[ For a second, if Ortus is looking at just the right angle, he might see one of those masks crack and fall — in all the shattered heartache and weariness of a man who has seen it all, done it all, grieved it all, lost everyone and everything he has ever cared for, one way or another, as years stretch into decades into centuries into millennia and then keep going, with each new loss scoring a new and deeper wound into his heart, until it no longer even exists, because how could it? — something about the set of his eyes, the shock and vulnerability of someone who was absolutely not expecting such a question — ]
Oh, please — after all this time, the least you can do is call me Augustine, isn't it?
[ His tone is lighthearted enough, playful enough, dismissive enough, as to indicate disinterest, disinclination, distaste — except, of course, for the simple fact of what he's offering. ]
Anyway, I'm sure I'd be simply delighted to come along, at least as much as everyone else wouldn't be to have me join you where you're going, but... [ a shrug, a glance across the yard, marking each person finding a place in the truck, packed in with just as much care as all those jars of Paul's jam. ] Not yet, I think.
[ His smile is a flicker, the corner of one lip only, as insubstantial as a flame, as his gaze fixes on Ortus again. ]
I realize you're having something of a crisis of faith, and under the circumstances I think it speaks well to your sanity to be having it — well.
He was worth loving, once. He deserved it, then. Everything that built up around that came after — I'm sure at least a third of it, in the first few centuries at least, was my fault and everything — but somewhere at the core of all of it was someone who —
[ He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and pulls out a cigarette with hands that are if anything too steady, in the way of one who is concentrating very hard on forcing steadiness. There's the faintest rustling-and-slithering sound, as well, as his brother-Omen emerges from nowhere at the small of his back, coiling up and around his shoulders, in a shawl or a hug; when he's finished lighting his cigarette, his hand rests against a coil for a moment, providing comfort to one of them, or the other, or both.]
I made my promises too long ago to give up on them now. And anyway, I suspect if I leave, there won't be anything to come back to, here.
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Oh, please — after all this time, the least you can do is call me Augustine, isn't it?
[ His tone is lighthearted enough, playful enough, dismissive enough, as to indicate disinterest, disinclination, distaste — except, of course, for the simple fact of what he's offering. ]
Anyway, I'm sure I'd be simply delighted to come along, at least as much as everyone else wouldn't be to have me join you where you're going, but... [ a shrug, a glance across the yard, marking each person finding a place in the truck, packed in with just as much care as all those jars of Paul's jam. ] Not yet, I think.
[ His smile is a flicker, the corner of one lip only, as insubstantial as a flame, as his gaze fixes on Ortus again. ]
I realize you're having something of a crisis of faith, and under the circumstances I think it speaks well to your sanity to be having it — well.
He was worth loving, once. He deserved it, then. Everything that built up around that came after — I'm sure at least a third of it, in the first few centuries at least, was my fault and everything — but somewhere at the core of all of it was someone who —
[ He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and pulls out a cigarette with hands that are if anything too steady, in the way of one who is concentrating very hard on forcing steadiness. There's the faintest rustling-and-slithering sound, as well, as his brother-Omen emerges from nowhere at the small of his back, coiling up and around his shoulders, in a shawl or a hug; when he's finished lighting his cigarette, his hand rests against a coil for a moment, providing comfort to one of them, or the other, or both.]
I made my promises too long ago to give up on them now. And anyway, I suspect if I leave, there won't be anything to come back to, here.
[ A bleak and resigned certainty. ]