Post by Grimm on Apr 3, 2020 10:02:35 GMT -5
A symphony of odors filled the kitchen, but not from any stew simmering on the stove or sourdough bread baking in the oven. No, something both floral and astringent stung the nostrils and drifted out the open windows into the gathering dusk. Instead of the before-mentioned stew, Ruth dissolved primrose, crocus, and lilac in apple cider vinegar in one pot, daffodils and hyacinth in ethanol in another. She stirred together a paste of turmeric, frankincense, and arnica. And then there, beneath the dull yellow glow of a lantern, she rubbed the paste on the more vicious of Phinehas’s bruises. She dipped linen and muslin into the tinctures in the pots and dabbed her brother’s temples and various pulse points. His eyes closed, his slow steady breaths in rhythm with the flicker of the candles perched on the windowsills.
“…even so, you can’t say they didn’t do a number on you,” said Ruth.
“Mmm hmm.”
“I haven’t seen bruises this vibrant since…well, it’s been a while.”
A flash of blue in the gloom but then he closed his eyes just as quickly.
“And yet…”
“What’s that?”
“Stomps and kicks and signature moves and finishers…and yet here I am. None the worse for wear…”
Ruth cleared her throat.
“Arguably none the worse for wear, and about to embark on yet another Icemann Invitational Tournament. Maybe that will give me a chance to revisit this on David Hunter. Maybe not. That’s going to be up to him. Gerard, on the other hand,” and here Phinehas scoffed with a shake of his head, “ Gerard doesn’t apparently even merit a spot in the tournament. I suppose he could enter himself in that Last Chance Battle Royal, but that might be a gamble. What if that doesn’t work out for him, either?”
Phinehas shrugged.
“I don’t know if he could handle adding a loss of that magnitude to his growing litany of disappointments. He doesn’t appear to be in the best state of mind these days, as it is.”
Ruth reached beneath the GingerBeard of Doom to place two fingers just under his jawline. With the other hand she grabbed his wrist and counted to herself.
“You realize you’re forgetting something.”
“What might that be?”
She finished counting and gave a look that said, good enough.
“You’ll need to make it past your first match for any of this to matter.”
“True enough. And Alexa Black, God bless her, surely has as much of a motive to want to do well in this as anyone. After all, this will be her big return from Ross and Hunter’s attack on her…an attack that failed to put her down for good, obviously. Seems like several of their past targets have returned lately. That can’t be very reassuring. Anyway, the thing is…”
Phinehas paused as Ruth ran her thumb from a spot between his eyes up to his hairline.
“…I’ve seen as many of Alexa Black’s matches as anyone. I’ve been in some of those matches. So I know.”
Ruth worked her way among his pressure points. He pushed through them himself, then continued.
“I know she doesn’t have the wherewithal to formulate a true strategy. Not to say her berserker approach hasn’t worked in her favor on occasion. It’s just not as well suited to the standard matches in a tournament like this. She’ll no doubt preach her usual promises of agony and death, of course. She’ll run down her list of personality deficiencies like some badge of honor, and those dubious extracurricular activities of hers. None of that will pass muster in this instance, though. Black doesn’t know who or what she is, or what she wants to be. It’s unfortunate enough in life. In Pure Class Wrestling, those confusions will get you pinned at best, put back on the shelf at worst. The results from the past don’t lie, despite her endless claims otherwise.”
“But…she can resume her ferocious ways once this is all over. Once the Hangtown Horror has moved on. More power to her.”
Ruth, finished with her mendings, allowed Phinehas to stand and walk to a window where he took a deep breath of the fresh hollow air. The freckles on his arms and shoulders gave off glints of their own in the candlelight. He listened to the silence. The songbirds had bedded down for the night, and it was still too early in the season for insect cacophony or frog serenades. Ruth moved beside him.
“What of the one who caused this?”
Phinehas raised his chin. Eyes narrowed, he looked down to the dark fields at the end of the drive.
“The Steels…both Cory and Vincent…are just marking time at this point. Neither is included in the tournament brackets. Whether either one even shows up for the Battle Royal remains to be seen. Maybe that would interfere with Cory’s plans for his precious North American title, however ill conceived those must be. Battle Royal or not, I’ll be watching them. Somewhere. Somehow. Because a double cross I understand if it serves your best interests. This is professional wrestling, after all, where there is no honor among thieves. But what he did…what Cory will have to answer for…that was just plain bald-faced cowardice. And that I will not abide.”
Brother and sister continued watching night settle in over the hills until both heard what sounded to them like a faint drip. An echo at the bottom of a well, or falling off a stalactite deep in a cave. Triangulating it, they turned and walked to a table in the corner of the kitchen. A table on which, next to yet another guttering candle, sat a small wooden box, spare and unadorned, and which appeared to be leaking. Phinehas removed the lid. Inside lay a smooth piece of glass, all blues and greens and flecks of spindrift, affixed to a cord of twine. It rested there in the box in a pool of liquid.
Ruth stood at his elbow.
“You know she’s not free. Not yet.”
“But there were the ashes. I dug the hole. You saw what happened.”
“Yes, and it was a good faith effort. It surprised even me. But a…magic that old, that powerful, is difficult to eradicate. Death was a good start, to be sure.”
She put a hand on his shoulder.
“But that’s what it was. A start.”
Phinehas dipped a pinky in the liquid and touched it to his tongue.
It tasted of salt and bile.
The Hangtown Horror frowned.
“…even so, you can’t say they didn’t do a number on you,” said Ruth.
“Mmm hmm.”
“I haven’t seen bruises this vibrant since…well, it’s been a while.”
A flash of blue in the gloom but then he closed his eyes just as quickly.
“And yet…”
“What’s that?”
“Stomps and kicks and signature moves and finishers…and yet here I am. None the worse for wear…”
Ruth cleared her throat.
“Arguably none the worse for wear, and about to embark on yet another Icemann Invitational Tournament. Maybe that will give me a chance to revisit this on David Hunter. Maybe not. That’s going to be up to him. Gerard, on the other hand,” and here Phinehas scoffed with a shake of his head, “ Gerard doesn’t apparently even merit a spot in the tournament. I suppose he could enter himself in that Last Chance Battle Royal, but that might be a gamble. What if that doesn’t work out for him, either?”
Phinehas shrugged.
“I don’t know if he could handle adding a loss of that magnitude to his growing litany of disappointments. He doesn’t appear to be in the best state of mind these days, as it is.”
Ruth reached beneath the GingerBeard of Doom to place two fingers just under his jawline. With the other hand she grabbed his wrist and counted to herself.
“You realize you’re forgetting something.”
“What might that be?”
She finished counting and gave a look that said, good enough.
“You’ll need to make it past your first match for any of this to matter.”
“True enough. And Alexa Black, God bless her, surely has as much of a motive to want to do well in this as anyone. After all, this will be her big return from Ross and Hunter’s attack on her…an attack that failed to put her down for good, obviously. Seems like several of their past targets have returned lately. That can’t be very reassuring. Anyway, the thing is…”
Phinehas paused as Ruth ran her thumb from a spot between his eyes up to his hairline.
“…I’ve seen as many of Alexa Black’s matches as anyone. I’ve been in some of those matches. So I know.”
Ruth worked her way among his pressure points. He pushed through them himself, then continued.
“I know she doesn’t have the wherewithal to formulate a true strategy. Not to say her berserker approach hasn’t worked in her favor on occasion. It’s just not as well suited to the standard matches in a tournament like this. She’ll no doubt preach her usual promises of agony and death, of course. She’ll run down her list of personality deficiencies like some badge of honor, and those dubious extracurricular activities of hers. None of that will pass muster in this instance, though. Black doesn’t know who or what she is, or what she wants to be. It’s unfortunate enough in life. In Pure Class Wrestling, those confusions will get you pinned at best, put back on the shelf at worst. The results from the past don’t lie, despite her endless claims otherwise.”
“But…she can resume her ferocious ways once this is all over. Once the Hangtown Horror has moved on. More power to her.”
Ruth, finished with her mendings, allowed Phinehas to stand and walk to a window where he took a deep breath of the fresh hollow air. The freckles on his arms and shoulders gave off glints of their own in the candlelight. He listened to the silence. The songbirds had bedded down for the night, and it was still too early in the season for insect cacophony or frog serenades. Ruth moved beside him.
“What of the one who caused this?”
Phinehas raised his chin. Eyes narrowed, he looked down to the dark fields at the end of the drive.
“The Steels…both Cory and Vincent…are just marking time at this point. Neither is included in the tournament brackets. Whether either one even shows up for the Battle Royal remains to be seen. Maybe that would interfere with Cory’s plans for his precious North American title, however ill conceived those must be. Battle Royal or not, I’ll be watching them. Somewhere. Somehow. Because a double cross I understand if it serves your best interests. This is professional wrestling, after all, where there is no honor among thieves. But what he did…what Cory will have to answer for…that was just plain bald-faced cowardice. And that I will not abide.”
Brother and sister continued watching night settle in over the hills until both heard what sounded to them like a faint drip. An echo at the bottom of a well, or falling off a stalactite deep in a cave. Triangulating it, they turned and walked to a table in the corner of the kitchen. A table on which, next to yet another guttering candle, sat a small wooden box, spare and unadorned, and which appeared to be leaking. Phinehas removed the lid. Inside lay a smooth piece of glass, all blues and greens and flecks of spindrift, affixed to a cord of twine. It rested there in the box in a pool of liquid.
Ruth stood at his elbow.
“You know she’s not free. Not yet.”
“But there were the ashes. I dug the hole. You saw what happened.”
“Yes, and it was a good faith effort. It surprised even me. But a…magic that old, that powerful, is difficult to eradicate. Death was a good start, to be sure.”
She put a hand on his shoulder.
“But that’s what it was. A start.”
Phinehas dipped a pinky in the liquid and touched it to his tongue.
It tasted of salt and bile.
The Hangtown Horror frowned.
