priorcommitment | if they only knew how thin the ice they walk on is

As often as Ishiah had once berated Robin for not knowing his own limits and being reticent about asking others for help, the peri often fell into similar habits himself. There was a touch less self-awareness, of course. Robin Goodfellow knew very well when something was too much for him, and ran just about as often from life and his troubles— Ishiah, on the other hand, was precisely the opposite, convinced that he could handle himself and all of the responsibilities foisted onto him, until all at once it became too much and left him floundering with no way to break the surface of the water.

Those days, the problem was Caliban.

Perhaps that wasn't the best way to describe it. Caliban wasn't, after all, a problem in of himself. The island had removed the most practical concern that the once half-Auphe brought about with him, and sharp though his tongue could sometimes be, for the most part he was as decently well-behaved as someone in his position could be. Niko had done a miracle of a job, raising a child with an X written on the back of his head, with the worst melting pot of genes imaginable, into a young man who knew how to respect. The average American parents couldn't even say that much.

But the point was, however well Caliban had been brought up under the hands of his guardian, Ishiah wasn't well-equipped to take that man's place. When peri came to Ishiah, he knew precisely where they'd been, the lives they once knew, and could retrace his own steps well enough to be as helpful as could be. This was different.

This had him waiting on Trixa Iktomi's doorstep, brow furrowed in thought. He knocked on the door.

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"A lot of help you've been," Ishiah joked, after a moment's pause, before allowing himself to close his eyes. Though he was weary, in some ways, Trixa had still provided exactly what he needed. Directions too clear, too strict, he would have followed to the letter; on the other hand, being told that he wouldn't be able to predict every step along the way left him no excuse. He needed to be able to adapt on his own, better learn Caliban's idiosyncrasies.

He rubbed his fingers against his forehead, working out the wrinkles there.

"My hair is likely going to start going gray any moment now," he said lightly. "Perhaps that'll give me a more authoritarian air."

"If it makes you feel any better, it'll be hard to see in all that blonde." She waved at his head with something of a resigned sigh. Any gray hairs on her head will stand out like a... gray hair in a sea of dark. Shit. She might actually be here long enough to age. Moving restlessly, she absently started re-arranging a few things as her mind traced back. How long had she been here? Almost a year, minus a month or two, wasn't it? And all that time...

"I'm not going anywhere." It was part a reminder to Ishiah that she was his friend in this place, that whatever happened with Cal, if he didn't want to deal with it alone, he didn't have to. But mostly, it was a comment on her situation. She wasn't going anywhere. Even if she wanted to.

"I know," he said quietly, his tone sobered. He was under no false impressions, knew that as soon as the two of them returned to their world, it was likely that their friendship would grow thin. Certainly, all signs suggested that they wouldn't even retain memories of Tabula Rasa at all. But the island was its own world, its own place, and it had changed the situation enough that Trixa had become one of Ishiah's closest friends.

He didn't mind that.

"And I think gray might suit you. With your luck, it'll come in pleasant streaks," Ishiah joked, a corner of his lips raising.

"Alright, that's it, featherbrain. You. Out." Smiling, she chucked the liquor-soaked rag at Ishiah's head. Not with any accuracy, just in his general, head-like direction. Obviously, the serious part of the conversation was over and while she enjoyed a good joke, Trixa didn't necessarily want it at her expense.

"Or I won't supply you with anymore free alcohol." Which was somewhat counter-intuitive when she was holding out a small bottle for him to take with him.

He allowed himself a small smile, nearly a laugh, as he caught the sodden rag in a hand and gave it a slight wrinkle of his nose. Fought the impulse to immediately find a pitcher of water to rinse his hand off with. But instead, with a softer smile, he handed it back over to Trixa, expression fond.

"I'm in the habit of being brutally honest, so I've heard," he remarked in turn, before taking the bottle she offered in turn, running over its surface with a calloused thumb. Nodding his approval, he added, "Thank you, Trixa. Truly."

"Brutally honest, huh. Guess that's a word for it." She took the rag back and tossed it on the table. She was a neat person by preference, but she didn't mind the occasional mess.

She watched him with the bottle, almost studying it, wondering what was going on in that peri-head of his. Had she said the right things? She wasn't sure if she had, but she'd been as honest as she could have been and she figured that had to be good enough. So when he thanked her, she nodded.

"Anytime, gotta stick together all of us, right?" Solidarity. Some of her favorite friendships had started that way.

Strangely, the more Ishiah thought about it, the more ways in which he could see himself being categorized in the same group as Trixa. Once, they were immortals. Once, they had fought in a war to create a safe grounds, where any creature could stay without fear of persecution. Now, they were only three out of an entire world that had made it to Tabula Rasa, three of a group that used to be twice that size. And although their circles of friends did not entirely overlap, there was that bond that tied them together as well.

"Whether we need to or not, I'm sure we'll stick together regardless," he said at last, raising the glass again in thanks as he made his way over to the hut's entrance. "If there's anything you need, you know where to find me, Trixa."

"Sure do, neighbor." And it was reassuring to a point. The way her regular patrons were, the way her bar was. That little piece of home, wherever it was, wherever it went, there it was. As constant as anything in her life could be.

"Don't drink all that in one place. Better yet, share it with the kid. Get drunk together, see what happens. Maybe you'll get some of those answers you want."

The remark had just enough suggestion that Ishiah found his brow furrowing even as he left the hut, hoping that Trixa hadn't meant to insinuate what Robin no doubt would have enjoyed doing. But he didn't make too much of a fuss over it— tricksters would be tricksters, overturning earth wherever they went, whether in big ways or small.

But he did manage a small wave as he crossed the space between her hut and his own.

"I'm not sure I'll ever find the answers I want at the bottom of a bottle," he said to himself.

if they only knew how thin the ice they walk on is

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