Look, I'm trying, [ she says, her voice short and dismissive in a way the nightmare tendrils of her magic most certainly aren't. A testament to her dedication (or obsession or anger), Charlene is a devastatingly powerful witch and could easily rend Daniel's dreamspace to shivering tatters if she was so inclined. But despite the worst of her irritation, she doesn't actually dislike Daniel. (No, dislike is near to hate and Charlene knows who she hates and Amyranth — her brothers and sisters &mdaash; aren't among them.)
When she relents its with a look of consternation, a finger reaching out to hook along the handle of the mug. It makes a smooth ceramic sound against the worn wood table top as she drags it close to her, the steam already long gone thanks to Charlene's temperament, the tea itself tepid at best. Moodily, she says out of the corner of her mouth, looking at her reflection in miniature: ] You're the gardner, anyway.
[ It's a little difficult for things to thrive when you're not sure what can, he thinks, but that's a harsh thought that Daniel dismisses as soon as it comes to light. Not living with magic in the way some of Amyranth does means that self-control has never been an issue. Not in the ways Charlene feels it, he's sure.
The mug shifts over and it's obvious that Daniel's pleased. His smile is full in the way only his curves, open and quiet all at once, silently thankful but genuinely glad too. He's made out of patience and he can do this for as long as he needs to — those miniature trees in those miniature stone trays have done just that for hundreds of lifetimes — but the strength of a dream isn't always quantifiable like that. ]
Yes. And you're the witch. [ Mildly thoughtful, he adds: ] Is it too much to ask for a house of gingerbread, do you think? Is that against coven law?
Is every thought you have quantifiably quaint, Daniel? [ comes the next accusation.
Now she's just being puerile — difficult for the sake of being difficult — but the mention of briars has inspired the vine towards brambles, the thorns shredding whatever bit of sunlight remains to little more than tatters. The magic's being impulsive — willful and uncooperative — and not entirely unlike an unruly pet that lashes out whenever it's not given the attention it wants. Four days have passed since Charlene last leeched someone dry and her energy's grown restless, her control spotty.
(It's like an addict trying to ween themselves clean, but the side effects are never pretty. They never tell you that part in the recruit meetings, but Charlene's anger makes her the exception rather than the rule. Anger, violence, self-loathing — these are things that consume and consume completely.)
A pause, then she collects herself — for varying definitions of the word 'collect'. ] I'll just show up next time, okay? None of this— [ The seams of the house creak. Charlene doesn't put a name to it. ] Just none of this.
[ His eyes flick up to the ceiling, tongue clicking against teeth. (Well, that's no good at all.)
The light that streams into the kitchen grows faint then dull then mottled. The briars are doing their job and, despite everything, Daniel feels an itch in the green of his hands. (There's nothing like an uncooperative garden for a grower to obsess over.) It's attraction, of a sort, though he never forgets that they're bound together because of Amyranth — the kind of hunger that takes until there's only husks.
He sips at his tea again (lukewarm, now; funny how quickly it can unravel). ] I have a few terrible ideas.
[ It's meant to sound light and dismissive and it is; Daniel does a good job of it, but in his mind and her magic and their space it twists in the air, a thin smoke that passes out and through the window. From there, it's anyone's guess. ] It is good to see you. [ As in: don't worry. You could do much worse. ] I'd mind less if you slept a little more. Properly.
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When she relents its with a look of consternation, a finger reaching out to hook along the handle of the mug. It makes a smooth ceramic sound against the worn wood table top as she drags it close to her, the steam already long gone thanks to Charlene's temperament, the tea itself tepid at best. Moodily, she says out of the corner of her mouth, looking at her reflection in miniature: ] You're the gardner, anyway.
no subject
The mug shifts over and it's obvious that Daniel's pleased. His smile is full in the way only his curves, open and quiet all at once, silently thankful but genuinely glad too. He's made out of patience and he can do this for as long as he needs to — those miniature trees in those miniature stone trays have done just that for hundreds of lifetimes — but the strength of a dream isn't always quantifiable like that. ]
Yes. And you're the witch. [ Mildly thoughtful, he adds: ] Is it too much to ask for a house of gingerbread, do you think? Is that against coven law?
no subject
Now she's just being puerile — difficult for the sake of being difficult — but the mention of briars has inspired the vine towards brambles, the thorns shredding whatever bit of sunlight remains to little more than tatters. The magic's being impulsive — willful and uncooperative — and not entirely unlike an unruly pet that lashes out whenever it's not given the attention it wants. Four days have passed since Charlene last leeched someone dry and her energy's grown restless, her control spotty.
(It's like an addict trying to ween themselves clean, but the side effects are never pretty. They never tell you that part in the recruit meetings, but Charlene's anger makes her the exception rather than the rule. Anger, violence, self-loathing — these are things that consume and consume completely.)
A pause, then she collects herself — for varying definitions of the word 'collect'. ] I'll just show up next time, okay? None of this— [ The seams of the house creak. Charlene doesn't put a name to it. ] Just none of this.
no subject
The light that streams into the kitchen grows faint then dull then mottled. The briars are doing their job and, despite everything, Daniel feels an itch in the green of his hands. (There's nothing like an uncooperative garden for a grower to obsess over.) It's attraction, of a sort, though he never forgets that they're bound together because of Amyranth — the kind of hunger that takes until there's only husks.
He sips at his tea again (lukewarm, now; funny how quickly it can unravel). ] I have a few terrible ideas.
[ It's meant to sound light and dismissive and it is; Daniel does a good job of it, but in his mind and her magic and their space it twists in the air, a thin smoke that passes out and through the window. From there, it's anyone's guess. ] It is good to see you. [ As in: don't worry. You could do much worse. ] I'd mind less if you slept a little more. Properly.