Log:Protecting the Beloved
|Protecting the Beloved|
5 November, 2019
Amity beards November in her 'den' to demand that the rainbow not hurt Amity's beloved Mavis.
Overcast and chill, the day isn't the most auspicious for meetings. The Autumn storms have swept most of the fire-colours from the trees, grey boughs spindly and bare, skeletal fingers reaching toward the sky between the deep, rich greens and auburns of pines and oaks outside, air rich with the scents of damp earth and fallen leaves.
The rest of the Wayhouse is considerably warmer, but November's private rooms? No. The windows are open wide, letting in the fresh air of the dying year. Hints of the chill can be felt from the crack beneath the door by anyone walking by the corner of the upstairs hallway.
A sign is on the door, and while the variegation in the tones of liquid ink prove that it was certainly written by hand, the perfection of the flowing script is all but artificially precise. "Knock twice, pause, and knock once more if you are Amity. Standing on one foot will help. Come in."
Maybe she's not in control of her hair.
When Amity steps in, the rainbow is working at French braiding the underside of her hair, starting at the nape of her neck. Seated on the far side of the low, Asian-styled table on a flat cushion, her side is to the door, and the slanted eye she angles up to see the other woman is a vivid, bright electric blue, wholly unnatural for human colourations, despite her outwardly human appearance.
"I wanted to speak to you about Mavis." Straight to business, barely giving November time get the tea.
"A matter of some importance to you, lovely, no?" The rainbow sets the teapot down again, motions fluid with seemingly-effortless grace that Amity is likely to know all too well is -not- effortless, nor learned without pain.
November's head tilts as she draws another section of hair into the braid, nearing the crown of her head. "I trust you are taking good care of her; she is a lamb among wolves, so...deliciously naive." The colourful creature's tone is .. not motherly, per se. More like a guardian aunt someone would send orphans to, really -- someone protective of Mavis, but not terribly close. "It will be a shame to see her innocence broken." One too-bright blue eye fixes on Amity, calm, but intent. "The price of being in our lives is danger, lovely. What will you do to keep her safe from -you-?"
"I would never harm her," Amity says without thinking, but she knows it is at best half-truth. She cannot say she never will harm Mavis. The next words slip out with even less thought. "She is mine." A slip of the tongue, human jealousy amplified by the Wyrd. Her grip on her teacup tightens. "I am more worried about her being exposed to you. Even she can't help but notice the sort of power and grace you exude, can she?" Another pause, another breath. "I want your word that will not draw her into this world deliberately."
Finally able to straighten up, she winds the long braid around and around, coiling it atop her head and pinning it in place, despite the fact that the fancy up-do doesn't exactly match her punky attire.
"Mmmm...am I the wicked witch, perhaps? Do you believe I would harm her? Cut her up and bake her in my oven, to feed bits of her to the next little lostlings who arrived at my doorstep...?" Pale fingertips 'walk' along the table's edge, 'step' by tiny step, as electric blue eyes dip toward the digits, then lift to meet Amity's gaze, amused.
"Or is it simple jealousy?" A long, pale arm extends, delicate hand laid to rest near Amity's teacup. The table isn't wide. "I can't help that Mavis responds to me, Amity, but I can promise that I harbour no intention of taking her away from you. Your love for her is safe." The hand lingers there, motionless, graceful even in its stillness. "We have been through experiences your mortal friend can never wholly understand, you and I, but what will you do? You live a dual life. Will you lie to her, forever? Would she thank you for that? She is prideful, strong, clever; she will learn that you are keeping a part of yourself from her, and she would not want you to make decisions for her."
"I will protect her from this," Amity repeats. Her hands leave the teacup and settle impeccably into a folded stance again, steam rising from the tea to cross in front of her face. "What would you have me do? Ensorcell her? Drag her into this world of ours? Or should I forget her and all the delight she brings me? I only want her safe. She should not be part of what we are." Yet Amity cannot chop herself free of the Wyrd and be mortal anymore than she could command the stars to cease moving in the heavens. Her voice, though even and controlled, takes on a strained quality. What emotion it hides is uncertain, though it could be many. "What do you think I should do, then?"
"Do you want to share yourself with her? Wholly and truly?" She waits, giving the other woman time to think, but speaks again before any answers can come. "You will live longer than she, outside circumstances notwithstanding. Your health will be better. If she were to become ill, if she were dying, would you use our power to heal her? How would you explain to her, then, her miraculous cure?" The hand on the table turns, palm up, and spreads graceful fingers to elaborate upon the question before curling back again.
November watches Amity, calm and reserved, then twists, reaching behind herself to pluck a peony from a low vase on the windowsill, and offers it to her over the table. The petals are a mix of muted gold and peach with a vibrant carmine heart, their scent sweet and subtle. "There is no 'right' answer. You have put her in harm's way simply by loving her, darling; those ties can be read on the heart." She says this with utter certainty, as if the ability to do so were perfectly ordinary. "Go. Think about your choices, about what she would want. The freehold will protect her, if you do choose to grant her the sight; it is our duty to safeguard the mortals in our members' lives. If what you feel for her is real, it would be a shame to cut the bud so long before it has the time to flower."
"I might then, yes," she murmurs, voice quiet. "I think my heart should ache too much to bear it otherwise. Why must we feel things in such ways?" To be Fae is to be a creature of emotion, raw and pure. Even when you are still mostly human, it is intense and deep and vast in a terrifying way. She takes a long drink of tea before she sets it down, watches as November plucks a peony and offers it to her. Amity hesitates, then long, slender fingers reach across the space to pluck it from her grasp. She raises it to her face to inhale the sweet scent. Yes, Mavis is such a blossom. And it would be a pity to see her wither. A great pity.
"To love is dangerous all by itself, yes," she agrees after a long moment of silence. Slender fingers turn the flower over in her hands and then she carefully moves to tuck it into her hair. For safekeeping. "I am grateful, that you all would support me and her if that is what is decided. I..." She trails off. The command to 'go' echoes in her head and she has to resist the urge to stand and march from the room. "I ask you for your advice because you scare me, November," she says with plain honesty. There's no judgement in her voice, just the faint tremor of a woman unused to being so frank with one so powerful. "And what I feel is true, I have no doubt of it. Am I still just a foolish girl in some sort of faery story? To love so easily?" She laughs, quiet and constrained, and then moves to stand.
As a seeming afterthought, she adds, "I baked cinnamon scones this morning. Do take some with you, when you go. They should still be on the counter, unless the Summers got into them first."