u_can_have_it_4_a_song | A Moment of Introspection (Locked to Verity)

A Moment of Introspection (Locked to Verity)

Schön keeps an office in the Nexus, although he does most of his work outside it, an opulent retreat from the timeless bustle outside. Richly colorful Oriental rugs allow only glimpses of a polished oak floor. The desk is a monolith of mahogany, inlaid with accents of rosewood and teak, carved with reliefs of twining roots and branches, of fanciful creatures, and of faces peeking from among the leaves. The chairs before and behind the desk are upholstered in silk and buttery-soft leather, the one behind the desk tall and evocative of a throne.

The walls, papered in a deep Chinese red pinstriped with navy, are densely clustered with art in a dizzying array of styles; most are paintings, but a few cameos hang as well, and a Stradivarius enjoys pride of place over the mantle. Shelves behind the desk are similarly crowded with books and odd little knickknacks, the former rarely comprising the sort of orderly matched sets that tend to fill shelves behind desks in offices. To one side of the door stand a coat rack and a sideboard loaded with bottles of exotic libations, while to the opposite side stands a small table bearing several indistinct articles over which has been draped a gossamer shroud. Against one side wall sits an overstuffed couch, and in the opposite wall is set a fireplace, where a multicolored flame pops and crackles merrily, sending an occasional swirl of rainbow-colored sparks up the chimney.

The room has also been warded to a fare-thee-well, to keep out prying eyes and ears, ensuring that all which transpires within remains private. The wards, to an extent, even work both ways, for when the door is closed, all the noise from outside falls away.

Hanging up his hat and cane as he enters, Schön turns to offer a hand to escort Verity inside. "Please come in, Ms. Willis, and be seated comfortably. May I offer you anything to steady your nerves?"

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"If I felt the time ill-spent, Ms. Willis, I would say so. I am not solely ruled by my bargains--even I might discuss art or wine for the pleasure of it. A unique perspective is refreshing, and yours is certainly unique. But if you wish to proceed, you need only relax."

He pauses for a sip of his drink, then sets it down on the edge of his desk (on a coaster). "I may appear to change, to your eyes, but the promises I have made will still hold true." And that is not a lie.

The reassurance coaxes a smile from her. "Thanks." Maybe she'll trust him more next time. Trust is slow to build, and slower on the quicksand of her shattered life.

She too takes a sip of her drink before setting it down, making sure she's found a coaster first. "Okay. I'll try to hold still." Hopefully it'll be an interesting show, otherwise this is likely to just be awkward.

When she seems settled, he concentrates, the thin man in a nice suit bleeding away, while a marble-pale, silver-haired elfin lord, his sable breastplate chased with silver details and blazoned with a pair of crescent moons. His eyes are pools of darkness, speckled with the lights of a night sky, constellations that watch, in a face as distant and perfect as the moon.

"Be at peace, Verity Willis. No harm comes to you this day." He extends a hand, palm toward her, fingers spread, and something presses out from it. There's no show of lights, just a feeling--a breeze on a summer's night, after rain, when it's both warm and cool at once, and the air is fresh. It flows over and around and through, and it cannot possibly be there, or real--but it is.

She watches the change with wide eyes and naked admiration, but no surprise. There's not even a shock. Maybe he's just too pretty for her to care because he is certainly too pretty. She drinks in the sight of him, giving a small nod in response when he speaks, but not closing her eyes until the magic starts. It's a soft and wonderful feeling and she wants to focus on it for however long it lasts.

All too soon, the wind withdraws, though the memory of it may linger. Schön's perfect brow is marred with the crease of a thoughtful frown as he considers what he has found, leaning against his desk a little to contemplate it.

She's silent for a moment after, holding her breath in case there's more, and then she sighs. It had been so lovely.

But it's time to move on. She opens her eyes and looks up at him, curious but patient, and with a new light of admiration. She'd never realized magic could be so nice.

"You have bargained for knowledge," he tells her, his voice formal and precise, with a faint musical undertone, like bells being rung in time to his voice in another room, "and what I have learned, you shall have, though it bring you little happiness. There is a curse upon the ring within you, old as mountains and caked in blood and death. Blood calls to blood, and it appears that yours has some affinity for things of magic."

"But not all is woe. I believe it possible for you to bear some enchantments safely. It is likely that you will reach your threshold for layering them without mishap sooner than most, and some may simply not work for you, but I do not find it likely that more spells would bind to you as this one has."

He's right that it isn't happy news, but it's still a relief. At least now when she calls it a curse she knows it's more than her own histrionics and melodrama. And the news isn't all bad.

"Thank you. I appreciate your help."

His head dips in a regal nod. "There is now the matter of your question," he prompts.

"Okay." She'll pick up her glass and take a sip of wine before asking. "Why are there two of you?"

"Two of me?"

"Yeah. There's always two of you. One of you is solid and the other's... not. One of you looks human, that's the one that usually looks solid. The other one is... I don't know. Pointy-eared and way too pretty to be real." She rubs the back of her head, blushing. "Not that you're not always handsome."

"Ah. It is my dual nature you see; mortal flesh and faerie soul. A necessity, in the world from which I hail."

"That sounds complicated." But she's had her one question answered; hard as it is, she won't push for more. She's not even trying to hide that she's curious, but she's not asking. If he wants to volunteer that's different.

He watches her in silence for a long moment, and seems satisfied with whatever he observes. "The fae are delicate, in ways. Six billion minds convinced we do not, can not exist, are a difficult tide against which to stand. To survive, we become a part of the material world, that we may nurture what sparks of creativity yet remain."

She almost asks a very stupid question, then realizes. "Other people can't see you like that, can they?"

"Not unless we make an effort to be seen," he confirms. "Even then, most quickly rationalize it away. Too much stress, not enough sleep, a trick of the light."

"Geez. I'm sorry." More than a few people have rationalized away things she knows to be true. Like her powers. (Mom.) Her empathy is easy to find and sincere.

"You mentioned creativity being important...? Is that why you collect art? How it keeps you young?" Okay it's question time again.

He nods. "We are creatures of dream, of imagination, but our realm recoils from the Earth as it grows colder. Creation, imagination, reaches across the gulf and touches our home, lets some of its warmth flow back into the world. We need that warmth, to live. So," he concludes, gesturing to the art.

She glances around again, almost getting lost in all the beauty for a second time before a horrible thought occurs to her. "Does that mean people who aren't like that hurt you?"

That isn't really what she's asking.

He nods, and chooses also to answer what she's really asking. "Your curse had made you unhappy, and literal, and bereft of hope for some time." He's guessing, but it's pretty obvious, and a good fairy oracle has to play up the mysterious omniscience.

"Had I met you then, outside the Nexus, your presence would have harmed me badly. But all is not lost; you see beauty in this room, and there are stirrings, glimmers, in your heart. You are not without hope, Verity Willis, and that is to the good."

It does not take a rocket surgeon to figure out she's been miserable. Just someone willing to pay attention. Also, and this is important, she's not crying. She's just got something in her eyes and it's quickly wiped away.

"I'm glad I haven't hurt you."

Dust is simply unmanageable without a boggan or two around. Without a word or look of judgment, he offers her a handkerchief, silver-white linen soft as a child's laugh. "And I am grateful, Verity Willis, and further pleased you no longer harm yourself."

He gets a whispered thanks, and she'll take the handkerchief. Her glasses are recklessly pushed up into her hair so she can dry her eyes properly. They're going to be all smudgy after. Once her eyes are dry she'll be giving him a confused look. "Harm myself?" Sure she drinks too much but she wouldn't call it harming herself (because then it's a problem and she needs to stop).

"The cycle of despair. The abandonment of hope. The slow stifling of the soul." Schön's pointy-eared side favors poetic metaphors even more than the be-suited one.

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