Dang it… she should have called Shale before she dropped by. Again. Hopefully this time he wouldn’t answer the door looking like death warmed over. Not that she minded taking care of him, that part she was almost used to between him and Alois and all her disjointed memories… but she didn’t like seeing him like that. She didn’t like seeing anyone like that, but if she were truthful, she had a small soft spot for the stern, quiet man. He didn’t push her buttons, wasn’t bothered when her emotions got the best of her… he was steady, and often, kind in his own way. It was probably that, more than the archery lessons, that kept her coming back.
Today though, she had come back because, once again, she had something to return to the hunter. Orah’s fingers closed around the firm rubber of the arrow puller Shale had left behind at the range as she stopped in front of the familiar door, lifting her other hand to rap smartly on the wood. Next time, she needed to call him… It was rude to show up unannounced like this, but when she’d found the wedge in her bag, it had seemed simple to just drop it off on the way home. She couldn’t imagine he’d be terribly upset with her, he never seemed to get terribly upset over things, but she didn’t care to find out what would finally do it.
His violin sat in its case atop the counter while Slate fiddled with the newly-acquired bow. Carbon fiber it was, which allowed for unnaturally light feel, and the bow hung weightless in his hand. However, as a new acquisition, it required the very chore he so dreaded with rehairing - applying rosin. And this was far different from simply checking the rosin present on the hair before playing.
This was lumberjack-style sawing the bow to death over a chunk of petrified tree sap.
Slate sighed in exasperation while he made quick work of the back-and-forth motions, wishing that each stroke might be the last. But fate would not spare him such an easy conclusion to this tedious task, and each check of the hairs found literally no rosin leaving the hairs. Slate started to wonder if the hair grabbed rosin at all, but the slowly populating surface of the rosin proved otherwise.
This is definitely not worth a hundred ten dollars, he told himself in exasperation. I should’ve told Shale to pay an extra ten to have them rosin it for me. Or I could’ve made him do it if he wanted me here so badly. Where the hell does my bargaining sense go when I’m excited. s**t.
Someone rapped on the door, which gave him ample reason to abandon the tedious process altogether. Slate practically leapt to his feet, spring already in his step due to a quick break. Peeping through the door confirmed no one he ever met before, so he figured that the girl knew Porsha before she knew Shale - as Shale so seldom bothered to make friends. Especially pretty ones.
Well, let’s see what she wants.
The door unlatched, came open with an easy motion, and Slate leaned one hip against the doorframe to greet the newcomer. His right hand held the door at its narrowest point, bow still in hand, which formed an acute angle with the plane. “Haven’t seen you around before. Are you looking for Porsha? She’s out, but you can come inside for some tea and hang around a bit.”
The… man who opened the door was not the one she had been expecting, or even the woman she would have expected second, and it left Orah staring a little wide-eyed before she blinked and dropped her raised hand. Her fingers curled together around the wedge she held as she glanced over the stranger’s shoulder and back to his face, giving him a quick glance over.
“Oh! Um… Is Shale in? I have something of his I wanted to return to him.” Red hair… very vibrantly red, brighter than Xander and Maia’s curls. Pretty, almost more than traditional for a man, but that wasn’t really a problem for her. Eyes… he had Shale’s eyes. That same pale, pale color, ringed in dark blue. Was… this his brother? He was younger, certainly, and now she started to see other similarities. Shale hadn’t mentioned finding him, but then, she wasn’t exactly in his close circle of friends to warrant being told. Still… it made her happy to know that ‘maybe, probably yes’ had turned out to be a very living and apparently hale ‘No’. She had seen how Shale had worried, how much he had wanted news of his brother. If he finally had that, she was happy for him.
“My name is Orah.” The young woman said as she relaxed, daring even a small smile as she offered a hand out to the young man. “Shale has been teaching me Archery. He forgot his arrow puller at the range the other day.”
Red eyebrows arched to his hairline with the mention of his brother’s name. I must be losing my mind. My brother doesn’t make friends - he just camps in a forest killing everything he sees. But she went on to explain their relation to one another, which left Slate all the more dumbfounded at this girl’s existence at his doorstep.
Their doorstep. Whatever.
She looked cute, this one. Her hair was done up nice, like she tried to care about her appearance but couldn’t bring herself to go all the way with it. And her wardrobe matched, which meant she knew a thing or two about fashion. The knee highs looked a little off - he figured shorter dresses looked better with those, but shorter dresses always looked better - yet overall it tied in well. Her body language was, perhaps, the most telling part - she held herself in a manner that seemed more obligatory than natural, like she tried to make herself out as more confident than she is.
And the less confidence they have, the easier they are. Why not play a little. She might have fun too.
“Yooouuuu don’t happen to be lying to me, right?” The redhead asked with the tip of his bow barely brushing her nose. A quick poke to the point of it, and he whipped the bow to face downward and rest with his pinky against the frog, held out as if English royalty. “Shale doesn’t have any friends. Well, except maybe his bow, and probably his hand, but those don’t really count, you know? So to tell me that some pretty girl’s been hanging out with him while he’s teaching her archery seems just. a bit. farfetched.” He slouched further against the frame.
“But, I suppose I could return the arrow puller for you.” I wonder if that’s the only thing it pulls. “Or, you can come inside and have some tea anyway. You should take the tea.” A quick smile bespoke the invitation and he pushed the door wide for her using the butt of his bow. He turned away from her, expecting the girl to follow while he made his way to the kitchen to put on the teapot. “Oh, and you can call me Slate.”
Alarms went off in her head as the bow came swinging for her face and she jerked backwards as he poked her nose, a hand flying up to cover the offended organ. Eyes wide once more, Orah stared and attempted to process the question that had come with the gesture.
Lying to him? Why on Earth would she lie about who she was friends with? Suddenly wary, the young woman shifted her weight from one hip to the other as her brows drew together. Okay. The commentary, when processed outside of her startlement… sounded very much something a younger brother might say about his elder. There was bluster in it, a sense of knowing everything even if he didn’t actually. Assuming things must be one way, just because he had never had a chance to see it any other. He reminded her at that moment, more than anything, of Matthew. Matthew, who thought she neglected herself while taking care of everyone else. Who thought her too innocent and gentle to possibly do anything violent, ever.
Younger siblings rarely saw the whole truth. Even too perceptive ones.
The comment about Shale being friends with his hand pulled up unwanted images she quickly dismissed. That was highly inappropriate to be thinking about at any time, let alone now. Instead, she dropped her hand to catch the door as the young man… Slate? pushed it open for her, assuming with a marked sense of superiority that she would OF COURSE follow him inside. Which… she did, but only far enough that she could keep her eyes on him as he headed for the kitchen she remembered from previous visits.
“I think you underestimate your brother.” She said as she stood inside the doorway, feeling a tad awkward holding the door open, but not entirely willing to come fully inside. “He’s friends with Porsha, isn’t he? They’re living together. And I like to think I’m his friend, so that is at least two people that say otherwise.”
Slate only smiled back at her. “I was teasing. Of course I know my brother has friends - he’s been that way since he was like, ten.” The violinist busied himself with filling the pot, bow still in hand, and set it on one of the larger burners to boil. Afterward he took rosin in hand and began the ever tedious task of preparing the bow for its first play. The quick back and forth motions often reminded him of less wholesome acts.
“Shale’s always been pretty even-tempered, which attracts people to him. He wasn’t named after a rock for nothing, you know.” A count of five at least, that were left behind and heavily confused at his disappearance. Seven who knew him or dealt with him consistently actively searched, despite Slate’s explanations that he may well be dead. Slate himself, however, could not spare the energy for the search, and the deep gashes that laid him out for so long still hadn’t completely scarred over.
“It’s interesting that you’d choose to learn archery from him, though. It wasn’t natural for him to pick it up. Did he tell you that? Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s a bad shot or anything - he’s probably one of the best I know now - but it took him a damn long time to get there. Makes it more impressive, in a way.” Slate hadn’t shared the same experiences, as most of what he did came quickly and easily while sating his needs where hobbies were concerned. “And, I mean, considering the injuries - shooting yourself through the hand is nothing to laugh at, you know?”
Another few rounds with the rosin, and slate tested its consistency with another stroke across the base. He clicked his teeth when no clouds of rosin loosed themselves. “Glad I can’t do that with my bow.
“And you can come inside. I promise I only bite when it’s fun.”
Orah relaxed, slowly, as Slate went about putting the tea pot on to boil and whatever it was he was doing with the bow of his violin. Maybe she had jumped a little too quickly into defensive… because when he started actually talking to her normally, he was almost pleasant. After a moment, she stepped smoothly inside and let the door swing shut behind her, trailing towards the island with her hands falling loosely to her sides. Thoughts of biting called up memories, other things she’d really rather not think about, and she felt her cheeks heat against her will as she pushed away the phantom feel of teeth against her neck.
“He told me that once, that your family was named after stones to fit with your personalities. Or his, I guess.” She allowed as she set the arrow puller on the counter, pushing it towards the center where it wouldn’t get knocked off and would hopefully be found by its owner later. It was hard to say at this point how trustworthy Slate was in making sure Shale got it back. “He didn’t tell me he had a hard time learning… His skill really is impressive. And his determination. How did he shoot himself through the hand?”
In her minds eye, there was the bow and the arrow and where your hands went… the arrow head sat in front of the bow, in front of your hands… It was hard to picture how you could do that without somehow putting your hand before the arrow. That would probably explain why he was so careful showing her how to properly hold everything.
Orah leaned her stomach against the island as she took the weight off one leg, knee bent as her hands came to rest on the cool surface of the counter. She hadn’t intended to stay and chat… but she wasn’t really in a hurry to be anywhere, anyway.
Look at that blush. Don’t tell me I’m the first person who’s ever flirted with you, doll.
“You’re not the first to tell me my name doesn’t really fit me. Practically half of everyone I know has said it, and the other half are cats and cows and pigs.” Though some of those pigs have decent mouths on them. But Orah needn’t know his insecurities about how he fit within the family. Or his sickly early years that set him apart so vastly from most of the men in the family. Despite lacking all the troubles Shale had when in his early teens, the family still insisted he be treated as a boy. It irritated him greatly.
“So, I don’t know everything about bows like he does, but from what I remember of the story…” Slate held one hand out in a fist position, with his thumb perpendicular to the fist. The wooded portion of his bow came to rest atop it, and he pinched the frog between middle finger and thumb on his opposite hand. “So you hold the bow like this, right? And you got an arrow pulled back here. It sits on some u-shaped thing that goes up when you pull the string back, and Shale said the arrow must’ve fallen off that thing and gone a little bit to the side without him noticing. Now, the other thing is, the arrow was cracked. So when he let go, the arrow exploded, and splintered into his hand. When he came home, most of the arrow had gone straight through this meaty part next to your index finger here, and he even had tiny pieces of arrow sticking out of his hand on the other side of the first knuckle. He wasn’t shooting for a while after that.”
Slate checked his rosin after his vigorous bowings, and finally found the cloud he so yearned these past twenty minutes. Hastily he plucked his violin from its case, wiped away any dust that collected on its body, and started to remove his rings. “So yeah, I get why people are pretty impressed. I guess it’s not as interesting as someone who picked it up naturally, and got great right off the bat.” Which explained why most people found his music deeply entertaining, but fostered no interest in the backstory of his career.
Not like he was bitter or anything.
Slate started off by plucking a whimsical, fast-paced tune on his violin while he spoke. “Have you been picking it up well? Archery, I mean. It’s not easy, and there’s a lot of stuff you have to do exactly the same each time. It doesn’t really have any room for creativity.” Afterward his bow lit on the strings and brought to life the melody he played before, adding new personality with each stroke. Occasionally he incorporated sixteenth notes, and broke into an interim of quick tones played in a succession so tight that it was limited only by his bowing arm. Dripping back into the more graceful, choral portion of the piece, he added a few variations to give it zest.
And then the teapot screeched into the middle of his play.
“Cocksucker,” he mouthed absent tone as he retired his violin to the case. “Is there a particular type of tea you like? Earl grey? English breakfast? Some weird conglomeration of pomegranate and some other fruit I never heard of?”
Her lips quirked a small smile as he messed about with his bow.
“I don’t know you well enough yet, to say if it fits you or not.” She said. Watching as he mimed the drawing of the arrow and the way it would have sat in the hand… she could get a vivid mental picture then of what had happened if the arrow had shattered and shards had sprayed into the fist around the bow. It was actually enough to banish her smile, though she kept the queasy feeling controlled well enough. Stupid reactions… she had helped Oneone once stitch a man’s hands back together after a botched foray into the city with hardly a blink of the eye, the image of wood splinters through the meaty part of the hand should not affect her so badly.
She banished the mental image by focusing on the question, lifting one shoulder in a loose shrug.
“Its not something I’ve ever tried to do before, but I think I’m picking it up pretty well… though, I guess I don’t have any frame of reference for what’s a good pace and what isn’t. Sometimes I hit near the center of the target, which is enough to keep me from being discouraged about how many times I don’t, or the arrow bouncing right off it.”
The light plink of strings on the small instrument pulled her attention and Orah tilted her head as she watched him play, finding herself admiring how his fingers moved. It was like how she had always enjoyed watching Alois’s hands while he played… and knowing how it felt when they ran over her skin. The music drifted about and Orah let it fill the silence without words. She’d rather listen than interrupt, but soon enough the teapot was demanding attention in strident discord to the humming strings.
“Ah… If you have something Apple Cinnamon, I like that, otherwise I’m really okay drinking whatever you like best if you’re sharing. You don’t have to go out of your way for me.” Orah said as she laced her fingers together, her thumb idly rubbing along the side of her index finger. “Archery isn’t really a creative outlet for me… its more… something to focus on and practice at. A tangible way to see myself making progress at something I’ve never done before. I like working for it and seeing results. If I want to do something creative I usually work on floral arrangements.” As rarely as that was. There was no inspiration lately, no drive to make beautiful things. Only a need to do something with some semblance of being useful… pushing away what had once been a happy, functioning civilian life because she simply didn’t feel like she fit into it any more and filling the space with patrols and study and things that might actually matter. Flowers died within days… what was the point of bothering any more?
”You’d be one of the first to tell me that. People put a lot of importance on the first impression, you know. They decide if they like you or they hate you, if they prefer staring at your tits or your ankles, and how your life’s story came to pass. Silly, isn’t it? All that in like, thirty seconds.” Slate stayed busy with searching the cupboards for proper tea mugs, then sifting through the remaining few to find the tea stash Shale brought home. It demanded a great deal of searching that led him all the way to the pantry before he finally found the boxes stacked in front. And the pantry was mostly bare; he had no way of missing them now.
“I suppose that means I didn’t make a very good impression. You weren’t exactly tripping over yourself to get in the door for tea and company.” He pinched through the perforated cardboard and withdrew one of the bags for apple cinnamon. Orange spice came out of a different package for himself. Both were stripped of their paper overlays by the time he reached the mugs, and the remnants discarded in the trash after a foot touched the spring pedal. With both bags in their basins, Slate poured the boiling water to leave two fingers’ width at the top for maneuverability.
A few dunks to spread the color, and Slate handed the hot mug to Orah. “Here.”
His own hands curled around his mug to bring it to the counter, and they tapped against the ceramic restlessly. “And you do have a frame of reference, you know. There’s learning at a pace you’re satisfied with, and learning at a pace you’re unsatisfied with. But it sounds like you’re pretty fine with where you’re at.”
“When he tried to teach me to shoot, I don’t think either of us took into account that I was used to lifting light things and doing fine movements. I mean, a violin certainly doesn’t weigh much, and the lighter the bow the better. You can’t exactly manhandle your fiddle and expect it to sound good either.” I suppose that depends on which fiddle we’re talking about. “So when he handed me this eight pound, awkward thing and asked for strong, steady movements, you can probably guess how well I did. You should stick with it if you like that sort of thing though. No one says no to muscle.” His smile was obscured by the cup, but his eyes belied the message.
Slate expended great effort to avoid drifting toward his instrument, which sat in the velvet lining of his open case. The bow lay somewhat nearer, which also enticed him - almost within arm’s reach, at that. And if he could just reach that bow, and hold it in his hand, then who was he to deny that a fiddle went in the other? The thought of it distracted him while he spoke. “Floral arrangements, hmm? I could see why someone might do that. In Destiny City, of course, not back where we lived. They were a little weird about flowers. Anything aesthetic, really. I’m sure Shale told you about the tattoos we get? Well, the one for flowers is almost identical to the one for trauma. So, I couldn’t see you selling any flower arrangements to anyone out there. Have you considered picking up an instrument, though? If you’re good, you make decent money in tips, and you don’t have to buy more instruments every time you decide to play. I mean, I assume you need more flowers every time you do an arrangement. But woodwinds… Yeah, I guess reeds tend to disqualify that statement.” He shrugged lightly. “Just a thought.”
Orah accepted her cup with a curve of her lips, leaning back with her hips still against the counter to tweak the bag with her fingers.
“I’ve found that its really hard to know what really makes up someone from the surface… It would be impossible to know all that much from thirty seconds. Just what they want you to know, I suppose. Or what they can’t help showing…” She shrugged as she tilted her head. “A strange man waving a bow in my face and accusing me of lying about being friends with his brother doesn’t really inspire confidence in being alone in an apartment with him…”
Pursing her lips to blow on the hot liquid, Orah considered the similarities and differences between their beginnings.
“I’m not unused to lifting heavy things… My father runs a flower shop that I worked in, so I’ve done moderate lifting. Bags of potting soil, ceramic pots, things like that. I’ve never really held a bow or anything like that, so just holding it properly was something to get used to. I do like it though… I plan to keep up with it. It might even come in handy someday.” Like when she was living out in the woods in a refugee camp and needed to hunt for food. She might actually be able to contribute something.
“I never really thought about taking up an instrument… I sing, so that sort of fulfilled my musical outlet.” And she did it almost as rarely as floral arrangement these days, for the same reasons. “I did choir in high school, but mostly as chorus or background, I guess. Never solo or lead.”
When she tested the temperature of the tea against her lips, she found it passable and sipped lightly, enjoying the warmth and sweetness as she relaxed. This was nice… both the tea and the conversation. She had gotten a different sense of him, when he’d first opened the door, but the longer they talked the less that seemed to truly be him. Maybe it was simply how he tested the waters with new people, gauging their reactions.
”No s**t?” Slate responded with a growing grin. That still isn’t common sense by now? “Like I said, there’s enough information in thirty seconds of talking to someone for you to make a judgement. Even if you don’t think you’re making one, or you don’t think that’s enough time to know someone. See, you already made one about me. And sometimes, that’s all people need to see before they decide you’re garbage and walk away. You walked in the door anyways, so that’s one point for me.” His fingers rapped against the ceramic before they sorted out a tune to emulate.
Finally he gave up on the attempts to keep their conversation absent background noise and returned to his violin, plucking it from the case before he got around to plucking the strings. It remained quiet, at least, with no pressing need to talk over it. “I can’t say knowing how to shoot a bow will come in handy until we get to some sort of wacko Philip K d**k sci-fi rapefest, but at least you’ll know how to shoot your dinner if you ever get lost in the woods?” It was the only benefit Slate found, and even if such an occurrence happened, he’d rather be the unprepared one who died early than spend his life picking up skills he didn’t want for a future that might not ever happen.
“Hey, if you ever decide to go solo, call me. Busking around town would be a helluva lot more exciting if I had a partner, and since that never happens… We’d get to corner that market.” The only downside was splitting the tips, but it was worth seeing if a pair could draw in as much money as solo attempts.
His gaze donned a mischievous streak, and Slate moved close enough that they leaned side-by-side against the counter with the scroll of his instrument only inches from her arm. Slate left enough space between them to respect personal boundaries, something he would violate with liberal force later, but hopefully demanded her attention on him.
“So, there are a few people out there that are kinda into my brother. And I can see why - I mean, he’s fit, tall, tan, and maybe some people get a rise out of seeing tattoos on people. And some of it’s personality too; not like it’s all physical or anything. But he’s pretty terrifyingly oblivious to these things, which makes it incredibly entertaining and also pretty sad to hear about all his missed opportunities. So what do you say, Orah?” Slate paused a few seconds for a difficult portion in the pizzicato piece. “Are you interested in Shale, or are you gonna keep playing the friends angle?” If nothing else, he was interested to see how she reacted.
Orah ducked her head over her cup and busied herself with sipping it, feeling keenly that she’d said something silly. It happened a lot, it seemed. Whatever… if he didn’t like talking to her, then he’d stop asking questions, right? He had been the one to ask her to come in for tea…
“Okay, so maybe I did… but at least I’m willing to let you show me there is more than that to you.” She said into her cup. His mention of shooting dinner brought up memories, as it always would probably, of living in the camp and the time-that-had-never-been. That whole thing was still such a… s**t show, really. Everyone remembering pieces of the whole, no one knowing why or how, or even if it was real. It even crossed faction lines… there were those of the Negaverse who remembered it too.
Brooding on it was a distraction that put the plucked strains of the violin into the background and she missed a good portion of what he was saying, until she abruptly realized he’d shifted closer to her. Orah straightened up as she lowered the cup she’d been nursing, the play of his fingers over the strings drawing her attention until she realized the thread of conversation he’d decided to pick up.
“What? No… I mean…” Orah rushed to deny as she spread her hands in front of her, fingers wide. “Shale and I are just friends… He’s been kind to me and he offered to help me with archery. That’s… that’s all it is.”
Okay so, maybe she had looked him over a few times and her mind had wandered, but that didn’t mean anything. There might be physical, and okay, maybe mental, attraction to him, but… it wasn’t going to go anywhere. As Slate had said… Shale was oblivious to these things. He didn’t like her like that, and why would he? No one did. The only person who’d ever been interested… well. Proof enough. No one had ever been interested in her except as a toy to play with, and that wasn’t what she wanted.
“I’m not really… looking for any kind of anything. With anyone. I’m not against it, it just… doesn’t fit into my life right now. I like Shale, but that’s it. Its not going to go anywhere.” She said as she pushed her up towards the center of the island and stepped back from it, straightening the strap of her bag across her chest. “I should probably be going… I was on my way home. Thanks for the tea, Slate, it was nice getting to meet you… I’m glad your brother found you, he was really worried.”
”People like to say that when they’re at their loneliest, and want to be ‘responsible’ about it. Except it never seems to do anything for them.” It pained him to do so, but he retired the violin to the countertop as gently as possible. Afterward he leaned back against the counter, propped against his elbows. “It’s like some kind of mantra that’s supposed to dissuade the rest of the world. Maybe it’s just easier to pretend you’ve got everything you need.”
She thanked him for the tea, but he only shrugged about it. “It’s custom, you know? For you, I mean, but you probably know that by now.”
“Anyway, I could give him a heads up about it. Spell it out for him so he gets a clue. But if you find yourself looking for someone a little less clueless…” He let the statement hang, expecting that she would extrapolate on the rest. Already he picked up her used teacup and set it near the counter, though he made no attempt to toss it into the dishwasher.
“It was nice meeting you, Orah. I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other from now on.” She might just start mailing his forgotten stuff, he thought to himself with a slight grin. Wouldn’t that be delightful? She’s an easy one to mess with. I hope she doesn’t give up so soon next time. Maybe I can get Shale to cook for the three of us and see how it goes. That would be a treat.
The young woman straightened and lowered her shoulders, her face easing into something neutral and closed. He’s as perceptive as my brother, sometimes. But what does it matter? I don’t have room in my life to go chasing after relationships, whether I want them or not.
At least, she was until he suggested telling Shale... and then her eyes widened as she jerked back around, her hands reaching to grip the strap of her bag.
“You don’t need to be telling him anything, Slate. I meant it when I said I’m not interested… and I’d rather you didn’t make things uncomfortable by telling him something that isn’t true.” It was hard to keep the sharpness out of her voice and her face heated, but she pushed it down, hardly noticing his tacked on offer. She wasn’t looking for anyone, clueless or otherwise… and certainly not Slate, who reminded her more of her younger brother than anything. “Look just… leave it, ok? Please? I’m really not interested.”
God, how many times could she say it before it started sounding insincere? She was honestly at a loss.
“I’ve got to go… let your brother know I stopped by.” Orah was relieved when she felt her fingers curl around the knob on the door and she pulled it open, the unobstructed passage a balm. She offered Slate a wave as she slipped out the door, happy to end that uncomfortable conversation, at least for now.
Whimsical Blue
fin; quoted for archival purposes
