Scars are tattoos with better stories.

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

The body is but a pair of pincers set over a bellows and a stew pan and the whole fixed upon stilts.
- Samuel Butler

You're sick of hangin' around and you'd like to travel;
Get tired of travelin' and you want to settle down.
I guess they can't revoke your soul for tryin',
Get out of the door and light out and look all around.

Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me;
Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me
What a long, strange trip it's been.
- 'Truckin'', The Grateful Dead

January 6th, early evening

I walk along the southern road to Excolo, the grey halflight of a January day fading into a sullen sort of blackness. There is little charm in this weather, road hard packed with ice. As I get closer to the town I find the snow has been sprinkled with salt and grit, but to no great effect. I flip up the collar of my coat as if I need to shield myself against the cold.

This is a new body. I felt the desire for it, something with no history worked into its flesh. And I am not interested tonight in a body that encourages sexual desire; I have had enough of those for now. This body is a fine work of art, but it is not beautiful, skin slouching into wrinkles except where it is stretched tight across high flat cheekbones, hands knotted, greying hair. The body of a man of perhaps sixty, faint traces of age spots on his hands but as yet no tremor to them. A man who is sure of his step. A face that is lived in but gives little away, and eyes like bright sparks in a skull. Full small lips to take the edge off that steady cold gaze, to make it show the possibiity of kindness. Yes, it will serve.

I walk into town and find the tavern, hefting my bag as if it has some weight. When I set it down I sigh softly, as if relieved, and I roll my neck and click it.

"Hail friend," I say to the barman easily, "a toddy do you have to ease my bruised bones on this cold night?"

When the rum comes it steams, and I hold it in my mouth and let my cheeks splotch a grateful pale pink on the act of swallowing.

[OPEN]

Comments

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

"Perhaps, Mistress Beddau, we are trying to give name to that which can't be named," and possible enough; sure not the first time the Tavern leads to such talk. "Another for you? One for me, and my dog, and my new friend if she will have one."

"I've still mine, but my thanks; I'll get the next round," I say, looking down at my glass and watching the pale liquid swim in dark oiled eddies, think of corpses in summer heat. Bloody hell, Shuck...

"There is a market? That is excellent news," and a smile, and "But show you what I sell I will. Have you dreams, mistress? Of course you do," and patter and shine, and I push aside small startlement as he weaves words like smoke around small phylatories of dreams.

Lannie comes back, setting down drinks and bowls, catching sight of the glistering glass. "What are those?" and I push aside a faint thought of seeing things and then that lost in white like a winter sky as I feel my throat closing, and shake my head. "Dreams from can to can't," I say to Lannie in answer once I've my breath back. "Fine enough, I'm sure."

If I'd known of Azrael afore I'd met him, heard the sounding toll of his voice in words past any tongue and seen the light of his speaking, then maybe that, but I've memory of it still so clear I swear I could touch it. And aside that...

...spit and staunchweed, 've I no dreams, then?

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

I taste the stew that Melania puts in front of me. It is good, as these things go.

"Lovely my dear it is, and you must compliment your cook," I say.

"Dreams from can to can't. Fine enough, I'm sure."

"Mistress Beddau," I say with a smile, "sounds as if she has no time for such pretty bubbles as these. Dreams they are, miss," I say to Melania. "Some dreams, some wishes, all of them short and sweet as a bright day in winter." I smile. "Drink this," I say, lifting a bright red bottle, "if you have a long afternoon of washing tiles ahead, and you will find the hours pass with the brightest daydream of a sunny seashore. Or take this," I say, lifting a blue bottle, "if you had always wondered what it would be like to be a teenager again, and for a span of six hours you will pass as one, a glamour passing over the eyes of those who see you. Though you are young enough, perhaps, for that to not appeal." I smile at her. "What do you dream of, mistresses?" I ask them both. "Perhaps I have a bottle for it."