#thread:cleo

Emerald Oasis was unlike any place Cleo had been in quite some time. These days, she mostly involved herself with the human world, shying away from aos sís and other fae-centered locations. But for Oliver she made an easy exception. The two had been sitting in the cave for a while now, conversing in ways that made her feel nostalgic. It seemed that it mattered little whether they were in a large city, a small town or even a magical cave for their camaraderie to continue on. Besides, there was something comfortable about shedding her glamour with her own say. Here, the magic was strong enough for her glamour not to falter on her and yet she kept it down. 

Her skin glowed softly. She reached for the bottle of wine she’d brought, refilling her glass and looking up at Oliver with a question on her face. She tried to push away the thoughts that made her parallel this visit to that of a human going to a hospice. “I’ve said it already, but it really is beautiful here.” She balanced her glass on her knee, smiling sadly at Oliver. “And … I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about how it’s both unfortunate that I’m here now, but fortunate too. I don’t know that you would have called for me if I were across the country. But this is good, hm? That we’re close.” That, should the worst happen, her last memories of Oliver weren’t at Harley’s funeral, she meant. “Neighbors, pretty much.”

—-

Oliver hummed as he took a sip of the wine, allowing the taste to linger on his tongue as he swallowed. It was nice, and he could almost pretend he was simply having a glass of wine outside if he pretended not to think about his current circumstances. Opening his eyes, he caught Cleo’s expression, and he raised an eyebrow, lowering his glass. “It is.” There could be worse places to essentially be forced to reside. The plant life around them was diverse and full of life, and the warmth that permeated the cave made it feel like it was spring and not the middle of winter. 

His gaze shifted from Cleo to the ground as she spoke about it being fortunate she was here. His grip on his glass tightened slightly. “Yeah.” Oliver’s lips curled into a small smile. “You’re right, I wouldn’t have called you.” His tone is light, but there’s no hint of a lie. Maybe he would have sent a letter saying he was going to be out of contact; make up a story about moving somewhere new; or maybe he simply would have let her come to her own conclusions at the radio silence that would have followed. He didn’t see the point in dragging someone into a grief that they don’t need to know about. 

“It’s good, though, that we get to experience more time together.” Oliver tilted his glass towards her in a cheer’s motion. The wine sloshed around the glass, dangerously close to the edge before falling back towards the bottom. “I…do have a favor to ask you, though.” He said quietly, the for when I’m gone left off the request. “If that’s ok.”

—

Despite the long history of their friendship, Cleo knew that Oliver and her were evasive. Hundreds of letters had been sent and received between them but she knew how easy it was to embellish and adjust life in those. Though she had mused and philosophized aplenty in all those written things, she had never addressed the real important things that plagued her. So she was glad that he agreed with her assumption. Did he know how evasive she was in her own way?

“Makes you wonder about fate, doesn’t it?” It wasn’t something she much subscribed to, the concept of fate. Art was the highest power she saw, but still. There were larger powers out there and perhaps her decision to move to Wicked’s Rest at this time was somehow moved by something like that. “I’m really glad I’m here. Even if it’s odd here. Despite the musical made about me.” She bristled. “Ah, never mind. It’s just good to see you. Otherwise the last time might have been…” Cleo looked at her glass. “The funeral, hm? Anyway. That’s … pessimistic.” But she was just that, by nature. Oliver might live two more centuries, but there was something about his living here that made her feel uncertain of that reality.

She took a hefty sip from her glass after they’d clinked theirs, and nodded at Oliver’s question. Favors were treacherous and often only made with humans rather than fellow fae, but Cleo wasn’t going to deny him just yet. “What is it?”

—

Oliver’s quiet for a moment at the mention of fate. His thumb brushes against his glass. “You know, when I was in China, I went to a fortune teller on a date?” His focus stays on the wine within his glass. “This must have been 1989? Because I was in Boston right after New Year's.” Oliver mumbles mostly to himself, “Anyway, we went to one of those tea readers? It’s called…” He trailed off for a moment, searching his memories for the phrase before snapping his fingers together, “A Tasseographer!” He said with a grin, which falters as he continues. “The woman who was doing the reading…she grabbed me afterwards because she had lied about the true reading, she said that my cup had shown bad omens; that danger was present.” Oliver’s lips form a tight line. “I…didn’t put much stock in what she had said. But…and I know that it’s not as if I could have changed anything; but, I wonder if this was always how my story was destined to end.” Oliver whispered. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if this death was better than if he had fallen in combat; if it was worth it to be feeling as if his body was failing him. 

He cleared his throat, finishing off his glass and reaching for the bottle to refill it. “I’m glad you’re here, too.” Oliver laughed at her description of Wicked. “It is pretty odd, but there’s a certain amount of charm that comes with that.” You could never say Wicked was boring, that much was certain. He tilted his head to the side slightly; “Ah, right, ‘83, right?” He’d been in England, but had flown to LA without much of a thought when he had received her letter. “I…don’t think we even spoke then, did we?” He remembered making eye contact with her; recognition had settled in before she had been grabbed by someone else. “You were busy; obviously. The service was lovely.” He’d been to far too many funerals over his life. “I had left some flowers, and left soon after, I think.” Oliver had caught a flight back that same night; barely 24 hours on American soil before he was back in an Oxford classroom. “Which would mean that the last time we would have talked would have been…’77, right? When you left New York?” Oliver asks, eyes widening slightly. “Wow, almost 50 years; huh?” He said with a shake of his head. “I’m happy you ended up coming here; 50 years is too long to go without hearing your lovely voice.” Oliver smiled softly. 

“It’s about Izzy.” Oliver said with a sigh. “I…don’t think he will handle this well. He’s already struggling. He’ll need help getting through it.”

—

Her eyebrows creased at Oliver’s story and though she tried to keep judgment clear from her features, she felt herself failing. “That is … I mean, there is always danger possibly present for our ilk, isn’t there? Wardens pose a threat, and then there is the digitalization of the world, where both art and trees are endangered.” She smiled sadly. “I don’t know, Oliver. Whether this is destiny or not. If it comforts you, then maybe that’s something to subscribe to. That this was always your fate.” Cleo did not much like that idea. That no matter what fight she, Oliver and Isidore might put up against this all, it would always end up with Oliver breathing out his last breath before his life was done. She wanted to believe in choice and free will, even if these days she made few choices and did little with her free will. She took a nip from her glass, the wine pooling in her mouth for a moment before she swallowed it. “Was the date good, at least?” 

She nodded. Many years blurred together or lost their meaning, but 1983 was one she would never forget. Three decades and then some had passed since then and she figured for a human that was a lifetime. For her, it seemed like yesterday more often than not. “I don’t think we did,” she said. It hadn’t exactly been because she was busy. She just hadn’t known how to speak. Some of the people from chor gléow had been present, flocking around her and speaking in hushed tones about the music choices and the speeches made. As if that was all performance too, rather than ritual. “Barely a real meeting, if you think about it. But I was glad you came. It was a strange time …” She fiddled with the rim of her glass. “And I have little to say of it now besides that you’re right, the service was lovely, and so were your flowers.” Cleo chuckled wetly, nodding. “Much too long to go without hearing yours.” 

She reached forward, rubbing her fingers over his hand. Bare skin meeting bare skin — something she went without too much. Cleo listened to Oliver’s request and she was not sure what to do with it. What about me, she wanted to ask selfishly, but then she knew she was able of carrying this. She’d slot Oliver’s loss next to Harley and go on the way she had, which was to say, bogged down by the grief she could not let herself feel. “I’ll be here for him,” she said, “I won’t … I’ll stick around. I don’t think his aos sí is going …” She clicked her tongue. “Grief can be strange for us muses. Some manage to make the most of it, and when others don’t…” She nipped her glass once more. “I’ll try to be there as much as I can. I’m … not good at it, myself. But I will be there. I don’t want you to feel any responsibility for him now.”

—-

Oliver chewed on his bottom lip as Cleo spoke. She wasn’t wrong. Technically, the woman could have been talking about how he was always a wanted man; always in danger of falling victim to one thing or another. Always desperate to outrun whatever new danger opted to jump out of the shadows. It just so happened that this time, he had been caught, unable to outmaneuver it. A slow suffocation rather than a major injury. Oliver hated it. “It…doesn’t comfort me. It just-” He cut himself off, huffing a breath before shaking his head. “It just makes me mad to think that it was. If the universe wanted to fucking kill me, why make it such a drawn-out process? Why have me avoid it so often, for so long? What is so special about me dying now?” His voice rises a fraction, anger coating his words. What was the point in living as long as he did if this was always the ending? The idea that this was always predestined would only make it so he didn’t have to live with the idea that it wasn’t his fault; that nothing would have changed the outcome. He couldn’t even take comfort in that, not when he would never know for sure.  

Oliver takes another deep sip of his glass before sighing. “Sorry. I’m not mad at you, I’m just…” He vaguely motions to the cave. “Just mad at everything that’s happening.” The question of his date is such a change of subject that he can’t help but laugh, “It was good. I think I kind of broke her heart when we broke up a few months later.” An event that was, unfortunately, fairly common when it came to Oliver’s love life. It was part of the reason he had stayed clear of serious relationships in the last decade or so.

“You asked me to go; so I went.” Oliver said with a small shrug. It was an unwritten rule that Oliver followed. If a fellow fae said they needed him, he was going to help them. Mortals spend so little time on this earth; it was only rational that you had those you could reach out to every 50 years or so and trust that they will be there for you. It didn’t need to be long, emotional conversations, and most of the time, they didn’t make sense. When you didn’t see someone for so long, they were rarely the same person you had seen before. They were still themselves, deep down, but new coats of paint had been added. “I’m glad you liked them.”

He gave a shaky nod. “That’s all I ask.” Oliver squeezed her hand. “I doubt he’ll even mention it to his aos sí; he’s so…stuck in the concept of being in charge and refusing any help, refusing to come off as ‘weak’. I don’t think it’ll be something he can lean on.” He sighed, swallowing the rest of his glass. His eyes shifted over the bottle, but he set his glass down instead, using his now free hand to cover Cleo’s, trapping her hand between both of his. “You can both be eachothers life boat. Grief…sucks; and I-I am so-” Oliver’s voice breaks, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. “So sorry that I am making you guys deal with this.” 

—

A slow death was a crude thing, she knew. Cleo tried not to think Harley in this moment but it was hard, his memory prodding at her mind as she watched a friend grapple with his oncoming death. Harley had not consciously died slowly, but he still had, in a way. But he had not been afraid of death — he had laughed in the face of the risk of her continuous feeding, had held her face in his hands and kissed her as she inspired him to death. Oliver was aware and he was struggling to find something to laugh about, because there was nothing. He was mad. It was an emotion Cleo struggled with. Anger needed a kind of righteousness and she hadn’t felt that in quite some time (except when it came to art, of course). “I understand,” she said all the same, the lie stabbing her in the side, where her kidneys resided. She hoped the grimace washing over her face was subtle enough to be missed. “If this is part of a greater plan, it’s cruel. It’s … unnecessary.” What was the point was a good question. “I … I don’t know. I’m sorry, Oliver. I don’t know what to say. I wish this wasn’t happening and I don’t know why it is.”

She shook her head with fervor, “Don’t. There is no need to apologize to me. It’s … probably good to feel some anger. To not go out …” Cleo looked at the cave wall. “Defeated. Though if that’s what it is, that’s also … okay.” That’s how she would go. That’s how she was going, if one were to consider life just a long drawn out process of dying. “Ha,” she said, chuckling. “You’re a right heartbreaker.”

Her eyebrows creased a little at the words that displayed Oliver’s loyalty. She bit on her lip, and nodded. “Well, the same goes for you,” she said. But again, it was good she was here now, that he did not have to ask. That she could just come after a short drive. “You need only ask.”

The topic of Isidore made her stomach twist. So much between them went unsaid and though there were things she did not address now, in front of Oliver (because what was the point of telling him the truth of Harley’s death now?), it felt different. “It won’t be,” she murmured, “I know his aos sí is different than mine but … even when I tried to lean on people there, it was no good. I don’t think us muses are made for grief that has no purpose.” Cleo smiled watery. “And maybe your loss will inspire great art, but that … should not fucking matter. It’s all about you.” She leaned forward, placing her spare hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.” She looked at him without blinking. “That is not your responsibility. Don’t try to carry it for us. You don’t have to.”

—-

Oliver's eyes shut as she spoke, causing him to miss her grimace. “It is, it truly is.” He said quietly as he opened his eyes. He shook his head at her apologies. “No, it’s ok. There isn’t anything to apologize for.” God, he felt like a child, complaining about something that the other person couldn’t fix. “Maybe the universe just hates me.” He joked weakly.

At her reassurance that there wasn’t anything wrong with how he was acting, Oliver’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I wish…there was more I could be doing. I sometimes feel like I’m just wasting my time away down here, but-” He sighed, “I don’t know what else to do.” Oliver threw his hands up. “It’s not as if this is something that I can find by googling something; the books in the library are a useless mix of fiction and self-published encounters that do nothing to help me. Plus, any real person I talk with is just as lost as I am.” That was perhaps the most frustrating part of everything. The lack of answers. It was the way he knew that he knew that he was not the only person trying to find answers, but also the fact that seemingly no one else had found anything out yet either. This couldn’t truly be the end of Wicked, could it?

Oliver’s furrowed eyebrows relaxed, and a small smile reappeared. “I will, thank you.” It made him consider the idea of a memorial service that would happen before he died. That was something, right? However, he was immediately put off by the idea. He didn’t need to round up all his friends to have them say nice things to him. It would also probably make it so they had to grieve him twice, right? That seemed unfair. No, it wasn’t worth it. These conversations in the cave were better for everyone.