themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

Mori turned his hand over to give the Tailor's a light squeeze, considering the hands together, but also not looking up but for brief moments. "In the event that you no longer enjoy my company, then I encourage you to cut ties and I will not complain. However, on the single caveat that you allow me to make my own choices as well. I am a grown adult, older than even you, and I can choose whether I dislike the you beneath the pretending. Do not try to take such a choice away from me. Please."

In the most gentle of ways, there was left no room for argument. Mori stood slowly and with a ragged groan, hand guarding the injured side. "Smarts... You asked before, in maybe a bit biting of a tone of which I will not fault you, where to have tea. I would like it in the sitting room. Most comfortable room in the flat, second only to the bedroom. And I promise to sit still, cause less work for you. How does that sound?" Another offered hand, this time inviting to lead rather than asking for mutuality.

"It sounds acceptable," the Tailor finally said, allowing themself to take the hand to stand with them, and resisting the urge to hover. "You taking care really is all I intended, I--"

There wasn't any need to pick at it. They fidgeted, and then forced themself to stop. "Lead the way. I can bring the pot and cups, if--if you'll allow me, I mean." Ah. Still trying to be useful. Hard to stop the habit. "If that's alright."

With a small, accepting huff, Mori nodded. "Just the pot will do. I can hold two cups just fine, I promise you. So long as Tularemia doesn't start feeling snippy again."

Even against a playful glare, the stoat in question looked like the cat that caught the snake, just as smug as can be and more than willing to keep up the streak of success.

"Starting to wonder if she has more intelligence than she lets on. After you." Mori held open the kitchen door with just a foot.

"Considering the Huntsman?" they joked weakly, "Likely." Although they didn't understand why she had fetched them of all people. Surely there was someone more appropriate? Less abrasive? Enough. Enough thinking like that. They carefully collected the pot, wary of the heat, and slipped through the door into the next room, glancing round to examine it.

"Have you sorted out your project for class yet?" they asked, searching for a subject to try to lighten the energy.

The sitting room seemed to combine study, drawing room, and parlor. The fireplace at what looked to be the head of the room was framed by a cacophonic array of books, some pulled out and kept on a side table next to an armchair. The mantle above the fireplace was studded with hooks and the faint shadow of a crossbow that sits there when unused. And, perhaps, a faint outline of a large trophy mount, not as if one was there, but as if someone was planning where to put it, should they capture their prize. The fire tools showed signs of being used as weapons, outside tools, and anything else besides fire.

The armchair did not match the chaise lounge in the slightest, but it didn't seem like they intended to. In fact, they seemed to mirror their favored occupants, the armchair made of dark, rustic materials with plenty of wear at the arms from blades mistakenly placed or boots rubbing up against, and the lounge as ornate as a second-hand furniture piece could be with its faux gold trim, delicate patterning, and careful but useless medical stitching on the areas that required the most darning. A loveseat, short and plush and beaten within an inch of its life, was situated opposite the lounge, covered in an absolutely garish floral pattern, objectively quite ugly, and yet well beloved and well used.

The other side of the room was occupied by a shared writing desk, covered end to end in notes, drawings, maps, and dog-eared books. A coat, worn and darned, sat over the back of the chair sat before it, the chair itself askew with the rapid rush to get to the mirror. A damp wash towel also layed on the back, evenly folded to fit over the eyes and making the cost beneath wet with prolonged contact.

The chest under the writing desk was unlocked and smelled of must and old flesh...

Mori sat the cups on the low table in the center of the room and sat back on the chaise lounge with a sigh. Then a short jerk as he remembered. "Right! The cream and sugar! I'll..." He seemed almost daunted by the prospect of getting up again, but started to anyway.

Another well-loved space. The Tailor drank in the fireplace and its collection, eyes momentarily wide at the number of books, scanning across the seats, catching on the wear and tear and stitching and maps and overall true clutter of living that lay before them.

They decided very quickly that they liked it, in the same way one likes a mean old cat despite oneself. Eyes caught on the chest briefly, but then Mori was moving to get up despite clear regret.

They set the pot onto the low table with care to anything that might rest under it, and then swiftly but gently moved to lean in front of Mori and force him back into his seat, their hands lightly finding his shoulder and his hand on the armrest.

"No, please, let me," they said, without any bite to it. A weak smile crossed their face. "You promised you'd sit still, didn't you? It'll only take a moment, I saw where you had them. In the meantime, you can decide if you'll even answer my question, and if so, how much you'll share with me. Only ever as much as you like."

Edited 2025-07-09 21:06 (UTC)

Mori ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, settling back on the lounge. "I did so promise. I... Ask again after tea. I'll have come up with something to say by then."

It would be with the Tailor's approach to the kitchen that a scratching could be heard on the other side of the door, pushing the swinging mechanism only slightly, though the limb doing the scratching seemed to also do so with a resounding plaap with each contact.

The smile reappeared and the Tailor nodded. Yes, they'd been right then--the Socialite was reluctant to share their plans, if any. That... it didn't necessarily sting, and it didn't have any right to. Both of them had allowed each other their secrets, from first day. The Tailor would let it lie, even if a little piece of them that hoarded secrets wanted to pry and pry. They'd leave it be for now. In the meantime, they stood to full (if diminutive) height and returned to the kitchen door.

Ah. They tsked, expecting to find Tularemia indignant at being left behind. "Now, it's not my fault if you can't keep up," they teased as they pulled it open, "and besides, the biting was very impolite."

A lampcat, a shimmering shade of violet-cerulean, trilled happily as it walked in the door. It was, of course, mildly damp as it rubbed up against the Tailor's pant leg, light and tail standing up in fond greeting. The wet was also remarkably cold for being false summer. It stretched luxuriously and seemed happy to attempt to trip the Tailor by walking between their legs with all the flexibility of an eel.

Mori laughed lightly. "Taph seems to like you. And he also likely left the ice box open. Doesn't do well in this weather."

This creature, odd and dark and consistently brushed and pleased, was undoubtedly, wholly Mori's. Where Tularemia was shared between Mori and Enoch, this was a very Morbid Socialite sort of animal.

Surprised, the Tailor managed not to stumble as the lampcat twisted around their calves, and they hand, which had already lowered to offer to what they had presumed was a wayward stoat, now pressed to cool and wet fur, silky smooth.

"Hello," they said a little haltingly, "You're a very friendly one, aren't you, then?"

An old memory of cat-chasing passed them by. They brushed their hand across the length of the animal in greeting, and cautiously stepped over the Taph to navigate the kitchen and fetch the cream and sugar, making sure to close the icebox as they did. Their hand was cold and damp now, and with a grimace they kept away from the doorway they wiped it on their already damp trousers.

"Do you know any secrets, then?" they asked the creature as they passed through the door again, half-joking. "Any hints you might whisper to me about our mutual friend?"

Sugar and cream were set on the low table, in Mori's reach to prepare as they liked.

Taph seemed oddly silent and a little... dull of wit, compared to the cats the Tailor was used to. He whistled and trilled, going to stand by the door once again with a hearty FLAP of his tail. What an odd creature... It imparts a brief thought with the flash of its bulb, hypnotizing in a gentle way. A traitor's epitaph. It paws at the door once more.

A cork popped out of a glass bottle on the other side just as the door back out opened. Mori poured just a splash of laudanum in the bottom of their own cup, just enough to act as a pain killer. He looked up and smiled. "Ah, thank you. I'll pour the tea. Hopefully, it hasn't been too long. What would you like in yours?" He was already putting two sugars in the bottom of his cup.

Edited 2025-07-09 22:51 (UTC)

"Two sugars as well," they said with a crooked smile, choosing to finally sit in the armchair. It settled around them in a way that felt familiar and nearly correct, even if the size swamped them a little. Their hands fell into their lap.

"You know, I don't think I've properly... sat down, without having work to do, for several days now. I almost don't know what to do with myself."

Tularemia could be found at the head of the armchair, curled as if in sleep, but one ear twitching.

Two sugars and no laudanum was placed in the Tailor's cup, the two cups poured over elegantly with a deeply aromatic, black tea. The heat emulsified the sugar almost instantly and Mori handed the Tailor their cup. "If you're asking, I find reading to be enjoyable. Or sitting in thought. If you're, instead, using it to start conversation, it can be difficult to sit and rest when momentum says you should continue. But I continue what I attempted to say at the lecture, your body will choose a most inconvenient time for you to rest, if you do not choose so first."

Mori laughed behind a hand. "I once fell asleep with my face in a fresh rib cage in university. And, two weeks later, collapsed in the midst of a presentation on parasites and fungus. One of my lowerclassmen attempted to diagnose me with brain worms."

They accepted the cup, sipping slowly and making an appreciative noise. After having so much jasmine from Sophia's and blends from Beatrice's, this was a new and welcome change. The warmth settled in their chest, even as they lowered the cup quietly to snort in an unflattering manner at Mori's expense.

"I've tried reading, a little, but I've always struggled with it. Letters sit still, but I don't. I find I'm always restless." Their gaze lowered and they frowned, voice dropping to a more serious timbre even without their meaning to. "And when I sleep, there are dreams. Even before class, there are dreams. If anything, the ones I have after class are... I don't know." They shook their head. "But if the earlier incident is any indication," they glanced up to Tularemia, and a curl drifted into their face from the motion, "then I should accept you're right."

They tried to tuck the loose curl back, looking back to Mori. "But it's..." their eyes roamed across his face as they looked for the words. "When I want something, when I have a goal, everything in me just wants to run at it. I have to grab it with both hands. Does that make any sort of sense?"

"It does," Mori nodded. "More than a sort. It makes plenty of sense. That sort of motivation can be rewarding in short instances. However, to pursue something so single-mindedly for the long term... One might call it madness, I call it torture. If there is one thing the Neath and living with a hunter has taught me, it is that one must become used to delay. Keep your goal in mind, pursue it relentlessly, but man was once a hunter known for its stamina. Where your target may sprint, you must marathon. Slow, steady movement will be your greatest ally."

Mori took a sip of tea and sighed as their moved their injured leg onto the fainting couch. "As well, the Bohemians have a phrase I find at times helpful. 'Perfection seeks quantity over quality.' To put in plainly and not like a honey-mazed artiste, if you must do something perfectly, you must practice again and again and again. If you pursue perfection on your first try, you will never find it."

"Of the nightmares... I'm afraid I have nothing of help beyond what the Maven may say plainer than I. But it does help to sleep in the presence of someone you trust. I narrowly avoid chronic terrors by help of my company at home. I do not know how you might attain such a condition, but no man is an island."

"Does... any of that make sense at all? I apologize, I've realized I've been rambling without allowing you word edgewise."

"It does," the Tailor said, but they were frowning like they weren't happy about it. Their hunts did have pursuit to them, and waiting in the dark, still as death, and it did force them to be patient. They were markedly better about it then, though there were times where they wanted to force the issue. Every type of prey called for a different kind of attack.

And, to make it worse, there was an appeal to the artist in them, the one that studied, improved their stitchwork, bettering their skill. If they kept at it, if they just...

That Mori had used such a fitting analogy, and then a comparison, both which they could understand stung a little--not in a bad way. It just meant being seen. They couldn't ignore it.

And they didn't have anyone. To that last point, they were alone--unmarried, much to a certain Barrister's dismay, or more than anything married to their work. As for trust--

"A good thing I am staying over this evening," they joked, "spouse's orders."

They cleared their throat, took another fortifying sip from the cup. "So!" The fellow said brightly, trying for lightness. "You know what my madness is. Have you decided you'll tell me yours? For class, that is." They closed their eyes, already braced for another deflection, and then decided to try to get ahead of it. "You told me once not to ask after what haunted you, and you kept my own secrets in turn. I can honor if there are things you won't or can't share, if only you just said as much. Say so, and I'll leave it be, and keep poking at your expense about this 'adoption' business."

It was meant to be a joke. An out. They were already expecting refusal.

Mori chuckled at the reminder of their spouse's orders to the Tailor, but found the smile soon falling. Their expression was thoughtful and a touch worried as they listened, his gaze trailing away, into other parts of the room as he let his head turn over the thoughts running through them. A soft smile at the teasing about adoption, but the tea was set down, hands folded before him.

"Dear Tailor," he started, "I am sure you are familiar with the deathlessness of the Neath, how the citizens of London, if not torn to shreds, will eventually awake with a refreshed body. If my understanding of your circumstance is correct, you have lived down here for as long as you can remember. You know no different understanding of death, half way temporary and something to be careful of, but not reviled so wholly. Am I understanding correctly?" A genuine question and, perhaps, a way to stall for time as he considered how to phrase the real answer, how much of it he wanted to give. But the tight line of his lips and the tired, lazy shifting of his eyes over the sitting room floor said that whatever would follow, however much of it there was, would be the truth. A difficult truth, if the fear of confronting it was to be believed, but a truth nonetheless.

Their gaze dropped to their cup, and then the Tailor drained it and set it down on the table to give Mori their full attention. No more avoidance from them.

"You're right. We never found it frightening; those who learned taught the others that the Boatman was kind. The thing to fear was the constabulary. They could make you hurt without death ever touching you. With that said," they continued seriously, sitting back with their arms crossed, "I know the Surface is... different in that regard."

Their eyes scanned the floor. "There was a woman who chose to line her mausoleum with mirrors and her coffin with sunlight. It kept her from rising again. Didn't want to deteriorate, I was told."

They closed their eyes and shook their head. "I don't pretend to understand more," they admitted. "Just that you don't wake up. Just that light itself keeps you from waking up. It's a concept I still haven't wrapped my mind around, because I don't know its shape."

They'd only killed a man properly once. Well, twice. But Feducci had reappeared, whole and hail. The other one... They tried not to think about it often.

Edited 2025-07-10 03:01 (UTC)

Mori nodded. "Before the Fall, death was as inevitable as it was unknown. We didn't know what lay beyond, what awaited us on the other side. We only knew that that was the end, the nothing, the eternal sleep, hopefully dreamless. Some speculated a blessed afterlife. Others, a void. We could not conceive of the predetermined nothing. It was almost an obsession for a time, a wave of influence and artistic inspiration from which I chose my name. 'Memento mori.' Latin. 'Remember, you must die.' A morbid sentiment and a venerable one, a reminder of what was to come and that there would be no second chance. The body continued on, aging and rotting and decaying, without the inhabitant of the soul, the life, the mind."

"On the Surface, people cease to be when they die for any reason, not just when their body fails to restore itself. In the Neath, so long as the body can pull itself together, the spirit lives on. Why? How? What difference lies between the dark and the light, the Neath and the Surface? And... can it be reapplied? Can someone who died in the light be brought back in the dark?"

"The first I could answer when I came to the Neath was no, simply bringing a body to the Neath does not restore it, neither in body nor soul. So, what could? Perhaps the Correspondence? Perhaps the Red Science? What can defy the Laws of the Light besides reapplied light itself?"

In the process of talking, Mori had turned away, face unseen from the armchair, and faced the chest underneath the writing desk. "What could possibly bring my daughter back?"

A hand pressed to the Tailor's mouth as the Socialite--as Doctor Mementomori spoke. They thought of Tomb Colonies, of old thin hands wrapped in bandages, faces hidden. Thought of the lively energy still in each and every one of them, living and breathing and dancing.

A body like that with no spirit? Mori was right. They couldn't envision it. Their scope was so small. They were lacking, their single experience from a man who was in his prime, whose body was healthy, and they hadn't stayed to see what would happen after.

They followed Mori's gaze, and while their eyes caught on on the chest (a small chest, really), the words were what caused a cold pain to slip between the Tailor's ribs.

They couldn't explain it. The hand on their mouth pressed to their breastbone instead, knuckles braced there and trying to soothe while their friend's back was turned.

"Your singular goal," they murmured in recollection. "You said you were blinded by memory, earlier."

("We want to warm the pot so when we pour in the water, it doesn't shatter in your hands." Like teaching a child why to do something that seems silly, but has good reason.)

"How long have you been--" they didn't know how to finish the question. They shook their head and rubbed their chest again. What to say? When they could barely grasp the edges of the picture? They'd never had someone who died permanently. Not anyone they knew, anyway. They'd never known their parents, assumed them dead, ignored the very real chance those people were alive and just had not wanted them, and all they'd known was an impermanence. Loss was only ever a choice of someone choosing to leave you behind. This wasn't like that.

They closed their eyes. That feeling from earlier had returned, like they were a wrong thing in a place. "And this is why you were in the class for it. To see if you could manipulate it for this." Their tone was without emotion. Sympathy would be like pity, like condescension. And the thing they were feeling was too difficult to describe, but whatever it was, it was too self-absorbed and they wanted no part of it.

"Do you want to talk about her?"

It felt like an intrusion.

His head lowered, face still unseen. Hands worried around interlaced fingers, then releasing, then lacing a different way. In the silence, the soft click of an opening mouth could be heard, twice, thrice.

"It... It has been sixteen years since I first held her in my arms, left to me by a mother that didn't want her. And only six since she was last alive in those same arms. Persephone, my pride and joy..." A soft huff through his nose, mimicking a quiet laugh, and when Mementomori Malodrema finally turned, it was only part way, without the strength to meet the Tailor's gaze, simply watching his hands before him, perhaps afraid of the expression he might find, the judgement, the anger or fear or disgust. He hoped they were still listening. "She was... creative. My old flat's walls suffered the day she found the pastels. Too clever by half, reckless and observant and brilliant. A shining personality, firey and opinionated and set the melody for whatever room she found herself in. If I'm being honest, and I do hope you'll forgive me the comparison, you remind me of her in a lot of ways. Not every way, mind; you are- were- vastly different people and would only become more different, I'm sure, were she allowed to live past the age of ten. But I suppose the memory tucked in the back of the mind contributed to my... less than mature treatment of you, and for that I do apologize. It was not a conscious choice, but the heart of a father never truly withers, does it? I hope you can forgive me for growing unfairly attached."

Mori leaned over, slow and careful of his side, to press in a hidden door newly installed in the larger arm of the lounge. The door clicked and swung open, almost entirely unnoticeable until it did. Within were the Correspondence notes. "I had had some small interaction with the language before, but not enough to truly know what it was capable of. Turning it into the scarlet method of science, applying it to the anatomical field, in a way that is 'life-saving' and 'very impressive'. So our professor says. It is either this or quite literal gambling. Why not pursue both until I achieve a breakthrough? That, Tailor, is my 'madness', my project. To take the first step in curing otherwise permanent death. To bring back my daughter and, with hope, return her to a world, a home, a family that would welcome or at least ignore the crime against nature I had committed for her. And, perhaps, the people that I tell about it may one day forgive me."

They... reminded Mori of their daughter. Mori had 'grown unfairly attached'.

The pain in their chest grew more cavernous. Their jaw was tight. Something threatened to crush them, and so the Tailor did what they'd done from the beginning to bear pain:

They reshaped the bloody narrative and turned that hurt into fuel. Forced their softness back and pulled up their fierceness. Not a wall, just another facet: the one that understood drive. "If there is anything I truly understand, it's having a force propelling you forward despite all other rejections and failures. No matter what anyone thinks, or how they tell you it's not yours to have or take. If it's a crime, then whoever made the rules can hang."

If Mori were to look, they'd find a dark expression, something like anger but with sharp focus. Bitter, but careful. In their direction, but not aimed at them. The Tailor was thinking, fingers laced together in front of their face. Their teeth ground together.

"You'll crack this. If you know what you want and it drives you, then only time can stop you. I don't pretend to know much about the Red Science, or Correspondence, but I know your combinations with the language are already brilliant and potent."

Something was drifting through their skull, an old song sung on rooftops, but they couldn't place it. They'd need to think on it.

They closed their eyes, and though very little else on their face changed, that dark look was immediately gone.

"She sounds like she made you very, very happy. I'm sorry."

Mori looked up and at the Tailor as they spoke, listening carefully and attentively. A small smile traced his lips at the end, thinking back to better times. "She did. I never expected it, but being a father came so naturally, like something I was meant to do. If I win- when I win- and I bring her back, I want you to meet her. Regardless of the origin of attachment, I've come to think of you as a good friend. She would delight in meeting you, I'm certain."

They turned back down to their hands with a sigh. "In the meantime, I thank you for your confidence as well as your confidentiality. Not all would be so willing to accept the steps I've had to take and the ones further still to reach my goal. Tasteless. Some might even say immoral. But needs must and I greatly appreciate your support."

"The few who know are my spouses and the Maven and, now, you. And, as far as I am aware, the Emissary and the Professor both are clever enough to have gleaned something from my conversations with them. In the meantime, I have covered my tracks with the lie that I am going into poetry. An ongoing sense of morbid curiosity should justify my research into the medical and transitive sciences." Mori tucked the notes back into the arm of the fainting couch and sighed, hand moving to massage the uninjured parts of their side in an effort to relieve the pain. "My reckless attempt at immediate research has left me... disposed. Hence my Enoch's assignment to watch over me, as if I have not learned to brace against the wilds from my experience. I do apologize for the inconvenience, but I believe Tularemia was right to bring you here. The truth, when given to someone who I know I can trust with it, is more relieving than previous experiences, those more similar to pulling teeth than removing weight."

Not the first to know this secret, either. That was reasonable. That was understandable. It should be enough that it was given freely and without coercion or force. The Tailor rubbed a hand over their face. The thing in their chest was an old familiar ache now, fed by their flare of anger and drive. It settled.

"Probably wise to lie, yes. I'll support it where I need to, obviously. I won't say I wish you told me sooner, but... You went into the marshes without a hunter and dealt with a wolf. Despite being married to a hunter who knows your goals. Mori..."

They wouldn't scold, and they wouldn't feel slighted. But they were a hunter too, they assumed Mori's partner had been able to tell on sight. Tularemia most certainly did. Trusted now with vital information, it was better to ~~be useful~~ prevent further mess.

"Please, should you need to do something so dangerous again, call on me. You have an ally with that regard."

Their hands dropped from their face. There was a real weariness now in their dark eyes. And that blasted song was still in their head, but they couldn't remember all the words.

"May I have some more tea?"

"Of course, allow me." Mori poured the next round of tea, careful and gentle and slow.

"I admit," they started, sitting back with their new cup, "I am aware of how foolish and stubborn I can be at times. One would think such a self-awareness would prevent such traits from superseding logic and reason, and yet..." A drink from the tea and a sigh. "This task is mine and mine alone, I'm afraid. With exception of my spouses, with whom I share all truths, any who know my task has been told by dreadful circumstance besides you. She is my daughter and it was my failure to save her that lost me that light. Orpheus walked alone with Eurydice behind him, none aiding his climb or reminding him not to turn or telling him of her appearance. My task will be a difficult one, but it is one that I must pursue alone."

One more cube of sugar was dropped into the cup and stirred in, Mori considering the way the ripples flowed through and around the tea spoon. "Or, perhaps, I have been misguided. It was the Queen of the Dead that felt moved by Orpheus' song and allowed him to receive the trial at all... But to ask for assistance in an area I had been able to successfully navigate before... It leaves much to be considered, though your offer for help will be remembered, I assure you. Thank you."

Mori did smile into a sip of his tea. "As well, I do appreciate you telling me of your skill, even vaguely, so that I need not perform ignorance of your secondary occupation any longer. Not in private, at least."

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