Tea in the Woods.

[catch]

"I d-d-don't know," Catch admits. Casting back through long years, piercing the veil of fog of recent, relatively short madness, through memories that may be true or false, false to the world yet true in Catch's addled mind, it was difficult to remember those years that he was a child. The addled man's greed for the cakes allows him to think as he chews, his eyes distant over Cinnabar's shoulder.

"I th-th-think they wore furs," he says, slowly, treading careful, his body shifting to signify the words coming back to him. "Teeth and claws. But, n-n-not like the Dreamlady. Not inside. There were t-t-towns, but they did not go. It was weak. My mother had a wolf's head."

That much he remembers, but it was not as clear, not as focused, as dancing under the moon, and he must close his eyes to summon it up. As Cinnabar asks another question, Catch's eyes open, and he looks at him with a wry, cautious look, that any who knew him well would know was out of place.

"Men did it," Catch says. That came easily enough. "Th-they wanted to p-prevent me. From Becoming. They went looking for it, inside me." Catch speaks quickly, his head thrusting forward, his words far more blunt than mad, though the latter threatens, and the huge man shakes so hard that his tea almost slops out. "Just b-b-broken stars and the Fat Man. Now it's overdue, and I slipped b, buh, b-back inside my head, and. And. It's overdue."

[Cinnabar]

Some clarification there, some lucidity brought to images deliberately kept nebulous and undefined; furs, teeth and claws, but as garments and ornament. Wild folk, then, proud folk, who scorned the comfort of towns for a harsher life spent in the wilderness.

When was this, though? A very long time ago says the man, but by whose reckoning? A peasant might reckon a few decades to be a very long time; for a young child, a few years would suffice; a scholar might think more on the order of centuries, and it's towards this last that Calomel's own suspicions lean. He thinks of the lady in the lake, ancient stone that had lain in silted darkness for how long? A very long time.

That wary look is noted, but perhaps not appreciated as strange - or no more strange than anything else about the man. What's of more concern is the agitation that follows it, the tumbling words and shuddering limbs that have the young man looking to the cup of tea that threatens to splash and to scald. He reaches calmly to steady the addled mans' hand, to give support just until the tremors pass, if he doesn't draw away. Perhaps also to bring the addled man back from those thoughts and memories, to keep him from turning too deeply inward; to ground him in tactile realities, hot tea and spiced cakes and fresh air and cool grass.

"Be still." Gaze steady upon mismatched eyes; voice quiet but firm, the words given odd inflection.

Be; still.

[catch]

Cinnabar demands, touches, dares. His fingers burn like brands against Catch's skin, and Catch stares at them as the alien things they were, fingers that belonged where they shouldn't. Catch does not move his arms, nor his own, powerful fingers; but something does, invisibly, return a grip to Cinnabar's errant, daring fingers in one tight, painful spasm. Catch's eye lift from his wrist to Cinnabar's face, and what is written will be unknowable, save that one eyes seems impossibly blue, while the other is pitch as night.

However, it works. Whatever grips Calomel's fingers is gone, with only a faint misting of silver soon vanishing into the air, and the addled man no longer shakes, and it is mortal fingers that grip the once-Governor's wrist, and deigns to pull him close, to haul him over his own, heated pot, if necessary. Such a wound, such burns, would be nothing to Catch, and he doesn't consider otherwise.

"I like you, Serjo Cinnabar. You are Ser Elliot's f-f-friend." Despite these friendly words, there is an edge to Catch's voice, terse and terrible. "Many years men have laid hands on me. They c-c-commanded me like a dog, did things to my b-b-body and mind. Many. I'll n-n-not suffer that again."

With that, and an errant flip, Catch would seek to rip Cinnabar's grip from his own, to throw the other man's arm into the air, where it could be brought safely back by Cinnabar himself. For the longest pause, Catch says nothing, does nothing, but crouch there, staring at Cinnabar with an air of bland malevolence. The other man would know when that dangerous time is past, when Catch slowly lifts his tea to his lips, and, shortly after, fetches another cake.

"What else? Is it only t-t-to, to c- con - tell me th, that I have choices that you c-c-came?"

[Cinnabar]

It had been a risk; one considered only briefly, and in the instant taken it becomes clear that it was an error. Looking down in confusion at that abrupt pressure upon his hand, a flinch as bones grind painfully together; then up to the man's face, eyes startled wide, silver flecks gleaming in the grey. Then it's his own cup that spills on the blanket, dropped in the effort to keep his balance as he's hauled close to the addled man - a hand here, a knee there, teaware avoided for the most part. He does not resist.

Those words receive Cinnabar's entire attention, Catch can be sure of that; the words, their tone, and the cast of his features as he speaks them. The man remains silent and still until released, and then he's carefully sitting back in his place against the fallen tree, fingers flexing absently. Head bowed, eyes lowered to the blanket with only brief glances for the addled man's features.

"I beg your pardon, that was thoughtless. It'll not happen again, and I hope you will forgive me." Formal words, but sincerely spoken. A mistake was made and quickly regretted, and the associated lesson has been learned well. Though there's no fear there, no nervousness at the addled man's ire, rather contrition for having caused distress. He retrieves his overturned cup and carefully refills it; his half-eaten cake is recovered also, a puff of breath enough to clean it of dust or grass. His manner is more reserved when he finally looks to Catch again, considering that question for a time.

"I've no wish to command you, or bind you, or use you, or anything of the sort. That," - a flick of fingers for Catch's hand - "was ill-considered. Your hand shook, I didn't want you to burn yourself with spilt tea. That's all." He shrugs, sipping his own tea for a moment. Calmer now - still careful, but the tension of that fraught moment is passing.

"I came to see you for myself, rather than relying on the ignorant or fearful accounts of others. They tend to see only what they fear, or what they covet. They don't see you."

[catch]

"I... understand. I do." Is catch contrite? Perhaps, a little. He can look upon the spilt tea and fallen cake, and feel a morsel of regret for his actions. "You were helping. I j-j-just. Wanted you to know th-that." Be fierce, now. Kill over the little things. No, no, do not kill. Catch avoids Cinnabar's gaze, his eyes darting and rolling away from any attempts to catch them, and the addled man trails off to muttering. Quickly, he clears his throat, and wolfs down the cake, and chases it with the rest of his tea, heedless again of it's heat.

"If th-they're afraid, they see me j-just well," Catch says, but softly, as if he doesn't wish to admit it to even himself. "I'm afraid, too. I c-c-can't stop. Even when I was mad, I c-c-couldn't."

[Cinnabar]

"And now I know." Simply stated, the matter accepted just like that, without rancour or reproach. He watches, he listens, he learns; that is the way of things, and accepts that brief crush upon his hands as emphasis, a warning he will heed in future.

"Why did madness help?" Curious on this point, wondering as to the reasons behind it. "My understanding isn't very good, so perhaps you can help me. From what I've seen of it, madness seems a loss of control - a sea of unordered thoughts racing and roaring and tumbling upon one another. Which thought is uppermost varies from instant to instant, and at times they demand to be acted upon." Watching the addled man's reaction, to see if he is even within hailing distance of the truth, but he continues.

"I'd assume this would make it harder to resist Becoming, all those thoughts pulling in every direction so they frustrate one another and their strength is wasted." Thinking out loud now, searching for analogies, images that might let him understand. It requires a pause while he sips his tea and takes a bite of his recovered iced cake. Hm.

"Perhaps not so. If thoughts are like... like sheep say. You've seen them in the pasture?" A slight smile at that, sitting up straighter, warming to the idea. "And a mind is a flock. A Wolf comes, hungry, and the sheep might react in different ways." Hand raised in a loose fist, a finger extended for each option.

"They might panic and mill about, each blocking the other from escaping the Wolf. The Wolf eats them all at his leisure, and grows strong. This is a mind that's aware, but muddled. Thoughts swirling and pushing and shoving, but going nowhere." A second finger unfolds.

"They might scatter, spreading out and away in all directions, and the Wolf cannot chase them all. That's madness - thoughts scattered far apart so they won't be found. The Wolf goes mostly hungry; it takes him longer to find each sheep, but there's hardly a flock - a mind - to speak of. Each sheep is quickly devoured when it's found, and eventually there will be none left." A third finger, and his grin widens. Becoming more animated, enjoying the weaving of this story and the possibility that it might help him better appreciate Catch's position.

"But what if they moved together? Running all in one direction, each turning as his neighbour turns." His hand, palm down, sways and turns from side to side in mimicry of a flock that moves as one; fingertips wiggle in imitation of the individual creatures at the front of the crowd. "The Wolf can only try to split single sheep from the flock by biting from the sides, because if the flock turns upon him he will be trampled and crushed. Or at least driven off. As long as the sheep move together, as long as they turn to face the Wolf whenever he snaps at their flanks, the beast stays hungry and weak."

It's a neat comparison and he's clearly pleased with it, but it remains to be seen whether it appeals to the addled man, whether it bears any relation to his own experience of madness, of confusion and the ever-present threat of Becoming. Perhaps it will spark further thoughts, deeper understanding; perhaps it will be dismissed as simply wrong.

In the meantime Catch's teacup is noted as empty, and so Cinnabar lifts the pot in offer to refill it - not least because there remains a need for continued calm, and the tea is well-brewed by now.

[catch]

It is all very civil, despite that hiccup of poor choice and poor response. If only they had been in fancier surroundings, with china lining the walls, and the screams of dying oak floors heavy in his ears, and if only they were dressed in dripping jewels and bloody furs. Like the Ball. Catch holds still as the tea is given to him, as Cinnabar speaks of Wolves and Sheep, and Catch - despite all his efforts - finds his mind wandering away from it, found himself thinking of the Ball for the first time since Nightmare. He had been given such fine things to wear, and the addled man - towards the end of Cinnabar's words - looks down at his ragged, muddy self, rough farmer's clothes stolen, for him, from the line, by Jared. That is how he had come to Myrken; not so skinny, perhaps, as he had been, but without the Dagger's constant feeding and wood-chopping, his towering, intimidating frame was dwindling.

Not that it mattered. Why should they way he look matter? It was a shell, and the real Him twisted, just underneath the skin.

"You say I'm n-n-not as un-Mad as I th-think right now," Catch says, slowly, only just now realizing that Cinnabar has stopped talking, but finding the ideas planted in his brains, and sorting through them quickly. "That the... my Wolf is still inside. It's. It's n-n-not... untrue." It was hard to admit, but he knew he must. The Wolf drove him when he pleased, and that is why Catch did not see Ser Glenn, was it not? Zilliah was... sturdy. How sturdy, Catch fears, would Glenn Burnie prove to be?

"If you t-t-trade the sheep for stars, maybe it's like th-th-that, Serjo. I kept them, after the first time, so th-they wouldn't be forgotten." Whether Catch thinks further on the Wolves and Brain-sheep, he gnaws on his lower lip, and then decides.

"Ser. D-d-do you th-think, that. That people c-c-come for reasons? Or they, th-they go for reasons? Th-that, they're at some p-p-place, some t-t-time, because. Because th-that's how it's meant?"

[Cinnabar]

"I don't know how un-Mad you think you are, so I can't say. You're better than you were, certainly. Are you as un-Mad as you could be? Maybe not yet." A light shrug for a neutral answer, perhaps closer to a careful non-answer. "Your sheep - or stars, as you say - are gathered together, but have yet to turn in the same direction. Once they do, perhaps you will be better able to keep the Wolf away."

Different metaphors as the man prefers, though the imagery becomes strange because of it; a ravenous beast to scour the sky and make it a featureless darkness. Finishing his cake and reaching for another, the pair of them are making good progress through the basket. But then a new question, a new direction, turning from madness to conundrums of philosophy. Now it's Cinnabar's turn for thoughtful silence, a stretch of time measured by absent sips of tea.

"That's a very difficult thing to answer." Grinning as he speaks, though, relishing the challenge of it. "I'm not sure. I dislike the idea that things are meant to happen a certain way - bound by fate, or destiny, or prophecy, or whatever. It makes my choices meaningless, if their outcome is decided ahead of time. Why bother?" He shrugs, wrinkles his nose, the thought distasteful but dispelled by another mouthful of tea before he continues.

"But I think there can be... times when we are given a chance to do things that matter. That circumstances line up just so, and then it's up to us to see that opportunity and act upon it. Whether these things line up through accident or design, though, I really don't know." His gaze lowers a moment to the ring on his left hand, and it's a self-conscious smile that lifts to Catch again.

"I could very easily never have met my wife at all. But we're so good for one another that it seems like it was meant to happen that way. So... while I don't like the idea that things are meant to happen, I can't be certain it's not the case."

[catch]

"There was a City," Catch pushes on, as if impatient for Cinnabar to finish, the words spilling out almost as soon as the last comes out of Cinnabar's. About his wife, and meetings, and meanings. "I c-c-can't remember it all, yet, but I remember th-this. It was... f-f-from Before. I c-can't remember if it was first, or if it was last, but it is. It was golden, but bloody as well. I d-d-don't remember why I went th-there. Why I let me catch me. It was supposed to happen. It was m-m-meant, I think, only we d-d-didn't marry, and instead I sang Others down to blacken the sky."

Not even Catch could fully explain it, even if he was outside of what had happened, if he had been that force and that catalyst and howled, from depths of the womb of the world, some creature, some things, that had torn the world 's surface asunder. He felt no horror at those memories, save the horror that came with Knowing that he could do such things. But could he? Catch was vaguely aware that he may still be mad, that he could be laying in the Room, or be ranting in the Gaol. These are not pleasant, nor happy thoughts, and the addled man begins gnawing on his knuckle, staring at the stove, as if the pain could convince him that such memories, such powers, were real.

"Meant to go. Meant to c-c-c-come here. Stars can prick wolves, but they only m-m-make them angry. Or m-m-mad. Both aren't good, Serjo, aren't good at all." He is close, is Catch, close to breaking down, his body swaying and teeth at work on his own flesh. He is nothing but a man, a mortal man, driven by dream and vision and the vicious wound on his skull. The tentacles, the destruction he has wrought? The torture he has done? There are explanations, surely reasonable.

[Cinnabar]

Another change of direction, zig-zagging back to previous matters, of ancient half-forgotten history and myth, more fragments to go alongside those of his Mother with her wolf-head dancing under the unscarred moon, the Men who caught and bound and maimed him so.

"Catch." Quiet, trying to call the addled man's attention away from his thoughts as they turned darker, more savage, tearing at each other and at him.

"Catch." He notes the return of those tremors, the agitation, but it's the gnashing of teeth upon already-scarred fingers that has Cinnabar reaching out again - not to touch, no, for he's wiser and more aware now. Instead his hand is offered open, palm upwards.

"Catch." Spoken more forcefully, an attempt to be heard over the man's whirling thoughts, to bring him back to this place, this moment. "Give me your hand, please." Offering contact, an anchor, maybe; something to hold onto while the storm either passes them by or breaks upon them. There's a certainty to him, calm and centred, steadfast self-control.

"It doesn't have to be for the same reason."

[catch]

Catch stops. Whether through such years of obedience, or simply because the tone of Calomel's voice has brought him from worm-paths, Catch does what he is told, what he is asked. His hand drops from his mouth, crimson drops heavy on his lip, his hand, hard as holly-berries and frost. He does not give his hand to Cinnabar, not yet, dropping it into his own lap, flesh torn and bone bloody. But some semblance of sanity is given, and Catch gives a mighty effort to haul that self-doubt aside.

"I f-f-forget. Sometimes, I f-f-forget what I am. Like b-b-before." Calm explanation given to the tirade, a lasting, lingering cruelness. He was not boastful, and he simply Was, but the bitterness is clear in his open, child, bestial face, the bitterness and regret. He is ashamed that he would even doubt, and the Wolf and Spider lie quiet again.

"You th-th-thu, think if I c-came back, and I p-p-put on human-th-things again, Ser Glenn would... forgive me? He wuh, would put me in silver and gold chains, and I'll t-t-talk out of my head until the moon f-f-falls again?" Catch is doubtful; he doubts, even, that he could play the game again for so long without tearing the town to pieces.

[Cinnabar]

Grey eyes follow that lowered hand, tightening at the ruin the addled man has worked upon his flesh. The hand that Cinnabar reaches out bears marks of its own, thin silvery lines running parallel across fingers and palm, wounds long-healed and faded. Similar; different. After a moment he instead turns to his coat, hanging nearby, and tugs a square of white linen from the pocket.

"Let me see, please." Again that gesture, that request, but in softer tones. He nods in easy acceptance of the addled man's explanation, in any case. These things happen, despite our best efforts.

"Is it good, to forget?" A fair question, and one which he himself is unable to answer, has quite deliberately chosen not to; if one is a monster, say, but forgets that fact - forgets it so entirely that they even forget their shape - surely, then, they are no longer monstrous. They become something else, and perhaps they come to like being this new creature. Then is their forgetfulness not a gift?

"No chains." Quite firm on that, whatever happens; he'll not stand for it. His gaze seeks those mismatched eyes, seeks confirmation that he is understood. He'd been of a different mind before, when a mad Drow had brought strife to Myrken; he'd ordered her bound in a collar of iron and spellcraft to keep her from causing further harm, though it hadn't kept her for long. Catch lacked her sly malice, the cold spite that festered in the lightless cities of the dark elves.

"Chains are for dangerous things. If you know when not to be dangerous, there's no need for chains at all." A grin, and he looks back to the addled man's bleeding knuckles, the fingers of his own outstretched hand waggling briefly in request.

"Here, let's get that cleaned up."

[catch]

"But, th-they're beautiful," Catch says, uncertain as to why Cinnabar would deny, and assure. Perhaps they meant something else, or Catch had said it wrong. Flowers in his hair, chains of silver and gold. He walks the Golden streets as they dance and sing about him...

For the best, then, that it does not happen. Catch holds his hand out, but to show, and not to give; the blood has dried to silver, and the flesh already oozes closed, urged on by tiny cilia, tendrils that whip and wrap, slowly, like the fringes of an eye shutting closed.

"I am very dangerous. I'm n-not. Controlling. I only duh, d-d-don't look at people and th-think, wh-what they c-c-could do for me. Or th, th-that they could. Make me happy. I'm n-n-not Cloud-hair." Catch turns his hand, palm-up, as if to assure himself that everything was being put back together, and nothing would be missed, like the small burn of tea. "... or Ser Glenn."

"Y, y-you aren't th-thinking like me. It's hard f-f-for me, too, to think like Me, but th-then, it's been so long. You have to th-think like me, Ser. Maybe you would hate me."

[Cinnabar]

"Ah. Little chains, for decoration? I thought you meant the sort to bind." Seeking clarification, revising his ideas; perhaps also wondering what that misapprehension had said about his impression of the Governor's motives. Troubling, that he'd not realised before.

But then pale brows raise at those healing hurts, and he can't help but lean over for a better look, a different vantage. When he looks up again it's with a brief smile, pleased as if he'd just seen a clever trick.

"I don't know Cloud-hair." Another reminder of the wild woman Kacela, and the naming customs she'd described. "I mean, I don't know who that is." Glenn Burnie he knows moderately well, but not nearly as well as he did, he is realising. That rebuke smooths his smile to something quieter.

"I'm sorry, Catch. We've not been speaking long so I'm still learning. But the more thoughts you share, the better I'm able to understand." Focused once more, attentive.

"I think, though, you need a way not to get lost in them."

[catch]

"Zilliah." The chains? The chains were no longer of consequence, and, for a moment, Catch is thrown off his wormpath as he struggles to figure out why. Ah, but Cloud-hair, he could answer. "He's not got many clouds in his hair, I suppose, n-n-not anymore."

Catch held up his hand long enough for Cinnabar to see the last remnants of those jagged, self-inflicted wounds, and then Catch is busy, fingers sprawling, darting out - to nab another cake, putting the whole thing in his mouth with childish greed, his wide eyes never leaving Cinnabar's face.

"What way?"