milliways_bar | (no subject)

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High summer is upon the bar, and the garden is overflowing with color. Two figures enter from the side door with armfuls of vibrant blooms. After settling at a central table, ten-year-old Rae Seddon proceeds to instruct Autor in the time-honored art of making flower crowns.

The boy found it to be a little like knitting, in a way. Completely frustrating and only resulting in beauty after his fifth try or so. Ever the happy teacher, Rae beams at him as he perches the first of his suitable attempts on her hair.

Botherable.

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"Interesting ornament," Dr. Lecter says when he finally comes up to Autor wearing his flower crown. "And interesting contrast to the explosives in your pocket."

Autor draws a short breath through his nose and reaches for his tea. "I do like flowers. They're both beautiful and remind me that life is transient," he murmurs, brushing the flowers to the side to clear a space. "But I am intrigued, Dr. Lecter, as to how you know the latter. Not many people do."

Thank goodness Rae left when she did.

Edited 2013-07-20 23:17 (UTC)

"The lovely, intriguing scent of your irises, gladiolae, and laurel doesn't quite drown out the gunpowder," Dr. Lecter says. "I noticed the last time already, but didn't want to alarm dear little Rae. What are you planning to do, accidentally destroy your own gonads?"

Pause.

"Did you know that in some languages, gladiolae are known as sword-lilies?"

"That's a more ambitious target for them than my fingers," he says, sipping his drink. "You have an amazing sense of smell, Dr. Lecter."

He glances up, where the flowers rest. "Yes, I did. What of it?"

"It makes me wonder why you'd seek glory by the sword," Dr. Lecter says.

"I'd like to make a joke along the lines of, 'have you ever been sliced by a sword? They hurt', or even, 'I'm thin and swords are heavy; I don't know how much glory I'll be getting from one'," Autor says, wrinkling his nose. "But you'd see through any attempt at levity, I assume?"

He grins, leaning back. "You're the reader. You tell me."

"You'd expect to slice yourself?" Dr. Lecter says. "In addition to pocket explosions? You are self-destructive today."

"Today?" Autor says, raising a brow. "I've had people suggest that managing my level of self-destruction is a twenty-four-hour occupation."

He sniffs, maligned.

"Who is watching you while you are writing?" Dr. Lecter teases.

"Clearly you," he teases back, raising his cup, "to have noticed so many things about me."

"The smell of gunpowder in the evening is intriguing," Dr. Lecter says, still amused. "Especially mixed with those grandiose plants."

"Live by the sword, die by the sword," Autor says, reaching up to touch the blooms, "crown yourself in lilies of the sword. The explosives are just for fun."

"Forsaking the pen, then, even though it is mightier?" Dr. Lecter says. "Hardly likely. Will you be giving us fireworks later?"

"Mm, possibly, should they strike my fancy," he says, straightening a snapdragon. "Why do you ask?"

"A fun and creative use for explosives, more worthy of a writer than whatever you were going to do with these?" Dr. Lecter says.

"Fireworks determine the worth of a writer? I would think that blowing off one's own gonads would offer more material," Autor says, raising both his brows. "But that's an interesting categorization, Dr. Lecter--one which makes me wonder which other little boxes you're employing in your definition of writers."

"You never set off fireworks of wit and surprise in your tales?" Dr. Lecter smirks. "Dull, my young friend. Very dull. Instead, you berate the agonies of emasculation?"

Removing the Crown of Parody as he stands, Autor unintentionally offers him a spate of stunned laughter. "Aha, I should have known you'd belabor that point," he says, bowing ever so slightly. "Clearly you should place me back on the shelf, Reader; it seems that whatever I do, I am not to your tastes."

"I am sure I have simply not tasted enough yet," Dr. Lecter says, "and the appetite would come with the eating."

Edited 2013-07-21 23:15 (UTC)

Autor spins a burdock root between his thin fingers, and then ties a bright white dogwood flower to it. "Why bother with something so unpalatable to begin with?" he asks. "You direct my activities towards what you believe is worthy, and then imply that I have leeway to explore them. It seems like quite a bit of effort."

"As the reader, I am always keen to improve a writer, for my own benefit," Dr. Lecter says. "Much as I'd improve an orchestra as a listener, by providing constructive criticism."

"Then surely you understand that constructive criticism is just that--appreciated, but up to the discretion of the artist regarding whether or not to apply it," Autor says, carefully adding a bit of moschatel to his collected greenery.

"At the risk of being found rudely obstinate, or unplayable, of course," Dr. Lecter says.

Autor leans on the desk, and crushes a few petals of Daphne odora between his thumb and forefinger to better take in their scent.

"Which you vehemently dislike," he says. "What is your definition of rude? It seems rather ephemeral."

"Rudeness is a lack of civilisation," Dr. Lecter says, "and civilisation is the set of rules and skills that allows us to live together in larger groups of specialised individuals. Cooking, books, music or psychiatry need civilisation as its underpinning to exist at all. At times, civilisation breaks down, and the result is utter mayhem. Nothing is sacred any more at such times. I treasure civilisation, as without it, marauding louts might simply invade my pantry or smash my harpsichord."

[[meta: this may have been the slowest tag in the history of RPage, but the answer to that question merited several days of meditation. the answer came to me in the least civilised place I was ever in, namely, on a short hike in vatnajökull national park. input from saph has helped a lot, also.]]

Edited 2013-07-27 20:25 (UTC)