otherways: Knightsbridge
They're starting to scare him.
He's been Below for about a week now. He hasn't started a fuss, hasn't called much attention; he'd made sure to dirty himself up right off, figuring that blending in was more important than keeping things clean a little longer.
He'd found some things to be more helpful than he'd thought they'd ever be back in London Above. The Greek his Gran had drilled into him since boyhood had actually come into play when he'd stumbled on a small contigent of Greek potters in one spot. Talking with them in the native tongue had gotten him a free meal that had tasted almost as good as his Gran's and some interesting conversation that he didn't think he'd soon forget. His literature degree, one taken purely out of interest in the subject, had come up more times than he could count. Shakespeare and Beaumont and Fletcher and the rest had all come up as cultural capital, capital he used happily and proudly.
He'd used what little money he had to go above every once in a while to get food, but most of the meat on his proverbial table had been provided by the trinkets he'd stashed in his coat. He'd only had to use up an old bobble-head and a glow in the dark spoon from a cereal box, but he'd made off well enough at the market he'd stumbled into on his second night. Having seven siblings, he was a shrewd negotiator, even though the value system was somewhat unknown and the one man had scared the living daylights out of him simply because he'd been almost as large as Gwen.
He'd almost hoped to run into the man while he was down here. Gwen...or Richard. Someone familiar. Someone who cared for him. But that didn't happen and each day gave him less and less hope for it.
And now he was about to cross what the locals called "Nightsbridge" and they were all watching him, waiting for him to try and go across. He'd made a few jokes about how he'd take any pretty girl who wanted to go with him, but they'd stared at him as if he were mad and backed away and he'd finally just given up on it and faced what seemed by all accounts to be a horrifying journey ahead.
The first few steps are all right, normal. It's a bridge. Whoop de fricking do.
And then it gets dark.
And then it gets Dark.
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"E's crazy, that one...utterly looney."
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He takes out his knife, the switchblade he'd had since Uni when he thought it was cool. He's never been so thankful for his pack-rattish ways as he is right then, as the blade flicks open with a glimmer of metal and a sharp, dependable edge.
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And he's halfway across now. It's utterly dark, utterly Dark, utterly Dark and he's never felt so alone in his life, never felt so scared...
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
...and then he's gone.
He's been Below for about a week now. He hasn't started a fuss, hasn't called much attention; he'd made sure to dirty himself up right off, figuring that blending in was more important than keeping things clean a little longer.
He'd found some things to be more helpful than he'd thought they'd ever be back in London Above. The Greek his Gran had drilled into him since boyhood had actually come into play when he'd stumbled on a small contigent of Greek potters in one spot. Talking with them in the native tongue had gotten him a free meal that had tasted almost as good as his Gran's and some interesting conversation that he didn't think he'd soon forget. His literature degree, one taken purely out of interest in the subject, had come up more times than he could count. Shakespeare and Beaumont and Fletcher and the rest had all come up as cultural capital, capital he used happily and proudly.
He'd used what little money he had to go above every once in a while to get food, but most of the meat on his proverbial table had been provided by the trinkets he'd stashed in his coat. He'd only had to use up an old bobble-head and a glow in the dark spoon from a cereal box, but he'd made off well enough at the market he'd stumbled into on his second night. Having seven siblings, he was a shrewd negotiator, even though the value system was somewhat unknown and the one man had scared the living daylights out of him simply because he'd been almost as large as Gwen.
He'd almost hoped to run into the man while he was down here. Gwen...or Richard. Someone familiar. Someone who cared for him. But that didn't happen and each day gave him less and less hope for it.
And now he was about to cross what the locals called "Nightsbridge" and they were all watching him, waiting for him to try and go across. He'd made a few jokes about how he'd take any pretty girl who wanted to go with him, but they'd stared at him as if he were mad and backed away and he'd finally just given up on it and faced what seemed by all accounts to be a horrifying journey ahead.
The first few steps are all right, normal. It's a bridge. Whoop de fricking do.
And then it gets dark.
And then it gets Dark.
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"E's crazy, that one...utterly looney."
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He takes out his knife, the switchblade he'd had since Uni when he thought it was cool. He's never been so thankful for his pack-rattish ways as he is right then, as the blade flicks open with a glimmer of metal and a sharp, dependable edge.
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And he's halfway across now. It's utterly dark, utterly Dark, utterly Dark and he's never felt so alone in his life, never felt so scared...
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
...and then he's gone.