cailisairgid | {log} you find all your ugly meanings in the things i find beautiful

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{log} you find all your ugly meanings in the things i find beautiful

Aimlessly and with more purpose, Nuala has drifted through the nexus, meeting and greeting and discussing and moving on, but there's something she's been holding tightly to, something she wants to show her brother. The memory - Tadhg's memories - of Faerie as she was shown it, a place such as they'd never know in their own world (though she'd hoped, perhaps there was still somewhere not barred to them-), it dwells just under her thoughts and she thinks it's important that she share it with Nuada.

To no particular end, if she's honest, but only because she doesn't know what else to do with it.

{Nuada- Nuada-!} she calls, checking the door and finding it unlocked to push open-

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And Nuada is there, surprised by the sound of his name—probably surprised that he's surprised—and turning to face the entrance just as the door swings open. He stands with his long hair tied loosely back, a rag in one hand, a little bottle of oil in the other. Beside him, old and dark, dust in its cracks, taking up most of the room between the beds, there sits a spinning wheel. ...Surprise?

«What? What's happened?»

Stopping still in the doorway, Nuala is equally startled, staring first at her brother and then at the dark spinning wheel next to him, quieted at least for a few moments. {...brother,} she says, softer (and yes, with some surprise). {I wanted to - where did you-}

She remembers herself and shuts the door behind her.

«In the marketplace, there was...» He gestures vaguely with the rag, and then, after a slightly awkward beat, looks down to the wheel as she does. «The humans who were selling it had no idea what they possessed. They knew only that it worked well despite its age. Clearly, you can tell, it was made by a craftsman of true skill.» By which he means someone not-human, of course.

Nuada touches the structure with just one pale finger, and pushes; it wobbles slightly. «It...needs some repair. One of the legs...»

{It's beautiful,} she breathes sincerely, wide-eyed and visibly charmed by the gesture as she comes further into the room to examine it for herself. The reason for her rush has been only temporarily sidelined, simmering under the pleased surprise.

There. All right. Nuada reckoned his sister would like it, but it's been quite a long time since he's given a gift to anyone, let alone her, and of course there's the probability that her tastes have changed, and the shock of having been startled in the first place, and... well. He's not really thinking about it that much, only watching Nuala intently as she draws nearer, and stepping aside to make room for her as she approaches the wheel.

«I thought so. ...I asked its name, but they did not know.»

{Perhaps we will find out some other way.} Nuala touches it only lightly, and then kneels down by the wheel to give it a closer look, to press her fingertips to its workings. She tips her head, beaming up at him. {It's exactly what I've needed. When it is repaired...} The things she can do - she's missed this.

{I have something to show you,} she adds, cautiously, almost and never reaching shy, {there is a puca in the nexus, I bade him show me what he spoke of-}

When the princess turns to face her brother again, he is wearing the faintest of smiles, which in no way indicates how pleased he is by her reception of his gift—but then, perhaps she can tell, anyway.

Then she speaks again, and his expression remains quite mild. For once, he seems ready to listen rather than immediately leaping into suspicion at the very idea that she's been off making friends with everyone again. «A púca?» Rather than stare down at his sister, Nuada sits on the edge of one of the beds. Hmm, so that's why she was so excited. «What did you see?»

{Another world,} she says, and there is no one else who could tell how close to tears it brought her, through her smile. {His people - withdrew from the world of man, only a few remained, and less and less. He showed me this place - Faerie - in his memory. He comes and goes from it.}

She holds her hand out to him. {Will you look with me?}

For a moment he is silent, only studying Nuala's face... but before long he sets the bottle aside, finds a clean place on the rag to wipe his fingers (they're not particularly dirty, it's mostly a courtesy), and gently takes her hand. There is no hesitance in his gestures, but a sort of reverence. Even his voice grows very quiet. «Show me.»

Palm to palm and lacing their fingers together, Nuala's eyes grow distant as she draws the imagery from Tadhg's mind forward to be shared.

(as you will, lady)

The Courts, Summer and Winter, graceful palaces and courtyards, artful pavilions and gardens. Villages and townships, stitched together by roads, bordered by fertile fields, pastures and orchards. Wilderness in the form of vast grasslands, thick and ancient forests, jagged mountains with intricate cavern systems beneath. Pockets of even wilder strangeness, odd places where magic pools and dances its surroundings into all manner of chaos, so that even the fae rarely venture near.

And juxtaposed sharply against these are pictures of the very few places in Faerie that Tadhg thinks of as home ... chief among these is his grandfather's sprawling western keep, but also the dwellings of one or three old friends and teachers, and the fair yet tricksy house that is the Puck's demesne, maintaining itself in its master's absence.

And the people ... not only the High Fae, the Dé Danann and those of the courts of Erenn, Annfwyn, and others, but the sylphs, merrows, dullahans, sprites, boggarts and myriad others, all the elemental beings who had ever populated the dreams and nightmares of humankind, countless creatures now named mythological in the mortal realm.

Nuala holds on.

Nuada watches his sister's fingers curl with his, then lifts his gaze to her face, but his intent to watch her throughout their connection quickly folds beneath the vision's intense clarity. His eyes close. Pictures and notions fill his mind, the tour of this strange and wondrous land mingles with all that Nuala feels for it, and his hand tightens faintly around hers. By the link and the imagery, the incredible nostalgia of it, the yearning in these sights and in the moment itself, he is utterly overwhelmed. He does not move, or speak, but expresses his ache only through a quiet breath.

In silence, the images fade and her mind draws back to herself (as far from his as it ever is). Her thoughts and her feelings are easily seen on her face; what could have and isn't. It's beautiful - it's so beautiful, she guards the memory of someone else's memory in her mind like something precious - and it hurts like physical ache, too.

She thinks perhaps it's like that, a little, where their mother is - she can't quite form those words aloud.

«Such a place...» Nuada whispers, and in his troubled frown there is no memory of the generosity he shared with her only moments ago. Head bowed, he opens his eyes, but does not look to her immediately; she can see that his eyelids are moving, that he glances here and there, as if a means to express his thoughts will be found in the space between them. Presently, his hand relaxes and his chin lifts. There is no hint of pleasure in his face. «Why do you show this to me?»

Nuala pulls her hand back to her lap, the question leaving her momentarily without an answer. {Perhaps-} she hesitates, and then again with less uncertainty, {Perhaps it could be a place such as that we find.}

It's not a bad idea, really, but it is something she just pulled out of thin air. She showed him because she didn't quite know what else to do with it.

No, it isn't a bad idea. Not at all. They are, after all, now abiding in a world of seemingly endless possibility. «Perhaps so. And if no such realm is open to us, let us foster one of our own.»

He reaches to her, likely encouraged by the momentary strength of their link—and unless she moves, his hand will rest where her shoulder meets her neck, his palm over her clavicle, his thumb resting lightly on the pulse of her throat. «If that is your wish, my sister, you shall have it.» A note of grief lingers in his voice, balanced by resolve.

With a faint exhalation that never quite manages to be a full sigh, Nuala lays her own hand on Nuada's wrist, looking up toward him. {It is.}

Sharing grief that's so tangled with blame - their own, on both sides - is never going to be easy. Maybe it's promising that there's still any hint of instinct to reach for each other; maybe that's just something else she'll still fight with him over later.

Perhaps it's both, as they so often seem to work in parallels and contradiction.

Nuada smiles a thin, measured smile. His thumb moves slowly across the smooth skin beneath it. And again. «Tell me of the one who gave you these visions.»

{Tadhg MacEibhir,} Nuala recalls his name, bringing to mind his face. He'd been only a little taller than she is - hardly at all - and seemed to her kind-hearted, respectful. {He is young yet-} a human might disagree, but by fae reckoning, {-and the old wars were long before his time.}

"Ahh..." Well, youth easily explains this Tadhg's willingness to share with a stranger the details of what Nuada perceives to be a most valuable secret. (That and/or Nuala's big, shiny eyes.)

«Did he show you the way to reach this land, or just the sight of it?»

{I asked only for the sight of it,} Nuala admits, tucking her skirts around her where she sits with her free hand. {He had great respect,} she adds, thoughtfully, {the sort we don't often see here. He knelt before me until I permitted him to rise.}

«Good.» At least someone knows his manners around this bloody place. This doesn't exactly improve Nuada's opinion of the Nexus on the whole, but it doesn't hurt. «Perhaps he can assist us, then. I would very much like to see this land with my own eyes.»

It's probably time to remove his hand from his sister's throat. But will he? No.

{It would be very interesting.} Maybe they'd have a better idea of what they're looking for, at least...Faerie itself seems too close to what they were strictly forbidden, to Nuala's eye, but she's understandably reluctant to outright argue with him when he's got his hand on her throat that way, hovering between comforting and just unsettling.

(Perhaps those barriers won't matter, in other worlds. Still-)

{There must be many such lands here,} she adds, thoughtfully, pulling on his wrist to disentangle herself and rise.

She is free to slip away, of course—his fingers may linger as long as they can, slipping gently from her rather than simply lifting away, but Nuada will not hold her in place. (This time.)

«It does seem likely. Such a vast place...» While she stands, he remains seated and straightens his posture. «There must be some alternative to this inn. They have been kind to us here, but I would like to secure a property as soon as possible... however it may be possible here.» Whatever his sister is doing in the meantime, the prince watches her do it, and leans back to rest his weight on his arms. Is he actually relaxing? Possibly! «I have noticed the habit of bartering among these people...»

Observe: elves at rest, or something like it. Nuala's slipping off the light day coat she'd worn out, smoothing it with her hands and hanging it with the rest of her clothes. {I suppose in a place so vast and varied, 'worth' is most of all what you need,} she notes, producing ribbon from her slowly growing collection and sitting down to tie her hair back in a neat, decorative braid. {The sooner we are settled, the better - I agree.}

«Yes, worth... or the promise of worthy deeds.»

Nuada now aims a critical eye at the spinning wheel, and, after a pause, furrows his brow just faintly. Soon enough, the rag is back in his hand, and he's leaning forward to fuss with the wheel itself. «There are notice boards in several of the squares, here. Offers of temporary employment... mercenary work and such things.» Nuada has no idea how she's going to take this suggestion. Let's find out!

Nuala's fingers still against the ribbon in her hair. {Mercenary work,} she echoes, looking at him over her hands. Her tone isn't quite disapproving, but it is a little flat. It takes her a moment to start moving again while she considers what he's saying, letting her gaze drift up to the ceiling to look at nothing in particular and just think.

In the meantime, Nuada is working the dust out of these grooves, here. He sees no reason to be concerned by this idea, obviously, being well aware of his own capability in matters of war. «mmn. Much of my time in exile was spent in such service.» There's only so much learning one can do on his own, after all; nothing hones a martial skill like the field itself.

Her lips purse and she falls silent for a short while, twisting her hair with mindless ease as busywork. Certainly Nuala has no real doubt about her brother's expertise - but she worries. (If she were more selfish she might name how much it hurts when he goes into battle and comes away with an injury as an objection, but it's been true for many years and she's borne it before.)

{If you think it's best,} she says eventually.

He has thought of that, naturally—but then, given how long they've both been alive, and the number of scarring wounds he's acquired in all that time, it seems like something of a rare occurrence. Bruising blows, on the other hand, and the other aches that come with such strenuous work... well, maybe she doesn't feel those so strongly.

At any rate, regardless of whether or not Nuada does think it's best: «I've already arranged to trade my skills for a favour.» He's still not quite looking at her. —No, there's a glance. «In the morning.»

Distance tends to dull how sharply it goes from one to the other, at least. Irritating without incapacitating, and one doesn't grow up with a twin brother of any sort without learning how to cope with irritation, surely.

Such as now.

{Tomorrow morning?} Nuala ties off the end of her braid and turns with her hands on the back of her seat to face him properly. The barrage of questions - with whom, where is he going, why didn't he tell her earlier, what is he doing - is communicated more in bursts of impression before she forms any words.

«Yes, tomorrow. Early.» He will be gone before Nuala awakens, most likely, unless she keeps odd hours these days (he does, sometimes).

One, two more little buffs, and then he simply rests his hand with the rag against the spinning wheel. He is calm when he replies, and yet seems on the verge of impatience—he never did take kindly to being asked to explain himself, even if her questions are thus far unspoken. «Do not concern yourself with the details. This is a trivial matter, and it should end quickly.»

Meanwhile, he hasn't even had proper armour made. (That's part of the deail.)

Nuala expects he'll be gone before she rises; she doesn't laze long, but her hours aren't that unusual. She watches him, aware of the edge toward impatience and pursing her lips tightly together while she decides how to proceed. {I worry for you, my brother, you must forgive me.}

And it had been a strange moment, there in the throne room with her hand to her face- but she pushes the thought away for now.

{Please be careful.}

«I am always careful.» Even as he says it, he knows full well it isn't true. He did not inherit his impetuousness from their father, that's for sure, but it's in his spirit all the same. «As I said, sister, this is hardly worth your anxiety. I'll be gone only until the evening, at the latest.» This assumption he makes will prove true, but not without a few close calls for his complacency.

«Come, now, let us discuss it no further.»

...for his wholly untrue assertion, Nuada gets a fascinating little look from his sister, but otherwise she manages to leave it be. {Very well.} Even if he's not always careful, there was at least a time when she did share his pride in his skills. (It's a little like holding the past and present in each hand and trying to make something out of them.)

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{log} you find all your ugly meanings in the things i find beautiful

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