Placeholder Once Foes (Philomena)

[Ignotus Everto]

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[Philomena]

Spring 8, 513 AV
The Garden of Wright Manor
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The night was pitch, relieved only by the faint stars, made into a dull haze by a thin gauze of late-winter clouds. The leaves of the earliest trees were just beginning to swell pregnant inside their jackets, and the snow had changed into a bitter crust, shaking its fist at the steadily growing sunlight during the day.

But it was night, now. The snow now had the menace of its safest hour, and the buds shook phantasmagorically in the light breeze of the irritable sky. The echo of their clattering shells on the stiff-frozen twigs murmured warnings down to the woman who sat beneath them. The bed was unremarkable at this time of year, where she sat on a camp chair, but in only a few weeks, green leaves would whimper through the icy earth, then thrust up into sea-tulip blooms. Not yet, not yet. Still just too cold. Somewhere beneath the earth, the withered bulbs still drank deep of their own stores, waiting for the moment the sun would murmur just loud enough to draw them out into the open air.

For now, Minnie Lefting simply sat, staring at the empty earth. No... that's not quite right. Not simply sitting. She murmured, just perceptibly under her breath, her body leaning weakly from her chair against the cold iron of the fence-work. Her clothes, such as they were, were hardly clothing, so much as a means for gathering as much cloth and batting into one compact space as possible - cloak over two quilts, over a heavy dress, gloves, scarf, heavy boots. Still, her face looked cold, even through the flush of fever in her cheeks. She was a trademark instance of 'should not be where she is'. But she leaned against the fence, and murmured, softly, soflty, under her breath.

"Qalaya, Qalaya... please. Qalaya, please. I'm missing something. I'm missing something. Petching shyke... I'm so tired. I'm so tired..."

[Ignotus Everto]

It wasn't quite strange fortune that brought a cloaked figure to Philomena, the gleam of a cane head and the click of boots on cobble its only heralds. Ignotus Everto had always made a point of wandering the streets at night. He needed no sleep, and he always met the most fascinating people at night.

Tonight was no exception. In this case, a large bundle of cloth posing as a literature professor. A muttering literature professor. A muttering literature professor who knew too much. It was only natural that Ignotus' first response was to observe. He needed to know what to say and do, and he rather disliked the idea of approaching a crazy person blind. He didn't know what was malfunctioning, after all. So, for the time being, he hung back slightly. Just a touch inside the dark. Just to understand what exactly she was saying.

[Philomena]

The rise and fall of Philomena's breathing was slow, wan, and shuddering, filled with the wracking wheeze of her slowly filling lungs. Her face, even from just the few weeks before that last the Nuit looked on her, is changed, terribly changed. The skin has taken the waxy pallor of its end, the eyes are hollow, slightly sunken. Between the two old foes, it is Minnie, now, who looks more the corpse. And then, there is the smell, the straightforward odor of putrefaction that rises from her with the power of indefatigable force.

"Perhaps, no, perhaps it is nothing, perhaps I'm missing nothing. Perhaps... I'm simply not meant for anything else. My will... I must... I must update my will. I'll give the papers to Mar... no... no, Minnie-wren, Minnie-wren my sweet, hush... remember now, Mara is dead. Gypa, he has taken Mara too..."

And without warning she began to cry. IT was a low, miserable, unromantic crying, the kind that come out in waves instead of tears, that made the face blotchy and puffy, and snot-nosed and repulsive, especially in her current hollow-boned state.

"The tulips... the tulips will come. And then, I will be gone, after the tulips. There's not enoguh time... not enough time..."

[Ignotus Everto]

Her will? The papers... Possibly his own? And so much cryptic language... Or the language of a madwoman? The only thing Ignotus knew for certain was the identity of her "Gypa." Mara had been killed by the plague- And if Gypa had taken her, it was either code, or a nickname for Wrenmae. No doubt one like Shroud. And with that, Ignotus knew, with no small amount of disappointment, what must be done.

Philomena had to die. Perhaps she would protect her Gypa- perhaps not. But as intelligent as she was, he could not be certain that she wouldn't attempt to expose his and Wrenmae's gambit, and if that happened... They'd both be dead. While there was no shortage of reasons to silence her, this one was the last. He would either have to kill her, or assure her silence in a one hundred percent foolproof way- A Grand Oath, in short.

Unfortunately, he could not write one, and while he had connections with the University, no one would simply draft a one hundred miza, unbreakable contract that required exact wording. He'd have to kill them, and then he'd lose an equally valuable partner, and put himself at great risk. No, she would have to die. But quietly. Peacefully. In a way that roused no suspicion and spake of no foul play. A pity he had lost touch with Nadea. For now, however, he could comfort her... Or drive her to suicide.

"No, Ignotus... Then you would have no alibi."

More importantly, it was not necessary. Though the Nuit's senses were dulled ever so slightly, he still knew the scent of death. No doubt her 'Gypa' had left his own mark on her. Thus, what he needed was not a way to kill her- Wrenmae had assured that, the beautiful little scoundrel- but a way to keep her docile until the end. Thus, he needed to comfort her. Fortunately, that was easy... Or should be.

Philomena would feel thin, undead fingers clasp around her shoulder, and though the body was radically different- Tall, angular, and steely, the voice and mannerism was most definitely Ignotus. "And why must you worry about time?"

Ignotus knew better than to be strong-handed. A gentle haze settled around Minnie, not forcing emotion, but promoting it. A sort of neediness. That desperate desire that lay within human hearts to be wanted. Coupled to that was a simple subliminal suggestion that pointed out where she might find respite from such an ache. Naturally, in the Nuit behind her. It was simple, low key, and, for the most part, operated below the conscious level. Perfect for one as paranoid as Philomena. "Apologies; I stumbled upon you whilst walking, and I simply could not leave you weeping in good conscience..."

[Philomena]

Minnie felt the arms on her shoulder, and two separate and counterbalancing impulses took hold of her. A part of her was repulsed, a part that began with a general fear of others, and intensified through a revulsion to the man himself, through a resentment of her own need. But then, on the other side, strengthened by the subtle hypnotic mist around her, was that thirst for human contact, for some sort of pity or love or comfort, now, when things were at their very worst, when she was, frankly, waiting for Dira to come. How tempting! To hand over everything to someone else, to rest, to rest. Petching Twins, was she exhausted! So tired, so terribly tired...

It is, though, the smallest things that turn the tides of one's life, in the end. The shade of a drss on a beautiful woman, the discomfort of a pillory that needs stuffing, the outlet of an alleyway one runs into in fright, whether the rain comes heavy or light. And for Minnie Lefting, it is two things - the location of the old Nuit's hand, and the word 'conscience.'

The hand was the greater of the two, for reaching through, the strong finger gripped at her shoulder - with the extraordinary smallness of Minnie's body, the hand of the body of a well-knit angular man reach nearly from the downslope into her bicep to the liminal end of her collarbone. And the movement and squeeze means the flesh of his hand brushes against her neck. Minnie shudders slightly - to say that this catalyses one direction or another would be a mistake - it is simply that it brings her to a pitch. It was but six days earlier, that the Evalin had come, and her fingers had brushed against that very place, sent that same thrill down the length of her sick spine. And that deep, abiding sense, of comfort, of love, even, it was recalled now, in that accidental brush of a finger against flesh.

The question was what would such a recollection mean to Minnie?

The next sentence he said decided it. Conscience. For conscience brought to Minnie her own, battered, exhausted sense of duty, her duty to Gypa, her duty to Lanie, most of all, above all, surrounding all, her duty to Qalaya. And the finger tip against her flesh began to feel less like salvation than like temptation. Less like Mr. Everto. More like the Murder Man.

//Minnie Lefting, you are not here to save yourself. You're not here to feel better.//

And the flesh underneath the old Nuit's hand tensed, and jerked, trying to pull away.

"Don't. You. Dare try to comfort me, Mr. Everto. This is my pain, I've every right to it."

Her words were quiet, harsh and hissing out of her collapsing throat.

[Ignotus Everto]

"So you do." Ignotus replied. "Your will is yours, and yours alone. I think our dear Gypa would want you to have peace, however."

Ignotus said that, but he knew full well that Philomena would not respond to anything the way he wanted her to. It seemed that hers was a mind mangled and twisted, damaged to the point where her responses to stimuli were completely random. And so, he could not trust her. What could keep her docile at the moment would, by her very nature, motivate her to attempt murder or make the information she had public.

Neither was a very pleasant outcome. And so, she would be dealt with once he knew what he needed- And what he needed to know was the existence of any contingencies. "Besides, it's not like there's anything left for you to do."

Another hypnotic pulse, this one promoting a different emotion. A sort of defiance. A willingness to be contrary. To augment that, a veiled suggestion slipping its way past her armor with the finesse of a dagger, motivating her to vocalize such thoughts. If all went to plan, it would be simple. If she had no contingencies, then she would interpret the statement to mean her rest, and she would insist on bearing her pain. Fair and well. If she did have things planned, however, the second half of his sentence would carry greater weight, and, if all things went properly, she would give away vital scraps of information, thinking she was going against him by doing so. Hopefully. Otherwise, he would simply need to deal with new challenges as they came.

[Philomena]

The old Nuit finished his unpleasant pleasantries. When he had said Gypa, a shudder had gone through the woman's spare-fleshed shoulders - she ahd grown so thin, her bust was nearly withered away, the pudginess of her belly shrunken, her body devouring itself desperately in a search for life.

She ducked away from his hand, then, not forcefully, but decidedly, and began the slow process of standing. It was an unpleasant process to hear, more even than to watch. The greasy whisk of layers of fever-sweat-soiled cloth, the grunt of pain as she bent over, the sickening crack of her swollen knees as they unbent, the clatter of her wooden walking stick trying to find purchase in the flags around the tulip bed. Then the gasp of her breath as she tried to catch, the light moan and quiver of her body as she tried to find her center of balance, weakly.

She arrived at the best stasis she could, and turned, away from the fence, from the Nuit, toward the brake of trees. She took four steps, her steps like the rattling jerk of a broken spar against a mainmast in a stiff gale. Her stick bit hard into the snow-melt, her feet searching desperately for a good place to stand. She finally stopped, but stayed facing away.

"Mr. Everto, you know nothing of what it is to be dying. I am an old hand at it now. This is my fourth time waiting for Dira. It has not become quotidian, but perhaps, I understand things about it you don't. You'll never have that will you? Oh you'll die, someday, no matter what you believe, now. That's the strange thing about arrogance. Its no different in a 10 year old than in a 10000 year old. Its still just a cocktail of fear and denial. But when you die? You will now know what it is to expect it. To prepare for it."

She sighed, nodded, "Yes, there are… many thing I would finish before I die. The important ones I won't. I… nothing, in my life. All of it is failure, isn't it? All there is left now, is to leave things for someone else, to not leave messes for the ones I love. Gypa… yes. I am perhaps fading, but I heard you say that. You know then, about my son. Very well. Just one more petching thing I failed at. My son, my son." her voice faltered, grew scattered, soft, "My son. I wish, now, in the end, you'd never known me. I told you I would be your harbor? I've been your albatross. Just like Lanie. Just like Lanie."

And her stick rose quietly, her good hand gripping it perhaps a foot down from the knob. Then savagely, she whacked it against the damaged flesh of the dying arm. It jarred painfully through her body, crawling up her throat in a yelp of pain. A light flew on in the windows of the house above. A door opened. Two lanterns started to trace down the hill.

Minine's knees buckled, but she dropped the stick, her back still to the Nuit, and gripped had at the branches one of the trees, and kept her footing. The bandage bloomed, a sickly, pus-faded red.

[Ignotus Everto]

Ignotus chuckled at her assertions about death, shaking his head like a schoolteacher correcting a particularly misinformed pupil. "I see you know little of Nuit, Philomena. You waited for Dira. I met her. Watched her and her jackals advancing on me, watched those spidery little fingers reach out to snatch me away... And then nothing. Nothing but the cold embrace of death."

A scowl was starting to come onto the wizard's face, "Of course, then I was awake again, and I knew that Evalin had kept her word. My dear, I know more than you give me credit for. Though it truly is a shame you never asked why I became a Nuit."

"This is going even better than I thought it would..."
Her son? This wasn't just fascinating... This merited a change of plans. Instead of dead, he needed her somewhere she wouldn't be found. Surely Wrenmae too knew his mother, and if his comrade decided to cut him out of the equation... Minnie would be valuable. So he not only needed to save her- He needed to make sure she was within a blade's reach at every moment. This could, fortunately, be done relatively easily.

He did not want to influence Philomena's thoughts overmuch- Just her mood. Slightly. Barely. A simple bud of doubt. One that would rapidly flower in her mind, but on her terms. "And being my albatross suggests you once brought luck." he added, as an afterthought almost. There were two things left to attend to, however. One, the obvious- the gardeners. That was simple beyond measure.

Splitting off his astral arm from the confines of flesh, he stretched it out and took up Minnie's cane for her. To the professor, it would right itself and stand on its tip as if on its own accord. To the strange sight he attached a certain complacency. An erasure of doubt and worry. Apathy, almost. For a Hypnotist of his caliber, causing both gardeners to decide the situation was under control was child's play, the challenge lying only in the distance related. A challenge Ignotus was perfectly capable of meeting. "Your cane?" he said softly, his features growing more passive.

[Philomena]

Minnie's brain was confused, frightened, fever-cooked, and in truth, perhaps, it had not thought of the old Nuit as entirely real. She felt a certain dullness now, creep over her, a deadening of the emotions. It felt strange - pain was a quickener, and her hand - Gods did it hurt. Pain was supposed to make her mind clear, fine, and awake, to let her bring her emotions into the forefront, and pick them into something that could be consumed. But now... the opposite, and underneath the dullness was an uneasiness, a subtle fear. She felt her doubts, draining, and her mind clutched at them.

//This is wrong. This is wrong. Hateful voice, where are you, now, when I need you?//

The voice that cried out her faults was absent, and in its place? The part of her that needed that, needed, desperately to believe she was worthless, fumbled gracelessly in the muddy slow motion of her calm.

This was wrong.

This was wrong.

The cane arrived, and it seemed normal for it to tip upwards.

//No. No. No, I must not panic. I must not panic, press backwards, this, this place here, this is not me, ignore it. This calmness, it is not my calmness. This complacency, it is not mine. The Shamer lives somewhere, I must unbury her. I need her strength, I need her boldness.//

She closed her eyes a moment, took the cane in her good hand. HEr band, she pressed hard to her chest, pressing on the ache she'd just teased into a sharp stab.

//Focus, Minnie, focus on that.//

The girl, the angry Shamer she could, for the first time in many years, truly see, as an outside observer. She could look at her and see her, in her mind, as something both one with and separate from herself, a little girl, cowering in an alley over a pool of her own vomit, and Lanie, gone. Gone. Gone away, forever. A girl who could not keep Lanie there.

//Minnie Lefting, for Qalaya's sake! Protect me for a damned moment! CAn't you see I need you, now?//

"Mr... Mr. Everto... I... I... You promised me a story, last we met. Tell me about your friend. Your first Philomena. You do not mind the cold."

This last was not a question, but a statement.

"And I? There is no better time than now. I have but few nows left."