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.]
Private
Private
Private
Today's special is Bananas Foster served with a side of Bullshit.
Private
Did you just curse?
Re: Private
Bananas Foster. A la mode, coming right up.
Private
[A truth for an expletive.]
Private
No.
Private
Private 1/2
Nooo, no. No. You didn't graduate. You're a terrible person. You're a tricky, terrible, crafty sort of craftsman and you hurt people and you don't care about anyone and.
Private
Oh my god, you graduated.
Private
[Unfortunately at least one of them isn't, but shut up.]
Private
I am going to make you. So much pie.
Are you staying or going?
Private
[Damnit Ned. Why are you making him say this?]
I'm going.
Private
I'll, um.
I'll make you some for the road, then.
[silence, as the Piemaker struggles to come to terms with this revelation]
Private
[He's sort of sorry.]
This isn't my home, you know.
[But it kind of is, a little.]
[. . . This is stupid.]
Where are you?
Private
In my room. Making your pies.
Spam
Spam
Inside, the Piemaker is fervently stress-baking and not paying the knock any attention whatsoever]
Spam
Ned.
Spam
[He bustles away from the counter, hugging a pie in his hands and dropping it into the oven. Lightning fast, he twists the dial on the oven and returns right to the counter, rolling out another ball of dough]
[Digby leans into the marquis' hand, looking silently up at him. No, he doesn't know either]
Spam
[Digby's ears are very soft, so he contents himself with petting them for a count of sixty seconds before he straightens up, crosses the room - and plants his hand firmly in the middle of the dough.]
Ned.
Spam
In a minute. Less. 47 seconds.
Spam
[He shakes off the dough, leaving a mess of dough in the pan, and presses his hand down heavily on Ned's shoulder.]
I wasn't actually asking you to feed an army.
Spam
I don't want you to go hungry when you leave.
Spam
[There are no words.]
[He leans against the table and just looks: at Ned, at Digby, at the bustle of life in this kitchen that was, for a while, dead, and is now resurrected.]
[There are no words - there never will be words.]
[Except:]
Do you want help?
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