dear_mun | ( canon: spring awakening )

[ The young woman does not look the type to 'corrupt innocents', as she has sworn not to do. But Alayne knows appearances can be deceiving and so smiles politely, making no mention of it. ]

'Returned', you say. Have you been far? On a long journey, perhaps.

[ Honestly, Ilse only means it teasingly and she returns Alayne's smile with a friendly one of her own. ]

A holiday, I suppose. Not a very long journey! I wish I could go on a long journey. It has been ages since I've last captured my mun's attention. At least it seems that way.

[ A friendly enough woman and good-natured as well — though what she has to say makes Alayne's eyes go wide. ]

It is not my place to say, forgive me, though — it is best if we are mindful of what we wish for aloud. A long journey may prove longer than comfort allows, and the places we are sent to— [ She shakes her head. ] —not all are hospitable. Or even pretty.

[ Defiantly, she lifts her chin, the smile unwavering. ] I welcome a challenge! I've hardships of my own and that only gives me strength.

A childhood friend of mine has hopes of meeting new people on an island between this life and the next, and though I cannot join her - oh, do I wish her the best and hope to hear tales of it soon.

Where have you been, spatzi?

[ Her determination is startling — confusing at first and then perhaps refreshing, though Alayne does not join her in it. She wants to ask about the woman's childhood friend, about an island between this life and the next.

Modestly, Alayne curtsies. ]

For a time, I was aboard a ship, my lady. A ship that sailed between the stars.

The stars? Isn't that something!

[ Ilse clasps her hands under her chin and curtsies in return, eager to hear more if she is willing to tell it. ] I'm no lady though. Ilse. Just Ilse. What is your name?

Ilse, then. [ Alayne nods as she bows again, somewhat pleased to have the gesture returned. ] I am called Alayne, Ilse.

And I would tell you of the stars and of the ship that rode between — if you would indulge me a tale of your own. [ Again, she thinks of the island mentioned, of a place between life and death. ]

[ Ilse nods, eager to offer a tale in exchange for another, especially for a pretty face. Should Alayne encounter a girl named Anna with a fondness for pink, perhaps she will hear of the island herself. ]

I shall tell you of my home, Priapia. Would that be alright by you?

Priapia, [ Alayne says gently as she nods, taking very great care to pronounce it just as Ilse has said. ] Never have I heard of such a place. The sound of it is sweet upon the tongue. Like the name of a flower or a soft-winged bird.

Tell me — is your home half as lovely as its name promises?

Doesn't it sound lovely? I am very sorry to tell you that it is named for Priapus, the god of fertility, and I do not suggest asking for a visual for depictions of him are often very crude, especially for a proper lady such as yourself.

Priapia is, however, [ Ilse spreads her arms wide. ] an artist colony, and a wonderful place to be, teeming with creativity and vibrant with life. I am not an artist, not quite. I am an artist's model, and though the occupation suggests that I model for one, I model for all.

[ Alayne blushes at the very suggestion towards something crude, for although she is already flowered, she is still very much a maid. A blush pinkens her cheeks and colors the bridge of her nose as she looks away bashfully. ]

You speak of such a fanciful place — full of art and life and inspiration. And yet you wish yourself elsewhere, far from those that know you. Do the artists grow tiresome after a while?

[ Ilse lives to shock and make others blush and that gives her a sense of satisfaction. She takes a tiny step forward, hands at her cheeks with her eye alight.

Well, until a look of sorrow flickers across her face, a simultaneous twitch of her brow and her lips. ]

They are ... a demanding sort of people.

[ Alayne sees that flicker of unhappiness, a wholly different sentiment coloring Ilse's features for a brief moment. She wonders what it means — both for herself and for the woman standing opposite. A demanding sort, Ilse had said. Alayne has known her fair share in her life.

(It makes her pity Ilse briefly. Demands could be very cruel, indeed.) ]

And did they demand too much?

[ Ilse looks off somewhere distant over Alayne's shoulder before switching her gaze to the other young woman. She shrugs her shoulders and sways her head to the side in a motion of indifference. Such is her life. ]

They expect much from a girl, with their egos and their needs, and their personal demons. I have my own and they don't realize... But on the other hand, I have learned so much from both the good and gentle, and the heavy-handed. I appear in their plays, I attend operas. I like to know that it is my face they use to represent Artemis, Leda, Ophelia, Hera...

[ Alayne wonders briefly after such an existence — to be revered for one's beauty and inspiration, and yet somehow Ilse's story still makes her sad. Although something like sympathy tolls in Alayne's heart, she keeps it well-guarded within herself.

She is quiet for a long moment and only after a considerable silence does she offer: ] But one must take as well as give, or else find oneself in terrible deficit. Though I am gladdened to know you have been visited by both the good and the gentle, it is often the cruelest callers that remain the longest, after.

[ Ilse releases a tinkle of a laugh, brushing a curl away from her face and into her long braid. ]

And, here, I had meant to tell you a happy tale. I assure you that such a place was better than my childhood home. That is a story for another day. I would not trade my friends today for anything in the world.

[ There is no such thing as a happy tale, Alayne thinks, but does not dare speak the words, instead adopting a thoughtful, attentive expression. ]

It is good to have friends, even in the loveliest of places. [ A pause, followed then by: ] Does that mean there are no plans for you travel from their side?

[ Ilse shakes her head quickly. ]

I would if I felt a calling to a far off place. Surely, they would understand.

And no place calls to you? [ Alayne pauses, unsure if she should ask. ] Or — to your keeper?

Perhaps she has a place in mind but no desire to act impulsively, and always with room to change her mind.

Have you any suggestions, Alayne? Not the ship among the stars?

So few look to temper their hands when the desire strikes. You are fortunate then, that she is so mindful. If only the rest were half as mindful.

[ She thinks about the Tranquility. To do so seems to make Alayne sad, for there are those that love her there — ones she had lost and found again, only to leave behind. ]

It is not safe aboard the Tranquility. There are — all manner of shadows that roam the corridors and dark places beyond the lifts where no one should go. It is no place for a such a beauty.

[ Ilse smiles and pulls a flower out of her braid, extending it to Alayne, ]

Do not look so sad, spatzi, you are not in the darkness here. My mun knows I have seen much and I hope I will find some light in my explorations. I hope that you will find the same.

[ It is a very kind gesture — kindness in a world that oftentimes has too little. That Ilse offers the flower makes Alayne smile, blushing in modest acceptance. Taking the bloom, she holds it delicately between her fingers. ]

That is very generous of you, Ilse, I thank you. [ Taking the flower, she tucks it amongst the ornate braidwork of her hair. ] Though may I ask: what is spatzi?

[ The daisy suits her well, Ilse decides, keeping that in mind should she run into her new friend in the future. And she certainly hopes so. ]

Forgive me! [ She presses her hand to her heart in earnest. ] It means 'little sparrow' in German, my native tongue. I hope you do not mind. I think you're just lovely, and I - well, I thought it was a good name for you.

[ It would not be impossible for their paths to meet again. After all, these worlds worked in strange and mysterious ways, with lives crossing and recrossing over the passage of time.

Sparrow, Ilse says and Alayne tucks her chin to hide her smile. There, at the throat of her dress is the silver silhouette of a mockingbird worn on a velvet ribbon — not precisely a sparrow but near to one. (Her "father's" sigil.) ] I take no mind nor any offense, [ she says warmly, reaching to touch the bird pinned at her throat. ] Sparrow, doves, mockingbirds. They are, each of them, held near to my heart.

Could you tell? Did you know?

[ This has been terribly convenient for Ilse, with the short distances between worlds and the malleability of time. She has been about to see friends she wouldn't have, had she stayed home. ]

I felt. [ That is her simple response, chin lifted in a proud smile. ]

[ Once, Petyr Baelish had said to Sansa Stark: You are Alayne, and you must be Alayne all the time. Even here. In your heart. It had frightened Sansa at the time, but she had sworn to do so (for Petyr had salvaged Sansa's life and what other way could she repay him).

And so it fills her with a kind of pride that Ilse should say, I felt. That means she has seen the mockingbird in Alayne's heart; that means she is Alayne, both inside and out. Proudly, she tips her chin to match Ilse's. ]

As clever as she is beautiful.

I am not clever, Alayne. And others find me pleasing to the eye, but I am just me. Just Ilse.

[ She is a sprig of lavender in winter, a luna moth perched on a branch. If only she were a bird. Instinctively, Ilse reaches for Alayne's hand slowly, so as not to startle her - for who knows what may send a bird into flight? - and gasps it between both her hands. ] You are a beauty! You have such sadness in your eyes and, oh, I do feel it. I am sad, too, sometimes. That is why I long to run towards the sunset and escape into a world that is not my own. Do you feel that, too?

[ Alayne wonders for a moment at what that must be like — to know herself for who she is and to be nothing else (no one else) except that which she was born. Her life has been written and rewritten so many times by those around her (never herself), that she is unsure where the thread of truth ends and weft of all their lies begins.

Bewildered, she blinks at Ilse — startled, yes, but not wholly afraid. Made tentative, perhaps, because of her nearness and Alayne's desire for it. (She has been alone with Petyr for far too long.) ]

I — I do not wish for you to be sad, Ilse. For, in truth, you are beautiful and clever. How else may you have seen the truth— [ That sadness in Alayne, like vines twined around her heart. ] —when so many others fall blind at my feet.

[ A pause then, worried for Ilse's sake. Alayne's hand stirs within Ilse's grasp but she does not pull it away. ] But — you must be mindful of where your heart takes you. There are worlds that are not safe and dreams—

Dreams that will never comfort you, no matter how brightly they shine.

[ With a gentle squeeze, Ilse lowers Alayne's hand to her side once more, though she does let her fingers brush the young woman's one last time. It wouldn't do if she was uncomfortable. ]

I will be careful, at your insistence. But I am grown, and I've more knowledge about the world than I did when I first left home. I need no protector, but - friends. I need friends. My heart would feel so heavy without them.

[ How easily it is for her to open, petal by petal, to someone she has just met! Perhaps Ilse feels a kinship to her, united in sadness, brokenhearted and aged beyond their years. Beauty and tragedy. Perhaps it was fate that brought them both here. ]

[ Alayne tells herself she does not need friends, for that is what time and trial has tried to teach her in the past. Terrible lessons, so monstrously earned. (Love is a poison, a flaw in a mask. The seam that runs down the middle of one's heart and threatens to open it time again whenever the promise of companionship is near.) To love something is to lose it eventually — to have it betray you or to betray it in turn.

Alayne tells herself she does not need friends, but it is a tenet to which she cannot yet hold fast. Her heart is a young and furious thing, full of loneliness and longing, and the promise of friendship, of a moment spent unalone, is more than enough to convince her to abandon her lessons — at least for a while.

Tentatively, Alayne smiles. ] If it please you, we may be friends.

Only if it would please you as well.

[ Already, the pleased expression returns to her face, cheeks a rose tint. She has been betrayed by men and women alike; her fault, as proven time and again, lies in her open heart, never fully stitched together, not nearly complete. Her father tore the first piece, the village the second, and Moritz took a third when he did not follow her, choosing his own destruction instead. And how dangerous it is, to allow the heart to lead. ]

I warn you, Alayne, that I am an outcast, [ Ilse adds simply. ] Not very much liked in proper society. I hope that is alright, if we are to be friends.

[ An outcast. Alayne wonders for a moment what that could possibly mean. Ilse seemed in no way improper; her behavior did not strike Alayne as anything short of polite, if overly eager with a kind of youthful yearning. Perhaps she was born to bad blood or a poor name; perhaps some unfaithful lover had slandered her or taken her honor. A dozen different tragedies play out in Alayne's head, but she speaks of none of them, instead reaching to grasp Ilse's hands just as she had done before. ]

I am but a bastard of the mountains. Though my father be a noble lord, the courts have no love for me for I am natural-born. No matter how well I smile or sweetly I sing, I shall forever be a Stone.

Come, let us be unloved together, Ilse. We shall fashion ourselves an enclave, you and I.

[ Those who knew Ilse from school and church considered her to be a cautionary tale for girls who came from "bad homes" and fell from the path of virtue. It is a sordid tale, not to be rehashed immediately. Perhaps another day.

She lets Alayne take her hands, at once feeling a comfort she once knew, and had not felt for quite a while, not from her mother, not from her friends. Palm to palm, Ilse curls her fingers around the other's, warm. It's nice. ]

Those courts don't know what joy they miss without you around. You've made me feel close to being loved in this one meeting. [ Tentatively, because as soon as those words are spoken, a nervousness pricks the back of her neck, Ilse draws her closer, voice soft. Her eyes widen and shine with almost-tears. ] Can we run away? Hide away?

[ It is Alayne's greatest strength and yet the seat of all of her unhappiness: her willingness to open the doors of her heart to people in order to draw them inside, no matter how deep-seated her weariness, no matter how much life has taught her otherwise. Though paranoia pricks at her senses, though caution wheedles at her with every step closer to Ilse, none of it does anything to quell the loneliness she continues to feel in the wake of all that she has lost. This time, she tells herself, it will be different. My heart will not break. I'll be made whole.

She sees the tears in Ilse's eyes and thinks them to be her own, reflected back to her. How many times had she wept in much the same way? And how many times had those entreatments fallen onto deaf and unfeeling ears? Ilse, Alayne swears to herself, shall be spared such a fate. For her, she shall be brave. How exactly, Alayne doesn't know, but she will find a way. ]

As far away as our wings may take us. Would that please you, Ilse? Will that stay your tears?

The bird and the luna moth. A sad fairytale.

[ A quiet laugh bursts through and a few tears linger on her lashes, easily flicked away with a brush of her knuckle, lifting their joined hands to her face. Ilse does not want to think of what kind of pain may face them. Even if this is pretend, and they are two lonely girls conjuring up a chance for a better life, she will only encourage such talk.

Flights of fancy might not have protected Moritz or Wendla or Melchior or Martha, but she holds her imagined worlds close and wraps them around her heart. She bounces on her heels once. ] Where shall we run? Somewhere warm? Somewhere cold? I'll protect you from storms.

[ I was born to the cold and married at the heart of a storm, Alayne thinks but, again, these are not happy thoughts nor words that will cheer Ilse as she stands on the very brink of some larger hope. ] It is I who should be mindful of you. You need watching after just as much as me.

[ Alayne's smile brightens then, her expression warming. ] Someplace warm. [ Admittedly, she knows very little of the world beyond what she's learned in stories and what her father, Lord Baelish, has taught her. Though her hope is to provide something light and carefree for Ilse to enjoy she is also keenly aware that she must not misstep, or else lead the both of them astray into doomed ignorance. ] I wish to see the sun.

Then the sun, you shall see.

[ Plans are exciting. She will grant these wishes for both their takes. ] An island across the oceans, far from tightly wound courts and villages. We can weave flowers into our hair and -- oh, I'll paint you! I have never truly been on the other side of a canvas. Would you mind? I won't if you mind.

[ Ilse feels light as a petal, overwhelmed with the thought. A world without cruel elders. ] What would you like?

( canon: spring awakening )

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject