Glyphs and Grief

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:22 Pacific Time on Mon Jan 13 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 47
degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The
barometric pressure reading is 30.16 and steady, and the relative humidity
is 100 percent. The dewpoint is 47 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (72% full).

Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large,
high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It still
smells of paint, though there is no evidence of current painting. Rolled
canvases lean in one of the corners, and a few finished pieces adorn the
walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a painting behind the couch,
creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a
bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of
the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. The edge of a
futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling
patterns of colors, calming shades of undersea blue and green. These
patterns gradually soften as they grow out into the rest of the room,
where walls are visible; angles replace curves, until the mural becomes a
mix of ocean and curcuitry. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of
modern art upholstered in green velvet. A Turkish rug in vibrant tribal
colors occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture
of recycled blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum, rests on it
in front of the couch.

Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless
steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small,
sparsely-appointed bathroom. The east wall holds bookshelves of pale wood,
supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and
a good number of books; the corner between shelving and the wall of
windows holds a plain wooden desk with a slim notebook computer and phone
atop it, and an elegant mesh rolling chair.

Salem's knock comes on Rina's door sometime in the evening, light and
brisk.

Rina's gone...out. Just out. That leaves Cat alone in the apartment. He's
sitting on the couch, pencils and sketchbook and artbook spread all over
the coffeetable. and his toys stand atop it all proudly. He's about to
reach for one of them when the knock comes; cautiously, since Rina
wouldn't knock, he gets up and heads to the door. "Who is it?" he calls
out.

"It's Jack," comes the reply.

The bolt slides out and the door opens, and Cat half-smiles up at the
cliath. "Miz Rina left," he says softly, stepping back so that Salem can
enter. "She said she'd be back before I went to sleep."

Salem glances around the otherwise empty apartment as he enters, a frown
tugging faintly at his mouth. "I see. Did she say where she was going?"

"Just, 'out'," Cat murmurs, locking the door behind the Philodox. The cub
seems to have a bit of a frown on his mouth too, but his eyes brighten and
the frown is erased. "Come and see!" he chortles in secret glee, going so
far as to grab hold of Salem's wrist and start tugging him along. "Quentin
came by last night with presents."

The cub can feel the cliath tense when grabbed, but Salem controls any
further reaction and lets himself be led, his expression tight but
otherwise indulgent. "He did, did he? What did he get you?"

Cat may feel it, but puts it aside as surprise if he even registers it as
all. Soon enough he lets go and takes his place on the couch again, smile
crooked and shy as he lifts up a kickball-sized green...tentacle
thingy...that was sitting on the sketchbook. It's got a Santa hat and
little plushie bells at the end of the tentacled-mouth. And it's so ugly
it's cute, and the cub is obviously very enamored with it. "It's a Santa
Octopus!" he beams.

Salem stares at the toy for a moment or two, frowning, then shakes his
head and takes a seat, slipping out of his coat as he does so. The frown
eases back. "Looks more like one of those Japanimation things, actually."
He seems bemused and mildly repelled by the tentacled plushie.

Cat shakes his head, setting the toy back in its place, where it stares
down at the hapless Golden Retriever. It appears the cub is beginning to
have a bit of a collection. "Miz Rina's been teaching me how to draw a
little," he says, gesturing at the scattered half-completed sketches that
litter the table. He pauses, then smiles again. "I like it here, a lot."

Salem smiles faintly at this, just for a moment. "Good. And you're taking
care of her, like I asked, correct?"

An emphatic nod of his head, though the boy frowns a bit. "Sometimes she
won't let me come out with her. Like tonight. But she...seems happy." He
thinks back a bit, fingers tapping on his knee. "Yesterday, Quentin came
and said he'd need to ask about Mister. Um. Mister Smith." Cat flashes a
guilty glance at Salem. "She was a bit sad after that."

Salem nods, rubbing at the side of his jaw, fingers tracing the line of
short beard. "Yes... that's Quentin's test for adulthood, to find out and
tell John's story, to honor him. Did he tell you that?"

Cat nods, fingers lacing together as he sits up a bit straighter. "His
Rite. That's what he said. When...when will I go on my Rite?" Blue eyes
look up at the cliath, full of hope.

"When you're ready," Salem replies. He glances at the sketchbook,
thoughtfully. "Did you get a chance to learn about glyphs, while you were
at the farmhouse?"

That answer seems to satisfy the cub, who tilts his head in curiosity.
"Glyphs? What're those?"

"Pictograms," Salem explains, reaching for the cub's sketchpad. "Symbols
that mean various things, that we've been using since the first days." He
glances sidelong at the boy. "Back when the Glass Walkers were called the
Warders of Men, and we were barely more than a single pack, charged to
watch humanity after the Impergium was ended."

Cat's face falls again. "I learned about that. The Impergium. But I don't
know...the pictograms."

"May I?" Salem asks, indicating the cub's sketchpad and pencils.

Cat nods, pushing them towards Salem.

Salem takes the pad and flips over to an empty page, then uses the darkest
pencil, the one with the thick, soft lead, to draw three shapes on the
page, lining them up along the top. Their lines are thick, rough; a claw
could carve these. The first is a box with three sides, open at the left.
The second a thin crescent moon shape. The third looks a little like a
ladder, broader at the bottom than the top, with a little curve drawn in
at the bottom, between the legs and under the lowest rung. Salem indicates
each in turn with the non-business-end of the pencil. "Homid, or human.
Theurge. Glass Walkers. Your breed, your auspice, and your tribe."

The boy's watching closely, and he picks up another pencil, copying the
marks with startling precision. "Hom...id. Theurge. Glass...Walkers."

Salem sketches out the other auspice glyphs and names them.
Unsurprisingly, they all look like the moon in various phases. He draws
the signs for the other two breeds as well, Metis and Lupus. The Philodox
pauses over the former breed-sign. "I've told you about Metis, yes?"

"They're Garou whose parents were both Garou too, and that's against the
Litany," Cat murmurs rote-fashion, rattling off all he knows on the topic.
He pauses, then adds, "Gaia's Disgrace."

"Their parents are a disgrace," Salem says, a touch sternly. "For not
taking precautions. The Metis is not personally at fault. Remember that.
We are not like some of the other tribes. Metis are born sterile and
deformed. They have enough of a burden to bear without having abuse heaped
on them merely because that's the way they happened to be born."

Cat blinks in surprise, trying to remember where he heard that phrase.
"Oh...okay," he mutters after a minute. "That makes sense. It's
not...fair, to the Metis." He looks down at the page, then redraws the
glyph. "'S not fair."

Salem taps his pencil against the page, frowning pensively for a moment.
"No. It's not." He tilts his head slightly, looking at the cub again. "You
don't remember Roger, because he died before Rhiannon and I found you. He
was a Metis, a Galliard like Quentin, and extremely intelligent. And his
connection to Cockroach was powerful. And before Roger, there was another
Metis, an Ahroun, named Malone. J.J. Malone, called Shades. Malone was
Elder of our tribe here several years ago."

The blond head tips a bit to the side, silently repeating all the names.
"Are there a lot of Metis?" he asks gently, as if it was a question that
couldn't be asked.

Salem's lips thin. "More than there used to be," he says. "Though few
enough here, these days." He draws three more glyphs on the sketchbook
page. "Honor. Wisdom. Glory. The three codes our people live by." He
touches the pencil to the wisdom glyph and recites, "'I shall be calm. I
shall be temperate. I shall be merciful. I shall be prudent. I shall be
just.' Living by the creed of wisdom is important for a Theurge like
yourself, though the other two shouldn't be neglected, either."

"I've never met a Metis," Cat murmurs reflectively, before looking down at
the three new glyphs. He liked this sort of teaching- like art class, but
with history. "Calm, merciful, prudent, just," he repeats. "Calm,
prudent..." The cub grins wryly. "I can do that."

One corner of Salem's mouth quirks subtly upwards. "I'm sure you can.
Honor, too." He taps the glyph for it. "'I shall be respectful. I shall be
loyal. I shall be just. I shall live by my word. I shall accept fair
challenges.'" He arches an eyebrow.

Cat blinks, repeating them in his mind. "Didn't you already say just for
Wisdom?"

"They _are_ similar," Salem agrees. "The thrust, though, is different. A
wise Garou will always choose the correct action based on reasoning and
logic. What will save lives, his own included. Honor, though... Honor may
demand a course of action that isn't the wisest, simply because you've
given your word. Sometimes, the demands of wisdom and honor conflict. As
sometimes do the demands of wisdom and glory, or glory and honor."

"But...then...if they conflict, which do you choose?" the boy asks,
looking mildly distressed. As if the situation would arise that very
moment.

Salem absently darkens the inside of the honor glyph as he answers.
"You'll have to use your own best judgement, ultimately. But, as you're a
Theurge, you'll be expected to follow the path of wisdom more than the
other two. Just as I, a Philodox, am expected to be honorable, while an
Ahroun needs to act with Glory." He draws a line under the Glory glyph and
recites its creed. "I shall be valorous. I shall be dependable. I shall be
generous. I shall protect the weak. And, I shall slay the Wyrm."

There's no end to the relief on Cat's face that the glory glyph is not his
own. "I like the Wisdom creed. And the Honor one." He pauses, continuing
apologetically, "I'll...try with the Glory one, but I'm not sure if I'll
do a very good job."

"I shall be dependable," Salem repeats, looking directly at the cub. "I
shall protect the weak. Those are part of the glory creed, too. You can do
those at least, can't you?"

"And generous, I can give alms too," Cat adds quickly. "But I'm not a good
fighter. Slaying the Wyrm." He gets quiet again, gaze falling away towards
a photo album, closed and mostly empty, that lies far across the room.
"I'm not strong or tough like Mister Smith was. And the Wyrm got 'im."

"That was an accident, and unfortunate," Salem says quietly, firmly. "The
strong can die as well as the weak. Also, John was an Ahroun. His path is
one that took him into the forefront of battle. Yours is less... flashy.
You will bind spirits to our use in battle, command them with Gaia's
authority behind you, and heal others' wounds with your touch. Even the
most grievous ones."

Cat blinks, quickly tearing his eyes away from the album to stare at
Salem. There's something in his gaze, for a moment a flicker of
inspiration or hope; and then it bleeds away quickly when he breaks the
stare. "'Kay," he murmurs, almost resignedly. He's looking at the glyphs
now, daring them to change. "Are there any other creeds?"

Salem shakes his head. "Honor, wisdom, and glory." He thinks for a moment,
then flips to a new page and draws three more glyphs -- an ordered,
crosshatch pattern, a random-looking single line that tangles like string,
and an inward spiral. He names them, each in turn. "Weaver. Wyld. Wyrm."

His eyes move to look at the new glyphs, and dully he repeats them both in
sound and in sketch, his red pencil following underneath Salem's. He
pauses at drawing the wyrm glyph, but it's only a moment and he was
readjusting his grip of the pencil. "...This should be Gaia," he says
after a moment, moving to a new spot on the page and drawing a circle. He
seems serious, then quirks a faint smile and adds wings and a halo to the
circle, dropping his pencil afterward. As the pencil hits the page even
the faint smile disappears.

Salem's expression goes blank for a moment, unreadable. "Not... not
quite." He sketches out the Gaia glyph, and beside it the glyph for the
Umbra, naming the latter.

Slowly he reaches for his pencil once more and copies the glyphs again,
his versions not as good as Salem's. Well, with practice. "Is that all?"
Cat asks softly. He sounds tired of the lesson, disinterested.

The lock clicks, and a moment later Rina struggles with the door. She
comes in with an armload of groceries, balancing them carefully on her hip
as she bolts the door behind her.

Salem senses Cat's change of mood, perhaps, because he closes the pad.
"No, but we can go over some more another time, if you're interested.
They're usually useful when binding or invoking spirits." He looks up,
then, as Rina enters; his posture straightens and his gaze becomes
watchful.

Yes, something's different. But look it's Rina! Cat's on his feet in a
moment, heading to the door. "I coulda come with you if it was just
groceries," he says a bit crossly as he takes the bag from her.

Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face.
Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from
generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just
long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut
tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a
velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned,
her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a
shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup;
save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite
painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful
face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a
certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an
element of tension as well.

Loose, ragged jeans hang low on her hips; paint in dark colors spatters
the denim. She wears a grey army surplus long-john shirt, faded and frayed
and softened with age; the shirt skims over her curves, barely suggesting
the contours of muscles beneath the thin knit fabric. Heavy black infantry
boots complete the street-tough image.

She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. On her right hand is band
with three inset stones: a larger diamond framed by two smaller ones, set
flush with the surface of the band. On the left is a simple band decorated
with letters and scrollwork.

Rina smiles wryly. "I had some business t'take care of, too," she murmurs.
"And you /know/ the streets are dangerous right now. I don't want you seen
around me too much." She lets him take the bag, though; it is heavy,
weighted by a gallon of milk.

The dark eyes shift to Salem, and something in Rina's expression shifts
toward awkwardness; she gives him a quick nod. "Hey, Jack.

Salem gets to his feet, hands slipping into the pockets of his BDU's.
"Evening. I was, mm, in the neighborhood. I hope you don't mind." Despite
the waxing moon and the Philodox's growing inner tension, his body
language is calm. Controlled.

Cat pauses on his trek to the kitchen. He looks over his shoulder at
Salem. He glances at Rina. And then, his soft sigh filled with obvious
frustration, he continues into the kitchen and starts to unpack the bag.
The milk is the first to go in the fridge.

Rina shakes her head minutely. Her gaze rests on Salem, somewhat
uncomfortably, for a moment's silence; then she lowers her eyes and forces
herself to move, nervousness marring her grace and rushing her words. "I'm
sorry you caught me out," she says quietly. "I don't leave much anymore."
After slipping off her jacket and tossing it to the couch, she heads for
the kitchen, to help Cat. "What's up?" she asks the boy.

"Salem-rhya's teaching me glyphs," he murmurs, slipping a can of tomato
sauce into a cupboard. "And telling me history." Cat smiles a bit at the
kin, adding, "An' I showed him Santa Octopus. I think he likes it."

Rina rolls her eyes heavenward, and gets out a few jars of spices to put
them away. "Cthulhu," she murmurs. "It's not an octopus."

Salem's brow furrows, his eyes narrowing and his mouth turning thin.
Suspicion, perhaps, or a touch of it. He follows her into the kitchen, a
prowling demon with his hands in his pockets. "Is _that_ what it is?"

"It -is-," Cat announces, again a touch crossly, "Santa Octopus." He puts
away a few more boxes in relative silence, before saying in a penitent and
softer tone, "Says so on his tag." Nevermind he wrote it there.

"Sorry," Rina murmurs, a wry smile on her lips. "I musta missed that." She
closes the spice drawer, and gets out a bag of coffee, scooping it into
the espresso machine. "Anybody want some capuccino?"

"Better an octopus than a creature that drives men mad at the very sight
of it," Salem mutters. He's still eyeballing Rina, watching the kinswoman
attentively.

Still mumbling about Santa Octopus, Cat finishes putting away groceries.
He heads into the living room and sits on the couch again, starting to
organize the mess of papers and toys he's got on the table.

Rina's attention is fixed on her task, as she gets the compact espresso
machine going--tamping down the fine-ground coffee, filling the pitcher
with water and dumping it into the reservoir. She is tense,
self-conscious, and once the switch is thrown on the espresso maker, she
busies herself getting down a coffee cup.

Salem watches her a moment more, then slips back into the living room to
join Cat. His brow is still furrowed. "What have you been up to," he asks
the boy, with a faux-casual air, "besides drawing?"

"Reading and thinking," Cat says softly, giving Salem a brief glance as he
shuffles papers into a neat stack, then moves his books into a tower. He
stops and looks at his tower, face quite impassive- rather unusual for
him. Then he puts the Santa Octopus on top with Sunshine tucked under the
tentacles. To the cub, it's one toy hugging another, but for all the world
Cthulhu is ingesting a golden retriever.

Salem eyeballs the toys a moment, then shakes his head. "What are you
reading these days?" he asks.

In the kitchen, the espresso machine begins to make its bubbling noises.
Rina turns, watching them with haunted eyes.

Cat 'ums', digging for his bag under the table and rifling through it,
producing a small hardcover book with gilded type and plastic glossy book,
slightly larger. The New Testament, reads the first. The Lion, the Witch,
and the Wardrobe, reads the other. He cracks a smile, placing them next to
his tower. "I couldn't find any werewolf books at the library that weren't
all wrong."

Rina steps out of the kitchen, leaning against the counter's edge.
"'Course they're all wrong," she murmurs. "You wanna know stuff, you ask
us." The dark eyes, though, rest on Jack.

Salem's back is toward the kitchen, his attention quite firmly focussed on
the pale-haired cub. "Best to ignore the werewolf books, yes. You can get
a book on wolves to help you understand the lupus a little, but
otherwise..." His lips thin. "Dig into some history. Human history. Pick
an era, a war, a culture, and study it."

Cat nods to Rina, but Salem gets the look of confusion. "Oh, okay. Like
a...research project? Could I do Indian history?" He seems to brighten up
at the notion. "At school we weren't allowed to do Indians 'cause Sister
Mary says they're all heathens."

Rina snorts. "There's plenty of history around here," she says dryly. "We
could introduce you to some, even. We got a few hotheads at the Sept."

Salem shifts his weight, throwing the briefest glance back over at the
kinswoman. Only a second, then his eye is back on Cat. "Yes, well, be
careful around them. Touch Deer has a level head, but Leonard, I think,
would like to resurrect the custom of scalping."

"There're...Indians -here-? In Washington?" Cat looks from cliath to Kin
with the sort of look you'd see on someone's face if they'd been told yes
indeed, Santa Claus was real and here he is. "In the Sept?"

Rina raises both eyebrows. "Caern usedta be Wendigo. All natives, before
the Euros came and fucked things up for'em."

Salem glances back at Rina again, frowning slightly. "The way I heard it,
the caern was destroyed by some Wyrm thing. Ice giant or something. Sept
flees except for one pack under Cougar, all of whom die, of course."

Blinking, Cat listens to see if the two will hash out more between them.

Rina raises both eyebrows. "Really? I figured it was the white man...
huh."

Salem shrugs a shoulder. "It usually was," he admits. "I should know. My
former tribe did most of it, along with the Get and the Fangs. But that
didn't happen in the case of the Wheel."

Rina glances away. "I remember when it was still the Wheel," she murmurs.
"Before... all of that." She wraps both arms around herself, and shudders.
The machine is quiet, now.

Cat's listening quite intently, hoping there's more of the story to tell.
When Salem seems to finish, he prompts. "Do you know the story about the
Ice thing?"

Salem's gaze rests on Rina for a moment longer, lingering, unreadable.
Then he turns back to Cat and shakes his head. "No. Before my time. But
you can ask Andrea, if you ever decide to go visit the farmhouse. Or
Sepdet."

Cat glances at Rina, then smiles half-heartedly. "Prolly oughta visit
soon, or Cathy'll be worried and mad. But I'll try to find them and ask. I
like stories. And she said to practice." He stares at his palm, seemingly
surprised by whatever he reads in his own creases. "Andrea-rhya is a
theurge too right?"

"Sepdet knows," Rina says softly. Her eyes are on the floor. "And yes,
Andrea's a theurge, I think."

Salem leans against the couch and nods. "She's even offered to teach you."

At that, the cub looks up from his hand. "She did?" This seems to surprise
him too. "But she doesn't know me. We only met once."

Rina lifts her head to look across to Salem. "That's good," she says
quietly.

Salem reaches up, brushing back a few strands of hair that have escaped
his ponytail elastic. "She likes teaching cubs. And there's a good deal
she can teach you." He glances over at Rina, meeting her eyes.

Cat frowns; but the action is fleeting and he simply nods. "Okay. If...she
really wants to. 'Kay." He follows Salem's glance, smiling for the kin
although she will undoubtably see it's wavering. "I'll go get your coffee
Miz Rina," he volunteers, getting up from the couch and heading
kitchenwards.

The Kin woman swallows, and turns her attention to Cat. "She's a good
healer," Rina says, leading the way into the kitchen. "A good person, too.
I can get it... you want anything? It's decaf, so you can have some if
y'want..." She goes to the fridge to get a tall glass of milk, and returns
to the machine to steam it.

Salem's gaze follows the two of them, then turns away toward the big
window. He folds his arms across his chest and paces toward it, frowning
pensively, his shoulders tight.

Cat eyes the stuff with suspicion...cooking had gained new dimensions in
his days with Rina. It no longer was simple, like sandwiches, but involved
machines and spices and complicated recipes... "Okay," he murmurs, trying
to remember what it had tasted like. She'd given it to him once. "One for
Salem-rhya too, please."

Rina lets the milk steam as she quickly fetches down two more cups; she
splits the espresso (what's the point of decaf espresso?) among them, and
stirs a spoonful of sugar into each. Then the milk and foam are added to
the top--a little milk, and a lot of foam. She hands one to Cat, and takes
two herself, walking out to offer a cup to Salem.

Salem half turns to take the cup from Rina with a slight dip of his head
and a murmured, "Thanks." He regards her solemnly, a moody unspoken
question in his eyes.

Cat eats his foam first, because he remembers how the first time, when he
didn't, Rina had let him keep on talking with a big fluff of it on his
nose. Then he sips away at the drink, watching Rina and Salem with wide,
thoughtful eyes, both hands around his cup.

Rina lowers her gaze quickly, and stays beside Salem, standing near the
window. "I'm sorry," she says quietly.

Salem turns the warm cup around in his hands, slowly, looking down at it.
"For what?" he asks, just as quietly.

Rina swallows, and gives a tiny shake of her head. "Everything," she
murmurs. After that she falls silent, sipping her drink and looking
bleakly out.

Cat yawns, hiding the motion behind his cup. Smiling wanly at the two of
them, he takes another sip and sets his cup on the coffee table, before
grabbing Santa Octopus and Sunshine and heading into the kitchen quietly.
If anyone enters after that, they'll see a sleeping, golden-furred cub
curled up in the corner, with a Cthulhu peeking menacingly out from his
paws.

Rina glances worriedly over her shoulder--and then when the boy shifts,
she lets out a breath and looks back to the window. Her expression remains
pained, taut, near tears almost.

Salem glances over in time to see Cat disappear into the kitchen, then
sighs and rubs the back of his neck with a free hand. "It's all right.
Really." He looks at her, intently. "Really."

Rina swallows, shaking her head minutely. She blinks back tears, a sudden
welling of them shimmering in her eyes. "It's not," she whispers. "I
don't--I shouldn't--ask anything of you."

"You haven't asked anything of me that I wouldn't have freely given,"
Salem murmurs, still studying the foam in his espresso. He hasn't touched
it yet. "So you have nothing to apologize for."

Rina closes her eyes, and grits her teeth for a moment; even after the
dark eyes flicker open again, her jaw remains tight. "I know," she says
tersely. "I know. Only makes it worse, that I-- that I'd /use/ you like
that, lean on you like some needy basket case--"

Salem cocks his head, eyeing her with a wary frown. "What are you saying,
Rina? Do you want me to stop? To say no to you?"

Rina lets out a breath, and searches the sky beyond the glass. "I don't
know," she answers, strain in her voice. "I-- I hate bein' like this, I
hate bein' so fucked up..." She presses her lips together, and shakes her
head. "And if it wasn't for Cat, and the tribe, and everything I gotta do,
I'd say fuck it /all/.

Salem's smile is thin and humorless. "Fuck it all and let it all burn or
go to hell or whereever else it wants to go." There's a bitter undertone
in his quiet voice; he understands the sentiment. Intimately. "I know."

She has to close her eyes for a moment. "Burn the world," she says
hoarsely, as the tears break free. "He used to say that." When her eyes
open again, they look out to the street blankly; tears roll down her
cheeks.

"It's easy, when you don't care," Salem says, staring out at the window.
"When you don't have a reason to. Easier still, when you convince yourself
not to feel." He sighs. "But of course you do. Ultimately, you do. So, you
find something to hang on to, and hope to Gaia it's enough to keep you
going." He looks down at his cup, then takes a careful sip of the foamy
drink.

A quiet sniffle, and then she, too, buries herself in her drink; her
expression shifts several times, and she keeps her eyes lowered.

Salem gets through the foam and some of the drink buried underneath it,
all in silence. Then he wipes his mouth and looks at her soberly. "Things
will get better. It won't always hurt... this bad." He might be convincing
himself as much as her.

Rina closes her eyes again, briefly. She drinks down the rest of her
capuccino, and sets the cup on the windowsill. Her shoulders stay hunched.
"I don't know," she whispers, hugging herself with both arms. "Maybe I'll
just get used to the emptiness."

Salem swirls his cup absently, silent for a moment. "It will get better,"
is all he says, finally, repeating himself. He drinks off the rest of his
espresso.

Rina wets her lips nervously. "I hope so," she whispers. "I never wanted
to be like this. Weak."

His shoulders lift and fall. "We all have times like this. It happens.
Especially after... things like this."

Rina swallows, and looks over to him. "You know what-- what it is, to--"
She ducks her head, blinking back tears. "You know what it's like."

"When I was young, I made an error of judgement, and it cost me...
everything I ever knew, everything I put value to." Salem stares out the
window with the empty cup in his hands, his gaze distant. "My rank, my
name, my tribe, my kinfolk. My parents disowned me. My pack was dead. The
girl who I was to marry was Embraced, turned, and killed by my former
Septmates. And that damned undead _bastard_..." He tenses, jaw tightening.
"And a Ronin has nothing. _Nothing_. No place, no name, no rights, no
existence. You may as well forget the whole thing, but you can't forget
what you are, and the Wyrm doesn't, either. So."

Rina turns to him, and reaches out to take the cup, both hands wrapping
over his own. "We can't forget," she whispers. "Not ever."

Salem looks down at her hands, his hands, then releases the cup to her.
"No," he says. "No, we can't." His words are heavy. Tired, perhaps -- it's
late enough for that -- but mostly just grim and deadened.

Rina sets the cup down carefully beside her own. Then she steps close, and
hugs him: a quiet, close embrace, without any demands.

Salem returns it, holding her for a moment or two before breaking away. "I
should get home," he says quietly. "Get some sleep."

Rina nods, and then looks up to his face; when she does, her eyes are
steady. "Jack..." A swallow tightens her throat, and she takes a nervous
moment to find the right words. Her gaze strays, lowers, and then returns
to him. "Whatever's between us, I-- I'm sorry, I can't..." Her eyes film
over with tears, shimmering. "I can't."

His face goes blank, like a shutter slamming down. He drops his eyes from
her face and turns away, moving toward the couch and his coat draped
across the back. "I know." He shrugs into the big black garment like a man
donning armor; he tugs on his gloves as though they were black steel
gauntlets.

"Jack--" Rina brings a hand up to her mouth, the tears slipping again. She
doesn't move, watching him from where she stands, letting him go. Her hand
falls, clenching into a fist near her throat. After a silence, she manages
a few hoarse words. "Be careful. I-- I need you."

"I know," he says again, not looking at her. He finishes buttoning up his
coat and half-turns back to her, enough so she can see the scarred half of
his face. The blind half. "Tell Cat I said to make sure you eat more. Call
me if you need anything."

"Ditto," she says quietly. "Or-- or just come by, whenever." She watches
him, the tears falling unheeded.

Salem nods once, still terribly, deliberately, forcibly neutral in his
face, his body language, and especially his voice. "All right." He moves
for the door, unhurried but not lingering. "Good night, Rina."

Rina swallows. "Night, Jack." Her voice is quiet, subdued--it holds none
of the pain that creases her face.

He leaves, closing the door behind him.

She paces slowly to the door, and bolts it; then she sets her back against
it and slides down. Her head is tipped back, her eyes closed, as she
finally lets the grief come.