Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fridgetothefire) wrote2013-06-19 11:41 am
fridgetothefire) wrote2013-06-19 11:41 am
017 ☣ Infirmary post + some housekeeping things
[Backdated to Tuesday]
[She's been in the infirmary since late Sunday night, but she spent most of Monday sleeping. She looks a little pale, propped against pillows, hooked up to an IV, but she seems comfortable enough.]
Hello, barge.
I am so bored. Worse, I can't read without getting a headache right now. So.
[She holds up an infirmary clipboard, the paperwork turned over so she could draw neat, careful charts on the back.]
Come in, sign up for a half-hour time slot and book. Books are sorted by genre and how many hours I estimate it will take to finish them. If you read to me, I'll bake you something nice later.
[OOC: feel free to ignore the regimented tyranny of storytime and talk to her about whatever, either on the network or via spam.]
[Private spam for Ben, before the attacks.]
[She knocks on his door, a cold, shaken look on her face.]
[She's been in the infirmary since late Sunday night, but she spent most of Monday sleeping. She looks a little pale, propped against pillows, hooked up to an IV, but she seems comfortable enough.]
Hello, barge.
I am so bored. Worse, I can't read without getting a headache right now. So.
[She holds up an infirmary clipboard, the paperwork turned over so she could draw neat, careful charts on the back.]
Come in, sign up for a half-hour time slot and book. Books are sorted by genre and how many hours I estimate it will take to finish them. If you read to me, I'll bake you something nice later.
[OOC: feel free to ignore the regimented tyranny of storytime and talk to her about whatever, either on the network or via spam.]
[Private spam for Ben, before the attacks.]
[She knocks on his door, a cold, shaken look on her face.]
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
Not so much, anymore. But they're still his favorite part of being who he is.
Ben doesn't even have to think; he already knows what story to tell, and his voice is low but confident when he breathes out.]
There is a girl. A princess, unique among her kind because she is made of glass when those around her are made of stone, opaque and solid and unyielding. When she was born, the glass was pure, unblemished, and beautiful to look upon, but those around her felt they must be careful with her. She was precious and fragile, and as she grew she became more beautiful, but also more fragile - not because she was changing, but because less and less of the world was inclined to be careful with her.
She insisted that it was unnecessary, that she would not break, but more and more she could not look at herself and see the beauty that others saw. More and more, others did not see it, but rather the care that must be taken. What had once been precious began to be a burden.
And one day, the girl fractured, the glass of her form - the finest, the most reflective, still the purest - shattering into pieces, but she held onto them. She held tight, fiercely determined, and any who dared to threaten her tasted the razor edges she now wore like skin. She held so tightly that something strange began to happen.
The emotions that had been contained before began seeping out through the cracks, coloring the glass, each shard a different color: there was love, red as blood and the heart of the fire; there was sadness in all its shades, cerulean and indigo and nightshade; there was curiosity in a riot of greens and golds; there was happiness, bright yellow and fleeting; pain the color of fresh bruises; fear like a faded sunset; anger, burnt out like ash; hope, keeping the color out so the purity of the glass could shine through still. She held onto all of them, and when she realized she could not make the pieces fit back together perfectly again, she found a different way.
She molded them together with steel.
[Ben finally looks up again, brown eyes bright, much more relaxed despite the words themselves. It's when he's telling stories like this that Manticore's thumbprint fades, and he sounds more like a real person than ever, but this he is happy to share.]
When she had finished, the threads of new strength - stronger, even, than the stone of those that had doubted her - framed the pieces of glass in an array of color no one had ever seen before, and the princess was more beautiful than ever, and she feared nothing. No one, now, could break her.
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
Why did you have to be so wonderful?
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
He's still mildly alarmed by her tone of voice, and then absolutely bewildered by her words.]
Anya?
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
[Strong, maybe, she can accept that one. Sharp-edged and full of too many emotions, certainly. And that's the terrible perfection of the story, how obviously he means her, how it wraps around her like a tailored coat, warm and perfectly fitted to her jagged edges and masculine hip bones, vibrant and lovely. She wants to button it up tight and pretend she's as beautiful as the person he's talking about.]
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
But Manticore hardwired logic into him and another part of him understands with unwavering certainty that this will pass; that she's overwhelmed, not sad, and his hands stay where they are folded in his lap, even when he leans forward towards her.]
Anya.
[His voice is low, insistent. A gentle push for attention, not a persistent shoving or pulling. His eyes are steady, nearly unblinking, as he waits for her to meet them, continuing only when she does.]
Why not? [He has to grope to find the words, caught between his straightforward soldier mask and the easy, sweeping metaphor of the storyteller in him. It's the disconnect he can never quite reconcile.] The stories... this is what they are for.
Take one thing, one aspect, one person - take the truth of them and build on it to create something that may not be, but might be. To explain something that cannot be explained. To show us how to be it, or how to understand where it came from.
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
Which one was that?
[Aspiration, or explanation. There's a very thin edge to the question, warning and teasing. He'd damn will better tell her that she's all those nice things now, not just in hopes and might bes.]
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
It's whatever you need to hear. But like I said: I only build on the truth, when I build stories.
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
[But she's smiling a little easier, roughly wiping the tear tracks off her cheeks.]
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
[It's immediate, simple, straightforward. Ben doesn't see the value in withholding the information, though admittedly he hasn't been very skilled at anticipating how anything about this interaction has gone since he first saw Anya and the creature in the hallway. The answer isn't tentative, but he's watching carefully for any signs of tears again, or kisses, or some new, unexpected reaction.]
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
Thank you.
[Raw and wise, heartfelt and carefully considered, young and weary.]
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
Then she says thank you and he smiles, because he didn't do anything but give her what was hers from the beginning, the story he told himself to amuse himself and explain her to himself. But it's an actual smile - just a small one, quiet and warm, starting in the mildest curve of his lips and ending behind his steady eyes.
His hands stay folded in his lap, at least until he begins to shift his weight, moving to the front of the chair and putting his feet back on the floor.]
I should go. You should rest.
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
Alright. I'll see you around.
[ Spam - Infirmary this time! ]
[He doesn't linger, but neither does he reach to touch her when he stands; straightening his field jacket, Ben glances up one more time, then turns to go.]