themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

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."

They accepted their cup and grimaced into it. "Speaking plainly is difficult at the best of times, when you can't tell how a person would react to your words. It's all implication with most people." Their scowl fell, eyes on the low table between them.

"There's expectation and misunderstanding. Am I a hunter that works as a tailor for a pastime? Am I a tailor who hunts as a hobby?" They shook their head. "It isn't one or the other. But to claw up society, one has to look the part. You know that."

The Tailor lightly angled the cup this way and that, watching the tea swirl round in it. "It's obvious if you know what to look for. But most people don't think to look. Not to mention a tailor isn't meant to be so..." they sighed and shook their head again, this time with real embarrassment. "So noticeable."

They'd really need to work on that.

A small scoff from Mori was directed into the air. "Yes, I am quite familiar with the inane rules and regulations of polite society and society at large for that matter. Your disdain is an understandable sentiment and, could I find method of communication and connection elsewhere, I would quite happily remove it from myself to live as I so please: picking and choosing the aesthetics and appeal of the norm over the strict guidelines and habits of its populace."

Mori took another sip of tea and turned back to his conversational partner, eyes still stained red at the edges, but otherwise calm enough to meet their gaze.

"I may not be much of a visual artist myself, but is it not the goal of the artist to be recognizable by their work? Is it not by your hand and your mind that astounding pieces of clothing are made? Not only that, is your work not, itself, a wandering acclaim to your talent, out in the public eye? Why would you not want to be noticeable?" It was a genuine question, out of curiosity and lack of understanding.

"But that's it, isn't it? The work is the thing that is recognized. The hand itself. The craftsman becomes known for that, not for--" They gestured, nearly sloshed their cup, and correctly sheepishly with a sip. They closed their eyes, and when they opened them, began again.

"You have to be able to control what people think about you. You have to know where to be subtle, so that when you decide to become noticeable, you make the biggest impact. And," they added, "if people aren't looking for you, if they don't see you, you learn more. You hear more secrets. How does a pickpocket get through a crowd in Spite? He looks like anyone else. How does a tailor make a piece for a client? They learn their measurements, their tastes and preferences, their dislikes, and if that body changes from something like weight gain or Shapeling Arts, a tailor is discrete enough not to draw attention to it. But they know."

They didn't know if they were making any sense. It was complicated.

"And... when I'm myself..."

("I'm not a pleasant person.")

"When I was a child, I was always middling of the bunch. I slipped by without attention drawn to me." Henry went off with the Face, the Gracious Widow selected sweet Gemma, Peter was adopted, and A-- "If I wasn't outright impossible, anyway. The lesson I came away with was that I should control when I'm noticed, and how I'm noticed, in which way. And yes, I know that sounds impossible and I can't control every small thought a person has on me, but I want to draw people's attention with the work I do, and not the person I am. The work is enough that people should know of me."

Mori nodded. "A selection of public opinion by only showing what you want them to see. It's not an unfamiliar concept. A lie of omission, though perhaps 'lie' is too strong a word. To curate what one sees and, thus, what one understands of a certain subject. Were I a hypocrite, I would say that such actions were needless and could not possibly bear fruit. I am no hypocrite, however. I recognize the value of changing faces, controlling one's own narrative, how one is perceived. You well know how guilty I am of such a ruse. Putting on nice clothes and a pleasant voice, choosing words carefully and making the right expressions at the right times. Like art, it puts forth to the world, to certain people, only the face you wish them to see, the one that will surely make them love you, that will surely make them understand what you're attempting to say, that will surely make them know you and care about you and understand why you are the way that you are, if you just choose the right character to play."

Mori glanced behind the Tailor, at the shelf of books. "And then you forget how to not be that character. You forget that you, yourself, are not the art. You forget how to stop the charade. Even you only know brief glimpses of who you actually are..."

Mori blinked, then chuckled. "I apologize terribly, I went on a bit of a ramble there! Take of it what you will; I don't mean to say that every attempt at putting up a front ends in tragedy, I originally meant to say that I understand the effort. I believe you should get to be both Tailor and Hunter, of course, but which way you lean and if you lean at all is wholly up to you. Take it from a Poet and Mortician, you will not need to choose only one. Just be aware of what you truly want under whatever mask you wear and I am certain you will prevail in what you choose. You already seem to have a rather extensive lead in both fields."

A worn and weary smile. Mori was always trying to understand, and impart advice, and for that they were grateful. They felt like, maybe, the Socialite didn't feel he had much opportunity to share of themself so much with others.

Or Mori was still in the habit of acting like a parent trying to gently guide a child. The smile fell in degrees, and they hid it behind their cup.

"I appreciate it. I wonder if, maybe, your rambling is an indication of you needing rest?" It was a light tease, but the hour was growing a little late. "Neither of us may have an assigned bedtime, but we both could at least do with a few hours of trying to pretend we're sleeping."

Yes, honestly after sitting in one spot for so long with little more than a cup of tea in their hands for distraction, the Tailor was finding the long hours of working and studying were finally trying to catch up to them. They didn't yawn, but they could feel the heaviness of the topics behind them sinking into their bones. They thumbed under an eye persistently.

The way he imparted advice did seem rather different from how he imparted lessons, more conversational, expecting something of a little back and forth. It was less 'teaching a child how to do a task' and more 'conversation with a friend turned heavy, one more experienced attempting to help the other'. Mature, a conversation, a sharing of the self, over the overly patient tone from before.

And then the Tailor mentioned sleeping.

It was so subtle, so easy to miss, but Mori hummed, a small smile creeping across their face as they took another sip. "Seeming awfully tired yourself, dear Tailor. Perhaps your body has been reminded how to be slow and find rest."

Good lord, the Tailor had been led into a trap. The flat was so quiet, the tone of their conversational partner so low and melodic, the lights low and dark, the tea warm and aromatic, and the armchair was so damn comfortable. Was the lampcat purring? It had curled up in a bare spot on the loveseat and its low, trilling noise was audible in the quiet of the flat. At some point in the conversation, Tularemia had given up her favorite spot on the armchair's head to the Tailor's, sleeping once more in their now mussed hair.

"I'll fetch some bedding for us," Mori said, groaning and wincing as he slowly got up, avoiding his bad side. "Which seat would you prefer as a bed? You seem quite settled into the armchair, but the loveseat is also a delight to lay in."

"That's--" The Tailor's eyes narrowed at the ploy. "You sneak," they shot, without real heat. "It's not my fault your home's so...homey."

They set their cup on the table again, nearly rising from their admittedly very comfortable spot. "You don't need to go out of your way, really," they started, arms outreached in supplication. "I've fallen asleep in much more uncomfortable spots, which much less in terms of bedding. The loveseat's plenty! I'd rather you were in your own bed for the evening!"

At some point, on exposing a little too much, they'd become flustered, even as Mori was moving. It was clear they weren't at all used to being treated with such generosity, and they didn't know what to do in the face of it.

Mori had moved to the bedroom and come back with an armful of pillows and blankets. "So, you would prefer the loveseat? Very well, I trust you know how to make a seat a worthy sleeping space. I, however, am taking the couch and you cannot convince me otherwise."

He laid one of the blankets on the loveseat along with a pillow. His tone was that of stubbornness, but he did give reasoning. "For one, the cushioning is too abrasive and flexible on my injuries at the moment. And, for another, I would rather not sleep in an empty bed. Too cold and spacious. I usually sleep somewhere in the sitting room when both of my lovers are away."

They finally looked up, faux stubborn attitude melting away to host-like amenability. "You do not mind, do you? I can find somewhere else and leave you be, if you would strongly prefer."

Caught, the Tailor pulled their hands back. "I... No, it's alright. Your comfort was on my mind. I didn't want to put you out, if you have an evening ritual, or..."

Sighing, they relented. If this was habit for Mori, it would be more impolite to force them into a different process for the Tailor's sake. Weakly, they admitted, "I just worry I'll wake you. I have a tendency to wake up through the night."

With hesitancy, their fingers went to their waistcoat buttons. "Let me just slip this off and put it with my coat in the kitchen. I'll let you get comfortable." Their hands stopped and went to the teapot. "And I'll take this with me."

Still struggling with accepting the gentleness, they absconded to the kitchen with the pot, stoat still asleep on their head.

Tularemia's tail lightly bapped the Tailor's head at the minor disturbance, but she did not stir. The teapot was mostly empty at the end of the night and barely blurbled inside with the movement. There was a door at the other side of the kitchen the Tailor hadn't noticed before, but it seemed it was not touched frequently, the brass handle unpolished and dusty.

There was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the kitchen door, a soft voice, more adjusting, a quiet "ow", and things seemed to settle down.

The pot was left on the countertop, and the Tailor quickly and quietly stripped their waistcoat to hang it on the chair. They were unbuttoning their cuffs when they noticed the door.

Their eyes went from it to the kitchen door. Their host was settling, and their curiosity was strong. They crossed the kitchen and placed their hand on the bottom of the knob, examining its dust.

A deep inhalation. Then they turned away. Mori had already divulged enough secrets tonight, entirely willingly as opposed to the other circumstances where their hand had been forced. The Tailor wouldn't pry for another in this manner. It wasn't fair. It would be an insult to the whole of the evening.

Now in just their shirtsleeves, trousers and shoes, they returned to the living space without glancing back. They'd ask later.

In the time it had taken the Tailor to finish up their task, Mori had made both makeshift beds and had stripped further into just the undershirt and trousers, his own overclothes settled on the back of the desk chair. They would need to be pressed soon, of course, but the exhaustion had started setting in and Mori was using the last of his energy to freshen the bandages under his nightclothes, slow and deliberate in the movement. He would normally be more careful about others seeing his underclothes, but the injuries needed attending to and the robe draped over the back of the fainting couch would just get in the way at the moment. They breathed steadily, eyes glued to their own side as they wrapped the gauze around their chest and stomach before moving down to work on the calf.

The Tailor hadn't seen the damage to the calf before, but the sight would be sickening to the average person, mangled and puckered with what tatters of skin remained an angry red. Unlike the vertical claw marks down the side, an almost clean drag from both paws, it was clear that the leg was the victim of the tearing, eviscerating jaws, moving, shaking, biting and ripping again and again so long as the leg was within reach.

It was clear Mori had dressed down further than the Tailor, who was undoing the first two buttons on their shirt and little more, but this was his home and they didn't find any terrible discomfort in the sight of another human body like someone more easily scandalized. A body was a body, and they saw a fair amount of it in their work.

The wound, though...

The Tailor didn't become queasy easily, and they'd seen the damage a marsh-wolf could do on a body, but to see such an injury on such a familiar face caused them to pale just a little. That was going to scar badly, and it was indeed a miracle that the muscles themselves weren't outright destroyed. They were pulling suspenders off their shoulders to leave slack at their hips, and now they approached with caution, hesitant to interrupt or intrude.

"Can I help? So you don't have to bend over yourself or pull the leg up? Or would you rather I let you handle it?"

Mori did flinch only a tad, broken from their reverie with a blink. He leaned back as he processed what was asked, then, for once, let go of his pride to allow someone in. "I can reach the upper half without bending too far, but the lower vexes and pains me. I'm able to wrap it, but not without strain. I would appreciate the help, if you would be so kind."

Mori continued wrapping the upper half of the thigh, careful not to tug the bandages too tight or too loose. Eyes flickered back up and a smile graced his lips. "So, are you aware you have a tiny guest on your head? Or has it been through sheer luck and natural balance that she's managed to hold on?"

They sat at the end of the lounge, rolling up their cuffs very loosely, and their own eyes flicked up, making them just a touch cross-eyed, as they offered their hand for the bandages at Mori's pace. "I keep forgetting she's up there," they admitted. "She's very light, and I imagine my curls, when they're loose, are easy to latch onto and tangle in. They were always hell to try to sort into place."

And any time they remembered she was there, they found they didn't want to move her. Before laying down, yes, but for now... well, SOMEONE had to get some beauty sleep.

"I imagine she's very popular with your partner's urchins. There's a fondness for weasels and ferrets, something about a small creature that slips through your fingers like slippery silk spoke to us, you can imagine."

Their hands, when they moved with the wrappings, were steady. They'd wrapped their own wounds and the other children's arms a number of times; they were no doctor, but at the very least knew how to keep a bandage from unwrapping again and again. Their fingertips touched above the anklebone, where the wrapping ended and was tucked away.

"Is that alright? Too tight or loose?"

Mori ran a hand along the leg as light as possible, seeking out and smoothing any inconsistencies. "No, no, you did very well. Thank you."

He reached up and scratched between Tularemia's ears with a finger before pulling back. "She'll be content to stay right there all night, if you let her. Or find somewhere else to sleep, like across your eyes or on your chest. It's the warmth, I believe. It's why cats and ferrets detest baths; the cold water affects them more than most due to their high body temperature. Other mustelids like stoats and weasels are much the same."

"She's hardly patient with the smaller ones, the wee kids surprisingly more suited to the fighting weasels, able to handle them quite well. Tularemia enjoys the company of the older kids who know better how to be gentle and quiet, when needs must."

Mori glanced across the way at the other seat-made-bed and gave a slanted smile. "It's certainly not my best work, but I've made up the loveseat for you. No rush, but I do ask that you sleep at some point tonight."

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