LilacFree (lilacfree) wrote,

This is IC for the Ashes to Ashes MUSH.

The Very Secret Diary of Loriel Elenar ni Fiona

January 5, 1998

So here I am with a pen. The idea here is to write things down rather
than saying them, because I'm tired of the taste of my own toes. And going
on and on about your troubles must be terribly dreary listening for other
I'll start by summing up. I'm seventeen years old by the calendar. I
am enrolled at l'Academie, the school for fae youth. I have a guardian,
Lady Arianwyn Durand ni Gwydion, the Marquessa of Oak and Countess of Ash.
She's the closest thing to blood kin I have.
Why is that so important to me? Why should family mean anything? I
was raised by a guardian I barely remember now, and never knew mother,
father, or siblings.
I've rolled around a bit on the bed and thought. It's the way of the
Elenar. The few things I recall of Arcadia are mostly to do with what it
means to be Elenar. We are a lot like the Mafia: the Family with a capital
F. When Lady Durand first took over my guardianship from the human woman
who raised me, and told me she was related to my mother, I felt as if I
finally had found a place to belong. But it hasn't worked out that way, not
quite. I think she is everything admirable, and if I do not love her then I
have never loved. And maybe I haven't. This obsession, this need to have
her favor and whatever token of love she may proffer, is this really love?
Sometimes I feel like I'm asking for something that I can never have. That
isn't mine and can never be mine.
And I don't want to be another burden on her. I want to help her. She
has such crushing responsibilities. When I look at it, I don't see that I
have added any value to her life. If I had never existed, would she be any
worse off? The best thing I know to do is to try to behave and make her
proud. Should that be so hard to do? Of course, her standards are higher--I
say that with pride. If I could be--and how sententious it sounds--the
picture perfect Seelie Sidhe maiden, and have the credit of training me go
to her, it would be some good. Somehow it hasn't quite worked out. My
impulses are to misbehavior. Recently, Tinker vastly comforted me by saying
he thought I always had a good front. Hopefully when it seems to me that I'm
careening about like a morning star on the end of its chain, other people
can't see past a reasonably civil exterior to the vain rage and foolish
I think facing myself like this is being of some help. I can see that
I haven't come to grips with what I am. Others see the glitter, the beauty,
the power, the majesty of the Sidhe. But to rule is the ultimate servitude.
And it starts with self-rule. An absolute unforgiving discipline. One of
the proverbs of the Elenar says, 'Smile when the blade goes in.' It means
if someone hurts you, or you have an enemy, you don't show anger or pain or
hate. You smile, and treat that person with as much courtesy as if you
dearly loved. You show your heart to your family, or to one you love.
And here I am, the only Elenar, and I'm not sure I know what love is.
Don't I love Tinker? The idea of him being hurt makes me feel desperate and
chilled to the bone. The Fiona are supposed to feel fear when the object of
their affections is endangered. Does friendship count? As much as I value
Tinker, I don't want to be his lover. Sometimes I think the reason is that
he's so terribly important to me that I have to protect him from myself.
That sounds like an Elenar thing. It also sounds incredibly stupid.
Romance can be stupid. I'm thinking of Cyrano de Bergerac. He never told
his true love of his feelings, because he felt that with his big nose he was
ridiculous as a lover--that love belonged to the fair. Which is stupid.
Charm overcomes a lot of simple physical flaws, and conventional beauty does
not a great lover make. I know, that like Cyrano, I am in love with love.
I would see it exalted, even at the cost of my own tears.
Love is like a sword. A shining beautiful thing, brought forth from
the agony of metal in the furnace. Beaten to a white heat of passion then
tempered in water like tears. Supple, resilient, made to hold but it must
have a sharp edge and cut deep or it is not real, only a game. But one must
not push the metaphor. A blade is an object of rules, and you always know
which end is the dangerous one. But in love, it is not so easy to
know where the pointy bit is. Sooner or later you're going to find out the
hard way.
Now that I've descended into bad philosophy, it's time to stop this
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