Sometime after the 2007 NaNo, I wrote a short scene between Meres and Veri, where Veri yells at Meres for abandoning him during the rose party, and thus humiliating him. Then they make up and are all sweet and loveydovey, and it was really beautiful to see the love between them, set against all the selfish fixations of the others.
I had planned to stick this into the story long before now. But somehow... there wasn't enough for it to have the impact I'd wanted. So I kept stringing out Veri being angry at Meres, trying to build it up more.
Then Claude stepped into that little conflict at the mermaid party, and I suddenly realized he was trying to break them up, and have Meres for himself, not thinking Veri worth Meres' effort. Which is when the idea popped up for Claude to confront Veri, which sounded fun to write.
Yet, after writing that bit yesterday, it felt.. flat, like not much was accomplished in the scene. I decided Luce should step in and do some meddling. Which he was, as always, more than happy to do.
I knew Meres would be annoyed that Veri didn't come to the play - but I realized this morning just how deeply upset he could be. "The Nightingale and The Rose" (which I summarized poorly - the language in the original is so heartbreakingly lovely, go to Gutenberg and read it, preferably from the pdf at archive.org with the stunning illustrations) is--- wow, good morning run-on parenthesis. The story is about Love in its purest sort of form, self-sacrifice for the happiness of another - the nightingale gives up her life, that Love might have a chance to flourish in the heart of another.
Given that the Grigori were once angels, and thus beings of pure compassion, and now are fallen from that and trying to forget their better natures... I suspect the story will have more than the usual poignancy. Meres in particular... I have a hunch he really, really wanted Veri to hear that story, told, visually at least, by Meres. I haven't sorted out all the rational yet, but... I think Meres is going to be seriously heartbroken.
I suspect that make-up scene in the garden is going to need some hefty re-writing. I'd never intended Meres and Veri to almost lose each other, but I'm afraid that's where it might be going. Wheeee drama!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
14 - Veri, continued
“Veri.”
Am I to have no peace this day!
Luce is at the entryway, removing his shoes, replacing them with silken slippers. His long hair cascades past his face as he leans over, so I am at first unable to read his expression.
I do not acknowledge him at first, merely sighing heavily and leaning back on the cushions, a hand over my eyes. Of all who might intrude upon me, I have had the two least desirable in the space of an hour.
“I know I was not invited, but I found that, on passing nearby, I could not help but visit, it has been so long since I have seen you. I did not have a chance to speak with you at Azal's latest gathering, and you have been absent since then.”
“I did not stay there long. I found the company rather dull that day.” I am certain he knows of the spat between Meres and I, but whether he knows the content of it, I am unsure, and will not reveal to him. He pries too much. Luce makes no mention either of that play, which Meres put such attention into, and I did not attend. I will not be the one to bring it up – I will not even think of it today.
He pauses a moment as he crosses the room, to stand before the girl and watch her play. Her fingers are deft on the silk strings, and though the instrument is longer than she is tall, she moves from one end to the other with no hesitation, the placement of each oddly-tuned note as familiar to her as a lover's body. Though she is clad in bulky wrappings of embroidered silk, the wide sleeves do not impede her ivory hands, and what little is seen of her frame seems all the more graceful, for the rest being hidden from view. Her hands move with such beauty, her face serene as a statue, though she plays the most heart-rending fragments of melody.
“How lovely,” Luce comments, as he turns toward me, moving to seat himself nearby. Not directly in front of me, as rude Claude, but a little to the side, though still able to read my face. “What is the name of that instrument? I cannot recall.”
“The koto. There are versions of it in several Eastern locales, though I found this one, and the girl to play it, in Nippon. She speaks no English, but I find I prefer it that way. It is rather soothing, to know that she will hear nothing of most conversations.”
Luce smiles at this, and gestures at the teapot. “May I?”
“It is nearly empty – I shall have another brought.” I reach behind me, and tug twice on a bell pull, just hidden behind the edge of a rice paper screen.
“I thank you. It is a chill and miserable day out of doors, this is quite a nice retreat from it.”
I make a noncommittal sound – I have not even looked out of a window today. I do wish he would get to the point of his visit, but I know that to demand he do so would be useless. He would only prolong his harassment of me all the more.
We are silent a few minutes, listening to the eerie ripples of a song without name. It is as a world viewed through water, all things distorted and unrecognizable, and yet beautiful in the simplification of their colors and shapes, a landscape viewed in abstracted image, all in rainbowed light and mirrored reflection.
A servant arrives with the tea. Her feet are already clad in silken slippers, that her motions through the house might be silent. She approaches demurely, replacing the empty pot with a fresh one, bringing two clean cups as well. Her movements are smooth and efficient, and she is gone in a moment. As it ought to be.
Luce pours two cups of the tea, handing one to me before sipping of his own. I smile at his gesture of deference to the customs of the country the tea has arrived from. I sip it slowly, and the sudden heat flushes my cheeks, melting away a little of the tension within me. It is a white tea this time, a rarer find, and the light mixture of spices within it is quite nice. I shall have to remember this one, for it refreshes as it soothes.
“I saw Claude leaving, just as I arrived. He seemed quite upset, and did not even look up as he passed me, let alone offer any greeting. Whatever did you say to him?”
I bristle at this, all the benefits of the tea lost in an instant. “He – as you – arrived uninvited. And he – as you – irritated me. Why should you worry yourself over him?”
Luce laughs, and rests his cup on the table. “I was hardly worried! Merely curious. You rarely exert yourself enough to cause such havoc on a boy's soul.”
“Really, I said very little. He tried to assert his possession of Meres' affections, and I simply told him what he ought to have already guessed – that he is merely an amusement for a little while, and will last but a short time among us.”
Luce raises an eyebrow, and hides his smile in another sip of tea. “Is that your read on the situation, then?”
I stare blankly at him. “Whyever would it be any different, from the thousand other times? Claude is hardly worthy of long company among us. He is terribly rude, uncouth, and pretentious. His talent is impressive, yes, but talent can always be found.”
“Not every boy is capable of seducing a priest.”
I bark a short laugh. “Luce. You are not so idealistic as that. This is hardly the first priest to break his vows, and bely the morals he was taught.”
He chuckles at this. “You are, of course, correct. Still, I suspect there is a bit more to the boy than you are seeing.”
“Perhaps. I hardly care to see much of him at all.”
“So, it is possible that you have missed some things.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, narrowing my eyes. “Do not toy with me – what are you hinting at?”
“Only that you might reconsider the relationship between Meres and Claude.”
I nearly drop my cup. “Luce! You do not think it is something more than a little infatuation? It cannot possibly be. There is nothing to the boy to hold anyone's interest for long.”
“So you say. But Mephisto hardly seems to need to find depth to a person to fixate upon them.”
“Mephisto.” I wave the thought away. “He has never had an affair last more than a few weeks.”
“Not in some time, no. But my point remains – infatuation can easily build over mere imagined qualities in a person. Claude, for all his faults, is capable of seeing the world as Meres does. He is able to recognize the beauty in unexpected things, to find the thousand subtle colors within every shadow of a rose petal. This is quite an exceptional quality.”
“The boy has no manners, and I doubt he can learn them.”
“That is what will make him an interesting project – to override the will of such a stubborn soul is not an impossible feat, though it may take time. And time, I need not remind you, is something we all have far too much of to worry ourselves over wasting it.”
“Still, Luce... you can hardly think he will win Meres' heart? He is not like Mephisto, so easily carried away. ...Meres' heart!” I choke another laugh, shaking my head. “Have any of us one left?”
Luce smiles wryly. “If any, I think Meres would. Have you not realized what patience he has shown, what care he has taken, of you all these years?” He gives me a long, steady look, then leans back and chuckles. “Any of the rest of us would have left you to your pains long ago.”
I glare a moment at the insult – he knows full well the depth of my suffering, for I feel nothing the rest have not felt as well. It only leaves my body more frail, and returns more often it seems, than it does to most others. No other has lost all color to their hair, their skin, to the extent that I have – I seem to have fallen into a body of less stability than theirs, but it could just as easily have been Luce in place of me in this delicate frame.
But Meres... he is correct on that, at least. He has shown such unusual compassion, all these years. Could he still be capable of some sort of love? That long-unfelt agape, where all faults are overlooked, and even loved, for the sake of the person they afflict? Where patience and compassion temper all actions, where the heart is subsumed by sheer adoration that ignores all reason?
No. It cannot be. Luce suggests it only to toy with me.
“Meres... has his mysteries, even after all this time,” I muse noncommittally. I force myself to sip my tea calmly, gripping the cup tightly to keep my hands from trembling.
“That he does,” Luce agrees placidly, finishing his tea and setting the cup on the low table. “But forgive me, I must go – I am late for an engagement already. I do hope you are able to partake in our gatherings again soon.”
“Mmm. I suppose I shall.”
Luce rises, and begins to move toward the door, then stops. “Oh! I nearly forgot. I had wanted to leave this with you.” He turns back and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim volume – newly printed, it appears, for the pages are crisp and white, the gilt leather still fragrant.
I do not reach for it, and he lays it on the table, lingering a moment until I meet his gaze. “Be sure to read the story of the nightingale – it is the one the play was based on. I suspect there was reason Meres bothered to put such effort into its production.”
I do not blink, but return his gaze coolly. “If I find myself so inclined.”
A smile quirks the corner of his lips, and he bows slightly. “Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye.”
He removes the slippers at the doorway, replacing his shoes, and exits without another word or glance.
It is just as well, for I can no longer keep my hands from shaking. My whole body begins to quake, and my back is heating ominously. I shall be in great pain soon. That is why my face grows wet – the tears are in anticipation of the inevitable burn of old scars. Nothing more. I yank desperately at the bell-pull, five short times, then collapse on the cushions, burying my face in them. Only old scars, it is nothing more, I am only--- it is only the physical pain, and my frail body's reaction to it, it cannot handle such pain, I cannot---
I do not even look at the book, I am in too much pain – my back flares and I cry out, desperate to get away, away from this pain that tears my chest, that tears me into pieces, time and time again...
Oh, Meres! My heart burns, it burns in flames brighter and more searing than any other scar could, for this is a fresh flame, a new burn, injuries always and ever new, slicing deeper every time... every time... pain I cannot--- I cannot--- oh, Meres!
Am I to have no peace this day!
Luce is at the entryway, removing his shoes, replacing them with silken slippers. His long hair cascades past his face as he leans over, so I am at first unable to read his expression.
I do not acknowledge him at first, merely sighing heavily and leaning back on the cushions, a hand over my eyes. Of all who might intrude upon me, I have had the two least desirable in the space of an hour.
“I know I was not invited, but I found that, on passing nearby, I could not help but visit, it has been so long since I have seen you. I did not have a chance to speak with you at Azal's latest gathering, and you have been absent since then.”
“I did not stay there long. I found the company rather dull that day.” I am certain he knows of the spat between Meres and I, but whether he knows the content of it, I am unsure, and will not reveal to him. He pries too much. Luce makes no mention either of that play, which Meres put such attention into, and I did not attend. I will not be the one to bring it up – I will not even think of it today.
He pauses a moment as he crosses the room, to stand before the girl and watch her play. Her fingers are deft on the silk strings, and though the instrument is longer than she is tall, she moves from one end to the other with no hesitation, the placement of each oddly-tuned note as familiar to her as a lover's body. Though she is clad in bulky wrappings of embroidered silk, the wide sleeves do not impede her ivory hands, and what little is seen of her frame seems all the more graceful, for the rest being hidden from view. Her hands move with such beauty, her face serene as a statue, though she plays the most heart-rending fragments of melody.
“How lovely,” Luce comments, as he turns toward me, moving to seat himself nearby. Not directly in front of me, as rude Claude, but a little to the side, though still able to read my face. “What is the name of that instrument? I cannot recall.”
“The koto. There are versions of it in several Eastern locales, though I found this one, and the girl to play it, in Nippon. She speaks no English, but I find I prefer it that way. It is rather soothing, to know that she will hear nothing of most conversations.”
Luce smiles at this, and gestures at the teapot. “May I?”
“It is nearly empty – I shall have another brought.” I reach behind me, and tug twice on a bell pull, just hidden behind the edge of a rice paper screen.
“I thank you. It is a chill and miserable day out of doors, this is quite a nice retreat from it.”
I make a noncommittal sound – I have not even looked out of a window today. I do wish he would get to the point of his visit, but I know that to demand he do so would be useless. He would only prolong his harassment of me all the more.
We are silent a few minutes, listening to the eerie ripples of a song without name. It is as a world viewed through water, all things distorted and unrecognizable, and yet beautiful in the simplification of their colors and shapes, a landscape viewed in abstracted image, all in rainbowed light and mirrored reflection.
A servant arrives with the tea. Her feet are already clad in silken slippers, that her motions through the house might be silent. She approaches demurely, replacing the empty pot with a fresh one, bringing two clean cups as well. Her movements are smooth and efficient, and she is gone in a moment. As it ought to be.
Luce pours two cups of the tea, handing one to me before sipping of his own. I smile at his gesture of deference to the customs of the country the tea has arrived from. I sip it slowly, and the sudden heat flushes my cheeks, melting away a little of the tension within me. It is a white tea this time, a rarer find, and the light mixture of spices within it is quite nice. I shall have to remember this one, for it refreshes as it soothes.
“I saw Claude leaving, just as I arrived. He seemed quite upset, and did not even look up as he passed me, let alone offer any greeting. Whatever did you say to him?”
I bristle at this, all the benefits of the tea lost in an instant. “He – as you – arrived uninvited. And he – as you – irritated me. Why should you worry yourself over him?”
Luce laughs, and rests his cup on the table. “I was hardly worried! Merely curious. You rarely exert yourself enough to cause such havoc on a boy's soul.”
“Really, I said very little. He tried to assert his possession of Meres' affections, and I simply told him what he ought to have already guessed – that he is merely an amusement for a little while, and will last but a short time among us.”
Luce raises an eyebrow, and hides his smile in another sip of tea. “Is that your read on the situation, then?”
I stare blankly at him. “Whyever would it be any different, from the thousand other times? Claude is hardly worthy of long company among us. He is terribly rude, uncouth, and pretentious. His talent is impressive, yes, but talent can always be found.”
“Not every boy is capable of seducing a priest.”
I bark a short laugh. “Luce. You are not so idealistic as that. This is hardly the first priest to break his vows, and bely the morals he was taught.”
He chuckles at this. “You are, of course, correct. Still, I suspect there is a bit more to the boy than you are seeing.”
“Perhaps. I hardly care to see much of him at all.”
“So, it is possible that you have missed some things.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, narrowing my eyes. “Do not toy with me – what are you hinting at?”
“Only that you might reconsider the relationship between Meres and Claude.”
I nearly drop my cup. “Luce! You do not think it is something more than a little infatuation? It cannot possibly be. There is nothing to the boy to hold anyone's interest for long.”
“So you say. But Mephisto hardly seems to need to find depth to a person to fixate upon them.”
“Mephisto.” I wave the thought away. “He has never had an affair last more than a few weeks.”
“Not in some time, no. But my point remains – infatuation can easily build over mere imagined qualities in a person. Claude, for all his faults, is capable of seeing the world as Meres does. He is able to recognize the beauty in unexpected things, to find the thousand subtle colors within every shadow of a rose petal. This is quite an exceptional quality.”
“The boy has no manners, and I doubt he can learn them.”
“That is what will make him an interesting project – to override the will of such a stubborn soul is not an impossible feat, though it may take time. And time, I need not remind you, is something we all have far too much of to worry ourselves over wasting it.”
“Still, Luce... you can hardly think he will win Meres' heart? He is not like Mephisto, so easily carried away. ...Meres' heart!” I choke another laugh, shaking my head. “Have any of us one left?”
Luce smiles wryly. “If any, I think Meres would. Have you not realized what patience he has shown, what care he has taken, of you all these years?” He gives me a long, steady look, then leans back and chuckles. “Any of the rest of us would have left you to your pains long ago.”
I glare a moment at the insult – he knows full well the depth of my suffering, for I feel nothing the rest have not felt as well. It only leaves my body more frail, and returns more often it seems, than it does to most others. No other has lost all color to their hair, their skin, to the extent that I have – I seem to have fallen into a body of less stability than theirs, but it could just as easily have been Luce in place of me in this delicate frame.
But Meres... he is correct on that, at least. He has shown such unusual compassion, all these years. Could he still be capable of some sort of love? That long-unfelt agape, where all faults are overlooked, and even loved, for the sake of the person they afflict? Where patience and compassion temper all actions, where the heart is subsumed by sheer adoration that ignores all reason?
No. It cannot be. Luce suggests it only to toy with me.
“Meres... has his mysteries, even after all this time,” I muse noncommittally. I force myself to sip my tea calmly, gripping the cup tightly to keep my hands from trembling.
“That he does,” Luce agrees placidly, finishing his tea and setting the cup on the low table. “But forgive me, I must go – I am late for an engagement already. I do hope you are able to partake in our gatherings again soon.”
“Mmm. I suppose I shall.”
Luce rises, and begins to move toward the door, then stops. “Oh! I nearly forgot. I had wanted to leave this with you.” He turns back and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim volume – newly printed, it appears, for the pages are crisp and white, the gilt leather still fragrant.
I do not reach for it, and he lays it on the table, lingering a moment until I meet his gaze. “Be sure to read the story of the nightingale – it is the one the play was based on. I suspect there was reason Meres bothered to put such effort into its production.”
I do not blink, but return his gaze coolly. “If I find myself so inclined.”
A smile quirks the corner of his lips, and he bows slightly. “Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye.”
He removes the slippers at the doorway, replacing his shoes, and exits without another word or glance.
It is just as well, for I can no longer keep my hands from shaking. My whole body begins to quake, and my back is heating ominously. I shall be in great pain soon. That is why my face grows wet – the tears are in anticipation of the inevitable burn of old scars. Nothing more. I yank desperately at the bell-pull, five short times, then collapse on the cushions, burying my face in them. Only old scars, it is nothing more, I am only--- it is only the physical pain, and my frail body's reaction to it, it cannot handle such pain, I cannot---
I do not even look at the book, I am in too much pain – my back flares and I cry out, desperate to get away, away from this pain that tears my chest, that tears me into pieces, time and time again...
Oh, Meres! My heart burns, it burns in flames brighter and more searing than any other scar could, for this is a fresh flame, a new burn, injuries always and ever new, slicing deeper every time... every time... pain I cannot--- I cannot--- oh, Meres!
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