come_sailaway | are you out there? can you hear this?

Entry tags:

are you out there? can you hear this?

Who: Cassandra de Rolo & OTA
When: November
Where: Around the Serena Eterna
What: on all levels but physical/literal, shouting into the void
Warnings: Game-typical angst, canon-typical angst, others to be added as they come up

A. what's the future, who will choose it

She's ... anxious, she decides, is the right word. Anxious about the Voyager plan. What if it gets discovered and stopped, what if it proceeds as planned but fails to break out of the demiplane, what if it reaches the outer world and is discovered by something only interested in taking advantage of whatever it finds --

The anxiety never gets anywhere near the point of making her want to call a halt to it. Not this time.

Still, she does find herself wandering about near the signpost and its accompanying book, to see who's writing in it. Not that it makes any difference, but ... it's something she can keep an eye on.

B. you never know who's still awake

Cassandra is rarely if ever to be seen around the buffet these days. One might spot her in the kitchens, though, usually very late at night, usually making something involving potatoes and/or cheese. Sometimes, similarly late at night, she might carry a snack to eat elsewhere around the ship; usually more cheese, with crackers, or cured meat, or a little jar of jam or relish of some kind. Usually somewhere that doesn't attract a lot of people, as though reluctant to eat in company with anyone.

Are you up very late and avoiding company too? You might run into her.

C. play the madmen poets

She's aware that it's unwise, perhaps now more than ever, to do anything to shut out or dull her awareness of her surroundings. Nonetheless: it may also be something she needs now more than ever.

As a compromise, she's only using her music player when she's got a good view of the rest of her surroundings, or when she's otherwise fairly sure nothing can get close to her without her knowing. So 'while flying' is a good option, as far from the ship as she can get while still able to make it back before her wings fail; another is perched on a high roof or crows' nest, some spot she can only get to by flying. And occasionally, very occasionally, in the library while seated with her back to a wall

There's so much music in this little box, and she still hasn't heard all of it. This month she's working her way through the repertoire of a bard with a rough but compelling voice, and trying to make out what his verses are talking about. (You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows is possibly the first intelligible thing he's said in this song, and she still isn't sure what he means by it.)

D. wildcard

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"I don't know. Some might find it...offensive, in certain ways. Considering it being complicit with our captivity, when the sentiment really keeps us going despite what has happened. At least, that's how it is for me."

She shakes her head a little - Cassandra knows her story well enough to know that such a thing would be impossible for her to do. Operating within the framework, seeking community, it's all in service of keeping her moving forward, constantly. Always holding hope that one day, they'll be out.

"It just makes me sad for them. How much they must be hurting."

Oh. Oh, dear.

"I don't see how one could take it that way," she says, still frowning. "Isn't the point of it to remember that there are other worlds outside of our captivity? To -- to imagine connecting to them?"

"We will always be connected. The signs - I'm told people recall where they came from, how far they've come. Those other worlds, we are connected to by our own flesh and blood, the memories we hold onto. But such a connection..."

She breathes out, and there's something in her expression that looks older than her years, worn down thin.

"Have you ever heard the tale of Odysseus? The king who sailed away for a long war and would stop at nothing to return home?"

This time Cassandra remembers in time that shaking her head is useless.

"No," she says aloud, "I don't think I know that one."

"He was charged to fight in the war across the sea, though he did not wish to at first. In the end, what moved him was the risk to his son, only an infant at the time. So he bid his family to wait for him, and sailed away. Ten years would pass before the fighting ended. And through various trials and tribulations, through the meddling of gods and monsters, through deaths and imprisonment, it would take him ten more years to come home."

The small details aren't important. Not today, but it's still a fascinating story.

"When he arrived, he was disguised as a beggar, and the only person to know him was his dog. His wife Penelope had set those who would see her married again an impossible task, and he performed it before he killed the would be suitors in anger at their impudence. And though he revealed himself to her, Penelope was afraid - was it him, or was it someone else in disguise? She must test him again, to see if he knows something that only Odysseus would know. Only then can she accept him back. But still, those years have passed. The man who left is not the same man who returned. The infant is now grown, and never met his father, who would now slay all those who raise his ire, instead of using wisdom."

Helena's thumb runs along the wood of her cane, envisioning the sounds of such a scene. It says too much, that she knows how it sounds to put someone to the sword.

"Did he accept a disguise to spy, as it is claimed? Or would he have been so altered that none would recognize him without his actions? Did Odysseus truly come home? Or did he die little by little over twenty years away, and who came back is another man wearing his name?"

Cassandra is smart enough to mine out her meaning. Even if their home worlds exist, even if the routes were connected...they are altered people now. Some of them unrecognizable to those they left. One cannot always go home, not in the same way.

There's a long pause.

"My brother," says Cassandra softly, "came home."

"And? Was he the brother you remembered?"

Were you the sister he remembered?

A tiny crack of laughter.

"Of course not. He was five years older. His hair went white, not just this front part like mine, white all through. He invented a new weapon. He made a deal with a demon in a dream to do it, and he didn't know it was a real demon. He's an adventurer. He's killed dragons. He and his friends are some of the most dangerous people in Exandria." She lifts a hand and drops it, helplessly. "He has an earring now."

(The narration must give credit where credit is due for that last.)

"But what has any of that got to do with anything? He left, and he changed. I stayed. And I changed. Neither of us will ever be the same, because nobody is ever the same. He changed. And he came home."

"...then you're both very, very lucky. And I hope, I pray that luck never runs out."

She means it. With every inch of her soul. She just knows certainly that luck will never apply to her. She doesn't have a brother to greet her. Going back there, absent the people she loves, unable to voice what happened -

It would be letting a stranger into the house.

A long beat.

"Helena," very quietly, "if you feel you've been too changed to go home ..."

It's going to take her another moment to find a way to end that sentence.

There's silence between them, for a moment. Just the breeze on the deck, and the water, and the distant murmur of others.

"I think it would not be home if I was absent the people I love. But likewise, if I have them, then anywhere we end up could be our home. I think I've known that since I started allowing myself to love them."

Cassandra lets out a breath.

"I've ... been finding myself daydreaming, lately," she says slowly, "about somehow getting to go home, and bringing everyone with me. Everyone I've grown close to here. I don't have any reason to think that such a thing would be possible, or even that it's something any of -- of the people in question would want."

(Helena may or may not hear the narrowly avoided phrase any of you.)

"Is there any reason you couldn't ask them? To know, in case that future comes to pass? It might offer some of them relief unknown, to give themselves another option to think about."

Something to give them hope out of misery.

She swallows. It can't do any harm to ask, surely.

"Would you? If, if others did."

The surprise couldn't be clearer.

"Oh. Cassandra, I..."

Didn't count herself as someone on that level. Someone close enough to be worth that.

"I know we aren't ... extremely close," says Cassandra, as Helena trails off. "And if there's somewhere else you would prefer to go, I wouldn't presume. It's only that ..."

A moment, as she tries to arrange her feelings and urges into something more like coherent thought.

"It's twofold, really. One is that ... close or not, I think I can call you a friend, and I want my friends to be safe. And to feel safe. And if there is anything I can do to help with that, I want to. The other ..."

The other is harder to articulate; it's going to take her a moment.

She waits, but the silence is as much for her as it is for Cassandra. It's clear from her face that she's absorbing and accepting that - because it's an honor. It still takes the wind from her, to hear someone say such a thing, the idea that Cassandra would open up her home...

It's not to be undersold.

"The other," she says, with something of an air of determination, as though knowing this will be difficult, "is that home, for me, is not just the building I live in. Not just the castle, but the city, and the surrounding country. Whitestone began as a haven for refugees, and has been so again, once very recently. I ... it is important to me, to have the right and the ability to say: this place is mine, my home, and because I say so, it will take you in."

A beat.

"I understand if that sounds like arrogance."

"No. No, it's not arrogance at all. It's a beautiful thing, actually."

Her voice is slower, more careful with her words. Knowing what she knows about Cassandra - about how much was taken from her, wrung out from her, forcing her to bend and break and yet she lived - it is a sentiment she cannot help but respect, for all it means. Her home, containing who she would protect and care for. Reclaiming what could have been forever scarred and tainted.

"It's making sure your home is yours again. In every way that means."

"Yes. Yes, exactly that."

There's a vehemence to it -- and also a great relief and gratitude, that Helena understands.

"Has someone been mistaking your wish to do so for arrogance?"

Worry furrows her brow, because it seems all so straightforward to her - that it's saying this is mine again.

"I ... haven't discussed it with many people." Quietly. "So no, not that I'm aware of."

"Then you've got less to worry about than you might think."

She smiles, hoping it can be some comfort to her.

"Tell them exactly as you told me, and they will understand it."

"I hope so," she says, with an answering smile that's a little unhappy. "I think ... sometimes I am not very good at making myself understood."

A beat, and she adds reflectively: "And also, I'm not sure someone who considered me arrogant would be entirely wrong."

"I can only speak to my own feelings, but we tend to be harsher on ourselves than anyone else is. You think you might be arrogant. I think I may be too selfish, in some respects. No matter what someone else tells you, the feelings remain - the most people outside can do is remind us that our voice isn't the only one to listen to."

She shrugs her shoulders.

"As for being understood...it's hard for everyone. I might be a poet, but that doesn't mean I don't know that well."

Because she still hears Cassandra's voice in her head, reminding her that it's harder to talk to someone who seems unaffected. To withdraw too far into her protective shell, it would mean she could not be understood at all.

are you out there? can you hear this?

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