Notes: Let's have our potential lovers sit down for an actual conversation, hmm?
Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards, Ch. 8 Pt. 1
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Chapter Eight, Part One
Peverell’s Demon
“What do you carry for nightmares?”
A startlingly blunt question to begin a conversation with, but Hiram couldn’t say he wasn’t intrigued. He contemplated the man in front of him for a moment, took in the light in his eyes and the faint curve at the corners of his lips, and after a moment he said, “That would depend upon the strength and the source of the nightmares, Master…”
“Surrus. Avery Surrus.” The smile edging those lips blossomed for a moment. “Lollop’s schoolmaster.”
“Ah.” Hiram felt a surge of gratification. “I thought as much. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
Master Surrus chuckled. “From the Neven clan, yes? I’m not as beastly as my dear students say, I assure you.”
“I would never accuse you of such a thing,” Hiram replied. “Children aren’t always the best character witnesses.” Sometimes they were, of course—sometimes they were spot on, but a teacher could encompass fear, faith, appreciation, and resentment all in the same breath. Still… “No one has said anything ill of you in my presence, so your reputation is safe as far as I’m concerned.”
“As is yours,” Master Surrus said, but there was a hint of something else in his voice. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t say ‘safe,’ since I’ve heard a great many reports about you since your arrival in Lollop and not all of them agree. Rather, let me say that you seem to be a man of much interest.”
Ah. He’s fishing. Not really surprising, considering how many people had come by his stall this morning with no intention to buy, just wanting a bit of conversation. Still, it was a trifle disappointing. Back to the matter at hand. “Tell me more of your nightmares, Master Surrus.”
The young man nodded like he hadn’t just been put off. “They take an unfortunately broad number of forms, I’m afraid. Most often they creep up on me at night, but occasionally I’m lost to them during the day.”
Interesting. “Do you suffer from waking nightmares, then?”
Master Surrus nodded stiffly. “From time to time.”
That was rather serious. “How long has this been going on?”
“Oh, for years now,” Master Surrus replied with more than a bit of fatigue in his voice. “For a time it wasn’t so bad, but recently it seems like they’re increasing in duration and intensity.”
“Was there a catalyzing event for these nightmares?”
He smiled again, a barely-there curve. “Yes, but I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Hmm.” This was beginning to sound more like the domain of a priest, but there had to be a reason the young man was coming to Hiram instead of them. Perhaps they’d tried and failed to cure his mental affliction, or perhaps he was afraid they would dig too deeply into his psyche. At the very least, Hiram could give him a good start to his sleep. He began to dig through his sachets, looking for ones he could combine for better effect.
“Let me give you something to start your night off sweetly. Chamomile.” He tapped three of the bags into a small ceramic jar, then added a spoonful of tiny stone fruits he’d found at the back edge of his garden. “Sour cherries. And some of this.” He retrieved the ground valerian root he’d brought all the way from Galenish and poured a spoonful of that in as well. He shook the jar to mix it, then contemplated it for a moment and added the last of his packages of chamomile. “Soak a spoonful’s worth in warm milk at night—water if you don’t care for milk, but no alcohol—and drink it down a few minutes before you go to bed. It should give you a head start on a good night’s sleep. It should certainly suffice to keep your dreams pleasant through the length of a nap.”
Master Surrus’s expression was a trifle…disappointed, it seemed. “Thank you.” He shook his head. “I suppose it would be too much to hope you had a Peverell’s Demon on hand.”
Hiram laughed with delight. He couldn’t stop himself; it had been a very long time since he’d heard that particular name brought up. “Are you trained in the classical philosophies, then?”
Master Surrus blinked. “You know of Peverell’s Demon?”
“Who doesn’t? A creature devoid of desire except to serve, but only able to do so in a manner that is both destructive and creative at the same time, in equal measure. A hypothetical posited to students of many different stripes, so that they can examine their own biases and thoughts with relation to their field of study.”
Master Surrus nodded encouragingly, his smile back full force. “A gentle introduction to discussion and, more importantly, to disagreement. Not to mention finding a creative and hopefully positive solution to a problem.”
“Indeed.” Hiram chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, it’s been a long time since I’ve contemplated Peverell’s Demon, Master Surrus. Not since I was a student myself.”
The other man sat back a bit farther in the other chair, his gaze contemplative. “And what does a student of herbology make of Peverell’s Demon, Master Emblic?”
In truth, most herbalists would know nothing of this particular philosophical construct. It acted as a thought experiment to those who went into more esoteric fields of study, which herbalism decidedly wasn’t. But Hiram was enjoying the conversation and wanted to draw it out a bit longer. Tilda wasn’t back yet…there was no one waiting for his services…what could it hurt?
“An interesting question,” he said after a moment. “The most direct application of this particular Demon lies in the harvest of ingredients for the things an herbalist makes. That’s destruction and creation in equal measure. However, the same could be said of most types of healer, or even a farmer, so that’s not a very compelling or unique example. Let us consider your particular predicament, Master Surrus.” He idly rolled the jar back and forth in his hands as he spoke. “You wish to be free from your nightmares. Nightmares in and of themselves are creatures that can have many different layers and distinctions. Without knowing how to name your nightmare or the depths from which it springs, I cannot outright kill it with the tricks of my particular trade. Even if I could, it’s likely other parts of you would be affected. Parts you’d rather keep whole.”
This was the point in a conversation where a normal sort of person would blink or look away, but Master Surrus didn’t so much as twitch. “And so I must dance around this nightmare instead and create a different sort of barrier,” Hiram went on. “Something less effective than an outright assassin, but more effective than a child with a pointy stick.”
“I don’t know about that,” Master Surrus murmured. “Children with pointy sticks can be quite dangerous.”
“I daresay you’d know best. Nevertheless, and at the risk of belaboring the metaphor, in your case the Demon cannot seek outright destruction. It can only seek to tame, and so Peverell would say this is a weak example of the good to which this predicament is applicable. Personally, though, I would say that murder is always a serious undertaking, whether you’re slaying your nightmare or someone else’s, and that softening is as good a place to start as any.”
He set the jar down on the table and reached for one of the empty sachets, stretched it over the top, and bound it in place with a piece of leftover twice. “This should last you until the next Market Day,” he said, focusing on the knot he was making instead of the weight of those bright blue eyes. “Come back then and let me know how it works for you.” When Master Surrus reached for his money, Hiram shook his head. “A fair exchange for an interesting bit of conversation,” he said as he held out the jar.
Master Surrus stared at him for a long moment before saying, “I don’t think my value as a conversational partner is so high.”
“I get to be the judge of that, I’m afraid.”
“No, truly. I can’t…I can’t accept this for free.” When Hiram started to speak again, Master Surrus shook his head, then leaned in close. “Let me give you a useful bit of advice instead, if you don’t mind. The High Cleric of Melemor is a true devotee of his god, but his ability with prayer is akin to attacking with a glass bludgeon. He strikes hard at the most obvious targets, but he can only strike once. If you were to for some reason be called out during a service and asked to confess your lies before his god, it wouldn’t be impossible for a mind like yours to position only that which you were prepared to share front and center for the blow.” Master Surrus held his eyes as he took hold of the jar, then stood. “Thank you for your time, Master Emblic.”
“Hiram.” It felt important to break down this particular barrier before he left. “Please, call me Hiram.”
Master Surrus smiled. “You may call me Avery, but not where my students can hear you. I’ve got a reputation to maintain, after all.” Then he turned and walked away, and Hiram was left feeling a trifle breathless for no good reason.
“I know why, you horny old—”
“Shut up, Phlox.”
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