what_wings_dare | If only there would come a day when you would not turn from me...

Eoduin, who he knows, in a fashion, who along with other girls has followed him around. Some of them are brazen - they kiss him in the back of crowded, sweaty rooms, press their bodies against his and try to illicit a response, and he is only as human has he has been made to be, so there are ofttimes that he kisses back and tells Oriencor later. Oriencor smiles at that, a sharp, razorlike smile, twisting the edges of her mouth and makes Irrylath wonder what he is doing with a woman who pleases herself on how much her lover is wanted by other women.

But now he is here with a girl who stumbles at the sight of him, and he knows why she does so and says nothing to embarrass her further, although there is a curve to his mouth, too, a slight smile there. It's not just that it's flattering, that there is something pleasing about it, it's that she doesn't truly seem to realize anything about herself that is attractive.

"Good," he says, softly, and leans down to pick up a dropped text, and hand it back to her. Before he lets it go, however, he finds himself asking, "are you late to class?"

Maybe he does this to further the joy of making her nervous, or for another reason, one he doesn't wholly understand yet.

She pauses, fingers curled around the edge of her book. Unfair, to buy its release with words; the question on its own would not trouble her, if he did not try to make her owe him the answer.

“No,” she says simply, because it’s true. It never occurs to her to beat a hasty retreat under cover of a lie. Neither she nor her twin have any real guile; Roshka is charismatic, he has an odd sort of charm, an ability to persuade without deceit. He is too earnest to ignore. Aeriel is, she thinks, simply and stupidly blunt; she prefers to work in a quiet world of simple questions and facts and discoveries, and is content to leave the arguments to her brother.

“I have a meeting,” she adds unbidden, not as a ploy to escape but because it is also true, because she must not while away the day gawking at him. She isn’t in a hurry; it isn’t a proper meeting, really, she only has no better word to call it. Aeriel spends most of her afternoons with Professor Talb, visiting the tiny old man in his dimly-lit office which is half-lab, half-aquarium, the walls lined with heavy glass tanks full of eyeless things and ancient things and startling bright things; ethereal and boneless creatures, thick-armored sea beasts, tiny things only called animals because they certainly are neither vegetable nor mineral. A great many people say Talb is a quack and a fool, a senile and superstitious old man who’s only still on staff because he’s older than the concept of tenure, but he is Aeriel’s favorite. She goes and sits on the comfortable chairs he keeps in the midst of his makeshift ocean and he tells her stories about his friends, his pets, shows her things no one knows because no one has bothered to look. Here is life, he says, always, his eyes bright, so alive and so knowing that she cannot understand why anyone would not listen. He dips his bare hand into the waters idly, stroking the slick back of a tiny fish so venomous that he would never even go to trial if his possession of it ever came to light.

Talb won’t mind if she’s late. He’ll brew a cup of bitter tea and they’ll wait, as her eyes adjust to the half-darkness he prefers, the air thick with salt and warmth, and they’ll speak of nothing and anything. Of Irrylath, perhaps. Of his woman, his keeper, his Oriencor, who stands like a poison vial tied up in a razorwire bow, who hides away and bides her time breeding things strange and dark, creatures of her own fantasy. Only Aeriel does not know what she should say of them.

She almost says You need not worry, but it’s too absurd to imagine he would, and she will not give him the satisfaction of putting on an air. Eoduin would gleefully take advantage of having his attention. Roshka, she thinks, would not notice that he had it; he is accustomed to stepping in and out of spotlights easily. Aeriel only waits for his fleeting interest to pass, as no doubt it swiftly will.

He releases the book. He has heard of Dr. Talb, and he has heard many stories - he is not Oriencor's thesis adviser but he sits on her committee and she scoffs at him, calls him traditional and sentimental, says he refuses true progress in their field. She hates him in a pure kind of way.

She looks a little less like a frightened animal now, more like a woman, and so he rises. She is a small thing, reaching the top of his shoulder with her head, and he thinks he could pick her up and carry her anywhere he wished. It's an odd thought, one that he sets aside almost right away. There is no value in those thoughts, nothing to gain from thinking them.

And he smiles at her.

It is a true smile, one that speaks volumes of his character. "Would you mind if I accompanied you? You're Aeriel, right?" He says her name quietly, the timbre of his voice low pitched so she is the only one who hears him. He will offer her his arm, if she says yes, although it's old-fashioned, but no one would comment on it. Irrylath, in a way, is beyond reproach. "I'm Irrylath," he tells her, but it's manners and not necessity - he knows that she knows who he is.

And again he is not what she expects. Once, when first she saw him, she thought it must be lonely to live his sort of life; never a stranger to strangers, tethered to power you do not wield, always in the public eye. That had been before she had come to know anything of his lover, and perhaps that is unfair. Oriencor scares Aeriel; nominally they both want the same things-- the health and preservation of the natural world-- but, she thinks, their views are so far apart as to oppose, somehow. Aeriel cannot conceive of improving upon the marvels she studies; Oriencor would reshape all things to shadow her own, sharp ideal. Stronger. More enduring. But different, Aeriel thinks, above all else. Utterly changed.

She nods at his question. "You know my brother," she acknowledges, and does not need to name him because Irrylath has eyes, of course he knows. It's a simple way of acknowledging the links between them; and, perhaps, of keeping a distance. A plausible reason he might walk her to Talb's office, a simple courtesy because she is Roshka's sister, and no one can know Roshka and not think of him at least faintly as a friend. So Aeriel believes, at any rate.

"It may be out of your way," she warns, but doesn't shy away from him. Her hand on his arm is surprisingly rough for its small size and fine bones. There is a greedy little part of her that loves the excuse to touch him, not because he is so desired but because he is beautiful, and wild and strange and that is the sort of thing she has always loved best, like tiny crabs in tide pools and blind fish at the lips of volcanic vents. Eoduin would pout and sigh to hear of it, which is why Aeriel will not tell her, though it stings to keep secrets from the only female friend she has made so far.

"It's in the Old Wing." The near-unused part of this building, its purpose usurped by clean, bright, new lecture halls and state-of-the-art labs in the renovated New Wing. Talb favors the quiet, the privacy of it; and besides, it would be a nightmare to move his tanks from his basement office, sunk deep enough that only two narrow windows near the ceiling offer any trickle of sunlight, through the maze of doors and corridors into some other space.

She carefully does not glance toward's Oriencor's door, as though to do so would conjur the older woman up.

She is not what he expected, either. Roshka is so friendly, so well-liked by all, a natural politician in that regard. Irrylath knows that he will be commended on the strength of his character, his beauty, and his bloodlines, but Roshka is so aggressively charismatic that it speaks to anyone who sees him. "He is a good man, your brother," Irrylath says, and they pass by Oriencor's door. No one flies out, angry at his passing. They are unmolested in their venture.

She is so small. Small but her hands are rough against him, even though she can't quite feel her skin through his shirt, he can feel the rasp and the tug. She is a girl who does things herself, and it excites him, in a way. "I don't mine going out of my way," he tells her, "I have no idea when I'll be allowed back from my banishment," he adds, leaning forward just enough to catch the scent of sunlight off her hair. He may be escorting her but she is the one leading the way, through quiet hallways. Everyone in this building seems to be busy, too busy to stare at the pair of them.

That point, about Roshka, she doesn’t answer; only smiles, a soft but proud expression. They are alike and different in a great many ways, but above all else the twins love one another, deeply; Aeriel can’t imagine who she’d be without Roshka by her side, and she knows he values her support as much as she values his boldness. Even if Irrylath said it idly-- and she doesn’t believe he would-- its truth is undeniable.

Aeriel leads easily, the path familiar even as it winds toward the heart of the building and into its depths, down little-used hallways, through places only accessible now by half-forgotten staircases. If anyone did stop to stare, she wouldn’t even notice; these are her places, her kingdom as it were, and here she goes on her way with confidence. And he is distracting, that she cannot deny, tall and striking, cutting a perfect silhouette in the corner of her vision.

She doesn’t mean to laugh, but she does. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t look the least bit ashamed.

“For what crimes were you banished?” she asks, curious and amused, not bothering to wonder if it’s rude to pry. He’s disarming; and really, Aeriel cannot imagine any ulterior motive he might have to speak with her, so there is nothing to guard against.

He turns his head, just so slightly, because there is a measure of manners in him, a measure that states that he needs to pay attention to whoever he is speaking to. He trusts her, then, to not lead him into anything, to not make him seem a fool or foolish.

His hand curls around her arm, twining them together.

"No crime, simply being the source of any distraction." He considers it, for a moment. He has been waiting because in a way, to Oriencor, he is a danger, something she devours in whole, consumes with all her attention. So she locks him out. He knows it is because of what he looks like, it is his beauty that causes her to treat him this way.

It is not unappealing.

"And it is wearying, to sit outside and wait for her, and I forgot my coursework."

She will not let herself be so rapt as to forget her way, and of course if he is going to hold so close-- closer than he ought to, she thinks, but there is no one here to cluck his tongue at them, no Roshka to worry, no Oriencor to sneer-- then she would look as much a fool as he.

"I had heard it was difficult, to draw her attention from her work," she says, honestly surprised. There are those who say Oriencor's devotion borders on madness (though Aeriel is not so naive that she believes there is no stripe of jealousy in those accusations). But she would not have guessed that Oriencor cannot keep herself from Irrylath, that his beauty would be such a lure. For all that Aeriel has stumbled under his gaze, it is only in idleness. When she works, all of her is at work.

"When you wait, is that truly a banishment or is it a siege upon her?"

He tips his head, considering that. "Yes, she's rather intent. She thinks she's discovered something, some way to maintain life in a vacuum, but-" he pauses, then. "I'll be the first to admit I know almost nothing on the matter."

He takes a moment, then, and he turns. "Can I ask you a question, Aeriel?"

He thinks, if anyone knows the answer to Oriencor's obsession, if anyone has any key to the method to her madness, it is a woman who is so alike to her, in a manner. They are the same coin, one with two opposite faces.

"You may ask," she says, nodding, half distracted, admittedly, by the thought of Oriencor's work. It sets her a little on edge just to think of it. The older woman would preserve life in a vacuum; Aeriel's life work will be, she knows, to keep that vacuum from coming to pass. Here is life, the ocean, not merely that within it. She wants conservation, not modification.

"I cannot promise I can give you an answer."

He shakes his head a bit, because he appreciates the honesty. "Is your work so encompassing, so enrapturing, that you would neglect all else for it? Or is that madness?"

He thinks that Roshka can testify that their line of scholarship involves much more in the way of casual contact, in projects that involve others, in learning the art of leadership. There is little of locking oneself in their work, and ignoring the rest of the world.

"Do you think that Oriencor is-" he starts, but then he stops, as if Oriencor's name has stolen his tongue.

There is no easy answer to that question, Aeriel thinks; least of all to the last question, the one he cannot ask, one she should not answer if she is diplomatic but her twin is the politician, not she. She knows what it is to lose herself in her work, but while she tends to work alone, she does not make a habit of sending others away. Roshka knows when to leave her to it, and when to break her attention; Eoduin sometimes distracts her when she would rather focus, but Aeriel has come to accept the occasional interruption, she is fond enough of the other girl.

"From time to time," she says carefully, not because she is trying to be careful but because it takes a moment to put her sense of it into words, "you need to surface, or you drown."

He attaches to that metaphor, because he swims, he has a scholarship for it despite the fact that he doesn't need it. "I do not know if I can keep breathing life back into her," he says, almost as a brush aside.

It's a difficult matter, to simply say such a thing, but Irrylath has this particular predilection, where he simply states things, where he is casual with his words. It is a merit, a display of power, in a way.

"I cannot keep breathing for her, when she pulls me with her."

These power games are beyond her understanding. She is, she knows, more of an innocent than most, but whatever is between Irrylath and Oriencor is strange, though it did not seem so until this moment, these words.

"She does not know what she wants."

They consume each other, if she must cast him away in favor of her work, if he must wait for her call to return. In truth, she thinks it is Oriencor's work which is unhealthy, and if anything her work ethic is an outgrowth of that, but Aeriel is biased.

She doesn't question whether he knows what he wants; it hardly seems necessary.

He goes quiet, then, guides her down stairs, and stands before her, a moment, his mouth twisting into a moue. "Your roommate is Eoduin, isn't it? She is a sprightly girl," he says, unsure why he says it. To see if there is a reaction. To see her jealousy, maybe, if she displays it.

He wishes a reaction from her, he wishes her to do something, and he's not sure what. It is the kind of cruel game a cat plays with a mouse, simply to see, with no regard for how the mouse might feel on the matter. It is a game of casual dealings, a game with no thought or foresight.

"Sprightly," she repeats thoughtfully, before she smiles. There is nothing of jealousy in it. "That is a good word for her, I think." Aeriel is tireless but there is a brightness to Eoduin's energy, the spark that keeps her always moving, always socializing, hatching some scheme to win the attention she wants. There is nothing there to be jealous of; it's not a life that Aeriel wants, and it pleases her most of the time to see the joy Eoduin takes in it. When her roommate has company that keeps her from sleep, or insists upon dragging her out to some bar to make sure she gets home safe when Aeriel would rather be studying, she'll admit, it is less charming, but she accepts that as her lot in life.

Eoduin is not, perhaps, the sister Aeriel never had, but that is all right. She is as kind as she knows how to be, and somehow that hard-won affection softens the sharper edges of their lives. Eoduin is not accustomed to saying thank you, but now and then she thinks to do it.

They're close enough to Talb's room now that she hesitates, not certain she's willing to bring him much nearer. This place is a sanctuary of sorts; she isn't suspicious of his motives, but it feels wrong.

He smiles just slightly, then, not enough to be bright, but the very slight smile of someone who is certain of what he thinks. She is bright, there is no jealousy in her. She is the sun where Oriencor is the blinding brilliance of a glacier, cold.

He leans in, then, and presses a kiss to her cheek, closer to her ear than to her mouth. "Are you busy tonight?"

That is all. Are you busy tonight?

It leaves her too stunned even to blush. Were all his questions leading to this? She should not have answered so boldly, perhaps. Aeriel is not wholly a fool; she knows other women pursue him, knows that some have gained a little ground-- knows most of all that there is precious little ground to gain, that Oriencor does not let him stray far. He has never tried to stray far, to the best of her knowledge.

But she hesitates a moment before she pulls away, because he is beautiful, because he has surprised her in too many ways already, and she wonders what he would say if she said no.

"You have a seige and a banishment to attend," she reminds him instead.

He shakes his head a bit. "I think I have interest in laying my own kingdom, rather than entertaining another's."

She is blushing and it makes her skin rosy, it makes her look young, and perhaps he is for someone young, someone more his age now, someone who will not torment him when he finds himself busy, someone who will love - or like - him at both their paces, not at simply hers.

"Are you busy tonight?"

"I am,"

she says, and while it is true she could postpone her plans-- the papers she needs to write, the letters home and to Ravenna-- but there is a suddenness here that unsettles her too greatly. If he is serious-- and she can't fathom how he would be, except perhaps that he is looking for a reason to leave and she could be an excuse-- then she would do him no favors by letting herself drown in his eyes, by trading work for him and him for work.

"Perhaps another night, if you intend to renounce your throne..." she adds, keeping the metaphor so he can brush it aside as a joke if he wants to.

He tips his head a bit, and smiles then, a softer smile than usual, a smile that is less flash and more honest. "Another night. If you like."

It's a sweet, quiet moment, and he releases her, taking a step backward.

She smiles in return, pleased that he doesn't press the issue and oddly thrilled at the possibility that they might speak again. Perhaps he is only being polite, perhaps he will change his mind, but for a moment surely it is harmless to wonder.

"Good luck," she says simply. With Oriencor, he's bound to need it.

[ n a m e ; ]	Aeriel
[ c a n o n ; ]	The Darkangel Trilogy
[ g a m e ; ]	in transit and transition

If only there would come a day when you would not turn from me...

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and then Oriencor poisoned all of Aeriel's fish and slipped her advisor laxatives...