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| Scene Title | The Dark Knight |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | When the queen of fairies is led again toward a king, her course veers off to hover near the border. |
| Date | November 26, 2010 |
The Border of All
Tiny feet pad down the dirt road, leaving little puffs of dust in her wake. The moon high above shining platinum because of the monument far off in the distance. The diamond mountain of trapped souls, glows with an incandescent blue all its own. A forbidden color reminiscent of a substance not spoken of, anywhere.
Why the orb keeps bringing her back here is unknown.
The ball hanging from the silver thread has been leaning in that direction since her expulsion. A place where joy and terror held hands but glared at each other as bitter enemies. The springy red hair coiling from the little girl's head bounces every time she glances off to the side. From there, she kept the crown. A little wire thing decorated with sparkly rhinestones, proclaiming her as the queen of the fairies.
Just as her path begins to change from earth to crystal pavers, the orb jerks to the side, keeping her just on the barrier between beauty and desolation. Somewhere, there is something creeping around the outskirts to the land of the King of All.
Dressed in dark blues and blacks, a boy lurks in the shadows, observing those who pass by this little niche he's determined to be his own domain, at least for as long as he chooses to defend it. Tight-fitting, for the most part, though he wears a cape and helmet to complement things and further conceal himself.
But this girl is different, all sparkles and light, and if he recognizes the crown he shows no sign of acknowledging its significance. She's interesting with all of that, interesting enough for him to decide to take a closer look. To bother her, in any case, where he may otherwise choose not to.
And so he makes his way to the path where an oddly elaborate throne sits, perching himself lazily upon it — leaning against one arm, with his legs draped over the other, very intentionally casual and waits for the girl to approach him, with as much interested disinterest as he can possibly show.
There's a stain of chocolate milk down the front of her pretty white dress, a little cotton thing that a child would wear to Sunday school. On her back is a little fur pack containing a myriad of things that jingle with every step. In her hand, she carries a wooden sword, one that has a familiar feel to the black and blue man.
It doesn't look familiar though, it just a feeling.
Stepping up haughtily, the little girl lifts her chin and gives an accusatory stare toward the disguised man. "Are you the shadow monster?" She uses the little wooden weapon as a pointer, pursing her lips in an angry scowl. Her bright blue eyes narrow at the man, monster, thing…
"Aren't you an adorable little thing?" His voice has an inexplicable hint of Cockney to it, though it's more like someone imitating the accent than one who speaks it naturally. With that remark given, though, he seems to forget she's there for a moment. One gloved hand is lifted and looked at, inspectingly, before he brushes his knuckles along his chest.
And looks over, to remember the girl standing before him. Like an angry kitten with a sword that, while familiar, he can't quite place.
"If that is one of my nicknames, nobody's ever called me by it to my face," he offers. He's certainly more foppish in his dreams, apparently. The helmet he wears has a decorative metal grate to cover his face, and while it isn't entirely solid, his identity is still more-or-less concealed. "You certainly seem a little young to be carrying that big sword around. Maybe I ought to hold on to it for you so you don't get hurt?"
Something about it is familiar, and he wants it.
The platinum moon shines down and a bright flash of light comes from the little toy sword. Odd. "No! It's mine!!" The little girl's bellow echoes out over the wastelands, sounding higher pitched and younger with each bounce of her voice. The girl however, she sprouts an inch.
Her identity isn't concealed, not in the conventional sense. The Fairy Queen is all powerful and doesn't shy away from monsters that exist in shadow. At least in her mind that's how it is. With a swing of her sword, the young thing advances on the monster with a war cry fit for a highlander.
It's then that the shadow monster recognizes it. The glint, the flash of gems off the hilt, the illusion doesn't work, not with him. Stopping inches from the monster, she raises the sword at him and makes her demands. "You are a liar."
While not entirely unfazed by this turn of events, the dark man rises to his feet, tall and mighty to look down on the girl with arms akimbo. The throne is gone now, forgotten and unnecessary, and the girl can almost see him glaring down at her — though his words don't betray that irritation.
"And you," he replies, all silk and smooth, "are a lost little girl who doesn't know what she's dealing with." He doesn't know how close to the truth that statement is, really.
Relaxing his pose, he tugs on his gloves, pulling them more snugly onto his hands, and thinks her accusation over for a moment. "If you think I'm a liar, how are we supposed to be able to talk this over?" A pause. "Where did you get that sword?"
"The King of All, he gave it to me." The little girl answers primly, raking her free hand through her springy red curls. The little tiara dislodges a bit, hanging skewed by a few threads of crimson coils. Preening done with, she resumes her aggressive stance against the unknown guardian and points her sword. "If you are the shadow monster, then you have to lie. And if you are lying when you're telling me that you are the shadow monster then you're a liar… because if you weren't you would tell me you're not… and lie.. and…"
The dizzying train of thought has her reeling and looking up at his mask with wide eyes she takes another deep breath and lets it out in a pitiable sigh. "You don't look like a monster… you look like… uhm… a dark knight."
That pronouncement seems to visibly upset knightoru, both in posture and unseen expression, and truly it does take a moment for him to gather a response. "Child, I don't think you know who you're consorting with." He folds a hand across his chest, sighing momentarily, and finally lifts that hand to cover the front of his helmet, pulling it off and over his head.
Under it, his hair is cut down to a few inches in length, black in color as opposed to his diurnal color experiments, and shaggy. And along one side of his jaw is a clean, but nonetheless glaring, scar. But otherwise, it's Toru, if a bit older looking.
"The King of All is not one to give gifts without expecting things in return. He.. if he's your friend, he'll expect some sort of tribute in return." Looking off to one side, the helmet is returned, hand rested against where his mouth would be.
"I'm an Outcast." There's some forced sense of dark humor to his tone. "I've fallen out of his graces for the moment. If anyone has any claim to that sword, it should be me."
Glancing off to the incandescent mountain in the distance, the girls eyes seem to take on a wistful countenance, making her seem much older than her appearance. "He helps me… he helps me remember." she says quietly, not looking at the man after the headgear has been lifted away.
She turns just before the helmet is replaced and catches his eyes, staring into them. There's recognition there for the face even if the name fails her. "You're the friend of the Cat-wailer. The man who used to talk to cats. You know the King of All?" Like the wooden sword, the little girl seems familiar but foreign.
He adjusts his helm a bit, self-consciously, and lowers himself to a crouch in order to look at the girl closer to her eye-level. His own eyes are a bit more visible at this angle, not entirely hidden by the shadows of his visor. "Oh, I was once a close advisor to the King." A nonchalant tone of self-importance. "Then I abandoned him in a time of need and he isn't so fond of having me around now that I've returned. When he makes up his mind…"
He shrugs, gestures for the girl to come closer. "The King of All helps you remember; the Cat-wailer helps me forget. If it helps, forgetting never lasts as long."
"I'm sorry," The little girl says looking up at him as she walks ever closer. With every step her body seems to morph into an older version. Until she is standing before him at almost ten years old. "If it makes you feel better, I'm not a close advisor… I'm…" Delia's brow furrows a little as she eyes the mountain and then turns back to the young man, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We just played a game once. It was fun."
With a smile, she glances down to the sword and seems to wrestle with her own conscience. "I'd give it to you if I could… but I need it."
He clenches his fists a bit as Delia approaches, but after her explanation they relax a bit. "I.. I suppose that does help." He stands up again, tilting his head as he watches the girl growing a bit. Well then, that's.. a little unusual. "Even if it irritates me that he's having fun with strangers."
He pauses, shakes his head, and runs a hand over the helm. "— I suppose that isn't your fault, though." A small sigh, there, and the man stands pensively as he considers the matter. "Who are you, anyway? I.. feel like I should be protecting you. There aren't many people who have that kind of hold over me."
There's a twitch of her eyebrows before the little girl look up at him, confused. "I'm the queen of the fai— " She pauses and shakes her head, the crown finally falling away. As it tumbles in the air toward the ground, the little girl sprouts before his eyes.
She, along with the sword, grow into exactly what they should be. Proper size and proper cut. Delia looks down at herself and then the little tiara on the ground, stooping to pick it up. Twirling it slowly it by one end between her fingers, she looks over at Toru and shakes her head, "I'm nobody… just Delia."
Toru steps back in surprise, looking Delia over and just.. not sure how to react to that. "But you're.. What are you doing here? What is all this?" Giving a wide look around the surroundings, he seems to finally realize, to some extent, where he is. The helmet crumbles away, revealing a very surprised expression, but he quickly moves to cover his face with a segment of his cape.
"This isn't— you shouldn't be here. I don't know where this is, but— what's going on? Who are you really?"
"I'm los— " But her explanation is cut of with Toru's realization that he's not where he is supposed to be. That Delia shouldn't be there.
The world around him swirls into a muddy color and slowly fades into black, the young woman's eyes and hair remaining as they are until the last moment when they finally fade. Two pinpoints of forbidden blue, a mane of long crimson red that blows off, disintegrating into a fine red dust that's swept away by an unfelt wind.
And as everything starts to fall apart, Toru dispenses with hiding himself, instead reaching out to try and grab Delia— only to find himself grasping at nothingness. Things fall apart, the center cannot hold —
— and Toru jerks sharply awake, his hands outstretched, one ramming into the inside of the van he's sleeping in. With a yelp of pain, he pulls his hands to his chest, rubbing the injured one for a moment while he frowns in reflection. Ultimately closing his eyes again, he curls up in on himself, pulling his blanket over his head, and tries to force himself into another, more troubled sleep.