milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Ganymede is in the bar today with one of his dogs at his feet, writing in a journal of his. It's thick, and leatherbound like an exceptionally old library encyclopedia book, and almost two-thirds full of writing.

He's idly humming a little melody from his childhood as he writes, sometimes looking up and tugging on the tiny silver feather earring he wears in one earlobe, or tilting the wineglass on the side table, twirling it around his fingertip as he thinks.

Botherable.

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Olivier sits at a table nearby, a medical book far ahead of his time propped open before him as he eats. He spots the dog and offers it the meaty bone of his mutton.

Ganymede notices when his dog has left him, missing the warm weight of her head on his ankle and looking up to see her nosing at Olivier.

"If she's bothering you, I can call her back," he offers, pen paused above his spot on the paper.

"Not at all, sir. But I have a bone left over and thought she might like it."

"By all means, then," he says, gesturing towards Ameera and murmuring her on towards the young man.

Olivier smiles and talks to the dog in Arabic, offering her the meaty bone. "She is a most beautiful animal."

"She is. She makes beautiful pups, too," he chuckles, finding the Arabic speech, as always, pleasant and like an exceptionally lyrical bird trilling along.

"Are you from the middle east yourself, or do you just speak the language?"

"I have no doubt. She looks strong and of good breeding." Olivier strokes the dog's flank softly.

"I was born to the city state of Antioch in Syria. Are you of those lands, sir?"

"I am from near there," he nods. "I am from Troy, in Anatolia. Present-day Turkey, though I haven't lived there in quite a while."

"I have not travelled to Anatolia but all I know who speak of it's beauty. I have seen Constantinople. A beautiful city. So much so it is hard to believe it was raised by the hands of man."

"It's been a very long time since I've lived there," he says. "Mostly, I traveled west of there, to Europe and a bit south to the northern rim of Africa."

"So far? Such glories you must have seen!"

"I am on a journey myself, to England. There to help my lord protect and care for his brother's orphaned children. It is a place wracked by bloody civil war and he worries for their safety in this time uncertain."

"Oh, I have been much farther than that," he says. "To Shangai, to Russia, to France and England. I live in America now," Ganymede murmurs.

"What year are you coming in from?"

"I have hear much of America though I fear neither the place or it's bounty will be known in my time."

"I am from the year of our lord 1135. Any you, sir?"

"Two thousand fourteen, myself," he says. "California--the western coast of the American continent, on the same ocean that brushes China." It's easy to explain it that way; and indeed, Ganymede remembers a time himself when he didn't know of America, didn't know of the lands and oceans and the sheer wondrous breadth of the world. And now that he's seen it--it's altogether too small sometimes.

"Forgive me, though. I haven't introduced us. That is Ameera, and I am Ganymede. And you?"

"I have come to learn much of the Americas. It is the land from which chocolate comes." The bar got him hooked on something he can't get at home.

He bows deeply. "I am Olivier de Bretagne, at your service." He gives Ameera a gentle scratch as she makes the most of the bone. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Well. Mostly, yes," he chuckles. "It is made in Europe as well, though."

The bow he returns with a tilt of his head, and a smile. "And you as well. Are you French?"

"Not in my time, I fear. The bean from which it is made is only found in the Americas. From the books of history I have read here, the Americas will not be known for many, many years. Not in my lifetime, I fear."

"The English lord who gave me my Christian name was of Norman stock, from France. He chose it because the herbs use reminded him of the cooking of Brittany."

"It likely won't be landed on, no, but I have little doubt people know about it," he chuckles.

"He chose it? Why didn't you?"

"More is the pity, I fear."

"I took my father's faith after my mother's death. Sir Robert presented me to the church and stood as my mentor at my christening. It was a great kindness of him to suggest a name for me."

"So you are a Christian," he says. "I've never understood the draw of religion, particularly. But then I admit to having strange circumstances."

He ducks his head a little. "In my time, faith is all. It defines who you are. For me, it is the rhythm of prayer, the beauty of a great brasilia, the way my heart and soul soar when I hear the choirs sing and fill the air with their love for God."

He smiles a little, his voice soft and secret. "In truth I would be thought a heretic for my prayers. I still pray to Allah each night. He has the keeping of my mother's soul and for that I thank him."

He can't not smile, though the expression is touched by something like sadness, long since subdued. Ganymede rarely thinks of his contemporaries, the mortal ones long dead and by now even their bones turned to dust. "In mine, the practice of worship was important. The gods were important to us on earth--but we were not nearly so to them. That I learned firsthand."

The rhythm and ritual of prayer is somewhat lost on a man who has lived so long, seen so many changes. He'd call himself jaded if he didn't still respect at least the power of those divinities, even if he lacks any for them personally. "Perhaps yours is different. I hope sincerely he is."

"May I ask what happened to make you lose faith so?" His question is soft and gentle, ready to accept a no should Ganymede not wish to speak of it.

He sighs, but not out of impatience, just a sense of having to think consciously to remember all the pertinent details. Not that Ganymede would ever truly forget, but some of the memories are fuzzier than others.

"I...knew a god for a very long time. Very...intimately. He was not in any sense kind or respectable, save for his strength. The experience somewhat colored my view of the divine."

"I am very sorry." Olivier drops his voice softly. "I know gods walk amongst us here. I guess I never thought that one of them might be so cruel."

"Thankfully," says Ganymede, "He doesn't come here. Whether by inability or disinclination I don't know, and am not entirely worried about finding out. But you don't have to be sorry about it. It was a very long time ago indeed."

That doesn't mean the wounds people don't see are healed any more than they were, but it means he's had the time to deal with how he presents them.

Olivier is young and inexperienced of the world but he knows long suffering when he sees it. "I am glad you are free of him here."

"As am I. But I can't--more than that, won't--sped all my time here simply because Zeus is not," he says, shaking his head.

"But such decisions are the way of life."

He nods, understanding the need to stand strong as a free man. "That is wise and shows you are a man of strength."

Ganymede chuckles. "Many people would disagree with you on that. All it particularly shows is that in some things I am very stubborn."

"I would have thought stubbornness in the face of injustice a virtue?"

"It's complicated," he says quietly. "Very much so."

He nods a little bow to Ganymede. "However complex it may be, I see before me a man who knows his mind. And takes strength in that. That is no small thing."

"There is not much else a man can take strength in, to be honest. Self-reliance is a good thing to a point."

"Are you not happy with your life?"

"You mistake me. I am content with my life thus far. On the whole I don't suppose it's been very bad."

"May I ask, do you live here? Or do you make your home elsewhere?"

"I don't live here most of the time, no," he says. "I have a room, but I live in California. And elsewhere, when the idea suits me."

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