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January 2019 #580

H:
(coughing) Darlin’, there’s a little coffee left if you want
it?

Me: Always. …Thank you.

H:
I wasn’t sure I’d see you.

Me: I want to sleep, but it won’t help. I’m sorry I kept you up
last night.

H:
Do you regret it?

Me: No.

H:
Then you’ve nothing to apologize for. (coughing) With your
hair like that I feel I ought give you some of my clothes.

Me: Turn me into a Sunday Gentleman? They were in debtor’s
prison and would dress nice on Sunday when they were allowed to roam, in the
hope of snaring a bride to fix their debts.

H:
(coughing and lighting a cigarette, amused) You have need of
a bride?

Me: Wretch. … What would you dress me in?

H:
I have a winter suit in dark grey. It would be rather long,
but serviceable. A linen shirt with grey ticking. My new plum waistcoat, and a
black cravat. Do you have a stickpin?

Me: Not sure, but I have necklaces I could wear in place.

H:
The silver spirit board.

Me: That would tame a cravat. I wish I could dress like that. It
would make me feel better about cutting off my hair like an idiot.

H:
And prove you more androgynous?

Me: That too.

H:
In your stories… Cait never cut her hair. But she refused to
wear a dress for reasons akin to yours.

Me: Good point. What if she nicks Morrow’s straight razor to do
it? That would terrify him.

H:
(coughing) And give reason for his later conclusions as to
her treatment.

Me: It’s also a parallel – 1790, 1870, 2015.

H:
Echoes, yes.

Me: Thank you.

H:
Sometimes even a muse requires a mirror.

Me: Fuck – I need to start writing again. I haven’t written in-

H:
Too long. You should – it makes you happy darlin’.

Me: I’ve let the inertia of this place get to me. I should start
writing and drawing again even if I haven’t the space for grander projects. Do
you mind if I put more coffee on?

H:
Go ahead.

Me: You don’t happen to have any other insights do you?

H:
Not that come to mind. Better?

Me: Black coffee and a shot of the bourbon on the side is one of
the best things ever.

H:
Kept me alive on a trail or two.

Me: The vendetta?

H:
Others too, but yes. Was the only thing along with spite
that kept me in the saddle. You ever ridden?

Me: A bit when I was little, but no, not properly the way you
mean.

H:
It’s the miles and hours that do it. Wouldn’t think it takes
much to stay in a saddle. But guiding the horse, holding your posture, not able
to give up until you camp at dusk… Coffee and stale biscuits and a blanket on
the ground… You ever slept outside?

Me: In that sort of climate and terrain? Once. It was fun
drinking wine by the campfire, but when trying to sleep it was bastard freezing
and very uncomfortable. I have no idea how you did it.

H:
Spite, I think – that’s what you’d call it. I told myself I
was bringing Alekto, Megaera and Tisiphone with me. If I faltered they might
loose the scent… Don’t scowl so. You would have done the same.

Me: Probably, but that’s not why I’m scowling. I’m just sorry
you had to suffer through all that.

H:
Trials beset the righteous and unrighteous alike. I have yet
to figure to which camp I belong… Don’t drink the grounds!

Me: Yeah, but Tiresias is sleeping on my lap and-

H:
Don’t look so baleful darlin’, I’ll brew some more.

Me: Thank you.

H:
You should write that scene that’s boiling away in your
head.

Source: Tales of Necromancy

by cnkguy
January 2019 #580

Posted in Tales of Necromancy and tagged by with no comments yet.

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