[ This is not what she would call pillowtalk, but on a literal level it is, sure. The clueless amnesiac is going to talk philosophy now? ]
Of course it does. I know my base nature. I know what I am, and unlike some I don't make a grand production of trying to defy it or pretending I am anything but.
Are you going to tell me that one's nature doesn't make them "them"?
[ The pillow heist continues because she allows it, for she is a generous and giving goddess. Unlike some deities here apparently. ]
It means your nature still defines you, doesn't it? You've just made 'trying to defy it' another part of yourself too. It doesn't mean your nature has any less influence on making you "you." If anything, in some ways that makes it even more significant.
I didn't say defying it was nature too. Just that trying to defy one's nature means that in a way, one's nature is still defining who they are, just in inverse.
But you want to say memories and lived experiences contribute to it too, right? Sure, sure. ♡ I won't argue that.
But if you take away the memories, you still have a person. If you take away the nature, the desires, the impulses, the 'how they act', 'what they like', and 'what they want' ... can a collection of memories be anyone at all?
[ That's just a book, an archive, a record. Or perhaps someone hollow— no drive, no passion, no feeling. Servants summoned in a particular aspect of themselves know the former; they know the memories belonging to the other parts of themselves, but they're hardly part of them. It's more like a story about someone else.
Speaking of books. ]
Retrieving a book sounds awfully pedestrian for a contract job. Was this a heist? Is this the only book of its kind in the world?
I don't know. Does it? You were the one who asked in the first place.
[ Though maybe she isn't exactly the best to ask about this, considering. Have you got enough pillows there yet, Lovecraft, or will she have to finally stop you from taking more? ]
My, but I suppose this book was basically a holy grail. Somehow, it's always wishes, isn't it?
Hm? Isn't it an old story for humans in a certain part of the world? The ones who believe in the God who's supposedly pulled us all here?
A miraculous chalice sought out by so many people over the ages and different legends ... all because it can supposedly cure anything, or grant wishes. Or something like that, depending on who you ask.
There are limitations to what can be wished for, yes. Even if they're not advertised or stated upfront. Maybe there isn't enough magic to grant the wish. Maybe what you wished for is impossible.
Maybe you just weren't specific enough. It's a little sad though, don't you think?
Mmm, yes. Quite pitiable. It's almost adorable, even.
[ Ah, to want and yearn for something, reaching out so desperately for it only to realize that it's only just slipped out of your grasp... When you've fallen so far, plummeted so deep into despair, wouldn't it be easier to just
let go, and let someone else handle all those scary things for you? ]
They can be. A cornered animal lashes out, after all. It can't help but to. But if you help them past that desperation you might get something much more agreeable. Easier to work with, at least.
So this Fitzgerald asked you to help, and you agreed? What did you get out of this deal?
[Annette had come in quietly at some point, face red and puffy from crying, and had somewhat shyly found a spot for herself to sit and listen, head bowed. It isn't until this point in the conversation that she seems to find something to say.]
I feel a horrible sense of foreboding. It's a frightening responsibility, to hold something so important for another person, knowing that it might not be a kindness to return it...or to have your own returned to you.
No, no...I feel that whatever part of me is missing, I must have it back.
[She puts her hands over her stomach. It feels like there's a hole inside of her, somehow, where some other person's secret has been haphazardly jammed inside--an ill fit. Annette can only be sure of one thing: knowledge is a burden.]
I only worry how badly it's going to hurt for so many of us.
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Such a shame you've forgotten it all, though. Secret or not, I, for one, am still me. ♡
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[He sighs. He is looking to grab another pillow.]
What makes you "you", anyways....?
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[ Isn't it? ]
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That...doesn't answer my question.
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Of course it does. I know my base nature. I know what I am, and unlike some I don't make a grand production of trying to defy it or pretending I am anything but.
Are you going to tell me that one's nature doesn't make them "them"?
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[He stares at another pillow. He really is just doing pillow heist this whole time as they speak.]
I don't know. I still remember...a lot of things. My last job. But even so...if you go against what your nature is...does that make a difference?
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It means your nature still defines you, doesn't it? You've just made 'trying to defy it' another part of yourself too. It doesn't mean your nature has any less influence on making you "you." If anything, in some ways that makes it even more significant.
What was your last job, anyway?
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[Nothing at all? Simply nature, through and through?]
[He makes a face at her question, though, even as he's taking yet another pillow over to his slowly growing pile.]
A man wanted to retrieve...a book. Didn't succeed. That's all.
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But you want to say memories and lived experiences contribute to it too, right? Sure, sure. ♡ I won't argue that.
But if you take away the memories, you still have a person. If you take away the nature, the desires, the impulses, the 'how they act', 'what they like', and 'what they want' ... can a collection of memories be anyone at all?
[ That's just a book, an archive, a record. Or perhaps someone hollow— no drive, no passion, no feeling. Servants summoned in a particular aspect of themselves know the former; they know the memories belonging to the other parts of themselves, but they're hardly part of them. It's more like a story about someone else.
Speaking of books. ]
Retrieving a book sounds awfully pedestrian for a contract job. Was this a heist? Is this the only book of its kind in the world?
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[This is a lot for his squid brain to wrap around. Memories would just be memories. Not a person at all.]
[How confusing.]
In the end...does it even matter? What makes a man.
[His frown deepens at the question.]
Don't know. Don't....care. It was important to Fitzgerald. Could grant.. wishes, I think.
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[ Though maybe she isn't exactly the best to ask about this, considering. Have you got enough pillows there yet, Lovecraft, or will she have to finally stop you from taking more? ]
My, but I suppose this book was basically a holy grail. Somehow, it's always wishes, isn't it?
Poor thing.
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[Constant misery. So much effort. And for what? Memories?]
Hrm. You have...experience with such things yourself?
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A miraculous chalice sought out by so many people over the ages and different legends ... all because it can supposedly cure anything, or grant wishes. Or something like that, depending on who you ask.
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[Maybe this book is a chalice. Someone tell Fitzgerald except....lol, last time he knew it, he was dead.]
But there are always consequences. So it isn't...worth it.
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Maybe you just weren't specific enough. It's a little sad though, don't you think?
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[SOMEONE has a bone to pick with people wanting things they can't have!!]
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[ Ah, to want and yearn for something, reaching out so desperately for it only to realize that it's only just slipped out of your grasp... When you've fallen so far, plummeted so deep into despair, wouldn't it be easier to just
let go, and let someone else handle all those scary things for you? ]
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If that's what you think...
[M eh]
People who are desperate are...troublesome. And irritating.
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So this Fitzgerald asked you to help, and you agreed? What did you get out of this deal?
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[...]
[...................]
I don't...remember.
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I feel a horrible sense of foreboding. It's a frightening responsibility, to hold something so important for another person, knowing that it might not be a kindness to return it...or to have your own returned to you.
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I suppose past some of the more notable trappings, it is quite the gilded cage.
[ Maybe she should take notes? ]
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[She puts her hands over her stomach. It feels like there's a hole inside of her, somehow, where some other person's secret has been haphazardly jammed inside--an ill fit. Annette can only be sure of one thing: knowledge is a burden.]
I only worry how badly it's going to hurt for so many of us.
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... Do you think some people might figure out whose secret they hold, or who holds their own secret in turn...
And not ♡
give ♡
it back?
[ Out of misplaced compassion or otherwise. ]