sirenspull | VIDEO

This is…

[A man’s face appears, expression an odd mixture of the sardonic and amiable, with perhaps somewhere a buried uneasiness. His eyes speak of unbelief and an energy without direction.] This is the strangest book that I have ever seen. Consider my very conception of books boggled, beaten into an utter absence of understanding. I have seen a book made… What is it they call this, again? No matter, let us say ‘made monstrous,’ reshaped to suit an unearthly purpose. Am I speaking to you? I’ve no idea who you are, or whether you exist. Yet let me speak! For there is no thrill in life equal to the sound of one’s own voice.

Let it be know to all naysayers and reluctant theorists, to every doubting Thomas, that we truly do exist in the most glorious of worlds, where a man may perish one moment and roam free the next! How foolish we are to believe we might die, how foolish to fear the end when every end is a beginning! Why, just think, we may continue in this manner forever, cycling from one life into another into another, and never forgetting, and never finding darkness. The scholars of optimism would call us creatures of eternal light. Why have we wasted such years in shuddering before the great god Death, when we might in rapture have praise the god Unending?

Will it never, never end. [He blinks, appears discomforted for an instant, than shrugs.]

And here stand I, believer in nothing, adherent to no doctrine. You may count me as lost as any other man, here and elsewhere, now and forever. I am a man without port, a creature lacking in connection. I belong to this world no more than to any other… ‘This world.’ I’ve yet to know what this world is, or if it is a world; if I may be classed as alive, dead, mad. What of these titles? Call me exile, call me one of un-belonging. I will answer or ignore to my liking.

But while we’re at it, a drink? What do you say? Ah, I would give my kingdom for a bottle of wine. Of course, my kingdom amounts to a thimble—That isn’t so, I haven’t got a thimble. But I would gladly take the wine, anyway. Come, lend a hand. If you must have payment, let me serenade you with a harangue or two.

I will tell you what most surprises me: that it is not emptiness that waits beyond, but more life, or whatever we would feign call life. This, well… This puts all of my knowing to shame. [Grantaire smirks, any sign of unease covered.] But that I am accustomed to, for who can trust to knowledge? It has been a joy speaking to you; we must do this again sometime. [With that, the screen blanks, and he is gone.]

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Life is just what happens before you die. I know that some who had died before they were pulled here see this place as a second chance at life. And another who might have preferred to stay dead.

[He pauses, unsure of how to continue. Then:] I wouldn't know if there was a real afterlife. Even to me, the other side of death isn't visible.

And who are you, who can--if I presume correctly--see so much more, but cannot glimpse the afterlife?

[Something about this man's face--if this is a man, and after some of what he has heard, Grantaire can't be certain--is arresting, almost an alert... Perhaps he can see. And perhaps he only speaks what he believes. Either way, his words are of interest to Grantaire.]

Whatever the case, I applaud your definition of life: "what happens." Well said! We may separate occurrences and deem some momentous, may select events to be crowned as pinnacles and historic landmarks, but in the end, all runs into a wash of occurrence. All simply happens. And if what you say is true, it appears that this happening is no respecter of death.

[If he can see something different, then Grantaire is more perceptive than most. Or maybe this talk of death makes Vincent's mask of unassuming meekness slip a little. In any case, he's a little embarrassed by Grantaire's question. He doesn't like to put on airs, so the following words are spoken quietly and plainly. Just facts.] In my own time, and my own world, I am the Agent of Death. But here and now, I'm just Vincent Law.

Sorry, what I meant to say was that anything that prolongs life, whether as mundane as nursing an illness or an injury or as incredible as resurrection, is only 'postponing the inevitable' as you said. You might have 'cheated death' once, and you might do so again, who knows? But eventually you will die for good.

Is that impressive? I ask honestly, for I am sure we all know agents of death: I myself have ended a number of flies. On or two, at least. And soldiers might well be labeled nothing more.

[Grantaire knows only what he hears, informed by the recent fracturing of existence. His own instincts have been shaken somewhat by the shift, but he has nothing else to trust to.]

But death itself, that eternal mystery. If you were the Agent of Death and are not any longer, how am I to believe that death will come, here? For all that I know, your version of death no longer exists. And my own... Perhaps I am dead and alive, yes? Given this recent turn of events, I no longer know whether to trust any one man or agent's definition of death. But of course you understand the difficulties.

Heh. I never thought of it that way. [Is that a smile? It's too faint to tell for sure.]

I claimed the title in my own world to fulfill a specific purpose, one that can't be fulfilled here. I still hold the title, but it isn't needed at present.

I see your logic, though. You can say that you're alive in this world, and dead in your own.

Ah, but I cannot say how worlds may be separate, how I may jump from one to another... Or whether I am even dead in the world that I left (if, again, we may speak of separate worlds). My presumption is that, yes, that I is what might be called dead, but I can prove this no more than I can prove that that world exists any longer. Garbage philosophy, all of it, but what else have I?

And what, may I ask, is Vincent Law? If not an Agent of Death in action, how is it that you class yourself, what is it that you do?

No one can trust their own perceptions completely. But if we constantly doubted the evidence of our own eyes and the contents of our memories, we'd surely go mad. We need some point of reference, however flawed.

I can only tell you what I suspect, and what I have been told by others. The Core seems to have all the control over our coming and going. I say seperate worlds because the Earth I came from had no Siren's Port nor any Darkness like the one that falls every night here.

I'm just someone who determines his own fate.

Edited (icon fffffffffffff) 2012-12-18 15:58 (UTC)

Just that, hm? If we could all just determine our fate, we might be in a far less sorry state. Although I have my doubts. And doubts, and further doubts. As you say, that way lies madness, but what are we to do, who hold no faith in reference or evidence?

[Grantaire smirks, laughs shortly.] But an answer may interest, and an answer may entertain. While we live, why not discourse, why not attempt? If without ultimate use, it serves at least as distraction. (I warn you, Monsieur Vincent Law: This very attitude may be an evasion.)

But tell me. What manner of force or being is this Core?

Ah, that's the question to which everyone wants to know the answer. It's the thing responsible for the presence of us Newcomers, and also for the Darkness, so we're told.

... Did the greeters give you the spiel when you first arrived? I'm afraid I don't know anything more than they do.

[Of course it would be mysterious. What self-respecting force of control would ever allow itself to be known?]

There is always some undefined explanation; give a creature a brain, and it will immediately create reasons for all that it sees, then place on these dubious reasons the stamp of incontrovertible truth.

Upon arrival, I was met with a rush of words that I have yet to understand. I am not the dimmest of men, but these unknown terms... [He shrugs.] It takes time to redefine one's comprehension. If you could add a few words of your own, you would have my appreciation.

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