The Happy Heart Is A Lovely Dreamer

[Glenn]

She was pushing back and it was frustrating. He had seized a goodly amount of control of this ... environment.

It was a dream and he knew it was a dream and he had some idea what that meant for him since it wasn't his dream

He had seized a goodly amount of control and her pushing back was frustrating. Moreover, her words were confusing and he wasn't sure how his chess gambit had failed. If Chess was like life you started by tossing your knight at someone. What was a bishop going to do against a guy on a horse with a sword? "It's hard the first time." He frowned. "You know it hurts." He looked away. "There was this time that I was visting Nela Kaczmarek at the teahouse, and there was a teahouse girl, and she was saying things like that to me."

It was, perhaps, a feint, for while she was deciding which queen to take, as if she'd won something with her little gesture, he snatched at the plain looking one. The pieces on his side started to shift. The King became Ariane herself, the Queen sylvius duquesne. The knights were Cinnabar Calomel and Quincy Randall, the bishops Glenn Burnie and Duke Burel. The rooks were Agnieszka Kaczmarek and Kerrak. "Hey look, Cherny's a pawn." Elliot muttered. That seemed kind of fitting. The rest of the pawns were made up of people he didn't fully recognize, mercenaries and militiamen and people who dwelled in the attic of the Broken Dagger. He had reached in and snatched people out of her memory, her real memories, but without context the significance was lost to him and he might have misplaced some or chosen wrongly altogether. "This time don't knock over the board. Cheater."

[Carnath-Emory]

Chess is exactly like life. If you start by throwing a knight at someone, you generally end up with two dead knights. But how is she to explain that to the boy, if she can't quite recall whether she was one of them?

The world had ended in flames. Artful braids have begun to droop damply against her cheek, silken skirts slightly wilting beneath the incessant rain. "Life's exactly like that, too," she murmurs to a monkey-boy's memory of teahouse girls, and fingertips flatten shocked against her lips the moment the words have escaped. "Oh. How awful. I'm sorry," but to avert her mortified features is to allow her gaze to stray towards the sand; towards that point at which the air shimmers like a heatwave and rain falls cold and rises again like steam. "What in the world was Petronela thinking," she murmurs, gently horrified, but perhaps her heart's not quite in it. For: "It's true, though," she adds the moment next, and this time her eyes are nothing but grave.

One of his pieces has become a caricature. Her eyes barely glance at most of them, unrecognising or else uncaring, but the pawn over there by his hand's edge isn't a pawn anymore at all. Hollow eyes above a nose like a butcher's blade, hungry claws for its hands; "You've forgotten the witch," she explains, and after a moment murmurs: "Poor Cherny. Of course he was. For that reason alone, you might have some pride in what you have become - "

have?

will?

" - for it has bound your fortunes together for always, and elevated a miller's boy far beyond the lot his life was served." Her smile is a solemn benevolence, even when he acquires a piece that is clearly her. It seems somehow inappropriate, but that pales beside what her eyes happen upon next; that is how Elliot loses one of his pawns altogether, for she's plucked this dark-eyed piece from the board without even attempting to properly win it from him. "She's not for your games," the lady warns - and with hands as tender as her voice was hard, tucks Lenore into a cosy corner well clear of the playing-field.

"I never knock over the board." A narrow glance. "That's rather a Cinnabar sort of trick, and anyone who's anyone knows it. Make your move. Monkey."

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Night ḁ̻͖͕ͅf͎̣͝t̳e̝̟̬̙̠r̴̤ night, from words to dreams, to flesh, to phantoms. P̷͓̖̦͓̞͖ͅo҉̗̖̞̹̱ͅş͎̝̭̟̭s̞͍̥e̮̩sṣ̥̙̮̜͡i͍̺̬̙͙ͅon and deposession. .̧́҉ ̕T҉̢h͘͝e҉̴́ ̵fl̴͢òwe̷r͢s̀ ͠͞o̢f̨ ̴͏t͘͝h̕͠e͘ m͞ó͜òn̵̷͠, , the broad-backed palms ǫ̿̋f̽ͧ̽͒ͥ͛̒ ̇ͫ̍ju͂n͌̊gle̴͊̊̾ ̷̐̂͛growth, the b̴̧̨͖͈ͅa̵̡̢̧̙͙y̵̠̹͎͚͜į̴̨̬̪͔n̶̯̮͔͇͖g̴͓͈̼̥̻ ̵̥̯̫͕ͅo̸͓̻̖͙͔f̷̦̰̱̱̹ ̵̘̫͍̮͖b̴͍̗̜̮̪l̸̨̙̳̭̘o̸̧̤̪ͅͅo̵̤̗̠̤͜d̵̹̤̹̳ͅḩ̸̬̟͙̝ǫ̶͚̲̤ͅu̵̲͇̝͇͎ṇ̸͕̦̝͚d̴̡͔̯̠̥ṣ̴̡̲̘̫, the frail white body of ą̦͉̳̦͙͈̱͎̺̈́̾̏̔̏̉̓͘͠͠ ̢̖̗̘̞̫̣̜̱̘̽̈́̓̉̋̔̄̄͠͝c͎͓͎̙̮͖̣̭̣͖̐̔́̏͗̅̕͘̕͠ḩ͈͇̳̰̟̫͉̠̺̎́͌̊͛̔͑͒̕͘i̧̜̥̼̦̜̺̰̘͎̍̿̓̃̊͂̄̚̚͝l̛̦̳͔͈̭̮̯̜̹̿͛̎͂͛̋̒͜͝͝d̨̖̹͙͔̹̦̞͉́͆̒̋̐̇̈̀̍͜͝, the lava bubbles, the rallentando ̵͚̮̞̫̰o̶̱̝̲͇̤f̴̤͉̦̹̜ ̶̖̤͚͍ͅt̸̟̜͓̺̮ẖ̷̢̥̩̪ḛ̸̣͍͍̮ snow-flakes,
ţ̴̪̱̣͜h̷̺̥̰̪ͅe̶̩̲̪̙̦ ̶͇̭͇̫̫ ͂ͪ͌͡ḟl̴ͦͪͧͧ̿͋o̍̓ͯ̐͊͊o̔͆̀͊̑̉̚r͛͗̓̚͝l͊̀̾̔̋̚e̒͒̋̽͗̊ͦs̓̓͊͞s̛̀̓͆͒ bottom where smoke bͦlȏom̊̓ͭ́̊s into flesh. Ã̛̬͍̼̲̙̟̖̹͙̊̿̌́͗̄̏͝ͅn̢̧̰̤̪͖̫̣̼̊́̃̿̀̂̉̓̕͝ͅḑ̥̻͕̻͚͈̔̅͋̓͋̌̈́̓͑͜͝ͅͅ ̨͖̘͕͖̺̪̠̜͌̔̑̌̈́͊̈́̈́͘͝ͅwhat is flesh but moon? and what i̶̭͇̬͇͍͔s̭̬̩ moon ̩̬̖̰b̺͇͙̳͓̣̀ͅu̥̺̙ṱ͎̱̠̰͙͖̀ ̙̮night? Night is ͘l̷̛͠ǫng̵̨͟í̛n̨͟g̕͞, longing,longing, beyond all endurance.

[Glenn]

Elliot wouldn't shake the board either, but he'd do his best to shake everything else. The sandbeneath her feet became quicksand, the rain above her head, carefully harvested, became hail. These were all distractions for he was playing a different game. He was doing what he did best. He was pilfering something.

"There it is again," a scowl just for her, and it was the sort that could take up her entire mindset. It was anywhere she looked. "I'm freedom, Ariane. What I'm going to be is amazing. I'm going to escape Myrken, not leave Myrken but escape it. I'm going to slip through the cracks just like these raindrops. Myrken has a cost, right? I know that. I've seen it. I'm going to have whatever I want and not pay the cost and then you're going to stand there and applaud, because it'll be the most impressive thing you've ever seen." Sad words from someone who did not realize that he'd already paid the cost. To Ariane, though, the cost was a reward. "I don't need riches. I just need to beat this place, and I will. But first I'll beat you."

She snatched away one of his pawns. He snatched away one of her castle-things, palming it, slipping it between his fingers, making it disappear and then appear behind her ear. There, the hail seemed to swarm around it and when he dropped it, it was frozen and shattered into a thousand pieces. "Who was she anyway?" A nod to the stolen pawn. He was using misdirection, distraction, everything he could and for good reason.

Elliot Brown was reaching in and stealing her next move from her before she did it. It was a brilliant gambit, flawless really, save for one little fact: he had absolutely no idea how to play chess.

[Carnath-Emory]

Quicksand beneath her feet. But hasn't it always been? The Dauntless landscape clings in a way that no desert hazards could ever hope to rival, sinks its claws into the ankles, jealous and hungry and refusing furiously to release what had the misfortune to be born to its winters. They could have turned back, those first long-ago settlers. At any point, understanding at last that what they'd happened upon was hardly worth the having, they might have turned back, retraced their steps, found something else, found something better than the slow, withering existence which passed for life there, and she'd known it, known it, when she was twelve years old and -

"Oh, Elliot."

- greeting the happiest day of her life. The happiest. And why, then, does the memory not warm her against this hail? Shivering, she tightens the coat closer around her shoulders, ducking down her features into the shadow of its high collar. To move at all is to risk tangling her slippers amongst overlong coat-skirts; obliged to choose between bitter ice and engulfing sands, she does what she has always done, armouring herself against what is unbearable as she waits for a third option to appear.

"Slipping through the cracks? Impressive? It's just tricks," she murmurs, dismissive if not outright scornful. But almost immediately, something in the cold glass of her eyes relents; a tentative warmth filtering through the chill veneer. "I did like the rain," she allows, and watches him now, watches the boy so closely. "I hated your birds, but I did like the rain. It smelled like morning." Her smile becomes sudden laughter, when he snatches a piece from behind her ear, and that's just as much a trick as any of it was, but this time her laughter only approves. "Elliot, a pawn for a castle is - "

is not

is not

" - a fair trade," for isn't that just what she'd said to Cherny just days before? To save a pawn's life is to save his whole world, but he was a little boy, too engrossed in the romance of fairy-tales and chivalry to understand how little a shattered pawn cares for the fate of castles. Perhaps this is how she'll explain it to him tomorrow: like this, with the tale of Lenore and her Crimson Duke, so that a boy can see the purpose of placing a knight upon the playing-board -

"Almost anything would have been," she murmurs, and when he asks the question he must ask, when he makes this brilliant, reckless gambit, she leans across the playing-field this small measure; she turns his face with rain-damp fingertips, nothing but gentle, and whispers

"Look."

Elliot Brown, clever with locks and dancing between raindrops: he knows how to see what lurks just at the edge of his eyes. To look directly is to banish the vision utterly, but if he allows it to approach he'll have the whole of it, the pieces which can be seen and the pieces which must only be known: what it was to sit for hours with little mouse Lenore, two girls brushing each others' hair upon the attic steps and loving the hour's easy silence. What it was to love her: sweet, shy Lenore, tiny within the embrace of a Crimson Duke; a precious vulnerability to which two sisters fiercely devoted themselves. Fragile Lenore, stolen away by a monster's crazed malice and suffering in the darkness which hides beneath the human world; half-mad with desperation they'd sacrificed so much, so much, to wrest her back from that beast. This is what it is to carve the eye from your own face; this is what it is to open a man from guts to throat, over and over; this is what it is to want to do it all again, again, as many times as it takes to make this right, when what you find down there is the shuddering wreckage of the girl that was, a thing gone mad with fear. This is grief that burns like a hungry flame, grief of such wrenching magnitude that it threatens to swallow you whole -

Quietly, now.
Quietly:

"You can't have her. She's not for games."



____________________________________________________________________________________________________________Night ḁ̻͖͕ͅf͎̣͝t̳e̝̟̬̙̠r̴̤ night, from words 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, the lava bubbles, the rallentando ̵͚̮̞̫̰o̶̱̝̲͇̤f̴̤͉̦̹̜ ̶̖̤͚͍ͅt̸̟̜͓̺̮ẖ̷̢̥̩̪ḛ̸̣͍͍̮ snow-flakes, ţ̴̪̱̣͜h̷̺̥̰̪ͅe̶̩̲̪̙̦ ̶͇̭͇̫̫ ͂ͪ͌͡ḟl̴ͦͪͧͧ̿͋o̍̓ͯ̐͊͊o̔͆̀͊̑̉̚r͛͗̓̚͝l͊̀̾̔̋̚e̒͒̋̽͗̊ͦs̓̓͊͞s̛̀̓͆͒ bottom where smoke bͦlȏom̊̓ͭ́̊si̵̛͍̥͔̜̣̮̊͛̽͐̚n̴̛̰̖̟̲̘͉̈́͂́͛̓ţ̸̛̤̜̟͓̖̈́̀͛͌̊o̷͈̭̰͍͚̣̽͒̓̂̚͠ ̴̜̜͎͇̲̘͆̆͒̔̕͝f̵̤͔̟͍̥̖̆̑̌̾̎͘l̵̨̨̥̳͎̘̉͌̌̀̑͠é̷̫̘̟͕̤̝̊̊̓̌̋s̷̠̰͙̟͙̦̈̀͌̓̀̚ẖ̷̯͇̘͇̬͌̽̀̽̑͝h. Ã̛̬͍̼̲̙̟̖̹͙̊̿̌́͗̄̏͝ͅn̢̧̰̤̪͖̫̣̼̊́̃̿̀̂̉̓̕͝ͅḑ̥̻͕̻͚͈̔̅͋̓͋̌̈́̓͑͜͝ͅͅ ̨͖̘͕͖̺̪̠̜͌̔̑̌̈́͊̈́̈́͘͝ͅwhat is flesh but moon? and what i̶̭͇̬͇͍͔s̭̬̩ moon ̩̬̖̰b̺͇͙̳͓̣̀ͅu̥̺̙ṱ͎̱̠̰͙͖̀ ̙̮night? Night is ͘l̷̛͠ǫng̵̨͟í̛n̨͟g̕͞, longing,longing, beyond all endurance.

[Glenn]

Futility. Oh, the boy knew frustration. He knew the lock that he could not open. That's how all this started. That's all he ever wanted from her. He wanted to find her secret treasure not so that he could take it but so that he could throw himself against it. He wanted to throw himself up against the very worst that Myrken had to offer, the very best that Myrken promised, so that he could test his mettle, so that he could get better. He and how many before him? Dhrins and Calomels alike.

He was snatching her moves right from her head and it meant nothing for he did not know the rules of the game and whenever he tried to make his own, she countered. There was no one better in this world at making her own rules than Ariane Emory. Some things were constant.

"Life is a game. It's the only game we every really play. It's all a trick. The point is to figure it out. It's all smoke and mirrors. You game it." He winked roguishly. It wasn't even anything he really believed, but to say it. He controlled the wind and it was in his hair now. It wasn't the lightning she wanted before with his last declaration, but there was a part and he looked it, just for her.

He asks a question. An answer is thrust upon him and it was everything he wanted from her. It was that Ariane that he sought out. It was that Ariane that he challenged.

He asked a question. He received an answer. In the brutalized eyes of something true, something beyond this dream, he was found wanting.

His own eyes shut. His eyes opened.

His pawns were gone save one. Cherny again. Cute. He was always too soft on the moron. Agnieszka remained on the board and he had no idea why.

And then there was his king, Ariane Emory, in pants and thus all her glory.

On the other side was an army. There were more pieces than there were places to put them. A dozen bishops and the pawns to match. This was not a chess game anymore. It was war and his position was untenable.

Slowly, calmly, that hopeless twinkle in his eye, Elliot Brown placed his hand upon the board, upon the open spaces between his pieces. He looked down at the tiny Ariane Emory, his king. She began to move. She looked up to him. The look was dubious. His smile was bright, infectious. Hers, upon the contagion, was as dubious as her glance had been, more interested than amused.

And then, with the world before her and only a boy and an utter pain as allies, Ariane Emory, the tiny grey king, was overcome with an unnatural liquid metal

and may the world tremble

[Carnath-Emory]

He asked her a question, this boy who'd once challenged her as a means to challenging himself. He asked her a question and received far more than its answer, but how was he to know that it would be that way? I want my world to withstand what I am, she'd admitted once - but not to him. Withstand, she'd said, this woman who'd loved too hard and killed too cruelly; who, the one time too much didn't even begin to be enough, just ran and ran too far.

In the end, it was always a matter of excess.

Now, too, except that this time it's all his fault. Not content with chess as conventionally played, Elliot Brown has conjured her an army, dozens strong and glittering with malice. They're crowded into too narrow a space: look how they jostle for precedence, all cracked-jade eyes and hungry steel.

Just. Like. Always.

She answers this vision as she'd answered his words: with the heavy silence of a slow-drawn breath and eyes that were never made for absolutes. When she shivers beneath the snowfall his hail had become, the lady tightens the jacket's dark fabric about her shoulders, slides her arms into its sleeves. When eyes exchange a glance - the boy and his playing-piece, dubious and bright and much more than that - she very slightly smiles.

"I don't know if you believe even one half of what you've just said."

Once upon a time, a boy's frustration drew a line between them in the dirt. When the lady leans a fingertip onto the glassy battlefield, there's no mistaking the line it draws for anything but deliberate, for her touch is slow and it trails living steel -

"But things change. Isn't that what you said? Things change."

- and hesitance -

"Well. I changed. That's the problem, right?"

- and, ultimately, withdraws back beneath the coat's long sleeve.

"Ask them. Mm? Ask them if it was even a moment too soon," and he can have it all, then; he can have every piece of it. The crack of a woman's cheekbone breaking beneath his vengeful fist, her whispered absolution; a husband's face, emaciated and nearly unrecognisable, the shattered wreckage of his limbs; the frustration of a farmer's hand coming loose from the nail, and if he wants it to stay posed like supplication against the wall he'll have to hammer it there again, hammer it again; the child we bury beneath autumn snowfall, the sweep of your hand through a shelf of glass keepsakes, everything shattering in a rain of tiny cogs and gears; the streets gone red with insurgent blood, ships wreathed in flame arcing lazily through the sky; hands-to-throat, both of us, both of us, hitting the ground in blood and fire and shattered glass -


The world ends in flames.


____________________________________________________________________________________________________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.

[Carnath-Emory]

A flat rooftop, overlooking many just like it. A city's worth of homes, large and small and never particularly tall; pale, flat stone glitters faintly beneath the morning's light. A clutter of narrow alleyways below, should one care to look; not too distant, the grander buildings of the city proper. Sandy streets. Dusty boots raise clouds of the same. A trickle of to-and-fro business becomes a steady mid-morning rush, a crowd of colours and shouts and sometimes laughter. The sun races across the sky; below, the streets become a blur of indecipherable motion -

at the joints of hip and elbow and so much more; slivers of vulnerability. a lick of steel spills blood across the cobblestones.
your shout, your startled eyes. it is an outrage. i do it again. so we'll both know there's no going back now.

- the burnt-orange sliver of a setting sun, ferocious against the backdrop of a darkening sky. A scattering of threadbare rugs lend the rooftop some colour, and she is stretched upon one of them, a monochrome thing all at odds with the sunset sky. Her eyes are for the distant spires which can only be the city's heart, and she plucks a handful of dates from her bowl; bends her head to inhale their sweet-strange scent.

"I hope it's true," she murmurs. Sunset in the cooling grey of her eyes, the scar a lurid mutilation. "What you said, that day. For if you can escape this? Then I'll stand and applaud the thief who stole back himself."

[Glenn]

You learned to flex certain muscles in certain ways for certain reasons. You became stronger relative to the obstacles life put in your way. They helped shape the strength that you develop. "I can only move what you give me." He was on one of those rugs, though, and he was three feet off the ground like some fabulous protagonist of a desert tale. She'd heard her share of those, no? He'd heard less which meant this idea was probably from his own imagination. It was hardly surprising, though. Elliot Brown loved the idea of flight, the freedom to go with it. He'd probably overturn gravity altogether if he had the choice. Maybe someday he would. "I had all these tools and they're all gone. I stole you back. Or maybe I just picked a lock." His legs dangled off the edge of the rug, kicking to a song only he could hear. Reality rippled slightly at each kick, but it wasn't with the wind from before. "Told you I was good at that, right?" There was a bit of a wistful tone to him, though given he was a teenager, wistful was a rather nice word for it. Whiny might have been better.

"First, I want you to lead by saying thank you." Her dates were in his hands and he was juggling them lightly, starting with the mass of them with one ending up in his mouth now and again. His eyes were shut but he didn't seem to be having any trouble with that. Talking with his mouth full wasn't a problem either, not the talking at least. Understanding him may have been trickier. "Then I want to know where the hell you've been. I bet Lord Duck Noose's dreams are a lot more useful."

[Carnath-Emory]

He's stolen her dates, as well. This is the hazard of having dinner with a thief. She cannot even chastise him for it, for doing what is simply his nature to do, anymore than she could entirely admonish Megera for

do you hear it? do you taste the copper-tang caution? in the back of the thoughts which we share, cold things lazily uncoil.
Except, of course, that in her way she had: fire like a door's irrevocable closing; like more than that. Hadn't she even said as much? That even spite has its sting.

"I'd give you your self - here." Surely she's aware, this sometimes-lucid dreamer; surely she'd realised what he'd begun all those weeks ago. "But that's a trick that Bromn would do; perhaps Renne." A name he does not know; she waves it aside, chooses a segment of vivid orange from the bowl he'd emptied of dates. "But even they'd only give you the You that existed for them, and - " It feels like the first time she'd smiled in months. It's not, of course. But what smiled its joy just weeks ago was not her, for all that it wore her face. "You'd stand eight feet tall in gilded silk. Hair like fire, eyes like candied suns." Laughter threatens; vanishes, in the moment he begins to speak again, and -

does he ever get tired of it? The way she waves her hand - dismissively, defiantly - right through the middle of his words?

"I should thank you." No laughter, this time. Nothing but solemn eyes wrought in militant grey. "You picked a lock. He shoved a door open." No need to speak his name, not when Elliot already has. "Or so it seems to me, and you well know that I don't - understand this mentalism, this - swaining." Oranges taste like sunshine. She takes her time with this piece, as if its sweetness were just such warmth. "But you have done this. When I might have been nothing but - "

The silence that comes when we do not care to speak the words aloud.

"It's here that I've been," she says instead; a tilt of her chin towards this landscape, towards the rug upon which she's stretched her legs and even to his floating self; that is when the smile begins to resurface. "Perhaps. I think. How do I say to you that - 'Of course I was here Elliot, each and every night', when to look back is to see - one day following into another as if they were all one - one long, terrible dream. How do I say to you, with - with any certainty - that there was ever a moment in which I woke?"

A moment's quiet, then. For the last bits of orange; for the darkening horizon.

"He's the most useful person I know." Her smile, slightly broadening. "Perhaps his dreams are, too. Will you actually try?"

[Glenn]

Laughter threatens to overtake her. He's rather beyond that point. He's a bit too whiny for it, even though he understands certain things about her smile and about how privileged he was to see it for it was not any smile from her (and some would call those special, the whole lot of them. He was not some). There was a certain sense of entitlement to young master Brown though so there'd be none of that. No laughter, no real appreciation, even. Respectful acknowledgement would be the best she'd get. A nod that she couldn't see but that she could certainly feel. "I'm not even sure how to put this." He'd learned of her, learned things he never, ever should have, but still, no, he had no idea what a Renne was. "I think even if I put it the right way, you might not understand anyway. If I understood, I'd be able to put it the right way. Maybe if I put it just the wrong way, we'll both understand." The two of them had such skills but oh, did they ever have their holes.

"You're my whole world, Ariane. I don't mean that in some creepy, obsessed way, so don't get any weird ideas." It's not like anyone else would have expressed that sort of notion to her before, right? How little he knew despite having seen so much. "I'm stuck. I have no real idea what was going on. I knew you needed rescuing. I saw a door that needed unlocking. Those things I understood, not that I'm some stupid hero out of a story; I'm as much of a hero as you are a damsel, ok." Except for the fact that what was had been what was. "I'm stuck. I Can't go anywhere, and even if I could, I don't know if I'd pick his dream. I know now that you don't know half as much as you make people think you know, you know. Either he's better at making people think that he knows what he doesn't really know or he really does know what he knows and I don't know nearly enough to deal with that, if you know what I mean. At least here I have some dignity. He'd make me feel like a bug under inspection. Not that I wouldn't bite him in the eye if he tried."

[Carnath-Emory]

There's a particular way in which you listen to Elliot Brown. Not Gahald, who requires an effort all of his own - she dimly remembers trading courtesy for etiquette, an endless stream of compliment-and-response - but Brown. Ordinarily she's a careful listener because language does not come easily to her, and she is quickly lost in a casual torrent of words. But Brown turns reasonable statements into spiralling excursions, so that in the end the challenge becomes to track it all to its conclusion without becoming lost on the way. Sometimes she cheats, if taking shortcuts constitutes cheating at all: sometimes she cuts brutally through the tangled undergrowth of his narrative to catch a glimpse of what lies ahead; some corner of her is still, and will always be, the girl who wanted to skip ahead to the end of her scribe's storybooks, and it is a habit which Elliot's habits only encourage...

But not today.

"Put it in whatever way you please," she'd interjected at the beginning of this. "Let me sort it, now that I'm good for sorting more than - " Colours. Bulbs. Sweetmeats from hors d'oeuvres. Her mouth is a thinning line, and stays that way as Elliot begins in earnest, describing a thing at which she had only begun to guess. He has an attentive listener for his audience. He has a swordswoman whose eyes are inclined naturally towards frowning, and frown they do as he continues; nevermind the moment in which he suggested a thing unintentionally and found her silently bristling in response.

"Everyone does that," she murmurs after a time. "If they've any sense, and unless they've - power enough, influence enough, that it doesn't matter. Even then." A second segment of orange; her eyes consider its subtle curve. "What I do know is - very simple, and often very brutal. Seldom pleasant. But you understand this. What he knows is considerably more. You don't think it's a worthwhile trade? A moment's dignity - "

I will not satisfy one part of me at expense of the other. My smile bleeds satisfaction; your eyes speak of laughter even when your lips are still.
You are the wolf in the hunter's trap, gnawing free an arm to spare your leg: we know what is expendable, you and I. This could be our secret.
"How much do you want to know; how much is even useful to you? I can tell you the simple things, the brutal things." She'd said. There's no laughter in this smile. "I can tell you who's done this; I can tell you why - a part of the Why," she qualifies then. "But what I can also tell you is that ... " She'd have prefaced this with a caution, were it anyone else at all; were the circumstances even slightly different. 'You will not like this,' she'd have said, and left it to the listener to indicate whether she should continue. Not with this. Not him. A slow breath, her only warning.

"The one who's done this to you, who's made you over into precisely that - hero," a knight in need of dragons, "has died. And yet here we are. What this means for you - if you are not some, some figment I've - conjured - " A shake of her head. "What this means, I do not know."

[Glenn]

She had thanked him, in her own way and in his own way. That is she admitted a definitive truth, one that he was only mostly sure of; he had unlocked that door, though even he would be the first to admit that he didn't push it open. He'd also be the first to admit that he may not have even unlocked it for her. Oh, he liked her as well as the next person but it was never about her. She wasn't a damsel. If he gave her a chance, it was for his own benefit. That was how she thanked him. As for how he thanked himself for her, well, that was when he told her she ought to thank him. Her hearing it was enough for him. It made it not just truth but a truth that was impossible to acknowledge. She only confirmed what he already knew.

That was good, very good. It gave him leverage to do this. 'This.' See, she had said a lot of things he could only suspect. He didn't understand a lot, quite a lot, and bravado would only take him so far. Words that he didn't know generally took him a good, long way but sometimes he needed those that he did know. Who was a small word. Why was a small word. How, even. Something was missing, and that would cause him to look away petulantly. He could show vulnerability but only due to what they'd both given him. Thus, the 'this.'

He swallowed. He stared down into the rug. "I don't know the what, Ariane. You start with the what, and shut up, okay? You didn't have any idea that anything was going on last time I saw you! At least I'm better off than you were!" Even leverage only took him so far.

[Carnath-Emory]

The landscape flattens, not sealed beneath impenetrable ice or smothered in cracked, smoky glass but only gone. An absence of being, an abrupt withdrawal that leaves her standing, and him -

He'll manage himself. Isn't there a saying about thieves who land with both feet on the ground?
If there's not, he'll probably invent one.

"No." Point-blank denial, flatly dealt. "If there is a thing you would have me describe to you, ask of that. If there's a thing you'd have specifically, tell me so." A single pace, a sidelong glance. "What you demanded was reasonable, more than reasonable. I was grateful long before you asked it of me, and it was yours freely; it is still. But don't begin this, Elliot." A jerk of her chin towards him, towards a voice that had spoken and that had done so much more than only that. "Don't lead with courtesies and then shout because they've brought you somewhere frustrating."

A moment's quiet. It does little to soften the line her mouth's become.

"What you saw of me here, that - thing, with its skirts and its flowers and its ridiculous words," and how she despises it, truly despises; never more than when it whispers at the edges of her thoughts. A fragment of half-heard song; a glimpse of something like an afterimage, burned into eyes that stared too long. "This is what I had become in the waking world. For true, mn? And you as well. Elliot Gahald, you style yourself there. A Lady's knight, your heart set upon the vanquishing of evil and the salvation of the downtrodden and forgotten.

It was deliberately done. It has not yet been remedied."

'Yet'.
Oh, but they've been calling her naive for years.

[Glenn]

Don't begin this, she says. It's not something she would have said before. Oh, she might have been exasperated. She HAD been exasperated. He remembered it well. There was less investment then, though. He wasn't quite sure how to take it. Before, she wouldn't have cared. Now, she cared enough to tell him not to begin it. It was stifling, one tie threatening to ground him when he should be flying.

It meant that he was off balance even she said the rest of it. It meant, perhaps, that he allowed her to say the rest unencumbered. They were in a place of instinct. Here, tone meant more than the actual words used and wasn't that a blessing for Ariane and a curse for him.

So she spoke and he listened, whether he wanted to or not (despite the fact he had asked the question in the first place). He listened and she spoke and he believed her. He believed her for a very simple reason. He had an incredible imagination some times and in some ways, but he could not have imagined her becoming THAT. He would not have imagined her becoming THAT. She would not imagine it either. If she didn't imagine it and he didn't imagine it, it had to be true. Likewise, what she just mentioned.

Believing it and being able to process it were two very different things, though, and he was left gawking, silenced. There were more questions than there was human adaptability. He couldn't stretch them into one utterance. A pressure built and then it exploded, sound buffeting Ariane from every direction, a hundred different questions in a hundred voices all his own. She could pick out hints of words here and there but before SHE could process any of them another would threaten to flatten her. The wind had returned but it was made of noise and question marks and if she didn't do something quickly, it would swallow her whole.

[Carnath-Emory]

He asked. He asked, and she gave. He asked like that, and she gave him everything: all of it, unfettered except by the limits of What.

It shouldn't have been like that, all that cold, blunt truth. It should have been delivered piecemeal, in at least an attempt to make the thing managable; evermind that the facts as they stand are intolerable. Explanations should have followed statements, examples should have bolstered the meaty facts of it. But he was confronted by an onslaught, and how inevitable it was that he'd respond in kind. How unavoidable.

This stormy-eyed monster; having survived so many, she knows a tempest when she sees one. Anywhere else, it might have been a wall of sudden sound, but here it is so much more: hands clapped over her ears, she staggers beneath the raw rush of clamoring demand. It tears through the surfaces of her, infuses the veins with a tumbling momentum that's not hers at all: a hysterical spirit, as alien to her nature as a lady's silken dreams had ever been. It would devour her whole if she let it, beginning at the nerves and spreading swiftly until there was nothing left of her but a stuttering wreckage of ineffectual pleas -

She carves through it like ice, upon him in a blistering instant as if distance didn't matter at all. And indeed it doesn't, for like everything else here, distance is a fallacy which exists for them only by mutual consent. She comes at him cold, because coldness is where she always goes when she's exhausted other avenues: a fist in his shirt, his back to the wall; snow crunches cold underfoot.

"I know."
He'll never hear her through the shrieking winds of his shock; she could shout herself hoarse and it would be nothing, nothing, a leaf fluttering loose in the storm of him. She knows it; does it anyway, but what matters is her grip upon his shirt, what matters is the unavoidable fact of her presence, and the things which it states by its very existence. She looks for his eyes, through winds that have lit her cheeks ruddy and make a horror of overlong hair; if she staggers beneath its buffeting weight so does he, but they will not fall here. She cannot allow it.

"You swallow it down and then we sort it, Elliot. But this? This is not what we do."