Canaan

Standing in the Ashes of who I used to be. 

[canaan-days]

maehvc‌:

TIME: 25th of July PLACE: St. Stephens Green  @canaan-days​

It was a few precious days after Brín gave her her task, her mission and one of her first, immediate thoughts was of Canaan. She would not call him a friend, not really, though they were truly of like minds; unquenchable in their search for vengeance, unshakable in their hatred for the wretches of humankind. 

Maeve sent a missive by way of Padraig, fond of the old ways of communication; delicate ink-stained fingers, silvered nibs, and cream, heavy parchment.  She asked Canaan to meet at St. Stephens Green, a place of middles, of in-betweens, perfect in its seclusion and its neutrality. 

The sky bled in shades of rose and lavender as she took her seat on a soft knoll of grass, feet tucked daintily underneath her, her slight figure still, poised. A few paces away, just where the line of the woods met the open clearing, Padraig stood on constant guard, face placid and stoic. He was a Fae she’d trust with her life, and a rare burst of gratitude blooms in her chest. 

Maeve’s thoughts are interrupted when she hears someone approach from behind, their footsteps near silent, and she stills. “Speak your name and your purpose here.” Maeve orders, tone both soft and unassuming, without turning around. 

‘The Hunt.’

It had a pretty sort of sound to it. ‘Pretty’, of course, to Canaan’s ears. To a Fae’s ears—but no doubt to a human, ‘pretty’ was a term not likely to come to mind. 

Still, there was appeal in it, even just by name. Thrill, perhaps. Though a part of him also couldn’t shake the gritty, uncomfortable feeling that the whole thing was a great big tease. That he was being tricked, somehow, that sooner or later the whole thing would blow up in their faces and he would know, when the blood ran cold and dark, that he’d seen it coming and shouldn’t been smarter. 

It’s partly that it goes against his better judgement to play tracker dog to anybody; even his own court, to which he is loyal. It makes his skin crawl, the idea of being used for something that is being orchestrated from behind a curtain, where he can’t see the proper goings on, even if he’s being told it’s transparent. He’s no fool; he knows it’s anything but. 

Nonetheless, Aiofe’s words echo in his head. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Is this not what you wanted, Canaan? And reluctant though he is to admit it, she’d been right. It is what he’d wanted. More or less. But what he’d wanted in practice is very different than in theory. 

Still, he’ll go along with it, won’t he? Because he has no other choice now. It’s too late to go back and he can only hope that this path will indeed promise the things he’d hoped it would. Time will tell, he supposes. 

He could say he’d been surprised by Maeve’s missive, and he supposes he had been in some shades of the afternoon light—but in truth, hardly anything surprises him anymore: as it turns out, not even his willingness to go to her when she’d beckoned. He’s always felt a kinship with her, be it strange and misplaced, and though a scant few souls know this to be true, Maeve is no doubt one of them. Perhaps because she feels it too. 

He smirks slightly as he steps out from the hug of trees, ferns licking his ankles; her back to him. “Is that concern, I detect, dear Maeve? It’s you who bid me here, not I.” 

[canaan-days]

bedlamroad‌:

“I like to think my charming wit matches my outstanding good looks, but you know, I wouldn’t want to sound vain about things.” Thorne chirps in easy reply with a purposed study of his nails as though admiring his own physics. “Most people look better without a scowl, just some friendly advice, I seem to recall that works even for you.” The words, while humored, are still careful in a way Canaan would not wanted spoken, he knows to tread very lightly on certain subjects and the interests of others are one his dear friend dismisses for his continued courting of that ghost in his memories. By way of teasing it’s a gentle version, about as much as anything can be with Canaan without encouraging him to tense over such a notion as care extended. 

With his interest flickered, the words draw Thorne in and he enjoys the ease Canaan has in saying them. He cannot agree with the idea of them but the intensity behind them and the brazen tongue the other takes is something he respects and finds almost a comfort. His scrutiny at times with the Queen is for different reasons, not in bridges that need to be built but in distractions that have costs, but at least between the two of them he can speak freely. Canaan may not like what he has to say, that’s nothing rare, but doesn’t hold his words on anything more than Thorne himself. Even ground is nothing to be underestimated, nor is a friend who will call someone out on their nonsense. 

“Spend much time with them and you’ll learn they don’t play nice often themselves,” Thorne found it entertaining how few contrasts he saw at times during his ventures around the Seelie. Canaan though had history to it, likely more than he knew from him, the same as far too many of their collective kin. “And at the moment I’m not too keen on another war either, less so when I’m not going to have much choice over bleeding for it.” It’s the sort of sobering thought Thorne doesn’t like to discuss, but necessity won’t grant him freedom from the Queen’s demands if he prefers to keep his head. “We don’t even need a war these days to kill each other.” It’s a bristled mutter, a bit too much like the growl of a restless animal pacing a corner; his kin and cousins may as well be the same when they’re all living under the uncertain shadow of unnatural death.

If there’s anything to fault both sides for it’s in waiting too long to find some common ground, pity it had to be stained with blood and suspicion. He doesn’t allow the thought to fester too long before setting it aside, he doesn’t want crimson soaking the conversation, so his eyes draw back to the drink to refocus, tone dry. “By all means, enjoy yourself with my drink. Actually, I’m serious, go ahead; the drunker you are the less I get those lovely death-glares.” Being able to smile with the words was the benefit of knowing Canaan for far too long and picking which nerves to test. He does recall what an actual smile looks like from the other, nothing soft in that expression either but it wouldn’t have suited him, but has lost count of how long it’s been since seeing it for himself. 

Ah, and there it is, that tiny snare and the slim second of attention offered up that he has to settle for instead. It couldn’t be a light conversation, no, feathery matters aren’t enough. “You think something won’t? Both sides drinking, distracted, enjoying themselves too much to care about anything else?” It was the sort of logic that was hardly difficult to grasp but all the more comical from someone who indulged vices so eagerly as he did. “I’d be more surprised if nothing happened, and be honest; so would you. It takes all the fun out of causing any trouble myself.”

No use in already having the scrutiny of the Queen in case something did happen, even if it meant the evening would be more subdued than he preferred but the conversation is something. “Might as well finish drinking, we’re not important enough to have to worry about seeing the morning. Too many better targets." 

"Nothing creeping around in the dark in going to bother trying to get you anyway, you’d scare it away.” Thorne added, hands lifted in a gesture of claws and high shoulders, as high as he could manage because Canaan was unnaturally tall in a way that lends itself to that intimidating presence. “Unless they were going to take out your ankles or have a stepladder with them you’ll be safe.”  

‘I seem to recall that works even for you.’ 

Something sours in Cain’s gut, and he has to chew and swallow away his impulse to snarl. It’s not that he can ever forget that Thorne is Thallis’ brother, but sometimes, he’s so distracted by how different they are, that he’s unprepared for the reminders of what they have in common. 

Thallis too, used to tease Canaan about his scowl. Granted, he did so differently, with elegant, feather-like fingers charting Canaan’s cheek and chin, with a ghost of a laugh there in the finer tendrils of his tone, obvious even when it failed to touch his lips. He’d kiss that brooding away, he’d tell Canaan in a hum against his ear. And he would, and Canaan would let him—but he thinks, perhaps, that Thallis was fond of Canaan’s scowl a lot more than he cared to admit.

But the words from this Thorne, this Ruairi, strike something sick and taut with hurt in Canaan’s lungs and so he shoots Thorne a glare, as biting as his spit of a response. “You know nothing of what you recall, Thorne. And you’d be wise not to speak of it, or my scowl is the last thing you’ll need to be worried about.”

Thorne rambles—as per usual—and it’s hard for Canaan to follow, only because where Canaan is perfectly content with simple silences, Thorne makes it his vocation to fill them. Something he says about the Seelie playing not-so-nice tugs a chord of interest, but Thorne just keeps fucking talking, and so Canaan lets him, sipping broodily at his drink, wishing now more than ever he had more of it. Much, much, more of it. 

“I was never concerned about being a target. I fully intended on drinking the night away. I was only hoping to keep you from getting too excited—keep that mouth of yours shut for five fucking minutes. Looks like I’m too little too late,” he drawls. Another gulp. Empty now—he’ll have to find another. “Surprise, surprise.”

He sets the chalice down on a passing tray, shooting Thorne a look. “Well, that was short lived.” And then, a moment of quiet—just a moment, and so he circles back, his glance at Thorne turning vaguely more inquiring. But subtly so. Of all the beasts Canaan has to take care not to appear too interested around, it’s Thorne. He’s altogether too liable to use it as an excuse to keep talking. 

“I’m aware they don’t play a traditional nice—it’s not like they’re human for fuck’s sake—but...” He pauses. “...have you? Spent much time with them?” The Queen’s qualms with Keiran echo in Cain’s ears a moment more. His mouth feels dry for a second, but he tells himself it’s his desire for liquor and the liberation it brings, nothing more. “You ought to be careful, Thorne. Sorcha may have endorsed this union but... I get the sense she isn’t terribly happy about it. I think she’s... a little thorny still, about too much fraternization. You better be sure to keep it clear where your loyalties lie, in a time like this. You aren’t exactly a court favourite, after all, with all the shit you pull.”

Ironic, maybe, that in this celebration of ‘peace’ between the courts, it may be more important than ever to ensure one’s true allegiance is clear—but strange or not, Canaan believes that to be the truth. Sorcha feels threatened—and she’s known to get vicious if backed into a wall. 

[canaan-days]

TIME: June 23rd PLACE: Loophole @gcriffith​

He’s not thrilled about the idea—this ‘spying’ of sorts on the summer court, if only because it requires more time around them than strictly necessary, and more time than he’d usually spend. But he’d agreed to it, in part, because he was more or less already doing it, wasn’t he? By extension, anyhow. The queen had asked him to keep an eye on Kieran, and Kieran’s activity with the Seelie, and to better do that, meant better understanding what the Seelie were up to, in general. Perhaps, if he’d not spent so much time willfully ignoring the inhabitants and activities of the Summer court, he’d not have been so surprised by the news of Kieran’s so-called ‘affiliations’—whether the Queen had been overreacting or not. 

His decision had also been partly motivated by the fact that, though he doesn’t enjoy extra time spent with the Seelie, he also doesn’t trust them. Now that he’s ‘gotten his way’, as Aoife had so called it, with this whole union, he can now go ahead and concern himself with the cons of the arrangement—which are predominately that they now all should be watching their backs a little more closely, and not just from humanity. Yes, this had been the right decision, Canaan suspects (hopes), but it doesn’t come without sacrifice, without consequence, and risk. Working with the Seelie may be a necessary risk, but it still a risk. 

So he’ll keep an eye on things where he can. Lurking about and observing, listening, is sort of what he does anyway, sort of his default state of existence. Murky, quiet, and brooding in the shadows—he doesn’t have to schmooze to spy, though that might be someone else’s approach. All he has to do is be there, and go overlooked, or strike up unassuming conversations with unsuspecting beasts—all of which he’s had plenty of practice in. 

He slinks into the stool at the bar with an effortless fold, all limbs and unabashed stares. His gazes equally bored as they are piercing. His eyes flick across the bar, land on the face behind it, and he inclines his chin. “Clove Amrita,” he says, clipped and brief. “And don’t be shy with it.” He’s in for a long night. 

[canaan-days]

arowankeriran‌:

It’s a grim reminder of his troubles, the small yet heavy weight that sits in the middle of his chest as he navigates the world. Canaan’s gaze is the slightest bit heavier than Keiran is used to, it has the aura of something that means more than he wants Keiran to know. A sense of anticipation in the air, a sense of dread. 

Perhaps its a second nature of his, to quietly implode while the expression on his face stays pure and neutral and clean. Only one person in his life really know how to see through the minor cracks in his foundations and read the soul of him, glimpse the true emotions hiding somewhere in the depths of his eyes. He sucks in a breath, slow and easy, as if he’s almost laughing at the question. 

“No, no reason to worry. I’d hate for you to strain a muscle attempting some genuine emotion.” He levels Canaan with a wry look, a shadow of a smile. A teasing barb, to lighten the next. “Don’t think the Queen likes how nicely I’m playing with the others, thats all. She’ll let it go when she starts to see results.” 

[That earns a small laugh—few do—earn it, that is—but Kieran does more often than perhaps anyone else. 

And it’s not like it’s unexpected; the needling of his caustic nature have become quite the regular thing. Have been for some time, in fact. But predictable or not, he still swallows them easily, a dose of nectar he can’t resist, despite his better judgement. It compliments the pepper and cayenne of his day to day life better than he cares to admit. He’ll lick the spoon when no one is looking. 

He nods—it’s not much information, but it’s enough.  He won’t push. Not only because it’s not wise to on behalf of neither Kieran nor Sorcha, but also because it’s more or less what he’d expected. Canaan doesn’t know much about who Kieran does or doesn’t spend his time with when Canaan’s back is turned, but Canaan’s back is often turned. Were his life with a room full of people, he’d be facing the wall. It’s his doing, anyhow—and it’s sort of their nature in this court, isn’t it? Secrets. Things held under tongues and carefully tucked into the soft pockets of cheeks. 

More than that, he’d... wondered if Sorcha were, per chance, over reacting. Not that he doesn’t understand her concern—the Seelie piss him off as much as they do her, he’d think—or close to, anyhow. But she is known to be... fiercely defensive. Easily crossed. He will be none to quick to get on her bad side, but perhaps her stress is more due to the fact that this... truce, of sorts, doesn’t sit too well in her stomach. He wouldn’t blame her.

His brows lift very briefly, but the settle as quickly as they’d shifted.] Playing nice? Oof—careful. You get too nice and who will I have to keep me on my toes? I’m rather quickly running out of bad influences around here. And you know better than I do that I need them, [he drawls at his own expense. He slides him a brief grin.] You expect results, then? With this arrangement? [He’d never been too sure how Kieran felt about the idea of union between the two courts. Canaan had refrained from being terribly vocal about his own thoughts on it with some of his Unseelie company. Sometimes the subject just prompted conversations he didn’t have the energy for.] 

[canaan-days]

bedlamroad‌:

“You agreeable is hardly you, so that’s not much of a favor.” Thorne counters with the certainty of one who has seen that to be the case. Canaan is many things, some downright abysmal and others more interesting than most people, but agreeable is rarely one that holds much honesty. Between the two, honest or agreeable just for the sake of playing nice? Thorne would have picked the first, the latter was an ill fit for someone like Canaan, but maybe he held some old, dusty bias from rare moments he’s seen the fool closer to happy. 

Thorne finds no fault in having it out with Canaan whenever the mood hits, whatever stray notion or thin edge happens to fall between them, it may not be a healthy back and forth but there’s something to it, and Canaan, that he values enough to face his barbs now and again. Nothing holds much real sting to it, feeling anything at all is a thousand times better than nothing; he cannot fathom how it is his old friend finds the will to pass the days in such a state but making a hobby of trying to rile him out of it remains a puzzle worth sifting the pieces apart and shoving back together to see how they might fit. Something owed, yes, because he cannot bring Thallis back or either of them, and something offered more out of wishing he could convince the other not to disappear in slow degrees with his brother. 

“Yes, of course, looming, lurking, frightening the small children and humans. You must be very busy. You scare me.” A solemn nod entirely betrayed by the tone of humor in his words, there’s no reason to scowl but he leaves Canaan to if it makes him feel better. “But that’s just a normal day for you, tonight is supposed to be a poorly veiled attempt at raising everyone’s spirits in the middle of murder and social discord; aren’t you supposed to be faking happy and pretending to like each other like everyone else?"  The words ended with a mocking laugh, wiser to watch his words but Thorne offers criticism where it belongs; the whole idea is absurd. 

A thought to retrieve his drink follows but as amusing as the indignant comment that might have followed the attempt it looked like Canaan could have used the alcohol more, his edges sharper in the glinted light. Admirable, in a way, Thorne had always secretly wondered how it was a person could so entirely act as if the world were simply not enough to earn their interest. 

"I would say you’re missing out on the disaster this’ll all become by the end of the night, but I suppose that sort of entertainment is below you these days.” It’s bound to turn that way, there are too many roaming eyes and drawn whispers lacing the air and leaving it thick; if there is anything to be found in that it’s trouble. He has a nose for it as an instigator himself, hungry for chaos in spite of himself. “I probably won’t even have a hand it in this time, no promises though.”

Though he knows Thorne doesn’t say the words seriously, Canaan still rolls his eyes, his reply approaching brassy. And on some levels, he knows this had been the other’s intention—to draw a reaction out of him, to needle him into an emotional response. Which is frustrating, because he doesn’t like to be manipulated, but considering it’s an emotional response still well within his realm of ordinary (cynicism, contempt, general-and-flagrant bitching), he lets it slide. 

“It’s a very good thing you’re pretty, Thorne, because you’re talking like a fucking idiot,” he drawls after a colourful scoff, shooting the other a look. “Fuck that. I’ll tell you what I told the Queen—not in so many words, of course, but—I will put up with this charade, I will even support the notion of this... mending of bridges, so to speak, considering I have voiced on multiple occasions that I... reluctantly believe this is the best course of action for us. But I don’t have to like it. And don’t think for one second that I’m going to just play nice with the Seelie for the sake of protecting their fragile sensibilities.”

He takes a sip of the drink he’s taken from Thorne—a sip becomes a hearty chug. When he brings it back down from his lips, he’s depleted it by half. He can almost see the bottom—a shame. 

“Missing out? You mean if I sneak away early?” Another scoff. “Please, there’ll be nothing to be missed here save for a whole lot of tiring, empty pleasantries and drunken, Seelie embarrassment.” Nonetheless, he turns Thorne an inquiring gaze—one that he disguises as distinctly disinterested, but that he’s asking at all suggests his mild curiosity. “Why—are you suggesting you actually think something will happen tonight?”

[vivienvalentino]

[canaan-days]

aoibheannagate‌:

Aoibheann tilts her head a little, playing at being lost in his philosophizing. Truthfully, she understands but it’s always easier to let people think that they’ve gone over her head. With a little smile, she responds. “We’re reveling in the Midsummer, of course. The longest day of the year.” Longest day, shortest night. Least amount of time for things to hide in the dark, for terrible things to happen overnight… Aoibheann would never speak it out loud lest she jinx it, but she was sure there would be no murder tonight.

He gives a disdainful look around the setting and Aoibheann almost laughs at how put upon he seems. “It appears you’re working very hard at having a bad time,” she says, giggles breaking through her words. Unseelie, then. The conversations she’d had with those fae so far told her that many were not pleased to be sharing their court. “None taken,” she assures him breezily.

His question surprises her – or the abruptness of it does. “Yes, I am. I’ve been around you lot for several years now, though.” Not quite so green as some other changelings.

He snorts, but to her credit, it’s almost a laugh. “Come to know me a little better and you’ll see how little effort it takes for me to have a ‘bad time’.” It’s a drawl, and it’s dry, but a small smirk approaches his lips and he lets it stay a while. No harm, no foul. There’s an energy about her that he reluctantly doesn’t mind.

She confirms his suspicions, and though she seems a little taken aback by his ask, she answers without much hesitation. She’s confident, then, comfortable with her status—and he can’t help but wonder, as he often does with Changelings, how she could seem so... untroubled by what’s become of her—what had been done to her. The years she lost, all those many days wasted. However many more she may be destined in her future, they will all not be tainted with black and rot. Impurity, betrayal. He’d be so angry had it been him. At least his current isolation is his own doing—but to wake up and discover your natural life had been stolen from you, and to have been forced to come back into it late, removed from your kind, separated from your kin. To have been raised among humans... God, what an insult. 

Furthermore, he finds Changelings hard to trust—at least at face value. What ties do they have to their adoptive home? Where does their allegiance truly lie? Something about her eyes has him curious—he would like to trust her, he thinks—much as an Unseelie is capable of such—but he suspects she might be like many others in her position: harbouring a weak, cloying loyalty for humanity.

“Mm. Welcome home, then.” He pauses, looks to her again. Licks his lips. “Did you leave much of anything behind?” He’s referring to ties, loved ones, desire, devotion. Is she truly home, or will she straddle the lines and fight to have both for the rest of her tortured life? Not quite human, but never quite ‘other’, either. Maybe she will catch his drift, maybe she won’t. He doesn’t care either way. 

[canaan-days]

fae-aoife‌:

What an optimist he is. Aoife looked at him, gaze glittering in the firelight, with a twinkle of amusement. The sentiment of having to fight together was not one Aoife felt inclined to entertain, not in the least. It seemed like a very human way of thinking. It was what they all said in the movies: we’ve got to stick together, we’re stronger together, we’ll live and die together.

She disliked doing things ‘together’. The beat of her own drum was far interesting to march to, though she did like having other people around. She just didn’t like to listen to them all the time. They often said things she didn’t like. Like Canaan, with his ‘this party is a necessary evil’ spiel. Aoife didn’t want him to think like that, because she didn’t want anyone to think collaboration with the Seelie was as necessary as it was evil.

Oh, it was sensible. It was the ‘right’ thing to do, by some dull moral codes. Particularly from the queen’s standpoint, she needed to do what would protect her people. But Aoife thought that humans were a fleeting problem. Even young as she is, Aoife remembers them panicking over the speed of trains. It wasn’t the trains that were moving too fast, though, it was them. They graduated from muskets to nuclear weapons in such a short space of time, and they’re spinning faster and faster towards self destruction. Maybe it will take years, but what are a few centuries, to a race that has members older than the trees of those human’s forests?

Aoife hummed, gaze narrow and directed away. “The humans will kill themselves soon enough. It was only a few centuries ago they were still rutting away in the dirt. They’ve got nuclear weapons off every coast now, and their leaders are all fat, ignorant fools. Give them a few decades, they’ll blow themselves up and the earth will be able to breathe again. Humans are fleeting. Why should we forge peace with the Summer Court over a problem that will extinguish itself soon enough?”

Sometimes she seems so young. He knows this defies logic, in many ways—they are close in age and he is no elder, no Sorcha, no Prince of the Seelie. He is half the age of many, even less of even more—but he feels old, and it’s so sorely so, that he sometimes wonder if it’s because he’s dying. If there’s something in him broken, touched by the fatal finger of a humanity he so loathes and deliberately avoids. But perhaps it’d found him in his sleep, one night, cursed him with the weight of death and aging as a consequence for his moment of weakness, of foolishness. His soul feels old, decrepit, bitter. And he wonders, oh, how he wonders—if this is what love has done to him. Perhaps this is the true reason human beings are fleeting—they kill themselves with hate, as readily as they kill themselves with heartbreak. 

Aoife is so filled with fire, in this lazy, blistering fury of hers, it simmers and paces, even as she keeps it mostly contained, sat there against an ancient trunk, and he can’t tell if he more envies  ore resents her for it. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. 

He hums, quiet and brooding a moment. “Yours is a different kind of optimism,” he starts. “Unfortunately, I have a suspicion things will not so easily right themselves, as you seem to think.” Two hundred years ago, he might’ve felt differently. Two hundred years ago, he might’ve agreed with her, even. Now, however... now he sees clearly. The tinted goggles of youth and arrogance have been replaced with a lens of cynicism and indifference. 

“I wish I could agree with you, and don’t think I haven’t shared those feelings of arrogance, or even still do—but it’s our arrogance that got us here in the first place, and it will be our arrogance that undoes us, in the end. If we let this go on another two hundred, three hundred, six hundred years, how many more of our kind will we lose?” He looks to her, and there is something new swirling in his dark and clouded gaze. He can feel it, and it feels like poison, pluming black clouds in a glass of flat tonic. 

“How many more of us murdered? You propose, what—we just sit back and let it happen? Let them do it to us, because we will possibly outlive them by thousands of years, if we simply let their generations wane when they will? They outnumber us ten thousand to one, Aoife. And letting them get away with this isn’t pride, or strength—it’s cowardice.”

Because it’s not just the deaths, is it? It’s the runners, the hiders, too. Would Thallis still be here were it not for—

He grows angry at the thought, though more so at himself. He’s thought of Thallis too often this past year. It should stop. It has to stop. He will make it stop. 

Perhaps, if they fix this, he’ll have the solace he needs to think of Thallis no more. 

“So yes, I will endure the Summer Court, I will tolerate all of... this,” he continues, gesturing vaguely at the scene that has so disturbed the court they call home, “so that I can live in a world where we did not run from fucking humanity, of all things. They want a fight, let us bring it to them. Let them regret they ever so much uttered our name. Let this be the hill they fucking die on.” 

[canaan-days]

arowankeriran‌:

His heart beats just a little bit faster at the slow line of questioning. It’s second nature to tense up at the implication, but he forces his shoulders to stay relaxed. Keiran just has to do what he does best, blend in, keep quiet, become the shadows. Relaxed shoulders, amused eyes, a curious tilt of his head. 

There’s no need to feel any real panic about it. He hasn’t been as quiet as he should be about working with Ailis, about agreeing to join her on her little crusade. That’s what got him in to trouble in the first place. And him and Mordred might try their best to engage in subtlety, but people know they’ve talked. It isn’t courting death to be civil with the seelie court, it isn’t a total disgrace. So many of them do it, play the game and only bare their teeth the minimal amount. 

It would be dangerous if someone knew the extent of it, in full. 

“Friendly is a strong word.” He settles on, finally. “I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it. Some of them don’t make me want to lose my mind with boredom.” It’s a careful balance, a dance with the truth. “Some of them are useful, that’s all. Good hunters, good with information.” He’s gruff about it, a shrug of his shoulder. “Some of them want to bring the fight to whoever’s hunting us, and I’m inclined to agree with that.” And then, a wry smile. “Doesn’t make me want to party down with them.” 

The wry smile is returned. There are many reasons they have found themselves to flock together, to be the company each other keeps, and this is a good example of one of them. Canaan can related the somewhat bitter, reluctant practicality of it all. After all, Kieran may be a more agreeable fae than he, perhaps—or at least a more social one—but their perspectives are not so different concerning the Seelie, end of day. At least not the perspective Kieran shares with him. 

He gives a curt nod. “Fair, I may have been... a little too forgiving with the term. In any case, I think you know I agree with the notion of bringing the fight to our enemies outside Otherworld, and outside our own kind. It’s probably fair to say it’s the only concrete reason I’m still fucking standing here, amidst this whole...” He gestures vaguely to the twinkly, festive decor, commotion, company. “...display.” 

But he looks to Kieran again. There’s a question on his tongue, and a ‘but’ in the air that he doesn’t know how to approach, or if he dares. It’s not that he lives a life of exceptional honest with those he calls friends—it’s not like any Unseelie really do—but to totally repress questions he might usually ask without a second thought because if this information he’d gotten from the queen, feels equally as unnatural. 

“There are rumours that you’ve made someone angry. Care to speak to those?” He pauses, and slides Kieran a subtly teasing smirk. “Should I be worried?” Best to keep the mood a little light—as close to normal for the two of them as possible, and drawling, caustic banter feels about right. 

[canaan-days]

bedlamroad‌:

canaan-days‌:

time: June 21st, late place: Midsummer Solstice, Winter Court          { @bedlamroad​​ }

It was too easy, that they called him Thorne. Too easy, that he’d become the very Thorne in Canaan’s side, so much so that he was loathe to reference the cliché, for it was ludicrously low hanging fruit, but he did it anyway. 

Because he was. Thorne was the bramble stuck in Canaan’s shin from his years of foolish frolicking and bushwhacking with Thallis. A thorn he’d tried so hard to pry free that he’d bled and bled, and when he’d finished, the thorn had only sunk deeper and new skin would be grown over it by morning. 

Much to his regret, Thorne had become a part of Canaan. Whether it was before Thallis and the rest of his family had left, or after, Canaan couldn’t be sure. Maybe the answer was neither. Maybe it was both. But either way, he was the little brother to Thallis Thorne and when Thallis left and broke Canaan’s heart into a thousand tiny pieces, Thorne was the one piece that remained. An ever-present, inescapable reminder of what Canaan never should have allowed himself to want in the first place. 

He should hate him. He should want nothing but to be spared the sight of him. And whether the former points are true or not are irrelevant, because it would seem that regardless, Canaan feels a certain obligation to him. Despite Thorne being an absolute train wreck—a fumbling, manic tragedy, a headache to the court and a danger to himself—Canaan feels bridled to the Fae. A sick combination of regret or masochism, loyalty or love, maybe, though he doesn’t often ask himself this question anymore, because he’s not sure he can stomach the answer. 

He’s watched Thorne from the sidelines at least a portion of the evening—it might’ve been more, but Canaan resents the way Thorne divides his attention already, and he already has his hands fuller than he’d like with news from the Queen and watching over Kieran, tempering Aoife’s petulance. But as the stars slide by, the night ticking on, Thorne becomes more and more of a pest, drunker by the minute. He holds it well, he always has—but after a few hundred years, Canaan recognizes the signs.

When he can avoid it no longer, he sidles Thorne’s way, plucking the chalice from the Fae’s spritely fingertips in a gesture that’s much more familiar than Canaan is known to be with most anyone. “I’ll take that,” he drawls, taking an immodest sip for himself with no intention of returning the cup. “Anymore of this for you and you’ll drown from the inside out. And Maker knows I won’t let you take the pleasure of drowning you myself away from me.

The look he shoots Thorne is sarcastic and dry, and though not a smile in sight, someone who knows him well enough might recognize the modicum of kinship in it. Well, nestled somewhere deeply among genuine scorn and four hundred some-odd years of exasperation. 

Hate is a fickle word, no different than affection or fear when each is only a different color of the same manner of beast and flowed too easily from one to the next. Emotions were delightful little notions, fluid as water and just as swift to turn from summer shower to thunderstorm in an instant; why anyone bothered to pin such ideas to people and think they might stick was a truly perplexing concept. One day to the next his opinions changed, his vices and wants, irritations and amusements. To think any one person was chained to a single emotion was the sort of bemusing madness that Thorne found humorous and Canaan would have been no different if not for something rare he held that very few others did. A matter of history between them that made a resounding difference. 

Enough of one that Thorne didn’t allow the words to leave his lips with a growl as he would have most others when he felt the cast of shadow over his indulgent evening and was left with empty hands and missing the weight of the drink snatched from them. There was no use in such effort when Canaan saw through it with ease, some games less entertaining when the other person already knew they were being played. 

His rough edges held purpose but with Canaan it was a null point, when he snapped at him it was with real fire and indignation behind it and not just for a flashy show of bared teeth that were expected. It could hardly be only a flourish of false intent, held back by inches regardless of the name to the emotion; it was a mockery of their long-standing friendship to do so. Although friendship was a shaky term by Canaan’s own insistence, even if that did nothing to sway Thorne’s views on the matter of there, yes, friendship. The honesty in it was nearly painful at times, other times intoxicating, but it was the time and place for neither. 

“You’re worse than a babysitter,” the remark he settles for is purposely bland to mirror because that is a game he’ll play just to ruffle up the other’s feathers a bit. “I really do enjoy your fawning over my well-being and your charming threats to it, but do you have to do that?” One hand lifts and the motion is vague and to the whole of Cain, presence and expression alike.  

“Looming.” Thorne clarifies with a single word before it spills into several more thanks to the hum of intoxicated bliss worming slow through his veins and his natural inclination to be a poor judge at when to hold his tongue. “That’s going to give me nightmares.” Again, a wave of his hand in exaggerated motion, coupled with a humored sound, and Thorne only eyes the drink for a moment on principle. Knowing he could easily replace it isn’t nearly as interesting as complaining over the loss. 

He will, of course, complain. Ramble in his distracted coherence and leave any actual annoyance to another day when his mood isn’t such a comfortable one. Canaan tips too many scales as it is, gathers forgiveness, but he enjoys his company too much even if the predictability is what he would pry right out of the other Fae if he could. Any emotion he gets a glimpse of from the other, well, it feels like a victory. 

“Careful Cain,” he trades dry banter as an old and pleasured habit, a shared language between them. “Drink too much and you might actually enjoy yourself, can’t have that happen. World might end.”   Thorne’s expression will break first, humor will edge at his lips before Canaan would even consider permitting himself such things, because it always does. 

‘Babysitter’. The word puts something sick and vile in the back of his throat, on the roof of his mouth, and he has to actively keep himself from retching. He all-but instantly regrets coming over here, with the words, and he wonders if that was Thorne’s intention. 

The gesture Canaan’s way is vague, Thorne’s gaze dark, a bit moody. Looming. It makes Canaan both roll his eyes and bite back a smirk—a faint want of a curl of his lips, which he tucks behind the rim of his glass. Irritability pools, though—as is always the case with this particular, nettlesome reminder of a life Canaan once lived—or might’ve lived in another universe. Sometimes, were it not for Thorne, he thinks that he’d be halfway to convincing himself that Thallis hadn’t even happened, that his heartbreak was all an illusion—a made up story he’d woven for himself to help justify his apathy and malice. 

But here Thorne is, day in and day out, a barbed, acerbic echo of his brother—harder in appearance and in demeanour, and it serves as a painful reminder everyday that Canaan’s loss is just as real as that life long ago. 

“Whether I’m looming or not, it has little to do with you. Don’t flatter yourself.” Looming is who he is, what he is. He has loomed this whole lifetime, since the time those hundreds of years ago he’d slid into someone else’s shadow and never reemerged. 

He gives Thorne a dry look at the barb about his enjoying himself. “Maker, your wit astounds, me,” he drawls, gaze shifting away to the fire for a moment or two. It’s hard to look Thorne in the eyes too long. Thankfully, Canaan doesn’t often look anyone in the eyes too long in general, an impulse to avoid deep or lengthy connections, he would assume—so he has a reasonable cover for not doing so now. He doesn’t have to admit, even to himself, that it’s because Canaan sees Thallis in Thorne’s eyes when the moonlight hits them just so. 

“Besides. Liquor makes me more agreeable to others, and them more agreeable to me. I’m doing everyone a favour.” 

[canaan-days]

time: June 21st, late place: Midsummer Solstice, Winter Court          { @bedlamroad​​ }

It was too easy, that they called him Thorne. Too easy, that he’d become the very Thorne in Canaan’s side, so much so that he was loathe to reference the cliché, for it was ludicrously low hanging fruit, but he did it anyway. 

Because he was. Thorne was the bramble stuck in Canaan’s shin from his years of foolish frolicking and bushwhacking with Thallis. A thorn he’d tried so hard to pry free that he’d bled and bled, and when he’d finished, the thorn had only sunk deeper and new skin would be grown over it by morning. 

Much to his regret, Thorne had become a part of Canaan. Whether it was before Thallis and the rest of his family had left, or after, Canaan couldn’t be sure. Maybe the answer was neither. Maybe it was both. But either way, he was the little brother to Thallis Thorne and when Thallis left and broke Canaan’s heart into a thousand tiny pieces, Thorne was the one piece that remained. An ever-present, inescapable reminder of what Canaan never should have allowed himself to want in the first place. 

He should hate him. He should want nothing but to be spared the sight of him. And whether the former points are true or not are irrelevant, because it would seem that regardless, Canaan feels a certain obligation to him. Despite Thorne being an absolute train wreck—a fumbling, manic tragedy, a headache to the court and a danger to himself—Canaan feels bridled to the Fae. A sick combination of regret or masochism, loyalty or love, maybe, though he doesn’t often ask himself this question anymore, because he’s not sure he can stomach the answer. 

He’s watched Thorne from the sidelines at least a portion of the evening—it might’ve been more, but Canaan resents the way Thorne divides his attention already, and he already has his hands fuller than he’d like with news from the Queen and watching over Kieran, tempering Aoife’s petulance. But as the stars slide by, the night ticking on, Thorne becomes more and more of a pest, drunker by the minute. He holds it well, he always has—but after a few hundred years, Canaan recognizes the signs.

When he can avoid it no longer, he sidles Thorne’s way, plucking the chalice from the Fae’s spritely fingertips in a gesture that’s much more familiar than Canaan is known to be with most anyone. “I’ll take that,” he drawls, taking an immodest sip for himself with no intention of returning the cup. “Anymore of this for you and you’ll drown from the inside out. And Maker knows I won’t let you take the pleasure of drowning you myself away from me.

The look he shoots Thorne is sarcastic and dry, and though not a smile in sight, someone who knows him well enough might recognize the modicum of kinship in it. Well, nestled somewhere deeply among genuine scorn and four hundred some-odd years of exasperation. 

[canaan-days]

[canaan-days]

aoibheannagate‌:

It takes him a moment to answer but that doesn’t bother Aoibheann. She takes the time to settle her breathing. And, to watch him as much as he’s watching her. She’s certain that he’s the fae she’s thinking of, at least. Not a well-known face at all, but they’ve exchanged words, she’s sure of it. She watches him drink.

“Well, nice to officially meet you.” She drops into what is clearly a playful curtsy but it’s a little too much for her tired limbs and she ends up stumbling. A laugh trills and she shakes her head at herself. “That’s right. I’m the one usually tending to the plants.” Enough people come and go at around the shop – especially fae, but not only – that Aoibheann can never gauge just how much one might or might not know about her. 

“Canaan,” she says his name like she’s trying it on for size, weighing it on her tongue. “I take it you’re not much of a reveler?” With a nod, she indicates his positioning, set off to the side.

It’s what she thinks now—that it’s ‘nice’ to meet him. But she says so because manners dictate it, or perhaps her foolish optimism does. Whatever the case, he has no doubt she’ll feel differently later, when she actually comes to know him. They often do, and he can’t pretend to be bothered by it. The more who like him, the more on which he either has to spare a sliver of his limited energy, or he has to disappoint. Not that disappointing others is particularly distressing to him—quite the opposite, actually—but still. 

She plays a curtsy, fumbles and laughs. Her laugh is smooth and melodic, a wet finger circling the rim of something smooth, and hollow—but the prettiness of it is a little unsettling. He isn’t exactly comfortable with ‘pretty’. 

He raises a brow briefly at the question, then tilts his head in a half shrug. “I guess it depends on what I’d be revelling in.” Though that’s sort of a lie. Is there anything he truly revels in, these days? Is there anything he still enjoys? Does he remember what enjoyment truly feels like? Is he at fault for having forgotten, because he’d decided sometime, a long time ago, that to not feel at all was worth the sacrifice, if it meant never knowing the kind of pain, or disappointment, he’d known all those years ago. Never again. 

“I guess you could say it’s not really my scene. Or rather—” he looks about the court of frost and ice, silvers and greys, and unforgiving wood. “It’s my scene with rather untoward company.” He looks over at her. “No offence.” He doesn’t actually mean her—he doesn’t even mean any one fae specifically. Just... the total package, and the imbalanced and unfamiliar atmosphere that comes with it. Though, now that he looks at her, he can’t tell if she’s Seelie or not. She’s certainly not familiar enough to him to be Unseelie—it triggers a memory, though. 

“You’re a changeling, aren’t you?” He’d known it at a time—in passing, perhaps, idle information he’d neither asked for nor made much effort to remember. But he remembers now. Putting a name to her face and her face to an identity of sorts. 

[canaan-days]

arowankeriran‌:

“Parties are boring compared to fighting.” He sighs it out, a skirting of the truth. He feels sullen. He feels like he’s aching for something. There’s a part of him that would like to embrace it, bow before some pretty Seelie thing and let them weave flowers into his hair. He could dance in the sun too, if he were a different kind of beast. 

He still keeps glimpsing Mordred out of the corner of his eye, makes a concentrated effort to look elsewhere. “The sooner we can ditch it, the better.” Months ago he might have just left. Wandered away, disappeared into the night. Keeping up appearances is more important now than ever.

He brushes the thoughts aside and glances back over at his friend, jealous of his drink, jealous of the way he never seems to care as strongly. “C’mon. You agree, right? You look mind-numbingly bored.”

Something about Kieran’s comment makes Canaan smile—just a little. It’s subtle, and he tucks it away behind the rim of his chalice, but it’s there nonetheless. Kieran sometimes reminds Canaan of an impatient, restless cub. All teeth and feckless energy—a Tasmanian Devil, snarling and chomping at the bit; pouting when it didn’t get its way. Canaan is quite adverse to admitting it, but Kieran has more effect on Canaan than the other fae probably even realizes. There is nothing that can make Canaan the fae he once was, but through Kieran, he catches glimpses of him from time to time. 

“Of course, I agree. What do you take me for?” His tone is drawling, teasing. “There are precious few Seelie who aren’t a total torture to interact with for any period of time.” He pauses, looks over at Kieran again as onyx eyes dart about the room, seem to linger somewhere, then flick away. Canaan has a handful of guesses as to why. 

“You and I both know you’re not so adverse as I though,” he starts carefully. He tries not to let the Queen’s words rattle him too much—at least not yet—focuses instead on what he already knows of Kieran, and his unlikely acquaintances with a handful of Seelie. One of which Canaan has an especially uncomfortable relationship with—though it’s certainly a stretch to call it as such. 

“Is it hard for you?” he continues, a cautious elusion. “It must be different being friendly with them, under the eyes of our court.”

[canaan-days]

fae-aoife‌:

Her expression flickered; not its usual star-bright look of mirth, but something more subdued. Less joyful, more honest. Canaan was funny when he was dramatic. To look at them, Aoife was the flame that burned – but often Canaan reminded her that he was still very much the embers below.

Usually she might try to drag him out. His apathy annoyed her. It annoyed her, because it worried her. Though he’d hardly been the life and soul of the party when they were younger, he’d been more engaged. Bits and pieces of him had died over the decades, withered away like rotten bits of bark from a tree - and she didn’t want to see the cambium beneath. But just tonight, she thought he might have the right idea by lurking outside the revelries for a bit. 

It was difficult to maintain a facade when you were so far outside your comfort zone. Aoife liked the Winter Court because it was home, and she knew it as she knew her own face in a looking glass. But it felt like it had been invaded by something alien tonight, and she no longer felt welcome. Perhaps she was the alien now, looking in from a foreign land. She understood why this party was put together; the Seelie understood humans better than those of the Winter Court, so an alliance could be beneficial. But… she didn’t like to question the queen, but she couldn’t suppress the thought that there might be a less distasteful way to get information out of the Seelie.

“Oh, don’t steal my thunder. I was trying to be dramatic.” She settled her back more comfortably against the tree, staring out at the dancing masses with distaste. “Besides, isn’t this what you wanted? Collaboration? Don’t be a bitch about it now it’s happening.”

Don’t steal my thunder. 

Yes, that sounds like Aoife. She likes to claim that her actions are never in the interest of seeking attention, but Canaan privately disagrees. He won’t harass her about it, because it’s not an argument he’s at all invested in having (anymore), especially with someone as stubborn as she, but her fascination with humanity and chaos often strikes him as a thinly veiled pursuit for company, as much as it is entertainment. Though he doesn’t expect her to ever admit it, he suspects she detests being lonely. 

Isn’t this what you wanted? He had a feeling she’d throw that in his face, but even with the ‘bitch’ commentary, he hardly blinks. It’s the way they’ve been for centuries now. She’s known him far too long. Longer than most and longer than he’s entirely comfortable with, if only because he hates that she knows as much as she does. It’s not like there aren’t others—others who had seem him in another time, known him in another time—but most of those folk are ones he isn’t close with, and that is hardly on accident. But Aoife, he’ll reluctantly admit, has become like a sister to him, and he can’t say for sure when it happened, but he knows he’ll never shake her. And she likely knows he wouldn’t want to, though he doesn’t say so.

“Don’t be deliberately thick. I never said collaboration is what I wanted. I said it’s what I believe we needed if we stand a chance surviving the next few hundred years. Humankind has us in a chokehold, and we’ve been playing pretend for too long. It can’t go on like this anymore. Fighting back is the only way, and we have to do it together. Fortunately, the Queen has realized this.” 

He pauses, looking out towards the milling festivities, lights a-twinkle, frost a-light on branches and bark. “I’m not against this evening. I’m aware it’s a... necessary evil. But that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.” 

[canaan-days]

unqueensorcha‌:

Her smile is a genuine thing, almost. Amused with the playful little tete-a-tete. “Well, if I ever become the type, feel free to take the leap and put me out of my misery. It’s a pretty little means to an end, nothing more.” Words that ring true. She finds the company at large disgusting, too much mortality in her own domain. They’ll have to cleanse the place as best they can when the day is done, purifying smoke and statues of bone to reclaim it as their own. 

“Don’t fret, dearest Canaan. I would never give a job such as that to a beast like you. I think far too highly of you to send you off and make you play pretty princess with the summer court. They’re toothless, clawless things, and I have no fear of them. Let them hate us, let them worship us, neither will matter in the end, when this story is finished.” A gentle hand on his shoulder, a gentle grin. “No, our matter rests much closer to home. A member of our court has made me very angry, yet in troubled times I have taken it upon myself to show him mercy.” 

It is a mercy. Had it been a different year, had Keiran been a different man –– things may have gone in a very different direction. Her fury is her right. She doesn’t need a petty little thing like Keiran acting out, acting without orders and getting them all tangled up in things they would rather leave behind. 

“Keiran is your friend. Your little pet monster, correct? He values you above many, I can see it in his eyes. Well, dearest, the ice he stands on has gotten thin. It shall be your job, from now on, to keep a close eye on him. He stepped out of line with the Prince’s pets. That girl Ailis and her group of rogues. I don’t believe he’s the type to make a choice such as that unbidden, with no orders from on high. He isn’t sharp enough, he doesn’t have the mind for it. He must have gotten the idea from somewhere.” 

She’s as sharp as a knife, suddenly. Deathly serious. “Watch. See who moves him to act as he does. Mind that he doesn’t step further out of line.” Voice lower, gaze intense. “You’ll be rewarded greatly, granted that you do your best and keep this between the two of us.” 

The means to an end. That he can understand—and though it’s what he might’ve assumed about her intentions with playing host, somehow there is comfort in hearing her say it. And he wonders if any of that comfort at all comes from the confirmation that she does indeed intent to mend things with the Seelie Court—if only for the sake of all their futures. For the fae they have so unjustly lost over the past few months. Does he have it in him left to hope, he wonders? Is that what this sensation is? It’s funny, had you asked him about it a moment ago, he doesn’t think he would have been able to answer. He is often surprised to find life in him yet—even with all Kieran’s urging, and Aoife’s pushing, every time he stumbles across his unlikely capacity to enjoy or long for anything, he is surprised. Every time. 

The Queen’s hand on his shoulder lurches Canaan from his thoughts. A kind touch from Sorcha is never anything but a weapon, a warning. And the smile he finds on her lips when he looks over is born more from rage, than generosity. It may not be directed at him—for whatever reason, she seems to have taken a liking to him, and he is by no means eager to change her mind on the subject—but it is disquieting nonetheless. 

A chill runs through him, cold-blooded as he is, when Kieran’s name passes her lips. His gaze is rapt on her face—rarely does he listen so intently to anything anyone says. Of course, the Queen is often an exception to this rule, as she should be for anyone, if they value all their fingers, all their toes—but though he doesn’t let concern colour his patient expression, he waits on bated breath for her explanation. She provides one in full, but it’s a lot to take in.

She speaks of reward—it matters little to him, in theory, but in practically, it matters more. Doing well by the Queen would be good for both him and Kieran, by the sounds of it. If she is so unsettled by this—this whatever it is—it’d be in Kieran’s best interest, too, to dampen her discontent any way they can. 

“I’m sure that can be arranged. Don’t tell him I said so, lest he get the idea the foolish idea I actually have a heart, but I tend to keep an eye on him already. Doubt he’ll notice a difference. But—” He has to know what he’s looking for. He has to better understand the situation. He hesitates, but given the Queen is asking this of him in the first place, surely it’s a sign she trusts him enough not to be opposed to his inquiring a little further. “Just how, exactly, has he stepped out of line? You mentioned Ailis?”

[canaan-days]

aoibheannagate‌:

time:: june 21, evening location:: stone circle, midsummer party tagging:: @canaan-days​

The sun has just started to descend but their Midsummer festivities are still rioting strong. It’s been a blur of all her favorite things for Aoibheann: dancing and friends and good food and better drink. The flower crown she wove at the very beginning of the day has begun to wilt and fall apart, poppy petals drifting into her eyes. She trails toward the bonfire, gathering the separating flowers as she goes. Once at the fire, she tilts her face up, toward the sunsetting horizon and smiles to the sun before tossing the flowers into the blaze. An offering to the oldest gods.

As she’s smiling through the tongues of flames, Aoibheann catches on a familiar face. Not unusual – almost everyone here is a familiar face in some respect. What makes this one stand out, though, is that it’s less familiar than others. A fae she knows from around, here and there. She can’t quite place his name but she’s sure she’s seen him at the apothecary a time or two. And what’s a party like this for if not getting to know one another and making friends?

She ambles over in clear view, already smiling as she moves. “Good Midsummer tidings,” she greets. “I’ve seen you at the store, I think. I’m Aoibheann.”

She is the picture of tired exuberance; She’d come to have a good time, she’d had a good time, and now she fades and droops and wilts—like the sun lowering into the horizon, like the flowers in her hair. Her movements have lost their precision—assuming they had any in the first place—and when she meanders towards him, he can guess at the way she’ll sound before she even opens her mouth. Practiced, familiar chit-chat and pleasantries; it comes so easy to the friendly sort, and they brandish them about as though they aren’t so overused they’re a sigh away from an insult. 

Not that Canaan cares either way. Cynical as he may be, he is far from easily offended. He’d have to care a great deal more about the world he wanders now on absent feet, than he actually does. 

Her hair is affray, which he notices because as she speaks he finds it compliments her in a way he can’t quite place. 

His nod in acknowledgement is so minuscule, one might miss it were they to blink. He looks away, casting his gaze towards the bonfire, and taking a sip of his drink before he responds. “I remember,” he offers simply. A beat—one a little too long, before he looks over at her. “Canaan.” Another beat. “The Apothecary, right?”