taxonomites | [holo | Sanctuary] Wonderful muggle things

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[holo | Sanctuary] Wonderful muggle things

One moment he is running through the forest of Serbia.

There are howls and screams following him, inhuman despite the lack of moon in the sky. His muscles burn from running but he forces himself on, needing to get outside the edges of their territory. If he can just make it to the edge of their territory, he will be fine.

Screeching phantasms rush up from behind, shrieking his position to his hunters. He blasts them as fast as he can to silence them, to buy himself those few extra strides that get him ever closer to safety.

One moment he is running, bursting through the shimmering wards that mark the territory. The next he is letting himself fall, whispering for the magic to rip him away and back to his hotel in the middle of the Muggle townstead.

That isn't where he lands.

There is a distinct lack of smoke, dust and noise in the next moment. And far too much light to be his hotel. Or, indeed, the townstead, which is still mostly relying on gas and goodwill to stay lit at night.

But there is a lack of angry, murderous werewolves, so all in all, it isn't worst place he could be.

He sits down, deciding to get his breath back first. A pat down reveals his situation. "Bugger." He's lost his compass (which he didn't need anyway), his map (which probably wasn't going to help right now, all things considered) and his last bar of chocolate (which is a pity, because he really could have used that). But he still has his wallet and his wand, so the important things were taken care of.

"Right. Well. There's no door," he murmurs. "And a big... pointy... thing on the ceiling. Muggle thing. And another muggle thing! Wonderful. I wish I had been to school in the last ten years or so and I might know what that was." He rubbed his stubble thoughtfully. "No one's trying to eat me. And there's nothing hosing me down, tying me up or screaming in my ear, so it could be worse. However I have no food, no water and no idea where I am. That's less wonderful. But I have a wand. So they don't want me harmless. But they can interrupt my apparation, which means they probably consider me with a wand a negligible threat anyway. Merlin's beard, I have spent far too long on my own if I'm thinking out loud without knowing if I'm being listened in on. Hello out there? Could you let me out, only I've got some rather important business to get back to, thanks awfully."

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He lowers his eyes to the small satchel hanging low on his hip, opens it to take out a small paper bag. Within it, soft dried apricots mingle with slivers of crunchy dried banana and a variety of nuts and aspirations thereof, walnuts, cashews, Brazil.

"It is a place where one can forget oneself. Forget one's past, and perhaps glimpse one's future."

"Thank you." He only takes a small pinch, mostly of fruit because the sugar sounds wonderful right now, even if just a little.

"You have a lovely turn of phrase."

"And you give compliments too freely." He smiles, choosing an apricot for himself, just inhaling its scent for now; then replacing the bag, then looks to the other man.

"I very nearly yelled at someone the other day, at market, for doing something similar. You'd best be careful, lest you suffer my ire."

"But I mean them." He nibbles an apricot, letting the sweetness settle him a little. "And I'll be terribly sad and pathetic if you do yell at me."

"I did say 'almost'," he points out, soothed by the familiar scent. He has a nibble, ending on a sigh.

"Half the time, I spend wondering what intentions this or that person has, and the other half..." He shakes his head. "I fear I am misunderstanding everything I see or hear."

"Well, I have no intentions towards you," he says, face full of honesty. "Actually, I'd like you to stay safe, because I'm rather enjoying this conversation, but that's about all."

"Thank you," he says earnestly, eyes slowly edging towards meeting the other man's calm gaze.

"I come from a land, a world," which concept is still terrifying, that there is a multitude of worlds behind the veil of Man's comprehension, "where I know my place exactly, and one and all know theirs, and my being in relation to them. Here, no one knows me, nor do they seem to place any significance on their own standing.

"It is very alarming. I never seem to know what to expect, nor what is expected of me."

Remus looks back to the water. "I suppose in a lot of ways, where I come from is no different, not really." Purebloods, persecution of the muggle born, the revulsion of his kind.

"I find, no matter where you are, there are a few things that are always expected. People expect you to be polite, they expect you to be looking out for yourself above everything and they except the niceties of civilisation to be upheld, like don't steal and don't kill people. Generally speaking. Past that, I just smile and try to be as amiable as possible and hope I don't offend any one I can't out run."

This particular philosophy of life brings more than a smile to Bagoas' lips. It makes him laugh, and even after it has passed, he finds the smile lingers. It feels good to laugh again.

"I have always been fast on my feet," he tells Remus. "Perhaps I should take your wisdom to heart."

"Don't underestimate the value of being able to outrun people." Remus nods sagely, but he's grinning. "So, if they seem violently upset, just take off as fast as you can and apologise when they've calmed down later."

"You might be surprised to hear I've employed such tactics in the past fortnight. Well. Perhaps a touch longer ago than that."

The apricot disappears behind twin rows of white-enough teeth. Naturally white, not Colgate-cretaceous.

"This city has a way of playing tricks on the mind. It wears one's spirit down in quite...astounding ways."

Remus doesn't comment for a long moment, thinking over those very things. "Where I come from, there's a nightmare, that drains the joy and hope and happiness from people. You can't think of happy things when it's there, there's nothing but the despair of its presence. Something like that?"

The eunuch shakes his head. "I only know what happened to me. I haven't been here long enough to see its effects apart from that one time. It lasted for an age, or so it felt."

He looks downstream, spying a vacant bench, and gestures for Remus to take the lead. This topic of conversation demands a certain amount of comfort. "One morning not long after I came here, I ventured outside to see the city, much as yourself. After some walking, I found myself at a bazaar, and everywhere I looked, I spied a familiar face. It was as though in that moment, I had been taken back to Susa, where I was born."

Remus follows the gesture with his gaze and starts walking, offering his arm to Bagoas from habit as much as anything else. "Were you back there? I mean, did it seem that the world became that place?"

Bagoas looks at the arm, nonplussed as to what it means. Surely such a gesture wouldn't be wasted on him - if it is indeed what he thinks it is, and holds a similar meaning.

Tentatively, he places his hand atop the offered arm, just below Remus' bent elbow. It feels awkward, but he wouldn't want to offend someone so gracious. If he learned anything at market, it is not to discard tokens of courtesy, no matter how foreign they seem.

As they walk, he finds his voice anew. "'Twas like a mirage. One moment I was walking down a street like any other here, the next I could hear the noises of a bazaar. I could hear the merchants and the criers, the bustle of people going about their day. Sounds like I had not heard since coming here. For a while, the illusion was immaculate."

"Like magic," Remus murmurs. He corrects Bagoas' grip without mention of it, tucking his hand into the correct position as they walk. "The noises are alike, but every market has its own noises and smells, a presence that no other market can duplicate."

Bagoas' eyes turn into slits, watching the correction keenly; wondering what it signifies, and makes a point of remembering it for future reference.

"Yes," he says softly. "Like magic. I could not help myself, I had to see it with my own eyes. For a while, it was like living a memory, or a lifelike dream... But all too soon it turned into a terror. The King's men accused me of murder. I was to be executed."

He winces at the story, reaching to pat Bagoas' hand softly. "I'm so sorry. It must have been terrifying. Sickening accusations and then that on top of it."

If the added touch of a hand startles him, it doesn't show. He merely inclines his head in confirmation.

"At first, I was shocked to think they would have me so misjudged. Now that some time has passed, I merely find it insulting."

His eyes scan the green grass alongside the glistening stones. "I was his favourite, you see." He says so softly, as if sharing a great secret, and with a fair amount of pride. "I served him eight years."

"That's a long time. You must have been quite young when you were taken into his service." He takes Bagoas to the bench to sit down.

His hand leaves the comforting nook of Remus' elbow to smooth his clothes as he sits. Then, folding his hands in his lap, he looks out over the gently shimmering water.

"I was...thirteen when I was accepted into the Household of Great King Darius. Fifteen when the Great King met his end at the hands of traitors, peace be upon his soul. One of the conspirators, whose camp I mistook for a loyal one and went to in search of help..."

How to phrase it, when he knows it was Serendipity that brought him there? "I was given to the conqueror Alexander, as a token of goodwill, so the conspirator may return to his home without challenge."

Remus slides off his coat and folds it, placing it on the bench and leaning back, drawing his wand from his sleeve to twist the wood in his fingers, feeling the familiar, worn curves and hum of magic inside. "You've had a hard life, Bagoas. And despite it all, you're still a kind and charming young man. People have broken for less."

"Not as hard as some, I'm sure," he says, neatly deflating the statement. He knows he's seen far more than most, both of good and bad, but he cannot abide by those who mourn their past.

All that besides, Remus does not need to know just what he's survived. There is telling, and there is telling too much; speaking too candidly has never been his wont.

"Thank you, Remus." His eyes fall on the length of wood, and he can't begin to guess at its significance. There are ways to ask questions as well, and he's been taught never to be too straightforward.

"Would you tell me something of yourself?"

"Maybe, but much harder than many. You seem to have turned out a fine young man despite it all." He inhales the smell of the river and plants, even the faint scent of the alder of his wand.

"Well, there's not much to say about me. I move around a lot, live a quiet life, keep to myself when I can. No family, no real friends, I suppose. A leaf drifting in the breeze of life." He opens his eyes to look at Bagoas and smiles. "Though I made my cloak myself. Hunted the reindeer and all."

Bagoas smiles politely at the compliment, having failed to keep track of how many since the man first approached him. He is well past his prime, as such, but to say as much would be rude; it would be careless of the compliment given, to lessen its value.

Instead he tilts his head, meeting Remus' gaze. "I think within you there lives a poet. Add to that, you live off the land, as is only proper. It is the way my family has made do for generations."

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