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.


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: (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: (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: (Wistful and alone)
I haven't one. How pathetic is that? Two hundred and some odd years old and there is no one I can say I would consider a best friend. I suppose there are candidates. Aurelia and I have always been close, but in the end, she is my big sister and the nature of what we are and our mother's ambition for us both divides us.

Fergus has stood by me in times when no one else did, but there are only so many times I can go running home to him without compromising us both. He has his duties, and for a time I was one of them. He was kind to a child, but I am no longer a child, and the times when I could crawl in through his window and curl up in his bed and beg him to make it all better are long past.

Byron? Perhaps he is the closest. He knows me, better than anyone else and I, him. But in the end, we are not friends, either. Not truly. It's too complex for that, too twisted up in everything we have been and everything we could have been but weren't.

When I think of a best friend, I think of a confidante. Someone who's there, no matter what. Who you can tell anything to and who will tell you anything in return. Someone you trust and who trusts you. Equality, balance, dependence, love. Someone who will call you on things when you're in the wrong, but loves you anyway. Someone you can speak your mind to, without fear. Someone you can laugh with. Someone you can cry with. Someone you can trust with all your secrets, big and small, and someone who will tell you theirs in return.

I've never had that, and I doubt I ever will.
alainn_aislinn: (You led me on with those innocent eyes)
Would you ever kill a human being?

Yes. I think we've covered this. I have. I would. I probably will again at some point. It's not malicious and their death isn't what I want, but it's nature's balance. It's what I am.

Would you ever kill a member of your own species?

No. It's a death sentence for Sidhe to kill Sidhe. Automatic, no appeal, though I suppose one could argue self-defense, but it's so very rare, I don't think anyone ever has. Men have decimated our numbers in wars too countless to number. We may be immortal if left alone, but we can be hurt, can be killed, if you know the way of it, and men in those times did. It's not so hard, really. We are both stronger and yet more fragile than we look.

More and more of our kind lose the will to hold on to this world and fade into the West, dwindling our numbers here even further. Our blood grows weaker and our species ability to survive is hampered in more ways than it has ever been. It may not be quite true that we need belief to survive, but with the destruction of the Earth by the modern world, without honor and homage, more of us lose the will to stay.

So, for those of us who do, to strike out at another of our own kind puts the entire species at risk. And while losing two is worse than one, such a person who would show no respect for the survival of the species is not one we want among us. Even Fuamnach transformed Etain rather than killing her, recall. Even with that much hatred, that much jealousy, she wouldn't break that law, and when Midir wanted her dead for that, the Dagda himself stayed his hand and ordered banishment in hopes she would reform, bring her blood back to the fold.

Killing would serve no purpose, besides. It ends suffering, and so is no fitting revenge. It leaves a gap in the bloodline and makes our children that much weaker. So, no. I'm not claiming we don't war amongst ourselves. I'm not claiming we all get along or attempting to tell you the Sidhe are never malicious or spiteful. That would be lies and futility. But our malice toward each other we find more ... creative ways of expressing that are not so distasteful and final and devastating to the species.

We are a very creative people.
alainn_aislinn: (Muse)
Dearest Vincent,

I still have the painting you painted and left in the field for me on my wall. Everyone thinks it's a print or an imitation, of course, but I just smile, because I know the truth. There has never been anyone who has quite captured the world the way you saw it, the way I saw it through your eyes. The colors, the hazing, the halos of light around ordinary objects that made it all look like something more from home than here.

The nights at Arles, up late, watching you paint Starry Night, talking to you even though I never thought you actually heard me are some of my fondest memories of those days. You gave me hope when things seemed hard, were a breath of fresh air when they'd put Oscar in that horrible place. We worked well together, you and I, and I was delighted by the new medium, away from words and into color and dancing lights.

Theo never understood, and I am sorry for that. Causing strife for you was never my intention, you must know that. Your brilliance was just a light that pulled me all the way across the sea, to a land I barely knew. I had to touch it, to touch you, to let it shine 'round us both. There has not been another painter to touch me so, since you. I retreat to words and rhyme and the power in them, because none can compete to capture the world so brilliantly as you did.

Thank you for sharing that with all of us. For letting me be a part of it, to touch you, to let you grow and glow and shine all the brighter.

You are remembered, and you are missed.


P.S. I am very sorry about the insanity. I don't think that was my fault, though it does seem to happen on a semi-regular basis around me, so if on the off chance it was...I am sorry.
alainn_aislinn: (Fiercely independent)
I cannot say I have ever seen much use for them, personally. At least not really. Heaven knows I make a terrible one, and while I suppose your modern psychology would say that's because I never had proper modeling of parenting, I'm not sure I would have done much better even if I had. My mother was ambitious for a Leanan Sidhe and had her eyes on the Daoine Sidhe throne, which was never going to happen, but it fueled everything. When Aurelia's birth didn't acquire it for her, she set out plotting how to get it another way. Through a daughter seemed the most likely, since Midir had two fine young sons who were now Aurelia's half-brothers and thus too close for marriage, even among our people.

She, of course, had to make sure she had something to offer, some power that would be an asset for a political match. So, she waited until my father came to visit some centuries later and seduced him and then there was me, with all those lovely little bloodlines that, in theory, make me Midir's cousin and second cousin to the boys, but really, that's not so close as to bother anyone, and honestly, it all gets tangled up anyway in who's related to whom. My father was the first of the Leanan Sidhe, child of Danu and one of her first creations, who some say was music-pure, but that truth is lost in the mists. Others were born when magic and music mingled, but he has the Goddess' blood pure in his veins and is generally hailed as our King, should we ever be organized enough to need one instead of living among the courts of the Daoine Sidhe.

That made me her granddaughter, as Midir is her grandson through the Dagda, and, my mother thought, a perfect candidate to eventually wed Diarmuid or Ionatan. Of course, then Diarmuid met Ciaran and Ionatan and I never did more than fight like cats and dogs, so there went her plan, though Danu knows she tried to make me be more amenable. I ran away when I was 16, and she's washed her hands of me since, though she makes overtures every now and again.

My father was never around. He bedded Mother and moved on his way, back among the mortals he loves so. We have met walking the world a time or two, and he is always generous and kind when he remembers my name, which he was more wont to do after Byron rocketed to fame. He likes to brag about his daughter the "poet's muse" as if he had anything to contribute to it but one night's play.

All this to say, why would I wish to have picked someone else? The Leanan Sidhe make rather pathetic parents just by our volatile natures and need to always be moving about, doing what we do. To choose someone else would change that, for to have the parents perhaps I would have wished, I could not be Leanan Sidhe, and I like what I am, most days.

Sometimes, I suppose, I wish I might have been Aurelia, and had Midir for a father, and the mingled gifts of the Leanan and Daoine Sidhe. Somedays I think it might have been nice. There was Brigid, as well. She was kind to me when I was a child, for we shared a birthday and a love for poetry. I used to wish she would take me with her when she went, but she is a goddess in her own right, and what use did she truly have for her brother's bastard daughter's sister? The moments of kindness were enough, the carelessness with which she and Midir accepted me, and encouraged me to grow into my own person and not my mother's creation.

I am not always sure they succeeded, but it was very kind of them to try.
alainn_aislinn: (Fear everything)
Who do you need me to be?

To create the perfect balance between artist and muse takes more than just a moment of "I choose you." It takes effort and precision and more than a little bending and twisting of self. I am what I am, but what I am has always been what they need me to be. Challenging. Demure. Dominant. Submissive. Cool. Warm. Distant. Intimate. Unattainable. Possessed utterly.

I shape their dreams to encourage them higher, and I shape myself to fit into them in the most inspiring way possible. I become what they need, completely, and lose myself in them until we've merged into almost a single being of creation. Only when they are spent, I am bereft and there is a hole that grows more every year with what I have lost of myself.

It carries over into my more personal relationships, I have noticed. After so long, I do not know who I am on my own. So I look for ways to fit. What does he need? What does he want? What can I give him? What can I be for him?

Only it makes him frustrated, angry even. And I realize I've made a mistake, done something wrong in trying to do things as I have always done. It's different when you love someone. I realize it, logically. You want to know that person, who they are, what they love and then together you find where you fit and where you clash and you embrace one and work around and laugh at the other. I know all this, in my head.

But the instinct in my heart is to cleave into all his empty spaces and fit myself there, with never a worry for my own holes, my own hurts, my own needs. So I make the mistake again and again, and I am not sure how to make it right or break the pattern. If things are to change, the story must change, but how am I to tell what it changes into?

And when you strip away the muse, and have just the girl left -- who am I?

TM: Time

Mar. 16th, 2007 04:55 pm
alainn_aislinn: (Time)
Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends. -- Shakespeare

I always thought that there would be more time. It stretches out so very long, until it brushes over the thread of eternity. It seems as if you have forever when it holds there, a single shining moment plucked out of the whirl of everything else.

There is sunlight, and somewhere there is music. Things taste sweet, and the air is salty around you, with sand working its way between your toes. He holds your hand, clinging tightly, pulling you from this attraction to that one, and always, always, to the musicians. His smile captures the gleam that is in the air, and you dance, and for that moment, no one else exists for either of you.

It went too quickly. The moments were so precious, and I was too young to recognize how much so. I laughed, sure there would be another dozen to follow, a hundred more shining so brightly, a thousand. We danced and had ice cream, and I knew that we would do so again, because it made his eyes shine so happily. There would always be more, I thought, naive and blind to the twists and turns of the mortal coil my decisions made him tread.

I did not think it would happen, so. There was always time, I thought. Time to explain; time to explore; time to discover the limits of what he was. A moment, a melody, a morning on a mountain, a day at the beach, an evening at the theatre, a night under the stars. I lost track of it, sliding between the Veil, home, to him, to them, to him, to home, until there he stood, shaking in the street, pale and sick and there were torches in the night and screams for blood.

I did what was necessary. I kept him safe. I should have...So many things I should have done, would have done differently, if I had known, seen, or had more time. I know I failed him, though a quiet voice whispers that I could not have prepared him for that even if I had all the time in the world.

I do not know which is the lie.
alainn_aislinn: (Red cape)
A bargain is a delicate thing, carefully woven. It takes trust; it takes faith. I stand there, wherever there is, be it in your imagination or a smoky bar or in the middle of a crossroads where you can swear you hear Robert Johnson playing in the night air, and I wait. There is a longing, a desire that leads to an offer and a warning. Without acceptance, no bargain can be reached, and without full knowledge, there can be no acceptance.

Some nights you walk away, and you never look back, running on your luck until you're standing cold in hand and wishing you'd made another choice. But others you smile, you think of that dream and what it means to you, and you accept, perhaps thinking that your juju will keep you safe, perhaps thinking nothing at all but of that glory surely bound your way.

A bargain is struck. I give my gifts; I build your gifts; I let them mingle and merge in a symphony that lingers through history like the haunting amalgam of the harmonica and guitar. You soar higher than you ever dreamed, and I watch you and wait for you and keep you afloat.

I spend myself on you, in you, helping the creations come to life. I trust that you will keep your end of the bargain, you see. I believe in you. Most of the time you treat me like some back door friend, and I don't mind. I'll be that girl for you until the time comes and we're at the crossroads again, standing in the night air, listening to the music play of those that have gone before.

I never see it coming, the break, the betrayal, the gris-gris around your neck that you wave triumphantly at me, the iron loop locking me out of you as everything shatters into splinters of moments and shards of time.

It could be so simple, a communal give and take, an easy ride, mutually satisfying for us both. It doesn't have to end that way, with everything that makes you up gone into the night. There can be peace, passion, poetry, plenitude and permanence. That's the bargain we made, power and pleasure. I always keep my promises, so long as you keep yours.

But when you snap the bargain like a twig underfoot and stand there in your cast circle, teeth white and flashing, and thinking you've found the loophole, remember I always get what's due me.

There are no loopholes.

The bargain? Protecting it from its own fragility? That's just in your best interest.

TM: Party

Mar. 5th, 2007 03:20 pm
alainn_aislinn: (lost)
The music made her head hurt, but not nearly as much as the smoke in the air from cigarettes and joints, and she was fairly certain that she detected a whiff of opium in the mix as well. She shouldn't be here, and the knowledge of it slid along her nerves with a simple surety. She didn't belong here.

But he was here, her rockstar poet, buried on the couch beneath a pile of limbs and blonde hair and red curls that were failing to mask what the person, impossible to tell if it was male or female, was doing to him with their far too perfect to be fully human mouth. He was here, and so, then, was she, because when he got like this, he vibrated, and if she waited for him to get home, away from the clowns and hanger-ons, then she wouldn't get the sweetest taste of that energy.

More bored than interested, she took a hit off of joint that was being passed and let someone who thought she was someone else do things that would have shocked Fergus that she allowed. She was too numb to care where the creature's hands wandered, watching him over its shoulder, eyes fixated, until there.

There was the moment, the instant when it all hit him and he melted away, and it and its hands couldn't touch her, because she slid into him, in through that open door where he dreamt in esctasy and delight that washed every sordid moment away until she felt clean and renewed again.

For a little while, everything was all right again. They never died. She never cried. There was light and there was music and joy once more. And she danced.
alainn_aislinn: (apple?)
December 12, 1805

Dearest Aurelia,

I cannot do this anymore. It is stifling, here, can't you see that? Everything is so rigid, even play has no spontenaity left. Our King is a shell, and Mother's ambition pollutes the walls themselves. Everything, all of it, it is nothing but false gaity and ambition. No one remembers what it means to feel, not truly. It is bitingly cold, even in the heat of summer, and I cannot think how to endure it, now that I know it can be different.

I met a poet. A mortal poet, and he is everything that we are not. He feels so much that it floods me through and through and lifts me up until I think, perhaps, I can see the heaven he says he doesn't believe in, but he does. He has fire, and passion, and he is brilliant and true, and he makes me...real. I'm going to stay with him, be by his side, in England. I'll be all right, I promise. I know how to take care of myself, and we've kin there who would welcome a visitor from Midir's court. Or perhaps...perhaps I will walk in his world for a while. There are so many of them, and the faint beat of Life we can feel on this side of the Veil is nothing like walking among it. I understand my Father a bit more now.

Perhaps I will meet him in our travels.

Be well, and please, don't tell Mother where I have gone.

All my love,

April 20, 1824

Dear Aurelia,

Byron is dead. I am sorry I haven't written in so long, though I suppose it is less time for you than me. I should have at least visited, but we've traveled to so many places, done so many things. Have you ever been to Italy? It is amazing. So much art, so many artist. The entire country seems to seep creativity out of its pores. They hailed me where'er I went, and there were the most glorious balls...

But it is over now. He fell ill from the fever that has plagued him for so long. We were at war, or going to war, or...he cared so for his Greek friends. There was to be a war. Is to be a war, but he fell ill and he won't be going...

Mother told me, I know. She warned me this could happen, but I didn't truly believe her. He was so alive, so vibrant, right until the end. He never seemed weakened after we were together, but just as energized as I. But then he gave out. Gave up. I held him close and he...I killed him. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I loved him, A, so very, very much.

I can't come home now. I can't face her. I can't face you. I think...I shall walk this world a while longer, until the grief has eased.

Your loving sister,

July 16, 1848


There was a musician. He was a pretty boy, with eyes so green I suspect he might have had Sidhe blood in him somewhere. A great-grandparent, perhaps, who got herself seduced by a lesser noble on a hunt. He had talent, more than a little, and played beautifully.

He wanted to marry me, can you imagine? To take me home to his mother, with her iron horseshoe over the door. It surprised me, to be asked. No one else has even considered it, but I daresay it was his religious upbringing chastising him for the sin of our joining and so he sought to make an honest woman out of a pagan "spirit." There is irony for you. Nevermind that he was running about consorting with what his priest and saintly mother would tell him was demonic, nevermind the willing bargain he struck, he fretted about the physical nature of our relationship.

I do not understand mortals. I thought I would grow to. I believed, at the last, that I understood Byron. But they baffle and tire me now. They care so much about the most foolish of things, things that cease to matter when viewed through the scope of even a marginally longer life.

There is to be a child.

I am coming home.

alainn_aislinn: (A secret the whole world knows)
...Of course I do.

They call us ghosts sometimes, spirits that haunt the trees and waters, but we're not. Not spirit, but flesh through a Veil that might make us seem spirit sometimes. But there are ghosts. Human spirits torn free of their flesh and left trapped here for varying reasons.

They're everywhere, when you know how to look for them. Lost souls, souls that know exactly where they are but do not wish to move on, lives left incomplete that they struggle to complete from the other side.

They fixate on something usually, so very strongly that they can't be torn free and collected and hauled off to where they belong, because they do not belong here, make no mistake about that. They belong somewhere else.

We try, at home, to help them find their way, but their faith can fight us in so many ways, their lack of belief, or their belief in things that are not true until they make them so. We can take some by force, make them move on to Tir na Og, but others defy us, defy their own desire for something better and cling to what holds them here. You have to rip them free, and in the end, that can do more damage than even dying did, and that's an even larger aggravation than them hanging on is, and so we let them stay, allow them to mourn, and hope that one day they will come with us.

TM: Night

Feb. 18th, 2007 11:22 am
alainn_aislinn: (One dream (in the night))
I always met him in the darkness. He begged, sometimes, for me to come home with him, to watch the sunrise from the bed in his room, under the warmth of his homespun blankets, but I made it warm enough for us there in my glade.

The fires were doused that night, the night that I took him home with me. The wind flew about us, whipping my cape around me, around him where I held him close. The whole world, his and mine, lay in darkness until one flame was lit, high on Tara's hill. Midir handed Aurelia the torch, his cloak pulled over his face. They all did thus, the men, covering their heads as the god died, sinking back into the earth. It was Aurelia who relit the bonefire, her golden hair turning near red in its light, and Aurelia who held it high, Queen for the one night, the image of her father as she gave the yell that set forth the Hunt, flying through the Veil and across the land, fire trailing from the steeds to rekindle every hearth as the dead were swept away in front of them caught up in the ferocity of the Host's glee.

I did not ride that night, pulling him close to me, keeping him near. A mortal in Faerie was fair game in the eyes of my sisters that night. I would not have brought him, but he pled with me, and since I would not return to his home with the cold iron barring the way over the door and those colder eyes that pierced through me and called me demon as she clutched bony fingers at her worn cross, I thought it a decent compromise.

I trusted I could keep him safe, holding him close and taking him into me, locked in my room, away from the revelry. I pulled him in, body and soul, and he gave more than he ever had, leaving himself drained after, and me more alive than I thought possible. It quickened, it drove me, and on the night of the dead, there was life.

When that night circled 'round the Wheel again, I rode out with my kin, and when we swept through his village, his spirit cleaved to mine, crying to touch paradise again, and I took him home forever, though some part of him lingers here, in this world, in your world, in the eyes of his son.
alainn_aislinn: (Piece of magic)
For the days leading up to the holiday, Aislinn fretted quietly inside. It seemed mildly intrusive somehow, to work the energy of her people, her faith, in someone else's home. The TARDIS was empathic and there really wasn't any way to shield what she was doing. That would somewhat ruin the point of it all. Asking wasn't out of the question, of course, but she wasn't sure how to explain it necessarily, and besides, it really was mostly personal. More than that, it was something she needed to do in light of everything else.

In the end, she gave up on waiting and procrastinating and just made her preparations. She tried to explain to the TARDIS what she was doing, so it wouldn’t be alarmed by the candles. A bonfire seemed a bit extreme, but since she couldn’t get home, it was the best she could do for now. The TARDIS seemed to understand, and even nudged her in the direction of things she needed, but hadn’t found yet. There was a sense of peace, of relief in that.

The broom wasn’t quite the right sort, but it was close enough. There wasn’t really any wheat, but she had actually thought to bring some of that, knowing how close the day was. Most of her little rituals were loosely structured. She had no need to cast a circle or dedicate anything to the Goddess. Brigid was practically her aunt after all, and if nothing else a cousin of sorts if one traced their fathers back to Danu, which was fairly easy for them both, and really all of that was more for humans anyway.

But they shared the day, and for a Leanan Sidhe to be born on the day of the Goddess of poetry was an auspicious occasion. Her father had been pleased, he told her on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. Her mother had tried to figure out how to use it to her best advantage. Brigid had brought wonderful gifts that Aislinn still carried close to her heart. If a demi-goddess could have a patron goddess, she had always looked to Brigid for her own guidance, and today was no different.

There were so many new things pushing up through the soil in her life. The Doctor, first and foremost and always, but Byron, too, in the changes going on in him, the reversion back, it seemed, possibly, to the boy she had once known, with a light in his eyes and hope and new endeavors. There were new worlds to see and new paths to walk and everything felt fresh.

It was a new year. It was the first heralding of the coming of spring back on Earth, and even if she couldn’t feel it here, she knew. It meant far more than the human markings of the change of the calendar. This was the time of growth and renewal, and the Maiden became the Bride.

After lighting her incense of basil, heather, cinnamon and vanilla, Aislinn carefully swept out her room, concentrating on each sweep of the broom, making it ritual, eyes closed as she looked deep. There was terror in embarking on something new, but with confessions that had tumbled out, she knew at least that she had to face it in one area, and grow. There were cobwebs of the old, shadows that lurked where light didn’t go. Kieran, for one, and was it any wonder that she would think of him on this day, remembering the greatest gift he’d given and how she had repaid him for it? She swept more than the already clean floors required, taking the time to examine herself closely, the self she tried to ignore in most ways, because the self had so little place in the calling of her people.

There was newness there, too, learning herself, learning to speak up, growing to embrace her own goals, her own dreams, and stepping away a little from living only for those of others. Putting the broom aside, she lit a candle for each one, until she was surrounded by a circle of them. She settled in the center, fingers deftly weaving the equal armed cross to hang over her door, over the door of the TARDIS if it and the Doctor would let her. The movements were steady, soothing, familiar and she fell into the rhythm of the weaving, humming a soft song Brigid had taught her on her fifth birthday. It wasn’t Tara, and she wouldn’t see the rising sun lighting the passages her ancestors had laid, but that was all right.

This was home now, and so she concentrated on pulling that light into it and sending a wave of freshness and boundless inspiration and energy through the whole, smiling at the sense of well-being and approval that came back. Everything was going to be amazing.
alainn_aislinn: (lost)
In hindsight, perhaps leaving Faerie was not my wisest move ever, but I was sixteen and I didn't know any better. We're much like you in that way, always thinking we know better than our elders, and if you knew my elders, you would understand that a great deal more. Having not achieved her aims of gaining a throne through either me or my sister, my mother pretty much left us to figure things out for ourselves. She would toss out comments on occasion about this or that bit of our craft. Tell us never fall in love...

...Have you see the Cinderella movie with Bernadette Peters? She was a lot like the stepmother in that one, only not as funny as Bernadette Peters.

That's neither here nor there, though. Eventually, my father, who loves to walk your world, remembered I existed and pulled me aside to give me a few tips about how to function between your world and ours. How to choose an artist, how to reach inside them and pull out what they needed as much as what I needed, how to let my natural gifts shine through to touch them, make them great, and how to always, always, go home after. He made the mistake of staying with Shakespeare and knew from experience the heartwrenching pain of the loss of one so dearly loved.

Don't love them too much, he told me. Just enough. Enough to touch them, to reach them, but no more. Keep your roots in your home, and you'll always have somewhere to ground yourself, and their loss will not wreck you so much.

I didn't listen. Perhaps I would have had he found me a few years before, but I had already broken all but the final rule. I found my guiding star. We connected. I couldn't bear to not watch over him, couldn't stand to just brush against him now and again, to reach out on occasion with a brush of inspiration. He shone so brightly, so thoroughly, that he encompassed everything.

I left it all behind. I walked away, and I never truly looked back, only visiting occasionally, and always aching to return to him. I took no other artists as mine. I didn't diversify my portfolio, as it were. He was my everything, my world, my lifeline, and when he died, I might as well have gone with him for all the joy that was left in the world.

I tried to get it back. I found a musician. I had a child. I tried, but in the end, none of it mattered.

Crazy as it sounds, I think, perhaps, I should have listened to my parents.

ooc: Written from her book canon, not RP world, obviously. :)
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