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[butnotyet]

[ In a bone-white envelope left, via Alfred, on her bedside table; July 20th or so. ]

Sarah —

    I owe you a profound apology, to an extent where I rather suspect I'm far too out of practice to make this easy for me. You may prefer to have it be offered in person, as well, which is a perfectly reasonable choice; if you let me know when and where to meet you, I shall be there.

    I will be there.

    Or if you just want to talk I'm afraid I rather willfully misled you, when I pressed you so intently into forming that bond with me. I was not at my best; I was not, honestly, thinking about the likeliest outcomes to my plans for myself, let alone how such consequences might affect someone else — you, to put it plainly.

    I have spent ten thousand years in service to a man who became God and then became a man again, that he might know he had succeeded at bringing humanity back to life — and I don't tell you this to excuse what I've done to you, but simply to show the relative scale; I have been here in Trench for less than half of one year, and only known you for a few weeks.

    This is not to say that I chose to sacrifice you, or your relative safety and comfort, however. Rather: I focused so intently on him — and on containing him, in his moment of weakness time of destruction — that I did not stop to consider the ramifications of the price I was willing to pay, in the form of my own pain.

    Neither did I have any way of knowing what to expect, only a few days later, when I became certain I had a significant rôle to play in the attempts to appease Mariana, in the wake (as it were) of his offences against her. I am rather less certain, now, that I made that choice out of clear logic; it appears that there have been a great many people drawn to throw themselves back into the ocean, throughout July; I may have merely been in the vanguard. Nevertheless, I did truly believe my time underwater-and-aware would be as brief as anyone might expect — counted in bare minutes, if that. I bear a profound regret that you were forced to experience my swim back to shore, especially as I've already been informed that my conscious transformation presented as an unrelenting ache, and the scales as something of an itch.

    I hope, most of all, that you found a way to stay warm. I think you must have; I think it must have been you, and not he, whose warmth reached me even under the freezing pressure. Adaptation may have made the journey possible, but such compassion was what made it bearable; I thank you for it, and if I do credit you with too much — well, I imagine my account is well overdrawn; perhaps such erroneous credits might be left in place anyway, the better to bring balance.

    I believe I owe you a very large favour, in the meantime, and possibly quite a few smaller ones as well. If you've made a list of your plans here in Trench already, perhaps I will be able to assist with something or other; if else, I might help you narrow them down, if you should like.

    Let me treat you to dinner, perhaps? Until then,

— Augustine

[auferstanden]

Sarah's Omen is sneaky and utterly silent when he wants to be, which is most of the time, and so it is entirely possible that neither Augustine nor Alfred noticed his return note. A fisher is no predator to a very large snake, after all, and nor is it prey; regardless of the Omen instincts, the animalistic ones did not have cause to notice each other.

Her note was not unkind, but it was not emotional: it was simple and gave directions of where she could be found, a little stall she was working on in Willful Machine or in Trenchwood at her crop or the outpost project. And Willful Machine, notably, was where dinner would be if he wanted to treat her to it (that part was included).

Also, she wrote, you owe me a new sweater.

[butnotyet]

It only takes a day for her letter to show up; it could just as easily have taken a year or two, or never arrived at all, or at least not before she'd gone back to the sea her own self.

Instead, a response. An acknowledgment that, well, she'd read his message, and yeah, an in-person apology was a better idea — which, rats, writing out his thoughts would have been so much easier — and, apparently, she needs... a sweater?

Willful Machine it is; a chance to find a sweater, or someone selling sweaters at least, a chance to find her and ask what sort of sweater she wants; a chance to buy her the aforementioned dinner.



Not that any of this keeps him from being vaguely nervous about it — indefinably ill-at-ease — and maybe it's mostly that he doesn't really want to get teased by John, or questioned by John, and maybe it's just that he's skinny enough that his bedroom windows provide him a private exit when he wants it, but either way he doesn't use the door when he leaves the house in Gaze, heading over to Willful Machine and his dinner not-a-date With Apology.

«Flowers might be a good idea,» Alfred suggests cheerfully. «She likes flowers.»

"Oh does she, now," Augustine retorts dryly, even as his gaze catches on whatever vegetation around them is listed for sale, immediately following his brother's suggestion. "And you would know this how, precisely?"

«Because I pay attention,» is his prim answer; Alfred says nothing more, just calmly coiling around Augustine's waist and shoulder in his usual perch, along for the ride.

He doesn't have flowers, when he finds her little stall. He does have, to his bafflement, a sapling dwarf apple tree — for sale, cheap, by someone who had apparently Had Enough of the memories that resulted from the orchard's fruit — tucked under one arm, ready to be transplanted, as he knocks against the stall's frame.

"Is this a good time, then?"

[auferstanden]

The stall doesn't look like much, yet. It's been built: it's clearly A Stall, with a small person-sized counter for a shopkeeper to keep things behind as records, and a couple of tables, and paper-and-wire flowers woven into some of the slats in the walls. It's making some kind of progress. She has been writing notes, working on some kind of thing.

She looks up.

She squints a little, tilting her head, and then slowly offers him a hesitant excuse for a smile. "Do I look particularly overrun with tasks?"

[butnotyet]

"Well, you might be about to have three elephants and fourteen ostriches descend upon your stall, here, to make inquiries about whether or not you're providing rapid-turnaround costume tailoring for their ballet recital this evening," he points out, calmly and quickly enough to make anyone listening wonder just why it is that he could pull up an example like that so rapidly —

(The answer is: John. It's John's fault that he's so good at terrible examples. This may or may not, in fact, be one he's heard from John before; he really has no idea anymore.)

"On the other hand... you might be bored, and be willing to provide me with something more in the way of information regarding this sweater I'm supposed to replace for you."

[auferstanden]

Despite herself, because she does not want to be giving him the satisfaction whatsoever, Sarah laughs.

It's a laugh that doesn't last, but apparently she likes John's method of examples.

"If that happened, I would be extremely busy, and it would also be one of the best days of my life," she says, and then: "I am. Bored. And willing. It got wrecked by a smoothie, and that was your fault."

[butnotyet]

"And how did I manage to smoothe-and-wreck your sweater, whilst away at sea?"

Beneath the waves, of course. If he quips about it, though — leaning in against the tiny little counter, reducing his height a touch — that means it didn't leave scars, right?

within a couple of days post-duel

[unsheathedfromreality]

From the beginning of their association--when Augustine sent him to befriend her, in an echo of something the Saint of Patience could not have known to parallel; something that would have made Illarion's heart clench in his chest if it still beat--the shrike's made a habit of bringing food whenever he visits Sarah's plot in Trenchwood.

It's often been fish or salt or fresh mushrooms from around the Salt Lake, but today's--unusual. Today he's accompanied by a very different Omen, and today he's got dried fruit and fresh bread undoubtedly procured from a market rather than harvested fresh from his own territory.

That's one sign something's a little off-kilter, and another is the doleful look on his face--real, matching the exact emotion roiling in him beneath it--as he presents himself at her door.

[auferstanden]

It's probably a good thing that Sarah doesn't look out the window before she opens the door, because if she had she might've startled a bit more than anticipated. Because, whoa, there is a dinosaur outside and while she's seen Petrie, he is younger and smaller.

Instead she does her startled mouth-in-an-O once she's opened the door, as her greeting for Illarion gets swallowed up by the surprise in his Omen's changed look, and turns into: "She looks different today!" And then, after a second, "Sorry, that was awkward—hi, lovely to—"

Wait a minute. It's not just the Omen that isn't quite right: "—it's still lovely to see you, of course, but it seems like you're not having the best time. Tea?" She's stepping out of the door to let him in even while asking the question, trying not to be the pinnacle of rude and say what happened to your amygdala, that's different.

[unsheathedfromreality]

He had known, of course, that his Omen's new appearance could be startling--and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might've called ahead to warn her about it. As it is, though, Sarah's state of obvious surprise actually brings a wan smile to his face. That's--something, in his current state of mind and heart.

"We are sorry to startle you. She has been through some changes," Illarion explains, or doesn't, as the case may be. "We both have. Tea would be welcome; we might speak over it."

About the changes, and otherwise. He takes the implicit invitation and steps into the house with her, holding the food out in offering in return.

[auferstanden]

"Oh, I don't mind a good-or-neutral startle every now and then. Shape changes usually aren't an outright negative kind of startle, unless you hate it," Sarah accepts the Appropriate Social Handoff of Food with the kind of polite smile that is at least genuine. It's not a putting on appearances smile. It's not the sort of politeness that is only a social grace—she means it.

"This smells lovely, too. Feel free to have a seat, I'll get plates and jam and get the tea going."

If there is one thing Sarah is good at, it's hosting people who are expecting a comfortable secondhand couch and a hot cup of tea and not much else. But she's also got jam, and now she's got bread to put it on (as well as the delicacy of dried fruit to share or sample later, or both).

[unsheathedfromreality]

Tiny social rituals of this sort, enacted with someone to whom they come naturally as breathing, are their own kind of soothing. Whether or not Illarion should be included in them, as one of the dead, he still has not decided--but if someone who knows what he is and understands the line between life and death should still invite him in, and offer him tea, he at least feels he is not receiving that attention through deception.

"Thank you," he says, gravely, and takes a seat human-wise on the couch. His Omen paces back and forth beside the furniture, huffing softly to herself, as she tries to determine where and how she fits with this too-large body. At last she settles at Illarion's side, propping her chin on the arm of the couch to await the promise of jam.

[auferstanden]

When she was a child, Sarah couldn't even tell the living and the dead apart; as an adult, she sees no reason to discriminate one against the other. Even if at the moment she isn't entirely sure where in the continuum Illarion is meant to be sitting.

When she comes back it's with a tray for the rickety coffee table (she found the house as-is, and some of the furniture really needs upgrades) which is carrying a few slices of the bread as well as the jar of jam and some knives. She's unable to resist an "aww" at the Omen who may or may not still be Iskierka. "I never thought a prehistoric avian would be so cute, I have to confess. Does she eat bread? Jam on bread? Jam not on bread?"

There is the soft whistle of a teapot in the background, but it's far from its boil.

Misfire | text | un: alyx

[justoscar]

[enjoy this little page notes from a stranger-- no name that was recognizable from anywhere on the network was attached, and the text was characterized by the rushed, untidy hand of a teenager. ]

notes about santa

- not a bad guy, even though be breaks in

- not a Pthumerian, even though he seems like he's magic

- likes cookies, maybe. I hope Ruby doesn't steal everyone's cookies again.

- gives gifts? This is suspicious, no one just gives gifts

- comes only one time a year, on a certain day in a certain season.

Conclusion:

- I think Dipper would call him a fairy. I'm not sure, nothing like him exists in Remnant

- this will be my third winter away from home, and both of the last two were hard. I need to plan for this year, just in case

text | un: inocciduous

[auferstanden]

This was probably meant for a personal note, so I'm sorry that I can't resist the urge to reply to it, but I had a youth pastor as a child who claimed that Santa was his sworn enemy.

[justoscar]

AGAIN?

I'm sorry, I can't change the name either.

I'm Oscar. I'm not from Earth, so everything with Santa is pretty new.

What's a youth pastor and why was Santa his enemy? He's pretty sus, so I've gotta know so I can save Ruby.

[auferstanden]

Is your Omni just sending your notes to different people? That's a drag.

A youth pastor is a pastor at a church — so, a member of clergy — who focuses on children. My form of Christianity doesn't include Santa, but we had a couple of converted kids who had met the concept previously and were quite cross that the cookies we were making weren't for him.

The youth pastor shut that down with an observation that he and Santa have been enemies for a long time, and there was no way he was letting anyone give that creep of a serial home invader any cookies! But it was just a joke, he's never met Santa; Santa isn't real in my particular Earth.

[justoscar]

The Tower's been sick. I've heard this could be related.

I'm just gonna take my notes on pen and paper for a bit.

... And, just so you know, I don't know what half of what you just said is. It does help confirm that Santa is a weird fairy, though. I wonder if I should take this to Uncle Ford and see if it matches up.

He and Willow are the people I go to for Earth Lore.

[auferstanden]

I think that weird fairy is very accurate. I'm not sure of any Earths that consider Santa Claus to be a normal man, or if there are any where he's confirmed to be real, but I guess there are infinite possibilities out there.

I'm Sarah, by the way.

Happy to answer any clarifying questions if you can articulate what was confusing. Or just share cookie recipes, since apparently my Omni has been sending my recipes to random people this week.

is this sexting? YOU DECIDE | un: ambiguousquinque

[butnotyet]

Would you rather never be stuck in traffic again, or never get another cold?

god hopefully not | un: inocciduous

[auferstanden]

What.

Wait: the answer is traffic, since I'm currently researching cold treatments and value having myself to experiment on, but what inspired this line of questioning

fine, fine, it might be, in the future, though!! ... but not yet. ;)

[butnotyet]

I found a list.

Would you rather have a bottomless tank of gasoline/petrol, or a bottomless tank of Legos?

well played.

[auferstanden]

If it's a game, shouldn't you also be answering? And is there a point, do the answers say things about our personalities?

Legos.

[butnotyet]

I could, but you weren't asking me to! Or asking alternate questions, for that matter. Are you planning to?

[auferstanden]

I don't know, because I don't know what the questions are for.