Fic, FE: Por-RD Spheres of Revelation
Spheres of Revelation
Complete
FE: PoR-RD
Bastian/Volke
Contemplation is a distracting bed partner, if not an interesting one.
The white pages turn crisply in his hands, filled with ideas and knowledge to ponder. He slowly turns each leaf, running his green eyes down the ink without seeking out the finer points or bringing the conclusions and hypothesis deep into his mind. Each page turns individually, rasping slightly against its neighbor and sighing gently as it falls in to place beside its flanking brother. The movement is rhythmic and Bastian expands and collapses his lungs in a tempo shown only to himself and the book. A passage of phase catches the count’s eye and he pauses to consider it. The rhythm is interrupted and after a few moments Bastian is conscious of a slight shift in his arms. He leaves the passage with a smile and continues his sallow exploration of the text.
The candle has burned low as the pages steadily accumulate on the left half of the book. The tempo is slight and underlying, Bastian no longer attempts to hold it and automatically continues the slowly rise and fall of his chest as his mind wanders to foreign subjects.
Where lies the heart of a nation; he wonders briefly. Does its essence lie in its secrets, those extraordinary fragments of knowledge that are hidden behind flesh and steel? Bastian doubts it, he has uncovered so many of these fragments from Crimea’s sister nations. Something so easily attained cannot truly define and reflect the spirit of a land and its inhabitants. Is a country’s soul so fleeting as to change with the ascension of every new leader, as the changing of colors in the autumn? This theory is disregarded as well, the laguz tribes a fine example of changing dispositions and opinion despite the reign of a monarch. The well rehearsed notion of a country’s people being its center is swiftly examined and discarded in turn. The citizenry are nothing but the reflection of years of influence and environmental stimuli, not the exact vessel that gives reason to their beliefs and aspirations.
Bastian believe that a combination of the factors may lead to his answer, that the national secrets are a measure of leadership, and the measure of leadership a distinction in serf loyalty. This conclusion draws his mind to the things that define individuals. Experiences, memories, upbringing, all are obvious reasons that leap to the forefront of his mind; but he rejects that such notions are the main defining factors. The candle flame licks desperately at the base of the wick before becoming extinguished in the small pool of wax that has collected in the saucer.
Darkness shrouds the stonewall room. No fire bubbles in the mantle, the moon is denied by heavy fabric coverings that flow from the tall windows as black waves. Bastian closes the book, aware that he recalls nothing but an odd theorem and the fragments of sentences. He needs no lights to see the golden eyes that follow his movements in the darkness. The tempo has long since changed. The deep open breaths are replaced by shortened ones that drift silently from a sleep minded entity. Awareness is swift in coming and the creature stretches, sprawled atop the completive count, who in turn is draped across a feather downed chair. Death dances on the hand that reaches across Bastian’s face. The book is slid onto a corner table and the now unoccupied hands reach and make contact with the languid frame that rests against his body. “Contemplation makes for late nights,” a low voice intones as a hand that is a hair’s breadth from murder joins its brother and delves into golden tresses.
“As do other things, more pleasurable things,” Bastian replies, head lolled to the side with a content smile painted across his face.
Fingers of solitary slaughter touch the smile and trace its extent. Lips that are usually in silent apathy of the world follow the fingers, hardly brushing well trimmed facial hair and resting lightly against the contour of the count’s face. “Such wondrous things as sleuthing and study, things like peace and death, concepts of love and war…” No reply is forthcoming from the shadow and Bastian is unsurprised, for none of these concepts plague his thoughts this night. His mind is a black slate. Fleeting thoughts are scratched on with white rock before being dusted away by an unseen hand. Nothing captures his attention; nothing compels him to wax metered poetry and lyrical statements. He derives pleasure from such activities, but tonight his mind is elsewhere; a place called nowhere.
Russet hair mixes with gold as the creature of shadow shifts, arms dangling loosely around the count’s neck, legs thrown over the plush chair arm, eyes level with the decoration that pierces the skin of Bastian’s ear. Despite the lack of light, Volke knows the exact size and characteristics of the ornament. It is made of skin toned pearl. He touches the narrow post with a finger, lightly brushing the tawny gems that dot the edges of the pearl post. “I have made enemies,” Bastian confesses suddenly, in the slow tenor that shows the arbitrariness of his mood. “Perhaps a poisoned drink will fulfill its purpose one day. Mayhap Lady Luck will align herself with my enemies. Maybe one day you will take your pearl from my lifeless corpse and deem another more worthy to wear it.”
Lightness in his tone betrays his lilting thoughts. Despite this Volke’s features harden and he moves to stand. Arms twist swiftly around his waist and a face presses against his shoulder, breathless chuckles and an apology floating past unseen lips. “I find my mouth running without regard to my mind,” he explains, lifting his head to place a relaxed kiss upon neutral lips. “What is my question?” he asks suddenly. He doesn’t surprise Volke, and smiles as the assassin relaxes.
“First tell me the answer.”
Laughter echoes throughout the room. “An answer fit for riddles and puzzles, my dear.”
“Then there is no better,” Volke says softly; eyes dropping shut. “You speak in circles, even to yourself. The answer is the ending, and the ending is the beginning. The question is the answer.”
“So I seek that which will complete me?”
Volke was silent a moment. He slowly sat up and aligned his face with that of the count’s. “You fear the thing that will leave you with no more puzzles.” Bastian likes the answer and expresses his pleasure with a leisurely kiss, forehead resting against his companions. “So I should pursue your circle, and leave my own to preserve mine sanity.”
“Your sanity is a questionable thing already,” Volke replies. The conversation is over and both parties have survived the ordeal. Such discussions are uncommon among them, as some things don’t get discussed. The pearl post is such a subject, its presence the reflection of a solution that neither consciously acknowledges. This solution is the meaning of life and the death of an individual, but never definite. The solution is a many layered thing, levels of which one understands more than the other and that the other knows better than the one. The pearl is made by such art that has not been practiced in Tellius for years beyond number. The pearl is the consistency of a soul, compromised of two parts and forever bound in layers of beauty and strength.
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Well hey there!
It’s not the big snazzy Volke/Bastian thing I’m working on, but ‘tis something!