libraryofwinds: Question

Sometimes she wondered how to frame it, exactly. The phrase she would use, the tilt of her head, the curvature of her lips, the look in her eye. She didn't want to be too casual, to dismiss the importance of the subject, but neither did she want to imbue it with any extra significance to open herself to ridicule for having asked it.

It all seemed so silly in most ways, and she could hear her mother's voice, half-mocking in her ear the words that wanted to make their way past her throat. There was a tightness there, though, that didn't seem like something she could ease herself past with anything resembling simplicity, so mostly she let it lie.

She was good at that. Dissembling. Smiling. Crying sometimes, when others' pain was too much to bear, yes, but she bore her own with a bright eye and a quick smile. A toss of her hair and a teasing touch was generally enough to turn the tide when it flowed against the revelations she tried to keep locked inside. The words might press themselves against her lips in a frenzy of sound and emotion and articulation of things that ran too deep to find expression in anything so common as syllables, but she bit them back. She didn't tell, and she didn't ask, not in words.

In touches, in glances, in the staying, in the leaving, in the things she gave up, in the things she took on, she said it all, again and again for each of them until she felt as if she had screamed it to the heavens, and then she waited. She waited for it to echo back, for touches and glances and places and sacrifices.

Every day she asked, in her own way. And every day, all she heard in the echoes was silence. After a while, she stopped asking.

It was better that way.

libraryofwinds: Feelings

In the time before humanity followed us to Eire's island, the time before the tales are told and the time before they named us, the time before we met tellers of tales and artists and had our calling become clear; in the time before they named us Leanan Sidhe, the fairy mistress or fairy sweetheart; in the time before all this, the children of Dana had another name for us. In that time, there were children born, children who dabbled in the secrets of the universe as all children do, working to shift their universe to be as they wished it, but who could only master the most basics of the skill. They were pitied, these children, for generations, shifting to marry only their own, love those like them, bear more children who could only manage the basics of magic, things even humans could later manage should they study enough.

Then the pity faded. The children were named.

In the time before the humans named us, took us as their muses, we were called Truth Shapers. Deeper, darker than the telepathy all the children of Dana shared, we saw the things unsaid, unthought, the fluid field that flowed beneath thought, that influenced it, that reacted to it, that indicated if the thought was truth, or a lie even to the self. We saw the feelings.

The pity shifted to fear in some, for our power was not just to sense the feelings. We could share them, brush against them, speak truth to truth, and ultimately change the truths. We became the priests and priestesses, the conduits of Dana's will, the readers of the soul. They saw us as a link to gods that had abandoned them, parents, grandparents, siblings fled into the West. They thought we could see their echoes, and so did we. We saw them in their souls, and in our own, but at some point, the feelings of the gods left, edged out, banked in ice waiting to be melted into something new, but the heat of their creating fire was gone.

When the humans came, they brought it back, pulled us to their fire, the power of creation, the heat of the gods above, those that fled from this world, fled from us even. We felt them again, the loss of what we were, the loss of who we were--we found that in them, in the tellers of tales. We spoke to their souls, and they listened, and new worlds were created to remember the old and move them where they should have gone but for war and death and loss and pain. There was pain in the creation, birth pains and heartache, but the creation stood. Stands.

Emotion has power to shape everything. It hurts. It is frightening. It is always a risk, because creation is a risk. Feeling is a risk, but without it, nothing beautiful could ever be born.

I think it is worth the risk.

ooc: edited some

libraryofwinds: New

I hate this. I hate everything about it. This...this is not how I operate. It is not how I function. It is not what I am made for. It is not within the lines of my purpose, my calling, or my gift.

Who do you want me to be? What do you need? What can I make you see? What can I make you dream? How can I inspire you to greatness? What threads can I pull? What emotions can I touch?

I am beauty. I am inspiration. I am She made flesh, my grandmother's blood in my veins as it flows in all her children, but strong, pure, from my father to me, without end, amen. I am the dark night of the soul and the light that greets you on the other side.

I am your hell. I am your heaven. I am your greatest joy and your deepest sorrow. I am your hopes. I am all that you fear most in the night.

I do not want. I only need one thing, and it is not that. Not your love. Not your heart. Only your soul's delight, your creative spark to keep me warm and melt the ice that forms around me without it. Frozen fragility, broken shards.

I want to give you your most passionate desires.

I want to light your world and show you the way.

I want to warm myself by your brilliant fire and dance to the music you make.

You. You. Always you and each of you as much as the rest. There is no you and there is no me, only the us that stands on the brink of the universe and screams into the darkness that we shall not be forgotten.

I need nothing else but that.

This...this newness, this want, this need that pulls at my soul and makes it shatter and meld back together into something different than it was before...I do not want it.

I crave it.

I want it gone.

I want more.

Everything changes and everything stays the same and you can speak of risks--I can speak of risks--but they are yours. Your feeling, your risk, your creation is worth it.

I don't want this.

Take it away, and leave me in your pain, your sorrow, your hopes, your dreams.

Not mine.