undergrounds | Litha Disappearances Investigation

She knows why he's alarmed. She knows that it seems more urgent to understand than to be safe, because he won't feel safe until he understands. But there is no time. Her hand is firm around his wrist, more a reassuring pressure than anything meant to trap him. She looks him in the eye.

"I know you're frightened," she says quietly, "and I promise you I'll tell you everything as soon as we're to safety. Everything. But we have to get away first. If you trust me, I will keep you safe. I know what we're dealing with. Just trust me."

Frightened? He supposes he is. Frightened, in a way, of how little he understands. Of how out of control he feels. Equally, though, his head hurts and Lancelot --

"Where did you learn to close Doors?" he asks, and he doesn't know why he's calling it a door, or how he knows that it's been closed, only he does and he doesn't. He does and doesn't -- and he's, quite honestly, never had such an awful headache in his life but all he can say is: "You aren't fae."

He knows that, somehow, he knows even though he doesn't know how he knows.

"It's complicated." She tugs at his wrist, voice lowering to a whisper. "Just...I'm a witch. I stopped something horrible and a fae gave me this mark. Now please follow me."

Complicated. She's just a witch, with a mark, and it's complicated.

Lancelot wants to argue, wants to protest but he doesn't even know what he's protesting. It's all nonsense yet somehow it's nonsense that makes sense, on some gut level, and he has no idea why it does all of a sudden. It's like the dreams he used to have weren't dreams at all.

She's tugging at his wrist anyway, so he stops resisting -- stumbles to follow the slight woman, Lily trailing after them uneasily. He doesn't blame her, he'd be uncertain about following the both of them too.

He glances back a little, but keeps following nonetheless.

"Where to?" he prompts, trying to moderate his speed to match her smaller stride.

"Daybreak territory. Nobody can make Doors there."

This tiny girl grew up in crime-heavy areas and knows how to run. What she lacks in stride she makes up for in repetitions per second. She doesn't slow until they cross into Daybreak territory, at which point she stops long enough to look behind, then presses ahead at a quick pace.

"All right," she gasps, expression composed. "He didn't give chase when I...gave him the soda." Pant, pant. "Soda for a kid. Even trade. Good to know. Shit."

She keeps trudging on, but stops talking for a moment to catch her breath.

"You all right?"

Is he all right?

It feels a little like a ludicrous question. One he can't say he knows the answer to in truth. Is he all right?

"I'm not so sure about that," he admits, and glances around as she drags him back over the border. What is 'Daybreak territory'? It's almost as if she speaks another language, something he can discern bits of through some ancient language base all things are based on but which is largely nonsense.

"What's your name?" Her voice is low and solid in spite of how out of breath she is.

Names. Right, names at least are something normal. Names are a solid, grounding thing he can hold onto.

(Names hold power, something warns in the back of his head, and he quite honestly wants to tell it to stop for one minute. His head hurts enough and he wants for something to be normal.)

"Lancelot," he tells her, and he rather dislikes that for some reason he sounds uncertain about his own name. So he clears his throat, tries again more confidently. "Lancelot."

There, that sounded better the second time.

"I'm Pel." She's catching her breath at last, and headed for her flat. "It's good you're a peeler. A peeler and one of ours, too."

She holds her hand out to Lily, just to let her smell her.

A peeler, she says again and Lancelot has a few absurd moments to consider what peeler might mean if it wasn't (as he assumed) something to do with his job. A professional orange peeler. Someone with sun burn. Lily shies back a step from Pel and he snaps out of it, holds out a hand to pull her against his side and ruffle her thick mane of fur. One of ours.

"I'm not a witch," he begins cautiously, following along behind her even as his radio chitters and tries to pull his attention. He hesitates. Amends. "Warlock," he corrects, is that the right term? He honestly has no idea. Sorcerer? Magician? "I can't... do what you do."

Maybe the dog will make friends later. That isn't exactly foremost on Pel's mind. Lancelot and a pissed-off fae are more prominent right now.

"I didn't mean you're a witch. I meant you're Underground."

He knows this, right? Knows what that's about? He can see her mark and he knows about Doors and fae.

"Underground?"

Which would show that no, no he doesn't know what that's about. Has no idea what is going on at all, even if his memories are slowly fighting to re-arrange themselves. To make sense of what is going on with deep, buried images of bright places and winged creatures and magic. He's sure that's magic, he's sure he remembers feeling something -- remembers fighting with a blade. Remembers and yet how can he? He's just -- he's just Lancelot, and his life has never been more than it is now. He has never been some grand warrior, has never been a hero.

"Forgive me," he begins, hesitantly, "I do not know what you mean by... 'underground'."

Just in case that wasn't obvious. Which it is.

She stops walking. She looks at him with discerning intent, as if peeling back every layer of skin he has and examining each one inside and out. She doesn't seem the least bit concerned with rather he's comfortable with it.

"So you're not Underground, you're just...magic." A cleansing breath in and out. "That's how you can see my mark. You're not fae and you're not a witch, but you're a little more than human."

He's in danger, then. A great deal of danger, she thinks, if he is this way without knowing anything about it. Nothing is more dangerous to them than their own ignorance.

"I don't know," he admits helplessly, and he's saying that a lot lately, isn't he? At least, in the last short while he feels as if he's begun to know less than he ever has in his whole life.

Well.

"I --" he stops, hesitates, opens his mouth, stops again. How does he even explain this? "Something is happening to me, I think." It's cautious, as if he isn't entirely sure himself if what he's saying is right. "When you -- when I saw... what happened. I started to... remember things. At least, I think I am remembering. I think they are memories."

Good lord, he isn't even making any sense.

"It's all right."

Pel puts one hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

"Right, you're safe here. The fae cannot come into this territory. Let's get you to my flat. I'll make you a cuppatae and we'll sort this out at your leisure, right?"

Edited 2015-07-13 16:24 (UTC)

A cup of tea. Right. Lancelot lets out a sigh, something that does not fully shake the unease from him but begins to make an attempt at it. Then he nods. A cup of tea, fine. That sounds... normal, like something he can cope with. Especially if this... 'territory' is safe, as she puts it.

"Thank you," he allows at last, "please -- lead the way." He reaches out a hand to ruffle at Lily as she follows him -- equally uneasy. Everyone is so nervous! What is going on? She doesn't know, but she doesn't like it. If anything bad happens she will just have to growl at someone until it stops. Even if her idea of a growl is low and not very intimidating, she can try.

It's not too long before they reach her flat, where she settles him down quickly with a cup of tea and a mismatched little bowl of sugar with a spoon in it. She sits on a beanbag chair nearby, hands clasped.

"So...tell me what you do remember. Maybe I can make it make sense."

What he remembers? He lets out a slow breath, hands cradling the drink as he thinks on this.

"I..." he shivers, frowns. "I have always had... a gap, a break in my memories. It... it seemed years of my life, my childhood, I might never get back. Yet... there are flashes, now. Seeing that creature seemed to... inspire them. I cannot tell if they are truly memories I experienced or something else, they seem so... strange. A place like London, yet not. Everything... wilder, brighter and darker both, stranger. It... makes little sense."

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