"A Morning for Memory"

Log Date:
	12/3, 12/5, 12/6/99

Log Cast:
	Tara, Richard

Log Intro:
	Granted, he's more or less become a father by taking in the children
of his dead partner... but now, much to Richard's deep shock and dismay, he
has just discovered that he is also a father in blood as well as deed. There
is a child from his union with the woman who betrayed him fourteen years 
ago -- and both mother and child are in Haven.
	Very few men would be able to handle the discovery that they have a
fourteen-year-old daughter, and smooth and glib as he may usually be, the
Rook is no exception. He has fled to the Siren's Song in search of drink to
try to block out the memory of his past and the knowledge of the daughter he
now knows has resulted from it. Fortunately for Richard, the women of the
Siren's Song are long fond of him, and although Richard does his best to
put down a copious amount of whiskey the young cyprian Tara seizes the
opportunity to cajole him upstairs to apply her own brand of comfort to an
obviously thunderstruck man. If it had been any other time, perhaps, he
would have been able to quite literally keep his shirt on... but not this
night. The thief's been shaken badly enough, and he's drunk enough, that
he's cast aside all caution along with the garment that hides the scars on
his back.
	And thus, another of Jenean's girls discovers the nature of the
man who periodically frequents their establishment...

----------
Dawn steals into the room - scene of many unlikely couples wakening together, 
  Perhaps this one is no different. Tara's blonde hair is spread across the 
  pillow, arms around Richard, across his bare back, his head pillowed on her 
  breasts. She's awake, blue eyes open, a thoughtful half smile curving her 
  lips, one hand absently caressing his spine.

At some time during the night, the whiskey -- along with the activity in which 
  he'd been engaging -- caught up with Richard. It is not _usually_ his way to 
  fall asleep in a woman's arms right after joining with her, but this time, 
  the man couldn't help himself. His slumber has been heavy, but one thing can 
  still be said for him: he doesn't snore. And he lies cradled against the 
  young woman, a faint frown of consternation etched into his features even in 
  his sleep. Whether that expression of his has anything to do with his odd 
  reticence to take off his shirt, or for that matter the network of scars 
  across his back once that shirt was finally removed, is anyone's guess. But 
  the scars are there for the considering beneath Tara's touch: two wide 
  patches to either side of his backbone, along with over a dozen old furrows 
  crisscrossing his leanly muscled flesh.

She's no fool. And unlike some other girls her age, knows how to keep her 
  mouth shut. Her hand trails evenly, unprejudiced, over scar and unbroken 
  skin, then to caress his hair. Murmurs, low and sweet. "S'ok."

The first sign of Richard's rousing is a groan that sounds somewhere in the 
  back of his throat. His brows knit together, eyes squeezing more firmly shut 
  as he slowly becomes aware of the light level on the other side of his 
  eyelids; even before he fully awakens, it occurs to him that his head is 
  hurting, and someone is caressing it, and it feels... good. Another little 
  groan escapes him, nevertheless.

A soft whisper, "Head hurt?"

That murmur in his ear almost pokes through Richard's senses a bit more 
  sharply than intended. "Aye," he mumbles unthinkingly, his voice 
  half-dreaming, higher than normal. Eyes still closed, he winces a bit at 
  even a soft whisper so close to his ear. Only then does he realize he is 
  being held. Someone soft and curved is lying beneath him, her arms... 
  against his back. His bare back. This finally begins to chase off clouds of 
  fog in his thoughts, and a tremor shoots through his slim frame as it does 
  so. Blue eyes flash open in dismay, then slam shut again with another groan. 
  Too light in here...!

Tara's voice is soft, soothing. "It's ok, love. I promise." Her hand strokes 
  his hair again, the other tightening reassuring about his shoulders.

That hand in his hair still feels unaccountably marvelous. Richard swallows 
  hard, then manages to croak, "I... seem t' be makin' a habit o' this..."

Tara kisses his hair, lightly. "Don' hear me mindin'."

The identity that goes with that soothing tone and those gentle attentions to 
  his ebon hair seeps into Richard's consciousness, then. He tries to turn his 
  head to lift it and get a look at the girl in whose arms he lies, but this 
  is a bad idea. Though he tries to bite it back, still, enough of a grunt of 
  pain slips out of him to suggest that whiskey's left him with a hangover. 
  "Aie... lass, I... didnae get too rough, did I?" Hangover or not, that's 
  concern in his rasping voice.

Tara's lips brush his. "Just nicely rough enough."

"Good. I... I'd better..." Richard trails off hoarsely, head sagging down a 
  bit as he wrestles with the somewhat daunting problem of being kissed, being 
  cuddled, and trying not to open his eyes all at the same time. Better what? 
  Better go? Doesn't seem likely; as of yet, the man hasn't managed to really 
  lift his head, much less get up, get his clothes on, and leave.

"..rest some more" she finishes for him, hand stroking his brow. "I ain' goin' 
  anyplace."

"That... oh, lass, that feels good," Richard breathes, his head settling upon 
  the cyprian's shoulder. Rest. Tempting concept, that.

Tara smiles, kisses his hair again. "Good." Her free hand rubs gently at his 
  shoulders. "Yer all tense."

Tense, aye, despite a night of vigorous lovemaking, not to mention the whiskey 
  he'd put down. "I... took my shirt off," he mumbles by way of cryptic reply. 
  Or, perhaps given the scars that mar his back, perhaps not so cryptically. A 
  pause, and then Richard appends in a small, oddly doleful voice, "I-I... I 
  have a child."

Tara's arms tighten round him. Softly, "Weren't expectin' one?"

He's beginning to quiver, subtly, in those sheltering arms. Perhaps _this_ is 
  what drove him into the Song last night? Turning his closer to the soft 
  shoulder beneath it, as though he's trying to hide from the morning, Richard 
  whispers, "Didn't... she's... fourteen, I think... I-I-I never knew..."

A soft "oh..." and a gentle cudddle, lips brushing his hair again. Her hands 
  stroke his shoulders, warm skin against his. "Poor love."

Last night, this new revelation had been an ache in his chest and his throat; 
  now that Richard's finally put it into words, the knowledge takes on a dire, 
  indisputable reality even as he's shaken by the realization that he's 
  finding himself confiding in a practical near-stranger. He is a father. 
  Undone by this and Tara's gentle embrace, he trembles all the more.

Tara lifts his chin, with gentle fingers, and kisses his lips, soft and sweet. 
  "Rest.." she breathes. "I ain't gonna leave ya. An' I keep secrets."

Rest. Maybe it'll be all right, for the time being? Richard groans once again 
  -- almost a whimper, really, for all that such a noise seems out of 
  character for this usually self-assured man. Maybe, just maybe, if he lets 
  himself yield to that tempting suggestion, he can forget for a while longer. 
  And thus, tempted, he succumbs to that soft voice... and lets it, slowly but 
  surely, lull him back into the refuge of sleep.

Another three or four hours pass: he seems to have slept soundly, though 
  somewhere in that time he's shifted from head pillowed on Tara's breast to 
  curled round the young blonde Cyprian, her back warm against his chest, his 
  arms round her, her fingers laced in his.

Sound though his body might have slept, still Richard's brain remains uneasy 
  in the midst of that slumber. After a while, though he does not necessarily 
  reach a state of nightmare, fragments of dreams and memories begin to play 
  across his otherwise quiescent consciousness. His heart speeds up. His 
  breathing grows a little uneven, where he has his face nestled in tumbled 
  fair hair. And at last, clumsily, he begins to try to shake off the 
  dream-fragments -- but his only real escape from them is to wake up. The 
  first sign that he is beginning to do so is a rough little sigh that 
  disrupts his already erratic breathing.

Fingers stroke the back of his hand, lightly, and that soft soothing voice 
  murmurs, quietly, "S'only me. Everythin's ok."

"Tara," comes a gruff tenor whisper, then, of recognition and acknowledgement.

She turns, soft skin sliding beneath his hands till she's facing him, hair 
  tickling his face as she does, arms going round his neck, nose just bumping 
  his and blue eyes seeking his out. Softly, "S'me." It's hard not to smile at 
  that almost cocky pronouncement.

And smile Richard does, albeit wanly. "Ye're... a patient gel," he murmurs, 
  his voice a shadow of its usual velvet tenor, but at least getting back some 
  of the resonance it had lacked the first time he woke this morning. "Been 
  waitin' f'r me all this time, have ye?"

A soft smile. "I promised."

"That ye did." There's tension in his face still, and a shadow behind those 
  twilight eyes, but at least Richard is still brandishing that ghost of a 
  smile. "And I thankee. Ye're a good gel, Tara."

Tara's hands settle round his shoulders, warm skin on scarred. A soft kiss. 
  "If y'wanna talk, th' door's shut, an' no-one'll know what we said." Gently, 
  "Even if y'don't, there's one thing I wanna say."

The man's black brows knit together in a bit of bemusement, and he can be seen 
  to swallow hard at the notion of 'talking'; it carries a good number of 
  connotations he isn't entirely sure he's ready to explore. "Aye?" he rasps 
  after a moment, not entirely trusting himself to say more than that.

Another sweet kiss. Softly, "I know I ain't th' sharpest knife in th' drawer, 
  sometimes. But I bin thinkin', while y'was asleep." Blue eyes are earnest. 
  "An'... well. I seen a lotta guys drunk 'cause somethin' hurt. An' short of 
  drinkin' yerself dead, it doesn' do more'n make it hurt less fer a while. 
  Y'can't magic it away for good down a bottle." The softest of brushes of her 
  lips against his. "It happened, handsome. Y'can't change it."

Listening to his, Richard doesn't look exactly surprised, for all that the 
  'it' of which the young cyprian speaks could be any one of the old memories 
  -- or new revelations -- tumbling through the back of his mind. Rueful 
  comprehension settles into his eyes as he answers huskily, letting himself 
  accept and answer that profferred kiss, "I ken that, now that m'head's back 
  again. But thankee, all the same... for remindin' me. I'll... just have t' 
  be figurin' out what to do now." _Now that I have a child..._

She smiles. "Jen always said y'were someone t'trust if bad stuff happened. So 
  I figger y'll do th' right thing, in th' end."

Richard's smile quirks up a little broader. "She said that?"

Tara nods emphatically. "Aye."
Tara's eyes dance a little. "An' she said y'got t'call her Jen, which makes ya 
  fine in my book."

"Ah yes," murmurs Richard, just a touch sheepishly. Jenean. Jen. He can see 
  obvious affection for the older woman out of this younger one, and that, 
  even in the midst of the dull ache within his skull, makes that smile linger 
  about his mouth. The wingless one brings up a hand to smooth tumbled blonde 
  locks, his touch gentle. "She's always been good t' me. And ye, lass -- she 
  did good t' bring ye on." And then Richard pauses, a little at a loss, 
  considering that offer to talk. "I'm... tempted..."

Tara's hands caress those scars. A quirky little grin. "That's what they all 
  say.." but those blue eyes suggest she understands. Softly, "It helps t'tell 
  someone. An' sometimes it helps t'tell someone who ain't involved."

"Y'spend a lot o' time listenin' to other people's troubles, lass?" murmurs 
  Richard, not quite meeting the knowing young gaze upon him. But he hasn't 
  tried to get up or turn his head. "Ye're startin' to sound like Jen. Sure ye 
  ain't her with your hair turned blonde?"

Tara snorts at him. "I bin doin' this since I was younger'n your kid. SOme 
  things get kinda obvious after that long."

Richard's smile fades away, leaving his expression earnest, just a touch 
  awkward. He allows himself a small 'aye' of acknowledgement -- actually 
  nodding feels a bit beyond his capabilities, at the moment -- and then 
  admits, "I... Tara, lass, I'd... like t' talk. But I'm... a l'il afraid that 
  if I get started... I may be keepin' ye a while."

Tara shrugs, fingertips making a pattern round the borders of one of the 
  wing-scars. "S'warm. S'cosy. I'd be lazin' th' day away otherwise." A 
  playful smile. "An' y'wanna talk. So talk."

The scars are certainly easy enough to find -- though, really, one can move a 
  finger along Richard's back a fraction of an inch, and it'll be a toss-up as 
  to whether marred or unmarred flesh will meet the inquiring touch. Between 
  the wide patches of old scar tissue at his shoulderblades and the lines that 
  slash across them, there's almost more scars back there than skin that never 
  saw damage. And Richard, feeling the gentle stroking, can be seen to swallow 
  once, a trace of nervousness flickering across those fine-boned features. 
  Talk, she says. Easier said than done. His eyes flash shut as he tries to 
  figure out what exactly he'd like to say, and then, he forces out at last in 
  a small and hoarse voice, "My... child. Lost m' wings, got a daughter. 
  Whopper of a trade, that..."

Tara mmms, softly, nodding. "Kinda like someone wanted you t' think real hard 
  about it." Gently, "How'd you..." Blue eyes find his. Another soft brush of 
  lips on his, and she dares. "lose 'em?"

Richard's eyes open for a moment, long enough to let Tara's meet them -- but 
  at her next question, they flash shut again, while his features grow taut. 
  It takes him a few moments before he can answer, "My brother ripped 'em 
  out." The words are straightforward enough, but his voice is now as rough as 
  shards of stone, and he forces the syllables out in a burst of speed as if 
  to try to get them uttered as quickly as possible... before his courage to 
  utter them fails.

Tara winces, visibly, and her arms tighten. "Ohhhhhhhh."

The memory of it shoots up and down Richard's frame, tightening his muscles 
  and making the still-lingering hangover spike up sharply behind his eyes in 
  reaction. Exhaling a ragged breath, he tightens his own embrace upon Tara, 
  focusing his will upon himself for a few moments and thinking of nothing but 
  making each muscle in his body relax and accepting the concern of the young 
  woman who holds him. He's asked for no sympathy, this grounded Son of the 
  Air, but he knows it when he sees it, and he presses a kiss to Tara's brow 
  in silent gratitude.

Tara cuddles close, just holds him for a long time, and waits.

Eventually, her patience is rewarded as Richard whispers into her hair, "I... 
  may nae be back here, f'r a time... will ye tell Jen? I've got to deal with 
  this, I'm thinkin'. Nae sure how long I'll be." He speaks with a steadier 
  voice this time, though tension still lingers in his shoulders.

Tara mmms. Slides away from him, and, gentle but firm, turns him onto his 
  front, sitting astride his rear, hands resting on those tense shoulders and 
  starting a slow backrub. "Yer stayin' her fer a little while yet."

"Wha....?" That little exclamation is barely audible; more palpable is the 
  shudder of surprise that courses through Richard as those deft hands turn 
  him about. His head protests the movement, leaving the man little choice but 
  to squeeze his eyes shut while he's resettled, and by then his shoulders are 
  receiving his companion's attention. "I... well, as ye wish, then," he 
  mumbles. No use being reticent now -- the girl Knows, after all. But still, 
  it takes a bit to try to accept the fact that yet another person has 
  discovered his true race. And perhaps more to the point, has seen the 
  evidence of it across his back. Old and faded though they might be, the wing 
  scars and the whip scars that intersect them still provide a vivid 
  illustration of what must have befallen him, and only with a great effort is 
  Richard able to make himself relax anew beneath Tara's soothing fingers. 
  "That... feels right heavenly, lass..."

Tara mms. Softly, "S'meant to, hon." She isn't the most expert ever, but she 
  has gentle hands, and a degree of practice." A momemt or two, then, 
  murmured, "How's that?", as her fingers continue.

There's a knot just under Richard's left shoulder, and as the young woman's 
  fingertips work at coaxing it out of his muscles, the prone man lets out a 
  little hiss of breath that immediately thereafter modulates into a 
  near-silent sigh of relief. "Hurts, then doesnae hurt," he murmurs, oddly 
  wonderingly, eyes coming open and staring in bemusement at the far wall. 
  "S'posed t' feel like that, eh?"

Tara mms. "If I'm doin' it right..." Fingertips find another knot of tension, 
  knead at it.. "There."

"I'll have t' take yer word on it," Richard answers sheepishly. "This is..." A 
  pause. "New."

Tara smiles, the emotion carrying into her voice. "Every cloud has its silver 
  linin', aye?"

He turns his head enough to peer upwards over his shoulder, more hearing the 
  smile than seeing it, though he gets enough of a glimpse of it to provoke a 
  bit of a grin from him in return. "I'm bettin' ye say that t' all the 
  wingless men ye give backrubs to," he answers. Richard's sense of humor is 
  returning -- the backrub must be helping. For a time, then, he yields 
  himself up to those ministering hands, letting minutes drift by while his 
  body is coaxed into relaxation and letting its strength replenish. And at 
  last he adds, more seriously, "A bit o' practice'll be doin' me good, I 
  guess. There's... a few others I'll have t' speak o' this, to."

Tara mms. Her hands lift away, and she settles herself down against him, lips 
  kissing, softly, the places where wings used to be. Murmurs, breath warm 
  against his skin, "Y'can't..." A laugh. "Well, y'can. Y'can't change that it 
  happened. I think Jen said there are healers can put that kinda thing back. 
  But y'd still know. An'..." A soft laugh. "Y'*were* nice an' rough last 
  night. Can' change that."

"There... are healers, aye." That's all Richard says on the topic, though, 
  these words coming out of him gruffly even in the midst of those kisses to 
  his scarred shoulderblades.

Tara traces kisses across his shoulder. Murmurs in his ear, softly, "Y'see 
  everythin' here. After a bit, y'stop thinkin' about what folks look like." A 
  light kiss. "S'who they are that makes th' difference.

"Tryin' to tell me I'm a decent man, luv?" is Richard's answering murmur, 
  tinged with a trace of mild irony. He doesn't sound or look surprised now, 
  either; indeed, he may have already heard such a thing before. Whether he 
  believes it... another question entirely.

Tara laughs. "No." She slips off him to one side, nestles close. "Only person 
  can convince you of that is you." A mischevious grin. "But yer a good lay."

_That_ brings up a sharp lopsided grin, a flash of white in the midst of the 
  beard darkening the lower half of Richard's face. "I dem well oughtta be," 
  he drawls archly, "with all the fine gels givin' me a chance to practice 
  here."Odd to think of the Siren's Song as a haven, but then, it's true. Then 
  his smile gentles, and he takes another opportunity to smooth his 
  companion's rumpled curls. "'Tis mutual, luv. And I thankee."

Tara's cheeks dimple in a pleased grin. "S'what I do."

"Ye do it well." Richard permits himself a grin that _almost_ rests easily 
  upon his face, and a few strokes of his free hand along the curved form 
  snuggled up against him. Desire and appreciation flicker across his twilight 
  eyes, but they're mostly banked, kept in check now beneath the mental 
  defenses he is beginning to reluctantly restore. "I... cannae stay too much 
  longer, though I'd like t' do so."

A soft laugh. Teasing, "I c'd change yer mind in about fifteen heartneats."

A velvet chuckle sounds from Richard, though it's as much felt as heard. "Ye 
  verra prob'ly could," he agrees, having developed a respect for the skill 
  and allure of this fair-haired maiden, even more of one than he'd had before 
  last night and this morning. "But that doesnae change th' fact that I cannae 
  put off facin'..." Now he blows out a sigh, pausing before he continues, 
  "Ach, well... there's... some someones that need t' be knowin'... what I've 
  found out."

Tara mms. Impishly, shamming wideeyed pouting disappointment. "RIght now?"

Tyche, but a girl like this can try even the staunchest of resolves, eh? 
  Richard widens his eyes in just a bit of surprise, eyebrows arching up. 
  "Perhaps nae this verra moment," he concedes, "but soon. And I'm nae sure 
  I've brought enough coin to keep ye all mornin' along with all night, y'ken?"

Tara's hand trails down his stomach, lower, fingers squeezing lightly. A low 
  chuckle. "Don' fret about that."

If this keeps up, Richard tells himself, the Song's going to start losing 
  money on him with all the free time he's starting to spend here. But in all 
  honesty he can't quite say he minds. Making a promise to himself to do 
  something nice for Jenean and her girls, he cradles Tara a bit closer and 
  murmurs silkily, "Ye're presentin' one hell of a case."

Tara mms. "I did warn ya." She pushes him, or at least tries to, onto his back.

Not too difficult, that. Richard lets himself be turned over, grinning more 
  readily now, one brow still arched in curious interest as to what exactly 
  this impetuous hoyden monopolizing his morning has in mind.

Tara straddlies him, kneeling up and stretching, lifting hair with hands 
  behind her head. A lazy, almost sensual smile. "Like th' view?"

Empyrean or Mongrel, regardless of his race, Richard's still the man who 
  played it 'nicely rough' for Tara the night before... and he would have to 
  be made of stone to have no appreciation for the view of her curvaceous 
  young form, especially given the angle from which he now views it. He lifts 
  up a long lean hand, trailing a single fingertip down the valley between her 
  breasts, then down beneath the swell of each one. Deft, that finger, and so 
  are the ones that go with it. He's picked open many a lock with them, and 
  that same delicacy of touch exerts itself now. "Aye," he whispers. "A lovely 
  view it is, too."

Blue eyes sparkle. "Y'say th' sweetest things," she teases, arching her back a 
  little. One hand reaches behind her to encircle him again. "Mmmm..." Eyes 
  widening in mock-surprise. "SOmeone's feelin' better."

"I rebound right quick," drawls Richard in response, bringing up his other 
  hand to join the first in its activities. There's still a bit of a throb 
  within his head -- but it's subsided enough to be ignored, now. "And if 
  ye're bent on keepin' me... I might as well make it worth yer time, eh?"

Tara grins. "Aye." She bends down, till she can kiss him. Softly, "I ain't 
  chargin', love. Not fer last night an' t'day." Purred against his mouth. 
  "Sometimes..." A smile, at odds with the worldly-wise teenager she often 
  seems to be, that shows the soft heart within. "Sometiems I guess it helps 
  t'know that it ain't th' money, mm?"

His hand are sure now; his eyes, beginning to glimmer with renewed desire. 
  Only a slightly rueful twist to his mouth hints at his earlier awkwardness, 
  showing that aye, either Richard's spirit does rebound quickly or else he's 
  as much a master of burying his troubles as he is at picking locks. "Aye," 
  he murmurs as he wraps his arms about the young cyprian and meets her mouth 
  with his, "it does."

[End log.]