The Lady from the Lake

[Cinnabar]

Mommy. A plaintive word, a tone he knew well and knew to soothe with comforting contact - and yet here, now, must not. He'd been warned of it before, not to touch the man; Maxwell had tried and paid the price. So though he took a couple of steps closer, though his hand lifted as if to rest a reassuring touch on the man's arm, that last inch of space was left to await some sign as to whether it was welcome or not.

"Tell me about her, please, whatever you can." Seeking some context, some further clue as to the significance the statue had held. His gaze searched Catch's brutish features for some resemblance, a link of blood between him and the lady's graven image. A glance for Maxwell showed him still to be breathing more-or-less steadily, though he'd need to be taken to the Rememdium before too much longer. His gaze lifted to the ruins of the glade, the shivered stumps and pulped foliage, then back to the addled man's face.

"When did you see her last?"

[catch]

Of resemblance, there is none. The statue is of the up-most craftsmanship, yet what statue can convey the black, doe-like eyes, the gentle, distracted absence in his face? The Woman was wrought at a time when such gentleness had long since passed, but it was there. His stock ran from a different line. Catch's eyes are all for Cinnabar, and he trembled in the ruined clearing, where once autumn had come, and now there was the black, cold morass of an ur-Winter. He does not protest the hand. He very nearly leans into it, but only briefly. Then, he must be away, his agitation great; he could have pounced upon Maxwell once more, but the man looked very small and sad, now. He could have fled, and he, too, considered this, as he paced and prowled.

He does not speak, after Cinnabar asks his questions. But he does laugh, wild, because it seems an appropriate thing to do. When did he see her last?

"J-j-just now," Catch says, for once impatient with Cinnabar. "Ser. Ser G-g-glenn sent you, d-d-didn't he? You, you d-don't really, really want to be my f-f-friend." He took Cinnabr's speech, about being cautious, every words ever spoken to be ever-wary, to know that, sometimes, he will be used - he takes these, and he has a sudden, brilliant insight. And he becomes angry, not the animal-rage of being struck, but a cold, suspicious anger, one who is ready to be angry for something, and thinks, now, he has suddenly found it. "You j-j-just want to, to. To poke. J-j-jiggle around in my scar. See wh-wh-when, when I m-m-might go inside my head again."

"Well, we will," Catch says, stopping his agitated movement, still, now, as the statue, glaring at Cinnabar and his stick. "Sometime. I'll g-g-go in my head and I wuh, won't know what I'm d-d-doing. How will you st, stop it, me and her and the, the Wolf? By t-t-taking my Lights away, is how. Mommy will c-c-come and t-t-tell me how to find it. So you'll p-p-p-put her in a basket." He doesn't know what he is saying. He couldn't know. yet here he was, ranting it all, his eyes intent upon Cinnabar as his fingers fist. The little statue had told him. Her lips moved as clearly as water.

"Aren't you m-m-my friend?" Catch asks, plaintive. He wanted to be argued from it. Cinnabar had delicious cakes, and he was still so-sorry about taking his face to pieces. "How, how c-c-can you help m-me, if you know so much?"

[Cinnabar]

Nearly a touch, nearly. Close enough to feel the warmth of it. Perhaps enough for now. As Catch moved away Calomel stooped to pick up the now-withered stick, then a few paces to retrieve the canvas wrapping; both practice blades swathed in what's left of the sturdy cloth as best they might be. Listening all the while, glancing across now and then to show that he still followed, that he still paid attention.

First a petulant non-answer, a wilfully literal misinterpretaion of the question. Then that accusation, but if Catch expected guilt or flustered denial he was denied. Only calm, quiet words, a plainly-spoken explanation given as to an equal. Would he take that as presumption?

"Glenn told me about you, yes. What little he knew. He said, there is a man I know by the name of Catch. He has forgotten most of who he was, like you; he is very strong, like you; he has things sleeping in his head, like you. Sometimes he hurts or frightens people, though he doesn't mean it. And he asked me to talk to you, to see if I might help with that - with not hurting or frightening people."

The essence of the task that had been laid before him, to accept or decline as he wanted. He'd accepted, though it had cost him. Omitted, the fact that he was the addled man's last chance, a final effort at kindness.

"I'd like to help you, if I can. To do that, though, I need to understand you better - to learn who you are, and what you want, and what you don't want."

"I don't think you want to do this" His gaze took in the shattered clearing, murdered trees and defiled earth. "to the world. You love the world too much, the trees and the flowers and the animals. I don't think you want to hurt people, either, or you'd do it whenever you liked, not just when you forgot. There's no one to stop you."

Certainly no one here in Myrken Wood; perhaps, as the destruction he wrought spread, he'd gain the attention of Razasan or Thessilane or some other place with cadres of mages and war-sorcerors who might be better equipped to contain him. But by then Myrken would be dust and ash.

"I'd like to be your friend, if I may. I'd like you to be happy and not fear people or frighten them. I don't want you hurt, I don't want them hurt. I don't want you used, either. You are not a tool," Firm on that point, gaze held steady upon Catch's mismatched eyes to be sure that he understands how determined he is on that point.

"Or a weapon."

[catch]

It wasn't petulant. It wasn't even a non-answer. It was true, as true as Catch's fingers crushing into his palms. Cinnabar spoke, and he spoke so calmly, so surely, that his fingers cannot help but unwind, his taut, quivering muscles to relax, if only a little. He shook, both from exhaustion and shock, and he listened - oh, sometimes he would not listen, but he did his best, and that is what counts. The stone is a heavy coolness on his chest, and it works, a little, in the way Cinnabar had intended.

"Th-that d-d-doesn't sound like new-Glenn," Catch says, but he is confused, the pre-Maggot holes Glenn clashing in his memory with the new. Rather, it is something Glenn would have done. Ah, it made his head hurt, and his head was already hurting, bringing a new level of paleness to his features, yet he refused to hunker back down in the dead-flower mire. He couldn't stand to, and there is that command, from Cinnabar, that he stand.

"D-d-does he want to put silver chains on you, too? Th, that sounds like new-Glenn. It's n-not about wanting, Ser, it's about a n-n-needing. It's - " Catch stops, and he draws his tongue across his lips; he blinks, so slowly and so deliberate, that it is apparent he is thinking, and thinking hard. "... like wolves without sh-sh-sheep. Cats without quilts. You understand? Everything, everything th-th-that's me needs it. I'm t-t-trying, Ser, I am, but how c-c-can I when, when there's spiders and, and wolves and faces in th-the world!"

[Cinnabar]

"It's how he presented it to me: he is like you, in some ways; maybe you can help." Not in all ways, no - but those differences were the ones in which Catch sorely needed education.

"Chains? I don't think so. I don't hurt people or frighten them, so there's not the need. And either way, he knows better than to try." The attempt would not go well. Not that he would, of course. Certainly not the Glenn that Cinnabar had known.

And then this talk of need, of struggle, of constant battle against threats inside and out.

"Control, Catch. Being aware of yourself, of your thoughts and needs, and resisting the ones you don't want." He hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully; what followed had the tone of a confession, of sorts.

"When I am angry, there is a similar need. If someone challenges me or does something that defies my will, there is a, a heat, here." A touch just beneath his breastbone, frowning even at the thought of it. "A need to end them, to have them die in fear before me in that instant. Hm?" An absent glance for Maxwell, still insensible nearby. "My teeth, my nails itch for their flesh. How dare they."

Those last words hissed, silver fury in his gaze, in the curl of lips that peel back from his teeth; but in the next moment it is gone, features relaxed once more into an expression of quiet conversation.

"But I am aware of it, aware that I must not. I am no monster, after all. So when I feel the need rise I seek control of myself. I breathe slowly. I concentrate on how I'm standing, how my shoulders are set. I think on something else - something that I like, not whoever it is that has annoyed me because they don't know better. If it's difficult I move away, until the need passes. But it is important to be watchful for when the need rises again."

[catch]

"He put chains, on th-th-the Dreamlady," the addled man says, his voice hardly above a whisper. A loud, Catch-like whisper, but a whisper nonetheless. "They burned her wrists, and-and-and it t-t-took Ser Kals to fix it. It's b-b-because she's, she's Wild th-that he'd d-d-done it." 'He' was a different Glenn, one who was no-less noisy, yet, somehow, more sinister. No, no. Sinister was not a right word. 'Full of maggots', now, that was better. Maggots were a possible difference from Sinister.

Yet, these talks - this talk - was breaking down. Instead of calm, Catch experienced only a greater agitation, a pacing of impatient feet that were set on a different, more bothersome path. He tried, he did. But the wormpaths could think only what Ser Glenn meant, only what he was trying to do, hurling someone as wonderful - beautiful! - as Cinnabar at him. The Wolf gnawed with the sudden doubts in his brains. He glances between them, anger-hidden Cinnabar, and addle-slumped Maxwell, furtive and judging glances all the more pathetic by his inability to hide it.

That was it; the hiding, under the guise of control. Catch suddenly freezes, perhaps at the sudden anger-tone of the once-Governor voice. But it is, really, a thought.

"Ser," he asks, very carefully. "Ser, why d-d-don't you? I'll say why, in case you d-d-don't th-think it. You've, you've n-n-not been hurt for it. But, Ser, what if - and, and it's wh-what-if, m-mind you - what if Ser G-g-glenn hurts it out of you?"

There have been times. Blood-times. The Black Man had seen to times like that, and when the Governor had a particular need that could not be tricked or spoken of. Catch gazes at Cinnabar, now, and the look in his mismatched eyes mirrored a remembrance of detached, cruel curiosity. What would happen, if something was prodded just so? Would it not be worth seeing?

[Cinnabar]

As Catch's agitation grew, Cinnabar's movements became more careful, deliberate, calm and unhurried. Reasoned, orderly, steady. Setting an example. He grimaced at mention of the Dreamlady, chains that burned, but offering no comment, no defence of Burnie's actions. How could he?

The picnic blanket, muddied and trampled, was located bunched up against what was left of the fallen oak; picked up, shaken out with a pattering of fragments and debris. Still serviceable enough for him to fold and drape it over Maxwell's prone form, taking a moment to satisfy himself that the scholar still breathed, still lived.

That question, that extremely deliberate question, had him looking up with a certain intensity to his gaze. Very much alert, very much aware.

"He would not." Flat denial, flat certainty, a refusal of the question even in its hypothetical form. But was he certain? The tiniest flaw of doubt, of not knowing this new Glenn Burnie as well as he'd thought. Before... before, no, he could be absolutely sure. It was unthinkable. Now, though? The seed of an idea, sprouting thin, fragile but very insistent roots.

No.

"He knows better-- he is better than that."

[catch]

"I d-d-d, didn't th-think anyone would, either," Catch says, his voice low, unaccountably excited. He steps ever closer, all his attention on Cinnabar. It is a relief, for the unfortunate Maxwell, if only the boy were alert and awake to see it. "I was g-g-good, Ser, when my brains were whole. Nice and quiet, j-j-just like you, you're saying. Control. M-maybe, maybe th-the bits I didn't know wh-what I was d-d-doing, but. You know."

Closer, closer, ever-close; he wanted to be close for this, his breath coming in pained, excited gasps from between his teeth, at once fetid, rotten flowers. "Then," he says, as if imparting some great secret, " - th-then, they c-c-came and p-p-put glass knives in my brains. To see what would happen, I th-think. I was a little m-m-mad then, so I'm n-n-not certain. F-friends. Nice. B-but they did it anyway, and Ser Glenn - oh, Ser Glenn is ever-so-f-f-f-full of maggots."

[Cinnabar]

"That was a different place, Catch. A different time, different people." A City of gold and blood and chains and flowers. An unknown, unknowable time ago, long enough ago or far enough away that only a silent, inscrutable face remained, haughty and cold.

It should be hidden, he'd decided; placed somewhere dark and secret, far from Catch, far from anyone. Catch had looked upon those carved features and laid waste to a clearing before the plaster had shattered to dust; how much worse might it be if he came face-to-face with the artefact itself, that sneered and snarled and wept dark tears of blood?

He'd make sure Glenn knew, as soon as he'd delivered Maxwell to the Rememdium.

Something in the addled man's tone, in the way he was so very focused; those gasping breaths, the words exhaled so eagerly. Enough for him to rise to his feet again, brushing dirt and shrivelled grass from his knees, for all that his coat and the shirt beneath were an abject ruin.

"It won't happen here."

His steps took him carefully aside, slowly doing his best to draw Catch away from the fallen scholar. A glance, a brief flick of his eyes to the treeline for that marker of bright string to lead the way... no. Gone with the trees themselves. He'd have to take Maxwell and go, and deal with the matter of navigation along the way. For the time being, then, keeping the addled man talking seemed the best option.

"We know better than to allow it, hm?"

[catch]

"And wh-what's so d-d-different about it, then?" Catch says, sharply. "I'm n-n-not mad right now. I'm not. How do you, do you know Ser Glenn won't c-c-come at you with glass knives? How d-d-do, do you know he won't m-m-make it happen? He's m-m-made it happen, for me. ... I'm certain he, he knows b-b-best," Catch says, somewhat less manic, less intense. As if frightened, suddenly, that all this talk will go back to Glenn, and the madman's efforts to be good, to be sane, would be lost.

This thought is the reason that he suddenly deflates, his cheeks pursing out, as if to hold in all the words, and then visibly, literally shrink in on themselves. His body follows, his shoulders hunching, his face the one of a man much, much older, haggard and drawn. His hands curl around the heavy stone about his neck, an anchor, a northwards-pointing chain.

"I'm sorry, Ser," he mumbles miserably, shuffling in the filth, the death. "I'm certain you. We d-d-do." Ever the madman, Catch lifts his head to grin at Cinnabar, unconvincingly, and his eyes not-quite meeting the other man's. "I'll b-b-be. Anchored. And, and I wuh-won't. Hit."

[Cinnabar]

"How did he make it happen?" Curious and concerned in equal measure, seeking to better understand why Catch thought these things. These things that Glenn hadn't seen fit to mention, for... whatever reason.

Then that tension passed, a visible collapse, that nervous energy seeming to dissipate before his eyes to leave not much more than a husk. A startling transition, one which had Calomel quiet for the span of a few breaths; finally a sigh, a hand lifted to drag over his face. Well, at least that was all still there.

"No. No, I'm sorry. Next time we'll have to just talk and drink tea, I think." If there was a next time, of course; honestly, what had he really been expecting? A pleasant picnic and maybe a few pieces of new information about some ancient statuary? Ridiculous. Stupid idea. But at least Catch seemed to be taking to the idea of the anchor well enough.

"Just be as good as you can, hm?"

He took another glance over at Maxwell, getting used to the idea of carrying the scholar's ragdoll form back through the woods. Tiresome. But necessary.

[catch]

"Yessir." Earnest, eager promise - but weren't they all? It was given with a reckless relief, a man who - no matter how many times - never quite grasps the fullness of what he promises. "Your. Your st-stone - it will help." It will be magic. Catch shuffles again, and looks as if he wishes to say something, but when it comes out, it comes out as something else - faint, and hesitant.

"The. The b-b-breads were, were g-g-good, but. But th-they aren't so g-g-grand as cakes, are they?" he blurts, awkwardly, which was not what he had wanted to say. The foul, muddied loam was thick between his toes, like brains. The scattering of his thoughts out of fear of Burnie made it hard to pull everything together, but he licks his lips, and tries again.

"I. I c-c-could. Carry him."

[Cinnabar]

"I hope it does, Catch." Pleased, enough to summon an encouraging grin; and for a time, the hope that Catch would remember the stone, and the lesson that went with it, when he next-- when things became difficult.

Bread. Bread? Incongruous small-talk, even for the addled man, so Calomel waited patiently for something - some context, some explanation, some... ah, right. That made more sense, yes. A long moment passed as he considered the offer, a long look at Catch, at his manner, at his expression. Thinking. Finally, then, he nodded.

"Thank you, Catch. That'd be a big help." A glance round at the clearing's wreckage revealed little worth salvaging - the copper kettle, dented and discoloured, the sparring sticks, and that was about it. Easy enough to collect, once he'd stooped to carefully lift the scholar's blanket-wrapped form. He straightened easily enough, stronger than he looked, and waited for Catch to hold out his arms to accept his burden; a show of considerable trust in spite of all that had gone before.

"Be very gentle, hm? We'll take him to the Rememdium."

[catch]

As Catch came forward, he loathed the man, the prone Maxwell. he had been there, at the puppet show. He had struck him, and screamed at him, treated him like a beast. It would be easy, he thought, as he held out his arms, to crush him quickly, before Cinnabar could do anything; and, for once, none of this - none of it - reflected on his face. If Cinnabar puts the prone form in waiting arms, a child in a giant's grasp, Catch's arms would quiver, and he would hold the man too-tight, a little too-tight, a threat and a temptation, Catch's grin becoming an animal grimace, and sweat standing on his brow.

But he doesn't. Inexcusably, he doesn't, and he cradles Maxwell with a little more gentleness, so that all that could be neatly explained away, that Catch had just been too-anxious to not drop him, that he had been nervous that Maxwell would come to and begin hitting him again. Catch smiles at Cinnabar, and - did they need the ribbons? - the addled man shuffled from the ruined clearing, whispers of flower's screams on the wind.

"Th-th-this way, then, Ser. B-but, I wuh-won't stay in the, the Rememberdarium long. It's f-f-frightening."