Solvitur acris hiems grata vice veris et Favoni
trahuntque siccas machinae carinas

Cormoran Strike was barely acquainted the concept of 'free time'. The grueling pace of investigative work, coupled with his own disdain to inactivity, ensured that his days would be crammed full of productive labours and 'appropriate diversions' every now and then, which he maintained mostly to keep his mental acumen sharp and away of needless distractions (a very specific distraction, in later years) rather than true needs of rest. Such spartan regime had worked for many good years, until his body started to remind him of his age and forced him to a reckoning.

In the circumstances following the downfall of UHC, Strike had given his team ample time to rest, as the year was hard on almost all of them. Robin did not protest, especially since Strike did not single her out this time, and left with Ryan Murphy for the weekend. For once, he was willing to forgive Murphy for being so kind, considerate, and courteous, as for the first time in many years Strike felt himself light and free. He had attended the lunch with Amelia thinking it would be Amelia's closure, but he had walked away cognizant that it was also his closure.

And so, with no case in need of urgent attention, with no doomed romantic relationship to take care of, and no good football game on broadcast, Strike found himself reclining on the sofa in his flat, stump released from the prosthetics and comfortably sitting on soothing cold gel, a bottle of Doom Bar at hand, an idyllically rare evening. Normally he would resent this, but he was self-aware enough to decide that it was a good time for him to slow down and, in his word, 'taking stock' of things.

'Introspective' brought to him the idea of Prudence's clients, dutifully minding things in their lavish dwellings to discuss in expensive consulting sessions. No, he was going to do it his way, methodically going over the boxes of his life. No self-pity.

("See, you're doing that again.")
He heard Robin's voice in his brain, a mix of amusement and frustration, almost chiding.

Immediately, a memory flashed.
"The fact is Abigail Glover's more your kind of person..."
"Pulls herself up by her bootstraps, joins the fire service, pretends none of it ever hap—"

Instantly, he smiled.

The past year had indeed brought him a lot of humbling moments, having to confront his own prejudices and biases, to do a number on his own self-made man myth. People periodically commended him for making his time out of the military relatively intact, missing leg notwithstanding, given how much he had seen and gone through. He was not haunted the way his fellow officers tend to be, lacking the darkness that threatened to engulf them when transitioning into civilian life, a permanent mark. He had his way of coping, of course, but not after Joan's death he realized that it was St Mawes, with its unchanging groundedness and mannerly conducts, which tethered him by.

Joan, and to some extent Lucy who inherited the same determination in keeping comfortable lies, who made a fortress out of their immaculate kitchens and warm living rooms and armor out of well-worn, freshly starched aprons, with stalwart beliefs that every wrongs in the world would be made better with a bowl of piping hot meals eaten in the company of family and friends, a bedrock made of quilted blankets and homemade pies. He had somewhere to return to, somewhere untouched by horrors and awful cruelties, so he must survive.

And survive he did.

He poured himself a glass of Doom Bar. Lucy had not served alcohol at dinner yesterday on account of him having to drive back on his own, but she was happy to bid him farewell with a bottle, much to the consternation of Greg, who clearly thought Strike deserved no gift whatsoever given his lack of involvement in family matters and contribution to resources squandered on Ted's livelihood in the house. Strike, deft as he might, recognized that Lucy must have bought it specifically for him, as he had difficulty imagining Greg associated with any wholesome attachment to the Cornish brand.

His charitable mood alleviated a lot of pressure he would usually feel when attending dinner at Lucy's. It had always been a rote, perfunctory duties, but Lucy's recent confession had caused a profound shift on his lens. It shamed him that he thought of her as shallow and boring, that he barely made any effort to properly communicate before, that he spent all those years believing that the only thing they shared was the harrowing childhood with Leda Strike.

Lucy took care of Joan and Ted, allowing him to stay in contact with them and doing whatever he wanted with life, largely unbothered with issues back home. She never judged him for anything he decided to do even if she didn't like it, even when Joan was distraught he dropped out of Oxford, determined to anchor him to some semblance of normalcy amidst his tenuous life with Charlotte. Or maybe she did judge him a bit, but there would always be a door open. She kept him close even if he was never a good brother by any measure. He thought he knew her, knew her life, because didn't she tell him everything? Every single moment in her children's lives, every single piece of gossip in the neighbourhood? But how little it was, how little did it reveal of his half-sister herself, and he was not the least curious. Some detective he was!

It took one damned case for him to see his sister in a new light. He hadn't wanted his legacy to be like Charlotte's, to have left a scar on anyone who had ever let her in their heart, even for a moment. In his insistence to keep his carefully compartmentalized life in order, he had pushed and projected his fears onto everyone else. Lucy wasn't the very least jealous. Amelia Campbell wasn't about to ruin his life. Prudence was genuine. Something told him that Al too would be accepting if he would extend an olive branch. Maybe Joan was right and Jonny Rokeby— no, he was going too far. He wasn't ready for that one. Yet.

The lies he kept accumulating in the name of avoiding 'unnecessary drama' were tokens of his denial. If Robin thought staying in her marriage was an act of cowardice, he was an even bigger fool for taking things for granted, grumpy over what he thought was mere facade and colossal waste of time.

And it almost cost him Robin. Robin, the woman he fought so hard not to fall in love with, whose name now adorned the display glass of his office, his life's work. Strike and Ellacott. He'd liked the sound of it, had admired the curlicues forming the most permanent and public proof of his commitment. Strike was slightly annoyed no one made a fuss out of it. The agency was something they build together, something that cannot be taken away by Jack Hughs or Ryan Murphies of the world, he thought triumphantly, the result of their sacrifices in blood and sweat.

In a recent visit, Ilsa threw it a long look and told him, "Well, I suppose you aren't as spineless as I thought."

He winced as he recalled the many instances he disregarded Robin, treating her as a lowly temp far longer than he should all in a misguided attempt to keep her from danger and keep him from falling deeper, forcing her to take on riskier and riskier task in her eagerness to impress and prove her worth to him.

("What a load of bollocks," she would say, eyes twinkling. "I did not do all that just to impress you.")

But there was nothing left to prove, for Strike was sure he could find no better partner on the planet.

Ilsa made no effort to hide how stupid she thought the two of them were around each other, and how poor was their communication skill outside of work-related topics. Strike had defended himself by pointing out the existence of Ryan Murphy, and Robin was not the type who would start an affair. And for whatever reason, he managed to state "Well, I don't know. Ryan Murphy is a decent bloke" without batting an eye.

She huffed, giving Strike the look as if he was seven and they were on a playground. "Of course he is, or you won't be so desperate as to start making effort."
She quirked an eyebrow when he did not make any attempt to retort.

It was as if acceptance made everything so much easier. Somehow, Ilsa found this a matter of concern.

"Don't do anything stupid," she warned, before leaving his office.

Strike guffawed. The Doom Bar was half empty now, the skyline receding into darkness. Strike dragged his body and moved away from the couch. Just in time, as his phone vibrated loudly. He caught a familiar name flashing on the screen.

Alea jacta est.

He had the unpleasant hunch that he was only going to learn more of his blind spots from now on, and a pleasanter hunch that his partner would be the one pointing them out.

(non enim posthac alia calebo femina)
condisce modos, amanda voce quos reddas:
minuentur atrae carmine curae.