apostatised | [log] pointing with fingers that have never touched a cloud

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[log] pointing with fingers that have never touched a cloud

Martel spends more time drinking alone than is probably healthy; in his defence he's usually working and moderating his alcohol intake. It's mid-morning or so when he gets to Stigmata as arranged - he doesn't really know precisely when Eden intends to be there, and when Candice is making her usual morning stop he's busy quietly and carefully explaining to Langler that he will be very displeased if certain people (like Langler) don't stop hitting on Eirene.

Whenever Eden does arrive, Martel will be in a relatively decent mood, paper spread out over one of the tables and a half-full wine glass holding down the corner of a map he's bent over.

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The transition is a little odd from the City to the Nexus, realization dawning on Eden exactly as she passes through the door—not a moment before. There's a dish full of macaroni and cheese in her hands, piping hot, and Eden wonders for a moment about the complexities of the subconscious.

But, hey, she's got macaroni and cheese, and now's not the time to ponder the universe.

She makes her way to Stigmata, smiling sheepishly as she draws just the slightest bit of attention—not too common for a person to bring in food, Eden imagines.

Once again, the white hair draws her attention.

"Martel!"

The white hair (TM) is incredibly notable. Imagine how much annoyance he could've caused if he'd ever coloured it with dye or glamour when people were using it as a point of reference and he was still a Dangerous Mercenary At Large.

"Eden!" he replies, not yet looking up and shamelessly mimicking her. "Hello there."

Probably a fair amount of annoyance in most people—but Eden's not really one of those types. Things roll pretty easily off her back. She's good enough at feigning irritation, however, and...

"What, I don't even get a little eye contact, here?"

She sets the dish on the table, sitting herself down and folding her hands.

"Just one - right." He sets his quillpen (there's a little inkwell there, too) down and straightens, works a crick out of his neck and smiles at her. "I work from here occasionally," he explains, in brief. "Did you find it easily?"

"Am I interrupting your work? I realized belatedly that we never set a time..." Eden peers at the quillpen quizzically. How do those things work anyway? "But yes, it was quite easy to find. You did point the way yesterday."

"Sometimes things move. No, you're not - anything that can't be interrupted I'd have back at the castle."

He likes his castle, and his work, and his whole new life.

"Sometimes things move? Buildings and— maybe I shouldn't ask."

He seems so lofty, somehow. Not a bad thing, necessarily, but it certainly makes Eden feel a bit young.

She quickly busies herself with setting out the plates.

"So this... is macaroni and cheese. Some of the people I knew back home said that I made the best, but... well. They might have been a little too kind. How much do you want to start?"

The notion of being lofty would probably entertain Martel, but then, he does have an incredibly bleak sense of humour. (It helped.)

"There's very little you can rely on in the nexus. If it makes you feel any better, this is likely one of the safest places here." Occasionally Martel adds to that safety actively; he feels an odd kind of responsibility for people from worlds like his that show up.

(It's called guilt, Martel, you know this.)

"Enough to fill a plate?" he suggests, with a sort of vague amusement.

"I'm a big girl who's seen her share of danger, so I'm not sure that knowing this place is supposedly safe will make me feel much better? But, on a pragmatic level, guess it's good for me. Probability, and all that."

Guilt is a wonderful thing, isn't it? Too bad it ended up, for Eden at least, leading to her pseudo-downfall.

"Not specific enough, Martel," she replies with a laugh. "There's covering the plate, there's heaping on the plate... I'd recommend the latter, but I've discovered over time that some people have delicate palettes."

"Soldier's rations," he says, a little dryly, "don't really allow for a delicate palette. I will bow to your superior knowledge."

She quiets down a little, decides to heap on half of the plate. Just in case.

"Doesn't mean that you can't grow back into one."

"Ah, well. It's only been six months. I'll let you know in another six if I feel especially fragile." Martel holds the corner of his map down with the tips of his fingers, sips from his glass and then replaces it where it holds the edge. "Would you like something while you're here?"

"Do let me know. A lot can happen in six months," Eden notes thoughtfully, placing the plate in front of Martel, nodding for him to start.

She's not particularly hungry.

"And I'm fine, but thank you for the offer. I'm more interested in spreading the joys of mac and cheese, right now."

"That it can." Martel's accomplished more in six months than some people could do in twice that - but that's par for his particular course.

Her comment makes him laugh, quietly, and he sits to eat. "I've found myself in the interesting position of having to try more and more things from worlds like your own."

"Oh no," Eden shakes her head. "You're not in any way forced to sit here and eat the things I do, Martel. I'm not quite that controlling. Don't you think that there might instead simply be a part of you that enjoys this... well, as you put it, interesting position?"

His laugh puts her more at ease. It's nice to know that he's capable of it. Without too much prompting.

"I wouldn't dream of implying you have any control over me." It's hard to tell when he's kidding or which part is the joke, sometimes, but he is still smiling and 'control freak' just does not cover it. "For my wife's sake," he clarifies, and then further, "Intended wife. Living between worlds requires - compromise, of a sort."

She breaks into a wide smile, albeit a layered one—if one looks closely enough, there's a slight bittersweet edge to it. She's not a family type, nor terribly sentimental by nature, but these are still doors which are very much shut to her. Unless she wants to stay in the nexus long-term.

"Congratulations!" Eden exclaims, clapping her hands. "And yes, I guess that makes more sense. Compromise in the name of love—how romantic."

Martel's expression takes on a certain pained quality. One might think he doesn't often get referred to as romantic. At all.

Ever.

Seriously.

"Thank you."

She caaaught that.

"What's with the look?"

"'Romantic' isn't typically a term I hear applied to myself often." It's generally safe to assume that most things Martel says are drier than the Sahara (or, more thematically appropriate, the Cynesgan desert) unless otherwise noted.

"Possibly because of that nice façade you've put up. Or, well, not necessarily façade, but... let's just say that actions are much more easily felt than sentiments?"

She pauses, chin dropping to her palm.

"How's the food?"

Something about that makes him laugh again, dark-eyed and oddly distant. That's probably one of many things best left unexplored.

"The food is good," he says, sidestepping the subject of façades he may or may not be using.

This time, she notices; wave something in front of a girl too many times, and she's bound to see something. It makes Eden pause. She's not judging, not yet.

"Well, good," Eden replies, poking at the dish with her fork, taking a small bite. "Whenever you feel like eating more artery-clogging food, just let me know."

Martel wields details of his past like brutal conversational weaponry; say what you will about him (and people will), he's not trying to hide who he was or who he is.

He very near invites the judgement some days.

"Certainly," he says. "I'll trade you something, one of these days."

"Something? You can't do that, Martel, now you've made me curious."

Eden treats her own past differently. Weapons, to be sure, but weapons pointed at herself and her vices and meant to keep her mouth shut, lest she fall into old habits.

Or, well. Before she traded those memories away. Now there's nothing left but an uncomfortable haze. Selective amnesia.

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