[Man] It's a nice day for a nice lunch. Sun is shining, birds are singing, a healthy breeze keeps most of the exhaust from the busy street away from sensitive noses. And a certain man, face pinched and narrow, cleft feet obvious in his Japanese sandals, is strolling along, observing. He's always observing.
What he observes today is a young woman who doesn't seem quite right, as though she's sitting on secrets she's not supposed to tell, as though she's not quite a part of the everyday ebb and flow of the world around her. It's enough to intrigue him, and he strolls over, letting his hand rest on the patio's fence.
"Hello," he greets. His voice is thin and nasal, like the bleating of a goat. Overall, the effect does even out to something caprinous, as though he was never human at all, but roughly transmuted to this form and thrown into the world. "Who are you?"
She's really not prepared for someone who sounds rather goat-like to approach her. Who would, really? She blinks a little, and then smiles a little. Always condescending, her smiles.
"Oh, hello," she says absently. "I'm Cassandra. And who are you, you... little... goat... man?"
Cassandra has absolutely no tact. Don't bother introducing me, obviously, it's only just my body. Really. I'll survive the indignity.
"Man," he introduces, a slight drag to his speech drawing it out as Maahn. He doesn't seem fazed in the slightest by the appellation. He waves a hand across the restaurant's patrons, eyes quick and incisive even when his expression is simple and slow. "You have the look of someone unlike this folk. Something born of things their dreams don't touch. Something you keep invisible."
He has the air of a prophet - albeit a very quiet prophet - when he says that. He watches her carefully for her reaction. There are more things in Heaven and Earth....
Cassandra's from a different time and place. This sort of stuff isn't quite as odd to her as it would be to most people. Or me. Even I would find that odd.
She raises an eyebrow curiously. "Oh, really now? Well, that's... sweet." She's nobility, deigning to allow a commoner to speak to her. Or something.
Man doesn't reach over the fence and grab her wrist, though he does the equivalent with his eyes. "And what do you make of yourself?" he asks. "Looking just like them. Quiet when you're called to speak. Where did that beauty go?"
It's all right if you have no idea what the hell he's talking about. Prophets are mad, and prone to speak in tongues.
"Then let me tell you." He stretches out his hands, laying them out like cragged maps. "In the beginning," he begins, "there was everything. Every thought and notion, every configuration of life. There were men who had not souls or two souls or souls which come and go. There were men whose souls did not agree with their body, their race or gender or species. There were men who could draw their feet in the sand and make the skies heavy with rain. There were wild men and shamans and dreamers.
"Then the world cooled and we learned to call these men myths. We learned to shun them, and to deny them, and to trap them and unsee them. We learned to by cynical and cold and believe they were not there. But we could not unwrite them.
"Those men still exist. They walk among us and some try to deny themselves. Some deny what they are so they may walk among those who cast them down. They smile prettily and say they are not sure what I mean. But they cannot unwrite themselves. They cannot become like this folkHe smiles. He's got a
( ... )
"Picking at scraps. Hiding in the press." His voice is soft but rough; it's not a voice which will ever be beautiful. "Feed the body, of course, but be sure you do not stifle the soul."
"Well, she's not complaining about being stifled, yet, so I think we're doing just fine," Cassandra mutters, and takes a bite of her salad.
It's not that I don't complain, it's just that I don't complain about being stifled. I'm not. Not crushed, not compressed. Just locked behind this psychic glass wall. I can see, I can hear, but I can't affect anything.
It's that one little word, that she, that tells Man what he needs to know. He slides into the vocabulary easily, leaning down just slightly, over the fence.
"And does she know the life of freedom? Of being, without fear, without shame? Tell her a great day is coming," he says; "a revolution in which we will open all their eyes. When they will be ashamed of mocking us so long and we will be proud that we are what we are. The only bonds to bind us are those with which we bind ourselves."
It's not quite right. The bonds that bind me, to use his own words, are hers. And now she can't leave, and I can't be myself anymore.
I'm just a girl trapped in a glass room looking out, and no one but Cassandra can see me. Maybe it's overdramatic, but I get bored. I've got too much time to think. The poetic drama of it all just gets to me, sometimes.
"She," Cassandra says smoothly, "can't do anything about it. Talk about freedom all you like, but I've got this body now. Not that I'm too grateful. She's so... common."
Aha. That's a slightly different spin on things, and it's something he has seen before.
"Then you," he pronounces, "are wrong."
Souls are held to the same standards of decency as anyone else, as far as he's concerned.
"And self-injurious. The slave who dreamed of becoming the oppressor." He smiles, but it's not a nice smile. It's non-threatening, but it is... self-possessed, and certain, like a man speaking to a goat selected for sacrifice. "With one hand you reach for the luxuries denied you, with the other, you deny others the same. You're like the bat - trapped between bird and beast, fickle and faithful to neither. But soon birds and beasts will live in harmony, and they'll have no care for you." The smile doesn't go away. "That's the path you choose for yourself."
"Well, I'd move on if I could. But I can't." She rubs her temples a little bit, and scowls.
Pass along a message for me. Please.
"She says," Cassandra continues sulkily, "that as much as she dislikes me, our current dilemma is not technically my fault. Also hello." Eyerolls, because apparently being polite is such a silly concept.
Oh, wait, it's Cassandra. Of course she'd think that.
The smile changes in its quality, becoming softer and more open. His eyes refocus on hers as though he's looking at a completely different person, which, one supposes, he is.
"Hello," he greets. "May I have a name, by which to address you?"
What he observes today is a young woman who doesn't seem quite right, as though she's sitting on secrets she's not supposed to tell, as though she's not quite a part of the everyday ebb and flow of the world around her. It's enough to intrigue him, and he strolls over, letting his hand rest on the patio's fence.
"Hello," he greets. His voice is thin and nasal, like the bleating of a goat. Overall, the effect does even out to something caprinous, as though he was never human at all, but roughly transmuted to this form and thrown into the world. "Who are you?"
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"Oh, hello," she says absently. "I'm Cassandra. And who are you, you... little... goat... man?"
Cassandra has absolutely no tact. Don't bother introducing me, obviously, it's only just my body. Really. I'll survive the indignity.
Oh, do shut up.
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He has the air of a prophet - albeit a very quiet prophet - when he says that. He watches her carefully for her reaction. There are more things in Heaven and Earth....
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She raises an eyebrow curiously. "Oh, really now? Well, that's... sweet." She's nobility, deigning to allow a commoner to speak to her. Or something.
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It's all right if you have no idea what the hell he's talking about. Prophets are mad, and prone to speak in tongues.
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Me. He's talking about me, he must be. I can't say anything, I can't make myself known, but...
I'm here. I'm hidden. I wish you could see me.
I'm sure he doesn't know about you. There's no reason he should. Now hushabye.
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"Then the world cooled and we learned to call these men myths. We learned to shun them, and to deny them, and to trap them and unsee them. We learned to by cynical and cold and believe they were not there. But we could not unwrite them.
"Those men still exist. They walk among us and some try to deny themselves. Some deny what they are so they may walk among those who cast them down. They smile prettily and say they are not sure what I mean. But they cannot unwrite themselves. They cannot become like this folkHe smiles. He's got a ( ... )
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Tell him, Cassandra. Just tell him. There's two of us in here. This isn't your body, but you can't get out anymore, and I'm trapped behind you.
I don't think so. What if he keeps talking to me?
He might leave you alone, though. Think about it.
But, of course, why listen to me? I'm not important. She just ignores me, as always.
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It's not that I don't complain, it's just that I don't complain about being stifled. I'm not. Not crushed, not compressed. Just locked behind this psychic glass wall. I can see, I can hear, but I can't affect anything.
Such is my life.
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"And does she know the life of freedom? Of being, without fear, without shame? Tell her a great day is coming," he says; "a revolution in which we will open all their eyes. When they will be ashamed of mocking us so long and we will be proud that we are what we are. The only bonds to bind us are those with which we bind ourselves."
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I'm just a girl trapped in a glass room looking out, and no one but Cassandra can see me. Maybe it's overdramatic, but I get bored. I've got too much time to think. The poetic drama of it all just gets to me, sometimes.
"She," Cassandra says smoothly, "can't do anything about it. Talk about freedom all you like, but I've got this body now. Not that I'm too grateful. She's so... common."
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"Then you," he pronounces, "are wrong."
Souls are held to the same standards of decency as anyone else, as far as he's concerned.
"And self-injurious. The slave who dreamed of becoming the oppressor." He smiles, but it's not a nice smile. It's non-threatening, but it is... self-possessed, and certain, like a man speaking to a goat selected for sacrifice. "With one hand you reach for the luxuries denied you, with the other, you deny others the same. You're like the bat - trapped between bird and beast, fickle and faithful to neither. But soon birds and beasts will live in harmony, and they'll have no care for you." The smile doesn't go away. "That's the path you choose for yourself."
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Pass along a message for me. Please.
"She says," Cassandra continues sulkily, "that as much as she dislikes me, our current dilemma is not technically my fault. Also hello." Eyerolls, because apparently being polite is such a silly concept.
Oh, wait, it's Cassandra. Of course she'd think that.
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"Hello," he greets. "May I have a name, by which to address you?"
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Yes. It's so difficult to say the word "Rose". I can't imagine how you'll cope.
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