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narcasse1223 words. G.
On the topic of succession. Isaak and the gravity of couching things in the absurd.
A Distinct Lack of Redemption
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
There is something, about bread that Isaak remembers idly while he studies the walls of his room. Something about additives and other unnatural paraphernalia that preserves it on the outside while its insides slowly go rotten. It’s some piece of marketing propaganda, he supposes from where; he can’t recall but it suddenly seems quite the apt analogy. Lying in bed, weak and ailing or so he claims, it seems that a banal analogy suits him best.
He is possessed of the body of a twenty-five year old man, a slightly worn and somewhat prematurely aged twenty-five year old man but only physically twenty-five nonetheless. And yet the mind within that body is actually forty-five, almost forty-six next January in fact. He won’t be bothered by it any, though he wonders if come January 27th there will be yet another wonderfully passively aggressively worded birthday greeting in a numbered drop-box somewhere in Switzerland accompanied by a withered black rose or two if William is feeling particularly petulant. It’s a bitter game that they play since every year without fail such tokens arrive and every year in counterpoint, Isaak address an equally viciously pleasant thank you note to another numbered box in the same facility with the ever so casual addendum that the day he sends it, is in fact Dietrich’s birthday and isn’t that a remarkable coincidence.
William still has flowers delivered on Valentine’s Day to a hotel or two on the off chance that Isaak might be actually present at either of those locations: Isaak still sends some manner of Yuletide wreath in a timely fashion with a little note enquiring politely after William’s health. In an entirely unremarkable alternative reality, Isaak is certain that they would have been perfect for each other; bitter rivals to the last.
He used to wonder just how many of William’s dear AX colleagues could guess at the vengeful, petty man beneath the mask until it occurred to him that it wasn’t a mask at all. All William’s hideous, spiteful fury was reserved for him alone. It is a secret that only they share. It’s enough to raise a smile no matter how sickly he’s feeling. Everybody lies anyway; if not to others, then to themselves. The image they present to the world is forever false. He’d laugh if only his voice didn’t seem uncooperative today. He wears is own mask so well that it has become his face anyway. The ever-young genius, really nothing more than prematurely aged and weary beneath his laughing mien. Not that the disconnect is usually that apparent but then if it wasn’t he wouldn’t be here, none of them would. Or at least they wouldn’t have come to the Orden for the answers to their questions. Helga for instance; superficially flirtatious, vicious and, though she’s long dead Isaak still won’t quite admit aloud; bitchy. A force to be reckoned with, until you realised that underneath it all she was just a spoilt little girl. A scientist who’d learnt early on that despite her remarkable intellect; many simply saw her looks and so she had become the image they sort, forsaking what she might have actually been. And of little girls there had been two. Absurd, perverse Kaspar who’d never convinced anyone of anything but her own deviance and had actually wanted to be an innocent girl at heart. Except what she’d lost along the way was the realisation that the image that she strove for was just that; an image of what she had wanted girlish innocence to be and there in lay her downfall. But people were always fond of seeing whatever it was that they wanted to see. Dietrich for instance was always taken for the sweet, if a little cheeky, boy. Just another normal boy with a slightly bitter twist to his smile, who had in fact been nothing but a monster, not in the sense of morality but rather in the lack of it. Of all of them, Dietrich was truly the least human; less human than an angry, teenaged Methuselah. Another beautiful boy whose mind and heart never could quite be reconciled with the bitter, hateful soul of a thwarted Voivode.
Perhaps if it had really been a simple case of classification they might all be judged insane but since the human psyche often thwarted artificial design, the truth might simply be that which was judged to bind them to their crimes. Not that Isaak was any great authority on the matter or anything else besides, though he was rather good at ambling around the point. Not that he had a point at all.
“My life has become the stuff of 20th century novels. I wonder if I shall win the Booker Prize.” He announced to nobody in particular as the door of the room opened.
“What are you babbling about now, mage?”
“I’m ailing, dear. Do be kind.”
Dietrich glared but made his way carefully across the room with a fresh cup of tea in his hands.
“Oh?”
“Mint. It’s good for you.” Dietrich snapped, handing the cup over.
Settling back comfortably against the bank of pillows, Isaak cradled the teacup in his hands and closed his eyes. “You’re a good boy really.”
“What?”
“I suppose you’ll have no use for the gloves once I’m gone but you can probably incorporate some of their mechanism into your thread.”
“Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’?” Perhaps it was a touch of panic that coloured Dietrich’s suddenly sharp tone.
“Dead, dear. When I’m dead I shall leave everything to you. Remove the chip too, that should contain some useful data.”
Dietrich glared.
“And the nanites of course are yours.”
“Nanites?”
“Yes, the augmented ones in my veins. The secret to immortality.”
“If you’re immortal then you’re not going to die, are you?”
“Don’t be so angry about it, death comes to us all eventually. Especially to those of us who’ve already used up our allotted time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You will become me; you will take my place once I’m gone.” Isaak ignored Dietrich’s protestations.
“Why?” Dietrich had his arms folded tightly across his chest almost as a defensive measure.
Isaak’s eyes opened, his expression amused. “Because you are my heir of course. Who else would I have succeed me?”
“You’re talking nonsense. I don’t know what damn game you’re playing this time but it’s not funny!” Dietrich turned away and moved back towards the door.
“Put the gramophone on will you? I’d like some music to lighten the silence.”
Muttering under his breath, Dietrich peered at the antiquated device. “This?” He started pointedly at the record already in place.
“Yes. It’s quite appropriate, I find.”
Dietrich’s expression soured further as the music began. “Why?” He sounded almost defeated, glare softening when he realised that once more Isaak had closed his eyes.
“Because there is no redemption.”
Pushing the door closed audibly, Dietrich sat down on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chin and resting his arms on them as he continued to watch Isaak from the far end of the room. He didn’t object to whatever crazed nonsense had taken hold of Isaak today, not really; it was just that there was something rather disturbing about such a serene smile on the face of a man talking so longingly about his own death.
++++++++++
The novel Isaak is referring to is Penelope Lively’s Moon Tiger which won the Booker Prize in 1987. He uses the Slavic title of Voivode because he’s making silly historical references. He also seems to have a penchant for listening to Strauss’ Metamorphosen though at least it’s not Purcell’s When I am Laid in Earth.
The fact that Dietrich brings him mint tea may also suggest that Isaak’s dire ailment is nothing more than a bad case of indigestion.
On the topic of succession. Isaak and the gravity of couching things in the absurd.
A Distinct Lack of Redemption
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
There is something, about bread that Isaak remembers idly while he studies the walls of his room. Something about additives and other unnatural paraphernalia that preserves it on the outside while its insides slowly go rotten. It’s some piece of marketing propaganda, he supposes from where; he can’t recall but it suddenly seems quite the apt analogy. Lying in bed, weak and ailing or so he claims, it seems that a banal analogy suits him best.
He is possessed of the body of a twenty-five year old man, a slightly worn and somewhat prematurely aged twenty-five year old man but only physically twenty-five nonetheless. And yet the mind within that body is actually forty-five, almost forty-six next January in fact. He won’t be bothered by it any, though he wonders if come January 27th there will be yet another wonderfully passively aggressively worded birthday greeting in a numbered drop-box somewhere in Switzerland accompanied by a withered black rose or two if William is feeling particularly petulant. It’s a bitter game that they play since every year without fail such tokens arrive and every year in counterpoint, Isaak address an equally viciously pleasant thank you note to another numbered box in the same facility with the ever so casual addendum that the day he sends it, is in fact Dietrich’s birthday and isn’t that a remarkable coincidence.
William still has flowers delivered on Valentine’s Day to a hotel or two on the off chance that Isaak might be actually present at either of those locations: Isaak still sends some manner of Yuletide wreath in a timely fashion with a little note enquiring politely after William’s health. In an entirely unremarkable alternative reality, Isaak is certain that they would have been perfect for each other; bitter rivals to the last.
He used to wonder just how many of William’s dear AX colleagues could guess at the vengeful, petty man beneath the mask until it occurred to him that it wasn’t a mask at all. All William’s hideous, spiteful fury was reserved for him alone. It is a secret that only they share. It’s enough to raise a smile no matter how sickly he’s feeling. Everybody lies anyway; if not to others, then to themselves. The image they present to the world is forever false. He’d laugh if only his voice didn’t seem uncooperative today. He wears is own mask so well that it has become his face anyway. The ever-young genius, really nothing more than prematurely aged and weary beneath his laughing mien. Not that the disconnect is usually that apparent but then if it wasn’t he wouldn’t be here, none of them would. Or at least they wouldn’t have come to the Orden for the answers to their questions. Helga for instance; superficially flirtatious, vicious and, though she’s long dead Isaak still won’t quite admit aloud; bitchy. A force to be reckoned with, until you realised that underneath it all she was just a spoilt little girl. A scientist who’d learnt early on that despite her remarkable intellect; many simply saw her looks and so she had become the image they sort, forsaking what she might have actually been. And of little girls there had been two. Absurd, perverse Kaspar who’d never convinced anyone of anything but her own deviance and had actually wanted to be an innocent girl at heart. Except what she’d lost along the way was the realisation that the image that she strove for was just that; an image of what she had wanted girlish innocence to be and there in lay her downfall. But people were always fond of seeing whatever it was that they wanted to see. Dietrich for instance was always taken for the sweet, if a little cheeky, boy. Just another normal boy with a slightly bitter twist to his smile, who had in fact been nothing but a monster, not in the sense of morality but rather in the lack of it. Of all of them, Dietrich was truly the least human; less human than an angry, teenaged Methuselah. Another beautiful boy whose mind and heart never could quite be reconciled with the bitter, hateful soul of a thwarted Voivode.
Perhaps if it had really been a simple case of classification they might all be judged insane but since the human psyche often thwarted artificial design, the truth might simply be that which was judged to bind them to their crimes. Not that Isaak was any great authority on the matter or anything else besides, though he was rather good at ambling around the point. Not that he had a point at all.
“My life has become the stuff of 20th century novels. I wonder if I shall win the Booker Prize.” He announced to nobody in particular as the door of the room opened.
“What are you babbling about now, mage?”
“I’m ailing, dear. Do be kind.”
Dietrich glared but made his way carefully across the room with a fresh cup of tea in his hands.
“Oh?”
“Mint. It’s good for you.” Dietrich snapped, handing the cup over.
Settling back comfortably against the bank of pillows, Isaak cradled the teacup in his hands and closed his eyes. “You’re a good boy really.”
“What?”
“I suppose you’ll have no use for the gloves once I’m gone but you can probably incorporate some of their mechanism into your thread.”
“Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’?” Perhaps it was a touch of panic that coloured Dietrich’s suddenly sharp tone.
“Dead, dear. When I’m dead I shall leave everything to you. Remove the chip too, that should contain some useful data.”
Dietrich glared.
“And the nanites of course are yours.”
“Nanites?”
“Yes, the augmented ones in my veins. The secret to immortality.”
“If you’re immortal then you’re not going to die, are you?”
“Don’t be so angry about it, death comes to us all eventually. Especially to those of us who’ve already used up our allotted time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You will become me; you will take my place once I’m gone.” Isaak ignored Dietrich’s protestations.
“Why?” Dietrich had his arms folded tightly across his chest almost as a defensive measure.
Isaak’s eyes opened, his expression amused. “Because you are my heir of course. Who else would I have succeed me?”
“You’re talking nonsense. I don’t know what damn game you’re playing this time but it’s not funny!” Dietrich turned away and moved back towards the door.
“Put the gramophone on will you? I’d like some music to lighten the silence.”
Muttering under his breath, Dietrich peered at the antiquated device. “This?” He started pointedly at the record already in place.
“Yes. It’s quite appropriate, I find.”
Dietrich’s expression soured further as the music began. “Why?” He sounded almost defeated, glare softening when he realised that once more Isaak had closed his eyes.
“Because there is no redemption.”
Pushing the door closed audibly, Dietrich sat down on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chin and resting his arms on them as he continued to watch Isaak from the far end of the room. He didn’t object to whatever crazed nonsense had taken hold of Isaak today, not really; it was just that there was something rather disturbing about such a serene smile on the face of a man talking so longingly about his own death.
++++++++++
The novel Isaak is referring to is Penelope Lively’s Moon Tiger which won the Booker Prize in 1987. He uses the Slavic title of Voivode because he’s making silly historical references. He also seems to have a penchant for listening to Strauss’ Metamorphosen though at least it’s not Purcell’s When I am Laid in Earth.
The fact that Dietrich brings him mint tea may also suggest that Isaak’s dire ailment is nothing more than a bad case of indigestion.
