The Bear and Barnacle

Minerva's memory has yet to fail her, but she's been prepared for it to do so since about eighteen. The habit of keeping extensive, diaristic notes on her research and activities came from her mother, an apothecary renowned for the efficacy of her precisely-prepared remedies. In compact black books Minerva logs her research activities, notes down interesting page numbers from the books she's using, jots questions for later consideration. She also tends to mark things like visits, and interesting weather patterns, and her time of the month back when it mattered, and any interesting newspaper headlines.

Lately the books have been all about Zelgadis Grayweir. There are notes of other things, mind -- "Explosion in Severus' lab, am assured was to be expected," and "Unnaturally hot," and "Rain of fish -- for God's sake," and "Am being haunted by the ghost of Ginny Weasley, with passenger. Am assured of current sanity, but not of its continuance."

( But rarely do three days pass ... )

Lucius sat at his desk, glancing through the owl post and muggle mail, reading glasses perched on his nose. He's noticed that he needs them more and more, as people seem to insist on writing smaller and smaller.

As he reads one letter from a local solicitor, he pulls his quill from the inkstand to make a corresponding note in his desk ledger. He writes the figure from the letter down, but pauses as he begins to write the date. He looks at the book, over to the calendar, and back.

August 17.

He'd completely forgotten. Well, it's not as if anyone else had reminded him. Narcissa's ghost had distressingly vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, only two days prior. She probably would have remembered. He himself had really, truth be told, purposely ignored the date for at least 5 years now, depsite her protests.

August 17. His own birthday. But really, with no one likely to remember, what reason did he have to celebrate another year of age?

When he comes into the pub again for the first time in (Lady Bright, it must be) months, his smile is not a sociable one, but the serene little closed-eyed Metallium smile that isn't worried about how to fulfill any unexpected orders to kill (or worse, incapacitate) any given person. The pink glasses are not in evidence (they're in a pocket), and neither is the frilly apron with the chickie on it.

There's a minor ruffle in the kitchen when one of the new staff demands to know who he is and where the Dragon-Lady's gone. Only a few moments of being silently and blandly smiled at sees the man re-assigning himself to dishwashing duty, though, and Xellos spends the rest of the evening on the hibachi displays of knifework and blending across from the bar that the pub hasn't seen in a good, long time, during weeks of sandwiches and pastries and pub food, his face in a pleasant mask. He shouldn't be angry with Ivonka-san for letting the place forget what it ought to be, but by the third time one of the waiters asks him what today's specials are, the third time he says (snarls, by this point, however frozen in polite tones), whatever they ask for, he is.

Every so often, he pulls Iago away from the bar, click-clicking away on his new cast into secluded corners, and just folds himself into his arms, breathing him in with their fingers laced until he's steady enough to face all the eyes again, sliding his fingertips for reassurance into the pocket of Iago's apron, just big enough to snugly contain one little hiding cat, just in case. To keep from doing that every five minutes or so, he spends a lot of time with his weight all on his newly re-broken leg, occasionally bouncing gently on it. Sometimes he turns the night before, the night of breaking it, over meditatively in his mind as his hands fly (and, if the truth be known, his ethereal tendrils, because two hands alone, however fast, really can't whip together multiple dishes at once), and sometimes he just laps gently at the sweet, sustaining pain of it.

Anotsu yawns tidily behind his fist. He hesitates before touching the handle, looks up at the sign above the door. He hasn't been out for ages. Not that he forgot; other things have been on his mind. Distraction is not a concept he endorses, even if his mind sometimes loops around itself enough to distract him; he does not need to venture out for that.
The warmth and the smell of a pub, he's forgotten those. The door chime jingles. He almost expects a yelled welcome from the bar until he remembers that this is England: if someone looks up or grunts at you, that means they're going out of their way to greet you. Slipping in unnoticed, it suits him fine.

There are other things he not-forgot: renewing the registration and license of the dojo with the association. This, too, suits him. Things that you forget deliberately... it's beautiful, he thinks, how a simple omission turns into action. How passivity becomes an agent. The sea gently laps at the rocks until they are sand. Speaking of which, he still collects flotsam on the beach, picking up bleached bone and water-whittled wood, rocks to arrange on Makie's orange-crate.

He looks up and studies the new faces hovering around the bar. Names you never knew are names you can't forget.

We didn't forget! We'd planned to forget! Really! That's the topic for this month, forgetting.

What are you forgetting or have you forgotten? Anything important? Something silly? Did you get in trouble or did no one notice? Or have you or something you did ever been forgotten? How about things you wanted to forget but couldn't? Or have you been made to forget something? Like being obliviated?


The tag for this month's topic is, you guessed it, forgetting. At least we think so. We kind of forgot. We do like to keep it simple around here so that's probably it. Hope everyone is having a grand summer where ever they may be.

Also, Iago (et al)'s player and I will be catching up on threads the best we can now that we're back to having our own computers again. One laptop between that many voices is really, really not good. :P