When Everything's Fine
It was most interesting that when Karsh brought back the news, that Riddel hadn't been the hysterical one, worrying the manor with shrill screaming and tantrums. She had more or less simply wilted, like a blackened crop plant after a frost, and shuddered periodically in flummoxed unhappiness. Oh yes. And she sighed. She sighed a lot, and took to obsessing over little imperfections in her room. She'd fuss in girlish whines to her attendants if she found a missing stitch in the embroidery of her bed hangings. She harangued the architects the best she could with her petite voice if she found a chipped golden accent in the ancient mosaics of her walls. She had turned in a flighty child with peculiar notions and trifling concerns of the imagination; there wasn't a browning leaf or missing spider web that escaped her attention. Not a single flaw was left unremedied after her passing, idle musings. Karsh followed her on her short expeditions into the lobby whenever she moaned that she wasn't sure that there was still a glass of water ready for any guest in the reception area.
Meanwhile, Glenn didn't know yet. He was on his final field test, maneuvering through the swamp/forests with a survival pack and the moral obligation to actively seek and slay the monsters that ran wild in the depths of wilderness. He had to come back with sufficient body mass and enlightenment about the military rule system to pass. Oh, and whatever bit of gory evidence he could salvage from his hunting prizes. Just for extra credit. He wouldn't be back for 2 weeks; he started his exam one ago, but through some aggravated delegation Karsh had been decreed the one in charge of informing relatives and loved ones. And he saw no point in interrupting Glenn's training when it was going so well. He'd be back soon enough. And after that he'd probably be in the Dragoons for life, like it or not, would- have-rather-known-and-come-straight-home-then-wait-til-next-year-to-try- again-when-things-aren't-so-bad no longer mattering.
It had actually gone quite well, when it had finally come to pass.
"So, um . . . he's really dead?" Glenn still looked like a child, even after coming home from something that could have been considered a rite of passage in another culture. His nose and cheekbones were a mess of scratches; some from brush, others from claws. Some of them looked as if they'd be permanent. Those went over the scars that Glenn already had.
"Yeah. I'm really, really sorry." Karsh absently wondered if Glenn's elfin features would ever give way from lithe cunning to plain, militaristic masculinity; Dario's had. But Glenn liked the way he looked, he said.
"Ennnnn...." It sounded a little bit like a groan, but more pitiful, like an abused dog's whimper. Glenn scrunched up as he made the sound in his throat, eyes flicking over to Riddel. She looked sad, but contemplative, as he had expected her to be. She in return thought he looked more depressed than devastated. She was actually rather pleased about that; slow, numbing hurt was so much more appealing to the observer than wails and tears.
"What do I do now?" he asked in a low voice; Karsh had no answer.
"Go on. Live." He muttered, uneasily.
Glenn gave a short laugh that was bitten back because of its inappropriateness, but choked on its interruption midway. Riddel gave him dainty pats with her impeccably lotioned hands, leaving the faint essence of lemon oil on Glenn's back. The feathery taps were no help at all, and her was face contorting in wild suspicion as she flung her head in the direction of the corner where she thought she saw a cobweb. Glenn coughed away the air stuck in his trachea before giving Karsh an accusing gesture with a waving hand.
"You, profound?! Geez, Karsh . . . I know to you, it's just 'I don't give a fuck, just don't kill yourself'. You mind saying what you mean? I'm going to messed up enough as it is for a while. "
"Sorry?" Karsh suggested.
"Right, right..." Glenn mumbled absently. A pause.
"Is it ok if I take charge of the funeral?" he asked in a small voice, loosing the inquiring tone due to nervousness. He was too well trained to look in Riddel's direction.
"Oh, yes, yes!" She blurted out, clasping hold of his hand and not even flinching at the thick line of grime embedded into each cuticle. (Although she did pluck at Glenn's cuffs moderately, troubled by how frayed they were.) "I'd know not what to do" she insisted. "You must do it Glenn. You must."
"Yeah. . ." Glenn took a breath. "So, listen. You two ordered some bellflowers for the wedding, right? I was thinking maybe I should see the florists about having that changed into white roses. . ."
"Oh no!" Riddel protested most arbitrarily. "That would be too much trouble for the flower lady, and besides, Dario loved bellflowers."
"They're inappropriate." He argued. And indeed they were. A deep indigo with petals that shined like a negative rainbow, the tulips would either deepen the general despairing atmosphere, or otherwise be too gaudy.
"Get both then." Riddel urged him. "The order of bellflowers, and add roses to them."
"Are you crazy? Do you want the entire service to be swamped with flowers? . . ."
Karsh glared at their bickering for a few more minutes before marching outside. They'd already forgotten he was there, anyways. Within seconds, all he could hear was snatches of their feuding conversation.
"Flower lady. . . more business. . ."
"Crazy. . . no one should. . . benefit. . . another person died."
I want to continue this, but I'm not quite sure where to go. This is very, very old, as anything that'll be put up for while is (will be?) because I haven't really started anything new in a while. This is leftover work that I never thought about posting until now. I don't know if anyone remembers, but in the miniseries from a year or so ago, I said I wanted to do another miniseries called "I'm fine". . . this idea actually diverged from that one. This'll be more linear, and updated infrequently, I'm afraid. Lately I've lost some of my interest in writing. Reading some of Dixxy's stuff and the humor fic about the Gameshark revived some of my zeal, though. . . a few reviews might help too.
It was most interesting that when Karsh brought back the news, that Riddel hadn't been the hysterical one, worrying the manor with shrill screaming and tantrums. She had more or less simply wilted, like a blackened crop plant after a frost, and shuddered periodically in flummoxed unhappiness. Oh yes. And she sighed. She sighed a lot, and took to obsessing over little imperfections in her room. She'd fuss in girlish whines to her attendants if she found a missing stitch in the embroidery of her bed hangings. She harangued the architects the best she could with her petite voice if she found a chipped golden accent in the ancient mosaics of her walls. She had turned in a flighty child with peculiar notions and trifling concerns of the imagination; there wasn't a browning leaf or missing spider web that escaped her attention. Not a single flaw was left unremedied after her passing, idle musings. Karsh followed her on her short expeditions into the lobby whenever she moaned that she wasn't sure that there was still a glass of water ready for any guest in the reception area.
Meanwhile, Glenn didn't know yet. He was on his final field test, maneuvering through the swamp/forests with a survival pack and the moral obligation to actively seek and slay the monsters that ran wild in the depths of wilderness. He had to come back with sufficient body mass and enlightenment about the military rule system to pass. Oh, and whatever bit of gory evidence he could salvage from his hunting prizes. Just for extra credit. He wouldn't be back for 2 weeks; he started his exam one ago, but through some aggravated delegation Karsh had been decreed the one in charge of informing relatives and loved ones. And he saw no point in interrupting Glenn's training when it was going so well. He'd be back soon enough. And after that he'd probably be in the Dragoons for life, like it or not, would- have-rather-known-and-come-straight-home-then-wait-til-next-year-to-try- again-when-things-aren't-so-bad no longer mattering.
It had actually gone quite well, when it had finally come to pass.
"So, um . . . he's really dead?" Glenn still looked like a child, even after coming home from something that could have been considered a rite of passage in another culture. His nose and cheekbones were a mess of scratches; some from brush, others from claws. Some of them looked as if they'd be permanent. Those went over the scars that Glenn already had.
"Yeah. I'm really, really sorry." Karsh absently wondered if Glenn's elfin features would ever give way from lithe cunning to plain, militaristic masculinity; Dario's had. But Glenn liked the way he looked, he said.
"Ennnnn...." It sounded a little bit like a groan, but more pitiful, like an abused dog's whimper. Glenn scrunched up as he made the sound in his throat, eyes flicking over to Riddel. She looked sad, but contemplative, as he had expected her to be. She in return thought he looked more depressed than devastated. She was actually rather pleased about that; slow, numbing hurt was so much more appealing to the observer than wails and tears.
"What do I do now?" he asked in a low voice; Karsh had no answer.
"Go on. Live." He muttered, uneasily.
Glenn gave a short laugh that was bitten back because of its inappropriateness, but choked on its interruption midway. Riddel gave him dainty pats with her impeccably lotioned hands, leaving the faint essence of lemon oil on Glenn's back. The feathery taps were no help at all, and her was face contorting in wild suspicion as she flung her head in the direction of the corner where she thought she saw a cobweb. Glenn coughed away the air stuck in his trachea before giving Karsh an accusing gesture with a waving hand.
"You, profound?! Geez, Karsh . . . I know to you, it's just 'I don't give a fuck, just don't kill yourself'. You mind saying what you mean? I'm going to messed up enough as it is for a while. "
"Sorry?" Karsh suggested.
"Right, right..." Glenn mumbled absently. A pause.
"Is it ok if I take charge of the funeral?" he asked in a small voice, loosing the inquiring tone due to nervousness. He was too well trained to look in Riddel's direction.
"Oh, yes, yes!" She blurted out, clasping hold of his hand and not even flinching at the thick line of grime embedded into each cuticle. (Although she did pluck at Glenn's cuffs moderately, troubled by how frayed they were.) "I'd know not what to do" she insisted. "You must do it Glenn. You must."
"Yeah. . ." Glenn took a breath. "So, listen. You two ordered some bellflowers for the wedding, right? I was thinking maybe I should see the florists about having that changed into white roses. . ."
"Oh no!" Riddel protested most arbitrarily. "That would be too much trouble for the flower lady, and besides, Dario loved bellflowers."
"They're inappropriate." He argued. And indeed they were. A deep indigo with petals that shined like a negative rainbow, the tulips would either deepen the general despairing atmosphere, or otherwise be too gaudy.
"Get both then." Riddel urged him. "The order of bellflowers, and add roses to them."
"Are you crazy? Do you want the entire service to be swamped with flowers? . . ."
Karsh glared at their bickering for a few more minutes before marching outside. They'd already forgotten he was there, anyways. Within seconds, all he could hear was snatches of their feuding conversation.
"Flower lady. . . more business. . ."
"Crazy. . . no one should. . . benefit. . . another person died."
I want to continue this, but I'm not quite sure where to go. This is very, very old, as anything that'll be put up for while is (will be?) because I haven't really started anything new in a while. This is leftover work that I never thought about posting until now. I don't know if anyone remembers, but in the miniseries from a year or so ago, I said I wanted to do another miniseries called "I'm fine". . . this idea actually diverged from that one. This'll be more linear, and updated infrequently, I'm afraid. Lately I've lost some of my interest in writing. Reading some of Dixxy's stuff and the humor fic about the Gameshark revived some of my zeal, though. . . a few reviews might help too.