Britannia, NY

It takes a lot to make Ivy angry, although it's been done periodically by foolish clients or foolish members of the justice system, and the occasional infuriatingly misogynistic romantic comedy. The recent burst of magic, though, has succeeded where lesser offences have not.

For the sixth or seventh time since Elaine first lit her candle Ivy has been awakened in the night by the prickle of new magic. She doesn't wake Ken. Instead she gets out of bed, goes quietly downstairs, out into the yard, and sets her hands against one of their tall trees.

She's not good at magic that's any bigger than keeping a sense of warmth in the house in winter, or sharing some of her strength with someone else, but she's borrowing from the tree, from all the trees in their yard, which know each other beneath the earth, in the deepest tangles of their roots. What she takes is enough to send a jolt down the spine of any unsuspecting practitioner without some sort of ward set up. It feels like lightning splitting an oak, and the message it leaves in its wake feels like rapid scrawled handwriting against the inside of your skull: For God's sake can't you be discreet?

All the power it takes leaves both her and the trees looking somewhat the worse for wear. She stomps into the kitchen weakly and fumbles in the refrigerator, looking for something to restore her energy. Big magic feels like getting hit by a truck.

( tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies )

Arthur is not the one who dreams.

Not usually at least.

Of all the people in Britannia, of all the people looking for who they were, and what they'd felt, and what they'd done... he knew all those things. The past was the only thing he felt like he had a firm grip on, these days.

Arthur knew who he was. He'd been the King of all Britain. He'd been the son of Uther, who'd united a kingdom, then failed to keep it from cracking along its faultlines. He was a man who'd loved and fought and hated and tried to rule well. He was a man who sentenced the woman he loved to burn at the stake, who'd not know what to do with the only child he ever had, who'd never seen the mind of the man he'd thought was his closest friend.

He knew that.

But tonight? It was near midnight, in the middle of winter. He was a nameless, countryless gardener with no legitimate past, who was standing in the middle of the park, staring at the cool, crisp stars. He didn't know what he needed, or what was needed of him. Even if it was nothing... knowing it would be a relief. Anything. Any action. He didn't want to be told. He wanted to know.

Instead, he was here. Frozen.

( It starts out like a murmur / That grows like thunder / Until it bursts inside of you )

The holidays have treated Gary fairly well. The therapist visits still go on weekly, and they still make him nervous and uncomfortable, but he's managing, and the medicine the psychiatrist prescribed keeps his nightmares away. For the most part he's been well enough to leave the house and do errands, with only one or two days where he had to stay in bed watching the light patterns on the wall, his heart to heavy for the rest of his body to move.

He's still waiting, like Patience on a monument, for Mike to wake up and remember; he doesn't say anything about it, he hasn't said a word about his dreams or his memories or the two halves of a self that are in him, which has kept things quiet.

The revolver is still in their room untouched, buried at the bottom of his sock drawer.

He doesn't really expect either of his models to come during the Twelfth Night stretch, so he's not very busy, his studio a little put by for the moment. There are some half-finished paintings, a multitude of sketches, and a table set up with a large wodge of clay on it; he's been experimenting with sculpture lately.

At the moment, though, he's at the kitchen table, doing sketches of himself and Mike in his workbook in soft, elegant charcoal lines.

Elaine wasn't stupid enough to go to the Britannia library for information about magic. Nor was she going to trust anything she found on the internet. But her dreams, more and more vivid of late, had led her to two conclusions.

Firstly, that not everyone had the talent for magic, even back when Arthur ruled. If she hadn't had any natural ability, no matter how carefully she'd prepared the spell, no matter how powerful the charm, nothing would have happened. But clearly, it had worked, the magic if not the larger plan.

Secondly, she had no idea if magic would work at all anymore. But on the other hand... her past self and Lancelot were both apparently back from the dead, so her threshold for skepticism had changed quite a bit in the past year.

She'd not been dishonest - she had spent a lot of time writing, when she wasn't at work or at Gary's. But she'd also been ordering certain used books to be shipped to her home, studying and meditating and thinking a great deal. She'd made a plan, carefully. She knew that, if this worked at all, it wasn't something to be taken lightly.

It was a candle she'd start with. Lighting it without striking a match. That seemed both satisfyingly symbolic and of a modest enough scale. She waited until after sundown, though well before midnight, not wanting to tempt fate. Then she began to try.

For a long while, there was nothing much. Just enough to convince her to keep trying.

Then at about a quarter til midnight... the words seemed to turn to molten as she spoken them, pouring out between her lips in a heavy stream. The hair on the back of her arms stood up, and she felt an odd buzzing at her temples and in her fingertips. Then she finished the spell, and the candle lit, like a switch flicking on.

But Elaine didn't see that, because at the same moment, blinding pain knocked her to the floor and out of consciousness.

The candle burned down to a stub on the plate she'd luckily placed it on. All the other lights in the apartment being out, her landlord assumed she'd gone to sleep.

The candle guttered, and eventually went out a bit before the sun rose.

Open to concerned friends or those who may have felt a relatively small but noticable magical disturbance within the city limits. Her phone is on, or the landlord is available at the house itself.

( Older chests reveal themselves/Like a crack in a wall/Starting small, and grow in time/And we all seem to need the help/Of someone else/To mend that shelf/of too many books/Read me your favourite line )

( Read more... )

Ever since her partner had retired and sold her the other half of the flower shop, Laurel has known she really should hire at least one more employee. But she's found it easier to just work herself. It's not like her hours are that insane (though perhaps she should find time for more than one day off a week, true), or like she has a great many other demands on her time.

In all honesty, working at the flower shop is one thing Laurel knows she's very good at. She has that to hang on to. Today, she's out front, arranging some seasonal displays; things that suggest harvests, pumpkins, and turning leaves.

She's considering stopping by the bakery on the way home. She could afford to treat herself, just a bit. And her small burst of extroversion seems to have passed; a quiet evening at home is more or less what she hopes for and expects these days.

( What's happened has already happened / what's coming is already on its way / with a role for me to play )

Cecilia loves the start of autumn. Always has. She still feels like it's the true beginning of the year, even though she hasn't been in school in years. And this time around, it seems particularly sharp - fresh, even.

Since her last conversation with Nathan, she's felt energized. A strength welling up in her, a conviction born of knowing just who she is, who she always has been. The surety of knowing what should be hers, and what might be if they all get it right this time.

This morning, she's sitting outside Habitat with a cup of coffee, wrapped in a cozy scarf. For once, she doesn't have her nose buried in a book. She's just people watching, thinking, breathing in the autumn air.

( Inner transformation/Subconscious flight/In the glance fields of fires/In the distance meadows of might/Where minds being enshrouded in a complete night/The fading of love, life and light/Wandering an endless journey/Dead within a trace/Entering a lost dominion soulless and free/Visiting a foreign place but yet so known/Another dimension opens for me to see/Heaven sure ain't made for me to be )