Sheryl A. Knowles - Paper & Pixels tarot card




Tarot Campaign

Interlude          Dreams & Delusions: Waif

Paris stood looking into the dark hellish mirror, looking at herself. There seemed to be a warp in the lower section, her reflection shifted from muscle-bound to emaciated and back again as she moved. But her face remained: hair, too unruly; cheek bones, too sharp; mouth, too small; nose, too up-tipped; jaw, too mannish; eyes ... somehow the eyes didn't seem right although, clearly, it was her reflection. "See yourself," the Devil's voice snaked through her mind. The eyes looked - and she realized that they were her mother's eyes, dull, empty, as they had been after papa died. She gave a tiny sigh. But Ewen was waiting for her to be ready, so she reached for the box of makeup and started applying the lovely lying fairy-princess face as Lorraine had taught her.

Her hand paused, the brush poised over her cheek. Yes. She had seen it. A flickering in her hair. Slowly the flickering increased like sparks or bits of flame. As her chest grew tighter and tighter, she could see in the mirror that her skin was taking on a metallic sheen. It was becoming hard to breathe. She caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror, movement behind her. Ewen. His voice came softly, "And I pray every night that the woman of fire and steel loves me." The metallic face in the mirror smiled as its hair burst into flame. Paris threw up her hand to ward off the heat and, suddenly, the woman in the mirror shouldered her aside, pushing into her space, forcing her to step -- into the mirror.

Paris found herself inside the mirror looking out as the metallic Paris was enfolded in Ewen's arms. Softly he said, "Please, always come back in a puff of magic." The metallic woman lifted her lips to Ewen's. "That's not me!" Paris tried to scream - but there was no air left in the mirror. Everything warped and grew dark.

Paris jerked herself awake. Hobbes, reacting to her movement rolled off the edges of her cloak, easing the constriction wrapped around her. Apparently the lion had decided to doze off between her and Rhori. She glanced over. Mia was sleeping peacefully on the other side. Paris breathed deeply, shakily, and settled down again so to not disturb the Watch. But it was easier to lie still than to solicit sleep again.

"A dream. Just a dream," Serious said.

"I wish Ewen were here to hold Paris," Real moaned.

"You were the one who said that he liked both sides of us," Serious grumbled, "so who is it that thinks he wants a fake Paris?"

"You!?!"

"Not I," Serious shook her head. "Ewen is an honourable man. He has had time to know what he wants. He respects us. He is my comrade. I am the one who will see us through even if he decides that we will not suit his barony, his family, his long-term needs. I am our strength, there if he needs it."

"There to frighten away any man with less self-assurance than Ewen, at any rate," tossed back Real. "He is the man who wants our love! Sometimes I think that you have got to be fake. No one should be that willing to stand alone."

"Not alone. It simply takes strength to hang on until one is not alone. You know that," admonished Serious. "You, after all, are the one who enjoys hiding behind the paint pots."

R: "It is not hiding. Paris looks beautiful when she uses what Lorraine taught us. We are graceful. We can be pleasing. We can look quite as fetching as Calais - without simpering or being other than Paris."

S: "Well, somebody thinks otherwise. Somebody was there for the Devil to tempt. If not you...?"

"Me?" the voice was low, small and very, very hoarse. As the two watched, the folds of Real's gown reflected in the mirror of Serious' shield shivered and a scrawny figure stepped out of the reflection into the space between them. It might have been 8 or 10, more a plucked crane than a child, knobby and malnourished.

"Waif!?!" Serious was shocked. "We outgrew you years ago. What are you doing here?"

The voice was tiny, easily over-whelmed. "you couldn't take the time to outgrow me. Too much that had to be done." It turned towards Real. "Too much that needed to be experienced. But you have long shadows. It's been easy to stick around. Until Paris understands that she is not the things I am, I will always be the uncertainty that you will be unseated, that you may never be worthy, that you may never actually grow up into something worthwhile."


Behind Waif she could see the Pit, filled with the memories of all the terrors she remembered, growing and widening, soon to engulf them all. Looking ridiculous to Genelle, trying to read and not being able to keep up. The anger in Papa's eyes when she had knocked over the table he was building. Disappointing Maman by not being strong enough to keep the farm going after Papa died. The time she thought Claude Miller had caught Calais taking his things, when her brother was only hiding from some work. Nearly dying at the pool as the orc riders attacked, her friends dying as well, failing her Prince, the Duke, her friends...

Involuntarily she jumped when the hand settled on her shoulder. "But that's not what you think of when I kiss you, I hope," Ewen's voice said with a smile. He looked around, and walked over to Serious. "I'm pleased to meet you, Steel," he said, bowing formally to her. "And you must be fire," he said, taking Real Girl's hand and kissing it gently. "And you," he grunted, lifting Waif up to carry her like Papa had long ago, "the vulnerable one I saw when you were last in Westmore. The one I wished I could pick up and help with a hug." He turned back to Paris, still carrying the child in one arm as he slipped the other around Paris' waist. "Pleased to meet you all."

For a moment the two of them looked at the Pit. With a little surprise, Paris noted that it had stopped growing. "All that happened before," Ewen said quietly. "Whew." He turned to kiss the top of her head lightly, and her heart beat a little faster. "Come on," he said, turning her back towards the Pit. There was, just a bit away, across the small clearing, a smooth spot in the dirt, a beginning of a trail. "None of those are what I see when I look at you. Let me show you the way to a new Paris." Tugging slightly, he pulled her to the path. It was uphill, and she couldn't see over the crest of the first rise, but it continued to climb, of that she was sure. "You'll enjoy it," he said with a grin as they leaned into the slope.

A bit of his cloak caught in the breeze, tickling her nose. Warm inside, she went to brush it out of the way and give him a kiss, when she realized she was trying to move a seriously snoring Hobbes off of her. The cat's fur tickled her nose.

[S: I did like your you-didn't-really-wake-up handling of the dream. Very nice!]
[GM: And I like your exchanges. Keep them coming. :) Just let Paris resolve something sometime. :)]
[S: Ah. You don't think she has? She just recognized that Ewen is a hero and that he has been her rescuer. Recognize him in those terms and recognized those terms as some that she had associated with William (and almost only William). She had been so stuck in idealism that it hadn't occur to her to really look at her friend in terms of some of those ideals.
She's defended him before as 'noble', 'honourable', and 'just' (Every time that he's come to the decision that she didn't deliberately hurt him comes to mind on that count), a generous and humane lord, chivalric and skilled. He's patient and kind, loyal. A good son, a good friend, a good teacher. Sheesh! What has she seen or wanted out of William that she hasn't seen in Ewen? But to actually take stock of him, virtue by virtue, rather than as someone who wants her to practise kissing on him....? This dream sequence has, at last, pushed her over that edge.
Now it's important to find out if what she is feeling is the finest and noblest feeling a woman can offer a man, if this new admiration [on top of the comfort of friendship and the thrill of desire] is enough, is the feeling he wants. And not having him around, she'll ask elsewhere. Because the dream came from within herself and so isn't to be entirely trusted -- any more than those 'voices' with which she talks to herself can. They are only what she knows, after all. So... is she really 'good enough' for Ewen?]

Awake
Paris shook her head slowly. What a peculiar dream. To actually see the way she talked to herself as .. different people, separate and outside herself. Odd. The dream had made Real actually pretty -- a little like Maman when she was younger and a little like Lorraine. And Serious reminded her of -- of William, but without his spark of good humour, his -- open heartedness. And Waif...? Paris shivered a little. When Ewen had picked it up, it had looked like an appealing but defensive child. But -- before that -- such an ugly little -- monster. But the Ewen of her dream had accepted them all: the impulsive desire, the cold dignity, the wretched uncertainty. Accepted and offered betterment. How could a dream look and sound and -- feel -- so much like him? But it had been a dream. Only a dream. Only her way of looking at him. Not him, not really. Unless dreams actually could be acted on by forces outside ones self? If so, why did one say "it's only a dream?"

Was that how she saw Ewen? As her rescuer? Or was there more to the dream than that. She had worried that he saw her only through a veil of fantasy -- of the 'magic' he talked about so often. Was it possible that she did not see him as he really was either? That he didn't want to be her rescuer. How did he want her to see him?

He had come to her rescue, time and again. That first night in the palace, offering to be her escort. In the fight about the quintain. In Gilliam. And he'd wanted to do something about that crude contestant in the tourney.

Then, as well, there was his pain when he couldn't rescue her. Not being able to come with the troops to Pelier. Worried about her not making it through the winter.

She thought of his kisses. How they seemed to take away everything but him and her and the magic he filled her with. Of Ewen the lord, with field hands and falcons and dust in his hair. Of Ewen her friend, advising on leadership or shield use or Lady duGryphon. Of Ewen the heroic knight, facing the demon-creatures of Gilliam mine, the trolls of the Inn, the giants. Her imagination was vivid. He was a hero; she'd heard quite as many tales of him as of Prince William.

"I want you to walk out with me. I want you to kiss me. But most of all I want you to be my friend." She heard his voice in her mind. Was it Waif's hoarse whisper that insinuated, "Only friends. Only kissing friends." Real responded, "But he mentioned love. No one else kisses Paris. No one else makes her feel like she's going to burst into a shower of sparks. Isn't this Love?" And Serious warned, "What of his father? His mother? His duties that do not include our Order? Is it honourable to want to have his love?" Real countered, "Is it honourable not to return what is offered so freely and with such patience and nobility of spirit?" Waif muttered, "But is it Love?"

Serious: "We know the love of friends: Lorraine, Rhori, William, Carline, the duGryphons, our classmates. People whose laughter gladdens us, whose thoughtfulness touches and guides us, whose pain we would willingly share and ease. We know the love of family: what Papa and Maman gave us, the link we share with Calais. These make up such a large part of us that without them we would not be Paris."

Real: "We've read of Love. We've seen Lovers. A touching of souls, a blending of goals such that two become one while remaining two, together, on a chosen path through life. And the wanting to touch and be touched, holding, kissing; the physical side, that's there too! We've felt it with Ewen. We have!"

Serious: "Your 'blending of goals' and 'chosen path', do they not require more -- understanding -- than we currently have with Ewen? If the goals do not fit, what matters if the hearts and bodies do?"

Real: "Love overcomes obstacles. If we're willing to try!"

Waif: "But is it Love?"

Paris whispered, "I think it's Love."


Asking Mia
Pre-dawn light gleamed thin and clear, chill at this altitude. Paris got up quietly, pulling her cloak close, and moved over to where Mia busied herself with the morning breakfast preparations. "Let me handle some of the heavier stuff," she said quietly with a smile. Mia handed her the large pot for heating water and the knight slipped away to fill it, returning carefully so as not to slosh on anyone or anything.

She took over stirring the porridge as the older woman chopped the seasonings. "Mia?" The warrior's voice was still quiet with what might be an undertone of worry. "Would you mind giving me some advice? It, uh, has to do with that earlier request I made of you - the one I couldn't really explain. To pray to Binah for me."

Mia made an encouraging noise.

Thus encouraged, Paris went on, "I'm not at all sure that I have as much Understanding of Binah as the rest of you seem to. You all took care of that part of the Quest without me." With hurried reassurance, " To Duke Evan's obvious satisfaction. But all I really know is that Binah is the god of marriage, Indigo, spouse to the goddess of Birth, Violet, the Star we haven't found yet. And I guess I don't really understand well at all. In an earlier discussion I said that it seemed to me that Marriage should be a god of Order, not chaos. I guess that's how I see marriage. A sort of organized relationship designed to create a family, fulfil Society's needs for the raising and training of future generations, and, well," she started to blush a little, "to morally accommodate the - desires and - passions - of Love."

The warrior kept her eyes on the bubbling pot, the warmth of the coals serving to mask the intensifying blush. "I guess my problem comes with that - Love part. You've got a lot more experience than I do. You've been married twice. How - how do you know if he loves you for you and not something he thinks you are? And - how do you know if you're loving him enough? All that he deserves? When he's not really an - Ideal? When - when you thought he was one of your best friends, but - but he makes you feel so - different from other friends?"

Mia responded. "I don't know... but do all your friends make you feel the same? Does Rhori make you feel the same way as... um, what's her name? Lorraine?" Mia smiled inquiringly, knowing that the answer was 'NO!'

Paris' voice was low. "It's - it's more complicated than that. No one - no one else has - ever kissed me that way. The other aspects of friendship - trusting, confiding, being happy or sad for each other's successes or failures, disappointing expectations or filling them - all that is there with every friend. But... this...." Her voice trailed off.

Mia: "I, um, not to say that it isn't important, but, you know the songs talk about the rush you get when the man you love kisses you, but y'see, I've found that you actually get that rush anytime a man you might find romantic kisses you. It doesn't sound very admirable, I know, but... well, that's what flirting with the village boys at sixteen teaches you." She smiles ruefully at herself, in remembrance. "I don't actually think love has much to do with that rush (though it is awfully exciting to um, kiss, the man you love and who loves you)." She briefly smiled in that 'I'm not exactly here and now' way, and then went on:

"I think love must feel somewhat different for everyone, or else the bards wouldn't have so much to say about it! I think friendship should be a part of love. It makes it a lot easier," Mia smiled wryly. "If you're friends -- real friends - first, then you know each others foibles and what to expect from each other better. It means it doesn't bang you in the face like a sledge hammer when you realize he loves whistling, but can't carry a tune to save his soul! You knew that when you started getting intim...romantic" She smiled at the confused-looking Paris.

Mia: "I don't know the answers 'cause they're different for everyone, but I can tell you what I think... an' hopefully it'll help your worries," she smiled at Paris while pouring ingredients into a bowl. "One of the reasons I think it's important to be friends first is so that you know he sees you for what you are -- or at least how you present yourself to your friends -- which, for me, is usually how I want to be, not necessarily how I am. But you mustn't expect him to ever know all of you. Even after years of marriage -- you still surprise each other sometimes" she grinned impishly, "it wouldn't be fun otherwise, anyhow.

Paris looked a bit surprised.

Mia: "But still, with Henri the most important thing in our relationship actually came directly from our friendship, now that I think about it. It's the fact that we can share with each other when we don't live up to exactly how we think we should behave. I can admit that I'm angry at someone to him, or that I'm scared" she paused a moment and put her hand on her belly. "Though I do worry that he won't understand why I ... tried to, uh, pray to the Devil...."

"It wasn't just you, Mia," Paris says softly. "My advice when we talked about your dream wasn't anywhere near the mark. It's simply that none of us know whether it is Right that Order and Chaos stay separate. Would even Henri know?"

Mia: "No, he wouldn't -- but then, neither do we. I just hope that his opinion will be compatible with mine... I don't think Pyotr's is, quite..."

Mia gave herself a small shake and started mixing the batter energetically, now looking steadily at Paris. "But, I think, it's being able to behave -- and admit that you are doing so -- in not quite ideal ways that actually mean both that he can know you as something other then an ideal, and that you feel safe enough with him to do so. I hadn't really had that with anyone since my mother died." She paused for a moment. "I think it's an incredibly important friendship when you're not always playing the role of one person, but can show all the different facets of your personality. That's not a friendship that happens very often...." Mia paused, then went on, "In fact, it's quite the reverse of your worry: I think it's terribly important to know that the other person is not ideal. No one is, after all, when you really get down to it. Although it's important to admire what they want to be, it wouldn't be an honest deal to go into marriage thinking they were actually that perfect ideal. You'd get a rude shock, and probably be quite unhappy when you discovered they weren't; that they're lazy or selfish or whatever, as well as having all the traits you do admire. If you thought they were perfect, you would spend your life noticing all the times they weren't, rather then appreciating the times they do live up to the ideals they hold. In fact, knowing what personal failings they had to overcome to do the admirable thing -- to forgive when the transgression was slight but was, perhaps, personally devastating: a years' worth of work gone up in flames, because of a dropped candle or something -- that's the really wonderful act, in my book." Her smile flashed past.

"Could you hold this right here, it's hard on my wrists some times." Mia handed Paris a heavy skillet with a bit of fat in it, then dropped sausages into the boiling water.

Paris held the skillet steady and took a deep breath. "I think Princess Carline tried to tell me a little about Ideals not being real. You've made it - more understandable. Or maybe I can understand it better now. I -- used to think life could be like that in stories or lais. That real people like me should try to be like those - characters. But I'm not. You're right." Paris looks at the priestess. "I think I know, too, what you mean about sharing. Sometimes I'm sure that Ew - that he knows me better even than Calais does. My uncertainties. How - low I can get. Although that doesn't seem like it could be possible, that anyone could know better than Calais. And I know I love - my friend -- better even for the effort he has made not to give in to his failings when it would be easy to." Paris voice softened, unconsciously warming. "And for being able to pick himself up and try to do better when he has given in. He's a better person than I am that way, I think. That's why I'm not sure I can love enough...."

Mia: "As to loving someone enough, I don't think it quite works like that... For one thing, I don't think it's a measurable quantity!" she grinned impishly again as she poured two identically sized dollops into the skillet Paris was holding. Returning to a slightly more serious mode, "You care as much as you do about each other. I don't think it's really a question of what he deserves, but rather of what you feel about him, and what you want to share and do together. Love isn't something to be earned, it's not a reward for good behavior .... Nicolas and I argued, frequently I suppose, some times over important things - honesty for one... things I still think he was absolutely wrong about, but I didn't love him less because of it."

Paris kept a restrained silence.

"Respect. Respect is deserved, earned even. Love is different. Admiration is part of it, but not the only thing. Besides, you don't determine if you love him as much as he deserves. He determines if you treat him the way he wants to be treated. And you do the same, 'cause you can't judge how much they love you, only whether you like how you're treated. Which is something worth thinking about." A glum expression passed over Mia's face momentarily.

The cleric flashed a quick smile. "'Is this what I want from love, is this what I want from marriage?' are both useful questions, as is, 'is this the person I mainly want to spend the rest of my life with' -- if you're going to talk about marriage. Humm," Mia's smile brightened. "You know, perhaps you ought to ask Binah about his perspective on love and marriage. All his advice for me seemed to have something to do with love, but then it's only been recently in the tug-of-war surrounding Princess Carline's marriage that it occurred to me that love doesn't - isn't - the automatic precursor to marriage...." She smiled ruefully at her own naiveté. "You weren't with us when he came into the world, but that doesn't mean you can't talk to him now that he's here!"

She smiled again and took the skillet from Paris, "Grab a plate, I think these are ready to eat!"

Paris gave a little smile. "I - I'm not sure about praying to Binah. That - seems to go back to whether or not Order and Chaos should be kept separate. I - don't know what would happen. I - do know that none of my prayers - except when I am healing - seem to get a - Real Answer. Not the way you seem to get answers, at any rate. What would happen if I - if a knight of Order - actually prays to a god of Chaos?" Paris' normally calm and quiet tone held a note of worry.

Mia: "Well, you've said yourself that Death is a far less active god then any of the ones I generally pray too. And even if they should be kept separate, prayer doesn't have to be asking for power. It just sorta allows them to talk to you, if they have anything they want to say."

"Since you're allowed to meet them, I'd think you'd be allowed to talk to them too. But then, I don't think the Gods need to be kept separate, even if it is better to keep the churches separate. The scriptures kept by the rainbow church still contain the white and black gods, and some of our church symbols -- the rainbow pinwheel (it's one of the possible foci for our church magic) gives off both black and white as well as the rainbow, and Genelle used all nine of the colors in her magic..."

Paris said softly, "I have Choice. I can talk to whomever I choose to. I just don't know what it means to do so." Then she moved aside to make way for the others now forming up to partake of breakfast. Her expression had more of uncertainty than, perhaps, Mia thought the conversation should have generated, but the warrior seemed to quickly master the feeling, showing her calm -- almost stoic -- side to the others.

"Dreams & Delusions" copyright 2000 P. Shea & S.Knowles. The contents of this site are copyright 2004 Sheryl A. Knowles unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved.


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