Tea in the Woods.

[Cinnabar]

"Zilliah? Mm. I do know him, then." Sipping his tea as if to wash away the taste of the fae's name. No love for the creature, and no secret made of it. There's an approving nod as torn flesh heals entirely, and a short laugh as a cake vanishes in its entirety. "My son does that. Or tries to. His mouth's smaller."

The issue of how to keep Catch from becoming lost has him thinking for a time, more sips of tea, before beginning with a question.

"Do you know of the sea? And the ships that sail on it?" Checking that the addled man can share this picture, that it will make sense to him. "Like the lake and the fishing boats, only the ships are somewhat bigger than the boats, and the sea is very much bigger than the lake. It goes on as far as you can see - further, even. Have you seen it, or heard stories?"

[catch]

"You, you h-huh-hav babies?" That peaked Catch's interest, the addled man turning his head coyly aside, long lashes fluttering in spasmodic sympathy, like a lover's gaze. That excited him, but not more than the mention of ships and seas. Ser Elliot had asked him, once, so that he may describe squid and it's concepts. Catch had not been able to visualize it, then, for his imagination - difficult as it was to believe - was poor. Memory, however, provided what imagination could not; of a gaze that had gone on forever, against the gentle curve of the world, their white hands waving the smell of salt on his nostrils, on his lips.

"Yes. I've seen the sea, and sh-s-ships, a-a-and sails."

[Cinnabar]

"I do, yes." A nod, and he can't entirely refrain from a proud smile, even here. "Four." That interest is noted, though, and the new reaction sparks interest of his own. Something new discovered, or perhaps mentioned but not given much attention. "You like babies?"

That the addled man knows of the sea, and of ships, makes his explanation a little easier. So he nods, and sips his tea before continuing.

"Sometimes, when a ship is at sea, there are storms, terrible storms, that can blow ships far away from where they want to be. Because if you are a ship and a storm moves the wind and water then you must move with it." Watching to make sure the addled man follows. "You might become lost, and never find your way back across the sea. You might be wrecked, blown upon rocks until you break apart." Has he heard such stories, seen such things? Can he picture them?

"There are ways, though, to hold still against the storm. An anchor - something heavy, something solid, is dropped into the water on the end of a rope. It rests on the seabed, which doesn't move like the wind and water, and it keeps you tethered in place, safe until the storm passes. And when the sea is calm again you pick up the anchor and sail on, to wherever you want to go. Do you see?" The addled man speaks in fragments and images and impressions that border on poetry; so the silver-haired man speaks in images as well - in parables, using one thing to explain something different but the same.

"So. Perhaps we can find you an anchor."

[catch]

"You love your things that aren't quite the same, but c-c-close enough," Catch says, softly, not certain if this was an insulting thing to say. Catch, too, loved his sayings, his descriptions. But, then, that was the only way he could force them out, to put the words beyond his traitorous tongue. Some of these descriptions are beyond him, though he knows Ships. Catch is ready to believe Cinnabar, because Catch is certain that there is nothing, now, that Cinnabar could do to him. No hurts.

"We n-n-need an anchor small enough t-t-to f-fit inside my skull, Serjo, and b-b-big enough for it's job." The addled man grins, his teeth seeming to become larger even as they speak, the degeneration mocking Catch with every change. He is, however, not entirely Joking. He is very serious, and concerned about having such a large bit of metal thrust past that scar and into his brains, and hides it behind a smile.

[Cinnabar]

"I love patterns. Things that seem very different, but behave in similar ways." He grins over the rim of his cup, no insult taken at all. "It can make things easier to explain, too - especially things that can't be seen or touched. Describe them as similar to such things, and people find it easier to understand." Symbols, analogies, describing the abstract in terms of the concrete. Thoughts become sheep, or stars; a mind becomes a ship on the sea.

He shakes his head as Catch considers the practicalities of anchors, swallowing a mouthful of tea before he speaks, grin returned.

"Not at all. Your skull's quite full enough, and in any case that's not the place for it. You get lost inside your head, so the anchor needs to be outside it, to hold your thoughts here." He pats the blanket beside him, waves his hand to take in the grass, the clearing, the trees. The shift of Catch's features is noted, though, a keen eye for detail, for nuances of expression; but there are features that do not normally change, constrained by inflexible bone, and to see such inconstancy now is curious. Strange.

"You forget yourself." Calling back to a previous comment. "Who you are, what you are. Where you are. And it's hard to find the way back." He considers for a time, gazing into the tea cup cradled between his palms, before he looks back to the addled man.

"Some people tie string about their finger," Little finger wiggled in illustration. "and after that, every time they see the string they are reminded - Ah, yes, I must buy bread for tonight's supper! or some such. They weave a subtle thread between the thought they don't want to lose and a solid thing they cannot lose. That's their anchor."

[catch]

The idea that such a mind would find pleasures in the things Catch must do to think, to live, and survive, is such an alien thought that Catch cannot even process it. Like Aleksei before him, Cinnabar is regarded with a reverence that is entirely unlike what a subordinate gives a superior. Rather, it is the Knowing look of a superior to one he has, suddenly, found to be almost-equal. Catch can sympathize, somewhat, with human thought; the human part of him, too, desires the illusion of freedom, of simplicity. Get out of bed. Breakfast. Milk. Chop wood, find flowers. Go back to bed, and pretend to sleep, because these things and that thing were normal and ordinary.

That Cinnabar volunteered to think in such a convoluted way was worthy, and comforting.

"I have lots of st-string. Or. I d-d-did. In my puh, pack. I suppose that's still in my r-r-room, unless Ser Glenn's burned all my th-things." Catch scrubs his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes shifting to distant regret. "I had a st-stuffed monkey. And a horse. I would like t-t-to have th-those, too." If he ran out of room on himself, perhaps Catch could use his animals to put more string on.

[Cinnabar]

As much a matter of survival for Calomel, the observation of patterns, the construction of careful models of behaviour. The application of symbols, analogies, metaphors and parallels in an attempt to understand Myrken Wood and what goes on there. Sometimes the wrong model, in which case it is discarded, adjusted, given a tweak to better match what could be seen.

"Why would your things have been burned?" That's... an interesting assumption to make, revealing a little more of what Catch thinks of the Governor's methods. "I'd suspect your pack is still around, though - I can make inquiries, if you like. Where did you have it last? That is, where is your room?" Perhaps the demolished gaol, perhaps the house he'd shared with a couple of Constabulary minders. Best to clarify.

"I think I can make an anchor for you, a good and solid one. But we can try something else in the meantime, hm? To see if it works."

Setting down his tea, he retrieves his kerchief from his sleeve, tucked there when Catch's wounded hand had healed itself. Shaken out with a slightly theatrical flourish and a grin, then laid out on his knee. A thought occurs, and he reaches for the hamper to retrieve the little jar of tea leaves, sprinkling a few pinches into the middle of the cloth. Jar sealed and returned to the basket, he sets about folding the kerchief along the diagonal, then again lengthwise, then again.

"The idea is similar to the piece of string. With your permission, I'd like to knot this about your wrist, where you can see it." Quietly-spoken and reassuring, hands moving methodically to fold, crease, smooth, fold again, until it is no longer a square of linen but a strip two fingers wide. That done, he looks up again,

"While I do that, I'd like you to think about who you are - who you want to stay. Perhaps Ser Elliot's friend, who likes stew, and milk, and rum, and chocolate when it can be found. It's up to you." A grin, a shrug.

"Then, whenever you feel yourself forgetting, you can look at it and remember what you were thinking about when it was put there." Explanation given, he lifts the rolled kerchief between his hands, a nod for the addled man's wrist.

"May I?"

[catch]

Catch watches the Folding, patterns upon patterns, like a flower splitting in reverse, sucked into itself. The addled man, scrunched so close within himself, with knees drawn up, still managed to tip himself forward to see better the skillful, slow way Cinnabar folded. His nostrils flared at the scent of tea, yet when it was offered, Catch stretched his arm out for the once-governor. Strange chains. What else did the tea do, when applied to hands and wrists? It helps remember.

"My room. With J-Jacobs Sers. It has a pretty little table, and a nice b-b-bed. And ch-chairs." There is regret, there, as Catch waits for his wrist to be bound. He does miss that table, and the cat-mint plant upon it. The addled man's hand was silver-scarred, and this close, Cinnabar could finally see the patterns held within them; numbers that marched across his skin with military precision, the utilitarian symbols hidden inside, triangles and hexagonals and decagonals. These had been tattoos, once, filled with purpose; their purpose may yet remain, even with Lamai's healing.

[Cinnabar]

Just linen and tea leaves, a simple bracelet but with luck a useful one. Cinnabar nods at that description of the room, a note made to follow up on the whereabouts of the pack and its contents. "I'll see what I can do."

Those marks and patterns warrant a moment's subtle inspection, a gentle touch to guide the addled man just so; a lift of his hand, a tilt of his wrist as if to more easily loop the kerchief about it. Grey eyes keen as the mind behind them, gaze lingering only briefly before returning to the folded kerchief; a span of a few heartbeats, no more.

"Now, think hard about who you are, Catch; who you are, who you'll remember to be. Say it out loud, to make it clearer." This end tucked under that, drawn a little closer - enough that it won't easily slip over the man's broad hands, not so tight as to constrict.

[catch]

It felt strange, to have that weight on his wrist. It is a subtle weight, in truth, but it is there for a man not used to such things. Catch must inspect it with his eyes, for now, though his fingers twitch, and crave to bring it to his mouth to feel it, taste it with his lips and tongue. Like an inexperienced toddler, his world existed through his mouth, his nose; these things rarely tricked him, not the way his eyes could, or his ears.

Catch pulls himself from his reverie when Cinnabar addresses him, and the addled man tears himself along a new worm-path, his chin jerking to his chest, his wide eyes on his wrist. He tastes the words, and twitches, waiting for the to fill him up until they could be no longer contained, his twitching threatening to erupt into a full seizure, with only his arm held carefully still for Cinnabar. It is almost comical-looking, that one still hand among a twitching, writhing mass, but quickly enough it is passed, and Catch goes very, very still.

"I'm a Catch. It. I-i-it's n-not a vuh, very human th-th-thing. A C-c-catch duh, doesn't sleep, or eat, and he has all th-the stars hanging from his hair, and m-m-moon's in his eye and he. Has t-t-terrible th-things in his head." The addled man swallows thickly, and wishes he had another cake; but he senses the importance in this, and so he pushes on. "B-b-but. A Catch d-d-doesn't have to be j-just that, does he? Maybe he c-c-can have friends, like Ser Elliot, and. And st-still eat stew, even if he doesn't have t-t-to. And he c-c-can juh, just g-go mad again, if the Three muh, make him d-do terrible things."

[Cinnabar]

A pause as the addled man shudders, spasms, Cinnabar remaining still as that arm held within a band of white linen. Calm, patient. Then Catch is still again, motionless, voicing his thoughts.

"You don't have to listen to the terrible things; you don't have to do terrible things, you don't have to be a terrible thing, Catch. Say it, so you'll remember." Voice quiet but firm, folded cloth smoothed under his thumbs for a moment as his gaze lifts, grey eyes seeking out blue and black.

"You're a good person, Catch. You don't sleep or eat, but you've a good heart." A touch to the knot, loose ends held clear. "Press your finger there, please. And you can certainly have friends - you have friends now, hm? Tell me about the people you love, Catch." Guidance, lightly nudging his thoughts onto more positive paths, more encouraging, turning his attention to things worth keeping.

[catch]

"I don't have to be a terrible thing." It's a lie, one that tastes sour in his mouth, but he cannot admit that to Cinnabar. The Dreamlady says he shouldn't lie. Catch remembers the hurt in her voice and on her face, and he has to look, briefly, away from Cinnabar so that he wouldn't see. And that, in itself, would give away the lie. "I oughtn't d-d-do terrible things. Oh, Ser Cinnabar, how c-c-can I promise that?" Catch adds, wretched. "You'd b-b-better tell me not to. To. Not to have wormpaths in my head, or kiss Miss Agnie."

There will be more about that, catch knows. Disappointment. Disgust. Even anger, perhaps, and Catch thrusts his finger where Cinnabar indicates, and - as he has so often - tries to press on with enthusiasm he doesn't quite feel, chattering teeth as words flow from him like a poet's pen.

"There is Ser Elliot, of course, and. And the Dreamlady, and Ser Kals. They'll have p-p-puppies one day, you know, and th-then there's Lady Rhaena, and Ser Glenn, b-b-but I'm nuh, not so certain, because there's a hole in him, you see. And Ser Suede and Miss Jirai, and of c-c-course, Matron Faeryl, too. I.. I have m-m-many friends. Ser Elliot says I have t-t-too many."

[Cinnabar]

That lie's betrayed, and raised brows make it clear that Cinnabar knows it. He's dealt with liars and deceivers more accomplished by far than the man before him, but also more reprehensible. More malicious.

"It's not a promise, Catch. Just remember you don't like being a terrible thing." Perhaps an assumption, perhaps disastrously so, but from all he's seen and heard from Catch it's one he's inclined to believe. Perhaps surprisingly, though, there's a snort of amusement and a grin to follow at the addled mans' protest. "Are you saying you'd rather kiss Miss Agnie, or not kiss her?"

With Catch's finger in place he's able to complete the knot, this end over that and tugged tight - the small pinch to the very tip of that helpful digit as the knot draws closed is probably deliberate, an extra fragment of sensation to make this memory real when he looks back on it. There, done, and Cinnabar's sitting back and reaching for his cup again.

Then there's that list of friends, that rather eclectic list, and... hm. Delicacy required, absolutely. So, no rebuke for any of the names given, but a question instead.

"Why do you think he says that?"

[catch]

The realness of memory. Catch could laugh at the attempt, if he realized what it was for. Catch pulls his finger away, quickly, once it was apparent that Cinnabar was done, and the addled man thrusts the offending, pinched digit into his mouth, teeth nibbling worriedly at the faint remnant of the pinch. As well as Cinnabar's question. How much of Miss Agnie could he reveal? How to explain? Catch eyes Cinnabar warily, obviously weighing pros and cons while his wrist twists and flips, quivering in constant movement under the strange, new feeling of the cloth.

"She's f-f-full of worms, Ser," Catch finally says, deciding to be honest after the shame of lie-catching. "Worms, and with d-d-d-dust in her veins." Like a dead-thing, is what he doesn't say, because he hasn't a grasp of that concept. Agnie is different, and no amount of madness or not-madness will convince Catch otherwise. "I wouldn't k-kiss that. Or t-t-touch it."

As if to get the imagined taste off his lips, Catch sneaks another Cake, his hand and wrist still quivering, and eats it as Cinnabar poses another question, canting his head at it. "He th-thinks I'll get hurt," Catch says, idly, brushing the crumbs from his rough, chapped lips, and trying to lick the remnants from his fingers. "Nuh, nothing here th-that'd hurt me, of c-c-course. Not terribly. He wuh, wouldn't know."

[Cinnabar]

Sipping tea, listening, relaxed but attentive; talk of worms and dust, and it's an unsettling picture that he can't help but try to interpret, to understand. Quiet for a time as he struggles to imagine the world through Catch's eyes.

"Like Glenn?" That imagery, worms inside, similar to what Catch had apparently said about the Governor. Perhaps both suffered a similar affliction, a similar blight. What about a person would give that impression, that sense of revulsion, of wrongness? "How do you think she got like that?"

He nods with a small grin at the surreptitious reach for another cake, permission readily given. It's why he brought the cakes in the first place, a small gift, something to share. On the matter of hurts, though, Cinnabar can't help but disagree.

"I don't think he means hurts to your flesh. That heals quickly, you're right. I think he's worried about hurts to your heart." Choosing his words carefully.

"Imagine you have a friend who you like and trust, and who you believe likes you. They seem kind and generous, they shower you with fine gifts and sweet words and promises of wonderful things." He knows this is a dangerous thing to bring to Catch's attention, perhaps fatally damaging to any future attempts to bring the addled man under control by guile or flattery; but on the other hand perhaps that is for the best, given the nature of those most likely to use such means.

"Now imagine that it turned out they were only pretending to like you, so they could get you to do what they want; every kind word they'd said was a lie, and they only though of you as a dumb beast with useful abilities. How would that feel?"