"Eurydice"
by Monoshiri
A/N: Apologies for further f00king with Pegasus' past.
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CHAPTER TWO: LEISL AND MAGNUS EISENGRIM
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Pegasus J. Crawford's mood had been in a steady decline ever since his plane landed at Heathrow Airport. The pouring rain was terrible, as was the fact that his mentor on this dig, Professor Damascus, had been three hours late picking him up, apparently due to an unfortunate incident with a London cabdriver, a fire hydrant, and an English matron's poodle. Damascus' humorous account failed to lift the young man's spirits in the least.
Besides that, Pegasus was discovering that the old sentiment 'out of sight, out of mind' was untrue. His torpor was growing, and he knew it. Clinical depression was apparently common after a loved one's death, but for Pegasus it was considerably more acute than despair: it was the vague sense that he had lost a part of his very being. He gazed out the window of Damascus' car, watching merry old England pass by with utter disinterest.
*If only I could see her again, just once, I could be happy.*
After several hours of driving they finally reached Oxford University. Sopping wet and looking a rather wretched specimen, Pegasus and his mentor arrived in the massive main hallway. The chill area was deserted, entirely devoid of students, which was a very strange thing. However, there *was* a rather rotund gentleman sitting placidly on one of the many benches lining the walls, a look of benign contempt on his face as he watched the newcomers.
Professor Damascus finally noticed the only other occupant of the hall after wringing his hat out, and after nodding sharply to the stranger he shot Pegasus a look which said, as clearly as words, 'Honestly, some people have no manners!' The fat man smiled faintly and got to his feet.
"Ah, you must be Jacob Damascus! Delighted you could make it, old fellow, albeit a little late."
"Yes, well, we were held up in traffic," Damascus responded curtly. "This is my protégé, Mr. Pegasus J. Crawford, a very talented young man." Pegasus came out of his torpor long enough to take a great interest in the floor. The fat man's smile broadened and he looked at Pegasus a little more calculatingly than before.
"Yes, indeed, indeed! Hmm, well, if you would follow me, please? There are several members of our field academics team I'd like you to meet: they'll be going with you to the dig at Cairo."
Damascus and Pegasus followed their round guide through a labyrinth of corridors to a large room, into which they were ushered. There were about twenty people in there, all terribly important-looking middle aged and elderly men. Pegasus suddenly felt very much out of his depth, and even the smile of encouragement Professor Damascus shot him didn't help. He watched the field academics surround his mentor and begin peppering him with questions: apart from a few questioning or disdainful looks in his direction, no one paid him any mind. With a sigh, he wandered off to the far side of the room, which was fortunately furnished with comfortable chairs, and settled himself in a vacant seat, next to a large orange- magenta blanket which appeared to have been rolled up and placed on a chair.
The blanket moved.
Pegasus yelped and half-jumped out of his chair. *Idiot!! That blanket had *feet*, for heavens' sakes!!*
As soon as he had composed himself, he took a good look at the so- called blanket.
It was an African woman, tall, probably enough so to look him straight in the eyes were she standing. She was clothed in the Muslim manner, with a long-sleeved, loose dress, a few copper bracelets on her left wrist, and a headscarf fastened rather haphazardly at the base of her throat, although the haphazardness could be due to her having been, as far as Pegasus could tell, napping. The vibrant colour of her clothes and scarf were remarkable.
She blinked, looking at him with surprise but no sleepiness in her dark eyes; eyes so dark it was hard to tell if they were brown, black, or a very dark shade of violet. Her face was angular and regal, but not emaciated, with high cheekbones and a long, proud nose. Pegasus wasn't sure whether to make conjecture on her age, because although she looked relatively youthful, there were fine wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and her lips. She appeared, however, to be a few years his senior, but not yet middle-aged.
Pegasus realized he'd been staring and caught himself quickly, nodding to her in greeting. "Um, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, ma'am."
"It's quite alright."
"Well, no, it's not alright to wake someone up without so much as a by-your-leave."
"Wake me up--? Oh!" Her voice carried an accent which was definitely not British. "No, no, you mistake me: I was not asleep. I, ah, to coin a phrase from my professor, had my nose stuck in a book."
Pegasus couldn't help but laugh just a little. The woman smiled in return, allowing the silver-haired man to inspect her reading material. It was a copy of Ovid's *Metamorphosis*, well-worn, but what interested Pegasus was not the battered volume but the woman's hands. Her ebony hands were long and almost as ravaged as the book, with long delicate fingers and a slender palm on each. They were covered with calluses, scars, even burn marks. *These are not the hands of a scholar. These are the hands of an aged housewife, a farmer-or someone who has been through a war.*
The woman noticed.
"Are you fond of Ovid, or are you wondering if I play piano?"
Pegasus blushed, which considering his pale colouring caused him to resemble a Christmas tree light bulb. The woman, apparently having decided he'd learned his lesson, did not pursue the matter.
"Well, you'd best get back to the other scholars. I'm certain I'm of no interest to you."
The smile that accompanied that statement was thin and rather depressed.
Pegasus stared at her in confusion for a few more seconds, until he was accosted and dragged off by Professor Damascus, whose mood had only slightly improved.
"Well! That was a self-important bunch if I've ever seen one. Come on, we'd better get ready: the plane to Cairo leaves tomorrow."
"Oh," was all Pegasus was able to say as his podgy professor directed him to the car. "So the discussion didn't go well, then?"
"No, no, they're all a bunch of puffed-up fakes: the only exception is that Adam Goldsmith fellow, he seems to have some genuine skills. I'd pair you up with him, lad, if you hadn't already got a partner for the expedition."
"I-I what?? I beg your pardon? I never heard anything about this!"
"Well, then you weren't listening very hard. You're paired with the translation expert for the trip! Not in the same hotel room, mind you-- here, why that expression?"
"Ah--no reason. It's just that I like to be told things like this before having it dumped on my head!"
"Hmph, you and I both, lad. But there's no need to be getting all gloomy; you've already met your partner at least."
"Wha-no I haven't! Whatever gave you that idea?"
Damascus stopped fumbling for the car keys and turned around to stare at the perplexed Pegasus, a half-amused, half-critical look on his face.
"D'you mean to tell me you didn't know that the young Senegalese lady you were jawing with back there is our translator, Niirjudda Dijabar? You nitwit!!"
Pegasus flushed a little, feeling annoyed. "We weren't exactly *jawing*." Still, he couldn't subdue his curiosity. The bookish Muslim woman with the night-black eyes and the ravaged hands--*she* was the prestigious translator the Oxford team was relying on to unlock the mysteries of ancient Egypt?
"That's as may be," Damascus muttered as he finally succeeded in unlocking the car, "but she's also the best translator I've ever seen. Got a gift for languages, that woman. Give her a few books and someone who speaks the tongue fluently, and within two months she'll have it down as well as any who've spoken and written it since birth. Amazing and all--but it's not like the expedition heads'll ever admit that she's essential."
Pegasus got in and watched Damascus start up the engine, his mind elsewhere. He felt perversely grateful all of a sudden that his partner, the only woman on the team, was such an anomaly: Cynthia's exact opposite in every aspect. He wouldn't have been able to stand it if she'd reminded him somehow of the love he'd lost what seemed like an eon ago--
As they drove away from the university, Pegasus noted that the rain had stopped, and a brief glint of sun cut the clouds.
*Egypt,* Pegasus thought, as the light flashed and was gone. *I wonder what we'll find there.*
= = = = = = =
Niirjudda Dijabar stood at the library window overlooking the parking lot and watched Damascus' car speed away. Beside her stood Professor Adam Goldsmith, his tranquil countenance a marked contrast to the frown knitting itself across the tall African woman's brow.
"That young man Professor Damascus brought with him--what did you say his name was again, Professor Goldsmith?"
Goldsmith nodded mildly at the disappearing vehicle. "What, the young chap with the silver hair? I seem to recall him being named Pegasus J. Crawford. Damascus said the fellow's forte is art, you know, paintings and such, but lately he's become very interested in ancient Egyptian archaeology and cultural artefacts. Not much of a talker, though--so you two should get along fine. Why do you ask?"
"No reason."
"Oh, come now, we both know that's not true. What is it, really?"
Niirjudda sighed and tapped the pads of her fingers against the glass pane, feeling the brief glimpse of sun warm them, if only for a moment. Her eyes screwed shut briefly and then snapped open again, this time filled with unhidden concern.
"Something about him worries me. That's one thing. He's like a man whose heart is made of lead. He walks like one stumbling."
"And the other thing?" Goldsmith, no fool, asked quietly.
Niirjudda closed her eyes and did not open them again this time.
"Something in his face reminds me of Gaynde."
"You'll have to put such concerns aside, Mrs. Dijabar, if the expedition is to be successful," Goldsmith chided.
"I know."
But the older man noticed that, when he left the library, she remained at the window, staring out at the now-returned gloom, and at the road beyond the university boundaries, into the distance.
= = = = = = =
"He is on his way. The expedition will leave tomorrow."
"Good. It is good that he comes to Egypt.but I will have to study him myself."
"For what, if I may ask, sir?"
"For signs that he is suitable.that he is the one who should have the Item."
"I see."
Empty blue eyes fluttered open to gaze upon the messenger. "Do you? If he is.incorrect for the Item, it will drive him mad. And a madman with the power of a Sennen Item at his call is as dangerous as the fangs of Apophis."
"I am sure your judgement will be impeccable in that respect, sir," the messenger said without any hint of irony in his voice, before bowing and leaving his master in peace.
In the depths of the vast, ancient room, the man now known as Shadi turned away from the torchlight to contemplate the darkness.
"Pegasus J. Crawford-do you know what you will find when you reach this land?"
= = = = = = =
A/N: Yaay! 'Nother chapter. For those who care. *glomps Akemi* Thank you sooo much for the review! Heh, yeah, Shrub is a scary guy that way, isn't he? *shudders and hides* What'll Shadi do to our dear old messed-up silver- hair? Will Pegs ever find happiness again after Cynthia? And who the heck is Gaynde? Not to worry, all questions will be answered in future instalments. ^___^
A/N: Apologies for further f00king with Pegasus' past.
= = = = = = = =
CHAPTER TWO: LEISL AND MAGNUS EISENGRIM
= = = = = = = =
Pegasus J. Crawford's mood had been in a steady decline ever since his plane landed at Heathrow Airport. The pouring rain was terrible, as was the fact that his mentor on this dig, Professor Damascus, had been three hours late picking him up, apparently due to an unfortunate incident with a London cabdriver, a fire hydrant, and an English matron's poodle. Damascus' humorous account failed to lift the young man's spirits in the least.
Besides that, Pegasus was discovering that the old sentiment 'out of sight, out of mind' was untrue. His torpor was growing, and he knew it. Clinical depression was apparently common after a loved one's death, but for Pegasus it was considerably more acute than despair: it was the vague sense that he had lost a part of his very being. He gazed out the window of Damascus' car, watching merry old England pass by with utter disinterest.
*If only I could see her again, just once, I could be happy.*
After several hours of driving they finally reached Oxford University. Sopping wet and looking a rather wretched specimen, Pegasus and his mentor arrived in the massive main hallway. The chill area was deserted, entirely devoid of students, which was a very strange thing. However, there *was* a rather rotund gentleman sitting placidly on one of the many benches lining the walls, a look of benign contempt on his face as he watched the newcomers.
Professor Damascus finally noticed the only other occupant of the hall after wringing his hat out, and after nodding sharply to the stranger he shot Pegasus a look which said, as clearly as words, 'Honestly, some people have no manners!' The fat man smiled faintly and got to his feet.
"Ah, you must be Jacob Damascus! Delighted you could make it, old fellow, albeit a little late."
"Yes, well, we were held up in traffic," Damascus responded curtly. "This is my protégé, Mr. Pegasus J. Crawford, a very talented young man." Pegasus came out of his torpor long enough to take a great interest in the floor. The fat man's smile broadened and he looked at Pegasus a little more calculatingly than before.
"Yes, indeed, indeed! Hmm, well, if you would follow me, please? There are several members of our field academics team I'd like you to meet: they'll be going with you to the dig at Cairo."
Damascus and Pegasus followed their round guide through a labyrinth of corridors to a large room, into which they were ushered. There were about twenty people in there, all terribly important-looking middle aged and elderly men. Pegasus suddenly felt very much out of his depth, and even the smile of encouragement Professor Damascus shot him didn't help. He watched the field academics surround his mentor and begin peppering him with questions: apart from a few questioning or disdainful looks in his direction, no one paid him any mind. With a sigh, he wandered off to the far side of the room, which was fortunately furnished with comfortable chairs, and settled himself in a vacant seat, next to a large orange- magenta blanket which appeared to have been rolled up and placed on a chair.
The blanket moved.
Pegasus yelped and half-jumped out of his chair. *Idiot!! That blanket had *feet*, for heavens' sakes!!*
As soon as he had composed himself, he took a good look at the so- called blanket.
It was an African woman, tall, probably enough so to look him straight in the eyes were she standing. She was clothed in the Muslim manner, with a long-sleeved, loose dress, a few copper bracelets on her left wrist, and a headscarf fastened rather haphazardly at the base of her throat, although the haphazardness could be due to her having been, as far as Pegasus could tell, napping. The vibrant colour of her clothes and scarf were remarkable.
She blinked, looking at him with surprise but no sleepiness in her dark eyes; eyes so dark it was hard to tell if they were brown, black, or a very dark shade of violet. Her face was angular and regal, but not emaciated, with high cheekbones and a long, proud nose. Pegasus wasn't sure whether to make conjecture on her age, because although she looked relatively youthful, there were fine wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and her lips. She appeared, however, to be a few years his senior, but not yet middle-aged.
Pegasus realized he'd been staring and caught himself quickly, nodding to her in greeting. "Um, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, ma'am."
"It's quite alright."
"Well, no, it's not alright to wake someone up without so much as a by-your-leave."
"Wake me up--? Oh!" Her voice carried an accent which was definitely not British. "No, no, you mistake me: I was not asleep. I, ah, to coin a phrase from my professor, had my nose stuck in a book."
Pegasus couldn't help but laugh just a little. The woman smiled in return, allowing the silver-haired man to inspect her reading material. It was a copy of Ovid's *Metamorphosis*, well-worn, but what interested Pegasus was not the battered volume but the woman's hands. Her ebony hands were long and almost as ravaged as the book, with long delicate fingers and a slender palm on each. They were covered with calluses, scars, even burn marks. *These are not the hands of a scholar. These are the hands of an aged housewife, a farmer-or someone who has been through a war.*
The woman noticed.
"Are you fond of Ovid, or are you wondering if I play piano?"
Pegasus blushed, which considering his pale colouring caused him to resemble a Christmas tree light bulb. The woman, apparently having decided he'd learned his lesson, did not pursue the matter.
"Well, you'd best get back to the other scholars. I'm certain I'm of no interest to you."
The smile that accompanied that statement was thin and rather depressed.
Pegasus stared at her in confusion for a few more seconds, until he was accosted and dragged off by Professor Damascus, whose mood had only slightly improved.
"Well! That was a self-important bunch if I've ever seen one. Come on, we'd better get ready: the plane to Cairo leaves tomorrow."
"Oh," was all Pegasus was able to say as his podgy professor directed him to the car. "So the discussion didn't go well, then?"
"No, no, they're all a bunch of puffed-up fakes: the only exception is that Adam Goldsmith fellow, he seems to have some genuine skills. I'd pair you up with him, lad, if you hadn't already got a partner for the expedition."
"I-I what?? I beg your pardon? I never heard anything about this!"
"Well, then you weren't listening very hard. You're paired with the translation expert for the trip! Not in the same hotel room, mind you-- here, why that expression?"
"Ah--no reason. It's just that I like to be told things like this before having it dumped on my head!"
"Hmph, you and I both, lad. But there's no need to be getting all gloomy; you've already met your partner at least."
"Wha-no I haven't! Whatever gave you that idea?"
Damascus stopped fumbling for the car keys and turned around to stare at the perplexed Pegasus, a half-amused, half-critical look on his face.
"D'you mean to tell me you didn't know that the young Senegalese lady you were jawing with back there is our translator, Niirjudda Dijabar? You nitwit!!"
Pegasus flushed a little, feeling annoyed. "We weren't exactly *jawing*." Still, he couldn't subdue his curiosity. The bookish Muslim woman with the night-black eyes and the ravaged hands--*she* was the prestigious translator the Oxford team was relying on to unlock the mysteries of ancient Egypt?
"That's as may be," Damascus muttered as he finally succeeded in unlocking the car, "but she's also the best translator I've ever seen. Got a gift for languages, that woman. Give her a few books and someone who speaks the tongue fluently, and within two months she'll have it down as well as any who've spoken and written it since birth. Amazing and all--but it's not like the expedition heads'll ever admit that she's essential."
Pegasus got in and watched Damascus start up the engine, his mind elsewhere. He felt perversely grateful all of a sudden that his partner, the only woman on the team, was such an anomaly: Cynthia's exact opposite in every aspect. He wouldn't have been able to stand it if she'd reminded him somehow of the love he'd lost what seemed like an eon ago--
As they drove away from the university, Pegasus noted that the rain had stopped, and a brief glint of sun cut the clouds.
*Egypt,* Pegasus thought, as the light flashed and was gone. *I wonder what we'll find there.*
= = = = = = =
Niirjudda Dijabar stood at the library window overlooking the parking lot and watched Damascus' car speed away. Beside her stood Professor Adam Goldsmith, his tranquil countenance a marked contrast to the frown knitting itself across the tall African woman's brow.
"That young man Professor Damascus brought with him--what did you say his name was again, Professor Goldsmith?"
Goldsmith nodded mildly at the disappearing vehicle. "What, the young chap with the silver hair? I seem to recall him being named Pegasus J. Crawford. Damascus said the fellow's forte is art, you know, paintings and such, but lately he's become very interested in ancient Egyptian archaeology and cultural artefacts. Not much of a talker, though--so you two should get along fine. Why do you ask?"
"No reason."
"Oh, come now, we both know that's not true. What is it, really?"
Niirjudda sighed and tapped the pads of her fingers against the glass pane, feeling the brief glimpse of sun warm them, if only for a moment. Her eyes screwed shut briefly and then snapped open again, this time filled with unhidden concern.
"Something about him worries me. That's one thing. He's like a man whose heart is made of lead. He walks like one stumbling."
"And the other thing?" Goldsmith, no fool, asked quietly.
Niirjudda closed her eyes and did not open them again this time.
"Something in his face reminds me of Gaynde."
"You'll have to put such concerns aside, Mrs. Dijabar, if the expedition is to be successful," Goldsmith chided.
"I know."
But the older man noticed that, when he left the library, she remained at the window, staring out at the now-returned gloom, and at the road beyond the university boundaries, into the distance.
= = = = = = =
"He is on his way. The expedition will leave tomorrow."
"Good. It is good that he comes to Egypt.but I will have to study him myself."
"For what, if I may ask, sir?"
"For signs that he is suitable.that he is the one who should have the Item."
"I see."
Empty blue eyes fluttered open to gaze upon the messenger. "Do you? If he is.incorrect for the Item, it will drive him mad. And a madman with the power of a Sennen Item at his call is as dangerous as the fangs of Apophis."
"I am sure your judgement will be impeccable in that respect, sir," the messenger said without any hint of irony in his voice, before bowing and leaving his master in peace.
In the depths of the vast, ancient room, the man now known as Shadi turned away from the torchlight to contemplate the darkness.
"Pegasus J. Crawford-do you know what you will find when you reach this land?"
= = = = = = =
A/N: Yaay! 'Nother chapter. For those who care. *glomps Akemi* Thank you sooo much for the review! Heh, yeah, Shrub is a scary guy that way, isn't he? *shudders and hides* What'll Shadi do to our dear old messed-up silver- hair? Will Pegs ever find happiness again after Cynthia? And who the heck is Gaynde? Not to worry, all questions will be answered in future instalments. ^___^