The cellphone was tossed onto the table tucked in the corner of the bar.

"What is this," the voice hissed from the shadows.

"That is the key to finding the man," the answer came casually.

The gleeful smile practically resonated from the shadows as the Barrister took a seat at the table. A gloved hand emerged from the inky blackness, wrapped around the device like a snake and drew it back behind the dark veil. "Viktor?" the voice drawled out his name upon a fading sibilance, weighted with the questions unspoken.

"I don't care." A small pack was removed from his jacket and tossed into the shadows as he rose from the seat. "So long as the problem is resolved tonight."

"It is as good as done," the shadows hissed.

"I don?t care
If I break
At least I?ll be feeling something

?Cause just ok
Is not enough
Help me fight through the nothingness of life..."
- Matthew West, lyrics from The Motions


"How are the children?"
"Well, thank you. And you?"
"Tired."

Tired. He would have laughed at his own answer to Sylvia. However, he found no humor in it. The once raging fire that burned in the hearth and warmed the kitchen cooled to embers as the deep purple and azure of the evening began giving way to a hazy morning. The ice had melted and warmed to a tepid bowl of water. The raw redness long faded to a fleshy pink across his knuckles, which had gone numb.

Numb. The man sat alone at the kitchen table as he had done most of the evening. He sat at the table, holding his head in his hands. The blinding rage that consumed him earlier was gone, leaving him feeling numb and empty. His rage drained away by a soothing touch, washed away by tears of blood.

Blood. Rags and shirts, torn and soiled with her blood remained in a heap on the floor. Blood spilled by the Spaniard. He didn't do it a-purpose, Lucien, she had explained wearily. But he didn't care. All he saw that moment when he walked off the porch was Salvador in the middle of the street, his dagger in Bekah's shoulder. All he saw was her arm hanging limply, was the pain on her face, and red....blood red which flooded his sight.

Sight. He laid his forehead on the table and wrapped his hands around the back of his head. He could hear his own breath, hear his own heartbeat against the heavy hush. He didn't dare close his eyes. He didn't want to see the look on Sylvia's face as she backed away from him.

Lucien pushed up from the bench and walked out the kitchen door. He looked up at the dawning sky filled with wispy clouds. Red lingered at the horizon, yawning against the field of grey-blue giving way. He #$%^&* stabbed you. I don't care what's wrong with him. I saw him with the knife stuck into your shoulder. I wanted to kill Sal tonight for what he did, he had confessed to Rebekah that evening. He drew a deep breath of the crisp morning air that held the promise of rain.

I don't know you anymore, do I? Sylvia had said, looking like he'd kicked her in the gut and knocked the breath right out of her as she backed away from him with her hands held up.

He drew another deep breath and his own hands curled into fists at his side.

He had walked the northern road to the Abbey with the pack slung over his shoulder. There was something that is healing about a walk in the crisp autumn air that held the promise of winter's bite. Lucien adjusted the collar of his jacket before stuffing his hand into his pocket once more as he approached the grounds. His casual stride slowed even more, a reverence in his gait as he stepped onto the grounds of the Abbey themselves.

Above the waning moon squinted an eye, as if they follow the Barrister's path below. As the City gave way to the wild of the Woods, the trees grew bold and tall. How proudly they stood, naked branches lifted towards the stars while pines passed gossip between whispering needles. Hush, hush they heralded as he reached the open gate of the Abbey's stone walls.

Light spilled outward from the inner courtyard, where a single tall lamp stood sentinel in the center; a single axis from which eight paths stretched like spokes from the lamp to walls. Perfect geometry to divide the ground into garden plots. White fluffs of dandelions in seed seemed to bow a greeting in the evening breeze.

Staccato stride quieted to a muted shuffle as if to sound his gait any louder would be to taint the sanctuary of the Abbey. Gaze of cool blues swept around the inner courtyard as he approached on the primary axis. He wondered what gossip the trees passed along to each other.

Secrets and spells. They'll never tell. The lamp flickered in solemn silence. Around him the walls held their breath, until a door in the Northeast corner tower sighed open. Framed in the threshold of her library stood the Priestess, backlit by the fire behind her. Her shadow stretched tall across the courtyard.

He drew another deep breath of the evening air, evidenced only by the wisp it formed against the chill. Blues swept toward the library at the sigh, catching the reach of her shadow. He shifted the pack on his shoulder, then turned to follow her shadow to the Priestess herself. He stopped a few steps from her and bowed his head in greeting, as yet unvoiced.

Dark water eyes drifted the length and breadth of him, as one might look over a ship for cracks. She bowed her head in return and stepped back, wordlessly making way for him to enter.

And enter he did, out of the cold evening. He stepped across the threshold upon muted gait. "Evening, Kyrie." His greeting carried upon a hushed tone, offered once he had stepped in from the courtyard.

"Eventide, Lucien," her soft reply punctuate by the hush of the door closed, cutting off the cold. Inside was well-spiced warmth. Old paper and herbs, comforting scents. A fire crackled in the hearth on the right-hand wall, a long table set between it and the middle of the room. But the walls. The walls dominated the view. Ceiling to floor, row upon row, shelf upon shelf of books. Only the stained glass, set high in the vaulted height of the tower wall, interrupted the literary march around the room. The moon filtered through stains of golds and blues at this hour.

There had always been something about books that drew the Barrister. His own residence and rooms were lined with books. No surprise that the library was like a warm, comfortable blanket to the man. He breathed deeply of old paper and herbs and cast a gaze of blue over the shelves that stretched to the vaulted ceiling. A small smile ghosted behind the neatly trimmed beard. Blues were drawn back down to earth and rested upon the Priestess. "How are you this evening, M'Friend?" he queried, speaking no louder than a quiet whisper.

"I am well, Traveler. An' ye?" With a ghost of a smile she moved towards the hearth lifted the kettle onto a hook that swung over the fire. Mugs and jars lined the mantle. "Would ye like a cuppa tea?" Turning a look over a shoulder as she asked, a free fall of pale hair hissing across her back. "Please, sit where ye like." Books covered much of the table, and one chair seemed occupied by a cowboy hat. On another a map. But three remained for the taking.

He followed her to where she led, stepping quietly as he did so. "I've no complaints," he offered in quiet reply to her query, as he let his gaze drift over the books that lined the walls. "A cup of tea would be great, thank you." He looked about and took a seat in one of chairs that housed no occupant and set the pack down beside him, watching the light from the fire wash over her as she stood at the mantle.

Quiet, with practiced hands, she prepared the cups and brought them to table to await the water in the kettle. "Ye came wit' a pack, do ye plan ta stay?"

Her query actually elicited a smile. "No, I do not plan to stay." He picked up the pack and rose to his feet. "It would be rude of me to come and visit empty handed, so I brought a present," he explained, setting the pack on the table.

"Such a kindness," she smiled. So much of the Abbey's restoration had been bought in trade. Sanctuary for seeds. Welcome for wayfarers bartered for books. She crossed to the kettle and pulled it off its hook with a scrap of wool, filling both their cups and setting the kettle to cool before taking her seat adjacent. She slid his cup towards him before picking up her own. The steam thawed a smile as she regarded the pack in the middle of the table.

He accepted the cup with a smile. "Thank you." Then reclaimed the seat, leaving her to puzzle about the contents of the pack. He wrapped his hands around the warm cup and leaned his face over the fragrant steam that rose from it.

The ruddy scent of a rooibos tea, darkened with notes of vanilla, sharpened with spices of cinnamon and cardamon. Curiosity colored her smile, and she lifted the pack closer, setting her cup aside.

He breathed deeply of the tea, the steam stealing the chill from his face. A sip followed, masking a grin that tugged as he watched her reach for the pack. Inside, the Priestess would find a sack of apples, pomegranates, a box of seeds and a book titled Peter Pan.

A sack full of stories: Eve, Persephone, and Demeter drawn out first. And then the one housed in pages removed last, fingers reading the spine by touch. Dark eyes full and bright. "Oh..."

Another sip and he watched her through the thin veil of fragrant steam. The cup was set on his knee, revealing a quiet smile. "It was a toss up between that book and Robert's Rules of Order," he voiced his confession quietly.

"I think I favor Pan o'er Parliament." Chilled fingers opened the book, smoothing the pages, hunting out the maps and oil painted illustrations.

The book had been read, many times from the wear evident along the edges and corners of the cover and the binding. A favorite story book most likely. The book opened to one map in particular, the one showing all of Neverland. "Parliamentary procedures are quite fascinating, I will have you know." His hushed tone carried a measure of muted levity. "Nevertheless, I am glad I guessed correctly."

"Mmm...quite correctly..." Dark eyes drank in the map, the borders of the island star, it's lagoons and bays. The Never Tree most of all.

"The fruit and the seeds are from the orchard," he explained quietly. "Managed a decent harvest after all," he added in a hush.

"It's beautiful." The book, the harvest, the friendship that had grown between them.

What the seeds would bloom into? The Barrister didn't know. Perhaps the Priestess will tell him with the next harvest. "I'm very glad you like it, Kyrie." He took another sip of the tea then set it back on his lap. He cast another sweeping gaze at the room itself, looking up at the silver cast upon gold and blue. "...like shelter from the storm," he murmured under his breath, near inaudibly.

"This place 'as weathered many seasons," she agreed, slipping both feet up off the floor and bringing her cup close. She swallows a smile and studies the man through the steam.


(adapted from live play with Kyrie Elision)

"Well..." He slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. "I guess that is that."

All at once she could imagine him a court room doing such a gesture, cinching down his anger at an unfavorable judgment. "Lucien..." she began, setting the cup aside and slipping her feet to the floor. Silk resettled in a broken sigh as she stood.

He remained where he stood, rooted silently as she rose to her feet.

"Ye look as if ye fear I migh' 'it ye." Kyrie shifted around the end of the table, fingers trailing over the back of his abandoned chair. Dark eyes, like the space between stars, quietly sifted the lines of his face, the set of his jaw, the creases of crows feet that shadowed his stormy blues.

He watched her as she walked around the table, following her path behind the chair. "You probably have a wicked left hook," he answered quietly. There was a weary set to his shoulders, hands in his pockets clenched into a fist to quiet his restlessness.

"Th'wickedest." Quiet smile bloomed, silk moved with a hush, and she slipped both hands in the space between arms and his middle to capture a hug. "Ye are nae alone."

"I knew it," he remarked in reply to her admission as she neared upon whispered silk. Whatever other remark he was going to speak, faded on a breath, as she captured him in an embrace. His hands remained in his pockets for a breath or two, then slowly emerged to wrap gently around her shoulders. "Yeah." The word more like a sound of breath, than a reply.

An ear pressed to his chest, she felt and heard the breath as it drowned out the sound of his heartbeat. "So many people willin' ta figh' fer ye." She paused, picking words. "Nae a need ta figh' 'gainst 'em."

"No." Once again, a single word, breathed more than spoken. He loosed his arms from around her and repeated the word once more. "No."

The Priestess slipped both arms free as the repeated word rumbled under her ear. Silk whispered with a step of space, that she might look at his eyes.

He took a step back to pull out of her embrace, shaking his head. "I won't surrender anyone else to him or the others."

"Nae a one would surrender. They seek ta free a prisoner. Ta free ye."

He shook his head and paced a few steps away from her, muttering to himself. He quieted and stilled then turned around to face the Priestess once more. "You said it yourself. All the way down to the foundations."

"It breaks m'eart. All yer joy bleedin'. So much anger, an' ye try ta keep it in--when ye are nae practicin' tha' left 'ook o' yers." Quiet resettled in the wake of that torrent of words on a subject about which she had kept her peace for a long, long time.

"You've seen...." He stopped speaking and shook his head once more, letting the silent fall between them and over the room once more. He turned to watch the burning fire, the light of it reflected in blues. "I can't even hear the music anymore," he admission sounded on a breath.

"I know." But hearing him confess it made those dark water eyes brim.

Blues found those dark eyes that seem to hold the heavens themselves, brimming and a smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth, colored with regret. He reached into his pocket, muted steps retraced back to her, and pulled out a single clover. "I think this is meant for you," he explained as he offered it her.

"Th'Bluebird." Salt watered smile bloomed as she brushed the back of her hand under her eyes. "I still 'ave th'firs' one she gave me, pressed in a book." Books held secrets so well. Even now, they capture a few between their mute pages. Delicately, she accepted the familiar sprig of green, a reminder of spring. She spun it between her fingers so that it fanned, like wings. "Bu' if she gave it ta ye, it was mean' fer ye."

"I'm sharing her joy with you." He offered, slipping his hand back into his pocket. "No tears," he whispered. "Too many of them have already been shed. No more broken hearts. Too many have already been broken."

The Priestess tucked the clover behind her left ear and studied the Barrister. "Aye, too many. Would tha' I could 'eal yers."

He began to answer, then shook his head lightly and offered instead. "Let me know if you need anything else for the coming winter."

"Thank ye. I will." She picked up her abandoned tea cup and drained it, turning it over to tap out the herbs into a can by the door, perennial gardener that she was. She rehung the mug on a hook over the mantle. "As long as ye ask me fer 'elp when ye need it."

"Me?" He shrugged his shoulders, his quiet tone taking on a feigned bravado. "I've got everything under control."

"Mm."

Her reply elicited a smile from the Barrister...just a light twist at the corner of his mouth, tempered but a rare and true smile nevertheless.

The sight of a true smile thawed a bloom of her own to life. "Ye are always welcome 'ere. Thank ye fer th'stories an' yer friendship." When she opened the heavy oak door, lamplight spilled inward as if in a rush to greet its friend, the firelight.

He bowed his head to brush a featherlight kiss to her cheek. He drew the collar of his jacket up and crossed from firelight into lamplight. "Good bye, Kyrie." So lightly did he voice his greeting that the breeze might have carried it away.

The wind took his words, but the trees carried them back in whispers. "Walk in th'ligh' Lucien."

His shadow swept slowly across the courtyard as he walked by the lamplight, before melting indistinguishably into the shadows past the gates.

The Priestess watched him depart as if watching a spirit cross over--some part of her mourned. Death and life, all wound and coiled together. She smoothed silk down over a curve. Life often looked more tangle than tapestry. Only time would tell.


(adapted from live play with Kyrie Elision)