darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone? Who: Theodore Finch & Divina Marcos What: "it's done" Where: Tenements; the Finch estate. When:Here; here. Rating: Tame Status: Complete
The man others knew as Sir Theodore Finch, a man who no longer knew himself, stood near the window of his small, borrowed room of the clinic. Peering out to the view of the city beyond, he could catch a glimpse of a great tower in the distance--what the others had said was the Mages Guild tower, one that stood peerlessly tall at the heart of Emillion. He rested one palm against the window pane, feeling the moisture where the frost began to melt from his touch, a cool reminder of his current state of being. His body was swiftly mending, Faram be praised, and only the collection of scars along his body gave indication of his previous struggle--that of course, and a mind that remained ill at ease.
Dreams had kept him anxious, pacing, and it seemed to serve the man well to remind himself of the here, and of the now, and not of that darker, phantom world which held onto all of his secrets with tight, greedy fingers.
The man knew little of the city beyond as yet, and of himself, and so he eventually turned away from the view and down to where his thumb drew errant symbols on the glass. It was as he began to do this when the door to his room pulled open. Expecting to see a young and curious girl, the man turned around and raised his eyebrows.
A visitor?
There was little other explanation for the woman in the doorway, who was without a doubt neither Kira nor the girl’s mother. The rich mantle thrown over her shoulders set her apart from the simple surroundings, although that could have easily been the pride of her bearing, the heavy lustre of her hair. She regarded the room with a fierce expression, her hand tightly gripping the door frame. When dark eyes at last lit upon him, the tension seemed to leave her in a rush, a stalk of bamboo finally folding to the wind.
“Finch,” she exhaled. “Ajora.”
Long strides brought the woman to him, until she was close enough to reveal the weight of her breathing. It was as though she had just run many miles, or perhaps scoured many rooms before this, before his. A hand reached for his face, her calloused palm settling against his cheek.
The man frowned. No recognition, no name or memory of this woman was offered, even as she placed her hand to rest upon his cheek (time enough to shave and groom himself at least, even if the clothing was borrowed). He stood vulnerable and looked at her for a long moment, examining the fineness of the woman’s mantle, the way her hair fell down in a wave to her shoulders, and eyes that--
He had to turn away. The thought struck him at once, like a hammer to the chest--a possible realization that made his condition all the worse. It clawed its way up his throat with hooked fingers, gripping tight. Speaking came as a difficulty, but the man did his best to try.
“Finch?” He said, repeating the name. His mouth felt dry. “You know of me?” Somewhere in the midst of this, his hand had inched to the woman’s shoulder, and it rested there now.
The woman did not shy away from his touch (and if she leaned into the tactile reassurance that he was here, that she had not failed him, there was no one but them to say). At his words, however, her jaw clenched; her hand fell to her side. Something in Sir Divina Marcos retreated, an errant wave returned to distant seas.
“Know of you,” she echoed flatly. What game was this?
His gaze wandered down to the bedside table, where the attending healer had left her notes. He’d gone through them more than enough times himself, studying their words and struggling through the efforts of healing--the body moving quicker through the process than the mind. Grasping the papers in his palm, he handed the woman the report (and again his mind burned with the thoughts of who she might be--or was it who he hoped she was?).
“Read it for yourself,” he said, explanation offered in hopes she would offer him one in kind. Eventually, his hand left her shoulder and he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. From there he watched and waited.
She leaned against the windowsill, holding the documents up to the sunlight. Her eyes raced over the words once, twice. Thrice. Divina had been winded before, but now it was with great effort that she did not crush the parchment in her hands, setting the report down on the bed beside him as though it scalded.
She stared at him then, her mouth moving but not speaking. At length, she uttered a low oath, turning back to the window, fists clenched and trembling.
“Theodore Finch,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, strangled, as she struggled to speak past the rage bubbling in her throat. “Your name is Theodore Finch. Theo.”
“Theo,” he repeated, his gaze moving away only for a moment. It returned quickly, affixed itself to the tautness of her shoulders, the way the light from the window now shone in her hair. He thought perhaps to comfort her, but reminded himself of his condition, and how he knew nothing of either her or himself as yet. Theodore Finch kept back the urge and held in a breath.
“And your name?” A simple question, and it would perhaps shed light upon several of his own.
She closed her eyes, trying and failing to draw upon Li’s lessons on focus, equanimity. And so it was to another anchor that her thoughts went, blue eyes and dark hair. The image of the young girl set the woman at ease, and after a moment, she offered, “Divina Marcos.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m here to bring you home. Your brother…” Divina stopped herself. Opening her eyes to regard him frankly, she reflected upon the turned tables. How strange it was to be the one with answers, she thought, the dissatisfaction prickling like an old wound, and then another feeling, tugging. She moved to sit beside him.
“Before anything else. Questions?” It was a lame prompt, she realised, for surely he had enough concerns to last them until nightfall. But he would have to begin somewhere, and if she could offer him answers, or peace of mind, then there was no effort she would not gladly give. Temporary, she reminded herself, eyes briefly returning to the discarded papers.
Distracted by the woman’s weight on the bed beside him, Theo felt comfort cross blades with concern inside him. Answers, some, but more questions were now presented to him by far. It had a been a simple life here at the clinic, he realized, left in a perfect stasis of ignorance. He moved a hand to rest on the back of his neck, kneading out the sudden tension.
Realizing his foolishness from moments before, Theo sighed and sought to pick up the remnants of his inner dignity. At least he had not done as much as spoken his thoughts aloud. “You and I,” he said slowly, “we are friends?” Of all the things to ask, he supposed, it seemed the simplest--and would provide him some measure of assurance in what he was about to commit to (and whom he would need to place his trust in).
Divina nodded. “Comrades,” she said. “Both members of the Fighters Guild, the nobility.” The words somehow seemed to her a pittance, though she knew there was little else to be offered. Of the other things they shared, she could as yet carry the weight for them both.
He nodded his head in solemn acceptance. For now, that would have to be enough. “Come then,” Theo said, looking to her for guidance, “show me the way home.”
Divina had meant to arrive at the estate directly from the guildhall, but some reconsideration prompted a brief return to her own residence. And so the woman brought to Theodore’s quarters looked every inch a noblewoman, save for the bandages that peeked through the edges of her clothing. She seemed revitalised, however, in the wake of these wounds, as though she had bled from them the poisonous weight of the week prior.
Despite her previous visits, the fell knight had never had cause to see these particular rooms before. There was considerable curiosity about the sort of space the man kept, and it was this she attempted to focus on in lieu of the concern that still nipped at her heels. Her gaze flitted across the room like a butterfly, barely alighting upon one of Theo’s personal effects before proceeding to the next.
Theo, meanwhile, turned his attention to the crystal decanter on the table in front of him, intent on pouring himself (and his guest) a glass. It might’ve been a small relief to note that his prior self seemed to have had a refined palate, and the brandy offered tonight was nothing but exceptional. A good thing, he considered, for after long hours of being prodded at by the hired healers, the man decided he could use a drink.
Dressed no longer in the ill-fitting clothes from before, his dress spoke equally of his own station. Moulding himself back into the life he had left behind was an all-encompassing effort, even though the finely-stitched shirt, waistcoat and breeches seemed awkward in their own right. Leaned over to pour himself a drink, the sleeves hinted at the arms of a fighter but not the scars of battle.
Once finished, he sat back and allowed his gaze to follow that of his guest’s. As new to Theo now as they were to her, he too wondered at the collection of paintings, furniture and other decorations lining the room. The jeweled weaponry plaqued to the wall seemed appealing enough, even if he could not remember reading any of the books or studying any of the maps.
“Tell me something,” he said after a while, frowning into his glass of brandy (as time went on, he seemed to be doing more of that--likely enough that stress was a factor).
She offered a curious hum in response, turning to him with eyebrows raised. Idly, her fingers traced the cut glass of her own drink.
“A memory,” he clarified in a low grumble. “Something shared.” Theo had been given plenty of time to wonder at the nature of their friendship, as fighters and comrades as Divina had said before, and now seemed as good opportunity as any to review it. That a retelling of their history might spark something hidden in the depths of his memory was a small, added hope.
Her fingers stilled. A long moment was taken to ponder the prompt, for it had never occurred to Divina herself to introspect in this regard. She turned their shared experiences over in her mind, feeling at once like a child flipping through the pages of a picture book.
“A few months ago,” she began, and here a smile broke upon her face, her eyes meeting his with a glimmer of mirth, “I defeated you in a bout of arm-wrestling. Inebriated, the both of us.” She paused, recalling an errant conversation with Alys. With some incredulity, “You laughed.”
Theo leaned forward on his elbows, pondering the image himself. “Unusual?”
He wondered where this had taken place, how drunk he must have been to do such a thing. Trying to imagine arm-wrestling Divina, Theo let his eyes wander over to the nearby hearth, and the fire that had been lit by the servants before the woman’s arrival. The flames remained steady, and even at this distance he could feel the warmth--or maybe the liquor had something to do with it as well.
“Should think so, if I lost.” Perhaps, all things considered, it would be too out of place if he did chuckle.
“Don’t underestimate me, Finch.” With a mock-leer, she raised her glass and took a conservative sip. But even that much prompted a flush of warmth, the woman setting the drink down with a noise of approval. “No, a fluke,” she clarified finally. “You were worse off than I.”
She licked her lips in consideration. “We see each other often,” Divina admitted. “Sparring, cooking. Our families are close. We are… close.” The acknowledgment was made with a furrowed brow, followed promptly by another sip of brandy. A strange thing to say out loud, she thought, although she supposed it was true enough.
“Friends, aye,” he said, gazing down into his own glass before taking a sip. Theo wondered if this was a typical visit then, or if they did not much prefer doing these other things--sparring, cooking, over simple talk.
Another thought occurred to him then, as if all strangeness about the acknowledgement had been lost on him (and truthfully enough, he’d already sputtered through his own unspoken befuddlement at first meeting--reunion, that was). He did seem to have interest in the kitchens, and had lingered around the hall closest by that morning, frightening off the nearest servants in his wandering and confusion.
He peered at her over his glass. “Cook often here?”
She lit up. “Yes.”
When it came to cooking, Divina more often than not followed his lead (for was this not, in the first place, the very reason for that ill-advised arm-wrestle?). Perhaps she might now introduce him to her own repertoire, tastes from far beyond Emillion’s walls. An opportunistic notion, but she did not think he would very much mind. Or rather, in this instance, she did not care.
“Would you like to?” she asked.
Theo thought it over for a moment before letting out a low rumble of consent. He set aside his glass of brandy and stood up, ready to follow her lead once again.