narcasse | Writing challange

.......oooh... *_*
I won't let you ask a second time.

1 - XXXHOLiC, Watanuki, on the difficulties of the process of giving a price to a service.
2- (you should have seen it coming) Trinity Blood; Isaak, William, Sukeyman an cameos of others, the cricket club.

more to come, my mind is quite blank now.

(be clear that 'Sukeyman' is a silly random typo and not a retarded play on words about Suleyman being anyone's bottom)

Watanuki often gets to hear Yūko conduct business since he’s the one to bring in the tea or snacks. He gets to hear customers plead with her regardless of how well their cover their desperation. He gets to hear her ‘negotiate’ her price though she doesn’t negotiate at all, and sometimes that terrifies him. Not because she takes something of equivalent worth but because, somehow, she always knows the worth of everything. She can gauge the worth of the person’s wish with a glance and in that moment assign a value to a human soul. He doesn’t like that: the idea that he crossed Yūko’s path one day and she decided upon his intrinsic value.

He mulls over the idea on and off. Some days he looks into Maru and Moro’s cheerful faces and wonders what value Yūko has given them. They usually tell him that he is looking at them strangely as a result but the idea won’t leave him be. Because if a human wish can be assigned a value then isn’t it true that with humans themselves it can be the same? The idea is more than frightening but not something he can explain. Yūko must know what he’s thinking but she’s not the one he needs to understand. Its crazy but he wants Dōmeki to understand. More than that what Watanuki really wants is for Dōmeki to say something, tell him something, use all his esoteric knowledge to somehow put Watanuki’s fears to rest.

The idea of assigning a value to a human being isn’t the same as the value of a wish but still, in his mind, Watanuki cannot separate the two. But perhaps, just sometimes, the Dimension Witch is kind because when Watanuki is called to bring tea to Yūko and a customer some time after, when the question of value is eating him alive, he finds the situation quite reversed. Yūko sits opposite her customer who is asking her to take something away from him, to stop him feeling the way that he does. Yūko tells him that her price will be something of equal value and the man balks, stating that he’s not certain he wants to sacrifice something of himself. Watanuki watches, he’s seen this sort of situation play out before but then Yūko does something that surprises him: she tells her customer that the thing that he wants her to take from him is something he doesn’t want anyway.

Later Yūko hands Watanuki a small box to put in the storage room. It contains whatever it is that Yūko took from her client and Watanuki realises that whatever it was was only a small thing, a tiny emotion that would have otherwise been thrown away. The man gave away something he didn’t want, something that only the Dimension Witch could use. It strikes Watanuki that he knows nothing else about the man any more than he knows anything else about plenty of Yūko’s customers so he has no right to judge, to assign a value to their lives based on the simple notion of a wish.

Of course months later when he sees Yūko talking to a man with a rotting, half mechanical face who warns her not to wish to see the face of a god for fear of having that wish granted, Watanuki has a whole other set of things to worry about.

really really nice... very 'wata-style' in the spectrum of sensitiveness and human compassion it covers, thanks a lot... =))

“I hate cricket.” Dietrich announces, shoving his hands into the pockets of his white trousers moodily. There’s nobody inside the clubhouse to hear him he suspects but he wanders inside anyway. Anything to get away from the pointless bickering going on outside. What they’re arguing about escapes him but it seemed to culminate in the Duke of Tigris screaming at Helga for being a woman and Helga storming off in a huff. She’d been wearing cricket whites as well so possibly she wanted to play.

They’d been dividing themselves into two teams with Isaak as the captain of one and William Wordsworth as captain of the other and that’s where the problems had started. Isaak had picked Süleyman on the pretext that someone that well built ought to be able to hit a ball pretty damn far: William had picked Guderian in retaliation and that was how the first argument had started.

Dietrich doesn’t much care which team he’s on because nobody’s even bothered to tell him the rules. He doesn’t know what cricket’s really about and everybody else seems to, even Esther who was demanding to be mid-wicket, whatever that means.

“Why do I even have to play?” He asks aloud as he rounds the corner into the kitchenette.
“You don’t.”
“Huh?” Dietrich blinks a few times at the sight before him.

Radu appears to be preparing drinks in the kitchen, carefully adding lemon slices to the rims of tall glasses of Pimm’s, pausing occasionally to readjust some of the little triangular sandwiches on a platter next to the drinks tray. But that isn’t what stops Dietrich in his tracks: what confuses him so completely that he wonders if he actually stepped through a doorway into Narnia, or possibly more appropriately Oz, is what Radu’s wearing. Gone are the grotty harem pants and far too open shirts, there’s not even a trace of the fashion disaster that is an Imperial uniform, no, today Radu is wearing a pair of ‘sensible shoes’, a pretty floral skirt, a blouse sporting one of those ‘pussy bow’ things and a cardigan. Dietrich’s gaze reaches the long hair held back by an Alice-band before he remembers to breathe again.

He’s about to say something, anything, when Süleyman leans round the doorway. “Darling, how are those drinks coming along?”
“In a minute, you. Don’t be so impatient.” Radu simpers.
And Süleyman vanishes again.
“Wha-“
Radu eyes Dietrich critically. “Are you playing or not?”
“Err… I… don’t want to?” Dietrich phases it like a question out of sheer confusion.
“Better get those cricket whites off before they catch you then.”
“I…”
Radu inclines his head towards another room. “Go put something else on.”

A few minutes later the drinks and sandwiches arrive to quell the bickering players who’ve yet to actually begin a match. Dietrich carries the drinks tray carefully and watches in satisfaction as at least half the players take a lingering look at his legs. Then William starts flirting with him and Isaak starts hissing that he looks like a tart.

Of course by the time the match finishes Dietrich is seriously beginning to consider joining the Vatican verses staying with the Orden just so that he can gloat that Isaak’s prime batter seemed to deliberately get himself out every time he was put up to bat. In fact, now that he thinks about it, Süleyman’s vanishing after being caught out was probably for the same reason that Radu seemed to spend most of the match in the clubhouse. Still, entertainment aside Dietrich is pondering his future, right up until the moment when Isaak manages to knock William out with a cricket bat.

*dies* I can almost picture all of this live-action and hell, it was worthy. Thank you. Pictures are very likely to come when I'll be less busy.... XDDD

Live-action? I tried considering it but then got distracted by wondering about the size of Süleyman’s biceps.

LOL... I won't complain about that... ! and the hair.. such a mass of curly dark hair ... ..*_*!

Requests huh? Hmmm let me see ...

1) Meine Liebe, whatever happened to Werner and Beruze after they left Kuchen?

2) Would you like to try your hand and some DOLLS fic?
Prompt: Ego

That's pretty much all I can come up with at the moment.

I’m not convinced that Werner and Beruze left together at all because the second series uses so much reflection imagery that I took the reflection to mean that it was Werner thinking about Beruze instead. Still, if they did:

They get as far as Switzerland before Beruze suddenly vanishes. Werner wakes up one morning in his hotel room knowing that if he crosses the hall he will find only an empty room, bed linen stripped, hotel staff busy, lacking any evidence that his brother was ever even there.

“…somewhere neutral.”
“Switzerland.”
He’d laughed and booked the train journey anyway.

What he’d thought that they could do next he doesn’t know. All that had mattered to him was keeping his brother safe, keeping him from harm had mattered more than official family reputation.

He stays in the hotel for another week, knowing that Beruze will not return yet unable to find it in himself to go anywhere else. He talks to other guest, hotel staff, the staff at the local cafes, even the locals themselves. Everybody comes to know him: Werner, a man who has fled Kuchen.

By the end of the week a messenger arrives, an official from the Russian Consulate, who hands him a manila envelop full of instructions. There are train tickets, directions, hotel reservations and finally an address in Moscow. There is also a letter:

My dear brother,

Since you make it very clear that you have no wish to return home and instead intend to make yourself a highly visible target for any amount of unpleasantness I am compelled to rectify the matter. The courier will have delivered to you the means to cross the continent and arrive safely in Moscow. The address I have provided is that of my own home. I will not be there when you arrive or for the foreseeable future but my colleagues will see to your wellbeing in my absence.
Do try to keep yourself out of trouble in the meantime.

Beruze

P.S. If you encounter any trouble from the Lüneburgs do remind the Pfalzgraf-in-waiting that he owes me since I took the fall for him.

because the second series uses so much reflection imagery that I took the reflection to mean that it was Werner thinking about Beruze instead.

Actually this is what I understood the first time I watched Weider, I think it was after someone pointed it out to me that I realzied that is what they actually meant.

That aside, I really like this, especially that the Lüneburgs were behind the whole thing. By Pfalgraf-in-waiting I assume you mean Camus?
But why do I get the feeling the Werner doing everything short of painting a bullseye on his back was intentional?

I really don’t buy the idea that they were both there in Werner’s car, mostly because Beruze would have been a wanted criminal by that point so he really wouldn’t be able to risk being seen in public or at least not so blatantly outside Rosenstolz.

By Pfalgraf-in-waiting I assume you mean Camus?

Yes, he’s starting to play his hand seeing as at this point they’ll become Strahl very soon. The aftermath would probably play out quite interesting amongst the Strahl candidates too:

“You know something!” Nicholas shoved Orpherus back against the wall, gripping him by the shoulders hard enough to bruise.
“You know nothing!” Orpherus hissed back though he didn’t try to break the other boy’s hold.
Nicholas stepped back, shaking his head at the whole dammed situation.
Orpherus strode past, pausing a few inches distant, his back to Nicholas still. “If you follow my lead you might even learn something.”

In the almost empty classroom Daniel watched Naoji suspiciously. The Japanese boy had been staring out of the window, a faint smile playing about his lips for a while.
Opening his mouth to speak Daniel found himself subjected to an expression that he could only describe as cruel.
“Have you heard the line: No prince ever lacked good excuses to colour his bad faith?”
Naoji began to laugh softly before Daniel could even think to reply.

Elmunt knelt beside the flowers, not really seeing them. “You lied, didn’t you?”
“Never without reason.” Ludwig’s voice cut across what Elmunt had presumed a private conversation.
Camus smiled and moved away to talk privately to his cousin.
Standing up Elmunt was surprised by the comforting touch of a hand to his shoulder.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I…”
“If you want to be Strahl.” Eduard’s friendly admonishment had a little too much force to it.

The point is professionalism. Human emotion, human ego has no place here. Anyone who thinks otherwise will never become Tokkei. Anyone who even aspires to become tokkei cannot believe in anything but duty.

The necessity is to remain human. No Tokkei can believe themselves otherwise. Those who do becomes dolls: nameless, faceless, killing machines. They have no place in the Tokkei brigades or in the human population at all.

One must become a killer not out of wrath but in the line of duty. A man who kills for revenge is just a man; a soulless being that kills is just a monster. The Tokkei must be something else.

The forty-seven brigades embody justice: the execution of state law. The hundred and forty-one Tokkei must be humans who serve the State will. They cannot be mindless dolls, they cannot be men driven by personal ego.

Seiju Shikibu is neither inhuman doll nor foolish vigilante. He is Tokkei. Second of the first brigade. A State executioner. He is a man who serves the State’s system of justice, a physical extension of State will into the lives if citizens. He is a human who serves, a merciless weapon in the hands of the State and the limit of his ego is measured only in the time it takes for him to cut a criminal down.

This captures the contradiction that is the essence of the Tokkei wonderfully, remaining human while ignoring things like emotions that make on human. Its brillant!

I didn't love the XXXholic anime series until they pulled a threesome ending. Watanuki, Himawari and Doumeki make so much sense together.

I would like to request either:
1) A ten years later fic about those three
or
2) Something with Yuuko/Watanuki.

Oh, and since you mentioned Stargate in your list, I have to ask whether you've watched the Stargate Universe pilot. It's actually quite good. I never got into the previous tv series franchises for Stargate, but even for a newcomer it looks good. Robert Carlisle is in it too, doing proper acting.

Seeing as I’ve just discovered what happens to Yūko and Watanuki I don’t know how well I could right a 10 years on now. The anime did handle early manga events quite nicely though.

Ten years on a lot has changed, at least on the surface. Himawari is married, so is Watanuki and Dōmeki has settled down quite happily with a life long partner.

Himawari’s husband is a man who has always had too much luck and it has attracted unwanted attention, mostly from the gambling fraternity who wanted to use that ability for their own ends. He actually met Himawari while running away from yet another kidnapping attempt: he made it across a bridge over a motorway knocking her down just as he reached the other side; the bridge collapsed wiping out the bulk of at least one yakuza family and causing an eighteen car pileup.

Watanuki’s spouse is a woman who wished for the power to change destiny. She came to the shop on a day when Yūko was suspiciously absent and found herself in Watanuki’s company instead, and in a certain way had her wish granted. She has the taint of youkai blood in her veins which keeps a good many spirits from bothering Watanuki and since he can see those spirits she can target them. She can’t change her own destiny but she can change plenty of other peoples’.

Dōmeki’s partner claims to be an exorcist but Dōmeki knows better. He isn’t an exorcist in the conventional sense and he certainly doesn’t drive evil spirits away from those who summon them. Watanuki has even commented that the man seems to be surrounded by a sinister shadow. Dōmeki’s partner is an onmyōji but he is one that punishes the foolish instead of saving them.

Their friendship hasn’t changed any. Himawari is still kind, Watanuki is still foolish and Dōmeki is still stoic. They all still love each other very much but for each of them that love has transcended the romantic, and for them at least, that arrangement works.

Granted, Dōmeki appears to be dating Seishirō there...

Edited 2009-10-05 16:17 (UTC)

It was inevitable that eventually he’d topple over into her cleavage and being the Dimension Witch Yūko had already foreseen it. What she hadn’t foreseen was the time he’d take to pull himself out of it: it was a little longer than she’d expected though he did flail his arms in panic and turn red once he was properly upright again.

The second time it happened she’d been lying down on the couch which explained the necessity of his hands landing where they did and grasping while he tried to find the leverage to lift himself up off her.

The third time she’d sidestepped quickly and he’d plumed face first into cushions. He’d looked surprisingly disappointed at that.

The fourth time he managed to accidentally snag an arm around her waist so she couldn’t move out of the way. She’d begun to get suspicious around about then.

The fifth time his hands not only found purchase but felt around a little before he managed to lift his face up.

The sixth time he actually turned his face from side to side a little, snuggling in for a moment.

The seventh time she calmly put a hand to the back of his head to keep him in place. He sighed happily as she lay back and let those long-fingered hands continue their impromptu exploration.

awww... I giggled at this too, I'm a huge fan of the ironic UST between them ~~that I have probably only imagined but I don't care~~
Is the meme still active, dear?

If you like.

Your cousin is made of quite a handfull of win! XD

okay, then I'm throwing prompts around. Feel free to pick one, two, all, or any... =)

- XXXholic - Yuko/Watanuki; many many years later...
- Batman - Alfred Pennyworth; "despite the looks, Master Bruce is terribly untidy"
- Greek Myth - Hermes, what beauty he saw in Aphrodite
- Trinity Blood - Kate/Leon; lust, pride or envy.

I’m definitely going to give all of these a go but it may take some time.

---

Sometime he wonders if she’ll ever come back. It is a bad day when that thought crosses his mind. It makes him wonder if Maru and Moro don’t think she’s coming back either, if Dōmeki visits him out of pity, the girl with bouncing curls in his memory exist only in his imagination. When the thoughts gather and tumble and barrel into each other it is not a good day for Watanuki at all. Sometimes he even starts to wonder if he dreamed up the Dimension Witch too. Maybe none of it is real, maybe he’s a madman raving inside his own skull?

Usually those moods pass with a particularly well-cooked batch of sweets or a cup of warm, sweet. foreign tea. Sometimes Maru and Moro will cartwheel across the room in front of him and the sheer absurdity will make him laugh. Sometimes Dōmeki will stop by to bring him a poorly made homemade lunch or more likely to ask Watanuki to make something for him instead of his roughly filled bento.

It is a good day when Watanuki sweeps autumn leaves into a pile in the courtyard. He has made a large enough selection of lunch dishes that he could feed company were he to have any, there is even sake warming carefully in the kitchen. He has dusted inside and his favourite room, the room with the elegant couch upon which rest his memories has even been vacuumed. He can’t help himself from looking up, towards the gate as if waiting for someone.

Nobody arrives while he is sweeping but he goes inside to set an elaborate lunch out on the table anyway. The low table is laden with fine dishes, the sake is ready to be poured, a second cushion set down for a guest opposite him.

He has finally seated himself and has pressed his hands together before the meal, the traditional words on the tip of his tongue when a shadow falls across the table. Watanauki doesn’t look up “You’re late.” His voice is soft, without accusation.
Yūko smiles gently: “I’m home.”

---

That may not be entirely accurate to the end of the manga but from what I know if it that’s probably reasonably close to canon.

awww.... even the myth fic was a very nice piece but this melted me for completely! your subtle, rich, detailed style suits Holic perfectly, I loved it to bits. Thanks for this play ... :3

There is a story about a missing sandal and a hermaphrodite child, and a child who became a king, and a child who embodied seduction, and a child who hated sheep and a few other children thrown in besides. Hermes can’t even recall quite how many children he’s meant to have fathered or even what the sheep-hating part was about.

“That must have been quite the impressive sandal.”
Aphrodite for her part is use to his thoughts breaking into speech enough not to ask what he’s talking about anymore.
“After all, one would think you could just get a new one.”
She smiles into her winecup.
“You are married to the Smith God after all.”
“Hephaestus doesn’t take too kindly to the idea of tooling leather.” Her sad moue isn’t even feigned.
“Really?”
“If I wanted steel shod boots he’d be delighted to help.”
“Oh.” Hermes flutters his fingers over his winecup transforming the contents into a warm spiced concoction. “Well… he does have a ‘thing’ about that I suppose.”
“He made a pair of bracers for Eris only last week.”
Hermes bites his lip.
Aphrodite doesn’t miss the gesture.

It’s hardly a secret that sometimes reality doesn’t translate into fiction or at least myth as mortals term it. Aphrodite did lose a sandal and Hermes did indeed find it, he even sat down beside the pool and watched her bathe. She teased him with invitations to join her and perhaps he may even have done but that doesn’t make such a good morality tale. Nor does the fact that the loveliest of goddesses is actually reasonably faithful. Nobody wants to believe that beautiful Aphrodite does anything other than revel in her charms.

“I don’t mind really.”
Hermes often wonders if Aphrodite ought to be patron of serenity instead of beauty.
Her smile is bright, without any trace of bitterness.
“Each to their own, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
They both drain their cups.

She is beauty, perfection but strangely enough not entirely sensual abandon into the mix. She is a superior sort of elegant beauty. An ever young, wise and witty elder matron. She is love too but in a sense of glory and golden light. She is a goddess often maligned and misinterpreted by those without wisdom enough to comprehend her. Her strength lies in her serenity, her wisdom, her beauty that mortal eyes cannot even begin to understand.

They embrace before she departs, holding each other close enough that mortals would view it as carnal. She smiles against his hair: he places his kiss against her throat.

She is everything a god should desire and yet all she cultivates is Hephaestus’ neglect. Her hand given in marriage to the cruel Smith to temper his furies: it’s hardly her fault that Hephaestus is a bastard.

Hermes shakes his head, despairing of the entire fiasco, as he enters his bedchamber, and stares down at the slumbering form of the Crippled God.
“Your wife was here.”
Hephaestus’ snores stop at least.
“And I am utterly aghast at your marital infidelity.” Though the fact that he’s busily stripping off his tunic by this point belies the statement.
“If I were her I would-“
The mechanical hand that pulls him down onto the bed disrupts his demagoguery, and then the fact that he is rolled onto his back, pinned down beneath Hephaestus’ scarred frame puts a stop to it entirely.

Edited 2009-10-24 17:31 (UTC)

It wasn’t the expected bawdy wink that threw off her calculations as Leon was escorted from the room, back to his cell: she was use to his smiles and comments. It wasn’t even the sudden flash of what? Jealousy that bled across William’s face when he noted her distraction, though that was a surprise. It was that strange self-assurance, that pride in himself that said ‘Señora, you know the worst and best of me, this is who I am’ without artifice, without guile as he was escorted from the room.

“Well.” William’s tone could only be described as peevish.
“Leon has been very useful in handling this sort of affair before.” She ignored him, turning to face Caterina instead.
“Of course.” Caterina seemed oblivious of, though more likely ignored, William’s ire.

Once Caterina was gone, attending to other duties Kate turned to William again. She should at least attempt to sooth over the matter but he was already stalking from the room hurriedly, the chilling reflection of his expression in the windows reminding her far too much of security footage they’d recently recovered of Isaak von Kämpfer.

+++++

All of which hints at there being more to the story really.

All of which hints at there being more to the story really.

..and I surely won't complain about being informed of other details if you'd ever feel like that .. :3

(anyway, that's the exact thing about Leon I fancy it would give Kate quite some hots for him: his 'pride in himself without artifice' :) )

William pushed the envelope across the café table silently, his expression unreadable.
Isaak leaned forwards resting his elbows on the table and propping his chin on his hands. He made no move to pick up the envelope and never even gave any indication of having noticed it at all much to William’s annoyance.
“Are you going to tell me that those esoteric powers of yours are so advanced that you don’t even have to look?”
Isaak’s laughter started William enough so that he found that he suddenly couldn’t quite manage to light his pipe. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”
A death’s head grin greeted his statement.
“I just… want a job done. Nothing more than that. I don’t see what’s so amusing about it.”
“Oh, ‘amusing’ would be an understatement.”
“Would it really.” He’d lit his pipe now and the tobacco seemed to calm him.
Isaak leaned back in his chair, casting a surreptitious glance about them.
William frowned at that. “Look, I just want this done. If you’re worried about payment-“
“Wouldn’t you rather handle this..” Issak tapped the envelope with a finger. “…yourself?”
“And how pray tell am I going to do that?”
Isaak leaned forwards again, conspiratorially. “We could provide you with certain… resources.”
“Go on.”
“My… organisation is quite adept at handling this sort of situation as you well know.”
“And you’d be prepared to lend me your resources? I didn’t think your people did that.”
“We don’t.”
William’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t give voice to the suspicion that was growing in his mind.
Isaak chuckled self-depreciatingly. “Yes. I’m asking you to join us.”
“Why?”
Isaak seemed nonplussed by the question. “Why ask or why now?”
“Both.”
“Ah, well, you’re very well placed to help further our purpose and you’ve never thought of approaching us before which would indicate-“
“I can still tell when you’re lying to me.”
Isaak sighed. “I haven’t had sex since Londinium.”
“What? Really? But what about that von Lohengrin boy?”
“Dietrich likes girls.”
William drew on his pipe thoughtfully for a moment before admitting: “So does Caterina.”
“Ah.”
“And to be honest she’s a little old for me these days.” He looked downcast for an instant before his expression cleared. “But I’m sure we can find you a short enough skirt.”
“And over the knee socks.”
“What is it with you and those socks?”
Isaak crossed his legs primly. “You’d better find me a pair, professor, or I’m going straight home after class.”

+++++

Sadly I couldn’t quite keep up the serious plotline, mostly because the thought process in my mind always results in William + Isaak = clandestine liaison (generally involving an anonymous hotel room).

for some reason, the notification failed to reach me for this, sorry if I'm late

I must admit that, even though I'd never want it to happen for real, your whole 'William joining the order' that reasurfaces from time to time in many of your writings is always a fascinating perspective on his character. His bond to Isaak, his moral relativism and bordeline legality.. it takes just a little slip to fall in that direction and that's intriguing.

your commentary inspired me another request for this meme, if you want to...

- William/a random male student of his: sad in bed

I apologize about my english, it's terribly dumb this morning and I don't really know why... :/

You’ll have to excuse that this too such a long time for me to write.

---

“Look, Professor, I-“
“It’s not alright.” But William didn’t roll back over to face his companion.
“It happens to everyone.”
“I bet it’s never happened to you.” Snapped peevishly.
“Well, no but-“
“Well then.”
“Look, I hear it’s quite normal with older guys.”
“Who are you calling old?!”
“Older, sir, I said older not old.”
This time William did at least lift his head from the pillow to glare at his companion.
“You’re about the same age as my dad.”
“Oh God…” He let his head fall back against the pillow and threw an arm up over his face.

The next week of course the university authorities got hold of the news and once again Professor Wordsworth was called into a very discreet little disciplinary meeting. By that point in his career at La Sapienza he’d been to a good few dozen of them. Every few weeks they found something else, some other rumour or accusation to throw at him. This week it was that he’d bedded three of the finest sons of Rome, four weeks ago he’d been accused of ruining novices who came to him for private Vatican classes, nine weeks before that it had been for being disorderly in a brothel, twelve weeks before it had been the accusation of his frequenting Methuselah prostitutes who were men dressed as women or women dressed as men. Not that anybody ever proved anything: it was just that rumours were persistent and that he never quite had a solid alibi. Even the last time he’d had the head librarian vouch for him it had come to light that she’d not been at her post at the time and had been engaged in a dalliance in her office with her lover. The novices when questioned wouldn’t speak an ill word of him which should have set him beyond reproach as they were soon to be fully ordained women of the cloth but they’d also quite blatantly flirted with him with a curious familiarity after their questioning so that put their testimony into disrepute. The Madam from the suburban brothel had held so many Vatican secrets that it wasn’t safe to question her and of the two Methuselah prostitutes they actually found one turned out to be the son of a very prominent Sicilian family and the other was a registered Vatican spy.

“These rumours are worrying.”
He’d sucked on the tip of his pipe. “I have no idea where they’re coming from.”
Caterina’s gaze was sharp.
“I…”
She’d clenched her fists, eyes dropping to the table. “This is despicable!”
“Caterina?”
“This can’t be my brother’s doing. Even he wouldn’t sink so low in an attempt to discredit me.”
It was of course an out. “Perhaps not your brother.”
Her mind immediately leapt to the possibility. “The Orden.”
“It would make a certain sort of sense.” He nodded sagely, all the while wondering if he could use that very same line of argument to one day persuade Isaak to sleep with him.

...I still can't understand why seing Willliam, a character I love so much, involved in this by no means honorable duties gives me such amusement. I really like the sinister air you are able to give him without altering his character too far. And don't worry about the wait, it's all good and nice =)

I wonder if part of it is the fact that while he gets himself into trouble he also manages to get out of it too? He’s scandalous but within reason, daring without getting caught out, charming but without being entirely ‘good’.

Evidently set during Dark Victory

+++

“…despite the looks, Master Bruce is terribly untidy.” Alfred smiled as he said it taking away any censure from his words and sweeping the pile of newspapers off the most comfortable chair for Selena to sit down.
He continued to tidy up the area around the fireplace quickly and efficiently, letting her marvel at his skill in tucking away stacks of papers into draws and cabinet that hardly seemed large enough for the task. Then with a slight bow he departed to fetch her refreshments while she waited for Bruce to return.

Bruce Wayne intrigued her: he certainly wasn’t as shallow as he pretended. The playboy philanthropist who apparently read every crime report in the city if the newspapers had been anything to go by. He was a man with a secret and for a instant she wanted to know it until she reminded herself that it was Valentine’s Day and that she had her own secrets too.

When Alfred returned with the tray of canapés and fine wine she was delighted. Then he made a second departure only to return with chocolates and coffee should she prefer those instead. She laughed delightedly and kicking off her heels, curled up contentedly in the armchair teasingly remarking that Alfred was spoiling her. And as she said it the idea gave her pause.

“Does Bruce like in this sort of thing?” She sipped her wine and tried to make the question sound innocent.
“Master Bruce doesn’t indulge himself often but pralines have been known to be his vice.” Alfred’s smile was an expression of nostalgic indulgence.
“Not often? I keep reading all these reports in the papers…”
Alfred frowned somewhat. “The press, alas, are apt to report the most sensation, Miss Selena.”
“He doesn’t-” She stopped, chewing her lip thoughtfully. How to phrase it without sounding like she was probing for information?
“There isn’t anyone else, I can assure you.” Alfred presumed her worry was infidelity and certainly Master Bruce was faithful. The dalliances that kept him from home right now where hardly romantic.
“You said he was untidy.” She was grasping at straws most likely and perhaps the wine was stronger than she’d expected.
Untidy enough to leave his limbs worked over by scars and fresh injuries, to spill his emotions into the difficult business of fighting crime, to leave his ladyfriend waiting while he was off performing his self-imposed duty to Gotham. “Very much so.” Alfred forced himself to laugh in keeping with the conversation.
The crack in Alfred’s laughter reminded her of the late hour and criminal or otherwise she immediately felt guilty for keeping the loyal butler up long past what was probably his normal bedtime. “Alfred?”
“Yes, Miss?”
“If you don’t mind it I can sit up and wait for Bruce. You’ve left me enough to eat and once I’ve finished this wine I can start on the coffee.” She smiled warmly at him.
“As you wish, Miss Selena.” He bowed and departed.

Left alone in front of the fireplace she sank back against the cushions wondering what on earth it could be that kept Bruce from her tonight of all nights.

oh... parental!Alfred always get me so badly! U_U thanks for this, I love mostly the way you handled the gestures of both characters, so fitting.. =)

Regarding this new Stargate thing: I haven’t seen it but since I do recall Robert Carlisle doing a rather good job in Priest ages ago it might be worth my looking into. I’ve only really been interesting Goa'uld politics when it comes to in depth examination before.

Well... if the meme is still open and if a pair of suggestions from your semi-lurker are not unwanted... I drop you these:

- Trinity Blood. Suleyman, Seth: hieroglyphics
- xxxHOLiC. Clow/Yuuko: the mystic's dream (Loreena McKennitt's song not necessarily involved)
(and what about Kuroshitsuji...? It's not in the listed fandoms but I seem to recall you wrote some things about this fandom...)

But most important... compliments for the 100 TB fanfics goal! You're incredible! *_______________*

Loreena McKennitt's song works as rather good inspiration. I’ll try answering all these prompts but it may take some time. So far, here’s the first.

---

The weaving of magic is like a dance.

He prepares himself with ritual and observance, washing in the light of the full moon, cleansing himself of all earthly impurities, all mortal concerns. He clothes himself with the robes of a mystic, of the Other. He becomes more than man, something different, detached from all that is human.

In another place she performs her own, similar, ritual. She gathers to herself the cares of the world, the concerns of mortality. She embraces them, absorbs them, understands all that they are and will become. She robes herself as the High Priestess, and yet a priestess who reaches down to mediate, to touch the very Earth.

The room the meet in is already prepared, the way has been readied for them. The braziers burn full of heavy incense and strange perfumes. The candles light their way across the circle: the pattern of magic already glowing bring under their feet.

As they approach each other the seals, the marks of their magic intersect, warping, dissolving, reforming until they will meld into something new.

He holds his staff out as he breaches the circle’s boundary, a guide in the growing mist. She steps lithely over the barrier striking her staff against the ground only when she has crossed. His arms extend, angular, geometric motions invoking the industry of man. She steps softly, on dancer’s feet, the span of her arms forming perfect arcs of movement. Now he lowers his staff to touch the ground, a drum resounding against the earth. She smiles, lowering her staff so that it hangs parallel to the resounding earth. She swings her staff wide, a wind sliding across the lands and the he steps back, turning, whirling as if at last giving himself over to the dance.

The shadows gather at the boundary of their circle, the flames burn bright. But they dance on, gathering, turning, melding the power of flesh and bone with dream and fantasy.

The gathering of their powers takes an entire night, a night of whirling, exhausting dance. And upon the morrow they will simply lie still, exhausted beneath corpse white sheets. It will take at least a day for each to recover and then another to grasp their own reality again. But once that is done, once they at last understand their place in the firmament again they will come together, simply, innocently, as mortals do. And here, beneath common bedsheets they will clumsily remember what it is to be human.

I’m still puzzling out your hieroglyphics prompt but in the meantime was there a specific prompt for Kuroshitsuji?

And thank you. That’s just 100 uploaded to the archive though, discounting the AUs and extremely silly pieces that I just post to LJ.

God, you are amazing... your piece about Yuuko and Clow is so fascinating... I could see the images in my eyes -lights, flowing hair and garments, fire in the braziers- and hear the song in my mind while reading, the crotales ringing in my ears. I cannot thank you enough for accepting my little suggestion, and turning it into this! I'm truly honoured...
"Many years later" is magnificent, too...
(about Kuroshitsuji, mmm, I was wondering about a little chat between Sebastian and Elizabeth. I know it's strange and perhaps you don't like her character, or maybe it's just me that I'm not much into yaoi... but I was just wondering about it, don't mind it if it's not intresting.)

PS: maybe Levy has already asked you about it, or I'll tell her myself, but... how do you feel about translations of your fanfictions? I love your stories so much I think it's a pity that they aren't know a bit more. Translating your deep, intricate and elegant style would be such a sweat and maybe it's not for me ^^' but first of all I'd like to ask you about it. Sorry if you have already discussed it with Levy!

I should thank you for recommending the music. It just worked perfectly to the extent that that piece more or less wrote itself.

I really don’t have anything like a grasp on Elizabeth’s characterisation and I managed to misread your prompt as Ciel and Elizabeth which didn’t really help so instead you get this:

+++++

She’s talking but he can’t bring himself to listen. Not because it is aimless prattle but because she’s talking about their wedding day, the future of a happy marriage, of the light and beauty she will bring to their home. He doesn’t want to listen. She is talking to him of a future that can never be.

He is also only twelve years old after all.

The next time she brings up the future that lies between them it has less to do with childish delights and there is, though never improperly, the hint of a more adult touch to their promised union. She will, she is telling him, bear children to carry on the Phantomhive name and that alone troubles him.

He is fourteen at the time.

Generalities are becoming specifics by the time she broaches the topic again. She talks of the alliance that will form between them, of the great joining of their noble families.

He is sixteen.

Now at last her speech has taken on a touch of urgency to it. They are not yet wed and they have been betrothed for far too many years. The sweetness of a lingering courtship is turning into scandal in the eyes of the world.

He will be eighteen for only a month longer.

She takes his hand, the hand upon which he hears that cursed ring, and smiles sadly. “You’re not going to marry me.”
“Elizabeth…”
She lets go of his hand and turns away.
He starts to reach out to her but then remembers why he cannot. She is right after all.
The sunlight lights up her golden hair like a halo, the window frames her as if she is walking away from him on a shimmering pathway to Heaven itself.
“I…”
“You’re going to run away with that silly butler of yours, aren’t you?” She’s laughing but he still can’t see her face.
She’s given him an excuse. He’d be a fool not to take it. “Yes.”
“I thought so. Ciel, I know this isn’t what you want to hear and I promise I won’t ever say it again but-“
And then she is in his arms and his kiss is full of desperation and despair because he daren’t say it himself, that he loves her too.

He has just turned twenty-one.

She leans over the coffin, smiling sadly, uncaring of propriety.
“I wish…” Then she shakes her head and gently brushes her lips against his instead of indulging in fruitless dreams.

Elizabeth Middleford is only twenty-two.

That Sebastian hasn’t aged in the slightest doesn’t surprise her, not does the carefully worded promise of being able to fulfil any wish she might make.
“You can’t bring him back.”
“Madam, if you so desire I can-“
She laughs, an echo of the childish laughter of the past. “Even a Duke of Hell cannot return the dead to life. I know you, Rhadamanthus, and I will not accept your contract.”
He bows low and seems more amused than angry at being discovered. “As you wish, my lady.”

She is ninety-two and on the eve of her next birthday she will die.

+++++

As long as I’m notified I have no problem with translations at all, though mostly it seems to be Russian fandoms that tend to broach the topic.

Blessed be misreads, if they lead to this....
Dark, touching, perfect. Elizabeth's characterization eludes me too, but that's why I was curious about how a great writer could handle her. And the hypotetical growing-up of her and Ciel is something I wonder a lot about. So I couldn't have asked for more. Thank you, thank you for granting us such jewels....

I’m glad you liked it. I don’t know how well I’d qualify as ‘a great writer’ though since just about the only impression I have of Elizabeth is of a rather cheerful little girl who’d like her fiancé to happier. She’s too young to really have much of an understanding of Ciel’s duties to the Queen yet and since we never get to see her in a private setting there’s nothing else to really go on. I would speculate that she might worry about Ciel more than is apparent and that because the reader only ever gets to see her around Ciel (and at a ball) she’s likely to put up a good front of being cheerful on those occasions, especially around Ciel because she’s trying to cheer him up. Even when she’s trying to make him wear ‘cute clothing’ she’s probably basing that on a combination of the fact that wearing something bright and pretty makes her happy so she’s trying the same solution out on him and because she’s already being an attentive fiancé who wants her future husband to look his best. That particular scene at first glance seemed to be a case of her being annoying but once I thought about it, it really does seem to be more a case of Elizabeth wanting to be helpful and cheer Ciel up. And her actions at the ball regarding the dress seem to corroborate that she enjoys pretty things.

Admittedly, I ought to get back to the manga at some point so there may be more evidence of her personality to be found but from what I’ve read those are the conclusions that I’ve come to.

..and I intrude in the conversation just to say, I had actually planned to do some, and I've already done two - your meme piece about Paula and Andrea and Delilah - but never get to a really satisfactory translation and kinda drop the duty there... but if it's still okay for you, Narsus, we can try to run your translations account four-hands, Shu, how about it ?
:)

Levy, it was exactly what I was thinking about... *_______*
It would be a honour to me, if Narsus is okay with it!

Deal done. Make a list of pieces you wont to translate then, I'll do mine ASAP, and then we'd start to plan the job, okay?

Roger, o captain, my captain!!

This has been a very long time in coming so I apologise for the delay.

---

The Empress is a study in forms, of gestures and symbols beneath an obscuring veil. Hers is a language of non-verbal forms: the gesture of a hand, the fluttering of slender fingers. The tilt of her head speaks volumes, the sway of her gown indicative of the great wheels of state turning. Her voice, her speech is misdirection and those nobles who flounder are those captivated by only her words.

“Duke of Tigris, we ask you to perform this task.” Her hand turns over, flat palm turning to face the sky.

The gesture would make her words an offer if it came from anybody else but from the Empress it is not the open palm that is the indicator. When he bows low in acceptance her hand remains a moment facing the unsullied sky and then her fingers contract as if suddenly gone lax. She does not offer him the task so much as withdraw her mercy from those she would have him hunt. She no longer cares how he will spill their blood.

When he returns, his task accomplished, she cares little for the report and instead her attention is fixed on other matters. But her gaze lingers. Even as she begins to pronounce upon the other affairs of state that veiled face lingers as if she keeps her eyes on him. The hand that released a handful of extremists to his care now rises slightly in his direction before sweeping back towards her body to her heart. He has done well: she is touched by his loyalty.

The Empress is a study in forms set in strange and almost unnoticeable gestures. Each pose contains a meaning, a sacred writing written in the air. He can chart the rise and fall of other nobles in those gestures. He watches the Empress’ hands contract and then falter before they can form fists when a fourteen year old becomes Inspector General, sees her hand flutter at the hem of her gown when the Marchioness of Kiev gives her report of the Outer, watches them still when his treachery is uncovered.

She is not as unreadable or unreachable as she would like to believe, and when at last he lies in her arms waiting only for death to claim him he knows that it is the language of gestures, the sacred and the profane that will be her undoing. All it takes is a touch, the skin of her cheek against his palm and it is enough. The hour has not yet come but in a simple gesture he has planted the seed of her downfall.

The Empress is not the only one who understands the language of forms.

There's nothing to apologize for... instead, I really thank you for thinking so long about this and actually writing it down.

It's so difficult to put into words how much I appreciated this piece. Let me say that it stands up amongst my absolute favourites of what I've read from you, and that I cannot define in any other word but perfect the way you used the prompt. So thank you. I hope I'm not sounding overdramatic or anything, I mean it wholeheartedly.

The ending particularly stroke on me beacause just recently, with a drabble, I had considered that Suleyman's rebellion could have moved a gear, changed something in Seth's destiny, forcing her to reveal herself... well, so I'm glad it wasn't an irrelevant idea. You expressed it perfectly with that sentence.

I'd like to translate also this and the Clow/Yuuko piece in the "Narsus Translation Project" if that's okay with you... in this case, would you also like to add a title?

I’m glad you liked this. I still don’t feel as if I’ve quite done the idea justice and eventually I’ll hopefully be able to rectify that with a longer piece in keeping with the same continuity as Pathway.

I’ve had a look at your drabble and if I’ve understood it correctly the imagery of Süleyman pulling away Seth’s veil really works wonderfully. She’s uncovered her face already but the idea of the veil tearing is easily loaded with symbolism and certainly makes me think of the Biblical veil of the temple tearing (where it may even have been the Temple of Solomon IIRC).

Feel free to translate this and the other piece. Title-wise I’m tending towards something a little pretentious like “Hieros gamos” for this piece though the title could have worked for the Clow/Yuuko piece too. In which case, in keeping with that theme “Chymical Wedding” would work for the other.

Writing challange

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1. XXXholic

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Trinity Blood – the cricket club

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Re: Trinity Blood – the cricket club

Re: Trinity Blood – the cricket club

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1) Meine Liebe

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2) Dolls

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1) XXXholic - ten years on

2) XXXholic – Yūko/Watanuki

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Yūko/Watanuki – many years later

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Greek Myth - Hermes, what beauty he saw in Aphrodite

Trinity Blood - Kate/Leon; lust, pride or envy

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William/a random male student of his: sad in bed

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Batman - Alfred Pennyworth; "despite the looks, Master Bruce is terribly untidy"

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xxxHOLiC. Clow/Yuuko: the mystic's dream

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Kuroshitsuji- a little chat between Sebastian and Elizabeth

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Trinity Blood. Suleyman, Seth: hieroglyphics

Re: Trinity Blood. Suleyman, Seth: hieroglyphics

Re: Trinity Blood. Suleyman, Seth: hieroglyphics