inaclovenpine | (no subject)

(no subject)

[After this ill-fated conversation with Andrew Wells.]

The Caribbean inlet outside is having a storm.

Which is kind of weird, because the rest of the lake is just kind of cloudy and cold. The sky over the inlet is heavy with clouds and rain, though, and lightning flashes back and forth from cloud to cloud.

WHY ARE MORTALS LIKE THAT.

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"I don't think I totally understand, though," he says. "What part of that upsets you? Or like, reminds you of what's going on with Andrew?"

Even in the midst of an existential crisis, or whatever this is, apparently Ariel can spare a moment to look at Matt Jamison like he's dumb. But only a moment.

"I do not think that I could do the same. I could not kill him, if it came to that. And when I heard what he'd done there, still, still, I went back meek and did whate'er he bade. No need to leash me: I heel'd on my own. Would Andrew not do so, had he the chance?"

That look is sort of comforting; despite himself, he smiles in a small flicker.

Then he frowns.

"But you went back to your own Prospero. Not that one."

"Dost thou, Matt, think my master so much better?"

He pauses.

"I think he's treating you poorly. It's at the--foundation of your contract. But that's different than killing people."

"He is not altogether bad to me," Ariel says, wanly. "He speaks me fair. He trusts me."

She shakes her head.

"I do not know if things like me can love, but could he not love me?"

Matt's mouth rounds to an oh.

He doesn't say, Oh, Ariel,, but he sighs almost as if he might. Instead, his fingers scrub along his cheek, rubbing the barely-there scar. The knowledge it's there may be stronger than the feel of it.

"One of the hardest things I've had to learn," he says quietly, "is that someone can love you and still treat you like shit."

"I cannot understand it," she says sadly.

The rain finally peters out, leaving just gloomy cloud cover. Ariel drifts down to sit on the sand and wraps her arms around her knees.

He watches her a moment, weighing his words.

"Most of us don't love like we should," he says after a moment. "And I include myself in that. Either because we don't understand that love should be about putting someone else first, or because we know but can't do it."

"Why can they not?"

"Well ... for me personally ... love doesn't exist in a vacuum. You have to balance what you want with what the other person wants, and the other things that are putting demands on your time, and that takes ... a weird combination of awareness and courage?"

Rueful: "Awareness being most in short supply."

"Almost as short as courage."

"I do not know if that is so," she murmurs, but she sounds uncertain. "But mayhap one must have one for the other."

He shrugs.

"Courage isn't much good if you're just dashing off in random directions. And awareness won't help you if you can't act on it."

"Is foolish courage better, though, than none?"

"Oh--sometimes."

A crooked smile.

"But you know, I would say that. I can nail foolish courage or hapless awareness; not the other stuff so much."

"'Twas neither foolishness nor haplessness that brought thee to this beach."

Matt finally realizes why she looks strange: it's not her mood or the fact that she's a spirit; it's that he's looking at her through the amber lens of his shield spell.

Sheepishly, he breathes out, and the spell fades.

"I wanted to help."

"I thank thee for it, truly."

He flicks a small smile her way.

"Do you feel any better? It's okay if not."

She shakes her head.

"I cannot say. I am not angry, now." She amends, "Or not as angry, now, not at Andrew."

Matt huffs a sigh.

"That's good, I think. As long as you're not angry at yourself instead."

Because Matt would count that as his fault and it is totally not what he intended.

She gives him an odd look.

"If I am furious when Andrew, thee, or any mortal blinds and binds themselves, why would I not be angry at myself if I run headlong into the same snares?"

Shrugging, she waves a hand. An idle gust of wind moves down the shore with the gesture, shifting the sand in its path.

"'Tis little matter, anyway. It does not change my contract by a day. When time runs out, 'tis out, 'tis rid-- 'till then I am my master's to be bid."

Matt's eyes follow the shifting of the sand.

He wants to say maybe not, or God I hate that guy, or isn't it fucking funny how they all make us so grateful they haven't been worse.

He's quiet a moment instead.

"Well--I'll be here," he says eventually. "Milliways and timelines notwithstanding, I'll be here to--try and explain mortals to you, or apologize because we don't make sense. Until it's rid."