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Silly AU Trinity Blood flickets: Dies Irae & Requiem
Both pieces are unrepentantly daft but still contain enough content that I decided to post rather than delete them, regardless of the fact that they’ve been sitting in my WIP folder for quite some time now.
717 words. PG. AU. Post Empire arc.
Isaak deals with the Orden’s newest member; Dietrich fiddles with hardware and gets called ‘sir’ a lot.
One of those brief experiments in ‘what if everybody in the Orden wasn’t at each other’s throats constantly’ which grew out of pondering over suitable codenames.
Dies Irae
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
The sound of the Dies Irae was deafening, amplified and exacerbated by the hidden public announcement speakers that had been installed in headquarters without any particular purpose. The volume was loud enough to jar horribly at the turn of certain phrases and notes. Isaak frowned as he set his case down in the entranceway. Since when had Marionettenspieler ever cared for any variation of the requiem mass?
A few quick steps, two at a time, up the stairs found Marionettenspieler usual haunt, what might have been classed as his personal study if he ever had use for such a thing: empty, which meant that the source must be elsewhere. And it was. The door to Isaak’s own retreat stood ajar though the sound a low muttering and the clink of glass could be just barely heard from inside.
“My dear, what do you think-“
“Magier, we’ve been expecting you.”
“Säbel.” A surprised cough. “I had though you were dead.”
“Oh, not me. Just another one of your adorable Autojägerin.”
“They’re not mine and it’s ‘Autojäger’: masculine, plural.”
“But they’re just so beautiful. Marionettenspielerin is a genius.”
“It’s Marionetten- You do this deliberately, don’t you?”
Scarlet lips curved in a seeming innocent smile.
“At least wipe your lipstick off the glasses, please.”
“Jawohl, mein-“
“Don’t.” Isaak ignored anything further in protest and poured himself a glass of wine. He’d probably need it the way the evening was promising to develop.
“Dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla or igne natura renovatur integra if you like.”
Dietrich glared briefly from under the console before turning his attention back to his work. “Pass me a spanner, idiot.”
“Oh… I’m not at all sure I’d know exactly what one of those is. I’m terribly sorry, sir but a silly little thing like me would never-“
A snarl and Dietrich clambered out from under the console to grab the necessary equipment. “You just keep doing that, Flammenschwert. Keep up that pretty but stupid act and the minute Säbel’s out of earshot I’ll gouge your eyes out… with a spoon.”
Radu sipped his wine, seemingly unperturbed by the threat.
“Just you wait…”
“Now, now, sir. Säbel likes you after all. He thinks you’re the loveliest little terran he’s come across in a while.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.” Muttered more to the circuitry panels than anything else.
“He probably won’t ever even lay a finger on you.”
Lying flat on his back Dietrich glared up at Radu. “How do you know that? He beat the innards out of what was left of the Marquis of Hungaria because he thought it seemed like fun yesterday.”
A shrug.
“At least if he decides that murdering Isaak would be fun then-“
“Not likely.”
“Why? Damn it.” Dietrich attempted to reach for a screwdriver from his position on the floor and found his fingers to be an inch too far away.
“Because.” The required implement handed over without preamble.
“Because? What else are they likely to be doing anyway?”
A grin. “Fucking, of course.”
Dietrich’s expression was disgusted. “Thank you for sharing, Flammenschwert.”
“Always a pleasure, sir.”
“What happens now?” Less a question and more a useless statement for the sake of speaking.
“We wait.”
“Ah.” Another refill of the glass.
“We wait and see which way dear Augusta chooses to jump.”
“Straight into an alliance with the Vatican.” That hazy gaze suddenly sharp.
“Yes. And then we tear them and their precious alliance apart.”
“Isaak?”
“Hmm?” Glancing over his shoulder though he remained propped on the edge of his own desk with feigned indifference.
“Let me kill her.”
“Which one? There are far too many women that you’d like to kill.”
“All of them.”
“Even your lovely little Marchioness?”
“Especially her. She failed me, they all did. The only one worth saving, I brought with me after all.”
“Flammenschwert isn’t a girl… at least not as far as I was informed anyway.”
“She’s such a pretty thing.” Idle inspection of the now half-empty wineglass. “It would have been a shame to leave her behind.”
“Säbel… how shall I put this delicately? Exactly how do you intend to apply pronouns to yourself?”
Another of those winning smiles was the only answer so Isaak gave up on that line of enquiry and simply reached for the wine bottle again.
++++++++++
‘Dies Irae’ translates as ‘day of wrath’ and is a set piece from the Requiem mass.
‘Säbel’ would translate as ‘sabre’ and would probably be in keeping with Orden codename trends.
The ‘in’ suffix would convert masculine words to their feminine form e.g. the masculine title of ‘Herzog’ would become ‘Herzogin’ for a woman. ‘Autojäger’ is as Isaak says masculine, plural and in this usage probably wouldn’t need converting. ‘Spielerin’ on the other hand would be the correct feminine of ‘player’.
‘Dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla’ would translate roughly as ‘day that will dissolve the world into burning flames’ and is a line from the Dies Irae.
One of the voice files implies that Dietrich uses the left over Methuselah parts in the Start of Sorrow arc to create Autojäger.
1271 words. G. AU. Post Empire arc. Possibly a sort of prelude to the above.
In the midst of a failed revolution Dietrich comes to some interesting conclusions about the parties involved.
Requiem
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
“You- what?” Dietrich stared, shock written across his features, perhaps for the first time in fifteen years uncaring of how that made him look.
He didn’t get a response as the Duke of Tigris slid drunkenly from his chair.
Rescuing the cigarillo the other had been smoking before it hit the ground, Isaak smiled lazily. “Spemque-“
“Metumque inter dubiis. Yes, I know. What has that got to do with anything?”
“Everything.”
“You’re drunk.” Dietrich folded his arms.
“So we are, so we are. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Checking a sigh Dietrich decided to forgo any attempted answer and instead deliberately moved the drinks tray away from Isaak.
“Makes perfect sense.” Süleyman was now lying on the floor on his back with his hands folded together on his chest.
“Exactly!” Isaak raised a tumbler that might have easily been filled with gin or vodka or even Pimm’s.
“What makes sense?” The reek of alcohol was bad enough but attempting to contain Isaak’s particular brand of drunken nihilism always taxed Dietrich’s sophistry to its limits.
“Death.”
“Death?” Peering at the Duke didn’t prompt further explanation since he seemed to be happily lying on the floor with his eyes closed.
“Death!” Isaak tipped his glass back, emptying the contents with one long swallow.
“Death? As in…” Waiting produced no elucidating response so the only sane option seemed a quick exit.
Not that leaving the parlour helped anyway because even the hallways seemed to reek of alcohol. It was barely past sunset as far as Dietrich could reckon without pausing to stare at a clock and only having woken himself; he was really in no mood to deal with drunken superiors. Or at least one drunken superior and one drunken… associate of dubious standing. Not that the Duke’s explanation for his presence in the ‘Outer World’ as the Empire’s Methuselah termed it, was of any help. And Dietrich most certainly didn’t believe that it was quite as simple as the Duke’s cheery pronouncement of having simply run away. Something had gone critically wrong in Byzantium but somehow whatever it was had allowed Süleyman to anticipate defeat and get himself out of the situation in one piece. And where had Dietrich seen that irritating sort of longevity before?
He’d deal with it of course, once the idiot pair had sobered up and put their sanity back on he’d find out exactly what had gone wrong and how and why. But for the moment he was hungry and he’d probably focus better on a full stomach, and oddly enough there was nothing like cooking his own food to calm him down. He wouldn’t have at all minded cooking dinner for Esther at least once had the opportunity allowed it really. They could have spent the evening pretending to be a nice bourgeois couple. He’d even have bought her flowers and maybe a little box of import chocolates from Germanicus. It really was a shame that they’d missed that opportunity.
Unfortunately, his somewhat improved mood took a turn for the worse when the kitchens already smelt of bacon or at least varying pork products. Though strangely, Flammenschwert didn’t appear to be the current culprit unless he’d somehow effected a transformation into a rather tall, cheerful young woman. She looked up from the cooker at Dietrich’s entrance and smiled brightly which didn’t quite explain anything but did perhaps suggest some common association.
“You must be Dietrich.”
“Yes…”
Noticing his gaze slide to the pans her expression was apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t eat pork myself but it’s tends to cheer Radu up when he’s feeling fragile.”
“Fragile?”
Indicating the table beside the door with a spatula, the woman made a some absent soothing noise in that direction before turning her attention back to her pans.
Turning to look revealed the aforementioned Methuselah with his head resting on the table looking distraught. “Radu?”
“They destroyed him. All of them. Monsters…” The last word half swallowed by a moan of despair.
“They?” Dietrich sat down opposite. “Have you been crying?”
“Now, dear, you must try and eat something. Look, I made you a bacon sandwich and there’s some black pudding too.” A plate deposited in Radu’s line of vision which at least seemed to perk his interest.
“Would you like something too?” She smiled beatifically.
“Sure. Scrambled eggs, if you don’t mind.”
Swivelling round in his seat, Dietrich studied the strange woman for long moments silently attempting to pinpoint exactly what was throwing off any observations he might usually make. And then it hit him; she was wearing a pair of uniform trousers and a shirt he’d definitely seen on someone else before. Several thoughts leapt to the forefront of his mind, not least of all being “Isaak has a girlfriend? Why wasn’t I informed?” rapidly followed by “Why is he dating the Duke of Tigris’ daughter anyway?”
“Not his daughter.” The statement slightly muffled by a toasted sandwich.
Dietrich blinked: since when had Radu been capable of reading minds? Unless he’d said the last part out loud.
A cough and Radu repeated himself somewhat more articulately. “His Grace’s niece.”
“Oh.” Well that would explain the family resemblance too. Dietrich rather hoped that she wasn’t equally crazy.
She set the plate of scrambled eggs on toast in front of Dietrich just as Radu pushed his own plate away and stood up.
“Radu?”
“I’ll… go check on His Grace, Countess.” He bowed slightly.
Looking concerned she patted Radu’s hand gently. “Thank you, that would be most kind of you.”
Dietrich watched her watch Radu leave the room. That certainly had been an interesting interaction, almost motherly really; which gave Dietrich yet another uncomfortable idea. Because as far as the distribution of titles went, surely it might in fact be possible that if grandfather was a duke and mother was a countess then the runt of a grandson might be made a baron. And if the poor, abused grandson then decided to tell his dearest grandfather all about the nasty terran who kept abusing him… Dietrich swallowed uncomfortably.
“How are they?”
“Huh?”
“Your eggs?”
“Oh, lovely.” He smiled carefully, attempting to find some way to invalidate any of Radu’s complaints. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything just yet? Of course he couldn’t. The Duke was probably too drunk right now which gave Dietrich at least a few hours grace before whatever might transpire. And a few hours were all he really needed. “Thank you, Countess.”
“Please, call me Šahrzād, we can all do without titles here.”
“Radu doesn’t seem to share your sentiment.”
“No, poor boy. He’s spent his entire life addressing people as Countess this and Earl that. But we don’t need titles to define us, not among friends.” And there it was: that bright, oh so cheery, borderline psychotic smile.
Dietrich smiled back, out of sheer self-preservation instinct. “Especially amongst family.” He added quickly.
That seemed to be exactly what she was looking for as that smile became even brighter. “Yes! Exactly. Especially amongst family.” And she patted his hand.
It took all of his self-control not to drop his fork and run screaming when her hand touched his. Though thankfully the contact didn’t last long and the Countess seemed content to now turn her attention to her cheese sandwich instead. Threat delivered she’d made her position apparent and would simply sit back and wait to see which way Dietrich jumped, all the while being as pleasant and chipper as humanly possible around him. All things considered it was no wonder that Radu was a complete basketcase if he’d grown up in that sort of environment.
++++++++++
‘Spemque metumque inter dubiis’ is a quote from Virgil and translates as ‘hover between hope and fear’.
717 words. PG. AU. Post Empire arc.
Isaak deals with the Orden’s newest member; Dietrich fiddles with hardware and gets called ‘sir’ a lot.
One of those brief experiments in ‘what if everybody in the Orden wasn’t at each other’s throats constantly’ which grew out of pondering over suitable codenames.
Dies Irae
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
The sound of the Dies Irae was deafening, amplified and exacerbated by the hidden public announcement speakers that had been installed in headquarters without any particular purpose. The volume was loud enough to jar horribly at the turn of certain phrases and notes. Isaak frowned as he set his case down in the entranceway. Since when had Marionettenspieler ever cared for any variation of the requiem mass?
A few quick steps, two at a time, up the stairs found Marionettenspieler usual haunt, what might have been classed as his personal study if he ever had use for such a thing: empty, which meant that the source must be elsewhere. And it was. The door to Isaak’s own retreat stood ajar though the sound a low muttering and the clink of glass could be just barely heard from inside.
“My dear, what do you think-“
“Magier, we’ve been expecting you.”
“Säbel.” A surprised cough. “I had though you were dead.”
“Oh, not me. Just another one of your adorable Autojägerin.”
“They’re not mine and it’s ‘Autojäger’: masculine, plural.”
“But they’re just so beautiful. Marionettenspielerin is a genius.”
“It’s Marionetten- You do this deliberately, don’t you?”
Scarlet lips curved in a seeming innocent smile.
“At least wipe your lipstick off the glasses, please.”
“Jawohl, mein-“
“Don’t.” Isaak ignored anything further in protest and poured himself a glass of wine. He’d probably need it the way the evening was promising to develop.
“Dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla or igne natura renovatur integra if you like.”
Dietrich glared briefly from under the console before turning his attention back to his work. “Pass me a spanner, idiot.”
“Oh… I’m not at all sure I’d know exactly what one of those is. I’m terribly sorry, sir but a silly little thing like me would never-“
A snarl and Dietrich clambered out from under the console to grab the necessary equipment. “You just keep doing that, Flammenschwert. Keep up that pretty but stupid act and the minute Säbel’s out of earshot I’ll gouge your eyes out… with a spoon.”
Radu sipped his wine, seemingly unperturbed by the threat.
“Just you wait…”
“Now, now, sir. Säbel likes you after all. He thinks you’re the loveliest little terran he’s come across in a while.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.” Muttered more to the circuitry panels than anything else.
“He probably won’t ever even lay a finger on you.”
Lying flat on his back Dietrich glared up at Radu. “How do you know that? He beat the innards out of what was left of the Marquis of Hungaria because he thought it seemed like fun yesterday.”
A shrug.
“At least if he decides that murdering Isaak would be fun then-“
“Not likely.”
“Why? Damn it.” Dietrich attempted to reach for a screwdriver from his position on the floor and found his fingers to be an inch too far away.
“Because.” The required implement handed over without preamble.
“Because? What else are they likely to be doing anyway?”
A grin. “Fucking, of course.”
Dietrich’s expression was disgusted. “Thank you for sharing, Flammenschwert.”
“Always a pleasure, sir.”
“What happens now?” Less a question and more a useless statement for the sake of speaking.
“We wait.”
“Ah.” Another refill of the glass.
“We wait and see which way dear Augusta chooses to jump.”
“Straight into an alliance with the Vatican.” That hazy gaze suddenly sharp.
“Yes. And then we tear them and their precious alliance apart.”
“Isaak?”
“Hmm?” Glancing over his shoulder though he remained propped on the edge of his own desk with feigned indifference.
“Let me kill her.”
“Which one? There are far too many women that you’d like to kill.”
“All of them.”
“Even your lovely little Marchioness?”
“Especially her. She failed me, they all did. The only one worth saving, I brought with me after all.”
“Flammenschwert isn’t a girl… at least not as far as I was informed anyway.”
“She’s such a pretty thing.” Idle inspection of the now half-empty wineglass. “It would have been a shame to leave her behind.”
“Säbel… how shall I put this delicately? Exactly how do you intend to apply pronouns to yourself?”
Another of those winning smiles was the only answer so Isaak gave up on that line of enquiry and simply reached for the wine bottle again.
++++++++++
‘Dies Irae’ translates as ‘day of wrath’ and is a set piece from the Requiem mass.
‘Säbel’ would translate as ‘sabre’ and would probably be in keeping with Orden codename trends.
The ‘in’ suffix would convert masculine words to their feminine form e.g. the masculine title of ‘Herzog’ would become ‘Herzogin’ for a woman. ‘Autojäger’ is as Isaak says masculine, plural and in this usage probably wouldn’t need converting. ‘Spielerin’ on the other hand would be the correct feminine of ‘player’.
‘Dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla’ would translate roughly as ‘day that will dissolve the world into burning flames’ and is a line from the Dies Irae.
One of the voice files implies that Dietrich uses the left over Methuselah parts in the Start of Sorrow arc to create Autojäger.
1271 words. G. AU. Post Empire arc. Possibly a sort of prelude to the above.
In the midst of a failed revolution Dietrich comes to some interesting conclusions about the parties involved.
Requiem
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
“You- what?” Dietrich stared, shock written across his features, perhaps for the first time in fifteen years uncaring of how that made him look.
He didn’t get a response as the Duke of Tigris slid drunkenly from his chair.
Rescuing the cigarillo the other had been smoking before it hit the ground, Isaak smiled lazily. “Spemque-“
“Metumque inter dubiis. Yes, I know. What has that got to do with anything?”
“Everything.”
“You’re drunk.” Dietrich folded his arms.
“So we are, so we are. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Checking a sigh Dietrich decided to forgo any attempted answer and instead deliberately moved the drinks tray away from Isaak.
“Makes perfect sense.” Süleyman was now lying on the floor on his back with his hands folded together on his chest.
“Exactly!” Isaak raised a tumbler that might have easily been filled with gin or vodka or even Pimm’s.
“What makes sense?” The reek of alcohol was bad enough but attempting to contain Isaak’s particular brand of drunken nihilism always taxed Dietrich’s sophistry to its limits.
“Death.”
“Death?” Peering at the Duke didn’t prompt further explanation since he seemed to be happily lying on the floor with his eyes closed.
“Death!” Isaak tipped his glass back, emptying the contents with one long swallow.
“Death? As in…” Waiting produced no elucidating response so the only sane option seemed a quick exit.
Not that leaving the parlour helped anyway because even the hallways seemed to reek of alcohol. It was barely past sunset as far as Dietrich could reckon without pausing to stare at a clock and only having woken himself; he was really in no mood to deal with drunken superiors. Or at least one drunken superior and one drunken… associate of dubious standing. Not that the Duke’s explanation for his presence in the ‘Outer World’ as the Empire’s Methuselah termed it, was of any help. And Dietrich most certainly didn’t believe that it was quite as simple as the Duke’s cheery pronouncement of having simply run away. Something had gone critically wrong in Byzantium but somehow whatever it was had allowed Süleyman to anticipate defeat and get himself out of the situation in one piece. And where had Dietrich seen that irritating sort of longevity before?
He’d deal with it of course, once the idiot pair had sobered up and put their sanity back on he’d find out exactly what had gone wrong and how and why. But for the moment he was hungry and he’d probably focus better on a full stomach, and oddly enough there was nothing like cooking his own food to calm him down. He wouldn’t have at all minded cooking dinner for Esther at least once had the opportunity allowed it really. They could have spent the evening pretending to be a nice bourgeois couple. He’d even have bought her flowers and maybe a little box of import chocolates from Germanicus. It really was a shame that they’d missed that opportunity.
Unfortunately, his somewhat improved mood took a turn for the worse when the kitchens already smelt of bacon or at least varying pork products. Though strangely, Flammenschwert didn’t appear to be the current culprit unless he’d somehow effected a transformation into a rather tall, cheerful young woman. She looked up from the cooker at Dietrich’s entrance and smiled brightly which didn’t quite explain anything but did perhaps suggest some common association.
“You must be Dietrich.”
“Yes…”
Noticing his gaze slide to the pans her expression was apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t eat pork myself but it’s tends to cheer Radu up when he’s feeling fragile.”
“Fragile?”
Indicating the table beside the door with a spatula, the woman made a some absent soothing noise in that direction before turning her attention back to her pans.
Turning to look revealed the aforementioned Methuselah with his head resting on the table looking distraught. “Radu?”
“They destroyed him. All of them. Monsters…” The last word half swallowed by a moan of despair.
“They?” Dietrich sat down opposite. “Have you been crying?”
“Now, dear, you must try and eat something. Look, I made you a bacon sandwich and there’s some black pudding too.” A plate deposited in Radu’s line of vision which at least seemed to perk his interest.
“Would you like something too?” She smiled beatifically.
“Sure. Scrambled eggs, if you don’t mind.”
Swivelling round in his seat, Dietrich studied the strange woman for long moments silently attempting to pinpoint exactly what was throwing off any observations he might usually make. And then it hit him; she was wearing a pair of uniform trousers and a shirt he’d definitely seen on someone else before. Several thoughts leapt to the forefront of his mind, not least of all being “Isaak has a girlfriend? Why wasn’t I informed?” rapidly followed by “Why is he dating the Duke of Tigris’ daughter anyway?”
“Not his daughter.” The statement slightly muffled by a toasted sandwich.
Dietrich blinked: since when had Radu been capable of reading minds? Unless he’d said the last part out loud.
A cough and Radu repeated himself somewhat more articulately. “His Grace’s niece.”
“Oh.” Well that would explain the family resemblance too. Dietrich rather hoped that she wasn’t equally crazy.
She set the plate of scrambled eggs on toast in front of Dietrich just as Radu pushed his own plate away and stood up.
“Radu?”
“I’ll… go check on His Grace, Countess.” He bowed slightly.
Looking concerned she patted Radu’s hand gently. “Thank you, that would be most kind of you.”
Dietrich watched her watch Radu leave the room. That certainly had been an interesting interaction, almost motherly really; which gave Dietrich yet another uncomfortable idea. Because as far as the distribution of titles went, surely it might in fact be possible that if grandfather was a duke and mother was a countess then the runt of a grandson might be made a baron. And if the poor, abused grandson then decided to tell his dearest grandfather all about the nasty terran who kept abusing him… Dietrich swallowed uncomfortably.
“How are they?”
“Huh?”
“Your eggs?”
“Oh, lovely.” He smiled carefully, attempting to find some way to invalidate any of Radu’s complaints. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything just yet? Of course he couldn’t. The Duke was probably too drunk right now which gave Dietrich at least a few hours grace before whatever might transpire. And a few hours were all he really needed. “Thank you, Countess.”
“Please, call me Šahrzād, we can all do without titles here.”
“Radu doesn’t seem to share your sentiment.”
“No, poor boy. He’s spent his entire life addressing people as Countess this and Earl that. But we don’t need titles to define us, not among friends.” And there it was: that bright, oh so cheery, borderline psychotic smile.
Dietrich smiled back, out of sheer self-preservation instinct. “Especially amongst family.” He added quickly.
That seemed to be exactly what she was looking for as that smile became even brighter. “Yes! Exactly. Especially amongst family.” And she patted his hand.
It took all of his self-control not to drop his fork and run screaming when her hand touched his. Though thankfully the contact didn’t last long and the Countess seemed content to now turn her attention to her cheese sandwich instead. Threat delivered she’d made her position apparent and would simply sit back and wait to see which way Dietrich jumped, all the while being as pleasant and chipper as humanly possible around him. All things considered it was no wonder that Radu was a complete basketcase if he’d grown up in that sort of environment.
++++++++++
‘Spemque metumque inter dubiis’ is a quote from Virgil and translates as ‘hover between hope and fear’.