alainn_aislinn: (Aislinn kitten)
The dustbunnies under the bed made her sneeze and she wriggled back out. Byron was gone somewhere, probably the library, but he'd left his door open, and that was an open call to a kitten to explore. Another sneeze shook her whole little body and made her jump, looking around with paranoid little glances.

The room stayed silent.

Slowly she crept around, looking for something to play with, when a pair of boots caught her eyes. They had tassels and she crept toward them, low to the ground, then pounced, batting the tassels madly and chewing on them with a ferocity that would have been terrifying had she been bigger more than half the size of the boot. The tassels destroyed, she crept inside, retreating back out quickly with the narrowing to support her leg almost trapped her.

The sneezing was more violent this time, and she immediately sat down to take a bath to regain her composure. It was while she was running her paw over her face that the idea hit her. Being up high would be wonderful. She could walk the canopy and that would be fun.

But she had to get there first.

Conveniently, Byron had chosen to follow his usual style, decorating the room with bed curtains that trailed all the way to the ground. She ran and took a little leap, landing about two feet off the ground and digging her claws in tight, dangling there. Her back feet flailed a little until she was able to attach those claws to the velvet as well. It took a moment to adjust to the swaying and her first movement was tentative, but she soon got the hang of it, digging claws in, retracting them, digging them in again as she climbed, hauling herself upward until she reached the canopy and balanced there in triumph.

Then she looked down.

It was very far down.

She hunkered close to the canopy, watching the floor far below her and started mewing quietly, wondering how she'd ever get down.
alainn_aislinn: (Doctor -- Old Souls)
Everyone keeps telling me to say what I want. To be who I am. To ask for what I need. To stop being the girl who's just trying to be what he needs.

So this is me, being me, and I'm asking you to stop.

I love him. I love the Doctor. My Doctor. And he loves me. Maybe he can't always say it, but he sometimes can, and I can feel it, and I'm the one he takes to bed at night. I know he cares very much for other people. I know he's loved people before me, and still loves them. But for right now, he's mine. We're together, me and him.

And I know that maybe what I feel doesn't matter to most people. I know that most of you probably don't even think of me as a real person with real feelings, but I have them, and I can be hurt and I can be scared and I get jealous and I feel slighted and pushed aside and like I don't even matter when you keep trying to seduce him away from me.

This is new, for both of us, and we're neither of us very good at it, and we're both trying desperately to figure out how to make it work. We mess up. We fight. We don't always say the right things, but we're together, and he hasn't left and I haven't left and we're trying.

Can't you respect that? Even if you don't like me, even if you think I don't matter, that I'm just some girl out there who doesn't really mean anything, I do mean something to him, and all of this is ripping me apart inside.

Just, please. Give us a chance. Respect the fact that he's not some free agent out there on the market, but that he has someone waiting at home who loves him. I know he's charming. I know he smiles and makes people feel special, but he's said he wants to be with me, wants to make this work, and I guess I'm asking you to respect that. To respect me, even if you don't like me.

I don't try to seduce away the people any of you care about. Please just...stop trying to take him away from me.
alainn_aislinn: (Not that sort of fairytale)
It's not a word she's familiar with as it applies to herself, not beyond the physical, at least. She's not used to using it. Not used to asking for things in relation to it. But she was learning, slowly, until everything trapped itself in her head and there was no way to get it out.

Who do you want me to be? doesn't work when he says he wants her to be herself. But he doesn't, not really, she's fairly certain. Because no one would want that. The other night...

What she wants though, is to be wanted. For herself. For the good and the bad and the dark places as well as the light. She can't be sweetness and light every day. It's not in her to hold on to it for long. It's not her at all, really, just a mask and she wants to let it drop. To just be her and let them deal with it how they must.

Except no one else really wants that. And if she does, then it's best she goes. Let them all have what they want, which is someone who makes them happy.

Ultimately, more than anything for herself, she wants them--him--to be happy. Happy and content and not alone anymore and with someone who loves him, who he loves, who he wants. She keeps trying to be that girl, and she keeps failing and falling until sometimes she even makes herself sick, everything twisting in her head and how could anyone want what she really is, seeing herself through his eyes? Killer. Monster. Soul-sucker.

She wants those words erased from her head, his words and her interpretations of them both. She wants him to take them back, even though he can't, but he could try. She wants him to tell her not to kiss anyone else, that he wants her only for him and wants to be only hers. She wants him to say he wants her, all of her, that he wants to know her at that level, buried deep inside her soul. She wants him not to be afraid of her. Isn't that what love is? And, Danu, but she wants him to love her. Even when she messes up. Even when she says the wrong things, does the wrong things.

She wants him to love her the way she loves him.

But she learned a long time ago to stop wishing on dreams that never come true, so she pushes that want down deep, tears freezing before ever they fall, and focuses on the more important want. His.

If she can figure out how to make him happy, even if it means letting him go, if she can figure out what he wants...then that will be enough. It has to be. She can be that. She can give him that. She wants to. It's the only want she can cling to anymore.

Because one thing every fairy learns young: wanting the fairytale just sets you up for disappointment.
alainn_aislinn: (Something more beautiful)
She didn't run when she left the TARDIS, not really. She just wanted out, out of the air that still held painful emotions and words that rang over and over in her head. She needed them to stop, to quiet, but she knew that things wouldn't until she was calmer, until she could think straight again.

And that meant feeding.

She slowed a bit when she approached the places the artists gathered. A shaky breath and she tested the world, finding she could slide between here, too, make herself invisible unless she wanted to be seen. She was careful as she moved among them, just listening to the sounds in their heads right now, the songs in their hearts. The air itself vibrated with energy, and it was all she could do not to pull it in greedily. She'd make herself sick if she did that, get disoriented, so she kept a tight reign on everything until she found a quiet garden meant for contemplation and respite. A few writers were scattered on benches, scribbling in journals and she smiled to see it.

Settling under a tree, she closed her eyes, finding the tune of this world, the ground under her, the energy of the pull and turn of it, added to them until she felt like she was as connected to it as she could be to earth that was not hers. Then gently, delicately, with more control than she thought possible, she started to pull it into her slowly. Her breath quickened almost immediately, pores and cells opening to soak it up, begging for what they'd been denied. The place was pulsing, brimming with energy in every iota of atmosphere, and she lifted her face to the sun and drank it in until she was full. Just the place itself was nourishing and there was nothing she could give until she had something in her.

Once she did though, she moved among the writers, touching this one or that one lightly, offering little touches of inspiration, what they needed to move to the next paragraph, the next stanza. Little sparks for each of them, and little sips back into her to replenish what she gave. Give and take; inspiration and creation. Two sides of one coin and she gave out as much as she took. If the energies worked differently in their physiologies, that wasn't anything she could control, really, and she pushed those words aside, concentrating on the truths she'd found in her anger.

When she was done, she still wandered some, ignoring his "don't stay too long." "Too long" really wasn't a defined concept, and she needed the peace of this place for a while longer.

She wasn't sure how long that longer was until she finally made her way back to the TARDIS. She was calmer, at least, no longer aching with need and hunger, if still shaky from the emotions. Steadying them as best she could, she somehow found the courage to push open the door and step back inside.
alainn_aislinn: (Time)
The first time he turns that savage wit on her, she flinches away, stunned, and finds herself gasping for air around sobs that shake her whole frame. It's not the cruelty of it, not really. She's too used to the knife slashes of the Sidhe court, the smiles that hide daggers, the words that wound even deeper. She's heard crueler, had sharper words sliced through her skin than these. No, the shock of it is that it comes out of that perfect mouth, the shattered paradise she thought she had left hell for.

The first time he hurls something at her, she stumbles, glad that the drink has made his aim poor. Memories of shattered pottery, shattered windows, glass that left you bleeding flashes through her mind. Already, she's learned that paradise is just for dreamers, and that monstrous beauty is mirrored in humanity from the patterns she learned in childhood. Everything repeats itself, and she starts to follow the patterns, because that is the best way to predict when might be a good time to be gone.

The first time he hits her, she falls, lip bruised from his hand and cheek bruised from hitting the table. The bruises heal quickly, aided more by Fergus' gentle touch, warm on her skin in the garden. He makes love to her there, after, wooing her with sweet promises that would have won her just two years before. Distraught at her refusal, he begs her to at least not go back, saying it shouldn't be like this. Artists should respect their muses, cherish them, woo them out with honey and cakes. She looks at Fergus, and she laughs that someone so old and wise can be so naive.

The truth is so much darker, more desperate. She needs him. His genius is unlike any to come to the islands' shores in so very long. He shines, and he makes her shine, and in him, she finds her purpose, her glory. To flit away to a lesser flame before this one had burned itself out would be folly. So she strokes it, she fans the flame, she makes him light up the whole world and set it on fire. It dazzles him along with the rest, and his excesses match the blaze inside him, growing and surging higher, tearing into him until they have nowhere else to go but to lash into her as well.

No one should be able to withstand that heat, that soaring toward heaven. Even Icarus was burned and fell, shattering on the ground below.

But Aislinn doesn't shatter.

She learns to snap back, taunt him with his own words until he has no outlet but to spill them across the page.

She hurls things back at his head, feeding his rage then turning it toward injustice, hypocrisy, those he is truly angry with.

She learns to duck, a mocking smile on her lips as she whispers that he'll never tame her.

She doesn't break.

She bends herself. She bends him. And when she is done, there stands a man that history will never forget.

Fergus never understands, but when she comes back home heartbroken and sick at the loss of him, shaking from the knowledge of what she has done, for a moment, a flicker of pride rests in her mother's eyes. In that moment, she finally breaks.

Everything is so much easier after that.
alainn_aislinn: (Could have flown away)
"I think it is a perfectly valid plan," Aislinn said with a definite pout that might normally have been cute, but was just heartbeaking given the shadows under her eyes and the pinched look her face had.

"A perfectly stupid plan is more like it," Devin returned with a furious glare that made her flinch back a bit. "No way in hell anyone's going to let you do anything about it."

She scowled, pacing the hotel room, throwing him a dark look. "You don't have any say in what I do. I'm the parent, here."

"It's convenient when that occurs to you."

He'd muttered it, but she caught it, and sent another glare in his direction. "I can do this," she insisted quietly. "I can't fix him, can't undo all the things done, and I can't get inside his head and mend whatever is wrong naturally, but this I can do. I can take away the want. The need. That fierce longing that he didn't have before. Make him be like he was." Which was hard enough to deal with. "He's agreed to stop taking them, so he just needs a little help. I can do it..."

"By taking it all on yourself?" She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him look this upset, and flinched back again at the surge of anger that shot across the room.

"I can handle it." Exhausted, she dropped into one of the chairs, pulling her knees up to hold on to them as if they might keep the world from flying apart. "I'm already feeling it, Devin. Everytime he wants. Every ounce of biting need. There are ants crawling under my skin, and I can't scratch hard enough to get them out. But I don't have everything else he does to magnify it, or, I do..." She was losing her thoughts, some. "But just in what I am. I am made to pull sorrow inside. Heartbreak. Tragedy. Death. I am the vessel, and I hold all of them. All their memories. All their griefs. All their loss. It's already there, but I don't break, because it is what I am." She looked up at him, eyes far away for a moment. "All he is, I've already pulled in, turned around, given back. I can do this, too."

He moved to crouch next to her, worry in his green eyes as he reached to stroke her hair, pull her back to him. "This isn't natural pain, love. You've never felt the purity of it, of the pull. The blinding need for release from it, because you do just bear it, with grace and beauty. No need to escape. That's what you'd be brining in to yourself, that pure need into a body, a brain that takes the pain and shapes it into something new. A screaming, aching void that just begs to let you out of yourself for a moment, just a second, and then it will all be better. It's not the pain I worry would break you. I know you can bear it." He tugged her chin until she looked down at him. "It's the need."

"I can..."


One word and it stopped her, tears filling her eyes.

"Please, Aislinn. For me..."

Oh, he knew her guilt too well. She crumbled, crying, and didn't resist when he shifted to pull her into his arms, fingers stroking through her hair. "He's hurting so...I just want to make it stop," she managed between sobs.

"I know." He rocked her as they sat, pressing small kisses to her hair. "I know."
alainn_aislinn: (Enchanted)
The balcony was slick with it when she stepped out, and her toes curled against the bite of it under her feet. Even the railing had a thick coat ice clinging to the top of it as she leaned against it to look down into the park at the lights glittering in the trees. She didn't know how long she stood there, gazing at it. The sound of the door sliding back open and the blast of warmth at her back didn't deter her or break her focus.

"We could have stayed in the Realm, you know."

"I know..." An absent reply, at best.

"It's more like home there, for you." His hands were warm on her bare shoulders, and she finally glanced up, smiling at him a bit.

"But you wanted to come home." The simplest of explanations, and his look of confusion amused her a bit. It wasn't like she was going to go into details about why she didn't want to stay there. Not yet, anyway.

"Come inside, then. It's freezing out here, and I told you repeatedly that dress wasn't good for the cold." He was shivering and although the cold didn't bother her as much, with him standing so near, she kissed his cheek and moved back inside with a smile over her shoulder.

"Aren't you coming?"

He followed, shutting the door with slightly more force than absolutely necessary which made her smile more, then stood there shivering a bit, watching her. With a shake of her head she moved to wrap her arms around him.

"You're not any warmer," he grumbled, but he held her close, brushing a kiss over her forehead.

"Are you tired?"

"No." He smiled down at her. "Are you?"

A little shake of her head. "No."

"What shall we do with our not tiredness?"

He got a laugh and a flick on the nose as she slipped out his arms again, moving to sink to the floor next to the fireplace. Tossing a couple of logs onto it, she held her hand over them starting a small fire that grew rapidly until it was crackling merrily in true holiday style.

"Get comfortable..." With an impish grin, she darted downstairs, returning to find him stretched out on the bed giving her an amused and expectant look. She rolled her eyes and dropped the bowl of popcorn on his lap, opening the wine bottle and pouring them both glasses before crawling over him to settle on the other side. Resting her head on his shoulder, she reached for the remote and turned on the television that hung over the fireplace.

"I figured out how to work the DVR..."

"And just what are we watching?" He was looking more resigned than expectant now, though he still slid one arm around her shoulder to snuggle her close.

"Love Actually," she said with a bright grin.

Byron groaned as the horrific Christmas song started to play, and she laughed, reaching up to kiss his cheek. "Drink your wine. It'll make it better."

It was a testament to Sam's party skills that despite protestations of non-sleepiness, she missed the last of the movie by at least an hour. Byron, however, kept it playing until the end, smiling down at her now and again, before he finally tucked the covers around them and turned out the lights.
alainn_aislinn: (Uncertain)
He is not safe. Anyone with any sense at all can see that. He is hard and sharp with jagged edges that slice you if you get too close. He can make you bleed with a word, and leave you shattered with a touch. He hurts, and so he makes you hurt. It is nature, Scorpion says.

But he is mine. In the way every great artist is a slave to his muse and every lost soul is in someone's care, and, yes, in the triumph of being the only one he has clung to consistently through heartache and doubt. I am not some creation of his fevered imagination or an ephemeral lady to step out on his arm when there's no one else. I am the one thing he cannot live without, and he is the embodiment of all I need to survive.

There is not some idealized perfection in it. There is not always even grace, or love. It is hard. There is pain and grief that can rip us both to shreds in a heartbeat if we let it, but that is where greatness dwells. In capturing that, in diving into its depths and squeezing every last drop of anguish out of it. In facing the fact that some things define us and others just amuse. In coming out the other side a changed soul and taking others along with you through the ripping beauty.

He needs more than me to thrive, if not survive. I have always known it. There must be balance, and I am not the one to provide it. I am no more safe than he is, and those of you who think I am, heed this well, for I will not say it often. There must be balance, in all things. Nature decrees it, and I am Her instrument. Nature's balance and nature's force, because such brilliance cannot shine without a darkness to balance it. How would we recognize it, otherwise? If he is the light, then I am the dark, and when he is the dark, I am the light, for Nature's sake. For balance in the cosmos. But not for him, and not for me as we journey, locked together.

It is in the extremities of passion that we find we know ourselves most. In our darkest hour or most glorious heights. When the light illuminates or the night brings despair, so there will we know each other best. For his brilliance, he pays a price, and I exact it for my survival. A Faustian bargain, perhaps, and before you pity him, know well he chose it willingly. He shines. I survive. It is the way of things. He flies, and I accompany him at his side, and when he falls, I plummet with him. It wears him. There are droughts. Times when exhaustion compels us to silence, for the world has not known such as he. Such gifts are not meant to be borne by his kind easily, if at all. He should have died, but he didn't. And while I am grateful for that impossibility, it locked us together tighter than before, because once he tasted my gifts and I drank of his, there was no going back for either of us.

He loves. I love. We struggle for autonomy to have lives that are our own, but the devil's bargain is fierce indeed, and more addictive than any powder he uses to bear it. It is so for me as well.

He needs. I need. And no one is safe in the wake of it.
alainn_aislinn: (One dream (in the night))
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

There are rules, and there are reasons for the rules. We are lovers, but we do not love. We enthrall, but we are not enthralled. We bind, but we are not bound. We inspire, but we are not inspired. We move among you, drift between your world and ours, never fully existing in either. Always called to you, but always retreating. We do not live among you, as you. We are not like you. If we were, we could not sing the songs that drive you toward greatness, delight and despair. What would we sing of, if not the things that you know not?

There are rules, and there are reasons for the rules. If we follow them, we do not linger for longer than necessary to give our gifts and take our due. There are so many of you needing so much, and so few of us in comparison. We nurture where we can, and to those receptive we return again and again until the brilliance is spent, and balance restored. But we do not stay. We cannot, for the connection is too intense to maintain, and rather than just your madness, the loss of your soul, it will lead to ours as well. To feel so much, to let it consume us utterly is the very definition of madness, is it not? To be unable to separate one from the other, fused in a dance that creates something the like of which the world has never seen, but which is born out of destruction...this should only happen once for you, can only happen once for most of you. Those of us foolish enough to seek it, to participate in it, learn all too soon that you are not the only ones to pay the price.

There are rules, and there are reasons for the rules. I have never been very good at following them, and I am breaking them again. I paid the price the first time, and found it worth the cost. If I prayed, my prayer would be that it will be this time, as well, and that once more something timeless shall be created.

She left the web: she left the loom:
She made three paces thro' the room:
She saw the waterflower bloom:
She saw the helmet and the plume:
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web, and floated wide,
The mirror cracked from side to side,
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
alainn_aislinn: (Aislinn)
Aislinn was pacing across the floor, avoiding the broken glass that was littered underfoot. It wasn't safe to negotiate, and she finally just made the shattered remnants disappear after one slid deep in her bare foot making her yelp in an undignified manner at the slicing pain before she clapped her hands over her mouth. Danu only knew what he'd do if he remembered she was even here. He'd thrown enough things, shattering some of her favorites of the new pieces they'd gotten in, and put enough poison in his system to make him dangerous.

It was best just to not remind him of your presence when he got in these moods. Annabella had never figured that out, to her own detriment. His tongue was crueler than his fists, but if he was high enough, or drunk enough, it behooved one to be able to step out of the way fast. Annabella hadn't ever quite figured that out either. Aislinn was better at it, at least, but she'd more than a bruise or two before she learned to make herself scarce.

It wasn't often it got this bad. It wasn't usual for him to get violent. But the shattered pieces of glass worried her, because things had been fine. He'd been doing well. He'd been writing, composing, and they'd been beautiful. He'd been talking to the girl. To Rose. Sad over his poem, yes, but not...not like this. She remembered the night the review came in, the one that had them all banging on doors begging him to come out with Cam almost shaking her to get her to go calm him down before he did harm to himself. Was that it? What the girl had said? She was no one to him. She admitted she couldn't understand his poems, pieces that were so loved the Doctor said they'd last forever. Maybe she should tell Byron that? She hadn't wanted to pressure him into feeling like he had to produce at that level right away again.

Dropping to the windowseat, she tucked her feet up under her dress, heedless of the bloodstains she was getting on it from the cut on her foot. She could go home until it passed, stay out of his way. He'd come back down, eventually. Be sweetly apologetic for causing a fuss. Fret over her foot, even though that was more her fault than his. If he didn't...

The sound of music interrupted her thoughts. It was faint, floating up from downstairs where the grand piano was. It was angry, pain pouring through it and lacing itself into her blood, each nerve vibrating with it. He was composing, and as much as it hurt, as much risk as there was in the movement, she crossed the floor slowly, wincing just a bit at the pressure on her foot. She crept down the stairs slowly, as quiet as she could, then settled at the foot of them, watching his back through the doorway, her head resting against the wall as she closed her eyes and listened, willing it, willing anything, to help.
alainn_aislinn: (Came undone)
"What do you think?" He slipped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head as Aislinn looked around the large, open room with arches around the windows and molding along the ceiling. "We have this floor for us and more private time, and downstairs for entertaining on any large scale. I went ahead and bought the floor below as well for a studio."

"So many windows..." The sunlight seemed to dance along the parquet floor that was polished to a high shine.

"I thought you might like that." He took her hand after a moment, tugging her to the window. "The Park is right there, see?"

It wasn't as if she could miss that oasis of green in the forest of concrete and glass that sprawled out below them. "It's beautiful."

She didn't miss his slight frown at her quiet response. "Aislinn..." The touch was allowed, and he even got a smile for the effort.

"You did all this for me?"

"I don't want you to leave again." There was a quiet desperation in his eyes, and his fingers clung more tightly to hers. "I didn't...I didn't like having you gone. I don't know what to do without you."

"I had to go," she said quietly, refusing to promise to stay again. "We were smothering each other with the recriminations."

"I know. I'm sorry. It'll be different this time. You'll see." He tried to tug her closer to him, but she kept a little distance, watching him with somber eyes.

"Perhaps." He did have a spark. Something there since the night she'd spent in his bed. The night. Singular. This time there had to be boundaries. If she had to go, it couldn't rip her soul apart to leave him again. And if he...

"I promise." There was a fervor in his eyes, and his fingers gripped hers more tightly. There it was, the fire that had drawn her before, and she felt a faint flicker of hope to see that it wasn't gone entirely. For a moment the world-weariness was gone from his eyes and the life that centuries of pain had dulled sparked there again. He almost looked as he had when they had been at the height of their glory. Aislinn smiled softly and cupped his cheek in her hand.

"Do I have a room?" She felt more than saw the confused pain that tripped across his features.

"A room...of your own?"

A little nod. "You'll want yours available for...well, I daresay Rose wouldn't be happy to pop in and find me in your bed." She wondered if the Doctor would dislike it as much. She had no idea how these sorts of things were supposed to go.

He frowned more. "You've never wanted your own room before."

"I've always just gone home when you were entertaining. If you want me here..." If she was making that much of a step...she shrugged. "I need my own space. Something that's just mine."

"You don't like to sleep alone," he said stubbornly.

"And you don't like to sleep with someone."

"We've always managed." His jaw was taking on a line she wasn't pleased to see there, and she reached to smooth it with her fingers.

"Please?" He didn't like it, that much was clear, and she couldn't even say for sure why she was insisting. He was right. She didn't like to sleep alone, preferring to curl up next to the warmth of another person, to have that connection. She got so cold alone, but for some reason this seemed important right now. A division. There was him, and there was her. They weren't one, and any time they had tried to be, any time they had lost themselves in each other, they had drifted toward destroying each other. Even this, agreeing to live with him, this was beyond what most of her kind would do for an artist. But he wasn't an artist. He was the artist for her.

"There are several," he finally said quietly. "Pick whichever you please."

Later, in a room with windows overlooking the park, curled up on the windowseat and staring down at the green, she let her mind drift. She could hear him in the other room, on the phone-thing making appointments with people to decorate and furnish the penthouse, and there was comfort in that. She fought the urge to go curl up in his room, by the large fireplace, and knew that there would be nights that would find her in there. But not tonight. There had to be some distinction between muse and girl, for once. There was a gap between the two that hadn't been there before, or at least hadn't been acknowledged before. She was what she was and it encompassed all of her, or so she'd always believed. People had challenged that lately, seeing her for more than her function, but looking to the inner self. Her hopes. Her dreams. They never mattered before. She wasn't sure they should matter. What she dreamt was immaterial to her purpose in the world. It...muddied things. He always had muddied them some, but these new people muddied them more, made the line sharper, the gap wider. And until she figured it out, things had to be different.

His cane made an echoing sound in the empty home, the gothic moldings doing little to stop the sound.

"Do you like it?" His look was almost anxious underneath the arrogant demeanor that said of course she'd like it.

"I do." Her smile was soft, her voice softer. "Thank you."

He watched her for a long moment then nodded and moved away, leaving her there in the empty space that she'd have to find a way to fill with herself, whoever that was.
alainn_aislinn: (I've seen you dance)
It sits atop a hill, though you don't realize that when you are moving toward it. It's just a rise sloping up from a larger hill, and the size of the castle dwarfs the upward angle. But it is a hill nonetheless.

The wall is white marble, and the gate is carved from silver, for we are moon children, not the sun children of the Daoine Sidhe. Only those I allow may come inside, for he warded it to keep it a sanctuary for me. I don't think most of them even realize it is there, anymore, for all that it sits in a corner of the wild gardens. Perhaps Mother knows, remembers, still hates me for it, but she mayn't enter through the gate, so it is safe from her animosity.

There is a tree in the center, a beautiful tree that's grown there for longer than the wall has been in existence. It is old, rooted deep in the land and pulsing with its power, spreading warmth through the garden, a piece of Eire herself, some say. Other trees line the walls so it is a grove within the wall, a perfect circle, smooth as glass, deflecting everything from outside.

When my powers started to develop, I couldn't control them well. I felt everything everyone around me felt and hurt. Made my head ache horribly. You learn, eventually, to minimize the waves of emotion that break against you day in and day out. Learn to pick one thread out and follow it so the rest become background noise. Only the strongest, or the closest, throw themselves at you so insistently that you have to listen. But in the beginning, there is no background noise, there is cacophony. We all go through it, a rite of passage as it were, and our parents should provide a safe place.

She wouldn't do so, barely noticing when it hit, but he did, and he made the garden for me. It's quiet there. Peaceful. The screams echoing from the earth, and from each heart, are quiet there, distant enough to ignore. The only insistent noise is that of me and, on the exceptionally rare occasions I choose to bring someone else there, the others within the wall.

When I left Bri Leith, I had to leave my garden. But I went back. I dared her, and I went, and I took him with me. The garden is alive and it holds the whispers of what has passed. They were always quiet, memories of books, of paper and pens and dancing with my sister to just the music in my head, but they've shifted now. There is heat, and the ground shivers with it and the walls tremble with the force of the way fell into each other. The tree doesn't forget, and neither will I.
alainn_aislinn: (mother)
He was beautiful when he was born. He's beautiful now, of course, and you'll say all babies are beautiful, but that's not really true. Some are only beautiful to their parents and some even then the parents have to be in denial over. That's human children, of course. Sidhe children are always beautiful, but he had human blood and I was terrified of how he'd come out. (As well as terrified about the whole coming out process)

But he was beautiful. His eyes marked him for what he was. I can mask mine, but he...he got my eyes, but his human blood...

It doesn't matter. I stared at him and he stared back and we both knew. I tried to take care of him, but I didn't know what he needed and there was no one to help me. My mother had long since gone into the West. For a few months we stayed in a Sidhe court and there were nurseries and other babies and I knew he was safe when I had to go. But things happened and they forced us to leave. The next court wouldn't care for him. I could stay, and he could stay with me, but they would not watch him when I was gone.

I tried. He thinks I didn't. He thinks I didn't have a care for his well being. I think he hates me for that sometimes. But they'd lost their son, and they loved him so. How could they not love Devin as well? He has his father's could they not want that back? She smiled at me when she took him. I thought things would be all right. When he was older, he could come back with me. He could watch himself when I had to...

It didn't happen that way. I forgot sometimes. And he was always so...fragile. The other children teased him about his human blood, about his lack of magical abilities. And at her home they mocked him because he was different. Because they knew what his eyes meant. I didn't know what was worse. What was best. I came as often as I could. Tried to do special things for him.

It wasn't enough.
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