State of my head

[god_of_the_arena]

Gannicus knows that there are better ways to deal with stress, but he finds none so comforting as the ones he's accustomed to: drink, poor choices, fighting. After hearing of Porthos's returned memories, he dwells on some of his own. He doesn't like dwelling on memories, or much of anything if he can help it.

Thinking of Melitta, of Oenomaus, of Saxa and Sybil and all of his brothers. Nothing good came of that, and yet he could not push memories from mind. So he found distraction.

That distraction leaves him bruised and bleeding, but the other guy looked worse off at the end of it. Still, he'd felt his shoulder pop in a way it shouldn't toward the end of the fight, and though he is almost certain he could fix it on his own, perhaps it would be better to seek more experienced medical attention. Though Porthos could likely help, his mind turns toward another, likely closer.

He finds his way to Candlewood by memory - perhaps impressive, considering the last time he'd been there he'd had a head injury. The day is cold and snow blowing, but he did not the drive to put his coat back on - to do so would mean moving his shoulder more than he was willing to at the moment. It is one thing to push a body past reason in a fight to the death, but the contest had been for catharsis, and now that it was over he sees no need to push the joint beyond capacity.

Gannicus follows someone in, pausing to try to remember how many flights of steps they had gone up, where the door had been. Well, if he made a mistake he could recover. Surely no one here would have a lethal reaction to a knock at the wrong door.

He finds the one he remembers to be Hild's and knocks, hoping she is home.

Comments

[light_of_the_world]

"The gods reward the bold," Hild countered gently. Still, she paused and cocked her head, lifting a knowing brow at Gannicus. "Sometimes, that is."

She pushed at his hand, curled around the cup, silently encouraging him to drink more as she cleaned her cloth and dabbed at his chest.

"There is a song back home. My... hm, my best friend sang it, said it, played it out with me when we were children with wooden swords and sticks. The story of men who went to war against my forefathers. They lost. They died. But the song..."

She recited a few lines of it, quickly losing herself to the repetitive rhythm and apple-round roll of British on her tongue. "He loved the song. He wished to be such a hero, bright and shining before he died."

[god_of_the_arena]

"The gods piss on us and call it rain," he counters, shaking his head. "I am not sure I can find comfort in them." He rolls his eyes but drinks more tea at her urging.

He listens to the song, though he cannot follow the words.

"My people told such stories. We all dreamed of glory, the gods saw fit that I should find mine in the arena. I chose my fate from there, for better or worse."

[light_of_the_world]

Hild mulled over that with pursed lips. It was not as she had been raised to believe, not how she guided her steps in life. She had a choice to follow her wyrd or run from it, and she had always chosen to follow it, in part because there had been no other reasonable choice in her mind.

"I find comfort in the gods," she said instead, "only because they are fickle and sometimes make strange choices." She poked lightly at his shoulder, not enough to hurt him more, but illustrate a point. "Like us."

[god_of_the_arena]

"You remind me of one lost." He smiles and gives her a gentle nudge in return. "She spoke of the gods, to them, maybe. I never saw point in it, but it gave her comfort."

He finds himself hoping that Sybil lived, that she escaped with her life. He might never know.

"As I said when I met you, they owed me some relief. I could not have imagined it would come in such agreeable shape." He lifts his cup to her in a sort of toast before nursing another drink.

[light_of_the_world]

"A prophet needs the grace of the gods." She said the words casually, realizing only after that most here had never heard her called prophet. Or witch. Not that it mattered in this moment, not that it was a secret to hide, but it might confuse.

Hild tilted her head and gave him a slight grin of amusement.

"Are you calling me a gift from the gods?"

[god_of_the_arena]

"Why not?" he gives her a wink. "One I did not expect, but I am told that is the sort of gift they give."

Gannicus works on finishing the drink she gave him.

"Do you speak to the gods? I have only met two that say they hear their will, that I might have believed. But they were no prophets."

[light_of_the_world]

"To only look at a beautiful woman is a poor gift," she replied. To some maybe it would be enough. Not to Hild.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, considered how to answer Gannicus' question. It was not so much the lying that troubled her as taking on the mantle of prophet again, to be that instead of simply Hild. Eowyn would sometimes give her looks, rare but solemn, as if Hild had spoken some true thing. They did not trouble but tired her, and she did not wish the same from Gannicus. But his faith in gods (and perhaps prophets) seemed weak.

"I do not speak to them, nor do they speak to me," she said. "I only read what they have written, in dreams and in nature."

[god_of_the_arena]

"I would agree, a tease at best. At least they did not present me with a temple virgin." He grins at her, before finally finishing what she's given ihm t drink. He sets the cup aside.

Her explanation makes him nod. "That sounds more like Melitta," he says, her name spoken with a fond, but also sad note. "Sybil sought to hear them. I do not know if they ever gave answer. I thought it wasted, but it gave her and others hope. I cannot begrudge them that."

[light_of_the_world]

"Hope is at times all people have," she said agreeably. "But those who look, or listen, too hard will not see what is in front of them already." Hild had no true gift, she knew, but neither did Coifi, the priest of the great temple, and Hild could always bend the king's ear towards her and away from him.

She nodded in contentment as he finished the drink.

"You will live," she announced. "A while longer."

[god_of_the_arena]

"Not due to a lack of effort on my part," he says with a wry smile. "Gratitude. I am fortunate to count you a friend." He knows there are places he can go for medical attention, but he prefers to come here. He trusts Hild, and her methods are familiar to him.

It certainly helps that she is beautiful.