Fingers Stretch'd O'er Darken'd Hold

[catch]

Roots ran deep, here. Stone-roots, mountain-roots. When Glenn had brought him here, just before he had run the knife through the mapmaker's belly, Catch had told him that the place seemed sad. Empty. Trees in November, devoured from within by white maggots. A singular image, one he remembered without really remembering. A Black Oak and White Maggots. Like Ser Glenn, et up all inside, tha knaws, or dursn't; some believed, some didn't.

It wasn't so empty, now, but neither was it less sad. Where, before, it had a seeming of Wrong for being near-empty, now it had a seeming of Wrong because of it's sheer Thereness. It made no sense. It was so insensible that Catch paced it's perimeter, flitting like some foxfire wisp between what Forest there was; visible, for he could not help but be visible, his pale skin almost luminescent in the dark, and because he is, simply, so large a man. Yet, like a boy who thinks himself well-hidden, invincible, he makes the attempt at stealth; he stalks and he darts between the foliage, and sometimes he even stops to stare at Darkenhold, twitching there, before a fresh seizure grips him and he rolls into the brush.

It is a strange, singular performance, and it is all for Catch. His body must have things to do while he agonizes over the worm-paths of his brains. Go-in or come-out. He has Hothouses promised to him, and though Renea's were fine indeed, these particular ones held a promise, a secret, a place for Flowers for the Eight, and good, clean dirt to fill Ser Glenn up with again. In this way, he debates, and physically wrests to what decision he may.

In this way, after an hour or so, the addled man finally sets his quivering, sweat-drenched, filthy self before the gate. He glares at it with eyes that moved, here, there, everywhere, of their own accord.

"I'm here f-f-for my dirt," he tells the door, not nearly loud enough.

[Carnath-Emory]

It's been a startlingly busy fortnight. Kaczmareks and Calomels; constables and mercenaries; at this rate, Farsiris will be calling her The Doom That Came To Darkenhold.

This, though...

This has been something very different.

A flutter of something off in the black; a did-you-see-that? moment for one keen-eyed fellow who actually rather imagined that he didn't at all. A flicker of motion between the trees caught by his brother's eyes this time, so that two young men had frowned at each other and called for a third set of eyes. At one point they'd had bows trained upon him, this stranger in the dark; did he know that? Arrows notched and at least one string drawn achingly taut - until a jumble of motion tumbled him near enough that his silhouette looked distinctly human.

That was when they'd roused her.

From matters other than sleep but nonetheless of value, so that there was some delay involved, and by the time she'd reached the walls they'd begun to make a game of it. Tracking him, they'd told her when she was near enough for talk. And: See? There amongst the bushes, pale beneath moonlight; so quick of motion that she'd regretted not bringing the looking-glass; so erratic of behaviour that like the rest of them, she was instantly intrigued.

A game: him on one side of the walls and they on the other, moving to and fro in tandem as: There! one cries in an excited whisper and all of them dashing to follow, and: No, See? cries another and they're back over here again. Three different languages fill the night air: quiet chatter, softly panting breaths, easy laughter -

So that when Catch finds it in him to pause before the gates, he is met by a small, breathless crowd.

"What?" From one face in the midst of all the others, gold-lit beneath torchlight and turning a frowning glance back across one shoulder. Because really, dirt? Has a mistake been made? Is a delivery owed? One of Betzalel's men, perhaps? Blank expressions abound, and curious, too, until one adds:

"What sort of dirt would you like?"

[catch]

He, alone, bare of all weapons, is unperturbed. The crowd is nothing to him, though he has it in him to take a step back, his broad chest strangely still, despite the silver sweat drenching him, making thin, pale strings of his curled hair. There is no fear, no shame. If anything, he looks over them with a vague sense of disappointment, intrigue, questions and demands rising and popping, fragile bubbles in his mind pushed upwards by new, fellow question and thoughts. The entirety of him is off, from the way his eyes move, to the distinctive, bestial cast of his features, the clean, clear scar that so neatly bisects his skull, to the vagrant, vagabond cast of his clothing, yet mad or not, this dirt, it was important.

The madman clears his throat, and performs an awkward bow, waving his arms in an archaic, unnecessary flourish. It is a courtly move, but inappropriate, and done in such an ancient way that it may yet be new again. "Dirt," he reasserts. "Brown. Black. Maybe, it's g-g-got worms, or m-m-maybe not." He motions, again, with his hand, a vague Glenn-height. "Th-th-this much, b'ye." His accents, they come and go, mimicking Myrkenite, and - unconsciously - parts of the crowd as well.

Again, he glares at each of them, as if they dare deny him, and without hesitation, the addled man would attempt to push his way past them, and pace into the courtyard of Darkenhold itself.

[Carnath-Emory]

At some point - years ago and more recently as well - there'd been talk of lanterns for the lawns, begun by an architect's memory for festivals and perpetuated by a universal love for good lighting. But a swordswoman's reluctance had persisted, juxtaposing just days ago with a constable's talk of petitioners and gates, and now instead of lanterns this encounter must be held beneath torch-light instead. The flames are fierce, unpredictable; their light sends shadows to darting across their features, this motley lot, highlighting a stranger's scars and a household's inclinations towards ink, scattered adornment and - in one case - thin eyeglasses.

A moment's mutual regard - they inspect him, he inspects everything - evaporates when he begins to move, and it's only when his motion resolves into a courtesy that their hands leave go from weapons and become something else instead. A demuring, here or there; a few backstepping; someone's mentioned Aithne, and everyone else is shushing him.

"You ought to have been here years ago, if it were for dirt," a woman's begun to answer him. "The excavating," she relishes the word's complexity, "was finished long ago - oh, hold now - "

Because the man is large, is completely unfamiliar, and is shouldering his way through them all, which has agitated hands towards knives and a bit of movement in turn. "Khvatit piz'det -" A moment's sharpness, maybe for him and maybe towards the others, but whatever the case the woman's stepped sharply forward to intercept this stranger twice her size.

A glance across her shoulder; a hush of quiet words, and the most of this crowd begins to disperse. Most, and not quite all.

"Perhaps we can supply this. Perhaps we cannot. But first we would have your name, and why you seek this thing - here."

[catch]

At the sheer command, the sharpness, of the woman's words, even Catch much stop. They form themselves in front of him, barrier that he will not test. As the crowd that had come to watch him - mock him? - were spoken to, the addled man stared straight ahead, trembling a little in the warm, summer's light, his eyes focused, finally, on a Thing that could not be seen. Languages were a thing he could not understand, and by the time his broken mind could bring the scattered remnants of thought together, there is little more than a woman before him, the Khvatit piz'det vanished into the fragrant air.

Now that he could see, he tilts his bearded chin down, his wide eyes giving the illusion of a charming cross; taken with the rest of him, he simply looks the miserable son of Nobles, bred and bred until nothing but looks remained. "You've a cave?" he asks, not understanding excavate, and yet, that was not important. What was important was the dirt. "Good dirt, mind you," he continues, as if nothing had happened; as if her words had not froze him to the spot, the seconds, minutes, lost to him, and his mind, forever. It is only then that he pauses, looking around for the others. Confusion, but only a brief flaring.

"I'm a Catch," he says, his impatience tempered, for once, because he knows this woman must not know him. And it was polite, really, these introductions. It is why he had bowed. "Ser Glenn showed me d-d-dirt, in the glass-houses." He then thrusts his face, muzzle and all, down into the woman's, though there is no malice in the motion; his eyes are wide in concern, and he keeps his hands to himself, palms and fingers splayed across his own chest. "It's f-f-for Ser Glenn, you see. I'm g-g-going to fill his empty belly with good, clean dirt. So I n-n-need only th-the best."

[Carnath-Emory]

It is a voice regrettably accustomed to speaking commands. To snapping them sometimes, bodyguard that she'd been - so often to titled sorts better known for their wealth than their wits, and thus in need sometimes of a little kindless prodding. And a harsh tone is nothing she can regret, because this is her home and her household, but it is also her responsibility. And this being Myrken, what comes unbidden to her gates seldom arrives with kind intentions.

The words have served their purpose: stilling his advance and quieting the moment, and in the wake of it she can at last begin to relent. It begins with a small incline of her head, continues with a small backstep so that a stranger's no longer crowded. And more evenly now: "We have no cave," except for underground regions - which hardly qualify and aren't in any case a stranger's business. "For that, you must look - further east, I think." A questioning glance towards her companions is met by an indifferent shrug. It's alright. These are only words to fill the space during which a woman examines; during which she makes a careful, silent inspection of this very unlikely visitor.

This petitioner. Oh, Lentham.

"Good day to you, Catch." There: at last. Introductions; polite, really. A small inclination of her head follows, and a gentling at the mouth. "I am Ariane of House Carnath-Emory." And if she'd intended to continue with these courtesies he has silenced her very efficiently, and with nothing more than a name. Does he see? How etiquette falls away from her features, from pale eyes grown so intent; how the lips have fallen parted and still, their questions left unspoken because what he says is so much more important. He sees this, certainly: that the thrust of his head down towards her has the woman stepping forward instead of away; as if it were a challenge she's advanced to meet him, chin lifted and eyes straight -

A brush of fingers across her wrist. The soft thiss-click of tiny mechanisms -

No. This, too, relents. Quiet words have the last of her household departing, and she is back a step now herself, gesturing for this Catch to walk with her. "Come. This way. Ser Glenn - Burnie, yes? Then it is as you say: he must have the very best."

Glenn Burnie, here in her absence. Where instead of a cave they have a dungeon, a catacomb in which a monster is hid. Glenn Burnie, who perhaps in her absence has become a little strange, and they'd never have let him down there a second time except that perhaps they'd never had to, perhaps they'd never known. He'd found his way there once, after all....

"And for how long," a bewildered curiosity, "has Glenn Burnie liked to eat dirt?"

[catch]

If only he could see. The warnings, the twitch of a mouth, a narrowing of an eye. The subtle language of bodies was beyond his reading, save for the most overt of emotions. He sees her, thus, only a vague shape in the torchlight, his addled mind piecing her together through the sound of her, the smell. He does not touch her, but his muddled senses still taste and feel, bits of Herself coming to him through other means. He is long at this, so when there is a brief, quickly-passing danger, he is oblivious; so when she bids him Come, it is a surprise, enough of one that he obeys without a second thought, and does not feel angry that he does so.

"You taste like Heat," he lets her know, as if this is the only reason he follows, though it is spoken in his odd cadence of what passes for simple conversation with him. He is encouraged that she seems to understand. Not many people seemed to, and it was difficult for him to blame them. Perhaps that is why he is so comfortable with her; why Cinnibar's suspicions and warnings did not niggle and twitch in his mind. He plods forward on his interrupted course, the torchlight heightening his twitching, enhancing it, until the whole of his pale body seems to skip and jump, a marionette on strings.

"Glenn Burnie. He d-d-doesn't like to eat dirt, but he should. F-f-f-full of good things, dirt. Sometimes bad. LIke the m-m-maggot-holes." Catch spoke almost too fast to catch, his sing-song stutter only muddling the matters all the more. "Th-there's bad dirt, maybe. I'd r-r-rather him have worms than m-m-maggots, don't you th-th-think?" And he turns to her, canting his great head down and falling quiet to hear her response. This politeness, it is infecting, as well it should be. This is conversation, and the addled man has worked himself into such desperation, at finding Darkenhold full of people, that he is willing to play any game. Even a courtly game.

[Carnath-Emory]

He does not touch her, which is as well: the swordswoman is better with words than with touch, and she is very bad at words indeed.

But look at this, how he'd only just begun to follow her and already she's begun to stop. He has paused her with a single statement, has turned her about on a heel to face him over again, the eyes intent - but in a wholly different sense than moments ago. "That," she begins slowly, "is one of the most interesting things anyone's ever said to me." Fascinated, despite herself. Darkenhold has such good reason to be cautious of strangers. Ariane Emory certainly does. And yet these gates have opened, these guards have been dismissed; this woman has only now fallen back into step with towering Catch and her smile does not mock but only wonder. "What does it mean?"

Darkenhold's architect once described for her the sound of blinking eyes. Soft; soft, like tiny wings, except when -

"But wait, wait." As he leans his great head down towards her, so that her own must draw slightly back until she realises his purpose, and with a quick lift of her hand to forestall him. "You must say these things more slowly. For me, mn? Because I am not very good with your language when it runs so quickly, you see?" And her hand mimes this, makes itself some tiny, darting animal: hop - hop - spring! "I do not know if Glenn Burnie should have worms or - maggot? Is that it? Maggot-holes? I am not sure that either of these are good to his belly. Maggots - they are just small worms - aren't they?"

It's possible they're not. It's entirely possible that she's mistaken the word completely, and he's describing something utterly delicious.

Possible, but not likely. The tone of his voice, after all; the way that he speaks. The stutter and stammer of him which is nothing to do with words at all, and everything to do with what flesh and muscle and bone will do when labouring under particular circumstances. There is some distant part of her which would rather spare him this walk at all; which would have him sit, find peace in stillness, perhaps enjoy a simple meal and cool water until the twitching's faded. And it is an impulse already discarded - by a woman sometimes so gripped that she cannot stand to be still at all, who in those moments does better when she is in endless, restless, pointless motion -

No. They'll walk. And not so distant there's a flicker of light caught in tall glass panes, but until they reach that destination, the swordswoman is so very content to listen.

[catch]

It is not so cold in Darkenhold, now, not so empty. At her request, at her motions, his eyes are distracted by the small animal of her hand, so that it is nearly lost. Yet, when he speaks again, he makes the attempt, though how he tries! Tell a boy to slow his speech, when he has something very important to say; tell a dog to heel when he has caught an exciting scent. And Catch is finding himself very excited, indeed, in the company of Ari-Ann of House Carnats and Emories. She has proper questions.

"Well, it's n-n-not maggots, not exactly, you know. Maggots are v-v-very clean animals. I used to, to th-think they came from my head, but I know b-b-better, now." He stills the chattering of his teeth, but he cannot abolish it completely. It is rare indeed, when he can, and such times - such times are causes to fear. But there is no sanity lurking in his eyes, no dangerous awareness, not yet. He looks out the corner of his eyes, shy-sly, every once and awhile, to see the Heat from her. He wants to touch, so badly, but - instinct? sense? - they keep his hands where they are, silver-scarred, glued to his own chest.

She says his words are interesting. He makes the most of it.

"So. Not-maggots, I suppose. Just the smell of it. I suppose he's g-g-got an Empty, and dirt's good as anything to f-f-fill it up. Maybe, if he's n-n-not so empty, I could talk to him some." For the first time in his demeanor, there is a touch of sadness. None of that haughty lordship, that feel that he is where he belongs, despite his mad words. Now he looks lost, shrunken, confused. He does not know that he conveys these things so effectively. "Or stuffing," he says. "Only, then he'd puff away at the first bit of wind."

[Carnath-Emory]

The swordswoman must slightly regret that little demonstration; knows it for a mistake when his eyes fix upon it so, and suffers a moment's real fear that he'd lose his interest in words completely. He'd had her in mind of young Iosedde - a boy of fathomless dark eyes and engaging manner, a boy inclined towards just such restless motion when something particularly grips him; to just such helpless excitement. But this has been a mistake, for while Iosedde would have delighted in that tiny pantomime and found it focusing besides, his need is different; the boy speaks no words at all save sometimes for his brother's name, and it is all pantomime between them; whole conversations consisting of gesture and manner. Catch...

Catch is an abundance of words. And if she is not so very careful, she will distract him into stifling their flow, or else leave them both tangled in so many that there's no escaping at all for either of them.

"I'm glad that they do not come from your head," she's offered after a time - and after a quiet examination of just that; even in the context of a very unlikely conversation, his statement had startled. "These maggots, I have only ever seen them with dead things, hurt things. Is this the smell of not-maggots? If they are gone but the hurt thing remains?" She had turned at some point, the better to watch him as they speak; about upon a heel and backstepping in pace, so that she needn't lift her chin at all to see him - which the disparity in their heights would otherwise require. But the swordswoman swiftly comes to regret this, as well - for Catch has begun to describe her student in such terms that the breath's caught sickly in her throat, and she must turn her face away entirely, tumbling hair a necessary curtain for features shocked pale.

"It cannot be stuffing," she's murmured, when the voice can bear to speak at all. Quietly, because she can maintain this tone even when her stomach is churning; evenly-paced, because a woman who longs to be steel is capable of nothing if not control. "We have lost Glenn Burnie once. We will never let him be lost again."

[catch]

"You've lost him b-b-before?" Exquisite turmoil is lost, even and, especially, to one who is so often embroiled in his own. Automatically, and if he is allowed, the broad man, shedding worn flowers and twigs and flakes of mud in his wake, would pick his way down the path he ad Glenn had taken, long ago, to go see the Glass Houses, where flowers could be Safe. He is a little surprised that he remembers so well. He had been a knot of nerves, planning his secret, but necessary, betrayal. And should he tell this woman about that? No. She might hate him, and the addled man quite liked the Heat. So, instead, he inclines his head - used to it, by now - and rests his curled beard onto his chest.

"That's n-n-not a good habit for him. Of course, I know wh-where he was. I was just so mad at the time th-th-that no one really listened." And he laughs, as if that madness was no longer the case, the manic noise racing through the walls. "Well, Maggots are g-g-good like that. The k-k-keep the bones company. But even wholesome th-th-things are t-t-terrible, if th-they're in the wrong p-p-place." Like inside a living skull, or gnawing at an empty map-maker. Absently, Catch reaches out as if to pat Ariane, but he remembers; he remembers this is rude, and the broad paw tipped with surprisingly delicate fingers instead motions vaguely on the air. "Why, th-that's what the dirt is f-f-for. It'll k-k-keep him in one p-p-p-place, tha knaws, and then." Well. What would happen, then? Catch goes quiet, and wonders if he can find words again, and he peers at the Steel-heart woman, as if she knew the answer to what he sought.

[Carnath-Emory]

"We lost him once." It is possible to say these words with a steady voice. It is absolutely possible to let the self fall away; to exhale it in a slow, soft breath so that the necessary words might be spoken unencumbered. "He was taken away and I was not here to fetch him back to us." Terrible words, quietly spoken, and this hulking Catch is her inadvertent confessional - which will not continue further than it has. There are limits; grief restrains her, and loathesome cowardice as well. So that while this stranger has continued down a path he somehow remembers, the swordswoman follows as automatically in his wake - until he speaks again and startles her right back into herself.

"You know where he was - amongst the Drow?" After the moments required to hurry her back into step with the man, and him with his head lowered and she on her boot-toes, so that nothing might be mistaken at all. "They should have listened. Especially if you were angry." They usually do, she might have added, when I am angry enough to shout - but thinks better of it almost immediately. "And in any case, it seems quite right to me; I like to have a nice bowl for my breakfast, but I would not like to have a nice bowl in my belly. Place is important."

Her head ducks his hand as a matter of habit, but there is no anger here. Just a moment's surprise, already resolved into curiosity when she lifts a glance just to see what that hand is doing. No: just a gesture, and so they may continue unhindered upon the path that he has chosen, except when the swordswoman pauses to scoop a palmful of gravel from the ground they tread. "This - is the sort of dirt you would have from us; is that right? But from our greenhouse, of course, with the glass and the flowers, but Catch - if you wish to fill Glenn Burnie's belly to keep him to one place, you might find something other than dirt. For you know, dirt in the belly will make his belly very, very sick."

[catch]

His presence was oppressive, and not just the smell of him, of sweat and earth and rotten flowers, and of Heat himself. His shoulders crowded the heavens, and his arms, were they to move but another inch, could crumble the walls, and every foot-step brought the ground heaving upwards, in pining and in ecstasy, until he could put it down once more. There was too much of him, confined, and the black thoughts that bubble, muddied blood, are thinking now of what would happen were the scar in his head split wide.

The drow, he must not speak of. There were too many secrets, too many promises made, of dances with Matron Faeryl under the moonlight, of tiny half-drowlings, belonging to Miss Jirai, of whom he must tell no one. Rather than betray friendships made in desperation, the addled man stops his rambling, though relentless stride. He sways on his feet, as if considering, wondering if he would ever speak again, though his very own throat said that he would.

"I d-d-did," he begins, slowly. "It's n-not that I was angry. The maggot-holes, they, th-they're not so terrible, some of them. J-j-just. No one listened. I am th-th-the madman, with terrible th-things in his head, and I wuh-wursn't so g-g-good with my tongue as I am, n-now." He admits this all with not a small amount of shame, and he, who could hide nothing, had it clearly on his face, mingled with anger. Not at her. Not at anyone, that still lived.

Catch holds his broad paws out, as if to take the gravel, knowing it for the start it was. "Oh. Is th-that all? I was hoping f-f-for something more. Black." Or red. Insides seemed to have much red in them, and Catch, if he is to recieve the gift, would roll the rough rock-seeds with his fingers. He finds himself, then, disappointed, his shoulders hunching, and he entirely unconscious of the sullen, childish-angry cast his body has taken. He thrusts his head out, again, his flat, ragged lips pursing into a scowl.

He thought she had understood. But, ah, patience. She doesn't know him that well, does she? They had just met, he and she, had just introduced. "I'll p-p-put him back together," he says, unable and unknowing the defensive growl in those words that matched the gravel in their hands. "It's wh, whu, what I do. I d-d-do it good."

[Carnath-Emory]

They pause here because he has chosen to, and because even as she returns to herself the swordswoman is still willing to have him choose their path. And not only the direction of their approach, but of their conversation as well; with good reason, and with quiet certainty now that this is the way it must be. Where at first meeting the words had seemed to tumble and rush from him, look at the man now - this towering Catch, gripped by something she can not identify, some impulse powerful enough that he seems to shudder with it. But she is careful with her considering of these things; she is careful with exercising intuition, a thing which does not come to her naturally, and which sometimes just does not come at all.

And hadn't she once shunned the intuitive, placing her trust instead in what could be touched and held and had? Hadn't she once longed for an orderly life? For nothing more but a direct line leading one simple day into the identical next, and everything in its place; it seems so long ago...

"I'm not so good," she's answered him slowly, as her fingers sift gravel into his cupped palms. "With speaking; with words. Sometimes I choose the wrong sorts. Sometimes I can't seem to choose any at all." Because there is something like pain caught up in his features, and its source is so terribly familiar. "There are those who know how to hear, but they are difficult to find." And two of them are so far, far from here...

But she is watching with close eyes as this man dusts gravel between his fingertips; watches, knowing the dryness of its texture and wanting nothing but to see what he will make of it, and when his features curl into sullen disappointment she is nodding her agreement. When it resolves into something like anger, though, she is slightly straightening - with clear eyes, and a subtle lift to her pointed chin as she nods towards their path and its promise of sunlit glass. "No. This is just ordinary dirt. You know? Common. Good for growing grass, but not much else. Come." And it's her turn to lead then: the narrow woman strides directly past his shoulder, to unfasten a single door with particular care, and when she swings it wide Catch is afforded a glimpse of lush greenery and rich, sunlit earth.

"Here." A tilt of her hand offers him entry, and she's back a step to allow the man some room. "This ... is special. The very best, mn? For things which must grow, things which must live."

[catch]

Already, she is a professional. Already she has grasped the shortness of Catch's attention, the effective weapon used by any who has angered, or confused, the madman. She is about to be forgiven, because Catch can understand, at least, how difficult words could be, and she is moving past him, the tease of almost-touch causing his breath to hitch, his hands to protect his arms with curling fingers. All is forgiven because it is forgotten. The Glass Houses were just as lovely as he remembers, and memory is not something he can nurture. What a luxury, but was it, compared to the tenebrous scar, the warped and pitted brow, the frustrations and angers and child-like rages that filled him so completely that he lost himself?

As was now. Delight overshadows all else, the finding of a Thing that had, as all his ideas, gripped him and would not let go. This is why he had faced down Darkenhold, full of flesh and blood, to make Ser Glenn much less of flesh and blood. Catch's nostrils flare wide, and he steps past Ariane as if she no longer existed, and he takes a Breath, one that the whole of the world seemed to echo. "Yes," he says, finally, and it is a long, long finally that the poor woman must wait, as Catch roots about as a boar to the root, waddling awkwardly on his haunches and scooping up rich, loamy earth. Many times, he will taste it, with lips and tongue, so that when he speaks, and turns to the woman, his eyes are wide, his mouth dirt-stained and grinning broad. "G-g-good earth f-f-for a b-better Ser Glenn." He stuffs the Accepted dirt into his pockets, and allows the ones that aren't quite right sift between his fingers.

"I wish he'd t-t-take steel, like, like you. If it's puh, p-p-proper at all to say," he says as he works, speaking, once more, to only make conversation. "He'd g-g-go no-where, th-then. And I c-c-could ask him proper about huh. About th-th-things." Then - and does this seem silly? Catch pauses, and he considers; and the massive man settles back onto his haunches, and regards Ariane with a surprised look, his dirt-stained hands cupping together between his knees.

"How d-d-do you know Sr Glenn?"