Post-Battle Interlude

[rememberettersberg]

As the last of the zombies disperse, dust fading in the chill air, so too does Thomas' mood, the manic good humour that had kept him going all day. Every part of his body hurts, the solid ache of extended exertion, and he knows that he must look as awful as he feels. A mirror reveals the grim reflection of a past age; Captain Nightingale, awash with blood and mud, clothes torn to rags and skin caked with grime.

He strips without thinking much of it, dives into the freezing shock of the lake's still depths, and swims until his aches turn into leaden exhaustion. A part of him, as always when near open water, reaches out in search of its spirit but encounters only dank emptiness. Usually this would bother him, but tonight it feels right, apt.

There's a towel on the shore when he emerges, one he didn't leave there, and he wonders at the mansion all over again. Hordes of undead by day, the comfort of a fresh and fluffy towel at night. His lakeside office glows with warm light and the promise of fresh tea. He trudges towards it without conscious thought, mind half a century away.

Not primarily an open post, but he'll talk if anyone turns up.

Comments

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan now remembers just how intimately she knows battlefields: the churned ground; the scars worn into the earth. She escapes from the medical station as it starts to fill up and slips outside to observe, silently and with great distaste, what the day has wrought.

There are no more of those creatures about, thankfully, but she keeps one hand on the darts in her pockets as she wanders the grounds, skirting around blooms of dirt as if they may have yet more surprises, committing the sight and her dislike of it to memory. In the distance, the lake twinkles in the evening light. She remembers, then, two things: Thomas's invitation, and the fact that she has not seen Thomas since the fighting began.

Now with a destination in mind, she makes her way to the cottage he'd referenced - still careful, still clutching the darts. Only when she arrives at it does she withdraw her hands from her pockets to knock firmly on the door.

[rememberettersberg]

There's no immediate answer. If Susan knocks a second time, and the typist assumes she will, the door will swing open as though pulled by an invisible hand. Nightingale sits on the floor, barefoot in jeans and a polo shirt, a heavily spiked cup of tea cooling at his side. There's soft music playing from a radio he found in an unused bedroom. The dial doesn't seem to correspond to any stations he remembers, just occasionally tunes into something that suits his mood. Tonight, it's 1940s swing - perhaps Glenn Miller, perhaps the mansion's slightly not-quite version of it.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"Thomas?" Susan says, coming through the door as it opens in front of her. She spots him on the floor and starts to walk over before stopping, hovering. "I say. Are you all right?"

[rememberettersberg]

"I will be," he says. His voice is wrung out and hoarse. "It's just been an extremely long day." He scrubs a hand through his wet hair, leaving it uncharacteristically rumpled, and drags the same palm over his face. "Are you well? Did you stay safe?"

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"Very," Susan says. She's hovering, a little, but she doesn't really know what to do. She only knows that Thomas has been kind to her during their every interaction, and she wants to return the favor. "Clarissant has set up a medical station in the kitchen, if you're in need."

[rememberettersberg]

"Clarissant, yet another person for me to meet," he says, distant and hazy, then shakes his head and sits a little more upright. "I'm not hurt." In his current mode of dress the scars of long-gone battles are visible but nothing fresh. Not on his skin, at least. "There's some very Irished tea in the pot. Have a seat and a drink."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan can recall a moment - a very recent moment - where Thomas expressed concern about her own Irish tea. She's polite enough not to comment on it, but she's thinking about it as she goes and pours herself a cup. Then she claims her own little patch of floor, adjacent to Thomas, and sits down, legs folded to her side, one arm propping her up, the other curled around her mug. "It has been a strange few days," she remarks, tone carefully neutral.

[rememberettersberg]

He recalls the same thing, of course. "One may be slightly hypocritical after a week containing a mansion-wide truth spell and an invasion of the undead, don't you think?" He sips from his own mug to underscore the point. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for blurting it out like that. I'd had only seconds to realise the depth of what you've been going through."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"It's nothing," Susan demurs. "I appreciated the concern, truthfully."

[wickedwit]

Claudius didn't die today. He didn't, as it turns out, die in a multitude of ways his mind's still trying to piece together. He's fortunate to have made strong, steadfast allies, which is always the way he's learned to protect himself -- he should be proud of the connections he's cultivated for bearing him through the day.

All the same, it doesn't feel like enough. Lan Wangji, at least, will say there's no counting of favors between them. Galahad would deny it, too, fierce and implacable, insisting with no argument that Claudius deserves the care he's given. Claudius promised Gu Xiang tonics and stories, which felt the most like a trade all day. He can't offer much, can he? Even his salves are worth little when others can heal with a touch.

At least he has Nightingale's jacket to return. He's heard about Nightingale's lakeside office, and makes his way there with the jacket over one arm.

[rememberettersberg]

The Glenn Miller is still playing and Nightingale is still damp of hair and casual of dress. He's migrated to an armchair now, full of tea and whiskey and about two thirds of the way into a doze. It doesn't look like a particularly restful sleep; his brow is creased and his cane is held firm across his lap. His eyes will snap open immediately if Claudius steps inside.

[wickedwit]

Claudius leans on the doorway, before he steps inside, allowing a moment where he could apologize for disrupting Nightingale and keep the conversation short. When the door closes behind him, he's already intruded -- it's best not to look back at the exit. "I like the music," he says. "I only just learned, you know, that music can be recorded and played again without a chamber's worth of instruments. Very remarkable." It's not the most remarkable thing in their day, but he speaks lightly enough that it could be.

[rememberettersberg]

"It's easy to forget you're from a different era altogether." Nightingale can't quite remember what era; he chases that thought for a while, but his brain is muddled, running slow. "How's your arm?" His own arms are bared by short sleeves for once, revealing a rough streak of long-healed burn across one. A spray of tiny shrapnel scars peppers the other.

[wickedwit]

"A cultivator infused it with his spiritual energy," Claudius says, in matter-of-fact tones, "and an Einherji touched it with healing light, emanating from his body. The arm's better than it was to begin with, if anything." His eyes flick over Nightingale, assessing. "How did you fare?"

[rememberettersberg]

"That certainly puts my battlefield triage into perspective," he says, not without humour. "I'm not hurt. Just tired. It's been a while since I fought like that." And the memory of last year's collapsed lung is still quite fresh. "I thought I could no longer be surprised by anything that happened here, but I have to admit, an invasion of the undead had not crossed my mind."

[wickedwit]

"Nor mine, neither." Claudius sits, as is his wont, on the edge of a table. "I've never encountered anything of the kind. I'm rather useless, in a situation like this," he says, as lightly as he's able. "In fact, it took me some time even to figure out what the situation was. I hurt my arm trying to talk to one of them, you know."

[rememberettersberg]

"Words are both your weapon and your shield," Nightingale says. "The world would be a far worse place if everyone was bred for battle only."

[involuntaryturncoat]

A pitched battle with what are to all appearances walking corpses is not exactly a time one expects an invitation to tea and conversation, but Asmodean had received one nonetheless.

He'd seen the notices, of course, but had been noncommittal about attending. So of course the first time he actually risks channeling in public, he was stumbled upon by the very one who placed them. He attributes it primarily to curiosity, as any other potential motivation escapes him. Well, he's explained the One Power enough while here, even if it's only rarely been in connection with himself. Some things, though, he's done hiding.

He gives it a bit of time after the tumult has died down before arriving and knocking on the door to the cabin.

[rememberettersberg]

"Come in." It's been long enough that Nightingale has pulled himself together somewhat, though the steaming pot of tea at the corner of his desk is still richly fragrant with whisky. "Ah, Jasin. Or Asmodean, wasn't it? How was the rest of your day?"

[involuntaryturncoat]

His voice shades slightly wry for a moment. "I think it's safe to say it was significantly less eventful than the start. It was... quite the finishing touch to the week, I think."

[rememberettersberg]

"Mm, quite. The other day's shenanigans were even more horrifying, if anything." Nightingale pours himself a tea and raises an eyebrow in question, gesturing to a second empty cup. "You were most impressive out there today. I'm glad I ran into you."

[involuntaryturncoat]

"I would go through today a thousand times before the other day even once more." He nods toward the empty cup. "Thank you. It was far from what I expected from my morning, but I'm pleased my efforts helped nonetheless."

[rememberettersberg]

He pours another cup. "My apologies for putting you on the spot at such an unlikely moment. When I put out my notices, I thought I'd encountered all the practitioners one mansion could feasibly hold, but I find myself stumbling across more and more. It's fascinating."

[involuntaryturncoat]

Asmodean shakes his head. "You hardly need apologize; I can certainly understand the urge. I've been circumspect about my abilities for several reasons up until now, but I was hardly going to stand to the side in this particular case."

[rememberettersberg]

"Circumspect, yes. Is that also the reason you go by more than one name?" Nightingale's tone is mild and curious.