itinere | Open | Eternity in an hour... or three days.

Open | Eternity in an hour... or three days.

Isaac arrived three days earlier.

He had numbly followed the instructions on the PDA and holed himself up in his apartment for three days to try and swallow the hysteria. He was too sober to cope with this on top of everything else and total isolation was the only way he knew how to cope in the absence of his favourite addiction.

Now, he's decided to put on his big boy pants and actually go out and try and find out if this is Heaven, Hell or something far weirder.

Judging by the profusion of roses and clover, he's going for far weirder right now.

(OOC: Hello and please come and help/harass Isaac Mendez, formerly of Heroes and coming from his death at the end of season one!)

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"You do," d'Artagnan replied, still watching the man most closely, still baffled, still thinking so of Lucrezia that he could barely focus. "Isaac, you say your name is?"

Isaac nodded, folding his arms over his chest. There were other things that, with a good look, were apparent. He was underweight for his size and slightly too pale, like he didn't see much sunlight. He had dark marks under his eyes from not sleeping well.

"Isaac Mendez. Which yes, Spanish name, I'm not Spanish. I'm from America. Most recently. You are...?"

"d'Artagnan, of the King's Musketeers. In Paris, most recently, I suppose. But here now." And he could not bear the thought of being away from his love; it made his chest ache just thinking of it. "I admit to being glad to hear you are not Spanish," he adds with a small smile.

Isaac was quiet for a long moment, nodding slowly.

Right. Guess that answered that question. Dead.

"So... I guess I'm dead then. Which, I guess is a good thing. Overall." He was getting a bit paler.

"I ..." d'Artagnan looked just as baffled as he felt. "I... do not understand."

"I... don't have words in French for this. I was being killed. Murdered. So I guess I'm dead. Because if you're d'Artagnan, I must be dead." There was a logic in there somewhere.

If there was logic there, d'Artagnan did not see it. He cocked his head, perhaps giving the man something of a "... really?" look. Explain?

"Well... you've been dead for centuries. And I was having my head cut open. And then, stumbling through a doorway here. I don't know. I must be dead." He rubbed at the crook of his elbow, an anxious tic.

"You seem quite alive to me," d'Artagnan said dryly. "As do I. So ... there must be another explanation."

Isaac's hand shifted to feel for his pulse.

Which was there. And beating fairly normally, maybe a little fast.

"Well... okay. I got nothing in that case. I should be dead. I don't heal like Peter does."

Having no idea who Peter was, d'Artagnan just shrugged. "I cannot say I understand this place," he admitted. "But it seems to be a good think if your head was being cleaved for you to be here."

Isaac's hand reached up to where the cut had been made, fingers shaking slightly as he checked it yet again. "Yeah. Guess so. I had sort of banked on... being dead? And I'm not. You're not dead either. According to you."

"I would hope according to you, too," d'Artagnan agreed, amused. "What would that make me ... a ghost?" He scoffed. "I was alive in Paris, then I ended up here and I am still alive, monsieur."

"Well, I was more hoping for this being the afterlife. Maybe even Heaven. Though I really don't think I belong in Heaven..." He crossed himself absently.

"... you clearly have a lot on your mind," d'Artagnan offered. "I don't know if this place is heaven or hell, and I have no idea where I will be when the time comes. I suppose I don't worry on it very much." What was the point?

"My family were very much hellfire and damnation people. I thought about it a lot. I still do." He looked at d'Artagnan. "What is this place?"

"I - " Well, d'Artagnan might be the worst person to ask. "I am not sure," he prefaces, "but it seems to b something of a - " ahem. "A magical place," he admits, his expression making clear how he knows he sounds. "That can pull us from all over time and location."

"So... not Heaven? Or Hell?" Honestly, the way the last five weeks of his life went, magic place is not the most outlandish thing he can imagine.

"No," d'Artagnan repeats. "Because we aren't dead."

That is important. Very, very important.

"Right."

He was definitely dying before, but he seems to be okay now. "Not dead. Yeah."

"Right." For a moment, d'Artagnan watches him with raised brows, judging whether the man is all right or not.

Or at least all right enough. "So. You can ... find a place to stay. There is food to eat. It's ... not bad really."

"I found a place. I've been holed up for three days, mostly going insane and screaming a lot." He feels no shame for his break down. He's had a long six weeks.

"Not dead."

Not dead, but really, the screaming and going insane sounds quite terrible; that shows on d'Artagnan's face. "I ... well, I hope you are feeling better?"

Isaac gives a wry smile and tilts his head. "Well, you know, I'm lucid and outside, so that should count for something. And I still remember how to speak English, French and Spanish, so if I'm still insane, at least I'm remembering my education and insane."

"... right."

Perhaps a change of topic is due. "What is it like where you are from, monsieur? Very much like this?"

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I am sorry, I had no phone or net until yesterday afternoon!

Urgh. D: No worries!

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