Other Verses

[clayforthedevil]

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.

Comments

[vive_lavenir]

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.

[clayforthedevil]

"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.

[vive_lavenir]

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.

[clayforthedevil]

"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.

[vive_lavenir]

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."

[clayforthedevil]

"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.

[vive_lavenir]

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."

[clayforthedevil]

"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.

[vive_lavenir]

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."