Summary:Halgrim and Ambrose catch up, like the pair of frenemies they are. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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It's late to be working, but Halgrim doesn't have normal hours to worry about anymore; he answers to no one but his employees, and anyways he lives upstairs. He's in the back room of the shop, busy at the large, scarred work table binding a personal photojournal for someone who wanted a higher quality job. It's for their parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary, and the photographs accordingly span decades. Halgrim's currently working on the cover, assembling the inner hard covers and preparing the marbled enpapers for addition. The assembled and sewn signatures, heavy with photographs, sit to one side.
There's a glass of red wine, half-empty, on one of the work benches lining the wall, and an open bottle next to it; Spanish, to go by the label. Halgrim himself is fairly absorbed in his work at the moment, with a 40s-era Spotify channel playing on a docked iPod.
*
Lingering outside of the window, one master-thief tilts his head as if it would better help him listen to what's going on inside of the book shop. With how the entire world is becoming technologically logged away, it was easy enough to trace the old 'friend' to his store. How Ambrose laughed when he found out that the place was called 'Postscript Books'.
"Never could resist the tomes, could you, old man…?" His whisper fogs on the chill outer layering of the glass pane through the wrapping of his scarf. This iteration is a finer material while retaining the thin tassles so infamous on the black headwrapping. A little fiddling with the window's latch, given it's an older model, alongside the snip of the fine wiring running along the sill itself, and…
In like dee Flynn.
Cautiously, Ambrose enters what appears to be the back half of the main portion of the bookstore itself. He shuts the window as silently as he can manage and then slowly straightens. With the lights out, he has to let his eyes adjust. Glinting from other glass has him suspecting that the rarer books are kept within the archival-quality shelving and it's to here he wanders first. As he does, rolling his feet in their toed boots (the odd kind wherein each toe has its own snug pocket, visible and more commonly used by outdoor runners), he catches sight of the proverbial midnight oil burning. The slow reveal of his teeth is knowing. Ambient light from the back room passing through his pupils in carmine-red before he looks away again.
For…maximum appreciation of his presence, he settles himself in one of the chairs in the nook facing towards the back and then says just loudly enough to be heard over the quaint din of 40s music, "You never did keep normal hours, Lindqvist." The Jackal then sits like spoiled royalty, all indolent appreciation for the joke of having broken and entered…as usual.
*
Halgrim is none-the-wiser for Ambrose's presence until he speaks. And in a testament to just how much he's changed, his reaction isn't to startle nor indeed stop what he's doing and respond in any way. He keeps on, smoothing the end paper down over its backing in a delicate gesture. Only once he's done with that cover does he say, "You're certainly one to talk, Atherton," and look up from his work through the doorway. He studies Ambrose a moment, sighs and moves to fetch the wine glass and bottle from the bench. "You don't like reds, that I recall." He gets a glass from the set of six on a small shelf regardless. Who knows, it's been decades; maybe Ambrose's tastes have changed.
As he approaches through the door, that same coiled, prepared sense from Mr. Rosario's shop builds again. The sort of wariness and assured preparedness that comes from familiarity with being under threat.
*
From the half-glow of sitting out of immediate reach of the room's light, Halgrim won't miss the way the dual points of red light narrow and then one eclipses in a wink. "You've the memory of an elephant," the master-thief compliments evenly as he watches the man's silhouette appear in the framing of the door and approach. Rather than shifting in his chair at the miasm of the predator approaching, he seems to remain calm. If anything, it appears that his attention sharpens upon Halgrim. Something's steadied him since they last met…or at least taken an edge from the Jackal.
"However, I'm willing to try anything more than once. Should you choose to pour me a glass, I shall partake. You were always the consummate host," he says, his voice low and clearly amused that the habits withstood the test of time and whatever befell the man in their years of separation. "A nice place." Ambrose can be seen to look around. "I could see myself whiling away the hours here over a book or two."
*
"Well in that case," Halgrim says, managing a brittle smile. Their chats are unfond memories, after all. He sets his own glass down on one of the side tables, tops it off, then pours out a conservative glass for Ambrose. It's maybe two drinks, enough so Ambrose can decide how he likes it. "Tempranillo," Halgrim says, and handing the glass over. "This is a Gran Reserva Rioja. Full-bodied." The wine's really a dark, ruby color, almost purple. "Twenty-five years old."
He studies Ambrose as he offers the glass, making no attempt to hide that he is. If Ambrose is curious about where Halgrim's been, Halgrim is doubly-so for everyone he once knew. His hazel green eyes bely a tactical observation as well. Someone's taught him how to size things up.
*
The glass is taken from Halgrim in likely a familiar manner: no touching of skin and with a marked distancing between fingers as is. However, there's no low-amplitude buzz of blood-magic's interest even at such a close distance. A hooked finger pulls down the wrapping of scarf to reveal the one-day's scruff of his jawline. A brush of his palm pushes the rest of it back to reveal his shorter-kept brown hair.
"You're too kind. I'll be certain to appreciate it." Ambrose lifts the glass to the book-keeper and continues to hold the canny color-shifted gaze even as he sips. He even places the wine glass aside on the nearest table-desk without breaking eye contact. A flick of his tongue to his upper lip proves him considering the flavors of the red.
"Not terrible, actually. You also retain your taste," he informs Halgrim. Then comes the return of the coy smile, unchanged over all of the decades of separation — proof of the twisty sack-of-weasels mind still unable to let sleeping dogs lie. "But you've been in the hands of the militant, I think, Lindqvist. Or been under a whip, at the very least. Have I met whatever standards you've set for me? I am armed, surely you noted the revolvers. I have a trench knife at my thigh and another on the long of my left forearm. Surely you remember my other…talents." He delicately enuciates the word as only a Brit can and, interestingly enough, elongates the word in a subtle hiss through a toothy grin. That's a new habit to have picked up.
*
Halgrim laughs, short and sharp. "'Not terrible', for a quarter century Gran Reserva." He shakes his head, and a proper drink of his own glass. He murmurs, "Well you've not changed one iota, have you," eyes lingering on Ambrose in turn.
He breaks eye contact first, shrugs at the question with a non-chalance he doesn't feel. "Yes to both," he says. "As to standards, well, I wasn't facing anyone…or thing, which was conventionally armed." He makes a face, corrects himself. "Or, not often, and given Her particular talents, it seldom mattered if they were." He can only sigh, soft and quiet, about that aspect of his servitutude.
Moving to one of the archival bookcases and leaning against it, he says, "But I'm not the only one who's changed, had a variety of things happen to him in the last five decades, or," he waves his free hand, "however long that was. What befell you, while I was toiling away at the hand of the commune?"
*
"Commune," echoes the Jackal quietly and with what could be a form of concern, distant as the emotion might be. He narrows his eyes even as he settles himself further back into the arm-chair in a truly-comfortable slouch counter to the attention he continues to grant Halgrim. "You've a tale to tell. But…you asked after my own. How to begin…" The lift of a hand in true thespian mockery follows. "As always, with the passing of time. You likely know of how the years blur when you've nothing to pursue but your own agenda and boredom sets in. After you disappeared, others did as well." The significant look implies those of known acquaintenceship between the two men. "My own trail of interest had dead-ended. New York no longer held its shine. I left the city and my goods behind, kept out of reach of the mundane." A new way for the Jackal to classify those of non-magical repute. "I spent the years in various states, making various names for myself…of myself. I honed my skills in the art of…sleight of hand," he decides, " — and when I reached San Fransisco, I found a temporary home there. It has the touch of Shanghai, even across the vastness of the Pacific."
The distance of his eerie eyes melts away as he seems to come out of the reverie. Ambrose reaches for the glass of wine again and makes a soft sound of appreciation after the next mouthful. "It's growing on me," he informs Halgrim blithely. A clearing of his throat. "I…am uncertain as to whether or not you believe in fate, but… I found myself once again in New York City and in the confines of the subway system…" Again, he lifts his hand and falls oddly wordless. It takes him a noticeable amount of time to sift through his thoughts. "…he found me."
A complete juxtaposition of the Jackal's decades-long hunt.
*
"Yes, ah, bit of a long story," Halgrim says, rubs at his temples. As Ambrose has left that topic for after he's told his own tale, Halgrim does as well. (He hates revisitng it anyways.) The appreciation for the wine gets him a wry smile, and Halgrim even moves to pour him a proper half-glass. "Well then. We'll make a red-drinker out of you yet. Even if it's the ungodly priceless ones."
He listens to Ambrose's brief description of his travels, head tilted and honestly curious. A flash of sympathy for the disappearances of others; well, it can't be helped. As Halgrim himself now knows, time alone would have done that, if not life's natural tendency to take and take some more. A smile for the description of San Francisco. He really needs to find time to go there.
He blinks, straightens at the final statement. "Really?" His surprise turns to hesitation. "How, ah…did that go?"
*
Ambrose inhales and seems to wonder if being candid is the best way to go about things. In the end, he does and replies, on a resigned sigh, "I threatened to filet him with a rusty spoon and leave him for the crows to find if he was something like a doppelganger or illusory spirit." A shift in the chair and he isn't blushing, don't tell him that he is, he'll shank you.
"As it turns out, he was not, in fact a doppelganger or some psychic nightmare brought to life before me and I spilled no blood. I also did not drop everyone around me like flies in my shock, for which I am quite proud of myself."
He then takes a mouthful from the newly-filled wineglass and lifts it. "Needless to say, I…am… I toast to…ye gods. Fulfilling a dream," he says, voice gone markedly more quiet and almost, dare we say, shy.
*
Halgrim looks, well, relieved. Because the last thing literally anyone needed was jilted/unrequited/denied lover Ambrose Atherton raging around the city. Maybe he's a little jealous, but not overly so. His dead loves are seven decades gone now; he's long since resigned himself to existence without them. Anyways, he has Adam back, and John's managed to stay alive too.
So he says, "That's, frankly, excellent news, Atherton. Some of the best I've heard since coming back." He holds up his glass, nods and says, "To joyful reunions," and has a drink.
"So what have you gotten yourself up to, then? Elmo said something about a," he gestures with his wineglass, "bar, or pub, something like that?"
*
"Thank you…" The hesitant words are accompanied by a heavy swig of the wine, very disrespectful to the fine taste and the price of each precious ounce. He sucks at a canine tooth and eyes the book-keeper across from him. "…the young man does gossip, doesn't he." The lowly-pitched observation doesn't contain any real threat to it.
Much more loudly, Ambrose elucidates. "I am the owner of a pub, yes. The Jolly Rigger. We specialize in an affordable menu that compliments the kegs and microbrews we keep on tap. Call it modern pub fare if not 'fine' pub fare." The finger-quotes are lazily sketched in the air. "Young mister Rosencrantz was the hired electrician when rodents apparently got into the wiring above the ceiling panels. He was quick and precise, two things I reward heavily. He was paid his dues and then more. He offered additional skills at his place of work and, well…" A little gesture towards Halgrim. "You know of the rest," the master-thief finishes with a curl of a smirk.
*
Halgrim arches an eyebrow at the gulp of wine, but he looks more amused than anything else. "The Jolly Rigger," he repeats, as if to memorize it. "Maybe I'll drop by unannounced and judge your stouts for myself, hm?" A sly little smile; if Ambrose can judge wines, Halgrim can feel free to judge beer. He's certainly had enough of it in his lifetime. "I'm sure the food's," he shrugs absently, "fine. You needn't be serving scallops and choice prime rib to be serving decent food, after all."
He swirls the wine in his glass, watching it and Ambrose by turns. He makes a low sound, has a sip. "Yes, I do know the rest." He arches an eyebrow at Ambrose. "If it's not clear, of course, he doesn't know overly much about me. Just that I'm not simply human." An understatement of truly epic proportions, if enough to put Elmo and Halgrim on slightly more common ground than otherwise.
*
The master-thief nods as he shifts in the arm-chair again. This time, an ankle ends up balanced atop the opposite knee. Ambrose really does look right at home now, idly tilting the bulb of the wine glass back and forth so the violaceous blend dances up the sides in a circular wave.
"I have made no effort to further reveal anything pertaining to your Collective. Though I ask, don't bring Her to the pub. No shirt and no shoes means no service," he quips almost unctuously with a soft laugh. The amusement fades and Halgrim is the recipient of a searching look. "You mentioned a commune, Lindqvist. The modern implications of such a word being used are usually negative…"
*
Halgrim seems to relax minutely when Ambrose reveals he's not said anything about Fjorskar to Elmo. "Thank you," he says, has a little more wine. "It's not that I don't intend to tell him, it's just…that sort of thing takes time." He raises his eyebrows at Ambrose, suggesting he full well knows the reasons why.
The comment about the commune has him looking away. "Ah, yes. My escapades," he says, voice low. He runs a hand through his hair, seems to take his time putting together how to explain what happened. "There was a war among a certain niche of magic wielders going on in Northern Scandinavia. A bit off the map and under the radar, owing to how they waged it. They didn't want anyone interrupting them, didn't care to be answering to the likes of the Sorcerer Supreme and so on. They differed on how to go about using life magicWild magic, some call it." He pauses there, decides to stick to this tack. "In any conflict there are different types of weapons. As the fighting continues and escalates, the weaspons brought to bear become more and more severe." He has a drink of wine. "The druid communethey were one side in this conflict, and they went looking for the amulet. Traced it to me." He stops there, sighs, soft and quiet. "And since I couldn't be separated from it, they took me with Her."
*
Ambrose listens closely. It's evident in how his attention never strays, not once, not even for the odd sound of a late-night group of passerbys past the front of the book shop outside. He seems unconcerned, another shift in traits since last these two sat over a bottle of wine. His brows meet as the tale wends on and his tongue slips up beneath his upper lip to polish at a canine tooth yet again in silent pique.
"I've heard of this Sorcerer Supreme. Right bloody good use he was to you then, if you were snatched up like the last set of knickers at a brothel laundry-room." A snort. "Then you became a weapon for these druidic practitioners, I presume, and against your will."
*
"Eh," Halgrim waves a hand about the Sorcerer Supreme being unable to locate him. "They might not be so powerful as he, but within their venue they're unmatched. They effectively," a lift of one shoulder, "erased me, masked my presence entirely from everyone. And…" He pauses, rubs his neck in an unconscious gesture. "They bound us, her and I, with a geas, so that we couldn't reach out to anyone. Couldn't speak or write, even think, your names. We knew you were out there, somewhere, but we had no way to express who you were to anyone." His mouth flattens and he licks his lips. It's nauseating to think about. He washes it away with some wine.
"Anyways," he says, "I've no judgment for him, nor John or anyone else, who couldn't find me." He snorts at the analogy, almost starts to laugh and manages to stop himself. "Yes, it was about that gentle of a handling," he admits. After a second he manages to sober. "Yes, very much against our will. Her, mostly—I was just a vessel, a way for them to control her." He fingers his wine glass. "Eventually they let me see my family, to dissuade me from taking the…obvious way out." He gives Ambrose a brief, significant glance to convey what that would have been. "A small reward for behaving. I'm not ashamed to say I took it. What else could I do, I had no way out, no hope of escaping…" His voice fades as he falls into a brief reverie. It only lasts a moment; he starts, stands up straighter. "Anyways. The blood witch coven finally overran the commune, though the commune dealt them a fatal blow in turn, and everything collapsed. Without their magic to power it, the geas on me collapsed, and I was free. So."
"Eh," Halgrim waves a hand about the Sorcerer Supreme being unable to locate him. "They might not be so powerful as he, but within their venue they're unmatched. They effectively," a lift of one shoulder, "erased me, masked my presence entirely from everyone. And…" He pauses, rubs his neck in an unconscious gesture. "They bound us, her and I, with a geas, so that we couldn't reach out to anyone. Couldn't speak or write, even think, your names. We knew you were out there, somewhere, but we had no way to express who you were to anyone." His mouth flattens and he licks his lips. It's nauseating to think about. He washes it away with some wine.
"Anyways," he says, "I've no judgment for him, nor John or anyone else, who couldn't find me." He snorts at the analogy, almost starts to laugh and manages to stop himself. "Yes, it was about that gentle of a handling," he admits. After a second he manages to sober. "Yes, very much against our will. Her, mostly—I was just a vessel, a way for them to control her." He fingers his wine glass. "Eventually they let me see my family, to dissuade me from taking the…obvious way out." He gives Ambrose a brief, significant glance to convey what that would have been. "A small reward for behaving. I'm not ashamed to say I took it. What else could I do, I had no way out, no hope of escaping…" His voice fades as he falls into a brief reverie. It only lasts a moment; he starts, stands up straighter. "Eventually the blood witch coven finally overran the commune, though the commune dealt them a fatal blow in turn, and everything collapsed. Without their magic to power it, the geas on me unraveled, and I was free. So."
*
The silence lingers on for a time. There's the soft click of Ambrose's tongue separating from the tooth once more, almost a 'tsk' but not quite. "You have my sympathies, Lindqvist. While I was not under a geas for the amount of time that you endured, I too have had my will usurped from me. It is an unkindness unparalleled by many things in this world. I nearly killed my own love," he reveals quietly, " — and he too nearly died under one. I cannot imagine being subjected to such a state for so long. To have one's family diminished to something as simple as a biscuit before a dog…"
The slow, disgusted sigh is short of a snake hiss only by dint of humanity. "Inhumane. Still, you are free. This, I will toast, because freedom is a richness few get to truly appreciate." He lifts the glass to Halgrim.
*
Halgrim grunts at how amusingly on the nose that comparison is; he's too emotionally exhausted by the topic to be remotely perturbed at Fjorskar and himself being the 'dog' in such a turn of phrase. His expression turns sympathetic. Thankfully he has no memory of Ishmael, Rolf, and Ekaterina's deaths at their hands, yet the fact that it happened is still a horrible scar. "I'm glad you both survived that," he says with a nod. "And, I hope you had a chance for vengeance. I didn't, but," he shakes his head, "maybe their mutual destruction is vengeance enough. There can't be more than a few dozen of them left anymore."
He smiles, tired and genuine. "That I am," he says, raising his glass and having a drink. "In more than one way. Because they needed to be able to control her, they needed me to be able to control her. So we learned quite a few things. She can even almost speak proper English, when she deigns to, though," a sardonic smile, "I'm not sure how long that'll keep anymore. She only did it because she was forced to."
.~{:--------------:}~.
*
"I suppose if She continues to speak English, it will be useful in conversation…what little She might get. I suspect that even in this day and age of advanced sciences and revelations in magic, few will stand fearlessly before her." Ambrose smiles wryly to himself before sipping again at the wine. "You know, I still have one of her feathers. A raven feather. I use it as a bookmark," he reveals as if it were no big deal — a memory kept in glossy black plumage and its use in salute to the human within.
"Vengeance…? Yes, we had our vengeance. It was bloody, and appropriately so. We were raised in a time when such violence was expected of us. To threaten a loved one as we were threatened…it could not stand. Our points were made. And to think, we…" A soft laugh escapes him and he turns his face into his hand to indulge in a rub at one temple. "I suppose you should know that I am a father now as well, Lindqvist — father-in-law to boot. Either one of my children may wander into your store." He sets aside the wine glass and looks at Halgrim very solemnly. "Might I ask that they remain safe under your watchful eye while present here, if it should pass that they come to this place?"
*
"Eh, one never knows," Halgrim says, shrugging. "She might find use for it yet. Since they taught us how to, ah, better tolerate one another, she's out and about far more frequently. She'll have her fair share of interactions with others—hopefully, nonviolent ones." He pulls a face. "As long as they're not life magic users. That's still a sore spot. For both of us."
He smiles at the mention of the feather, fondly amused. "Let it never be said you're not sentimental, Atherton." Another sip of wine as he listens to Ambrose's commentary on vengeance. "Is now really not such a time?" he wonders, thinking of the sentinels, which he missed entirely. "I think we've merely begun pretending it's not." Well, and he can't pretend Fjorskar won't attempt to kill the first druid or blood witch she sees, on questions asked. There's that too.
He blinks, honestly surprised. "A fathera father-in-law? Well you've been busy, haven't you." He waves his free hand at the store. "Yes, of course, I meanwell, I'll Adam to pass word to Fjorskar, but she can no doubt smell the relationship, and she has no reason to dislike you, that I recall. So unless your children and their spouses are magic users who wield it indiscriminantly they'll be entirely welcome."
*
"Given that…I…did not raise my daughter and my fiance did not raise his son, I can at most guarantee that they know how to behave in public in the sense of not revealing their own abilities," Ambrose hedges. He does wince the slightest. "My daughter is Kazimira, though she prefers Mira, and my son-in-law is Sterling. He is the unpredictable one. His lineage…no, it is more than his blood-mother eschewed humanity and while he is at least…" A dismissive handwave asks forgiveness of the potentially inaccurate guess of, "…eighty years old, if not more, he will continue to age at a rapidly decreased rate due to his lineage. He was a sheltered child, as they might say these days. He means well…usually. Mira elected herself his keeper long ago. Thank god they were raised together. Neither are married."
He curls fingers around the stem of the wine glass and swirls it again, watching it rotate. "They make me sentimental, those two. They remind me of my own childhood and…" He laughs before groaning and dropping his head back against the chair. "Fatherhood is a task, even when your offspring have been adults for decades. I thought I might set aside my daggers and guns, but…god, Lindqvist." He meets those shifted golden eyes. "Imagining either under duress or threat is an entirely new level of stress to me. My fiance? He is wise. They are young yet. Yet," he stresses. "I would…I would not ask it of you, a second set of eyes, but you are…"
He picks his words carefully. "You are more noble than you grant yourself and a man of your word, through and through. Though you may not trust me, I can trust in your word."
*
Halgrim gives Ambrose a sympathetic smile, finishes off his glass and pours another, half-full. "Ah, wellthat happens, in lives like ours, I suppose." Certainly if he'd had children who'd survived his initial possession, they'd be full grown, with children of their own now, and barely know him. A horrible thought. He shudders. "You and your fiance have them now, and that's what mattersbeing there for them going forward." A soft sigh. "The boys always are the more troublesome lot, aren't we? No thanks to society telling us we can do as we please."
The next bit catches him be surprise, though, even more than the notion of Ambrose being a father. He's stunned to silence for a time, then bites his lip. "Wellthank you, Atherton, though I have to say, it's quite a thing, to be asked that. They're your children, children are the future, even, maybe especially, for those such as us." The undying, he meansthough particularly in his case, as he doesn't have any, might not be able to at all, now. "Did you already discuss this with your fiance? Unless I'm utterly unaware of it, I can't expect we've met."
*
Ambrose shakes his head with a rueful smile. "No, I haven't discussed this with my fiance, but I don't doubt he'd sleep all the better for knowing your Collective has an eye on his offspring. I've told him once or twice about Her. He can keep a secret, have no fear," the Jackal adds, lifting a hand for peace. "And mind, I'm not asking you to babysit. The children are shockingly competent at existing safely. Simply…an eye on them. Sterling is decidedly not as precocious as one might think. It's Mira who…" His gaze slides flatly to one side briefly. "…takes after me. Sterling is more like his mother than his father." A shrug. OH WELL.
"I do not know if you've met him," Ambrose continues, realizing he'd glossed over a question accidentally. "Talbot. Kent Talbot, of the Baskervilles. Yes, that family. He hasn't mentioned you, if he's met you. I do feel that he would given your…cocophany of Collective. I have a feeling you'd remember if you met him." His next smile is small but sly.
*
"It's alright," Halgrim says, shaking his head at the raised hand. "I can't imagine you telling someone you didn't think was trustworthy." His mouth twitches in a wry smile. "Information's valuable, you'd sell it, if anything. So. If you're givingit to someone they're not just anyone."
He nods his understanding. "That's good, as I'd make a terrible babysitter. I'll keep an eye out, though. Let you know if I notice anything, ah, untoward." He coughs a laugh, teases, "And if she takes after you that ought to happen any day now."
The description of Talbot has him frowning, and he shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid we never did meet. I only know of him through acquaintances." He sniffs, indignant. "Yes, if he's remotely like you I imagine I would." He offers the wine bottle, eyebrows raised, to see if Ambrose would like more.
*
An eyebrow is arched at the professor emertius and remains as Ambrose mutters, "Kazimira is a lady and would never do half of what I have done, do, or will do." Dad wouldn't approve anyways — painful, to have the microscope turned on himself in turn. A dismissive tilt of the wine glass has its contents sloshing without spilling. "Please," and he holds out the bulb towards the bottle. Of course — always more wine for the Jackal now starting to feel its effects in his fingers and toes.
"Kent is not like me, and thank god for it. I'd never consider marrying myself." That speaks to introspection perhaps not expected of the master-thief. "Well…not entirely like me. We do share stances on things." Like how the only good Bolshevik agent is a dead one. "He's more educated than I am." The Jackal doesn't flinch about admitting it. "He's far more refined and a far better cook. He's a diplomat and a gentleman and…" Ambrose laughs to himself. "My better half."
He thinks for a moment and then blows a huge sigh. "God, I ran saccharine, how disgusting." Bye, wine. The whole glass. All in one fell swoop.
*
For a moment there's a sense Halgrim is holding back a laugh by sheer willpower alone. "A lady, is she," he says, voice half-strangled. He pours the wine, hand steady, says, "Well, gods be praised. My sister's daughters were untamed valkyries in their twenties. I'm surprised anyone survived them."
He listens to Ambrose's description of Talbot with an indulgent smile, laughs in response to the sigh and exclamation. "Oh, that's the fine part of being in love. The sweetness of it. Of finding someone who compliments you in all those right ways, fills in the gaps, while you do the same for them." He contemplates his glass for a time, shakes his head. "To your fiance and your children, yes? The better parts of yourself." He squints, sees Ambrose's glass is empty, shrugs and drinks to them anyways. "I look forward to meeting all of them. In as much as I can do so, I'll be sure to pass a good word along to Herself, that she will be as…cordial as she may."
*
Ambrose lifts the empty wine glass heedless of its state. "And I predict they'll be cordial to you and Her in return. Honestly, Lindqvist, I am probably the worst of all of us. If you can tolerate me, the rest of my clan will be a veritable breeze…even my own untamed valkyrie." He slouches heavily in the chair now as the second full glass of wine begins to bring a fuzziness to all of his senses.
"And here I've been talking about me for so long, look at us. Pffft. I heard a familiar name earlier. Adam. How is the hulking cryptid?" The Jackal grins as he asks this, resting his jaw on his fist heavily. "The man's got a way of appearing out of the gloom like…like a bloody geist."
*
Halgrim sips his wine. "Ah, of course you think yourself such, but I'd be surprised if your fiance didn't try to claim the same." He chuckles. "Regardless, I look forward to meeting them, at some point. Especially your valkyrie."
Of Adam, he says, "Oh, as well as he may be. He'll be glad to hear you're about. Perhaps even pay you a visit, if you wish." A small, teasing smile; he knows full well how Ambrose reacts to Adam. "He's been here this whole time, you know. Guarding the tuinnels and the below areas for our kind." He holds up the bottle; there's maybe a swallow or two left. "He and John tried to find me, but…whatever the druids did, they did it well." Here's hoping they're all dead, he thinks but doesn't say.
*
A semi-sloppy nod from the Jackal at the news of presence in the city as well as efforts in vain. He holds out his glass in return, pleased in his heart to be offered the last of the wine. This last portion will be sipped…at least, in theory.
"The ruddy bastards were clever, if the Gutter Mage couldn't locate you — and I do remember the tenacity of the Monster." Adam, in particular. "Him, glad to hear I'm about, however? I don't remember being more than a pain in his respective ass. But that's right, the tunnels, yes." He gives a drunken smile, as if memories of debacle there were fond. "We'll see who climbs the nearest tree the next time we meet!" The declaration is firm and inebriated.
How confident, as always, the Jackal. No doubt he'll either clear the ground by a good number of feet or end up a lightpole.
*
Pouring out the last, Halgrim says, "They're all like that, she'd say. Far more clever than they are wise." He sighs. "Certainly they allowed themselves to be consumed by a need to be the victors, with no time spent asking themselves what the cost would prove to be." For themselves, for him…for everyone.
He leaves that topic behind to speak of Adam; a far more welcome subject. "You underestimate him, I think he was fond of you, in his way." He makes a sound in his chest. "In as much as one such as he may be fond of you, of course." He can't help it, he grins. "I'm sure we shall see who climbs the nearest tall object, yes. As long as it's," he gestures with his nearly empty glass at the store, "not one of my bookshelves."
*
"I'm entirely lovable," the master-thief deadpans.
"And heaven forbid the bookshelves gets scuffed," snarks the Jackal with a grin just as friendly as the one shot at him. "I shall make a point of seeing if I can't cross paths with the spooky bastard outside, in respect to your shop and its contents. I'd like to think I won't scale anything the next we meet."
Maybe. Or maybe he's kidding himself and, over the years, has gotten more responsive to sudden threat.
"How did he find you then? You're both chary bastards. I suspect that if either of you wished to go to ground, I'd have a hellacious time hunting you out." Ambrose eyebrows, still smiling.
*
"Entirely," Halgrim agrees, tone droll. He smiles wide enough tro show his teeth, finishes his wine. "The seed for these books and bookshelves were left to me by a very dear friend, so yes, heavens and hells forbid anything happen to them." He clears his throat. "It was a chance meeting—she was out, being herself, and came across the same pair of ruffians being ill-behaved in the park that he did." He sighs, runs a hand over his face, murmurs, "Fortunate for them, I suppose…"
He shrugs. "I'm not so adept at not being found. I suppose if she did all the work that'd be true. But it was magic that hid us before. Adam, though, it's true. No one will find him when he doesn't care to be. That's simply his nature, it's how he survived us—well. It's how he survived humanity, all those lonely years." A number he can't really count himself among anymore. Not really.
He settles back in his chair, folds his hands in his lap. "It's probably worth noting, I don't 'work' at the university anymore. I'm a Professor Emeritus, so," he waves a hand, "I have access to things, but I'm no longer its guardian." A yawn, then, "Of course, if I catch you stealing something, I can't promise I won't try to thwart you. It'll depend on how charitable I'm feeling."
*
The yawn is mirrored reluctantly back towards his host. It begins with a resistant flickering of lips, but finally Ambrose reneges and fully slouches in the plush high-backed chair. He blinks woozily at Halgrim now.
"Look at you, finally having earned your keep. No doubt it is an honored status to attain, this…Professor Emeritus. Well met, Professor Emeritus." The Jackal imparts it with lazy, teasing respect. "And given your aged status, I will absolutely attempt a foray or two into the campus once more. If I'm being candid, half the fun was seeing if I could twist your nose. I won't plead maturity over the matter. Do attempt to chase me down, will you?" He now appears right at home, entirely too comfortable laying out the challenge.
"Regardless, do pass on word to Adam. It will be good to see what anchoring and bracing news he has of the years passed. Perhaps Talbot might attend upon the meeting. It would be a new sight for him, meeting the Monster. He knows of the tales, well-read as he is." A stretch crackles joints in his back and he makes a small groan of contentment, happy to melt back into the chair again.
*
"It just means they think I'm retired and approaching death's door," Halgrim admits. He smiles at the very idea. "The students have a running bet on whether or not I'm real. They make up stories about me." More laughter. "One day I'll be found out, and John will have to redo all his hard work. I'll have to come up with a whole fake identity. Ech, I hate the idea. Rather just be myself—so what if I live forever, or as long as a spirit lives."
Another yawn, maybe in response to Ambrose's, so now they've a cascade going on. "I'll be sure to," he agrees, languid. "Same rule—no touching the Norse pieces. The rest, well, I'll stop you as I may. And, of course. That ought to be an interesting meeting…"
His voice fades, and he checks his watch, groans at it. "Unfortunately, I must beg my leave of you. I have to open this shop in the morning, after all. No rest," another yawn, "for the wicked."
*
"Still no Norse pieces? Damn, but you make me want to try because you won't renege on the stance," the Jackal admits even as he begins to work his way upright in the chair. "I'll see if a fingertip to some old document tickles my fancy. I won't tell you if I do dare, however… I shall spare your decrepit and feeble mind." He laughs to himself in a rolling cadence slow and rounded behind his grinning teeth.
Finally, with some mild wobbling, Ambrose is fully on his feet. He fusses with his headscarf as he continues speaking. "I'll be certain to see what embellishments I can add to the populace of your students. If you hear anything spectacularly outrageous, well…I was bored." The master-thief shrugs, eyes twinkling behind the scarf. Of course, nightshine flashes through his pupils. "Be well, Lindqvist. I'll stop by again in the future. Shall I bring my own bottle this next visitation?"
*
Halgrim levers to his feet, gathers up the glasses and bottle. "Do you think I won't know? I helped them immeasurably in those years before I disappeared, I have that collection memorized." His eyes glint; he might be lying, he might not. "Oh, please feel free. I think John made my age change any time someone checks it." He shakes his head, amused by the ways John chooses to amuse himself. "Alongside some amusing anectdotes from you, we should have them thoroughly occupied during their degree programs."
Sobering, he says, "Yes, if you'd like—something you prefer. I always like to try new things, after all."
*
"I live to amuse," and the Jackal executes a sweeping and archaic bow, overly dramatic as any Shakespearean thespian might upon the Globe's broad stage. He manages to keep his balance and straightens again, working a loose part of the headscarf again. "I shall bring a favored red then next I visit. I cannot guarantee additional company, especially after hours. The offspring are adults as is and I am no holder of their leashes."
A dextrous hand gestures towards the front door. "I would exit as a proper guest might, but…seeing as I am anything but proper, I shall use the window again. I wish you well." A final nod and there goes the lithe gentleman in his dark practical clothing out through the lifted pane, as charmingly disrespectful as any raiding raccoon.
*
Halgrim makes a low sound in his chest. "Ah, that's fine. I know how it is at that age. Meeting their parents' friends is the height of torture." He bobs his eyebrows. "Or an appropriate punishment, if one is warranted." He leaves it as a suggestion.
"I'd expect nothing less of you, Atherton. Have a fine night." He turns to take the glasses back to the workroom and deposit the bottle in the recycling, then lock things up in the wake of Ambrose's departure (…again…) before heading upstairs to bed.