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The Park, Most of Sunday

Had the carnival changed? Retreated? No, but perhaps it had filled up even worse over the past twenty-four hours or so.

The look on that mustached man's face certainly exuded a certain amount of triumph as the lights went on again early on Sunday morning. He stabbed the ground with his cane and watched; if experience counted for anything, then there would be yet more pouring into his carnival today.

The feeding was good, here.

That scent of cotton candy rolled over the island once more, and the carnival's music touched what it could not.

It's a new day, Fandom. Come, enjoy it.

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Ichabod flinched. He knew the birds weren't real, but they seemed as alive as any bird.

"I don't care what you can do," he replied, trying to meet her eyes, to see if there was something there he would recognize. "You know who I am, Celia."

"Everyone keeps coming here to talk to Celia," she sneered, rolling her eyes and wrapping herself in more smoke. "Celia isn't available right now."

She gave him a disdainful look. "Why do you even care, anyway? You're wasting your time. Affection's an even greater illusion than anything I could produce. You're a fool for believing in it for a second."

He drew in a breath, but then spoke with determination: "That is a lie."

Once again, he reminded himself this wasn't Celia and that he was here to bring her back, to save her from this... thing.

"Why are you hiding behind your illusions?"

"Because I'm an illusionist," she replied, smiling cruelly. "Come on, now, Ichabod, we both know you're smarter than that."

She flicked her fingers out, and a stern-looking man materialized before her, his coloring muted but recognizable all the same. At least, certainly recognizable to his son. "Not smart enough to pick out a girl worth any caliber," he said sharply, his voice echoing slightly. "Stop wasting your time chasing skirts and focus."

"I am not wasting my time!" For a moment forgetting that he was talking to an illusion of his father, Ichabod raised his voice, becoming the defiant son he had rarely dared to be.

He stopped, the image of his father blocking the way.

"You are jeopardizing your future," the illusion of his father continued, while Celia smiled, safe behind him. "What do you hope to gain from this, Ichabod? She's not like us -- raised in theaters, associating with actors and worse. And she'll drag you down with her, all too happily."

"He seems wise," Celia said tonelessly, folding her hands demurely in front of her. "You should listen to him."

"Why do I have to gain something from... from friendship? Why isn't caring about someone and having those feelings reciprocated enough?" Ichabod was caught in the illusion, arguing with his father in much the same way he had done in his imagination recently.

"Why do you judge her?"

"Why shouldn't I?" the illusion countered, Celia watching carefully. "She and her ilk present themselves for judgement. Does the truth unnerve you so much that you've turned blind to that? Or has her friendship caused you to lose all sense?"

"I..." Ichabod began, then shook his head. "You are just an illusion." He turned his gaze toward the illusionist behind his father. "Why do you play this game?" He stepped forward, past the illusion.

Celia frowned, the illusion of Ichabod's father dissipating into mist. Disappointing. "Because it's what I do," she said simply, eyeing him cautiously. "Wouldn't you be disappointed if you came to see a performer who didn't do a single trick?"

She didn't like that he hadn't run off, like Eleanor. It had been so effective before.

"I came to find Celia," he said, feeling stronger as the image of his father faded. "But I don't believe you could ever fool me, no matter how much you tried. You are not her."

"You seem awfully confident about that," she taunted, raising her brows. "But you're right -- I'm not Celia. I'm better."

Or at least willing to cross magical boundaries that Celia would never venture near, in her right mind.

"Better? It still wouldn't fool me." He took a step closer, not looking away.

"What are you doing?" For all her talk, she wasn't actually much for using Celia's more offensive, less spectral magic, and the closer he got, the less she liked it -- and unfortunately, it was starting to show.

He could see that she was vulnerable now, and that made Ichabod more confident. He reached out to place his hands on her shoulders, even though it felt strange. She didn't want him to, this wasn't the Celia he knew -- but if they were right, this was what would bring her back.

[good night!]

She reached up to push him away, already trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "What are you doing?" she repeated, sounding more panicked this time.

[niiiiight!]

Ichabod ignored her question. Forcing someone into a hug was worse than he had expected, and he clung to the thought that it was to help Celia. Holding on to her, he tried to pull her close into a hug.

Celia struggled for a moment longer, before going quiet and still in his arms. Her hair warmed from black to brown, and her eyes did the same, though she had them closed for now. The smoke that had been surrounding her dissipated, and Celia was left feeling utterly disoriented.

"...Ichabod?"

"Celia? Is that you?" He senses the difference, saw the change, but wasn't entirely sure yet that it wasn't just another illusion.

"Yes." Celia pulled back just enough to look up at him, bewildered. "What happened? What did I -- oh my god."

And now she was covering her mouth, horrorstruck. "Ichabod, I was horrible to you. I -- I don't know what happened."

"You weren't yourself," he said gently, now confident that she was the Celia he knew. He reached up to caress her hair comfortingly.

"But," Celia started, still clearly upset, "I...I don't know how it happened. I saw the fortune teller on Friday, and that was awful, and then I...became that other person."

She had never felt so ashamed of her gifts, so disgusted by what she'd done with them. To Ichabod, to Eleanor....

Oh, god. Eleanor.

Time enough to feel guilty, later. Right now, she still had questions. "How...did you just hug me back into consciousness?"

"According to various clues gathered in the library we concluded that hugging would bring those who had been affected by the carnival back," Ichabod explained. "It turned you into someone else."

Suddenly he pulled her back into a hug, hoping it expressed the feelings he couldn't quite put into words.

And this time, Celia hugged him back, clinging with a desperation she rarely let herself feel. “Thank you for bringing me back," she murmured. “And – and I’m so sorry, Ichabod. I’m so sorry.”

She wondered how much of that illusion of his father had been a product of his actual fear – which somehow the other-her had been able to access – and how much was just a projection of her own insecurity. It had all but confirmed everything she dreaded.

"It wasn't you," Ichabod repeated, holding on to her. He didn't want to think about his father, illusion or real, or what else the other Celia had done, and he certainly didn't want Celia to blame herself.

"Let's leave this place," he said. "and go back to the dorms."

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The Park, Most of Sunday

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