bigblondmotherhen: ([drift] 025.)
y a n c y . b e c k e t ([personal profile] bigblondmotherhen) wrote2013-10-08 01:54 am

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first.last@compass.net (3) (no subject) D12 63:19PM
first.last@compass.net (6) Re: Mission D11 8:01PM
first.last@compass.net (12) [text] D10 9:35AM


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wont: (SPARROWHAWK)

( x i i : d 1 )

[personal profile] wont 2014-01-08 09:56 pm (UTC)(link)
[ There is no hope in thinking that perhaps Isaac has gone home. Nothing remained for him there, nothing but death and madness. Alayne has spent the past several months trying to keep Isaac from that as best she could. ]

I want to hold something in my hands, but the gods won't let me. [ Funny, that she should speak of the gods after all this time. Did she still pray to them? Sometimes. Did they ever listen to her?

No.
]

Everyone leaves, or dies. [ Her voice falls off there. (She's guilty of it too.) ] Nothing ever lasts.
wont: (PETREL)

( x i i : d 1 )

[personal profile] wont 2014-01-10 07:08 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Silence follows, cut down by the hiss of Alayne's breath through her teeth, her jaw clenched in an attempt to keep any errant sound from escaping her. She could cry, truly cry, and somehow she thinks it would be all right for Yancy to see.

(He was safe, wasn't he? He would never hurt her. But even that kindness was a danger — just another promise that would fail to see itself through.)
]

How do you stand it? [ Her voice is a hushed whisper, almost as if Alayne is afraid someone else will overhear and think her weak. Even now she is scrambling to keep up appearances despite wanting nothing more than casting them off and have someone tell her yes, it's all right. ] How have you remained so kind?
wont: (Default)

( x i i : d 1 )

[personal profile] wont 2014-01-10 08:19 pm (UTC)(link)
[ That quiets Alayne, the thought of Yancy and his inability to go home. Though she still has a life waiting for her in Westeros, what sort of life could it possibly be? A return would promise nothing but solitude and a sword forever hung over her head. When she thinks of home she thinks of her classroom with its ribbons on the doorhandle; the smell of chalk and the faint scratch of Isaac's pencil on paper. The blue glow of his RIG beating back the darkness. This was home.

For a long time she says nothing, just makes a soft sniffling sound before lapsing into sullen silence.
]