naught but dreams of joy

"She talks with wolves, without knowing what sort of beasts they are: Where have you been all my life? they ask. Where have I been all my life? she replies." 

[uncamellia-blog]

waitingale.

It was impossible to miss that flicker of mischief in her smile, a look Gale had first learned to love in Lacha but was perhaps even more fond of in their daughter. Or fond, perhaps, that she deigned to share it with him. His own lips twitched, almost a smile, amusement flashing in his eyes as he answered lightly, “Those courtiers would be quite missing out, then.” 

Indeed, Gale could think of no one else he would rather engage in conversation, save perhaps for Lacha. His eyes followed the tilt of her head, the furrow of her brows that was his own when he was in deep concentration. It amazed him, at times, that he was the only person who seemed to see how clearly Camellia was his own. “Does that not leave the question as to whether Shakespeare is depicting love at all?” He challenged, thoroughly delighted with the subject matter. “Olivia may think herself in love, but I would pose that what she feels for Sebastian – and Viola – is infatuation. How much could she have loved Viola if she was so quick to turn her affection to Sebastian?” 

Her playful commentary pulled a genuine, albeit a small smile to his lips – and then vanished it almost immediately. To the man who set it all in motion. The stabbing pain that sent through his heart was a familiar one, easy enough to set aside for later with a quick, steadying breath and a grimace. “Indeed it does. I shall be in the front row of the theatre when you debut.”

The Princess’s offer was one her mother would surely rather Gale denied – and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to say no to her, least of all when she was actually requesting his company. “I would enjoy nothing more, Princess.”

“Perhaps infatuation is the correct categorization for it,” she relented, nodding along. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that love be light-hearted -- it is, after all, no small undertaking, and ill-suited to his comedies, then. I would think that a wordsmith of Shakespeare’s prowess might find a way to depict it both beautifully and light-heartedly without trivializing it, but maybe that waits for me to discover for myself.”

Camellia narrowed her eyes in quick consideration at the lackluster response, at how quick his smile gave way to a small grimace, covering up the moment with an airy laugh and a darling smile; people accepted her reactions far too much at face value, and so accustomed was she at hiding careful observation under the guise of naïveté. Was Gale just bold enough to not bother feigning amusement? No; that didn’t seem to be the answer: through every possible recollection of him, he’d been deferential and almost reverential, leaving no basis to that theory. The man always did seem so very melancholy, even in snippets from her youth.

She itched to reach out and tangibly feel what he was feeling in the moment; decorum stalled her hand, and self-restraint strangled what was left of galvanizing curiosity, though a shred remained, marking a curious moment to ponder later on.

“Excellent,” she proclaimed, moving past him to pay for the play. “Thank you for indulging me, Gale. It’s much appreciated,” she said, gesturing to the cashier for a pen and scribbling a little note in the dedications page. 

Gale: an insignificant thanks and reminder of an indulgent conversation, and a token of hope that I might still pen your name on my own dedications page in the future. 

Dropping Twelfth Night into the bag the cashier had given her, she handed it to him, reminiscent of the small trinkets she’d oft passed onto him whenever she’d see fit in her youth. “Here: a token of said appreciation,” she said, eyes sparkling.

[uncamellia-blog]

ofdarknessanddesire. 

Lacha merely watched and listened to Camellia’s antics with a bit of amusement, before she shook her head and laughed lightly. “You’re ridiculous, Camellia,” she said first, before an amused breath followed. “I’m old, love, becoming a cliché comes with the territory.” She wasn’t really and she didn’t feel that way, but she knew she was in comparison to her daughter, and even more so in the human version of time. “Oh, pardon me for being after an actual education for you rather than giving you something to look at. However, speaking of lessons…” She trailed off and sighed lightly; she’d meant to keep this for the end of the evening, but it fit the flow of conversation, and she ( fleetingly ) wondered if the pull of an opening score would allow her to get away with just sliding it in there with little discussion or whining from Camellia. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me tomorrow. I’ve a few meetings and I’d like you to sit in. One of those is breakfast with Clementine.” Her lips pursed at the thought seeing as her feelings for the other fey were complicated at best; Clementine had long attempted to be something of a second mother to her, but things had never been easy between them and had only gotten worse since Clementine became decidedly vocal with her critique of Camellia, among other issues. “I’m sorry for that.”

Camellia chanced a quick teasing flash of her tongue, sticking it out childishly at Lacha, emboldened by the comfortable atmosphere. She’d given a good-natured wave at her mother’s mention of lessons, focusing in on the movie for the time being before a weighted pause caught her attention. Turning to face Lacha, idle curiosity waiting for her to continue the thought, she tilted her head in a show of attention, in a pleasant enough mood to not bemoan the single way the phrase ‘speaking of lessons’ tended to go. The pleasant mood was fleeting though, as petulant annoyance creased her brow at her mother’s mention of Clementine. She gave little voice to her immediate concerns, taking a brief moment to mull over the news instead of reacting hastily. She sighed; Clementine made her disapproval of her no secret, and polite diplomacy only achieved so much when met with unerring critique. “The meetings I don’t mind,” she offered, as a brief positive. “I could always stand to learn more of the court’s daily happenings. But must I sit in on breakfast with Clementine? I can always schedule something at that precise time and claim schedule conflict,” she mused. “I’m quite certain I’ve heard near everything she has to say about me. One wonders how she always seems to come up with more. I’ve been nothing but pleasant to her; one also wonders that somehow she still takes joy at verbally bullying an unresponsive party. I’d think she’d tire of it by now.”

[uncamellia-blog]

wintershcde.

As far as requests from the royal family went, Raven had gotten stranger before. Milling with the park-goers, the Shadow and his princess made a fairly unobtrusive pair, just more tourists leaving the claustrophobia of tight-packed skyscrapers and seeking out the sun: the warmth that was hinting at spring. “My plans are whatever you or Lacha need from me. If that means holding your hand while you tame those stallions again…” He tipped his head towards the carousel with an amused glint in his eye. Raven had similar memories of a child eager to dip her feet in the water and chirping out the names of passing sailboats; it made sense to him that this would be a place she come for refuge now. “I’d say you did.” He assessed her with a sideways glance, “Places like this don’t change much. About as far from chaos as you can get.” A question pressed up underneath the statement, purposefully not breaking through. If she wanted to talk, Raven reasoned, she’d talk.

Camellia couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, Raven’s fond recollection an affirmation that she’d chosen the right person to drag along for today’s whim. “And if I do ask you to stand and wave at me every time I go around on those stallions, would you?” She asked, amusement heavy in her tone. “Maybe another day,” she said, shaking her head lightly, still looking over at the carousel fondly. “It just feels both strangely calm and chaotic at the same time,” she remarked, still ambling along pleasantly, enjoying the late sun, the spring breeze, and the anonymity offered by the afternoon crowd. “Like being at the eye of a hurricane. Watching things happen, but never being a part of them. Unsettling, knowing something is afoot and being too far in the center to do anything.” She didn’t think to give voice to any of the specifics weighing on her, and far be it from her to ever truly speak her mind, though she figured Raven knew about all the going-ons she was concerned about: there were only so many things happening at a given time.

[uncamellia-blog]

starter: run wild location: pier 62 time: god i’m bad with time: april 10th? availability: @wintershcde​

In a way, Camellia felt bad about dragging Raven here: there was no clear purpose but to sate her nostalgia. She was sure he had better things to do than indulge her -- but hadn’t that just been the tune of her childhood? Raven, with a indulgent smile, even as she bid him to do the most ridiculous of things; her childhood was peppered with memories of him -- most notably, the Disneyland trip they’d taken. “I apologize if I’ve interrupted any plans,” she said. “I may have overstated the urgency of this trip. There’s nothing that really requires your attention; I suppose I just wanted a familiar face... There’s been a bit of chaos these days,” she offered up. “Did I always enjoy being here? I have vague memories of the carousel,” she remarked wistfully.

[uncamellia-blog]

( nicholasdalton. )

date: april 4th, 2018 place: the rookery (unseelie location). people: open.

“Watch and learn,” he added, a certain kind of confidence that was so common of him. Patting on the other’s shoulder, he gave all the unsolicited advice another gentleman could offer. “Listen… A gentleman is simply a patient wolf,” Nicholas raised one eyebrow in malice. “And you should learn how to play… I’ll teach you the basics,” he smiled, “but for a price.”

Camellia hummed in response, tilting her head delicately in a practiced and smooth manner, eyes shining. “I’ve been told I’m an eager student and a quick study, and I do love wolves... What’s the price?” Both her curiosity and head were cocked by now, and she waited for his answer with a smile.

[uncamellia-blog]

( ofdarknessanddesire. )

The dragged out word wasn’t even a surprise, Lacha had fully expected it, but she didn’t care because it was normal, because Camellia did as she wanted and put away her phone, because she was always her most patient when it came to her daughter. A quiet laugh, a real smile, as Camellia tossed the popcorn back her way, fishing it out of her hair and setting it on the table without a word of protest. “I’ll do it again if I see your phone out. You’re the one who begged me for scheduled interruption free quality time. It goes both ways.” She was serious, but she didn’t mean the reminder unkindly, not really. A nod followed, along with a half smile. “You don’t remember it, love, because you were too busy running around those little friends of yours to pay much mind to anything else. I remember, but I’ve always liked the winter olympics.” She smiled lightly, “I think for once, I won’t be the one learning anything.”

Camellia raised her hands in mock surrender, nodding along innocently. “That’s true, I did ask for interruption-free time. I confess,” she said dramatically. “I am guilty of that.” She reached for the remote, starting the movie and settling into the couch, cutting her antics short -- it was admittedly, always nice, spending time with Lacha where she didn’t have to worry about sensibilities or diplomacy. She snickered, listening intently, though, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. “Mom, you don’t have to be such a cliché and like the winter olympics,” she teased, even though she favored the winter olympics as well. “And please, learning pop culture like this is nice. If all my tutors looked like Margot Robbie, my studies would’ve gone down much smoother. Not that they didn’t already go smoothly, though.”

[uncamellia-blog]

starter: on diplomatic affairs location: azul cafe time: sunday, april 7th, brunch availability: @knight-in-shining-armani

Azul wasn’t particularly where Camellia preferred to spend her downtime; Pier 62 was considered more of a favored haunt, by all means. But it was a nice café, of course, and it had the added benefit of making her feel, at least, a semblance of kinship with air, she supposed -- all the previous Unseelie monarchs had been air fey, and she marked the turning point, in perhaps, more ways than just one, for her court (or so she dared to hope).

She’d already ordered when she’d seen a familiar face -- one she often associated with the dragging of her own heels, to be very honest, and yet one that niceties maintained she needed to try with. But after the past week, it was either the work of a fool to be seen here -- or a very proud man’s decision. It was hard to draw the line between the two, by her own opinion, and much easier to simply equate the two and conflate it with the knight sitting two tables down.

Sorrel.

Of course, he was an air fey, and absolutely in his rights to be in Azul; it still was Unseelie territory -- none of whom were warmly disposed towards him, especially now. She pondered the options she had, and sighed when there was possibly only one good outcome of this. She hailed the waiter and told him of her decision to change tables, and forcing down the put-upon look she was sure was present in the corner of her lips, she made her way over to his table.

“Good morning, Sorrel,” she said neutrally, seeing no particular need to inject her tone with her usual pleasantries given his far, far fall from Lacha’s grace. “I hear Azul is not the best place to be without a friend,” she commented lightly, saying Azul but meaning Unseelie territory: the meaning of which she knew was not lost on the knight. “I suppose I’m... well, about the closest thing you have to one here, currently.”

[uncamellia-blog]

( elise-senfuit. )

“Doing your princess duties doesn’t count as going out,” she teased. “But I’m glad you’re here, managed to ditch your bodyguards too. Good, more chances to cause trouble.” 

“Fine, fine. Can’t say no to the princess, can we?”

"It counts. I work at the Rookery, things are always lively,” she shot back, sticking her tongue out in an undignified manner, relaxed in the presence of Elise. “And what sort of trouble are you thinking? Should I call Raven just in case?” 

“Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of documentaries.”

[uncamellia-blog]

ofdarknessanddesire--

GENERAL STARTER 009: MOVIE NIGHT

Location: Avalon Bowery, 10A Date: March 11, 2018, 7:45pm Availability: Closed to @uncamellia​

Walking into the room and catching sight of Camellia on her phone, Lacha immediately tossed a piece of popcorn at Camellia, if only to get her attention. “Hey. Mine’s in the other room, put it away.” Still, her annoyance didn’t last long. It was hard not to offer her daughter a teasing smile as she set the bowl of popcorn on the table and sat; they had a routine and this was part of it. “Alright, love, what are you torturing me with tonight in the name of pop culture education?”

She heard Lacha’s approach; Camellia did not think it imperative to look up from the text she was writing to Elise -- after all, her mother still needed time to settle down and in for the movie she’d queued up. A piece of popcorn dinged her on the side of her head, and she gave a small noise of affront, finishing her text before tucking her phone away and looking up at Lacha, smiling as she was. “Mom,” she whined, drawing the vowel out and pouring as much faux offense and mock-hurt as she could into her tone. “I can’t believe you just threw popcorn at me,” she sniffed, picking the kernel up daintily and moving to put it on the table, before thinking better of it and tossing the piece back at Lacha, doe eyes shining with mirth and innocence. Perking up at the movie mention, she reached for the remote. “We’re watching I, Tonya. She’s about my age! And yet, I don’t remember ever seeing her perform.”

[aprilkepners-archive]

[elise-senfuit-blog]

@uncamellia

[uncamellia-blog]

waitingale--

Fate was playing tricks today, though perhaps Gale was asking for it by paging through Shakespearean comedies. It was fitting, was it not, that the very daughter he’d been thinking of should be the one to snag the book from the opposite aisle, as if summoned by his very thoughts. Her beaming smile pulled a small one to Gale’s lips, even as it twisted the knife lodged always in his heart. 

She was deft in conversation as always, another twist of the knife as she mirrored his own opinions so closely. He wanted to pull her close and kiss the top of her head as he’d done when she was a baby, to tell her how proud he was of the young woman she’d grown into. But what right did he have to pride? For all the parts of him she might possess, they’d been nurtured to bloom by others. 

His expression tightened, but Gale had learned to save the pain he felt in his daughter’s presence for after he took advantage of whatever small amount of time he was granted with her. “Trap me in a conversation about Shakespeare? Impossible, my dear; to have me trapped would suggest I have reason to seek escape. In fact, I’d say my day has quite improved.” If only she knew by just how much. Memories of reading and discussing Shakespeare with his grandfather – her great-grandfather – flashed through his mind; here, at least, was an opportunity to share a family tradition, even if she would never know. 

“I wouldn’t be so quick to discount Shakespeare’s comedies, though. Loves comes in many forms, after all, though I myself prefer the unwavering love we see in his tragedies.” And it was tragic, indeed. “But there is something to be said of the other kinds as well. Could we not consider a fleeting love more beautiful? The simple fact a love is fleeting does not make it any less of a love. Love is pain as much as it is beauty – a plague, in dear Olivia’s words. Though I should like to see the ending you suggest where Viola provides her a cure,” he added, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes as he left things on the same playful note Camellia had. 

“When I say trap, I mean trap: I hardly believe I can find a single courtier who would cheerfully oblige me in a hearty conversation about Shakespeare without bowing out early. I suspect most only listen to what I have to say out of respect for my mother,” she shot back quickly, minor mischief playing in the depths of her smile, at the mild commentary on the court; something she should’ve refrained from expressing to Gale but had somehow lost the restraint to -- a worrying fact in and of itself. She set that thought aside for further examination, later. She just had to be careful to avoid more slip ups.

“Fleeting?” She asked, tilting her head jauntily, the idea of fleeting beauty barely a blip on the radar of something so long-lived. “Yes, I suppose,” she murmured in assent, thinking to herself, brows dipping in concentration and consideration. “My criticism is hardly borne on the backs of how fleeting it is; rather, I dislike its flighty depiction. Olivia fell in love with Viola, and I hate to think that she were only in love with the surface appearance -- shouldn’t love extend its grace to every facet of a person, especially personality? That she can love Sebastian without ever truly knowing him: I question the foundation such love is built upon.

“That’s that,” she affirmed playfully. “You’ve inspired me: I’ll write my own Shakespearean play to impress my own ideals upon the world and to set Olivia and Viola together; I’ll put you on the dedications page. ‘To the man who set it all in motion.’ That has a nice ring to it, no?”

“That being said, perhaps we should conduct this conversation elsewhere to avoid burdening the customers here. Care to indulge me in a meal or coffee?”

[uncamellia-blog]

( goldmalice. )

“There’s no such thing as ‘taking it up’ with your mother.  I believe she has a lifetime subscription to My Way or The Highway. But, since you asked, booth.”

Camellia shot a sunny smile back at Adare, looking around the Rookery before leading the way to an open bar seat. “Enjoy your booth! If you have any problems with your seating, please don’t hesitate to take it up with my mother or with me -- though I recommend myself, as I only have a recurring subscription.”

[uncamellia-blog]

( goldmalice. )

when: march 4 2018 where: the rookery who: open

              “I’m gonna be honest. I still do not vibe with the wall of dolls.”

“You’re going to have to take that up with my mom; I’m just the hostess, after all. Would you like to be seated by the bar or at a booth?”

[uncamellia-blog]

( elise-senfuit. )

“Of course it’s an emergency, when was the last time you’ve been out?” 

“Consider this an intervention,” Elise joked. 

“I’ve been out recently,” Camellia protested weakly, hands flaring up in surrender. Granted, she rarely went out unaccompanied -- hardly the image she hoped to cultivate. “I’m out right now, in fact,” she shot back.

“Next time, I’m texting 911 to you and just making you watch a documentary with me.”

[uncamellia-blog]

( gairnead. )

So many of her relationships with the Unseelie were about smothering her disgust and being polite. But it was different with Camellia – she genuinely liked her. There was a softness in the princess that called to her, a whisper drawing her in. There would always be a tension resting between them, an awareness that they were nobility of two courts that desperately longed to see the end of the other. Yet even still, the occasional dinner together was welcome. To Garnet, it symbolised the truce between the Seelie and the Unseelie. And it felt more important than ever to meet with Camellia after Imbolc.

Her hair was sleeked, pulled back into a tight ponytail. A Versace dress hugged her figure, Louboutins clicked on the floor. Garnet always dressed up but when it came to Eli’s she always made a special effort. Her eyes fell on hair that was so blonde it was almost white as soon as she entered the restaurant but still said Camellia’s name to the maitre d’ ( not wanting to seem impolite ) and he led her to the booth. “Camellia, it’s good to see you,” she said, ignoring the way Camellia herself and moved away from greeting her and pulled her into a hug. She slid into the seat opposite where the blonde must have been sitting. “I’m sure you can imagine it hasn’t been the nicest few days for my court. But personally, I’m okay. I just feel so sorry for dear Eurya’s family.” A smile, sad and gentle, curled up her lips. Formality clipped her tone. “Thank you, Camellia. It genuinely means a lot. I’m sorry, too. Things must be hard on your end as well.”

Garnet had dressed up for the occasion; well, it was just a universal fact that Garnet was dressed up at any given point in the day: it would not surprise Camellia if it were revealed that the other fey simply slept in designer dresses. She’d curbed much of her contact with the Seelie -- it was enough that half her own court thought she was too much like them, she didn’t need to contribute to any such process by being out with Seelie fey too often. But it seemed important to reach out, given the current state of times: not only as a show of compassion, but to see what current Seelie opinions were of the Unseelie.

It went without saying that Garnet was a huge influencer in her own right, a good indicator of how the general Seelie court felt; or at least, Camellia trusted that, in time, everyone would come to see it Garnet’s way: she had that sort of sway, that je ne sais quoi, that made people want to imitate. She was pulled into a hug, and she relaxed into it -- it was an admirable thing, casual affection was, and yet, increasingly harder to come by. “It must be, I can only begin to imagine,” she said sympathetically, pursing her lips. “And it’s definitely something for us,” she offered, though she had no clear idea what the general stance was but wary. “Everyone copes in their own way, of course. I’m glad to hear you’re alright, though. I had the pleasure of Sorrel’s company on Imbolc but not yours, how have you been, everything aside?”

[uncamellia-blog]

( waitingale. )

When: present day, mid-afternoon Where: used bookstore downtown Whomst: open!

Many people probably thought it was the ink, or perhaps the age wearing on the pages of old books that made the smell of a used bookstore so intoxicating – but Gale knew better. It was the scent of possibility, careworn books that held stories beyond those printed on their pages. Like the one he examined now, fingers brushing gently over a fading message scrawled inside the front cover of an old copy of Twelfth Night he’d pulled from a shelf. 

To my daughter on her 12th birthday:

Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Remember that you can be all three.

Ignoring the notes he could have made to improve the inscription itself, Gale wondered what it would be like to give a gift like this to his own daughter. He wondered what might have happened to land the book here, no longer treasured enough for the daughter to keep. If Camellia ever knew him, is this what would become of every trinket he’d ever found an excuse to give her?

A familiar dark cloud settled over him, his shoulders drooping as he shut the book and put it back on the shelf – only to take it back a second later. It felt wrong, somehow, to leave it abandoned here. Or rather, he tried to take it back, only as his hand grabbed the spine it was pulled away in the opposite direction, someone else having tugged it from the other side of the shelf. His lips twitched, a rare flash of amusement from him. “You have good taste,” he commented quietly as he relinquished his grip; Gale didn’t much care who the book went home to, so long as it was not left unloved any longer. 

Blue nostalgia settled in her mind as she entered the bookstore, bells ringing overhead as she entered. The bookstore reminded Camellia of the Library, in the back of the Rookery -- whispers of worn pages in the air, tinkling of silver bells -- which, in her mind, equated to some sort of haven; she’d liked to hide in the winding aisle of the backroom, looking over various books and trinkets.

She smiled at the owner, settled in the corner, nursing a book by the register, before setting on her way, following where her feet led, fingertips running light over the spines of the books she passed. She hesitated by the (sizable) Shakespeare section, looking over the titles offered, alighting on a copy of Twelfth Night, pulling and surprised to have been met with resistance before it let up. She tilted her head to look past through the gap in the books.

Funny, that she should bump into the very man whose presence she’d been trying to evoke. She rounded the aisle to face him more fully, beaming. “Good taste? Oh-- I prefer his tragedies, actually. The overarching idea of love as a fickle creature in his comedies makes me rather glum; call me a romantic, but I think love is far more staid a thing than he depicts. Something worthier,” she mused. “Something that people would die for. His tragedies have a more hopeful outlook: people die, but love transcends. Isn’t that the actuality of love? In my opinion, Viola and Olivia should have just run off together,” she offered, jumping from big topics to lighthearted ones deftly, if not a dizzying pace.

“I don’t mean to trap you in a conversation about Shakespeare, Gale; excuse my manners. How is the day finding you?”

[magistera]

The princess shall indeed grow in grace and beauty, beloved by all who meet her.