ushers in a drearier day
They sat in his sitting-room
Guiericke's? Or Bertram's?
and the preparations of Autumn were thick in the small, one-house hutment; prepared meats, dried fruits, cans upon cans of pickled vegetables and gelatinous preserves. In the rafters hung dried and drying roots, herbs, mushrooms. It left the mingled smell of something musty, both decaying and living, passing into rot.
To his credit, the horned Bertram hesitated only a moment in the doorway. It was apparent that he had not expected to see the figure sitting at his table. He recovered quickly from the shock of it. Bertram carefully laid aside the hare that he had in his hand.
"I expected to see you, sooner or later," he says. His voice has not changed, has never changed. Strong, confident, taunting snide. So full of Knowing, and wanting Him to know it. He spoke as an adult to a child. "Was it the boy who's shown you? Is this an introduction between friends?"
Is it possible that he does not know? That he does not suspect?
The man sitting at the table says nothing. It is what Bertram, the Red Horn, expects. He brings his own smells, his own dried flowers, his own desperation. He is not stoic. Bertram is right in his confidence. The tall man is hunched, his sweat a greasy sheen on his skin, and there is a copper tang of blood in his mouth from his fear. Even the flowers in his curled hair wilt from the stress tearing at his flesh.
His mismatched eyes cannot meet Bertram's. They wander, they dart, they constantly move with the twisting of his fingers.
He doesn't know.
"What are you doing here, boy?" Impatience, now. Anger. Catch
not his name, but it's safer. Guiericke rat'vak Oddy a Grand Catch
understands. But he is afraid. He had not though that he would be this afraid.
I didn't hear about you from Eater. But I've seen the Rats, you fucker. I've seen the Crows. I know what you've done to him -
"Ainrid an Tiomphan," Catch says, instead. His voice is so low, and it shakes so much, that he must needs repeat himself. "Do you know who that is?"
This time, it is Bertram's turn to say nothing. The Red Horn has advanced, his one antler setting the dried mushrooms and herbs above to disturbance. In the cramped center room, the two large men are giants. There is little room between them, and when Bertram takes his chair, there is nothing at all. Knee to knee, very nearly nose to nose, and Catch cannot, cannot look. His scarred hands are knotted under his chin. His eyes are squeezed closed.
"No," Bertram says, slow and insolent. "No, I don't. Should I?"
He may know Elliot Brown. He would know -
"Why did you let me have her?" Not Ainrid. Bertram has already answered that, and - in so answering - has already answered so many other things. Catch is still afraid. But he gropes out, a blind supplicant, unable to look his Uncle in the eyes as he entreats him. It is a broken sort of question. Ruined fingers curl into the cloth of the Red Horn's shoulders. One hand, and then the other, once he is made bold.
Because he is not looking, he doesn't see how Bertram smirks.
"Your mind is all over the place, son. Who do you mean?"
You know who I mean.
"Soodsy."
"As if I have anything to do with your spawn. But have you ever really had her? Ever seen her? -"
He is talking. I knew he would want to do this. He ruined Eater to get to me. But I didn't see it. It wasn't him. I'm sorry, Eater.
"Uncle."
He was so confidant, Bertram. So certain. So sure of himself.
Until he wasn't anymore.
His head held between Catch's hands, he was silenced, stilled, with a word. Because though Catch was afraid,
though his voice trembled and his fingers shook like a hummingbird's wings against Bertram's ruddy skin,
his mismatched eyes finally found the honey-brown of Bertram's own.
And they held.
"Her name is Fionn," he begins.
She is not a human. She is Tuatha, and she Loves me.
Do you hear me, Uncle? She Loves me.
Like those in the Cities, but unafraid.
Like those in Lothaine, but Purfied.
Like those in Jernoa, but free of Hate.
Like those in Myrken, but unsullied by Pity.
To me she Sings.
Her Flowers adorn my hair.
Her Fruits are sweet upon my tongue.
Elliot has shown me.
Ainrid has shown me.
I have given her my flesh.
And in her love
With her Worship
She has given me my
H҈̭̳̱̞̘̭̫͉̠̙͚̬̗̦̥̞̗̠͚̱̥͙̙̀̾̓̒̑͆͆̑̀̈́̅̎͋o̵͕̙̖̜͎͓̦̩̰̜͉̗̟͕̰̱̓̆̓̽̿͒͌͌̃͌̒͑̂̿͛̃̍͂̌́̋̌͗r҈͙̟͍͉̭̦̮͕̳͔̙͇̗̳̠̥͍̞͓̮̙̮͔̥̅͌͒̄̏̀̿͐̉͊̑͒͗͐̿́̈̓͂͛̅̓n̷̝̜̫̞̯̬̲̰̥̥̗̙͖̗̯̘͓̬̘̱̾͑́̓̈́̉͌̅́̅̄͊͗̒͛̀͗̒̏̊̑̚.