mattersverymuch | 19 ɂ spam & text; fin.

Entry tags:

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Just a minute.

[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]

[Well, this is just fantastic. Graduated he might be, but an expert at consoling anyone at all, let alone Ned, he most definitely is not.]

[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.

[The dough is folded right over the Marquis' hand, as the Piemaker attempts to lift it into a pie pan and cover it with blueberries]

In a minute. Less. 47 seconds.

It was a minute. Ned.

[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.

[He stares down at the ruined dough, shoulders tensing up. But he doesn't look at the Marquis' face, even when the hand presses against his shoulder]

I don't want you to go hungry when you leave.

[His heart sinks. Previously, he wouldn't have thought this possible. Slowly, he loosens his grip and lets his hand fall.]

[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?

[The Piemaker stares down at the broken dough, before reaching into the pie plate to curl it all together in a ball again]

Yes, please.

[He starts to sprinkle flour over the countertop in preparation for one more go, decidedly not looking up]

I knew this day was going to happen. It's just. Part of the nature of the Barge.

I wasn't expecting it to happen so soon. Not that I don't think you're not ready. Of course you're ready. I'm not ready.

[His smile is concealed in the downturn of his face to the flour-covered table. He reaches for another piece of dough and realizes, with some annoyance, that he has no idea what he's doing.]

[Time to stall and watch Ned, which he has never done before for reasons that are for some reason not coming to him right now. He moves the dough from hand to hand, as if he's forgotten it's there.]

I wasn't expecting it to happen at all. What a surprising world we live in.

[A beat.]

Worlds.

You are ready.

[Biting his lip at the marquis' floundering attempts, the Piemaker sets one hand on the other man's wrist to stop him from turning the dough. He takes a small rolling pin and hands it over, showing him how best to roll it out]

No.

No, I'm not ready. I'm not...

Bringing the dead back to life makes you pretty terrible at learning how to say goodbye.

[Fine. One more joyous learning experience before he goes. He can stomach that, probably, without throwing the rolling pin down and storming out.]

[He moves it from one hand to the other, then gives up without protest and starts rolling the dough out. There's flour on his coat.]

I'm not going to say goodbye.

[Despite his misery, the Piemaker smiles quietly to himself at the mess the marquis is making. It only makes his heart ache more when he thinks of what he's missing so fast, but he contends with it if only for the length of time it takes to make a pie]

You're just going to up and disappear? A magic act?

[He smiles, too, despite his exasperation - despite the fact that he really has no idea what he's doing, he smiles. There are worse things than being out of your depth. Being horrifically tortured, for one; being dead.]

You could call it that. Or you could call it being considerate of those I know who aren't good at goodbyes.

I'm a very considerate man.

[Twenty years ago, the Piemaker's father performed a similar disappearing act. But he had the indecency not to mention it at the time. There are worse things than people you love leaving you. Being horrifically tortured, for one. Being dead.

The Piemaker bends down over his dough, frowning]

I know.

I just hoped that. You know.

You might have considered staying. But I realize that was a selfish wish and I'm happy for you. Not that you're leaving but for you.

[Ned stumbles over his words, clarifies and re-clarifies, and the marquis lets him. The moments of discomfort that stretch between the two of them resolve somewhat when Ned comes to his rambling conclusion, as they always do, like the collapse of a dissonant chord into a perfect fifth.]

[For a moment, the marquis watches the manipulation of the dough; then he mimics it, unused to working with his hands, but quickly learning.]

Do you remember that the city knows me?

[Seeing the marquis watching him, the Piemaker slows his movements down so that the marquis can catch up. Up and over. Knead and fold. Stretching out over the entirety of the table and then contracting back in, then repeat]

Your city. Yes. I remember.

[Up and over, knead and fold, stretch it out. He gets it quickly enough, even if he isn't a man who generally works with his hands - not like this.]

My city, [he says, a little distantly, while he works,] is alive. In this time, she is . . . diseased. And she needs supporting.

Until Door returns, that's my job. [That doesn't sound right.] My - chosen vocation. At least until something better comes along.

Something better for you? Or someone better for the city?

[Up and over, knead and fold. The Piemaker concentrates hard on his own fingers so that he won't look up to see the other man's face]

There is nothing better for me.

[This is bald truth. There is nothing and nowhere better than London Below. It's in his bones.]

Until a long-term solution for the future comes along, there's just me. After that, I'll stay and . . . fill gaps. Do the things that other people can't quite bring themselves to do. That will be my job.

[Like a warden for the whole Undercity, he thinks. It makes him feel a little better, but not much.]

That sounds very admirable.

It sounds like the right thing to do.

Are you sure you're the marquis? Not someone wearing his skin?

Oh, shut up. It's entirely self-serving.

You don't have to live in the underground. You could go somewhere else. Anywhere else.

But you're choosing to stay and help watch over things.

That doesn't sound self-serving.

But it's where I love to be. Hence, self-serving.

If that's the way you have to imagine it to get out of calling yourself a good person.

[He smiles faintly, and finally seems to get the hang of rolling the dough out. It's more or less flat, if lumpy.]

It is, in fact, exactly that.

...I still think you're a good person. And I think deep down you know you're a good person too. Even if you don't always want to admit it.

And I'm going to miss you.

19 ɂ spam & text; fin.

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam

Spam