A hail mary

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Marlowe
Posts: 42
Character: Quincy Everhard

A hail mary

Post by Marlowe » September 19th, 2022, 9:10 am

The docks were becoming his go-to place for reflection, the placid waters lapping slowly as they mirrored him.

Quincy didn't really want to be bothered by anyone, and the northeast corner of the Fort was seldom remembered: other than the loading crew handling the next shipment headed to the Pass, it stood pretty forlorn, its platforms deserted if not by the occasional swallow. As unusual as it was for him, solitude was all he craved at that time; it was hard getting your head straight when your address placed you next to the most frequented tavern in town.

His feet dangled by the platform's edge, not quite reaching the water. Regardless of how comfortable they were, the pair of shoes lay on the wooden planks beside him, the water was cool enough to refresh his toes even a few inches away from the surface. He collected a few wooden bits on his way over, certainly left by broken crates or boards that needed replacement. The ripples traveled quite far when he flung one of them onto the waters.

"Buddy, do you mind?".

The raucous voice disturbed the otherwise calm surroundings and startled him, making Quincy drop the pieces of wood and press his palms on the pier. There was a scrawny-looking man to his left, sitting with a fishing pole in his grasp. He was glancing back at him, a wide sun hat casting shade on most of his face.

"Forgive me", he raised a palm and pressed his lips together.

"It's quite alright, son", he said, returning his gaze to the water. "Wouldn't say anythin' normally, but the fish are bitin' today".

"Good to know", he said, getting to his feet.

"Don't need to leave", the man gestured, his back turned to Quincy. "If it's just you".

"What do you mean?", he stopped unrolling the cuffs of his pants down.

"If that girl o' yours is comin', then keep goin', yeah".

What in Hel blazes was that about? Was this smelly fisherman keeping tabs on Miranda and himself when they came over from her cottage?

"You should keep your nose out of matters that don't concern you, old man", he said, walking with his shoes on two fingers to put them on a little farther from the annoying figure.

"Bickerin' right up me turf makes it my business, oh, that it does", he slurred, yanking his pole swiftly to let it rest again right after. Quincy quirked his brow, growing more confused by the minute.

"You must be mistaking me for someone else, mister".

"Don't think so. Got a good nose, son", he tapped the side of his nose with two fingers. "Hard to have fellows coming by waftin' all that lavender-".

"Saffron", Quincy cut him off, the irritation clear on both his tone and his brow.

"Or what have you", he nodded, keeping to his fishing all throughout their conversation. "So, don't mind you stayin' if no bickerin' is comin' along".

Quincy assumed too much sun got through the man's hat and was resolute on putting his shoes on quietly. Then realization dawned on him, and he turned his gaze towards the man again.

"This girl, what was she like?".

"Tall, with dark hair", he nodded, tugging on his pole. "Weepy".

That was just perfect: he couldn't even think things over because even the locals had a take on his relationship with Drusilla. What was next? Would he invite his gardener over for some tea and friendly advice?

"First of all, she's not my -girl-", the last word came out heavily accented. "And-".

"Really?", the fisherman had his back to Quincy, but he could tell he was snickering when he said it. "Not even in your head?".

"I've had enough of this!", he shoved his other shoe in, his jaw clenched tightly. So much for peace of mind!

Hard footsteps on old wood echoed as he made his way to the platform, but soon they became more and more spaced until they eventually ceased altogether. Where would he go? The library came to mind, but he dismissed it quickly: Rikard liked to be there. While he was fond of the man, he didn't know how to bring these issues before a priest, it was awkward.

He couldn't discuss his relationship with Drusilla with anybody, and that was the heart of the matter. Constantine was a wreck: while he managed to keep going despite the turmoil roiling inside him, Quincy couldn't fathom bringing her up when they shared a table. The westerner's endurance never ceased to amaze him, but he wasn't so selfish to the point of knowingly inflict such pain upon his friend.

Mote...? She crossed his thoughts, but was shown out almost immediately. No. As insightful as she was, there was no guarantee she would be able to keep it to herself. After all, didn't she reveal Miranda's anxieties to him? Besides, Mote would -never- give him peace with that whole "I'm so good at drawing people out of their shells" routine.

Miranda couldn't hear more of this, despite being the one person he liked to share everything he was allowed to. Their last argument was dire, and for the first time Quincy feared she might never come back once crossing his door sill. What were her words? "I'll not apologize for my justifiable concern". He had never heard words like that leave her mouth, and it was frightening. As they grew closer, the tendrils of Drusilla's presence sank deeper into what they were trying to shape together.

Evidently, dealing with Drusilla herself was a dead end: she was so damaged Quincy needed most of his energy just to make her listen. It's no wonder he always ended up sitting on the cold stone in his house, her path was riddled with frail eggs and just one misstep would have a world of hurt your way. He wished he didn't owe her so much, it'd make things easier.

His feet were taking him back to the docks before he even realized it. The unpleasant stranger got to his nerves, but at least he could help alleviate some of his burden.

"What do you mean, in my head?", he asked begrudgingly.

"You returned, what a surprise", he sniggered, picking a heavy bucket and setting it the far side so Quincy had some space. The fisherman wasn't lying, the bucket was loaded with fish.

"Well?", he sat down, folding his arms.

"Son, I don't know what you want me to tell you".

"We're not together!".

"Yeah, you said it", he nodded, and just then Quincy realized one of his eyes looked somehow wrong; it was probably made out of glass. "I'll tell you that I've seen couples argue less than that".

"Are you calling me a liar?". He felt his anger rising, washing over his ears and making them burn.

"Nope. I'm just curious, that's all".

"Curious about what?".

"Why you keep at it", he said, plopping another carp into his bucket. "Both times I spotted both of you talkin', you left pretty pissed".

"Yes, well-".

Quincy wasn't interrupted, he just stopped talking. What was he going to say? The man beside him minded his pole, at times raising his chin just enough to peer at him from under his hat. Why -did- he keep at it? Other than the hostile wildlife and the unnatural, Drusilla had been the source of all his problems when he came to this place: the problems with Constantine, the frantic search of new places to live and it was now seriously affecting his ties with Miranda.

"I...don't know", he managed to say it at last, his voice thin with frustration.

"Hmm", the man nodded and said nothing else. For several minutes, only the sound of the hook swiftly plunging into the water broke the silence.

"She'll never understand", he said, more to himself than to the other man. "I don't know if I would, if our roles were reversed. I have been unfair".

"Life's not fair", he said, sticking a squirming worm into the hook.

The fisherman was probably oblivious to what Quincy meant, but it didn't matter. Despite the unsolicited forwardness, it had helped him to see the only thing left for him to do. His words and gestures towards Miranda were falling short, and he grew weary of hearing the same explanations leaving his lips to no effect.

He only wished Drusilla had held a while longer without entrusting him with so much of her bosom: the blood symbols on her body; her true convictions about Constantine; the effigy in his mailbox; and her paralyzing fear. She had finally been open with him, and now was he to shut her out for good? Quincy felt like a puppet playing a part in a heavenly dance to prove his worth to the angels, only each act requested more of him until there was nothing left.

Quincy swallowed, gazing at the merciless waters below. Maybe he would seek Rikard's counsel after all: he was wary of his soul.

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