THE HIEROPHANT

❝ It’s better for you to follow social structures which are established and have their own traditions, than to carve your own path. ❞ Dana Miri. 28. Healer.

[danamiri]

novamortem‌:

 the stain - event aftermath:   @theninthcard & @danamiri

she feels too light in his arms.  as though no weight at all.  something ephemeral, ethereal, ascendant… unreal.

but reality was in the blood red streak, slipping down paper skin.  leaving a stain in it’s wake from a sore and ragged wound.  perhaps it’s an unconscious magic lending him strength - an unthought shift, a transformation beneath his skin to lend fortitude in the moment he needs it most.

None of us are safe from each other.

he already knows they aren’t safe from him.  or so the shade foretold, as though from a state of future unavoidable.   but – he still can’t bring himself to believe that there’s nothing to be changed.  he still can’t bring himself to believe that these shades are everything they purport to be.  something still so – wrong – about the division.  the more and more blatant attempts to drive them apart… to take those already fractured pieces and scatter them to the wind… a mirror to glass.  glass to sand.

None of us are safe from each other.

bullshit. they may not be safe, but they’re only not safe from each other the moment they start buying into that fact.  the moment they start believing it to be the truth… a fact not a prophecy.  yes, he still has the gun, but now - more than ever, he swears to use it to protect them.  against whatever it might be trying to rip them apart.

he didn’t ask for permission to scoop lani into his arms.  and perhaps if there was any magic seeping from her into his past, then it would still be less of a terror than whatever it was that had hijacked her power to deliver another message of foreboding.  any protest would fall upon deaf ears.  in this he was unmovable.  he was taking her to the infirmary and she was going to rest and recover and there was – NO – argument to be had about that.  and if anyone thought to try - they obviously thought better of it…

…only one other on the coat tails of death as he ground the hallways beneath the thud of his boots.  one softly stepping, a lilt of something that softly sounded a little like home to his ears in the few words he ever managed to overhear.  the one person who might just be able to do something to make reparation where he could not.  perhaps there’s a small flutter of gratitude in his chest at her presence.

a gentle but firm press of words to lani as the infirmary flickers bright.  stepping over to a bed more comfortable than any emergency room… 

❝ okay, easy now… this is the part where you don’t argue, little owl. just rest, we’re here and we’re not going to leave you, okay? ❞

finally turning to dana with a steady gaze ( a veneer of calm and control that was donned with tantamount ease - it was an expectation, it was the soldier once more arriving to take control )…

❝ and this is the part where you fix this. ❞

fix it. fix what?  there was too much broken to be repaired with the whim of one magic.  but he’s not talking about the whole.  just this part.  this very important part.

❝ can you?  can you fix this? ❞

now, obviously clearer that he’s referring to the wound.  not the shambles left in the aftermath…

Her father had always said that there was no pain that strength couldn’t overcome.

Dana’s never been strong, not strong enough to teach--not strong enough to hold anything together. Always the kind of person that cried in the middle of her arguments, and then again as when she felt her points dissolve under the emotion she can’t keep trapped in her chest. There was no strength in stumbling around, in just barely hobbling her way into another day pretending she still remembers what it means to be The Hierophant---as though she ever knew the right answer. 

But her father, she remembers, has never felt the crippling state of insecurity. He’d never broken a bone. Never felt a family tear apart from the inside out. He wouldn’t know the first thing about pain or strength.

Maybe Rose was right to run, maybe some pain is simply too great to try and overcome---but when Aeron is in her space, laying Lailani on a bed, she’s beyond grateful she doesn’t need to pursue that line of thought further. 

Dana moves like a ghost, one slow stride to the bedside. Her eyes ringed with a lack of sleep as she tries to meet Aeron’s ( looking up would mean she couldn’t look down, and down was where her eyes wanted to be these days ). 

Fix. 

Ah, that’s supposed to be her job, isn’t it? 

She wants to confess she truly can’t fix anything; she can heal skin but the memories remain and the ghost of ache will still stab and all the pain surrounding this place will never leave and she not some healer she’s just a woman who happens to heal and it’s not fixing it’s more like covering it up---but she doesn’t. Aeron had always struck her as the strong sort, a person that probably doesn’t cry when he’s trying to explain politics to his conservative relatives. 

“Is she---are you okay?” She addresses Aeron first, remembers that there’s a patient and speaks to her. Dana knows it’s a dumb question, she’s the doctor. She should know the answer, and if they’re here---the answer is a resounding ‘no’. But she asks anyway because she doesn’t feel like much of a doctor anymore---much of anything. “I--little owl?” She pauses for a moment, snickers to herself at the choice of words. “I suppose she is..uh..symbolically like an owl--I don’t think I’ve seen Lailani pluck a mouse off the ground in the middle of the night just yet. I---do you give everyone animal-themed nicknames? What do you call people you don’t like? Geese?” 

When she feels the weight of a moment pass between her words, she remembers there’s a reason why they’re here. “Oh, right, sorry, bleeding--” She begins to look over Lailani, the way a doctor would. “An owl’s flight is silent,” she mumbles, a warm smile directed towards Lailani, ”I thought you might like to know that.” Immediately she presses her palm to the wound, using her other hand to brush away hair from Lailani’s face, the way a mother would. It’s all imitation, it’s always been imitation. “This,” she reiterates, “I can fix.” Magic pours from her chest into her hand, warmth bursting from her palm as she goes through the motions. 

Keeping her hand and the flow of magic steady, Dana teases with a soft smile, “now, this is the part where you tell me what happened.” 

[lmaonade]

[danamiri]

ofmarcellas‌:

There’s no trace of a smile, no flicker of amusement on Marcella’s face - nor anywhere else inside of her. Instead, when Dana stares, she’ll find nothing but an empty vessel - the human parts of herself reserved for those she deems worthy. Evelyn has her adoration, like Rose has her trust, like Danny has her disdain. To be worthy of an emotion is to prove yourself - be it as friend or foe. But Dana invokes nothing. Marcella feels nothing.

Just a flicker of irritation when Dana attempts her…weird almost sexually charged play on words.

That soon fades.

“I really don’t.” Silence drags out between them, one of the most painful she can recall for a long time. If Marcella didn’t suspect Balfour had it out for her, then this surely confirms it. As if the nature of the assignment wasn’t enough - her partner is…less than satisfactory. Not in her craft, to be sure - for she’s heard great stories about her abilities. But in…personality. Marcella searches for traces, comes up empty handed.

Still, that doesn’t make her uninterested - not when she comments about Balfour, hints at disobedience - and stares around her room in great reluctance. Ears pricking up, Marcella refocuses herself. Perhaps she shouldn’t have underestimated her after all. Premature judgements can come back to bite you, from time to time. “Well,” Marcella begins, twisting her tone into a sarcastic drawl, “How could I refuse our four pawed overlord?” Balfour may as well have crowned himself, the way he’s acting.

“Oh.” She snorts at Dana’s final words, a crude sort of amusement playing across her face. “I’m already bored, trust me.” There’s no depth to dancing, nothing good about Scotland except its Whiskey - which Rose can procure for her without being asked. “I have to say, I didn’t expect you to be so…hesitant. That’s surprising. I figured that when Balfour asked most people to jump around here, everyone asked - how high?” Leaning against the door frame, Marcella blocks the exit - intent on teasing out this encounter for all it may be worth.

“Were you not planning on listening to Balfour? Because - “ She pauses, leaning in closer, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t blame you.” Plant a seed and a great Oak can grow. The same is true of an idea - or a rebellion.

“I’m trying to say I’m arou---n-nevermind! Nevermind. It’s not important.” Dana’s lips twist uncomfortably into a thinly drawn line. If her imitation of Rose is bad, her explanation of it is bound to be worse. Bad idea, she sumizes, though it occurs to her just the same how pointless that conclusion is---it’s obvious what lay between Marcella and Dana. The differences in personality and strength of character. One who leads, and the other whose built a life around following. Even now, she has no courage to speak on her mind, only what parts she assumes Marcella will be amused by. Maybe that’s been the issue, more about Dana and her ineptitude and less about the cat. 

But only one of those things is worth talking about. 

“That---” Was true, as much as Dana hated admitting it. So much of her life had been following; listening, obedience. It was just hard to when it came from a cat, she reasoned to herself. Everything was ridiculous when it was coming out of a talking cat. “Maybe I just don’t know him like the rest do I--I’ve always been more of a dog person anyway.” Another bad idea, she tries to wiggle out of this conversation but as if Marcella knew she’d try, the woman blocks her only exit. “You say that but...you’re here too, aren’t you? Listening to Balfour?” She tries at a deflection, if she pins this back to Marcella, maybe she won’t have to think about herself again---maybe she can get Marcella to leave a gap she can squeeze through. 

“Were you not planning on listening to Balfour?”

“No--I--” The idea makes Dana freeze, body tensed up so rigidly she might pass as a statue. Disobedience is not her role, not where her value sits---but the way it feels in her chest, like freedom, enraptures her. “I wouldn’t--” Her sentences come out as starts and stops, bits and pieces. If she agrees, she’d be admitting to something only the deepest recesses of her mind know---a type of vulnerability she doesn’t imagine Marcella will even notice. “He’s a cat!” She eventually shouts, clasping hands over her mouth as her face reddens at her outburst. “It’s completely ridiculous, isn’t it?” Dana speaks in between fingers, “listening to what a cat has to say? Are we that desperate for leadership? That bored? I--I want to help but what good can either of us really do whisked away to some Scottish--” The healer stops herself, dropping her hands away from her face and letting a sigh be the last of her honesty. “Let’s just get on to Scotland.” She tried to push past Marcella, but she’s never been someone to push people, and so she ends up hopping between her feet, praying there’s some magical way she can run away. 

“Marcella,” she squeaks between movements. Eventually, she does stop her awkward hopping, if only to pull her suitcase closer to her. “What exactly do you suggest instead?” Dana means it as an argument, a reason why they should listen---but it comes out like an invitation. A desire to be swayed. A need to have Marcella use what makes the two of them so different; the acceptance of a new authority---of Marcella, and her ideas. 

( In the end, Dana still is a follower---with or without the cat barking orders....or is it meowing? )

( Another question she dares not to ask. )

[danamiri]

ofmarcellas‌:

DATE: June 4th, 8.32am LOCATION: Headquarters, Dana’s room. AVAILABILITY: @danamiri​

Scotland. Bloody, fucking Scotland. A cat had ordered her to go to Scotland. Why? Oh, to stop a combination of farmers and university students from dancing themselves into an early grave. Dancing in Scotland, biogenesis in Toronto, shoes falling from the sky in Hong Kong, missing photos in Ecuador…of all the pressing problems in the world, Marcella struggled to reconcile herself to the importance of those. Climate change, after all, would very soon be a plausible explanation for problems two and three. So whilst the rest of the council bowed to Balfour’s commands, making themselves busy with whispers of ‘ley lines’, Marcella fumed on the backburner, privately furious at how this whole scenario had played out. This had not been her play - and, ill-accustomed to following orders - the orders of a cat nonetheless - they sat uneasily on her shoulders.

No, if this had been her play, she would have gone about the whole thing rather differently. Content to delegate, she would have pooled the information instead, stringing together tiny little pieces to form a whole picture. And she wouldn’t have let Danny content himself with playing bookworm. That was what made him happy. She liked him miserable.

Sighing, Marcella knocked on Dana’s door, grinding her teeth with irritation. “Rise and shine.” At least she could run point on this. The plan was simple: get in, get out, get their ride back to DC as quickly as possible. Leaning against the frame, she scanned Dana, searching for any signs of weakness. Dead weight she would not tolerate. “Apparently it’s time to scupper Scotland’s opportunity to become a world leader in dance.”

Cruelty existed in many forms. The evil of the world, the sad truths, the very idea of sending Dana and Marcella off together. Cruelty, as it were, could sometimes come from sardonic magical cats--at least as the healer saw it. Of all the people to be paired off with, of all the places to go, of all the things to listen to---a cat, Scotland, Marcella and her seemingly endless supply of impatience. It was cruel, a bad call if she could ever summon the courage to say so---even in her own head. Maybe in some way it made sense, have the healer mend the sore feet and the manipulator twist emotions to stop the dancing in the first place. But if it was that simple, if it was really just a case of them using their powers in the right way, Dana didn’t think she’d feel so miffed about it. 

( It seemed easy in theory, but that’s all this was, wasn’t it? Theories and half-ideas---if anyone had a clue about anything, they wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place )

She doesn’t imagine Marcella is thrilled either, though she imagines her displeasure to be about different things. The company or the place perhaps---a sleepy Scottish town sounds delightful to Dana, she imagines less so for Marcella.

When the knocking breaks her thoughts, she opens the door in haste. She doesn’t expect Marcella, or rather she doesn’t expect to see Marcella not weilding a knife ready to stab her for breathing wrong ( it’s something in the way she looks at people, Dana thinks. But she’s smart enough to realize it’s all just another underdone idea ). “M-marcella,” she croaks, hiding anxiety under her very palatable surprise. “You’re...early...” She can’t think to say more, and it occurs to her then that if any of this trip intends to be bearable she needs to be careful. Marcella and Dana are not friends, but Marcella and Rose are. And without thought, the healer summons up an imitation of the singer ( with any other company, she’d laugh at her own mental wordplay ). “I am both arisen and very shiny, if you know what I mean,” she grimaces just as the words leave. It’s less Rose and more what an-alien-trying-to-be-Rose might say. She feels the wrongness stronger than she should; well, if knowing Rose was so easy, about half of her other problems would be solved too. 

In the end, it is just Marcella and Dana---whatever that means for them. 

“Sorry, I--yes--well--” she stutters, shifting weight as she shifts around a larger topic with the same decided lack of finesse. “I didn’t think you’d really listen to Balfour, so I’m surprised to see you and well--” more shifting, more dancing of her own kind. She’s dressed, ready for the day, having got up hours ago. She stands jammed in the door frame, blocking Marcella’s sight into her displaced room. Dana has an appearance to keep up, to look like she really knows what she wants and what’s she’s doing here exactly. “---well---” She had been hoping Marcella would bail, doing this alone or not doing this at all had been her two preferred options--out of the three she had. “I-I suppose we should be going then...” She shifts again, this time to maneuver a small suitcase with her belongings out of her room. “I hope they’re good dancers at least, it’d be tragic if we were bored---” a joke, one she imagines Marcella might like. “I just...don’t know how our uses play into it.” And a truth, one she hopes Marcella can’t hear. 

( Her third idea had been to simply run away, go out to Europe and forget to look back. She wonders if Marcella would understand the desire. )

[mitch-nom-blog]

TAROT CARD DECK

04 - Hypercube, 4D, solid, stable, hidden, secured. Can you let control go?

05 - Parabolic curve drawn with straight lines, definition twisted, rebellion in conformity. How much can you get away with?

06 - Geometry of reflection, perception is not perfection, uncertainty, society. Narcissus and extroversion.

@ofmarcellas @danamiri @suvaris

[danamiri]

lcnaestclle‌:

when: late hours following the meeting with Balfour where: infirmary what: jack is ejected from sleep too soon and seeks out @danamiri for help

It felt as if something had snapped, a tether between the place she found in her sleep and the stretch of reality jarred her awake. It struck confusion, however fleeting, as she searched through her own thoughts to pinpoint this as the waking world and the one she’d left behind as anything but. It was always difficult, even more so when she was pulled out so abruptly. A never ending cycle as she picked apart thought and memory as if they’d been little more than locks of her own hair, matted into a piece of gum. She’d never known how to explain it, the void that came with having to place herself somewhere that she could clung to so readily, the fear of choosing wrong, but it was the sun just beyond the breach of her window that told her enough. In dreams, she awoke in the dead of night — yet here, she’d never even dream of entering a scape such as that, for every fear she’d slip into the dreams of those around her and wreck havoc unintentional. 

Kicking back the covers, she reached for her worn plaid jacket and pulled it around her tightly, padding through the lingering hallways of the lair with little question as to where she was going. It wasn’t right — she didn’t get pulled out of sleep like that, it simply didn’t happen, and it prickled ice like at the back of her neck. 

The light just beyond the door to the infirmary enough of an indication to know someone was still in there, even in the late hours of the evening, though she truly wasn’t all that surprised. People in this place seemed to linger where they felt most comfortable. The slight creak of the door as she popped her head inside sounded about as uncertain as she felt; Jack didn’t talk about this. Not with anyone but Fei, but with the lingering reminder that she wasn’t here, such uncertainty fell into the hands of breaking such discomfort. “Dana?” Her voice not quite as hardened as it so usually was. Brash and sharp as she might have been at any other time of day, she didn’t know how she was meant to explain this, and thus – suddenly felt all the more overwhelmed by it all. 

“You’re not busy, are you?”

Dana’s used to the way her magic makes her feel, she’s never noticed it in the first place. For as long as Dana can remember, she’s been a certain blend of restless and tired---someone who loves to sleep but never could quiet her mind. The need to sleep is one she’s accustomed to, one she pays no mind to as it coats her day. Between yawning and drinking more coffee than she aught, her mind doesn’t register a change. 

As far as she’s concerned, it’s just another day in the case of a missing Feiyan. 

And as far as anyone else is concerned, it’s another day of Dana sitting in the infirmary. She can’t remember the last time she visited her actual room, at this point the infirmary is where she lives---and it’s felt like more of a home than anything else. She taps her fingers against her cold metal desk, her other being used to hold up her head as she gazes out at the door. She hates to admit it, but most days the most interesting thing that happens is Rose strutting through the door or someone nearly chopping off a finger. The sitting and the waiting isn’t as fun as it seems, and Dana knows better than most that she functions poorly when left to her tumultuous thoughts. 

“I’m not saying someone should suffer from a kitchen accident but...” her sleepy voice trails off, a labored sigh escaping her lips. Between Feiyan still being gone and a horribly rude cat appearing, she really could use something to pull her thoughts out of her head. 

When Jack pokes her head through the door, Dana does a poor job of hiding the way she perks up to attention---bright grin on her lips. “Jack!” She beams, then remembers that most people don’t visit the infirmary for fun chatter and slumps back to her half-sleeping state. “Sorry, yes, please come in---” she gestures out to the open space between them, drawing her hand back to her mouth as a yawn escapes her well-mannered grasp. “Oh, very busy sitting here and staring at the door,” the healer cocks her head to the side, fighting back another yawn. “That was a joke; what brings you to my corner of The Lair at this hour?” 

She stands, wanting to greet Jack properly but her body gravitating to one of the infirmary beds instead. Dana sits at the edge, gesturing for Jack to sit on the one opposite her--better than chairs, she reasons, you can’t lie down on chairs. And as if to emphasise her internal point, she picks her feet up and takes a more comfortable posture on one of the beds. “Sorry, go ahead. I just wanted to--uh---” it probably looks weird, suddenly lay down on a bed as someone enters clearly needing her time, but she just hopes Jack’s mind doesn’t work in the judgemental sort of way. “sorry--sorry--sorry---I’m just a little tired. What do you need again?”

[danamiri]

starredjonah‌:

“For the protection of the realms and magic, obviously,” Jonah signed with an exaggerated expression of disbelief. Pride wasn’t his greatest sin nor was it a vice to choke him, but it lingered in him. More swallowed by his proclivity for wrath than anything. It took everything in him not to puff out, all spines and edges that prevented anyone from nearing. A smile started to match Dana’s own. It was harder to not around her. “What do you think I conduct lightning with? It’s all in the core.”

A huff followed her brave statement. He preferred for no one to be tripping after him anyway. More likely to tell them to pick their own damn feet up and carry on, rather than offer a helping hand. Tough-love, his mother called it. He followed Dana’s eyes to the aquarium, his expression gone lax and the humor stilling under the surface. While the aquarium was there for his own comfort, it warmed his small heart by a fraction to see it ease others. A bow of respect is shown Dana’s way. He had been considering a drink for a long time, but that meant leaving the room and having to wade through the melancholic misery of the mansion.

To put it simply, Dana was the best.

His response of acceptance to her apology is a faint wink as he opened the bottle and poured their respective shots. The action gives him time to think. He wasn’t particularly great. A splash of annoyed, a hint of distressed. All shaken up and served in a glass of chilled disposition. His teeth work into his cheek as he slides one glass in front of her. It didn’t take long for him to learn that Dana was the best drinking partner in the house, let alone person to share a space with. Both rather sordid in their own ways. He didn’t like the idea of kindred spirits, but alas. His drink is gone and replaced with another before an answer surfaces.

“I’m not happy about it,” is the blunt answer he offers before he takes a seat on the floor, his back to the small love-seat against the far wall. “Everyone had a pretty shitty reaction. Granted they have a pretty shitty reaction to everything that happens here.”

A sip of his drink is taken and the burn allowed to settle in before he raised his hands again.

“It pissed me off,” he signed, an honest scowl to accentuate. “Guess I got too used to feeling the rain in my hands or something.” It was a desperate need to have another storm call back to him. He shrugged as he picked his eyes up to look at Dana. “But hey, at least you wouldn’t have had to be anyone’s pocket healer anymore, right?”

“Lightning abs,” she signs with a smile, “I’m sure your fish are very impressed.” In her mind, she likes to imagine the fish with their own Jonah-appreciation club. Clamoring up to the glass every time he enters the room, coyly averting gazes when he changes, swooning when he looks at them---a real gaggle of fish-admirers. The idea amuses her in the way most things involving Jonah do, a certain brand of all-encompassing humor. Given enough time she could forget all about her problems here, and if that’s Jonah or some sort of secret hidden magical power---she doesn’t care. 

“Do you think your fish find you attractive?” She asks just for the chance to tease him, or perhaps convert him to her humor-filled idea of a fish-fan-club. Dana takes a slow sip of her own drink, trying to drown out the burn with a smile. “One day,” she begins, hands moving with a slow-kind of urgency, “I’m going to figure out how to put t-shirts on fish.” She pauses, then starts signing again in rapid speed, “also--get an octopus.” 

She takes another sip, bigger and more confident than the last. She’s never been able to down alcohol in one big swig, but she doesn’t expect Jonah to comment on her dainty sips---he’s seen it enough, in her mind. Soon, she’ll forget all about the burning and the propriety, slamming drink after drink back like a pub-regular. Though she usually passes out before she can get to that point.

“Everyone here just needs to relax a little.” Even with the small amount they’ve consumed now of the tequila, her face is flushed. “Feiyan will come back and you know what we can do while we wait?” Her hands freeze in the air, trying desperately to remember the signs for her words. “Vacation,” she eventually tries and repeats the sign. “Big vacation---party.”

Not that they do any real work in the first place---guardians of magic, what’s that supposed to mean anyway? 

“And what does they rain feel like?” She signs with a lopsided smile, though she means the questions seriously. “Wet?” Dana snorts at her own joke and when she glances down her cup is empty and she can’t remember how or why or when. “I guess but then I have nothing to do,” the healer sighs, “if no one gets injured, I suppose I should be happy but it’s more like...like...” her hands twitch. “Boring.” Which she knows is a horrible thought, but she’s always felt comfortable enough bringing up her more honest opinions with him. “If Feiyan doesn’t come back, what do we do?”

[danamiri]

TIME: May 19th, 3am LOCATION: Billy’s domain The Library CLOSED FOR @chvriot

Coffee mugs rattle as Dana shoots up, another thought eating at the edge of her mind. Her back aches from being hunched over books on the rough library floor, and her eyes betray the simple fact that despite her magic finally settling back into her body, she'd refused to sleep. All that sleeping she'd done before did nothing to make her feel rested. And this---this scrambling around trying to piece together answers---is more important than sleep. If she could just find the right clue, notice the right fact, work out the proper solution—maybe she could fix this.

And the healer, the healer was supposed to be fixing things.

But the cruel reality chips at her mind too; while her thoughts are plenty, not all are good. The obvious, her current thought, sprawled in big letters in one of her notebooks: 'IS BALFOUR REALLY A CAT?'. She deflates the moment logic comes streaming back to her; of course he's not really a normal cat, but regardless none of that will bring them closer to finding Feiyan. If her own magic cat doesn't know, how would they?

Questions. Questions. And more questions.

It takes her a while to notice when the library door cracks open, at this hour she expects that Ziyu might be coming in to see how she's ruined the place but it's neither him nor his cat.

"Nadine?" She croaks out under her breath before half-stumbling over in a clumsy gait that could only be the result of an obvious lack of sleep. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Why are you awake?" It doesn't occur to her that Nadine is here at the library to use it---it doesn’t occur to her then that the questions plaguing her could be eating at another mind as well. 

Between her fussing she finally takes a breath and summons the clarity to ask, "what are you doing here?" Dana glances back the pile of books, papers and mugs she's left sitting about. If Nadine really is here to use the library, she's picked an interesting time. Dana's lips quirk upward and she diverts her attention back to Nadine, "Oh, is this the time you read your salacious novels alone under cover of the bookshelves?” Her attempt at humor is weak, but to soothe the pain of these few days is her job.

Even if Nadine is the last person she wants to be comforting. 

[nomorepennies]

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[danamiri]

theninthcard‌:

The question posed, though quite far from anything Lailani has ever considered or been asked, doesn’t strike her as strange enough to comment on. for all she knows, Dana could have a perfectly legitimate reason for asking. It wasn’t as if Lailani was perfect, in any case. She asked odd and incomprehensible questions hourly. “It’s possible I’ve trespassed in my life,” she said matter-of-factly. Wandering around the woods in the middle of nowhere, Virginia was as good as any other place to accidentally cross property lines. “I don’t have strong feelings.”

Before Dana even got to mentioning her birthday Lailani had already looked her over thoroughly, her hazy little head calculating measurements at the speed of sound. For all her innate strangeness and her inability to remember basic things, she had a knack for knitting things to be just the right size, and she put it to good use. “When is your birthday?” The question was as close to nonchalant as she could get.

I want to know you, Lailani. She looked Dana in the eye, hers round and surprised. Sweaters for her cacti hadn’t turned her off the idea completely, it seemed - though Lailani still struggled to accept her words quickly. A flush rose in her face and she straightened her spine bashfully. “We are friends,” she said, almost a question in her shy voice. You’re smart and interesting, she wanted to tell her. She’d never be on Dana’s level intellectually, but she could listen to her explain things for hours and never feel ignorant - a difficult feat, but one Dana’s easy laughter made possible.

“Tell me…” She thought on it while she watched Dana wrangle her yarn adeptly. Her eyes landed on the newly-sweatered cactus and its nude companions. “Tell me about your cacti? I like plants, though I’m not very good with them.” Trusting her to take care of anything was a gamble, really. “And tell me what your favorite pastry is,” she added with no attempt to explain. It wouldn’t take much to put the birthday and pastry pieces together, but she was good at nothing if not being mysterious.

She watched Dana get the hang of knitting, smiling gently at her. “You’re good at this. I read somewhere that ancient Greek women knitted their hair into their hairstyles, though I don’t know where I read it or how certain it is…”

Part of Dana does fully expect that Lailani may just be some sort of international superspy, there’s an intrigue about her that screams layered mystery---but the healer quickly reigns the thought in. More likely it just means sad past, or the obvious none of her business, but the thought of this woman working for MI6 is one she intends to humor in her mind. “Let’s break into a museum one day,” Dana suggests without missing a beat. “I mean it. I want to know what happens when you touch a historic artifact.” She quickly adds in, “if that’s alright!” Maybe the thoughts of secret service are wrong but the point stands: Lailani could be doing a lot more than reading tarot and drinking tea---become so much more than a warning system. 

“The twentieth of May,” she perks up instantly. Her birthday has never felt like a big deal, nothing too crazy, but she likes presents---and any excuse to get something is always good to her. She could use one anyway, with all the stress that’s gone around she could use something. Or maybe it’s just inappropriate, thinking on her birthday when Feiyan is missing. “But that’s still a while away...” She deflates quickly, whatever thrill she felt slowly draining away from her. What if Feiyan isn’t back by then? “Nevermind. Don’t worry about it.”

Dana nods, pushing past her own thoughts to focus on Lailani. Birthdays aside, they are friends and odd as it is, Dana does appreciate the knitting. “Cacti are notoriously low-maintenance, if you ever want to keep one of my cacti for yourself. I’ll even let your take my favorite epiphyllum, but not George...never George.” She eyes the newly-flowered mammillaria hahniana with fondness---when her affection for the spine-y plants first started, George was the first she purchased. There would always be a fondness for it. 

“Hm, well, I have a variety of succulents here but I think the most interesting part about them has to be the whole crassulacean acid metabolism, a subset of C4--you know, instead of the common three-way carbon fixation...uh, C3 photosynthesis.” As her eyes gleam, she awaits and equal response of excitement to succulent evolution until it occurs to her that no one wants to get excited over photosynthesis. “I swear it’s really interesting,” she adds as an attempt to convince Lailani, then simplifies her explanation, “normally plants lose over ninety-percent of their water through the process, so when there’s a lack of water the easiest thing for a plant to do is to open their stomata at night, when weather is coolest--store malic acid and wait for day to finish the process. Succulents are kind of like a sponges on the inside, so they only need rainfall every month or so.” After another pause, she quickly reiterates, “it’s really interesting.” 

When Lailani asks another question, the healer is greatful. She’s not sure how long she can get away with repeating how interesting cacti are without actually explaining anything. “I like scones....though I suppose that’s not a pastry,” she taps her lip, “a beignet? I--should I ask why you want to know?” Having lived in Europe most her life, traveling between countries any time school ended, she’s tried her fair share. But she wonders how refined she’ll sound if she admits her favorite thing to eat is still a simple cake---The Hierophant would probably eat something like mont blanc.

The fact that Lailani can’t read minds is a small miracle.

“I don’t know about good...” she laughs, more than acutely aware her knitting is far sloppier than Lailani’s. It’s not the worst and she takes solace in that. “Did they now? That would make sense. Their hairstyles were an elaborate affair---all the more reason to touch a grecian vase, yeah?” When she finishes, she hold up her work into the light. “Not so bad if you stand really far away...” she squints, eagerly offering back out the needles. Knitting really is more Lailani’s thing anyway. “Have you thought about starting a knitting circle here? I think Sucrose could probably use it.” Dana pauses, “sorry, I mean...Santa? Salmon. Sa---you know who I’m talking about! Her and at least two other people.”

[danamiri]

of-judgement‌:

STATUS: open LOCATION: the lair ( kitchen )  DATE: day after the mayhem 

Daniel hadn’t realized how much time had passed when he returned from his own fiasco. Getting caught in the astral plane wasn’t something that ever happened before; he never lost sight of his powers, feeling confident in how to navigate between both worlds. However, it served as a reminder that maybe … just maybe … something else was influencing their powers. Something related to Feiyan, the disappearance, and that talking cat. 

Regardless, he needed to eat something. Twenty-four hours without food wasn’t good for anyone. Which is why he found himself in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge to pull out various fruit. It was an odd time to eat a full meal, so he opted to concoct a smoothie instead. It would be quick and refreshing.

Slicing up the strawberries and banana, Daniel heard footsteps approach the vicinity. He didn’t look up, stating, “  ― if you want some, speak up.” As of now, the portion size was only for one. 

It’s nice to see Daniel out and about again, his unconscious body hadn’t been a comforting sight and her lack of ability to heal a worse thought. But he’s awake now and she should find that thought enough---she should stop worrying about him.

But she hasn’t.

“I was looking for you, actually,” she announces, eyeing him prepare food. “I---no--I’m fasting so I can’t---” she lets the sentence trail off, realizing then that Dan hadn’t even bothered to look up. It’s nice of him to ask, at least, but she’s not sure how keen he actually is on preparing two meals. “I was looking for you,” she repeats, rounding the counter. The thing about being the healer is that she has to worry, even when things seem alright. The effects of Daniel’s magic malfunctioning like that is murky water, untested lands. 

But she fairs no better; her eyes ringed with darkness, body heavy and bandaging over skin she’s wounded with toppling over. The thing about being the healer is that her health is just a blip on what matters in the grander scheme. “Are you okay?” Dumb question. “Are you hungry?” Even dumber. “Do you want to talk?” It’s something. “I’ve been meaning to ask where exactly you went...mentally. Your body was here but...”

[danamiri]

She tilted her head a little, confused, when she spotted the note on the infirmary door, then looked around–Rose could probably do that sort of thing. However, given the way both Dana and Rose behaved around each other, she probably wouldn’t blame Dana for keeping her distance. A little. Sometimes.

In any case, Azra opened the door and slipped in, then placed the tiny, perfect cactus-decorated cupcake on a little table, hoping it was obvious enough to be noticed quickly lest it go to waste. It was the only cupcake to even turn out nicely, which was just as well–Dana’s was the only one that had to be perfect. Pleased with her work, Azra smiled to herself and zipped out of the infirmary. 

[danamiri]

       AT A PLACE OF NO IMPORTANCE, DURING A TIME EITHER TOO LATE OR TOO EARLY, ON MAY 20TH A DAY NO ONE CARES ABOUT---

At the age of five Dana makes the mistake of thinking this day will be different. She thinks the pile of presents will be things she wants, not just things people think she wants. She thinks this day will be about her, and not just the tradition of birthdays. She thinks people will be happy to know she is older, smarter, growing into a woman they will admire. 

She realizes she’s wrong as soon as the first guests arrive to a party she doesn’t want. 

When sixteen comes she prays she’ll finally learn what it means to have this day feel special. Her father buys her a car, he forgets she’s vowed never to drive. The car sits with her brother’s broken one, making a different kind of graveyard.

Eighteen is supposed to be the best of them, with highschool on her heels and university at her doorstep. Her friend cancels, and then another, and then Dana makes up a story about a charity event and it doesn’t matter anymore.

They see each other at the mall that day, it’s a little funny they all lied, but mostly it’s just sad. 

With twenty-nine, she knows better.

Day breaks through paper-thin curtains and the light cuts across Dana’s legs, her face still obscured under the un-even hotel room lighting. She thinks about the sign on the infirmary door, the simple “gone for supplies” in her messy script. She thinks about who’ll find it first, who’ll be sad to see it, and who’ll even notice she’s gone at all. 

She wonders if anyone remembers what day it is, if any of them bother to keep track of birthdays at all. She won’t blame them for not caring. There’s more pressing concerns and a celebration in the midst of loss and confusion seems wrong. 

It’s an odd tradition anyway; she’s never looked forward to anything but getting a present or two. Cake is moot when she’s fasting. Balloons just seem like a bad environmental decision. And parties have never been her favorite. Like many things that concern her, she wonders what the point is. 

( When is this supposed to feel like a day worth celebrating at all? )

“Hm, is it morning already?”

The naked man beside her stirs---his name is something like Riley or Ryan or Artie and he's either an architect or a really good liar. After that she stopped paying attention and she assumed he did too. As things tend to progress between two adults with nothing better to do, they’re here. And Dana is as delighted to remember he’s here was she is to think about how he’s who she spent the start of her birthday with.

“Something like that,” she replies, eyeing her own clothing strewn about on the ground. That’ll wrinkle, she thinks, which is her greatest concern in the moment. And then it’s that she’ll need to go back to The Lair eventually, and she’ll have to face the heaviness left in the wake of Feiyan’s disappearance, all the answers she doesn’t have and all the questions that consume her. 

( When do you start feeling like you’re growing wiser and not just older? )

“I’m going to leave,” she announces. At this point Riley---or Ryan or Artie or maybe it was Regan?---is already asleep again, but it’s the courtesy that’s the point. The room is under her name and really he should be the one to leave but she can’t summon the will to care. 

Dana rises and dresses herself as presentably as she can. She’ll watch a movie after, waste as much of the day as possible until the twenty-first rises and birthday wishes become belated as though that’s a comfort to anyone and the meaning still stands. For so long this day had been under the control of someone else; their parties and their cakes and the gifts they want to give---when the occasion falls in her lap finally she has no desire to honor it. 

She’s heard that at some point birthdays don’t feel so special anymore but she’s not sure what’s supposed to happen when they never felt that way.

Her hand is curled around the door-knob, either the metal is cold or her hand is, but she feels nothing. Beyond the door waits magic that doesn’t work right, a woman missing, a group of people who either do-or-do-not remember that it’s her birthday. But on this day, insignificant and coated with the ghost of something that’s supposed to be fun, she can pretend it’s nothing but her. The Lair is so far away, a tomorrow’s concern---a non-birthday responsibility.

( When do you learn to be more than what you do? )

“Happy birthday.”

Riley-Regan-Artie-Ryan lifts his head up just as much as his tired body will allow, a sleepy grin on his face. He remembered, the guy whose name she’ll never care to learn again. It’s a little funny, she thinks, but mostly it’s just sad.

At the age of twenty-nine, hearing those two words hadn’t gotten any easier. This year, she doesn’t make the mistake of hoping for anything else---she makes it something else.

And for today, The Hierophant doesn’t exist.

( When does a birthday start feeling special?

             When do you stop blowing out your candles for a chance to dream? 

                                               When do you become a person and not just the idea of one?  )

[danamiri]

emilelawrence‌:

He giggled, it lighting up his features and jumping his shoulders. “Thanks for acknowledging the bod. Does wonders for th’ self esteem.”

“Yeah it does that, doesn’t it?” He agreed with her assessment — he couldn’t conjure up the sheer amount of stupid injuries he’d been able to walk off as a direct result of his magic, and he had an inkling of what such high speeds could do to anything just from watching a few youtube videos. “Y’ain’t wrong in that whole rebuildin’ aspect, y’know?

He watched her flip the notebook to the pages she referred to — the ones all about him and his powers. It was a compliment in his mind — the fact she’d been so concerned about him that she took the time to write the notes in the first place — but the statement that came out of her mouth was anything but comforting.

“I should be dead?” He scratched absently at the bit of facial hair he’d managed to grow and keep on his chin as he repeated her, his tone light, “damn, shoulda checked my junk mail for that memo.” The acidic burn in the back of his throat and the burn in his stomach said more to him than his words ever would. He didn’t want to worry her, and he wasn’t about to start. His fingers on the hand that was still gripping the desk were aching from how tightly he was holding it.

“What d’you think? What’s your theory?” A little chuckle. “Be like you’re on that Hugh Laurie doctor show — what’s that called again? I can’t remember. Anyway,” he waved his hand to dismiss the tangential thought, “what sorta theories y’got? Do you think all that damage’ll resurface?”

He desperately wanted to ask — do you think I’ll die?

Releasing the desk from his one hand’s death grip, Emmy stretched his arms up, threading his fingers into the back of his head and into the curls, and pushing his chest out. His chest felt tight, and his ribs sparked with pain at the stretch. He inhaled sharply at the pain in his ribs, but tried to cover the pained noise with a groan from stretching.

Maybe this was old damage resurfacing from the loss of magic, his thoughts offered, maybe you will die if you lose it permanently.

The first feeling about Dana repeated itself — he didn’t want to worry her. He wasn’t about to start needlessly worrying her.

“Oh yeah, y’know, didn’t realise real time was that goddamn slow.” He dropped his arms and slouched forward, leaning closer to Dana. “Felt that screechin’ halt you get when you drink three 5 hour energies and come down from that.” He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows; closing his eyes and smiling as he said the next words, “and that good ol’ temple-to-eyes headache you get from a couple bottles o’ the good stuff.” He peeked an eye open. “Not that I’d know what that’s like,” he said the sentence quickly, covering an insecurity, “haven’t done that in a long while, y’know.”

The warmth in his chest at the sweet words from Dana mixed with the anxiety and made him feel nauseous — like eating a warm candy apple on a bender when it was 84 degrees halfway through the night. A voice at the back of his mind listed off the places he’d hidden his own stash of alcohol. You could leave and down it all now, you know, it said, you don’t even have to be seen at the bar, you could just down it all in your room and no one would know. He forced the voice down, not wanting to seem so obvious — yeah, mention alcohol and suddenly a stressed Emmy is leaving? Too suspicious to risk it.

Instead of leaving, he reached out and gently tapped Dana’s nose with a finger. “Ain’t you a sweetie,” he cooed, smile bright on his face and hiding the anxiety tying his stomach in knots; of the insidious want for one of his vices, “I wanna stay here too; I wanna keep up with y’all and make sure y’all ain’t keepin’ too serious all the damn time, eh?” A puff of a laugh, through his nose. “And y’know I love you a lot too.”

There’s a way that Emmy talks that Dana finds endearing---the words cut short, the ones he presses together, “bod”. It’s Emmy, as much his identity as his curly hair and bright smile. She wonders if there’s any piece of her that screams Dana---something that doesn’t get drowned out by what people think she should be. Her, unequivocally. The fact that he can be himself so freely---whether that’s this Emmy, or the one that laughs, or the one with the bleary eyes---she envies with resounding guilt.

( that, and, it’s really not what she should be focussing on here )

“I’m rarely ever wrong---” she tries for a confident smile but she can’t be sure how exactly it looks. If it betrays too much of her insecurity and fear. But the truth hits her too, she is rarely ever wrong---and what that means for this, she doesn’t like. 

Any vanear she tries to put forth of casual discussion crumbles away and in the end the insecurity and fear bleeds out of her with crippling force. Her hands shake first, then her voice. “T-this is serious,” she’s unsure if she’s scolding him or pleading. “I-I don’t k-know what it m-means...” she stammers, blinking rapidly as she tries to swallow the sudden fist lodged in her throat. “I--uh--House--that’s the show you’re thinking about--” she tries again, “b-but the people on that show get better and there are answers and it’s a show.” It hits her harder than she wants that this isn’t---magic, as crazy as it seems, is just another unexplainable condition.

How does she start diagnosing that?

God, she’s not even a real doctor.

She listens to him tensely, just a thread holding her back from reaching out and soaking up the tears she tries so desperately to fight in the fabric of his shirt. “Do you want to? Go back to the...” she trails off, lacking the courage to finish that sentence. She both hopes he does and doesn’t get what she’s trying to ask---if any part of him feels like what she just said makes him want to....indulge. If she should start apologizing now or join him. 

Dana pivots, “there’s no telling what the loss of magic does to us...it’s not comparable to anything else, I wouldn’t even know where to start with thinking about it.” But Emmy, she’s sure, would be dead. 

It’s him tapping her nose that finally breaks her resolve---another one of those things that’s so Emmy and she never wants to lose that. “P-please,” she croaks, now undeniably begging him, “be serious about this. You could---” Dana’s jaw tenses, crushing her teeth together to make her body be still: it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work. “What if it goes away again...for good? For all of us? Emmy, where would that leave you?”

She decided long ago that there wasn’t a single person in this world like Emmy, not a single person even remotely up to par. 

The world would be a darker place without him and Dana...something a lot worse than serious all the time.

[danamiri]

incinerxtes‌:

perhaps he got a little too carried away, but in his defense, when hasn’t he?

(perhaps he needs a better defense)

small practices, fei had taught him - the gym, the kitchen, easy breaths, journalling - he’s been through too many attempts at finding groundings in activities and his final repertoire is short and sweet.

he’s gone through everything and he’s still fuming as much as he was when the meeting finished - except now with the additional feature of a bloody hand.

(he just wanted to make a single casserole - was that too much to ask for? could the world not let him chop his damn vegetables without nearly taking out a finger?

“i deeply apologize for your precious cactus - how horribly rude of me. truly.” he snaps, purposely waving his cut fingers over the plant some more to let the blood drip. “but if you could ever forgive me and perhaps fix these - “ more disjoint waves “ - so that you could continue mourning your plants and i can return to my cooking, i would be forever indebted. just an idea.” 

Dana eyes dart between his injury and her ruined cactus. She scrambles to remember which issue is supposed to be more important here. Her mind has been shattered into pieces recently, thoughts drifted to topics more pressing than cuts and cacti and the questions she can’t answer and all the people she can’t turn to. She feels the discord a little louder, never a fan of change, never a fan of ideas too hard to parse. 

His blood stains the plant further and really she knows he’s doing this on purpose---but her reaction is only a frown, opposed to her normal ranting. He’s hurting, she decides, both physically and emotionally. Feiyan was her teacher, but for Kian she must have been...more important. She wonders if he feels her absence stronger, if his anger burns brighter without her. “How am I supposed to clean that?” She adds, huffing. “I can’t put water on it, it’s a cactus. And it’s a biohazard now. In the infirmary. A place of sanitation.” And healing, she suddenly remembers. 

“I’m not sure how anyone puts up with you.” How Feiyan put up with him, but she was smart enough not to say it...unfortunately, not clever enough not to imply it---to not let the insinuation cut through the air with the other assortment of other things she thinks she’s too smart to ask.

She takes his hand in hers, holding them gingerly despite her annoyance. “Oh? ‘Forever indebted’? I think I know a lie when I--” she pauses, freezes--eyes wide and lips slowly curling up. “Cooking?” She inquires, the heat of her magic flowing into her hands as she heals his cut. “You were cooking?” The ‘can I have some’ hangs unsaid on her lips but her expression reads clear. “About being indebted...” Dana finally drops his hands out of her grip, the wound having healed and the healer herself having found a more pressing matter to latch on to. “...would that extend to...feeding me?”

[danamiri]

thedevilupright‌:

This interaction might have started with Dana snapping at her, but it certainly doesn’t look like it’s going to end that way, though that isn’t saying much. Rose is unpredictable, it’s a virtue of hers or so she likes to think, even as she knows others in the mansion would call it an irritant at the least and Dana seems to be a little unpredictable herself today; it’s not so often that she gets the gamut from Dana, not so often that in the space of one interaction she manages to earn irritated, flustered and something that read as charmed between the two, but it’s a weird day to follow an even weirder one.

If Feiyan is missing there’s almost no telling what else might happen.

Apparently, what else included an unintentional slip of the tongue by Dana which made her smile wide as Dana pauses, the implication of her own words and how they might sound catching up with her suddenly. Yet, in response she doesn’t follow the joke perhaps because, while it makes her smile, it’s not the thing that’s worth responding to or perhaps it’s that Dana made the joke already. Either way, she cants her head slightly, studying Dana for a moment, trying to figure out what else Dana thinks she does, before abandoning the cause and saying something for the sake of filling silence because she won’t ask. “Actually, I mostly think of it as taking,” Rosemary says, unsure why she’s lying through her teeth about this, “because everything I summon has to come from somewhere.” Maybe she’s lying because on some level, she knows Dana’s right. Summoning for her has always been the means by which to give, to matter in a world where she has nothing else to offer really, and despite the wildness and the indulgence and the way she has no problem leaning into any of that, she doesn’t really think she’s done anything to deserve receiving here. Music doesn’t seem to matter much in this house, so what she has left is summoning and sheer force of personality—for better or worse—to make people pay attention to her. Then she shrugs and corrects Dana gently, pushing the point just a little. “And yeah, Dana, it is just what I do. But that’s okay.”

It’s not, it’s really not, but there’s no helping it. As such, perhaps it’s for the best that as they move into the room, they shift conversation topics, giving her something else to say so that those sentiments don’t hang in the air to long or get a chance to grow awkward.

“Well, first of all,”—and the mirroring of Dana’s speech pattern is intentional; it’s a different way to tease, because she finds the formality of it so endearing, but she simultaneously can’t help but mock her a little by throwing it back at her—“I’m gonna disagree with you very much. Obviously, you’ve been playing wrong and when you wanna learn to play the right way, you let me know. Promise, I won’t say no. Kinda hard to when you blush like that.” When. Not if, even though in her head it’s a very big if. “Second, a five out of ten isn’t passing. I didn’t even go to college and I know that.” There’s something in the way she says didn’t even go to college, that sounds an awful lot like she’s saying, I’m stupid, but she doesn’t give the phrasing or intonation a second thought. Instead, she keeps talking because she’s good at that, brushing past anything that might matter to focus on things that please her more superficially, “And third, I like doing better than just passing. Obviously I’m not gonna try and compete with a fresh baked scone, but I think I can do better than five, if you help me out.” And Rose makes that sound so casual, but really, she’d love the help. She doesn’t let it show, but there is a mounting sort of frustration with the fact that she can’t quite seem to make it stick with Dana. If she devoted half as much time to almost anyone else worth having ( except maybe Dan ), she’s pretty sure she’d have had them in bed at least once by now. 

But then, maybe that’s what she likes about Dana, just a little. Everyone else she’s ever wanted has been an easy sell, all it’s ever really taken is her name and a smile or a little bit of a flirt before she gets what she wants. Dana’s not entirely immune, but she’s sure as hell not so easily won. It’s a challenge, which is a little callous, a little cruel and makes her at least a little bit awful for seeing it that way, but it’s one that’s gradually made her realize that for once, there’s more to it than just the desire for the tangle of sheets and pleasure.

If it was only that, she’s pretty sure she’d have given up by now.

Not being easily won doesn’t equate to being unable to surprise though. Vaguely, Rose supposes it’s her own fault, because she teases and teases and then gives Dana space to turn it back around, but she doesn’t expect it, so much so that when Dana puts her hands on Rosemary’s hips, she freezes. It’s not like she hasn’t been plain, it’s not like she hasn’t wanted Dana for a while, so it’s not because she doesn’t want her hands there. No, the thing is, she freezes because she’s actually terrified that if she moves this will stop, that Dana will shift away and set her even farther back in terms of winning trust, winning her. “Dana.” The name’s whispered on a breath out, and for once Rosemary honestly has no idea what she’s supposed to say to follow it. 

Only, then she finds herself thinking, what are you doing? you will ruin this if you make it too real, so she swallows hard and finds the way to cover it with her usual persona, as if she didn’t just awkwardly pause for seconds and seconds, though it’s forced around the edges and she wonders if Dana will notice, call her on the fact that she’s all but running from herself. “Tied up? Is that how you like things then? Gotta say, color me shocked. Wouldn’t have guessed in a million years, not that I’m saying I mind…” She twists a little then, trying to catch Dana’s gaze even with her head on her shoulder because there’s smug laughter in her gaze, but she can’t quite manage it the way she’d like, least of all holding a cactus, so she just defaults to answering the other question even as there’s no joke to be made. “Actually, I have no idea. Only child and my parents didn’t really do that kinda thing, at least not to my memory.” She doesn’t remember much laughter at home. Mostly just pronunciations that sounded an awful lot like fire and brimstone, a quiet sort of acceptance and hymns.

There's a story here, something about a woman enraptured by her own gift; fueled by greed and seduced by hedonism. Dana can't tell if it's the tale Rose uses to distract or the one that suffocates her with the desire to be willed into truth. But Dana knows, with more certainty than she's ever known anything, that the woman who thinks of it as 'taking' isn't Rose. Of course, Dana also knows she doesn’t really know Rose at all, she can hardly tell a joke from a lie out of her—but there's a perspective here she's gained over the years. Maybe she's just thought far too much about the woman. Perhaps it's her way of trying to know her despite Rose's seeming attempts to the contrary. Maybe she's utterly wrong about all of it; but for her own sanity she chooses to believe that this woman in front of her is more than the persona she puts forth. There's a person there, one Dana has found herself liking more and more each glimpse. A person she wants to know beyond the superficial.

If it's really all about the taking, if Rose truly wants to summoning to be just all she does—she wouldn't have bothered staying. It's clear as a summer day to her, an unmistakable kindness ( or something between wanting to feel useful and doing what's right ). Rose could have summoned up another cactus of the same variety and Dana wouldn't really be able to tell it apart from George. She'd get over the loss in about a day, as she does most of her problems, and the issue would have been resolved long before now. "If it was about taking or how summoning is your only use, you wouldn't be here," her words are gentle, lips parted as if she wants to say more.

She doesn’t.

Instead she picks at the lapels of her unnecessary lab coat, which squares out her willowy frame. Feeling fabric roll under her fingers, she uses the sensation to distract her away from her desire to keep picking at the issue until Rose sees it like she does. It’s not okay, she wants to say, and it’s not true. In the air, the force of another conversation makes the last give way—but Dana’s thoughts never truly move from their initial point: there is more to Rose.

( Is there more to Rose? )

Dana’s nose scrunches at Rose’s choice of syntax. It’s very funny, so charmingly hilarious that Dana’s lips curl up in displeasure. The healer has good enough humor to eventually break into a smile, but it’s not without due extensive frowning first. “You have the uncanny ability to make me immediately regret something I’ve just said, you know that? I’m starting to think that’s your real magic.” She huffs out, fighting a creeping blush with sheer power of will. “Fifty percent is a passing grade. It’s not exactly first-class honours but it is passing.” Her head lolls to the side, quirked in curiosity. “You—you keep selling yourself so short…” First with the magic, now with this. Half of her is concerned Rose is trying to lure her into compliments, but she doesn’t think Rose even realizes the insinuation of her words. She supposes it’s her fault, backlash from her own dumb fictional ranking scale. “First of all,” now it’s her turn to be funny—though it hits her a little later that she’s really just mocking herself. “If. If I decide I want to—uh—learn how—y-you know. If! Not when.” She takes a step forward, systematically closing the distance between them by the exact half-span of her gait. “Secondly, I wouldn’t tell you even if I had an answer to that. I’m not going to ask you to start doing something on my account, and you’re perfectly fine just as you are.” Dana lets her teeth catch part of her lip, playing with it as she mulls over what to say next ( the three point method is very important after all, she wouldn’t want to ruin the flow ). In the end, instead of playing along, she lets a genuine thought slip. “Why do you care?” It’s not harsh, not meant to push Rose away—Dana’s voice betrays too much vulnerability for that.

( Is there more to this? )

Maybe that’s what spurs her on at first, but the way Rose utters her name steels her resolve. It stirs a fluttering in her stomach that Rose’s following words instantly kill. Dana pulls her head back just as Rose turns hers, there's a groan of displeasure between her lips that she smothers into the back of Rose's head. She maintains her place there, but drawn up, no longer hunched over to try and balance her head on the woman's shoulder. "You—" she turns her head again to avoid having her breath spill over the woman's skin. "You never asked." It’s not about the being tied up—Dana knows better than to dignify that with an answer—it's about the unspoken something in the air and how much she just doesn’t understand. 

She can't tell if Rose is putting something up to stop it from going to a place she doesn't like. She can't tell if she's disappointed or relieved it never ventures there. She can't tell what Rose wants and if it's something she wants too. She can't tell and not all of that is her fault. When she pushes, she's met with this and then what's she supposed to do? She's never been good at this.

But she recalls the way Rose held her name, hopes she’s not imaging the forced nature of the joke, and presses closer until her body is flush with the Rose’s. Dana’s trying to prove a point and she’s left to pray that Rose gets it.

( There is more to Rose, and Dana wants so selfishly to know it. )

She trails her hand away from Rose's hip to down her arm—it's less a tickle and more like a brush stroke painted on the most delicate of canvases. When she reaches Rose’s hand, she lets her own rest there too, as though George is just too heavy to carry with one set of hands. “Tell me more about your childhood,” she requests, knowing it’s a little odd to want personal anecdotes from her position but more focused on the point she’s trying to make; the one about being interested in Rosemary the person, not the persona. With her hands, she channels magic and familiar heat courses through them. She pushes the warmth through Rose and into the plant, watching damaged spines snap back into place. Even when George is restored to his full glory, she maintains steady flow of her magic. When the force is this small, the sensation feels pleasant—not anything like the scorching it usually leaves in her. It’s something like tickling, maybe a bit more like being wrapped in a blanket, but Dana’s never really asked anyone how this feels. “You can put George down on my desk if you’d like.” It would mean having to move, and Dana hopes the thought stirs at least a hint of reluctance.

[danamiri]

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Even with the door closed, he can feel the approaching tidal wave of dark emotions bearing down, like staring at an inbound tsunami and knowing there is nowhere to run or hide from the impending fallout. Surprising? No, not with what they’ve been through in the hours since the disastrous meeting started. But will that knowledge make this experience any less debilitating? Especially considering his own defenses are at an all-time low? No, it will not.

Closing his eyes, Ziyu finds himself hoping that whoever is standing outside will change their mind and go away instead of coming in. It’s a selfish thought, one he already regrets having, but no matter, the door is already creaking open.

Peering over the upstairs railing, he gestures for Dana to join him on the 2nd floor, trying not to visibly wince when she gets close enough for her feelings to turn into a physical weight smothering them both. He’s going to have to calm her down first, and quickly, or they’ll both break like this.

“Let’s sit down and talk,” not waiting for a response, he guides her over to one of the large armchairs in the reading corner and is gently pushing her into the soft cushions. Billy clambers up her legs, barely waiting for her to be seated properly first, and falls into her lap, already purring and ready for attention. Only after they’re both settled, with mugs of hot tea in their hands, does he consider her earlier question.

“Honestly? I’m not sure. I suppose we keep to our duties and carry on without…falling completely into civil war,” the steam rising from his cup swallows the sigh that deflates him. “The biggest problem is deciding which matter we should focus on more now. Where Feiyan has gone? Or what was the glitch back during the meeting.”

Dana half-stumbles, half-completely-collapses into the armchair. Her hands shake as she tries to pett Billy, the way he likes and less like an anxious child meeting a cat for the first time. She swallows, thinks this is a bad idea and she should have suffered alone like she normally does---but without Feiyan she needs someone to turn to for answers. Needs some kind of guidance, the thing she can’t give herself. It feels wrong to want to lean on Ziyu for this, but she never claimed to be smart under stress---no, that sort of thing really broke her down. Pulled out the part of her that was so unsure about everything. 

She’s bouncing with energy, forcing it to be bottled down as she downs her tea in large gulps. “Feiyan is fine, or she should be fine---or she will be fine?” Her anxiety spills out in stutters and words falling over each other. “She’s immortal, if anyone would be okay with a mystery disappearance it’s her---or, it’s not. Maybe we should be more worried about that. Maybe it’s something really bad, something that can really do something bad to a person like her.” She breathes out, then in, then out again in short succession. “S-sorry. Sorry.”

Running a shaky hand through her hair, she tries to still herself again. Maybe tea is a bad idea, maybe this is a bad idea, maybe she should have stayed still except she can’t stay still---she’s bubbling, bursting, buoyantly babbling, blushing and terrified. “I’m sorry, I just...” she trails off and smooths Billy’s fur. 

( Calm. ) 

“There’s just a lot of questions. Where is she? Why did our magic disappear? What does it all mean? And how do we continue on when the reason any of us are here is her?” She breathes out into the hot liquid of her tea, whatever is left of it at least. “Do we need a leader to replace her? Is that what we’re missing here?” Dana places the cup done, taking in another deep inhale. “What part of any of it do we even try to focus on? They might be the same issue and we wouldn’t know it. Have you felt anything, at all?”