driftfleet | Mirtul 18 1370 dr

Entry tags:

Mirtul 18 1370 dr

Who: Syeira and YOU
Broadcast: Nope
Action: Varric's bar on the Iskaulit mostly
When: Directly after the shuffle.

She has been checking on the roster listing nearly compulsively lately. Things have just been rough for her. Losses upon losses. Regaining Anders, only for her friend to not know her. It piles up on top of everything else.

Everything else being Sam falling into a sleep only to wake and nearly do something horrible to Cas. And she got to take a lovely swim in Sam's blood for that, a delightful bonus to her kill deprived self. And then Sam is hurt, again, on her watch. Cas fell into a sleep immediately after. She's been ill from the planet nearly all the time. Coil had a melt down. Arthur turned into a tiny teenager. And of course, Robin revealed to her she not only had a Calibration, but when he was in it, he saw her murder her own mother.

She had asked Robin not to shut her out again. That was the mistake. She'd admitted her fragility out loud where Atroma could over hear it. She'd told him she couldn't stand to lose any more friends. And now he's just gone. Removed, like so many others. And she quite simply cannot take one more bit of horrible without doing something about it. But there's nothing to fight. She's not going to trash her room. The thing that's left is rather obvious.

She goes to the Iskaulit, to the tavern that feels like one from home. She has a small pouch full of credits. She managed to pull out enough that the pouch weighs at least five pound. There's a hefty amount of money in it. This she takes directly to whoever is tending the bar, places it purposefully down on the counter, and gives them a dead serious, almost empty look.

"I would like to drink, until I physically cannot anymore, or the money runs out. Whichever comes first." And by the look of things, the money won't be what runs out first. "If it's the former, please feel free to keep whatever is left over for your troubles." Because she imagines it will be annoying to shove her out into the hall when she's fall down drunk.

And with that, she will start drinking. There's dedication in it, because she wants to obliterate everything in her head. Blot it all out until all that's left is alcohol poisoning.

[ooc: Feel free to tag her at any time during this. And please note, she did not notice Zhas has returned to the fleet, and I request that no one tells her. Thank you!]

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"I tried it for several hundred years, I believe." He says quietly, and the harp echoes the shush of the rolling waves. "Sadly, I was also quite mad, and do not remember. But it does help, to hold the madness at bay for a time."

"Like what?" He crooks his head at her, accepting the subject change.

"Should I last long enough to go mad, I'll keep it in mind." She won't though. She knows that.

"Magical. I can feel it trying to influence my emotions. Or am I just drunker than I thought?"

"I would not advise it." He says dryly. "Does terrible things to your hair. And your clothes."

"Ah." He hums softly. "I do not consider it magical, but I suppose it might be seen so. I am only... reflecting your own emotions - or mine, as the case may be. Any musician of enough skill can do so - I am merely better than most."

"Is that a nice way of saying that only you can do it, because you're the best?" She raises a brow as she looks up at him. "I mean, I'd believe it. Just saying."

"Hardly!" He smiles at her fondly. "Finrod can do it too - indeed he is probably better at it than me. It is a trick that every good musician learns, to reflect and to offer emotion in music. Although tis true I am accounted one of the best."

"Humble." And that's all she has to say about it really. "I can inspire emotions, but not with every song I play. Well, no I could do it with every song, but it would exhaust me eventually."

"I see no reason to deny my skill." Maglor shrugs a little. "Not for things like this. Mm, sometimes, it is in finding the right way to do it. Music wants to be heard. It wants to be - if you work with it - many things are possible."

"I don't know. It's probably unique to elves like you and Finrod. True and full blooded. I'm only a mixed breed bastard-" Oh there's the sour mood. Bet you thought she'd misplaced it! No such luck. Well, at least she has the somewhat presence of mind to mumble the rest of that self-hate into her cup, washing down the bitterness with well...bitterness.

Abruptly fierce, Maglor's hand goes to her shoulder and shakes it, his eyes flashing and his voice sharp and firm, all traces of the bard washed away behind the commander.

"Never say that. Never. From the line of the peredhel came many of the greatest heroes of our world. What use is being 'pure' blooded when that blood is already cursed? Never let anyone put you down for what you cannot help. Already here you have aided a stranger, and for that alone you are worth more than any that would deride you for the accident of your birth."

His words slice through her like well honed blade. It hurts, for its intended goodness, and for her guilt over having offended him with her misery, and worse yet, for how she longs to let it comfort her. But she can't.

She puts a hand over his, sitting up slowly to meet his eyes. She's red cheeked with drink, and her eyes are wide open to try and fight off the surge of tears. Ones she's told him she cannot shed. They hover there, threatening to fall and yet not.

"You have a good great, and you mean well. But you don't what I am, or where I come from. I'm not from your world. And believe me when I say, I am a creature altogether different from you and yours. I cannot even wish I could believe your words, because wishing only wounds. I beg your pardon, milord, but you have no idea what you're talking about."

Those tears want so badly to fall, but she breathes, shallow little puffs of air, and they receed. She bows her head, feeling a wash of shame.

"You're a good friend, Maglor. I'm sorry to have burdened you."

"No." He denies her, setting the harp down to reach up and brush away her tears.

"Tis true, we are from different worlds, and I do not know your story. But I know that you have been kind, and I know that blood counts not for true nobility. Your Song is kind, Syeira, and it aches. Oh, little one. You cannot help your birth - only what comes after. Do not let others define you by that."

The scarred hands are gentle, but insistent.

"And never apologise for sharing your pain. I am honored that you would trust me so."

He doesn't understand. No one does here. It's maddening as much as it's a temptation.

"I would love to believe again that my life, my choices, my future are my own. You all make me want it so much." Finrod, Arthur, Cas, Sam, now Maglor. If only. If only. "All my roads lead to the same place."

She sighs, gives him green eyes full of longing and hurt, none of which are his fault. But his kindness only serves to make it all the more solid for her. The damage done to her well take much more than a handful of gentlenesses to start to repair.

"I don't want to think about this anymore, please."

"I cannot believe it - I will not believe it." Maglor cups her face gently and presses a gentle kiss to her brow. "Such a bright light as you deserves to be happy."

But he nods, pulling back and reaching for his harp.

"Then what tale would you hear, little fire-hair? What song would you ask of me?"

She has to grit her teeth and squeeze her eyes shut to bear up under that kiss on her forehead. Once she could have said that people just don't do that to her, but here it's happened more than she had thought she'd ever experience. Tender kisses, asking nothing, offering comfort, gentle affection, they still shake her to the core. She's counted them all, still few enough the could leave fingers after, considers them precious.

Precious, tender battering rams against her defenses. She only barely survives Maglor's well-intentioned onslaught, before he draws away. She breathes out, in, out, in. Steady on, Syeira.

Oh yes. He asked her a question. "I don't know." She makes her shoulders drop, where they had hunched up against the urge to throw herself into a hug and weep into his shoulder in the very public tavern. She rakes a hand through her hair, because he mentioned it, and tries to not look like she's about to crack in half, if he's nice to her one too many times. "Something easy. I don't know anything about you. Tell me about you."

He would not have argued, if she had. He flinches a little at her question but he nods, slowly.

"My tale is a hard one to hear, little fire-hair. But if it will help you, I can tell it."

The harp ripples softly, a memory of Light. If Syeira lets herself follow along, Maglor will paint them for her, the Two Trees of his childhood, light before Moon and Sun.

"The beginning is kind enough, I think, but if you wish me to stop, you have but to tell me so."

A flame is born, to a king and his queen, but in the bearing of the flame, the queen dies. The king grieves, and a wound is made on the soul of the flame that will never truly heal. The king weds again, and more stars flicker into being - two daughters, and two sons - but the flame is consumed by jealousy, and in his innermost place, that wound begins to eat at him, a cancer that will one day consume him. But for a time, the flame meets his equal, and the wound does not heal, but it settles. Seven children are born, seven lights, each small mirrors of their father, blended to greater or lesser degree with their mother's fire. The second is recognisably Maglor - young and guileless, still with that youthful arrogance.

And then shadow creeps into light, subtle but definite, a creeping poison that fans the flame despite it's rejection of it, and the cancer grows. Brother turns against brother, and the fire of brilliance begins to turn in on itself.

Three stars come to life - fire's creation, children as dear to him as those of flesh and blood, light of blended moon & sun. And darkness covets it, murders the king for it, and takes fire's treasure.

And fire screams in agony, and tears himself apart, his sons following after him, as chains born of grief and jealous fury twist into unshakeable, unbreakable bonds, doom and dread and an Oath that should never have been spoken.

Edited 2016-05-21 11:39 (UTC)

He's amazing. Like Haer'dalis, he's an artist with words, painting worlds inside her mind. Syeira sits and listens to this master work his craft. Sits, listens, and drinks, so if he'd hoped to distract her from her ultimate goal, he'll be disappointed.

Still, she's attentive the tale, and if there one thing to comfortably distract her from her own pain, it's that of others. And while first, she's empathetic to the plite of Maglor's father, her frown becomes sharper at the end.

"He drug you into his vengeance." Never let it be said she's not a smart girl. She can see where this is going, in tone of not in specifics. And anger forms, quick and bright. There's nothing quite like a father misusing his children to get her riled up.

Maglor would prefer it if she stopped - but she is an adult, or close enough to it, from what he knows of Men, and has the right to her own decisions. He's just here to keep her company.

"No." Maglor shakes his head. "We chose it - we were of age, Syeira. We did not know entirely what we were choosing - but that was our grandfather that the Enemy killed that day, and father may have wanted it the most, but all of us sought revenge as well. He never made us do anything."

"No. They don't put a dagger to our throats and force us, but they make us do what they want all the same. We don't see it, not when it's close and their good opinion is everything, makes the sun rise and set upon us. Brings us warmth when we have it and leaves us cold and blind when denied. They only make us in how they don't."

Her thoughts are clearly personal now, and barely veiled at all. Maglor would have to be blind and deaf to not understand what she's, only just, not saying. There's anger, warm and simmering, but the fire under it is hurt. Betrayal.

"And what does vengeance do? I am well acquainted with it, as it's practically my profession, in one fashion or another, so I'll tell you what. It damages. It destroys. It leaves you hollow. The only thing revenge ever gave anyone is bloody hands and sleepless nights. You deserve better."

"Oh child." Maglor murmurs softly, and this time he yields to the impulse to reach across and hug her - he won't hold, if she does not wish it, but he reaches for her all the same.

"But love is still love, for all that it twines with hate." He says gently, sadly. "And perhaps I did, once. But I know that road very well, little fire-hair. There is a reason I was surprised that Finrod greeted me with a smile."

She feels the impulse to push away from him, string and instant, when he moves to embrace her. But she also cannot reject someone so. It's not in her to be so cruel to a friend, even while angry and intoxicated. So instead, she's caught in an in-between, both her arms trapped between them, holding her cup in both hands, a thin distance at best. He'll have his hug without struggle, but without actual reciprocation.

"I'm not a child. I haven't been for a long time, if I ever was one." Hollow toned words, and they do nothing to dim her anger. But his hold, the offer of comfort, even in the face of her stubbornness, makes her bend a little. Because it's herself she hates and her parents she's angry at. Being the hypocrite she is, Maglor's pain is not one she can bear. "Of course Finrod was happy to see you. Whatever mistakes you made, your heart is still Good."

Maglor would not have minded that, either - but he pulls away swiftly, since she does not seem to want it.

"No." He agrees sadly. "That much I can tell. But I wish you had not had to turn your face to adulthood so swiftly, nor in such a fashion as to hurt you so."

He smiles a little wryly and shakes his head. "They should have called him 'The Faithful', who looked at the pain of the world and offered it only kindness. My cousin's heart is great and the injury done to him was terrible, even if I had only a small part in the wounding. And I do not know about that last, little fire-hair."

Irony of ironies, if either of them could see past her current pains, it might be plain as day that one of the things she wants most in all the worlds is the comfort of another person. Empathy. Safety. Touch.

"I do. I know Goodness when I see it." She's firm on that. She knows Goodness as she knows Evil. "You and Finrod both wear it openly, though you might be less aware of it."

She doesn't ask about what happened to Finrod. Not because she's careless with drink, but because it's not Maglor's story to tell. If she remebers, she's ask Finrod herself someday.

He pulls away, but not far, only back to his harp, now rippling with the song of the sea, the gentle shush of the rolling waves.

"Then you are kinder than most, Syeira, for there are few who would say such of me now."

"What you did hurts you. If you were anything but Good, that wouldn't be true. If people can't see that, well they haven't walked closely with Evil. And lucky them."

Her cup is empty and she frowns at it. Et tu, alcohol?

He eyes the empty cup wryly and quietly waits for her to decide what to do about it, hands still stroking water from the strings.

"Perhaps. But it does not change the fact that I did them, and those deeds were evil indeed."

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