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Lindon has a real job. Lamont is a useless playboy living on interest and old investments gone right. So he has time to keep up a level of training otherwise very hard to maintain. No resting on the benefits of acquired semi-immortality. Amongst that training is running, both sprints and the steadier long distance training. It's one of the latter, today - he's in sweats and a t-shirt, the latter already somewhat sweat-stained, beating out an even lope down the paths of Central Park. He's surprisingly graceful - physical activity is always a release.
*
The falling sun seems to disappear earlier and earlier with each passing day. Autumn has arrived, though the rarity of an indian summer happens now and then. Today was nearly such a day and the coolness of the impending evening is somehow both soft and not too cool, the very perfect atmosphere for endless pounding of the concrete paths wending through the Park.
No concrete where the boots scamper, kicking up the first thin layer of leaves dropped early and crackling twigs. The panting is loud, the limbs churning as fast as can possibly be mustered. Lamont may be beating out measured pacing, but this is an all-out dash through the grove of trees lining this particular stretch of path.
With little space to spare in front of the Shadow, a blur in pristine white and limbs and fluttering mane breaks from the underbrush and barely misses bowling him over — the cloven hooves ring like windchimes on the stony surface. Was that…?!
Never mind that. The pursuer doesn't manage the same level of grace and has enough time to attempt a faltering step, but it's of no use. WHOP — the collision is abrupt, glancing, and proves to send the one wearing the stylized Hapkido uniform hurtling to the ground and into the brush on the other side of the path. The sound of rolling continues a bit farther before there's a faint groan and a curse.
*
He's seen them once, from a great distance, so he knows there are planes where the unicorns drift in herds like low-lying clouds. They do not, however, roam free in anywhere in Greater New York, no matter what people say about Battery Park. Lamont's startled enough by its apparent appearance to falter for just the beat necessary to have the pursuer hurtle into him. He goes sideways, rolls, but comes up neatly on his feet. Hapkido, indeed. He's brushed his fingers over multiple arts in his pilgrimages to the east, after all. Monty's in a defensive poise, clearly ready to continue the fight if necessary.
*
The berry bushes, of the blueberry family (and thank the gods not of the blackberry demesne, or someone would be really hurting!), have dropped a few colored leaves. They drop more as they rustle and the grunting continues, a quiet sound punctuated by a few more whispered curses. With a final loud rustle, they part…
…and a woman steps out to the path, grimacing even as she looks about for the person she nearly flattened. "Are you…" With a 'hmph', she adjusts the white uniform's top on her shoulder, the material having been rudely yanked aside by a branch, and then squints those bright eyes nearly shut as she pulls a broken twig from her raven-black hair, silvered at the temple. It would be shoulder-length when down from the now-messy bun. Wisps drawn loose follow the twig's removal and it receives a flat look before being summarily flicked aside. "You're clearly fine." Her voice, a middling soprano, contains a subtle twang. "I almost had the damn thing too. You saw it, didn't you?" She adjusts the black belt about her waist into proper orientation and then folds her arms, awaiting a response from Lamont with a vaguely petulant air. A 5'5" petulant air.
*
"Yes," Lamont says, flatly. "Are you all right, miss?" He's withdrawn into his usual somber formality. So very few have seen those sea-gray eyes bright with laughter, or soft with tenderness. This newcomer is treated to a flintier hue, and him drawing himself up a little. "I did see it," he confirms, glancing aside along its apparent track. "Long gone, I shouldn't be surprised," he adds. "What's it doing here?"
*
"Hells if I know the whole truth," replies the woman, joining the Shadow in considering the path the unicorn left through the brush. It's a hard thing to find, the way the few broken twigs hang from bushes. A sudden narrowing of her eyes and she walks back in to the gloom of the trees again. A single ivory hair, likely from the tail, hangs from a ragged piece of bark. She plucks it with care and makes her way back onto the path, absently brushing off some dirt on her knee that mars the white of the uniform.
"It was very interested in the local group that meets here for Tai-Chi once a week on this day and I was attempting to ascertain precisely why. Figures that it would be an entirely female gathering, and all virgins. A rarity these days," she adds nonchalantly as she coils up the foot-long hair and reaches into her top to stash it…somewhere. Steel-blue eyes flick up to Lamont again. "You're out for a run?"
It's such an easy conversational tone, as if to an old friend. How odd.
*
He gives her a sidelong, suspicious glance. "Don't tell me you brought it here," he says, in a pleading tone. Then he sighs. "I was. We'd best go try and track it down." He's a decent tracker - once upon a time, he was something of a big game hunter. "And goodness knows finding one adult virgin in New York City is like finding a dragon's egg," he adds, with a faintly aggrieved air. You do need them for rituals after all.
*
Her teeth flash brightly and she peals out a laugh.
"Oh gods, isn't that the truth." Dimples. Oh yes. "But me? Bring the unicorn here? You're forgetting the order of chase. I was pursuing the creature, not the other way around." A sly side-look is given to the Shadow, dark lashes half-obscuring the bright blues. She might just be laughing at him without actually doing so. Then she unfolds one arm, gesturing gracefully out towards the deepening grey of the trees. The sun has set and only the topmost canopies of the birches, oaks, various deciduous hold the bright and fiery light most jealously.
"If you think you can track it, by all means. I relish your attempt." Now see, that's just kind of mean. Her grin is unfailing and, frankly, rather coy. Someone's having a metric ton of fun. A faltering chase has turned into another game entirely.
*
"I don't know that I can," he admits. "But I will attempt it, Miss….?" A prompting trailing-off, there. "I'm Lamont Cranston," he adds, after a moment, casting around for a sign. Cloven hoofmarks, the faint tickle of alien magic….and he pauses for a moment, not just listening but reaching out with his mind for a particular timbre of frightened animal mind. If he can calm it, subdue it…..
*
The woman tilts her head slightly; the slant of failing light catches on high cheekbones and dances away again. It seems she's got her own points of interest for how she watches Lamont in action, seeming to nearly hold her breath for it — as if drawing attention back to herself might break this furtive moment of unbiased action on his part.
"We'll find it," she murmurs, unreservedly confident in tone. "We have a tail hair, remember?" And she pats at her chest, opposite her heart, indicating the coil stashed away. "Mystical sympathy can be quite useful at times." She rolls her lips inwards and seems to be clearing her throat; stifling down a laugh? Maybe for how the hairs on her neck rise. "You know me." A beat. "I certainly know you well enough." A fine curl of a smirk. "Mister Allard."
And she darts into the brush on the drop of a hat, churning a path nearly atop that of the unicorn's passing.
*
She can see the flicker in his eyes, that chill of fear. His lips part to protest, demand, and then he's taking off after her. Good thing he hadn't been at the end of his run. Already warmed up, but comfortably so, not exhausted…for he does run himself into the ground, on occasion, just to see where the limits of his endurance are.
*
She might be all of an inch shy of five and a half feet tall, but boy, can those legs move. A blur in white, perhaps drawing uncomfortable parallels to the creature they chase, she dodges through the trees. Argent and obsidian, snowy-pale in woven cotton, she may be the beacon to follow rather than the unicorn itself, considering the sympathy of the tail-hair tucked next to her skin.
Leaping over a fallen old-growth tree takes more effort than usual and Lamont's likely close enough to hear the 'whuft!' of lung-jolting landing followed by some scrabbling. Dammit, limbs! Not completely used to their lack of length in totality. An over-extension is an easy risk. The Shadow can easily overtake her as need be, being much taller and equally longer of leg.
At least a quarter mile beyond, the unicorn paces in an uneasy circle. Something flickered in its mind, some foreign touch, and the glassy eyes in warm-brown keep careful watch even as it completes another circuit about the abnormal growth of mushrooms. A…Faerie ring? Ah! The creature's ticket home. Widdershins — it needs another two completions and it can whisk away to return another day. Clock's ticking.
*
His default instinct is fear. To bring terror, shock, surprise and send his foes fleeing before he ever has to fire a shot. Many a thug has saved his life by fleeing before that mental onslaught - better a sorcerous goad than falling to a .45 round.
But that won't do. No more chasing, if he can help it. Instead, he's reaching out for the reverse. No. Don't leave. YOu're curious and you want to stay and see what happens, the fairy ring will wait. All sent in far more wordless urges, soothing, trying to intrigue.
*
The dainty limbs slow to a halt. The face, far more fine-boned than earthly equine cousins, turns in the direction of the cajoling thoughts. Long lashes, the capture of moonbeams in delicate fronds, blink once - twice - again. Deer-like ears rotate towards the sound of approaching. The creature is clearly torn; it lifts a fore-leg, angling the cloven hooves towards its barrel chest. The nearly-disappeared light of the sun refracts through its crystalline horn. No spiraled winding to be found here, but a smooth surface etched with esoteric patterns more akin to the Celtic and Euro-Asian designs found on ancient tombstones.
The woman's quick to get to her feet, muttering something to herself again, and charges on again. Is this a test? In a way, but moreso for the dark-brunette. The two will wend their travels through the forest a good ways more still, counting the seconds by in-drawn breaths and pounding hearts. The night turns the spires of the forest to grey lines, partially obscured by the canopy's own thick and leafy blanket above them.
Abruptly, the woman comes to a sudden halt. The pause is so quick that she skids another two feet in the loam, leaving dark lines in her wake, and then she throws up a hand. "Hsssst!" The other hand is held up, a mudra of benediction. There, another three dozen feet out: the unicorn, standing in the sanctity of its little glade, staring dead at them. Oh yes. These two are bumbling babies in their passage.
*
Oh, hey, it's working. Right? It isn't moving. IT's the mental equivalent of Lamont trying to soothe some wary stray by scratching it behind the ears. Who's a good girl? Yes, it's you!
Watch the unicorn be mortally offended. Lamont's face is wondering - even he's not so cynical he can't be touched by its grace. But he doesn't try to creep out and touch it.
*
Those ears fall flat to the sides and then rotate back. The unicorn stamps its spindly-looking leg into the turf with enough force to cause a subtle rumble to be felt beneath feet. An airy snort, absolutely disdainful, and then it parts lips to bare teeth and cry. It's the sound of a hundred crystalline bells doubled upon itself in two pitches, both of which are rather sharp.
The woman shifts her weight to scrutinize the creature's intentions, but those gentle brown eyes don't linger upon her. No, upon the Shadow. "Cranston!" It's a terse, nearly-spitting variation of his name. "If you're doing something, STOP IT!" In the dull light of evening, if he meets her gaze, he'll find it an uncanny shade of frosted-violet, flinty even in the feminine face.
*
It is offended….and that tone is familiar. Reflexively, Lamont cuts the effect right off, sudden as a lightswitch. Cranston himself is startled, turning that blank look on the sorceress….and then turns back to the unicorn.
*
As soon as the light misting of power from the Shadow disappears, the unicorn reverts to the image of absolute piety. The stress lifts from its body and it snorts softly, seeming to consider the two human interlopers to its departure.
A hesitant, pert huff of air from the woman might be scoff or laugh. She continues to observe the creature, now in the process of beginning its revolution again. "Daring as the seven hells, attempting whatever you were, Cranston. She wouldn't have killed you outright, but unicorn scars never heal. You might as well have tattooed yourself with a curse against any luck at that point." Slowly, she retreats until she stands beside Lamont. There are the folded arms again and a soft sigh, caught as fog in a passing faint ray of light. "I wanted to make sure it had an escape route. I'll lock the ring once it leaves. We don't need a wild goose chase trough these woods from New Yorkers." Irony, that statement.
*
There's a flicker of an almost violent greed at that, that angular face gone harsh and forbidding. Strange knows that look, albeit not on those features. Not quite dragon sickness, in the sense of desire for mere wealth or power, but the sick longing of the treasure hunter who *will* have what he wants. A glimpse of the man he was before the wreck, before the Tulkus broke and humbled him, turning him into a force for justice, if not actively for good. Haughty nearly as Lucian himself, satanic in his pride.
A glance back at the beast, then at the sorceress, that cold fire visible in his eyes…..but then it dies down, goes out, leaving them gray and dull as ash. Almost contrite. "Yes," he says, on a grateful breath. "You're right. You know me well, I see." A long moment spent peering at her, and then….he reaches and touches her chin, curving long fingertips under. IF this is a visual illusion….
*
Cold fire meets the so-familiar blue-fire contained in the eyes of the one touched thrice over by the gods. Strange has seen that expression before, in one he called mentor so very many years ago, and the very act of reaching out has the woman craning her chin away from the touch. Never does she drop those grey eyes.
"I do," she replies softly, almost warningly.
The unicorn finishes its second circumnavigation of the mushroom. One more to go and it can be away from this human nonsense. Sorcerers, oy!
*
Abruptly, there's a new spark there. The lightbulb goes off, a hypothesis is born, hatched from an egg of sudden inspiration….and given impetus by that near-suicidal instinct for mischief. He's far from the equal of the Prince of Asgard, but Lamont has his days, and this one is certain to get him slapped into the Mirror Dimension, the cad.
Let Fluffy depart in peace, because there's that crescent moon of a grin, and Lamont leans in to plant a kiss on the sorceress's mouth. Barely a peck, he lays no hand on her….but if this is who he thinks it is….
*
Wait, what is he —
The unicorn pauses and pricks ears, sensing a disturbance in the Force. Wait…wrong universe.
She splutters, the Sorceress Supreme, and takes a step back, a hand upraised before her chest in some mudra that happens to contain aspects of a good number of willings. It'd be a failed spell — too many things going on at once.
"CRANSTON!" The sudden tornadic eddying of air is thick with static, tasting of sprite-fire and petrichor. Leaves swirl up around both of them before the wind suddenly drops stiller than the eye of a hurricane. Strange draws herself up as tall as she can manage, lips pulled into a thin line. "State your intentions." Oh yes, that's the Teacher's Voice, even in middling-soprano.
*
The leaf shadows, those few distinct from the glow of a nearby lamp, seem to flicker and dance. An illusion, perhaps, and a benign and inadvertent one….laughter as well as wrath can trip his power, it seems. Not the madman's laugh that is his battlecry, edged enough to dismay even the Clown Prince of Crime, but that throaty chortle of good humor like wine bubbling from a jar. "To discomfit you, geshe," he says, not terribly apologetic.
*
Man, these humans are weird. The unicorn makes the decision to not return for at least a moon, maybe more, and completes the third and final circle. Strange glances over in time to see the creature do a delicate-looking leap into what appears to be a hovering bubble of pearly water above the mushrooms. As soon as the final edge of the last cloven hoof disappears, pop — the luminescence fades, leaving the two of them standing in the woods in Central Park.
In a metaphorical stand-off.
Those bright eyes slide back to Lamont and linger on him, weighing some chance against another. Look at her lock knees and have a positively mulish expression on her face, one that wrinkles her pert, little nose. "Why." The ending vowel is dragged out into a rather dangerous-sounding growl, even at that pitch. Tightly-folded arms must settle beneath her chest rather than across it. Damn…attributes.
*
Watch him contort his face and trying to look contrite…and fail miserably. He may have instructed Constantine, but ….well, some of that student's attitude must've rubbed off on him in return. Beware, Strange, what Lamont might make you become.
"Because you're adorable in that form when you're angry," he tells her. "And I wasn't sure who you were. I thought you might be someone from my past, but she'd've slapped me back to Shambhala, if it'd been her. I thought it might be you, but….well, figured there was no real harm in trying." A beat, and he adds, "It's not as if I'd used any tongue."
*
"No real harm — tongue," and Strange mouths wordlessly for another few seconds before suddenly pointing at Lamont, the fingertip a centimeter from his face. A minuscule gathering of wispy magic gathers around it. "I am not adorable! To hell with adorable!" She lifts from the ground — but how? Where's the flicker of crimson on her body — oh, there. The parting of the uniform's lapels flashes the color. Ah, the Cloak as a chest wrap! …gotta keep stuff in its place, y'know.
"And don't stand there and shine your halo, Cranston, the Witch would have bound the skin of your sac to your inner thighs or — or — gods below, who knows what else if she'd seen! There's a fine line," and she draws a shining horizontal slash in the air at the same level as Lamont's throat; " — between cheek and flicking her nose and I would have you behave as my student." Okay, for all the aura of starlight and celestine about Strange…she's still adorable when angry in this form, unfortunately.
*
Oh, Cloak. How have the mighty fallen. ….unless the Cloak likes girls. Then it's another matter entirely.
Lamont has lowered his eyes demurely, but his lips are trembling with the effort of suppressing his smile. He's making beyond a token effort to obey. But nor will he apologize….it'd be a lie, and nowhere does the darkness enter so readily as by the broken word. Especially for sorcerers.
*
Cloak has a fondness for all forms of Sorcerer. It's pleased as pie to be enabling its Master — er, Mistress — to flight as per its usual whims.
"What, nothing smart to say now? Hmm? Go on, get if off your chest. Don't keep us all waiting," Strange growls, her face gently lit by the lingering line in the sand drawn between the two practitioners. She's at eye-level with Lamont now, but boy, there's some space between her booted feet and the leaf-littered forest floor. Tightly-folded arms once again.
*
Off your chest. Suddenly, he's ten. He waves fingers at that peek of cloth, in hopes he can get it to return the greeting. "Oh, no," he says, innocently. "I'm entirely at a loss for words."
*
Strange snorts. "That is not a loss — "
The crimson Cloak can't resist. It's being beckoned! Greeted! Hi hi hi! It knows Lamont as the fauxpprentice, an individual safe enough to merit movement, and an angled section of the hem slips forth from beneath the white uniform's lapel to ripple back fluidly.
"STAHP!" Full Midwestern twang, go forth! A hand slaps down on the errant bit of Cloak; what little triangle of the crimson cloth can be seen wriggles about before sliding back into place. It leaves the Sorceress with palm spread across her upper sternum and she gives the relic a betrayed glare in passing. "Cranston." Uh oh, the dead-serious voice. "I will mail you back to Lindon in a box. As a newt."
*
He's biting his lip so hard there's a bead of scarlet at the corner. It's an effort in self-denial on the scale of a full on bed of nails for him to not laugh. Think of what a terrible person you are, Kent. Think of the horrible things that might happen to Lindon. Think of the heat-death of the universe. ……none of it's working, and he's left bright red with effort in a way that the run absolutely did not.
*
Nothing to prick one's pride like being laughed at. Rolling those lambent eyes, lined by the dark lashes and with their slightly more feline cant in shape for the feminine shift of frame, Strange sucks her teeth for a second.
"Go on then, laugh. Laugh until you piss your pants, Cranston. By all means, do so. I've got a fairy ring to lock." Dismissing the apprentice to what hilarity may be set to swamp him, the petite woman flits swiftly between the trees to the small growth of fungus. Her own path to walk is counter-clockwise to the unicorn's widdershins; each step leaves behind a shimmering footprint in liquid amethyst and molten gold at the right angle of moonlight. As she walks, she goes through a set series of gestures, weaving fingers whose each tip glows like a soldering pen. The same dually-colored strings of shine hangs behind her like spider-threads before disappearing, fading comet-tails in the Sorceress's wake.
Once, twice, and…thrice. The final step sends a flashfire of magic in a complete circle about to find Strange again, where she stands at some determined midnight on a Mystical clock. Scarred hands inscribe a three-tiered circle upon the air before her, mirrored points on the halo containing rotating triangles and ribbons inscribed with esoteric runes known only to the gods. Her eyes are half-lidded, almost…limpid, mouth parted with efforts for focus and need for air. The white outfit lifts where cloth is loose when the seal in brilliant orange is completed and —
— a horizontal crossing of forearms, then bringing of hands to neutrality out-held at the level of the ribs, and CRACK. A dualed snap of fingers and the sanction is invoked. No more trespassing from within this particular patch of mushrooms. The brush-past of air is thick with the scent of new-fallen rain, metal, and the ghost of changing leaves, that natural moldering somehow sweet. Strange sighs and blinks slowly, a content expression upon her face.
"Very good…" It's nearly a purr, the murmur to herself. Quite pleased.
*
This is fascinating to watch, and he's not so lost to the giggles he can't attend. Far from it - it sobers him near instantly. The hunger for magic, for lore…..even though he sleeps spooned with the greatest library of grimoires he could ever ask for, he's so terribly hesitant to even try and tap into it. HE's the guard dog lying across the threshhold more than he is the librarian who controls the archive.
AS the gate is sealed, there's something there - an addict's longing, in fact. With all he has to root him here and settle him: a lover, a name reclaimed, a teacher, there's still something of him that longs to ease the pain by fleeing into the other realms again.
*
A last sigh, the settling of her posture into something looser and more composed than before, and the woman with silvered temples turns to consider Lamont where he stands.
Strange's dark brows draw together minutely and she deigns to stay where she is, rooted as the compass north for the circle drawn. "I presume you've assuaged your need for laughter given your expression, Cranston? Mind, your face may get stuck like that," she adds blithely, her smile a little cool.
*
He dutifully arranges his features to offer contrition and polite attention. It might work if he were a seventeen year old schoolboy. Not so much on that apparent age. "Of course," he says, all humility, bowing low, but not so much so as to be mocking.
*
A click of her tongue and then the Sorceress is walking over to Cranston, stopping just before and to the side of him. She's still keenly observing with those bright eyes, the aurorae in ultraviolescence caught within them.
"Cranston, honestly. Don't fool yourself and don't attempt to fool me. Yes, it's monumentally different, seeing me in this form. It's…fascinating." Outstretching a hand, Strange curls the more delicate fingers that still bear their red mapping of scars one at a time, watching their motions. "You should try it sometime, if you have not. It opens up an entirely new realm of experiences." The thoughtfulness is ruined by the knowing quirk to be found at one side of her pursed lips.
*
Schoolboy hilarity leaves him not in snorts and giggles, but in thoughtfulness at the question. '"I don't doubt it," he says, more quietly. "And I'm sure I shall." What would Lindon do, with Lamont a woman? Other than the obvious experimentation.
*
"Mmm…be certain to be able to return to your original self. I'd hate to have Lindon show up on my step again. You wouldn't fit into a wicker basket this time around." Her eyes run up and down him before she laughs a few times, the sound echoing lightly through the trees.
The drift back into solemn formality comes just as easily as the shift of moonlight to hide her face in shadow as she steps once more and then pauses. "I ask, Cranston, if you see me in this guise again, to pretend innocence in the matter. It is a surprisingly effective disguise…which gives me little faith in current society." Eyes flick up to hold his and the little fog of a sigh wisps away. "Apparently, everyone thinks that I'm much taller than 5'5"." There's that Cheshire Cat grin, fleeting and wickedly amused, before she composes herself.
*
"He might have something to say about that. He does like women, as well," Lamont's voice is dry as sand. "But I think I'd make a better looking man than a woman." Though….the lines that are harsh and sere in middle age had a beauty of their own, once, in epicene youth.
He inclines his head. "I will remember, teacher. And so it is, I think. I should use that, really," he notes, with a thoughtful tilt of his head.
*
Strange nods, folding her arms loosely.
"If you've only ever been seen over six feet in height and wearing facial hair, no one sees through the disguise. A blessing that my own family ran short as females in the end, I suppose." She shrugs and then tilts her head. "Lindon likes women as well? I had no idea. I presumed you were both content with one another."
*
He did say this. He said it himself. Lamont has no earthly right to blush the way he does. For once, he does not try to stand on his dignity….he's betrayed what should be a confidence, even if not specifically designated as such. "Ah, yes on both counts," he says, hastily.
*
Ooh, that eyebrow. That one single eyebrow at first, slowly followed by the other. Does Strange even need to say aloud that one shouldn't attempt to bullshit the Sorcerer Supreme? The blush does the job well enough, apparently.
"On both counts. Hmm. Both count as to Lindon's preferences and your contentment in one another or that you as well have no preference in the end? Ah, but, no." A shake of her head and the Sorceress takes a moment to fiddle with the tie about her dark hair, bringing it to fall about her shoulders. "Not my place to pry. Apologies," she murmurs, scratching at a spot on her scalp and finding it delightful given the little sound of relief in the back of her throat.
*
"As far as I know, he enjoys the company of women, as well," Lamont specifies, after a moment. "And we are very happy together." That is shiningly true, by the way his aura ripples at the statement. "No offense taken."
*
"Good. My curiosity gets away from me at times." Gee, Strange, and the sun rises each morning too. "Well, I believe I can count this venture as a success in the end. Are there any concerns that need to be addressed, Cranston?"
Thus asks the mentor, still uniquely brusque and unfailingly confident in the end, even when sporting curves counter to the usual broad shoulders and petite frame to hide the monumental power.
*
He should know better than to bring this up now. "Lindon mentioned a lesson more devoted to question and answer?" he ventures, brows up. HE's apparently gotten over his fit of the giggles.
*
"Ah." Lamont doesn't get an immediate answer; instead, the Sorceress continues past him another few feet, each step a measured thing. The quicksilver weighing of options takes precedence over physical movement by how deliberate she travels. When halting once more, she turns in the beam of moonlight.
"Yes, Cranston, I have questions. Now may not be the best of times…or then again, it may be." Her voice drops lower pensively, risking alto with ease. "Perhaps you can answer a good number of them in a short time. Explain to me, «student», of John Constantine." The title comes in Tibetan. "Be aware that Lindon granted him the title of 'old student' in our conversation." From lightly folded arms comes a graceful hand, outstretched.
The stage, if wanted, belongs to Lamont. Ooh, look, even his own spotlight in lunar gleam.
*
Oh, that. It's not so much an expression of guilt or unease or contrition. Just that weary resignation. Constantine and he have a particular unbalanced karmic bond. "Yes," he says, after a deep breath, a sigh, and an attempt to center himself - a brief flare of aura reaching down into the earth beneath, diffusing.
His expression goes distant, still. "I met him in the summer of 1940. I was in the RAF. I was shot down in a sortie over the Channel, but managed to make it to the beach at Dunkirk." He passes a hand over his scalp, leaving the dark hair in disarray. "We'd begun the ritual of the Lance, and I was the only one of the mystics we had who could play the Fisher King, so…I was the one carrying the wound. It made my senses more acute, on all fronts, but it was very painful." His eyes are veiled with memory, and the moonlight makes him look even more gaunt and weary than usual, gone from angular to cadaverous, as if to illustrate.
"But I was stranded there until rescue came. In the meanwhile….a young soldier named Constantine was wounded. There were a few magical practitioners there….and one foolish one hit on the idea of saving John's life by invoking demonic magic. I had to chase the damned thing away when I could barely walk, myself. John survived, but he'd been tainted. Not possessed, an exorcism would've solved that. No. I tried to teach him what I could, first there on the beach, and later when we were back in England….." His shoulders droop, but he makes no attempt to mince words. "It wasn't much. I don't deserve the title of his teacher. I was half out of my mind, between the Battle of Britain and the burden I was carrying….."
*
Strange attends upon the exposition, her own expression somewhat veiled, even given the light of the moon, now bold in the night sky. Twilight has passed and here, the city's rusty glow can barely reach. Eyes will have adjusted. The nocturnal creatures begin to rustle, though none attempt to interrupt the two practitioners.
"I would attempted to save his life as well," the Sorceress speaks into the silence that follows. "Demonic magic, no. Another source entirely. To teach…" Both of them likely look about as grave as wake attendees at this point. "To teach is to touch a life and impress oneself upon it. To have an impact that stretches into eternity. Knocking a domino, watching it fall, watching them all begin to act…it began with a conscious decision to cause an affect. Deserving?" It's a weighty gaze resting upon the Shadow now. "I'm not the judge of that. Not unless I need to intervene with John's actions. Do you consider yourself responsible for him? Or is he his own entity, acting of his own volition?"
*
"He stands on his own two feet, but I do feel I owe him more. It was a truncated and brief period of teaching. I couldn't bring myself to kill him, we needed every life we had at the time." He still remembers the bodies coming in on the tide, the sleeping arrayed by the dead on the long curve of sand. "Perhaps I should have done, but it's far too late now. I know I wasn't the only teacher he encountered, but I was his first. It's….fitting that karma bring him back now." The Shadow has a long sentence to serve.
*
"Karma's a bitch." Strange says it with a particularly flat twang full of knowing before scratching at that sore spot on her scalp once more, the place where the bun pulled too tightly for a time. "Ungh. Gods-damned hair. I won't miss it," she grumbles.
"You did the correct thing, sparing his life then. Every soul in this reality is to be given care as necessary. Am I hearing, however, that you don't claim the title of 'teacher' to him? That should someone claim weregild in the name of lessons that you alone taught, you would not acknowledge said title?"
*
He doesn't like the idea. But he's not one to back away from that responsibility, however ill-suited he was to exercise it at the time. "I will take it," he says, softly. "I don't think he has had anyone else to do so." Lineage matters in so many traditions.
*
There's a measurable amount of respect in the formal nod given to Lamont. Very good. The fauxpprentice passes an unspoken test by his declaration and gains himself a small and yet prideful little smile from Strange in the end. It's an uncertain thing, the moonbow's curve, and maybe just the play of light in the end.
"Good. I accepted the same when I chose to tutor you in defending Lindon." A possibly-harrowing thing to consider, that the Sorcerer Supreme may stand before a weapon one day for the actions of the Shadow. "I doubt John has anyone but you. He leaves changed lives in his wake, rarely for the good. I'll say it anyways: be mindful."
*
A salutary reminder, that in choosing to be a student and acknowledged as such, he is responsible for his teacher, as his teacher is for him. He nods at Strange, resigned. "Maybe his path can be changed," he says, brightening a little at the thought. "Mine was." If only he could tote John off to Shambhala and dump him in the Tulkus' laps.
*
"I'll tell you, verbatim, what I told Lindon. John is perfectly able to reverse his course of his own volition. Nothing is impossible because truly mastering the Arts is about willpower. You find a solution or you don't. It's that painfully simple."
The Sorceress glances up at the flight of an owl overhead, its wings blotting out the moon for a second. "Shepherd him as you can. Remember that he is his own, to release what force of will he shall upon the world. All a teacher can hope is that what resonates in the future brings good karma, in the end."
*