(JP) I will go down with this ship ... (RP for sand_andwater)

[fey_fire]

I know you think that I shouldn't still love you,
Or tell you that.
But if I didn't say it, well I'd still have felt it
where's the sense in that?

I promise I'm not trying to make your life harder
Or return to where we were …


June 17th, 2009

Rory had been sure that the hardest part of getting to Venice to see Pippa would be cutting loose from Breaker Street's schedule of promotional appearances for their debut album. The head of PR for Serptichore Records had indeed gotten in a fume about his request … more of a demand, really … which the singer bypassed by going straight to the top, namely Robbie Fellowes' office. Rory had been prepared to argue, cajole, insist, anything necessary to get his way with the man he'd known all his life as Robin Goodfellow. Robin, however, had listened to his explanation with narrowed eyes, and then shocked the hell out of him.

"One week," he'd said mildly. "Absolutely no more than seven days. We'll spin this to our advantage in the meantime, but you're to be back here no later than three weeks before the tour starts." Eyebrows arching at Rory's stunned expression, the Puck had flicked his fingers at the office door. "What are you waiting for, idiot boy, a bolt from the blue? Go!"

He went.

Certainly travelling to the City of Bridges wasn't the greatest of difficulty, not for a fae like himself. Using the twilight realms to cross the Atlantic and part of Europe took longer than to cross the United States, but no more than a handful of hours passed before Rory changed from stallion back to man and emerged on a vacant rooftop overlooking the Piazza San Marco. Only then did the problems of trying to find one spot in a completely unfamiliar city bear down on him. He of course spoke not one word of Italian, and even when a young woman who spoke reasonable English took pity on the tall and very lost-looking foreigner with a single bag slung over his shoulder, his Irish accent still made it difficult to establish mutual understanding. The scrap of paper on which he'd scrawled the return address from one of Pippa's letters, however, helped clarify matters.

"Ah, si, you are going to Murano then. I can show you where to catch the vaporetto, it's just up the Riva degli Schiavoni … you have a pass, of course?" When he confessed he did not, she shook her head and guided him through buying both a map and a "Venice Card" good for a week's travel on the water buses. Rory had at least provided himself with plenty of euros; he had no desire to fool the locals with fairy coinage.

He knew perfectly well that he hadn't given himself enough time for proper planning. Taking that time would have also meant giving himself too much time to think about what he was doing, and the journey here had already provided more than enough of that. Even the wait for the vaporetto and the ten-minute ride across the Venetian Lagoon set his mind to gnawing at one realization. His biggest difficulty had nothing to do with getting out of his obligations, the language barrier, the strangeness of his surroundings or even the fact that he had no idea how Pippa would react to seeing him.

In truth, he had no idea how he would react to seeing her.

His thoughts swung wildly through a swirl of emotions: distress at the tears in her voice during their last phone conversation, frustration at her refusal to respond to his calls and messages afterward, not a little pique that he was somehow expected to chase her when she'd been the one to decide to leave, and simple desire to see her face again. Overlaying it all was worry, worry that he still wasn't sure whether he'd made the right choice.

He set foot on the Glassmakers' Island, fingers on the slip of paper in his pocket, looking around for another local who might help him. And still he didn't know if he should be there at all.


And when we meet
Which I'm sure we will
All that was there
Will be there still ...


Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 645

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[sand-andwater.livejournal.com]

Pippa, of course, had no idea anyone was searching the small island for her. Even if asked to guess who might wish to see her, the redheaded gaffer would likely name any one of a half dozen friends she had scattered over Venice's many islands. Rory Stone wouldn't even come to mind.

Not in that capacity. He'd written her off, she assumed, when she'd called him days ago and begged him to come to her. That he hadn't and could only offer her a 'maybe' spoke volumes to the temperamental artist. Unable to forget him and move on, it seemed he had little of the same problem, so she stopped answering his calls, deleted his voice mails unheard and spent her time much as she had for the last six months: pushing herself to hard and blaming herself for far too much. Her moods could burn as long as the fires she stoked and be as fragile as the glass she worked.

Today she was doing the work of an apprentice, a near-novice, making gathers of flux for other glassmakers. Back and forth she moved, from furnace to work bench and back again. She did the menial labor so that the gaffer could create. Physically demanding, her tank top was soaked through with sweat and her jeans were grimy, her hair tied back with a kerchief and while her arms tensed and muscles at times quivered from exhaustion, Pippa’s face was an expression of pure concentration. She was nothing if not determined here.

Proving that she could still do this, that her talent wasn’t wasted. If this weren’t enough of a reminder, her journey across the studio repeatedly brought her to face another reminder: The Red King. Ruairi. Ro. Her own project that occupied her evenings and any time when she wasn’t working for the maestro and earning her keep. She worked on the massive sculpture when she could have the studio to herself, while there was no one to interfere with her methods.

In fact, it was her plans for this night that prevented Pippa from paying too much attention to the minor commotion outside the studio. Along the canal there was a walkway and as usual, it was littered with men taking a break from their work and passersby curious enough to watch the gaffers at their craft. Now there was a murmuring, some excitement or another than had a wave of Italian voices rising and falling. A few even glanced back inside at the redheaded American.

She didn’t notice, back to work as she was. Pontil dipped into the flux, spinning the rod steadily with one hand and balancing it in the other to make the perfect gather.