The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andhiswife) wrote2017-06-19 10:04 pm
andhiswife) wrote2017-06-19 10:04 pm
Entry tags:
The Tale You Tell
It's been a difficult week.
That's actually an understatement. But she can't let the full weight of it settle on her, not when she's out in public like this. So for as long as she's out here, doing some shopping, it's just been a difficult week.
She's told Baz and Simon about her situation. They'd offered to give her time off, but that wasn't what she wanted. The Gardens are one of the few places where she doesn't feel like climbing the walls. There's too much else going on, too many other things that require her attention. It's everywhere else that's the problem. Her apartment is too quiet and too empty and too immaculate; she can't even justify housework anymore because everything that could possibly need doing has already been done thrice over.
And she knows she has friends who would help her, who would be happy to provide company or distractions or whatever she needed. But that would require telling them. Repeating the story wouldn't make it any more real than it is already, but the thought of burdening anyone else with it -- and how could something this heavy not be a burden? -- turns her stomach. So much so that she's been politely deflecting the invitations she's received, rather than try to face anyone.
She'll say this for texting: it makes it easier to lie.
The thought of food rather turns her stomach, too, but she's getting groceries, anyway. Even if the chief appeal of cooking is making a mess that she would then have to tidy up, it's still a necessary chore. Her clothing is starting to hang a bit looser than it ought to, and she doesn't want to make new garments for what she knows, distantly, to be an impermanent state of affairs. So, groceries. She can do this.
[Find Greta looking terrible either at or en route to a grocery store, or on her way back to Candlewood. Closed unless we've spoken; hmu if you still want in.]
That's actually an understatement. But she can't let the full weight of it settle on her, not when she's out in public like this. So for as long as she's out here, doing some shopping, it's just been a difficult week.
She's told Baz and Simon about her situation. They'd offered to give her time off, but that wasn't what she wanted. The Gardens are one of the few places where she doesn't feel like climbing the walls. There's too much else going on, too many other things that require her attention. It's everywhere else that's the problem. Her apartment is too quiet and too empty and too immaculate; she can't even justify housework anymore because everything that could possibly need doing has already been done thrice over.
And she knows she has friends who would help her, who would be happy to provide company or distractions or whatever she needed. But that would require telling them. Repeating the story wouldn't make it any more real than it is already, but the thought of burdening anyone else with it -- and how could something this heavy not be a burden? -- turns her stomach. So much so that she's been politely deflecting the invitations she's received, rather than try to face anyone.
She'll say this for texting: it makes it easier to lie.
The thought of food rather turns her stomach, too, but she's getting groceries, anyway. Even if the chief appeal of cooking is making a mess that she would then have to tidy up, it's still a necessary chore. Her clothing is starting to hang a bit looser than it ought to, and she doesn't want to make new garments for what she knows, distantly, to be an impermanent state of affairs. So, groceries. She can do this.
[Find Greta looking terrible either at or en route to a grocery store, or on her way back to Candlewood. Closed unless we've spoken; hmu if you still want in.]
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"But it is not your story now," she said quietly. She supposed that was of no comfort, once she said it, but maybe it could be?
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But the quiet refutation throws her, and she blinks up at Amalthea in astonishment. "I... what?" she blurts out, brow furrowing. There's a faint trace of indignation in her tone -- as if Amalthea might be trying to undermine the perfectly justified sulk Greta's earned -- but there's hope there, too, desperate and dubious. Jesse hadn't lied to her, but she doesn't think Amalthea would, either. Can a unicorn lie? It doesn't really seem like their purview.
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"That isn't your story now," she said again, more careful this time. "You're here, in Darrow. You've stepped out of one story and into another." She wasn't sure if what she said was going to help at all, but it seemed to be true, to her. Amalthea wasn't in her story anymore either.
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And that's really the heart of it. "But we all go back to our old stories eventually," she says quietly. "It's still there."
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She still didn't know if it was any comfort to hear it, but it was her own experience. Not necessarily for the better, but not for the worst, either. She thought of Lir, she thought of wanting to remain human. She thought of regret.
"I left my own story once, in a way. It changed everything, even though I tried to go back to it."
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She's spent so much time focused on Darrow's cruelties that it never occurred to her that it might have been doing her a favor -- that it brought her here because the alternative was worse. But if that's true, and if her time here has been a gift... what has she been doing with it? Resenting it? Trying to strike some awkward balance between not growing bored and not getting too attached? Wasting it? God, if that's what her new story amounts to, it's almost as unbearable as what's come of her old one.
She feels like such a fool.
Her face crumples, and she sets the water aside so she can bury it in her hands. She hates this; she hates being such a mess. "I'm sorry," she gasps out between sobs, "it's not you, I--I just..." she doesn't even know how to finish that sentence.
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"It's alright to cry," she said quietly. It was alright for humans to cry. Since coming to Darrow, Amalthea had not shed one tear. She couldn't. If she became human enough to cry then she might never regain her true shape. But Greta's tears were real and needed tending, and she would try.
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But Amalthea just shifts closer, curling an arm around her and stroking her hair. She can't imagine the unicorn is used to things like this, but you wouldn't know it from the way she responds to it. Greta leans against her, soaking up whatever comfort and reassurance Amalthea's willing to offer. It's not as if she's in any position to refuse it.
"You'd think I'd have done enough of it by now," she says eventually, uncurling herself just enough to dig a handkerchief out of her pocket and mop herself off with it. "Evidently not."
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The truth was, she could cry. But the day that happened, the day she felt so moved that she came to tears, she would be too human to ever go back. It hadn't happened yet, despite her sadness and loneliness, but she feared that it would. If she did, would Greta hold her and stroke her hair?
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"I suppose it is a rather human thing to do," she admits, sitting up a bit straighter, but not outright pulling away. It is a relief, but the relief is still only temporary, and she's not sure it's worth the embarrassment of breaking down in front of her friends. "You're not missing much," she adds with a somewhat damp attempt at humor.
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She stroked back Greta's hair and gently tipped her chin up. "A magician told me that there can be no happy endings, because nothing ever truly ends," she murmured. "Perhaps a happy ending isn't what you need look for... but a happy middle. You could have that story here."
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Pulling herself together is easier said than done. Amalthea's kind, almost maternal touch makes her feel small -- not patronized, because she doesn't think a unicorn could, but like nothing she could do would be a shock. And maybe it wouldn't be a shock because it's all incomprehensible to some degree, as opposed to predictable, but she's not sure the difference really matters.
A happy middle. She doesn't even know what that would look like. She does know, somewhere beneath the more distressing revelations, that it's hard to imagine because she's been deliberately not imagining it. All her focus has been on going home, to the point where any stray thoughts about what she might do here, and only here, have been squashed as a matter of course. Even now, knowing what she does, it's hard to just take all those old wishes and scrap them.
It's hard to acknowledge that Amalthea is probably right, even though she knows how stupid it would be not to -- like rejecting a literal lifeline because she doesn't much care for the weave of the rope, and never mind that she's drowning.
"I don't know why you put up with me," she blurts out, the faint exasperation in her tone entirely self-directed. She immediately regrets it -- you'd think she was trying to be pathetic -- and shakes her with a rueful wince before making a more concentrated (and successful) attempt to pull herself together. "But I'm glad you do," she says with a small, sheepish smile, taking Amalthea's hand. "And I'm sure you're right. It's just... still a bit raw, I suppose."
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She squeezed Greta's hand. "You remind me of someone. She was very kind to me, even when I was just a silly girl. Even when I couldn't touch the feelings of those around me, even when I was cold. I worry I was cruel." Their worries had all seemed so ridiculous to her. Being human had changed her, fundamentally. After that first transformation she would never be able to go back to the way she was before.
"It will be alright. It doesn't need to be right now, of course not. But it will be."
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The light touch against her forehead is almost enough to set her off again. She can't help but wonder if it might signify something, even with Amalthea in a human shape -- if there's something the gesture is meant to impart besides a general sense of comfort and support. Not that comfort and support isn't enough. Unicorns can heal, in the stories she's read, but... this isn't something magic can fix. She'll just have to heal the old-fashioned way: slow and uneven, with lingering scars.
"I can't imagine you were ever silly," Greta says, leaning back so she can look at Amalthea properly. "Or cruel. You have to want to be cruel, I think." Thoughtlessness might passably impersonate cruelty, but it's not quite the same.
She presses Amalthea's hand in between hers. "In any case, you've only ever been kind to me."
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"Molly told me to return kindness when I found it. I have tried to do that more since coming here... It is easy to be lost in my own concerns."
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"And they're big concerns." If she wasn't trapped in a human body, Greta wouldn't expect Amalthea to bother with humans at all -- certainly not more than she had to. Sympathizing with her human friends is above and beyond, really. "Big enough to get lost in."
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