bigapplesauce | Witches Can Be Right [Closed]

Current Music: October 7th, 2013

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Witches Can Be Right [Closed]

Greta wakes when she strikes the floor. She lies there for a few moments, winded and disoriented, hardly able to recognize her own apartment from this angle.

(She doesn't want this to be her apartment. She doesn't want this to be all she has.)

It was all lies. It had to be. She fell, but she didn't--she's alive, and if she hadn't landed in Manhattan she'd--she'd remember. Wouldn't she? Maybe it wasn't even really the Witch, but a figment of her own imagination, some Witch-shaped conglomeration of all her worst fears about what might be happening in her absence. The real Witch would have been able to give her real answers, not a few awful details and a shrug.

(Could those details have really come from her own mind, though? Would she ever have imagined Jack...?)

Greta lurches to her feet and pauses, waiting for her head to stop spinning. She needs answers, real ones, not the words of a Witch in a nightmare. It's not yet dawn, but the ambient light of the city is enough for her to find a shawl by. She wraps it around her shoulders, grabs her keys.

Her phone sits on the bedside table. Iman--she'll probably text her as soon as she wakes. But even the thought of sympathy is almost enough to break her. She needs to know if it's true before she can bear to accept anyone's apologies or concern. Even Iman's. Greta presses her lips together, turns her back on the device, and steps barefoot out into the hallway, squinting against the artificial glow.

A minute later, she's outside the Balladeer's door. She lifts a hand, then hesitates for a moment. It's so early. Can she really ask this of him?

She doesn't care. She has to.

Greta knocks.

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"The Witch," Greta offers by way of explanation, voice hollow. She assumes the Balladeer heard enough to know who she is. Or... was. Relegating the Witch to the past tense might be some comfort, if she hadn't just shown up in a dream and casually torn her world apart (again). For all any of them know, the Rift might bring her here, too.

Though if it did, at least Greta might get to see Iman call her a 'huge asshole' to her face.

She leans heavily against her friend, cradling the box of tissues in her lap and mopping at her face. Her mood swings sluggishly from anger and sorrow over what she's lost to gratitude for what she still has, and from there to bitterness over how tenuous even this feels. As long as they're under the Rift's metaphorical thumb, 'I won't leave you' isn't a promise any of them can make and keep. There's no pressing reason either of them couldn't go home. The Balladeer might be happier here, but there's still a place for him in his universe, a role to fulfill. And Iman came here on purpose; she wasn't snatched away mid-calamity, or--or resurrected. The Rift could send either one of them back where they came from, and there wouldn't be a thing any of them could do about it.

Greta, on the other hand, probably won't be going anywhere. There's nothing for her back home. And everything she has here could be gone in an instant.

"Why couldn't the Rift have just left me?" she mutters. It's not a question she entirely meant to voice, but she's too tired and heartsick to take it back.

"Ah." The Balladeer nods; that explains a lot. It fits well with what he knows of the Witch, though he's only ever seen her through Greta's eyes.

He doubts he'd use exactly that term, but he wouldn't mind saying a few things himself.

It's kind of Iman to say they won't leave, but that doesn't seem like a promise they can make. Seth just went back; what's to stop it from happening to either of them? He's only recently stopped expecting to wake in Washington every time he goes to sleep. Some day, he suspects, his vacation time is going to run out. But he keeps his silence, because they both know that just as well as he does.

"Would you have wanted that?" he asks quietly, angling his head at Greta's quiet question. He knows his perspective is skewed. Death's always been a fleeting thing in his world - most of the people he knows are more or less in Greta's situation. They don't care. They wanted to live forever, if only in memory. But Greta's not a preening narcissist, so maybe she feels differently!

(He knows how he feels. At least about her death. But his opinion isn't the most important one.)

Oh, god. It's good that the Balladeer interjects as he does, because there's no response to that Iman could come up with that would be remotely productive. Her lips tighten into a thin line and she reaches out to clutch Greta's hand, waiting for her answer.

She understands the sentiment behind it. The idea of being gone altogether might seem more comforting than having to live with the knowledge that you are completely without home.

There is so much she could say, wants to say, if things were different. That any life is better than none; that Greta is strong and she will recover from this upheaval even if that seems impossible now; that she has made all of this worth it; that as long as she has a say in the proceedings, Iman will never, ever leave her behind, no matter what.

She can't say any of this. She just rests her head gently against Greta's shoulder.

There's no implicit judgment in the Balladeer's tone, though she wouldn't blame him if there was. Death is a very different thing in his universe. Even if it wasn't, 'I'd rather be dead than here with you' is a bitter, cruel sentiment, and she's ashamed of voicing it.

It's not even that she wants to be gone. Death is a different thing in her universe, too. She might have been a shade haunting the Woods. Watching her family from afar, or drawn up out of the mist by the power of their need for her. Waiting for a longer delayed but more assured reunion.

It's not that hard to imagine. Simple, straightforward, perhaps the way things ought to have been. It's not that hard to want it, on those grounds.

But you can't do much as a shade but whisper and wait. She's never been good at the former, and she's weary of the latter.

Here, she is alive. There is a pulse beating in the hand Iman is clutching so tightly. She is alive, and she has friends, and she's been useful, hasn't she?

In all the time she's spent fretting over how her family is getting along without her, she's never considered how Iman or the Balladeer or even Rush would get along without her. Or, rather, she's never thought of it outside the grander context of everyone going home, back to their former lives and families: the ultimate balm to ease the pain of parting. Now, she wonders how the Balladeer would have handled his cold without her help, or who would put food in front of Rush when he was too distracted to think of feeding himself, or how Iman would have coped with the loss of her arm.

Can she really say she'd rather deprive her dear friends of everything she's been to them, just so her family could have an echo in the Woods?

"No," she says softly, squeezing Iman's hand and leaning her cheek against the top of her head. "Not really." She pulls in a breath and lets it out as a long sigh, then lifts her free hand to Iman's cheek. She's not the only one in need of comfort. "Not more than this," she adds, somewhere between a confession and a promise, her thumb tracing an apologetic arc from the ridge of Iman's cheekbone to the edge of her scarf.

That's a relief to hear.

The Balladeer just nods, watching the two of them for a moment before leaning back against the couch again. He'd rather she were here too, and not only for his own benefit. She died for nothing - the giant probably didn't even notice. What a senseless waste. Her family would have lost her either way, but at least now she gets to go on.

He's come to the conclusion, since that one dream, that close cuddling isn't really as casual as it seemed there. But he doesn't mind being here while Greta and Iman hold each other for a while. If they need anything, they don't need to get up.

Well, that's something. It's too much, actually, not the answer but the contact - she's too long been taking advantage of Greta's naturally affectionate tactile nature, and now it feels cheaper and more manipulative than ever. After a moment she ducks her head down, shying away from Greta's hand, taking it instead between hers.

"I know this is unbearable," she says. "I honestly can't imagine. But... as long as we can be, as long as we're allowed, we're your family." She looks up, willing herself to meet Greta's eyes. "And as long as I'm here to make this decision, no one is getting left behind."

She feels an uncomfortable little jolt when Iman ducks away from her. It's like a faint echo of the feeling you get when you're ascending a staircase and there's one step less than you'd anticipated, the floor seeming to drop from under you even though it's exactly where it's always been, leaving you startled and feeling vaguely foolish. But she's only left reeling for a moment before Iman takes both of her hands, grounding her.

Greta's eyes fill again, as if Iman's reminder that this is unbearable makes it so, and she drops her chin and presses her lips together. It's hard to know whether she ought to be grateful for Iman's carefully worded promises or frustrated that this is all they can do: skirt around the Rift's absolute authority. That's all any of them have ever been able to do, of course, but that doesn't make it easier to swallow, now. Not when she so desperately needs all the reassurance anyone can offer.

And if Iman could work around the Rift... then what? What is it she would offer, if all doors were opened except the one that would take Greta back home? "There's nowhere else for me to go," she says with a weak attempt at brisk practicality, freeing a hand so she can reach for another tissue, pulling it from the box with one sharp, efficient tug.

"I don't know," the Balladeer muses. He's thinking along somewhat similar lines. Greta's alive here - if she just went back to her own world, what would be the problem with that? It'd be like stepping out of a door, as she is now, regardless of what happened before.

That might just be the way it'd work in his world. He can't make that promise.

But being dead at home obviously hasn't meant she has to be dead everywhere. "Maybe you could go to some other world." It isn't an offer. As much as he dreads returning, he'd balk at subjecting anyone to his own home. If the Rift ever did decide to release everyone, though, maybe she could hitch a ride with somebody else rather than being stranded here alone.

"But that's exactly what I mean," says Iman, sitting up a little straighter. "When I say you're not getting left behind, I mean here. Greta, you can go anywhere. None of the places are home, but - you can make a new home." She tilts her head, trying not to look too hopeful. "You could come with me."

What is she supposed to do with such a surplus of choices? The thought of having her pick of any universe - save one - is even more overwhelming than the thought of never going back to that one in particular. Given the challenge of adjusting to Manhattan on top of the exhaustion already pressing down on her... she can't even imagine doing it all again. New universe, new customs, new everything, possibly stranger than what she's already seen here. It's too much.

Greta's somewhere between blowing her nose and composing some sort of objection when Iman's offer strikes her. Well, 'strikes' might be the wrong term. It soaks into her, the initial surprise fading as the idea slowly, gently infuses its way through her fog of misery.

She could go with Iman. She could make a new home with Iman.

She forgets to weep. For a moment or two, she even forgets to breathe. Imposing herself on another Rifty in such a way - following them home like some sort of stray animal - is unthinkable. Accepting an invitation... that, she thinks, she could manage.

But it's such a big invitation.

"Wh-" she starts, glancing at the Balladeer as if to confirm that he heard it, too. Her hands drop into her lap, twisting the already abused tissue between them, as she returns her astonished gaze back to Iman. "... Really?" she finally says, faint and incredulous, and with an echo of the same wistfulness her tone had carried the first time Iman had invited her someplace exciting and new.

The Balladeer smiles encouragingly at Greta, inclining his head in a slight nod. There it is! He'd been hoping Iman would say something like that, though of course he wasn't about to make the offer for her.

What's Iman's world like, anyway? Who cares? She wouldn't have offered if she thought it was too dangerous, and more than that, he's sure she wouldn't let anything more happen to Greta. He's not sure how much of that dream was true (if one of those arms really IS a prosthetic, it's remarkably life-like), but her general strength of character shone through.

"Of course," she says softly, managing a soft smile. "I'd be honored if you came home with me."

Honored, overjoyed - Rush's annoying advice that she 'deal' with this is starting to make more and more sense. She can't drag Greta into her homeworld without being honest about her feelings and she definitely can't open up about that for now.

At least there's not exactly a deadline they're trying to hit.

"You're my friend," she says, settling for half-truths now. "You're important to me. I'm not gonna leave you stranded."

Honored. Greta can hardly get her head around the enormity of the offer, and Iman is calling it an honor, as if--as if the monumental obligation of resettling her would be on par with hosting visiting royalty for a fortnight.

How on earth is she supposed to respond to that?

She doesn't know, and she's too overwhelmed for any kind of coherence, anyway. She ends up making a strangled little sound and tipping forward to rest her head on Iman's shoulder, a complete mess of gratitude and mortification and persistent sorrow.

The Balladeer smiles and shakes his head, turning away. Let those two have their moment.

...man, maybe he should've just gone back to his apartment. He remembers as well as anyone what Iman confessed to the entire network that one day. It's pretty obvious, too, that Greta never found out. There's talks those two ought to be having that he's dead sure will never happen in front of other people.

Oh, well. They've got time.

His normal life is pretty voyeuristic as is, so he's not terribly flustered. All the same, he doesn't think he needs to be here. Careful not to disturb the others, he stands and moves into the kitchen. Maybe he'll just get them all drinks or something. Give the two of them a bit of space. Things like that!

Iman wraps her arms around Greta and holds on tightly, watching the Balladeer as he excuses himself. She knows he knows what's up here, and that must be a barrel of fun for him, but at least he doesn't seem too uncomfortable. God, but she's a lucky fuck for having so many people willing to not involve themselves in her bullshit.

Still, though. Doesn't sit well to have him retreating like that, like he's giving them space to... something. "Do you want some tea?" she asks Greta softly. "Tea always helps. Beth here can probably make us all some tea, right, Beth?"

She's glad she's alive. She doesn't want to die. But she can't help wishing everything would just stop for a while, give her time to catch her breath and catch up, because this is all too much. The thought of Iman taking her to her own universe, taking care of her indefinitely. The thought of being one more universe removed from home, which shouldn't make a difference when she can't go home, anyway, but it still makes her ache.

The thought of never going home, ever. Never seeing her family again. Never even knowing if they survived, because the Witch couldn't tell her. And if it's only when they die that the Rift takes interest in them, she can't even look forward to the possibility of seeing them in a dream. It would only confirm her worst fears.

Oh, god, she saw Jack in a dream already. What does that mean?

And he found her body. He wept over her. As if she was his own mother. She was never anything of the kind. But she'd promised, and she'd meant it, and she could have been.

Greta can feel herself teetering on the edge of another breakdown, and she can't let it happen, can't subject her friends to it no matter how little they'd mind. Think about something else. Think about nothing. Just stop this. She's only just begun to mourn and she's already so tired of it.

The offer of tea is well timed, and she seizes onto it. Tea. The Balladeer is going to make tea, and she's going to sit up and drink it like a grown-up. Until then, she allows herself to keep clinging to Iman like a child, all but curled up in her lap, her face hidden in the folds of her scarf where no one can see how close she keeps coming to crumpling up again.

"Yes," she manages.

There's a short, quiet chuckle from the kitchen. He always manages to forget about the Beth thing between his conversations with Iman. "Okay."

Greta's got a lot more varieties of tea than he keeps. He selects the one that says "soothing" in the biggest letters and goes to boil some water. It's already making him feel better just to do something. While the kettle's heating, he gathers some cups and then pokes around some of the other cabinets as well. Any little sweet snacks or anything?

Iman sits with Greta for a while, holding her, stroking her hair, while she listens to the Balladeer prep things in the kitchen. Once the kettle is whistling, she tilts her head to try and catch Greta's eye.

"You wanna take this to the table or keep it here?" she asks gently.

The Balladeer should have no problem finding snacks; there are biscuits in a jar. Whether Greta will be able to bring herself to eat anything anytime soon is another matter. At the moment, she feels more than a little bit sick.

At least the soothing motion of Iman's hand over her hair gives her something tangible to focus on. She does her best to shove the more unpleasant thoughts aside - helped, in part, by the practice she's had these past few months. If she can just forget, for the time being, how permanent and final the loss has become... maybe she can at least get through a cup of tea without losing her head completely.

Iman is here. Iman will take care of her. She's not alone. She has a family. Iman's hand is in her hair. It's okay. She's okay.

She still feels sick. But there's a numbness swaddling her grief, now, enough for her to push it a little to one side, glancing at it sidelong instead of staring it down. Her breathing steadies. Better. Still bad, but better.

Iman shifts in such a way that Greta can guess she's trying to look at her. Part of her wishes she wouldn't, that she'd just let her keep hiding in her hijab, where it's safe. She makes herself lean back a little until her face is visible, but she can't quite meet Iman's eyes. She feels so small.

"Here, I think," she says quietly, her voice a bit ragged around the edges. Her current, tenuous equilibrium might not withstand a trip across the room or an unsupported spell of sitting in a chair. Sitting up and not crying will be enough of a challenge. She watches the Balladeer get the tea ready, one corner of her mouth ticking upwards into a halfhearted impression of a smile. He's picked that up quickly, hasn't he? Think about that, about things that have been gained, not lost.

Ugh. She lets her head tip back down onto Iman's shoulder with a weary little grunt and shuts her eyes for a few moments, then lifts her head back up. She can do this. She'll get through this cup of tea, and then... she can't even think about what comes after. She'll just take each moment as it comes.

Quiet as she is, the Balladeer hears Greta from where he's pouring out the tea. She likes honey in it too, right? He fixes Greta's first and brings it out, pressing it into her hands with a faint smile. "You want honey?" he asks Iman quietly.

Whatever the answer, he comes back a few seconds later with her cup balanced carefully alongside his own, along with the cookie jar, which he sets down on the table. He's not going to try and make Greta eat, given that it's a weird hour anyway, but it's there if anyone wants any.

He settles back in his spot and warms his hands around his mug. There, see? Better already.

"Yeah, thanks." Iman accepts her mug with a smile, and looks back at Greta, watching to see how she's handling this little bit of normalcy. She's going to be shaky for a while, and Iman suspects this won't get any easier, not for a while. All the more reason to emphasize that they aren't going anywhere.

"I'll stick around however long you want," she says softly, and reaches out to take a biscuit.

Greta takes the tea, acknowledging the Balladeer's smile with a wry, joyless twist of her own lips. He's trying. They both are. It's not their fault things have broken beyond anyone's ability to repair. She stares dully at her cup for a minute or two, waiting for it to cool, watching the ceiling light's reflection wobble and jitter over the tea's surface.

She is not going to cry. She is done crying. At least in front of her friends. They don't expect her to be good company, but that doesn't mean she has to be a wreck. She doesn't trust her voice in the least, though - her grief might be a swaddled thing, but that doesn't mean it isn't struggling, and her voice is too open an avenue of escape. The only reply she can manage to Iman's quiet offer is to unclasp one hand from around the teacup and tuck it into the crook of Iman's arm, giving her a gentle squeeze of gratitude.

The tea has cooled enough that continuing to ignore it would be conspicuous, so she takes a little sip. For a brief moment, just a blink, she fears it'll come right back up again, but it doesn't. So, there's tea successfully handled.

Maybe she'll be able to handle the next moment, too.

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Witches Can Be Right [Closed]

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