[FIN] Chewed On Flowers {Macaire and Warwick}

[LoveByLetters]

Nay Father, oi will nae more look for a bonny bride;
For nae other then me Guardian will ever walk by me side.
Nae cottage I will build, no one place oi'll call home;
In thonder foothills cold and bleak forever we shall roam.

The deep voice rises above the low murmur of voices in the crowded tavern, spilling out onto the street with the golden glow of the torches set to either side of the door. There are those who would find it familiar, though there are few who have heard the old soldier in this state -- drunk as only an old soldier can be, the normally cautious fellow belts out the old song with a confident vigor.

Following the sound of his voice into the tavern will find him set back from the bar, at a table all to his own with a mug and a pitcher of his own, a service that few patrons receive. But Macaire, it seems, has been singing for some time, and the bartender has taken a liking to him. Though in some taverns there's plenty call for rowdy songs, on some nights it's the sad songs that sell more beer as sorrowful men huddle together to drink their woes away. Though Macaire's accent is thick and the songs are so old that at times they're hard to understand, the emotion in his voice is enough to weigh a joyful man down.

The tender stopped collecting coins for his drinks a long time ago, as a matter of fact. He figures that so long as he keeps the mournful fellow well in his cups, he'll keep singing, and as long as he keeps singing, the customers will keep buying.

To those that have seen him before, he looks both better and worse than he has in the past. His clothes are in a slightly better state, as if he's recently seen an influx of coin, but tonight he's neglected their care and they are rumpled. There are also twigs and leaves caught up in his thick hair, and a flower in his shirtfront that looks like it's been chewed on.  

[and be blue]

Those familiar with this look, this rumpled state of disrepair, might have entirely the wrong impression of Macaire — for he most certainly has the look of a new father, just now, worn out by the babes and escaping from his wife for a few hours of peace and drink. Certainly some of them have given him understanding looks tinged with amusement, recognizing the need for sleep, the harried eyes of a man who's just lost a good deal of his free time.

In all honesty, they're probably not that far off the mark.

Warwick, however, is entirely unfamiliar with the state. His own first weeks after his Choosing were filled with panic of a different sort, rattled nerves and loss and gain, the joy of his Guardian inexorably wrapped up in fear and sorrow. It was more like a breakup, like self-discovery, like new life, than a child dropped into his care.

Not that he notices Macaire immediately anyway. He rattle with coin, just now, in a way that makes his eyes bright and draws him immediately toward drink as well. Celebratory, on this end; he has done well in this city, in a way that surprises him some, and is likely entirely due to Eoin's aid. Not that he'll ever admit that. Instead he drops enough on the counter to get beer and beef and turns —

And then his eyes lock on the mercenary, finally realizing the source of that song. He is impervious to its damage, Warwick's good nature one that can't be brought down by something so small as a song, but his eyebrows knit as he considers the pitiful figure slumped over his table, and after a moment he winds his way through the crowd toward him.  

[LoveByLetters]

By the time Warwick reaches his table, Macaire has fallen silent, having reached the end of that particular ballad -- he is rubbing his forehead, muttering at the ache in his head, when it dawns on him that someone has come up beside him. Blinking, he lifts his head slowly …

… and launches out of his chair, so fast that more than one person nearby curses and scrambles back before they realize that he's not going after them. His big calloused hands clap onto Warwick's arms, and he practically lifts the poor boy off the floor in his haste to express his delight. "YOU! Ah! Old Gods be praised, oi were looking for ye, me lad! Oi need yer help, lad, gods how oi needs it." He trails off with a groan, dropping back into his chair and rubbing his face with his hands, utterly unaware that he's given several good men heart attacks with his sudden movement.

That sudden movement may draw attention to it, but the charm has already slipped out of his shirt -- hanging around his throat on a piece of thin leather is a little wooden charm, marked with green and cream and red.

A totem.  

[and be blue]

Warwick is not used to enthusiastic greetings, like this, and his reaction is to immediately freeze in Macaire's grasp, his own beer held carefully balance, only spilling that first slosh before he gets it stabilized. That is a miracle. Anyone else would likely have dumped the entire cup, and it is a matter of professional pride that he has not.

"...my help?" As he is settled back on his feet, Warwick flicks a look around the room. He is not embarrassed; not by something so little as this. It takes more to embarrass a clown. But he is flustered, and maybe a bit worried about the fact that now there are two of them here, generally unwanted-elements, drawing attention to themselves in a bar full of strong men...

"I thought...it seemed like ye...managed te take care of yerself just fine, before." It's bewildered, as his eyes resettle on Macaire — and he stands for just one more moment before sinking down opposite the poor man.  

[LoveByLetters]

Macaire drops back into his seat, and if there are uneasy murmurs -- it's hard to think of him as harmless when he's proved himself capable of moving that fast -- it's to be hoped they will quiet as the big man settles down again. As physically intimidating as he is, right now he looks like he would rather have a good cry than cause trouble. He slumps forward, laying his head in his arms with a moan drawn out of the depths of despair, so uncharacteristic it ought to belong to someone else.

"Oh, aye," he says finally, lifting his head and rubbing his face with one hand. "Can take care of meself jest fine, true as told, but t'aint jest meself nae more." Another groan, and he stares across the table at Warwick, a plea writ clear across his face: please, please don't laugh! " -- it's -- gods! Yer Lady, yer Wren, oi were wrong. Oi shouldnae have doubted ye." His voice is hoarse, crackling like a dying fire, though the heat in his cheeks shows no sign of cooling just yet.  

[and be blue]

"...well. No. Shouldn't've." Here, at least, Warwick relaxed just a touch, clearing his throat and wrapping both hands around his mug of beer. He will pause, and then he will drink just a little bit, and then he will feel better. Just a hair. Though it'll take more alcohol than this to really cut through, to dull him back toward normal.

He clears his throat, lucking his lips as he sets the glass back down, attention flicking around the room one more time. "Not like she were offended though. I mean. She don't much understand."

Warwick can't quite remember what it was like to first have the totem. He swipes as his eyebrow. "Week or two an' ye'll understand better."  

[LoveByLetters]

Macaire seems bonelessly relieved by Warwick's easy forgiveness -- especially as he needs the lad's help! He looks pathetically grateful for it, sitting up a little and running a hand through his hair, only to tug it into tangled twists again as he slouches back down. " .. bloody well be understanning now, ye ken? Ye gots tae help me, lad, I dinnae know what tae make of him! It's all jest squeaks an' cries an' the little bugger ate one've me shirts lad, me whole shirt! An' oi dinnae know what to feed him, and me landlaird said if'n he keeps peepin' all night he's going tae set me loose!" Most of this is spoken a what Macaire probably assumes is a low whisper, but his distress makes it far louder .. and the content probably contributes (for the most part) to the assumption that he is a new father, left in charge of a rambunctious child.  

[and be blue]

"...oh, it's...ye mean..." He's been imagining Macaire with a new totem, questioning his life and beliefs. Now the picture changes: instead, Warwick can clearly see the troublesome fawn gnawing its way through something woolen, something it shouldn't, and the idea makes him wince a little. If nothing else, the poor Guardian couldn't have felt good with a sweater sticking in its stomach...

"Milk. Jus' milk, mostly, an' I went with a goat." His fingers shift around his cup again, and then all at once, Warwick downs what's left. His tolerance isn't what Macaire's certainly is, and this will put them on more even grounding.

He licks his lips, thinking back. "Weren't long b'fore we moved te apples'n carrots. Little pieces. An' now Wren manages on her own most've the time..."  

[LoveByLetters]

Understanding suddenly dawns in Macaire's eyes, as if milk for a baby creature simply didn't occur to him. It's somewhat amazing that it wouldn't, but perhaps it wasn't he who was put in charge of younger siblings at home? He looks pathetically grateful for the information already, ready to pour Warwick another beer himself, slumping against the table again shortly afterward. "Dinnae think of that. Thought since he bain't got nae mam mayhap he dinnae need it. Can probably find at market, aye?"

One hand goes to his throat, and he rubs the totem between thumb and forefinger, a new nervous gesture for him, one that he seems to do without thinking about it. "They alwuys be sae noisy when they be wee ones?" He pauses then, and grimaces himself. " .. mayhap 'tis 'cause he's hungry, ye think?"  

[and be blue]

Macaire is, in some ways, baffling. Warwick blinks at him for a moment, perhaps stunned that someone so capable can be so -- well. Slow, at times. But then, his mother always had a goat tugged along in her wake, a chicken or two, something which hadn't been a terrible idea. It meant that they'd always had something to eat, at least. And supplies for her concoctions...

"...well, I reckon...if he is hungry, he should...tell you, an' how else would he?" It is hesitant, though; Warwick is unwilling to speak toward the motives of Guardians. Dangerous business. "Wren...she didn't make so much noise."  

[LoveByLetters]

Now -- perhaps like any new father -- Macaire has something else to worry about. His face crinkles with that concern, and he clutches his own half-empty mug in front of him with a white-knuckled grip. " .. ye think mayhap there be sommat wrong with me lad? Bloody awful noisy and he won't stay still. B'ain't near sae pretty as your lass, neither. 'Tis all legs and wobbly and great big floppy ears!" As ridiculous as it sounds, Macaire now looks incredibly concerned that he may have picked up a "broken" Guardian somehow, for all that what he has just described is essentially any baby creature, ever. Long-limbed, big ears and eyes, doesn't walk well, makes noise, and moves about a great deal .. a farmer's son he is most certainly not, as none of this would have surprised him.

(Although his mam would heartily agree with Warwick about Macaire's slowness -- she's always expressed loudly that she thinks her sons may have knocked their heads together one time too many, and at some point knocked all basic common sense out.)  

[and be blue]

Poor Macaire would probably be better off getting advice from someone a bit more practical, a bit more put-together, than Warwick was. He had likely lucked into caring for Wren, bottle-feeding because he'd seen Reese do it when he was young, letting her eat what she would. Or perhaps there was a more complete reason for it --

"...he ain't a real deer, you gotta remember that bit." This, at least, he can be sure of. Warwick shifts, leans in a little, swiping a thumb across his mouth. "He's a Guardian. I don' much think it's the same, other'n the...the shape. Other'n that...they're sturdier than babby deer'd be, an...well, ye just look'im in the eye. It's different."  

[LoveByLetters]

Finally, having listened intently, Macaire seems to calm. This evidentially makes sense to him, for he'd much rather believe that his new little wee one is unique and special as opposed to foolish and possibly broken. He nods clumsily, takes a gulp from his mug, and slumps farther into his seat. " .. aye, sae 'tis. Got sense there. He knows his own name, he do. Knew it right off, even if th'little bugger runs off half the time when oi calls it. Be mair than passing clever, leastways in getting loose."

"Mayhap can teach him tae fight, and stand guard with me." He seems to like this idea, and salutes Warwick sloppily with his mug, apparently forgetting the younger man's dislike of violence. "Pay fer his keep that way, aye? Prolly get mair gold than meself, hah!"  

[and be blue]

"'spossible." It's a non-committal answer, with his eyes flashing down to his drink, instead, considering the half-finger of beer that coats the bottom of the mug. Warwick is thinking about a second one, now that he's here -- but he's also, in contrast, thinking about Wren. She has joined the show, now, on and off; he is working on some trick riding, is learning to stand on her sturdy back, but as yet, it is new.

He can't imagine sending her into any kind of real danger, which is perhaps perverse, considering the real intent of the Guardians. Macaire makes him think of what he should be doing, and that is an uncomfortable thing. But he looks up and smiles, a flash of teeth, a shrug. "If ye can get him to fall in line, that is..."  

[LoveByLetters]

This time the old soldier does not seem able to pick up on Warwick's discomfort, grinning blithely at everyone and nothing in a rather silly way -- going so far as to toast the air with his mug, slopping a bit on the table again and not seeming to notice. The only thing that brings him back down to earth is Warwick's next comment, which causes Macaire to droop back over the table again, instantly depressed by the possibility. " .. aye .. aye, 'tis roight .. little bugger's half mad, what if he don't listen none? Oi can't have no mad Guardian, me lad, oi jest can't!" He shakes his head over and over again, polishes off the last of his brew with a grimace at the taste, and drops the mug down with an authoritative clunk.

"Will ye .. come look at him? Mayhap ye can tell if he's normal or jest a bit mad .. Oi'll keep yer whistle wet after, fer the tellin'." In other words, he'll buy Warwick drinks -- a fair enough offer, the soldier plainly thinks, for who is there these days that can't use a few drinks?