FIDDLER ON THE ROOF

Appearances and disappearances; copies of copies of copies, with all the memories and all of the little marks of a life lived in the right place. Cael has always wanted information, always wanted stories--and that hasn't changed. But it's an odd thing to puzzle over, into the late hours. It's an odd thing to wonder: as a copy of himself, with no delivered purpose, set loose in a place where no one knows him and none of his old life seems to apply, does he diverge at that point? Is he the same person, with his audience gone, with his revenge had, and swept so far from home by the uncaring sea?

He is the same person enough to do the same things, if not for the same reasons. Music used to be a tool, a way to perform magic, a way to ingratiate himself to a crowd. Now there's just the joy of it. Just the itch of his fingers and the fear of going out of practice.

In the early morning, just after breakfast, he wears down a piece of bees wax on the strings and wooden frames of his instruments, preparing them against wear and the deepening cold. On plenty of afternoons, when the sun shines strong enough to keep him warm, he climbs from his room onto the roof of the Inn, one instrument pulled to his back while he tunes and plays the other. A pity no one's come forward with the skill to accompany on the spare, but plenty have offered new music to learn.

As the afternoon wanes, the odd pull and drone of his wheel fiddle shifts from tunes that might seem familiar but unknown, to something more and more recognizable with practice. They're strange tunes, requiring shorter turns of the wheel, harder stops, but a good way to keep his fingers nimble and improvising across strings and keys.

FOR YOUR REFERENCE

When music isn't enough to keep his mind off his own past or future, he returns to the books and boards. The schoolhouse has proven full of guides, and he can often be found there with tea and a candle enclosed in a jar or kitchen glass, what he's copied from the Inn's records laid out on a desk while he searches for corresponding reference.

And, next to that pile, references for his references.

It's slow going, trying to match events to the alchemical and natural magic that seems to rule this land, but he tries for a page each day. An event, it's solution. Some of the books gain notes in their margins, references to rituals and magic from home, a lens of his own understanding for when he picks up the book again.

At home he'd conceal his notes, his efforts, but paper seems in short supply, and the privacy his mind prefers seems frowned upon. So he leaves it as open as the records in the odd little tavern beneath his room: books strewn, notes visible, his small, neat handwriting working its way through events and corresponding supplies and jobs to combat reoccurence.

If he can contribute nothing but his quick and far reaching memory, at least he'll have made the effort.

FORM VERSUS FUNCTION

There are a few books he brings with him from the schoolhouse, applicable as they are. Those afforded horses in Glasdant certainly didn't learn from books, and while he hadn't seen many in his lifetime, they certainly hadn't had antlers and such skittish temperament.

For now, he isn't trying to ride the Kirin Peter had helped him rescue from Owen's wire-strung homestead. Books on horses, books on wildlife: he does his best to cross reference the diets of horses and deer, and offer them what they'll eat from the middle circle. The pack of brushes and leather tack hadn't offered any instruction, but he finds it in the library--grooming, the importance of diet and hooves, a love of sweets and salt.

Within the weeks, Brindle and Oughts are getting back to their old shine and then some. Owen hadn't seemed to care for their looks: labeled blankets tossed over against the chill of sundown, a long lead to give them the walk of some grass. From what Cael has learned, he often as not took them back to their home on the plains, and perhaps he'll get there eventually.

For now, he can be found at the communal pens, taking them out of the jailhouse on their leads and tying them to the fence for general care. He brushes their coats, braids their manes and tails, pays what attention he can to their scales. And he talks to them, about everything and nothing. Whispered bits of gossip about the strange people at the Inn, hummed snatches of songs he's trying to learn. If they get used to him, maybe they'll stop kicking him so hard when he flubs the hoof picking.

For those who don't catch him brushing down his new charges and being kicked into the grass, he ends his work with them at the Spring, letting them pass by their home and lick moss from the stones while he soaks his bruises away. He hasn't quite been able to see it well enough to confirm, but from what he's read, it might one day erase his scars as well, and it's easier to relax with skittish animals to spook at an approach.