milliways_bar | (no subject)

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What just happened?

As Fakir reaches the Goldkrone smithy, he's thinking it through: I saw Rue. I wanted to ask her what she did to Mytho. I grabbed her by the shoulders.

Fakir holds the doorknob, lost in thought.

Then Duck tried to stop me. And then Mytho was pulling me, and I reached back--

I didn't mean to hit him. But I did. And the whole school saw us.

I don't care what they think of me. I deserve it anyway. I've hurt him before.

Fakir opens the door and walks in before he notices that he's come to Milliways instead of his foster father's house. Good. At least the people here at Milliways don't go to school with him. (With a few exceptions.)

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And one of those exceptions is walking right in behind him.

"Hold the door, please," Autor says, ever so politely.

Oh no.

Fakir holds the door, but he grits his teeth while he does it. Not you.

"Still angry, huh?" the boy tuts softly, cupping his chin in his hand. "You're going to have to learn to get over that."

Fakir lets the door slam at once. Hopefully Autor's already gone through it. "My feelings are not your business," Fakir snaps.

"I wouldn't want them to be," Autor says, thankfully on the Milliways side of the door. "That would be a twenty-four hour job."

He places a hand on his hip. "Though you are moodier than usual. I wonder why."

No, I am not going to answer that.

Ignoring Autor, Fakir walks to his usual table. Maybe the waitrats will bring him a book.

They don't, but Autor does. Two, in fact--both with their endings torn.

And tea. Common courtesy.

I won't accept his gifts.

But Fakir's resolve only lasts until he begins turning the pages of the books. The one on top, Perceval, or the Story of the Grail, begins with the story of a boy who doesn't know what knights are. The boy sees some knights in their shining armor and asks if they are angels.

What does it mean, after all, Fakir wonders, to be a knight?

Autor indulges in his tea, watching Fakir peruse his books. As always.

The music student raises a brow when the dancer's fingers brush the cover of the second tome: a rousing narrative of a brave knight who runs off to battle only to be maimed, and chooses to make his living as a bard, instead.

Start with knights, land in stories about Story, Autor thinks.

The Bard had a lover, though he hated the Lord she was to marry. Since the Bard could no longer fight, he couldn't defeat the prospective groom. Bitter and in mourning, the Bard sang of the war between the Lord and Lady's people during their wedding. The guests brought the war home, culminating in the groom's injury, and the bride's death.

And end with a warning.

Fakir turns a page, and Autor smiles.

Edited 2013-05-23 01:54 (UTC)

A bleeding lance, a shining chalice, a wounded king: Perceval sees these things at the home of the Fisher King but asks no questions, or asks the wrong questions. For his error he is cursed to wander in search of the Grail, until-- until--

the book ends with the final pages torn out.

"What must a knight do?" Fakir doesn't realize he's said it out loud.

Autor pours out two new cups of tea and pushes one over.

"That's up to the knight, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

Only then does Fakir remember who he's talking to. Damn.

Pointedly, he does not drink Autor's tea.

The music student laughs quietly, mostly because of the tea-snubbing.

"You tell me," the boy says, tapping the second book. "There are a lot of knights featured in stories. Tristan and Isolde. Lancelot." The boy glances up. "Lohengrin."

Autor leans back and throws an arm over the booth. "Maybe you could ask him?"

"I don't need to." Fakir shuts Perceval with a snap, opens the second book.

(He died a long time ago, and he died a failure.)

"Really," Autor says with ill-disguised interest, and the light strikes his glasses when he tilts his head.

"So you do have an opinion on the topic," he says, and blows on his tea. "Hm! There is something buried under all of that bluster after all."

Fakir's fists clench.

No. No more violence today.

Instead of punching Autor, he says, tightly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You are a terrible liar," Autor says lightly.

"And you are an arrogant buffoon. You know nothing about me."

...but if Autor knows nothing about Fakir, why did he choose those books?

The music student sits back. He smiles, and lifts his teacup in a toast. "Whatever you say, Fakir."

Fakir lifts the books with his left hand and sweeps his right hand, knocking his teacup off the table. He stands.

"Your books," Fakir says, offering them to Autor. "You should take them." Away. Now.

Autor sets his empty cup on the table and stands fluidly. "I do appreciate that you didn't spill tea on them in your second fit of temper of the day," he says, and gingerly removes the texts from what care Fakir has given them.

"Do respect the importance of narrative, won't you?" the music student says, smirking.

Unfortunately for Fakir, the next time he orders anything from the bar, a list of recommended books will be waiting for him, with a hopefully infuriating sketch of a spilled teacup at the bottom.

Respect the importance of narrative.

Fakir spends the next hour practicing sword forms by the lake. It takes that long for his fury to begin to fade.

Perhaps thankfully, the Bar is sleeping later when Fakir gets around to ordering food. If Fakir had received Autor's note today, he'd be angry for weeks.

Certainly, almost no one here goes to school with him...but he does wear a distinctive school uniform. One that Punie's seen before.

It takes her a moment to determine her means of approach. A second later, she has a vase with an arrangement of cut lilacs in her arms. It's a rather large bouquet, and she's not a tall girl, so it's hardly surprising that in the act of crossing the floor in the direction of the bar, the flower-filled vase gets in the way of her line of sight -- and she manages to bump against the young man who has just entered.

"Oh!" she exclaims, and quickly backs up a step, lowering the vase so she can see over the top of it. "I'm so very sorry -- I didn't splash you, did I?"

"It's fine," Fakir answers, ignoring the cold water on the shoulder of his uniform.

"Do you think you should sit down?"

He supposes he ought to help her find a table.

"I knew I shouldn't have filled it so full...." Fortunately -- or rather, as planned -- there's an empty table just behind her. She sets the vase down on the table, and quick as a flash she has a clean handkerchief in one hand, and holds it out to him. "Please, do use this."

(The handkerchief is not nearly as pink as it might be. She doesn't want to scare him off entirely.)

"No need." The water will dry, after all, and at least the vase looks properly balanced now.

After a moment, Fakir remembers what social skills he has. "My name is Fakir." He does not offer a handshake, nor does he bow. His social skills don't stretch that far.

She's acquired his name, at least. That's more than she got out of Autor after more than one meeting and several instances of physical violence. Perhaps this will go more smoothly than she had expected.

Punie smiles as she drops a small curtsy -- court-perfect and automatic -- and then folds her hands in front of her. "Mine is Punie. And I wish I'd had a better opportunity to introduce myself before I got your clothing wet. I don't always see many people closer to my age here."

"Stop worrying about it," Fakir answers. "I told you, it's fine."

She probably won't stop unless Fakir changes the subject. Fakir supplies, "What are the flowers for?"

Punie runs a hand along the top of one of the blossoms. "They're in bloom outside on the grounds, near the lake. I was collecting some for myself earlier, and I thought I would make an extra bouquet to place on the bar. There's enough magic in here that I'm sure they'll last a little longer than they would elsewhere -- though I don't know how long they'll last when I'm back in my own world. The magic's a little different there."

Not the most subtle of openings, perhaps, but this one's much less inquisitive than the other.

Fakir looks faintly curious, but neither startled, nor shocked, nor particularly attentive. Sorry, Punie, try again.

"Your world has magic?" Fakir asks.

Faint curiosity is enough to start with. She's patient. And persistent.

"Mine does, yes," she says, nodding. "Right now, I'm living in a place where there isn't much magic, but I was born and grew up in a land that's very magical." She glances around the bar. "It's nice to come here when I can -- it feels more like home to me, in a way, though I know that's not the case for everyone."

Fakir raises his eyebrows. "You left your home, then?"

I've never been further from home than Milliways.

I've never left home at all, other than to go to Milliways.

Funny, why don't I ever think of it like that?

That's a good question. Why don't you ever think of it like that?

"I'm a transfer student at a new school. I'm the only one from my school who comes here, at least that I know of." She tilts her head a little, smiling up at him. "But I think I might have met someone else from your world. Or someone who wears clothing that's very like yours, I should say."

Her expression is all innocent interest, but she's watching him closely.

The girls' uniforms at Goldkrone Academy are quite different from the boys' uniforms, which means -- Either Mytho or Autor.

Fakir's mouth twists a little. Either way, it's not good news.

Controlling his expression again, he raises his eyebrows in polite inquiry.

The twist of his mouth is rather informative. And at his raised eyebrows, Punie actually blushes a little, and lowers her eyes in modest embarrassment (or possibly embarrassed modesty).

"His name is Autor." She twists her clasped hands. "We're...sort of friends." Her hesitation suggests that it's a good deal more than friends, at least on her end.

Fakir's eyebrows fly up even higher. Autor has a girlfriend?

His voice, however, sounds uninterested. "I see."

"Do you know him at all?" The shyness gives way to hopeful cheer. "I haven't known him for very long, but he's been very nice to me since I first came here."

It would not be helpful to add and he's tried to kill me on more than one occasion, even if it is more truthful.

Fakir's eyebrows come down again, in unsubtle disapproval. "We've met. Briefly."

This surprises her less than perhaps it ought to. At the very least, his disapproval does not seem to register with her.

"I can understand. I certainly haven't met everyone at my own school, and if your paths don't often cross there then there's no reason to think that they ought to cross here as well." For such a bold-faced lie, Punie tells it well, and with sincerity. "I was mostly curious, because he doesn't often talk about where he comes from. And I don't want to pry, because that's not nice, but I would like to get to know him better."

If Autor isn't telling this girl all about Goldkrone, Fakir himself certainly won't. Instead, Fakir shrugs. "It's only a small town."

That's true, of course, but severely incomplete.

"That's what it sounds like." From the very, very little that she has been able to glean from him, that is. Closer to the anonymous Japanese town she lives in now than to the great capital city of Magical Land. "I can see why he likes coming here, to be able to meet new people and ask them about where they're from. Or read about them in the library."

A shadow crosses her face then, as she murmurs to herself, "I wonder if he ever found out who was cruel enough to damage those poor books...."

Fakir's posture tightens. He stands taller, chin raised, eyes intent.

You've caught his attention now, Punie.

"Damage books? How were they damaged?"

She doesn't smile. That would give the game away.

"He said that they were vandalized," she says sorrowfully. "I didn't get a very good look at how they were damaged, but whatever had happened to them sounded like it was done deliberately. And it wasn't just one book, or even two or three. There were stacks of them." A pause. "He was looking through them in the library not too long ago. I can understand why it would have upset him so much."

Fakir counts books off in his head. That book of stories, and the one about the knight who became a bard, and the book about the Quest for the Grail, and--

Of the last five books I've read, three had sections torn out. Really torn, with ragged edges where the pages used to be. And the other two -- there was something about them --

Fakir thinks fiercely and quickly, his brow knitted in concentration.

"Stacks of them?" Fakir echoes Punie's description. "Stacks of damaged books? I can see," he says thoughtfully, "why someone who loves books might be upset."

Is Autor someone who loves books? He might be.

But the books Autor found, how were they damaged? Fakir would very much like to know.

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