Persephone

[a_fell]

The seasons are mild on Persephone, and at Southdown Abbey the late summer is just ripening into autumn when Serenity touches down. There’s only one figure waiting to greet the ship this time, and if one were to look closely, one would see the tired wrinkles that have taken up residence around his eyes, the mild red chafing on hands that have

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[gonna_live]

Kaylee hovers near the back; Aziraphael gets a crooked smile when she makes her way up front.

And she stays quiet, for the first several hours -- stays next to Simon, speaks when spoken to, looks slightly pale and keeps her eyes downcast.

[a_fell]

Aziraphael notices her abnormally quiet demeanour, but he can put it down to Things Going On for the first hour or so. After that, he begins looking for an opportunity to speak to her while most of the others are in the next room. And after that, he looks for an opportunity to speak to her alone. They go for a walk, curving gradually toward the abbey's small apple orchard.

"I hear that you and Simon will be taking a leave of absence from the ship after New Year," he tries. "It sounds like quite an adventure."

[gonna_live]

"Not like our regular kind, though." She's got her hands in her pockets, her eyes on the trees in front of her. "But it's gonna help folk, so it's important."

[a_fell]

"Yes, I do find that the need to help often overrides my own wishes," he says, stepping carefully over an exposed tree root.

"No doubt they'll miss having you around on board. I don't know what they'll do without your expertise while you're away."

[bad_in_latin]

Mal looks like he's moving in. Sort of.

"Tianshi." He's smiling, in his coat and a bag slung over his shoulder. "Last chance to back out, havin' us about is gonna stick if you let anyone near the kitchens."

[a_fell]

"I rather hope so," Aziraphael says, smiling back at him. "I don't see nearly enough of you as it is, and most of my fellows here don't know a thing about herbs, much as I've tried to enlighten them."

He walks beside Mal slowly away from the ship and the ongoing bustle of unloading and squaring away.

"And honestly," he adds, "it's wonderful to have visitors."

[bad_in_latin]

Mal grimaces at the sentiment.

"Been tryin' to get some jobs under our belts," he offers, by circuitous way of apology.

[a_fell]

"Of course," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "It isn't as though you can just stop for a holiday whenever you'd like. I understand completely."

[river_meimei]

River smiles back; only a little, and it wobbles at the edges, but it's there.

(Her gaze keeps straying over his shoulder -- looking perhaps for wings, or perhaps for someone else.)

She's quiet in the group, though not abnormally so; not silent, but pulled back into corners and Simon's shoulder and herself. She lets the others do most of the talking. Some step up to the plate better than others, but then that's always true.

It's some hours later when she slips out of her room, barefoot and with an Abbey blanket draped haphazardly around her shoulders, and makes her way through the halls. Maybe she's exploring; then again, maybe she's not.

[a_fell]

There's another figure making its solitary way through the darkened halls this evening. This one pauses at a window, looking out across a landscape obscured by a low-hanging fog in the direction of the gatehouse.

It's a long time before he moves to continue on more or less the same path he's been following.

[river_meimei]

River's in shadow, though it's probably by accident. Her steps slow when she sees the silent figure staring out across the dark gardens, and then halt altogether.

She leans a shoulder against the wall, arms wrapped loosely around herself and head tipped to rest against painted plaster too, and waits.

[a_fell]

Even distracted, he isn't completely ignorant of a second presence in the hallway; he slows, looking around mildly, then stops. When he finally turns and sees River, his face creases in a smile.

"Good evening, my dear," he says. "Not too cold to sleep, I hope? The draughts come right through here in the evenings."

[simon_doctor]

It's a day or two into their stay when Simon comes to knock on the Prior's door.

[a_fell]

There's no answer. Of course, any Prior worth his salt has a thousand and one duties to perform around an abbey at any given time, and the tired lines and worn hands apparent about Aziraphael over the past few days bespeak a certain fervour in attending to them. It would not be so very surprising were he not in his quarters.

And yet, from behind the door: the unmistakeable fragrance of a rather strong blend of tea.

[simon_doctor]

He tries again: one more knock.

If there's no answer this time, he'll decide that either the Prior isn't there or he doesn't want to be disturbed at the moment.

God knows he's got reason enough for that.

[a_fell]

Again, nothing - until, a moment later, there's a muffled "Oh," and the harsh sound of chair legs against flagstones.

The door opens, aging hinges voicing a quiet squeal of protest, and Aziraphael blinks out.

"Oh," he says again. "Simon." The surprise is momentary, and barely there at all. After a beat, he smiles apologetically. "I am terribly sorry, dear boy - I was a thousand years away. The perils of a good book."

Behind Aziraphael, as he opens the door further, there is indeed a book on the ancient, solid desk - Uncommon Ground, by Maura Wood - the tattered bookmark perhaps a dozen pages from the front. Beside it, of course, sits a cup of tea. It's nearly full.

"Do come in," Aziraphael says, standing aside.