In the dark that is normally the quiet of the library is the sound of someone singing to themself. It is not a bright sort of song, it is not smooth the way a voice is when it has sung many times before. It's gravel, its uneven, an ungainly creature to hear. But it is also a genuinely happy creature. Past the shelves upon shelves to the low tables of the reading area he's sitting.

He's got one foot propped on the edge of the table, pushed so that his chair reared back on its back two legs. He's been drinking... wine. The result is monstrous. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin not a strong porcelain but a shadow mix of off white and gray with and eruption of red, wet lips. His smile is one of celebration. He sings something in latin and it echoes off the wall when he does.

All the reading tables are cleared and polished off but his with the oil lamp turned up on high. The light shines off his skin and eyes like both were glass. The books were open and it seemed that he had found something he'd been looking for.

The storm hurled things in its wake but she was closer now, at the eye where the unusual rush did not seem so unusual, but calmer, more cool and collected. His leg drew up so that all four feet of his chair were on the ground. He came to his full, terrible height and signaled her to come even closer than she already was. He pointed down at the pages of one of the books.

"This is what I'm looking for."

The open page features what appears to be a divining rod, only that it is more ornate, constructed of copper that's gone green where the oils of the hand interacted too much with the metal. Where water in the air gnaws green at some parts of its body.

"It was made in the American colonial days, it was taken to Europe and buried, and I think we can find it." he remarked with a glittering red smile. Those greys, they were salt and water, harsh, opaque.

"This divining rod, it will find what I am looking for." To which he nodded to the other book, opened up with yellowed pages, "if it exists. If the book of time is still something real and not imaginary. I want it, more than I've wanted anything in my entire life."

He had been subdued into bouts of indifference-- but there was none as he spoke as now. Did she have the choice to refuse? Were she thinking, or did his eyes divert to her so quickly that it was unclear when he had begun to look at her? One of his hands went through her free hair, fingers wrapping through its locks and curling around the back of her head, "Let's go."

The next evening, he had everythign he required in a black, leather bag that looked like it could have held the torso of a man. When he saw her, he smiled. Thalas was too wrapped in his own ambition of the object to know the complexity of emotion behind her eyes. Everybeat of his heart called for the divining.... I want it... I want it... I want it. Had he ever loved anyone as he did the things her pursued?

Of course, it was in the evening, late, when he scheduled their departure. He awaited her outside the library, his bag at his feet and his cigarette smoke disappearing fast into the wings of the wind that stroked him. When he saw her, he smiled, leaning down to kiss her before he nodded towards the road. Did she hear it, like he heard it? Moments before a small cloud of dust rose at the crest of the road, and then the carriage appeared. In Rhydin, with all the new innovations clashing and meeting together, still he preferred that he'd known best and the longest

"I hope you're prepared. I will need you to look after me, some of the time."

When he put it that way, it almost seemed like he were calling on her to be a babysitter, instead of a day watcher of where he slept. Ah, the annoyance of travel came with a deadly problem which was that safety during the day was harder to feel confident in. He said what he asked of her offhand, as though if he were casual she would no realize how much responsibility he was affording her.

It was only his life.

The ocean voyage is a treacherous one. To get away from RhyDin was sometimes to escape an iron hold on the soul. So many went and never left... never escaped. He had wandered so, left Nexie in charge of his home, Starless Bar, where he had been tied for so many years. Where he was still, in many respects, tied.

What was the most astonishing part about Thalas was the ease with which he traveled and caused so little a disturbance. For all the indicators which made his nature obvious, people seemed content not to believe or acknowledge them. Perhaps dark charisma travels further in the mind than eccentric behaviors. Ah, the fifty-fifty of him, the storm with its habits of destruction and... well... was the calm center a surprise, a deception? A relief? He smile so very smoothly, and with his posturing and attire his aristocratic nature was not to be questioned and that flaunted nobility offered no foothold for him to be questioned. He said that he retired during the day to his room because the heat was oppressive and watching the ocean dazzle in the son made him ill.

Crete. It was the heart of what had been the Greeks. When the Minoans had risen and their ruler, King Minos, had built the labyrinth and caste his freak son, the minotaur, into it to devour his enemies. Was it anything like the mythology that followed in its wake? The port was low and quiet, and the island looked like an old, well established lot whose land was sculpted. Thalas was lucky that they came to the island at night.

He came from his room, black bag loaded over one shoulder and his eyes, salty and tired, looked down to Saga with a near indifference. The outside of the storm. Then, the smile cracked, but it was at seeing the island. He was all consumed with it, but on the shoulder of that smile she was back into the eye.

There was a local bed and breakfast type of place he booked them in, where he commanded that they keep the shutters drawn and not disturb him, for he'd traveled long. In the day he would sleep, but what would she do then?

When he awoke, he felt strange. Normally there was something cool in the air when he awoke and he could sense that he was somehow no different that the antique objects around him. That they would sit side by side, collecting dust without a pulse to give their awareness away. Not this morning.

This morning, he felt a cool difference between him and the sheets, the air, the items all around him. When he looked he realized she was against his side, warming him. Making him feel... making it seem like a familiar... moment. It was like feeling that warm, pulsing sensation of a memory that didn't have the strength to dominate.

Their origins were well connected. To him, it was going home, but he was so distracted by his ambition that he neither noticed her quiet suffering, nor thought on his own past what seeing this island was.

Nightfall.

His hand shook her shoulder and he rose from his place on the bed, dressing himself promptly and nodding that she should grab his black leather bag.

"It's in a museum, five miles from here."

He intended on stealing it. Did he have the money to purchase it? Probably, but the people of Crete were not ones to sell the goods of the past. What was perhaps worthy of Crete needing the Divining rod was not included in texts. It was not an island that particularly invested itself in procuring these goods. Perhaps, someone as equally crazed as he had sought it out, and after being used was discarded to a library.

Perhaps it was useless.

He smiled at her, watching the motion of her eyes before he nodded to the door. After they stepped out he took the bag from her, shouldering it and beginning the walk. Considering their relations to the land, the two of them did not stand out too much. He asked her absently as they headed toward it.

"Do you think it is a fake?"

When he thought about life and fate, there had been a symbol which stayed in his mind always. Once upon a time, crawling on the side of an open window was a large, bright green Luna moth. Their wings and tails were impressive, for moths, but they were elusive.

They say you only see them before they die. That they crawl out into the open, clinging to something in open. Sometimes in the day. He did not know if this was a wayward act of suicide to quicken death, or confusion brought on by deteriorating senses.

Don't forget the Luna moth.

He sighed and looked at her, and when she spoke their steps were temporarily halted. Was it a challenge for her claim, or a moment of acceptance of what she said? He did not emote clearly and that standstill of the walk was all that was necessary to say that she'd been understood.

The island's museum was guarded, but not with a great intensity. After all, Crete was small and the valuables it had in its museums were often doubted artifacts. There weren't any impressive, well known statues or paintings by Raphael. There were historical bits in glass cases and other items walled off by the rope.

He signaled that she should stay behind. He removed his coat, tossing it on the ground as he grabbed the torso-sized black leather bag. It was not often that there was a display of his nature but it certainly occurred them. As though he and shrugged off the coat of a man and climbed with the ease of a wildcat. The bag did not look stubbornly weighted in his hand. When he thought that intensely, with the light from below in his eyes, the grey of them looked more white, more solid and piercing. It was then that he worked the window and dropped inside the belly of the building.

When he emerged, it was with a cautious gaze scanning the area before he poked his whole body up, shutting the window behind him before. He tiptoed to the edge of the roof and jumped down, catching himself well. The awkward bulge in the bag announced its contents well.

His smile was horrible in how satisfied he was.

He walked with such interest in his item that he almost forgot to share the celebration with her. Should he? His gaze caste to her, held her for a moment and then moved on.

"When we get home, you can tell me if you know."

Right now, he just wanted to keep walking calmly away from the scene of the crime.

Their room at the bed and breakfast seemed different that night. There was an hour before the sunlight and when he stepped into the room he laid his bag on the bed, both his hands resting atop its leather. He looked over his shoulder at her and his eyes narrowed, just slightly. It was as though he was discerning something about her. Then his hands undid his bag's ties and he withdrew from it the divining rod.

The divining rod was not a spectacular sight. It was old and corroded with green over the copper. It was an awkwardly shaped thing, it looked more like a welder's mistake than a purposeful object. His fingers drew along the surface of it with such care that he appeared to be looking for something. Then his gaze shifted to her and he smiled rather long and slight.

"I didn't know we were keeping secrets."

The bag was moved to the floor and he straightened the sheets under the divining rod. He was...offhand about far too many things. Certainly he had to care, certainly he had to be surprised on occasion. Sometimes when he spoke it was with an expecting tone but life was not as predictable as all that for him. He had long ago abandoned the notion that he could control it, or that he would know its nature. He'd thought once that it smiled upon him and encourage him to have a fruitful destiny. It was all... incidental.

He undid the top buttons to his shirt and regarded her once more. The storm was brewing, but the nature of its intent was ambiguous. He nodded towards the rod then her.

"Go ahead, Pandora, tell me what all men want to hear."

Cassandra was given the gift of foresight, true foresight, where what she saw would be the ultimate truth. She saw Troy falling and running through the city warned all its citizens.

She was also cursed.

However, she was also destined to never be believed. Perhaps had she said nothing at all Troy's citizens might have conceived of the deception at hand. Instead she could not contain what she knew and reinforced that nothing was wrong by speaking of what she foresaw.

Thalas was given an alluring gift. It was uncertain if this gift was something he possessed as a human, but for centuries he had been the subject of affection.

He was also cursed.

However much anyone loved him, however perfect they were, the affections of his heart never translated. There were women before Saga, those that had committed themselves to him regardless of the inherently unhealthy nature of the connection. There were times he appeared caring, but they were brief and the more time that passed the further and foggier the memories of that behavior became. He had been part of the Roman way of life, after her, but centuries they had coexisted. How many dreams had he somehow walked into? Did his curse affect her as well?

Now that he had the item he wanted, it exacted his attention. To what she said he stopped and tilted his head, those grey eyes measuring to her.

"I suppose I should not question your certainty about your dream," to which he smiled long, his amused expression targeted at himself, but he reacted as though she had been meaning to tell him that, "What is your dream?"

Dreams, he thought, were sly and sneering. If they were significant the language that they spoke could be misleading. If they were the future, then he should act however he would without the prior knowledge. If they were the future, regardless of his actions, then it was some point transfixed in his future and whatever he did would lead him there.

When he slept, he thought about the divining rod. He thought about... Eliss. For a man with such detachment, he had begun to plague himself with questions. Were his affections for the woman genuine, or a lie his mind fabricated so that he could have some sample with which to base an affectionate nature on? Was she everything he had thought of? What... were the details of her face, oh, he didn't know. He didn't know what they had talked about or what exactly had occurred. Everything was foggy and he was left only with the impression that there had been that emotional connection which eluded him.

And if he could find it, if he could fix the tragedy, perhaps there was hope for his own humanity.

Nightfall.

There were times that he slumbered for great portions of time. Weeks, months. Perhaps a year or two had disappeared that way. The older he got, the more he slept and the less he wanted to eat. Sometimes from boredom he would starve himself. Lately, though, he had not been having those extended rests and was so pressed with his own designs that he hadn't considered the energy he expelled. Time was moving by for him slower now despite the greater action packed in it.

She had rerouted his actions and those tracks kept him.

...the first dream he had had in...centuries... about home.

He could recall the auction area well. There was a stage, but nothing too prominent at the market square. For days and days there had been the new slaves kept there, being sold off one by one, about twenty or more a day. They hoped that those with money were waiting for the more valuable women, or that those with money would appear from more remote parts of the city in several days time to make a purchase. There were so many that buying one was feasible for more families. It's crowded there, more than it's ever been. He isn't a man, he's one of the marble statues and he finds that his head can't turn. In fact, it is only his eyes that are moving.

"Thalas."

His gaze turns and he sees Saga, resting her hand on his immobile shoulder as she looks upon the actions of those below. They look upon a younger, far more mortal Thalas.

"I was meant to stop this all."

She unties a sash around her waist. He can see his mortal self, a young man, going toward the platform as though he were in great distress. Frantic. There isn't a person on the platform, but a fluttering human-sized column of green that wavers. It seems to vibrate with many separate motions and he notices that it is not one entity, but a compact group of luna moths in a tight cloud. The cloud bursts wide open and floods the air. But Saga puts her sash over his eyes and everything is swallowed behind its black and blue designs. There is the feeling of small, ticklish winds pciking past his body. Her hands. He can feel them on him but it's through a shell of marble.

When he awakens, he felt as though he were thawing out of his marble state. Perhaps he had been use to waking up warm and fluid. His grey eyes went to her, noting the wear beneath her gaze and the tension in her breath.

"Saga, what will be will be." Thalas had some inkling that what he was doing could very well terminate his life. There were easy and numerous opportunities for mistakes. However, he could not ignore the desire to press this attempt forward and try to undo the thing which had undone him.

What was she considering help? He looked at her as though he were sizing up a stranger. Then, preparing himself for their departure, his grey eyes went to the divining rod and then back to her, "Lead the way."

Where they went she lead. He allowed her to be the guiding force because he, well, he still had some superstition quietly harbored beneath the skin. Years of reading, of logic and math could easily destroy them but still the inclination was there. Still he was who he was.

Need.

There was once a young Indian who, for passage into manhood, had to cross over a mountain so tall that there was snow upon the top of it As he ascended the peak he came across a frozen snake who called to him for help.

"Help me. I fell asleep and now I'm too cold to get back down in the mountain."

The boy warily regarded the snake, "If I get near you, you will bite me."

"No," said the snake, "if you help me, I will not bite you."

The boy considered what the snake said for a long time and deciding that he had to go down the mountain side anyway, he lifted up the snake and took it with him. As they approached the foot of the mountain the snake thawed, twisted in the boy's grip and bit him.

As the boy started to die from the poison he implored the snake, "Why did you bite me? I helped you."

The snake's response? "You knew what I was when you picked me up."

When he saw ehr in that foreign air she held, he shrugged. QWitches could tend to be unpredictable at best. They were swayed by forces and thoughts that he was not part of. Whether he was aware of the air of her demeanor or not, he behaved as though nothing odd had happened. At night they traveled and by whatever circle of the moon he followed behind her. All the way to the Vatican.

It was, with great effort, that he took the book from the Vatican's storage. Was she expecting something else? His hands held it gingerly after the steal and he looked at her with (was it possible?) a pale expression. Eyebrows arched up and winded of his smirking satisfaction came the impression of gaunt and worry.

"It is time to go back to RhyDin."

He did not ask about the divining rod, did not indicate that it held for him any importance. The book had been the sole objective and now that he had it, he was shaken by the ownership.

It's the same boat that they take on the way back. It was easy to do it that way, the crew was use to the way he and Saga operated and it raised fewer questions that they were familiar. When the boarded the ship he undid his bag but always took special care in dealing with the book.

He should know better than to be consumed with an object. They had a temporary quality to them. They decayed, they were damaged. Was this unique, could it be?

He didn't open it. His fingers kept the pages and cover clamped short in a way that almost whispered of fear, of worry.

The sun was beginning to rise, the tide prepared to draw the boat out on its voyage. He slept with the book under his pillow and stared across the room at her. She had no interest in the item, she was distracted somewhere else with other thoughts. He could tell by the way she looked at it that she didn't want it. Having it under his pillow had little to do with keeping it safe so much as it was something that he wanted close to him.

There was the nagging threat in the mist of his brain, circling and circling with slow, insidious intent. It's breath could balk and murmur with poisonous promise but when it spoke to him it audibly asked him... what if this doesn't scratch the itch?

What if the hole in your being loses its anchor and you lose yourself forever to the gnawing of time?

It felt like lead creeping into his veins, that sensation of being so sleep driven. His eyes followed over to Saga and he asked at the soft threshold of sleep "Why did you come with me?"

At the latter of her words he'd fallen asleep with the break of day, soundly, the way someone sleeps with some part of them has found peace.

The voyage back was a quiet one and the shifting hot-cold of his demeanor had become luke warm with satisfaction. In a way he was not like himself. His eyes were not prowling, discontent and clawing at the windowsills and doorways for what he was looking for. His moods did not shift with want or lack of having so there was a strangely docile atmosphere to him.

Upon their return to RhyDin, his stride did not have a pace of urgency. He walked with her along the way at night, contemplative and quiet. The wind picked up the shells of some dried leaves and scattered them ahead of where they walked. The trees looked like black mesh against the faint remains of color and light at the horizon.

The library door had never looked so large and intent on giving him neither a scoff or reassurance. He could feel the book against his ribs inside his jacket, digging in between them when they walked and now, standing in front of the door, like a stab in his side. The storm was quiet-- like it were hours from ever having broken.

He watched her at the door and softly, like an admission of guilt, "There is some part of me yet that fears this outcome. As long as I have remained it has always been a linear experience and I do not pretend to know the outcome. What I know is that for centuries I have been unhappy and that, perhaps, it is not just in my nature to be so."

He wet his lips and smiled at her faintly, feeling more confident after admitting he was not.

His room is quiet as though no one ever used it. The guest room with the occasional visitor. As dark as anyone could ever get a room to be, with no care placed in decoration or aesthetic qualities. As dark as night appeared, for him it was medium. The moon was bright, like a shallow sun where trees still caste shadow and the morning glories bloomed in the breath of a day softer, cooler, than what its reality was.

He'd been staring at the book, sitting on the floor cover up, for an hour. It's cover looked brown like old, dried blood with a sandy surface to it. The cover had an infinity symbol on it, deep in red-gold. It looked neither welcoming nor menacing. It looked like it was patiently waiting.

An exhale. It was time.

He leaned over and opened the book. It's front page opened up with an inscription.

To those that would desire to go back in time: let their purpose be linear least the web of events ensnare them. This is your warning: to draw too close to your past self, to interact in a moment too lingering, to stay too close to that too similar self is to draw upon the chapters of your time and seal them together. The future self will fuse into the former and forever you will lap in that one track of time which you've no longer the power to alter.

If you must go back, go back carefully.
If there is something you must do, do so quickly.
Once you have kissed the pages on the book
and recalled the moment you wish to return,
you shall go there.
You shall have three days of time,
no more, no less.
You shall have this opportunity only once in life.


He took in a deep breath, bent his head down and placed his lips on the page. Lips hesitated there like they were marked with a cautious indecision. Then, he spoke softly to the pages of the book like they were a lover he confided in.

"I wish to see her two days before she was sold. Two days before... she died..."

His eyes were closed, the world was dark and still and he thought at first that nothing had happened. It felt like his search, his hope and goal for what he had wanted was destroyed. It was so slight a change. When his eyes opened he found he was sitting outside, the air was drier and everything calm and content under a sky flaunting Orion's belt. Light poured from some buildings and far off was the muffled sound of jovial men drinking and women laughing at their jest.

When his eyes took in the full breath of it, it stuck in his chest like a pain to Rome again. Not as a tourist viewing ruins. To see it, the statues fresh and painting and the frescoes looking bright, even at night, was enough to paralyze his chest.

(( OOC-- this thread now weaves back into "146 BE"))