It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[Late evening of Wednesday, April 21 (day 325)]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]

It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.

I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.

But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.

I have nothing to fear from dreams.

And it has been months since I worked properly on something.

So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.

[Open as discussed]

Comments

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

He explains the escort, then adds "Besides, every one in Excolo knows, the red-heads are the most dangerous. Better to walk with one than piss one off."

"I'm sure it's not actually that difficult to avoid upsetting a lady," I say dryly as he works. I could do at least as good a job, and it is hardly as if fine work was required, but having two men work on one head wound would be crowded at best. I am sure he will be adequate.

"Looks like its a good thing for Damien here that you happened by," Sheriff Devarn says. "D'you know what happened?"

"I was coming up the road," I say, "and I heard noises in one of the alleys. I stopped to look, and saw someone trying to dash his brains out on the wall, so I shouted and his assailant ran off."

[docconstantine.livejournal.com]

Mr. Sagert makes a dry comment about pissing women off, and I chuckle. "Ah, but you never know what the trigger is that will make a woman go ballistic." Turn enough to give him a easy smile. "For example, that poor boy you helped me with at the Abbey? Now he had a rather tempramental woman looking out for him. If she ever got her hands on them..." Shake my head and smile. "Well, I would actually pity that person."

Mab asks if he knows what happened. "I was coming up the road, and I heard noises in one of the alleys. I stopped to look, and saw someone trying to dash his brains out on the wall, so I shouted and his assailant ran off."

Here... how to play this? Wish I could look to Mab, but there's no time for hesitation. Look at him rather confused. "Really? Mab 'n I were coming back from a call over at the Deysher place, over on that back alley that connects with Keat, and I didn't hear you yell or see anyone go running. Sound carries really well down those alleys..." I muse, shaking my head again.

Turn back to Damien, and please GOD remember! "Do you remember anything Damien?" I ask, voice gentle. "Were you talking to anyone before you hit your head?"

[damien-dw.livejournal.com]

I look up as the sheriff says my name, and then Mr, Sagert is claiming to have stopped someone who was hurting me by shouting and that seems wrong. I want to frown but know it will hurt if I do. Doc seems to think the same as he says he and Sheriff Devarn were in the area and didn't hear anyone yell.

So of course he asks me about it using a gentle voice, Do you remember anything Damien? Were you talking to anyone before you hit your head?

This time I can;t stop he frown before it happens and I wince and put a hand up to my head. "Yeah...I was. But there was only...My eyes go wide as the memory comes back. The hand on my shoulder, and then in my hair. The pain. I look accusingly at Mr. Sagert.

"It was him! He--you hit me!"