Conall the Red, aka 'Mac' (ruadh) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-06-07 20:51:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | mac, zipporah bakst |
Who: Mac and Zipporah
What: Curiosity
Where: The Lionhart
When: 7 June 1888
Ratings/warnings:
Zipporah took a deep lungful of air, grateful for her first chance to be outdoors in over a week, Ach walking a little more slowly behind her carrying the shopping, her ever-present, silent shadow.
Sitting shiva for her grandmother had been an odd combination of exhausting and (she was nearly ashamed to admit it) incredibly boring. She missed her vibrant, funny grandmother, and the house had seemed incredibly empty without her, especially over Shavuot, a holiday she usually loved. Zipporah’s aunt had been knocked sideways by the sudden death, and seemed diminished somehow -- smaller and frailer -- and kept mostly quiet apart from occasional crying jags. Ach, of course, was silent, as he always was. A small but steady trickle of women from the neighborhood had kept them company and kept them fed -- a small gesture she appreciated -- and a woman down the street going into labor as soon as shiva lifted had seemed fortuitous (and fitting, somehow), and had given her aunt back some of the color in her cheeks and purpose in her bearing, which was a relief.
So she hadn’t felt too guilty leaving her aunt at home to go stock up on supplies for Mister Darcy’s purification ceremony (and groceries) and enjoy the spring weather a little, which was pleasant enough that it was making her want to wander before turning back home.
Heading down a street she hadn’t walked before, she halted, amazed, in front of an unassuming three-story brick building housing what appeared to be a pub. Ach stopped dutifully behind her, shopping bags swaying.
The streets of London hummed with magic -- she could follow various leys like a bloodhound, and some of the older buildings especially practically glowed with the layers of magical sediment that’d built up over the years, most of it with that distinctive energy she associated with the quirks of English magic.
If some places glowed, this one was very nearly on fire -- magic was practically embedded in the mortar, baked into the bricks, layered and complicated and powerful, and she reached out to touch it tentatively.
An hour later, she was sitting on the pavement, cross-legged, still gently touching the brick, mesmerized by the swirling richness of it all, and trying her best to follow each thread of the layered spellwork. Each layer had its own flavor, its own mark, and she was reminded suddenly of her grandmother’s magical signature, how much enjoyment she’d get out of this building if she were still here, and the thought made her eyes sting.
Magic users poking at the wards of his pub made Mac wary. He liked to think a young mortal woman like the one sitting on the pavement outside wouldn’t be a harm to anyone, but centuries of experience had taught him not to trust pretty faces just because they were pretty. It had gotten him in trouble with Titania before, long ago, and since then he’d quit being so trusting.
Even worse she was just sitting there and hadn’t come into the pub to buy anything! He didn’t particularly care about mortal money, he had more than he knew what to do with but that wasn’t the point. The pub was supposed to pay for itself, and a strange young woman poking at the bricks (from a mundane mortals view of things) discouraged customers.
He’d tried to be patient, but this was really too much.
The Sidhe untied his apron and hung it on a hook by the bar, and marched out the door ready for whatever the witch might have to offer. He’d faced down a balrog and lived, humans didn’t scare him much by comparison.
Ach shifted behind her from foot to foot behind her, breaking her reverie, and upon seeing the barkeep come storming out the door, she stood, her cheeks flaming, embarrassed to realize how much time had passed.
She held up a finger in Ach’s direction -- a definitive gesture that meant wait in any language, before turning to the man, holding up her hands placatingly.
“I am sorry,” she began, before halting, her earlier embarrassment replaced by something a little more like fear as she was able to get a better look.
Not a man after all, then.
“I am very sorry,” she said, backing closer to Ach and lowering her eyes. “I didn’t… I was just looking. No changes. I swear it.”
Mac’s demeanor softened a bit as he got a better look at her, though the construct bodyguard caused a raised eyebrow. Such things were seldom seen, and ones that so closely resembled humans even rarer. He couldn’t remember seeing anything like it in a good two hundred years. Or was it three? Mortal time passed so quickly.
The fear in her eyes was a mark of intelligence, and he smiled (it probably looked a bit on the grim side, judging from her reaction) and nodded at her words.
“Aye, I ken that ye didn’t. It’s a good thing ye didn’t try lass, they’d have blown ye tae bits.” He responded in a gruff tone. “I’ve put a lot o’ time, trouble, and treasure intae them and ye’re not the first mortal mage tae take a look.” The wards had evolved over the centuries, some of his own design and others from mages he’d hired here and there to put a fresh layer on. The only being left alive who knew exactly how they worked was himself, though a determined spell caster could breach them given enough time. Time they wouldn’t get.
“All that must have made ye hungry. Care tae see the inside?” She’d leave a significant chunk of her magic on this side of the threshold if she did, but it would be a good indicator of her true intentions.
Zipporah swallowed, hard. She wondered at the consequences of accepting food from such a powerful creature, the consequences of not accepting as well -- and after weighing the balance, she turned to Ach, speaking clearly and precisely in Yiddish. “Go home and give the shopping to Auntie Miriam, and return to this spot in an hour.” She pointed to the place on the sidewalk where he was standing, and, after a fraction of a pause, he turned and lumbered slowly and quietly away.
“I would, thank you,” she said, turning back to the barkeep and dropping a bobbing sort of curtsy, her heart beating a little faster, feeling almost naked without her protector there. “I am Zipporah Bakst, and I am pleased for to be making your acquaintance. They are beautiful,” she added, looking up briefly to catch his eye. “Truly. A work of art.”
Mac smiled in approval at the witch’s actions. It didn’t take a genius to figure out exactly what the young mortal had instructed her construct to do, and he took his estimation of her intelligence and training up a notch. And she obviously was somewhat afraid of him, which just was another sign of her intelligence in his book. Anyone who understood what he truly was should be afraid if they’d done what this Zipporah had just done over the last hour.
“A pleasure tae meet ye as well Zipporah Baskt.” He inclined his head solemnly, meeting her eyes directly. “Ye can call me Mac, everyone here does.” A wave toward the pub. “Ye have my word there’s nothing in tae food but food. I run an honest establishment and have no need tae trick mortals.”
“Ah, but is it Kosher?” Zipporah shot back with a quick grin before flushing again at her (possibly ill-advised) impertinence and walking into the bar.
She knew intellectually what to expect walking over the threshold of the bar after exploring some of the wards at work, but actually doing it was another matter entirely -- and once she had, she felt as if yet another layer had been stripped away -- so many of her protections were rendered null and void -- nothing but paint and string and tin. She exhaled. The one thing keeping her from panic was the fact that she understood many of spells encompassing the bar were designed to protect the inhabitants -- and, presumably, that now included her. She’d been disarmed, in essence, and had to trust that the wards would hold up their end of the bargain in return.
“Beautiful and effective,” she murmured, imagining her Auntie’s frown and shake of her head at the idea of her stepping foot into a bar, unaccompanied, no less, but she squared her shoulders and walked the rest of the way in, head high.
The joke about the food being Kosher went completely over Mac’s head, Mortals and their peculiar eating practices were always an amazement to him. What was considered perfectly acceptable by one group would be considered an abomination by another, and the positions could flip flop a century later. He just tried to provide good honest food that customers would enjoy (and keep buying drinks to go with it) and let the rest sort itself out.
“Thanks.” He accepted the compliment as they stepped inside. “Welcome tae the Lionhart. No harm will come to ye here unless ye bring it yerself.” He escorted her through the bar to a table off in the corner, reserved for his use unless all the other tables were completely full, and not given away without his express permission.
“Now then, d’ye have any idea how close ye came tae blowing yourself tae kingdom come?”
She flushed a little at that, and dipped her head. “I was trained in protective magics by my grandmother,” she said. “The magics here are different than for what I learned, what I am doing, and so complicated, so I was curious.” She shrugged, looking up at him briefly. “It would be a bad mark on her training of me if I were to…” she bit her lip, pulling on the words. “To activate? To activate on accident. So I’m glad I didn’t. She would’ve loved to have seen it,” Zipporah added, bringing her hands together on the table. “I miss her dearly.”
That last was something she hadn’t quite planned on saying aloud, but it was a recent sort of ache that hadn’t quite gone away yet. She raised her chin a little defiantly to cover for it -- she didn’t like the feeling of being so vulnerable.
“If ye’d been adding wards tae something fer two centuries or more they’d be complicated too.” Mac drawled. “Magic is magic. It doesnae change based on where ye’re from or what year it is, only mortal understanding of it does.” Her words pegged her as similar to what some would call a ‘Hedge Witch’, trained in certain specialties by older family members passing down what they’d learned, in service to the local community. They were less common in the isles these days, with the rise of machines and factories, but by the same token the flood of newcomers to work in those factories brought new versions of the old type.
He understood about loss as well, having had many mortal loves and friends over the centuries. They seemed to come and go almost in the blink of an eye, and only the few supernatural friends he’d made lasted longer, but even the vampires eventually went away. It was the price he paid for enjoying the mortal world, and while he mourned their losses he didn’t regret knowing them.
“Aye, weel I’m sure she’s just as glad she dinnae see ye blow yerself up. What do ye know about the shadow realm, lass? Things that humans like tae tell stories aboot but dinnae really believe in?” Things like vampires, werewolves and demons.
She knew he was powerful -- immensely so -- and as he spoke of magic, she looked over at him appraisingly.
“I know some,” she said, curious. “Stories, mostly, how to look for signs, how to protect against sometimes, and before we came here, my family had a forest friend -- I never did see her, but my grandmother did when she was little, and we left her wine and bread on all the holidays. And since we’ve been here, Auntie Miriam treated a wolf-woman once for…” she waved a hand. “For women’s business,” she said.
She took a look around the bar then, cautiously. “What… what is this place?” She asked. “Other than a bar, I mean.”
“Women’s business,” Mac repeated drolly, “Aye, I ken well imagine. Then ye’ve an idea aboot one group. There’s more where that came from, and most willnae look any different than yerself."
“As fer the bar...it’s two things.” The accent suddenly changed mid sentence from a highland Scots burr to the clipped precise tones of an upper class Englishman. “It’s my primary residence in the mortal realm, my rooms are on the top floor. It’s also neutral territory for all beings to come and talk or have a meal and a drink in peace, regardless of what they are or of ancient hatreds. I’ll not tolerate violence here.” Unless he himself initiated it.
The switch in tone made things more formal -- Zipporah could feel her back straighten as he talked -- and the crisper, clearer tone made a world of difference in her capacity to understand -- she’d been able to fill in the gaps with some healthy guesses before, but the rolling, stretched vowels (while quite pretty to listen to) presented a bit of a challenge.
His description of the place as one of peace made an infinite amount of sense given the wards she’d been exploring earlier -- and while she’d never thought a bar could be holy ground before today, she could see it clearly now -- the exchange of food and drink was a ritual of sorts, after all, and she looked at the person before her with a new respect in her eyes. She might still be wary of such a powerful being, but the fact he’d used that power to carve out neutral place said something about his character that made her feel a little less nervous.
“I see,” she said, dipping her head in acknowledgement. Catching his eye again with a sudden burst of bravery, she flashed a smile at him. “I have never been in a bar before,” she admitted, shrugging a little. “But this one is a good one. I can tell.”
If she’d asked him about the feeling of holy ground she’d probably be surprised at his reaction. One of the reasons he’d chosen this spot for his bar was precisely because it had been a sacred space, back before the Romans came, and it was a thin spot in the veil between the human world and that of Faerie. Despite appearances he’d not picked the lot out of a hat.
“Aye, it is at that.” Mac nodded, smiling benevolently at the young witch as if she’d passed a test, or was a pet who’d done something particularly clever. Which of those two sentiments was the truth probably depended on his mood, which, given that he’d established the girl was no threat was rather good.
“Now then, yer construct will be back soon and I’d no be surprised if yer Aunt comes with.” All prepared to protect her chick from harm. Old hedge witches weren’t something to be sneered at, even if their knowledge tended to be very specialized. “Will ye not try a bit of stew, and maybe a wee dram? It’s quite good.”
“I shall, yes,” Zipporah replied, figuring it was only polite, and that if there was any pork in that stew, God would just have forgive her. “Thank you for… for having me in your home. And for your patience.”