[ Oh, but there were so many factors to consider. The myths and stories surrounding humans that had somehow managed to stumble into Faerie -- even the relatively safe parts -- made it abundantly clear that it was not something to be done lightly.
He is quiet for a long moment, thinking. ]
I suppose -- I suppose if it were for only a little while, and if the proper precautions were to be taken -- I suppose it would be possible for the three of us to go.
Fantastic. [She's heard none of the myths, none of the stories - she just wants to see where Aubrey is from. She notes the long moment of consideration, though, and wonders why that is.] We'll plan a trip. I haven't had a vacation in a very long time.
Changeling 'verseitsnotacurseJanuary 4 2013, 04:29:09 UTC
The stars are different here.
That shouldn't surprise him, really. It makes perfect sense now that he's thought about it. But it surprised him at first, to look up and not see any of the stars and shapes he learned from listening to Aubrey the times they'd gone up to the roof.
The good thing here is that, despite being Faerie, it really is quieter. His mind lashed out at first, when he realized where he was--the hallucinations got to the point where he couldn't hear Aubrey at all over everything that wasn't real. But it's settled down some, and he's taken to coming outside every night and one by one, cataloging and discarding everything he hears and 'hears' that isn't real.
Stranger still that it has nothing to do with his family, for once -- in fact he'd be surprised if they even knew he'd returned. He's not alone, however, though his company is rather extraordinary even by their standard.
Things were not all rainbows and puppies, of course; his theory that Faerie would prove quieter than Earth had been proved mostly correct, though it seemed that the wounds David carried were deeper than even they had anticipated. However, if anything this had only strengthened his resolve.
They would find a way to help him.
"Penny for your thoughts," he says, offering him a half-smile.
David doesn't reply at first. He hears Aubrey, he knows it's real hearing and not a hallucination. But it takes him a minute to sort his own thoughts into words. "I'm," he says after a minute. "Practicing," he decides is the best word. Practicing telling reality from hallucination, he means; practicing discarding the latter as it comes.
He tilts his head back to look at the sky. "I want to learn them. Your stars."
David nods. He doesn't really care how long it's been since Aubrey saw them. He just likes the stars, and listening to Aubrey explain them, internally or not.
"I dreamed last night," he says, apropos of nothing and sounding not entirely interested in the words as he says them. But he doesn't talk about his dreams normally, doesn't even offer up the fact that they exist. They're nightmares, almost always, and he doesn't admit their contents to anyone, even Aubrey.
Well, if nothing else he could make things up as he goes along. His children always used to enjoy that, though both of them are probably much too old for such things now.
David wouldn't mind either way. Half the point of it is just to hear Aubrey's voice.
He nods, and closes his eyes to remember it. "There was a woman. She was his, but--she would sing, at night. She was having a baby, and she would sing to it. And everyone was a little happier when she did. I dreamed about that."
"It was." There's something in his expression that could almost be a smile. "Everyone was sad there," he admits, opening his eyes again. "Always, even when she was singing. But when she sang it was... better."
"There was a woman I knew, long ago, who helped me when I needed it most."
There's a flash of something -- a soft, lilting voice that soothes and calms; soft white hands and a pair of wide, dark eyes framed by long lashes. "She couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, I'm afraid, but that hardly stopped her from trying."
Laughter now; silvery-sweet. "She had a way of making things better just by being there."
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[She slides her hand over his.] What made you start?
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He is quiet for a long moment, thinking. ]
I suppose -- I suppose if it were for only a little while, and if the proper precautions were to be taken -- I suppose it would be possible for the three of us to go.
Reply
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That shouldn't surprise him, really. It makes perfect sense now that he's thought about it. But it surprised him at first, to look up and not see any of the stars and shapes he learned from listening to Aubrey the times they'd gone up to the roof.
The good thing here is that, despite being Faerie, it really is quieter. His mind lashed out at first, when he realized where he was--the hallucinations got to the point where he couldn't hear Aubrey at all over everything that wasn't real. But it's settled down some, and he's taken to coming outside every night and one by one, cataloging and discarding everything he hears and 'hears' that isn't real.
Reply
Stranger still that it has nothing to do with his family, for once -- in fact he'd be surprised if they even knew he'd returned. He's not alone, however, though his company is rather extraordinary even by their standard.
Things were not all rainbows and puppies, of course; his theory that Faerie would prove quieter than Earth had been proved mostly correct, though it seemed that the wounds David carried were deeper than even they had anticipated. However, if anything this had only strengthened his resolve.
They would find a way to help him.
"Penny for your thoughts," he says, offering him a half-smile.
Reply
He tilts his head back to look at the sky. "I want to learn them. Your stars."
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"I don't know them as well as the others," he admits. "And it's been some time but --" he the smile brightens a little "-- if you can excuse that."
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"I dreamed last night," he says, apropos of nothing and sounding not entirely interested in the words as he says them. But he doesn't talk about his dreams normally, doesn't even offer up the fact that they exist. They're nightmares, almost always, and he doesn't admit their contents to anyone, even Aubrey.
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The thought inexplicably saddened him.
"Oh?"
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He nods, and closes his eyes to remember it. "There was a woman. She was his, but--she would sing, at night. She was having a baby, and she would sing to it. And everyone was a little happier when she did. I dreamed about that."
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For good reason, perhaps, but finds himself smiling despite that. "That sounds," he says finally. Pauses, trying to think of a word that fits. "Nice."
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There's a flash of something -- a soft, lilting voice that soothes and calms; soft white hands and a pair of wide, dark eyes framed by long lashes. "She couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, I'm afraid, but that hardly stopped her from trying."
Laughter now; silvery-sweet. "She had a way of making things better just by being there."
Reply
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