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Jul. 20th, 2009 01:33 pmIt's late afternoon in Minneapolis, two evenings before Midsummer, just like it was last time he was here. And as if no time at all has passed, Eddi picks up their conversation from where they left things, on long-term pause.
"What?"
He remembers only too well where this was going; they were talking about the phouka. "Do you love him?"
There's merit in understanding, and he's trying. He's trying so hard; Phouka told him it would take lifetimes but how can a mere phouka know what time means to a Lord of the Daoine Sidhe? How can he say, without having followed him on his life-long quest for understanding? And he doesn't ask Eddi to pin her down or to make her confess to anything: he's really just curious.
Her silence is telling.
"You tell me that I can't judge by appearances. But if I had to gamble, I'd bet that the phouka is in love with you. And you were very different with me than you are with him." He looks into her face, all earnesty, because he wants to know. He wants to understand. "Tell me what all that means."
She rises, pacing restlessly around the room; she won't look at him. She's not beautiful, Eddi. There are too many quirks for that, in her appearance, in her behavior, in her innate outspokenness. But there is something magical about her, something compelling. "If you were just a goddamn guitarist, I'd tell you to mind your own business."
"Maybe you ought to, anyway." With a shrug, he turns back to his guitar but he's not that good a liar and Eddi keeps talking.
"Well, as long as you're feeling insightful, what should I do about him?"
There's a certain discomfort in the conversation; he's the last person to go to for relationship advice. But she asked, and he considers his answer before giving it. "I think... what you did about me."
"Namely?" Her voice is sharp now, accusing. And there's no call for that. He didn't really force her into giving away anything she wasn't prepared to give. He doesn't take people hostage; her accusation almost stings.
His answer takes its toll in ways he didn't quite know people could pay. "What you think is right."
Time is a curious beast; in the moment he hears every breath, can almost see every drop of sweat from every pore, every grain of dust in the air. Eddi's swift movement causes a shift in the room; she heads directly to the door without a thanks (thankfully; she knows better) and without any further questioning for insight or help, not that he's prepared to give it. "Don't forget to lock up," she says, her voice curt.
He won't forget; he never does. Not that simple locks could keep him out. It's the lock on her heart that has him baffled. Turning back to the guitar, he begins to play with closed eyes. Maybe this time he'll understand the meaning inherent in the song. Love or death, love or death: it's always one or the other or both with these people. Why are these two concepts so hard to understand?
It's the sound of a single person's applause that forces his eyes open just in time to see the Dark Lady, dressed today in a camouflage jumpsuit -- very funny -- and dark sunglasses with two people by her side. One he recognizes as her usual cohort and the other... oh, there's an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He knows this man. They've met before, and it didn't go well then, either.
Stuart.
Eyes wide, he barely has time to react: he drops his guitar and aims at the Lady, letting loose with a bolt of lightning. She laughs, though, and the mocking sound of it rings in his ears, and she ducks out of the way and shouts NOW and before he can do anything her cohort's got the microphone stand in his hands, the base of it swinging right at him. It's with a sickening realization that he tries to duck out of the way, knowing that the one person who can actually cause him to come to bodily harm is right here in this room, and why didn't he see this coming? He figured it out the last time he and Stuart met, or he couldn't have been wounded then either, and he reaches out for something, anything at all, to steady himself: his hand meets one of the sheets draped over the overhead beams and at that moment the base of the microphone stand meets his forehead. He falls back, bringing the sheet down with him, and feels the heat of blood covering his face.
And in the moment this is what he knows and this is all he knows, and his guitar buzzes through the amp as it's kicked out of the way and the Lady laughs again and it all goes dark.
"What?"
He remembers only too well where this was going; they were talking about the phouka. "Do you love him?"
There's merit in understanding, and he's trying. He's trying so hard; Phouka told him it would take lifetimes but how can a mere phouka know what time means to a Lord of the Daoine Sidhe? How can he say, without having followed him on his life-long quest for understanding? And he doesn't ask Eddi to pin her down or to make her confess to anything: he's really just curious.
Her silence is telling.
"You tell me that I can't judge by appearances. But if I had to gamble, I'd bet that the phouka is in love with you. And you were very different with me than you are with him." He looks into her face, all earnesty, because he wants to know. He wants to understand. "Tell me what all that means."
She rises, pacing restlessly around the room; she won't look at him. She's not beautiful, Eddi. There are too many quirks for that, in her appearance, in her behavior, in her innate outspokenness. But there is something magical about her, something compelling. "If you were just a goddamn guitarist, I'd tell you to mind your own business."
"Maybe you ought to, anyway." With a shrug, he turns back to his guitar but he's not that good a liar and Eddi keeps talking.
"Well, as long as you're feeling insightful, what should I do about him?"
There's a certain discomfort in the conversation; he's the last person to go to for relationship advice. But she asked, and he considers his answer before giving it. "I think... what you did about me."
"Namely?" Her voice is sharp now, accusing. And there's no call for that. He didn't really force her into giving away anything she wasn't prepared to give. He doesn't take people hostage; her accusation almost stings.
His answer takes its toll in ways he didn't quite know people could pay. "What you think is right."
Time is a curious beast; in the moment he hears every breath, can almost see every drop of sweat from every pore, every grain of dust in the air. Eddi's swift movement causes a shift in the room; she heads directly to the door without a thanks (thankfully; she knows better) and without any further questioning for insight or help, not that he's prepared to give it. "Don't forget to lock up," she says, her voice curt.
He won't forget; he never does. Not that simple locks could keep him out. It's the lock on her heart that has him baffled. Turning back to the guitar, he begins to play with closed eyes. Maybe this time he'll understand the meaning inherent in the song. Love or death, love or death: it's always one or the other or both with these people. Why are these two concepts so hard to understand?
As I walked under London Bridge one misty morning early,
I overheard a fair, pretty maid lamenting for her Geordie.
"My Geordie will be hanged with a golden chain, 'tis not the chain of many.
He stole sixteen of the king's royal deer and he sold them in Boeny."
"Go saddle me my milk white steed, go saddle me my pony
That I may ride to London's courts to plead for the life of Geordie."
"My Geordie never hurt a man nor calf, he never hurted any
He stole sixteen of the King's royal deer and he sold them in Boeny."
"Two pretty babies have I borne, the third lies in my body,
And I would part with them every one, if you pardon my dear Geordie."
But the judge looked over his left shoulder; he said, "Fair maid, I'm sorry,
I cannot pardon the one you love: he has been hanged already."
It's the sound of a single person's applause that forces his eyes open just in time to see the Dark Lady, dressed today in a camouflage jumpsuit -- very funny -- and dark sunglasses with two people by her side. One he recognizes as her usual cohort and the other... oh, there's an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He knows this man. They've met before, and it didn't go well then, either.
Stuart.
Eyes wide, he barely has time to react: he drops his guitar and aims at the Lady, letting loose with a bolt of lightning. She laughs, though, and the mocking sound of it rings in his ears, and she ducks out of the way and shouts NOW and before he can do anything her cohort's got the microphone stand in his hands, the base of it swinging right at him. It's with a sickening realization that he tries to duck out of the way, knowing that the one person who can actually cause him to come to bodily harm is right here in this room, and why didn't he see this coming? He figured it out the last time he and Stuart met, or he couldn't have been wounded then either, and he reaches out for something, anything at all, to steady himself: his hand meets one of the sheets draped over the overhead beams and at that moment the base of the microphone stand meets his forehead. He falls back, bringing the sheet down with him, and feels the heat of blood covering his face.
And in the moment this is what he knows and this is all he knows, and his guitar buzzes through the amp as it's kicked out of the way and the Lady laughs again and it all goes dark.
