to know wisdom, madness, & folly

          ‘ Mm. ’  Is it cruel to want to fuck a prophet solely to become ( or at least feel ) closer to the gods? Is it cruel to use his body, just as they do  —  with such little regard to his selfhood? Would he understand it? Empathise? Would he allow it? He is a vessel, it is all he will ever be, and Marcella seeks to devour him.

She takes the tea, raises the cup to her lips without allowing it to cool. Marcella has always preferred wine, but the tea is welcome on her palette; sweet from ambrosia, she savours the taste.

‘ They do not tell you everything? ’  Of course they wouldn’t, she sounds surprised, but doesn’t look it. Riddles and tongues, pictures without meaning, words without sound. She is a cruel god in her own right; wonders if he’d love her like he loves his own gods. Another sip.  ‘ I’m here for you, sweet prophet. To have you, to offer myself  —  and for the tea, of course. ’ 

Cato smiles, a soft countenance in contrast to her vicious sharpness. Everything about her is angular and knife-like, even her kindest tone of voice, even her smile --- and he might as well be a flower petal.

He thinks he knows what she means now. 

          ❛   Oh? Is the witch-woman lonely?   ❜

The gentleness of his voice always exudes sincerity, but if Marcella were paying close enough attention she may be able to make out the slight quirk of his lips and the ever-so-faint lilt of his voice: he is teasing. It is rare that people are able to pick up on his sense of humor unless he is being overtly obvious about it, but it’s there. 

          ‘ Never idle, darling Cato. Why, there’s always so much to do. ’

Never idle, but occasionally she finds herself  —  lonely. Not in the traditional sense, she just needs a certain amount of attention paid to her, a certain level of worship, and her needs are not being satisfied. So, she is on the hunt for someone who might appreciate her in the way she deserves. Also, it is an honour to be close to the vessel through which the gods might speak.

The cat has lost itself in the home. Marcella follows to the kitchen, glad to be rid of the creature. It’ll know when it’s time to go, for now, it can’t bother her.

She touches Cato, briefly, on the arm.  ‘ Do you know why it is I’ve come? ’

Cato glances briefly at the hand on his arm, the pale, spidery elegance of it. He smiles, ever-pleasant, before meeting Marcella’s eyes again.

         ❛   I do not,   ❜          he says.          ❛   I only saw that you were coming.   ❜

After a moment more of steeping, Cato offers her the tea. He hopes it is to her liking, as he had taken the liberty to add the fae ambrosia without asking if she wanted it. It is rare that one goes wrong with fae ambrosia, of course, but Marcella is nothing if not unique. A woman who no doubt thrives on the element of surprise. 

          sweet? that’s new. such an odd adjective for such a wicked thing.

          the basket is for him, so she hands it over ( seemingly as an afterthought ). like a wisp of smoke, with her skirts trailing behind her, marcella steps inside and touches his shoulder as she passes. she looks around, as though she’s never seen the place before. takes in every nook and cranny, in a particularly invasive fashion. the witch glances back, toward cato.  ‘ hm. you choose. something to calm me, if you have it. surely you do. ’

          she runs her fingers over the walls, over the spines of books, over the back of a chair.  ‘ have you been keeping busy, cato? ’

Cato is not bothered by her manner. His home is open to all, his things welcome to whoever wishes for them, and she is the way she is and he knows this. He will not cower or shy away the way so many others do, fearful of her sharp eyes and even sharper tongue. These are the things that make her who she is, a divinely wicked delight, sensuous, powerful, blood-soaked. 

He rifles through his cabinets until he locates a mason jar of lavender and chamomile tea. He takes it out, and then rifles some more until he finds another mason jar with some clear liquid in it, the faded label written in some foreign, inhuman language that loosely translates to “fae ambrosia.” A small bit of the liquid is dropped into the hot water, and then the tea is put in to steep. 

     she brings the cat ( or, it follows, and she doesn’t bother to shoo it away ) and three jars in a basket. the first, full of ebony-coloured rocks that can be crushed into a useful powder, the second, a jar full of crickets, and the last, a smooth, golden substance that looks like honey. gifts, for the prophet. 

     marcella wears a scarf to cover her hair, and a dark dress that drags along in the dirt - looking very much like an eighteenth century mother-of-twelve headed to market. she doesn’t bother to knock, simply waits. surely, he knew she was coming.

The tea kettle goes off and Cato receives an image behind his eyes of the visitor standing on his vine-overgrown porch. He turns off the stove to silence the whistling before padding toward the door and opening it, offering a warm smile to the woman who stands there. She appears as beautiful and unearthly as ever, a woman from a myth or a storybook. 

          ❛   Hello, sweet Marcella. Come in! I’ve put on some water for you. Name the tea you wish, surely I have it.   ❜

A strong, dark energy permeates throughout his skull. Distinctly feminine. Beautiful. Powerful. Overwhelming. Wicked, almost, if he were a believer in such an alienating concept. 

❛    Kinda makes you wanna hurl, huh.    ❜    It’s said quietly as he leaves, only half-meant to be heard at all.

A clammy hand takes the glass of water from him. In the few moments he’s been gone, Ashley’s physical wellbeing seems to have disintegrated significantly  —  she seems a little feverish, sweat collecting at her brow, nausea building in her gut. She gulps down the water, hoping to sooth the unpleasantness, to get the dry taste of bile off her tongue. Her face is as pale as it always is, the shadows that rest below her eyes seem to have deepened, making her look even more haunting than she had already.

With no satisfying way to lash out, the demon punishes its host, twists her insides into uncomfortable knots, forces her bones to ache, her nose to run, her skin to sweat. Ashley hardly thinks much of it, despite the sudden oncoming of the illness. Maybe she’s just getting a cold. When she turns to Cato, her head aches something awful, shifting makes her dizzy and sick,   ❛    You got any aspirin?    ❜

He sees the sudden change and knows that it must be his doing. While some demons silence themselves after a chastising, others don’t --- others get angry. And this one must have gotten angry. He feels guilty for causing the girl any unnecessary harm; that was not his intention. 

    ❛  I do not, but I may have something better. Wait here a moment.  ❜

Cato slips into his kitchen, digging through his cabinets. He takes out two jars; one houses crushed amethyst dust, and the other houses hibiscus flowers. He takes them out and tosses them into a kettle with some water, adding a drop of honey and another drop of otherworldly nectar for flavor.

It doesn’t take long to brew. As soon as it’s ready, he takes it to the ailing girl.

❛    No, it’s a real pain in the ass.    ❜

A sentient shadow is not a good friend to have. The sentient shadow hears this and disagrees, very loudly, right into Ashley’s ear. An ungodly screech that Cato might hear too, if he’s tuning in. The girl almost seems to be expecting it, closes her eyes and takes another puff of the joint, heavy - lidded eyes peering toward the stranger.

There’s a faint quirk of her lip, the only sign that she’s registering how much he knows in comparison to how little she’s told him. Strange, that.

❛    Ash. Sure, I’ll take some water.    ❜

Cato does hear the unholy sound, wicked and sickening. His eyes become unfocused for a split second, then he clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

   ❛  You hush, no one here is afraid of you. What are you trying to prove, ah? You cause grief, you feed on the horror, we all know it. You do not shock me. Settle down.  ❜  

❛    Cool. Wish I lived alone.    ❜    Must be peaceful. Technically, she does live alone. Her’s is the only body that occupies her tiny, one bedroom flat. But she still struggles with regular old roommate shenanigans, like finding vomit in the kitchen sink, or a dead rat in the fridge. Wouldn’t it be a dream, living alone and not having to deal with such nonsense. 

(There are, of course, more grisly aspects of sharing your mind and soul with another creature. Lapses in memory, marks you don’t remember getting, waking up covered in blood that probably isn’t yours.)

Ashley would peel off her own skin if it meant finally being rid of the demon that gnaws at her. It’d be worth the loneliness, worth feeling like her soul was bleeding, like something had been torn out of it, she thinks.

    ❛  Ah, I am sure you do. A sentient shadow is not a good friend to have.  ❜

He touches the crystal that hangs around his neck and considers giving it to her. He has many more just like it --- he would be in no danger if he were to part with this particular crystal. The girl most certainly needs protection. More so than he.

Meeting eyes with her for a moment gives him visions. Tragic visions. But he smiles anyway.

Oh. The squirrel’s got a name. Maybe it’s his pet, maybe she didn’t let some rabid creature into this poor guy’s house after all. That makes her feel a little better, at least.

Ashley takes another draw of the spliff as she watches the squirrel, narrowing her eyes at how familiar the two seem to be with one another. She feels like she’s just stepped right into a Disney movie, and in her current state of mind, that seems even more bizarre than it’d be normally. What, does he sing to them, too? She flicks ash right into her bag, to keep it from getting on his floor. 

❛    Okay, Snow White, let me rephrase. You live alone? People-wise, I mean. Squirrels don’t count.    ❜

    ❛  Someone is always coming or going. But, yes, I suppose I --- live alone.  ❜

Live alone, those words do not feel or taste good to say. Live alone. Such a phrase should not be spoken, but he supposes that it is accurate, even if it sounds horrible and sad. He is neither horrible or sad, and despite what this woman says, he is not alone either. Someone is always here. She is here, for example. 

Though, sometimes, he does feel  L̡͖̫͙ ̮̞͕̼͉̀͟O̵̞̩͔̬̣̬͎̜͘ ̷͕̲͕̘̳͡N̷͖͕̳̩͕̻͍͖ ̢͓̺͙̤̺͚̮̭͙͜E̵̹̥̦̝̯ͅ ̭̼͓͇̹́L̷̪̠͉͕͓͢ ҉̥͓̫Y̩͇̰̩͚.

Does she ever feel that way? 

❛    Oh, what? I could probably use the company. I was a second away from makin’ idle chit chat with that squirrel.    ❜

She looks over at some strange little woodland creature that must’ve followed her through the window. Honestly, it might not even be a squirrel. Sorry again for causing more trouble than she’s worth. 

❛    What’re you doin’ way out here on your lonesome?    ❜

    ❛  Meska is wonderful company,  ❜    Cato says, smiling toward the squirrel. He extends his arm to the creature, which titters and scrambles over to him, climbing up to his shoulder. She titters some more in his ear, speaking in the language of the forest, telling him that there is something strange about the stranger, yes, she’s a strange stranger indeed, so much stranger than any other stranger could be.

He knows. He does not acknowledge. 

❛    You don’t mind?    ❜

Wow, he doesn’t mind, what a gem. She gives up on trying to clear the smell out of the air, taking another drag of the spliff like he’s just given her permission. Ashley still seems a little anxious  —  doesn’t trust a single man she’s ever met, especially not one that lives so far outside civilisation. Though, really, can she blame him. She’d probably live here too, if she could.

❛    Cool house. Sorry for crawling in through the window. I think I knocked something over.    ❜

    ❛  Thank you! I do not mind about that either, do as you please.  ❜

Cato smiles, kneeling onto the floor and pulling a box from the bottom of one of his cluttered shelves, opening it up and digging through it until he finds the crystal he was looking for. Lifting it by its cord, he puts it over his head and stands up.

     @godfruit

❛    Shit,    ❜    She’d assumed no one was home. Sure, that doesn’t mean you can break in and smoke a joint in some poor recluse’s living room, but it had all been a little surreal, and she doesn’t always know why she does the things she does. Ashley waves her arms about, attempting to clear the thick pool of smoke.    ❛    Sorry, I’ll go. Don’t shoot me.    ❜

    ❛  I do not mind. No need to be frightened.  ❜