The Same Old Fears

[rassafraggin]

The sea and shore are the same as before. Golden-white sand shading toward the crystalline white that wave-washed gypsum tends toward. A stump has been uncovered, water sculpted and wave whitened. Maggie is seated on the stump, her arms crossed over one knee while the foot rests where the bark should be. The other foot is on the sand. She looks out to sea, her expression less tense, perhaps, but more uncertain.

Gradually, though in dream the term 'gradual' is a nebulous concept, the familiar conditions begin to warp the edges of the seascape. A distant gathering of clouds shield the origin of the coral-branch which lances down to split the sky in twain before crumbling in a shower of pale gold dust. A mist rises in a veil across the eastern(?) horizon, and in the opposite direction, there is a ghost of a sail, winking in and out of view like swamp gas.

Maggie watches the coral lancing down, wincing as it shatters. That familiar pang touches her heart and she blows a kiss toward the coral. But, she turns toward the direction her mind calls east and watches for those sails. This time, she holds his name in her mind. This time it is not Kerf but Lirre. Even though she does not call it aloud, she sends it with a push of air that is supposed to circle 'round to push the Eclipse here.

With or without the encouragement of the wind, the wall of fog falls away in faint swirls, blending into the sky, nothing revealed beyond the veil. It is the Eclipse which drops anchor off the coast, appearing without further preamble as time freewheels to bring the two dreams together. This time, however, Lirre merely glances over the white sands from the forecastle, supported by one hand caught up in the lines of rigging. Zeroing in quickly on Maggie, he studies her in silent inquiry and an already palpable mistrust. His justacorps is strikingly absent.

And what does one say to someone who may recall being rejected for an idealized someone who turned out to be nothing more than a charming respite from pain? So nice, but insubstantial, ephemeral in the end. She rises from her stump, hands moving to dust off her behind. Her hand lifts, "I am sorry. I did not understand." She almost hesitates, noting the changes in the man and his home, "May I come aboard? Or will you join me?"

He tilts his head over her apology, somewhat perplexed, and thrown figuratively off balance. Compressing his lips in resolve, he shakes his head slowly. "I can hear you fine, from where I am... Flame." His smirk falters a moment in the speaking of that name, as though dredging through then snagged upon a memory long sunken. Another headshake, to free himself. "What... brings you by these waters, after so many years? To say.. you're sorry?"

Years. She steps back, almost staggering in her shock. The hand falls and she stares at him. Time does not pass here as it does there. He had warned her. She listened, but... dismissed his concern as something they would overcome together. Her head and heart throb in pain when he finds not 'Maggie' but 'Flame'. His name flutters through her, whispering for release. But a vow was given. Another vow. So long ago. Lirre. Son of Lir, unless she is wrong. Who knows with Rebman names anyway?

Stepping forward, a new resolve rising within, she lifts her head, "You call me 'Flame' instead of Maggie?" Clearly. Nodding, she softens her tone, "For me, it has been only weeks. Years in seeming, but not in actuality." Again, she lowers her voice, perhaps to cause him to listen harder. Perhaps not. The other hand lifts, "Lirre. Come back to me." A risk. A vow broken. But in Dreaming. Perhaps that will not matter in the waking world.

Of course he calls her by her moniker. Hasn't he always, barring the odd moment of absolute distraction? After scrutinizing her reaction to his words, undeniably interested in spite of his reticence, Lirre frowns in a response of his own. Weeks. He wrestles with that, green eyes a-glitter. "I'm right here," he points out in an irritable growl.

Maggie frowns, her gaze never leaving his face. She touches the tip of her tongue to her lips, the gesture an old, almost forgotten one that signifies distraction, deep thought and uncertainty. "You are. And you are not. You have forgotten much and I do not know how to remind you." The pain in her tone is dull, throbbing and consuming. "Well, then... so be it. But I will never forget you, never let go and never stop fighting for us." Even though the only contribution she can make is to remember.

"I remember your impatience," says Lirre suddenly, after hearing her out. "That hasn't changed much, has it?" Whatever his reluctance might be in keeping them respectively apart on ship and shore, he does seem more than willing to chat across that distance.

Maggie says, "Impatience?" Her gaze finally leaves his face to seek memory or to measure his against her own feelings, "I don't recall impatience so much as impulsiveness. I suppose they could be the same thing seen from different perspectives." Her arms fold defensively over her chest, though. "What else do you remember?" Curiosity hangs there, masking a resurgence of trepidation.

He closes his eyes. Even considering the distance, some of the hard weariness fades visibly from his unshaven features. "A fine dancer, just like your ship." His tone is softer too, but not that she has to strain to hear the words.

Maggie twitches the first hint of a smile though whether at the memory or the softening of his weariness is uncertain and unstated. She probably could not definitively say either. "You as well." A rock finds its way near enough to sit on, so she does so. One leg is again drawn up, her hands clasping around the knee as she leans back. Settling in, it would seem, "Do you remember where we danced?" She has not forgotten, as far as she knows, though it is possible. Her tone is coaxing rather than insistent, soft and warm, waiting.

Lirre smiles slightly at the reciprocated compliment, some bitterness to it, though that look only restores youth instead of retracting. "Yes. Do you?" He opens his eyes to tease her with their jeweled flashing, observing her settled in upon the rock. "Since you don't remember the impatience which put an end to a festive evening... well, my evening." He is far from reliving the traumas that pivotal memory, still taken up by the balance of its pleasures.

Maggie inhales slowly, her head lifting a bit, "Ah, that impatience." A flicker of a blush or a flush touches her cheeks, "I was impatient then, wasn't I? I thought you were referring to something else." A hand lifts, though the other remains around her knee, "But never mind. Yes, I do remember when we danced." She blinks twice, her eyes finding his. "It was the party when your father's new flagship was unveiled and added to the fleet." There is more. So much more. Sort of tumbling about in her brain. It could spill out... Another time it might have. "Do you remember the music?" The youth that returns to him warms her gaze, though she does not make mention of it.

Lirre glances more sharply at her, suspicion overshadowing his eyes. "Of course. But it wasn't my father's ship. Nor the man who might have become my father, but for..." He shakes his head, concluding simply, "I was no relation to that family, Flame." The error doesn't seem to hold his pique, though. Releasing the line of rigging, he puts one boot to the lower rail, and leans into his raised knee, almost mirroring her posture.

Maggie's tone softens again, "I know. But I don't remember if I knew then. I lost my memory a while back," she does not pause, does not elaborate. It does not matter beyond the fact of it. Not now. "Some memories still come hard to me. Some may never return. But... I do remember dancing with you. I remember the lights and the music." The smile that started pauses with her words and fades out, "And I remember being a real..." A few choice words slip through her mind, perhaps reflected in her eyes. She lowers them as a shoulder lifts in a slow, partial shrug, "I was not a very good person back then... I remember being really nasty to both of you. Then I did not look for either of you afterwards. I know that you made enough of an impression and I know that there were reasons for that failure, Lirre. But, I should have looked..." She sighs, the confession quiet still. "I should have even so. I am sorry for my part in what happened."

Maggie says, "Well..." She smiles a bit, "Except the dance..." Her eyes sparkle a little and the smile warms, "I'm not sorry about that."

Lirre regards her, then drops his gaze with a pained grimace. "Please, don't..." he starts, then shakes his head again. "I do not wish to speak of it anymore." And the precious memory returns to its vault. Turning his face to cool his skin with the itinerant breeze, he considers the lay of the land, seeking clues to inlets or coves, maybe. "Why did you say weeks, since we last met? Can you be sure it was me?"

Maggie sighs, her gaze lowering to focus on the sand in front of her booted foot. The water rises and hisses away like the beating of a heart or the breath of the world. A hand lifts to wipe at her cheek, then falls to curl again around her knee. Please don't. The words echo in her head, whirling around for a moment before dying away. His voice does not draw her attention back initially. though when he finishes speaking, she begins, "Because for me it was only a few weeks." Drawing in a breath, she looks up at last, anguish echoing in her eyes. The answer to the final question is harder to come by. It would be easier if she was someone else. Someone without Oberon's blood in her veins. "No. I can't be sure. But you might be able to tell me that. Are you the Captain Merrisol who nearly threw me off of your ship when we collided with something and I vanished? Are you the Captain Merrisol who teased me, Raphaela and Miriam when we tried to meet with you and Sorensen? Do you recall those meetings?" There is no accusation in her tone, though there is weariness. Her breath catches, for there is another question hanging in the air, unspoken, but clearly thought.

Eyes narrowing over the brief descriptions, he starts to nod before she's done. "Yes, I did those things. Years ago," he reiterates, frowning. "Not that the Eclipse collided, so much as it was struck by a deafening blast from my brother's infernal sound machine." A sour eyeroll accompanies that claim. "I remember both times well. You were real."

Maggie nods, "And for me, that was only weeks ago." She frowns over a detail unremembered. Shaking her head, she lifts a hand as though to fend off the discrepancy as a fault in her own memory. "I was real, yes. As real as I am now. And as then, I will vanish when I wake back in the other place." She pauses for a moment, before speaking again, "I remember that you said that time was passing faster than I understood." Her upper teeth pull at her lower lip, then release as she comes to a decision. "You know... There have been times when I was afraid of you."

Lirre puzzles briefly, brows raising up. Had he said such a thing? It isn't that important, in the face of her other implications, and then her latter statement pulls his focus from those as well. "I don't know if I have ever glimpsed fear in those eyes," he remarks, then hup, he steps high to balance upon the rail, casually gauging the distance to the shallows.

Maggie glances up at him, but only briefly. Her eyes lower as she huffs a faint hint of laughter through her nose. It is not quite silent, but might not be heard over the soft hush of the surf. "Like I would show fear..." The whisper of pride or recklessness or inexorable certainty holds for only an instant before fading away to allow a self-deprecating sort of humanity room to grow, "Doesn't mean that I don't feel it, though." Her leg begins an abortive swing that knocks her heel against the stone twice before stopping again. Hearing a change in the ship or that hup, she looks up to see him poised on the rail. Shifting to one side, she makes room on the stone. Just in case.

He accepts that statement as necessary truth, tipping her a nod, before he sort of weebles in place, gyrating to restore balance. He smirks once surefooted again, peers to see if she was looking, then makes the leap for the shallows. A dreamsplash later, he is wading up through the pebbled silt while the shadowy ship's crew hoists anchor while bearing for deeper waters.

Was she looking? Did she see that sort-of-adorable-weeble? If so, she looked down again before he looked to see. She definitely looks up as the dreamsplash sounds, the patter of droplets splishing the sand sounding almost like rain. Her brow lifts when his ship, crewed by dreamghosts or the memory of people, turns for a safer anchorage. The imagery of seeking deeper waters strikes a chord, (a deep one, naturally), and she huffs that almost-not-laugh once more. A huff in the wind. Without the wind. Her attention shifts from the shadowy ship to the solid Captain. Watching the way he moves, drinking it silently into her core, she lilts a half smile as the rock she perches on is revealed to be big enough for two if facing the arch of the beach rather than the shore itself. She could lift a hand to him, invite him to join her, but she does not. The gesture was given before. Perhaps before she had earned it. This time, she nods once in a greeting both heartfelt and tentative. She turns a glance to the stone, turning the greeting to invitation.

Nonchalantly he strolls on up to the spot he had rejected earlier, arms held behind his back. Without the red coat, nothing ostentatious distracts from his tall trim form in buff, gold, and tan. A coordinated gentleman, if somewhat windblown and too long at sea without a proper laundry. Golden grizzle scratches down his jaw and chin. Without smiling back, his manner conveys the spike of pulse when Maggie indicates the extra place upon her rock reserved for him. A short tug at his sword belt, and it slides free, tossed to the sand with the cutlass and holstered pistol, after which he looks down his shoulder at her, pausing like he still has a choice in the matter. With a huff of his own, he settles down onto the spot, still a quarter-turned away from her. Their shoulders touch, his elbow jostles hers here and there while he works on pulling out of his wet boots. "It was the anger in me, I suppose. That frightened you so," he offers between the first and second.

Maggie watches him as he approaches. How can she not when he moves that way. Her gaze floats down his form, taking note of the cut of his jib. The coordination in his clothing is noted though without real surprise. By the time he is close enough to claim or reject her offer, she has gained a flush to her cheeks. Noting his weaponry as he sheds it, she wonders only briefly where her own sword and pistol might be. But as it is an idle thought, they do not materialize. Idle, but important, she tucks it away for consideration later. Lifting her gaze from his martial bounty, she looks again at the man himself as he looks down at her. She knows what she wants him to do, knows what she hopes he will do, but it is ultimately his choice. At least in her mind, even if nowhere else. So, when he does sit, she flashes him a quick, relieved and very warm smile. It lasts only as long as a flicker of sunlight from behind a stormcloud though it lightens her heart and her gaze.

Looking back out to sea, she struggles to mask the heat that rises when his shoulder rests against hers and his elbow toys along her arm. That is handily banished when he speaks. Her gaze turns inward, consideration given to situations and circumstances. Slowly, she nods, "Yes. Especially when it is aimed at me." She slides a glance over at him, her head turning to allow her to peer at him. "But it is infuriating when you just... refuse to listen."

Stripped down to bare feet and wet things scattered thattaway in the dune, Lirre stretches out his legs and watches closely the way the sand collects on his skin then falls away grain by grain. The sort of thing one shouldn't do in a dream, lest unreality give itself away and jar one into wakefulness. He eases forward and hunches propped over his thighs, then tips a look over his shoulder at her, blinking over the slight shift in subject. It seems to take him a while to form a response, or more like it takes a while to finally spit out, at the stony shoreline. "I'd lost everything. Everything. The life I had known was gone. Just a tremor of warning, then gone." He creates a slick snapping sound with his fingers. "Like that. The warmth of acceptance, of love.. gone. When we lost that, the peace between my brother and I dissolved, like it had never existed. He blamed me, of course, naturally.. The privileged brat," he mutters with a stale trace of venom. It seems like he hasn't addressed that whole Just Don't Listen remark, but there comes a precarious pause in which he gives her opportunity to don't just listen, herself.

Her gaze shifts from that sidelong, over the shoulder glance to shift between the sea and the sand before falling to focus on her hands. These she folds slowly, holding them in her lap A breeze, unbidden by any conscious thought, whispers through her hair and tickles the sand from his skin. Perhaps, in the past, she might have jumped in with suggestions or proposed solutions but this time she does not. When he falls silent, she lifts her gaze to look over her shoulder. She nods a silent encouragement for him to continue. This time, she chooses to hear.

He cuts his own gaze low and to the side, aware of her movements, the subtle twist in her waist, or the faint increased pressure against his hip by hers. In the extended quiet, the lapping of the tide provides a lulling rhythmic backdrop when he speaks again. "When I heard about the White Tower of the Empress, I knew it was her, Flame. Knew it in every shred of my soul. The one who had given, and then taken it all away," he tells the stones in a haunted whisper. "The Sea Witch. And knowing that, I knew what I must do."

Maggie closes her eyes as awareness of his closeness flashes through her. Again. Rather than jumping in to defend the Queen, she takes the time to pay attention, to listen, and she realizes that although she believes that he is wrong, he is also right. Lifting one hands, she rubs her face twice, then drops her hands. Abandoning her presumptions, her assumptions and prejudices, she sorts through what he has already said, then nods slowly, "Go on, please."

Lirre tenses for a moment as his recollection tells him this is where he and she came into such opposition that talking stopped and shouting started. And rage. At least for him. He watches her shadow warily as she becomes.. agitated? then hunches into his shoulders, glowering inwardly, working his jaw, and clasping his hands in a tight knot of containment... until, blinking slowly, he lifts his head in quiet contemplation of Maggie's gentle words. He lets out a breath, and then fills his lungs slowly. "Well.. that's it, really. My relentless mission, brooking no opposition nor arguments against. All that anger.. was my sword and shield." Propping one hand on the rock, he turns in place, about halfway to sitting properly beside her, and settles with care. Just so that their legs are brushing. "I still have anger.. I will always have it, Flame. After all these years.. about a decade now, I think..? It's worn down. Still enough maybe for one last charge. After that..." He spreads his hands in a nebulous gesture, then reclasps them between his knees, loosely.

Maggie senses his tension, a blush coloring her cheeks. She remembers that conversation and her reaction to his assertion. Her joy in being able to tell him that Moire was not at fault. The hope that it would give him ease was so bright then, so tarnished now in the light of his perspective. Her eyes lower, red-black lashes almost brushing her cheeks as the reality, his reality, layers over her own and snaps into place. Her breathing deepens as she struggles to remain calm, to remain open. Her glance strays to him when he moves, emerald eyes glittering in the light. A shiver races through her when his leg brushes hers, but she makes no move to retreat or press against him. When her breathing centers again, she nods to him, "I understand, I think." Finally? Maybe? At least she is trying. "A decade?" Not the most important part of that, but the most shocking. Her hands unclasp and she lifts one, "Never mind. I believe you." The hand falls slowly to land on her thigh with a soft hush of skin on denim. Her voice is still hushed, the quaver in it not quite hidden in the sound of the sea and the shiver of the breeze. Her hands lift and she singles out three strands of hair, tugging them free. As she sits up, her fingers move in a pattern to weave the hairs into a ring of crimson fire. "I don't... know what to say, Lirre. I did not understand..." When the ring has been completed, she turns. "I can tell you what we are doing, but I do not know if that will help. I..." She clears her throat, tears shimmering in her eyes though none fall. "Hold onto your anger, my beloved Merrisol." The ring lies on her palm, the ripple of the colors in her hair glinting like burnished fire. As she offers it to him, the dream takes it and changes it. By the time the gesture finishes the ring that lies there is braided metal the colors of her hair. Looking at him, eyes wide and earnest, she whispers, "For you. If you will wear it."

A sharp, wary look meets the remarks about the time passage since his estrangement, but he subsides into contemplation rather than give or demand explanation. He is at an easy angle to observe her blushing silence, and all the small acts and mannerisms which entrance him still. They do not invoke memories exactly, but the premonitions of a Past that had been his. Theirs. He does nothing but breathe fragilely, think deeply, and watch her braid her hair strands, until he is bidden to... stay angry? He wakes from his trance, staring still, from the red band to glimmering green eyes, then back to the ring, then back up.

Using his far hand so he may turn more fully towards Maggie, he extends it, palm up, for her offering. "It's all been a dream," he offers his personal realization now in a sigh. That is why the time discrepancy. "I've known it was, but... then I forgot, or, stopped perceiving it. What else could it be, but life, when there is no waking from it?" He drops his gaze back to the ring and notices its new weight and appearance with a faltering frown. Wishing it was still her hair, perhaps, but knowing it might not have permanence if it were. He closes his hand around the hard band, feeling its round bite on his skin.

Maggie expects those demands. Just as he expected her to jump in on Moire's behalf. Her eyes widen slightly when they do not come, when his anger does not flare. Yet. Her lips curve in a smile that is as much shy newness as it is affirmation of old delight. Clearing her throat, she blinks at his surprise, but does not seek to explain unless he bids her to. Not in this faintly fragile accord. She does watch as he turns toward her, the strength of his arm crossing over his chest to reach for her hand. Turning her own hand, she drops the ring into his palm. For her part, her eyes do not drop this time, holding his gaze the entire time.

Only after he closes his hand over the ring does she address his words. Her nod is short, quick and certain, "I believe you are right. It is a dream. I mean..." She frowns, "I mean that you are right. You and Sorensen dream and I dream and see you and wake again. So I am here and gone again. And the time goes by differently. I hope... that the ring will help you remember and hold onto us. We will be together again."

Lirre looks at her oddly as she speaks of the puzzling concept. He starts to smile, but it is one of those smiles that conceals his uncertainty. "So, it's a promise ring?" he teases, then sobers. "Forgive me, Flame, but you have protested my ruthless methods before. Do you now possess the stomach for the exacting boldness, and blood, that it will take to bring down the Tower? There will be no Us until the Witch is gone."

Maggie half laughs, "If you like. A promise ring, then." Her gaze lifts, for here is where they are going to clash again. She just knows it, "I do not know what it will take on this side, Merrisol. I will trust that you and Sorensen will take care of it. I will work on the other side to extract her from our sphere and push her back into her own. I want it to be a coordinated effort." She does not use the word 'attack' though she certainly thought it. For a moment. "But I do not know how to let you know here when I am ready there. I can ask the Princess Miriam to bring me so I can call you. Or..." She glances down at his closed hand, "Perhaps that will help in some way. I do not understand Dream but if we want it together enough, perhaps it will work?"

He watches her narrowly, attempting to process her plan on levels which might translate into coherence. Rolling his shoulders somewhat, he shakes his head, still largely mystified. "I hope you know to be cautious of her, whatever face she wears in your time," he mutters, glowering now. "Do you champion me to her, as you do for her, to me? Because, Flame, I do not see that she is inclined to depart, even in the slightest. The last two times I met my brother's deranged metallic creature in battle, her Tower was there, through the storm and fog. It did not matter that one of us fought in her defense. She smashed through us both with that bolt of fell light from on high." He is up on his feet at that, swiping up his weapons belt as he goes.

Maggie nods, "I do champion you, Merrisol. Both of you. She knows what you are to me. She knows that we are working against time to save all of us. In my time, she is not fighting against this." As she senses him rising, she too stands. Turning to watch him, she knows that he is leaving her dream to take up his own. As she must soon wake to return to her own struggles. For what it is worth, she adds, "I love you, Merrisol."

Looking down, his head tilts slightly and knowingly, as though having caught Maggie red handed, or red mouthed? In a falsehood. He reaches up and without hesitation trails the back of his index finger down her jaw, plucking up a curl of her hair, even while he keeps the ring contained with his other three fingers. His smile is soft as his voice as he replies, "Then why won't you choose me?" He leaves that tenacious question with her and everything else behind in the sand as he turns and strides into the surf, towards the ship now bringing about on the waves.

His look tugs at her heart. The touch of his finger down her jaw flashes heat through her. She loves him. She wants him. She even needs him. But she makes no move to hinder him. There is an answer to that question. One that she knows but he may not. One that she will not utter here and, perhaps, not there either. She watches him stride into the surf, watches the ship come to claim him, to carry him away from her, back to the dream he shares with Sorensen and, occasionally, Moire. Leaping on the stone, she stands where she can watch him for as long as her dream sight will allow. Salt spray and tears blur her vision in the end. A gasping, shuddering sob tears through her, ripping her from this place to take her to the other.