The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.

[sapphira_ststep]

[Noon on Monday, April 12 (day 316)]
[Out at the Merton farmhouse]I did not go to the market this week

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[silence_excolo]

It takes a while, but the door finally opens. It's her, as far as I can tell, but the mask she wears today is different; sterner, & strangely sadder, I think, than the one she wore previously. But the eyes are hers, & I feel my jaw relax.

There's a knife in her hand, as if she'd been in the kitchen. It's possible. It's also possible it's because she lives out here alone.

"Hi," & I'm about to offer the package, but she starts with "I'm sorry," & "I don't--". Then she stops & takes a good look at me. "Marrana?" Maybe she's forgotten me. After all, it's been a few months. Not like I've been around much, but- "I've seen you in town, I think. Would you like to come in?" I nod a bit. "Yah, at the Miskatonic. You remember?" I show the package & rub the back of my neck. "It's not much, but..." I hand it to her as I enter.

The place seems mostly as I remember it, with little changes here & there. New things she's carved & whatnot. A glint on the wall catches my eye; a small mirror, it seems.

"Er, sorry." Can't think of how to broach the subject. "For not- not coming by sooner." Find I'm fussing with the edge of my jacket sleeve. "You been... doing alright?"

[sapphira_ststep]

"Marrana?" she says, and that is like a key, opening a door to a green and golden room. "Yah, at the Miskatonic. You remember?"

"I do," I say, and I find I am smiling. "Silence. I've remembered, now; I'm Sapphira St-Stephens." Quite alliterative. "Come in, come in, please," and I step back and aside and wave her in--and I realize I am still holding the knife, and catch her eye, shrug in mild embarrassment.

The farm is a small place, but neat and clean and warmer than the outside. Spring may have come, but Excolo is still no match for more southern climes. Silence is speaking nervously, an understudy pushed on stage and not given nearly enough time with her lines. "You been... doing alright?"

"I have," I say, reaching out to take the package if she will offer it and glancing quickly towards the mirror on the wall. "Well. I have-- it's been a bit of an odd week. Here, you can hang up your jacket, if you like. I was having lunch, would you care to join me?"

[silence_excolo]

She suddenly smiles beneath her grim mask & tells me she's remembered. Whether she means me or her name, she doesn't specify, but it doesn't really matter. "I'm Sapphira St-Stephens" she says, waving me in. I repeat the first name, feeling it out. "Feels more you, at least," but I wonder what made her choose Marrana that day. I hand off the muffins, waving off her embarrassment over the knife. It's not like I wouldn't have (or haven't) done the same thing.

When she tells me she's been alright there's a flick of her eyes to the mirror. How much of the dream does she remember? "Well. I have-- it's been a bit of an odd week." At that I can't help but smirk some. "Definitely. The uh, the sleep-" realize I'm not sure what to call it- "the dreaming. It affected you as well?" Although I know it did, I shouldn't assume she'd be willing to admit it. Not like I just did, heh. But it gives her an opening, should she want to talk.

"Nah, I'm good," when she offers to take my jacket. Funny though- no one ever offers. Then she offers to share her lunch with me. To that I agree. "Partly why I brought that," I say, pointing to the package. Hope she likes oat & nut.

[sapphira_ststep]

"Feels more you, at least," and I smile.

"Thank you. I think it and I have rather grown into each other, over the years." I suppose a different person's delivery might sound less like me, but that is only to be expected. "Is it only Silence, your name? Not that more than a word is required, I only wondered."

"Definitely" she says, smiling a little; a rather familiar smile, sharp, not unpleasant. "The uh, the sleep- the dreaming. It affected you as well?"

"It did," I say, glancing at the mirror again. "I... well, I understand it was generally unnerving." Which is a very mild way to put it, but one should not undervalue a little quiet understatement. "It's funny, how nightmares can stay with you."

I walk us to the kitchen, wave her towards one of the chairs and go to the coldbox. There are apples on the table, and the bread is sliced; I have some cold ham set aside, and a little cheese. "There's not much to drink, except water and tea," I say over my shoulder, pulling out the meat and cheese. "Would you like either?"

[silence_excolo]

"Just Silence," I answer, but feels like there should be more, now. Not my True Name, but with him. Don't think me adding Khenty-sek Netjer as a last name would help matters, though.

She admits being affected by the dreaming & almost seems to shudder, though not outwardly. her eyes flick to the mirror again. "How much of it do you remember?" Does she remember being blank, being crushed? Does she know what happened after?

"It's funny, how nightmares can stay with you." I nod at that, once. "And what they leave behind," I add, thinking of other things, but also the axe. There must be some reason it followed me out of that dream. And if it did, then what else?

In the kitchen she takes stock of what's available, then pulls out a bit of ham & cheese. She offers water or tea, & for some reason I choose the latter. Not that I don't like tea, but in general not much for it. But I think... I think Sapphira needs it.

There's another small mirror set up in here as well. I find myself looking at it as she fixes the tea, tracing a finger on the edge. "Did you make this?" Feels like she did, but with a purpose.

[sapphira_ststep]

"How much of it do you remember?" Silence says, and I frown a little. It's been a few days, now, and dreams... well. I did find this one was a little more fervid than most, it's true.

"I remember looking for my face," I say. "Someone had stolen it, before the dream. I was hoping to catch a fish for a wish to get it back, and what came out of the sea was rather more than we expected. And we crossed the sea together, and I was close to my face, in the end. We came to a tower in a field that everyone was trying to get into and then a woman came out. And then... I came to meet her, and I met myself, and then it turned into a nightmare and I woke up." I shake my head. "What do you remember of it?"

"And what they leave behind," she says in answer to what I said about nightmares.

"I think of them," I say, touching the folds of my mask, "more as turning things up. Ones that were buried or forgotten, for a while." I put the kettle on to boil and measure the tea into the teapot.

"Did you make this?" Silence says, and I glance over and back to see she's running one finger along the metal disc, the one polished and glossed, and I nod.

"Just lately," I admit. "I thought... well, it's been rather reassuring to see I still have my face, sometimes. And I don't suppose it does any harm to humour myself over that, does it?"

[silence_excolo]

She frowns a little & at first I think she doesn't remember, which would probably be good, considering. But then she talks about looking for her stolen face & wish-granting fishes. "What came out of the sea was rather more than we expected."

"I know that tale." The woman wishing for more & more until her greed left her with nothing. But that was for things she didn't need; a face is rather necessary.

"And we crossed the sea together, and I was close to my face, in the end. We came to a tower in a field that everyone was trying to get into and then a woman came out. And then... I came to meet her, and I met myself, and then it turned into a nightmare and I woke up."

So that's what she saw, & that's why she went so eagerly. The mirror-man lured her in with what she wanted most - herself. She shakes her head at the memory & turns the question on me. I swallow hard, trying to put it into words.

"I... I was trying to find my way through the forest. I had... run away, but I had to lose my hands to do it. Strangely enough, I wasn't worried about it." Smirk at that. "I met a Puss in Boots & a golden Fae woman who each had a quest, which made me realize I... didn't. I was forging a path to nowhere, basically. So I went along with them to the tower, hoping to find something, & for a while I thought I did." Catch myself glancing at my hands & I hold them up a little. "They came to me from the roses, or because of the roses, I dunno. They were silver, & they did amazing things," & made me feel something. Complete. Cast him out, let him turn to dust with his brothers. The angel; I'd almost forgotten. The man who is Death. Shake my head a little, refocus. "But I couldn't keep them." Shift in my seat. Wonder how she'll take this next part?

"I too saw the woman from the tower. And I saw the thing she went to fight. And... I saw you. Recognized you. And I saw what you ran to, except... I saw something different." A broken memory. "It was a thing of mirrors, reflecting what we wanted most. That's how it tricked you." Take a breath. "I saw it- what it did to you, &- & suddenly you weren't Maranna anymore. To me. You-" Swallow hard. Hearing this out loud, saying it, it's tougher than I thought it would be. "I tried to save you, but I failed." It comes out quiet, & I drop my hands to my lap. Not sure if I should tell her any more.

She thinks for a bit, feeling the edges of the folds in her mask. I want to ask her about it, about why she never shows her face. "I think of them, more as turning things up. Ones that were buried or forgotten, for a while." Nod in agreement, but wonder at her statement a little. Does this mean... she's buried herself?

She admits to making the mirror recently, to reassure herself her face was still there. So I guess she only wears masks around others. That's good, I guess, that she doesn't hide from herself. "I don't suppose it does any harm to humour myself over that, does it?" Nod a bit. "It's good to know yourself. Know you're still there." Look at her, though, half-hidden behind her mask. Does it matter if she's the only one who knows herself? If no one else knows her face, does it mean others don't actually know her?

[sapphira_ststep]

Oh, this would be a fine piece, a soliloquy to hold all listeners rapt, and I fold my hands and listen as her words and the steam of the tea weave together in the air. "I too saw the woman from the tower... And I saw what you ran to, except... I saw something different." She describes it, a thing that pulls on the sweetest masks for whoever's watching. "I saw it- what it did to you, &- & suddenly you weren't Maranna anymore. To me. You-" Never mind her face, but I can see the small shift or weight, the shiver in shoulders and drop of her hands. "I tried to save you, but I failed."

"I'm sorry," I say gently. "For you, I mean." Because I can at least begin to imagine what it's like to fail to save someone you love, real or not. "And I do appreciate your trying," and I do not add even if it wasn't for me.

I give her a moment, the beat in conversation of a comfortable pause, before I add "You can go on, if you like."

She takes the explanation of the mirrors, manufactured and makeshift, in stride. "It's good to know yourself. Know you're still there," and I dip my head in agreement, smiling.

"I hope I'll settle down a little," I say. "It's odd, stopping to check." It's fine enough while I'm in my own home (I suppose), but it still feels a little strange to be going naked as often as I have of late. Even when alone, it leaves me feeling... almost dishevelled, I suppose. "I'm hoping that I can come back to town for May, so I'm trying to get better by then."

[silence_excolo]

She expresses sympathy for, or perhaps empathy with, my words. It's strange, sharing things like this, like a story. Never was a very good storyteller. According to some, at least. She says I can go on, but really, what else is there to tell?

"It's an old nightmare," I settle on, "from a lifetime ago. A friend of mine went away with someone she trusted... but I didn't. I wasn't- wasn't there for her. When she needed me." Find I'm rubbing my neck. "She was... like you. An artist. Talented, but-" & I stop. Talented but what? There was something- something different about Marion, an almost-weakness... she was a little broken. Now I remember. I tried to fix her. It worked, for a little while. "That's why- I came to visit. Check on you." See if you brought anything back with you. But I think that question can wait.

"And you?" Realize I'm talking a bit more than I'd expected to. "Any idea behind your dream? The imagery. Must have come from somewhere..." Though I know what might have come from me, the source, the start of it all, will be harder to pin down. I wonder if I could find the him the angel spoke of. Creature with power over dreams. Or perhaps, more specifically, nightmares. It certainly delighted to see the dreamers suffer.

She nods to my assessment of the mirrors, says she hopes she'll settle some. "It's odd, stopping to check."

"Do you always-" I blurt out, but stop again. Always too blunt. Think about how to rephrase it. "You said the mirrors... you made them to- reassure you. Of your face." Notice I'm fidgeting with my hands & stop. "Is there something I can do to help?" Motion to the food. Give my hands something to do, at least while she readies the tea.

Take a breath & start again. "Is there a reason behind what you... choose to show to others?" I ask, gesturing to the mask. "I mean, I'm guessing you don't wear them all the time," said with a glance to the mirror, "but- well, why wear them at all?" Could be it's like clothing to her. Could be custom. Or it could be something else. Won't know if I don't ask.

[sapphira_ststep]

All edges and jars, stops and restarts, words jerking like curtains on rusty pulleys. "A friend of mine went away with someone she trusted... but I didn't. I wasn't- wasn't there for her. When she needed me. She was... like you. An artist. Talented, but-" and I cock my head to one side, wondering at the stages of grief and the shapes of responsibility, her age and mine. "That's why- I came to visit. Check on you."

"I appreciate that," I say, leaning forward a little and resting my hands on the table with my fingers laced together. "And I'm sorry, as well, though I realize..." I free one hand, wave it hesitantly through the air. "I'm sorry," the words old smooth rote, "for your loss."

I give her a moment and she asks about the scenery in my dream. "Well," I say thoughtfully, "I make masks--faces--and properly made I do think they represent something of the wearer. Having that taken away is not a bad starting point for a nightmare, I suppose." I sip my tea. "The idea of someone specifically taking it away... That seems a little stranger, but perhaps it came from the nightmare of the man who did it?"

She starts speaking of the mirrors, and then comes to the line "Is there something I can do to help?" and for a moment I think she's talking about the mirrors, but then I catch myself.

"You could get plates, I think," I say, gesturing to the cupboard. There isn't much to do, I know, but perhaps it will hep.

"Is there a reason behind what you... choose to show to others? I mean, I'm guessing you don't wear them all the time," she says, looking at the bright accident of the mirror, "but- well, why wear them at all?"

"It's more honest," I say, "and I do wear them all the time, actually, unless I'm sleeping." I smile a little, to take any sting out of the words. "People watch their faces, govern their reactions, tailor their presentation of themselves. Clothes, stances, expressions, makeup, grooming... Conscious or not, they describe themselves. Masks don't conceal, not really, they only set out what you choose to show. And as well," sitting back, shoulders dropped, said a little lighter, "I like my work, I'm proud of it. So there's some vanity, as well."

[silence_excolo]

She explains a bit of what she thinks was behind the imagery of her dream, about how the masks she makes represent something of the wearer, like a face. "The idea of someone specifically taking it away... That seems a little stranger, but perhaps it came from the nightmare of the man who did it?"

"Wait, so someone specific stole your face? In the dream?" Could it be someone in town, someone else affected by the dreaming who, what, played along with the nightmare? Not something to be taken lightly, if it is.

"It's more honest,and I do wear them all the time, actually, unless I'm sleeping." She replies to my question of her masks as I reach into the cupboard. But her voice is measured, not harsh. Perhaps she's had to explain this before? "People watch their faces, govern their reactions, tailor their presentation of themselves. Clothes, stances, expressions, makeup, grooming... Conscious or not, they describe themselves. Masks don't conceal, not really, they only set out what you choose to show." I set the plates on the counter & think a bit.

"Seems to me it's more... protective. You choose the one thing you wish others to see & conceal the rest." I lean back a bit, just to study her reaction. "Unless you're truly honest with yourself, I guess." I pick the plates back up & bring them over to her. "But then, how do others know if you're being honest? You're only showing what you want them to see." Shrug a bit & smirk. "Guess we all do that, though, in a way."

"And as well, I like my work, I'm proud of it." She jokes, relaxing as she works. "So there's some vanity, as well." Smile some at that. "Nothing wrong with being glad of a job well done." No, I guess not. As long as it's the work, not the one who does it, right? I wonder sometimes.

[sapphira_ststep]

"Seems to me it's more... protective. You choose the one thing you wish others to see & conceal the rest," and I laugh a little at that.

"As everyone ever does," I say. "You've seen people carry themselves differently, speak more or less freely depending on who they're with and who watches. The clerk speaks of her work and the mother of her child and the souse of her sorrow, and they're all the same woman showing herself in a different light."

"But then, how do others know if you're being honest? You're only showing what you want them to see," and I have an answer to that, but she catches it herself, the light roll and shift of dry amusement. "Guess we all do that, though, in a way."

"We do," I say. "I imagine wearing a mask--a made mask--is if anything more honest than wearing one only of flesh and courtesy. It certainly makes the wearing of it clearer to others."