Frays in the Weave

Debriefing, part two

Arthur stretched his arms and legs like a satisfied child and burped rudely. He was sitting in a tree house, one of several in The Tree, his favourite, very exclusive, very expensive and absolutely marvellous restaurant in Verd.

He fondly remembered the restaurant from the first time he'd been here. After that he'd made it an almost daily routine dining here, but that was half a year or an eternity earlier.

Arthur was enjoying a gorgeous wine; rounded, full bodied and without any sharpness at all. The food had, as he'd fervently hoped when he ordered it, been exquisite and the company was one he never seemed to tire of -- and he had had plenty of time doing so sharing cramped rooms and more often an even more cramped wagon with the man since early autumn.

Harbend was in short nothing like the businessmen Arthur had met during his years behind and in front of a camera back on Earth. Not that Harbend wasn't a businessman, quite the opposite, but he had none of the tired arrogance of the too rich to enjoy their wealth that flocked around the money Arthur generated. It had been more like a game the already successful had to participate in rather than a real competition -- well with one ghastly exception. At least Arthur suspected Christina Ulfsdotir to be behind the murder of his wife and two children. He had never been able to prove it. Had fled from it all rather than try to prove it, Arthur corrected himself with a guilty grin.

Harbend proved to be a good friend, even though they didn't always agree with each other and sometimes made their decisions from a very different moral and ethic viewpoint.

Arthur toasted his friend again. They were both getting a little bit drunk, he more so than Harbend, but then he had his med kit available should he need to sober up immediately for one reason or another. Harbend didn't have that benefit.

Arthur studied the face in front of him. Stubbled in a way that didn't agree with the strangely Asian features and topped by an unruly hair that should, if Arthur recalled correctly, be gathered in a knot to one side and otherwise mostly be shaved. Harbend was younger than Arthur, which showed, yet old enough to be to be middle aged, something that didn't show. Somehow, though, Arthur suspected him of having experienced more during his life, with the possible exception of tragedy perhaps, but then that wasn't a kind of experience Arthur cared to see any friend carry around.

Still, life back on Earth, or anywhere else in the parts of the Terran Federation he had visited for that matter, in general seemed simpler, more prepared and orderly. The only exciting event concerning all of humanity Arthur could recall was the finding of the Gate fourteen years earlier, and Otherworld behind it. Otherworld with secrets of magic and legend, and most of those legends only rumours carefully filtered through the official channels on both sides of the Gate. Now he was a part, a very small part, of those legends, and the reality he had seen was both more complex and at the same time more mundane than what he'd been left to believe. Hell, he'd even made holo shows about what was to be expected once Otherworld was finally opened for tourism.

Arthur frowned, drawing a questioning look from Harbend, and swallowed a sip of wine. The memories made it taste bleak, as if he didn't want to make it justice any longer.

"Harbend," Arthur began, "what will happen now when I'm a taleweaver?"

Harbend stared back across the table. The difference in height between the men wasn't as accentuated when they were sitting down. "I do not know. The Weave is a part of you." Harbend grinned, looking very much like a younger man than he was. "Your problem, or opportunity, not mine."

"And your problem is more personal in nature, I guess," Arthur countered mischievously. "Or have you forgotten her?"

Harbend had the decency to blush, but the blush soon turned into a satisfied grin. The boyish smile was contagious, and Arthur joined a silent laughter that for a time banished his tired thoughts.