Angelo and Illyana, Sunday, April 8
Apr. 8th, 2007 07:07 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsA breaking point. Angelo helps Illyana, though he doesn't know how much.
October, 2006
The landscape - such as it was - was ruined. Torn apart. She’d done it not ten minutes ago, and the dust had already settled back over the horizon. They were gone - for now.
Her landscape, she thought, dispassionately. Her dead trees and her dusty desert, her mountains. Funny to own all these things. Funny to fight for what was essentially a wasteland. Even the old garden was gone, now. She didn’t visit it, much; it was too sentimental.
Would it really be so bad, to give it all up?
She leaned back against a marble pillar, surveying the barren land. It felt integral; tied up in her hands and her feet, and paid for in blood - so much blood. All those times. And yet - the wind picked up, as though the place sensed her thoughts - could she do without it?
And do what? Go back to school?
They would come after her. It was only a matter of time, if she gave it up, before she was running for her life - or bleeding for a ritual that would erase any possibility of normalcy. Erase it for everyone. She’d seen flashes of what was waiting on the other side of the emptiness in her soul, what had pushed against those hard edges for so long. Despair without end. The real kind; not some watered-down human version, but its beginning and end.
She looked over the courtyard, down toward a corner she tried to avoid, when she could. The stains there had never come off, not with magic, not with physical labour, not with time. Remnants of childhood nightmares, as she thought of them, when she thought of any of that at all.
And she’d promised someone who was buried here that she wouldn’t let it happen again.
It was true that she had to keep this place; but it was hard to want it. And harder every day.
It wasn't uncommon to see Angelo out in the grounds, with or without Joyita - even if it was just on his way to the boathouse. He didn't have the dog with him today as he stopped, blinking, at the rather less common sight of Illyana, sitting by the lakeside. This was the first time he could remember seeing her outside the house in... months, at least.
She didn't notice him at first; she'd come out here for the closest thing to peace and quiet you could even -get- in this place, and had spent a good two hours staring out over the lake and seeing nothing but dead ends. Turning everything over in her head, piece by piece. Trying not to think about how bad things were, how bad they could get - and failing. She tensed visibly, surprised, when she saw Angelo standing there, and the tension twinged against all her bruises, wrecking her concentration. That was her least favourite thing about Earth. Too many people against whom you had to defend yourself. "Hi," she said finally, unenthusiastically.
His own greeting wasn't much warmer, though not really hostile. "Hey. I was just..." He gestured beyond her, to the boathouse.
"Right," she said, with some comprehension. He worked there, right? "I was just – sitting. By the lake." Damn. Like she was supposed to be narrating it for him. She picked at a piece of lint on her jeans. "I was just, um, trying to figure out an assignment. You know how it is." He probably wouldn't be able to figure out she was lying. This stuff – had she really used to kind of enjoy it? Now it made her head hurt.
He had no reason to think she even might be lying, if he'd given it any real thought - which he also had no particular reason to do. "Right. Guess I'll leave you to it, then."
"Hey," Illyana said, straightening with inspiration. "Wait. You do research, don't you? Down at the – place." She waved in the general direction of the boathouse.
He turned back, looking at her a little more curiously. "That's one of the things we do, yeah. Why?"
"Um," she said. "Well, like I said, I'm doing an assignment. For school. And we're supposed to be learning 'research skills'." She put it into air quotes, trying to recapture the feeling of conversation, the sarcasm. "And I was just wondering – you know, how do you do it? Being a professional at it." Her tone didn't border on flattering – he'd see through that in a second, and it wasn't in her to flatter him, anyway. She tried to make it
seem more like he was just in the convenient place at the convenient time; if he blew her off, she could just look elsewhere.
It was a good choice on her part - there was still nothing even vaguely suspicious about her approach. He considered for a moment. "Well, it... depends what you're researchin'. 's not somethin' you can really explain in twenty words or less."
Of course it wasn't. That would be easy. Nothing was ever easy – but she had to push the self-pity away and focus. How had things got so bad that she'd taken to asking Angelo freaking Espinosa for intellectual advice? She dug her heels into the ground. "Well, the assignment's on – the south of France. In World War II. There was a whole thing . . . that doesn't matter. We're supposed to be finding original sources, apparently it's educational or something. And since you do – that kind of – thing – with the computer. Well." Her teacher probably would have been impressed that she knew that France was –in- World War II, but that didn't matter so much. Were they even still studying World War II in that class?
"Original sources. Books, or other kinds of sources? I mean, like letters, newspapers...?" He didn't even seem to be enjoying her coming to him for advice.
"Uh, books," she said. "Books written about it. At the time. That kind of thing." It was official: The world had turned on its axis. She sounded like an idiot, and he sounded like a person.
"Okay", he said with a nod. "Your first step'd be to look up bibliographies, then. There shouldn't be any shortage of them, for a subject like that."
Damn. Bibliographies. "Right," she said. On the other hand – she paused for a long moment, something clicking in the back of her head. February 11, 1984 - Today we saw a fearsome place, with the statue of a crying woman in a place of honour - would it say where the guy came from? It had to, didn’t it? Otherwise it was plagiarism. "Right," she said again, more thoughtfully. She didn't have her books – what she thought of as her books – but maybe the history one would be helpful. Why hadn’t she thought of that? "Well – I hadn't thought of that. Thanks."
That - actual politeness, to him, from Illyana? - got a faintly startled look before he covered it up. "You're welcome. Hope it works out."
She caught his look and cursed herself just a little bit, though she was going to keep that thoughtful-yet-distant look on her face if it killed her. "Yeah," she said, looking back out over the water. Then, half to herself: "Yeah. Me, too."
October, 2006
The landscape - such as it was - was ruined. Torn apart. She’d done it not ten minutes ago, and the dust had already settled back over the horizon. They were gone - for now.
Her landscape, she thought, dispassionately. Her dead trees and her dusty desert, her mountains. Funny to own all these things. Funny to fight for what was essentially a wasteland. Even the old garden was gone, now. She didn’t visit it, much; it was too sentimental.
Would it really be so bad, to give it all up?
She leaned back against a marble pillar, surveying the barren land. It felt integral; tied up in her hands and her feet, and paid for in blood - so much blood. All those times. And yet - the wind picked up, as though the place sensed her thoughts - could she do without it?
And do what? Go back to school?
They would come after her. It was only a matter of time, if she gave it up, before she was running for her life - or bleeding for a ritual that would erase any possibility of normalcy. Erase it for everyone. She’d seen flashes of what was waiting on the other side of the emptiness in her soul, what had pushed against those hard edges for so long. Despair without end. The real kind; not some watered-down human version, but its beginning and end.
She looked over the courtyard, down toward a corner she tried to avoid, when she could. The stains there had never come off, not with magic, not with physical labour, not with time. Remnants of childhood nightmares, as she thought of them, when she thought of any of that at all.
And she’d promised someone who was buried here that she wouldn’t let it happen again.
It was true that she had to keep this place; but it was hard to want it. And harder every day.
It wasn't uncommon to see Angelo out in the grounds, with or without Joyita - even if it was just on his way to the boathouse. He didn't have the dog with him today as he stopped, blinking, at the rather less common sight of Illyana, sitting by the lakeside. This was the first time he could remember seeing her outside the house in... months, at least.
She didn't notice him at first; she'd come out here for the closest thing to peace and quiet you could even -get- in this place, and had spent a good two hours staring out over the lake and seeing nothing but dead ends. Turning everything over in her head, piece by piece. Trying not to think about how bad things were, how bad they could get - and failing. She tensed visibly, surprised, when she saw Angelo standing there, and the tension twinged against all her bruises, wrecking her concentration. That was her least favourite thing about Earth. Too many people against whom you had to defend yourself. "Hi," she said finally, unenthusiastically.
His own greeting wasn't much warmer, though not really hostile. "Hey. I was just..." He gestured beyond her, to the boathouse.
"Right," she said, with some comprehension. He worked there, right? "I was just – sitting. By the lake." Damn. Like she was supposed to be narrating it for him. She picked at a piece of lint on her jeans. "I was just, um, trying to figure out an assignment. You know how it is." He probably wouldn't be able to figure out she was lying. This stuff – had she really used to kind of enjoy it? Now it made her head hurt.
He had no reason to think she even might be lying, if he'd given it any real thought - which he also had no particular reason to do. "Right. Guess I'll leave you to it, then."
"Hey," Illyana said, straightening with inspiration. "Wait. You do research, don't you? Down at the – place." She waved in the general direction of the boathouse.
He turned back, looking at her a little more curiously. "That's one of the things we do, yeah. Why?"
"Um," she said. "Well, like I said, I'm doing an assignment. For school. And we're supposed to be learning 'research skills'." She put it into air quotes, trying to recapture the feeling of conversation, the sarcasm. "And I was just wondering – you know, how do you do it? Being a professional at it." Her tone didn't border on flattering – he'd see through that in a second, and it wasn't in her to flatter him, anyway. She tried to make it
seem more like he was just in the convenient place at the convenient time; if he blew her off, she could just look elsewhere.
It was a good choice on her part - there was still nothing even vaguely suspicious about her approach. He considered for a moment. "Well, it... depends what you're researchin'. 's not somethin' you can really explain in twenty words or less."
Of course it wasn't. That would be easy. Nothing was ever easy – but she had to push the self-pity away and focus. How had things got so bad that she'd taken to asking Angelo freaking Espinosa for intellectual advice? She dug her heels into the ground. "Well, the assignment's on – the south of France. In World War II. There was a whole thing . . . that doesn't matter. We're supposed to be finding original sources, apparently it's educational or something. And since you do – that kind of – thing – with the computer. Well." Her teacher probably would have been impressed that she knew that France was –in- World War II, but that didn't matter so much. Were they even still studying World War II in that class?
"Original sources. Books, or other kinds of sources? I mean, like letters, newspapers...?" He didn't even seem to be enjoying her coming to him for advice.
"Uh, books," she said. "Books written about it. At the time. That kind of thing." It was official: The world had turned on its axis. She sounded like an idiot, and he sounded like a person.
"Okay", he said with a nod. "Your first step'd be to look up bibliographies, then. There shouldn't be any shortage of them, for a subject like that."
Damn. Bibliographies. "Right," she said. On the other hand – she paused for a long moment, something clicking in the back of her head. February 11, 1984 - Today we saw a fearsome place, with the statue of a crying woman in a place of honour - would it say where the guy came from? It had to, didn’t it? Otherwise it was plagiarism. "Right," she said again, more thoughtfully. She didn't have her books – what she thought of as her books – but maybe the history one would be helpful. Why hadn’t she thought of that? "Well – I hadn't thought of that. Thanks."
That - actual politeness, to him, from Illyana? - got a faintly startled look before he covered it up. "You're welcome. Hope it works out."
She caught his look and cursed herself just a little bit, though she was going to keep that thoughtful-yet-distant look on her face if it killed her. "Yeah," she said, looking back out over the water. Then, half to herself: "Yeah. Me, too."
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