[Anthony] - Waking
Anthony is dreaming.
At first, he is back in the snow, in the chaotic and bloody aftermath of the battle. He picks himself up from the ruin of the Madman’s body, lets fall the frost-rimed shards of Master Kaminari’s sword. He is looking dazedly around at the burning trees, at the wide banks of steaming fog slowly re-condensing to water, at the still-twitching pieces of the Outsiders, bereft of their energy and gradually dissolving into poisonous dust. He is stumbling to Kaminari’s still form, kneeling next to it, hoping against hope that the old man somehow survived, but the Madman’s final strike was simple and thorough. One bright blue eye stares upward from the charred remains of his face, never again to melt back to its usual penetrating black. He raises his head to the sky and is stung by wind-whipped snow as he cries out his denial, his anger.
His anger rings off the stone walls. He is in the monastery near Lhasa, kneeling on the hard stone of the terrace. Master Xiang Lung is glaring at him for his unseemly exclamation, but he doesn’t care; he is fed up with the constant rigor, the discipline, the asceticism and reserve of the other students. He gets to his feet, staggering as his equilibrium is once again thrown off by having only one arm, and stumbles into the slight Brother Kian, who takes him quietly by the shoulder to help him away. Anthony is too near tears to refuse him, leaning on the diminutive monk and burning with shame.
Shame is all he can feel as his sister Adele hugs him desperately in LAX, saying how the trip will be good for him, the time away from everything, the experience of another culture and another country. They can work out the issues of college when he gets back, she says, and Dad and Mom will have finished with the lawyers and gone their separate ways by then; everything will be less crazy and less tense. She’s trying to reassure him, and he knows she’s covering up disappointment at how he’s running away, leaving all the hard things to her. He knows she wants him to stay, but she’s the strong one, and instead she just pushes coppery hair out of her eyes and presses an absurd green-and-white scarf into his hands, a scarf she obviously knitted herself. She talks over his feeble protest, saying it will keep him warm, telling him through tears to call when he lands in Beijing, no matter how late it is.
It is very late when he wakes, and his copper-haired benefactor is drowsing next to him in a beaten old armchair, with some engineering journal open across her knees. He looks around the dark room, caught by the indefinable sense that something is wrong, tasting in the air some aura of crawling malice that feels horribly familiar. He is frozen in place by a darker shadow that moves behind Joule. It reaches out to grasp the back of her chair and at first it seems to have the bizarrely-jointed appendage of the Outsider, all ragged nails and black, crawling skin. But then light shifts and kindles, and it is a sharp-faced Chinese man with scars around his lips and flaring orange eyes, who smiles horribly as he raises a rune-bladed willow sword for a great downward slash.
Anthony tears himself awake in truth, shouting a denial in Japanese, clenching his magical hand in a desperate attempt to block the attack. Facts register quickly; the room is drenched in wan winter sunlight, he cannot feel even a whisper of Jiang Lu’s vile aura, and Joule is there, kneeling softly next to the bed, a look of trepidation on her face.
“Heya, love,” she murmurs quietly.
The events of the past day flash bright and painful through his mind with sudden clarity. His first thought is, Oh, teacher, no… and then, I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t involve her with any of this, nor with what might follow. And damned if I have any choice right now. “Don't mean any offense,” he says quietly, “but I was hoping last night was all a nightmare."
She smiles, a good, concerned smile, full of relief. He realizes it’s probably the first one he’s seen from her. "None taken. I was hoping that myself."
“You have a nice smile." He tries to echo it, reassuringly, manages a pale imitation. She was so brusque when we first met... now I’m ‘love’? "I was wondering, yesterday morning, if I smelled funny."
She colors, somewhat charmingly, and then says something unintentionally cutting. "You do... just not the way that most people can smell it."
He can’t control the reaction; he curls the artificial arm close to himself and glances away from her, stung by the reminder that even by mage standards, he’s not at all normal. She clearly catches it, and there’s more of her initial demeanor in the sharp, “Don’t,” that she quickly adds. It makes him look back at her, caution in the set of his mouth and angle of his shoulders, and she sighs, pursing her lips while she looks for words. "I'm not good with people. I'm really not good with other mages. Just... don't draw away like that. This is... uncomfortable. For both of us. But now... We've managed to invoke Hospitality. And I don't take that lightly."
Joule meets his eyes, asking without saying another word. It was an accident, and that was the one place she might have stung you. Hell... for all you know, her story is even worse. Give her a shot. Slowly, he shifts, and extends his left arm - the magical construct that so sets him apart - from under the blankets, opening his hand in invitation. Her eyes widen a little, but she barely hesitates, slowly taking his hand in hers.
As almost every time he touches something new, Anthony is freshly amazed by the tactile sensitivity of the magical digits; he can feel every callus in Joule’s hand, every work-graven line, every beat of her heart through the light pressure of long fingers on her wrist. He realizes it’s distracting him and blinks, keeping the sensations near the edge of his awareness, instead nodding soberly to her. More open-minded than most. "I won't pull away, then. It's... I know what I look like to extra senses." Carefully, he loosens his grip just enough that she could take back her hand if she wanted. "I don't know why you opened that door, but... you saved my life."
Her eyes wander, seem to light unconsciously on the magical limb, and she stares, transfixed. She’s not the worst sort, the ones who look with disgust, but she’s staring in fascination, and those people have been plenty bad in the past. After long moments, she tears her eyes away and looks him in the face. "I couldn't let you die."
"Sure you could have. It would have been easy." He gives her fingers a little squeeze of gratitude. "But you didn't.” And it was a good answer anyway, even if you stare.
She wrinkles her nose, and it turns her somewhat severe face - dare I even think it? - cute. "No. I couldn't have." Her other hand comes up to scratch at her hairline and draws his eyes there; the kerchief she has covering the dreadlocks today has half-fallen away. Her hair is wispy, copper-red... and there, woven in through the orderly dreadlocks, is actual copper wire. Wire, that’s right. I saw those last night. Is it an affectation, or...?
"Then you're better than...” Many of the Adamantine Arrow? “...than many I've known." He lets his eyes flicker deliberately over her hairline, enough to tell her it’s showing, then looks back to her face and gives what smile he can muster. "Thank you, Joule."
She blushes again and looks down; he’s not sure she got the hint. But her nose wrinkles a slightly different way, and she squeezes his metal fingers experimentally. He’s taken aback for a moment with the sensation of it; it’s been a long while since anyone held his hand this long. "You're welcome," she mutters. Her eyes are on his metal arm again, and he can see questions burning in her engineer’s gaze. Are we about to start the inquisition, then? To his surprise, though, she shrugs off her inquisitiveness and lets his fingers go, instead drawing a queer gold coin from her robe’s pocket. “We should see where sleep put us,” she says, sounding as if she’s looking for a lifeline.
After a second he realizes she must be talking about his injuries, and at the thought the dull aches and pains become more poignant. Anthony flexes his metal arm, hoping it has full range of motion back, and presses it into the bed to hoist himself up to a sitting position, letting blankets fall to pool around his waist. Swiftly he explores the feel of his own body, drawing on his training, and takes stock of himself, assessing his wounds. “Everything... feels much the same, I think." In some bizarrely-conscious portion of his mind, he realizes he’s naked in a strange girl’s bed, and fumbles to make sure the errant blankets are keeping him decent, touching his bracelet of wooden prayer beads as a means to cover the self-conscious motion.
Joule tosses the coin, murmurs a few words and catches it neatly. Atlantean make, or I’m a fool. ...Maybe both. Her eyes slip out of focus as she reaches for his shoulder, then pulls back before touching him. "May I?"
He almost laughs at her asking permission to touch him now, but keeps it to a smile. “It'd be pretty stupid of me to say no..."
Her blue eyes still unfocused, she gives a small smile and puts her hand lightly against his shoulder for a moment, then draws it down to the edge of his stomach, touching the taped-on dressings in each spot. "We'll change these in a bit, I think."
Anthony concentrates on taking his mind off the highlights of pain, off the warmth of her fingers and the chill of the air in her loft, and especially off how long it’s been since he’s been touched. He shuts his eyes, letting his breathing fall into a more meditative cadence, and walls away those portions of his mind, letting himself relax into the careful ministrations. She’s not a bad doctor, really. Bedside manner might need a little work... maybe some practice with sutures. I wonder where a mechanic learned advanced first aid. Her hands move to his back, trace over the dressing there, and he obligingly leans forward, folding his hands in his lap. Only one way to find out... but let’s not pry too hard. "The old man used to say," he murmurs, voice carefully neutral, "that fixing one kind of thing wasn't so different than fixing another. It was all in the outlook, not the knowledge." The memory of Kaminari’s crisp Japanese as he lectured is a subtle but sharp pain.
“Mmm. An interesting point, but more philosophically than literally correct." She moves toward his thigh, and he carefully flicks the blanket back enough to expose the wound. When she’s had her look there, she returns her gaze, focused again, to his face.
"You're not exactly proving him wrong, you know."
She leans back in the old armchair next to the bed - just like in my dream - and regards him curiously. "My knowledge is hard learned and there are significant gaps in it. Machines are easier than flesh. When a machine breaks down, there's a reason for it - a well defined reason for it. Living creatures... they're different. And much, much more difficult. I suppose it's the divide between man's creation and whatever god-aspect you happen to worship."
She tries to sound nonchalant, and her last sally is clearly an effort to change the subject. Anthony considers pursuing the topic for a moment, but lets it go with the calm that was drilled into him at the monastery, following her lead instead. "Is there really such a difference, do you think? Or is it all just a matter of complexity?"
"I'm not sure, actually. I used to think that the body was merely a machine of flesh, but I don't know anymore. It has aspects of the machine. Or perhaps it is more correct to say that the machine has aspects of it." Joule pulls the silk kerchief from her head and shakes out her hair. It looks like something she doesn’t do much, and he can immediately see why; there are a dozen or so copper wires, all in all, some woven into her dreads while others hang loose. She folds the cloth almost nervously, lays it over her knees. "What do you think?"
I think we’ve both got our oddities. He straightens his back and starts a gentle series of stretches, testing his range of motion without moving his right shoulder and without straining any of the bandages. After a moment, he gives a considered answer, trying not to overload her with Buddhist ideology. “I think the body is something made to house the soul. It's a pretty thing, amazing detail work, but impermanent." Hope that doesn’t throw you off.
She merely nods, asks her next question out of seeming curiosity. "What do you think of attempts to make it more permanent?"
The fact that this artifact is currently adorning my maimed ass says that making the body more permanent doesn’t work in the end. Maybe you meant exercise and clean living. Sure. "They can work. The body can always be improved. But if it's a real attempt to make the body last, then it's just spitting in the wind." He shifts the arm a little in mute demonstration.
"God or fate or life marches on, regardless of what we do." She smiles genuinely, and it softens her sharp edges into something approachable and open. "And sometimes, we march on regardless of what God or fate or life hands us."
Might almost think that point was important to you... "Everything changes. And we keep going if we're ready. Ability really has little enough to do with it." I wonder, does that mean you’re ready to talk about you? Let’s see. He cocks his head. "So how does this apply to fixing things, whether they're people or machines?"
"Only in the sense that perseverance has little to do with ability. I'll agree on that point. However the knowledge one has does not always apply..." She looks away, thinking, chewing absently on a thumbnail.
Anthony takes advantage of the small lull to probe at his right shoulder a little, exploring the tenderness of the joint. After a moment, when she hasn’t said more, he tosses out, "That's why people like us are blessed. Specific knowledge and skill isn't as necessary when we can see so clearly."
Her eyes come back to him, touch on the metal arm and the point where it meets his scarred torso. "I think your old man has a point in the wherewithal to fix things. It's... it's a compulsion, a need. There are those who destroy and those who repair. Each have their purpose."
His hand comes away from his wounded shoulder, lays carefully over one knee, Anthony beginning to become engaged. "It can be that simple, I guess. If... if Master Kaminari were here, I'm thinking he'd ask how you tell the difference." All right, that’s not going to stop hurting any time soon.
"Between?"
“Repairing and destroying. Seems pretty cut and dried, until you think about it a little while."
"Sometimes destruction is the only course, the only thing that can be done to bring some semblance of... oh, let's say balance, although nothing is ever really balanced, least of all life." She raises an eyebrow and her lips quirk a smile. "But the two are siblings, born of the same mother."
Her poetic phrasing surprises him, and draws a smile part amused, part skeptical. "She fixes cars, she patches wounds, and she talks philosophy in metaphor. Who is this girl, anyhow?" This time she blushes clear to the roots of her hair, and looks down, stuttering over whatever she was going to say. Adele used to blush just like that... they’re similar in some ways. Which is kinda awkward. Let’s keep to easier ground for both of us. He shrugs his unwounded shoulder and steers back towards comfortable philosophy. "They're two sides of the same coin. Addition and subtraction, being and non-being. Basic frame of the world. Computer scientists have this great talk about the numbers one and zero when they're really tired or drunk."
She looks up when he continues, gratitude competing with trepidation in her expression. "Do you believe that such a duality is universal?" she asks softly, color still across her cheeks.
He looks down at his hands to stop from comparing her to his sister, and smiles to cover up the stab of remorse. "There's almost nothing to believe. It's plain enough to see anywhere you look. Nothing is permanent. My only hitch in the idea is... well, I don't know if it's really a duality. I'm still trying to figure out if there actually is such a thing as non-being."
When he looks up, she meets his eyes squarely. "There is. I think it's only our fear that drives us to seek an alternative. What are we before we are created?"
I asked that same question a few times... and I’ll give you Brother Kian’s answer, rather than Master Xiang Lung’s. He grins at the thought, pain and discipline eclipsed by amusement. "Something else."
Joule smiles in response, a wry expression. "Can you define the 'something else'?"
The moment of joy fades under the weight of what’s happened, and he shrugs tiredly. "No, honestly. I think it varies for each of us. But maybe our idea of non-being is simply being something else... that we're not equipped to understand."
"Or maybe it's simply non-being, and we are ill equipped to understand that."
That’s one of the things I thought, too. Shame there isn’t a concrete answer. "Could be."
She levers herself out of her chair and takes a few steps into the tiny kitchen, and Anthony shifts, slowly, to watch her, fetching the blanket more securely around his waist when it threatens to pull away. She clicks on a burner on the gas stove and puts on a kettle to boil. He decides to pursue her a little further, see what shakes out. "Even the Outsiders are a sort of being, just radically different from what we know here. It's hard to imagine a state of total nothingness." Even if your teachers wish you could.
Joule opens a cabinet and rummages, finally pulling out a box, then retrieving a spoon from the drainboard. "I think it is harder for some than others. Contemplating the void is a fascinating exercise that every mage should engage in at least once."
"Emptiness," he murmurs, turning his metallic hand up and opening it flat. Now we’re really getting towards philosophy-overload territory. Hope you’re as patient as you seem. "There's certainly something to that. But I feel it means something different than I think most do."
Joule scoops tea from the box into a chipped china teapot with roses painted on the side. "Tell me."
"Form and being aren't permanent. Everything always changes into other things... loses identity, so nothing actually has consistent identity. Thus, nothingness. Emptiness."
"How very existential," she remarks, leaning against the counter, folding her arms across her chest.
"It is a little over-philosophical. I told the first person to tell me that that it sounded nihilistic." And boy was Master Xiang Lung pissed. You’d think nobody had ever talked back to the strict old bugger.
Joule snorts, amused. "But you found it had some merit, nihilistic wanking aside?"
He raises an eyebrow, quirks his lips in amused response to her term. "Yes, once you get what that means. The identity of each thing, whatever it has, is tied into the world around it. Dependent on everything else."
"I'll accept that for the moment. Ours is a mutable world." The kettle whistles and she turns, pouring boiling water into the teapot.
"Always." His right shoulder twinges and he tries to stretch it a little, frowning. “I think this is going to want a sling. Don't suppose you have anything that would serve?"
She glances over her shoulder, takes in his meaning adroitly. "Always." She walks the teapot over to the bedside table and sets it down along with two cups. Carefully she considers him, eyeing the arm, before turning and whisking into the tiny bathroom. He hears cupboards rattling and forces himself to wait serenely, sniffing appreciatively at the teapot, which wafts the mingled scent of green tea and brown rice amiably in his direction. After a few moments, she returns with what was obviously a sheet in a former life, decorated with faded pink posies. "This should do the trick. Apologies to your manhood."
He looks over the posies, almost snorts laughter, and schools his face to the deadpan calm that one of his teachers demanded he be able to produce at will. It made for a good poker face. "I'm Buddhist. You don't get to be one if you're not serene in the face of adversity."
She stares at him, then laughs, perching on the side of the bed while she tears the sheet. "Of course you are," she says, chuckling.
He smiles wryly, pleased to hear laughter, and simply watches the motion of her hands, forcibly keeping his thoughts once more in the present.
Joule holds the long strip of cloth an arm's length out, twists her lips. "This ought to do nicely. Here, let's see how we're going to do this." She puts a hand out to his arm, hesitating just over him, eyebrow raised, clearly either afraid of hurting him or nervous again about touching him without permission. Anthony shifts enough to give her better access, bringing to mind his own first aid training and the many improvised slings he’s worn.
“I'd say loop the breadth of it under my right arm, and tie a knot over my left shoulder." he refrains from pointing out the perfect dip in the metal joint where a sling will comfortably rest, instead simply saying, "It won't even rub too badly."
She blinks and follows the suggestion, frowning a little as she settles the cloth around his arm. "Am I right in assuming you're Arrow?"
He shrugs the sling into a slightly better position, and adjusts the knot with his left hand until it’s as comfortable as it’ll get. "Seems like the only guess you could have made, unless I were a really hardcore Mysterium."
His mind supplies a few other possibilities even while Joule fills some in herself. "Or a stupid Guardian, or a left of center Ladder or a Libertine who needed some serious help." She shrugs and sits back to pour the tea. "It's a bit weak, but that's all to the good right now."
He reaches out, accepting a porcelain cup with great care. Heat blossoms in his metal fingers, and the extraordinary delicacy of the cup takes him aback for a moment, sensation rolling up his arm. Recovering himself from that, he spends a moment breathing in the steam, relishing the smell of it, and he smiles appreciatively for her. Odd tastes you’ve got for a Montana mechanic, not that I’m complaining. "Wouldn't have expected to find... tea like this... in Montana." He tries to keep the pauses small, hoping she’ll notice and expound, keeping an eye on her through a veil of good-smelling steam.
“A friend of mine knows my taste and sends me civilization from time to time."
Ah, well. "Privacy has its downsides." He closes his eyes, takes a slow sip from the cup, and makes a pleased noise.
"I move around a bit. I don't think I'll be wintering anywhere that has an annual freeze again, though."
“Not a fan of ice and snow, eh?" He twists at mid-torso and glances to the window, contemplating the gray light. "I admit, it took me a little by surprise, too." It’s even deeper out there. Last time I saw snow like this was in Tibet.
"I'm used to snow. I'm not used to... this." She waves her hand in a gesture that indicates not only the room, but the warehouse garage, and the whole of Great Forks outside.
"What exactly is... this?" He mimes her gesture, slowly, the teacup in his hand making a slow swirl of steam.
"The snow that starts in September. The freeze that forces people to practically hibernate for six months. The lack of good curry. I like aspects of Montana. I like not feeling like I'm forced to talk to anyone. I like being alone, free to do whatever I damn well please." She shakes her head, and her dreadlocks flash copper. "I also, occasionally, like being able to find a sushi bar with fish that hasn't had to be shipped a thousand miles." She sips at her tea and folds one foot underneath her on the bed.
Anthony smiles at that thought, balancing the cup on the tips of his metal fingers. Sushi… god, I’m a bad Buddhist. "It's never as good when you're away from the ocean." It’s still a bad idea for her to be involved… and it’s got to be a strain on her privacy, her routine. Wonder if she’s just being nice about it. "You're not, you know."
"I'm not what?"
“Under any obligation to talk to me, if you don't want to.” Joke, Anthony, in case you’re being an idiot. "I once kept silent for a week. One of my teachers said it was good for the soul."
Joule gives a surprised snort of amusement, and he’s gratified that he was, apparently, being an idiot. "I'm an introvert, not anti-social. There is a difference. Besides, if I don't talk occasionally, I'll forget how."
He buries his momentary embarrassed smile in another drink of tea. Subject change. "Fair enough. You know my affiliation. Gonna tell me yours?"
"I'm not. Affiliated, that is." She winces before the second part, and Anthony wonders for a moment if she’s really been around people who are so easily offended.
Without an order… I wonder how that came to pass. It’s rare enough that someone with her obvious control goes so long without being discovered… but that means she was either kicked out or quit… probably not the best subject to broach. He carefully doesn’t look at her, schooling his expression to calm acceptance. "That usually means an even harder story than anyone else's."
Joule looks down into her teacup, and there’s something behind her eyes, a long and difficult something. She lets it go, though, and when she finally looks up, it’s with a kind smile. "My mentor was Free Council. After he died, I decided that wasn't the way I should go. None of the others appeal. We learn through experience." She shrugs as if to dismiss the whole thing, but the shift of shoulders makes Anthony suspect a great gulf of pain in her.
He meets her eyes in sympathy. "That we do. I'm sorry about your mentor."
"It happens." Yes… apparently it does. She makes an aborted motion, raising her hand as if to brush her hairline, then dropping it abruptly. Anthony’s eyes are drawn to the wires again, knowing she’s conscious of them. Maybe I should just bring them up and get it over with.
"Yeah." He tips back the rest of the cup of tea and takes a slow breath, quelling his questions and his own pain over his lost mentor. For a few moments, his thoughts dwell on Kaminari, on the clipped words, brusque wisdom, and rare, surprising hints of compassion from the aged master. When he looks up, Joule is just glancing up herself, her smile a bit sad.
"How do you feel?" She asks to change the subject, and Anthony is happy enough to do it.
He glances down, at himself, takes a slow accounting of his body and its ills. The cut on his thigh is smaller than the other major wounds, and he hardly gives it a thought, its pain entirely secondary. The scratches on his back still burn insistently, the wound in his shoulder barely noticeable until he chances to move it, at which point it erupts in fresh agony for a few moments. His stomach still aches horribly, a throbbing tenderness that might catch fire at any wrong move. He smiles grimly. "A little like I actually did have my guts ripped out." And like I lost someone important. The smile tints with sadness. "But also desperately alive."
Joule simply nods, seems to cast about for words, and finally says, "You are a man of impressive endurance."
He shrugs with only his metal shoulder. "Do you think? I'm told it's normal to feel exhilarated after you've come so close to dying." At least, when you come through it in shape enough to feel anything. This is better than before.
"I think that anyone who holds a lucid philosophical discussion the morning after... well, after that, is."
Anthony glances at his empty cup, contemplating it, briefly touching on a metaphor Master Xiang Lung once gave him, of a vessel waiting to be filled. "Would it do me any good to wallow in pain? Or grief? To spin it over and over in my head until my stomach turns and my eyes blur?" He shakes his head. "I did that once. Once was enough." That’s not true. Once at home, after Mom and Dad, and once after Jiang Lu. He bites his lip, then gives half a smile. "Twice."
Joule colors again. "I... I suppose not. I'm..." she trails off, looks into her empty teacup. Embarrassed again… ah, hell with it, let’s push the issue. I need something to fill the vessel with, and we’ll never manage it if we both keep trailing off like this. I guess I’m going to be here a while, as bad an idea as that may be.
He barks a laugh, a quick amused exhalation, and looks up at her. "Hey Joule? Make you a deal."
She looks up in her turn, eyes wide and startled. "What?"
“I'll do my best not to be self-conscious about you seeing me naked, crying, and..." he gestures with his mechanical arm, "well, exposed. And you do yours to not worry about those wires, and promise to tell me if I step on any subjects that are bad. What do you say?" Like fishing with dynamite…
Her jaw drops and for a long moment or two she can’t seem to speak. Anthony’s cheeks have started to burn from dropping such a bomb when finally, she ducks her head a little and says, "I- alright."
He quirks a grin, relieved. "I, ah... I might not be the most subtle person in the world." And the Himalayas might not be all that short.
She laughs, quick but genuine, gives a quick shake of her head and sighs. "Then we're in excellent company."
"I knew that anyway." He lets his gaze rest on her hair for a few moments, deliberately, studying the way the wires weave in and out of the dreadlocks and the indentations where they burrow into her skull. Then he shrugs. We both have our oddities… and somehow, that helps. "At least yours go nice with your hair."
She ducks her head a little, but doesn't quite blush. "I- when... at first I couldn't stop shocking myself with them. It took me awhile to figure out how to dampen the charge." She shakes her head ruefully. "I've never told anyone that."
Anthony laughs, thinking back on his own training with his new arm, wondering which horror story to tell first. "You want to compare stories? I dislocated my own wrist the first time I tried to train with this.”
Her eyes widen. "Really?"
He recalls vividly the sensation of breaking the hold he’d been put in, how effortless it had been for a moment, and then realizing with the onset of pain that he’d yanked his own bones out of alignment with the absurd strength of the magical limb. "Yeah. It's a lot stronger than... you know, than I am otherwise."
Joule lets her eyes linger on the arm, spends a while studying it like she’s been wanting to all along. "I got that impression. What's it- I'm sorry." She wrinkles her nose and gives him a rueful smile after cutting off the obvious question.
No you don’t. "C'mon, ask. I know you want to."
Emotions war across her face - embarrassment and curiosity, along with things less easily recognized. Finally curiosity wins out. "I'm sorry. I'm just... what's it made of?"
Figures I don’t know the answer to your first question. He examines the arm himself, turning it over before him, marveling as ever at the intricacy of it, at the subtle designs worked into the metal, which only show themselves at certain angles. "None of my teachers know. Some of them say it's adamantite, some say it has electrum inside it. I've even heard someone use the word mithril. Nobody seems to be able to identify it, and some of them give different answers when they describe the structure." He contemplates the fabulously complex clockwork inside the elbow joint, the only place where the inner workings are truly visible. Somehow having another see it so clearly was making him look at the arm in a fresh light as well.
Joule whistles low, tilts her head a little as she regards it. After a few long moments of her struggling to not keep asking questions, she tears her eyes away from the construct and looks back in his face. "Thank you." I’d push you for a little more, but the questions will keep.
"Anyone who mops up my blood can ask me whatever they want." I wonder… He puts the teacup down on the bedside table, still being careful with it, then extends his hand to her, curious how she’ll touch it, if she’ll touch it. She doesn’t disappoint; her eyes widen a little, and she swiftly sets her own cup down on the floor, then lightly reaches out and puts her fingers into his palm, watching the shining metal carefully.
"I'm not sure if I want to poke it more, or if I want to know how you came by it."
She glances back to him, obviously chagrined, in time to see his eyes cloud a little, his smile dim. Jiang Lu. No… not yet. "You don't want to know how I came by it, and I don't really want to tell it."
She nods, straightens and meets his eyes squarely. "I had a feeling. I think you underestimate my curiosity, though. But this..." She looks down, traces her fingers lightly over his palm, across his metal fingers. "This is not a story you need to tell."
"Thank you for understanding." He’s briefly distracted again by the sensations coming through the magical limb; the gentle pressure of her fingers, the slow brush of skin as she explores his hand. Without really thinking about it, he murmurs, "I can feel it, you know."
"Feel which?" She frowns slightly, taken aback.
He nods toward her fingers. "The touch." How could I possibly explain the difference?
"I know." She seems to think of something, and squeezes his fingers gently before letting go. "I should make some stock. Can't live on weak tea forever." She stands, and gives a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. So many buried troubles… what did I step on now? "Dietary restrictions? Assuming I manage to avoid salting it with cat dander?"
"I do my best to avoid meat, in all honesty. But this is Montana, and I'm a realist."
She snorts. "I'll see what I can do to accommodate. You should rest. I'll see to scrounging up actual food."
"Thanks." More questions another time. God, I hate being an invalid. She hesitates, raises an eyebrow, clearly catching his hesitation, but he lets himself back down onto his metallic elbow and shakes his head. He's suddenly cognizant again of being exhausted. "Just being stupid. Resting is good."
"Resting is good," she agrees with a smile, and moves to the small refrigerator.
Anthony watches her movements from under his blankets, trying to resist the slow lethargy, the insistent drifting of his weakened body towards sleep. Minutes later, still stubbornly aware, his nose catches the first scents of boullion cubes dissolving to make broth. Warm and tired, Anthony realizes that he trusts this strange, lonely mage implicitly… and on the heels of that realization, he dozes off into a light but dreamless slumber.
At first, he is back in the snow, in the chaotic and bloody aftermath of the battle. He picks himself up from the ruin of the Madman’s body, lets fall the frost-rimed shards of Master Kaminari’s sword. He is looking dazedly around at the burning trees, at the wide banks of steaming fog slowly re-condensing to water, at the still-twitching pieces of the Outsiders, bereft of their energy and gradually dissolving into poisonous dust. He is stumbling to Kaminari’s still form, kneeling next to it, hoping against hope that the old man somehow survived, but the Madman’s final strike was simple and thorough. One bright blue eye stares upward from the charred remains of his face, never again to melt back to its usual penetrating black. He raises his head to the sky and is stung by wind-whipped snow as he cries out his denial, his anger.
His anger rings off the stone walls. He is in the monastery near Lhasa, kneeling on the hard stone of the terrace. Master Xiang Lung is glaring at him for his unseemly exclamation, but he doesn’t care; he is fed up with the constant rigor, the discipline, the asceticism and reserve of the other students. He gets to his feet, staggering as his equilibrium is once again thrown off by having only one arm, and stumbles into the slight Brother Kian, who takes him quietly by the shoulder to help him away. Anthony is too near tears to refuse him, leaning on the diminutive monk and burning with shame.
Shame is all he can feel as his sister Adele hugs him desperately in LAX, saying how the trip will be good for him, the time away from everything, the experience of another culture and another country. They can work out the issues of college when he gets back, she says, and Dad and Mom will have finished with the lawyers and gone their separate ways by then; everything will be less crazy and less tense. She’s trying to reassure him, and he knows she’s covering up disappointment at how he’s running away, leaving all the hard things to her. He knows she wants him to stay, but she’s the strong one, and instead she just pushes coppery hair out of her eyes and presses an absurd green-and-white scarf into his hands, a scarf she obviously knitted herself. She talks over his feeble protest, saying it will keep him warm, telling him through tears to call when he lands in Beijing, no matter how late it is.
It is very late when he wakes, and his copper-haired benefactor is drowsing next to him in a beaten old armchair, with some engineering journal open across her knees. He looks around the dark room, caught by the indefinable sense that something is wrong, tasting in the air some aura of crawling malice that feels horribly familiar. He is frozen in place by a darker shadow that moves behind Joule. It reaches out to grasp the back of her chair and at first it seems to have the bizarrely-jointed appendage of the Outsider, all ragged nails and black, crawling skin. But then light shifts and kindles, and it is a sharp-faced Chinese man with scars around his lips and flaring orange eyes, who smiles horribly as he raises a rune-bladed willow sword for a great downward slash.
Anthony tears himself awake in truth, shouting a denial in Japanese, clenching his magical hand in a desperate attempt to block the attack. Facts register quickly; the room is drenched in wan winter sunlight, he cannot feel even a whisper of Jiang Lu’s vile aura, and Joule is there, kneeling softly next to the bed, a look of trepidation on her face.
“Heya, love,” she murmurs quietly.
The events of the past day flash bright and painful through his mind with sudden clarity. His first thought is, Oh, teacher, no… and then, I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t involve her with any of this, nor with what might follow. And damned if I have any choice right now. “Don't mean any offense,” he says quietly, “but I was hoping last night was all a nightmare."
She smiles, a good, concerned smile, full of relief. He realizes it’s probably the first one he’s seen from her. "None taken. I was hoping that myself."
“You have a nice smile." He tries to echo it, reassuringly, manages a pale imitation. She was so brusque when we first met... now I’m ‘love’? "I was wondering, yesterday morning, if I smelled funny."
She colors, somewhat charmingly, and then says something unintentionally cutting. "You do... just not the way that most people can smell it."
He can’t control the reaction; he curls the artificial arm close to himself and glances away from her, stung by the reminder that even by mage standards, he’s not at all normal. She clearly catches it, and there’s more of her initial demeanor in the sharp, “Don’t,” that she quickly adds. It makes him look back at her, caution in the set of his mouth and angle of his shoulders, and she sighs, pursing her lips while she looks for words. "I'm not good with people. I'm really not good with other mages. Just... don't draw away like that. This is... uncomfortable. For both of us. But now... We've managed to invoke Hospitality. And I don't take that lightly."
Joule meets his eyes, asking without saying another word. It was an accident, and that was the one place she might have stung you. Hell... for all you know, her story is even worse. Give her a shot. Slowly, he shifts, and extends his left arm - the magical construct that so sets him apart - from under the blankets, opening his hand in invitation. Her eyes widen a little, but she barely hesitates, slowly taking his hand in hers.
As almost every time he touches something new, Anthony is freshly amazed by the tactile sensitivity of the magical digits; he can feel every callus in Joule’s hand, every work-graven line, every beat of her heart through the light pressure of long fingers on her wrist. He realizes it’s distracting him and blinks, keeping the sensations near the edge of his awareness, instead nodding soberly to her. More open-minded than most. "I won't pull away, then. It's... I know what I look like to extra senses." Carefully, he loosens his grip just enough that she could take back her hand if she wanted. "I don't know why you opened that door, but... you saved my life."
Her eyes wander, seem to light unconsciously on the magical limb, and she stares, transfixed. She’s not the worst sort, the ones who look with disgust, but she’s staring in fascination, and those people have been plenty bad in the past. After long moments, she tears her eyes away and looks him in the face. "I couldn't let you die."
"Sure you could have. It would have been easy." He gives her fingers a little squeeze of gratitude. "But you didn't.” And it was a good answer anyway, even if you stare.
She wrinkles her nose, and it turns her somewhat severe face - dare I even think it? - cute. "No. I couldn't have." Her other hand comes up to scratch at her hairline and draws his eyes there; the kerchief she has covering the dreadlocks today has half-fallen away. Her hair is wispy, copper-red... and there, woven in through the orderly dreadlocks, is actual copper wire. Wire, that’s right. I saw those last night. Is it an affectation, or...?
"Then you're better than...” Many of the Adamantine Arrow? “...than many I've known." He lets his eyes flicker deliberately over her hairline, enough to tell her it’s showing, then looks back to her face and gives what smile he can muster. "Thank you, Joule."
She blushes again and looks down; he’s not sure she got the hint. But her nose wrinkles a slightly different way, and she squeezes his metal fingers experimentally. He’s taken aback for a moment with the sensation of it; it’s been a long while since anyone held his hand this long. "You're welcome," she mutters. Her eyes are on his metal arm again, and he can see questions burning in her engineer’s gaze. Are we about to start the inquisition, then? To his surprise, though, she shrugs off her inquisitiveness and lets his fingers go, instead drawing a queer gold coin from her robe’s pocket. “We should see where sleep put us,” she says, sounding as if she’s looking for a lifeline.
After a second he realizes she must be talking about his injuries, and at the thought the dull aches and pains become more poignant. Anthony flexes his metal arm, hoping it has full range of motion back, and presses it into the bed to hoist himself up to a sitting position, letting blankets fall to pool around his waist. Swiftly he explores the feel of his own body, drawing on his training, and takes stock of himself, assessing his wounds. “Everything... feels much the same, I think." In some bizarrely-conscious portion of his mind, he realizes he’s naked in a strange girl’s bed, and fumbles to make sure the errant blankets are keeping him decent, touching his bracelet of wooden prayer beads as a means to cover the self-conscious motion.
Joule tosses the coin, murmurs a few words and catches it neatly. Atlantean make, or I’m a fool. ...Maybe both. Her eyes slip out of focus as she reaches for his shoulder, then pulls back before touching him. "May I?"
He almost laughs at her asking permission to touch him now, but keeps it to a smile. “It'd be pretty stupid of me to say no..."
Her blue eyes still unfocused, she gives a small smile and puts her hand lightly against his shoulder for a moment, then draws it down to the edge of his stomach, touching the taped-on dressings in each spot. "We'll change these in a bit, I think."
Anthony concentrates on taking his mind off the highlights of pain, off the warmth of her fingers and the chill of the air in her loft, and especially off how long it’s been since he’s been touched. He shuts his eyes, letting his breathing fall into a more meditative cadence, and walls away those portions of his mind, letting himself relax into the careful ministrations. She’s not a bad doctor, really. Bedside manner might need a little work... maybe some practice with sutures. I wonder where a mechanic learned advanced first aid. Her hands move to his back, trace over the dressing there, and he obligingly leans forward, folding his hands in his lap. Only one way to find out... but let’s not pry too hard. "The old man used to say," he murmurs, voice carefully neutral, "that fixing one kind of thing wasn't so different than fixing another. It was all in the outlook, not the knowledge." The memory of Kaminari’s crisp Japanese as he lectured is a subtle but sharp pain.
“Mmm. An interesting point, but more philosophically than literally correct." She moves toward his thigh, and he carefully flicks the blanket back enough to expose the wound. When she’s had her look there, she returns her gaze, focused again, to his face.
"You're not exactly proving him wrong, you know."
She leans back in the old armchair next to the bed - just like in my dream - and regards him curiously. "My knowledge is hard learned and there are significant gaps in it. Machines are easier than flesh. When a machine breaks down, there's a reason for it - a well defined reason for it. Living creatures... they're different. And much, much more difficult. I suppose it's the divide between man's creation and whatever god-aspect you happen to worship."
She tries to sound nonchalant, and her last sally is clearly an effort to change the subject. Anthony considers pursuing the topic for a moment, but lets it go with the calm that was drilled into him at the monastery, following her lead instead. "Is there really such a difference, do you think? Or is it all just a matter of complexity?"
"I'm not sure, actually. I used to think that the body was merely a machine of flesh, but I don't know anymore. It has aspects of the machine. Or perhaps it is more correct to say that the machine has aspects of it." Joule pulls the silk kerchief from her head and shakes out her hair. It looks like something she doesn’t do much, and he can immediately see why; there are a dozen or so copper wires, all in all, some woven into her dreads while others hang loose. She folds the cloth almost nervously, lays it over her knees. "What do you think?"
I think we’ve both got our oddities. He straightens his back and starts a gentle series of stretches, testing his range of motion without moving his right shoulder and without straining any of the bandages. After a moment, he gives a considered answer, trying not to overload her with Buddhist ideology. “I think the body is something made to house the soul. It's a pretty thing, amazing detail work, but impermanent." Hope that doesn’t throw you off.
She merely nods, asks her next question out of seeming curiosity. "What do you think of attempts to make it more permanent?"
The fact that this artifact is currently adorning my maimed ass says that making the body more permanent doesn’t work in the end. Maybe you meant exercise and clean living. Sure. "They can work. The body can always be improved. But if it's a real attempt to make the body last, then it's just spitting in the wind." He shifts the arm a little in mute demonstration.
"God or fate or life marches on, regardless of what we do." She smiles genuinely, and it softens her sharp edges into something approachable and open. "And sometimes, we march on regardless of what God or fate or life hands us."
Might almost think that point was important to you... "Everything changes. And we keep going if we're ready. Ability really has little enough to do with it." I wonder, does that mean you’re ready to talk about you? Let’s see. He cocks his head. "So how does this apply to fixing things, whether they're people or machines?"
"Only in the sense that perseverance has little to do with ability. I'll agree on that point. However the knowledge one has does not always apply..." She looks away, thinking, chewing absently on a thumbnail.
Anthony takes advantage of the small lull to probe at his right shoulder a little, exploring the tenderness of the joint. After a moment, when she hasn’t said more, he tosses out, "That's why people like us are blessed. Specific knowledge and skill isn't as necessary when we can see so clearly."
Her eyes come back to him, touch on the metal arm and the point where it meets his scarred torso. "I think your old man has a point in the wherewithal to fix things. It's... it's a compulsion, a need. There are those who destroy and those who repair. Each have their purpose."
His hand comes away from his wounded shoulder, lays carefully over one knee, Anthony beginning to become engaged. "It can be that simple, I guess. If... if Master Kaminari were here, I'm thinking he'd ask how you tell the difference." All right, that’s not going to stop hurting any time soon.
"Between?"
“Repairing and destroying. Seems pretty cut and dried, until you think about it a little while."
"Sometimes destruction is the only course, the only thing that can be done to bring some semblance of... oh, let's say balance, although nothing is ever really balanced, least of all life." She raises an eyebrow and her lips quirk a smile. "But the two are siblings, born of the same mother."
Her poetic phrasing surprises him, and draws a smile part amused, part skeptical. "She fixes cars, she patches wounds, and she talks philosophy in metaphor. Who is this girl, anyhow?" This time she blushes clear to the roots of her hair, and looks down, stuttering over whatever she was going to say. Adele used to blush just like that... they’re similar in some ways. Which is kinda awkward. Let’s keep to easier ground for both of us. He shrugs his unwounded shoulder and steers back towards comfortable philosophy. "They're two sides of the same coin. Addition and subtraction, being and non-being. Basic frame of the world. Computer scientists have this great talk about the numbers one and zero when they're really tired or drunk."
She looks up when he continues, gratitude competing with trepidation in her expression. "Do you believe that such a duality is universal?" she asks softly, color still across her cheeks.
He looks down at his hands to stop from comparing her to his sister, and smiles to cover up the stab of remorse. "There's almost nothing to believe. It's plain enough to see anywhere you look. Nothing is permanent. My only hitch in the idea is... well, I don't know if it's really a duality. I'm still trying to figure out if there actually is such a thing as non-being."
When he looks up, she meets his eyes squarely. "There is. I think it's only our fear that drives us to seek an alternative. What are we before we are created?"
I asked that same question a few times... and I’ll give you Brother Kian’s answer, rather than Master Xiang Lung’s. He grins at the thought, pain and discipline eclipsed by amusement. "Something else."
Joule smiles in response, a wry expression. "Can you define the 'something else'?"
The moment of joy fades under the weight of what’s happened, and he shrugs tiredly. "No, honestly. I think it varies for each of us. But maybe our idea of non-being is simply being something else... that we're not equipped to understand."
"Or maybe it's simply non-being, and we are ill equipped to understand that."
That’s one of the things I thought, too. Shame there isn’t a concrete answer. "Could be."
She levers herself out of her chair and takes a few steps into the tiny kitchen, and Anthony shifts, slowly, to watch her, fetching the blanket more securely around his waist when it threatens to pull away. She clicks on a burner on the gas stove and puts on a kettle to boil. He decides to pursue her a little further, see what shakes out. "Even the Outsiders are a sort of being, just radically different from what we know here. It's hard to imagine a state of total nothingness." Even if your teachers wish you could.
Joule opens a cabinet and rummages, finally pulling out a box, then retrieving a spoon from the drainboard. "I think it is harder for some than others. Contemplating the void is a fascinating exercise that every mage should engage in at least once."
"Emptiness," he murmurs, turning his metallic hand up and opening it flat. Now we’re really getting towards philosophy-overload territory. Hope you’re as patient as you seem. "There's certainly something to that. But I feel it means something different than I think most do."
Joule scoops tea from the box into a chipped china teapot with roses painted on the side. "Tell me."
"Form and being aren't permanent. Everything always changes into other things... loses identity, so nothing actually has consistent identity. Thus, nothingness. Emptiness."
"How very existential," she remarks, leaning against the counter, folding her arms across her chest.
"It is a little over-philosophical. I told the first person to tell me that that it sounded nihilistic." And boy was Master Xiang Lung pissed. You’d think nobody had ever talked back to the strict old bugger.
Joule snorts, amused. "But you found it had some merit, nihilistic wanking aside?"
He raises an eyebrow, quirks his lips in amused response to her term. "Yes, once you get what that means. The identity of each thing, whatever it has, is tied into the world around it. Dependent on everything else."
"I'll accept that for the moment. Ours is a mutable world." The kettle whistles and she turns, pouring boiling water into the teapot.
"Always." His right shoulder twinges and he tries to stretch it a little, frowning. “I think this is going to want a sling. Don't suppose you have anything that would serve?"
She glances over her shoulder, takes in his meaning adroitly. "Always." She walks the teapot over to the bedside table and sets it down along with two cups. Carefully she considers him, eyeing the arm, before turning and whisking into the tiny bathroom. He hears cupboards rattling and forces himself to wait serenely, sniffing appreciatively at the teapot, which wafts the mingled scent of green tea and brown rice amiably in his direction. After a few moments, she returns with what was obviously a sheet in a former life, decorated with faded pink posies. "This should do the trick. Apologies to your manhood."
He looks over the posies, almost snorts laughter, and schools his face to the deadpan calm that one of his teachers demanded he be able to produce at will. It made for a good poker face. "I'm Buddhist. You don't get to be one if you're not serene in the face of adversity."
She stares at him, then laughs, perching on the side of the bed while she tears the sheet. "Of course you are," she says, chuckling.
He smiles wryly, pleased to hear laughter, and simply watches the motion of her hands, forcibly keeping his thoughts once more in the present.
Joule holds the long strip of cloth an arm's length out, twists her lips. "This ought to do nicely. Here, let's see how we're going to do this." She puts a hand out to his arm, hesitating just over him, eyebrow raised, clearly either afraid of hurting him or nervous again about touching him without permission. Anthony shifts enough to give her better access, bringing to mind his own first aid training and the many improvised slings he’s worn.
“I'd say loop the breadth of it under my right arm, and tie a knot over my left shoulder." he refrains from pointing out the perfect dip in the metal joint where a sling will comfortably rest, instead simply saying, "It won't even rub too badly."
She blinks and follows the suggestion, frowning a little as she settles the cloth around his arm. "Am I right in assuming you're Arrow?"
He shrugs the sling into a slightly better position, and adjusts the knot with his left hand until it’s as comfortable as it’ll get. "Seems like the only guess you could have made, unless I were a really hardcore Mysterium."
His mind supplies a few other possibilities even while Joule fills some in herself. "Or a stupid Guardian, or a left of center Ladder or a Libertine who needed some serious help." She shrugs and sits back to pour the tea. "It's a bit weak, but that's all to the good right now."
He reaches out, accepting a porcelain cup with great care. Heat blossoms in his metal fingers, and the extraordinary delicacy of the cup takes him aback for a moment, sensation rolling up his arm. Recovering himself from that, he spends a moment breathing in the steam, relishing the smell of it, and he smiles appreciatively for her. Odd tastes you’ve got for a Montana mechanic, not that I’m complaining. "Wouldn't have expected to find... tea like this... in Montana." He tries to keep the pauses small, hoping she’ll notice and expound, keeping an eye on her through a veil of good-smelling steam.
“A friend of mine knows my taste and sends me civilization from time to time."
Ah, well. "Privacy has its downsides." He closes his eyes, takes a slow sip from the cup, and makes a pleased noise.
"I move around a bit. I don't think I'll be wintering anywhere that has an annual freeze again, though."
“Not a fan of ice and snow, eh?" He twists at mid-torso and glances to the window, contemplating the gray light. "I admit, it took me a little by surprise, too." It’s even deeper out there. Last time I saw snow like this was in Tibet.
"I'm used to snow. I'm not used to... this." She waves her hand in a gesture that indicates not only the room, but the warehouse garage, and the whole of Great Forks outside.
"What exactly is... this?" He mimes her gesture, slowly, the teacup in his hand making a slow swirl of steam.
"The snow that starts in September. The freeze that forces people to practically hibernate for six months. The lack of good curry. I like aspects of Montana. I like not feeling like I'm forced to talk to anyone. I like being alone, free to do whatever I damn well please." She shakes her head, and her dreadlocks flash copper. "I also, occasionally, like being able to find a sushi bar with fish that hasn't had to be shipped a thousand miles." She sips at her tea and folds one foot underneath her on the bed.
Anthony smiles at that thought, balancing the cup on the tips of his metal fingers. Sushi… god, I’m a bad Buddhist. "It's never as good when you're away from the ocean." It’s still a bad idea for her to be involved… and it’s got to be a strain on her privacy, her routine. Wonder if she’s just being nice about it. "You're not, you know."
"I'm not what?"
“Under any obligation to talk to me, if you don't want to.” Joke, Anthony, in case you’re being an idiot. "I once kept silent for a week. One of my teachers said it was good for the soul."
Joule gives a surprised snort of amusement, and he’s gratified that he was, apparently, being an idiot. "I'm an introvert, not anti-social. There is a difference. Besides, if I don't talk occasionally, I'll forget how."
He buries his momentary embarrassed smile in another drink of tea. Subject change. "Fair enough. You know my affiliation. Gonna tell me yours?"
"I'm not. Affiliated, that is." She winces before the second part, and Anthony wonders for a moment if she’s really been around people who are so easily offended.
Without an order… I wonder how that came to pass. It’s rare enough that someone with her obvious control goes so long without being discovered… but that means she was either kicked out or quit… probably not the best subject to broach. He carefully doesn’t look at her, schooling his expression to calm acceptance. "That usually means an even harder story than anyone else's."
Joule looks down into her teacup, and there’s something behind her eyes, a long and difficult something. She lets it go, though, and when she finally looks up, it’s with a kind smile. "My mentor was Free Council. After he died, I decided that wasn't the way I should go. None of the others appeal. We learn through experience." She shrugs as if to dismiss the whole thing, but the shift of shoulders makes Anthony suspect a great gulf of pain in her.
He meets her eyes in sympathy. "That we do. I'm sorry about your mentor."
"It happens." Yes… apparently it does. She makes an aborted motion, raising her hand as if to brush her hairline, then dropping it abruptly. Anthony’s eyes are drawn to the wires again, knowing she’s conscious of them. Maybe I should just bring them up and get it over with.
"Yeah." He tips back the rest of the cup of tea and takes a slow breath, quelling his questions and his own pain over his lost mentor. For a few moments, his thoughts dwell on Kaminari, on the clipped words, brusque wisdom, and rare, surprising hints of compassion from the aged master. When he looks up, Joule is just glancing up herself, her smile a bit sad.
"How do you feel?" She asks to change the subject, and Anthony is happy enough to do it.
He glances down, at himself, takes a slow accounting of his body and its ills. The cut on his thigh is smaller than the other major wounds, and he hardly gives it a thought, its pain entirely secondary. The scratches on his back still burn insistently, the wound in his shoulder barely noticeable until he chances to move it, at which point it erupts in fresh agony for a few moments. His stomach still aches horribly, a throbbing tenderness that might catch fire at any wrong move. He smiles grimly. "A little like I actually did have my guts ripped out." And like I lost someone important. The smile tints with sadness. "But also desperately alive."
Joule simply nods, seems to cast about for words, and finally says, "You are a man of impressive endurance."
He shrugs with only his metal shoulder. "Do you think? I'm told it's normal to feel exhilarated after you've come so close to dying." At least, when you come through it in shape enough to feel anything. This is better than before.
"I think that anyone who holds a lucid philosophical discussion the morning after... well, after that, is."
Anthony glances at his empty cup, contemplating it, briefly touching on a metaphor Master Xiang Lung once gave him, of a vessel waiting to be filled. "Would it do me any good to wallow in pain? Or grief? To spin it over and over in my head until my stomach turns and my eyes blur?" He shakes his head. "I did that once. Once was enough." That’s not true. Once at home, after Mom and Dad, and once after Jiang Lu. He bites his lip, then gives half a smile. "Twice."
Joule colors again. "I... I suppose not. I'm..." she trails off, looks into her empty teacup. Embarrassed again… ah, hell with it, let’s push the issue. I need something to fill the vessel with, and we’ll never manage it if we both keep trailing off like this. I guess I’m going to be here a while, as bad an idea as that may be.
He barks a laugh, a quick amused exhalation, and looks up at her. "Hey Joule? Make you a deal."
She looks up in her turn, eyes wide and startled. "What?"
“I'll do my best not to be self-conscious about you seeing me naked, crying, and..." he gestures with his mechanical arm, "well, exposed. And you do yours to not worry about those wires, and promise to tell me if I step on any subjects that are bad. What do you say?" Like fishing with dynamite…
Her jaw drops and for a long moment or two she can’t seem to speak. Anthony’s cheeks have started to burn from dropping such a bomb when finally, she ducks her head a little and says, "I- alright."
He quirks a grin, relieved. "I, ah... I might not be the most subtle person in the world." And the Himalayas might not be all that short.
She laughs, quick but genuine, gives a quick shake of her head and sighs. "Then we're in excellent company."
"I knew that anyway." He lets his gaze rest on her hair for a few moments, deliberately, studying the way the wires weave in and out of the dreadlocks and the indentations where they burrow into her skull. Then he shrugs. We both have our oddities… and somehow, that helps. "At least yours go nice with your hair."
She ducks her head a little, but doesn't quite blush. "I- when... at first I couldn't stop shocking myself with them. It took me awhile to figure out how to dampen the charge." She shakes her head ruefully. "I've never told anyone that."
Anthony laughs, thinking back on his own training with his new arm, wondering which horror story to tell first. "You want to compare stories? I dislocated my own wrist the first time I tried to train with this.”
Her eyes widen. "Really?"
He recalls vividly the sensation of breaking the hold he’d been put in, how effortless it had been for a moment, and then realizing with the onset of pain that he’d yanked his own bones out of alignment with the absurd strength of the magical limb. "Yeah. It's a lot stronger than... you know, than I am otherwise."
Joule lets her eyes linger on the arm, spends a while studying it like she’s been wanting to all along. "I got that impression. What's it- I'm sorry." She wrinkles her nose and gives him a rueful smile after cutting off the obvious question.
No you don’t. "C'mon, ask. I know you want to."
Emotions war across her face - embarrassment and curiosity, along with things less easily recognized. Finally curiosity wins out. "I'm sorry. I'm just... what's it made of?"
Figures I don’t know the answer to your first question. He examines the arm himself, turning it over before him, marveling as ever at the intricacy of it, at the subtle designs worked into the metal, which only show themselves at certain angles. "None of my teachers know. Some of them say it's adamantite, some say it has electrum inside it. I've even heard someone use the word mithril. Nobody seems to be able to identify it, and some of them give different answers when they describe the structure." He contemplates the fabulously complex clockwork inside the elbow joint, the only place where the inner workings are truly visible. Somehow having another see it so clearly was making him look at the arm in a fresh light as well.
Joule whistles low, tilts her head a little as she regards it. After a few long moments of her struggling to not keep asking questions, she tears her eyes away from the construct and looks back in his face. "Thank you." I’d push you for a little more, but the questions will keep.
"Anyone who mops up my blood can ask me whatever they want." I wonder… He puts the teacup down on the bedside table, still being careful with it, then extends his hand to her, curious how she’ll touch it, if she’ll touch it. She doesn’t disappoint; her eyes widen a little, and she swiftly sets her own cup down on the floor, then lightly reaches out and puts her fingers into his palm, watching the shining metal carefully.
"I'm not sure if I want to poke it more, or if I want to know how you came by it."
She glances back to him, obviously chagrined, in time to see his eyes cloud a little, his smile dim. Jiang Lu. No… not yet. "You don't want to know how I came by it, and I don't really want to tell it."
She nods, straightens and meets his eyes squarely. "I had a feeling. I think you underestimate my curiosity, though. But this..." She looks down, traces her fingers lightly over his palm, across his metal fingers. "This is not a story you need to tell."
"Thank you for understanding." He’s briefly distracted again by the sensations coming through the magical limb; the gentle pressure of her fingers, the slow brush of skin as she explores his hand. Without really thinking about it, he murmurs, "I can feel it, you know."
"Feel which?" She frowns slightly, taken aback.
He nods toward her fingers. "The touch." How could I possibly explain the difference?
"I know." She seems to think of something, and squeezes his fingers gently before letting go. "I should make some stock. Can't live on weak tea forever." She stands, and gives a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. So many buried troubles… what did I step on now? "Dietary restrictions? Assuming I manage to avoid salting it with cat dander?"
"I do my best to avoid meat, in all honesty. But this is Montana, and I'm a realist."
She snorts. "I'll see what I can do to accommodate. You should rest. I'll see to scrounging up actual food."
"Thanks." More questions another time. God, I hate being an invalid. She hesitates, raises an eyebrow, clearly catching his hesitation, but he lets himself back down onto his metallic elbow and shakes his head. He's suddenly cognizant again of being exhausted. "Just being stupid. Resting is good."
"Resting is good," she agrees with a smile, and moves to the small refrigerator.
Anthony watches her movements from under his blankets, trying to resist the slow lethargy, the insistent drifting of his weakened body towards sleep. Minutes later, still stubbornly aware, his nose catches the first scents of boullion cubes dissolving to make broth. Warm and tired, Anthony realizes that he trusts this strange, lonely mage implicitly… and on the heels of that realization, he dozes off into a light but dreamless slumber.