Keeping Court

[Emily Littleton] Still. The world is still. So quiet and motionless that the word Emily uses to describe the woods flits back and forth between English (calm) and German (silent) pronunciations and denotations in her mind. It is still. It is still. The ground slumbers, hard and cold beneath her feet, and she winds her way out to the place where the frozen water meets the hibernating land, and the fallen kings rest under a blanket of snow.

She has a warm winter coat now, and it is black wool with shiny (new) buttons. She has a scarf, too, but still no gloves. She will not make some concessions to Winter, or to the idea that she had lived here long enough to warrant a winter wardrobe. The scarf is at home, because it is cloudy but not snowing today, and the weather lingers near enough to the freezing point to almost seem warm for a Chicago January.

She carries a messenger bag, and inside of it some small offering to share. Because last time, Kage brought hot chocolate and Emily came empty handed. This time there are cookies, leftover from baking with Enid, and clementines (because they smelled like Christmas morning), and a thermos of a vanilla-infused black tea that married all the flavors together quite nicely. This time she brings offerings, because she is somewhat diminished, and the brightness (hope) in her eyes is a little worn thin.

Emily approaches the clearing and looks about for her Other. The cold-fire-haired Other whose path kissed up against Emily's own in this half-forgotten corner, this Court that was slowly beginning to taste of (belonging) kinship. It is almost eerily still here, and still it is comforting to be away from the beautiful (ache) people and the madmen and the impulsive, reactive craving to be more, do more, accomplish more, experience more than they already were.

She lifted the strap of her bag over her head and began to settle on their usual tree.

[K. R. Jakes] And, this time, this time when Emily Littleton reaches the place where the [mighty] tree is fallen, lies heavy against the ground, the place with a view of the cold water, a view of the cold sky, a view of the wintering woodland sprawl, Kage is (solitary) already there. No need to look very hard to find her. Her hair gives her away, so red, so dark, so vibrant against the pale and stark wardrobe of winter. Today, she is leaning against the very same niche on their [fallen king] meeting tree as she has become accustomed to lean against. Most of her weight lists to the left, rests on her hip, rests on her left side and shoulder, where an upthrusting branch serves as bolster. If she tilted her head to the side, she could lean it against that dead limb, but her head is high, her chin is proud, and the plain young woman is gazing out and across while she waits for Emily to arrive.

Kage isn't looking at the water, which is only ever as cold as winter's sleeping heart is, which is so much like fire, insofar as it often seems to promise the revelation of some secret, of some Mystery, of immolation and immersion and transformation and, okay, it's just a nice view. Kage is looking at the clouded sky, instead. Her arms are folded across her ribs, and she has on gloves, coloured in dark maroons and purples, and a matching hat that hangs on one of the fallen king's branches, and a coat that is not at all flamboyant, but gray as a cemetery stone, lichened with age. Her pants are dark, and so is her shirt, and there's a stone at her throat that has absolutely no magickal significance, no resonance of its own. She looks like a quiet picture. Portrait of a woman, listening to Some Thing.

When Emily arrives, although Kage didn't hear her, not really, she looks over and nods her greeting. Her mouth is touched by a smile, which is sincere, although it doesn't linger for too long. "Hail," she says, solemnly, as Emily begins to settle. Kage stirs herself to change positions, to stand, to rub blood back into her legs, rub her thighs, half-bent over, but looking at Emily. "I'm glad you made it."

[Emily Littleton] "Hail, and well met," Emily replies, and the shared smile that passes between them briefly lifts the expression in her eyes away from weariness (wariness) and toward warmth.

"I come bearing gifts," she said, as she began to lay them out on the snow-clothed surface between them. First the clementines, brilliantly orage, and nestled into a little nook to keep them from rolling away. Then the cookies, in a small plastic box, and snugged into a place of their own, and finally she offers Kage a little metal mug that matches the slim metal thermos, which is filled with something heavily scented and steamingly warm.

As always, there is a small thrum around her that beats out a rhythm of belonging, of Home. It is there, shrouded by her coat and whatever she wears beneath it but still present. It is somewhat at odds with the solemnity they both evidence.

"I'm glad to see you, too," she says. It's been quite the week, she doesn't say. How about that madman?, she doesn't say. She lets all the known and unknown transgressions of the past few weeks hang unvoiced between them like so much still winter air, until... "Are things any quieter for you now?"

[K. R. Jakes] Kage takes a deep breath of whatever the metal thremos (conceals) contains, and allows her eyelashes to sink toward her cheekbones. She doesn't quite blink, but she very nearly does. Instead, her gaze stays open just a slit, the color of her eyes darkening under the weight of a natural shadow (as opposed to -- a shadow, like the madmen, like the Traditionalists, like Him, talking to her, touching her, pushing her). "Mm," she says, and unsnaps her gloves, folding the warm fingers back from her now-chill fingers. Kage will hold the mug out for Emily to pour, watch the liquid rather than the fragrance as it gathers in the cup, and then bring that near her mouth as well. Where it will stay, for a second, unsipped, untouched. Her fingers touch, though, around the mug, which she holds like a miniature bowl.

There was a question, and she answers it. "Noone else has come knocking at my door. Not yet," she adds, and a sliver of grimness, of stone, is behind those two words. Not yet. As if she expects that it may happen again; as if she expects something has Changed, and she can't Change it back. As if she expects she needs to lock a door, to make the lock very strong. "And no one else has called me, either," she says, somewhat hesitantly, "about the nameless 'crow."

"I'm really sorry that you got caught up in all that," she says. "Gregor, I mean. How are you?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily pours the tea carefully into Kage's mug. There is a little ring, a handle, on each cup, but it is easier to handle them as she does, like tiny bowls. Emily will cradle her own between both hands, cushioned by the edges of her jacket sleeves, when she drinks her own. This ritual (may you not hunger [may you not thirst]) is observed carefully, but without pretenses. It is a thing shared, so that later it might become a thing remembered.

"I don't believe it was your doing," she said, calmly but firmly, when Kage apologizes. "Things have been... odd... since I returned. Things have been unwell, unexpected, and yet more-or-less fine." Her features skewed slightly, thoughtfully, and then Emily shrugged. "I am too much in the middle of it to tell you how I am, though I feel well enough alright ... all things considered."

She shrugged a little, brought her own mug near enough to inhale the deeply perfumed steam, and exhaled out a thin stream of worries and misgivings. "Your 'crow is no longer nameless," she said, at long last. "And my rockstar is ever more troublesome." She used possessives here, but they were mostly for categorization. She didn't presume to own Jarod, or to put responsibility for Dylan on Kage's shoulders.

"And I fear that the youngest one of us too eager..." for something. Emily did not say what, but the edge of her expression was worrisome. And so it began, this Keeping of Courts, airing of misgivings and concerns.

"So, I suppose, this brings me back to well enough. I am well enough, and how are you?"

[K. R. Jakes] "Do you believe it was anyone's doing in particular?" Kage asks of Emily, once the young woman with dark, dark hair has reached all things considered and coupled it with a shrug. She doesn't ask because she wishes to stoke the fires of paranoia, but she does ask, because she is curious. Because she wonders, really, how Emily views the world. Because how Emily views the world will be importance, since she also has the ability to change it with a word (or a song, or a chant, or a drawing, or a ritual).

Your 'crow is no longer nameless, Emily says, and Kage's eyes cloud up, and she shakes her head. Her mouth sets, and so does her (proud) jaw. The shake of her head was negatory, was firm, and maybe there was something sad there too, but she doesn't interrupt yet. No, instead, Kage listens as the younger (newer) Orphan speaks her worries outloud. Maybe they'll be banished, if they're spoken; maybe things will find their place, maybe stories will reach happy conclusions, places to rest, if they're only told. Maybe.

Her mouth quirks, wry, at Emily's assessment of Enid. "Too eager? What makes you think that?"

A brief pause, and then: "I spoke, very briefly, to Jarod. I don't remember whether or not I had the opportunity to tell you that yet, but I'm telling you now. I still haven't formed an opinion, for what it's worth, or heard anyone else's. As for myself," a brief pause. "My mood has been pretty black lately."

[Emily Littleton] Emily just nods. Kage shook her head no, and it is a somber and serious thing, but Emily nods and it is just a grave. They are both at the center of circumstances they neither designed nor requested, and the Orphans are, as a pair, unamused by these happenings.

"No," Emily said at last. "I don't believe it was any one's doing. Perhaps a confluence of doings, or of wantings, or of coincidence, but I do not believe that someone has set down intentionally, in any detail, the happenings of the last week." Because that would be cruel and unkind, and Emily is not yet quite jaded enough to believe in Malevolence as an archetypal truth.

"The nice young man, with warm eyes," Emily cannot remember his name. She cannot remember the color of his eyes. Too much has happened between now and then. "Has offered to teach us, somewhat. She is too ready to seek out trouble, danger, if she thinks it will get her ahead some how. Jarod has said the same; that she did not run when they encountered the 'crow. That she would not, even after being told."

Enough about Enid, though. Emily's expression smoothed somewhat and she drank from her quickly cooling mug. She was considering something, heavily, but only added this. "For better or worse I think I am entangled with him, for now. Jarod, that is. I do hope it is more than a fool's errand in the end."

[K. R. Jakes] This conversation is far more serious than their previous conversations have been. There is less hiding things behind language. There is less that hasn't been said, there is less mystery between the lines. They've spoken, Kage and Emily, and they've connected. They know at least a little bit about the Other now, and that's okay. They've found a place where they can converse, and that is almost rare enough to be sweet. The Court, the Fallen King, this place so far has been (safety) unmolested by problems. It has remained off the beaten path, contained in silence, held in autumn and winter, and maybe it will still be there come spring. Maybe they'll both still be there, come spring, walking their own way until they finally find (him) the tree again. Maybe they'll leave more notes, maybe they'll have to compete, once the weather is fine, with hikers.

"You don't seem very happy about that." About being entangled with Jarod, Kage means. Her expression lightens, somewhat. "And someone has offered to teach you? I'm -- glad; have you had any lessons yet?"

[Emily Littleton] "We are learning to be mindful," she replies, and for a moment it seems like that answer might hold for both of Kage's open-ended questions. Perhaps Emily & Jarod are learning to be mindful, whatever that might mean in the context of what interactions (relationships) they may be building. Or perhaps it is what Wharil is trying to teach her, to teach Enid.

"To develop a language and scale for this newness, these things that were up to now unseen and unspoken of." So the lessons then. Emily seems to approve of this first foray into apprenticeship. She does not think it odd, either, that she is studying under someone other than the man who had called her, not long ago, a prodigal apprentice. It has not occurred to her, yet, how thematically close these two life lessons are -- the apprenticeship and her relationship both require new language, new sensibilities. She is not yet aware enough to understand that Fate may have orchestrated a twinned pattern in this section of her tapestry.

Emily looks as if she might say something to the other question, but then folds that thought back in on itself and squirrels it away for now. She takes up one of the small citrus instead and begins worrying away its peel with her thumbs. It smells as bright as its color, sweet and effervescent.

"I am sorry your moods have been so black. Might I do anything to lighten them?" It is heavier, this Keeping. Heavier but still safe. The gravity lends to it importance, immanence. There is a thin thread of Getting Things Done mixed in with the banter, a Naming and Noting of events that have passed. This, too, in its own small way, is a thing of ritual.

[K. R. Jakes] "A good lesson to learn," Kage replies, and her voice is quiet (ashes, after a fire). She finally takes a sip of the tea, which has cooled somewhat, and swallows. Her throat works, songbird, but nothing catches right now. She can speak, and it is good. "Can I ask after your progress?"

Carefully, Kage rests the mug on her knee. That isn't going to work; it almost slips, but she rescues it, and places it between her knees instead, so that her hands are free to take a clementine (oh my darling) and peel it. The tart scent of the clementine once her nail has pierced the skin is foreign, is foreign everywhere, speaks of things unseen and Kage peels it messily, piece by piece. The one she chose doesn't want to lose its skin, so she works at it, juice on her thumb, on her forefinger.

Kage's mood has been black lately, she said. Confessed. And Emily wants to know what she can do to lighten it, them, the moods plural. "I just need to come to a decision," she answers, after a second, maybe three. "About responsibility. And decide whether or not I'm going to sell my apartment, or just try and seal it away. Would I rather deal with a credit nightmare or potentially unnecessary backlash?"

[Emily Littleton] Kage's is a weighty decision, and it seems somehow more important than Emily's anxieties of the heart. Perhaps because it is tangible and its merits can be measured, weighed and known emperically. Or at least it seems this way to Emily, who is not at that particular crossroad, not making that sort of deal with her own inner demons.

"If you decide to move and want a hand, let me know," she offers, at last, because it feels like the right thing to say. Emily knows there is little she can do about the decision, and so she offers to help with the action (if it comes at all). And she peels off small, sweet sections of the tiny citrus to east while Kage's (more difficult) bleeds all over the Other's hand.

"I have not made much progress. I have been ... distracted ... by other things." No apologies, no attempt to rationalize whatever she is doing with the Verbena Disciple into a subject tucked neatly under Progress's wide umbrealla. "It is too much," she says. It is too much, and yet still not enough.

[K. R. Jakes] "I will," Kage says, and she sounds surprised, perhaps, by the offer. Her gaze is still on that rascally clementine, although she's finally unpeeled it enough to begin to pull segment from segment, like undoing a riddle box, popping one piece into her mouth, bite down, squirt. Mm. "Thank you. Annnnd," she is frowning, briefly and sidelongly, at Emily now. It is too much, she says, and overwhelm is something easy to fall under. And bad. "Too much? Tell me about it. And-or," here, her mouth curves, faintly. "Tell me what you notice right now, if you try to ... To think, listen to your intuition."

[Emily Littleton] She chews on a section of citrus longer than she strictly must, long enough to masticate it past sweetness, to the point where the bitter pith takes precedence and it becomes entirely unpleasant to her palate. And then she swallows, thoughtfully, and looks down at the precious few segments left in her hands.

"I have been here, Chicago, longer now that I have lived anywhere else in my life," she says, and it is a simple statement of fact. Emily looks out across the still, frozen water, beyond it, beyond the other bank and further still. It is as if she could still something that is just on the edge of forgetfulness, just barely on this side still of that hazy veil of memory. "Apparently... staying put creates almost as many problems as often leaving."

She looked over at Kage, and then back out at whatever apparition was haunting her (still). "I have yelled at someone, touched them in anger, and bared long-kept secrets to another. All in the space of an evening. And this is beyond my run in with the nameless 'crow, and the odd woman who keeps the council of spiders, and discovering that I missed the rockstar while I was away. That I might think I need him in small and unassuming ways, and that... that always leads to heart-ache."

Emily sighed heavily and shifted her body weight. "It is no matter, though. I'm sure it will quiet down soon. Or become manageable, soon." Once I learn all about these silly things, like friendships, and relationships, that I've left behind in too many towns and never truly fostered.

[K. R. Jakes] Kage, whose fingers are sticky, wipes them on her jeans once Emily has finished speaking. Before Emily has finished speaking, to be perfectly honest. The redhaired young woman (who is attached to, connected to, something that is Old, something that is Ancient; should it then sometimes show, in the way she regards things?) scootches over, obvious about it, scootch, scootch, and she touches the darkhaired young woman's elbow, her shoulder.

"Three things," she says, after a moment of solidarity, which is offered in silence. "Well," and she changes her mind, apparently. "Actually, only really one thing. Even if you're afraid of heartache," and here, she shrugs. "Face it, if you can. It's life, and life is so important a thing to touch. I don't think you'll be stupid about anything, Em; I can't really envision that. But don't, you know, step back just because you think you're facing ...change, I guess. This is probably bad 'boy advice,' but," she shrugs, again. "I find ... well, I've found... That it's wrong to avoid what your heart desires, as long as desire isn't all it wants." Her mouth curves, almost mischievous, definitely wry. "It's good to miss things."

Cool cat, Kage.

"I, for one, am glad you're here. And I'm always willing to listen if you need to talk at someone. I can even hold my tongue!" A pause. "But I'm not going to right now. Please, Emily. What do you feel right now? Not emotionally, but intuitively; what's eldritch here in this clearing, and what does it taste like? If you practice on me, maybe next time you run up against someone like Gregor, you'll be able to describe what he feels like better."

And so it'll go.