milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

It's been a long day.

A long week, actually.

(Gaeta won't even talk about what the past month's been like.)

Not having something to occupy his hands and mind -- a report, a stack of notes, even just a pen and paper -- feels awkward enough that Gaeta's taken to folding a small fleet of paper airplanes at his table. Being made out of napkins, all of them are too wobbly to fly, but that's not exactly the point; the point is to stay alert, stay awake, and do anything but sit around doing nothing.

...Even if it's much more likely that any alertness Gaeta currently possesses comes more from the three empty mugs rimmed with coffee stains, not the slowly massing collection of floppy aircraft.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That earns a curious glance.

"I don't think I've ever had those," he remarks.

"Then you should have one clearly."

"What are they like?"

He adds a few more tomatoes to the basket, nesting them against one another in a miniature pyramid.

"They're a little bit tarter and their color is deep red, they're quite beautiful."

Gaeta smiles, just a little. "I'd be glad to see them," he murmurs. A beat; the smile treads closer to a smirk. "And try one, of course."

She takes a look in his basket,

"I think we have enough for now. Now we'll head to the orchard."

More than enough, he almost wants to say; it certainly looks like it could feed more than just the two of them.

(It wouldn't surprise him if she already knew he was planning to ask if he could take some food back home.)

With a nod, he follows her deeper into the garden, quietly breathing in the multitude of smells. As he glances her way, noting the threads of silver in her hair, he asks, gently, "So how have you been?"

"Well enough, the days have been beautiful and there has finally been some rain."

Soon the plants change from vegetables to trees covered with fruit and hanging down above them.

"More Milliways' doing than yours, I hope."

That's a little softer, but no less gentle. Gaeta lifts his head toward the tree branches.

"Just life being life, things will pass I think and get better."

They're currently among the apples and moving through towards all the citrus.

"I guess so."

A year ago, Gaeta would sound far more convinced of that statement.

His eyes catch on a particularly bright apple, and he slows his stride as he studies it. Don't ask for more than what's freely given, he chides himself. She's given you plenty already.

She follows his gaze and smiles,

"It won't bite and there's no curse on anything from my garden."

Startled, and perhaps even a touch embarrassed at being...well, not caught exactly, but the sentiment is similar...Gaeta's eyebrows rise. "Thank you," he says, cautiously reaching for the fruit.

As he tugs it down, "Is that, ah, something that happens a lot? Curses being placed on food?"

Considering his haphazard education in the Scrolls, Gaeta figures it's probably better he asks the source directly.

"Not always, its more something is stolen so it sets off a chain of events that involve a number of curses. Hera has always preferred cursing someone herself, its what makes her such a bitch."

That earns a small huff of laughter.

"I got that impression from the Scrolls, too," he says as he tucks the apple alongside the tomatoes.

(Granted, it's not an impression confined to Hera alone. But.)

"She's always enjoyed revenge, I think too much. Which stories of us are in the scrolls?"

With a few more steps, the smell of the citrus fills the air and the trees drip with oranges and tangerines.

He drops his gaze away from Demeter and toward the basket. Quietly rueful, "Lady, you know I'm not exactly versed in them."

Still, Gaeta thinks: he ought to give her something.

"Most of what I know is from the Book of Pythia, and that's -- prophecy, mostly. It's about the first exodus from Kobol and the thirteenth tribe's journey to Earth."

"Ah yes, Apollo's Pythia, strange young women. Don't worry yourself, I just find myself curious since I know how stories shift and change over the centuries."

As she speaks, she reaches up and pulls an orange from a tree and hands it to him.

"I'm not even sure we're talking about the same Pythia."

Still rueful, but a bit less so. Another faint smile touches Gaeta's lips as he accepts the orange.

"The Seer of Delphi, she's always been the Pythia."

The. Like it's a title passed from person to person, not a name in and of itself.

Gaeta's brow knots. Cautious now, "Could you tell me about her?"

"The last one was so long ago, Delphi has changed so much. Her chamber was under the main temple, a woman who was given a glimpse of more. They used to wind up the mountain to ask her questions."

"And she'd never...come down to visit them? Or travel with them?"

The creases in his forehead have begun to deepen as he tucks the orange alongside the apple.

"No, everyone came to Delphi to ask her questions. Why?"

He shakes his head: less in negation, more in thought, as he puzzles through what he remembers of his one intense study period almost two years gone.

"It's hard to tell from the Book of Pythia whether it's all prophecy or if there's some history embedded in it, too," he says. "But -- some passages do come across as more historical. And if that's the case..."

By this point, he's half talking to himself.

"...then Pythia would have had to be traveling with the thirteenth tribe on their way to Earth."