Eglantine laughs heartily. “Not the first time I’ve been called twisted. And I am happy to be considered mirth’s messenger. But in return I shall ask you to accept Apollo’s due, for one as golden as her namesake must heed Shelley, surely. ‘My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves / Are filled with my bright presence, and the air / Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare.’”
They grin, and sweep a bow as the dance’s steps demand, before taking Appolonia’s hands anew. “And here we are in the caves, where your bright presence may seem all the brighter.”
She smiles.
"My namesake, yes. Though, I will tell you a secret, since you are so charming."
"My father, who was English, and not Bavarian, and not, in fact, even married to my mother, called me Apples."
"But it is still a golden thing, if you consider Hesperides, instead of Eden. Though I daresay he knew a great deal more about music than he did mythology or religion."
The dance steps turn her away and she falls silent until she is facing him again.
"Do you remember your family? Are you from the Surface, like me?"
“From the surface, yes.” Eglantine smiles wistfully. “I was born in Wales. But I ended up travelling to any number of places before I came here.” Their smile brightens, as does their voice. “My knowledge of languages is a dreadful hodgepodge as a result, fragments of so many things, but I managed well enough, and saw so many interesting things. Not Bavaria, though. Tell me about it?”
"I grew up in Bavaria, with my mother and her husband, the Herzog Von Ravenscroft."
"A beautiful place."
"I hear it is much changed now. That Ludwig is deposed or dead. An attempted Socialist revolution, but Bismark put a stop to it? Integration into the German Federation, under Prussia?"
She looks very sad at that.
"But then, it was a place that loved music and fairy tales. I grew up near Castle Hohenschwangau. The castle is decorated with scenes from medieval legends and poetry, including the legend of the swan knight Lohengrin."
"The area is splendid for hunting and hiking."
"Oh, and Queen Marie’s garden is very beautiful, or was. Plants and flowers from all over the alps."
"Our cave here does not have much in the way of mountains. Except in Parabola."
“Our homes never do stay the same, do they? Either they change, or we do, until they are no longer home, one way or another.” As the song ends and they move to the sidelines to take a break, Eglantine finds a good spot to sit down, patting the seat beside them in invitation for Appolonia to join them. “It’s been a while since I saw Wales, myself.”
"No, that’s very true. We change. Places change. Time cannot be reversed."
She sits down beside Eglantine.
"Are you still able to go back? To the Surface? I can’t. I’ve died far too many times."
"I should like to feel the sun again on my skin. But there is another thing that cannot be undone."
"Would you go back to Wales if you could? I know a Welsh song, but it is a sad one."
"What is your favorite place here in the Neath?"
“I can’t go back either,” Eglantine says, easily enough. “Meet the Boatman, lose the Sun.” They shrug. “Would I go back? Yes, perhaps, for a time. I miss the place far more than the people - I long since forfeited the right to be welcomed back by them.” They laugh. “I shall be terribly, predictably Bohemian and declare that my favourite place in the Neath is in the arms of a lover. The rest matters little.”
"I am always pleased to meet another bohemian, though I think you have … maybe … embraced the life of it with more reckless abandon than I have."
"But it is surely a good answer."
"And I rather doubt that is a home you’ll have any trouble returning to. You are so charming. A good dancer. An ear for poetry. If you can sing too, I will assume you are the most dangerous … person … in Veilgarden."
“I can carry a tune,” Eglantine allows. “Well enough to not be ashamed to call myself Welsh, at least.” They smile wryly, reflecting upon childhood lessons in music, intended to cultivate a respectable, cultured and educated adult-to-be. All hopes of 'respectable’had fled along with Eglantine themself, of course, but at least they’d kept the education. Though, admittedly, they’d subsequently broadened it with things their family definitely hadn’t planned.
“What of your talents, then? What, besides your beauty, brings you renown in the Bohemian set?”
"Ah, maybe you can teach me some more Welsh songs."
"I’m best known now as a composer."
"But, when I first came from the Surface here, and found myself penniless, I found work mostly on the stage. Singing. Ballet and chorus work. Some mediocre violin playing."
"A great deal of hastily written poetry."
"Many many hours in the honey-dens."
"Of course, now that I’ve made my fortune, I can also play patron to rising talents and buy rounds of drinks. ‘Talents’ always welcomed in Veilgarden."
“That’s God’s own truth,” Eglantine agrees, laughing. “Money, and the willingness to spend it, are the talents half Veilgarden goes begging for in the company they keep.” They pause. “What sort of things do you prefer to compose?”
She grins when Eglantine laughs.
"Opera, mostly. Score and libretto."
"Did you see The Drowning Feast in June? That was my most recent production. It’s part of why I couldn’t miss this Festival. The chance to see an actual Drowning Feast, after all that research! And to meet the Fathom-King in person!”
“Thrice-Drowned Jones played him in our production. He helped me make sure the portrayal was respectful while not revealing anything the Fathom-King did not mind. A healthy mix of truth and legend.”
(ooc: If you were in town in June, you could have seen it. Description is here: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic22323-a-night-at-the-opera.aspx)
“Oh, the Drowning Feast!” Eglantine beams. “It was lovely. A charming gentleman I met in Veilgarden brought me along to see that one. Best evening out I’d had in a while.”
She smiles.
"I am glad you liked it."
"I am working on the next show now. And collaborating with a friend - the father of a good friend of mine. We are planning to open in October, but I’m not making as quick progress on the libretto as I’d hoped. I’m rather torn. Everyone seems to like the ‘optimistic opera’ genre, so I had sketched a plot that ended with love triumphing. And when I started writing it, I was feeling very confident that was true."
"Now… I don’t know. Pain is real, too. I am sure even you, my messenger of mirth, have had your heart broken sometimes. There is a good reason so much truly beautiful art is about pain."
"What do you think? Should I stick to my course and write it happy?"
"What would you rather hear next? A sad song, or a sweet one?"
(ooc: Alas I am off to camping, with no internet access for several days. I’ll be back Sunday night PST.)
“Oh, of course pain is real… but so is joy.” Eglantine leans forward a little in making their point. “And joy in art is shared by the audience. The sad are given hope that their sadness will have an ending, and the happy are uplifted by the affirmation of their state, the notion that it is right, and good, and that they can enjoy it without fearing an inevitable ending.”
"Happy, then."
She smiles.
"May it prove true, and not just a fantasy."
"But I cannot imagine ever being so confident that I could enjoy a thing entirely without fear of it ending. I might be convinced endings are not inevitable, but I fear they are always possible."
"But perhaps it can be a small fear. A bit of salt with the caramel. The fear that thrills rather than dampens. A bit of fear of endings, but not … not enough to be afraid of beginnings."
She looks at Eglantine. A shy smile.
Eglantine returns her smile cheerfully. "Oh, of course endings are always possible, but not all of them are painful ones. Slow and lazy, bittersweet, simply accepting… a thing can end without it being terrible, and without it meaning it was a failure in its time." They gesture toward a table where some Mutton islanders are eating. "Love can be like a good dinner, sometimes. You’ll anticipate it, savour it, enjoy it… and then it is over, but you’ve been nourished, and you don’t mind, because there will be other meals, even if you like to reminisce about how perfectly that one was cooked, how good it tasted."
They laugh at themself. "Like a good dinner. That analogy won’t be gracing any stately poetry any time soon."
Down near the beach the drownies fall silent. More of them begin to gather. Soon a Drownie Diplomat emerges, walking up into the surf. Following them is the Curious Captain.
Absimiliard has changed clothes down below the Unterzee, somehow. They return somewhat dazed, and stagger at the push of a wave behind them – the Drownie Diplomat reaches to their elbow to steady them – nearby the other drownies start forward briefly as well.
The Captain went down into the depths in their uniform, they return in a ball gown. The gown appears black under the light of the ‘stars’, and the stitching in it echoes the colors of the zee-foam washing up on the beach of Mutton Island. Content underwater – where billows can make any gown look fabulous – things are different when a soaked skirt clings too much to wet flesh beneath; as Absimiliard steps onto the beach (never considering where their feet are) the gown sheds the zee-water as if it did not exist at all, as if the water was trying to cling to a dream.
Feet on the ground again Absimiliard’s face clears, expression returning to it once more. Glancing about they spot the people on the beach; the crowds; the music, and dancing; and at a table nearby two people they care for.
The corners of their mouth turning up in a smile they head towards Appolonia and Eglantine.
“Please tell me there’s something to eat besides Rubbery Lumps, I’m famished.” The Captain shudders at the thought of rubbery lumps, apparently they are not to their taste.
She smiles at the analogy.
"I’ve never thought of it that way. I suppose I’ve never had a relationship that ended like that to teach the example."
"I’ve had meals like that. Everyone has. Or I hope they have. Something simply to savor and remember. That does not sound so heart breaking."
"But meals have a rhythm. A predictable act structure. Like a play. Or an opera. There can be occasional variation - an unexpected palate cleanser - between the expected courses. But, there cannot be vast difference of expectation in when … when it is time to leave the table."
"In a relationship you can have dessert … over and over. And then a bit more entree. And then more soup. And then be dessert again. You can…"
She blushes, and stops.
She breaks off the eye contact and studies her hands in her lap. "You can be nourished, but never so full that you would not want more. Not if it is good."
edited by Appolonia on 8/24/2016