memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
((This short fic is based on a prompt by [livejournal.com profile] ysabetwordsmith in this week's Creative Jam in the [livejournal.com profile] crowdfunding community: "Contradictions as a necessary source power, for challenging assumptions."

Context:  To better understand Evelyn Alvar's character, you can read both her Character Profile and Galatea's Character Profile.  Evelyn and Galatea are different points in the timeline of a single character.  Vaelius, who is mentioned, also has a Profile.  This drabble is a slice of time from within a narrative thread I'm in the process of writing with a friend on Tumblr: Slow Fade.  It does contain spoilers for the thread, because it references a scene we haven't yet written.  Trigger warnings for deliberate violations of body and mind autonomy apply, as well as chronic physical illness.))


Evelyn Alvar was acutely aware of the frailty of her body.

It was a constant source of frustration to her, that the very thing that gave her freedom, that allowed her to slip the constraints of the Here and emerge Elsewhere, also seemed to be the very thing that was draining the life from her.  And because of this, they were here, prisoners.  They had walked heedlessly right into a classically Machiavellian trap.

This illness, this fragility of body, was a thing that had been done to her.  She had learned this here, drawn across the universe by Vaelius' meticulously executed ploy-- displaced, snared and cornered like a wild animal, and the thought of it...

Well.  It made her angry.

There were vague memories swirling along the edges of her consciousness, of being strapped into a chair, of some sort of device that seemed to somehow exist in multiple locations at once-- no, not multiple-- deeper locations, as if a larger portion of the device hid somewhere within its three surface dimensions-- being attached to her, and it was unsettlingly familiar, this device, though she couldn't actually remember why. And there were memories of a huge, dark sphere peppered with red lights hovering overhead, the harsh white glow of the ceiling lights haloed around its mass so it looked like an omen, like an eclipse.  Of the sensation of being pulled from her body, drawn into an indescribable space that seemed to be somehow composed of pure, unadorned mathematics--

She was dreaming now.  A part of her knew this as she wandered through the winding, endless corridors of her home (had it always been this big?  It was like a whole universe in here...), opening doors and peering through them as she hovered on their thresholds, gazing enraptured at mirage-like images of rippling starscapes and barren planets and glittering alien cities teeming with life.

When she came upon the brass-fillagree-framed mirror, standing straight, tall, and alone in the center of an otherwise bare and plain room that was a jarring contrast to the lavish worlds contained behind all the other doors in this place, her head tilted slowly to one side, short brunette waves falling across her cheek and forehead as she stared with large brown eyes. The woman in the mirror-- her other Self, the Self that broke free of the three-dimensional bonds of her everyday form and took flight to the furthest stars every night-- stared back with equally large jewel-purple eyes, head tilting in tandem with Evelyn's as long hair the color of moonlight cascaded in silvery spirals over one shoulder.

This white-haired, marble-pale ghost, this ephemeral embodiment of the hidden, forgotten layers of who she was, evinced an endless Mobius tangle of contradictions-- of life and death, of weakness and strength, of slavery and freedom.

Vaelius was smugly assured he had her in his grasp. But she would not be bound.

"It's time to wake up," her other Self said, and Evelyn spoke the words in tandem.  And she began to Remember.

Nightmare

Sep. 10th, 2015 12:50 pm
memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
Dreams, too many dreams that sear themselves across her consciousness, choking her , smothering her. She gags at the stench of burning flesh as smoke blinds her. Screaming metallic voices tear through her hearing, and all she can think is Run. Run. Run. But she can’t– they won’t allow it, these ancient men with madness in their eyes. She just wants to wake up. She is drawn from her burned and broken body like a last breath. She sees a stoppered bottle, an ornate thing, gilded with circular script, something that might hold perfume. It is so much larger within. This will house you temporarily until an appropriate body is found, the men say. You will forget, they say. But you will remember one day, and when you do, we will be waiting. There is a liminal echo of command, of threat to their words.

She just wants to wake up.
memoirsverse: (Memoirs)
An excerpt from Evelyn Alvar’s first book in the Memoirs of a Tourist series, in which her heroine, Tara Midas, tries to describe her journeys:

“This world is so… three dimensional,” Tara said. "So flat. You can only move along its surface, back to front, side to side. The circumference of a clock. But I’ve learned how to slip past that, through it. I’ve learned how to fly.“ She considered these words in silence for a moment. "It’s not something that can be described. Words are only symbols, after all, representational. Powerful only because of what they describe, powerful because they bring a flimsy sort of tangibility to the intangible. But the actuality is so much greater.”
memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
Evelyn often takes long walks in her small-town Louisiana neighborhood, inhaling the scent of the wisteria, the oleander, the crepe myrtle that froth along the verdant lawns, melodic colors accented by the thrumming, subdued harmonies of the aging, peeling hues painted on the houses. The warm spring wind caresses her face, bringing with it the taste of rain, tiny droplets shimmering in the heavy air. She turns her face to the overcast sky, her eyes picking out the subtleties of the swirls of violet and indigo, touches of warm green in the deepest shadows, a faint tinge of pink in the light, flecks of gold limning the edges of cloud where the sun peeks through. Gray is not a word in her vocabulary– she sees too many intricacies to use such a crude and overly simplistic descriptor.

She breathes in these colors, these refractions of light and music that dance in her mind. They bring her a sort of peace, easing the ache in her head, her body, her soul. She feels the life around her, and it makes her smile, a faint but slowly re-illuminated memory of joy and desperately earned freedom

Stellar

Sep. 10th, 2015 12:44 pm
memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
An entry in Evelyn's private handwritten journal.

When you fall in love with a star you may not even realize it at first. Night after night after night, you will step from your safe little house, slipping past the threshold to emerge beneath the expanse of shimmering infinity, and you will look up and see it, that one star. And you will smile, and you will say, “Such a beautiful star. It shines so brightly, and so intensely. So furiously!” And you wonder at its ancientness, wonder what things it has seen, the aeons that have swirled endlessly beneath it on worlds you’ve only ever dreamt of. For a fleeting instant on one of these nights, you may think of it as Your star, but then you realize what a foolish notion that is, how thoroughly offensive even. As if anyone could ever own a star.

And the star is distant, and you often believe that you can detect a kindness directed your way, a gentle fondness within its silvery light; but still it is always distant, though paradoxically you feel as though you could touch it simply by lifting a hand. It looks cold, an icy luminous diamond against the eternal blackness of the sky, but you know it isn’t cold, not really. It’s just very, very far away, and you wonder what it would be like to be close to the star– truly close. You would be vaporized, of course. In an instant. Obliterated within the unfathomable pressure, the burning, untameable inferno of its core. One does not try to embrace a star. But sometimes, just sometimes, you think it might be worth it.

Beyond

Sep. 10th, 2015 12:42 pm
memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
Sometimes, when the mirrored framework that holds her does not shiver and crack a hairline’s breadth to release her for a fleeting journey, Evelyn sleeps like anyone else; and when she sleeps, she dreams, and remembers.

Sometimes the dreams are nightmares, blood and fire and battle, suffocation as she is drawn into spaces too small, too dark, the echo of cruel, commanding voices coiling around her mind like serpents. But they aren’t always this.

There are dreams that she feels more than she remembers when she wakes, as if the entire structure, the entire language of image and emotion she expresses within them is something so far beyond her limited physical dimensionality that her waking mind struggles to translate. She knows there is a pulsating intertwining of color and song; everything is song, even the trees, the stars and the planets, the wind and the seas, the biting things that crawl in the dark and the yawning chasm of emptiness at the edge of sanity. They all sing in these dreams, and she is a part of the melody, a harmonious chorus that weaves and dances and spirals through all things. She doesn’t have a name for what she is, but she does have a Name, and it is her song as much as it is her, her part of the chorus, and that song swims and dives through layer upon layer of Time and Space and Potentiality as if through a bottomless ocean depth.

She can sometimes feel herself flitting on the icy North Wind like a spray of snowflakes, or the frigid whisper of winter, or like the Wind itself, perhaps– though no, no, these words are still too constrained to the surface of things. She has been, has lived, has had existence, does have existence. Someday she will be truly free again, though sometimes she thinks that might be lonely.

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