The Bard

[hazlogs]

Date: 9/15/2002
Time: Right after events of previous log.

After saying those abrupt farewells, Rina turns and begins walking east,
back the way she came. Her features fall into a mask that fails to hide an
undercurrent of pain; her hand comes up to rub at that shoulder again,
hidden beneath the leather jacket.

Salem falls into step beside the kinswoman, the set of his shoulders tense
and his face still tight with anger, seething with remembered humiliation.
Uncharacteristically, he doesn't notice the gesture of pain. He barely has
enough presence of mind to keep a decent eye on the street.

"So," Rina's voice is tight, touched with anger. "Who is she?"

The girl keeps her eyes on the street ahead, but they remain far more
intently focused than they should be, slightly narrowed, flashing like the
gaze of a bird of prey.

Salem's jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth; inside his coat pockets,
his hands are closed into fists. He answers in a low, flat voice, sounding
almost calm. "The halfmoon that ruined me... that little bitch was her
star pupil. A cub. Not anymore now, obviously."

Rina glances over to him. "Not anymore, no. But old hate dies hard, huh."
She wets her lips, and looks to the sidewalk ahead, her mouth drawn to a
tight line. "Gonna hafta work on that, Jack. Stay cooler."

Salem's nostrils flare as he draws in a sharp breath. "...Shit," he says,
after a moment. "Fucking shit." He's still angry -- heat like that doesn't
bleed off quickly, nor easily, but with each breath he takes a step
further from imminent explosion.

"Maybe it'll help you chill out," Rina mutters, "t'know that you grabbed
the wrong *fucking* shoulder, y'bastid."

Salem stops dead in his tracks, the words like an upended bucket of ice
water. He stares at her.

Rina pauses a step later, and pivots on one heel to look at him. The dark,
worn eyes fix on his. Her expression is harder, now, but it still fails to
hide the pain. "That help cool ya down any?"

Salem looks away, unable to meet her eyes for more than a heartbeat. His
expression remains tight; there's a flicker of shame now, and
self-loathing, across his face, that vanishes quickly, repressed. The rage
is still there, but it's lost several of its teeth. "Shit," he says again,
almost a whisper.

Rina lets out a breath, a gallows laughter of sorts, to match the rictus
of that teeth-flashing unbalanced smile. "Don'worryabaddit," she says.
"I'm so fuckin' high I'm s'prised I felt /anything/." She lifts the
uninjured shoulder in half a shrug. "Sides, it's just a bruise. Pain is
transient."

"Transitory," Salem corrects, in a strengthless mutter. He closes his
eyes, lifts his head, straightens up. He takes a slow, deep breath --
inhale, exhale -- and focuses on regaining his composure.

"Whatever." Rina lets out a breath, and seems to deflate; her posture
sinks a little from strength and alertness, and her eyes lower. She stands
still, the effect of the drugs clear in that purposeless, unfocused
pause--the girl looks as if she's in a daze, when his affection finally
returns to her.

In the intervening moments, a few cars drive by. A delivery truck squeals
to a halt down the block, its screeching brakes a testament to poor
maintenance.

When Salem opens his eyes again, the facade of calm has returned, that
cool controlled manner. He pushes back a stray lock of hair -- it really
is starting to get long, though it's still not quite at the middle of his
back -- and turns back to her. With perfect courtesy, he offers Rina his
arm. His face is stone, apart from the bleak look in his good eye.

With a little shake of her head, she wakes up and looks at him blearily; a
wry half-smile comes, then, dim echo of the brighter expression she often
wears. "You crack me up, Jack," she says hoarsely. An arm slides formally
through his, and she falls into step with him, walking toward the
Montrose. "Always the gentleman. That t'make up for callin' me names way
back when?"

Salem forces his lips into a faint smile; it doesn't touch his eyes at
all. "I don't think anything could really make up for that," he replies.
Then, with a certain gallows humor -- more gallows than humor, though --
he adds, "'I am in blood stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,
returning were as tedious as go o'er.'"

Rina tips her head, and her posture shifts slightly toward a dancer's
graceful carriage. She looks over to him, all sympathy and innocence, dark
eyes searching his face with far too much intimacy. Her features are
transformed, somehow, by the expression on her face: composed, intent,
powerful.

Salem glances sidelong at her, and his step falters slightly at something
he sees there, in her face. After a moment, he continues the quote, albeit
with some wary hesitancy. "'Strange things I have in head that will to
hand, which must be acted ere they may be scann'd.'"

With a rueful little shake of her head, she gives him a fond smile, and
pauses in her steps to turn to him. "You lack the season of all natures,"
she says pointedly. A hand reaches up to tap him on the cheek, playful.
"Sleep." One side of her mouth quirks up a bit more, and she frames the
side of his face with her hand, a tender and affectionate touch that
matches the look in her eyes.

Salem tenses at the touch, but doesn't pull away. Reaching up, he grasps
her wrist -- gently, as if she were made of glass -- and pulls her hand
away from his face. He represses the flicker of discomfort and, for the
moment anyway, plays along. "'Come, we'll to sleep,'" he says, making his
voice agreeable as he attempts to start her walking again. "'My strange
and self-abuse is the initiate fear that wants hard use.'" His mouth gives
a wry, bitter little twist. "'We are yet but young in deed.'"

She walks with him, then, but does not thread her arms through
his--rather, she wrings her hands and stares ahead, her eyes distant and
touched with desperation.

Again, Salem's steps falter; he regards her sidelong, brow furrowed in
sharpening concern. "...Rina?"

One hand comes up to the level of her chin, before her, and she rubs hard
at the palm with the other hand. Her voice is distant, a ghostly
almost-whisper, the words slow. "Yet here's a spot..."

The Philodox, jaw clenched, reaches out to grasp her wrist again. He says
her name again, more insistantly. "Rina. _Rina_."

Her breathing is hitched, unsteady, and her voice grows in intensity
without getting much louder. "Out, damned spot! Out I say!..." The rubbing
slows, and she tips her head; a wild glint comes to her eyes, a light of
madness burning from within. "One," she whispers. "Two. Why then 'tis time
to do it!"

She continues to walk forward with a half-stumbling step, despite his grip
on her wrist.

Salem's grip tightens, and now he maneuvers himself around to block her
path; he'll stop her progress by force if necessary. "Rina, dammit,
_Rina_! Dammit, wake _up_."

By that expedient, he brings her to a halt. She sways a little on her
feet, her eyes unfocused as she stares about her... almost as if seeing
into the Blight. "Hell is murky," she whispers, soft and frightened, eyes
wide as a child's.

Salem's face is tight when he does it -- hating himself for resorting to
crude measures -- but he gives the kinswoman a sharp shake. "_Rina_. Look
at me, dammit. It's Salem. It's Jack. Snap _out_ of it."

The dark eyes look at him, a flicker of incredulous anger coming to them.
Impatience. "Fie, my lord, fie-- a soldier, and afeard?" She leans closer,
those bright eyes searching his, urging. A faint, almost lustful smile
touches her lips. "What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
power to account?"

Salem's upper lip peels away from his teeth. He pulls back slightly,
recoiling, his hand tightening almost painfully on her wrist. For a
second, he just stares at her, rigid, muscles tight in his neck and jaw.
His breath hisses through gritted teeth, loud.

She changes again, that wildness returning, her gaze sliding strangely
away from his. "Yes who would have thought the old man to've had so much
blood in him?" she murmurs.

"Gaia forgive me," Salem mutters. And, switching his grip on her wrist
from his right hand to his left, he strikes her across the face. Hard.

The impact whips her head to the side, and speeds her breathing a
fraction. She does not cry out, but closes her eyes and whispers the words
like a litany: "The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?" Reciting,
now, the way a Christian might quote the Bible in desperation. "What, will
these hands ne'er be clean? No more o'that, my lord, no more o'that... you
mar all with this starting."

"Rina..." There is, now, a hint of desperation seeping through the
strained control in the Walker's voice. If she were in her right mind,
she'd be able to witness the very rare sight of Jack Salem very close to
being beside himself; to anyone else, the tense, rigid self-control
remains unbroken. People skirt well around the pair, avoiding any looks
their way; the Garou's rage coupled with the typical city-dweller's
unwillingness to Get Involved give Walker and Walker-kin a near-perfect
Somebody Else's Problem field.

"Rina, dammit," says Salem. "Wake up. Please."

Rina lifts one hand again, staring at it in a mad echo of his own growing
desperation. "Here's the smell of the blood, still," she says hoarsely.
"All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand." She closes
her eyes and rocks a little on her feet. "Oh, oh, oh..." Soft, moaning
sounds of pain, agony.

He says her name again, quietly now, defeated. His face turns grim as he
straightens up, puts an arm around her shoulders, and starts leading her
home. Steering her. Hoping, probably, that she'll snap out of it, but his
expression's a pessismistic one.

She walks beside him numbly, looking ahead into nothingness. "Wash your
hands, put on your nightgown, look not so pale..." Then she glances over
to him, worry in her eyes. "I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried..." Such
persuasion in that dark gaze, and such a deep caring. "He cannot come out
on's grave."

"Even so," Salem murmurs, almost too quietly to hear. He watches the
street, the sidewalk; he glowers at passerby who, one and all, refuse to
meet his gaze. And he does not look at the woman at his side.

"To bed, to bed... there's knocking at the gate..." She is nervous now,
frightened. "Come, come come come give me your hand--" She fumbles for it,
interlacing fingers tightly with his own. "What's done cannot be undone.
To bed, to bed, to bed..."

A muscle twitches in the Philodox's scarred cheek, keloid tissue jumping.
Bereft of any other ideas, he continues the scene. "Will she go now to
bed? ...Directly." Then, "Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds do
breed unnatural troubles." He speaks it slowly, flatly. Dull recitation,
not acting. "Infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their
secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician." Salem glances
sidelong down at her, briefly. Then he looks away. "God, God forgive us
all! Look after her. Remove from her the means of all annoyance, and still
keep eyes upon her. So... good-night." And, very softly, practically
inaudible, "My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight. I think, but dare
not speak."

When he looks over, she is crying, tears on her expressionless, distant
face. The glimmering pools in her wide eyes, and then breaks free each
time she blinks. "To bed, to bed," she whispers. "What's done-- what's
done cannot be undone--"

Salem falls silent and keeps walking. His eye fixes on a passing street
sign, gauging how close they are to Rina's studio. By degrees, his
expression turns cold, erecting walls brick by brick.

Eventually they reach the studio. The kinswoman remains out of it; Salem's
forced to guide her to the door, and then makes a search of her pockets
for the keys to the place. Throughout, he remains expressionless.

He finds the keys and manages the entry, with her still murmuring and
whispering to herself. "What's done cannot be undone..." She walks into
the apartment, straight toward the futon; with numb movements she pulls
the sheet from the bed, draws the knife from the small of her back.

Salem moves quickly. Maybe not as cat-dexterous as John, certainly not as
graceful as he used to be, but quick enough, one hopes, to grab her
knife-hand.

She is about to plunge the blade into the sheet, drawing back to make that
downward stab into the fabric, when his fingers close around her wrist.
"No," she moans, hoarse and desperate. "What's done- what's done cannot be
undone--" Tears streak her cheeks now.

Grimly and methodically, Salem pries her fingers off the knife-hilt, one
by one. "I have no idea what's wrong with you," he says evenly, with
forced calm. "Nor how to fix it. I _do_ know that John is going to flay me
alive."

She looks at him, desperation shining through her tears. "What need we
fear, when none can call our power to account?" Her eyes hold something
terrible, too awful to be spoken. "What's done," she whispers. "What's
done cannot be undone."

Salem avoids her gaze. One look there and he just might crack after all.
He tosses the knife away with an angry flick of his wrist, not bothering
himself where it lands, where it sticks. He helps her out of her jacket,
checking her for other weapons as he does so.

The guns are there, a .45 and a nine-millimeter in the twin shoulder rigs
under her jacket. She hasn't yet replaced the trashed kevlar underneath.
Rina is pliant and numb, her eyes going distant as he takes care of her.
They follow the clatter of the knife. "What's done..." Confusion comes to
her face, and she turns against the work of his hands, looking to him like
a lost child.

Salem finishes disarming the kinswoman, then hazards a sidelong look at
her face, her eyes. Underneath the stone facade, he's wary as he studies
her for some sign -- _any_ sign -- of returning sanity. Of Rina rather
than Lady Macbeth.

Rina searches his face unsteadily, blinking back tears. "It hurts," she
whispers.

Salem nods after a moment's hesitation. His hands drop away from her, one
still holding her jacket. "I'm sorry."

Rina shakes her head, staring at him. "It's not your fault," she says
hoarsely. "Not your fault. I woulda done it if they let me. If you let
me." Her voice is tearful, the sound of absolute despair. "I want to die."

Salem's jaw clenches, throat working. He looks away, tossing the jacket
onto the floor near the futon. "Shit," he mutters. One hand rakes back
through his hair, the same one he'd grabbed her shoulder with earlier
tonight -- a thousand years ago.

The brief silence between them is a good cue for the door to open
suddenly, interrupting the scene. A figure that's probably John - it's
tall enough, and covered in black - enters the small apartment, but is
obscured by a rather large bunch of roses. The rose bush turns slightly,
for the somewhat surprised-looking face of John to eye both Rina and
Salem.

She is standing--both of them are standing--near the futon. Rina's face is
streaked with tears, nd one hand still clutches the sheet torn from the
bed.

Salem turns sharply at the sound, his head coming up like an alerted
animal. Surprise flashes across his face, followed quickly, and just as
briefly, by a spasm of guilt; his expression settles on resignation before
it finally goes bland. There's nothing calm in his body language. Poised,
tense, he takes a step back. Away from Rina. Away from John.

Rina turns more slowly, to look at John; she still blinks back tears, and
there's as quiet sniffle before she steps toward him. "Gianni--" There is
a touch of familiar desperation in her eyes, a need to escape the anguish.

And John just continues to stand there for a while, with that bunch of
roses, in an uncomfortable silence. He frowns slightly, taking in more of
the scene, but doesn't say anything. Most of his attention focusses on
Salem, after a while. "Rina. Salem." The careful precision to the words
have all the calm of a sniper, lining up the only shot they'll need. The
Ahroun's ice-cold eyes bore into Salem - intent on staring him down til he
cowers.

Salem averts his gaze immediately, without pause, without hesitation, and
he tilts his head to the side, lifting his chin slightly to bare his
throat. Otherwise, his posture remains stiff, hands at his sides and open,
fingers twitching.

Rina closes the distance to the Ahroun--and then pauses, a step in front
of him, her slow perception finally picking up on that look. "I went out,"
she says apologetically. "I--I shouldn't've gone out but I-- needed to get
away." A swallow tightens her throat. "Jack was nice enough t'walk me
home." Another sniffle, and she draws the back of a hand across her face.
"I don't feel good." She adds to that, unsteadily. "Someone he--used
t'know showed up in town. I don't think he feels good either."

Very, very softly, very quietly, John looks back to Rina (now that the
Half-moon is dealt with... for the moment) and murmurs in a smooth voice,
"What has gone on, here? No dressing it up pretty... no playing it down.
No bullshitting, no hiding what might upset me. What... happened?"

The sight of the big, scarred man carrying all those dark red roses seems
somehow incongruous with the poorly-restrained tension emanating from him.

Salem holds the stiff, unnatural pose. Four thin little crescent moons
mark each palm. He holds his tongue, letting Rina answer.

Rina dashes tears from her cheeks with the back of a hand, again. "I don't
know." She answers without looking away, holding his gaze with those lost
eyes. "We were walkin' home. And I think- somethin' happened and I-- went
away." The teas break free again, and a pleading comes to her eyes.
"D-don't be upset and just, just hold me for a minute? I, I don't feel
good, tonight..."

A twitch starts in the corner of the Ahroun's right eye, and he frowns
slightly, but can't help but banish the dark thoughts in the face of his
fiance's plea. Gloved hands alternately lower the roses and beckon her
closer. "I got you some flowers," he murmurs tonelessly, brows still
furrowed gently as he states the obvious to fill in space.

The halfmoon continues to do an impeccable impersonation of a statue. A
very tense statue. He seems apt to remain that way until John says
otherwise. Or until he passes out.

She collapses into him, sliding an arm around his waist, rubbing her wet
cheek against his chest to dry away the tears. "They're-- they're pretty,"
she answers in a small voice.

John closes his eyes briefly when Rina falls into him, and his arms wrap
around the tiny kinswoman protectively. "Not bad, considering I bought
them from a homeless girl on Bridge Street." Breathing in her scent for a
breath and a half, it's only when he's calmed slightly that he opens his
eyes. Ice-blue eyes that glare with a cold fire at the world for a few
moments, then swivel to fix on Salem before narrowing and dulling in
intensity. There will be a lengthy explanation... "Did you plan on staying
for dinner perhaps, Salem?" John asks quietly.

Rina just breathes, relaxing into the security of John's embrace. Her eyes
are closed, and tears still slide down her cheeks to wet his shirt.

Salem stirs then, and only then, shifting his weight and turning his eye
back toward John's face. He still does not meet the Ahroun's eyes, not
directly. All the defenses are in place, and apart from the continued
tension in his body language, he's unreadable. "No," he says blandly.
"I'll be going. If you don't mind."

John defers to the girl, murmuring in question, "Rina?"

Rina nods quickly, emphatically. "Need you," she whispers. "Figre it all
out later."

John nods acceptance towards Salem, still holding Rina in that protective
embrace.

Salem inclines his head slightly and starts for the door. This does,
unfortunately, bring him within striking distance of the Ahroun, but he
doesn't look their way and he doesn't cower.

Rina sobs quietly, burying the sound against John's chest, her shoulders
shaking.

[At which point Salem departs.]