The Good Man
Even though there aren't any windows in the Workshop they can both tell that night has long since fallen. He leans in the doorway and folds his arms over his chest, giving her one of those looks.
"I just need another minute…" She waves a hand, dismissing his concerned and irritated frown. Her eyes are on her work, in any case, fingers tugging at strings and pushing needles through what looks like fabric to all but the most jaded or imaginative observer. "I've almost got it."
"You've been working on that seam for nearly half an hour. If you try it again you'll only do it badly, now go to bed."
He argues this with her at least every other night. It's not always the fabric, sometimes it's the loom or the sculpture or the painting or he catches her sitting at her desk when she should be in bed, quill in hand, frantically scratching things onto paper as though that will make them stop coming. Times like that, it's hard to take the pen from her hand and make her go to bed. Because he knows they won't stop. All he can do is delay it a bit.
"I'm not going to have this done in time…" she says, then swears. "And I know, I should have thought of that when I was playing games or …"
The inevitable cycle: desperation, castigation, and a renewed attempt. She attacks the fabric with a needle and this time he grabs her wrist, nearly spearing his hand on the point.
"You're useless after a certain hour. It's bedtime, my Lady." And now his voice is taking that tone and she knows he's right. They both know he's right.
It's two in the morning.
Earlier, he had held Surreal through a bout of uneasiness that they both shared but tonight it was his turn. Yesterday she had stroked his hair and reminded him that he wasn't always the monster he thought he had to be. That he had choices.
Today it was his turn to hold her, to watch while she paced and repeat over and over again that they could do this. Say it enough times and maybe they'd believe it. But tonight he was certain of it, had to be, and he gave her all the reasons why they could bring a child into this world, raise it up to be a fine young woman or man. They were smart. They knew what they had to do. They were loving, deeply loving, and they were dedicated to their people. Just adding another one to the mix, one more vulnerable than most, and they would have to be extra careful. It wasn't anything they couldn't handle.
And they both knew that they had as much of a chance and as much of a right as any set of loving parents who wanted to bring a child into the world. But they had history. They had habit. Ways of thinking that maybe they shouldn't have been thinking, that maybe they shouldn't try to keep around a kid.
He had half a dozen reasons why they could do it, and another dozen reasons why they shouldn't. But he didn't voice any of those, and eventually he lay back and watched Surreal sleep, a small, real smile on his face.
And then he catches her, his pretty little girl, coming down the stairs, just to get a snack, she swears. Except she has her sweats on and was heading towards the gym, so he takes her by the shoulders and turns her back up towards her bedroom, telling her he'll send Johnny upstairs to tuck her in and keep her company. She puts up half a fuss and stops when he reminds her of everything she has to do tomorrow.
He grabs Johnny two minutes after he sends her back upstairs, tells him to keep an eye on her for the night. An hour later his consciousness is split and he can see Johnny holding her hand and sitting ready with a wondering look and a little jar, waiting to scoop the dreams so vivid that Billy sits up and takes notice. And speaking of Billy.
It's been a few days, and he crosses the border at a quarter to four to have a short chat with the Nightmare Prince. They both agree that the imps that have been wandering around in the wee hours are so murky it's hard to tell from which land they hail, but something needs to be done about it. When the land quakes, everyone feels it. He dispatches a small number of wolves, and Billy sends out the serpentine guard. This will stop tonight, he mutters. Thanks the Prince for his time and returns to the Tower.
The Workshop isn't as still as it should be. She's put things away, but hurriedly, and pieces have shaken loose here and there. He wonders if this is where some of the imps have been coming from, too many projects, all too close together and the land might start heaving from the strain of sudden expansion. The Workshop is covered by solid doors and windows that really are bulletproof no matter what the scientists say, but what's in the Workshop can't always be stopped by bullets.
He goes through each section, each shelf. The skeins go back on their pegs in order of color, the paints go back in their box. Thread and needles go back into the little padded blue box, the fabric is folded up and put back on the shelf. The notebooks go in the desk, the laptop is shut. The loom is checked over for loose threads, loose bolts, and then he turns the light off overhead. Cards and strands folded up and put into their box. Clay covered in a wet cloth, unused portions back in its plastic wrap. He mops the water from the floor, the stains from the table, and at the end of it he's just cleaning to have something physical to do. It's times like this that he understands why she feels the need to type out a few more words, to paint a few last strokes.
At five twenty three in the morning he stands on the top of the Tower and watches false dawn creep over the horizon. It's only in the last few minutes that the land's managed to achieve some kind of peace. Little things finally stopped rattling on their shelves and tables. The only thing moving anymore was the wind.
He closed his eyes and waited to feel the dawn on his face. Another couple of hours at the very least.
"I just need another minute…" She waves a hand, dismissing his concerned and irritated frown. Her eyes are on her work, in any case, fingers tugging at strings and pushing needles through what looks like fabric to all but the most jaded or imaginative observer. "I've almost got it."
"You've been working on that seam for nearly half an hour. If you try it again you'll only do it badly, now go to bed."
He argues this with her at least every other night. It's not always the fabric, sometimes it's the loom or the sculpture or the painting or he catches her sitting at her desk when she should be in bed, quill in hand, frantically scratching things onto paper as though that will make them stop coming. Times like that, it's hard to take the pen from her hand and make her go to bed. Because he knows they won't stop. All he can do is delay it a bit.
"I'm not going to have this done in time…" she says, then swears. "And I know, I should have thought of that when I was playing games or …"
The inevitable cycle: desperation, castigation, and a renewed attempt. She attacks the fabric with a needle and this time he grabs her wrist, nearly spearing his hand on the point.
"You're useless after a certain hour. It's bedtime, my Lady." And now his voice is taking that tone and she knows he's right. They both know he's right.
It's two in the morning.
Earlier, he had held Surreal through a bout of uneasiness that they both shared but tonight it was his turn. Yesterday she had stroked his hair and reminded him that he wasn't always the monster he thought he had to be. That he had choices.
Today it was his turn to hold her, to watch while she paced and repeat over and over again that they could do this. Say it enough times and maybe they'd believe it. But tonight he was certain of it, had to be, and he gave her all the reasons why they could bring a child into this world, raise it up to be a fine young woman or man. They were smart. They knew what they had to do. They were loving, deeply loving, and they were dedicated to their people. Just adding another one to the mix, one more vulnerable than most, and they would have to be extra careful. It wasn't anything they couldn't handle.
And they both knew that they had as much of a chance and as much of a right as any set of loving parents who wanted to bring a child into the world. But they had history. They had habit. Ways of thinking that maybe they shouldn't have been thinking, that maybe they shouldn't try to keep around a kid.
He had half a dozen reasons why they could do it, and another dozen reasons why they shouldn't. But he didn't voice any of those, and eventually he lay back and watched Surreal sleep, a small, real smile on his face.
And then he catches her, his pretty little girl, coming down the stairs, just to get a snack, she swears. Except she has her sweats on and was heading towards the gym, so he takes her by the shoulders and turns her back up towards her bedroom, telling her he'll send Johnny upstairs to tuck her in and keep her company. She puts up half a fuss and stops when he reminds her of everything she has to do tomorrow.
He grabs Johnny two minutes after he sends her back upstairs, tells him to keep an eye on her for the night. An hour later his consciousness is split and he can see Johnny holding her hand and sitting ready with a wondering look and a little jar, waiting to scoop the dreams so vivid that Billy sits up and takes notice. And speaking of Billy.
It's been a few days, and he crosses the border at a quarter to four to have a short chat with the Nightmare Prince. They both agree that the imps that have been wandering around in the wee hours are so murky it's hard to tell from which land they hail, but something needs to be done about it. When the land quakes, everyone feels it. He dispatches a small number of wolves, and Billy sends out the serpentine guard. This will stop tonight, he mutters. Thanks the Prince for his time and returns to the Tower.
The Workshop isn't as still as it should be. She's put things away, but hurriedly, and pieces have shaken loose here and there. He wonders if this is where some of the imps have been coming from, too many projects, all too close together and the land might start heaving from the strain of sudden expansion. The Workshop is covered by solid doors and windows that really are bulletproof no matter what the scientists say, but what's in the Workshop can't always be stopped by bullets.
He goes through each section, each shelf. The skeins go back on their pegs in order of color, the paints go back in their box. Thread and needles go back into the little padded blue box, the fabric is folded up and put back on the shelf. The notebooks go in the desk, the laptop is shut. The loom is checked over for loose threads, loose bolts, and then he turns the light off overhead. Cards and strands folded up and put into their box. Clay covered in a wet cloth, unused portions back in its plastic wrap. He mops the water from the floor, the stains from the table, and at the end of it he's just cleaning to have something physical to do. It's times like this that he understands why she feels the need to type out a few more words, to paint a few last strokes.
At five twenty three in the morning he stands on the top of the Tower and watches false dawn creep over the horizon. It's only in the last few minutes that the land's managed to achieve some kind of peace. Little things finally stopped rattling on their shelves and tables. The only thing moving anymore was the wind.
He closed his eyes and waited to feel the dawn on his face. Another couple of hours at the very least.