The night prior, Pen and Nick received the same text message from Margot. It was a brief apology combined with thanks for keeping watch over Yorick for so long and an explanation that all was cleared and she was home. She could be by and pick him up tomorrow?
A response from one senior Mage or the other dismissed and explained that he could be dropped off instead. That would be just fine. Plus it could serve as an excuse for curious eyes to see into the world that the recently-Initiated disparate lived within.
Turns out, that world wasn't particularly impressive. Margot Travers lived in a four story square building made of red brick with paint chipping from the wood that built the short stairs and stubby awning at the front door. The building didn't have a sign to name the apartment, it was just marked with its proper number for the street. Student housing, off campus, the rent helped along with scholarship and tuition funds. Margot herself lived on the third floor, and the door to enter the building wasn't locked, required no pin to enter. Pen was able to get as far as the third floor, the apartment marked as Margot's, all without trouble. It was only once she reached that door that she would need to knock.
Of course, Pen would knock, it was only polite. It was when she heard Margot undoing a couple of locks that she learned there was certainly no open door policy in this apartment. Just two, though, she hadn't gone through the trouble of installing extra locks. She was just utilizing both that had been built in.
When the door opened it revealed Margot standing in the doorway in a pair of denim shorts and a black T-shirt, her feet bare and hair down to hang framing her face. She wore no make-up and had the faint hint of bruises under her eyes that suggested lack of sleep-- far from abnormal for their sort. The smile that the petite young woman offered was tired but rooted in genuine pleasure at seeing the red-haired knight woman and the bunny that she brought for delivery.
"Pen, hi. Come on in."
Penelope
Margot opens the door;
The (ardent, and daring) woman on the other side smiles a hello. The smile is a deft one; a mystery, light on the surface of water in a silver cup; the moon, floating; firelight, dancing - the archaic form of the word 'ardent.' Pen's red curls are riotous and still somewhat damp, caught at the nape of her neck by a (wand) silver-tipped slender piece of wood. Her bangs are sleek, but long again; they curl around the bottom of her ears, pushed to the side. Her mouth is red, and her eyes are gray and calm and bright, and she wears a dress of attractive color, and there's a box with a bunny inside under one arm.
From the box under Pen's arm one can perhaps hear the quiet sounds of a rabbit chewing on something; the box? No; Yorick has treats much more interesting than a box to nibble on.
There is also a bag over Pen's shoulder; as soon as she is invited inside, she explains the bag - a tote bag, clearly not her purse, which hangs at her hip - this way: "Yorick has rather luxuriated at our home; these are all his toys and treats."
She holds the box out to Margot, says as she does, "It's so good to see you!" Vibrant lick of enthusiasm.
Echoed by Yorick, maybe. The sound of chewing stops.
Margot
In through the door, and Margot nudged it closed after Pen had entered. The fire mage found herself standing in the entrance-kitchen combo of a small square studio apartment. to the immediate right was the kitchen counter, sink, stove and fridge. Straight ahead, a couch and a door that was propped open for air circulation, with the screen door still closed but a small balcony visible on the other side. There was a standing screen blocking off the opposite corner of the room, so one would assume her bed was there. A door near the kitchen had to be the bathroom.
In front of the couch was a coffee table, upon which five books were stacked with one left open and flipped over to hold the page-- Margot must have been in the middle of reading when the door opened. Some pocket book with theories about spiritual energies and manifestations contained within, advertised on the visible cover.
With the box presented, Margot reached out and opened up the top flap, then smiled faintly at the wriggling pink nose and sleek pelt of red upon the head that poked out.
"Hey, Yorick," she greeted the bunny, then took the box and lowered it to the floor to allow the rabbit to hop out and re-acclimated itself with home. The tote bag was glanced at, and Margot grinned a little. "Nick really enjoyed having a temporary pet, huh? You guys really didn't need to spoil him so much." Margot straightened back up from where she had been crouched after depositing the box on the floor. Put her hands in her front pockets and looked up at the taller, older woman's face.
"It's good to see you too." The enthusiasm wasn't shared, but that didn't give any impression that Margot was displeased or disenchanted with the woman. It just seemed that the capability for enthusiasm was tapped dry along with her overall energy. "I'm sorry that went longer than planned. I appreciate your holding onto him all that time."
Penelope
"He was as charming a guest as any bunny that never laid a chocolate egg might be," Penelope says, and she leans down (it is an elegance, this leaning; see how the curls loose from the rest swing downward; caress the edge of her cheekbone, are fire bound by solid shape against her collar. The collar of her dress shifts; her collar bone is naked, her skin untouched by summer) to stroke Yorick's ears. There were more than a couple afternoons when Yorick kept her company as she went over her notes, and one time when she had to catch him from certain doom of the forge: fortunately, Pen is quick. She has been accused by both Arianna and Nicholas of having fondness for the rabbit; she refuses to admit it, but she is gentle when she strokes his ears, one after the other.
"But all of the spoiling you may blame on Nick." And Yorick is a bit fatter than he was when Margot dropped him off. "I may need to agree to a pet; and I hope you will let him visit."
Now Pen straightens, tucking her hair behind her ear. Today her earrings are long, metal, hand-made; there are mystic symbols carved on them; they are pieces of artistry, but potent. Could be. Pen's collar is naked, but her fingers are be-ringed, and her waist is cinched by an embroidered belt -- colorful, folksy -- with a buckle that is also a rich symbol, should one only know the way to read it. She has something written on her forearm: see the flash of blue ink against pale skin?
"I want to ask. How did your adventure go? Or was it a misadventure, Margot? How are you feeling, home again after such an unexpected time away? And how is Ned?"
Margot
[Charisma 2 + Subterfuge 2: I'm so awesome that adventure was so awesome I'm great we're great it's not even worth talking about really]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )
Penelope
[Perc + Emp! I do not believe you, do I? I do like to trust people. But we'll WP this, because you were gone a long time and worried Ari so. O_O -2 for acute sight.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (2, 4, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 5 ) [WP]
Margot
Before Margot had gone on her trip, Arianna may have brought home details of a conversation she'd had with her and the Doc. Margot had some kind of a misadventure up her sleeve that involved her brother (because she was afraid that Doc would kill him for some unexplained reason), that involved tying up loose ends and was quite serious and grim but Margot didn't really want to talk about it much. Arianna had offered a lodestone of protetion and connection, something to alert the Hermetic if the little would-be Verbena was in any trouble. The Disparate Blood Witch had declined. She'd gone off without a lifeline.
So, Penelope was curious to know how everything had gone. She wanted to know about the adventure, about how Margot felt about her return, about how Ned was doing, as she understood that Ned had accompanied her on whatever this adventure was.
Were it not for the keen eye and the focused scrutiny, then the moment might have been missed and Margot's otherwise well-executed dismissal would have seemed so easy, so true, so simple that it would have worked. But Margot's already big eyes had widened some and there was just the smallest twinge of something in them, along her brow and in the corners of her mouth. What was it?
Sorrow. Grief. Surprise. Horror. Nausea. Conflict. Worry. Anxiety. Shame.
She looked down to Yorick and shrugged her shoulders, hiding what her eyes had already betrayed by focusing in on the pet she'd missed. Nudged a toy turned loose from the tote toward him with a toe. "Misadventure's probably the better word, but it went fine. We were in and out within 48 hours, not even that big of an event after all."
Hey, look, a shiny change of subject!
"Hey, I was wondering... Do you... Are you versed with the Spirits? I've been doing a lot of reading but talking to someone that already knows, seeing a demonstration... It helps a lot."
Penelope
"May I have a cup of water? Or iced tea, if you have it?" Pen asks, after Margot lowers her eyes. Pen's gaze was steady, clear-eyed; isn't it luminous too, that tarnished gray? That chalice grey? A sword in water; glass filled with light. Her eyelashes are dark; she adds, conversational -- she doesn't want to push Margot.
"That was one of the first things my master taught me. He said: Penelope, not everybody cleaves to the old ways, but there are some who will guest you according to whether or not you've offered them water or accepted water from them. For a while I read all I could on fairies, too, for their gifts were the most loaded. And interesting. Fairies and spirits: you need to be careful bargaining with both."
"I know my cosmology, but I don't have the Art of seeing the other side. What do you want to know about them, or what do you want to do with them, if I can ask?"
Margot
"It would be stupid to leave an entirely different dimension untapped and unexplored."
Margot's answer was blunt and logical, and it spoke to how her mind worked. She was a sweet-faced thing, awkward and socially anxious but she'd managed to come across as likable if nothing more to the majority of the Mages that she'd met here in Denver. As Ned had pointed out, they weren't human anymore, so it wasn't human regard that she had to worry about. Let the professors and classmates continue to look past her or consider her odd. Their opinions weren't the ones that carried sway anymore. Despite that impression that she'd left, Margot was still by far and large more of an intellectual thing than she was a social or empathic one.
She didn't have iced tea, apparently, but she did take a glass from a cupboard and fill it with filtered water and ice from her aged fridge-freezer duo. "I want to be able to see what power is there. What knowledge the spirits can impart. I want to know how to open that door, but I want to know how to close and lock and barricade it if I need to as well."
The glass of iced water was offered out when Margot returned from the kitchen-space to the entry/living space. An advantage of such a small home is that you didn't need to take many steps to get where you needed, and didn't need to interrupt conversations for movement either.
"I'm not strong enough to bargain with them yet. That comes later."
Penelope
"Unless they want to bargain with you," Pen replies. "Some can strike deals with sleepers, those who wouldn't feel so much as a shiver of the uncanny standing in the middle of a well-spring."
"Nick [listen, that tell-tale tenderness; ardent-warmth] knows the spirit world. He has always had a knack for it; it is in his bones and his blood. And so he's become skilled enough. Kiara, too; you know Kiara, don't you? She is also savvy when it comes to the spirit world, and the Art of manipulating it."
Margot
"Yeah, I know," Margot said, in particular to the fact that spirits could broker the deals instead, even with sleepers. Her words were simple, not sharp, not out of the ordinary, but the tone that carried them was dark and hollowed. The mention of deals and sleepers tied in too close to whatever happened on this misadventure, or perhaps something similarly distressing that had occurred prior to then. The girl was addled with psychological landmines, who would be surprised if it was something previously uncovered still?
She sucked a tooth and looked back down to Yorick. Leaned down to scoop the bunny up and cradle him to her chest. Pet his bold red side absently and comfortingly after she'd handed the glass off and stood with her weight canted dominantly to one hip.
"I've met Kiara. I don't really know her, though." She frowned a little, trying to find words for a feeling she had. "She seems... I don't know. I'm sure she's nice. I'll maybe ask." Nick knew of the spirits too, but she didn't make mention of going straight to him instead. She held insight that he may be preoccupied by mentoring another sphere to another freshly-initiated mage sometime soon.
"Doc's library has some pretty good books in it too, though. That's where I found that one," she said, nodding toward the one open on the table.
Penelope
The water glass is cupped in both hands, graceful; it is held to Pen's red mouth, and she leaves behind a lipstick imprint, a perfect shard of heart, after she takes a judicious sip. She thinks about how Nicholas is going to miss Yorick, as Margot sweeps him against her chest; that is a surface thought. The thought beneath that is more visceral; a reaction to Margot's reaction; and Pen is an honest woman, and she cannot the restrained care or the compassion; this is what happens when one, once given to impulse, becomes tempered. Economical.
"I do the greater part of my learning from books," Pen admits. "And, well... if Kiara doesn't have time, or you decide you don't want to ask, I know Nicholas would enjoy discussing the spirit world. I think he misses having other spirit mages to talk shop with. It's nearly enough to cause me to study that Art now, rather than later."
"Have you begun building your own library yet?"
Margot
"If Nick has the time, perhaps...," Margot agreed absently. The next question, regarding libraries and the building thereof, was answered with another nod, this one more of an affirmation than a gesture in any particular direction.
"Two of the other books on the table there are mine. I've got a bookshelf next to my bed, it's getting close to full. Books about spirits and other realms are actually pretty easy to come across. Spirit I'm not quite so worried about, I guess, since there's so many books for it. Things like Prime or Entropy are a little trickier, though. Harder to take knowledge as... insightful and particular as that and have it printed out by an observant or thoughtful Sleeper."
A few moments of thoughtful quiet passed while Pen sipped water and Margot pet the rabbit, then she added quietly: "Maybe getting a part time gig at a bookstore would be helpful to that. It's not like the dispensary pays me especially well anyways."
Penelope
The Order of Hermes is an Order jealous of its secrets; possessive of its Mysteries. Penelope is an Adept of one of its proudest and oldest Houses. Here with Margot the older woman considers for a moment; pensive, muse. Look at her: she is a Muse; long neck, easy stance, skirt which hangs from her with water: liquefaction of movement; see how the shoulders want to slip off, too, but never do? They just give an impression: it is a comfortable, vaguely archaic, utterly modern piece of fashion; look at her, though, really: the expression is sweet, the passion is restrained but forceful/real, and there is no one who would ever dream to doubt her self-possession. Self-possession and assurance is in every bone in her body; it is the blood in her veins. So it seems.
"There are books, and then there are books. They come in different calibers, and the best are written by other Traditionalists; other Mages, I should say, because the authors needn't belong to a Tradition to know something about what they are talking about, although mostly they do. Those books are harder to come by, for obvious reasons. But sometimes you get lucky at an estate sale, or in an antique shop. You just have to keep an eye out for cursed items."
Something in her tone says this is not idle speculation.
Pen is an avid hunter of libraries; she misses hers.
Beat. Then, "Margot. I would be remiss, I would be dishonest, if I did not say I want to know what happened to you; that I mark a shadow in your eyes; that I wonder if dealings with spirits cast that shadow on you. I -- " see, she hesitates: self-assured, but compassionate. "If I can be a friend, let me. It's not opening a door that can't be closed again."
Margot
Slow nodding showed that Margot was listening well as Pen spoke of books penned by other Mages becoming lost to time and generations, how they sometimes turn up in estate sales which meant they could just as easily turn up at a yard sale or on some internet sales website or even in a small business bookshop twenty miles away. Of course she was listening, though, seldom was there doubt of that. She always listened when there was something to be learned. Whether she always heeded what she heard was another story.
She was contemplating the caution against curses when her name was stated solemnly, and Margot's eyes jumped from the coffee table where they'd landed to Pen's regal face. She looked cornered, caught and uncovered at first. Then half-frantic while her mind raced to try and find an acceptable deflection, a way to brush the subject aside again.
At last came a kind of steeling. Sort of like resignation but without the sag of defeat that came with. Margot breathed in through flared nostrils, then sighed on the exhale and turned her gaze out through the screen of her door and into the open air above the street beyond. Spoke solemnly and quietly when she was ready.
"A spirit has something to do with it but not everything. I don't..." She swallowed, continued. "I'm still processing what happened, I suppose. How I do feel versus how I'm supposed to feel versus how I want to feel. I didn't find what I expected... I couldn't have anticipated what I did find. I should have known how it would end, though." Her jaw set into place with molars clenched and she hugged Yorick just a little higher and closer to her chest.
"......Ned had to kill him. And I don't know how to look him in the eye the same now."
PenelopePen had rested her hand over her chest, thumb at the notch of her collar; her hand stays there while the student studio is quiet; it stays there, though her fingers curl inward, until Margot begins to speak. Then it slides down a spare half-an-inch; it is over her heart. Pen is otherwise content to wait; even if Margot tells her to fuck off; shuts down; so it would go.
Ned had to kill him, and.
Echoes. here; Pen feels, at least, as if there are Echoes; as if she is listening to one, silvered by the distance, and now it has come back as a wave will if kept in a cage; with more force.
This true thing: Pen recognizes Margot's dilemma. It is clear; the way she listens; the way she accepts. The poise of it, which is not aloof. Penelope is never really aloof; she only manages to be restrained, most of the time; restrained, and terribly/beautifully focused.
"It's hard." Beat. "It's hard to look into a friend's face and know that they are as dear as ever, but that they did this hard thing which comes up against your memories, even if you know they had to do it, it was the only good choice." Pause. "Perhaps it will not help now, but I do not believe that you should have known how it would end; how should you have? The future isn't immutable."
Beat. Simply: "I'm sorry, Margot."
MargotPen spoke, and her words and voice were beautiful as many other things about her were. It was at precisely the words dear as ever that Margot closed her eyes. When she did tears began to roll down her cheeks and continued to do so through the whole of it. Margot was quiet, though, breathing foggy from what crying will do to one's nose and throat. She didn't dissolve, but silently wept and tried to maintain herself as steady as she could.
I'm sorry, Margot. The girl nodded her head quickly and pressed her lips together tight. Opened her eyes just enough to see exactly how wet her lashes were, then promptly stooped to set Yorick back down on the floor. This freed up her hands to hastily wipe her eyes and face with her hands and forearms. Another sniff, and she cleared her throat and hitched her elbows onto her knees, tangled her fingers together into a worried knot that came to float before her mouth. It was moved far enough away to allow her to speak, at least.
"I know..." Her voice was still thick with tears. She pulled in a shaky breath of air, deep and full, then exhaled slowly before trying again. "He told me he would, if he needed. I know he did it only because there was no other choice. But... but it was so easy. And it happened because I left Luke. Not exclusively because, but it was one of the factors in the sequence of events that led to... what he became." Her hands pressed against her lips and teeth to stop the trembling feeling in her teeth and wrists and arms. She breathed through her nostrils for a few moments, then turned her eyes to regard Pen with an almost cautious question.
"How do you know...? I mean, Nick's a Chakravanti, he's a killer too, I get it. But Luke's... he's my brother."
PenelopeMargot is crying; Pen's eyes are full of the earnest desire to help; they are opaque with it, even; grey as grave-stones, grey as water-light with all its mysteries. The woman reaches into her book-bag, leather, many-pocketed, a messenger, which hangs at her hip; does not need to dig around. Pen is a Mage who is [Hermetically] Adept at the Art of Correspondence. There are certain things Correspondence Mages are good at; finding things in purses is one of them. Natural sympathy. She pulls out a travel pack of kleenex, and offers one white piece of tissue to Margot. Against Pen's fingers, it is white as snow.
The messenger bag bumps against the ground when Pen crouches, too, a reflection; her back straight, and her mouth expressive. The glass of water finds its place on the floor, where it will leave a ring if the floor is hardwood or tile; will shiver with light if the floor is carpet or rug.
After the kleenex, Pen holds out her hand: it is Daring, this - offering. Holds out her hand to give Margot a place to put hers.
"Easy? What do you mean? Do you mean simple, or easily accomplished?"
Margot wants to know how Pen can know; how she can speak with such ready (true) sympathy; how she can recognize. Pen's gaze shifts to the side for a contemplative moment; it is gloam-bright, it is lake-lady silver; her eyebrows are drawn together, a slash, her lower lip tucked in; it is only a moment of thought.
"I've lost friends to the hands of other friends; I have wished it otherwise; I have wished that it was me, instead, who did it - it feels easier to live with, to know exactly the weight of the choice, to be able to measure it out - or at least it has to me sometimes. I believe in personal responsibility," a faint smile; humorless; gentle. Beat.
"And I had a brother, too. He made a bad bargain; I think he made it, in part, because of my leaving; a brace of Chakravanti gave him the Good Death."
MargotThe tissue was accepted and Margot mopped and scrubbed her eyes with it before blowing her nose vigorously. When she resurfaced from the kleenex (wadded, tucked aside for now) her breathing was less occluded.
The first explanation of common ground was met with a slow nodding of the head. That made sense. But speaking of a brother whose life was taken by Chakravanti-- the Good Death, with clear capital lettering present... well, that parallel was uncanny to say the least. It had Margot staring with a significant wonder, like this discovery was incredibly important and could mean something much more in the broader scheme of things but her range of vision was still just much too narrow and not nearly powerful enough to grasp it just yet.
A few moments passed, and the intensity of the stare lessened across that time until finally the young initiate was looking back across the floor to her rabbit, who had rediscovered his favorite place on the couch and was happily nibbling a toy he'd brought on up along with.
"It was easy for Ned, I meant. He didn't hesitate, didn't flinch or pause or even blink. He just did what he needed to do. The fight itself wasn't easy, not at all...."
PenelopeThe look Margot gives Penelope is one that Penelope can imagine that she feels; it is molten glass, shaping itself; it would brand; it would score; it would lace itself, stitch itself; that sense of recognition - of stories touching other stories. Pen is clearly touched; moved; affected. During the silence: well, she accepts it; will bear it, as well as she can. But she is a human woman, and her heart is beating faster, and it is an old sorrow. Her gaze shifts to the side again, a thoughtful cant (distant [we remember]), then returns.
"I do not often speak about my brother. I remember him."
This wistfulness; it is like the first taste of smoke in a smooth whiskey.
"How did he know -- well. How do you believe he knew what he needed to do? Were your lives obviously endangered? I'm not trying to make excuses, or build reasons, I'm only only trying to understand. I suppose the more important question is: what do you think of when you look at him now?"
Penelopeooc: Make that 'How did he know -- well.' into 'How did Ned know -- ...well.'
MargotPenelope confessed that she didn't often speak of her brother, and Margot nodded and was quiet. There, that moment, they were both silent and in the younger girl's mind at least it was a moment of quiet for siblings fallen to dark deals and Good Deaths. Then Penelope spoke up again, broke the silence when it was appropriate, and inquired about the moment.
"There was clearly no other choice. We could try to run, but Luke would just follow us and hunt me down in particular, and he'd have left a path of so much more death in his wake. It was the right thing to do, I know that. It's just..."
There it was again, that hanging 'just'. Something that Margot couldn't put into words but Penelope ceretainly understood. The loss of a family member was hard enough as it was, and this incident was one that she had less than a week to process so far. She wouldn't get past that 'just' until she'd had more time, and that was okay. Margot seemed fine to leave that thought incomplete, hanging and understood, and moved on to the next with a small shake of her head.
"When I look at--? ...I don't know. I see what he did, and I see that he knows and that he's worried about it too. Not, like, regretting or thinking that he did wrong, but it's worried him. I think having blood on your hands is a big deal, and then he sees how I'm looking at him and it's a reminder of what he did and..." She sighed and shook her head and raked her fingers through her hair a couple of times. "I don't know. I'm still close, we're still close. I don't begrudge him. It's just the reminder, is all."
PenelopeWe could try to run, Margot says, and if Margot has not taken Pen's hand, this is when Penelope takes Margot's hand: an impulsive, unconstrained gesture; it is accompanied by a (fervent) squeeze; she lets Margot's hand stay or leave after as it would.
When Margot rakes her fingers through her hair, Penelope settles so she is sitting weight on one flank and reaches out to stroke the nibbling dowsing bunny's long silky ears, lifting one higher than the other, touching the skull of him.
"Having blood on your hands is a big deal." Agreement. And then, "I hope you find yourself stronger in the end, for all this. Truly, if you ever want to just spin your wheels and talk, I will listen. I cannot offer timelines or equations, this plus this equals all better. But I'll offer whatever I may."
Grave, see.
And thoughtful; pensive.
MargotThe taking of Margot's hand caught her by surprise, and she faltered momentarily with the gesture but continued to speak all the same. She'd returned the squeeze of fingers feebly and let the woman hold onto her hand up until the point that she'd shaken it free specifically to brush at her hair.
Pen had offered to be an ear to listen if Margot ever needed to talk, and Margot nodded and seemed to consider this before looking the woman in the face. Margot's eyes were still red and puffy from all the tears that had fallen from them, just previously and over the course of the past 72 hours as well. She was serious and sincere as the grave when she made her request (one that seemed invited by the offer to be a listening ear):
"Please don't tell his story."
Luke's story? Ned's? It was hard to say. They'd kind of mingled and become one in this particular chapter of life. Clearly, though, Margot's motivation for asking wasn't one of shame or embarassment for herself. She seemed more worried about the 'him' in the equation. That he'd end up in trouble. She'd be lying if she said she didn't get the sense that there was some kind of a trial or judgment in the answers she gave surrounding the circumstance of the death-- a deeming of whether it was Good or Not. She couldn't have her cabalmates hunted down as marauders, after all.
Penelope"It's your story, and Ned's," Penelope says, and perhaps there is an implication to the ownership granted by that remark.
She says, after a hesitation, "I hope Ned reaches out to somebody about killing. It's a hard thing, especially when one has magick at one's disposal; it can wear you down. If you used magick to help. Even if you didn't."
Margot"He didn't," she said hurriedly in his defense, then frowned softly and nodded a little. Pushed herself out of the crouch, finally, and up to her feet. She bustled momentarily through the tiny apartment to get rid of the tissue she'd used and to fetch herself a glass of water as well.
The hesitation was picked up on, and Margot paused in her glance back to Pen before she went about dropping ice cubes into her glass.
"He will. I'm sure of it. But in time. It was.... hard. Eye opening, but like trying to open them only after they swelled shut when you got the shit kicked out of you."
Penelope"I bet it was. If you think he'd talk to me about it, feel free to pass on an offer to him as well."
Pen leans back against the chair Yorick has claimed as his rightful fluffsome throne; hares belong to the moon, and rabbits too. Also, to Spring, and their bones are good in certain spells. Even alchemy. Penelope teased Nicholas about this, but she seems unconcerned when the rabbit begins to sniff toward her earrings. They are dangling ones, tempting in their gleaming straight-fall.
"I think Andres missed having you two around."
MargotYorick was a largely placid bunny, a large and healthy male specimen that's always been big and handsome and admired and favored. His was an easy life, and he was easy and laid back for it. It was only with half-hearted effort that the bunny may try to thieve earrings away, and he was easily deterred by other suggestions instead. Margot almost mustered a small smile when the bunny sneezed in a way she found particularly cute (pet owners, man), then nodded and turned back about to face the Penelope, but remained hovering dominantly in the kitchen space.
"Good," she said in response to the posibility that she and Ned were missed by their mutual mentor. She sounded reflexively self-righteous on the matter. There was just something about being able to say 'I told you so' to a guy like Andrés Sepúlveda. After a sip of water, her tone was a little softer and sincere.
"Every so often I worry that he really has decided he's better off without us. But twice as often I find myself thinking exactly the opposite, so I should know better by now." That was a product of the anxiety, sweet Margot. Maybe she'd figure that out one day. She took another sip from her glass, this one longer and more contemplative, before she continued with a tone of confession.
"I shouldn't have shut him out from this. Things would have gone so much better if I'd just asked for his help. If he'd been there."
Penelope"I definitely believe you two are good for him," Penelope says, and of course she means it: she never says things she doesn't mean (or if she does, so rare that one wouldn't catch it). It's a confirmation; a sharp cant upward of her chin, quick flash of a smile; it is still touched by wistfulness, light under water or shadow under water (difficult to tell one from the other; either way, clean: pure). "He's a touchy one, but," a shrug, expressive.
That, while Margot is sipping from her glass.
And then, the confession.
Pen says: "You wanted to do it yourself, or yourself with somebody you think of as an equal; isn't that so, Margot? Perhaps it would have been different with Andres' help, but that isn't necessarily better."
MargotMargot swallowed because she felt her throat going thick with the urge to cry again. It felt sudden as a need to vomit, just a sick sense of sorrow that rose at a moment's notice and she had to consciously focus on reeling it back in and taking a few deep breaths. In and out. In and out.
There, composure (largely) regained. She even managed to not look apologetic over it when she spoke up next.
"We're not his Apprentices anymore. I didn't want him to come hold my hand through everything. I figured that it would just be Luke... Just Luke, just being an asshole like he always is, but that's not what we found. We had no way of knowing." Ambiguous, and that no doubt had to scrape nails down the chalkboard of curiosity that Penelope must hold somewhere in her heart. Connections could be put together without details, though. Didn't Margot mention something about spirits earlier?
She tapped her blunt fingernails against the side of her glass anxiously a few times, then started drinking again just to cover up her lack of anything else to say.
PenelopeThe woman's eyebrows rise, surprised, when Margot asserts that she and Ned are no longer Andres' apprentices. She does not comment on Margot's need to gather herself; does not give any indication she saw it. These things are easy to roll with. They had no way of knowing; Pen nods, slowly.
"But you survived. I am glad." Brief pause, and then:
"I will be gladder if you come out with me now, for some food. And a drink, perhaps. Cuban food? Chinese? Scotch?"
Pen's choice is always Scotch; it is known. She is: a beguiling woman; beguiles now, maybe, rising from the ground smoothly, settling her bag on her shoulder again: look, even clumsily, catching her finger under the strap.
"Let's get--"
MargotLet's get-- what? It had the potential to be the cliffhanger of the century, but we won't do that to you folks.
It turned out that they would agree upon Cuban. Margot had never tried Cuban food before, and was a little surprised to learn that there was enough of a Cuban population to find any in Denver. She had to be reminded that Denver was an actual city and therefore housed a population of every variety, no matter how small. Young Margot had it in her head that you wouldn't find a Cuban joint outside of a really big city or somewhere further southeast.
Margot had taken a moment before they left to move the screens in her apartment up against the wall to open the studio up enough for the bunny to lope and flop and roll around at his leisure. This revealed a twin bed set up against the wall with a bookshelf at its foot and a cat tower converted into a bunny tree near the head. A lamp hanging from the wall, bent at the neck to serve as an obvious book reading light. Multiple pillows and cleanly tucked linens. A few pictures hung up on the walls but only interesting art sketches that she'd probably purchased from the student art department and put in frames bought at discount stores. Understandably, not a trace of her family to be found.
"Okay," she'd said after snatching up her small purse (keys, wallet, phone intact within) and a pair of sunglasses (great for the bright summer sunshine and hiding puffy crying eyes). "Let's go."
Ned had to kill him, and.
Echoes. here; Pen feels, at least, as if there are Echoes; as if she is listening to one, silvered by the distance, and now it has come back as a wave will if kept in a cage; with more force.
This true thing: Pen recognizes Margot's dilemma. It is clear; the way she listens; the way she accepts. The poise of it, which is not aloof. Penelope is never really aloof; she only manages to be restrained, most of the time; restrained, and terribly/beautifully focused.
"It's hard." Beat. "It's hard to look into a friend's face and know that they are as dear as ever, but that they did this hard thing which comes up against your memories, even if you know they had to do it, it was the only good choice." Pause. "Perhaps it will not help now, but I do not believe that you should have known how it would end; how should you have? The future isn't immutable."
Beat. Simply: "I'm sorry, Margot."
MargotPen spoke, and her words and voice were beautiful as many other things about her were. It was at precisely the words dear as ever that Margot closed her eyes. When she did tears began to roll down her cheeks and continued to do so through the whole of it. Margot was quiet, though, breathing foggy from what crying will do to one's nose and throat. She didn't dissolve, but silently wept and tried to maintain herself as steady as she could.
I'm sorry, Margot. The girl nodded her head quickly and pressed her lips together tight. Opened her eyes just enough to see exactly how wet her lashes were, then promptly stooped to set Yorick back down on the floor. This freed up her hands to hastily wipe her eyes and face with her hands and forearms. Another sniff, and she cleared her throat and hitched her elbows onto her knees, tangled her fingers together into a worried knot that came to float before her mouth. It was moved far enough away to allow her to speak, at least.
"I know..." Her voice was still thick with tears. She pulled in a shaky breath of air, deep and full, then exhaled slowly before trying again. "He told me he would, if he needed. I know he did it only because there was no other choice. But... but it was so easy. And it happened because I left Luke. Not exclusively because, but it was one of the factors in the sequence of events that led to... what he became." Her hands pressed against her lips and teeth to stop the trembling feeling in her teeth and wrists and arms. She breathed through her nostrils for a few moments, then turned her eyes to regard Pen with an almost cautious question.
"How do you know...? I mean, Nick's a Chakravanti, he's a killer too, I get it. But Luke's... he's my brother."
PenelopeMargot is crying; Pen's eyes are full of the earnest desire to help; they are opaque with it, even; grey as grave-stones, grey as water-light with all its mysteries. The woman reaches into her book-bag, leather, many-pocketed, a messenger, which hangs at her hip; does not need to dig around. Pen is a Mage who is [Hermetically] Adept at the Art of Correspondence. There are certain things Correspondence Mages are good at; finding things in purses is one of them. Natural sympathy. She pulls out a travel pack of kleenex, and offers one white piece of tissue to Margot. Against Pen's fingers, it is white as snow.
The messenger bag bumps against the ground when Pen crouches, too, a reflection; her back straight, and her mouth expressive. The glass of water finds its place on the floor, where it will leave a ring if the floor is hardwood or tile; will shiver with light if the floor is carpet or rug.
After the kleenex, Pen holds out her hand: it is Daring, this - offering. Holds out her hand to give Margot a place to put hers.
"Easy? What do you mean? Do you mean simple, or easily accomplished?"
Margot wants to know how Pen can know; how she can speak with such ready (true) sympathy; how she can recognize. Pen's gaze shifts to the side for a contemplative moment; it is gloam-bright, it is lake-lady silver; her eyebrows are drawn together, a slash, her lower lip tucked in; it is only a moment of thought.
"I've lost friends to the hands of other friends; I have wished it otherwise; I have wished that it was me, instead, who did it - it feels easier to live with, to know exactly the weight of the choice, to be able to measure it out - or at least it has to me sometimes. I believe in personal responsibility," a faint smile; humorless; gentle. Beat.
"And I had a brother, too. He made a bad bargain; I think he made it, in part, because of my leaving; a brace of Chakravanti gave him the Good Death."
MargotThe tissue was accepted and Margot mopped and scrubbed her eyes with it before blowing her nose vigorously. When she resurfaced from the kleenex (wadded, tucked aside for now) her breathing was less occluded.
The first explanation of common ground was met with a slow nodding of the head. That made sense. But speaking of a brother whose life was taken by Chakravanti-- the Good Death, with clear capital lettering present... well, that parallel was uncanny to say the least. It had Margot staring with a significant wonder, like this discovery was incredibly important and could mean something much more in the broader scheme of things but her range of vision was still just much too narrow and not nearly powerful enough to grasp it just yet.
A few moments passed, and the intensity of the stare lessened across that time until finally the young initiate was looking back across the floor to her rabbit, who had rediscovered his favorite place on the couch and was happily nibbling a toy he'd brought on up along with.
"It was easy for Ned, I meant. He didn't hesitate, didn't flinch or pause or even blink. He just did what he needed to do. The fight itself wasn't easy, not at all...."
PenelopeThe look Margot gives Penelope is one that Penelope can imagine that she feels; it is molten glass, shaping itself; it would brand; it would score; it would lace itself, stitch itself; that sense of recognition - of stories touching other stories. Pen is clearly touched; moved; affected. During the silence: well, she accepts it; will bear it, as well as she can. But she is a human woman, and her heart is beating faster, and it is an old sorrow. Her gaze shifts to the side again, a thoughtful cant (distant [we remember]), then returns.
"I do not often speak about my brother. I remember him."
This wistfulness; it is like the first taste of smoke in a smooth whiskey.
"How did he know -- well. How do you believe he knew what he needed to do? Were your lives obviously endangered? I'm not trying to make excuses, or build reasons, I'm only only trying to understand. I suppose the more important question is: what do you think of when you look at him now?"
Penelopeooc: Make that 'How did he know -- well.' into 'How did Ned know -- ...well.'
MargotPenelope confessed that she didn't often speak of her brother, and Margot nodded and was quiet. There, that moment, they were both silent and in the younger girl's mind at least it was a moment of quiet for siblings fallen to dark deals and Good Deaths. Then Penelope spoke up again, broke the silence when it was appropriate, and inquired about the moment.
"There was clearly no other choice. We could try to run, but Luke would just follow us and hunt me down in particular, and he'd have left a path of so much more death in his wake. It was the right thing to do, I know that. It's just..."
There it was again, that hanging 'just'. Something that Margot couldn't put into words but Penelope ceretainly understood. The loss of a family member was hard enough as it was, and this incident was one that she had less than a week to process so far. She wouldn't get past that 'just' until she'd had more time, and that was okay. Margot seemed fine to leave that thought incomplete, hanging and understood, and moved on to the next with a small shake of her head.
"When I look at--? ...I don't know. I see what he did, and I see that he knows and that he's worried about it too. Not, like, regretting or thinking that he did wrong, but it's worried him. I think having blood on your hands is a big deal, and then he sees how I'm looking at him and it's a reminder of what he did and..." She sighed and shook her head and raked her fingers through her hair a couple of times. "I don't know. I'm still close, we're still close. I don't begrudge him. It's just the reminder, is all."
PenelopeWe could try to run, Margot says, and if Margot has not taken Pen's hand, this is when Penelope takes Margot's hand: an impulsive, unconstrained gesture; it is accompanied by a (fervent) squeeze; she lets Margot's hand stay or leave after as it would.
When Margot rakes her fingers through her hair, Penelope settles so she is sitting weight on one flank and reaches out to stroke the nibbling dowsing bunny's long silky ears, lifting one higher than the other, touching the skull of him.
"Having blood on your hands is a big deal." Agreement. And then, "I hope you find yourself stronger in the end, for all this. Truly, if you ever want to just spin your wheels and talk, I will listen. I cannot offer timelines or equations, this plus this equals all better. But I'll offer whatever I may."
Grave, see.
And thoughtful; pensive.
MargotThe taking of Margot's hand caught her by surprise, and she faltered momentarily with the gesture but continued to speak all the same. She'd returned the squeeze of fingers feebly and let the woman hold onto her hand up until the point that she'd shaken it free specifically to brush at her hair.
Pen had offered to be an ear to listen if Margot ever needed to talk, and Margot nodded and seemed to consider this before looking the woman in the face. Margot's eyes were still red and puffy from all the tears that had fallen from them, just previously and over the course of the past 72 hours as well. She was serious and sincere as the grave when she made her request (one that seemed invited by the offer to be a listening ear):
"Please don't tell his story."
Luke's story? Ned's? It was hard to say. They'd kind of mingled and become one in this particular chapter of life. Clearly, though, Margot's motivation for asking wasn't one of shame or embarassment for herself. She seemed more worried about the 'him' in the equation. That he'd end up in trouble. She'd be lying if she said she didn't get the sense that there was some kind of a trial or judgment in the answers she gave surrounding the circumstance of the death-- a deeming of whether it was Good or Not. She couldn't have her cabalmates hunted down as marauders, after all.
Penelope"It's your story, and Ned's," Penelope says, and perhaps there is an implication to the ownership granted by that remark.
She says, after a hesitation, "I hope Ned reaches out to somebody about killing. It's a hard thing, especially when one has magick at one's disposal; it can wear you down. If you used magick to help. Even if you didn't."
Margot"He didn't," she said hurriedly in his defense, then frowned softly and nodded a little. Pushed herself out of the crouch, finally, and up to her feet. She bustled momentarily through the tiny apartment to get rid of the tissue she'd used and to fetch herself a glass of water as well.
The hesitation was picked up on, and Margot paused in her glance back to Pen before she went about dropping ice cubes into her glass.
"He will. I'm sure of it. But in time. It was.... hard. Eye opening, but like trying to open them only after they swelled shut when you got the shit kicked out of you."
Penelope"I bet it was. If you think he'd talk to me about it, feel free to pass on an offer to him as well."
Pen leans back against the chair Yorick has claimed as his rightful fluffsome throne; hares belong to the moon, and rabbits too. Also, to Spring, and their bones are good in certain spells. Even alchemy. Penelope teased Nicholas about this, but she seems unconcerned when the rabbit begins to sniff toward her earrings. They are dangling ones, tempting in their gleaming straight-fall.
"I think Andres missed having you two around."
MargotYorick was a largely placid bunny, a large and healthy male specimen that's always been big and handsome and admired and favored. His was an easy life, and he was easy and laid back for it. It was only with half-hearted effort that the bunny may try to thieve earrings away, and he was easily deterred by other suggestions instead. Margot almost mustered a small smile when the bunny sneezed in a way she found particularly cute (pet owners, man), then nodded and turned back about to face the Penelope, but remained hovering dominantly in the kitchen space.
"Good," she said in response to the posibility that she and Ned were missed by their mutual mentor. She sounded reflexively self-righteous on the matter. There was just something about being able to say 'I told you so' to a guy like Andrés Sepúlveda. After a sip of water, her tone was a little softer and sincere.
"Every so often I worry that he really has decided he's better off without us. But twice as often I find myself thinking exactly the opposite, so I should know better by now." That was a product of the anxiety, sweet Margot. Maybe she'd figure that out one day. She took another sip from her glass, this one longer and more contemplative, before she continued with a tone of confession.
"I shouldn't have shut him out from this. Things would have gone so much better if I'd just asked for his help. If he'd been there."
Penelope"I definitely believe you two are good for him," Penelope says, and of course she means it: she never says things she doesn't mean (or if she does, so rare that one wouldn't catch it). It's a confirmation; a sharp cant upward of her chin, quick flash of a smile; it is still touched by wistfulness, light under water or shadow under water (difficult to tell one from the other; either way, clean: pure). "He's a touchy one, but," a shrug, expressive.
That, while Margot is sipping from her glass.
And then, the confession.
Pen says: "You wanted to do it yourself, or yourself with somebody you think of as an equal; isn't that so, Margot? Perhaps it would have been different with Andres' help, but that isn't necessarily better."
MargotMargot swallowed because she felt her throat going thick with the urge to cry again. It felt sudden as a need to vomit, just a sick sense of sorrow that rose at a moment's notice and she had to consciously focus on reeling it back in and taking a few deep breaths. In and out. In and out.
There, composure (largely) regained. She even managed to not look apologetic over it when she spoke up next.
"We're not his Apprentices anymore. I didn't want him to come hold my hand through everything. I figured that it would just be Luke... Just Luke, just being an asshole like he always is, but that's not what we found. We had no way of knowing." Ambiguous, and that no doubt had to scrape nails down the chalkboard of curiosity that Penelope must hold somewhere in her heart. Connections could be put together without details, though. Didn't Margot mention something about spirits earlier?
She tapped her blunt fingernails against the side of her glass anxiously a few times, then started drinking again just to cover up her lack of anything else to say.
PenelopeThe woman's eyebrows rise, surprised, when Margot asserts that she and Ned are no longer Andres' apprentices. She does not comment on Margot's need to gather herself; does not give any indication she saw it. These things are easy to roll with. They had no way of knowing; Pen nods, slowly.
"But you survived. I am glad." Brief pause, and then:
"I will be gladder if you come out with me now, for some food. And a drink, perhaps. Cuban food? Chinese? Scotch?"
Pen's choice is always Scotch; it is known. She is: a beguiling woman; beguiles now, maybe, rising from the ground smoothly, settling her bag on her shoulder again: look, even clumsily, catching her finger under the strap.
"Let's get--"
MargotLet's get-- what? It had the potential to be the cliffhanger of the century, but we won't do that to you folks.
It turned out that they would agree upon Cuban. Margot had never tried Cuban food before, and was a little surprised to learn that there was enough of a Cuban population to find any in Denver. She had to be reminded that Denver was an actual city and therefore housed a population of every variety, no matter how small. Young Margot had it in her head that you wouldn't find a Cuban joint outside of a really big city or somewhere further southeast.
Margot had taken a moment before they left to move the screens in her apartment up against the wall to open the studio up enough for the bunny to lope and flop and roll around at his leisure. This revealed a twin bed set up against the wall with a bookshelf at its foot and a cat tower converted into a bunny tree near the head. A lamp hanging from the wall, bent at the neck to serve as an obvious book reading light. Multiple pillows and cleanly tucked linens. A few pictures hung up on the walls but only interesting art sketches that she'd probably purchased from the student art department and put in frames bought at discount stores. Understandably, not a trace of her family to be found.
"Okay," she'd said after snatching up her small purse (keys, wallet, phone intact within) and a pair of sunglasses (great for the bright summer sunshine and hiding puffy crying eyes). "Let's go."
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