ten_fwd | Wishing you were somehow here again... [OPEN]

Entry tags:

Wishing you were somehow here again... [OPEN]

((OOC: Figure she's going through this routine every night this month. Feel free to forward-date or back-date tag-ins.))

Growing up among the Cainites of the Order, Fatima had picked up on mechanisms for coping with stress from all across the world and across time. But not a single one of them was making it easier for her to deal with the emptiness of the space next to her in her bed. She'd been stuck on this flying Hilton for months now. But sleep still didn't come easily. After knowing what it was like to hear someone breathing beside her on the pillow, Fatima was having more than a little difficulty letting go.

Fortunately, growing up among the Cainites of the Order had also provided Fatima with a few extra outlets she could use.

It was usually after midnight when she would slip into the leotard Beverly had given her. The halls were quieter at night. Fewer people. Fewer judgmental crew members staring after her like the invader that she was. And the training facility was usually empty.

First, she'd start with a few yoga stretches. Some aggressive chin-ups. Knuckle push-ups. And then the real work would begin.

Somehow, her iPod had managed to survive her ordeal in Zelien. Fatima had doubted very much that she'd ever be able to coax any music out of it, but it was working now. All of her songs were there. Well, they weren't exactly her songs. The classical music was from Liam. The rock-and-roll was from Denise. And the oldies were from Auntie Diana. Didn't matter though. She always listened to the same song anyway. Survivor's Eye of the Tiger on repeat, the earbuds shoved deep into her ears, like she wanted to block out the rest of the world.

The punches she threw against the punching bag were precise and powerful. Fatima had fused the martial arts styles she'd studied with street boxing. And despite the work-out clothes, she always trained in her high-heeled boots. As she used to argue to Arty, you never knew what you were going to be wearing when someone attacked you. Better to be prepared for anything.

If only her loneliness could be punched in the bag.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Fatima's manicured eyebrows shot up in the direction of her hairline. There was a lot to take in with that, a lot to parse out.

But she quickly remembered herself and applied her jaded, blase mask. The one she wore which said that nothing could surprise her. She'd seen it all and done it all. It was just another day in the life of a dhampir queen.

"Your familiar," she started, figuring that was the way to ease in to the conversation. "So that would make you a...?"

He sees that. He already knows something is up about Fatima because of how Veena reacted to her. 'She smells funny' is what the cat told him. What he doesn't know. But there's Something.

Scratching his nose with a free hand and leaving a bit of a green stain on it, he said, "A veterinarian." Trever grinned mischievously at her. "But one that the Morrigan... or Brigid likes. I tend to go with Brigid."

He's not quite sure why he doesn't say prince. Probably because he doesn't always think of himself as one really.

The veterinarian line did draw something of a laugh. Fatima certainly hadn't lost her sense of humor. But she had to admit, the mention of 'Morrigan' made her blood run a little cold.

Based off of the way her world worked, there were two possibilities. Some people believed that the Morrigan was a very old, very powerful vampire. Rumor had it that she avenged wronged women in violent and unpleasant sort of ways. Others believed that the Morrigan was a Fae. And the Fae, she well knew, were not to be messed with.

Either possibility was a murky and scary unknown. And that was even before taking into account the fact that the rules varied all throughout the multiverse.

Bottom line: She didn't know what she was dealing with.

Fatima hated that.

"See," she said, carefully testing the waters, "I'm jealous now. I only have one name."

Most smart people are leery around the Morrigan. She's tetchy. She's also a distant ancestor of Trever's. (And Brigid, but she doesn't have as much influence in his life.)

And that's a rather weird thing to say, to Trever. And his expression shows it.

"I'm not sure I follow...?" he asked politely. Because he doesn't. It's a bit of a non-sequitor. How'd they go from his job and familiars to number of names?

It was Fatima's understanding of the Fae, really. That names were important. And also, "Oh, Morrigan and Brigid aren't the same person?"

For her, it seemed entirely plausible.

She wished she'd thought to bring her notebook with her. Taking notes felt prudent. But then again, she'd found that a lot of people didn't take so kindly to that.

Trever gets the whole names are important. That's one of the reasons why he's not using his real name on board. Well, his real surname.

You know that expression people sometimes get when they hear something completely and utterly incompatible with their world view that their mind crashes and they have to reboot?

Trever has that expression on his face.

"... If they were then my parent's wedding got a lot more interesting than I was told about... because apparently there was a pretty good spat between them before hand."

If by spat, you mean a good loud row with threats of violence. Neither of them were happy with Trever's parents marrying each other for Reasons of a Not Upsetting the Balance nature.

Fatima laughed a little. "I can see how that would get interesting," she said. Although it wouldn't be the first time she'd ever heard of a woman fighting against herself. Many Malkavians had multiple personality disorders. It got messy, sometimes.

"All right," she said, "let's backtrack then. Who's Brigid?"

"Brigid is one of the Tuatha de Danann. She's the goddess of ... lots of crafty things, wisdom, warcarft... medicine, poetry... things like that." Trever said. "She's the patron goddess of my father's side of the family."

Patron or ancestress. But in a less direct line than his mother's side.

But this does mean that his mother's side of the family is tied to the Morrigan in some manner.

Well, he just out and said it. It gave Fatima a measure of whiplash. Even after Zelien, she still wasn't used to people being so open about themselves. But maybe in his world, there were no secrets.

Or no mere mortals...

So was she standing in front of a Fae?

...a Fae who used a squirt gun?

Fatima felt wildly off balance and it made her fume a little inside. What would Arty do? Probably try to read his aura. It was a luxury that Fatima didn't have, though. She'd have to rely on mere mortal intuition. "I see," she said, still determined to sound blase and calm. "And Morrigan?"

There was no masquerade in Trever's world. At all.

And it's a squirt gun filled with near permanent dye.

"She's the many times great grandmother of my mom's family. They're direct descendants of her eldest son."

He says this like he says that his mother is directly descended from Queen Elizabeth.

Fatima sensed the pride, and tried to keep on the thin line between seeming too impressed and too unimpressed. She wanted to be respectful, after all. Despite any ulterior motives on her part, this guy had done nothing to earn her ire.

And making friends was always good.

In the end, she settled for tilting her head slightly to the side, like a cat. As if to say, 'Oh, really?' without actually saying it.

"It sounds like you have an extensive family."

Speaking of kitty, Veena reaches up as if wanting to be held. Pick her up, minion.

"Mum is the second eldest of thirteen... but it's not that extensive. Whenever her side of the family tends to get to large it..." he searches around for a good word here. "Gets pruned."

It's not a nice thing, but the family recognizes it. Occasionally something will happen that would kill off the direct line family to maybe one or two members left. Or even then requiring a less direct member to be called to the Hall.

Because really... a large McCallum family isn't good for anyone.

Absently, Fatima's fingers continued to stroke the fur between the cat's ears, but her full, active attention was decidedly on the boy.

Pruned.

Pruned.

If that didn't sound like a Cainite term, nothing did. And it was only the fact that he wasn't pinging her radar that kept her from going for a stake.

You didn't talk about people like that. People. But she had to remember that he was from another world. Different rules. Different ideals. Just ones that she happened to...find repulsive.

"Well," she said, forcing herself to form conversational words, "that's still bigger than my family. Just me and my mother."

Oh, he doesn't like it either. But that's essentially what it is. Pruned. Culled. Making sure those damn bastards can't come after us and kill us all... Though those that do the killing generally don't come out well in the end. Because if there's one thing that's more dangerous than a bunch of McCallums is a lone McCallum whose family has been murdered.

Dynasties have toppled because of that.

"It's bigger than most families... much to the terror of neighboring countries." He grine a little. "But it must be nice to have your mum all to yourself."

Parvana Merali died when Fatima was sixteen. Her mother had been her whole world. Without her constant, warm, affirming presence, Fatima had plunged into an inky blackness.

There were still fingerprints from that time on her soul.

But she just nodded slightly.

"Where are you from, exactly?"

Trever kind of knows how that feels. When the eldest McCallum sibling... vanished... the entire family fell into a sort of despair that they've never quite recovered from. His mother doesn't like going back home any more because of it and his youngest aunt went into fairy and nearly died to find out what happened to him. Trever was only eight when Dara vanished but the memory of that day is pretty well seared into his mind.

"Eire. M'da's king, but I was raised in my mum's home for safety reasons."

"Eire," she repeated. That was Ireland, wasn't it? Well, at least in her world it was. Fatima was reasonably sure that her father had been Irish. Hence her full name: Fatima Aine Merali. So she'd made a point of studying it a little. As if in some kind of vain attempt to pretend that her life was normal.

Well, fair was fair.

"I'm from Los Angeles," she said. "Year 2009."

It was Ireland! Or Ireland was Eire as Trever's had to figure out.

"Year 2015 for me... but I don't know where Los Angeles is."

There's no United States in his world. The entire "new world" is completely different in his world so references to such places are completely beyond him.

Normally, when Fatima found out that someone was from her future, she'd grin and ask if there were flying cars, like in the Jetsons. Somehow, she had a feeling that joke wouldn't go over as well with this guy.

Also, there might really be flying cars.

"Southern part of California," she said dismissively. "It's a pretty awful place. I wouldn't bother with it."

Actually that would go over well with him. He's a science fiction fan.

"I still have no idea where that is," he said vaguely sheepish. "Is it in the United States? Because that doesn't exist in my world."

Well, that confirmed a few things.

Fatima nodded slowly, confused and intrigued more than ever. "Yeah," she said. "The United States. A pretty lengthy hike from Eire. I'm sure I can find you a map sometime, if you're interested."

"That'd be cool. I'd rather like that," Trever said. "The existence of that country is a really big difference between mine and a lot of people's worlds."

And then, perhaps in a bit of a whiplash moment, he then went on to say, "So, does everyone in your world know about magic, like they do in mine?"

He's watching her reactions very intently, the slightly ... average guy with a squirt gun facade is still there, but there's a calculating look in his eyes now.

Fatima had neither the desire nor the motive to lie. And anyway, given her blase reactions, she'd made it perfectly clear that she was 'in' on it. As it were.

"No," she replied simply. "There are very few people who know about magic. I'm either one of the lucky ones or one of the unlucky ones, depending on your point of view. My family's known about it for thirteen generations."

They were a part of it. Half-royalty, half-legendary. It was a strange sort of in-between space where she lived.

"I honestly couldn't tell you if it was unlucky or lucky. Everyone in my world has magic of some sort. So, I personally would say you're lucky." Tilting his head towards the cat, he said, "She says you smell funny in a not human way but are okay."

Veena licks her paw innocently. She totally wasn't tattling.

Her fingers twitched and stiffened, floating over the cat's head in mid-scritch. It wasn't unheard of for animals to be able to detect the supernatural. Some of the Cainites back on the compound couldn't be anywhere near a dog or a horse.

But the seamless communication between cat and boy was unnerving, to say the least.

"I'll try not to take that as an insult," she said dryly, withdrawing her hand.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject