I would speak to him of cherry trees

The place: The Common Cup, a crunchy sort of place even by Denver's standards.  Stepping in feels good; the place is liberally lit by a large window wall that makes the wood accent wall feel warmer than one might expect something so industrial to be.  There are plants around, and the walls are currently decorated with mixed media pieces, some of which bear prices and some that don't.  In the front, up to the register and barista area, the shop is pretty narrow, possibly even crowded at some times of day, but it's easy to see that the place opens up beyond that.  There's what might be a corner of stage evidenced, and walls decorated with a dizzying variety of color and texture that might be difficult to process at first glance.

Behind the counter, there's a medium height, medium build woman in her late 20s or early 30s at the machines, and a tall, skinny guy at the register.  For now, the place is mostly quiet though there's a table in the back that's full of people discussing something that apparently involves displays of photos.

"Hi," comes perky and projected in a female voice.  "How's it going?"

It is, of course, a coffee shop.  A very pretty, niche one, but a coffee shop none the less.

[Arianna]

The word 'crunchy' has never been leveled at Arianna as a description, unless one was talking about the literal condition of being made of flesh and bones, bones which crunch under correct conditions, see, to a dragon she might be crunchy; she might crunch and crumble beneath a boot hell; literally, crunch, she might be crunchy.  But not in a Denver sense.  As far as Denver is concerned, she is more like a changeling son, a child switched at birth what retains that sense of glory and the glimmer of starlight.  She is other in ways they have not invented adjectives for in this strange native land of (wanh wanh waaannhhh) wild west and intrigue.

And there is a crease in her brow, a stitch just above the angle of her nose, as she investigates the placard or board of offerings.  For a moment it calls out the faint crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, before the perky and projected voice captures her attention and draws the flash-bright of her green eyes toward it.  Gone is the stitch, replaced instead with a smile -- the sort of smile that launches ships; the sort of smile that beaches them.

"Pretty well, thanks," she is saying, because it is important to be grammatically correct.  And things go well, or poorly, but not good or great.  "How's your day?" she asks, though there is not, perhaps, the sense that she is entirely committed to the answer.  But there is interest, all the same.  Enough interest to capture her attention long enough to hear the answer.

[The Clients]

They are a couple -- a team -- we do everything together! Live together! Work together! Together together together, they say, though he speaks for the both of them and she transmits her opinions in the tapping of fingers on tables or pointed inspection of details or brief interjections.  He is outspoken; she is reserved.  They are partners (in everything) in this business, a bed and breakfast, and it is imperative that the grounds are perfect -- are welcoming -- and comfortable -- he means interesting -- and offer ample opportunities for wandering, or restful reflection, or conversation. It is this sort of project.  It should be water-wise!  It should be weather-tolerant.  It should be, then, in all estimates an impossible job.  Which is why they've contacted him; he's the best of them -- or so we've heard -- isn't that right honey? -- of course it is dear.

So.

So.

What does he think?

[Arianna]

"It's going well, thanks - you hit us at a good, slow time.  We like getting to know our new visitors."  Here, there's a conspiratorial wink and an infectious crooked grin.  "Helps encourage repeats, you know."

"What can we get for you?"  This comes in a surprisingly deep voice from the guy at the register; by appearance, he should be a tenor, a baritone at the deepest.  That voice, though, is a rich and rolling bass.

"Look at him, all business," comes from the woman with exaggeratedly rolled eyes under her riotously curly hair; she's biracial, this woman, with freckles covering her face and hands, trailing down her neck and up her arms.  She's cute, too, with enough edge (or attitude, or whatever we're calling it these days) to make her interesting.  Her fitted raglan top bears a chalice across her chest, and her jeans ride low and loose in a fashion that was more in style when Arianna was a kid than it is now.

[Silas and the Clients]

"I think that it's always best to go with plants as indiginous to the area as possible - that's where you're going to find your water wisdom.  I also like things that are useful, especially in a B&B setting.  There are herbs that flower beautifully that can be used in your kitchen, and plenty of place for a fruit and vegetable patch if you're so inclined.  Here's the list I came up with, and two rough sketches of layout based on what I saw on the tour yesterday.  One has the kitchen garden, one doesn't."

All his choices are calculated, of course, to encourage a dwindling bee population and natural pollinization as well - Silas, whose voice carries through to the front in a way that voices from the front don't always carry to the back, has thought of everything, though some things he only bothers to explain if he's asked.

"I definitely think we can make this work.  Is this what you're thinking, too?"

[Arianna]

An infectious grin?  Well that is met with more of the same. She has a wicked curl to her smile, a little bit of Lorelei or Leanan sidhe hidden in her green eyes. It's mischief of the best sort, the sort that invites camaraderie in trickery; it's the sort that challenges without outright boasting.  Not all stars are benevolent omens, see, and Arianna is simply among the earthbound of them, no claims to greater good or other greatness.

"Ah, well, if you truly want a repeat customer, loyalty for life or for so long as I find myself in Denver, then a latte machiatto worthy of the streets of Roma would be perfetto."  The slip between languages is not merely for emphasis; it is fluid and thoughtless seeming; it pairs with the shape of her face, accented cheekbones and prominent chin; it speaks of belonging elsewhere, being Other, so keenly that it cannot be ignored.  It is also a gauntlet, thrown, and unmeetable bar.  She doesn't want something you can find in the depths of the green merfolk's kingdom.  She wants home, distilled down to its essential pieces; smells, and tastes and textures all; or something entirely different.  "Or a Yerba Mate, if that is more your style, though with lesser ties of fealty."

There, an open out. She is magnanimous in her wickedness.  But also, in the asking, she has given something of herself away.  She likes this woman, spunky and outspoken, with her riotous hair and her shirt of chalices.  A fitting choice for a Common Cup; a symbolic start; an omen.  Arianna's speech is older than she seems, is playful and lilts; perhaps she is a historical re-enactor. Perhaps she is merely foreign, and in that foreignness has adopted some unusual turns of phrase. But she doesn't struggle with the language, rather seems to toy with it.

As in now: "I like your place. It's colorful."

[The Clients]

"Oh, the kitchen garden is a must," she says, before he's fully laid clear his plans.  While the husband, see, he covers his mouth with his hand and makes disapproving eyebrows above his sidelong glances.  Yesterday, there had been talk of an outside patio there, something concreted in and serviceable, something that increases the bottom line more than the quality of life.  She notices the sidelong look; notices the slash of brows; notices the hand that covers -- and ignores. Ignore ignore ignores.  Because she had told Silas, quite seriously, that she wanted a garden for the cooks; that things are better when they are fresh; and that even she, who does not garden (for the love of the plants I will stay away from them) but appreciates them, and appreciates the cooks, and appreciates their foods.  "How nice it will be to say grown here on our own grounds beside items on the menu."

"That is very Denver," he concedes, though, he seems to understand a bit about the bees. He tells Silas this, in very matter of fact ways. He has read this article (which is misdirection more than information), authoritatively, he tells.  The slash of his eyebrows is lessened as he tells; he delights in being right; in trying to catch Si out a little (Hunt the Hunter, oh, no, that never goes well) on some fact or another. So that he can be Right. See wife? If we have a kitchen garden, it will be because I am right.

And then, while she is studying the plan that she likes best -- which is likely the plan that Silas, himself, inwardly approves most of -- He will ask, in a gruff and businesslike way, as if he hadn't just been trying in the worst of ways to be ungentlemanly and uncouth, "How much is this going to set me back?"

Because all Artists like to have their works reduced to price points.  It is her turn to look, sidelong, with angry eyebrows.  Then to look forward, across the table to Silas, with something more akin to sympathy. Together. Together. In all things. Always. Was it?

[Arianna]

"My personal style is more the mate.  He likes the latte macchiatos, though, and I can make anything.  So, latte it is."  She speaks Italian (or French, for that matter) as it's required for her business, no more.  Chances are good, though, that she speaks Spanish or something similarly in demand when she was in high school and college at least passably.  So the guy at the register (Wes, proclaims his chalkboard-look name tag as he asks if she'd like a pastry with that) rings Arianna up, and the woman working the machines keeps chattering in her easy, friendly manner as she makes the drinks.  There's information in it, naturally - about the shop and its events, largely, including the part where on Sunday it's a church, and where there are two offices - one for cafe business, one for church business.  It's a lot, but it bubbles and flows so easily that it's a natural flowing conversation rather than an overload.  She even mentions the meeting in the back - this shop, and the church, is apparently her baby.  And a fairly new one, at that.

"Yeah, we let local independent businesses hold meetings in the back during business hours, so long as they buy a few drinks.  That's my buddy back there now, racking up a new job."

[Silas and the Clients - a Petshop Boys Cover Band]

"There's room for both the patio and the kitchen garden - the patio will be smaller and more intimate than you were envisioning, but still there.  More for coffee and reading the paper than full meals, see?"  Silas points out this feature on the kitchen garden design, rolled out to cover half the large table he and his clients are using.  The patio that Silas designed is prettier, and fits more organically with the setting than what the husband was thinking - but this, with the garden, can be considered to be the best of both worlds.

This is, indeed, the plan of which Silas approves the most - but if he didn't approve of the other, he wouldn't have drawn it up.

"I'm putting in a high estimate of fifteen," he means thousand, "because there are some grading issues, and that stump that needs to be pulled.  I'll do my best to come in under budget, obviously.  Work can start as soon as everything's cleared."

[The Clients]

Fifteen he says.  The husband's mouth thins to a small line, just as the sharp of the wife's elbow finds itself embedded in his ribcage.  "Fifteen will be fine," says the husband.  "Yes, fine," says the wife.  In this they are together, in all things together, together together together -- if not always entirely of the same mind.

"Tell me more about the flowers you've suggested," she says.  "Will there be color year round? Excepting winter, I mean, since color under snow is not the best use of your time or talents."

"Can we make that stump into something?" asks the husband. He's seen it on a tv show. Stumps and what turned to coffee tables. Antlers for chandeliers. All manner of crazy reclaimed nature bits.  He is not really fond of the nature bits, but it seems like people in Denver are.  He is from somewhere else, somewhere decidedly less crunchy.  It is easy to guess where from the breadth of his shoulders, the girth of his girdle, the twang of his accent -- even absent the appropriate head- and foot-wear.  

[Arianna]

She responds well to people with personal skills and bright personalities. They amplify each other. Arianna is fun to talk to, quick on her feet in any of her many languages.  They talk about the shop, and Ari responds with unfeigned interest.  She draws in Wes when possible, and compliments his macchiato with high praise.  When she pays, it is by credit card, and her signature is memorable for the artistry of her hand.  And for the quickly flourished embellishment (Thank you) and healthy tip. She is not stingy with those who please her, and, mark, she is well and truly pleased.  All of this is easy, simple, unfettered until the conversation drifts and she casts a long look back toward the business dealings in the back.

There is no outward shift to her; the knavery remains in place; she is still removed and argent.  Perhaps, then, it is only the shadow of familiar things that catches up her heart; the suggestion of a face in profile; the way the light catches up in the irises of his eyes from afar.  She gives a little shake of her head, and turns her attention back to the font of personality and information.

"Can you tell me more about the artists?" she asks, lifting her chin a little to indicate a nearby painting; a ready distraction that will not bring her within the sweep of Silas's vision.  Though she is not sure it is Silas (lies! [one heart will always recognize the other]); and neither is she sure that she wants it to be Silas (lies, again!).  "I so enjoy places that are proud of their communities; it draws them tighter, and draws others in."

[The Clients]

It is the woman who is positioned to notice Her, who is attuned to the ebb-crash of voices as they warm to one another in budding friendship.  And she watches Arianna for a moment with the sort of quiet envy that many women have for others who possess a sense of effortless grace and ease with people.  This lasts long enough, perhaps, for Silas to notice that there is someone to notice behind the curves of his shoulder.  Perhaps worthy prey tucked just away now behind the fold of the wall, inquiring after paintings and artistry.  

[The Clients]

"The stump can absolutely be made into something . . . but not by me.  I can put you in contact with a local artist who does that kind of thing, and you'll have to talk to her about what she can do and how much it will cost."  Tell me about the flowers . . .  And of course Silas answers at length; he's enough into his response that it takes awhile to notice when the female half of the equation is distracted by something, someone, closer to the front of the shop.  For a moment, he's slightly (subtly) irritated by the distraction but it draws his own attention that way . . . 

Long enough to notice a familiar fall of hair, jut of chin, cant of head.  He knows that posture, that bit of profile, and it causes a hitch in his words when he realizes it.  He finishes the thought, and is distracted himself when he asks, "Any further questions?"

He must be, because that level of 'I'm right, do what I say' is almost never evidenced outside of certain circles.  Circles that are most definitely not housed in this coffee shop in Denver.

[Arianna]

"Of course!  There's a girls' group home in the neighborhood, and some of the works this month are by girls there - art as therapy, and all that.  The rest are by people from Denver and the surrounding areas who brought them in.  We've only been open for a few months, so the first couple we had to supplement with people from farther afield, you know?  But I'm all about this place being by the community, for the community," comes from the woman (who is not being named right now just in case someone is particularly inspired to play her and wants to do so).

From Wes, who is no less friendly but far less verbose, with a gesture at one of the pieces, "I made that one."

"There have been all these studies done about how important it is for the people who live in a place to be invested in it, so I encourage as much community involvement as possible.  That's why we have the open mic and karaoke nights and stuff - well, that and because it's just an amazing thing to watch people come together from everywhere and put their stuff out on the stage.  So much great energy released and shared between performers and audience."

Perhaps Arianna feels (now two pairs of) eyes on her, perhaps she doesn't.  But they're there, nonetheless.

[Arianna]

She listens, and in listening seems unaware of the attention -- first a shallow sort of watchful thing, then something keener and more attentive altogether -- as she continues to speak with the two about their nascent community, about their investiture and how they are building it up, layer by layer, from the very ground of it.  It is a type of magic that Arianna can approve of; she is very fond of layered things, of ritual, or liturgy -- towards which she suspects these two may lean -- and it makes the place more comfortable to her than the initial crunchiness suggests.

"It's clever," she says, and points out some aspect of it that she likes the best.  This is no platitude; it isn't beautiful; it's marked, with the eye of a keen master of composition, for its strengths and weaknesses.  And in this she gives them another bit of herself; that she understands their many-layered efforts.  She knows their craft. "Next time I stop by, you'll have to recommend me to an art store that you trust," this last is paramount, arched eyebrow and clever smile see to it to drive that point home.  

The coffee she's holding, take away cup, not meaning to say, is almost cool enough to drink with most gusto.  The time for parting ways is soon; she's alluded to it (next time I stop by...)

[The Clients]

The abruptness is noticed. The change in tone marked.  The wife sits up straighter, her eyes, grey and sharpened, are focused on his.  They demand his undivided attention, in the way that lesser beings command the seas, in the way that voice commands the heavens, weakly but with earnest effort.  "Did you have some place you'd rather be?"  This, then, is not so carefully veiled; these people are not as artful as the one who has stolen into the shop and swept away the eyes of everyone.  But the sharpness of it is softened by the way she continues, "Or can you start this coming Monday?"

The husband, for his part, is always pleased when that hawkish tone is turned elsewhere but toward his person.  That Silas has caught it, whoo boy, good luck.  The lift of eyebrows would shift up and down his hat were he wearing it; he looks a Stetson sort of fellow; they are folk and not people; they are not of Silas's ilk.  No doubt they draw his attention back to the table, to the array of plans and plants and things.  Or at least they try to, which would somewhat obscure...

[Arianna]

... the parting words that are offered, part in jest and in all earnestness. It is likely that, in their transit of these walls distal to the Hunter and his guests, Arianna may have garnered some sense of their arrangement.  That he is a landscaper, or an architect; that he is somewhat fertile and laid fallow by the winter chill.  Silas always feels of spring and summer, of the rosy-creep of dawn as it brightens through rosegold, amber and into citrine lofted to the heavens.  It is not hard to assume some things about him, but they way her mouth curls when she says to the proprietor -- Your friend, there.  Please tell him, when he's free, that I would speak to him of Cherry Trees --  this curl is a thing obscured, then hidden in more than pretext by the curve of her take away cup, sequestered and hushed and altogether shifting.

No doubt she'll think that Si has found another starlet; another hanger on or adoring fan.  She doesn't offer a name in parting; that's half the fun of it; the knavery, the jest.  She smiles broadly and tells them, easily, Oh, he'll know.  With the edge of a wink and the full knowledge that she's made an easy mark of it.  The perfect calligraphy in her name on the receipt.  The way she tastes of starlight and mystery.

"Til next time," the waggle of free fingers; crinkle to the bridge of her nose; laughter in her eyes. Oh yes! She will be back to visit them, Hunter or no, for their impeccable coffee or their lively repartee. 

Silas: [The clients]

Do you have some place you'd rather be, gets the woman leveled with a Look that may well be the cause of the softening in the woman's voice; when he chooses to be so, the Hunter is very intimidating, indeed. And while his Other is not worn so openly as a certain Star's, it's there. He is not someone tame, no - while Arianna might lure ships to crash among the shoals, Silas is a temptation into excesses that are sometimes darker than others. He is also a predator of quite high degree. It is, no doubt, a relief for the husband to not have that look turned on him, and he may find himself quite lucky for it later, when his wife finds that she wants little more than hands and lips on her, something filling where - for the sparest of moments - she'd felt so empty and cold. So near to the worst sort of death.

Cernunnos is a god of the hunt, and a god of fertility. He is a brothercousin to Pan, and to Bacchus. Sometimes, their revels are not that different.

"Yes, I'll file the permits necessary as soon as we're done here and work will begin on Monday," is all he says, and it's quite likely the partners (in everything, together alwaysalwaysalways right now, please, do we have to wait for home) will realize that every question has been answered, every contingency planned for. "You can keep the plan we've agreed upon, if you'd like. Some places like to display that sort of thing."

[Arianna]

Something happens in the back and Arianna's gracious host (not Wes, but the woman) stiffens slightly, her eyes narrowing as they beeline straight for the man clearly in charge of the meeting - this easy-going, friendly-bubbly woman is also very aware (and possibly Aware) of what's going on around her. Her voice, though quiet, resonates with authority, and carries well. It holds a beautiful pitch and tone, as well; she could be a singer, perhaps.

"Si, behave."

This coffee shop proprietor, this minister, is the only woman other than herself that Arianna has ever heard shorten Silas' name so; even his conquests feel they aren't welcome to that level of informality, of fondness, of possession. There's history here, then, and closeness, and it has the benefit of confirming what Arianna already knew.

"I'll let him know, yeah. And if he's getting into a Mood, you may not want to be here when he comes this way . . ." now, those eyes move from the back to her customer and lips curl in a delightful, delicious way. "Except you can handle his Moods just fine, can't you?" She knows there's something up, this woman, and possibly what it is, too, if that glint of glee in her eyes is any indication.

"I'll," there's a subtle distancing of herself from Wes with this - not by much, but just enough to mark herself as not quite the same as he, "let you know about an art shop, too. There are a few around, if you want to give me a general idea of where you live or work I can get you the closest one."

Arianna: [Arianna]

Behind the dancing of her eyes, Arianna is shrewd, she is clever. It does not take long to thread together the way the woman reacts to the corner table show, with the name (nickname) she offers, with her own growing suspicions, and to come to the conclusion that it would not be best to have this reunion when his temper is up and there are witnesses present. She has left an invitation, an opening, and Ari is contemplating leaving it at that.

"I don't think today is the time to test that theory," Arianna replies. Whether she can weather the tempest or not, she seems ready to accept the advice and go on her merry way. Perhaps she isn't quite as stalwart as the woman thinks; perhaps she is the eye of this storm and it will follow her when she leaves.

And there is the matter of this growing sense of Knowing that she reads off the woman, which is good to know but not immediately useful. She is not about to drop formal titles in a public space over a latte -- delicious, perfect, or otherwise. Coffee has become complicated; Silas is complicated; the feelings he evokes seem simple, clear cut, like needs that can be satiated and served, but they are not so cut and dried, not simple, not sated.

"I can be found anywhere, when it comes to quality supplies," she says. "And thank you. For the cup," she lifts her coffee, "And the company. And fair warning," there, the twinkle -- knowing matched to knowing, of a sort.

((We'll bring this forward from the last post))

"Til next time," the waggle of free fingers; crinkle to the bridge of her nose; laughter in her eyes. Oh yes! She will be back to visit them, Hunter or no, for their impeccable coffee or their lively repartee.

[The Clients]

There is nothing truly left to say here; all questions have been answered; Silas's work is done. There will be quiet bickering on the drive home, escalated when they pull into the drive, pushed onward into something that spills over to the bedroom and resolves. His impetus manifests in many ways, depending on the audience. They will get to fulfilling the echo of need, in their own ways.

This leaves him free.

Silas: [Arianna]

"Until next time," responds the woman with her chalice and damn good coffee. "For now, try Rainy Day - it's close to here, just a couple blocks." There's an address given while . . .

[The Clients]

Move through to the side exit, waving absently to the tenders of the coffee, already discussing something with quickly rising passion, with irritation, with something weaving under and through that makes it more intense, causes a touch here, a caress there, even among the words that are getting progressively angrier. Meanwhile . . .

[Silas]

Takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to roll up his plans and replace them in their tube, to gather his thoughts; his temper flares quickly, dramatically, but is gone quickly especially when the cause thereof is gone. This means that when he moves to the front of the store and exits through the same door Arianna chose, not far behind her, all he will have to do is gather his things and leave after he's said whatever it is he has to say . . . under the observant and amused eyes of a certain barista-minister. She knows of Silas' Hunts, after all, though also knows this feels different.

So, perhaps it's inside the door or perhaps on the sidewalk, but Arianna doesn't get far before she hears a familiar voice loving the name it gave her years ago. "Stella," comes sweet, comes surprised, comes with an intensity belied by his casual posture. "I have another meeting, elsewhere, but I wanted to say hello." He wants more than that, of course; even so far from long ago conclaves, he longs to be in contact with her. To this day, he doesn't entirely understand the effect she has on him or why it exists or why she's the only one who exerts it . . .

. . . but here he is.

"We'll catch up soon?"

Arianna: [Arianna]

The minister-barista -- some titles deserve pride of place -- knows of Silas's Hunts, how single-mindedly he can seem to pursue a target and how powerless they are to truly escape his grasp (not that they often try to). This seems different, though. Arianna does not seem to be powerless, but rather like a lodestone to which he is inexorably pulled. She feels the same, though she trusts it less and is relieved, a little, when she makes it out into the bracing Denver Spring and can work at slowing the thump of her heartbeat, on schooling her expectations.

It has been many years since that conclave. They are forsworn to one another, but she would not bind him to it if she found his heart truly laid elsewhere. She is attempting, so valiantly, to put this thing between them squarely into rationality's court, into a place of Air and Winter, some place where half-truths and feelings are stripped away enough to see the bones of a thing. She is trying, but his voice shapes her name and, despite any thoughts she has of the triumph of a rational mind over affairs of the heart, she turns.

She smiles. Reflexive, a truer thing than one that is thought about, weighed, considered. She is standing on the street outside a coffee shop, smiling at him, as if there were still children in the hallways of the Chantry. As if no time at all had passed -- though it has, and it is marked by the crow's feet that crease the corners of her eyes now, the way they emphasize her joy and sadness (Marks of a life well lived, she's heard them called).

"Silas."

He is calm. He is indifferent. He is just touching base, his posture says, but there is always something in his eyes that cannot quite be quieted. She steps forward, close enough to greet him properly, and, in the ritual greeting of people from far away lands, kisses one cheek, then the other, and finally the first again.

"I shall look forward to it," she says. Arianna does not give him her contact information; he has another meeting, and the Hunter rarely needs such mundane things to find her. Besides, he likes the chase, and depriving him of it would simplify their dance too much for both of them.

"I hope your meeting goes well," she says, but she is loathe part ways with him after such short time. But they are older now, possessed of stronger wills. Certainly, from inside the shop, there is some matter of bouncing up and down on the points of toes, possibly squeeing at her own right-ness.

Silas: [Silas]

Arianna steps close enough to kiss his cheeks and the movement of arms around her is reflexive; it's possible that it takes him a moment to realize he's done it, that he's holding her as if that conclave was yesterday. As if she'd left his arms only hours ago. Silas knows how these polite kisses go - his brain knows any number of things that his body has difficulty accepting when he's this close to his Star. And so that third kiss, intended for his cheek? Finds lips instead. It's short, as is the embrace, but there . . . and for all the chasteness of appearance, it burns through him.

It's a heroic effort, finding the strength to let go is. And the words, well . . .

". . . to hell with my meeting."

He hasn't managed to let go entirely, but the only contact now is their hands. Palms press, fingers tangle. This is never enough for long - for either of them.

Arianna: [Arianna]

It is not enough, but it will have to be enough for now. They are not safe within the walled city of the Chantry, surrounded by its Guardians and the combined Will of its congress. They are exposed, standing out on a street before a cafe in Denver. Where Spring is coming but the air can still shift to biting without even a moment's notice. Their lips meet and, for a moment, it is enough that she forgets this.

"Si..." his name is sweet, but also carries the edge of warning. And mark this, as Arianna is not often known for caution. But their world has changed; Doissetep is fallen; some Truths are not as self-evident as they once were.

"These mundane seemings are important; they are gravely so just now. I am forsworn to you, and I will still be waiting, but we should keep our lesser words close, too, for this moment." These are hard won words, not things she wants to need to say. It marks how plainly they are older now and, however given to whimsy and flights of fancy, more cautious. "I had not expected to find you in Denver," she says, and now an echo of her warmth and mischief touches her eyes. "Though I suppose these wilds are quite the place to be a Hunter." A curl to her mouth then, the squeeze of her fingers against his.

Silas: [Silas]

"Then let our seemings be mundane." There's amusement there; for all his penchant to brooding, Silas is only scarcely more cautious than he was when last they met in more than passing. He only takes things slightly more seriously. "There is little more mundane - or more magical, for that matter - than pieces of a whole falling into place. Or than a man kissing a woman he hasn't seen in far too long."

It's spoken lightly, easily, but as ever there's more in those eyes (hazel-brown of forest floor, or sometimes blue of sky, or sometimes green of treetop, depending on clothing and lighting and so much more) than in tone or bearing. He knows that when a bright-burning Star advises caution, there's reason to take heed, just as she might recognize the same if a Hunter were to offer similar advice. But for all that teasing (and it teases in more ways than one - there are occasions when the weight of memory is heavier than others, and seldom is that more evident than when they first meet after a time apart), Silas knows that he knows little of this place as of now. He's not been here for long, nor has he made much connection beyond the minister-barista inside - who is, indeed, still not-so-subtly watching through the windows, with even-less-subtle glee.

Arianna finds her hand lifted, and her fingers warmed by Silas' lips; perhaps his touch burns through her as hers does through him. Then, though, fingers are freed - and Silas' hands move to the pockets. They're far easier to control when they're confined, he finds.

"I heard you'd moved west, but not exactly where. Are we surprised at finding each other again?" This is a sincere question; he's never been entirely certain ho to feel about this sort of meeting, outside of Hermetic environs. There's a certain expectancy at symposiums and the like, particularly given that they share a House - but here, in the 'normal' world, things are different. And another question: "And why is it of grave import that we adhere stringently to our facades?"

Arianna: [Arianna]

Then, in a echo of times long ago but strangely immanent, impressed upon this morning like few other things could be, she threads her arm though his, where his elbow must bow for hands to rest in pockets, as if they should walk, should amble, like any other time they've met. For standing here, together, Star and Hunter, both so clearly Othered, was not good for the establishment; it was not good for their continued sanity. This Denver, wilds that it is, west indeed, and wilder west than she had imagined, this Denver is dangerous and unruly.

"Walk me to my car?" she asks, and the words are foul-shaped and strange between them. This sort of mundanity has never crossed them; this place West is strange and uncouth and unseemly. But her arm is threaded through his, her warmth rides safely beside his. This is better, for a couple who is only just now reunited, mundane perhaps, and close enough to keep their voices low. When feet are set in motion, she provides answers to most of what he has asked her.

"Surprised, perhaps, but pleased nonetheless. I do not think my heart could be any gladder to find you here, where I am only just arrived but -- this place is strange to me." She does not digress to elaborate on the lackings of their Chantry, on the other things she's felt are squarely and sorely amiss. And then, the heart of it, the reason for her slower burn and careful corners to her eyes: "The Union has taken one of the Disparates," not Our Disparate, because this place is too new to her to be her own, and because the Star he knows would never claim a Disparate among her own, but still it wards toward caution. "It is unclear what he knows, though whom he is known to may prove the bigger problem, as it often does."

And rue, again. Rue always for this Disparate, how his net of friends is tied up in her own; RUE to the Union. Rue. Rue. Rue. And Fie upon them for making her sound sensible.

Silas: Mundanities and pragmatisms are heavy and unnatural between Hunters and their Stars (or Stars and their Hunters, for perceptions are always fluid), but when Ariana weaves her arm through Silas', there's a hint of relief; she fits there, just so, as she always has. "Of course," comes in response to the request for escort, and he listens as she speaks. Truly listens, intently, not simply to the gist as he awaits his turn to speak. He has spent more time in this sort of place than she, with all his years with his 'Aunt Kae', with all his parents' responsibilities to more earth-bound places than those ivory towers where Star and Hunter most often meet.

"Denver is different than anywhere I've been, but not so foreign as all that. But then, I find myself thus far unencumbered with anything beyond that which keeps me and my hounds in a home." Of course he has hounds - how could he not? "It is made a much brighter place than it was now that I've found your light." There's fondness there that remains even as levity is driven away by facts; someone is missing, taken, and Disparate or not, known or not, this should be a matter of importance to all the Awakened in the area.

"Is there a plan to free the one taken?" By now, they are likely nearing Arianna's car; Silas' steps shorten, slow. He's in no hurry to be parted from Arianna's company.

Arianna: [Arianna]

Is there a plan... he asks, and this, this provokes a stippling of frustration in her features, the sort of burn-and-fizzle of her temper, which is leashed but not always contained. "Of course there is," she says, because they are all so over-eager to throw themselves into the fire for this Disparate, this Traditionless, unsworn among them. Breathe, Arianna. Breathe.

"I, however, am too recently arrived to have been caught up directly in that mess. I am glad it seems to have missed you as well, a glancing blow as it is, mis-aimed and aimless." They are nearing her car, which is a difficult thing to resolve to her. It is midnight blue and some second hand but nicely appointed thing with four-wheel drive and ample cargo space. Her keys have not yet emerged from her pocket. She is not yet taking her leave of him.

The conversation circles back, to something he has said in passing. It smooths the irritation from her -- mercurial moods are their own curse and blessing. She is not irate for long, however brightly that moment burns. And now she is amused, smug almost, self-satisfied. "I always thought you should have dogs," she says. Pleased. As if this validates some thing that she has been thinking. "I am thinking of getting one myself. We never could have pets when I was young."

He will likely remember. Not that she has ever seemed the kind for dependents of any flavor, but this Arianna is warmer than the one of old. He'll have to learn that for himself, this shift away from haughtiness and distance she's made, the way she tumble-tangles with her cabalmates on movie night. She is less distant in her transit; less remote. This brings them near the car, though, and she sets her take-away cup down on the roof of it. She brings her hands together, one still looped through the bend of his arm, and moves the thin, gleaming band of silver from one finger to another.

The significance cannot be lost on him.

"I told your coffee friend that I would speak to you of cherry trees," she tells him, knowing full what what the allusion means between the two of them. "I think, perhaps, as we have both settled here to some respect, that we should be deliberate in how we plant them. Once trees take root they are difficult to shift. You don't strike me as a haphazard gardener," she says, the curl of her mouth belying many things. The green of her eyes is sharp and grasslike in the slant of afternoon sun.

Silas: [Silas]

"It seems for now, then, that we shall both remain unscathed by this skirmish." It's easy enough to let go; the Union is everywhere and like all who grew up in the Shadow of the war Silas has a healthy respect for, even hatred of, them - but he was old enough then to know that Not All Technocrats, despite his mother's views. He also knows that all Traditionalists are not good, and that extremists, though they may bring about change in the long run, are not good for anyone regardless of where they align themselves.

But the conversation circles and the Hunter smiles; it's a satisfied thing, that. Even Hunters need home and hearth, it seems. He takes up a casual lean on Arianna's car as he watches her switch the finger on which her ring resides, then reaches one arm to draw her close, pulling her against him (for every atom of me as good as belongs to you) as his free hand goes to her face. Her cheek is cupped, face tipped up, and eyes studied before he lowers lips to hers. He, too, lacked in pets as a child and for very similar reasons - which she also likely remembers. But he has ever seemed more prone to dependents than she . . . a Hunter is also a Protector, after all.

The kiss lasts as long and is as deep as Arianna allows.

The embrace remains as long as possible.

"Of cherry trees and what spring does to them, yes." Only when Arianna draws back does Silas switch his own ring - the golden-warm fraternal twin to her silver-bright one - to the finger they've chosen to represent their vow. "I have never been haphazard in where I lay my roots. As we are both here, we are together. Are we not?" She was the first to move her ring, and so some assumptions can be made - but he is only human, and so certain things need to be spoken out loud for clarity's sake.

"You are mine, and I yours, to the exclusion of others beyond the filial and platonic."

Arianna: [Arianna]

She allows the kiss, and meets it, allows it to run deeply until it crests on the edge of places they cannot go and still come back to being lovers reunited on a city street. Right up until that edge and then, regrettably and with open regret, she walks it back to something safer. It still leaves her mouth reddened and her eyes softened by wanting. It still leaves her breathless; he has always left her breathless. She is, unmistakably, his.

"I am yours, and you are mine," she agrees, though there is something under the way she lays claim to him. It is old and ageless in the way that Oaths and vows and Words are old and ageless and wrought of immense and immeasurable power. There is not gentleness in the words they give one another; but there has always been affection in how they keep them. It is heady, then, to be near to him and to run aground on these sorts of promises. It is hard to take the measure of them, in the context of Denver.

She watches the glint of warm-gold on his hand, how it settles into place on a less familiar finger. There is likely the faintest line of pale to the old finger, where the sun has been denied for so many years. He is a Hunter; he spends more time out of doors than she. Her finger bears a slight indentation at its base, but no paler line.

Now, again, they are like lodestones. Her center pulling precisely at his. His pulling her inward, so that the embrace becomes the tuck of her chin over his shoulder, the point of it felt resting on the muscles of his shoulder, her head tipped against the side of his. For a Hunter is also a Protector, and his Star is also a woman who is quite out of her depth here. For a moment they are more companionable than heated; a lower slower more inevitable thing.

"Soon I will have my own space, with room for cherry trees and hounds," she tells him. The words puddle close to his ear and it is easier to hear the slight accent to her words. The shapes that bring them close to her voice in his memory. "Soon." It is a half-promised thing, this timeline; it is half-way to an invitation, these words. Though he has never needed an invitation to find her or her spaces.

Silas: "I, and my hounds, share my space with others. Though there are trees aplenty, and other things that grow." Sometimes unseasonably, those things grow; his is the only flower bed that produces more than snowdrops, and his is the only herb patch that's already coming to life. Soon, his will be the only fruit and vegetable garden already flowering. His is the greenest sort of green thumb, and his skin is light-heated, comfortable where it touches hers. "If you are offering to share, I should contribute."

Arianna only knows that he is as effected as she by their proximity, by that kiss, because of reactions less controllable than shortness of breath - it's only with much concentration that Silas avoids thoroughly embarrassing himself. (You're not a boy anymore, Self, do exert some self control won't you?)

"And in the meantime, you are welcome to my space whenever you would like. On occasion, you may have to deal with my roommates? But they're good sorts, for who they are." Sleepers, then - about as interesting as Wes in the coffee shop, perhaps, but not nearly as much so as that cheerful, inspiring woman. Still, Silas' arms are around Arianna - still he holds her close, but not tight. As she is his, he is hers, and however flippantly they may have originally spoken the words before they became a true Oath, there is nothing light or humorous in it now.

"I am pleased to be back in your light, Stella. It has ever felt better than when you're hidden from me." This is murmured, low, and sings out through her - companionable, yes, but there is always heat between them. She is incandescent, and he radiant . . . and oh, so reluctant as his arms loosen, fall to his sides without pushing her away. "But I suppose I should be responsible and take that meeting, as much as I would rather stay with you. We'll meet again soon?"

Arianna: [Arianna]

If you are offering to share -- the slight crease that forms in her brow suggests that she is not quite ready to jump into their togetherness quite that fully. This is no surprise; they have always had their own spaces even when they were together in more intimate ways. And members of their House often covet their secret libraries as few other Hermetics could. Soon, he would be able to come to her keep and not worry after witnesses. For now, though, they are both possessed of roommates in one sense or another.

"I am staying with friends, for the moment," she explains. But this does not expand far enough to encompass what she feels for The Silver Bough. "They are the family of my heart," she tells him. These are not words he would have heard her say about anyone before. There have been few people, in his experience of Arianna, who rose to the level of personal friend or chosen companions. Many years have passed, and this is one of the many things that time has taught her: that people are valued by the warmth they bring to her heart. These friends are sacred and protected. As her Hunter, she trusts he takes the meaning behind this.

He pulls away and they both feel the ebb of it. It is difficult to return to their more mundane tasks; she has to steady herself for the moment when they truly part ways. "Soon," she echoes; it is much a promise as any other between them. "And Silas?"

A slight pause.

"Be cautious." Because the Union is out there; because the mundane world is strange and uncertain; because they have only just found each other again and it would be a shame should something happen now, now when they are known to each other but before they have a chance to figure out quite what that means. "I do not trust my temper, should any misadventure befall you." But there is a tuck of mischief even in this warning, a reminder that if they were to stray into adventure (or misadventure as they case may be), they will go into it together.

And then for the pragmatic concerns: She does not offer him her number; she does not tell him where Nick & Pen's home is, nor where her soon to be residence will be. They have no need of these things. She has every faith that he will find her, or she him, when the time is right. And there is a point of commonality now in this coffee shop, and another in the broader community. Surely he knows someone, who will know someone who will know either Nick or Pen -- which is roundabout between two magi of the Order. (This is why scrying was made for, to obviate this sort of silliness.)