sudden impulses...

[johnpreston]

[ His voice is low and quiet, eyes closed as he recites. ]

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

[ He closes his eyes, and opens them again. ]

Bring me to wherever you wish, as long as there are more of these. [ A beat, then, half-desperate and very broke: ] Just- more.

Comments

omg equilibrium you are amazing

[terraformagica]

O-Oh... that was really pretty.

Are you all right?

[ because he doesn't seem like he is and she's worried ]

you know this canon you're more amazing.

[johnpreston]

[ A blink, and he's cleared his expression. Blank again; he's used to that. ]

Yes. [ He looks at her for a moment. Tips his head to the side. ]

What are you?

[ Curiosity is an emotion, he thinks, but he can ask now. He can ask. ]

brb putting on the soundtrack THIS MOVIE AHHHH

[terraformagica]

Where did you learn a poem like that? I've never heard it before.

I'm a Sadida... my name's Amalia. What's yours?

[ She doesn't mind the question; it's kind of to be expected here. ]

[wont]

[ The books on the ship in the sky are strange to Alayne, for they are not bound by leaf and paper. Still, that does not keep her from reading their passages, from committing them to memory and reciting the words to the King in the North or the young Lord Stark or her father later. Perhaps unsurprising that so many of the poems she teaches herself are about love. Love is the trellis upon which her heart grows, from which Alayne draws her strength and through which — one day — she hopes to be made whole. ]

Already, you are mine. Rest with your dream inside my dream.
Love, grief, labour, must sleep now.
Night revolves on invisible wheels
and joined to me you are pure as sleeping amber.

[johnpreston]

[ Preston's memory has always been impeccable. His body learns katas easily; his mind learns information and facts easier. Instinct, sense; things that he picks up from everywhere he goes and sees, seeds that later blooms into weapons for him to use. It serves, too, to lock in words, and he's thankful for it now, for as she recites he breathes the words in, letting her voice settle in his lungs, writes those words across his lungs.

Like a child he is greedy, and when she is finished he takes three steps until he is close to her, and he folds his legs beneath himself and sits at the feet of her chair. ]

I know very few of these. [ His words are soft, shaky still. He dares not ask for more without giving something in return, because Libria might be kind but he has learned his first lesson about repayment. Emotions for peace. Chaos for emotions. Jurgen's life for freedom. Partridge and Mary's lives for his own awakening.

He closes his eyes and says: ]

And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until I carved these words:
She was more beautiful than thy first love,
But now lies under boards.

[ He lets out a breath. He doesn't know what the words mean. He just finds them beautiful. And he tips his head up to this stranger, and waits for her to give him new lines. ]

eeeeee preston <3 wish there was a dumont around

[urbanhero]

[Pompier stands nearby, hands tucked behind her back. Poetry. Okay, quick, she's gotta think of something good. Dickinson? Nah. Kipling? No. Frost? Eh. Why not?]

"He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust."