Difference between revisions of "4390/The Awen"

Latest revision as of 05:07, 6 August 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Up at the top of the hill, the stone spire comes to a smooth, flat top. It's on this plateau that the citadel itself has been built; beside it, the great oak that watches over Dun Realtai spreads its massive branches, casting the citadel in rustling shadow.

  It's under this great oak that Bedivere sits, half cross-legged, hair fallen over his face. In his arms is a set of pipes -- beautiful light-coloured wood and hard, bone-white chanters. Elbow-pipes, the likes of which would have been found their way out from distant Dál Riata, sharp and plaintive in their tone. Their melody is just as plaintive; meandering but solemn.

  Now at the end of the day, he's ready to take a little time for himself; and of late, time to himself often involves playing the pipes or 'borrowing' the harp he had formally presented to Saber.

Inga has posed:
If not for the hill, Inga might make the journey up to the castle more often. A hill is a hard walk for the Seer, one that she can do but takes a good bit of time, most of it spending grumbling and wondering why the Buzzing couldn't have granted her flight, or at least fix her legs. That'd be just lovely. But no. Maybe they were concerned it would interrupt her witchiness vibe.

Eventually she makes it, taking some time to rest before she continues into the courtyard, having rearranged her clothes to be presentable for a castle, for though Bedivere and Saber kept a very casual househole, Inga thought she should put in the effort. So, she is dressed in light blue with a fine woven belt, most of her usual ornaments present.

She knew she'd find Bedivere by the tree, playing his elbow-pipes. The music reached her before it began. Hearing it now is deja-vu but no less pleasant to the ear, if a somber tune. Solemn tunes have their place.

Inga approaches, bowing lightly and smiling softly before taking a seat near by, waiting for him to finish the tune if he wishes. It isn't the first time they'd met this way, there's a certain rhythm to it now, as Inga starts to unpack some of the food-stuff she has and the mead she knew he'd refuse. But she'd still offer, perhaps out of propriety, perhaps to watch him squirm. Maybe both.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The melody continues even after Inga approaches, because the knight has his eyes closed. He lets instinct guide his fingers along the chanter, and his arm at the bellows. He's lost entirely to the melody, and not until his eyes slide open does he come back to himself -- but for the time it takes him to identify the Wisewoman, there is a brief instant of coldness; of defensiveness, for Bedivere is not a man to lower his guard easily.

  He is as he is for a reason. In the final battle at Camlann, he had lost everything to his name, and it was a wonder he was even allowed to keep that. He had lost home, country, kingdom; he had lost allies and friends... he had lost his sense of duty, his king; and most of all, he had lost his love, even if she would not know until after her death that he felt so.

  Such instincts, such a hesitance to trust and relax, is a natural result of having the heart cut out of him. Never mind that his duty in Camelot -- his long, agonising, and ceaseless duty -- included the need for paranoia, as he had considered himself responsible for Arturia's safety. It was not a duty she had ever asked of him; only one he had taken on his own shoulders, of his own free will.

  But it had cost him much blood and terror. For the brief instant it takes Bedivere to look up and see Inga for who she is, to identify her, she may catch a glimpse of those nightmare-battlefields; perhaps the ash-sown and blood-seeped fields of Camlann, the ending-fire, where he had lost everything.

Inga has posed:
Inga is used to it. She is a Seer. Catching people off guard is practically in the job description. She has more or less gotten used to the forced intimacy of reading another's past and seeing their possible futures splay out before her. Sometimes she can dampen it. She can keep it from grabbing hold of her by keeping a tight lid on her Sight. Sometimes, she cannot. Now, this particular thread of wyrd is so close to the surface it is practically glowing, reaching out to her and grabbing hold. It is now. It is not past. The way most people percieve time is silly. It's all here, all now, somewhere.

Inga shudders, the pupils of her eyes rapidly expanding. Maybe right now, he needed to share it. "Blood soaks the fields, a corse-hoard for the ravens. All is lost. Love is lost, duty is lost, home and kingdom, friends are lost...all is ashes to flame. Nothing but a name remains, nothing but a name...a name and a beginning," she breathes, her body trembling, tears running down her cheeks. Inga doesn't just watch a vision. It isn't something she is detached from. In a way she lives it. She remembers it. She'll remember the call of the carrion birds, the smell of the dead as they burn. She'll remember the hopelessness and despair.

She wakes, as it were, but closes her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  He looks at her when her eyes go so dark, and when he recoils a little, it's not because of the sight of that. It's that whisper of the arcane that he can feel; that subtle little tickle at the edge of his subconscious. His powers are still fledgling at best, and they are not half so strong as they probably should have been at that point in his life -- had he trained them.

  Still, that half-sensed whisper is enough to chill him, to set the hair on the back of his neck to standing. That graze of whatever power Inga channels is enough to deeply unsettle him. Never mind the chilling effect that her words have on him. He shudders, too, but not because of any unexplained power racing through his veins. It's the /truth/ of them, the absolute truth /in/ them.

  Bedivere makes a sound that isn't wholly unlike the croak of a raven; a sound that tries to be words, but fails.

  Perhaps that's another thing she might have sensed, too. The only time he had even allowed himself to grieve -- when the dam had overflowed its banks -- was at the side of the lake, when he had laid Arturia into the barge. He had howed, then; he had wept, he had doubled over on hands and knees and torn at the soft earth in something caught between rage and despair and a pain so horrible, so great, words could not even describe it.

  Part of himself had died, when that bloody sun had sunk below the horizon.

  When she doesn't immediately answer, he looks over to her, at the tears on her face, and then freezes that way

  Oh.

  /Oh/. She /feels/ that pain. And he can't help but feel a whisper of its memory, seeing that stricken look on her face. He flinches, unconsciously, perhaps at being responsible for causing her that much pain. "No, Wisewoman. I should be the one offering apologies. I do not..." He swallows, mouth dry. "It was not my intent to cause you pain."

Inga has posed:
Inga sits as she is, eyes closed, for a few moments, her chest rising and falling slowly as she takes deep breaths, no doubt folding the vision away into some corner of her mind where it does not inhibit her ability to function.

When she opens her eyes again she seems calmer, though her hand shakes when she reaches for the flask of mead she'd taken from her pocket. She takes a very generous swig of it. Another deep breath, let out quickly through her nose before she speaks. "I knew in some way that you were...elsewhere. You were in the past. I thought you would need...a bit of company--but I hoped I could hold the vision at bay. But it was...right there. You had summoned it right to the surface and it pulled me in as soon as I got close," she explains. "That is the way of it. At least you...know me. I have met people, and upon the first encounter I have a vision of their past--something deep and personal. Something that makes me feel as though I've cut them open--and of course, of course they feel....violated," she continues quietly, eyes gazing upward at the sheltering branches of the enormous tree. "Then there are the futures. Sometimes very few of them turn out well...and what do you say, when you have seen someone's doom and it ends in death and tragedy? Well, you say good morning, and you move on...that's all you can, when you know you cant change it. Sometimes...I could, but no one is ever grateful for the warning," she says, cracking a small, sad smile.

Another sip of mead before she offers it to Bedivere. He'll say no. But maybe that memory will at least shake him out of the far worse one. "I've seen a lot of battlefields. They're all horrifying. And...that certainly was, at that. But do you know what the worst was?" she asks. "A friend of mine, Kotone, I saw what happened on her world. What she called a...something 'bomb'. One...object, and it destroyed thousands of people. Lives extinguished in a second. That one...gives me nightmares," she finishes quietly.

He really should have some mead. This is not a conversation to be had sober.

"That was a beautiful tune. Does it have a name, or were you just ah...improvising?" she asks. That's as good of a subject change as she can think of at the moment.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The silver-haired knight clutches at his set of pipes. Arturia had them commissioned by local craftsmen for his birthday; a gesture that had touched him so strongly he'd been struck silent. They are a cherished possession of his, and they offer some faint comfort in their solidity and weight.

  "I would not wish that pain even on the very worst of my enemies," Bedivere says, so softly his voice is only a cut or two above a whisper. "I am sorry that you were forced to endure it, even if only a few seconds."

  Try dealing with that soul-sucking emptiness for /five years/. Small wonder he's an emotional wreck in some regards. He'd had his very heart, his very centre, cut from him. His world had become as ash and ruin around him. Losing Arturia had been enough of a crippling blow, but to have his most trusted allies cut down around him; to see his own blood-brother perish of his wounds, had almost been more than he could process. It had been a raw, aching emptiness; a hole torn in his soul that even now still feels ragged around its edges, tender and raw.

  He does not exaggerate when he'd said that he had lost everything that day. It really had been everything. Home, family, allies, friends, future, love. Other things just as important to him had also gone up in smoke. Duty. Persistence. Maybe even, at the bleakest and darkest of times, faith.

  Without a word, he deliberately reaches out and takes the offered skin of mead, treating himself to a generous swallow. He hands it back just as silently. These are not memories he wants to address sober, and for a man who intensely despises loss of control, that says something. Despite that, he doesn't yet swallow the mead, considering its flavour and texture; as though he were committing it to memory. It's a little different than the first stuff he'd tasted. There's something more pleasant about this. Deceptive, too; mead sneaks up on him subtly and quietly as a cat.

  He finally swallows the mead, bowing his head and grimacing a little. "It was nothing. I was only improvising, but it could have been a funeral march." He smiles, wanly. "A fitting testament to all those fallen brothers, whom I could not even bury."

Inga has posed:
Inga doesn't say anything when he takes the mead. She just takes it back when he is read to relinquish it.

Inga sighs softly, nodding. "I am trained to deal with these things. It stays with me...but I have learned, as all people do who experience tragedy, to tuck it away. It will rear up sometimes, but...we function," she replies, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his arm, giving a small squeeze. "Everything I knew before...it is gone as well. I find that I am sad, but not....crushed, because in all honesty...there were very few people I was close to. I lived...apart. That is what I am. Since my mentor has died...I suppose there is nothing back there for me, even if I could return."

Inga takes another sip of mead before passing it back again. They'll run out soon if they continue like this. It's alright, she has another bottle.

"Some things, some people, we will never get back. But now...things are more complicated, but perhaps they are, at least for now, better," she comments, looking around. It was not Camelot. But it was his place, and it was a good place. "Time is...not what you think it is. Your fallen brothers...they are still alive, somewhere. We are more than...right now. There's a right now all over the place. Maybe we can't return to it...maybe we should not. But it is there," Inga tries to explain. It's very puzzling, even for her. Someday, it will likely drive her crazy.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "My father spoke the same, sometimes."

  The memory is a powerful one. Although Bedivere had always been distant from his father, as a boy, he had still looked up to the man. Although there isn't much of a physical memory to go by, he could still remember his father's presence; bright and crackling and almost electric. Yet there had always been a distance, as though he had had one foot in the world, and one foot in the Otherworld.

  That had not, Bedivere reasons, necessarily been untrue.

  "You have the /awen/," he points out, taking another measured swig of mead before handing the skin back, "and so that would be, I think, necessary. Yet that does not make it any easier to endure at the time of it. I know what it is to see that in another. My father, too, had the /awen/. I see the same in you, although he was futher into it, perhaps. I do not... think that he always knew /when/ he was. Where, yes, of that I have no doubt. But there are times I think he had dwelt more in the Otherworld than in our world."

  He falls silent for a moment, but if she offers him mead a third time, he'll shake his head, waving it away. No more than that, or he'll be a maudlin mess, and if he's going to do that at all, the only person he'll do it in front of is Saber.

  Clearing his throat, he rests an arm over the pipes, regarding Inga from those faded, violet eyes. "Mayhap. Now you sound like my father for true. I scarce understood him, most days; and I scarce undrstand what you say. Yet my king has said much the same. They live on, even if only in their legend... ah, but Lord God be good, I wish I could have given them a decent burial. There were so many. Hundreds of my brothers, on both side of Sir Mordred's rebellion..." He sighs and shakes his head. "So many."

Inga has posed:
"The awen," Inga says, trying to word out, nodding. She smiles gently when he talks about his father. "Your father had the...gift. That, well, explains some of the things I see when I look at you sometimes," she says, looking away again and back to the tree, placing a hand on the wide trunk. "I do not always know when I am either. It...has gotten more difficult recently. What is maddening, is I know that it will get worse. There are days where I am lost. Someone finds me, and I have spun all the wool and I sit there still twirling the spindle...and I haven't moved. Not for the entire day. The wyrd pulls me along and I am lost in its tide until someone pulls me out or I manage to wrench myself free," she explains. "It will become more difficult. In most of the threads...I see myself go mad," she adds, barely above a whisper.

Inga shakes her head. "But when that will occur I do not know. I am told by...other people who have some experience with ah...longevity of life, that I must keep connections to the Now. It is good advice I think."

Inga finishes off the mead. Her body metabolizes it quickly. She'd need much more to get drunk and stay that way. "Even if you could not bury them as you wanted or as they deserved, they became part of the earth again all the same. And in one time they live, and in another they feast with their ancestors and their gods and both...they are both happening," she says, hoping it might be some comfort. "I would have liked to have met your father. It is..very, very rare I am told for a man to be born with the Sight like I am. It is considered by my people to be a gift almost exclusive to women. I suppose now that seems silly...but that is how it was," she explains.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The 'awen' seems to be many things. It is prophecy and knowledge; it is history, poetry, and magic. Most importantly, it seems to be the gift of sight in its many different forms -- visions of the past or present, vision of the future; all times, all ages. He speaks the term with a healthy respect, and a certain subconscious wariness. True, he had looked up to his father for that time-honoured gift, but the man had also frightened him a little, as a boy, how he could lapse from conversation at dinner to some time, centuries ago, when heroes still walked the green earth.

  "Such seems to be the case." Bedivere's pronouncement is soft, and solemn. "Not long before I left Dál Riata, I wondered sometimes if my father lived more in those other times than in his own era; his own lifetime. I looked up to him, as I always had... but he was distant; far distant, from my brother and I." The knight gestures, slowly, uncurling clenched fists and flexing long, scarred fingers. "Yet I miss those days. I was incomplete, but before I left for Camelot..." He shakes his head. "It was the last time I saw them."

  Alive, anyway. In dreams, he still sees them from time to time, or in memory. They grow fainter by the day, though. There are times, he is quietly horrified to discover, that he forgets what colour his father's eyes are, or the way the sun would shine on his mother's hair.

  He leans back against the great twisted root nearest him, letting his eyes half-close as he looks out over the courtyard. "Good advice indeed. I must do that, sometimes, when I wake from nightmare in the dead of the night." There are few he's admitted his night-terrors to, and it's spoken softly enough to suggest something of that quiet admission. "Open my eyes, and look about me. Commit the details to memory. To remember that I am no longer in Camelot."

  Eventually climbing to his feet, he gathers up his pipes, looking down to her. "They were not so uncommon in Dál Riata. The men had the awen as much as the women. I'm told my mother's father's father also had the awen, too. Mayhap that is just how it happened to work out, in Uppsala. Mayhap in other places, it was mostly the men who had the awen. I have not heard of such a thing happening often in these places of a later era."

  Bedivere offers a faint smile, one world-weary and just a little bit hollow. "Thank you for the mead, Wisewoman. I think... that I will retire for the eve." After such a jarring reminder of a time he would really prefer to forget, he'd rather go spend time with Arturia and remind himself that she's alive, and not the broken, lifeless woman he had laid to rest on the barge that she had beseeched him to lay her on. The barge, he surmised, that was to take her to Avalon... but she had looked so cold, as though carved from marble. He shivers again, as though something cold touches him. "I will see you again. Lord God keep you," he murmurs, touching a few fingers to his forehead in respectful gesture.

  Provided she doesn't need him for anything further, he slips back into the citadel, carrying his set of pipes with him.

Inga has posed:
Inga nods solemnly, folding her hands in her lap. "It is good to remember them. Good to remember him, knowing that he would remember you remembering him," she replies. Obviously a rather weird thing to say if one does not have the awen, but she hopes he will understand.

"It was in the stories of my people, the Seers were almost always women--but there were some men, I am sure. Odin had a gift for magic, but he could not see all. His wife did, but never spoke any of it. If there were men with the gift...I think they must have hidden it. It was....not considered manly in my culture," she explains.

Inga sighs, then smiles to Bedivere. "You are welcome, as always. If you have need of anything....you know where to find me," she says, nodding her head to him in return of that gesture of respect.

She looks away then, staring off into the distance. "I think I will sit here. Just a little while longer," she says, beginning to drift off in the unseen tide of the wyrd.