The Mizzenmast Letters (Closed)

[Elysia]

She'd been watching him intently, as she always did, more so than with others; most people Avis found interesting were likely to be the recipients of her unabashedly upfront gaze. So the attention she paid to Xavarian and his strange aetheric manifestations - such a curiosity he was - would have disconcerted many should such scrutiny be turned on them. So she didn't miss the wince that blinked itself across his face, or even the briefest of dips in temperature. Still, it didn't quite click yet; she supposed something else altogether - though not entirely inaccurate - and gave a little 'tsk', smirking. The hand that grasped his elbow gave it a little shake and squeeze. 

 

"Oh, you're ridiculous. Don't you start being self-disparaging on me - I have no patience for that. If I hadn't figured that my current top source of merriment wouldn't last the next few minutes, I'd have made you stay and brave the sun's scowls. With me." She patted his arm. "And once you're fully awake, we can even the score, and be as equal as we want to be." Another challenge. 

 

"One moment," she added to him, then slid back into her room. The door was ajar, as careless as its owner, and if Xavarian were to peek or even wander a few steps in, Avis wouldn't have stopped him. Her room was spare, save for the paper sprawl on her desk, and devoid of most material possessions. The garish cover of Taking the Thief would have been the only decorative detail in the room. 

 

She went to the old, peeling chest that the Inn supplied and rummaged within. Most of her clothes lay tucked away in there, and she rarely gave much care to how they were arranged or folded til she had to wear them. The same could not be said of a thick towel of a rich dark hue and a rather expensive bearing, however, which she had carefully washed, dried and folded separately from the rest of the mess in the chest. She took this out now, giving it a couple of curious sniffs; the recent washing it'd undergone hadn't dispelled the subtle earthy, yet pleasant, smell it had to it. It smelt, indeed, of a different world altogether. 

 

It was then that she made the connection. He'd said as much about his sense of hearing. He'd also made that face on at least one or two other occasions, though she never perceived its reasons til now. 

 

She hurried out of the room with this epiphany and the large towel bundled in her arms. "Am I too loud, Xavarian? Do I hurt your ears? Do I?" She was looking both amused and actually apologetic, for once; then, as she held out the towel to him, she gave a smile, a soft, warm one that spoke of that secret meeting they'd shared.

[Dasair]

The gaze Avis placed on Xavarian certainly didn't bother him now, though if it bothered him ever was quite a question in itself. He was ever the proponent for curiosity, for learning, and they both shared a rather fascinated interest for each other. From an unspoken stranger, he may have been disconcerted, but from her, well, if he were more awake, he may have even been flattered.

 

He huffs at her first comments, though not without a smile. The temperature warms more at them, the sparks returning in quantity. "Oh, I-" He almost apologized. "I would like that~" That is all he manages, though his doofy grin conveys the rest of his pleasure at the thought.

 

When she told him 'a moment', he really couldn't help but peek in the room. He curled himself around the doorway arch, leaning in to watch what she was doing, but didn't actually step in further. He wasn't actually invited, just walking in could be rude. Apparently, though, leaning all over the door frame and actively gawking wasn't.

 

He did manage to catch the familiar look of the towel, something he'd forgotten that she'd taken, actually, and had a somewhat amused smile upon her return ... until she asked that question.

 

The temperature and Aether around him, again, did a strange thing; it rippled and seemed to burst out in a little cool chill. It wasn't too terribly strong, she could likely see the scepter, again, bound to his arm, but the shift was certainly notable. Some of the sparks on him clustered together in various places, and.. well that question seemed to wake him up a bit. He almost looked mortified at it, reacting as though she'd just called herself ugly.

 

"Wh-? Avis, why would you say such a thing? I- You sound lovely, I am always pleased to hear you speak to me, to hear your songs, even beneath the sea, your laughter, your quiet little breaths and the rhythm of your footsteps along floor, earth, and sand. You don't- it is not you, I'd never wish you change the sounds that you are, unless you wish to." When he says this, he briefly, and gently, takes both her shoulders, and runs his hands down her arms to her elbows before letting go; little sparks jump over to her, as though that were supposed to mean something comforting. Though the duskwight sucks in his lips then, looking somewhat guilty, and glances off. "Any.. indication I might give otherwise, j-just.. it can be ignored. It is not that I do not wish to hear you. It is entirely that I am.. quite sensitive; Below, we all speak in what you might call 'whispers', but I am not there now, and- well, I need to learn to adjust, hm? Think not that you are a pain to me, for you aren't, and even if it were at times so, your utterances all are what I would gladly choose~"

 

He gives her a warm smile, and a small nudge. "And right after you tell me not to be 'self-disparaging'~" The oddness of his reaction to her hasn't seemed to have dawned on him, as though this were a perfectly reasonable reply.

[Elysia]

Avis's face was wearing a very curious expression indeed. She was amused, yet perplexed, by his rather disproportionate response to her question, and - was she flushing? This, frankly, was exasperating. She certainly enjoyed having her expectations overturned by Xavarian, but she wasn't sure whether she appreciated the duskwight's ability to break her composure, as few could, with his terrifyingly disarming bouts of honesty. Or affection, since it'd started, if that was what it was. He didn't even intend any form of flattery, he meant merely to clarify, rectify, provide Information as was required, or so she felt she had come to realize. But there it was. Her features were strangely contorted, as if they couldn't decide on the form they wanted to take - mouth open in a half-smile, one eyebrow raised, and if one took care to notice, subtly reddened cheeks. Of course his touch, too, had something to do with this. 

 

(How did self-disparaging even come into this?)

 

It took a long moment for her to find the words to respond to him. She decided to make a concerted effort to speak at a lower volume. 

 

"Well, your condition... certainly is both boon and bane for 'Above'. You're sound-sensitive and light-sensitive, how difficult I imagine it must be, to have to deal with the..." Avis hit upon a memory just then, and her mouth abruptly widened into a wicked grin as she quoted his words from one of their previous meetings - "...the shining shards of who I am." She'd almost broken into laughter again, and had to fight to keep it down,  so that her words came out breathless. "But I will... I will take note of this... issue."

 

He still hadn't taken the towel, so she thrust it into his hands. "And now you should go - I'll take the letter as a comparable substitute for your company. Admittedly it does have its advantages. I have no worry of dealing hearing damage to ear-less paper," she commented wryly. "I suppose we will meet again... soon enough."

[Dasair]

If color were easily discernible on the duskwight's face, it's likely there would have been some of it lingering with him too. Instead, he merely huffed as the sparks continued to dance around on him, and the heat was back to its comfortable warm.

 

"My condition..." He muttered, more like a whisper. "My condition. And you-!" Then that was almost a normal tone. But a much more amused one, as he gave her a pointed stare. He may have jabbed a finger at her, if he hadn't had a towel shoved into his arms. "Yes, how incredibly difficult you are, with all your-" there are a few wiggly gestures here, as to prove the point; a rolling glance up, a smirking head tilt back to her, a small jostle of the towel in accordance to his words: "your bright skies, your shining shards, and your boisterous bouts of amusement, whatever am I to do with you~? Though, perhaps you are right; might a letter serve as a suitable substitute in all ways? If not, I suppose we will meet soon enough~"

 

That whole thing was dripping with amused jest, because he simply could not have this mess of quips end at his expense now. He refused. Though it may have taken his last onze of cleverness to pull it through, and he blows some hair from his face before softly adding, "Have an enjoyable morning, Avis~" With a warm smile, he moved the towel around in his arms some - the thing was fairly large, even for him - as though in an acknowledged 'thanks' for its return, before Xavarian would make his way with it back from whence he came.

 

It was then that the duskwight would fall into some sorely needed sleep. ... Or at least that was the plan.

[Elysia]

Avis closed the door behind her and, shaking off her slippers, headed immediately for her table where she'd deposited the letter before retrieving the towel. A little scowl was directed at the monstrosity of papers that greeted her anew, but that expression soon turned to a low chuckle as she sat herself and read Xavarian's writing. It was quite clearly a good substitute for his somnolent company - none of his previous letters betrayed the same scattered nature. The elaborate symbol that he'd signed the letter off with had her intrigued, and she spent a few minutes turning the paper at angles and copying it on a fresh sheet before she figured it out.

 

Then she reread the letter again, leisurely this time, leaning back in the flimsy-looking but otherwise sturdy chair with her bare feet on the table, soles skimming the surface of some of Jigumundo's more important documents. (If he ever knew...) His mention of the 'map' had given her an idea, too, and quickly she straightened and righted herself, pulling yet another sheet of paper from the slowly dwindling stack Xavarian had provided. Quill scratched across paper for a few excited lines before it came to an inevitable pause.

 

For the next few moments Avis had a lengthy mental tussle with herself. The work could not be ignored a day or two more - but another part of her persistently piped up with excuses for executing the plan. Should not one strike when the iron was hot, especially if that metal was inspiration itself? Finally, though, she steeled herself to take the (questionably) wider choice. Besides, if her instincts proved correct, she would have more than one good reason for venturing into Lower La Noscea again. She retrieved the address that the Professor had given and gave it another once-over before settling her quill, once again, to a far less exciting task.

 

Work first. Then play.

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

A full two days passed before Avis's return. She was considerably worn out by this time from solitary, lilybell-picking romps around on the La Noscean highlands - one of which had actually involved chasing down a number of crucial pages scattered by the strong sea winds. How had she allowed herself to be persuaded (by her own whimsy, no less) that completing a final report before a favored sea view, without the wonders and ingenuity of tabular support, was an intelligent decision? Well, at least that was one personal experiment ticked off the list.

 

After all that, there'd been the rather shocking state in which she'd found her employer when she paid his favorite establishment in the Mist a surprise visit.

 

So it was with a rather preoccupied air that Avis, now freshly unloaded of reports, wild flowers and gift, approached Xavarian's door. She lingered there for a few moments without doing anything at all, considering. It was afternoon. Too early for duskwight-pestering, too early for sleep - despite her tiredness. There were things to be done yet, questions to be asked. She bent and slid the three simply-folded pages under his door, and the mild worry apparent on her features sent her right back out the Inn.

 

She could only hope that the letter enthralled him sufficiently, that they actually posed at least a little bit of a challenge for him. 

 

 

Edwin the Explorer's library: the last of its kind, a relic. It dwindles slowly over the decades as Family decides that its buried treasures are irrelevant for these quickly-turning days. Time passes and it is reduced to a single bookshelf in a room that contains many other forgotten artifacts of Familial vanity, all draped in gray cloth. 

 

On one of these shelves is a thin volume titled Visions of Vylbrand, by Abia Chandler. It contains text detailing the sights and sounds of La Noscea, as well as a few walking guides, sketches and maps. Though a wanderer's faulty memory of an old book is hardly a good source of verification, it is still probably safe to conclude that in the light of  changes to Eorzea's surface, many of these maps are no longer accurate. (Are any accurate?) 

If you would seek - to catch, to Know - to play - 

 

The next page is a map to where an Inkwood might keep her heart.

 

 

 

 

NORTH: Headlands, a baby giant's first foray down stairs of green. If Man were larger there would not be such wonder. 

EAST: A little step further so and one plummets to Llymlaen, her watery skirts always lit gently, even at night. 

SOUTH: Where One awaits the Lover with flame erect. My thoughts the lone custodian close-by inspects. 

WEST: On a clear day, a distant glow of the Salt Strand- where you let slip a secret, not far from where we first met.

 

 

 

 

Fe does hope that the library still lives. 

 

[Dasair]

[align=center]Interlude[/align]

 

It had been quite a while since the duskwight had returned to the Mizzenmast. Gods know how many things had happened prior, and his path had taken him all manner of ways that weren’t back to his room. He still couldn’t believe it. Had that all really occurred? Xavarian's mind still raced and danced with all the recollection, the musing, what had gone on during that meeting with Avis in the Shroud, and it whirled right past him going down the hall to his room, him opening the door, him stepping in to prepare for the next night…

 

He almost didn’t see the letters. Almost. But when he did, the Aether around him flared up with his smiles, near literally – though only in small warmths and less in embers.. this time. He delayed removing the scepter strapped to his arm, even longer still, (the removal was nothing he was looking forward to at this point, it would certainly be a pain he couldn’t ignore then ) and knelt to pick up the pages. A thought crossed him then of how long they may have been sitting here, but his worry was stemmed off by the contents.

 

What lovely contents! The duskwight, upon looking them over just a bit, took the letters to curl up with on the bed, (attempts were made to handlessly kick off his boots, but it seems he needed to unstrap them first ; alas), and he beamed at the words like he were a child receiving exactly what he’d always wanted. Riddles. Or at least a puzzle! And to such an important place, what a lovely way to put it all, a small history, the hook had him in an instant. He was entirely endeared to them, to her, though he couldn’t help but consider the amusing irony; how she had beaten him to his own idea. “By the hells..~” He mutters, running a sparking hand through an equally sparking mess of hair. Solving the puzzle wouldn't be hard. But the navigation. This would likely take him days, days to find, if he was lucky. He’d need a lot of time to set out for this endeavor.

 

A pang of regret seared through him then, that he was only here to prepare for something else entirely, that he couldn’t set out now. But soon enough, he would. Afterwards, he would. Reading the letters a final time to renew his grin, he carefully placed them away in his tome, before he hauled himself up from the comfort of blankets. The duskwight then tiptoed around the dirt he’d tracked in before he’d shorn to stocking feet, and thus begins to pack for the next night’s endeavor.

 

Mor Dhona, for the Scholar's Celebration.

 

 

*laughs and sobs at how far behind we are at everything* The day we catch up to 'current time' will be an amazing day indeed.

 

[Dasair]

As fate would have it, things didn’t go as planned. He really should’ve expected this by now.

 

Xavarian never made it to the Scholar’s Celebration, but did make it to Mor Dhona… which had effectively changed everything. He really was lucky that Asheloux had been with him, as much as he didn’t want to admit it. When was the last time it had been so bad, when was the last time it had done that? And how in the hells could he fix it? The questions still haunted him, despite it being some days past his having collapsed there now, despite him having mostly recovered. The questions continued to rear their relentless inquiry in his mind, even then. And gods, after such a completely different, unbelievable endeavor. The ‘Aether Science Squad’s (as they deemed call themselves) unprecedented endeavor to study those Nymian ruins, how completely amazing it all was, how- how-

 

He still couldn’t put it into words. Though, truth be told, he wasn’t thinking to put it into words right now. Xavarian frowned to himself, as he made his way with a quick step through the Mizzenmast Inn. He kept his eyes low, and his thoughts were what guided him; most else he paid hardly any attention to.

 

He thought about Avis instead. He’d just seen her, just helped her situate the books away that she’d taken from the Professor’s study that she couldn’t carry on her own, following that great Nymian adventure, and yet.. He was worried for her. Certainly, something wasn’t right; is it really the same with her too? All too used is he to being treated as.. as a center of discontentment, a problem by his very existence. Something to constantly look over, to need to make accommodations for, to slowly loath. That was not what he wanted at all, but was it inevitable no matter where he went? And the very episode in Mor Dhona… how was he to know that would have happened? Was it solely that she felt so dreadful about not being there, or was it something more? She must know that it could happen anywhere, at anytime, he had tried to warn her. But.. for all his mental questions, he wasn’t really that blind to the answers. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy for her, knew things are always different when they happen than merely in far-off-theory. He knew he mattered to her quite a bit, and from what she had told him before about what had happened to one she loved. . . He was worried.

 

So worried, he hadn’t noticed he was already at his room, and had just leaned his frigid forehead on the door, until some of the ice spreading over it from his chilled Aether crackled. The duskwight blinked, sighed, then pushed the door open, leaving an icy patch on its outside.

 

In the room, he paced. He’d set everything down and paced. Xavarian’s unruly hair was mussied any number of ways while he paced, his hands were wrung, and abruptly, he turned towards the table, getting out some paper and pen. They sat there stared at. Then the duskwight got up and paced some more.

 

Gods know how long it was before he could actually write. It was done through a mix of determination, concern, with a lot of lip pursing. And he was at it quite a long time, thinking it over, writing it, fixing it. His head was rested on the table now and then, possibly drifting off, but never quite asleep, he was too- too much of a mess to sleep. Time escaped the duskwight in his focus. A number of pages were set aside; they weren’t good enough. They weren’t right. He didn’t even know if what he ended up with was right. But it was something. Only at times during his writing had his expression calmed, his mind seemed to have found some other place to sit itself in when he wrote.

 

Having not rested from the excursion, (though honestly, it may have even been the next day by now, how long had it been? ) he quickly rolled the scroll of a page, before heading out to deliver it to her room. When he got there, he had a brief moment of pause. Wondering if she might be up still. He almost didn’t want to disturb her, and simultaneously did, maybe shake her from whatever it was that gripped her - though if he was the cause. . . how troubling. His lip was bitten while he just.. stood before the door, staring down at the floor. And then quickly, before his mind could catch up with the action, he slid the letter under. He clenched his hands, a cold air falling from them then, before he abruptly turned to go back to his room.

 

Despite his exhaustion, it took him quite a while to sleep.

 

 

First I speak of what you’d given.

 

I fear I’d seen them late. And thusly write in kind even later. But.

 

What lovely letters you had priorly given me~

 

Timely events turning betwixt trouble and intrigue tangled me taught in their tethers. I’d not yet time to match your words with my whims on where this library might be. Yet I yearn for it. The excitement I felt when you would have given me a puzzle, a riddle, a challenge to search for, with such a place of no small greatness by end. I found myself filled with sparks, those quite apt in your presence, wished to head out soon when I could. Yet, it is something I must put aside days for, as gods know where-when I will end up even remotely near. Not that I mind. It will be such a gift to find. But I had seen them late, [a few blots]

 

I instead write now just to write to you.

 

It is a strange thing yet, that which letters do.

 

Something soothing in their making, burrowed Words shake themselves in waking

and with small shudders rise from beneath

sand, sea, and leaves where they’d once sleep…

 

But now from here they peek instead to greet you on this page.

 

[blot]

 

I am no good at being soothing. Not like writing letters, or letting free the Dancing Words.

I cannot presume to be, nor do I. For messes are never simple. And I know little.

So instead, I can merely offer something I hope you might enjoy.

 

Even in its novice stages of telling, as it’s never been told. Something small to take your hand for a little while.

 

A small story for you.

 

A tiny grandling.

 

[blot]

 

It was the Moving Day. Doors opened, eager hums and whispers echoed through the caverns, the rhythms of running, walking, and shuffling abound. A particular door was let open too, as all was being collected within to ready for the journey; tomes of young and eld in comfortable rare-wood boxes, small wands and their crystal companions, unbelievably teensy adamantoise shells collected from travelers who’d tended nests, spheres of glass that shown in the candlelight, tiny chimes, pens, inks, and pages. And from sound, it came to view. Everything out there, everything yet to leave, the bustle of Moving from one place to the next.

 

A Young One hurries out excited, walking stick in hand and feet lightly chattering against the stone floor. He’s packed as much as he can be, full of little pouches and strapped bags that make little thumps when he runs, and looks about wild-eyed at the chance to see where they’ll all go. The familiar steps of his family are heard, many heading the same direction, so he falls into step with them. Many of those who saw the family in, welcome, now bid their travels be well, hoping to see them once more. The Young One recognizes only a few faces, the ones who came to see him, and gives them little hums in passing.

 

With the farewell hums complete, the Young One starts to hear the Guiding Songs, lightly ringing out from the front of the Moving line, a soft tune to guide the shuffling bodies through the tunnels of stone. It is then that they are off.

 

Much is passed. Small underground rivers that trickle and glisten with the bioluminance of the moonweeds are passed, wide caverns of crystals, many path ways, and minerals are passed, ruins of prior caverns, having tumbled from duress and disrepair are passed, until they reach a wide, spacious place; trickles of moonlight spot through the ceiling, and the enormous hole of the place runs deep. The Guiding Songs guide the movers to stop moving, to be careful along the formed paths, to not fall down below. And they slowly begin to head onward, carefully, quietly, over these cliffs, before the Guiding Songs bid stop once more.

 

Something was down there. Furthermore, something was around them.

 

Surrounding these makeshift stone bridges and the abysses below are golems. Huge, lumbering stone golems, that previously had been silent, then began to stir. It seems they were like to be judged. The Young One was not part of the discussion on how to proceed, but surely they had noticed the piles of odd stones along the bridges and crossways. Noticed similar ones scattered about the way. They decided to make an offering.

 

Each one Moving picked up an odd stone, and placed it carefully on a pile of them. There was a small formation of them as the line pressed on, each and every urged to do it, each one must help. An odd gesture at first. But when it came time for the Young One to do the same, he noticed something gleaming about the stones. Some sort of Aetherical coat, almost like it was being pulled towards the pile, and then it became clear. The odd stones were parts of a broken golem. It was a peace offering, showing they were not here for destruction. And as it was, they judged the Movers well, and let them pass. It was left to mystery what would have happened to those judged less well, though the answers may have been in the pit beneath.

 

The Guiding Songs led the movers the rest of the way on, and the Young One couldn’t help but ponder the matter of the crossing. How at times you can collect all you have yourself to be on your way, but others, perhaps, you need someone else to pick up those pieces for you, and bring them to you instead. And maybe, sometimes, it’s both at once.

 

 

[Elysia]

They'd both been pensive and quiet while returning to the Mizzenmast, though both their minds swirled with thoughts, and after the books had been carefully placed in their new lodgings, they'd taken their leave of each other at her door in much the same uncomfortable, tensed manner. Avis stood by the shut door for a few moments, frowning as Xavarian moved down the hallway. Under other circumstances, she would certainly have asked him to stay - at least for a while. This little realization only compounded her melancholy, a unique brand of vexed sadness? anxiety? that, most days, she managed to ignore.

 

She hated it when It ambushed her, like this, of all times; for the moment it laid her bare and she couldn't pretend it was alien to her.

 

Avis sighed. Poor Xavarian - she'd worried the duskwight, she knew. She had to shake herself out of this.

 

She turned to them then, the two columns of books awaiting ravishment on her desk. These new spoils from the Professor's library seemed to afford the perfect solution. Despite her weariness and mood (and perhaps because of these), she allowed herself, indeed, willed herself the indulgence of the tomes' visual and textual distractions. It worked. Somewhat. Her uneasiness had largely faded by the time information on certain beasts' mating habits brought an incredulous not-quite smile to her face, and before the bell was done, Eorzea trivia had fogged her mind over and sent her into a sprawling slumber across her desk.

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

Avis didn't remember ridding herself of her goobbue-spattered garb and stumbling into bed, but there she was some number of hours later, with a Lominsan morning pouring itself insistently into her face through the window. She felt greatly improved - new 'todays' always did wonders for her - and the letter she located soon after only cemented her optimism.

 

Damn it all, Xavarian, you've done it again.

 

In fact, said letter whisked her out of the room in a feverish flurry. The one clear thought running through her mind - currently a terrible whirlpool of wonder and gratitude and scattered vestiges of the It - was how she would very much like to smother Xavarian in Messes of a particular nature that very moment. Yes, bed hair, morning breath and all.

 

But it was day, of course, as she belatedly realized. When she reached his door, her attempts to alert him to her presence ranged from whistling and soft raps on his door to stomps along the corridor. Had he been awake, he'd certainly have heard her, but she knew these sounds weren't enough to rouse him. Briefly, Avis considered some more drastic measures - hollering in iambic pentameter was one of them - but eventually she resigned herself to his absence... for now. He was likely very weary, especially if he'd been up  writing that story for her right after the Nymian expedition.

 

There was still so much to say about the Wanderers' Palace.

 

Avis retreated reluctantly to her room then and re-read the letter. She perceived that a response was necessary, but littered the floor with at least a handful of crushed drafts before she settled on something somewhat acceptable. 

 

[align=center]***[/align]

 

Mytesyn fiddled with scraps of a fishy brunch and, from the snugness of his counter, watched. The dark-haired Hyur with the "curious disposition" had been passing fretfully in and out of the Inn's entrance, dressed for travel again, a conspicuous folded piece of paper between her fingers. After the sixth or so display of indecision he called out to her with a mouth still half-full. "Do it an' put y'both out of yer mis'ries," he quipped, smirking at her as she irritably approached him. "His mood's darker than 'is skin as it is."

 

Avis bit her lip. "Oh, stop looking at me like that. If you know so much, you can decide for me. Please. And you rhymed, did you know that? Is rhyming in vogue, now?"

 

She practically tossed the paper at the good Innkeeper's large and chewing face, and it missed the bones of his meal by an ilm. But she did return his expression of amusement with one for herself, a short, ironic laugh. Then she hurried herself off before she could devote too much thought to her choice of action, and it took another undramatic journey to the Twelveswood, and some quiet, pleasant wandering among the trees, before she eased. 

 

Meanwhile, the Innkeeper played courier. 

 

 

First I gave of myself in pieces. Then I told you you had all of me, now.

 

I did not (want to) Know I carried a large stone in me, with me always, its chain around my foot.

 

No, it is not something I Know, or Do, to place a rough, jagged Piece that cuts in your palm, and for you to hold that for me; I know only the lightness of paper and the elegance of ink, inked ideas, ideals, that (I could only hope) pleases, provokes, in all the easiest sorts of ways -

 

A poor sort of storyteller I am, one who professes to love tales, one who preaches that tales can save, and is yet unable to speak her own, to find the words for them.

 

For they stir in a hidden place, faraway and underground, creatures who break yet do not die; and I can neither guess at their intentions nor make peace with them. 

 

I thank you, Young-Old One. You and your grandling I love. 

 

You have some of these pieces, as I found some of your words. You have Permission to ask. Though who does the giving, then, or the asking? Or is it always both? 

 

We may not like this unearthed mess.