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ishiah

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She ought to have seen it coming, really.

It had been barely two weeks before that she and Jill had sat on the Ferris wheel, discussing the frequency with which people left this place, the boyfriend whose baby Jill was carrying having just disappeared. Lucy had thought it then, and that was her mistake — that, after everyone else, she wouldn't be able to stand losing Jill, too. Of course, it just figured that of all people, Jill would be the one who didn't turn up, who wasn't anywhere she would have normally been, who no one had seen around. In a way, as evening came on and the truth of the matter became even more apparent, Lucy couldn't say she was surprised at all. That didn't make it any easier to accept the fact that Jill was the next one gone, and not just Jill, but her baby, too.

When she wandered into the Hub well past sunset, looking noticeably dazed, it wasn't specifically for a drink, as her tradition had so often been in the past. This time, what she needed was company, to know that not everyone had yet left her here. Sliding into a seat at the bar, she didn't so much as try for a smile, combing a hand back through her hair and sighing. "Hey," she said, a weak sort of greeting, though she was admittedly relieved to merely see Ishiah at his usual post. "You really busy?"

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Although recent weeks had found Ishiah busier than usual with the need to explore the island, the peri's need for order still kept him adhering strictly to his shifts at the Hub, times that were almost as essential to him as sleep. He took care of patrons with an efficiency that seemed to surprise even the regulars, the lack of deeper thought driving all of his energy into the more mundane of activities, polishing glasses until no water stains remained. When Lucy wove into the light crowd at the establishment, Ishiah picked her out immediately in his periphery, such that by the time he took a seat in front of him, he had just arrived at a nice breaking point in his errands.

Before answering the question, he took the time to look her from head to toe, the only way he really knew how with his acquaintances, and those he cared about a little more. Intuition wasn't his strongest suit, so he read her more like a textbook. Glassy eyes. Distracted expression. Hair that was slightly out of place. A weaker tone.

Something was wrong.

"Not at all," he replied, pressing his lips thinly together before he stepped out from behind the bar, sliding easily onto the stool next to Lucy. "What happened?"

When Lucy opened her mouth to speak, head turning so she could better look at Ishiah once he was beside her, it was to say that nothing had happened, that it was just a bad mood and work up to it from there. She found, though, that she couldn't, not because she had a problem with slight dishonesty, but because it felt so wrong. Maybe nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but on the heels of so many other disappearances, it didn't seem that way to her at all. She didn't even have it in her yet to feel guilty for interrupting.

"It's just... a friend of mine," she said instead, as carefully as she could, frowning as she looked up at him. "Disappeared. Another one. And I know I should be used to it by now, but I just didn't feel like being on my own."

With all that Ishiah knew about Lucy, he knew that this event was undoubtedly more troubling to her than most, the very sort of situation that had drawn him to her side to begin with. Although Ishiah suspected — given the fact that there was a distinct difference between his own sentiments towards family and friends — that the departure would not be one as deeply felt as Max's, what probably made it hardest of all was the fact that all of the disappearances were compounding. Even if Lucy mentally could acknowledge the fact that she herself had nothing to do with the disappearances, it could still feel like a punishment.

He allowed his gaze to break for a moment, his own way of showing sympathy, before he made eye contact, observing even the tiniest flecks of color in her irises. "That would be the type of thing that I doubt anyone here can get fully used to," he noted in a similarly careful tone. "But I am here, as you've clearly observed. Would you... like to talk about your friend, or are you here for distraction?"

"I don't —" Lucy began, only to cut herself off, shaking her head. She didn't know, really, what she wanted, except answers, a way to stop people from going and bring back those who had left, to not feel so fucking alone so much of the time. Jill had been miserable here and she knew it; whatever she had gone back to had to have been an improvement, but Lucy couldn't find it in her to be happy for Jill when she was, yet again, the one left behind. It simply wasn't fair, not now, after so many others.

Swallowing, she fell silent for a moment, unsure of how to answer, though it didn't last long. "I don't need to talk about her," she said finally, voice a little steadier. "I mean, there wouldn't even be that much to say, except..." Trailing off, then, she bit down hard on her lower lip, fighting to maintain the composure she'd just regained. "She was pregnant. Jill, she was going to have a baby, and with as close as she was to me... It just sucks, is all."

The detail about Jill having been pregnant was one which caught the peri completely off-guard. Was it pertinent, somehow? It wasn't Lucy's child, that much was obvious — unless by some fluke, she had been turned momentarily male by the island, but even then, Ishiah couldn't see Lucy ever denying a romantic relationship having been severed or referring to the significant other as a mere 'friend.' She was honest, not quite blunt, but never using deliberately misleading references. So if it wasn't Lucy's child, was it Max's? Or the child of someone else the blonde cared for? For several moments, Ishiah couldn't utter a single word as he tried to figure things out with the limited information he had been given, the process nearly giving him a headache, aided by the din of the bar.

After a few blinks, he finally decided on a more overarching possibility.

"Do you want children?" If that was the case, it was something that even Ishiah could admit to having considered on the island, being newly human and with the capability of producing progeny in a way that he couldn't have, back in Manhattan. It was a very different sort of family, perhaps a different sort of love as well, and one that Ishiah wanted very much to experience now that his attentions weren't scattered in as many directions as they were, back home.

"I thought I was having one, once," Lucy admitted, and why that was the answer that first came to mind, even she didn't know, but it hurt all the same. She hadn't ever wanted children, not of her own, anyway, but the thought of Ryan somehow staying, of the two of them someday having a family, wasn't unappealing in the least. Maybe age had something to do with it — she was closing in on a landmark now, one she would greet with no family and few friends — but she no longer felt as strongly as she once had on the subject. It didn't matter, though, when the situation to have one would never present itself; she'd had her one great love and lost him, and had no desire to look for another.

Fingers pressing briefly to the bridge of her nose, she shot Ishiah an apologetic look, well aware that such a statement likely sounded strange without preamble. "Maybe a year ago, there was a chance I might've been... But no, it's not that." Unsure how to explain it, she closed her eyes tightly for a moment, exhaling unsteadily. "I guess it's just that we were so close, and she was — her boyfriend had disappeared, so she was kind of on her own, so it... would've been like family, you know? Like a niece or a nephew or something, and I don't know if kids conceived here even still exist if they disappear."

One thing that humans seemed unable to learn for themselves was the fact that good people didn't necessarily translate into good parents, something which kept Ishiah from judging too quickly as Lucy provided a half-formed explanation. A part of him wanted to know, of course, exactly who the potential father had been, whether or not he remained on the island, and the peri wondered still whether or not he should have been tasking himself with keeping an eye after her and those she got romantically involved with. Romance, in of itself, was no more complex of a relationship than family, but the very nature of it was passion. Losing oneself in favor of another. Family was grounding, significant others were freeing, and it was always important to have enough of both the wings and the anchor.

He reached over the counter for a pitcher of passionfruit juice and two glasses, placing one in front of Lucy and pouring the fresh liquid into hers, pushing it slightly forward with his fingers. It was as subtle of a message as he could give, that he hoped she wouldn't turn to alcohol again, even if he knew on a very personal level how tempting it would always be. "Family is something everyone always stands a chance of losing. It is only most frustrating when they are lost to a shadow through which you can't see. When you don't know what has become of them." While closing his eyes, he could almost feel the brush of fine red hair and cream-colored wings. "Whether or not it was better to have had them for a while and to deal with the loss now, and the implications that has on your willingness to adopt more family in the future, is up for you to decide, subconsciously or not. I am still here, however, and I hope that is somewhat of a comfort."

All thoughts of having a glass of whiskey to calm herself down temporarily forgotten, Lucy took a long sip of the juice he'd set in front of her, lips lingering on the cool edge of the cup for a moment even after she lowered her head again. It was nothing that she had so much as wanted to think about, what had almost been the case with her, leaving her now to wonder foolishly if Ryan still would have disappeared, if they would have had the family she'd never thought she wanted or if she would have been a single parent, the prospect of that admittedly frightening. None of it mattered, not now, but as it always was with this case, there were too many hypotheticals; she was grounded in facts and arguments, and here she had neither, leaving her frustratingly aimless with everything that happened. All she did know was that Jill and her baby were both gone, and she couldn't tell where to start dealing with that.

"No, it is," she said, utterly earnest, expression betraying more affection than she would let herself own up to. She had never wanted to start letting people back in again, and was unable to allow herself to fully own up to the fact that she had, that once again, she'd set herself up for more losses, each one more painful than the last. "It really is. I just... I get so sick of this, you know? Over and over, person after person, that I..." In an attempt to maintain composed, she balled her free hand up tightly only to relax again, exhaling slowly as she did. "It was better," she continued, voice more even, "it was. I know that. It just feels like every time I get close to someone, they're gonna be the next to go, and sometimes I just don't know if I can take any more."

Edited 2010-06-20 01:15 (UTC)

Perhaps if Ishiah had been human from the start, he could have offered more. Noted the fact that every day one spent with companions was probably one more than they should have expected, that the glass was just as easily half-full as it was half-empty. But Ishiah didn't see the world through hues either rose or blue, didn't adopt the mindset of whoever he spoke with, but instead measured everything in terms of probability. Emotions in of themselves were still not something he could always accept for what they were, feelings that could be entirely arbitrary or set off by details that one couldn't always sense. When Lucy spoke of expecting people to go, Ishiah simply saw it as a fact — that everyone on the island was bound to leave at some point, that one would always feel like the last person to remain on the island because they could never be made aware of their own departures. It was every bit as plain as the fact that there would probably come a day, too, when Robin Goodfellow left him, whether on the island or back in Manhattan, because forever was simply not something that the puck could conceive of or resign himself to.

The sadness which increased with every day of Ishiah's mortality and every second of his time as a human, he didn't understand, and could hardly acknowledge that he felt any more than he could detect the slight change in the hue of the sky every time the sun rose. On some level, though, it was still there, the transition to a human state.

"You won't really be the last to go," he pointed out, the quiet of his voice used in deference and with respect. "There will be people who leave long after you have. But you will probably experience more departures of friends. I wish I could tell you what the purpose is, but I don't know of it, myself. At least this place usually seems to have the decency to keep children with their mothers, which is more than I could say for Earth."

"Yeah," Lucy sighed. It didn't inspire much hope in her, but she'd always been one to concentrate on other people's needs, their problems, so selfless that she became selfish with it. That people sometimes vanished together, or in close proximity of each other, and children with parents, was the one small kindness they were granted where disappearances were concerned, and it was something to be grateful for; she, though, she was the one always left behind, who couldn't even be sent back with the one person whose life hers had revolved around for so long. Even with him gone, there was no one in the world who meant as much to her as Max had, and there never would be, either. For her to be kept here, separate from him most likely forever, seemed cruel, more so than this place usually bothered to be.

Then there were the others, too. Gert. Ryan. Meg, Ainsley, Toby. Jude, too, no matter how pleased she had been when he'd gone the first time. Everyone left, sooner or later, and all she could do was steel herself for it, something she tried time and time again with minimal success.

"I know I won't be," she added after a moment, as if to clarify what she'd meant before, though that hadn't actually been what she was referring to. "Logically, I couldn't be. That wouldn't make sense. It won't be everyone who goes, just all the people close to me." There was a warning on the tip of her tongue, likely evident just in the way she held herself, like she was dangerous, something not to be gotten near for his own good, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Ishiah meant too much to her already for that, and that seemed to only ensure his inevitable departure.

There were muscles in Ishiah's arm that twitched, body attempting to pull through with the motions he saw so many people going through on the island. Of course, conceptually Ishiah had understood embraces and their uses for centuries, even thousands of years, but it wasn't until he actually lived among those who used it on a regular basis that he felt any sort of temptation to mimic the motion. It was like learning a language, in many ways, or at least to try and speak it after so many years of simply reading and watching. Although it was halting, he did reach out his arms to Lucy, sliding slightly off his seat and simply holding her gently there, embrace in place of the wings he normally could have sheltered another with.

"The first solution which comes to my mind," he began, words seemingly incongruous with his actions, "is simply to draw enough people close that you'll always have at least one with you on the island. But such a routine might become tiring after a time — or perhaps it already has. I don't think that your theory is correct, however. You will have someone you care about who outstays you. But it is important that you don't allow yourself to drown in fears, even if they're ever-present."

He pulled back slightly, eyes a stormy shade of blue. "I want to help. I'm not entirely sure that I'm managing."

In that moment, it was the easiest thing in the world, leaning into his embrace, however unexpected it may have been. The more people that left, the more Lucy had grown unaccustomed to having comfort of this sort offered; still, it was perfectly natural when she slid her arms around him in turn, head resting against his shoulder and eyes closing against the sudden threat of tears. He acted nothing like her brother, and physically speaking, was several inches taller, but he reminded her of no one so much as Max as he held her there, a revelation both startling and welcome. Of the two, Lucy had always played at being the older sibling, more serious, more responsible, more focused on other people, but although she would never have admitted it to him — and that, now, was what was so difficult, knowing she would never have the chance — she'd needed him, too, realizing it more in his absence than any time else. She wasn't the kind of girl who would seek to replace someone and certainly had no intention of doing so now, but that familiarity meant more to her than she could have said.

"No, it helps," she murmured, barely registering what he'd said before until he had eased back, prompting a noticeably embarrassed look on her own face, cheeks flushed a faint shade of pink. After more than two and a half years, she had figured out for herself that there was no real way to make it better, but strangely enough, just having someone to offer advice did as much as was possible, if only for the fact that it meant someone here still cared enough about her to do so. She had never been particularly dependent, had been all too willing to go off on her own and leave others behind, but that didn't mean she liked being alone. There was solace just to be found in knowing that she wasn't. "Really, it... it helps a lot. I can't say I know what to do, but this is... more than I could have asked for, believe me."

There were yet more levels to it all that confused Ishiah, and he suspected that such would be the case for years to come — even humans themselves did not usually acquire a steady level of calm about their lives until they were in the fifties or so, and they didn't have the extra crutch of thousands of years lived through a different mindset altogether. The fact that Lucy could draw comfort even when she seemed no less sure about what to do, when Ishiah's advice was perpetually only under consideration, was strange. It made deciding what to do difficult, aside from perhaps maintaining the status quo and leaving him feeling as though he were running in circles. The color on her face was welcome, though, a nice contrast to the pale tone her face usually took, and especially when she was experiencing any level of pain. He laid a hand momentarily on her head, gentle as his touch could be, because it seemed to be the type of reassurance that she needed, that of someone older and protective.

Rather an apt description of himself.

"You're always free to come to me if you need," Ishiah informed her seriously, marveling at the way the young woman in front of him called a fierce sort of conviction out from him on an island where he'd felt dulled at the edges otherwise. There was no manual to be read about such a relationship, but he knew that he did want to protect Lucy as best he could and drew from it a sense of purpose. "There is very little I wouldn't do in order to help you."

A random thought struck him, the peri focusing on one of the activities that generally lifted his mood whenever employed. "Have you ever been hang gliding?"

On the heels of such a statement, it took a moment for Lucy to fully process his question, lips curving in a smile both curious and vaguely amused. It was too sudden, really, for anything else, when the weight of what had preceded it was still sinking in. From anyone else, she would have thought it simply pretty words meant to make her feel better and nothing more; Ishiah, though, she didn't think would lie to her, and that made it mean all the more. She didn't even know what she'd done to so endear herself to him, but it was entirely reciprocated in a way she hadn't thought she was capable of since Max had disappeared. Family wasn't supposed to be rebuilt, and yet here she was.

"I haven't, no," she said lightly, shaking her head. Already she was intrigued, though, and it likely showed, her eyes a little brighter than they had been not long before. "Is that something you do? Can you do it here?" It didn't feel entirely right, ignoring what else he'd said, but she had no lead in now, no way of mentioning it that didn't make her too sentimental. She kept it in mind anyway, determined to ensure he knew that it wasn't one-sided in the least. She hadn't told her brother enough before he was gone, and being all too aware that she would probably lose Ishiah, too, she wasn't going to repeat the same mistakes she had made before.

Emotions were easily felt by the peri — if anything, he probably felt them in a manner more pure than most, given that life to him was still mostly a checkerboard of blacks and whites with very little in the middle at all. What was more difficult was acknowledging them verbally. He had learned, after all, that there were certain things better left unsaid and that on the whole, given how few friends or close acquaintances he had, Ishiah didn't stand to lose as much by being silent longer than was ideal than he did giving up too many of his secrets. His weaknesses. He was, of course, beginning to trust Lucy enough that it shouldn't have been a concern, if it weren't for the fact that Ishiah never knew how much to trust the judgment of humans, even if everything else was in the right place.

His eyes lingered on the subtle change in Lucy's expression, the wet-eyed look one familiar to him. Lately, usually thanks to the presence of a mirror. And it made his gaze soften as it ever did for Lucy, someone he would have checked on every day if possible; part of him, however, always feared that if she grew too attached and he were pulled away from the island before she left, herself, that it would end up being the last straw on the camel's back.

"I know someone who has fashioned a pair of hang gliders, and have tested them so often that I am confident in their reliability." Ishiah filled Lucy's glass with more juice, wondering if she'd eaten properly that day, if she had enough sugar in her bloodstream, hoping that her sorrow wasn't getting in the way of her health. "I have always enjoyed flying. Gliding may not be exactly the same type of beast, but the thrill is a similar one. Each can hold two at once, if that would make you feel safer. I think that you might enjoy it."

"It sounds like something I would enjoy," Lucy said, nodding her agreement, expression still thoughtful. From what she could see, at least where it applied to her, it struck a good balance; she'd grown vaguely reckless since Ryan had disappeared, and hang gliding was sure to provide the sort of exhilaration she craved, while at the same time, she felt more safe with Ishiah than probably anyone else on the island, and that, too, brought with it a certain appeal. He was bound to leave her someday, just like all the rest had, but for now, she would take all she could from this.

With a deep breath in, she cleared her throat, not wanting to get too caught up in sentimentality at a time like this, though there was a part of her that still couldn't shake that need to be close to someone. "I'd want to at least try it with you, first," she continued, refraining from mentioning that it would be for the security it provided, regardless of how safe a practice it was. Almost instinctively reaching for the juice he'd poured and taking a sip, she swallowed heavily, resting her hand on the counter after she'd set the glass down again. "So you do that a lot, huh? Is that because of —" Unsure quite how to phrase it, despite knowing exactly what she meant, she cut herself off, hoping the silence would be indication enough that she was referring to what he had confided in her that night at the ball.

It shouldn't have mattered to Ishiah whether or not such an activity appealed to Lucy, and yet somehow it did, to the point where hearing that she approved of the idea was met with a sense of pride. Most humans seemed afraid to take such a plunge from great heights, too concerned over their own safety or too distrusting in other people and the tools they employed, one of only many things which drove the race apart. The only indication he really gave was in his eyes, blazing with an emotion he had not found since arriving on the island.

And it quieted, slightly, as the peri was made to turn and face his own problems. "Partially, perhaps," he admitted, a cut in his brow deepening as he realized that he wasn't entirely sure. "It does relieve my stress, a great deal of which is caused by my concern for Robin's welfare. He is doing slightly better these days, but I do wonder if it's just a facade kept up by a clock that's winding down. I simply hope he returns to Manhattan before it becomes a true problem. But another reason is my selfish desire to return to the skies, now that they have been so stripped from me."

Lucy had never even met Robin, but her concern for him was instinctive, marked by an audible intake of breath and her lips pressing together more tightly. Not all of it was comparable — from what she'd gathered, Max's problems had begun with his return from the war, something she had shown up here before she could see for herself — but it felt too familiar all the same, giving her all the more reason to be grateful that she and Ishiah had met when and how they did. Maybe she couldn't help, not really, but she could at least sympathize, and that had to count for something. God knew she would've wanted someone to do the same for her, when Max was at his worst.

"I don't blame you," she said quietly, as close to fond as she ever got. "I think I'd miss it, too." But that was neither here nor there, when she would never actually experience it, and wouldn't have so much as thought of it if not for him. "And I wish there was some way to make the rest of it easier, I really do. But at least from what I've seen... There's no way to ever really be sure." Thoughtful, she lowered her gaze briefly, watching the surface of the juice in her glass as if there would be some wisdom to gain there. "I'm glad you've found something that helps. Hopefully it'll do as much for me, too."

"There isn't a way to make the rest of it easier, and I would prefer that it never feel as such to me. Easy. Possible to put in the background. The very instant that happens, the moment I let down my guard, someone will be hurt. Likely someone important to me, and after Cambriel, I cannot let that happen again," Ishiah mused, the tips of his fingers sliding along the glass of the bottle in front of him, turning it around and around, perfectly along the ring of water which clung to the bar. "Pain and fear have their practical uses, even if it is never wise to be consumed by either. Robin will never be relaxed on the island that sounds to him of a death knell, and I will never be relaxed for fear that someone hurt themselves out of a sense of desolation. There are many equipped to live in the environment offered here. You and me, I'm not sure that we're examples of that."

The hand broke contact with the glass then, pulled up to press against Ishiah's temple with a soft exhale. "But it is a fine balance that one has to strike. Not to wallow, not to get lost in emotion either, and so, yes. I hope that the hang gliding helps you as much as it does me. It's never enough just to live."

"No, we aren't," Lucy agreed, smiling a little despite the nature of what she was saying. It was the one piece of all of it that most stuck in her mind, that they weren't cut out for this place. Over the years she'd spent here, she had known others in the same position, but never before had that sense of kinship seemed so important, and simultaneously so relieving. There were few things she hated more than feeling helpless, and as far as she could see, the same held true for Ishiah. Maybe some part of her had to wish that he didn't have to feel like that, too, but conversely, at least it meant that they each had someone who understood. "And no, it isn't."

That much, she knew from experience, when people — Jude — had tried to convince her of that before. It wasn't an aspect of her past worth dwelling on. Instead, she finished off what juice she had left, swallowing heavily and staring, for a moment, into the empty glass which sat in front of her on the bar. "But hopefully it does. Like you said, it won't fix anything, but at least we won't have to worry for just a little while."

Seeing the empty glass of juice signaled the need to Ishiah for another step, methodical as his mind always was. It had been used as a distraction and nutrition all at once for Lucy, like a serving of medicine placed out on the counter and meant to be delivered with careful attentiveness. He extended a hand to brush against Lucy's hair again, soft and fond, before the ever present sense of obligation to one's patrons rose in him again — after so many years of running the Ninth Circle, it was unsurprising.

"Let's set a date for next month, then, and give you some time to prepare so that you can enjoy the experience fully," Ishiah decided, looking at the pitcher of juice nearby. "I'm afraid that I should attempt to be attentive to my patrons now, at least until my next break, but if it would be more comfortable for you to remain here, I would obviously have just as much of an obligation to serve you." The suggestion was offered with slight levity of a sort that those who knew Ishiah well could recognize — the equivalent of a peri joke.

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