she's not good at it.
"I'm sorry, Edgar."
The letter still rests in her hands, words just for him and no one else.
"He wanted me to give this to you."
"I'm sorry, Edgar."
The letter still rests in her hands, words just for him and no one else.
"He wanted me to give this to you."
"But," is what comes out of his mouth, wholly without any intent of his, and there's nothing coming after it.
He feels -- numb. Like the only reason it doesn't hurt is that he can't feel anything. Like watching the ice creep up and encase him.
His hand is somehow moving on its own, slowly, reaching out for the letter.
He feels -- numb. Like the only reason it doesn't hurt is that he can't feel anything. Like watching the ice creep up and encase him.
His hand is somehow moving on its own, slowly, reaching out for the letter.
Valdis slowly holds the letter out toward him, uncertain of what to do next. She's comforted families before, but it had never involved personal feelings, never involved letters and genuine pain.
She takes Edgar's hand and places the letter in it, gently closing his fingers around Max's words.
"I'm sorry."
She takes Edgar's hand and places the letter in it, gently closing his fingers around Max's words.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me neither. Keeping track of time got— hard." That's one word for it. Try utterly fucking impossible, on account of the torture. "Climbing to the summit wasn't any easier though, so, I guess it's peaches all around."
Carolina kneels down in front of Greta's pen. "Can you even eat peaches?"
It doesn't feel real, not the paper in his hand, not the sound of her voice, none of it. Looking at it, recognizing Max's writing, doesn't make it feel any more real.
He looks up at her, brows tugging together. "Are you all right?"
He looks up at her, brows tugging together. "Are you all right?"
"Meeh," Greta informs her authoritatively.
"She can eat fuckin anything if you ask her," says Edgar, and then "wait, you climbed?"
"She can eat fuckin anything if you ask her," says Edgar, and then "wait, you climbed?"
"Mm. Now I feel like an ass for cheating you out of fruit I don't have," said, regretfully, to the goat. Please, drill sergeant Greta, in all her grand and terrifying authority, spare Carolina a head-butt to the shins for this indiscretion.
"Want this?" She grabs a handful of hay, drops to her haunches and offers it instead.
"...Yeah, sure did. It was a nightmare going through the Buried. I think the only reason it didn't suck me in was because it doesn't tick any boxes for me. I don't care about getting stuck. I'm not claustrophobic. I knew I needed to check on someone, so I pushed 'til I got to the top. I was only there for... a day? Maybe two, before it all just— stopped. Before that, I remember being in the fields. Dunno for how long. Felt like... years."
He asks the question she doesn't want to hear, and one she definitely doesn't want to answer.
"I'm just here to deliver the letter."
She's not going to break down in front of him, not when Max would want her to be there for him and not for herself.
"I'm just here to deliver the letter."
She's not going to break down in front of him, not when Max would want her to be there for him and not for herself.
Greta takes a mouthful of the offered hay, and does not butt Carolina. This time.
Edgar's quiet for a moment, then says "All I saw of it was the train."
Edgar's quiet for a moment, then says "All I saw of it was the train."
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