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narcasse1418 words. PG for inference. Süleyman and Radu on an idle morning.
Inevitability and allusion. An absent jumble of things.
Nymphetology: part 2 – Chrysalis
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
It was only on odd mornings that he noticed it, if he noticed anything at all. The odd mornings when the Baron forgot his mask. When it was too early for anything and too late to simply dream away the day. ‘It’ of course being the fact that sometimes, quite unaccountably, Radu really was quite beautiful. Not that it troubled Süleyman any. He could appreciate beauty after all. One of his dear, favoured nieces, the Marchioness of Kiev was absolutely lovely too. But he only saw it in the abstract, in the way that a man could examine a shard of pottery and find it fascinating. He’d always supposed his actual niece, dear Šahrzād, must be beautiful too but somehow he could never actually see it. She’d always seemed somehow manish in her gestures, though he’d never managed to figure out why. He supposed it must be something in the way she swung her blade behind her when she stood tall on the practice field. He’d done the same of course, right down to the sharp crack of his booted heels slamming together before he’d drop back, balancing most of his weight on his right foot and raising his sword-arm at what was always misconstrued as an awkward angle to an unpractised fencer or an outright novice. Maybe Šahrzād had learnt that from him. Regardless of the source, he’d always fancied that had he dressed her in the common attire of a male Boier, she would have easily passed as one for the casual grace with which she carried a sword. Tie those curls back just so, sport a pair of more masculine cut gloves, apply a little more mascara and she would have been Šahrzād; Count of Babylon, heir apparent to the duchy of Tigris. Not that that sort of thing worked interchangeably exactly. Radu, in a girl’s tunic with the delicate edges of a petticoat revealed underneath would still have been the alcoholically inclined, nicotine addicted Baron of Luxor after all. Kohl, eyeshadow, painted lips, even painted nails wouldn’t have changed that fact. But at least the tint of colour on that sour mouth would have suited Radu; on Süleyman it just made him look like a cheap tart.
Which was veering away from the point really as Süleyman took the tea-tray from the arms of a quiet servant and carefully shouldered the bedroom door open. Of course the drapes had been drawn back and the shutters thrown open already letting in the late afternoon light. It was a ludicrous hour of the day to be awake for a Methuselah but Süleyman was used to rising early to deal with his duties and Radu kept odd hours anyway. And oddly enough for a Methuselah; Radu never seemed to miss an opportunity to bask in the sunlight, this afternoon being no different. Having indulged in a late dinner with the Duke, it had made perfect sense for Radu to retire to what was rapidly becoming his self-appointed chamber rather than a general sort of guest room on the Tigris estates. If anything was required of him in his capacity as the Count of Memphis’ tovarăş; he would be sent for. At least that was the theory. The reality being that had the Count of Memphis need of him; the fact of Radu being in the company of Süleyman would be enough to give pause in such a summons simply due to the tactical familial considerations involved. Thus this afternoon, regardless of the machinations of the state and its constituent principle families, the Baron of Luxor did nothing more strenuous than lounge about in bed reading in the sunlight.
The fact that it was of course a little too early was proven by the unnecessarily sour expression on that pretty face. The down turned lips, quirking into a somewhat unrealised sneer every now and again, the way in which he sprawled across the pillows; indolent and perhaps somewhat insolent too in the lay of his idle limbs, the absent fluttering of unoccupied fingertips prior to his reaching over to turn a yellowed page. All of which told quite clearly in unspoken words that the Baron couldn’t give a damn about anything just now and would rather like for the world to leave him alone or it could expect to face his ire.
Setting the tea-tray down gently on the bedside table, Süleyman would have settled himself into a chair if not for Radu suddenly, lightly tossing the book aside and moving over in bed to make space for him. Sitting down on the bed with his booted feet on top of the covers, Süleyman stretched idly only to find that the action granted him an armful of petulant Baron. The scowl half hidden by the tendrils of hair that fell about Radu’s face, compounded by the rather determined way in which he pillowed his head against Süleyman’s shoulder was one of those regular, strange occurrences that Süleyman had grown used to during the steady progress of their association.
“What were you reading?”
“A terran novel.”
“Ah.”
“It’s about a neurotic woman who damns her daughter and the man who then destroys her. The daughter, that is.” Explained harshly with no interest in whether or not Süleyman actually cared for said explanation.
“Oh.”
“The woman dies too. But that’s an accident.”
“Really?”
Radu lifted his head from Süleyman’s shoulder to half glare at him.
“Accidents are often what history calls fate.”
“If there were such a thing as fate.” There was a faint sound of disgust before Radu laid his head down again and sighed.
“If there were such a thing as fate…” Süleyman chuckled, gently stroking Radu’s hair.
“You could cut off her head.”
“Just like they do in all the fairytales?”
“Though I’d rather you cut off all her limbs.”
“And burn them, then scatter the ashes to the four winds and… what else?”
“Bury her facedown and place a heavy rock on her back so she can’t get back up again.”
“Really?”
“It’s what they used to do in the west of Albion.”
“Ah.”
An undignified snort was the response.
“I suppose it is a suitable punishment for witchcraft… somehow.”
“What do you know about witchcraft?” Muttered into Süleyman’s shoulder with only fractionally less of a prevalent annoyance at everything.
“Hmm… let me see if I recall the line. It must be remembered that the crime of witchcraft is not simply ecclesiastic, therefore temporal potentates are not debarred from its judging?”
Radu blinked up at Süleyman in surprise.
“Or so it says in Der Hexenhammer, I believe.” And he favoured Radu with a genuinely fond smile.
He received a frown in response. “But why-“
“It’s too early for serious discussion, wouldn’t you say?”
“What? No-“
“And if you neglect your tea it’ll go cold.” Disentangling himself his companion, Süleyman proceeded to pour tea into one cup, which he handed to Radu before helping himself to a slice of fried bread with his fingers, completely ignoring propriety and the slices of feta cheese placed alongside.
Sitting up, Radu held the teacup rather daintily, seemingly inspecting the contents with some suspicion. “Can I have the saucer as well?”
Having handed the item over, Süleyman finished his slice of bread and wiping his fingers on a napkin, sat back idly, closing his eyes as he did so. He ignored the fact that Radu made it quite apparent he was taking the opportunity to inspect the Duke’s features.
“Pomegranate tea?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?” Süleyman opened one eye.
“No, no, not at all.” But Radu was evidently laughing.
“Oh?”
“Here, put this down for me?” Handing over the cup and saucer.
Sitting back, Süleyman closed his eyes again deciding to ignore Radu’s sudden change in humour.
The distinct tug at Süleyman’s arm which prompted slight movement so that Radu could settle back down as before wasn’t at all unexpected. Nor was Süleyman casually managing to pull loose the tie binding Radu’s hair as he ran his fingers though it.
“What happens to the terran at the end of your novel then?”
“The older man?”
“Yes.”
“He dies, I think.”
A faint sigh. “I suppose that would be appropriate really.”
Radu didn’t reply, instead making up his mind that he’d rather be annoyed than upset by Süleyman’s idle rambling. He even managed to hold on to his scowl when what felt like a light kiss was pressed to the top of his head just as he was falling asleep again.
+++++++++
Radu, like Dietrich in part 1, is reading Lolita.
He makes reference to the frequent sight in Wales of isolated standing stones under which alleged witches were buried so that they couldn’t rise again.
Süleyman paraphrases the following:
"It must be remembered, also, that this crime of witches is not purely ecclesiastic; therefore the temporal potentates and Lords are not debarred from trying and judging it."
- Heinrich Kramer & James Sprenger, ([1928] 1971). The Malleus Maleficarum, p. 235. Dover Publications : Mineola.
He’s also eating Yumurtali Ekmek which is generally described as Turkish French toast. Interestingly he seems to have opted for a herbal tea rather than the more traditional black tea, though seeing as the Rize province is included as part of the Empire’s territory he could probably get his hands on the authentic stuff if he wanted to.
And pomegranates of course have a variety of connotations.
First part of the two part experiment in images of failed and vestigial seduction.
Inevitability and allusion. An absent jumble of things.
Nymphetology: part 2 – Chrysalis
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
It was only on odd mornings that he noticed it, if he noticed anything at all. The odd mornings when the Baron forgot his mask. When it was too early for anything and too late to simply dream away the day. ‘It’ of course being the fact that sometimes, quite unaccountably, Radu really was quite beautiful. Not that it troubled Süleyman any. He could appreciate beauty after all. One of his dear, favoured nieces, the Marchioness of Kiev was absolutely lovely too. But he only saw it in the abstract, in the way that a man could examine a shard of pottery and find it fascinating. He’d always supposed his actual niece, dear Šahrzād, must be beautiful too but somehow he could never actually see it. She’d always seemed somehow manish in her gestures, though he’d never managed to figure out why. He supposed it must be something in the way she swung her blade behind her when she stood tall on the practice field. He’d done the same of course, right down to the sharp crack of his booted heels slamming together before he’d drop back, balancing most of his weight on his right foot and raising his sword-arm at what was always misconstrued as an awkward angle to an unpractised fencer or an outright novice. Maybe Šahrzād had learnt that from him. Regardless of the source, he’d always fancied that had he dressed her in the common attire of a male Boier, she would have easily passed as one for the casual grace with which she carried a sword. Tie those curls back just so, sport a pair of more masculine cut gloves, apply a little more mascara and she would have been Šahrzād; Count of Babylon, heir apparent to the duchy of Tigris. Not that that sort of thing worked interchangeably exactly. Radu, in a girl’s tunic with the delicate edges of a petticoat revealed underneath would still have been the alcoholically inclined, nicotine addicted Baron of Luxor after all. Kohl, eyeshadow, painted lips, even painted nails wouldn’t have changed that fact. But at least the tint of colour on that sour mouth would have suited Radu; on Süleyman it just made him look like a cheap tart.
Which was veering away from the point really as Süleyman took the tea-tray from the arms of a quiet servant and carefully shouldered the bedroom door open. Of course the drapes had been drawn back and the shutters thrown open already letting in the late afternoon light. It was a ludicrous hour of the day to be awake for a Methuselah but Süleyman was used to rising early to deal with his duties and Radu kept odd hours anyway. And oddly enough for a Methuselah; Radu never seemed to miss an opportunity to bask in the sunlight, this afternoon being no different. Having indulged in a late dinner with the Duke, it had made perfect sense for Radu to retire to what was rapidly becoming his self-appointed chamber rather than a general sort of guest room on the Tigris estates. If anything was required of him in his capacity as the Count of Memphis’ tovarăş; he would be sent for. At least that was the theory. The reality being that had the Count of Memphis need of him; the fact of Radu being in the company of Süleyman would be enough to give pause in such a summons simply due to the tactical familial considerations involved. Thus this afternoon, regardless of the machinations of the state and its constituent principle families, the Baron of Luxor did nothing more strenuous than lounge about in bed reading in the sunlight.
The fact that it was of course a little too early was proven by the unnecessarily sour expression on that pretty face. The down turned lips, quirking into a somewhat unrealised sneer every now and again, the way in which he sprawled across the pillows; indolent and perhaps somewhat insolent too in the lay of his idle limbs, the absent fluttering of unoccupied fingertips prior to his reaching over to turn a yellowed page. All of which told quite clearly in unspoken words that the Baron couldn’t give a damn about anything just now and would rather like for the world to leave him alone or it could expect to face his ire.
Setting the tea-tray down gently on the bedside table, Süleyman would have settled himself into a chair if not for Radu suddenly, lightly tossing the book aside and moving over in bed to make space for him. Sitting down on the bed with his booted feet on top of the covers, Süleyman stretched idly only to find that the action granted him an armful of petulant Baron. The scowl half hidden by the tendrils of hair that fell about Radu’s face, compounded by the rather determined way in which he pillowed his head against Süleyman’s shoulder was one of those regular, strange occurrences that Süleyman had grown used to during the steady progress of their association.
“What were you reading?”
“A terran novel.”
“Ah.”
“It’s about a neurotic woman who damns her daughter and the man who then destroys her. The daughter, that is.” Explained harshly with no interest in whether or not Süleyman actually cared for said explanation.
“Oh.”
“The woman dies too. But that’s an accident.”
“Really?”
Radu lifted his head from Süleyman’s shoulder to half glare at him.
“Accidents are often what history calls fate.”
“If there were such a thing as fate.” There was a faint sound of disgust before Radu laid his head down again and sighed.
“If there were such a thing as fate…” Süleyman chuckled, gently stroking Radu’s hair.
“You could cut off her head.”
“Just like they do in all the fairytales?”
“Though I’d rather you cut off all her limbs.”
“And burn them, then scatter the ashes to the four winds and… what else?”
“Bury her facedown and place a heavy rock on her back so she can’t get back up again.”
“Really?”
“It’s what they used to do in the west of Albion.”
“Ah.”
An undignified snort was the response.
“I suppose it is a suitable punishment for witchcraft… somehow.”
“What do you know about witchcraft?” Muttered into Süleyman’s shoulder with only fractionally less of a prevalent annoyance at everything.
“Hmm… let me see if I recall the line. It must be remembered that the crime of witchcraft is not simply ecclesiastic, therefore temporal potentates are not debarred from its judging?”
Radu blinked up at Süleyman in surprise.
“Or so it says in Der Hexenhammer, I believe.” And he favoured Radu with a genuinely fond smile.
He received a frown in response. “But why-“
“It’s too early for serious discussion, wouldn’t you say?”
“What? No-“
“And if you neglect your tea it’ll go cold.” Disentangling himself his companion, Süleyman proceeded to pour tea into one cup, which he handed to Radu before helping himself to a slice of fried bread with his fingers, completely ignoring propriety and the slices of feta cheese placed alongside.
Sitting up, Radu held the teacup rather daintily, seemingly inspecting the contents with some suspicion. “Can I have the saucer as well?”
Having handed the item over, Süleyman finished his slice of bread and wiping his fingers on a napkin, sat back idly, closing his eyes as he did so. He ignored the fact that Radu made it quite apparent he was taking the opportunity to inspect the Duke’s features.
“Pomegranate tea?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?” Süleyman opened one eye.
“No, no, not at all.” But Radu was evidently laughing.
“Oh?”
“Here, put this down for me?” Handing over the cup and saucer.
Sitting back, Süleyman closed his eyes again deciding to ignore Radu’s sudden change in humour.
The distinct tug at Süleyman’s arm which prompted slight movement so that Radu could settle back down as before wasn’t at all unexpected. Nor was Süleyman casually managing to pull loose the tie binding Radu’s hair as he ran his fingers though it.
“What happens to the terran at the end of your novel then?”
“The older man?”
“Yes.”
“He dies, I think.”
A faint sigh. “I suppose that would be appropriate really.”
Radu didn’t reply, instead making up his mind that he’d rather be annoyed than upset by Süleyman’s idle rambling. He even managed to hold on to his scowl when what felt like a light kiss was pressed to the top of his head just as he was falling asleep again.
+++++++++
Radu, like Dietrich in part 1, is reading Lolita.
He makes reference to the frequent sight in Wales of isolated standing stones under which alleged witches were buried so that they couldn’t rise again.
Süleyman paraphrases the following:
"It must be remembered, also, that this crime of witches is not purely ecclesiastic; therefore the temporal potentates and Lords are not debarred from trying and judging it."
- Heinrich Kramer & James Sprenger, ([1928] 1971). The Malleus Maleficarum, p. 235. Dover Publications : Mineola.
He’s also eating Yumurtali Ekmek which is generally described as Turkish French toast. Interestingly he seems to have opted for a herbal tea rather than the more traditional black tea, though seeing as the Rize province is included as part of the Empire’s territory he could probably get his hands on the authentic stuff if he wanted to.
And pomegranates of course have a variety of connotations.
First part of the two part experiment in images of failed and vestigial seduction.