alainn_aislinn: (Inspiration)

It is not what I do. It is not what I know. Lives, life, death -- everything that has such depth of meaning for you, things you cling to as consequential. They don't last. Lives, I mean. Not even ours, long as they are. They will end someday, for most haven't the perseverance to maintain movement forward throughout eternity, even when blessed with it from birth.

In the end, there is nothing to save in a life. We all die. We all change. We all move from one state to another and are merely passing through this present form of existence until we change again and become something else in the circle that is existence and time. The Wheel ever spins. Nothing is saved.

But nothing is lost, either.

We live in what we leave behind. Children. Words. Songs. Paintings. Sculptures. Michelangelo died, just a man. But his work remains and will remain. Shakespeare wrote and then he died, but still you all know of him. He lives on in his work, throughout space and time as long as the storytelling urge of life endures.

And it will endure. It will survive so long as sentient beings of some form survive.

I do not know how to save a life, no. It is inconsequential in the eternal scope of the world. But I know how to make something of a life. I know how to make a life's work immortal.

In the end, isn't that what you want of me?


Aug. 13th, 2007 07:45 am
alainn_aislinn: (Beauty Danger Same thing)
I have removed Aislinn from [ profile] theatrical_muse.

Anyone who still has a desire to RP with her in the universe we've established there, I am more than willing to keep that play going, or any AUs that have sprung up off of it. If you don't, I understand that, too.

She will still be writing prompts for the RoTM/OMP combined community, which is more "canon" for her.
alainn_aislinn: (Default)
FYI -- Mun is going on vacation and will be gone from July 25-August 1 or 2. I won't have any access, or very limited, during that time, so tags, prompts and everything else from my muses will be pretty much non-existent until I get back.

Y'all take care and have fun and I'll see you on the flipside. :-)

alainn_aislinn: (Let me love you down)
Disce quasi semper victurus, vive quasi cras moriturus. - Learn as if always going to live, live as if tomorrow going to die.

So many of them follow this tenet, and it is good. They are as hungry as I, always reaching, searching, wanting to learn, wanting to find just one thing more to pull into themselves, absorb, mutate and use to give birth to something new, something brilliant. They embrace life to the fullest, reaching higher toward the sky, and sinking lower into the depths. They are flame and I am the moth, always drawn and circling. How can I not be, when they shine so brightly? It’s as if they know consciously the bargain their subconscious wrought, even when they will not acknowledge the fantastic bits of it all. They always grasp for more knowledge, more beauty, as if it will sustain them, and then they fling away parts of themselves throughout their worlds, because they know so well that it will not.

There is something marvelous in their doomed beauty that I have never been able to walk away from. I don’t know how any of my kind ever could.
alainn_aislinn: (Beauty Danger Same thing)
She stares at it with a curious expression, fingers sliding over the wood. He speaks softly, as he seems to do everything else, treating her like a wild thing that might disappear if he makes any sudden movements. He isn’t far off, and it disconcerts her a little to realize it. She doesn’t like being known.

In that same careful tone he tells her what it is, what it can do. When she asks what sort of magic it is, he blinks and says it is not. It is science. That gets a dismissive frown, because science is a thing of humans, of lesser beings who have not conquered the mysteries of the universe. He lifts one eyebrow and asks her if her people can travel through space and time. She does not deign to answer, stroking the wood of the box with a sort of reverence. It pulses, is alive, and somehow it seems to know her, though she thinks it is like him, knowing the Other, elsewhere. She is not her, and they would both do well to learn that.

But just like the Other, when he opens the door, she steps in eagerly, always too curious for her own good.

OOC Note: Based on RP with [ profile] thecricketer
alainn_aislinn: (Distraught dreaming)
My darling son,

Do you know how much I love you? I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t. If anyone in this world deserves the “worst mother” award, I sometimes think I have to be her. I don’t have any excuses, or none that are enough. I showed an extreme lack of discernment that I can only attribute to my own selfish grief. I thought you would be better with them, in his world, away from everything that I am. I only seem to destroy that which I love, and I didn’t want to turn it on you.

But I did anyway. I left you with that awful woman. I didn’t know how your mortal blood would effect you, but I should have warned you there were consequences to what we are. I don’t know if it could have saved her. I didn’t know. That is as true as my love for you. Had I known, I would have warned you, but even so…I do not know what we could have done to prevent it. I am no good at teaching temperance. I knew what I was when I went to your father. I knew what could happen, and I went anyway, driven by my own needs and my own desires. What could I have taught you about control? Still…I would have tried, to spare you that grief that I know far too well.

I tried to protect you from me. Know that. In the end, I chose wrongly. Perhaps in Faerie things would have been different. You at least would have grown knowing that you were loved and adored. I did so many things wrong, and yet, you have never turned from me. You’re always there, and often I know that you are the one watching out for me, protecting me in ways I never did for you. I don’t know why you do it. I don’t deserve it.

But I love you more for it. For being there. For loving me. For forgiving me.

You are the most precious thing in the world to me. There is nothing I would not do for you, no one I would not destroy for harming you. Know that, even if it is the only token of a mother’s love that I know how to give. You are my heart. You are the best thing I ever did. And if it takes millennia, I will make up for all my mistakes in your childhood. I am so proud of you, my son.



I never wanted to be a princess. I do not want the throne. Not now, not then. I only, ever, always wanted to be free to pursue the things I love. Music. Art. The passion of the written word. Dancing in mortal nights, and dreaming under Faerie stars. Your ambitions were your own. When you call me a failure as a daughter, I try and forgive. I try to not hear you. Because I am not a failure. I am my father’s daughter, and I am fulfilling the purpose to which I was born. It was never to sit on a Daoine Sidhe throne, but to walk among mortals and bring beauty to this world. Byron. Shelley. Oscar. Tennyson. Van Gogh. Monet. Liszt. Mine, all of them, mine. Works that live on, breathe on, spiral through time and space and they will be remembered.

The need for personal glory is yours, not mine. I do not want your Power.

I am not a failure. My father would be proud of me, is proud of me.

And that is enough.

alainn_aislinn: (Mysterious ways)
They came before my time, but the stories stay, woven in with our own. They speak of defeat. Of the staff of power that caused the druids to crumble. They speak of the banishing of the snakes, of the wisdom of the divine feminine driven from our shores and replaced with the legend of the Martyr. Men had long since driven us underground, claiming the Earth as their own, but they paid us homage, as was our due. They worshipped our Mother, our Elders. They left offerings for each of us, invoking our names to bless them, bring them victory.

And then they stopped, and the new priests came, speaking of mercy and forgiveness as they took our lives and twisted them into fairytales. The Children of Lir, they said, were freed from their pagan curse by their acceptance of the true light of the Christ, but I have seen those swans still, migrating from lake to lake, and their cries are haunting, chilling.

They walked our land and they twisted the tales to suit them. What they could not erase, they changed, as with Brigid, my King’s sister, my adopted aunt. They reduced her from Goddess, and set her in stone in their cathedrals and called her “saint.” No one asked her if she wished it, but still the people prayed, and because she loved them, still she listened, and her new role was cemented. My King’s son, they called the devil, for the horns that came from his head and his cloven hooves. He led the Wild Hunt, and they named it evil—demons on parade.

We were stripped of our legacy, the stories taken from spoken word to written, twisted and altered in subtle ways by the monks, striving to make us less than. A tribe from the North, they said, defeated and driven out or disappearing by intermarriage with the Milesians. Wise. Good farmers. Technologically advanced, so that those they conquered thought they did magic. They mangled it all until very little was left, except to those who sought carefully.

They tried to kill the Old Ways, instead of blending, but the heart of the people rejected our annihilation. They knew. It caught in their hearts, and they themselves resisted the new priests, changing them as much as they were changed, until Old and New mingled across our land. Where priests search the mists for answers and pagans make the sign of the cross, and something new and unlike anywhere else was born and sustains itself on the paths through time.

There’s magic in Ireland still, in the land and in the people who remember, who will not release what they know to be true.
alainn_aislinn: (Mysterious ways)
"Racism isn't born, folks, it's taught. I have a two-year-old son. You know what he hates? Naps! End of list." Dennis Leary

I suppose it is a sort of racism. It certainly is among the other creatures, but even between us, it lingers, in looks, in glances. Even among our own "species" we are Other. When hierarchies are based upon species, how can it be anything but a form of racism. We can call it speciesism or whatever, but in the broader scope of things, we are all Fae. Sidhe, pixies, gnomes, leprechauns, nymphs, the spirits of the trees and rocks and the rest. We are all Fae, all born of the magic and Dana's touch.

But the Tuatha de Danann are special, set apart from the rest, at the top of the order. While the other Fae are touched and blessed by the Goddess, we are her children. Blood of her blood, the first of us born of her union with the earth, a perfect blending of Earth and Divine, and this makes us the leaders of those born solely of the Earth, with just the breath of the Divine in them. They haven't the blood. They haven't the Power.

But Power is where the racism among us begins. Because while the Tuatha de Danann are all children of the Goddess, we are divided into our own races. The Daoine Sidhe. The Bean Sidhe. The Leanan Sidhe. We co-exist in palaces. We all reign at the top of the social ladder and the strata that define Faerie. Some of us, such as my father, are accorded the status of Kings and Queens of the Sidhe in our own right. But we are Other to each other. Subtle variations, each of us claiming some superiority over the others, based upon variations in the way the Goddess' blood expresses itself in us.

The Daoine Sidhe are the politicians. They lead, inevitably. They go to War. They defend. They lead the hunt. They are the craftsmen and the inventors. The Bean Sidhe exist mostly in their own sphere and keep to themselves and really want little to do with any of us, pleased to be the harbingers of Death and follow the Morrigan with mournful delight. And then there we are, trapped between worlds. The Daoine Sidhe can exist solely in Faerie, never needing to leave but to win a bride or a child to keep the bloodlines strong, but the Leanan Sidhe must walk among mortals, even if briefly. We are as connected to them as the Bean Sidhe in our own way. While we can inspire our own, and inspire the artisans of the Daoine Sidhe; while we can be the artisans of the Sidhe, creating our own works of beauty to exalt the beauty and the delight of the Sidhe; we still need them, the mortals, the humans. We need their energy, their creative force. We need it to live, to thrive.

And this makes us somehow less than in the Daoine Sidhe's eyes, who need nothing from anyone. Oh, they remember, when we were the seers. Our kind still may choose to serve as priests to the Sidhe, energy radiating out from those seeking to connect with the Divine to feed their need, but there are too many of us now to all fill that function, and not enough of them to keep us all fed. So we disperse among mortals, some of us for long periods of times walking this worlds, others just for visits to the chosen.

And all of this sets us apart. It makes many of the Daoine Sidhe watch us with suspicion. We do not have their magic. We do not have their Power. We cannot control the weather or make the seasons change. We cannot conjure anything we wish out of the air, using only the elements around us. We cannot change our shape at will. We cannot fly. We can only cast simple glamours, perform the simple magics that certain humans with sensitivities can as well. Magics learned by the Daoine Sidhe as children, and them something stops us, blocks us from doing more, even though we know how. But we can slide between worlds easily. Barriers cannot keep us out. We can walk dreams and slide into minds and connect with people in ways the Daoine Sidhe cannot. We connect with the Divine spark inside each being, can manipulate the soul, can enhance the connection, can bring nirvana and pure bliss and an intimacy of experience they cannot hope to achieve without us.

We work together well, usually. But always there is that moment, those looks, that touch of suspicion of those different than us. One of us manipulates one of them; one of them exiles one of us and tensions flare and war is threatened. It is learned, surely, this uneasy truce.

But learned or not, it is always there, even as we feast together, dance under the stars in Her name, make love, make children. Always. I don't know if it always has been, but I cannot see any way that it will ever be truly gone.
alainn_aislinn: (apple?)
It can't be coercive. It can never be coercive, or it doesn't work right. I mean, I suppose I could just rip things out and take what I please and nevermind the rest, but that's not my purpose. There are some who wouldn't care, some who seek nothing but their own survival and strength. They want power. They want life, and it matters not how they gain it.

I'm not them. I do not want to take what is not freely offered, what is bargained for, after I have fulfilled my end. Oh, if they try to back out, I will take it by force if need be. I won't lie about that. But it had to have been offered before, at least once. After the bargain is struck, it's not coercive to keep them to it, force them to pay up for what was given. It's only fair, after all. But that's not coercion.

You offer. I offer. We agree of our own volition to make a bargain. You achieve your wildest dreams of success. I live.

Sound fair enough?


Jun. 29th, 2007 10:59 am
alainn_aislinn: (Inspiration)
Your triumph is mine. I have none separate from what and who I am, cannot even think what such a "triumph" would be. But that which is wound in with yours is all I ask for. Every time an agent expresses interest, that is my triumph as well. The signing. The book contract. The thrill you feel when your fingers caress the cover of your newly published masterpiece. The tears that fall at each good review. The joy when the book creeps higher on the best seller list.

The elation when you hear your song on the radio. The platinum album. The gallery showing just for you. The major purchase by an art collector. The fashion show that is a hit, raved about through Milan, Paris and New York. The standing ovation on opening night. The feel of the crowd, the adulation, the roses thrown on stage, just for you.

The calls for the author. The calls for an encore.

These are all mine as much as yours. They are my moments of joy, of seeing the success that I drove you to, the heights you have attained with my assistance. These moments would not exist without me and those like me. We are your muse. Your inspiration. We are the voice that whispers in your dreams and the push that eases you from idea to expression. We. I. You. I. We.

It is ours, together, and it is good.
alainn_aislinn: (getting ready)
Aislinn was finally starting to adjust to being Sidhe again instead of a kitten or a tree. The tendency to want to lick her hand to clean behind her ears had finally subsided, mostly. She still got distracted by feathers and strings, but, really, that wasn't so out of the ordinary for her and was barely noticeable. Ditto the need to lap at the cream.

She had missed being a girl, missed her boys, and her books. Byron had been settling, writing more, and that was appreciated, as it kept her from getting cranky as quickly. Things were calmer, at least.

For now, she was fidgeting, going through dress after dress until she finally settled on a simple black one, classic color, but still in her prefered flowing style. Hair half up, a bit of makeup that she took right back off, then just used magic to accent what she wanted accented. Glamours were useful sometimes. Then, trying to not fidget too much, she went in search of the Doctor.
alainn_aislinn: (Came undone)
gURL.comI took the "Shakespearean romance" quiz on
my romance type is...

Do you and your love break up one day, only to make up the next? Is your relationship more like a rollercoaster than a smooth carousel ride? If so, it seems like you and your sweetie like to play the game like Hamlet and Ophelia... Read more...

What's your Shakespearean romance type?

OMP: Kiss

Jun. 12th, 2007 01:14 pm
alainn_aislinn: (Toxic love)
It always starts with a kiss. It always ends with one, too, but she tries not to think about that too much. It’s there, though, lingering as she watches him in the pub, eyes dark. He’s different, but that’s all right. So is she. He is not an artist, as such, but there is creative energy in him.

She ponders him, watching his fingers, watching his lips. A mystery, and a riddle and that intrigues her. Little else does these days, so points to him for that. The strange behavior of trusting her, she dismisses with a shrug. Foolish creature, if he thinks she is worthy of it. But then, he seems to think she is something else. Knows her, but not, and she wonders, briefly, what this other her must be like in this other world where things did not go the way they went here. When a kiss was never final, and his life had not sucked into her and where he walked the world instead of only being carried in her memory and soul.

She drinks her Guinness, still staring at the stranger and pondering the name he gave her. Theta Sigma. Greek, but he’s not, and she wonders if the translation is purely accurate. The symbols he traced were not, and for a moment the mystery distracts her from the musician on the stage and her purpose here tonight. She has fed, which gives her time to think, but it all circles back again, and there’s a hunger in her eyes as she watches him that has nothing and everything to do with the look in his eyes when he looks at her.

It always starts with a kiss. She wonders what he will taste like.

ooc: Dark!/Canon!Aislinn freaks me out a little...
alainn_aislinn: (Wild anger)
*is no longer a tree*

*has a lot of money to spend on pretty things for herself*

*is going to smite that blue-haired bitch to kingdom come*

*has that "worst temper" category in the bag*

ooc: ;-D?
alainn_aislinn: (Walkin' free)
*Has been smote by Hermes at Illyria's request, and for the next 24 hours is a money tree.*
alainn_aislinn: (cute and innocent)

Thank you to everyone who thought of me to nominate, especially since I've been stuck in feline form for weeks until recently.

I'd like to ask that you also think of me when voting for:

Favorite Bad Match -- for me and [ profile] rude_not_ginger -- because who could have ever thought a Sidhe and a Timelord could find true love?

Favorite Lover's spat thread:
Aislinn/Ten make up -- That was an awful fight, and we really had to work hard to make things right.

And, apparently [ profile] timelady_lost and I have been nominated for Favorite Forbidden Love? I really think that ought to go to [ profile] the_corsair and [ profile] gentle_augusta, 'cause, well, they've been at it a lot longer. I mean, it spans centuries, and Romana and I, well. It's just not nearly so scandalous and forbidden as they are, is it? But I do thank those of you who thought of us. ;-)

As for any worst temper rumors, I have to say I don't know what anyone is thinking! Really! :-)
alainn_aislinn: (Thoughtful in bed)
I would leave. I would run. I would go back home the moment after I even suspected why things had changed. Why I needed more. Why I wanted…I would go back to that moment, and I would kiss him and tell him goodbye, and then I would never look back.

Before that moment in time, I thought I could control what I am. I thought that I could change things, be something different, be someone else. I could judge and I had discernment and I would be better, different, than those that came before. I knew so very much, and nothing anyone told me mattered.

After that moment in time, I knew more, knew how stupid I had been. How foolish. How childish in my clinging to a belief that I could be anything else besides what I am. We all serve a purpose in life. My mother told me that countless times, but I thought mine could be different than hers, different than what my nature called me to be. I thought I could change the way things worked.

I thought we could be a family. Maybe not the family he wanted to make, but one of our own. It would be different. I would show them all that I was better than that. My child would be raised in both worlds, loved by two parents, a bond that would overcome what nature called me to be, to do.

I stayed.

He died.

And I would give anything to take it back.
alainn_aislinn: (You led me on with those innocent eyes)
Your Sensitivity Score: 92%

You are an extremely sensitive person. You notice everything.
You've probably been called overly sensitive before, and it's partially true.
Highly sensitive people tend to be highly intelligent. And you just can't turn off that part of you.

Sort of hard not to be when you're an empath...
alainn_aislinn: (Aislinn kitten)
(ooc: Totally 100% RP based what with the "recent" in the prompt)

Aislinn couldn't remember the last time she had smiled. She tried and she couldn't. Maybe when they played "I Never." Maybe. She wasn't certain. It was possible it went back further, to dancing in the butterfly garden, or maybe even as far back as colored lights in a library talking about butterfly people with Five.

Of course, it had been at least weeks, because kittens can't smile. Even when she was chasing feathers and chewing on booths and shredding Byron's bed curtains, she couldn't smile. She could only purr, pounce, meow. It almost didn't matter. Things were ceasing to have their fae focus and starting, instead, to appear as they did to a kitten. Smiles didn't matter to kittens, and as she lapped gently at a bowl of cream, they didn't matter much to her either.

Except when Byron raged and begged and the Doctor said he missed her being her. They mattered a little more then, and so she tried, for them. She tried to find that thread of magic that had led her into this state, so she could follow it back out, but kittens don't follow magic the same way fairies do. She could almost feel it, but she couldn't touch it, couldn't change things, couldn't close her eyes and connect with it. It made her growl, low in her throat, fur rising a bit, until she found a dust bunny to chase through the halls, which led her to Thyme and a wrestling match that led to a race and a chase and finally to the two balls of fluff curled up around each other, warm and purring.

She didn't want to be a kitten anymore, when she thought about it, but it was getting harder to hold on to that thought. She missed being her, too, when she remembered who her was.

Aislinn couldn't remember the last time she smiled, but she knew the next time would be at whoever figured out how to change her back. She held on to that thought for a little while, then she rolled over and gave Thyme a bath before going back to sleep and let such human-ish worries slide away.
alainn_aislinn: (Aislinn kitten)
She wandered out from Byron's room, bleary, after he'd fallen asleep. She'd go back before he missed her, but she needed something to eat, and she wasn't really used to that feeling, which made it more imperative than otherwise. She could feel him though, somehow, sort of, and determined to come scampering back in a moment if he even shifted position.

The kitchen seemed very far, and she moved slowly, sniffing at things here and there, but she finally made it and hoped that Rose had thought to leave something out for Thyme that was edible. Or maybe she'd be in there and give her cream. Rose was good about giving cream, which made Aislinn very fond of her, though she'd be fonder if Rose figured out she was her.

She edged around the corner, slinking close to the wall with an inborn wariness from the day, peeking to see if anyone else was there.
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