Trinity Blood fic: Conclusion
Jan. 27th, 2007 06:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
narcasse1150 words. PG? for a passing mention of narcotics. Radu-centric.
The logical conclusion of his introspection. Observation and the inevitable.
Conclusion
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
Hands were always the telling point from the start, whether they were being used to judge heritage, status or idle privilege. The story went that back in the old days when there were definite distinctions between labourers and aristocrats, you could tell the difference by something as simple as the smoothness of their hands regardless of any re-costuming. In the current century there wasn’t quite so much of an easy distinction and a commoner who wasn’t given to physical labour might have just as smooth hands as any aristocrat. It wasn’t the only indication anyway but because of the old terran myth of distinctions, Radu couldn’t help but notice the subtle vagaries anyway. Amongst members of the Orden in particular there was little else for him to do but notice.
Helga for instance had less than delicate hands and knew it. She covered her hands in elaborate jewellery, rings set with ostentatiously large stones. She wore bracelets comprised of more jewels than entire countries might possess, grew her nails to an almost claw-like length and filed and painted them with a synthetic precision. Helga then used every trick in her vast arsenal to draw attention away from the fact that her palms were too long and her fingers too solid to be the perfect and delicate damsel’s hands that she wished he had.
Not that Radu was particularly fond of her anyway, since in relative privacy she simply wouldn’t shut up about how much she disliked Dietrich for any number of imagined sins.
Of course alongside Helga there was always Melchior, who did have delicate hands and a disturbing habit of quirking his fingers just so, in a manner that always made the movement look unnatural and quite honestly disturbing. Mostly he didn’t do it though since he seemed to limit the movement of his hands to readjusting his glasses, cradling his jaw or tucking them behind his back. He probably needed small hands to create his demented toys anyway.
And while he often spent time quite willingly in Helga’s company, it seemed particularly bizarre that Helga never really seemed to notice that with all her ludicrous assertions, Melchior never exactly agreed with her but was rather urging her on to further stupidity. Of that fact perhaps at least Balthasar knew it but since he seemed to spend most of his time watching Isaak through suspiciously narrowed eyes; who knew whether or not he might have said anything to Melchior over the matter?
Balthasar was ever so slightly odd anyway, the musician who continually hid his hands in gloves much like Isaak. And while Radu had never quite had time enough to make a study of Balthasar’s hands, he’d seen enough of Isaak’s to notice that the great organist had surprisingly short, stubby fingers. It mean that Isaak must be an incredible musician to perform with such skill against that insidious disadvantage and all without giving in the habit of similarly disadvantaged pianists who hunched low over the keys and threw themselves up and down the length of them to shore up the difference.
Interestingly it might well be that Helga used the same tricks as Isaak when it came to influencing the perception of her hands. Perhaps she’d learnt that from him? Regardless, the idea of Isaak’s un-gloved hands fascinated Radu and he supposed that they might be smooth and pristine, free from the scent of tobacco and machine oils that coiled through Isaak’s long hair.
And in consideration of Isaak it was almost impossible not to then move on to Dietrich. Dietrich whose hands were slender and supple and rather more suited to music and maidenly distress than either Isaak or Helga’s. Except Dietrich’s hands were probably calloused and covered in small cuts from handling machinery on a regular basis. Radu often imagined them almost rubbed raw at the end of the day from Dietrich’s continual work on such things. Perhaps then Dietrich’s hands wouldn’t be soft at all. His long fingers more used to twisting around components at awkward angles, used to the hard edges of rough circuit boards and dangerously sharp plates of metal.
Perhaps after all, hands were indication of nothing and Radu simply had far too much time to waste in idle speculation. His own hands weren’t soft aristocrat’s hands after all. His fingers were longer than some but not particularly what he would have described as long enough to lend him any extra grace, his palms weren’t anything special and though there was a familiar callous on the middle finger of his right hand; it indicated nothing more than that he was right-handed. Books and teacups and endless pieces of paper were familiar to his hands, cigarettes and winecups and morphine. Which almost suggested that in another time and place he might have been a quiet scholar, doing nothing more with his time than reading endlessly and making note in journals of intellectual delights. But he wasn’t and the accident of birth that made him an Imperial noble also made him absolutely nothing.
His own hands were no indication of worth or rank and yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself watching everyone else’s. The fine scars and trappings that made everybody else something.
All he could do was cradle his teacup in his hands and let opaque smoke drift around him as a homage to his reality; his life separated from everything, seen through a smoky glass. He could reach out and feel skin and bone, wood or fine china underneath his hands but in the end he would never really fathom any of it. So perhaps, if he was lucky, one day he would miscalculate all the many variables of grams and milligrams and send himself down into endless sleep instead. It might be better that way; to simply let the curtain fall on the pointless, petty tragedy of his life. And perhaps if there was no god, perhaps if Heaven were merciful at least in that final sleep he would no longer dream fruitless dreams.
Yet Radu could admit that it was not a surprise that there was no respite for the damned when fixed under the mocking light of Dietrich’s eyes, when the words that rose up in his heart were immediately silenced, because there was no reason to beg and plead that they never make him return. He would go back to Byzantium of course, would commit his final crime and there would be no need to protest because judgement had already been passed. There was no other choice but for him to walk that final stretch on the pathway into destruction.
“I took the road less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.”
It was only after Radu had departed with irrefutable orders given that Dietrich answered his almost inaudible mutter, softly, with one of his own.
“I doubted if I should ever come back…”
++++++++++
Morphine is generally prescribed in milligram doses. As heroin is a derivative of morphine it’s possible that Radu might be injecting or smoking that rather than using morphine itself. Morphine is also one of the components that gives opium its well-known properties.
Radu and Dietrich quote from Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken though Radu changes the line a little.
“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.”
- Eastern-Ellis, B., (1991), American Psycho, p. 362, London, Picador.
The logical conclusion of his introspection. Observation and the inevitable.
Conclusion
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
Hands were always the telling point from the start, whether they were being used to judge heritage, status or idle privilege. The story went that back in the old days when there were definite distinctions between labourers and aristocrats, you could tell the difference by something as simple as the smoothness of their hands regardless of any re-costuming. In the current century there wasn’t quite so much of an easy distinction and a commoner who wasn’t given to physical labour might have just as smooth hands as any aristocrat. It wasn’t the only indication anyway but because of the old terran myth of distinctions, Radu couldn’t help but notice the subtle vagaries anyway. Amongst members of the Orden in particular there was little else for him to do but notice.
Helga for instance had less than delicate hands and knew it. She covered her hands in elaborate jewellery, rings set with ostentatiously large stones. She wore bracelets comprised of more jewels than entire countries might possess, grew her nails to an almost claw-like length and filed and painted them with a synthetic precision. Helga then used every trick in her vast arsenal to draw attention away from the fact that her palms were too long and her fingers too solid to be the perfect and delicate damsel’s hands that she wished he had.
Not that Radu was particularly fond of her anyway, since in relative privacy she simply wouldn’t shut up about how much she disliked Dietrich for any number of imagined sins.
Of course alongside Helga there was always Melchior, who did have delicate hands and a disturbing habit of quirking his fingers just so, in a manner that always made the movement look unnatural and quite honestly disturbing. Mostly he didn’t do it though since he seemed to limit the movement of his hands to readjusting his glasses, cradling his jaw or tucking them behind his back. He probably needed small hands to create his demented toys anyway.
And while he often spent time quite willingly in Helga’s company, it seemed particularly bizarre that Helga never really seemed to notice that with all her ludicrous assertions, Melchior never exactly agreed with her but was rather urging her on to further stupidity. Of that fact perhaps at least Balthasar knew it but since he seemed to spend most of his time watching Isaak through suspiciously narrowed eyes; who knew whether or not he might have said anything to Melchior over the matter?
Balthasar was ever so slightly odd anyway, the musician who continually hid his hands in gloves much like Isaak. And while Radu had never quite had time enough to make a study of Balthasar’s hands, he’d seen enough of Isaak’s to notice that the great organist had surprisingly short, stubby fingers. It mean that Isaak must be an incredible musician to perform with such skill against that insidious disadvantage and all without giving in the habit of similarly disadvantaged pianists who hunched low over the keys and threw themselves up and down the length of them to shore up the difference.
Interestingly it might well be that Helga used the same tricks as Isaak when it came to influencing the perception of her hands. Perhaps she’d learnt that from him? Regardless, the idea of Isaak’s un-gloved hands fascinated Radu and he supposed that they might be smooth and pristine, free from the scent of tobacco and machine oils that coiled through Isaak’s long hair.
And in consideration of Isaak it was almost impossible not to then move on to Dietrich. Dietrich whose hands were slender and supple and rather more suited to music and maidenly distress than either Isaak or Helga’s. Except Dietrich’s hands were probably calloused and covered in small cuts from handling machinery on a regular basis. Radu often imagined them almost rubbed raw at the end of the day from Dietrich’s continual work on such things. Perhaps then Dietrich’s hands wouldn’t be soft at all. His long fingers more used to twisting around components at awkward angles, used to the hard edges of rough circuit boards and dangerously sharp plates of metal.
Perhaps after all, hands were indication of nothing and Radu simply had far too much time to waste in idle speculation. His own hands weren’t soft aristocrat’s hands after all. His fingers were longer than some but not particularly what he would have described as long enough to lend him any extra grace, his palms weren’t anything special and though there was a familiar callous on the middle finger of his right hand; it indicated nothing more than that he was right-handed. Books and teacups and endless pieces of paper were familiar to his hands, cigarettes and winecups and morphine. Which almost suggested that in another time and place he might have been a quiet scholar, doing nothing more with his time than reading endlessly and making note in journals of intellectual delights. But he wasn’t and the accident of birth that made him an Imperial noble also made him absolutely nothing.
His own hands were no indication of worth or rank and yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself watching everyone else’s. The fine scars and trappings that made everybody else something.
All he could do was cradle his teacup in his hands and let opaque smoke drift around him as a homage to his reality; his life separated from everything, seen through a smoky glass. He could reach out and feel skin and bone, wood or fine china underneath his hands but in the end he would never really fathom any of it. So perhaps, if he was lucky, one day he would miscalculate all the many variables of grams and milligrams and send himself down into endless sleep instead. It might be better that way; to simply let the curtain fall on the pointless, petty tragedy of his life. And perhaps if there was no god, perhaps if Heaven were merciful at least in that final sleep he would no longer dream fruitless dreams.
Yet Radu could admit that it was not a surprise that there was no respite for the damned when fixed under the mocking light of Dietrich’s eyes, when the words that rose up in his heart were immediately silenced, because there was no reason to beg and plead that they never make him return. He would go back to Byzantium of course, would commit his final crime and there would be no need to protest because judgement had already been passed. There was no other choice but for him to walk that final stretch on the pathway into destruction.
“I took the road less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.”
It was only after Radu had departed with irrefutable orders given that Dietrich answered his almost inaudible mutter, softly, with one of his own.
“I doubted if I should ever come back…”
++++++++++
Morphine is generally prescribed in milligram doses. As heroin is a derivative of morphine it’s possible that Radu might be injecting or smoking that rather than using morphine itself. Morphine is also one of the components that gives opium its well-known properties.
Radu and Dietrich quote from Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken though Radu changes the line a little.
“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.”
- Eastern-Ellis, B., (1991), American Psycho, p. 362, London, Picador.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-27 07:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-29 06:00 pm (UTC)Hands are supposedly one of the best indicators of age because regardless of what else they hide most people tend to forget about them so they’re also more likely to be somewhere else that other imperfections show up and it seemed to somehow fit that Radu would spend his time watching other people due to being aware of his own imperfections. I’m glad you liked it anyway though I somehow can’t quite seem to rid myself of quotations. You’d think that all of Rosencreutz were literary types the way I’m writing them.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-13 02:58 pm (UTC)That was.....sexy. Yeah, Helga's excessive love for accessories are distracting. I hope for the most, that her uniform (with breast and thigh exposing) is NOT RCO's female standard uniform. IIRC, Helga is dubbed as Countess in the novels (which of course makes the hint that she is Isaak's creation became even more confusing)
As for Von Neumann, unless couple of times someone called Balthasar as Balthasar-kyou (which probably translated as lord/count) - but still no clue of Von Neumann being a high-rank noble or just low-ranking nobles like Radu. Balthasar seem to working as conductor but that still not giving clues (out of hobby? or had to work for feed the family?)
sorry for the ramble, just discovering my love for Von Neumann's brothers and Helga recently XDD (RCO became monotone with only 4 people left
and then Radu just have to dead. damn(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-15 08:35 am (UTC)I’m tending towards thinking that Helga is just some girl that Isaak’s found and educated/financed at some point rather than her literally being his creation but I’ve no idea how accurate that guess might be. Balthasar on the other hand might be with or without notable title but to be a professional musician he’d either have to be aided by a patron from the start or rich enough to finance it himself. Classical music at that level and with the prestige of being a Viennese musician of all things is a pricy business so I’d presume that he’s had the money to get himself all the requisite training in the first place.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-18 05:34 pm (UTC)In order to do that, Helga might be interest Isaak's much, can't picture him as kind-hearted long-legged daddy. Diet is a psycho-kid and I believe he join Orden on his own rather than Isaak feeling the paternal calling and 'take care' of him (beside, to have a kid that age joins terrorist orgz as paternal calling will make him a sick character
which probably he is anyway. Balthasar looks like he's having a spiffy house (or at least, a spiffy coridor), so if he already got firm financial base (rich family), decent job, and hate spilling blood unnecessarily - why would he became a terrorist? O_o mystery, mystery(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-21 06:12 pm (UTC)It makes me wonder if there was something drastic that Helga did originally to gain his attention though I can’t see Isaak being a benevolent father figure to anyone. Helga becoming something of interest would be more akin to his nurturing her perversity rather than anything else. As for Dietrich he probably didn’t have anywhere else to go so it was more a choice of wander aimlessly about destroying things or join the Orden and have access to larger things to destroy. I suppose Balthasar might be similar to Radu in so far as he joined them because of certain ideals and isn’t really interested in the destruction of the world… which is actually slightly daft considering what the Orden motto is. There’s nothing about renewing humanity in there after all.