[Moira] Despite the low lining of cloud cover in the sky, the moon hung over the city. A bright and burning, hot-white that bore into the souls of those born under Luna’s pregnant face and swelling them with their rage. It manages to provide ample light to see by in the city’s darker places, where street lights refused to flicker and one could see the natural moonlight cascading in a wintry reflection against Chicago. Such moments were very rare.
The flash of white reminded her of something she had seen, the light of Heaven – the whispered tunnel that takes you to the other side when you die. Moira had put them to rest, the souls of the three Marys. Now, she hunts down the old man that had spun the fairytale.
Checking first the steps of the Chicago Tribune, before trying the shelter she heard that Iam may stay at that Gary ran.
[Ian] It’s late, later than the time Ian can usually be found on the steps. Dusk, he’d told her, Gary comes to get him, a place to sleep and pee. It’s at the shelter then, that she finds him. There’s a helpful lady at the desk in front, that points Moira to the bunk where Ian sits, rocking back and forth, a bit of his soup still in his beard, on his fingers.
He’s humming to himself, left alone for the most part as others are only just starting to come in and claim bunks for the night.
[Moira] She huddles down in the thick, large jacket that is a size too big for her, stolen from the Jarl’s clothing stash as she’s lost two coats in the past two days. Moira lets out a small sigh as she sees Ian, heading over to his bunk.
She looks around and then back to him, stuffing hands into her pockets. “Mr. Ian Henderson, the son of Blood Song – once reporter for the Chicago Tribune…” Her voice is quiet, barely rising above private conversation tone.
[Ian] He rocks back and forth, until he hears his name, and it’s the pretty little thing… what was she called? Ah….
“Ah, its the pretty lil thing, with the questions of mary’s three… with a name that could Mary be… Chicago Times… news every day every day, read all about it, hey-a hey-a hey!”
He chortles, and plucks at the rags that are his clothing, though it’s clear he prefers them, though beside him is the new coat and gloves she gave him before.
[Moira] Moira looks to the new coat and gloves that she has given him. She figures in time if he uses them, they will be nothing more than another layer of rags to keep him warm. She tilts her head to the side, raising a hand up to her face and brushes a lock of hair behind one ear.
“It’s over, Ian. I thought I’d come by to tell you. The Marys – all three. They are reunited with their loved ones. At peace now.”
She crooks a little smile at him, “You did a good job… carrying the story that you did. Thank you.”
[Ian] The coat and gloves already show signs of wear. They have gone far to keep him warm this month, and hes grateful for the. He looks up at her, his eyes shockingly clear for a long moment, before lips twist into a toothless smile….
“All done? Peace they have at last… Good good, I’m glad it’s finally past…
A story so long, held so tight – peace will bring a restful night…”
She tells him he’s done a good job, and thanks him, and he drops his head, all wild hair flaring around whiskered face, and reaches out a shaking hand to pat hers briefly. pat pat pat…
“We all have stories we must tell, some of heaven some of hell…
my duty was to the Marys three, some day your story, you’ll tell me…?”
[Moira] Moira grins, nodding her head. She swallows the lump that was forming in the back of her throat just then. Her own gloved hand comes up to cover his, squeezing the Gnawer’s hand. She lowers her eyes for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip.
“Someday – my story isn’t finished yet. But I might tell you a little of how it begin – how it is still being written. I hope, maybe like the Marys, I’ll finally get to be with the one I love – just not when I’m long dead.”
She gives a shaky laugh at that, a low husky sound. “You take care of yourself, Ian, I will look in on you. Tristan says his hellos. Tomorrow, when it is warmer. I’m going to pay respects to the Marys Three. I just wanted to find you and tell that it was done.”
[Ian] “You will, you will. Boys are stupid, so? But to you, I think, he’ll finally go. No one could be that dumb, a pretty gem to push away… if he tries, bring him to Ian to have his say…”
He nods again, and smiles.. pulling his coat and mittens into a pile so that he can use them as a pillow. “Tristan’s a good boy, and his kids do him proud. Respectful and smart, and not to loud…” clearly he hasn’t actually met Kemp…
And for a brief moment, his eyes are clear again as he looks up at her. “Be well, Miss Moira, be happy, ok?” and then he lays down, with a little sigh and creak of old bones… “Chicago Times, news all day, finally its done… hey-a hey-a hey-a hey….”
[Moira] Chicago Times, news all day, finally its done… hey-a hey-a hey-a hey….
It’s a phrase she is not likely to forget. Something she may remember if she can recall this story later in life, if she lives long enough to find someone else to recant it to. Moira bows her head in a deep bow. Hair falling across pretty features as she takes a step back from the bunk.
“I’ll try, Ian.” She whispers, “Stay safe, ol’ Gnawer.” If he lives through the winter, Moira will visit him again as often as she can remember to help Gary take care of him until the Gnawer’s final rest. She draws away, lifting a hand to wiggle fingers in a small wave that he may not recollect and begins to slip away from the shelter and back out into the night.
[Ian] (and fade. C’est finis!)