A dream about a roof...
Jul. 19th, 2025 07:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theanachronistictailorYou dream you are circling the roof of the Foreign Office. Your wings are wide expanses of void, drops of light beaded through like dew. You're hungry, hungry like there's a hole in you that needs filling, like pain aching and wide. The roof is empty: there are no singing children, no little birds. The body of the building looks like a hollow ribcage from here, the bones laced through with ribbon and lace like viscera. You could peel it off with your talons, claim it all for yourself. Would it sate you?
Would anything sate you?
Why does the empty roof fill you with a rage?
(Don't they know what you are? Don't they know what you could do? You could slice it into perfect strips of the finest fabrics, and then shred it further into useless cabbage. No better than stuffing.)
The zee is familiar vastness, reflecting your darkness back to you, shadow on shadow. You drop into the waiting and willing silk, and let it take you. Tangled in its embrace, you perform the Moment and the Act, sing-screaming around the ruined flesh of your prey in your mouth. The emptiness in you gets no lighter.
-
Having Recurring Dreams: The Hungry Silk is increasing...
-
The notebook hit the wall by the doorframe with a resoundingly unsatisfying thud, and dropped to the wooden floor with an equally empty bump. Something like a bark of anger followed it. There was another thud, like a trunk being kicked and jostled.
They had controlled their temper quite fantastically up to this point, the Tailor thought. Incredibly well, all things considered. That this outburst was happening in the confines of their tiny room was acceptable collateral.
Infuriated, they fetched the notebook and tossed it onto the thin mattress without looking at the contents, sick to death of looking at the swimming symbols. They couldn't think straight, and the Correspondence burned their eyes when it wasn't trying to melt their brain. To admit defeat was humiliating, it was failure, it was--
The Cultured Attaché smiled at them from across the table, and despite themself the Tailor found themself smiling back. They still couldn't tell if Henry had remembered them, or recognized them, without the grime on their face or the dirty, too large clothes or their hair wild. But they had remembered him on sight. The day they stepped into the Foreign Office was the first time they remembered smiling for real in a long time, even if it had come at the cost of their access to the Court.
The Face was full of old friends, they'd remembered thinking. They were finally somewhere where they could relax, just a little. Look, this lot could even afford terrible manners. It may have been afforded by being adopted into wealthy families whose wealth would excuse any indiscriminate embarrassment, or maybe they were just so polite and charismatic, but it could even be the Tailor's little joke, that they were better at manners than their friends. All that hard work had paid off.
What did it matter, that their friends all had the voices of angels? That they were undeniably peckish? Didn't the Tailor devour monsters? Didn't they miss listening to the old songs? The monster on the roof hardly bothered them. It had always flown over their head at night. And the dreams? The dreams fit them like a lovely, hungry glove.
A salad was set before them and they did not complain despite their disinterest. They picked at it politely, ready to be wooed by their companion. They hadn't particularly fancied Henry as a child, but he'd been very friendly and familiar, freckles and long limbs and gingery hair, voice strong and unwavering. They could see themself liking him very much now, if they tried. There was still that kernel of foolishness in him, they could sense it under his blistering pride and his silly little mustache. They wouldn't mind if...
If...
"Now, you're not one of us, as such, but you're a good sort. If you nail your flag to our mast, we can see that you get a good posting. We'll hardly require anything of you-"
The Tailor kicked the trunk full of fabric again. They were not upset. They were not hurt. They didn't get hurt, they got angry. Anger was momentum. Anger was drive. Prove them all fucking wrong. Make them see how much you matter. Make them want you and weep that they can't have you.
This was the Face wanting them, this was them being offered a place, but the bloody condescension! Like it was a favour being done for them!
"Now, you're not one of us-"
The gall! The nerve! The...
The pit in their stomach that gnawed at them, bitterly sad, yearning to sing on a rooftop with all the others but knowing they were not skilled enough. Knowing their voice was only good to support, never to lead or star. Knowing it wasn't for them. The next time they were on the roof, they'd had the passing thought that maybe they, too, should be offered to the thing that claimed all the failed songbirds. It was only a passing thought, followed by a silly bitter joke--it wouldn't have wanted them either.
They'd put it all out of their mind, but this insult was too much to bear. They'd nearly stormed out the dining space, their host taken aback at the sharp verbal lashing they'd given him. He hadn't even understood how he'd offended. He was a diplomat, for God's sake, and he hadn't--
But of course he hadn't. He hadn't recognized them at all.
He'd apologized, all sweet concern and distress, and they'd put the mask back on. It should never have slipped to begin with. They returned to dinner. Ate their horrible salad, made the small talk and played the game they thought they could put down, and made no promises.
But that moment where the mask had slipped had been seen by someone who knew all about masks, and she was clever. The Devout Intriguer had found them on their leaving the Office, and had walked with them through Wilmot's End, her hand gentle on their arm.
"You are not one of us, but we like you. I like you. I think you have a future among us."
Bloody smart, that Snuffer.
The Tailor dropped to sit at the edge of the bed, digging the heels of their palms into their aching eyes. They didn't know what to fucking do. They'd told Mori they would find what they could at the Foreign Office, and the Teeth offered a chance to do that. More than that, what did it say that bloody fucking monsters, monsters that they had killed more than one of, had convinced them more that they were liked than their old fucking friends? What did it say that monsters would welcome them in with just as much ease, if not more, than the people who had known them once?
Oh god, what were they going to do?
After a week of vulnerability, being seen by the Socialite and the Devil, the barest dropping of their walls--this forced all their anger back to the forefront. They'd been a fool, thinking--
They shook their head, trying to clear the thoughts. They were fine. They needed to be fine. They would tell the Socialite it was a dead end. Make it up by going to the Underclay. Could they still manage the voyage? Unclear--not if the fellow kept trying to pry something soft out from the snarling beast that was their heart. Mori wanted a fucking urchin child to fill the space where his daughter would be, until she was back. Well, they couldn't be that. They refused. It would only cause damage when they failed to meet his expectations, or even if they didn't, when they brought back the little girl that he was actually aching for.
It didn't have to hurt if they didn't let it. The Tailor didn't need anyone. Not the Face, not the Teeth, not a family or lover.
They didn't need anyone. And they had work to do.
Would anything sate you?
Why does the empty roof fill you with a rage?
(Don't they know what you are? Don't they know what you could do? You could slice it into perfect strips of the finest fabrics, and then shred it further into useless cabbage. No better than stuffing.)
The zee is familiar vastness, reflecting your darkness back to you, shadow on shadow. You drop into the waiting and willing silk, and let it take you. Tangled in its embrace, you perform the Moment and the Act, sing-screaming around the ruined flesh of your prey in your mouth. The emptiness in you gets no lighter.
-
Having Recurring Dreams: The Hungry Silk is increasing...
-
The notebook hit the wall by the doorframe with a resoundingly unsatisfying thud, and dropped to the wooden floor with an equally empty bump. Something like a bark of anger followed it. There was another thud, like a trunk being kicked and jostled.
They had controlled their temper quite fantastically up to this point, the Tailor thought. Incredibly well, all things considered. That this outburst was happening in the confines of their tiny room was acceptable collateral.
Infuriated, they fetched the notebook and tossed it onto the thin mattress without looking at the contents, sick to death of looking at the swimming symbols. They couldn't think straight, and the Correspondence burned their eyes when it wasn't trying to melt their brain. To admit defeat was humiliating, it was failure, it was--
The Cultured Attaché smiled at them from across the table, and despite themself the Tailor found themself smiling back. They still couldn't tell if Henry had remembered them, or recognized them, without the grime on their face or the dirty, too large clothes or their hair wild. But they had remembered him on sight. The day they stepped into the Foreign Office was the first time they remembered smiling for real in a long time, even if it had come at the cost of their access to the Court.
The Face was full of old friends, they'd remembered thinking. They were finally somewhere where they could relax, just a little. Look, this lot could even afford terrible manners. It may have been afforded by being adopted into wealthy families whose wealth would excuse any indiscriminate embarrassment, or maybe they were just so polite and charismatic, but it could even be the Tailor's little joke, that they were better at manners than their friends. All that hard work had paid off.
What did it matter, that their friends all had the voices of angels? That they were undeniably peckish? Didn't the Tailor devour monsters? Didn't they miss listening to the old songs? The monster on the roof hardly bothered them. It had always flown over their head at night. And the dreams? The dreams fit them like a lovely, hungry glove.
A salad was set before them and they did not complain despite their disinterest. They picked at it politely, ready to be wooed by their companion. They hadn't particularly fancied Henry as a child, but he'd been very friendly and familiar, freckles and long limbs and gingery hair, voice strong and unwavering. They could see themself liking him very much now, if they tried. There was still that kernel of foolishness in him, they could sense it under his blistering pride and his silly little mustache. They wouldn't mind if...
If...
"Now, you're not one of us, as such, but you're a good sort. If you nail your flag to our mast, we can see that you get a good posting. We'll hardly require anything of you-"
The Tailor kicked the trunk full of fabric again. They were not upset. They were not hurt. They didn't get hurt, they got angry. Anger was momentum. Anger was drive. Prove them all fucking wrong. Make them see how much you matter. Make them want you and weep that they can't have you.
This was the Face wanting them, this was them being offered a place, but the bloody condescension! Like it was a favour being done for them!
"Now, you're not one of us-"
The gall! The nerve! The...
The pit in their stomach that gnawed at them, bitterly sad, yearning to sing on a rooftop with all the others but knowing they were not skilled enough. Knowing their voice was only good to support, never to lead or star. Knowing it wasn't for them. The next time they were on the roof, they'd had the passing thought that maybe they, too, should be offered to the thing that claimed all the failed songbirds. It was only a passing thought, followed by a silly bitter joke--it wouldn't have wanted them either.
They'd put it all out of their mind, but this insult was too much to bear. They'd nearly stormed out the dining space, their host taken aback at the sharp verbal lashing they'd given him. He hadn't even understood how he'd offended. He was a diplomat, for God's sake, and he hadn't--
But of course he hadn't. He hadn't recognized them at all.
He'd apologized, all sweet concern and distress, and they'd put the mask back on. It should never have slipped to begin with. They returned to dinner. Ate their horrible salad, made the small talk and played the game they thought they could put down, and made no promises.
But that moment where the mask had slipped had been seen by someone who knew all about masks, and she was clever. The Devout Intriguer had found them on their leaving the Office, and had walked with them through Wilmot's End, her hand gentle on their arm.
"You are not one of us, but we like you. I like you. I think you have a future among us."
Bloody smart, that Snuffer.
The Tailor dropped to sit at the edge of the bed, digging the heels of their palms into their aching eyes. They didn't know what to fucking do. They'd told Mori they would find what they could at the Foreign Office, and the Teeth offered a chance to do that. More than that, what did it say that bloody fucking monsters, monsters that they had killed more than one of, had convinced them more that they were liked than their old fucking friends? What did it say that monsters would welcome them in with just as much ease, if not more, than the people who had known them once?
Oh god, what were they going to do?
After a week of vulnerability, being seen by the Socialite and the Devil, the barest dropping of their walls--this forced all their anger back to the forefront. They'd been a fool, thinking--
They shook their head, trying to clear the thoughts. They were fine. They needed to be fine. They would tell the Socialite it was a dead end. Make it up by going to the Underclay. Could they still manage the voyage? Unclear--not if the fellow kept trying to pry something soft out from the snarling beast that was their heart. Mori wanted a fucking urchin child to fill the space where his daughter would be, until she was back. Well, they couldn't be that. They refused. It would only cause damage when they failed to meet his expectations, or even if they didn't, when they brought back the little girl that he was actually aching for.
It didn't have to hurt if they didn't let it. The Tailor didn't need anyone. Not the Face, not the Teeth, not a family or lover.
They didn't need anyone. And they had work to do.