and you shlep around like shackles
Mar. 30th, 2020 02:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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jennafansThis is the kernel of a scene, narrated by the Strategist I played as part of playtesting Glitch -- Anzu Aligern, the former Power of Thresholds, currently Dying of Gates. It's sort of a proof-of-concept for a longer fic I've been wanting to write about Anzu and his boyfriend Lebed Morningstar, the Power of Liminality, who's in a strange and, ahem, liminal species situation -- he's been given a Destiny that formerly belonged to an Aaron's Serpent, but it hasn't quite taken effect yet, and he's kind of shlepping it around unsure of what exactly it does besides confusing other Serpents.
Anyway, Anzu and Lebed have a Cause -- what it is becomes clear in the excerpt -- and they're going around trying to recruit both Nobilis and Excrucians, and here they've decided to try and talk a Deceiver into helping them out.
"Oh," says Tairté. "It's you." He looks Lebed up and down with the usual distrust Serpents show upon meeting him. What the fuck are you, because you aren't a Serpent but you aren't not a Serpent, either. Lebed's usual response, "I'm a Jew," usually mollifies Tairté's Creational counterparts. It's dubious whether it'd work on Tairté.
Lebed just smiles, in that lopsided, shy way of his, and avoids meeting Tairté's eye, clearly signposting that this is, in fact, what he's doing. I move closer to him, and take his hand. Tairté glares at me.
"And of course, where Liminality goes, the Power of Thresholds is not far behind," he declares. "Even if he is, as of some time now, a Strategist and not a Noble at all. Have the two of you heard of the Windflower--" he cuts off, abruptly. "Wait. What am I saying. Of course you have."
Our unexpected presence in this part of the Not seems to have cracked Tairté's usual shell of poise and indifference. Or maybe you can certainly upset a Serpent enough that his eyes go all starry, but you can't ever take the Serpent-nature from him -- Lebed has been an uncomfortable complication in the question of Who Is of the Tribe of Aharon for some time now; and in any case, I imagine that it's unsettling, being reminded that one's former Creational fate is still in business, and the Creational self it once burdened is not yet truly dead, deep within.
"Lord Entropy is far away, darling," I say, smiling. "The Locust Court is short-handed."
"Is the Angel of the Night aware you're here?" Tairté says; the shrill note of does-your-mother-know underpinning the question is absurd in a voice like his. Lebed frowns, and moves a little closer to me, squeezes my hand as if asking for reassurance. The implications here are troubling; either Laylah knows, and approves, which by itself is reason to worry, or Laylah has lost track of Lebed, which means that no back-up is coming.
“Um. Yes, actually,” Lebed says, and glances sidelong at me. “She’s the one who ... she sent me after Strategist Maillard in the first place. She ... she suggested this place, as somewhere we ought to, like. Renew our efforts.”
“Your efforts,” Tairté echoes, flatly. “Are you boychiks still on your little Unzer Shtik escapade, then?” I almost laugh with relief at the crunch of Yiddish syllables in the old Deceiver’s mouth. You can’t give up the yoke, and not even Ninuan can free you of the obligation.
“Let us indeed make you an offer, O Deceiver!” Lebed declares, chin thrust forward and eyes sparkling like amethysts. “We seek a ceasefire in Valde Bellum. It’s unwinnable. It will destroy us all, and bring no relief to anyone. It’s absurd to ask either side to surrender ... but like, we can lay down arms, even for a while.”
Tairté looks me in the eye.
“You still think this can work?” he asks, wearily. “You paid a heavy price, and you lost your Estate and still you—“
I shrug. Taking a deep breath, I dredge my first mother-tongue from the depths of an ancestral memory, that little personal Jewel of All Desiring that survived all three ages of my place in the lacuna where Ein Sof withdrew to make room for the Ash and for the Host.
“I think you know better than anyone that the Valde Bellum is a civil war,” I say, softly. “You know that we are only Ninuani by whim of chance. You know that ... I know you know, even as your rufnomen drowned in oblivion as mine—“
“Oh look,” sneers Tairté, “a yeshiva bokher arguing with a Tanna. Do you think—“
"I think that like, if you thought the Is and Not weren't part of the same thing, you'd have never consented to preserve your destiny, Rebbe," Lebed says. Tairté's face twitches. Lebed smiles, and finally meets the old Serpent's eye.
"You gave it to me," Lebed says, quietly and firmly, with the sort of conviction he reserves for the Shema, the conviction of one who praises HaShem at funerals and mourns the fallen Temple at weddings. "You said, that you'd be sorry if any Serpent's life had been in vain. You told Rabbi Morgenshtern that if he couldn't bear Creation, you could help him see it anew. You took me to the Ash, and you gave me your Destiny, and like, you damn well already had the eyes of a Rider, then. I called you a sheyd. You reminded me sheydim have a Toyrah, and keep mitzvot."
Tairté sighs. I stare at Lebed, too surprised to speak; he had never spoken about his mortal past before, not to me, not to Spectacle, not to Salvage.
Lebed looks at me, apologetically, and squeezes my hand.
"Um, sorry, Anyuta," he says, sheepishly. "I ... I know I never told you any of that--"
I squeeze his hand in return; he still looks downcast, so I slip an arm around his waist and pull him into a sidelong embrace; a part of me is dreading what kind of commentary Tairté might produce upon witnessing this, but he stays silent. Lebed makes a strange sort of noise in his throat, a grateful sob choked back in deference to company present.
"Your past belongs to you, darling," I say, softly. "You do with it as you wish."
Anyway, Anzu and Lebed have a Cause -- what it is becomes clear in the excerpt -- and they're going around trying to recruit both Nobilis and Excrucians, and here they've decided to try and talk a Deceiver into helping them out.
"Oh," says Tairté. "It's you." He looks Lebed up and down with the usual distrust Serpents show upon meeting him. What the fuck are you, because you aren't a Serpent but you aren't not a Serpent, either. Lebed's usual response, "I'm a Jew," usually mollifies Tairté's Creational counterparts. It's dubious whether it'd work on Tairté.
Lebed just smiles, in that lopsided, shy way of his, and avoids meeting Tairté's eye, clearly signposting that this is, in fact, what he's doing. I move closer to him, and take his hand. Tairté glares at me.
"And of course, where Liminality goes, the Power of Thresholds is not far behind," he declares. "Even if he is, as of some time now, a Strategist and not a Noble at all. Have the two of you heard of the Windflower--" he cuts off, abruptly. "Wait. What am I saying. Of course you have."
Our unexpected presence in this part of the Not seems to have cracked Tairté's usual shell of poise and indifference. Or maybe you can certainly upset a Serpent enough that his eyes go all starry, but you can't ever take the Serpent-nature from him -- Lebed has been an uncomfortable complication in the question of Who Is of the Tribe of Aharon for some time now; and in any case, I imagine that it's unsettling, being reminded that one's former Creational fate is still in business, and the Creational self it once burdened is not yet truly dead, deep within.
"Lord Entropy is far away, darling," I say, smiling. "The Locust Court is short-handed."
"Is the Angel of the Night aware you're here?" Tairté says; the shrill note of does-your-mother-know underpinning the question is absurd in a voice like his. Lebed frowns, and moves a little closer to me, squeezes my hand as if asking for reassurance. The implications here are troubling; either Laylah knows, and approves, which by itself is reason to worry, or Laylah has lost track of Lebed, which means that no back-up is coming.
“Um. Yes, actually,” Lebed says, and glances sidelong at me. “She’s the one who ... she sent me after Strategist Maillard in the first place. She ... she suggested this place, as somewhere we ought to, like. Renew our efforts.”
“Your efforts,” Tairté echoes, flatly. “Are you boychiks still on your little Unzer Shtik escapade, then?” I almost laugh with relief at the crunch of Yiddish syllables in the old Deceiver’s mouth. You can’t give up the yoke, and not even Ninuan can free you of the obligation.
“Let us indeed make you an offer, O Deceiver!” Lebed declares, chin thrust forward and eyes sparkling like amethysts. “We seek a ceasefire in Valde Bellum. It’s unwinnable. It will destroy us all, and bring no relief to anyone. It’s absurd to ask either side to surrender ... but like, we can lay down arms, even for a while.”
Tairté looks me in the eye.
“You still think this can work?” he asks, wearily. “You paid a heavy price, and you lost your Estate and still you—“
I shrug. Taking a deep breath, I dredge my first mother-tongue from the depths of an ancestral memory, that little personal Jewel of All Desiring that survived all three ages of my place in the lacuna where Ein Sof withdrew to make room for the Ash and for the Host.
“I think you know better than anyone that the Valde Bellum is a civil war,” I say, softly. “You know that we are only Ninuani by whim of chance. You know that ... I know you know, even as your rufnomen drowned in oblivion as mine—“
“Oh look,” sneers Tairté, “a yeshiva bokher arguing with a Tanna. Do you think—“
"I think that like, if you thought the Is and Not weren't part of the same thing, you'd have never consented to preserve your destiny, Rebbe," Lebed says. Tairté's face twitches. Lebed smiles, and finally meets the old Serpent's eye.
"You gave it to me," Lebed says, quietly and firmly, with the sort of conviction he reserves for the Shema, the conviction of one who praises HaShem at funerals and mourns the fallen Temple at weddings. "You said, that you'd be sorry if any Serpent's life had been in vain. You told Rabbi Morgenshtern that if he couldn't bear Creation, you could help him see it anew. You took me to the Ash, and you gave me your Destiny, and like, you damn well already had the eyes of a Rider, then. I called you a sheyd. You reminded me sheydim have a Toyrah, and keep mitzvot."
Tairté sighs. I stare at Lebed, too surprised to speak; he had never spoken about his mortal past before, not to me, not to Spectacle, not to Salvage.
Lebed looks at me, apologetically, and squeezes my hand.
"Um, sorry, Anyuta," he says, sheepishly. "I ... I know I never told you any of that--"
I squeeze his hand in return; he still looks downcast, so I slip an arm around his waist and pull him into a sidelong embrace; a part of me is dreading what kind of commentary Tairté might produce upon witnessing this, but he stays silent. Lebed makes a strange sort of noise in his throat, a grateful sob choked back in deference to company present.
"Your past belongs to you, darling," I say, softly. "You do with it as you wish."
