the marquis de Carabas (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mattersverymuch) wrote2014-01-27 07:20 pm
mattersverymuch) wrote2014-01-27 07:20 pm
19 ɂ spam & text; fin.
spam } snow
[He doesn't know how he knows. He just does. Every atom in him turns like a key in a lock, with a very nearly audible click.]
[All that's left to do is wait. Which he does on the deck, looking out at the stars with a curious and abnormal stillness.]
private } ned
I want pie.
[Firm and straightforward, for once.]
private } door
[He heard it once, from mysterious sources. His voice is rich, thick, syrupy as he repeats it. The sound of satisfaction.]
I turn my head and you may go where you want. I turn it again, you will stay 'til you rot. I have no face, but I live or die by my crooked teeth.
What am I?
spam } dean
[It's easy enough to let himself into Dean's room after all this time. He knows how and, moreover, is allowed; is encouraged, in a silent way. Because Dean is his friend.]
[Out of respect, he doesn't sit on the bed, but leans against the dresser and thumbs through one of the more arcane books on the shelf, for something to do until his friend - his friend - comes back.]
[Attachment was unforeseen, and distresses him.]
text } public
[The marquis de Carabas is not in the habit of goodbyes; certainly not to a population that he is not, as a whole, fond of. This is what he gives instead, as a gift, or something.]
There are a hundred thousand ways to die, a hundred thousand traditions of death, a hundred thousand death gods. The people who know all of them are probably dead. [Which is fitting enough.] But death isn't exactly real.
An image can die. A person can die. But they don't have to.
There was a monstrous giant named Goëmagot, set by fate or one or the other's stupidity against Corineus in what is now Cornwall. He slaughtered a number of men who are forgotten by history and then was captured, by some miracle, by Corineus, who wanted to wrestle him, to best him. Goëmagot broke three of Corineus's ribs; then Corineus threw him into the sea, and Goëmagot died. That place is called Lam Goëgamot - Goëgamot's Leap - probably to rub it in.
So the giant was dead. But remembered alongside Corineus, which was probably not the man's intention. Corineus is, in fact, inextricably tied with the story of the monster now. And somewhere under the ground two very tall men walk hand in hand, and we call them Gog and Magog, because that's what they're called. That's what they've always been called.
That's what death is.
[And that's all.]
[There may be a point, but there is no moral.]
[He doesn't know how he knows. He just does. Every atom in him turns like a key in a lock, with a very nearly audible click.]
[All that's left to do is wait. Which he does on the deck, looking out at the stars with a curious and abnormal stillness.]
private } ned
I want pie.
[Firm and straightforward, for once.]
private } door
[He heard it once, from mysterious sources. His voice is rich, thick, syrupy as he repeats it. The sound of satisfaction.]
I turn my head and you may go where you want. I turn it again, you will stay 'til you rot. I have no face, but I live or die by my crooked teeth.
What am I?
spam } dean
[It's easy enough to let himself into Dean's room after all this time. He knows how and, moreover, is allowed; is encouraged, in a silent way. Because Dean is his friend.]
[Out of respect, he doesn't sit on the bed, but leans against the dresser and thumbs through one of the more arcane books on the shelf, for something to do until his friend - his friend - comes back.]
[Attachment was unforeseen, and distresses him.]
text } public
[The marquis de Carabas is not in the habit of goodbyes; certainly not to a population that he is not, as a whole, fond of. This is what he gives instead, as a gift, or something.]
There are a hundred thousand ways to die, a hundred thousand traditions of death, a hundred thousand death gods. The people who know all of them are probably dead. [Which is fitting enough.] But death isn't exactly real.
An image can die. A person can die. But they don't have to.
There was a monstrous giant named Goëmagot, set by fate or one or the other's stupidity against Corineus in what is now Cornwall. He slaughtered a number of men who are forgotten by history and then was captured, by some miracle, by Corineus, who wanted to wrestle him, to best him. Goëmagot broke three of Corineus's ribs; then Corineus threw him into the sea, and Goëmagot died. That place is called Lam Goëgamot - Goëgamot's Leap - probably to rub it in.
So the giant was dead. But remembered alongside Corineus, which was probably not the man's intention. Corineus is, in fact, inextricably tied with the story of the monster now. And somewhere under the ground two very tall men walk hand in hand, and we call them Gog and Magog, because that's what they're called. That's what they've always been called.
That's what death is.
[And that's all.]
[There may be a point, but there is no moral.]
[slightly temporally anomalous text]
i'd wish you luck, but you don't need it.
don't ever think you've seen the last of me, sunshine <3 <3
[slightly temporally anomalous text]
just this time.
when are you coming?
[slightly temporally anomalous text]
but mostly.
I'll tell you when I get there XD
[slightly temporally anomalous text]
just give me some notice so i can throw the pigeon in the sewer.
[slightly temporally anomalous text]
mornington crescent. ilu.
...sort of.
[slightly temporally anomalous text]
[slightly temporally anomalous text]
spam
spam
[It's odd to care for such a creature. Fragile as a well-moisturized fist to the face. But then, he's never cared for those who couldn't care for themselves.]
[After a while:]
Space is so extravagant. I still don't understand the point of it.
spam
[She looks at him finally.]
spam
Is it? If you say so. Vast and beyond oneself isn't all it's cracked up to be.
spam
No, I suppose it is not.
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Private
What flavor...s...?
Is something wrong?
Private
[Yes, he really just said that. The world is clearly ending.]
Re: Private
What I want is what you want. What do you want?
Private
'Private
Private
Private
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Private
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Private
Re: Private
Private
Private
Private
Private 1/2
Private
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Private
Spam
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no subject
no subject
private;
Where did you hear that?
private;
Where did you hear it?
private; whoops why did i do text let's ignore that shall we?
It was the answer I gave the Black Friars. To get the key Islington so desperately wanted.
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[ Spam ]
So all in all, the only schedule he really follows is the meal periods in the dining hall; he spends less time in his room than he has been, but he still returns frequently and fairly randomly. He knows the Marquis comes and goes as he pleases and he's fine with that, but he rarely actually catches him here; furthermore he's not expecting anyone there anymore. He has, miraculously, no enemies and he lives here alone.
So when he walks in and knows, instinctively, that it's occupied he knows something else just as instinctively and his stomach drops without stopping to register why with his conscious mind. He looks up from trying to re-tie the knot of his necklace, newly threaded onto a new waxed cord, and finds the Marquis instantly.
He smiles and when that cannot hold, it morphs into a smirk. His hand stalls on the doorknob.]
Hey, sunshine. You don't have enough of my books stashed away where you think I'll never find 'em?
[ Spam ]
[He could tell the truth. Easily, actually; it no longer rankles him to be honest when there's nothing to gain, although he always considers gain even now. He could definitely tell the truth. He could say he's graduated, like he will say to Ned, and weather the storm.]
[Or he could lie. Could come up with some quip and spend the moments that he last sees Dean here grinning, thrilled with his own cunning. Could slip away at the last moment, unbeknownst to anyone. No way to know for sure until Snow makes the announcement that the marquis is sure to come.]
[Dean's smile slips. The marquis finds himself unwilling to lie in this moment, or to tell the truth.]
[He is calm, unsmiling; he stares at Dean, and puts the book back on the shelf.]
[Not a word.]
[ Spam ]
Dean hadn't, then, looking too pointedly, too deliberately, too desperately in the completely opposite direction until he'd honestly fooled himself. This time he does know inherently - and he chooses, again, to look away from it even when the Marquis does not respond, his dark hazelgreen eyes meeting the cat-black of his friend's squarely. Dean closes the door definitively behind him, strides forward to his writing desk to find the file he'd come here to get.
His voice is cheerful, bright. Fondly exasperated, pitch perfect in every way but for how it only goes surface deep. If the Marquis is unwilling to lie, Dean will pick up the slack for just a few moments more.]
Fine, take it. I probably owe enough in library fees to fund a third world country anyway. Good thing we're already in prison, huh?
[ Spam ]
[And yet the marquis cannot manage to be angry with him. Not even annoyed. There is a certain hollow feeling that gives him an unexpected lightness - sorrow, he will discover later, when he comes solidly, heavily back to earth - but no frustration.]
[This has already happened. Only a matter now of admitting it's happened.]
[His mouth tugs up at the corners in a smile. Fond. Unexpected. Unplanned. Unpredatory.]
Idiot.
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