The Fate Line

Title: The Fate Line
Time Period: July 29, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: The lines don't always go straight and tends to branch out and change. Especially for some people.

Giggles from fortune teller's wagon tell anyone waiting that she's got a customer at the moment, as Deya certainly isn't the type to giggle. Chuckle, guffaw, or chortle, perhaps, but her giggling years are far behind her. Finally, two twin girls, one of the farmers' daughters, come down the steps, and Deya's rich voice calls from within: "Next!"

The wagon itself is warmer than the cool evening outside, and a push through beaded curtains reveals Deya sitting on the couch amongst the silks and velvets in rich colors. The wagon is hazy with smoke from her cigarette, which she puffs at in the few seconds of solitude she gets before her next customer makes himself known.

Laughter is always a good thing to hear, so from where he sits just outside, Cas is smiling a little as he listens. Laughing that much has to mean they have good fortunes, right? The awareness he pays to the inside of the wagon means, when the girls exit, he is already starting to stand up from his crouched position, even before the woman yells out.

But even then, some insecure part of himself glances backwards from the wagon, as if to make sure he is indeed first. And to look at the others waiting. His dimpled smile becomes sheepish, as he turns back, rubbing a hand over his clothes to straighten them. The tunic-like shirt with a tie string loose at the neck isn't one of his better shirts, but it is certainly cooler than some. "Looks like that would be me," he says sheepishly, checking the bag hanging across his shoulder. No doubt it holds what little he has to offer in trade.

When Cas enters, Deya waves her hand to clear the air a little bit, but there's really know where for it to go until the smoke gets sucked up by the fabric covering the roof of the domed wagon. "Good day, lad, take a seat," she gestures to the stool in front of her table. Her cards are picked up, moved from one hand to the other, and her dark eyes sparkle as she looks up at him. "Best not to let wee Jibben see your shirt, or he'll want to bet you for it, and he's a schemer, that one. He likes to stand out in a crowd, like you do I think, aye?"

She waits for him to settle, and waits for him to ask just what it is he seeks in her smoky wagon.

As he settles into the smoke, Cas coughs a little, but doesn't wave his hand much to get it out of his face. "What— my— " He looks down at his shirt and pushes it against his chest as if to protect it. He has few enough nice clothes to wear! Especially when it gets warmer.

Or when it gets colder again. At least work clothes are easy to come by and require less in the way of presentability.

"I— don't really stand out much here…" he asks, scratching his finger across his cheek for a moment, as he settles into the stool.

She gives him a skeptical glance, one brow arched. "In that shirt? Are you sure?" But it's all in good humor. She leans back, stubbing out the cigarette in a rose glass ashtray. "So. What is it you wish to learn about, lad? And would you like me to read your tea, your palm, or your cards for you? Do you have a feeling of one more than another? Or are you just thirsty and might like a cuppa?"

She offers him the cards to touch and hold, if that might make his decision more easily for him.

With the cards suddenly handed at him, Cas does the most natural thing and picks them up, turning them over to glance at them. Flipping through a few of them, he pushes them back together and puts them down in a pile. "I don't really thing cards are for me," he admits. He seemed to make the decision when he reached one of the ones with lettering on it.

"And tea does sound good," he admits, but then starts to roll up the sleeves of his shirt a bit instead. The sleeves are too long, by appearances, hanging over his hands in most cases. As he rolls them up, and old scar that looks like a rope burn becomes visible on one hand, and many signs of work and wear. Cas may try to dress well when in public, but his hands certainly give away the labor he's worked most his life. "I think I'll go with hands."

Deya nods, and reaches for both hands, her own tucked beneath but for the thumbs that slide over his palms. "Your element is fire," she says, tracing around the shape of his hand, then tapping his fingers. "You're spontaneous, enthusiastic, tend to look on the bright side of things. The downside of this is you can be a bit impulsive, not think things through. You act on instinct, which makes you seem courageous, but sometimes, it can seem foolhardy."

"Fire, eh," Cas says in his notably southern accent. Somewhat muddled as it may be, the travellers probably experience enough accents that she could assume he grew up in what once had been the northern part of England. There's a small laugh after her descriptions, not quite on par with the girl's giggles from before, but definitely not what would be considered a manly laugh. Guess that part of him stands out too. "Sounds a bit like me."

"Not that you have to do anything with the fire, boy," she says with a smile. "Just that it's the kind of persona you have. Down to earth, friendly. Hearth and home, but fire in the soul that makes you act before you think sometimes."

She traces the top line across his palm, closest to his fingers. "This is the heart line. See, here, how it starts late — below the middle man so to speak? This means you fall easily. Maybe not always in love, but you are easy to — what is it they used to say — crush easily. You have had more than one, I think, at this stage in your life, more than one you might say you loved."

She points to a spot where the line splits. "This means there has been a break — a hardship. Maybe not heartbreak, but something hard that's happened in your life, something that makes you who you are today."

As her words hit close to home, Cas' hand fidgets, fingers curling a little until he remembers to hold them out. There's tension in his wrists, though, and he's looking at her with a surprised, wide-eyed look. Until he realizes she must have noticed, and he looks down at his hands again, even squinting a little, as if that will help him see what she's referring to.

"I— if I— if it's so easy, how will I know if it's… uh… more than that?" This time when his eyes dart up to her face, it's very brief, and there's a hint of reddening of his face. That has nothing to do with being out in the sun today.

Deya smiles and squeezes his hands lightly. "That, I cannot say, and your hands cannot tell you. That comes from your heart. These just tell me what you are inclined to do, what you are inclined to feel and how you are inclined to act, young man. I am not blessed — or cursed — with true Sight of the future. But you have a good heart, and I think it will tell you. You may have doubts, even when you do fall in love, but will know it is love when you can't bear to think that it isn't."

She traces another line across the width of his palm. "This is the head line. Sort of short, but curved. This tells me you most value physical achievements — things you've done with your hands, maybe, things you've built or created. The curving shows you are spontaneous and instinctive in your practice. And the callouses," she winks, "tell me that you do work with your hands, but that's not part of the reading." She reaches for her cigarettes and draws another stick from the silver case.
ORDER: It is now your pose.

Can't bear to think that it isn't.

For a moment, Cas' eyes close as she says that, and there's a mild twitch to his hands again, as if he's tempted to pull them away. It's not because she lacks True Sight, as she admits, but it's because he wants to rub his eyes— which seem to suddenly have some extra moisture when he opens them again. Just the smoke! Or more likely not.

It takes a few moments, but he blinks at the moisture trying to get rid of it without actual tears as he looks at her and his hand again. "That doesn't mean I'm dumb, does it?" he asks with a hint of a laugh.

"Not in the least," Deya says with a firm shake of her head and a long pull of the cigarette before she sets it back down and returns to his hands. "It's a different kind of intelligence, but it's still intelligence. Take a painter or a carpenter or a seamstress. You wouldn't say they are slow witted, aye?"

The line that curves around the base of his thumb is traced next. "Life line. Here, I promise you, size does not matter. In all other things, well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder." Her dark eyes sparkle and she studies his palm.

"It is about health and energy more than how long you will live. Yours is deep, strong — this means you are vivacious and lively in nature. There is a break, earlier," Deya taps closer to the inner thumb, "that suggests a sudden change in your lifestyle. Perhaps a journey or a move. Now is where you tell me I cheat, because you have an accent that is not so much Scots as Limey, but still, your line does tell me so." She grins and lifts her cigarette for another drag.

At her talk of cheating Cas can't help but smile, emphasizing a dimple on his cheek. He'd been faintly smiling as she talked about his wits and compared him to thinks that he can't help but admire some, even if he still thinks a horse handler would be considered simple to most. "Not really cheating, though I haven't been called a Limey too often these days," he admits, sounding amused by this turn. And thankfully able to ignore the hints of moisture still on his eyelids. They aren't returning at the moment, thankfully. "It may not have been a sudden change that brought me here, right?" he adds. And after a moment he keeps looking at her as he responds in softer tones, "Isn't that why people come here, anyway— to get told the things they should be able to notice on their own."

She grins at his observation. "Often, yes. I do have a magical gift, but it is not in seeing the future, and I do not like to lie to my clients. Charlatans lie, and I do believe in the things I say. I may make a living from this, but not at the expense of promises of a future I cannot guarantee. I can't tell you for sure what has been, but I can help you understand how what has been affects you know. Sometimes. The palms are less about the future than they are about what you are, who you are, and understanding that is what determines your future more than anything else, aye?"

She shakes her head. "But that is not what you came to hear, is it. I am talking away and not doing my job. Tsk."

She traces a faint line that comes down from near the heart line, along side the life line. "This," she finally says, "is the fate line. Not everyone has one, you know. Yours is faint — this means you are not controlled by fate. I see no curse or blessing having made you who you are today." He earns a smile for this. "However, see the different directions and breaks — it goes a little this way, then stops and picks up and curves that way. This means you are prone to changes in life from others. This can both be a good thing and a bad thing; you make your own path by your actions and your reactions to others."

"Bless would've been better than cursed, but I'm happy not to have either," Cas says quietly, even as he continues to think about all that she's just said. He doesn't look disappointed that she rambled, at least, and he'd been watching her with a quiet interest the whole time. Even a bit of a smile, as if he thinks he's met some charlatans in the past.

There's belief in his eyes, though, as if he doesn't tend to think people liars unless he is proved otherwise. Or… someone else tells him they were. Which certainly follows what she said from the fate-line. He looks down at it.

"Do you think I… that my fate line, moves around too much?" There's some hesitation in his voice, as if he might have been about to use different words.

Deya's brow lifts and she leans back. "There are some that don't move at all, but then, neither do their lives. They stagnate and do nothing of significance. They do not use their talents and they do not feel the joys or pains of a life fully lived. Too much is relative, like everything else. I think that a person who lives is going to have others affect their life, and that is the end of it. But whether you let those changes caused by others be good ones or bad ones — that is the question, and your hands do not answer that for me."

She picks up the cigarette, dashing a long ash into the tray and then drawing it to her mouth as she studies him. "I think," Deya continues, "that you are, at the moment, happy and healthy and in a place that once you thought you would not be able to be. I think that says no, your line moves just enough."

From his expression, Cas looks relieved by her words, even if his eyes downcast again. To look at his hands, really. Reading palms is close to reading books to him, it's something he's not sure he will ever be able to do, but he likes to hear someone else do it. And this book is about him, not about some idealized hero or tragic creature he will either never be or never want to be. "I am happy here. But I was happy where I was before, too… When I left I didn't think I would be able to be that— that happy again."

There's a slowness to his words, as if he's trying to actually be careful as he says them. Or maybe he's not entirely sure on the words he's using. Probably why he's repetitive.

"Out of curiousity," he breaks from his thoughts, looking up at her again. "Which one of those would've told my future?"

She tips her head and shakes it. "All and none, boy. There are those that will say they wlll tell you how many children you have or how you will die or how often you will sleep with your lassie, or how many lassies you'll bed. But that's not so. They tell me what kind of person you are, and that is what determines your future, aye?" Deya grins, leaning back and picking up her cigarette once more. "I'm not much of a fortune teller, am I? Maybe I should change the sign, but I don't think all of that will fit."

"I'd probably believe you if you told me you could see the future, but— I like it this way. The future's scary enough without thinking you have no control over it, aye?" Cas says with a laugh, as he looks down at his hands again, as if wondering if she's finished. "You did tell me what I wanted to hear, though, well. Not what I wanted to hear, but what I needed to hear, I guess. I've been kind of… confused. Lately." From the way he says it, he thinks that may be his natural state sometimes.

"Not sure it cleared that up all together, though. Me head's still a little muddled. But I guess listening to my head isn't really the ideal, anyway." Not for him. He takes in a slow breath. "So anything else?"

Deya studies him, and tips her head. "Nothing left in your hands, no, not that I see. But let me tell you what I've seen, being an old dame that I am." She grins, snubbing out her cigarette and crossing her arms as she looks at him.

"Sometimes the right answer is right for a time — and then it's not. Things change. Seasons change. This might not be where you are meant to be forever. That doesn't mean you have to hurry through, either. You are a young man, and there is time to enjoy life, even as it kicks you in the rear now and then. There is time to meet people and ask questions and seek answers. It isn't a race. There is no time limit, except that your heart beat gives you. Don't worry so much about being right but just being you, and the right will come."

"I do sometimes make decisions just because I think I need to right then," Cas admits, as he pulls back his hands, running hands over his face and through his hair, before he reaches into the bag at his side.

What he pulls out isn't anything as nice as his shirt, but it's fabric, a scarf that seems to have been dyed and kept out of the sun so it hasn't faded. The design is simple. He unfolds it and adds an extra leather strap, with a stamp on it. It tells that he works in the stables, for Rowntree. Surely they'll need to trade some things here, and others will take it.

"Thank you," he says politely with a smile, as he sets them both down and then exits.