taxonomites | [holo | Sanctuary] Wonderful muggle things

Entry tags:

[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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Of course! You have a way with words, and it takes no scholar to see it. As for how complicated, they say it takes two days to learn everything about a man; to know animals you will need more time."

He lowers his eyes to his knee, clasping his hands there once more. "I've yet to spend even one day with you, but already I know two things: you are a poet, and have an affinity for animals. That, I have seen with my own eyes."

"I love animals," he agrees. "Unfortunately, they generally don't love me. Insects are willing to make an exception but most animals aren't terribly fond of me. Must have one of those faces."

"Oh, hardly not," Bagoas protests, but kindly. "You have a very pleasant face, even if you do look a bit tired."

Then he leans in conspiratorially, "Perhaps you smell bad," making an elaborate show of sniffing his general vicinity.

"No. But in any case, most animals are deceptive creatures. Especially cats, who may never be trusted even to watch bacon. Dogs, however, are loyal, and like a lion when their master needs them. Such things are well known to my people."

"I'm always a bit worn," he agrees, but Bagoas' words and descriptions wrench something in him. A dog brave like a lion.

He smiles after a long moment, but it's a shadow of a smile really. "I knew a dog like that. Padfoot. He fought monsters to protect his family."

The smile and playful nature both wane from Bagoas' features, and he looks on the man with some measure of sadness for having said the wrong thing. They were having such a rare moment of contentedness, he can't help but feel the sting of ending it out of ignorance. "I have troubled you. Please, accept my humble apologies.

"Perhaps, some day, you would tell me of him?"

"No, it's all right, you weren't to know. I just, I miss my world." He takes a slow breath and opens his eyes and manages a real smile.

"He was big and black and made a mess everywhere."

That's better, and draws an answering, careful smile to Bagoas' eyes as well.

"Absolutely everywhere?"

"Constantly." He closes his eyes again to think back, able to do it without the terrible pain of being the last Marauder standing. "He liked to run through mud and water and then jump onto everyone and shove his paws over their faces."

"What better way to render all men his equals?" Bagoas smiles. "Alexander had a dog named Peritas. I'm afraid I spoiled him by letting him into my bed in the cold nights the King had no time for me. Of course he began giving the same courtesy to his master."

Drawing a deep breath, he looks to the water. "He was guileless, Peritas. Guileless and fiercely protective of all that he loved, all at once. He was truly a lion in his own house."

"Where I was schooled, I was in the house of lions," he finally admits. "Padfoot felt like he ruled the school sometimes, though James could always reign him in. No one else ever could. Especially not me."

"The House of Lions? Very good." The lion is a symbol of strength and honour where he comes from; both good things to be associated with.

"My King was like a lion as well. Golden mane, sometimes flashing eyes, strong when he needed to be. Always loyal. He gave me the best years of my life, truly."

"I'm not a lion." He tucks a leg up under him, scratching a still healing scar on his neck and collarbone. "Tell me about your king?"

Another deep breath, closing his eyes to better see the man before him: the man and King both.

"When first I heard of him, I thought him a barbarian for burning down one of the royal palaces in celebration of taking the city of Persepolis. Another eunuch at King Darius' court, Boubakes, was distraught with grief, having seen the Summer Palace. I myself had never seen it, and could only listen to him lay his memories out before anyone who would listen. The lotus columns, the hangings, the gilded and coffered ceilings..."

A small smile lifts his features as his mind goes to fonder memories. "The first time I saw him, the traitor Nabarzanes had taken me to Alexander's camp. A traitor though he was, he presented me with a horse when I asked for it to be a part of our deal. He sent for Zadrakarta as well, so I may have some new robes. If I were to be made a gift, I wanted to look as though I was worth something. He agreed.

"Alexander... He was not as small as I had thought. He was of middle height, and badly burnt from riding under the sun with an open helmet. His hair was golden, neither straight nor prone to curling. I remember his eyes the most. I remember meeting his gaze when Nabarzanes pointed me out to him from across the camp. It felt to me like an awakening of sorts, a sense that one should have come more prepared."

He opens his eyes anew, looking at the man beside him. "His eyes were touched by his God, Zeus. One as bright as the sky, the other always cast in darkness, warm like embers after the fire goes out. He spoke to me not as a slave, but as a person. All he saw was a beautiful boy, not the mark of a eunuch. They had no eunuchs in Macedon, and all men kept to shaving, to follow Alexander's lead."

Remus hates to hear of the destruction of buildings and culture. It pangs him to think of such beautiful things being mindlessly crushed and forgotten, the artistry gone and crumbled to dust and ash.

And the king himself, well, Remus honestly doesn't think much of him. Handsome didn't mean anything, Voldemort was a handsome man, strikingly so. He was still a monster. Is still a monster.

"Sometimes a beard can be more trouble than its worth, especially with helmets and bloodshed," he agrees absently. "How d you mean, one dark, one light? Different colours?"

"Yes. One bright blue, the other a dark brown. He walked always with his head slightly tilted upwards, as if gazing to the heavens; his neck slanted ever so slightly to the side.

"He had a scar on his cheek, but other than that, his features were fine. But alas, looks are fleeting, and not what surprised me the most. His men, generals and footmen alike, one and all called him by his name, giving him not even a 'my lord'. His generals were trusted friends either of himself or his late father, King Phillip; the footmen and soldiers all loyal to him not only for his birthright, but for never setting himself too far above them. He was a warrior, and their kinsman."

"Looks have never been much of a draw for me," he admits softly. "Not with how I look most of the time myself. There was someone I rather liked, I can't say we were friends, he hated me though I was fond of him, and his looks were really nothing that nice. Sallow and big nosed and sharp featured, but the most brilliantly sharp mind I've ever met."

He leans in briefly to touch shoulder to shoulder with Bagoas. "He remembered that fear holds loyalty while the threat is there, but respect and friendship... people will die for that, even if the other person has long been gone."

The eunuch nods, knowing this truth all too well. "The face can be a mask that hides unspeakable horrors. I am not so young that I am ignorant of this."

It's the soft press of the other that brings his eyes to an added brightness, as well as the words. Loyalty. Respect. Friendship. He may not have personal knowledge of all three, but he knows everything there is to know about the first two.

"Such was the Macedonian way. The King was not a God, but a general leading his men to glory. Until Alexander, who was bred by Ammon himself. The Oracle at Siwah confirmed it, and still he was but a mortal man. He never decided for others what he would not decide for himself, and his love..."

He shakes his head, feeling the loss too keenly of a sudden. Better then to gaze at the water, let it soothe him back to composure. "His love had only one condition. Loyalty. He would never turn away love."

It's probably horribly improper, but Remus wraps his arm around Bagoas to hug him. "I won't think less of you if you cry for losing him." Maybe it would do him some good to not cry alone. Crying alone is one of the most soul emptying things that a grieving person could do.

He should know.

Improper enough that it startles a sob right out of him. "I miss him.

"He was so weak at the end, a mere shadow of himself and there was nothing I could do." The last is a whimper, resolve fading quickly for the rush of emotion.

"He was my life and they took him from me, they murdered him, I know it! His friends, Remus, they were his friends."

Pulling Bagoas closer, Remus just holds him, rocking ever so slightly. "It's horrible. It's horrible and carves something out of you and even if they died for their crimes, it doesn't feel like justice. Nothing ever feels like justice for what they took away from you.

"Just let it out. I'm here, I'll never judge."

His tears fall openly, but he spent most of his grief in the week after his abduction, and though the pain is there still, it doesn't tear him apart. The solid presence of an arm around him helps, as does hiding his face in the fur coat that it may soak up his tears before they make a mess of him.

"They didn't die. They were his generals, tightly knit as brothers... Should anyone have spoken of treason, they would have found a guilty party. I have no proof. I could not come bearing accusations when they circled his deathbed like jackals."

It's bitterness tainting his memories so sinister: most of the men who made their last farewells were as distraught as any of the Persians at court. Even the generals themselves were obviously moved. Some of them were, at least, though he cannot say whether it was grief that made them cry like little boys, or guilt.

"Since I was a boy, men have come to take away all I hold dear. Time and again, they come, giving no pardon. Not Alexander."

"They can't take your memories from you."

It's a lie. Remus knows they could. Spells that rob it, blows to the head, but here and now, it's something no one can take. "I know it seems cheap now, but it's true. When everything is gone and you have nothing, nothing but the clothes on your back, those memories will keep you warm and they will keep your chest breathing and your heart beating. The memory of his smile will lighten dark nights and the weight of his gaze will keep your hunger at bay. The fury of his death will keep the spark in you going when you might otherwise curl up and wilt like leaves at the end of summer."

And right there, in the midst of salty tears and fur that smells like it should, that smells right in a sea of off-putting, acrid, stinging scents, Bagoas finds a smile again.

"Summer will never end as long as he is in my heart."

"Exactly," he whispers. He rubs the boy's arm and back. "Those memories are yours and will prove to be more precious than anything you could own."

"They already are," he murmurs, then leaning back, gestures to the earrings, the black smudges around his eyes that look much less artful now.

"These are just trinkets. Baubles and trickery that I may be noticed by someone in need of a servant. It is the only trade I know, and I shall not stoop to less than that."

And that is the only way he can phrase the offer he wants to make. Desperation leaves a corrupt tinge to anything, but Remus is the first one since Glitch and his household who has treated him with such respect and kindness. To Glitch, he is but a guest; he cannot remain as such forever.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject