2019-09-15 - A Sea Cave And A Bucket of Marbles

Today, close to the equinox, it's warm and sticky but locals keep glancing at the sky, expecting it to cloud over any second. Not Itzhak, poor innocent who hasn't yet experienced a PNW winter. This is a perfectly normal September to him. At the moment he's at the garage, standing outside, eyeing the place. Needs paint, but everyone's told him there's no point in painting right before the rains come, may as well wait till spring.

He hadn't thought about paint before, hadn't bothered. Why? He hated the place, he hated this town, he hated everything Steelhead represented to him. But now...ehhh, now maybe he's coming around a little bit. Still hates why he's here, still hates being trapped here, still hates that this albatross of a shop got hung around his neck, but. You know. As long as he's here, what's wrong with some new paint?

Alexander is walking. He's actually walking somewhere nowhere near the center, but his mind drifts up and away, seeking out the mechanic's mind. It's a gentle touch, a polite knock on Itzhak's consciousness. <<Is this a bad time?>> His mind is a disciplined kaleidoscope of shadow and light, a night lit by oversized stars of sharp glass.

The original logo for the garage is kinda neat, Itzhak has to grudgingly admit. Maybe he should find someone to repaint it--Itzhak's consciousness goes blip! as Alexander touches it. Itzhak blinks. His return touch is an ascending scale, curious and bright.

<<Alexander?>> The way he "pronounces" Alexander's name is a singing little glissando, silvery as a minnow. <<...Hi!>> Honest delight, as Itzhak smiles at nothing.

<<It's me. Hi.>> Alexander smiles himself, and it can be felt through the link, warm and bright. Curiosity and concern. <<I wanted to catch up with you. Since the last time we talked was a bit chaotic.>> Rueful undercurrents and a feeling of his body working as he walks briskly, a trickle of sweat through his newly cut hair. <<How are you?>>

<<Yeah, chaotic, good word.>> Itzhak senses Alexander's body moving, and it makes him want to move too. He starts walking to match him, long legs carrying him across the industrial complex. <<Listen, tell ya girl I'm sorry I yelled at her. I didn't mean to. Just whoever talked to me next was gonna get yelled at because I was freaking out a little bit.>> 'A little bit', hah. <<Things were...they were messed up and it was too much. So I'm sorry. ...How am I? Well, I'm not dead?>>

<<I will tell her, but we were all a bit stressed. I'm sure it's fine, Itzhak. You didn't expect any of...that, I know.>> There's no condemnation in his mental voice. His attention shifts as a car passes, then returns. <<Not dead is better than the alternative. You wanna talk about it? I'll listen. Happily.>>

Itzhak stops. He tips his head up to the sky, eyes closed, and sighs. <<I don't know, man. These murders, and what went down at Bayside, and now I have to sacrifice to put the Ghoul down, it's a lot. It's a lot. I said I'd do it, but it's still a lot. Can I tell you what I'm gonna sacrifice? In confidence? I don't want it to get back to Bex until we do the funeral.>>

<<Of course. Although I reserve the right to make faces at you if I think it's too damn much.>> There's a hint of exasperation in Alexander's mental voice. Shades of fond concern, anxiety and guilt he's trying to keep out of the link. <<And it is a lot. I'm sorry, itzhak.>>

<<She's blaming herself and it's no good. She's gonna plotz when she knows what I'm sacrificing and I just... I just wanna put that off as long as possible I guess.>> Itzhak has a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his t-shirt, like a greaser from the 50s. He gets one out and lights up. <<My violin and the new bow Roen and I made.>> He shows it to Alexander in the link: a gorgeous bow of gently-pink wood. The horsehair is a thousand shades of red and orange, like flame spun into silk. <<The hair came from a unicorn.>>

Alexander stops walking when the image shows in his brain. <<That's beautiful. A unicorn? Amazing.>> He means it. It's a wistful, mournful thought. <<Its a worthy sacrifice if I know one. But I can understand why you might not want to argue about it.>> He breathes out, hard, and starts walking again.

<<I met her Over There. She taught me how to open doors, and other things. Before that, I couldn't do half the stuff I can do now. She...>> Itzhak trails off, lacking words. But he can feel, and he shares those feelings with Alexander. The unicorn, brave and beautiful and defiant (and Itzhak fell a little in love with her on sight), had unlocked not only his power, but something in his heart. Like a key physically pushing inside him and turning the corroded tumblers of his soul. She had gifted him the hair from her tail. He and August had created a bow. Itzhak hadn't used the bow for the purpose he intended yet, which was to focus his power the way he has with his regular bow. Now he won't get to. Now the only song he'll play with that bow will be the last.

There's nothing particularly special about his violin, only that it's his. Thousands of hours of practice and struggle, hundreds of performances are imbued in the delicate wood. But it's his. He'll lay it to rest with William Gohl as replacement for old Billy's bones.

Alexander takes in the feelings without even trying to respond in words. His mind is open, witnessing the memory impressions, the love, the loss. And when he responds, it is in a cascade of emotions that would be entirely impossible to put into words. There's sorrow and admiration in equal but terrible measure, along with the recognition that this isn't really Itzhak's fight, but it's one he got thrust into. Guilt there, but affection too. Just rolling and boiling, like an exploding star.

Eventually, it ends. And his voice is quiet in the calm that follows. <<Thank you, Itzhak. For all of this.>>

Itzhak's eyes drift shut; the sunlight is red through his eyelids. He takes in a breath, the way a person does when he sees something beautiful. His violin-voice sings with his quiet joy; he's basking in Alexander's admiration and affection for him, so much of it, so intense, for him! Some small and selfish part of him thinks sacrificing his violin is well worth it if he gets to enjoy this.

<<It is my fight.>> He's standing there silent in the middle of the roundabout, cigarette in his fingers, eyes closed, like a man captured by a daydream. <<Gohl killed Bex's sister. He said he'd kill Bex. He cut your throat. That makes him my business.>>

<<Still.>> There's an awareness in Alexander's mind that Itzhak never wanted to be in Gray Harbor. That all his bone deep ties are the length of a continent away, and that he really wouldn't blame him for declaring it not his concern. It churns within him. <<But, it will be worth it. I think. I hope. I'm glad you're not giving up you whole heart. I think August was a bit worried.>> So was/is Alexander, although not as much as he was. Although there is still that deep worry for others, vaguely sensed. That the might give more than they can live with. A mental sigh as he thinks about it. Then a dismissal, his focus returning to his friend. <<What about the rest? Are you...>> More worry, wordless.

Itzhak rolls one shoulder. <<Yeah, well. My heart ain't all mine to give up. Not for the likes of our pal Billy.>> He's remembering lavender and dirt and sunlight: Isolde. She's laughing up at him, twigs and flowers in her hair. Her hair and eyes are lit by the sunset. Itzhak holds her in his arms and teases her and kisses her, and wonders at the way this woman has her own magic, as astounding as a unicorn's, to ease his scarred and troubled heart.

August says he falls in love easy. Itzhak really can't argue.

<<The rest?>> Itzhak draws deep from the cigarette, starts walking again. <<I promised I'd tell ya.>> But 'the rest' is still too tender to touch and he flinches away from thinking about it.

There's another pause in Alexander's walking at that image of Isolde, and his smile can be felt through the link - although he's careful to keep the memories that image stirs out of the connection between the two. Easier when they're faded by time, although a wistful fondness still comes through, and the briefest glimpse of a much younger woman. <<I am glad that the two of you found each other. Whatever other fuckery comes of this, that is one of the 'good things'.>> A deliberate use of Isolde's favored term, and then he turns teasing. <<She's started to look for her own place. For reasons.>> He doesn't quite snicker.

But the amusement lingers. <<You did. But it doesn't have to be now. I'm curious, I won't lie. I'm always curious. But I'd rather not overwhelm you, considering all this.>> There's turmoil behind the words, although not really directed to Itzhak; a vague sense of apprehension, loss, determination, and a weird sort of combination of amusement and wariness all bound up with itself, but apart from the feelings raised by the Gohl, which are heavy and dark with fear, guilt, and anger.

Itzhak wants to shove his face into those memories, an urge so strong that he winces with self-deprecating humor, feeling himself go red at the ears. Alexander and Isolde in their sex cult days? The idea's appealing as hell. Also awkward. He oughta let that one go. Definitely oughta.

<<I like her a whole lot. Just, you know. Some parts of me don't work that good. We're kind of a match like that, but...>> Itzhak flips over his hands, shrugging. <<Yeah she said she's looking for a place. Everything okay with you guys?>> He's been worried that somehow Isolde wanting her own space is a result of conflict. Then he realizes. <<Wait, that's because of me? Oh.>> OH. Oh. <<I mean, not just because of me I'm sure. You got your girl and all and...>> Welp, now he's walking past the lumber yard with his face entirely red.

MOVING ON. Itzhak shakes his head at himself for being a dumbass. He stops at the end of the street, under the shade of the cedars. Someone's put a plastic cup half-full of sand there, as it's a popular spot with smokers, and he drops the end of his cigarette in. <<Nu, so, after. After Ghoul's in the ground, I'll tell ya.>>

<<You need to stop saying that,>> Alexander responds, with a bit of that razor-glass sharpness. He's more confident here, in this link, so his rebuke is sharper than it might be in voice, too. <<Nothing about you isn't good, Itzhak. For that matter, nothing about Isolde isn't good. I don't know that she would have even been able to survive this long on her own if she wasn't exactly what she was. Same for you.>> Lecture over, he relaxes back into the warm wash of amusement. <<Things are fine. I think. And yes. It would probably be convenient for there to be more beds. But...it's also a good thing for her to have her own place. I don't think she has had something of her own for a long time. And it matters. Having something that you don't have to answer to anyone else for. I want her to have that.>>

He's walking back from the edge of town; it's not a particularly exciting vista, all things considered, but his brain is cataloging what he does see even as he moves, sorting it out into areas of interest and areas of threat. Mostly little of both, although a large stray dog is noted, and a car, and a pair of underwear hanging from a telephone line. <<Okay. That should be soon. Minerva's about finished with her ritual. I understand that you and she are acquainted?>>

Itzhak pushes back on that lecture, emotional and growly. <<That ain't what I mean! I mean I'm fucked up and shit happened to me to fuck me up. It's just how it is. If I was a car I could rebuild my engine, but I'm not, so I just have to limp along with what I got.>> He's frustrated; why won't Alexander just accept that he's broken? He can keenly feel how broken he is. Why can't Alexander?

The mention of Minerva shuts him off, though. He sighs and starts on the walk back.

<<Yeah, we ...I can't even say we dated, 'cause we didn't, but we hung out a few times. Flirted a little. I acted like a putz and got her mad at me. She can tell, is the thing. She can smell that I'm hiding stuff, just like my mom or sister could tell, you know? And I couldn't let her pry and I couldn't think of any actual good way to handle it. So I freaked out at her because that's always the best solution. I like her, she's weird in all the right ways, but she's been pretty chilly to me since and I don't blame her.>>

<<Broken like this?>> Alexander puts up a mental image of a place along the Washington coast where the rock has been worn by time and tide into a vaulting cavern open to the sea, filled with the echoing sound of waves, with the ground underfoot being multicolored stones worn smooth with every high tide, like a natural cobblestone road leading into the dark. He's been there, at least once in his life, and he does his best to bring it to life - the crags of the stone, the cracks in the walls and the moss growing out of them, even wild flowers growing sideways, suspended from the walls, reaching for the sun, the smell of it all sea-salt and cold stone, the feel of the rocks underneath on feet that probably should not have been bare but were. <<Shit happens. You're right. You can't unmake it. But sometimes the damage is what makes it beautiful.>> A pause. <<Which isn't to say I want any of your hurt to have happened. But the fact that it did, and it changed you, doesn't make the change worse than you would have been. I like you. I probably wouldn't like you, or at least wouldn't have anything in common with you or be able to relate to you at all, if you hadn't been changed along the way.>>

And then there's a thoughtful hum. <<She's been avoiding you because she thinks it's what you want.>> Just that. No advice, or 'shoulds'.

The image--not just an image, but a full sensorium of glory--makes Itzhak halt midstride. His eyes close again, to better concentrate on the gorgeous experience Alexander offers him. To revel in it. Violin music swells in his mind, singing along with the roar of the sea, touching everything: cold wet stone, salt spray, silky wildflower petals, soft/rough mosses.

<<Dammit, Clayton,>> he murmurs. One hand presses his chest, over his hidden tattoo. <<You're not making this 'having a crush on you' thing any easier. But don't stop.>>

<<Sorry.>> Alexander does, in fact, stop. But only with the imagery, letting it fade back into the background of his mind and memory. There's a sharp edge of frustration. <<It just hurts. To know my friends are hurting, to hear them thinking they're broken or wrong, and not be able to help. I don't say it much, but you come into my brain, and you get the lecture.>>

A hint of a smile. <<If it makes you feel any better, I'm walking back from having fallen for a trap executed by the two most adorably incompetent murderers I've ever run across. It was not one of my finer moments. In my defense, I...no, I actually have no defense.>> Rueful self-mockery there, shading everything in green and yellow.

Itzhak reaches helplessly for the memory when Alexander lets it fade. He even reaches out physically, lifting a hand into the air. Then he's letting his arm drop.

<<I said don't stop.>> He mock-scolds, smiling a little, eyes closed as he stands in the middle of the road. <<That helped, actually. Thanks.>> Alexander perceives him as someone weathered into beauty by harsh conditions? He can't say no to that. It really did help.

<<...Adorably incompetent murderers?>> he repeats, eyes opening again, eyebrows going funny. <<Uh, well, takes all kinds, right?>>

<<Good.>> Alexander's laughter is a low and silvered thing along the link. <<Yeah. I guess it does. Their trap involved marbles, Itzhak.>> Another flash of memory, with Alexander's shock coming through as a bucket of marbles is overloaded on his head, the world filling with the sound and getting pelted with all the tiny glass things - from a height of about two inches, because it's a camper door, in a waterfall. There's the brief impression afterwards of fire and screaming and a crying woman, but he shutters that away in favor of the funny bits.

Itzhak snorts and can't help laughing. Marbles! Everywhere! Then fire and screaming. He catches the impression, quirks an eyebrow curiously, but doesn't press. Alexander would tell him if he wanted him to know. <<Okay, but, why did they pour marbles on you. What was this meant to accomplish.>>

Meanwhile he's settled back into walking. He should probably pretend to work at some point today, but on the other hand, why, who cares.

<<It was part of a plan to capture me, drag me over there, and feed me to Veil creatures>>, Alexander says, without noticeable anger about this. <<I'm not entirely certain what the other parts of the plan were, only that it started with the marbles, and was supposed to end with my bones stripped of their flesh.>> A pause and a deep breath as he moves under the setting sun. <<They thought I was someone else. We worked it out.>> There's a hint of sourness there, although he's mostly still amused. He reaches up to wipe some sweat from his forehead. <<Although I may have to have the 'we're not feeding people to Veil creatures' talk again with them once we accomplish the task we're collaborating on. I get the feeling they're not hugely...on board with the less fatal options.>>

Itzhak spins a little blueprint in his mind. Fig. 1, Alexander. Fig 2, bucket of marbles. Fig 3, giggling adorable murderers. Fig 1 has Fig 2 applied, Fig 3 envisions something like 'marbles -> Veil monsters -> ???? -> Profit!'. And Fig. 4, a frowning post-Alexander skeleton.

<<The fuck?>> Itzhak sends, bemused. <<Probably maybe they need to less with the murdering and the feeding. The meshuggeners. Uh, well, glad you're okay. >>

Alexander has to stop to laugh, because laughing and breathing are hard to do at the same time. It echoes in pure amusement down the link. <<Yes. Something like that. I would not actually be surprised if that was actually drawn up on a poster somewhere in their home.>>

<<Yeah. I would like them to be less...that,>> Alexander admits. <<I think they used to be with the actors, but now are angry with the actors, but picked up some very nasty habits along the way.>> But they're cute. And Alexander isn't that great at resisting interesting people, even ones inclined to violence and other unfortunate habits. He sighs. <<Anyway. I'm getting closer to busy roads, so I should probably be paying attention to the cars. It's nice talking with you, though. Just hold on a little bit more, and hopefully things will calm down, after this.>>

Itzhak sends back smug violin ripples. He made Alexander laugh, hell yeah. He never fails to be pleased with himself when he manages to do that.

He laughs, too, and shakes his head. <<Things calm down? Aww, tateleh. You don't gotta lie to me. You're bad at it, anyway. Hey, thanks for pinging me. I'll see ya soon.>>