Summary:Ambrose finally reaches Kent in Shambhala for a truckload of a report and some consequential discussion. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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He's done a decent job of keeping his nose clean. But then, he doesn't have much choice, does he? The sword of Damocles is still hanging over his head. Karma's judgement….it's still there. He's got a lot to work off.
And he's spent the last few weeks in the magical equivalent of an IRS audit, as they go over his recent past actions with a fine-tooth comb. Refinements of technique, renewal of bonds, refreshers on old lessons…..it hasn't been fun. But there's a relief at the end, like the purging of accumulated poison. So Kent's been resting this past day, after several days' vigil in the caverns under the monastery. Lying on his pallet, thinking of nothing, watching the shadows that the little butter lamp casts on the wall.
It comes from out of nowhere, the sense of a shadow slinking into this mental stillness; its form is made faint by distance and lack of mastery, but surely the muted twinkling of red-and-gold at its heart identifies it even before the echoing lilt of questioning follows. It has a tired cast, the type of exhaustion brought on by stress.
Ambrose lies in sweatpants and sleep-shirt on the empty master bed in the basement suite of the manor back in New York in a state of the deepest meditation he can manage. In his arms, held almost like a soothing stuffed animal, is Kent's own bathrobe. His breathing is slow and methodical and well-trained given his long efforts in combination with Kent's tutoring.
…«azizam?»…? There's even a faint expectation of lack of contact as if to indicate that the Jackal had been reaching out more than once only to by stymied by Shambhala's barriers or its master-mentalists' own walls.
Apparently he's out of detox and out of quarantine, and thus permitted contact. The bond they share is very deep, after all. There's the sense of that familiar mind turned towards him, a wave of affection, like an unseen smile. My darling, hello.
The sense of him gathering form, a dark-furred body sprawled out limp on his bed. What's wrong, my dear? I should be able to come home soon, or so I hope.
Fireworks of relieved surprise go up like a flare in the kythe.
!!! — you're there!!! Oh my RUDDY GOD —
And Ambrose drops out like a bad connection for a few seconds. It takes him this time to regain the connection. Now comes the misty form again in the abeyance of a canine greatly pleased beyond measure to belly into mental contact.
— Kent, my god, you left and the entire fucking WORLD has gone to pot! And then, like the novice he is, Ambrose attempts to share an entire load of information upon his poor mate. It arrives like a foghorn-announced truckload of parcels upturned from a dump-truck: memories, events, sensoria.
And the Jackal winces afterwards. Sorry — so much to tell you — do you understand?
Kent….he's used to dealing with direct mental attack. Ambrose dumping info like he's a maddened UPS driver backing his truck through a house's wall to deliver packages, though, is a whole different matter. It takes him a little while to sort things out, process, muse….even as he maintains the connection.
Dear heavens, you weren't exaggerating, he says, wryly. What madness. This fool wants to steal you and extract your curse like juice from an orange so he can challenge Fenris himself…? A beat, more sorting, and ……you need that locket, don't you? Geographically, you're not far from me. I can come to you in India, if need be.
Relief washes through like a necessary breeze in an airless room. Mayhaps, my heart, you could show. You are nearby, I assume. I am uncertain of what Fenris intends. It is not only to challenge Fenris — he explained it as if his get wished to kill the entire world — usher in darkness beyond comprehension. It was uncomfortable to discuss. The cringe is palpable.
Guilt then follows, bitter and flat, and there's a sense of large ears drooping along with a head. Oliver means well…or at least, that is what I was told. He thinks me suffering — falls directly into the whims of that spectre-wolf. The locket must be found before they do. If it is found before it is in my hands, this spectre may travel time and rip the Bane from me when I am yet young in the curse. The Jackal shivers himself even smaller in the kythe. Only to Kent does he ever showcase these depths of concern.
The shadowy form shifts instantly into a dog limned in the eerie blue-green glow of phosphorescence, a dark shape outlined in foxfire, bristling. Exhaustion banished by anger. I will come to you, as soon as I can. Can you meet me in Kathmandu? It'll only take me a day or two, with the Masters' permission. I must tell them what you've told me. They may be willing to aid us Winding himself around the Jackal, protectively.
I might be able to meet you there, yes. Ambrose's mental guise nods. Yet more relief comes with the vision of the great black dog shielded in visible protective rage. It both soothes and vindicates the Jackal while washing away most of his concern. I spoke with Prince Loki as to finding out where I lost the locket, my heart. Quick, a run of memories of entering Cover Story and then the travels to Svartalfheim before going under the Thoughtpiercer needle. The Ganges River, outside of Patna, India. It's a good three-hundred kilometers of distance between the two locations, but nothing that magic itself cannot surpass.
I…may have implored this favor…and named it as such. I fear I may yet owe him. He did not ask or define what I would give in return. I do not think the Prince wishes to aid us, but if your Masters will, I am honored. If they choose not to do so, then… A shrug is understanding if vaguely depressed. I am but an unknown in their purview.
The glint of long teeth bared in something that isn't quite a grin. Not too very far. He knew India well, if not as well as Shanghai - a place to pass through on his way to the Pearl of the Orient, doing what he could to avoid British society. There's a flickering scrim of memories, of an India long-gone, still part of the Empire.
Not so much as you think, my love. You and I have been known to them for a very long time. I will ask their help, their advice.
If your Masters have wisdom to share, I would have it. I keep thinking of the impossibility of finding a locket no bigger than a quarter lost over eighty years ago and… Cold and icy dread makes the mirror-like reflecting pool mist beneath his feet. I feel the fool.
There comes the sense of a heavy lean — of arms wrapping about the great dog's chest and neck. And Miss Lena — I botched it up well and ruddy good… She is no longer a fox kit, my heart, but it…it is impossible to speak to her rationally — she did but argue when I asked her to remain safe! Who argue AGAINST safety?! I admit to losing my temper. Ambrose radiates guilty resentment. I do not want to apologize. I do not want to be the better person. I want to back to — to — drinking my tea and planning my next collecting escapade and living without this — this — FEAR constantly eating at my sanity!
He's solid, in their link. A presence Ambrose knows so well, sight and scent and weight and sound. My dear, have you ever listened to me when I asked you something like that? His tone is only mild. Don't be afraid. We have faced things like this, we will do this…together. IT's a tiny thing, yes, this locket….but you wore it for years. It'll retain your vibrations yet. We will find it…..
That heavy head rests against the Jackal's shoulder, and there's that sense of a sigh from him.
Tighter, the hold about the great dog's foxfire-limned form, and its wane light in turn lights the human form Ambrose takes within the kythe. On his heart pulses, crimson and gold both, reflecting its own light off the starry mirror-pool of the kythe's ground.
I know. I know well. I am afraid, but I know…and I listen. He claims this, but in the same flickerflash of thoughts traveling so fast, he declares rueful admission of partial truth; he listens, but does he take it to heart? Oh adrenaline, best friend and drug both. She said to tell you thank you, for the succor you offered while she was cursed to be a kit — that, and an apology as if she might have been a burden, but I told her you would approve more of the gratitude. A sigh that ripples the waters. …why is she so stubborn. She is my Karmic-curse…you have convinced me. I empathize. I feel for your suffering so long ago.
'Long ago', says the Jackal, who laughs up little werelights at the damned irony of it all.
She really is payback… And despite himself, he thumps his tail. Even in this form, it betrays him utterly. Thanks are welcome, but there was nothing to apologize for. Kent….well, his lack of sympathy is fairly complete.
A beat where there's the sense of his attention turning away for a moment, as if listening to someone else in his room. I may even be able to summon the Phurba to go with us. It might give this mad wolf something of a shock. There might be a little gleam of anticipation in his mental voice. IT's been a long time since he really seriously faced someone in battle.
!!! Again, surprise is crystal clear, bright and twinkling like high-altitude snowfall. You might bring the Phurba along? Ruddy fucking hell. The Jackal has great respect for the googly-eyed, tiger-like guardian of their property. More than once, it has saved the family from encroaching threat. The bloody spectre will have no idea what it faces.
Now comes a familiar gleam of confidence back into his mental presence, a facet's difference in that which Kent displays in anticipation. I do like the idea of yet again facing down those who might dare try us — guns drawn and pinkies up, eh, old man? Ambrose's translucent form then makes to nuzzle at one of those dark floppy ears in obnoxious, fond affection that runs bone-deep.
I miss you, comes the blip of a whine. Come home soon, my heart?
I miss you too, my love. I'll be home soon. But….best you meet me here. Bring the Phurba. No reason to fly back to New York and then turn around and head back to the Himalayas. Simla's still lovely this time of year, after all, Kent notes, blithely. As if it were a mere pleasure jaunt.
Then, more somberly, I will gladly take what help I can, and I trust it. It is made to kill great demons or minor gods. A smile for that. Yes, like old times. We have been…..very domesticated.
Tease comes quickly: My heart, you were always the more domesticated of the two of us. Pulling away from hugging the form of the great black dog, Ambrose showcases transparent dimples through an enormously fond smile. If I am domesticated, I am clearly losing my mind. I must go out and dig rats from beneath the magnolia tree before calling upon the rooftop at night to set the neighborhood dogs to barking.
Still, he falls silent and to leaning again, his temple pressed against Kent's shoulder. It is a brief period of self-centering and drawing strength from the indomitable will of his mate. I trust your own trials with the Masters have run their course, my heart…?
Another shift of shape….and now it's Kent himself, in his human form. Of course, he agrees, amused. And I appreciate you being willing to play that game as long as you have. More mischief when we get home.
Long arms wrap around the Jackal's ribs. Yes. Tiring but necessary. It had been some years, after all. But I feel….cleansed, if that makes any sense. Reassured.
Gossamer and yet substantiated by presence, Ambrose's hair as he nods his head, now resting temple to temple. About their two kythed forms, the reflection pool continues to ripple in silvery threads of caught starshine from above.
I understand, my heart. I know you walk a far finer line than myself. Only recently has Karma only started to begin reminding me of my multitudinous errors… Part huff, part laugh, the Jackal then sighs to set more ripples spreading out.
…and I will have you know that your bathrobe makes an insufficient replacement for yourself, he adds with wry and wistful amusement. Still, the entire vast headspace dedicated to their kythe falls comfortably silent in the manner of those who have known one another for such a long time. Only when the need comes for sleep does Ambrose slip from it, but not without a heartfelt reminder of abiding affection for his «azizam».
This, and a promise of mischief when all has settled.