An aisling scáth

[Galacia Tarin]

(The Dream of Shadow)

It was the greenest of field, on the most pleasant of Autumn afternoons. A blanket set beneath a tree whose leaves had begun to turn, their colors drifting almost lazily between green and yellow and red. Those of red, and sometimes brown drifted lazily toward the almost too green grass. A basket was filled near to over flowing with sandwiches wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Two bottles of wine, as many glasses, peeked from beneath them. A long way from the blanket the horizon became water, the ocean lapped at a shore that was far enough away that a walk to it might seem impossible. The air was filled with the scent of fresh grass, the wind drifting over salty water, and the slightest hint of mint beneath it all.

"I always meant to do this. I just never found the time."

He looked at her with a smile on too thin lips that sparkled to his smokey jade eyes. His platinum hair drifted softly on the breeze, tickling at his cheeks, winding gently around his throat. A hand reached toward the dreamer, his pale skin glistening in the sunlight. His pulse throbbing in his thin wrist.

"Ariane...come and sit with me for awhile. Please?"

[Carnath-Emory]

"You're dead, you know."

It's not the most pleasant way to begin a conversation. But then, he's not the most pleasant of conversationalists; even a lady's gentlest courtesies can only accommodate so much. This lady has turned a dubious gaze upon the hand which he has offered her, uncertainty written into the set of her reddened lips.

"Five years dead, in fact; you were the last of them and I suppose, in a barbaric sort of way, the most satisfying." Is there not something, though, to the set of his hand? Splayed fingers, slender and refined; deceptively frail. "It's rather - untoward, really, coming here like this. After something like that." Is there not something missing? Some complication to the narrow palms, perhaps; the tell-tale callus of a swordsman's trade, the trace roughness come of a scribe's long hours with the quill. Something.

"Still," she allows.

"Since you've gone to such trouble, after all," and

"I hope there's no oysters this time," she adds, tilting the parasol's delicate shaft back against the pale of her shoulder. "Now that I've found out the story behind those, I can't help but find their inclusion rather vulgar. Really, you might consider finding yourself a better class of friend. I don't much care for the pranks yours play." But she has made her approach all the same, silken skirts a subtle whisper through bright autumn grass. Towards the blanket which he'd spread and the luncheon that he'd arranged, and with perhaps an eye for the picnic-basket, suspicious of duck comfit. But mostly, mostly, for the jade-eyed enigma who wears his hair like a pale and delicate noose.

"I do," she murmurs, "love that."

And for this fleeting instant, her eyes are entranced by the glimpse of distant seas.

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N̵̫̥̏͆i̸̝͓̋͋ǵ̶̝̱͛h̷̝̠͋̌t̸̺̝͛̉ ̵̗̞̈́́ ḁ̻͖͕ͅf͎̣͝t̳e̝̟̬̙̠r̴̤ night, from w̷̗̭̌̕ǭ̵͎̈́r̷̨̤̊͊d̶̢͖͊̇ŝ̷̫̰͠ to dreams, to flesh, ţ̵̗̱͎͑̽̎͒̊̕͜ͅơ̷̢̫̮͕͙̻̊̒̃́̆ ̸̺͖͍̝̯̀͆̀͗̿̈́ͅp̶̞̮̼̩̙̂͑̌̓̐̇ͅḣ̸͇̰̪̥̟̞̇̅̚̚̕ą̶̲̰̳̼̦́̍̒͆̍̈ṅ̶̢̛͚͙͕̤̒̇̊͘ͅẗ̶̨̹̟̟̺͗̉̉͘͜͝ó̸̟̙̦̹̬̞͒͛̈́̾m̶̥̻̝̥̮͚̆̿̈́͐̆̉s̵̟̬̮͉͍̯̀͆̀̐͌͝. P̷͓̖̦͓̞͖ͅo҉̗̖̞̹̱ͅş͎̝̭̟̭s̞͍̥e̮̩sṣ̥̙̮̜͡i͍̺̬̙͙ͅon and deposession. .̧́҉ ̕T҉̢h͘͝e҉̴́ ̵fl̴͢òwe̷r͢s̀ ͠͞o̢f̨ ̴͏t͘͝h̕͠e͘ m͞ó͜òn̵̷͠, ,the broad-backed palms ǫ̿̋f̽ͧ̽͒ͥ͛̒ ̇ͫ̍jungle ̷̐̂͛growth, the b̴̧̨͖͈ͅa̵̡̢̧̙͙y̵̠̹͎͚͜į̴̨̬̪͔n̶̯̮͔͇͖g̴͓͈̼̥̻ ̵̥̯̫͕ͅo̸͓̻̖͙͔f̷̦̰̱̱̹ ̵̘̫͍̮͖b̴͍̗̜̮̪l̸̨̙̳̭̘o̸̧̤̪ͅͅo̵̤̗̠̤͜d̵̹̤̹̳ͅḩ̸̬̟͙̝ǫ̶͚̲̤ͅu̵̲͇̝͇͎ṇ̸͕̦̝͚d̴̡͔̯̠̥ṣ̴̡̲̘̫, the frail white body of ą̦͉̳̦͙͈̱͎̺̈́̾̏̔̏̉̓͘͠͠ ̢̖̗̘̞̫̣̜̱̘̽̈́̓̉̋̔̄̄͠͝c͎͓͎̙̮͖̣̭̣͖̐̔́̏͗̅̕͘̕͠ḩ͈͇̳̰̟̫͉̠̺̎́͌̊͛̔͑͒̕͘i̧̜̥̼̦̜̺̰̘͎̍̿̓̃̊͂̄̚̚͝l̛̦̳͔͈̭̮̯̜̹̿͛̎͂͛̋̒͜͝͝d̨̖̹͙͔̹̦̞͉́͆̒̋̐̇̈̀̍͜͝, t̵̡͙̅̈́ȟ̶̺͈̏e̴̺̖͗̀ ̵̛̪̤̊l̴̛̘̦͝å̵̳̺̓v̸̜̪͗̆a̸̳̭̔͋ ̶̦̰͌͘b̴̥̫̍̎ȕ̶̠̼̚b̷̺̞͛̚b̷̨̘̀̃l̸͖͚̀̕ë̶͚̮̂s̷͎̭͋̅s,the ̷̭͇̊͠r̶͉̤̓̚ä̶̗́̐ͅl̶̛̻͍̔l̷̻̞͒͑e̸̐̿ͅͅn̴͇̺͗̊t̷͇̹̎̕ä̴̙̳́͝ṇ̷̩̒̂d̴̟̲͗͒ổ̴͚͖ ̵͚̦͋̕of the snow-flakes, ţ̴̪̱̣͜h̷̺̥̰̪ͅe̶̩̲̪̙̦ ̶͇̭͇̫̫ ͂ͪ͌͡ḟl̴ͦͪͧͧ̿͋o̍̓ͯ̐͊͊o̔͆̀͊̑̉̚r͛͗̓̚͝l͊̀̾̔̋̚e̒͒̋̽͗̊ͦs̓̓͊͞s̛̀̓͆͒ bottom where smoke bͦlȏom̊̓ͭ́̊si̵̛͍̥͔̜̣̮̊͛̽͐̚n̴̛̰̖̟̲̘͉̈́͂́͛̓ţ̸̛̤̜̟͓̖̈́̀͛͌̊o̷͈̭̰͍͚̣̽͒̓̂̚͠ ̴̜̜͎͇̲̘͆̆͒̔̕͝f̵̤͔̟͍̥̖̆̑̌̾̎͘l̵̨̨̥̳͎̘̉͌̌̀̑͠é̷̫̘̟͕̤̝̊̊̓̌̋s̷̠̰͙̟͙̦̈̀͌̓̀̚ẖ̷̯͇̘͇̬͌̽̀̽̑͝h. Ã̛̬͍̼̲̙̟̖̹͙̊̿̌́͗̄̏͝ͅn̢̧̰̤̪͖̫̣̼̊́̃̿̀̂̉̓̕͝ͅḑ̥̻͕̻͚͈̔̅͋̓͋̌̈́̓͑͜͝ͅͅ ̨͖̘͕͖̺̪̠̜͌̔̑̌̈́͊̈́̈́͘͝ͅwhat is flesh but ̴̤̭̾̚m̸̹̬̓̎ȍ̸͖̦͐o̸̫̱̎͝n̴̦̼͗́? and
what is moon ̩̬̖̰b̺͇͙̳͓̣̀ͅu̥̺̙ṱ͎̱̠̰͙͖̀ ̙̮night? Night is ͘l̷̛͠ǫng̵̨͟í̛n̨͟g̕͞, longing, l̴̢̠̏̂o̵͔̜̽̕ņ̵͎̉͊g̸̫̹͌̃ḯ̵̫̳ṉ̵̺͘̚ǵ̴̦͉̔g, beyond all endurance.

[Galacia Tarin]

"You're dead, you know."

This drew a chuckle from his lips, and he nodded. A small smile offered. As she commented on the hair wrapped round his neck, he pulled it carefully free, revealing the clean straight line where the blade had cleaved his throat, before wrapping the thick lengths back around his long narrow throat.

"I thought you would prefer not to marvel at your handy work over lunch."

The luncheon was far less than she might be used to these days. Simple roast beef sandwiches on rustic bread from Bromn's bakery with the coarsely ground mustard found at the Dagger. The wine was a bottle of Derry red and a bottle of Xanth white. There were sweet rolls also from the bakery, and apples. There would always be apples.

He unwrapped the sandwiches and offered her one. The offering hand missing a digit.

"No Oysters today, Nightingale. And I do not know which friends you might mean. You of all people should know I did not have any in the end."

[Carnath-Emory]

A magician's trick. The severed lady, the vanishing coin. A trick-peddler draws back the curtain in just such a manner, exulting in the moment before the audience's horrified gasp turns into laughter; the realisation that they've been had. Coins for his hat, twinkling gratitude for a moment's grotesque sleight-of-hand. Coins without wishes, for wishes are for fountains and there's no suggestion of fountains here.

Knowing his revelation to be no trick at all, the lady does not laugh but only delicately averts her eyes.

Years have passed, years upon years, since the lady accepted anything which Thadius Dhrin might choose to offer her. Even to refusing his life, when it was offered to her in the end, for they were not her hands which drew the blade across his throat, not quite. Is it gauche to give a gift to another? But the monster she'd been had hardly cared, and the lady she's become does not care to speculate. She'd refused his sandwich but she accepts his lunch, and as she sits, sets it upon her silken knee just so.

"We promised each other oceans once," she murmurs, and perhaps she even means him. "But it seems so far away," she sighs, pensive as any maiden that ever there were, and perhaps she even means these half-glimpsed seas. "But you're confusing Now with Then. Then, you had so many friends; dozens upon dozens, and you'd have had them right to the bloodsoaked end, if we hadn't taken them all away."

A sidelong glance, colourless eyes beneath sooty lashes.

"You led me into damnation, but I imagine you don't care to reminisce over lunch, either."

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N̵̫̥̏͆i̸̝͓̋͋ǵ̶̝̱͛h̷̝̠͋̌t̸̺̝͛̉ ̵̗̞̈́́ ḁ̻͖͕ͅf͎̣͝t̳e̝̟̬̙̠r̴̤ night, from w̷̗̭̌̕ǭ̵͎̈́r̷̨̤̊͊d̶̢͖͊̇ŝ̷̫̰͠ to dreams, to flesh, ţ̵̗̱͎͑̽̎͒̊̕͜ͅơ̷̢̫̮͕͙̻̊̒̃́̆ ̸̺͖͍̝̯̀͆̀͗̿̈́ͅp̶̞̮̼̩̙̂͑̌̓̐̇ͅḣ̸͇̰̪̥̟̞̇̅̚̚̕ą̶̲̰̳̼̦́̍̒͆̍̈ṅ̶̢̛͚͙͕̤̒̇̊͘ͅẗ̶̨̹̟̟̺͗̉̉͘͜͝ó̸̟̙̦̹̬̞͒͛̈́̾m̶̥̻̝̥̮͚̆̿̈́͐̆̉s̵̟̬̮͉͍̯̀͆̀̐͌͝. P̷͓̖̦͓̞͖ͅo҉̗̖̞̹̱ͅş͎̝̭̟̭s̞͍̥e̮̩sṣ̥̙̮̜͡i͍̺̬̙͙ͅon and deposession. .̧́҉ ̕T҉̢h͘͝e҉̴́ ̵fl̴͢òwe̷r͢s̀ ͠͞o̢f̨ ̴͏t͘͝h̕͠e͘ m͞ó͜òn̵̷͠, ,the broad-backed palms ǫ̿̋f̽ͧ̽͒ͥ͛̒ ̇ͫ̍jungle ̷̐̂͛growth, the b̴̧̨͖͈ͅa̵̡̢̧̙͙y̵̠̹͎͚͜į̴̨̬̪͔n̶̯̮͔͇͖g̴͓͈̼̥̻ ̵̥̯̫͕ͅo̸͓̻̖͙͔f̷̦̰̱̱̹ ̵̘̫͍̮͖b̴͍̗̜̮̪l̸̨̙̳̭̘o̸̧̤̪ͅͅo̵̤̗̠̤͜d̵̹̤̹̳ͅḩ̸̬̟͙̝ǫ̶͚̲̤ͅu̵̲͇̝͇͎ṇ̸͕̦̝͚d̴̡͔̯̠̥ṣ̴̡̲̘̫, the frail white body of ą̦͉̳̦͙͈̱͎̺̈́̾̏̔̏̉̓͘͠͠ ̢̖̗̘̞̫̣̜̱̘̽̈́̓̉̋̔̄̄͠͝c͎͓͎̙̮͖̣̭̣͖̐̔́̏͗̅̕͘̕͠ḩ͈͇̳̰̟̫͉̠̺̎́͌̊͛̔͑͒̕͘i̧̜̥̼̦̜̺̰̘͎̍̿̓̃̊͂̄̚̚͝l̛̦̳͔͈̭̮̯̜̹̿͛̎͂͛̋̒͜͝͝d̨̖̹͙͔̹̦̞͉́͆̒̋̐̇̈̀̍͜͝, t̵̡͙̅̈́ȟ̶̺͈̏e̴̺̖͗̀ ̵̛̪̤̊l̴̛̘̦͝å̵̳̺̓v̸̜̪͗̆a̸̳̭̔͋ ̶̦̰͌͘b̴̥̫̍̎ȕ̶̠̼̚b̷̺̞͛̚b̷̨̘̀̃l̸͖͚̀̕ë̶͚̮̂s̷͎̭͋̅s,the ̷̭͇̊͠r̶͉̤̓̚ä̶̗́̐ͅl̶̛̻͍̔l̷̻̞͒͑e̸̐̿ͅͅn̴͇̺͗̊t̷͇̹̎̕ä̴̙̳́͝ṇ̷̩̒̂d̴̟̲͗͒ổ̴͚͖ ̵͚̦͋̕of the snow-flakes, ţ̴̪̱̣͜h̷̺̥̰̪ͅe̶̩̲̪̙̦ ̶͇̭͇̫̫ ͂ͪ͌͡ḟl̴ͦͪͧͧ̿͋o̍̓ͯ̐͊͊o̔͆̀͊̑̉̚r͛͗̓̚͝l͊̀̾̔̋̚e̒͒̋̽͗̊ͦs̓̓͊͞s̛̀̓͆͒ bottom where smoke bͦlȏom̊̓ͭ́̊si̵̛͍̥͔̜̣̮̊͛̽͐̚n̴̛̰̖̟̲̘͉̈́͂́͛̓ţ̸̛̤̜̟͓̖̈́̀͛͌̊o̷͈̭̰͍͚̣̽͒̓̂̚͠ ̴̜̜͎͇̲̘͆̆͒̔̕͝f̵̤͔̟͍̥̖̆̑̌̾̎͘l̵̨̨̥̳͎̘̉͌̌̀̑͠é̷̫̘̟͕̤̝̊̊̓̌̋s̷̠̰͙̟͙̦̈̀͌̓̀̚ẖ̷̯͇̘͇̬͌̽̀̽̑͝h. Ã̛̬͍̼̲̙̟̖̹͙̊̿̌́͗̄̏͝ͅn̢̧̰̤̪͖̫̣̼̊́̃̿̀̂̉̓̕͝ͅḑ̥̻͕̻͚͈̔̅͋̓͋̌̈́̓͑͜͝ͅͅ ̨͖̘͕͖̺̪̠̜͌̔̑̌̈́͊̈́̈́͘͝ͅwhat is flesh but ̴̤̭̾̚m̸̹̬̓̎ȍ̸͖̦͐o̸̫̱̎͝n̴̦̼͗́? and
what is moon ̩̬̖̰b̺͇͙̳͓̣̀ͅu̥̺̙ṱ͎̱̠̰͙͖̀ ̙̮night? Night is ͘l̷̛͠ǫng̵̨͟í̛n̨͟g̕͞, longing, l̴̢̠̏̂o̵͔̜̽̕ņ̵͎̉͊g̸̫̹͌̃ḯ̵̫̳ṉ̵̺͘̚ǵ̴̦͉̔g, beyond all endurance.