irony is finneas saying "don't talk to yourself out loud"
Author: C
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 779
Story / World: Seer Trilogy #1, Amethyst Sky
Title: Also there are horses
Prompts: Toasted Almond #5: in the same boat.
Characters: Jon, Finneas, the guy in Jon's head, also this horse.
Toppings / Extras / Other: None.
Notes: Am I the only one who thinks it's hilarious for Finneas to be saying that, then? ...Yes? ...Well, be like hat that, then.
He finds horses rather odd, all things considered. Yes they're perfectly normal animals, and yes they were used (in a manner of speaking; if these are horses, then those weren't horses exactly) in the world where he was born, but they still didn't see them up close very much in the desert towns, and then in the City once he disappeared. In the City there were even less, actually. They had cars instead.
So, all things considered, he's not too happy about the idea of riding one; and so on foot it is that he comes up, a minute behind Finneas as he's scouting, over the hill that's been blocking him from seeing where they're going for the last few miles.
It looks like a town. Pretty normal thing, all made of wood, paint flaking off for four generations - is it now? So he's a hundred and forty-something? Fifty? Well - and gardens and weeds as bright spots of color instead, all closed off by a sloppy but thick-looking wall.
Nothing very special, except that it's a real town when they've been running low on everything but impatience for a month.
But he can hear rushing water just barely, the just barely as it's drowned out by two almost-in-synch heartbeats.
Wait. What?
Jonathan blinks. Two? The answer is obvious, of course, and he pulls his left arm out of the sleeve of his coat and starts pinching at the skin. This gesture's half-ritual more than anything, snapping his fingers over and over with a bit of flesh caught between; it won't hurt unless he does it over and over and over again.
Of course, that's exactly what he's doing, what he does until the other in his head looks up and the echo falters slightly. That's enough leverage for Jonathan to make it disappear. He smiles slightly, pushes forwards with that fairly hard, and says, out loud so he's sure of who's talking, “Oh shut up, you. My cardiovascular system is the only one you've got. Now be good and we can play storyteller, or something.”
Deciphering the grumbling acknowledgment, spiked through with the recognition of humor having been in what Jonathan said somewhere, and ridicule of his other mind's own, and more than Jonathan cares about (he hates communicating via human emotion so much), is enough that he doesn't notice that Finneas has doubled back towards him until Jonathan has the better part of a thousand pounds of nervous quadruped right next to him.
Which is the other thing about horses: they don't like him either, and it's not even like he's going to bite or step on them.
“Hey, Jonathan. Figured I might as well get this over with. Since it's kind of delicate and all.” Finneas' voice - strange patterns of starting and stopping (not that Jonathan himself can talk about that) notwithstanding - can sound amazingly young sometimes, and, earnest and eyes bright, he can look the part. Jonathan knows it's an act but it's a good act, and thus deserving, among these people, far more respect and possibly more recognition than the truth.
He keeps his expression carefully neutral, shoes even the barest suggestion of laughter out of his voice. “Go ahead, Teller Iscariot.”
“Right.” Use of his proper title makes Finneas nervous, Jonathan has found - makes him seem nervous - when he's pulling this act; the horse picks up on it and sort of taps its hooves, narrowly avoiding coming down on Jonathan's own foot. He pulls away, just in case. “It's just - this town's important, it's a big stop in the middle of nowhere and we're pretty firmly entrenched in - the local culture, I guess you'd say? Yes. If we lose it I'll be blamed. So please be careful. That's all. Okay?”
With a nod, Jonathan asks, “So, are you saying this to everyone, or--”
“No, look. I'm giving you permission to Tell, if you - if you don't get in anyone's way. Or trouble. Don't get in trouble. How's that?”
“Fine,” says Jonathan, and goes to turn away. “Anything else?”
Finneas puts the heel of his hand against his forehead. “It would be really nice if you could get a handle on the talking to yourself bit?”
“Oh.” Jonathan's face would likely be turning red if it did that sort of thing. “That.”
The other man in his head calls mocking and mirth into the featureless midday lavender sky. And Jonathan would tell him to shut up, but they both know how self-defeating that would be.
Which is, of course, why he's doing it.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 779
Story / World: Seer Trilogy #1, Amethyst Sky
Title: Also there are horses
Prompts: Toasted Almond #5: in the same boat.
Characters: Jon, Finneas, the guy in Jon's head, also this horse.
Toppings / Extras / Other: None.
Notes: Am I the only one who thinks it's hilarious for Finneas to be saying that, then? ...Yes? ...Well, be like hat that, then.
He finds horses rather odd, all things considered. Yes they're perfectly normal animals, and yes they were used (in a manner of speaking; if these are horses, then those weren't horses exactly) in the world where he was born, but they still didn't see them up close very much in the desert towns, and then in the City once he disappeared. In the City there were even less, actually. They had cars instead.
So, all things considered, he's not too happy about the idea of riding one; and so on foot it is that he comes up, a minute behind Finneas as he's scouting, over the hill that's been blocking him from seeing where they're going for the last few miles.
It looks like a town. Pretty normal thing, all made of wood, paint flaking off for four generations - is it now? So he's a hundred and forty-something? Fifty? Well - and gardens and weeds as bright spots of color instead, all closed off by a sloppy but thick-looking wall.
Nothing very special, except that it's a real town when they've been running low on everything but impatience for a month.
But he can hear rushing water just barely, the just barely as it's drowned out by two almost-in-synch heartbeats.
Wait. What?
Jonathan blinks. Two? The answer is obvious, of course, and he pulls his left arm out of the sleeve of his coat and starts pinching at the skin. This gesture's half-ritual more than anything, snapping his fingers over and over with a bit of flesh caught between; it won't hurt unless he does it over and over and over again.
Of course, that's exactly what he's doing, what he does until the other in his head looks up and the echo falters slightly. That's enough leverage for Jonathan to make it disappear. He smiles slightly, pushes forwards with that fairly hard, and says, out loud so he's sure of who's talking, “Oh shut up, you. My cardiovascular system is the only one you've got. Now be good and we can play storyteller, or something.”
Deciphering the grumbling acknowledgment, spiked through with the recognition of humor having been in what Jonathan said somewhere, and ridicule of his other mind's own, and more than Jonathan cares about (he hates communicating via human emotion so much), is enough that he doesn't notice that Finneas has doubled back towards him until Jonathan has the better part of a thousand pounds of nervous quadruped right next to him.
Which is the other thing about horses: they don't like him either, and it's not even like he's going to bite or step on them.
“Hey, Jonathan. Figured I might as well get this over with. Since it's kind of delicate and all.” Finneas' voice - strange patterns of starting and stopping (not that Jonathan himself can talk about that) notwithstanding - can sound amazingly young sometimes, and, earnest and eyes bright, he can look the part. Jonathan knows it's an act but it's a good act, and thus deserving, among these people, far more respect and possibly more recognition than the truth.
He keeps his expression carefully neutral, shoes even the barest suggestion of laughter out of his voice. “Go ahead, Teller Iscariot.”
“Right.” Use of his proper title makes Finneas nervous, Jonathan has found - makes him seem nervous - when he's pulling this act; the horse picks up on it and sort of taps its hooves, narrowly avoiding coming down on Jonathan's own foot. He pulls away, just in case. “It's just - this town's important, it's a big stop in the middle of nowhere and we're pretty firmly entrenched in - the local culture, I guess you'd say? Yes. If we lose it I'll be blamed. So please be careful. That's all. Okay?”
With a nod, Jonathan asks, “So, are you saying this to everyone, or--”
“No, look. I'm giving you permission to Tell, if you - if you don't get in anyone's way. Or trouble. Don't get in trouble. How's that?”
“Fine,” says Jonathan, and goes to turn away. “Anything else?”
Finneas puts the heel of his hand against his forehead. “It would be really nice if you could get a handle on the talking to yourself bit?”
“Oh.” Jonathan's face would likely be turning red if it did that sort of thing. “That.”
The other man in his head calls mocking and mirth into the featureless midday lavender sky. And Jonathan would tell him to shut up, but they both know how self-defeating that would be.
Which is, of course, why he's doing it.