Stephen Dedalus has Lost his Wings (stephendedalus) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2013-01-20 23:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, briseis, stephen dedalus |
Who: Briseis & Stephen Dedalus
When: Sunday Evening
Where: Central Park
What: A DATE! OMG!
Rating: G - I'm sure.
Grantaire had become to Stephen what a steel skeleton was for a skyscraper. He had gone beyond the duties of a friend and his support gave Dedalus the spine he'd lacked his entire life. Stephen was far more used to being the outsider than being a person that one seemed to like and respect. In his boarding school he'd been pushed into puddles and mocked for his accent, and when the money ran out for that level of education, he was ridiculed by his new, impoverished peers. And all the while he was caught in a swirl of adolescence focused on misplacing his faith long enough to sin unforgivably -- but always managing to find it again in time for the guilt to make him sick. It was Parnell's descent and a Chrismas dinner exclamation that there ought to be 'No God for Ireland' that lead to Stephen's realisation that the church's embrace resembled more closely the death grip of a Kestrel's talons than that of a nurturing mother. He'd thought the escape was art, was Paris and it was -- for a while, it had been. He'd clung to academia with the desperation of a sailor in a storm, always living in fear that he might be swept up by the Irish Sea and carried back to Dublin to spend the rest of his life in pubs, drinking to the memories of dead dreams. He felt as though Latin, Greek and the mysteries of the art in the world would enlighten him, somehow. That he'd rise from where he'd been and shun the church for the hold it had had on him. He'd move forward and out, out into the world that he'd never known. He'd find his people and not make due like his father Simon had with the men in the back corners of seedy Dublin pits. But he'd been wrong. All that was waiting for him on the other side of his degree was a dead mother and a one-way ticket back to the land of the ignorant. There was no money in what he'd studied because there was no one willing to pay him for his genius. That blue light and transportation here had proven to be his saviour. After a year of Irish hell -- of purgatory -- he'd finally paid enough for his sins to move on to something brighter, something better. And he'd stumbled upon Grantaire, the man he'd always wanted. Someone he could speak to who was intelligent enough to listen, to respond or to just nod along in blissful appreciation. Grantaire would help him get things done if there was a scheme worth putting to action, and if he couldn't because he was drunk to the point of lethargy than it didn't matter because they both were. More than anything, and indeed more than Stephen would ever admit to Grantaire or anyone else, the man had helped in the one area Dedalus lacked entirely. The Frenchman's relaxed, shrugged confidence in Stephen's ability to perhaps marginally succeed with a woman that he wasn't paying for boasted the Dubliner's faith in himself to manage it. Of course, managing with a woman and finding himself in the presence of the ethereal goddess Briseis were not quite the same, but at least he felt that he had a leg to stand on with the Illiad's beauty. The princess of Lyrnessus was as displaced as he was and this was her second chance as well. She had been a prise, a widow and a concubine. She had her own damaging past and Stephen liked that about her. Not only because he knew exactly what it was but because he was no prince and no angel. He had his own spoiled, wasted life behind him and it was better somehow to meet someone with a bit of meat to her history than someone untouched and white as sea foam. He met her at her room as he said he would, and then they took the subway from Potts Tower up to Central Park. The night was warm enough that it threatened to snow and Stephen hoped it would. Especially considering the money he was about to lay down to rent a carriage in place of spending it on something more responsible -- like wine. But he was an artist and the idea of her sitted in an open carriage being pulled by a white horse through the paths and over the bridges of New York's greatest green refuge was worth every licked shilling from his pocket. He held out his hand towards her, after securing their tour-carriage for the evening, and helped her up to properly take her seat. "There you are." He drawled before gripping the cab's frame and hoisting himself up to sit beside her. He took the wool, tartan patterned blanket up from the bottom of the opposite seat and spread it over both of their legs. "Is that all right?" |