---

This could actually work.  I could actually be safe here, brought in full circle back to the city of my birth and earliest childhood memories.  The Wheel at work, doubtlessly, but also… free will.  I chose to delve into the storm.  I chose to run that night… was… was it only last night?  Has it really only been that long?  I don’t want to let go of this taste of freedom I’ve managed to get.  And Trey has promised to protect me, and keep me free.

He seems mollified by my assurances, maybe even comforted a little, that I’m not upset.  I’ll be embarrassed later that these tears won’t stop, but for now, I’m almost marveling at how deep my own emotions run.  What else lay beneath the fear that’s been dulling every sense?  How long has it been since I had the space to actually take a breath?

I had a thought to reach for the restaurant’s napkin, but Trey offers a better alternative. The cloth is much softer, gentler to daub my eyes.  But it’s also cold, and - I realize as I ease a shuddering breath to calm myself- it smells of clove.  With my eyes closed once more, his cool handkerchief pressed against my eyelids, my next breath is steadier, filling my lungs with what I imagine that Trey’s skin must smell like.  I feel somewhat lighter when I’m finally able to look across the table once more. Though my eyes are a little red-rimmed, the brief smile I offer him reaches them, like the sun reflecting off icicles.

His handkerchief is something to fiddle with, as I twine it around and through my fingers.  “I understand.  We need to be prepared.”  We for once, encompasses more than myself and Persephone, and it feels amazing to be able to say it.  I huff softly at myself, even as I run a knuckle, wrapped in his handkerchief, under my eyes once more, as if to just be sure. “I don’t know every name, but… I know a few of their given names at least.”  It’s bound to be a poor help, but it’s what little I can offer.  I’ll write them for him, either when we get home tonight, or first thing in the morning.  Like gods, sometimes speaking a mage’s name can have unwelcome results.

“I don’t even want to know what our poor waiter is thinking, now…” It’s the musing of a self-conscious soul more than anything else.  I feel like I’m being a spectacle in public.  I wish I could get used to people staring.

---

He’s less familiar with my world than I expected.  There’s a momentary thin smile as he defers to my correction, taking it gracefully and without a hint of suspicion.  A small sound of agreement confirms his thought.  “Bynames, and epithets.  In some areas it was considered unlucky to invoke the gods by name, lest you draw their attention.”  Some of us had hundreds of names… myself, less than a handful.  We remember a time that our names were invoked for protection and luck, not out of fear.

I know his question is mostly rhetorical, but still I shrug.  The gesture is a touch rueful, my palms turning up momentarily in a helpless gesture.  If I knew, perhaps I could tell him.  I have my own suspicions, my own thoughts, but I don’t dare bring them to light.  Instead, I listen as Trey speculates what ends I may have been used for.

Used for, the thought even makes us feel dirty.  And then, the sense of winter coolness draws close.  My hands still, and there’s a momentary instinct to turn my face towards his touch.  I do manage to stop myself barely before my cheek touches his hand.  Instead, I lay my own hand on his, and use that as a buffer between the more intimate touch I seem to crave.  The chill his skin carries is so comforting.  If I let myself be unchecked, I would want nothing more than to be enveloped in his arms.

But I can’t.  My hand slips away from his as I raise my eyes once more.  He’s watching me with such earnestness, such care, that my heart aches for not telling him more.  I can’t risk the consequences of telling him everything.  I don’t want to hurt him when I end up being torn away from my mad grasp at freedom.

Fallen?  A madman?  Those questions take me off-guard, as they are things I had never once considered before.  At least my education hadn’t lacked those essential pieces of knowledge.  The Crone saw that I understood at least that much during my year with her.  My gaze drifts slowly left, as I try to remember any blatant cues to either state.  “I… don’t know?”  My brow furrows, as I shift my gaze back to him.  “I’m not sure I would recognize the signs, if there were any…” 

I can’t help but shiver at the thought, wondering now if maybe I was truly under more threat than I originally believed.  I wish I could better remember that first year; I wish Persephone would let me see some of it.  “I want to hope he’s just a man who’s made terrible choices, but… what if he’s not?”

The danger that could put Trey in…

---

I am thinking about his pots and pans question as I’m delicately fishing out a single mushroom from the beef stroganoff.  I’m picking here and there at things, slowing down, while he’s happily feasting.  It’s only partially out of politeness, and mostly because the food really is just that good.  Munching the mushroom makes me almost close my eyes in bliss; fungus just absorbs flavors so wonderfully.  I think I’ll need to learn how to make that specifically.

“It would probably be a good idea. Safer, ultimately, depending on what I make.”  It’s not idle musing.  Some of what I know is toxic in the wrong amounts.  But the future consideration of ownership and sanctity, especially if I can master the knack of infusing magick into the brews, came into play.  I’ve never really had my own ritual tools, not in that sense.

Delighted, my hands clasp together.  “I would adore that, meeting Shelley, having a community garden!  I do appreciate the offer, Trey, but the balcony is yours, and I would be… prone to turning it into a jungle, if given the opportunity.”  Even if I’m smiling, it is a bit of a threat.  If he’s not careful, giving me leeway like that will fill the entire apartment with greenery during the spring and summer months.  “Clove has a much better smell than tobacco; there are worse things to smoke.”  And for worse reasons, too.

I don’t manage to catch the soft scoff I make at mention of teaching and learning being a thing that happens at some chantries.  A tiny shake of my head dispels the urge to speak ill of the members of the Estate, out of deeply ingrained deference.  I was barely even a figurehead to them, a trophy to be on display with no actual function.  They only cared about preserving Persephone.  I can only hope that they believe me taken Below again, so they will never come searching for me. 

Trey asks a question, and it takes me a moment to parse what he’s asking.  I told him I was Euthanatoi.  And I just described a chantry that was unusual and strange compared to those he’s been familiar with.  So of course… of course, he’s going to be curious.  And I’m faced with a dilemma.  He’s going to know, to make the connections, if I tell him.  How often was it impressed to me that I was the key to the other sects respecting them?

But Trey deserves the truth.  And I want him to understand.  After studying my empty plate for a moment, I lift my eyes, pale blue and chilled with trepidation.

“Rodi Deme,” I give him the answer in Greek first, carefully.  I tell myself to be calm; I try to calm Persephone, hoping it will mean nothing to him, as I translate.  “The Pomegranate Deme.”

---

It’s not my imagination that things seem to be normalizing again.  Balancing.  He seems to be doing what I had asked him, to forget my rashly confessed thoughts.  Which helps me put them out of my mind, as well.  No lasting damage has been done, it seems.

“I like the sound of that.”  Planning accordingly that is.  Planning for any kind of future sounds so frightening, and yet… It's possible now.  Even with all the uncertainty, even if Diogenes’ Deme comes for me… I am going to fight for my freedom.  There is no better motivation than having a future to look forward to.   With that tiny smile still playing with the corners of my lips, I mimic his actions, taking morsels of each offering to try.  I vow to pace myself, both to avoid the inevitable sleepiness that will come over me, and so that he won’t feel rushed to finish enjoying his traditional fare.

“There’s room until tomorrow,” I remind him, with a warm humor sneaking into my tone.  “Until I fill it with groceries.”

The reminder is for both of us, so we don’t ignore what could be vital lessons about my phone, or forget my promise to make him home-cooked meals.  I have gifts to make for the waitress of Anywhere.  I think perhaps, I will really begin to feel settled when I am able to provide help and support, simple acts that I have been deprived of for too long.

“Oh.”  Thinking of support, I finally remember a question that I had wanted to ask.  “Is it customary to bring gifts to the head of your-- I mean, to Graham.  As an offering, or.. Or proof of usefulness?”  After a pause, where I pick up my glass of water, but don’t yet drink of it, my brow beetles slightly, at sour memories.  “The Hierophant was always accepting tithes, and gifts… I just want to be prepared.”

---

He still tries to comfort me, assuring me that I haven’t ruined anything.  And he understands what I’m feeling, how it can be just too much.  Strangely, it’s a little easier to breathe after hearing that.  That he doesn’t try to reach out to me again.  That he doesn’t make me feel silly for being scared, or overwhelmed, gets tension to drop out of my shoulders.  I had unconsciously braced myself for the worst, and been proven again, that Trey is kinder to me.

Perception (insightful) + empathy -- He's holding back?
7d10: 6, 2, 6, 1, 6, 2, 4 = 27

He’s holding back?  I look up from my plate again, at that admission.  He’s not easy to read, as he respects my request and turns his attention to his food.  The question is right there on my lips, unasked, and therefore, unanswered.  My choice?  Free of the influence of his wants?  Does that mean he wants more?  Is that same connection existent for him as well?  Hope picks herself up off the floor, and dusts herself off.

But I’m reading too much into a simple statement.  There’s no way he could mean any of that.  Could he?  As bedraggled and ragged as my hope may be, she sits herself down and refuses to leave, even when beaten down and mocked by the voices of others.  I’m not smart enough for this, not good enough, not strong enough.  Before the vernal equinox, I’ll be returned to the Estate, and I will have nothing but memories to look back on. 

I already regret pulling my hand away from his. By increments, my free hand returns the tabletop as well, not quite reaching for him, but simply coming to rest a little closer each time.

For a bit, we eat in relative quiet; the only breaks are when I ask again, what something is called. But that quiet goes through stages, at least for me.  The longer he doesn’t press me, the less tension and fear courses through me.  We both are kind of watching the other: there are a few times I catch him looking, and a few times he catches me.  My shy smile is not a guilty one, just a thoughtful one.

By the time the tasting dishes are cleared, and the main fares arrive, my thoughts have turned away from all the things I have done wrong, and the regrets associated with them, to a tenuous thought of the future.  I won’t ask Trey what he wants, because… I can’t even figure out what I want.  Not right now, at least, not with so much noise in my head, not with the uncertainty that lies ahead.

The chicken kebabs catch my interest because they are so similar to souvlaki which was so often denied to me.  I was supposed to be above the common street foods after all.  But it’s the stuffed cabbage roll that I opt to try first when all the food has settled.  It looks like a larger dolma which is a favorite of mine.

The first bite convinces me.  My fingers unfurl, touching his hand, ghosting across his knuckles, enough to get his attention. Enough to show him that touch is once again welcomed, now that I have come to terms and found a measure of equilibrium again.

“I would like to come back here, just with you, for more of these, someday.”  I’m careful with how I phrase it.  It needs to be clear, after what he has said, that this is my choice.  With him.

---

He apologizes, softly, which means that I utterly failed to disguise what was going through my head.  The warmth in my face hasn’t faded, and probably won’t for a good while.  I don’t, maybe I can’t, watch him as he focuses on divvying up the bites onto serving plates.  He’s reserving himself, purposefully refraining now it seems.  I don’t want him to.  I want to be able to walk arm in arm with him through the city; I want his hands to steady me when I feel like collapsing.   I don’t want to drive him away because I blush at the slightest racy thought that traipses through my mind.

But how do I tell him that?  You are breathtakingly handsome, immensely kind, and your presence speaks to me in a way I’ve never experienced before.  It sounds stupid; it sounds like wishes of a desperate woman who has been starved of affection and kindness.  And I don’t want to be that kind of person.  Water is sipped as he partakes of his wine, almost as if we are both trying to cleanse our palate of this awkward moment.

“You.. it wasn’t anything you did, Trey.  We…”  No, no, we stop there, our brow furrowed for a moment as identity is asserted once more.  When I get flustered, I slip.  Persephone is right there beneath my skin, just as starved and far more willing to act on her hungers than I am.  “I am perfectly capable of embarrassing myself with every breath.”  A nervous laugh escapes as I rub my cheeks with my palms, trying to diffuse the heat and color.  I’m trying to find some way to explain myself, to promise that he has no reason to be apologetic for his action, or my reaction.

4d10: 1, 7, 1, 3 = 12   Wits + Expression

“Really, sometimes, it’s just my thoughts run away without me, and I had a moment where I thought about just how devastatingly handsome you are… and… and…”  My mind catches up with what my mouth is saying around that moment, and the color just deepens in my cheeks.  “Oh, oh.. I wasn’t supposed to say that aloud… can we just forget that any of this happened?  You weren’t even trying to flirt with me, and if this is how I am when you aren’t flirting with me, I’m just going to be an incompetent baboon when I meet your chantrymaster…”

Shut. Up. Kaelin. Please.    The icy tone that I scold myself in is all hers.  The best way to stop myself from continuing the nervous babble is to spear a dumpling of some sort from my plate and stuff it into my mouth.  There, I can’t talk with my mouth full.  I should find the ladies’ room; I should run to the ladies’ room.  But instead, I will just die of mortification here.

---

Too much has happened since then.  Sometimes things that I don’t even remember, which is honestly scarier than I care to admit to myself.  But he agrees with my assessment.  There’s no way that you can remain the same person, when the world unfolds before you, like it has for us.  I may lack his understanding of the deeper mysteries, but that truth is fundamental for us.  We were never fated to be the same people we were in childhood.

His quiet attempt to comfort me works, the pale shadow of a smile that underscores his honesty.  Caging anyone is an affront, but that he frames his feelings in a more personal way makes them feel more true, more honest.  He must second guess saying something else.  Maybe he was about to refute my observation, but he gives his head a slight shake.  Before I can ask, his hands are loosening, slipping from mine, as he cedes the table space to the incoming feast.

I try to not miss the grip of his hands.  It’s smarter, and safer instead to focus on the plates upon plates of food that are being placed between us.  With each offering, my eyes just get a little bigger and bigger.  As is typical with my wintertime, I only realize how truly famished I am when food is placed before me.  I worry my lower lip a little as the plates just keep coming.  We are definitely taking dessert home.

As the last plates land, I clasp my hands together, and share a warm smile with the waiter.  Trey’s perfect moment of silence gives me the opening to proudly share the one Russian word that I have learned, and will continue to use routinely.  “Spasibo!”  Am I proud of this?  Yes.  It’s simple, but small, and genuine.  The waiter’s smile is pleased and leaves me with a sense of peace.

I cover my mouth with both my hands as Trey goes through the list of what’s what, pointing out each dish as he does so.  There’s a smile that’s hiding behind my fingers, hinted at in the corners of my eyes.  I’m just delighted by all the food, and the range of familiar to absolutely strange, that I can hardly contain myself.

But ultimately, the appearance of the food gives me a perfect excuse to stop talking about myself.  Because, talking about myself upsets Trey.  And we are here to enjoy ourselves.

“This smells like a divine offering.” I muse, finally processing through the overwhelm of just so much food.  “I want to try a little of everything… especially that.”  I gesture with a finger towards the caviar.  “How do you eat that? Just… by the spoon? or on bread? It looks like it would be good on bread…”