Down and Out [Memory]

[Oisin Ocasta]

13th of Dentis, 2704

There was a certain way of things here in the Old Rose. A certain kind of people. A certain kind of politics. To ignore it was folly, and idiocy - if you fell into a nest of vipers, you wouldn't do yourself any good by closing your eyes - and yet Oisin did his utmost to avoid it as best you could. His mere existance was trouble enough, no use taking that same nest of vipers and poking it with a stick. So to some extent, Tom's words washed over him, names and feuds and affiliations that didn't quite fully connect together, notions with weak legs struggling against the current of memory busily washing them out to sea. So why Oisin's suggestions and questions had provoked that little flash of anger from Tom, Oisin couldn't quite be sure; but the wheezing voice that came to his rescue swept the question far beyond the horizon of his thoughts.

"Hello, Clark," Oisin offered warmly, his smile slight, but genuine. He kept his distance, for a moment or two at least, letting Tom get at least a little of the crowding fraternal concern out of his system; but he kept watch, studying the way that Clark moved, and breathed, and spoke. His words were a little muffled - a few hits to the face would do that to a person - but they didn't seem slurred, or punch-drunk, at least not as far as Oisin't limited insight could glean. There was clearly some pain as he breathed, a broken rib or two for certain; but the blood at the corners of Clark's mouth was already drying, and nothing fresh or bubbled had joined it in the last few moments. A cracked rib then, but hopefully not a broken one. That was good news: the lesser Clark's injuries, the more they fell within the scope of Oisin's limited abilities. He'd have to do most of the healing on his own, of course - Oisin was only a wick; he couldn't work miracles - but at least he could take the edge off, and make the injuries that Clark would need to recover from a little less intense.

As Clark offered his thanks, Oisin took that as his invitation to draw closer. He didn't impose himself between the brothers, but he did make sure that he positioned himself within Tom's peripheral vision, a silent warning and reminder to Tom of where they were, whose domain this was, and who would be calling the shots within these walls.

"Try and breathe gently," he offered, softly, calmly, hoping that his tone of voice would catch on not just with Clark, but with Tom as well. Soft voices lessened their chances of being discovered by those on the floors above, yes, but softer voices also often came hand in hand with cooler heads, and that was something of which the Cookes were often in abundant need. "It looks like you might have cracked a rib or two. Can you show me where?"

Clark nodded, and over the next few minutes, Oisin examined the young man, and described his story to the mona, emploring them with gentle words to begin setting bone and stitching flesh, softening the sharp edge of severity from Clark's various wounds. With each sentence he struck a bargain, once again trading the healing the mona were providing to him across to where their attention was more greatly needed, exchanging the burning, blossoming pain in Oisin's own shoulder for the visibly lessening pain painted across Clark's face. He felt Clark's breathing begin to ease, just as he began to feel himself becoming short of breath; satisfied that he had done all he could for now, he took a step back, and with a table's help eased himself stiffly back to his feet.

After a moment of pause he gathered himself, withdrawing a few steps further away from Clark, and beckoning for Tom to follow. Oisin found his way to the mop and bucket and took hold, leaning against it as a subtle, makeshift crutch, for his mind as much as for his momentarily weary body. "He took a beating," Oisin offered, keeping his voice low, "But it was definitely that: a beating. Whoever did this wasn't out to kill anyone, they were just trying to send a message - albeit quite an emphatic one. The question is -" He glanced back over his shoulder towards Clark. "- was Clark the intended recipient, or just the messenger?"

[Tom Cooke]

Nobody Inn • Old Rose Harbor

Early Morning on the 13th of Dentis, 2704

Oisin didn’t understand. ’Course he didn’t. He’d never been involved in all that shit. He could tell from how he didn’t say nothing; he could tell from the look on his face, ’cause if he understood, he’d be just as angry as Tom. Anybody would be, Tom thought. Pushing his hand through his hair, he tried to catch up with his own thoughts. He had to tell Oisin, tell him so he understood. Clark was sitting there wheezing, all bruised and fucked up, but he was too mung to be pissed; he didn’t understand. Tom thought he could make Oisin understand.

Or he could take it to the King. But Tom didn’t think Hawke’s men’d be too interested in a few stragglers; he didn’t think they’d care, neither, about some small fish’s kid brother’d got beat. He didn’t think anybody’d care. Anybody but Oisin, maybe.

He gave the wick a dubious look. He was getting closer again, talking to Clark all soft-like. Something about the sound of his voice, them proper, enunciated words, something about all that was putting him at ease. Making him think a pina harder about what he was doing. He felt a creeping little pang of guilt again, seeing Oisin moving like that. He didn’t know what to do with it or with the anger, so he sat still and he listened to Oisin talk to Clark. In this, at least, he thought the older boy knew what he was doing.

Hoped he did, anyway.

Clark’d just about had his fill of talking. Tom watched him nod weakly, show Oisin all the places he hurt. He felt another pang, then, ’cause there weren’t a whole hell of a lot of places Clark didn’t hurt. He felt like there was something more he could’ve done.

Then that funny poetry shit started coming out of Oisin’s mouth, in that same soft voice; the air bent again, went all warm and woobly. Tom felt the hairs on the backs of his arms prickle, just a little. This time, it wasn’t over fast, and it wasn’t just a little woobly. Tom tried to pay attention to the words, but he couldn’t focus on them. He watched the rise and fall of Clark’s chest as it evened out, and then he watched Oisin’s face. His breath, it looked like, was coming faster. Shallower. His face looked more tired.

They talked to them, didn’t they? Or with them. The mona, or whatever you called them. Like dust motes in the air, everywhere, and if you were one of the arcane folk, you could talk to them in their tongue and they’d listen. For a moment, some of the fear melted off Tom’s face, and he just watched, rapt. What had Oisin asked them to do?

Had he asked them to take his own breath away, give it to Clark? Tom felt another tug of guilt, this one stronger. As the poetry stopped, he watched Oisin raise up, and he thought the other lad looked tireder and older than he had just moments ago. He looked stiff. He stepped away, gesturing, and Tom got up out of his chair with a mighty creak to follow.

Halfway through Oisin’s questioning, he shook his head, raised a big hand. He peered down at the wick with his heavy brow furrowed, sucking at a tooth. Tried to think how to say it so he’d get it. “Message wasn’t meant for Clark,” he said right off. “It was meant for me. It’s ’cause the kov I worked for started working for somebody new, and some of his boys didn’t like that, so they made their own group. And they’re pissed I didn’t split off with them. So they found Clark, beat him, and left him someplace I’d find him, to show me they didn’t like what I did.”

Oisin was leaning on that mop something awful, Tom thought. He knew better than to ask about whatever’d happened, but his worry was still plain on his face. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Oisin. Hell, I shouldn’t’ve –” He scratched his jaw. “Thanks for helping Clark. But I got to go after them. Nobody else is goin’ to, hey? An’ what if they do it again?” He looked at Oisin, serious-like, looked in his eyes.

[Oisin Ocasta]

13th of Dentis, 2704

What if they do it again?

The question was like a hammer blow to Oisin's chest. Tom Cooke wasn't a man who had all the answers, but he often thought he did; or at least, he acted as if he knew enough to be going on with. It was that certainty that he had showcased again and again this morning. Speculation. Assumptions. Instincts. Call them whatever you like. To Oisin they were just guesses, predictions of where the story would go before you'd finished reading through all the pages. Sometimes they were right. Many times, even. But sometimes a good guess wasn't enough. Sometimes knowing who'd done it wasn't enough, until you'd fathomed out the what, and the why, and the where. Anyone could get lucky and guess right. There were industries, establishments, games, and all sorts based on that possibility. It didn't make it a skill. Didn't make it reliable. Didn't make you smart, just because you could throw a dart in a darkened room and somehow manage to stick the person lurking there.

But Tom had done more than that now. He hadn't just guessed the story, he'd drafted the next few pages. He had a narrative that made sense, a solid bridge of reason from bank to bank instead of scattered suppositions spanning the waters like stepping stones. Instead of taking a moment, however, instead of enjoying the far bank for a few moments before beginning to contemplate the next step of the journey, Tom's patience for patience was now exhausted, and his mind seemed set on wading back into the river of the unknown, and charging off over the waterfall into oblivion.

The question whispered itself over and over again in Oisin's head. For better or worse, Tom's loyalty was what it was, and even if it could be unmoored and hitched to a different piling, Tom and Clark would not necessarily find themselves in lesser danger, trading the ire of one set of criminal associates for that of another. To do nothing was to risk the perception that the message had not been received, and required repeating; to comply with its implied urgings was tantamount to surrender, both nigh impossible for someone as stubborn as Tom Cooke, and a risky precedent to go around setting; and who but Tom would care enough to do anything about it? Tom could not ignore the message, he could not comply with it, and he had nowhere to turn. Whether cautious and reasoned, or reckless and impulsive, the only path for Tom led in the same direction.

I got to go after them. As much as Oisin wished he could find some way to disprove the certainty in that statement, in truth Tom was more right than he was wrong. But not entirely right.

Oisin pressed the handle of the mop into Tom's chest. He'd offered his assistance before, and he was far too stubborn to back down now, even if the nervous energy that had inspired him to volunteer had shifted elsewhere. "Better get mopping then," Oisin said, his voice thick with stubborn certainty of his own, mixed into a grimy sludge with equal parts tired resignation. "The sooner my work is done, the sooner we can leave."

[Tom Cooke]

Nobody Inn • Old Rose Harbor

Early Morning on the 13th of Dentis, 2704

Maybe Tom knew, even then, that just because his logic was sound didn’t mean it was right. That just because you didn’t have a choice, didn’t mean the choice you made was the best one – or that it was a choice to be proud of. Or that it was a choice to foist on somebody else, somebody who’d been damn studious about not getting involved. It would’ve been hard to read the uncertainty that flinched across his face when Oisin looked up at him; there might’ve been guilt there, oes, but it was too restless to be sorrowful, too restless to be genuine concern. Almost, but not. There was just too damn much dancing round in his head.

So when Oisin pressed the mop-handle to his chest, he grinned, relieved. For all his bluster, the lad was just about breathless for a few seconds; he fumbled the mop-handle between his big hands like he barely knew what to do with it. Froze all quiet-like, staring at Oisin Ocasta with his dark eyes wide, like he didn’t half know what to say. With a little of tension gone, maybe, from his heavy dark brow, replaced by surprise – and gratefulness.

With his free hand, he reached out to clap Oisin’s shoulder – then hesitated again, looking sheepish and apologetic as his hand went back to the mop. But his voice was all flush with warmth.

“You’re a ballach, Oisin Ocasta,” he said, tottering a step back, bobbing his head enthusiastically. “You’re – you’re a real ballach. I knew you’d get it. I knew…”

’Cause he didn’t know what to say, ’cause he was standing there with Clark all propped up and bruised and wheezing in that chair behind him, and Oisin standing there, matter-of-fact and tired but determined, he thought the best way to show that gratefulness was to get to work. That was it, wasn’t it? He’d come in with empty hands: Clark over his shoulder, oes, but empty hands all smeared with dried blood, with a heart full of anger and action that had no place to go. Oisin’d given him something better than a promise to help. Oisin’d given him a job to do, right then.

And Tom was going to do it. You give me a job, he thought, not for the first time, but for one of the first times. You give Tom Cooke a job, he does it. You can say a lot of other shit about him, but you give him a job, he does it and he does it well and he doesn’t ask any questions. Whether it’s beating a dobber to a bloody pulp or mopping up some laoso on a taproom floor, he gets the job done, and well.

So now he composed himself, tightening his fist round that mop-handle, then loosening it. Clearing out his head of all the mess that didn’t need to be there. When he looked back at Oisin, his face was calm and even; his voice’d wrested back its steadiness from the panic. “I won’t forget this.” He set his jaw, nodded once, firm-like. “I can’t say I ain’t sorry for draggin’ you into this, but I ain’t goin’ to forget it. I’ll pay you back, someday. In full.”

Didn’t matter if Oisin protested, ’cause Tom was young and mung and he knew his heart, and he knew he’d find a way.

And now he set himself about the task he’d been given, and he did it quiet-like; he took care wetting the mop, took care with his heavy weight to make his footsteps fall soft. He made himself keep aware of where his limbs were, so he wouldn’t bump into any chairs, wouldn’t break anything. It was hard, but he kept those five words like a mantra in his head. Together, with the street outside the frosty windows steadily lightening, they got back to work.