The New World // for Daine

[battersea]

It was a difficult decision, but it has been made. He will go with Raphael. He will venture beyond his Halls, beyond the House, beyond the World Itself. It is a dizzying prospect, a decision which continues in no small way to terrify him. But he remains resolute. The decision, the promise has been made, and he will honor it.

He takes some time in preparing as he awaits Raphael’s return. He writes in his Journal and collects his belongings, the things he imagines he might need in the New World, as well as some things he simply wants to carry with him — little mementos, feathers and pebbles and the Finger of the Unknown Statue which the Tides had placed in his hand some Months ago. He hopes that the House will not mind the removal of these things any more than it will miss its Inhabitant. He does intend to return, and he thinks it will be easier to venture into the Unknown if he has these few traces to remind him of Home.

He has just finished adorning his hair with the shells and coral once more, wishing to look his best for the journey, when he hears a strange draught. He stops what he is doing, his hands coming to rest in their activity as he tilts his head to listen, trying to ascertain the direction of the Wind. It does not sound quite like the Air of the House; there is something high and thin about it, a gentle whisper he does not expect, unimpeded by the Marble Walls and Statues and Archways. Rather it blows quietly and without disruption. How wonderful and strange it is! He wonders, rather fancifully, if the House has conjured up some new Passage of the Air in order to bid him a safe journey.

And then he notes a peculiar smell. It is the smell of grass. He recognizes it, just as he has recognized other smells that do not belong in the House — metal and petrol, things he has occasionally scented in the First Vestibule, or tasted in his dreams. But he is wide awake, and he is quite a distance away from the First Vestibule. Such strange scents do not tend to reach him here.

It is pleasant, though, and again he wonders if the House has brought forth something new, as if to encourage him, or to excite his curiosity.

Then — and this is quite extraordinary and alarming — he feels and hears and smells a great many things at once. The scent of grass grows strong and pronounced and is joined by a flood of other smells, each one’s name called up from the recesses of his (or, perhaps, Matthew Rose Sorensen’s) memory: there is soil and sod and the perfumery of flowers, and the wood of trees, and there is that distant tang of metal and petrol he has noted in the First Vestibule. The draught is even more unhindered and it brings with it a strange rustling sound, as of papers being gently shifted together. There are other sounds, too, a great many, too many to account for or parse; a distant rush and roar he cannot place, and birdsong that sounds too far away to be in any of the neighboring Halls, too high and faint to be carried by Marble Walls — and voices, human voices, more than two, which is the most staggering of all. The World beneath his feet is soft and strange, not at all the solid Pavement he knows.

He blinks.

There is so much Light pouring down upon him, around him, from all sides, that he is blinded and overcome. He lets out a startled cry and reaches up to cover his face, nearly dismantling his glasses all over again from their makeshift fish-leather-and-seaweed reinforcements. He staggers and finds no Plinth to brace against, no Niche to squeeze into. He lowers his hands. He opens his eyes. He blinks until he can almost peer through the blinding, brilliant Sunlight that has enveloped him.

He does not understand what he is seeing.

He does not understand any of it.

“Oh,” he cries, breathless and afraid, and his legs buckle and his knees strike not the unyielding Pavement but soft, absorbent Earth. His hands drop down to brace himself and his fingers curl into a tangle of Grass and Dirt. A shudder runs through him and horror grips his heart. Where is he? Where is he?

“Six—Raphael!” he cries, and his voice is strangled and thin and does not reverberate in the way that it should. He is lost, the World around him a vast expanse with no shape to it, no Halls, no Ceilings, no Staircases and no Statues. It is too bright and too vivid and too loud, and even the thrilling awareness that there are other People is not enough to quiet his growing terror. Is this the New World? Has he left already, somehow, without Raphael to guide him? And without her, will he be able to return?

Horror turns to panic and he crumples over, gasping and retching violently, squeezing his eyes shut and praying to the House to reclaim him, to wake him from this awful dream.

Comments

[wildmage_daine]

Daine actually sees it happen, which is a new one. She's walking through the park, enjoying the weather — spring comes so early here; she's been away from Snowsdale for ages, but part of her still marvels when the snow doesn't hang on until the end of May — and then someone just... appears. She's looking at a squirrel, and then the view is abruptly blocked by a two-legger: tall and gangly and flinching from the light as if it's blinded them.

"Oh!" Daine changes course at once, picking up her pace when the poor person starts to crumple, first to their knees, then on all fours, and then they topple onto their side as if horribly dizzy. Daine isn't quick enough to stop it, and she comes to an awkward halt beside them. Goddess, they... he?... looks terrible. Not just ill and miserable, but dressed in something barely recognizable as a suit (her Ma would've consigned it to rags by this point). And are those rocks in his hair?

Never mind that for now. Daine drops into a careful crouch, her face etched with pity. "Hey," she says gently, pitching her voice the way she would if she was working with a frightened creature that needed healing. He doesn't seem to be injured, or at least he's not bleeding, but he's plainly frightened. "It's okay. You're safe. You're safe."

[battersea]

A feminine-sounding voice answers him, but it is not Raphael. It is someone different, someone new. Someone who, likely, belongs to this strange World and who therefore may not be able to help him return to his. A terrible sob wracks through him at the thought, but then she speaks again, offering a reassurance that, even if it is not true or wholly comforting, provides him at least a little immediate calm.

Is he safe? He opens his eyes, squinting up at the blurry face shadowed against a too-bright Ceiling that is not a Ceiling at all. Even already on the Ground he feels sick and dizzy again thinking of it, and he shuts his eyes quickly again.

"I, I am lost," he says, his voice trembling. "I was not supposed to arrive like this, it is too soon and I did not wait for Raphael. She was supposed—I was meant to wait, to not be alone. I—I do not know the way back. I must go back. Please—"

His voice cracks and he cannot continue. He does not like to think of himself in such a pitiable state at the feet of a Stranger, but he hopes she will not find him too miserable. She has a kind voice, and it seems she wants to help, and he would dearly like to believe that she could.

[wildmage_daine]

She's met a few fresh arrivals and arrived twice, herself, so she ought to know by now that there's no normal way to go about it. But she doesn't think she's ever met someone who meant to be going somewhere: who talks about how they were supposed to arrive, as if this is more of a mistake than a complete surprise. Maybe traveling between realms is normal where this fellow comes from. Maybe that'll make all of this easier to understand.

Or maybe that just makes it worse. Whatever he's used to, or whatever he expected, he obviously isn't taking this in stride.

She frowns down at the man for a moment or two, wondering what on earth to say to him. Slowly, she ventures: "I don't think anyone has ever meant to arrive in Darrow like they do. It just... takes us. It will send you home eventually, but none of us get to choose when. We just have to be patient."

He doesn't seem likely to spring to his feet in the next minute, so Daine settles down on the grass. He was squinting earlier as if the light pained him, so she shifts, a little, to block the sun from falling directly on his face. "I'm from somewhere else, too," she explains. "My name is Daine."

[battersea]

The word 'Darrow' has no meaning. It is a nonsense word. Like Manchester. Like Batter-Sea. Only he knows now that those words do have meaning, that they meant something to Matthew Rose Sorensen, and that they were lost along with Matthew, absorbed into him during his rebirth. It is not only a lack of familiarity that distresses him; it is the way she refers to it. 'It just takes us.' What is It? Who is Us? More Inhabitants of the House? Is this 'Darrow' a World of its own, the House's opposite, predatory instead of generous? Is this a trap he has only just discovered, and if so, will Raphael be able to find him here?

She has sat beside him now, settled to block the Light from glaring too harshly into his eyes with what seems like intent. He blinks, his vision blurred by blindness and tears, and struggles to focus on her.

"Daine," he says. "I—"

He pauses, trying to collect himself before babbling further. She has given him a great deal of information with but a few words. She has told him he will be sent Home (by what?) and that he will not be able to choose when. Patience, he understands. It is the rest that feels treacherous and uncertain, such as when he had missed a step and nearly fallen through broken Pavement to the Halls Below.

He swallows, his throat thick, his olfactory senses still assaulted by too much data. He tries again.

"What is Darrow?" he asks, desolate and soft.

[wildmage_daine]

He sounds so miserable that it breaks her heart a little. Part of her wants to reach for his hand, but she isn't sure if that'd be any comfort right now, when she's little more than a stranger and he's still figuring out which way is up. It'd probably be kinder to just keep blocking the sunlight while he recovers himself.

So she focuses on answering his question, trying to strike a balance between telling him what he needs to know and not overwhelming him. "Darrow is the name of the city," she says, "but it's more than that, too. There's something bigger behind it, I think. Like magic, or a god or something. No one seems to know for certain."

She gives that a few moments to sink in, then ventures, "Would it help you if we moved someplace with a bit more shade? I could help you stand, if you're up for it." Maybe it's too soon for that, but she can't help but think this would all be easier if he wasn't sprawled on the lawn. There are plenty of trees nearby, and while the leaves are still coming in, there's far less glare beneath their branches.

[battersea]

He listens to what Daine tells him and takes it all in quietly. Darrow is a City and also a God or a Magical Intelligence of some kind. This is not so very different from how he understood the House, lending further credence to his idea of Darrow as a hostile version of it. But perhaps this is a rash and unkind assumption. He has only just arrived here and cannot be certain whether Darrow has captured him or the House let him go freely for reasons of Its own, or if all this was simply an accident. He is intrigued by the idea that the Inhabitants here are in some debate about the nature of Darrow; it seems there are a great many of them, and that Daine has spoken to them all, and that there is some shared Knowledge that passes between them. This is comforting. A sense of Cooperation which Raphael did not indicate existed in the Other World, Matthew Rose Sorensen's World.

Such rational and methodical thoughts help to calm him until his breathing settles and he feels he can properly consider Daine's question.

Shade, he understands. A Shadow cast by a Statue, or in this case, a Tree. It would help to be able to look at her directly, not so blinded by the directness of the Sun.

"Yes, I think so," he answers, and starts to push himself up. He is startled by a weight hanging off his arm, and realizes that he still has his messenger bag about him, and he sits up and looks through its contents at once. All his Journals are accounted for, and he breathes a sigh of great relief. He has those, at least. His written memories, here and intact.

Then he gets to his feet, taking her assistance where offered. She is a good deal shorter than him and rather slight but evidently strong, having little trouble taking his weight when he staggers. Finally he is righted, and he breathes in the strange, variously scented air, and looks at her.

She is quite striking: a delicate, narrow jawline offset by the determined set of her brow and her serious expression. She has bright, attentive eyes, a long, slim nose, and a full mouth. Her hair is as curly as his, and much longer. She looks younger than him, perhaps twenty or so, and she is dressed in a strange sort of uniform in an eggshell blue.

"Thank you," he says at length, and clutches his messenger bag to him. "I am all right now."

That may be an overestimation, but he does not wish to appear too helpless. At the very least, he is all right to move into Shade at her direction.

[wildmage_daine]

Daine hadn't taken much note of the bag before now — the new arrival was distracting enough on his own — but she can't help getting a peek at its contents when he opens it, seemingly to check that nothing has been lost. Knowing that he meant to be traveling somewhere, she expects to see supplies of some sort, and she's a little surprised to see much of the bag full of books: not like library books, but like the blank journals you might find at a bookshop. Maybe he's a writer, or a researcher or somesuch? She files that question away for later. The last thing he probably needs right now is for her to start asking him about his work, not least of all because coming to Darrow might've left it in shambles.

Once he's checked his bag, he levers himself to his feet, and Daine braces a hand under his elbow to make sure he doesn't topple while he finds his balance. He's a good few inches taller than she is, but wiry enough that supporting his weight is no hardship. Once he's steadied himself and assured her that he's all right, Daine smiles up at him and gives his arm a gentle pat. "Of course," she replies. "Arriving here is always fair difficult. The least we can do is look out for each other."

She takes her hand away, then nods at a large maple just a few yards distant. "Here, we can have a sit-down over there while you get your bearings." While they both get their bearings, more like; one of the trickier parts of helping new arrivals is trying to figure out what they need when they're in no fit state to tell you. But helping him isn't a hardship — it's not like he's drawn a weapon on her, which'd be fair enough, all things considered — and she settles in the dappled shade beside the trunk and lets her own bag thump onto the grass.

Of course, one of the side effects of noticing a new arrival is that it means he's getting noticed by her friends, too. She hadn't made any attempt to mute her own concern, and the People nearby had felt it. Spring is a busy time of year, elsewise they probably would've had company sooner. As it is, it isn't until they're both seated that a chickadee flits down to cling to a branch just a few feet overhead, peering down at them between whistling, territorial calls. Multitasking, Daine supposes.

He's fine, she assures the bird. I think.

Are you? the chickadee replies before dropping to perch on Daine's knee.

Daine puffs out a quiet sigh, then shrugs over at the newcomer. "Animals take to me," she explains, which isn't the half of it. But she doesn't know if a rundown of her magic would be much help right now, either. "Is the shade helping?" she asks instead.

[battersea]

He smiles, tired but grateful, at both her reassurance and the kind touch to his arm. If he were not already so near to tears over the unkind shock of his situation, such a gentle touch might have brought him there. He is relieved to be able to contain himself. He does not want a repeat of that mortifying occasion when he burst into sobs in Raphael's company. He does not wish to overwhelm Daine's kindness with his own fragility.

He follows her closely, trying to quell the instinct to look about himself. It is quite difficult to keep his eyes forward, to willfully block out all that looms large and vast around him. Normally, taking in the World about him is one of his greatest pleasures, and unless he has put himself to some specific and important task, there is no call to keep his senses shuttered and narrowed. Here there is still too much to see and smell and feel and hear, and it is like a great burning weight pressing in around him. He almost reaches for Daine's hand as if to anchor himself, but he resists this urge as well.

When they are finally sat down, he considers himself for a few moments, measuring the steadiness of his breath and heartbeat, until at last he feels somewhat calmed. The Shade is cool and soothing; the Tree is wonderful and strange, but not so unlike the Statues or Plinths he might put his back against to relax. Its texture is more gnarled and complex, but no less beautiful.

He is struggling to put his thoughts in order when a small bird flits down from the Branches of the Tree and alights delicately on Daine's bent knee. He sits up straight at once, keenly interested in the newcomer, and delighted by how easily it has joined them. He had taken note of the birdsong here, different and in some ways more expansive than in the House, but familiar all the same. He had not thought to seek comfort in it just yet, but now, it is as though Darrow has sent him a small message to welcome him, and it is a slight balm to the difficult circumstances of his arrival.

"Oh!" he says softly, more to the bird than to Daine's explanation, which seems almost unnecessary. The only animals he really knows are birds, but they will take to anyone who offers them the right balance of attention and respect, so it has always seemed to him. To the bird he says, "Hullo. I do not believe I have ever seen one like you before." It is very small and charming, but an unfamiliar species. Humbly, he adds, "It is very nice to meet you."

[wildmage_daine]

"He's a chickadee," Daine says, her smile coming a little easier now that the conversation has turned to the People. "They're fair common in Darrow, so you'll probably see plenty of them." She wonders if he's from more southern climes, like someplace tropical; that might explain both the seashells and coral and not knowing what chickadees are.

Only one in this tree, though, the chickadee says with a prideful little ruffle of his feathers. He doesn't need Daine to translate the polite tone of the man's greeting, and he examines the new arrival with one bright little eye. Not sure I've seen a two-legger like this one, either. What is he?

"Oh," Daine says, realizing that she can't make a proper introduction because she hasn't got the poor man's name, yet. Maybe it's no great surprise that it fell by the wayside, given everything else, but she still feels a bit silly for not asking earlier. "What's your name?"