exsiliumlogs | We have the answer to all your fears; it's short, it's simple, it's crystal clear

Date & Time: Night of June 1st!
Location: Apartment unit 706
Characters: Jack Kelly; Galadriel
Summary: Jack has PTSD; thank god someone's there to wake him up.
Warnings: References to torture.

[Night. It's always night here; even when the sunlight manages to slip in through the barred windows, it's a gloomy sunlight, highlighting the darkness, giving shape to the rot and gloom, instead of illuminating it. Screams echo all around him, putting him on edge; screams and pleas and whimpers, please oh please someone help me please oh please anyone I need someone oh god help me, but he can't, he has to keep going.

On and on and on, until he's at a door, until he's suddenly in a room, holding a knife over that poor boy's face, until he's slipping the knife forward (please oh please don't oh god someone help oh god), until he's slicing into his flesh, cutting him open, splitting him like a piece of fruit, and the blood wells up, up and over his face, over Jack's hands, spilling over the chair, over his feet, covering him, choking him, god, he can't breathe for the stuff, and all the while the screams, and now there's the smell of smoke, of fire, fire, he's burning, he has that tinny taste in his mouth and he's burning and there's flames all around and that laughter, rising above the screams, haunting and high-pitched and familiar, "Oh Jacky what have you gotten yourself into now--"]

Oh god please oh god no don't don't I'm sorry please--

[It's a nearly inhuman shriek, a terrified scream, interspersed with pleading words. Jack thrashes on his bed, limbs flailing wildly, striking out at invisible foes.]

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[He nods hesitantly, still uncertain about all this-- not about her, per se, or even that she'll break her promise, but that anyone at all might be able to read his mind.]

What else can you do? If you don't mind me askin'.

[In that case, she'll gesture to the sitting area, inviting him to seat himself.]

It is a difficult question to answer, for there is much that you mortals would call "elf magic" and still more that may be called simply "the magic of Galadriel," if you will.

The place to begin, I think, is that I see much that others cannot- what is, what has been, and what may yet be. You know already that I am a healer. For the rest, I will say only that I have the means to offer no small amount of protection and that I would make a dangerous foe indeed.

[He curls up on the far end of a couch, his bare feet tucked beneath his legs. His bare arms and shoulders are covered in scars, thick white things, and there's faint burn marks on the side of his head, from electroshock therapy administered long ago.

He looks rapt, fascinated, but he smiles at the end.]

An' I can draw. I dunno, Lady, between the two o' us, what can't we do.

[A beat. Shyly:]

I gotta say, I met all sorts o' people these past few months-- but you're the first elf. 'S an honor. Me Ma, she'd be outta her mind; she used to tell me all these stories from the old country bout elves and fairies an' stuff.

[And once he sits, she seats herself comfortably at the other end of the couch- close enough to speak, but far enough that he has plenty of space.]

An honor, is it? [She gives a little laugh] A more flattering assessment than I have heard in some time. Well, I may assure that I will not be the last elf you meet, if you are to stay here; both my daughter and her husband will be about at times, I am certain.

[He raises his eyebrows despite himself. And, well, in for a penny in for a pound, and it's not like he hasn't acted like a complete fool in front of her already, so:]

Are they all-- er-- like you?

There are none quite like me, if I may say so. [She smiles into her wine glass, almost smugly.

But you ask if they share my gifts, do you not? The answer is ‘yes,’ to a degree. Lord Elrond has the gift of foresight also, but my daughter has only that small measure of the talent present in most of the more powerful of the Eldar; she bears a greater resemblance to her father in that.

And they're the only ones? So most elves don't got that power?

[A beat, and he adds:]

I dunno. I met people from all sorts o' worlds and places where I was before. Seems like every place had its own rules, you know?

I do. And that is why I tell you only of them; there are other elves here, but I cannot speak to what they can or cannot do. In my own world, the power is not unheard of but neither is it common. I have met very few who could match my skill with it- fewer since the passing of the Elder days. [Which isn't a boast, not really. Just a fact.]

[He stares at her for a few seconds before huffing a laugh.]

Well. Seems I got me the best o' the best. Christ. Dunno if that's a surprise, though; where I was before, my, uh . . . this guy who, who I was friends with, he told me he was the ruler o' his world. So I guess I just kinda fall in with, uh, powerful sorts.

[She gives a little laugh of her own. Oh, you have no idea.] So it seems. It is a tendency which has served us both well here, at least. I am glad to have met you.

[He beams at her, utterly pleased by that.]

I, uh-- you too. Thank you.

[A beat.]

I'm gonna have to, you know, draw you one o' these days. You're-- I gotta try an' see if I can capture all that.

I would be well pleased to sit for you, truly. It is always an honor when an artist takes an interest.

Yeah, well.

[He gives half a grin, shy and pleased all at once.]

Should put that on me business card, maybe I'd get more work at home.

And where is home for you? If I may ask.

New York City. 1899. It's-- here.

[He gives her a little grin and shows her a page from his sketchbook-- a dirty thing, well worn, but obviously loved. The drawing itself is a detailed pencil work of a busy city street: two and three story buildings overshadow a thickly crowded street. Everywhere one looks is busy: people selling things, people walking, people stealing, women hanging out of windows and doing laundry, children playing on fire escapes, a man selling eggs to a housewife, two young newsboys hawking papers-- all intermingle. The effect is a positive (albeit busy) one, drawn with a loving hand.]

[She falls into an appreciative silence for a time, hovering her fingers over the sketch but taking care not to touch it. Eventually, she looks up with a soft smile.]

You must miss it a great deal. [It doesn't look like the sort of place she would do well in, but the love in the sketch is obvious.]

Yeah.

[A beat. He gives her another little grin.]

'S funny. When I was there, I was dyin' to get out. And now that I am, I'm dyin' to go home.

[A little laugh] As it so often is with the young.

[He gives her a rueful smile as he settles back.]

So tell me where you're from. I mean, I know what legends say, but-- I figure maybe they ain't always so right about your folk.

Someday you must tell me what the legends say. I am curious.

[Where she's from is a more complicated matter than she'd like to get into right now. Where she lives is another story; her face lights up with pride as she speaks of it, like a mother bragging about her child.]

For centuries now, I have lived in Lothlórien, my Golden Woods. There are few places like it, even in my own world. It is a Mallorn forest and the leaves of those trees do not fall in autumn, but rather turn to gold. And come the spring, the ground is blanketed with the blossoms of Elanor.

What do they look like?

[He leans forward a little, eyes widening a little. It sounds too fantastic to be true, almost a fantasy-- but already he trusts her enough to know she isn't lying to him.]

Elanor blossoms? They are little things- star shaped, sometimes silver and sometimes gold. At times both are even present on the same plant.

We have the answer to all your fears; it's short, it's simple, it's crystal clear

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