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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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."

The choice between standing and not standing is a hard one okay. Give her a minute.

"It's so much easier to get lost in our darkness than to believe we still have light. 'No redemptions. No second chances.'" She's quoting someone, and it sounds like it. She rolls the cup back and forth between her palms.

He'll wait patiently - but he's also not about to get up and fetch her a glass if she's had too much.

He smiles sadly. "I wish I could believe that, little fire-hair. But the dead are still dead, and I cannot bring them back. And does it not make it worse, that I knew that what I did was wrong, and I still kept doing it?"

She lifts her eyes to his, serious if not sober. "I had a friend who worked as a spy for a mage, who tortured me and my sister, for months. He pretended to be a prisoner, as I had been, and escaped with me. He stayed by my side, fought with me, bled with me. His job was to keep me alive, so that the mage's ultimate goal could be achieved: the theft of my soul.

I was with this man for a year. And for that year, he lied. And I knew he lied. But he had no love of what he was doing. I knew that too. He betrayed me, and ended up dying upon my sword. He was sworn to my enemy, long before he knew the evils he would be tasked with. That didn't make him any less my friend, or any less a good person. He just made a mistake. One he had no freedom to abandon."

He is quiet, turning the story over thoughtfully.

"I am glad he failed." He says first - a soul is a precious thing, and he is glad she was spared that.

"He and I, I suppose we could exchange many a tale. But I do not know if I can ever forgive myself, little fire-hair. It feels as if it would be unfair to my victims - and I have so very many. I might yet have more, although I pray not."

"Yoshimo would have enjoyed that probably. He loved a good story. And bad ones too. He couldn't forgive himself either, so I did it for him. I've no trouble extending the same to you. And I wouldn't talk of victim counts with me, my friend. We'll be here all night and then some."

She stands then, steadily enough to say she's not fall down drunk yet.

"He didn't fail, you knows. The mage. He got what he was after. He just didn't get to keep it." She goes then to get herself her paid in advance refill, and he can process that but if information in the minute and a half she's gone.

She gets up and so does not see the way grey eyes flash to silver fire in fury, hands clenching on his harp with sudden, vicious hate. If he ever meets that mage, he will tear him to pieces slowly.

(He is many things, is Maglor - but he is still his father's son, and the fire in him is banked, but not yet out.)

Even so, his voice stays level.

"He had no right to such a precious jewel. And I would consider that a failure, for you are now free."

He hopes Syeira didn't kill him, so he can have the pleasure.

She returns to her seat beside him, expression oddly neutral for the subject their on. Perhaps the fresh drink has fortified her nerves for a brief moment. Or dulled them at last. Take your pick.

"Regardless of right, he could, so he did. Doing it to Imoen was by far the worse offense. Im was a true innocent, before Irenicus took us." Ah, there's her feelings again. Worry this time, raw and open.

"If any one of us is precious, it's Imoen. I miss her."

He reaches over as she sits back down and tugs on a stray lock of hair.

"Just because another is precious makes you no less a jewel. Moreso to me, for I only know you."

His eyes are gentle again, but the fury is only tucked away where he can nurse it, not put out, still glinting.

"I hope you dealt with him - that sort of sorcery is the very worst kind, that seeks to meddle in the very part of a self that makes them who they are."

He tugs on her hair and now they know she's not beyond blushing. People playing with her hair is a guilty pleasure, even in small measures like this.

"He's being punished, in such a fashion that I ought to feel guilty. But I can't bring myself to feel bad for him. I have to live with the repercussions of what he did to me. And so should he."

"Good." He says with vicious satisfaction, and tucks away the pleased thought that it means he is probably still alive, in case Maglor ever meets him.

Amil always told us not to play with our food Celegorm's memory drawls in his ear, but even the memory's eyes are sharp and hungry.

He smiles a little to see her little blush, and tucks that away for later.

"I am glad he cannot hurt anyone any longer."

Oh if he only knew what has become of Irenicus. It's doubtful anything Maglor could come up with would compare to what the residents of the Nine Hells were doing to the mage already.

"No one new anyway." More drink is required after this conversation, yes. "I seem to have lost track of why I told you this. I'm sorry." There must have been a point she was trying to make, but she's been side tracked by the retelling of her second worst enemy.

Maglor only shakes his head at her fondly.

"Never apologise for trusting me enough to share." He reminds her gently. "I am honored that you would reveal such things to me. And now I think you had best have some water, or you will have a terrible headache tomorrow."

"The headache is part of the process." No really. She anticipates and accepts that tomorrow she's going to be a huge wreck. "I'll wake up, feel horrific, call myself a fool, and go on to the next set of troubles."

"An unecessary one." Maglor points out mildly. "You have not had anything to eat yet either, have you?"

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