clayforthedevil | Other Verses

Bahorel wakes up on the floor in front of the fireplace, caught in a ridiculous multiplicity of blankets, pillows, and Jehan's elbows, which are, in Bahorel's considerable experience, far more omnipresent and wrathful than any God. It's all so far from unusual that he has a rare moment of confusion-- this could be Paris, and his old apartments. He shakes the confusion off, along with several pillows, one of which makes a reproachful yowl as it falls.

Bahorel grins at Marguerite, who blinks at him in offense. "Your pardon, Mademoiselle." He sits up, stretches and yawns in time with the kitten, and looks around to assess the damage of the night before. There's none especially evident; judging from the general scatter of overcoats and waistcoats, they both seem to have managed to get somewhere along the line of ready for bed before getting bored with consciousness. He looks for his coat and grins to see the poppy from the Labyrinth still vibrant in the lapel. That goes on a high shelf, away from curious kittens with unknown opium tolerances.

Jehan, at some point, apparently managed to turn his own shirt into something of a straightjacket, arms pinned to his own head and sleeves knotted. Bahorel untangles him, and lets Jehan thump back down into the pillows with the steady unconsciousness of a naturally deep sleeper who also notably overdid the mead last night.

Which leaves Bahorel free to go about his morning with his usual energy and lack of concern for quiet. By the time Jehan wakes up, Bahorel and the kitten have both eaten, stretched, and aggressively groomed themselves for the day. For the kitten, that means it's time for a nap; for his part, Bahorel is properly sprawled on the couch, reading.

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Jehan props his chin on his hand. "Is that why Feuilly was wearing a cat mask?" He hadn't explained it, really.

"It is! I will not shame Feuilly for a lack of creativity in this case; the poor fellow had his first real taste of opium earlier, and seems to be one of those who take it far too seriously. Our hosts had much grander outfits, but of course they'd been preparing longer, and were still willing to make modifications. Lovely people, for giant worms."

"Paris...was Paris. Smaller, because the people were smaller, and with more sparkle. But I could recognize the turns of the streets, still.." bahorel reaches out to sketch a skyline in the air. "..the Corinthe was there-- and our old café, too, to give you some idea of how much smaller the place was. You remember Casquettes, near the theater, with the letters all fallen off the sign? That was there, I could see its orange lamp from the Corinthe's door."

Edited Date: 2015-05-26 04:21 am (UTC)

"A smaller, sparklier Paris! How delightful!" Jehan frowns, suddenly melancholy. "Do you think our Paris was the worst Paris? You see, the Paris I encountered in the Labyrinth was a wonderland." He says it mournfully.

"...No. No, I don't think we knew the darkest fate for our city. Aside from the fact that our Paris existed, and she doesn't always."

Suddenly it's the sort of conversation that makes Bahorel wish he had a drink. But there's no thought of not telling Prouvaire what he saw, now that they're trading stories.

"The little Paris with the masquerade wasn't the only one we saw-- not the only one I saw, anyway. There was a room off one side of the Labyrinth, with a window looking out on a Paris sized much more like our own. It looked... quiet. Very tame." Jehan, at least, will understand the terror of that observation. "I'm not sure if Feuilly saw it; we weren't in the room long. It was a law office, so you can imagine." It's grim news to tell a friend, but he makes himself say it. "My law office. There was portrait. There was a plaque."

"I set it on fire." He finishes calmly.

It was the only possible response.

A nonexistent Paris. An apocalyptic wasteland in its stead, perhaps--or worse still, a Paris that never existed. The latter is even worse. An apocalypse was at least a sign of former life.

At the description of Bahorel's law office, Jehan shudders, and nods gravely. "Naturally. And a far darker Paris would be one in which you never appeared to consign that office to the flames."

Bahorel smiles slightly. "Ha, maybe. Maybe the fever-brained idiot the place belongs to will take the hint , anyway. And probably there were other offices in the same building; you know how they cluster, like crows. Murders. " Creative collective nouns are one of the true delights of English. "It could be that took out a whole wing of the infected rooms."

It's a cheering thought, but he's still getting up to grab a drink. Marguerite makes a demanding sound; he answers back in the same tone. "Does she drink brandy?" Who knows what god-kittens drink. "--What did your Paris look like? Was it part of Bast's temple?"

Jehan smiles at the thought of lawyers fleeing their flaming law offices.

"I don't think Marguerite drinks brandy," he says dubiously. "Either milk or ambrosia, I should think. And my Paris--no, I don't think it was part of the Temple of Bast. But I got there through the Temple. It was a magical Paris. I don't mean that poetically. There were these beings, like creatures out of myth and legend, glittering or invisible or winged."

Jehan drifts into a moment of wide-eyed recollection before remembering that there's some pertinent information to be shared. " And, oh! I didn't tell you this part! There was a shiny blue creature who I encountered near the Corinthe. Yes, the Corinthe. That's where I found myself when I strayed out of the Temple. And on the wall nearby was a plaque, commemorating the June Revolution--that's what they called it! I think it succeeded, in that world! But the plaque was near a hand-carving on the wall, carved by Feuilly, and it said Vivent les peuples, and the shiny blue creature told me Feuilly was magical."

Their Feuilly is no doubt magical in the way that all Jehan's friends are, but this Feuilly was actually so.

Maybe the Bar can get Ambrosia, but Bahorel's fridge currently has milk. He pours some for the cat, grinning at her demanding mews. To Prouvaire he says "Come to think of it, that wall was there, and marked, in our Paris too. Feuilly had quite the reaction to it; well, he would,he carved it before the final charge in our world."

He finds the brandy-bottle he's looking for and pours his own drink, tilting the bottle toward Jehan in offer. Limits on drinking time are bourgeois, probably! "I heard Joly mention the Corinthe too. If that wall was in every Paris we ended at, then Feuilly must have been too. Hah, he could have met himself in ours!-- Maybe it's an effect of him being a blue person in your world." Why not? The multiverse could do worse than give itself a constance of Feuillys, anyway.

Jehan takes the bottle from Bahorel, but doesn't drink just yet. Instead he waves it aloft like a flag. "In every universe," he breathes. "Every world, every conceivable Paris--there's always a Feuilly. A man defending the peoples with his last breath, carving out a final cry in their honor with the last strength left in his hands."

He takes a long draw from the bottle. He feels the occasion merits it.

"And their words live on, across every world."Bahorel lifts his glass, too, and smiles. "Vivent les Peuples."

More peoples than probably any Feuilly likely knows. Their own Feuilly would probably blush purple if he realized just how far he was being heard. But it's only right. "-- Every Paris, held together by words. --In another man's story, if remembered nowhere else." It's a comforting and overwhelming idea at once.

Edited Date: 2015-07-27 12:23 pm (UTC)

Jehan contemplates this.

"His words--and ours, perhaps? I wonder what the versions of us from the otherworldly Paris I visited did. I--" He breaks off.

"I wonder what I wrote," he finally says.

"You might find your work in the Library." It's a guess, not a certainty. "If the you in that world wrote in a way you could read here. I haven't looked for any of our own writing." In that, he means any of the Amis, any of those here. It's a dull joke, seeing ideas of what they won't do, for a world they won't live in-- either useless, or the sort of weak prophetic loop that bogs down too many old stories. But a world of light-creatures is a different question, and then different again for Jehan.

"--Some of our friends who went on in our world are there." It's a fact,and maybe something of a warning.

Jehan brightens a little. "I can try, anyway. It was a very distinctive world!"

He grows thoughtful at the mention of their friends' work. "Yes, that's to be expected. I don't think I can bear not to look for their creations. I suppose you've seen it."

"Their work, their memoirs." He grins. "Some of them have biographies. Some of our poor little crowd are even pinned down and dissected in textbooks."" He waves his fingers; a gesture somewhere between ooh, impressive and ooh, scary.

Unspoken, only because it's so obvious: if they have memoirs, if they have biographies, it's because they already lived on enough build such things. Obvious, so unsaid: from the perspective of Milliways, they aren't the only people of their acquaintance who are dead. Memento mori, and then some.

Obvious to Jehan Prouvaire most of all, who seldom forgets they each carry their deaths within them.

"I'm very happy to hear it," Jehan says softly. "It means they're remembered. Their names live on."

"They do. We won there, too."Bahorel rests a hand on Jehan's nearest shoulder. "The change we saw starting, it lasts. And it all changes for every era, beyond what we could ever have planned for; but even then, when people forget where it started; the old frozen ways never come back. You'll see it even in the worst novels."

And damn, it's good to have someone around who really knows what he's talking about when he says that. He grins and pulls Jehan close enough for a moment to kiss his cheek.

Edited Date: 2015-08-01 05:15 am (UTC)

Jehan embraces Bahorel in turn, briefly but fiercely. "Even the worst novels will be portals to a grander future, then. I can hardly wait to read them."