Foster has, unfortunately, discovered that he cannot swim.
It's not entirely unexpected. He, more than anyone else, is familiar with the treacherous landscape of his own brain. Memories are easily lost into holes, or cut off for want of a bridge, never to be seen again.
If he ever knew how to swim, he certainly doesn't any more.
Instead of fear--well, there's a few moments of alarm, that initial realisation of drowning, or at least sinking, of the fruitless attempt to claw his way back to the surface--but even then, there's no feeling of panic. Just... a momentary surprise.
There's another surprise, too.
The water... being underwater...
It feels... good.
And maybe it's that feeling, that moment of I'm-drowning, that sense of having experienced a closeness to death--but it's calming, too. Even visually. It's darker. Smoother, with the moonlight distorted by the surface in ripples and refractions. There's a kind of beauty to it.
He'd actually... be tempted to linger, were it not for Lambert. That, more than anything, is what motivates him to move. In his entire time as a member of this carnival, not a single person has taken him at his word before. Has taken the opportunity he placed in their hands--no matter how aggressively or explicitly he's tried to give it to them.
Trial and error--and a vague memory of what it looks like when other people swim--are his only means of achieving control over his situation, though. It's not mimicry of other humans that actually works, even--it's mimicking a frog, propelling himself back to the surface with strong, sweeping strokes of his arms and legs.
It takes just shy of four minutes for him to make it--probably long enough for Lambert to get bored, but he breaches the surface with a minute to spare, popping up from the depths like a really blond, unpersonable cork.
Sorry, Lambert. He's back!
"Ha! Hahaha! Incredible--you didn't even hesitate!"
Pretend this tag didn't take me DAYS to write.............
It's not entirely unexpected. He, more than anyone else, is familiar with the treacherous landscape of his own brain. Memories are easily lost into holes, or cut off for want of a bridge, never to be seen again.
If he ever knew how to swim, he certainly doesn't any more.
Instead of fear--well, there's a few moments of alarm, that initial realisation of drowning, or at least sinking, of the fruitless attempt to claw his way back to the surface--but even then, there's no feeling of panic. Just... a momentary surprise.
There's another surprise, too.
The water... being underwater...
It feels... good.
And maybe it's that feeling, that moment of I'm-drowning, that sense of having experienced a closeness to death--but it's calming, too. Even visually. It's darker. Smoother, with the moonlight distorted by the surface in ripples and refractions. There's a kind of beauty to it.
He'd actually... be tempted to linger, were it not for Lambert. That, more than anything, is what motivates him to move. In his entire time as a member of this carnival, not a single person has taken him at his word before. Has taken the opportunity he placed in their hands--no matter how aggressively or explicitly he's tried to give it to them.
Trial and error--and a vague memory of what it looks like when other people swim--are his only means of achieving control over his situation, though. It's not mimicry of other humans that actually works, even--it's mimicking a frog, propelling himself back to the surface with strong, sweeping strokes of his arms and legs.
It takes just shy of four minutes for him to make it--probably long enough for Lambert to get bored, but he breaches the surface with a minute to spare, popping up from the depths like a really blond, unpersonable cork.
Sorry, Lambert. He's back!
"Ha! Hahaha! Incredible--you didn't even hesitate!"
And... he's really excited.