Watermelon 5, White Chocolate 23, Pralines & Cream 17
Title: The Swan or the Crow?
Story Continuity: The Lethean Glamour (non-main story)
Author: darkfaerieclaw
Prompts: Watermelon #5: sound the alarm, White Chocolate #23: exasperation, Pralines & Cream #17: hard-boiled
Extra/Topping: Whipped Cream (Cygnelius is 12, Valentio is 15 [as opposed to 30 in the main story])
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Valentio catches Cygnelius's interest with an odd inquiry involving a fable of Aesop's, and it may in fact be the beginnings of a beautiful friendship. Maybe. Thanks mostly to Dralore for pointing out that corvo does not, in fact, mean "heart," but is awfully close to the Latin for crow.
Note: Just one more White Chocolate and two more Pralines & Cream to go! :D
"So," Valentio said, as casually as if he did not spend three hours thinking up what to say to Cygnelius and did not spend another half an hour purposefully seeking him out, "which are you, the swan or the crow?"
Cygnelius looked up at him from above a microscope, telling himself that he could kill the boy for making him lose sight of the damn thaumacine cell later, after he'd explained that particular non-sequitur. "I'm going out on a limb here and assuming you mean metaphorically, and that you've had your eyes checked within the past three years like you're supposed to and thus haven't mistaken me for a bird."
"Fucking duh, little dude," Valentio said, brows raised. "Nobody's that blind."
"You'd be surprised," Cygnelius muttered, then, louder, said, "Explain."
"Your name," Valentio said, with a touch of pride, "is Cygnelius Corvo."
"I hadn't noticed," Cygnelius said flatly. "And congratulations, you now know exactly as much about me as Babarella Fuzzpot." He jerked his head at a sheep that was being hooked up to several wires.
Valentio just smiled a bit, lost in a memory Cygnelius was sure he (or at least 79% of him) wanted to know nothing of. Cyg said, "You were saying something that sounded vaguely as if it had a point."
"Huh?" Valentio said, head snapping back to meet Cygnelius's eyes. They were the sharp kind of blue that reminded Valentio of his surrogate father's favorite blade, the kind of blue that can cut without using an edge. "Oh. You heard of Aesop, then?"
And finally, a little of Cygnelius's smallness seeped back into him, and it looked like he was losing an inner struggle with the urge to look away from Valentio. Valentio was reminded for the first time that this was a twelve-year-old boy, not a fellow teen, but he didn't know what would trigger this uncertainty. He decided to plow on as if Cyg didn't know what he was talking about; it seemed likely, anyway. "Aesop was this guy from Earth, who died a long time before the first migration of humans to Anharo. Wrote a book of...hell, what's the word? Scherzo, Vivace, Allegro con brio...allegorical tales! Called them fables, I think. So there was this one story from his Fables, right, the swan and the crow, like your name. Cygne as in swan, right? And Corvo sounds a lot like corvum, like the first half of corvum corax, the scientific name for crow."
"I figured the correlation there," Cygnelius said, and there was only casual indifference now, no annoyance or deliberate frostiness. "You've got my attention."
"So the swan, right, he's pretty much the opposite of the crow. He's clean, he's graceful, his plumage is gorgeous, and he's, well, he's kind of really fucking boss, is the implication. So the crow, he's got dull black feathers, right, and he's intimidating even when he smiles - especially then - and he's a beggar. The story doesn't say this, but he's ugly as shit, too. Have you ever seen a crow? I'd rather be locked in a room with a goblin than a crow. Creep-y."
"That's patently ridiculous," Cygnelius said. "Crows are...opportunistic cowards. They'll rend your flesh and pick clean your bones, but only if you can't fight back. Goblins will do the same, but they prefer it if you're aware and fighting."
"Well, sure, if you put it that way," Valentio snorted. "I can take a damn goblin. Crows - they're spooky and symbolically ominous and portentious, but I don't know if I could, you know, cast an ice javelin through a crow's body morally."
Valentio fought off his embarrassment, and continued: "So basically, the crow thinks, what makes the swan's plumage so great? He thinks long and hard, and it takes him a long time, maybe days, maybe weeks, but finally, a thought comes to him, and he thinks it's brilliant, figures he's finally got his answer."
Cygnelius, Valentio realized, was leaning close, and his eyes were clearly interested. Valentio must have been smiling, because Cygnelius snapped, "Don't look at me like that. You're a passable story teller, but you've got to actually try to engage your audience, not keep them dying in suspense."
"Sound the alarm, the brat's just complimented me," Valentio said, smiling in a manner which heavily implied Valentio knew something Cyg did not, but should, and he was going to make the boy work for it. Cyg did not smile back, simply raised an eyebrow and managing to imply that he was waiting impatiently and considered his statement too silly to warrant a real reply. "Okay, okay. The crow figured the water the swan bathed and lived in was the answer to his sucktastic plumage. So he quit his home in the holy district of some city, where he ate scraps and tidbits left over from religious offerings at the statues - I guess the gods didn't need them, or something, or else that would be one smoking, flaming corpse of a bird - and took up in the ponds and streams the swan frequented."
"So, what? Water is the hair conditioner of the birds?"
"No, that's not the way the story ends. Allegory, remember? Even though the crow washed himself like - I don't know, like my parents that one time after walking in on me and my girlfriend doing Sutra #18 in their bed - oh, wait, am I supposed to censor myself around you? Do you not know about sex, or did you, like, accidentally stumble on some anato-?"
"I know what you were talking about, yes," Cygnelius said, and Valentio realized that, yes, the boy did look amused. "I progressed through school in the normal manner. Which means that I went to high school before I was in university, you know. And all you teens think about is sex."
"Heh, that's about right, little dude. And one day soon, you'll be just like me. Or nearly, anyhow. So anyway, the end of the story sees the crow dead, having starved, with the same unfortunate plumage as it always had, and probably millions of silver deep in debt for moving in on the expensive lakefront property, if birds are anything at all like humans. Point is - and I know this was the point, because it said so at the end of the fable, in tiny italics - you may change a man's environs, but you cannot change a man's nature. Which is such total bullshit, but I guess Earth people weren't too smart, anyway, if this place was their best alternative. But that's not my point. Are you the swan, who has had everything since birth and never has to work very hard for anything, or are you the crow, who will work hard for his goals until death?"
"...Huh," Cygnelius said. "So you're asking me if I've always been this smart and this job is just the culmination of many happy accidents, or if I had to work for it. Well. Um. That's almost insulting, but it's a valid question. I'd say...I'm the bird that's somewhere between a crow and a swan, who was born smarter, faster, better, and what else have you, than the rest, but worked to stay that way. I'm not here by nepotism, you know. My father - he's good, but he's not that good. He's more of a swan - born better, but never bothered trying to better himself." Cygnelius paused thoughtfully. "I never did get your name. That's a hint."
"Oh, you know," Valentio said, smiling, fox-like and proud. "I'm just nobody, really. But, if you must know my name-"
"Sometime before the thaumacine cell and I both die of boredom would be quite nice," Cygnelius said.
"The name's Valentio Halcyon Melman," Valentio said, and bowed a little. "Second in line for the crown, and natural-born crow in all matters except the crown."
"I see," Cygnelius said. "A pleasure and an honor to meet you, surprisingly." And, because it felt appropriate, he added, "I'm Dr. Cygnelius Corvo, then, bird of a different sort and temporary novelty. One day, I'll run this place this an iron fist, and there won't be a single thing strange about it."
Valentio didn't doubt it, and even though Cygnelius ignored him for the rest of Valentio's stay in the labs - until he began playing around with highly sensitive, breakable equipment, whereupon he was shooed out, prince and elder or no - Cyg sought him out later that week and demanded that they both go out for crappy peasant cuisine ("Of course you'll be paying, Valentio - I pay your ridiculous taxes and I've sworn not to slander you or even joke about you, the least you could do is pay for lunch"). And somehow, they became friends through a shared disdain for hard-boiled eggs made with rotten ingredients, especially the sort served at Sunil's Diner, rude, naturally angry waitresses, especially kind found at Sunil's Diner, and their own strange, mutual crowishness.
Story Continuity: The Lethean Glamour (non-main story)
Author: darkfaerieclaw
Prompts: Watermelon #5: sound the alarm, White Chocolate #23: exasperation, Pralines & Cream #17: hard-boiled
Extra/Topping: Whipped Cream (Cygnelius is 12, Valentio is 15 [as opposed to 30 in the main story])
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Valentio catches Cygnelius's interest with an odd inquiry involving a fable of Aesop's, and it may in fact be the beginnings of a beautiful friendship. Maybe. Thanks mostly to Dralore for pointing out that corvo does not, in fact, mean "heart," but is awfully close to the Latin for crow.
Note: Just one more White Chocolate and two more Pralines & Cream to go! :D
"So," Valentio said, as casually as if he did not spend three hours thinking up what to say to Cygnelius and did not spend another half an hour purposefully seeking him out, "which are you, the swan or the crow?"
Cygnelius looked up at him from above a microscope, telling himself that he could kill the boy for making him lose sight of the damn thaumacine cell later, after he'd explained that particular non-sequitur. "I'm going out on a limb here and assuming you mean metaphorically, and that you've had your eyes checked within the past three years like you're supposed to and thus haven't mistaken me for a bird."
"Fucking duh, little dude," Valentio said, brows raised. "Nobody's that blind."
"You'd be surprised," Cygnelius muttered, then, louder, said, "Explain."
"Your name," Valentio said, with a touch of pride, "is Cygnelius Corvo."
"I hadn't noticed," Cygnelius said flatly. "And congratulations, you now know exactly as much about me as Babarella Fuzzpot." He jerked his head at a sheep that was being hooked up to several wires.
Valentio just smiled a bit, lost in a memory Cygnelius was sure he (or at least 79% of him) wanted to know nothing of. Cyg said, "You were saying something that sounded vaguely as if it had a point."
"Huh?" Valentio said, head snapping back to meet Cygnelius's eyes. They were the sharp kind of blue that reminded Valentio of his surrogate father's favorite blade, the kind of blue that can cut without using an edge. "Oh. You heard of Aesop, then?"
And finally, a little of Cygnelius's smallness seeped back into him, and it looked like he was losing an inner struggle with the urge to look away from Valentio. Valentio was reminded for the first time that this was a twelve-year-old boy, not a fellow teen, but he didn't know what would trigger this uncertainty. He decided to plow on as if Cyg didn't know what he was talking about; it seemed likely, anyway. "Aesop was this guy from Earth, who died a long time before the first migration of humans to Anharo. Wrote a book of...hell, what's the word? Scherzo, Vivace, Allegro con brio...allegorical tales! Called them fables, I think. So there was this one story from his Fables, right, the swan and the crow, like your name. Cygne as in swan, right? And Corvo sounds a lot like corvum, like the first half of corvum corax, the scientific name for crow."
"I figured the correlation there," Cygnelius said, and there was only casual indifference now, no annoyance or deliberate frostiness. "You've got my attention."
"So the swan, right, he's pretty much the opposite of the crow. He's clean, he's graceful, his plumage is gorgeous, and he's, well, he's kind of really fucking boss, is the implication. So the crow, he's got dull black feathers, right, and he's intimidating even when he smiles - especially then - and he's a beggar. The story doesn't say this, but he's ugly as shit, too. Have you ever seen a crow? I'd rather be locked in a room with a goblin than a crow. Creep-y."
"That's patently ridiculous," Cygnelius said. "Crows are...opportunistic cowards. They'll rend your flesh and pick clean your bones, but only if you can't fight back. Goblins will do the same, but they prefer it if you're aware and fighting."
"Well, sure, if you put it that way," Valentio snorted. "I can take a damn goblin. Crows - they're spooky and symbolically ominous and portentious, but I don't know if I could, you know, cast an ice javelin through a crow's body morally."
Valentio fought off his embarrassment, and continued: "So basically, the crow thinks, what makes the swan's plumage so great? He thinks long and hard, and it takes him a long time, maybe days, maybe weeks, but finally, a thought comes to him, and he thinks it's brilliant, figures he's finally got his answer."
Cygnelius, Valentio realized, was leaning close, and his eyes were clearly interested. Valentio must have been smiling, because Cygnelius snapped, "Don't look at me like that. You're a passable story teller, but you've got to actually try to engage your audience, not keep them dying in suspense."
"Sound the alarm, the brat's just complimented me," Valentio said, smiling in a manner which heavily implied Valentio knew something Cyg did not, but should, and he was going to make the boy work for it. Cyg did not smile back, simply raised an eyebrow and managing to imply that he was waiting impatiently and considered his statement too silly to warrant a real reply. "Okay, okay. The crow figured the water the swan bathed and lived in was the answer to his sucktastic plumage. So he quit his home in the holy district of some city, where he ate scraps and tidbits left over from religious offerings at the statues - I guess the gods didn't need them, or something, or else that would be one smoking, flaming corpse of a bird - and took up in the ponds and streams the swan frequented."
"So, what? Water is the hair conditioner of the birds?"
"No, that's not the way the story ends. Allegory, remember? Even though the crow washed himself like - I don't know, like my parents that one time after walking in on me and my girlfriend doing Sutra #18 in their bed - oh, wait, am I supposed to censor myself around you? Do you not know about sex, or did you, like, accidentally stumble on some anato-?"
"I know what you were talking about, yes," Cygnelius said, and Valentio realized that, yes, the boy did look amused. "I progressed through school in the normal manner. Which means that I went to high school before I was in university, you know. And all you teens think about is sex."
"Heh, that's about right, little dude. And one day soon, you'll be just like me. Or nearly, anyhow. So anyway, the end of the story sees the crow dead, having starved, with the same unfortunate plumage as it always had, and probably millions of silver deep in debt for moving in on the expensive lakefront property, if birds are anything at all like humans. Point is - and I know this was the point, because it said so at the end of the fable, in tiny italics - you may change a man's environs, but you cannot change a man's nature. Which is such total bullshit, but I guess Earth people weren't too smart, anyway, if this place was their best alternative. But that's not my point. Are you the swan, who has had everything since birth and never has to work very hard for anything, or are you the crow, who will work hard for his goals until death?"
"...Huh," Cygnelius said. "So you're asking me if I've always been this smart and this job is just the culmination of many happy accidents, or if I had to work for it. Well. Um. That's almost insulting, but it's a valid question. I'd say...I'm the bird that's somewhere between a crow and a swan, who was born smarter, faster, better, and what else have you, than the rest, but worked to stay that way. I'm not here by nepotism, you know. My father - he's good, but he's not that good. He's more of a swan - born better, but never bothered trying to better himself." Cygnelius paused thoughtfully. "I never did get your name. That's a hint."
"Oh, you know," Valentio said, smiling, fox-like and proud. "I'm just nobody, really. But, if you must know my name-"
"Sometime before the thaumacine cell and I both die of boredom would be quite nice," Cygnelius said.
"The name's Valentio Halcyon Melman," Valentio said, and bowed a little. "Second in line for the crown, and natural-born crow in all matters except the crown."
"I see," Cygnelius said. "A pleasure and an honor to meet you, surprisingly." And, because it felt appropriate, he added, "I'm Dr. Cygnelius Corvo, then, bird of a different sort and temporary novelty. One day, I'll run this place this an iron fist, and there won't be a single thing strange about it."
Valentio didn't doubt it, and even though Cygnelius ignored him for the rest of Valentio's stay in the labs - until he began playing around with highly sensitive, breakable equipment, whereupon he was shooed out, prince and elder or no - Cyg sought him out later that week and demanded that they both go out for crappy peasant cuisine ("Of course you'll be paying, Valentio - I pay your ridiculous taxes and I've sworn not to slander you or even joke about you, the least you could do is pay for lunch"). And somehow, they became friends through a shared disdain for hard-boiled eggs made with rotten ingredients, especially the sort served at Sunil's Diner, rude, naturally angry waitresses, especially kind found at Sunil's Diner, and their own strange, mutual crowishness.