Aleron Grantaire // R (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fitofgrandair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sirenspull2012-12-16 06:45 pm
fitofgrandair) wrote in sirenspull2012-12-16 06:45 pm
Entry tags:
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.]
[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.]
no subject
Sense argues that it is best not to be captured and bundled away. Sense says that if it happened to Enjolras, if Enjolras has become a slave...
What is that, what is that, what is Grantaire to make of it?
He almost protests when the girl snatches the bottle, but holds his silence after realizing that she means to bring it along. All right, then. As long as she hasn't made some grab to claim it for herself. (Never mind the fact that she purchased it; he needs and damn well deserves it.)
Leaving, he glances around and tries to make note of faces, location. Then the tavern is behind them, and Grantaire finds that already he has largely forgotten the place and its patrons. The world around retains the blurred quality of incomprehension, his mind elsewhere, chasing after problems that it cannot patch.
To ground himself and to keep from venturing into the topic on his mind, Grantaire poses a question, an attempt at casual speech. "Tell me of this Madame Hattie. Is she a creaky crone, a buxom entrepreneur, perhaps a swindler in or out of disguise?"
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"Follow me close, M'sieur, or you'll lose me. Unless it is that you do not mind being seen in my company?"
She begins to walk.
"Hattie... Well, she is a lady, and she makes me call her so. She has blonde curls and blue eyes, and she wears lovely clothes. She can be lovely, when she likes, but she can be horrible too. She gave me a room but she makes me work for nothing. And she marched me to my third job so she does not have to provide. She can be spiteful and call me names; she likes me to remember I am poor. But she lent me a dress for the ball and her own jewellery, snd she teaches me to be a lady."
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The woman in question sounds not too far removed from the social aspirants that fluttered so vacantly through Paris, carping about the latest ball or the hold on their newest dress. "Madame Hattie sounds like a thoroughly charming harpy, and I've no doubt you draw considerable satisfaction from her employ. Such fulfillment she allows you: the impression of becoming a lady! Do you enjoy writhing in her claws? Or is it indeed the sheer pleasure of playing dress-up that draws you?"
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Eponine peers down an alleyway.
"You don't mind, do you? It's quicker not to go through the real streets."
She sets off down it, regardless.
"I do not writhe in her claws. But dress up... You know how long it was since I had a new dress before I came here? That old skirt was my mother's. A woman died in that blouse I had before it came to me. And I had worn those for two winters already. M'sieur, it is natural for girls to long to be beautiful, or at least well dressed. So do NOT scorn me. If I were a lady, grand men would love me. So do not scorn me. Do not."
She turns back, obviously upset. "She thought I had murdered her sister - I did not, M'sieur - but it was work or the guillotine - or perhaps here, gallows. I do not know, and I had no wish to find out. But My Lady - I hate that - she is not so bad."
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"If you were a lady, rich men would lust after you." The remark is almost indifferent, a correction. Grantaire has noted the girl's agitation regarding his so-called scorn, but this time feels no particular remorse. The girl is sensitive; that is her matter. His own concern remains tied to her earlier revelations.
Regarding the rest, he is slightly more mindful. The girl has seen and shouldered through much, and in any case, it is better for his own cause to keep from pushing her away entirely. "But it is not my place to illustrate your life. The situation confounds me, but if the arrangement is to your liking, what right have I to intercede?"
All of the right in this world or any other, but he'll let it pass for now.
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She smiles sadly, forging ahead so she can keep her back to Grantaire.
"Is lust so bad, M'sieur? I do not think it is."
She ducks down a little opening.
"Now this one, never at night, M'sieur. Monsters lurk here, and they will try to eat you. It is best not to go out once the sirens sound, but if you cannot help it, stick to bright areas."
She chatters on like this for the half hour of walk, talking about the monsters she's seen. As they get closer, Eponine can't go through alleys; they don't exist near Hattie's house. Instead, there are leafy trees and wide streets. Hattie's house sits by itself, surrounded by a pretty garden. It's a two storey affair, and looks relatively modest on the outside.
"You must be very quiet now, M'sieur. Hattie doesn't know you're here. We will go to the kitchen so I can clean and you must say, if you do not mi nd, that we are old friends, and you heard I lived here. If she comes."
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Closely trailing after the girl, Grantaire half-listens to her talk, gaining a slow appreciation for the warnings regarding darkness. Save for in brief responses, he doesn't bother to speak; she seems perfectly content to talk away, and he isn't about to throw her off again. Not now.
When they reach the house, he half-shrugs at her instructions. "Yes, of course. The very oldest." He wasn't certain that being 'very quiet' was a possibility, but they would know with time. What mattered for the moment was moving inside and prompting her to share as much as she could.
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The kitchen is huge, though more rustic in style than the hall. The lighting is soft, and the furniture is all wood with jints of marble. A large scrubbed table stands in the centre of the room, surrounded by chairs. Eponine puts the wine down, and fetches a glass for Grantaire.
"You would like food? Cake? Or fruit? Or eggs?"
She picks up a pail by the table, and sticks her hand in. "Cold. I must boil a kettle again."
She fills the kettle snd sets it to boil, Before turning to Grantaire.
"Now you may speak."
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"You say that Enjolras has been... enslaved." Hard to say, hard to comprehend. Grantaire drinks again. "All of this is new to me; o brave new world, indeed. You must say again how this happened, and where he is. How he might be reached. And is he... Is he well?"
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"Yes. He is enslaved." She picks up her brush and plunges it into the water, before beginning to scrub the floor.
"Well, M'sieur, I will start at the beginning. There are two companies, that people say are equally evil, but that I do not know about. There is SERO, and AGI. Now SERO, I have nothing to do with; it is for the educated, the people who know of magic and science. But AGI - they cater for everyone. They run - and excuse me - they run the brothels and the prostitutes and the newspapers and such things called 'televisions'.
When I first came, I was taken there and told I was to work there."
She looks up, gaging his reaction.
"You can judge me for that, but I had no one, and nothing. I needed somewhere to stay, and I was already known as a thief. Nobody would hire me. But whilst I was there, I saw that there were people worse off than me. They were chained and drugged and given the worst jobs. Some jobs - they were not pleasant. They were -"
She shudders.
"-But what they had to do... No. Far worse than me. And so when M'sieur Enjolras came, he made me come to him and I was telling him this, and he wanted to help the slaves. I said..."
She told him she'd help, because he was Marius' friend. Eponine crawls forward into the patch she had scrubbed, scrubbing the next bit of floor now."
"I said I would help, and that I could get him the key for the slave quarters and he could free them. Only, he did not wait, and he was arrested and sold at the slave markets. And somehow, my boyfriend ended as his master. I didn't know though, but I was told he was a slave and so I thought I would help him, so I broke into the club, where I was told the papers were - but I was caught as well. I was fired and now they look for me to step out of line. If that happens..."
She looks up at Grantaire. "Well, I do not know. Sold or kept chained in their club, I suppose."
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By the time the girl pauses, Grantaire hardly knows where to begin, so he starts by grabbing the bottle and glass and moving to the floor, where he can watch the girl more closely. He's already something of a mess; what harm can it do? Such conversations are ill-suited for distances. And why is she insisting on cleaning the floor right now? There may be a reason, there may be a fear, and Grantaire doesn't push it, only wonders.
After all, there are other matters to address. He can see the situation now, or at least set forth some version of it (some of the words still don't make sense, after all). If it seems absurd, accept it anyway. Nothing can be done until he opens to its unknown, so-called logic.
It isn't hard to picture Enjolras's reaction to this world. Nor is it difficult to believe that he recruited this girl in pursuit of an impulsive cause. From one to another...
But there is something else. "What a lovely girl, to have taken such risks. Enjolras is fortunate to have had you fighting for his freedom." There is honesty somewhere in the statement, but Grantaire can't believe that the girl acted entirely without aim, though he is unable to identify what that might be. "But does it extend so far as the sacrifice of your own freedom? What man or woman would willingly choose chains?"
Another drink. "Still, you may speak, and speaking may move worlds." That's a laugh. Grantaire half-smirks, but carries on. "And you will be rewarded, and all who bask in heaven's light will be rewarded. Only speak more, give words and so shed understanding. I must know where to find Enjolras and how I might contact him." With all of these devices and incomprehensible practices, there must be a way.
Something else. "And I pose a question: Is this man, this master still your lover?"
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"M'sieur... what are you doing? You will end up dirty. Or wet with bleach. That makes your clothes go white."
Eponine's face clouds a little when Grantaire compliments her; is he really criticising her? Eponine's not sure and she dislikes it.
"What is the point of us both being slaves, M'sieur?" That, and Marius is no longer in Port. There is no point seeking his approval now, is there?
"I have quite enough without M'sieur to look out for too; there are these jobs, and then I must work for M'sieur Gold - I owe him money - and then I have a job so I can GET money - and that is at night. I do not complain - but when I do not work, I sleep. I am in enough trouble, M'sieur."
She goes back to scrubbing the floor vigorously. "He lives at the House of Awesome. Deadpool is his master, but he has his NV. He used his when I asked him to, when Marius had gone. Perhaps he will answer you, too? The other way - well, I can take you to the house, and you may ask for him."
She refuses to look at Grantaire as she answers his question.
"I don't know. I told him it was over - but it is nice to be loved. Nobody else loves me. M'sieur Deadpool... he looks after me. But love him? I do not love him. But he loves me. Perhaps I will go back yet, if he will have me. He is better than no one."
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"And I don't say that you ought to do more. Only that I am surprised that you have done so much. Many have rallied to Enjolras's call, but your dedication stands out. One might venture to say that you wished to impress him. Or that you are exceptionally selfless." Neither, so far as Grantaire can see. But the empty suppositions have their use in speech.
"Whatever the case, you are obviously an enterprising girl, and there is no need for you to cast your life away. I am told that to watch hope perish is a terrible thing."
He considers the possibilities that she has offered, and the answer seems obvious. "However, if it will not destroy you, I request that you lead on. I do not exaggerate when I say--" Grantaire has gathered himself to stand, but stops as reason catches up with impulse.
"Ah. No. No. How often we outrun ourselves, and in doing so, wreck havoc with all purpose." Another glass, and the bottle is nearing its end. He needs a moment to think, to let this turn of thought filter through and overtake his immediate urge to see Enjolras and speak to him in person.
The situation is difficult. Enjolras must have suffered under the very label of slave and the sting of its irony, aside from whatever pains and tasks the slavery might entail. To suddenly confront Enjolras in this situation would be ill-advised. And then, Enjolras has never been particularly receptive of Grantaire. If he is going to get anywhere, Grantaire must advance carefully, giving Enjolras notice of his presence before taking further action.
Grantaire doesn't much care for the idea, but it seems most apt, and he pledges himself to adhere.
Mulling over these ideas, he addresses Eponine in a somewhat absent tone. "I will begin with these devices, and hope that I may count on you if further steps are required?" Which may well be the case; he has minimal faith that Enjolras will respond. "Your aid has been invaluable."
And he can't resist--he can never resist: "In love, be ever careful, for affection may soon twist to rage, to resentment, to every manifestation of the pain that coils through the human heart."
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"Perhaps I am simply foolish. But -"
And here she looks up.
"I do not cast my life, M'sieur. But dreams - these leave you hungry and often sad. Work, theft - these give you money and clothes and enough to get by. What more should you wish from life?"
A lot more. Eponine loses herself in her own thoughts of love and hopelesness, her regret over Cosette, how she had behaved as a child; for it must be a punishment and a reward from that God who is said to exist, how they have both turned out. She loses herself, as usual, over her memories of Marius, how she had led him to Cosette; that internal debate over whether she should have done it. And, lost as she is, she stops scrubbing, and she stops listening to Grantaire. She doesn't know what he's talking about anyway.
She comes back in to hear him speak of love. And immediately wishes she hadn't. He describes her heartbreak over Marius perfectly, and now her conflict over Deadpool. She's silent for a minute, and she takes up her brush again, scrubbing vigerously.
"Do you know love, M'sieur? It makes you do anything for a person. It is more powerful than the Patron Minette, love. It should be a weapon, and yet, I am told it is a gift. Sometimes, I think heartless like my parents would be better."
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"I might say the same about love. To know love, one must first believe in the possibility of its manifestation. My mind may compass love as a concept, but as anything more... Who are we to class these shifts within ourselves? Who are we to ensnare our caprices and changing moods in immutable terms? As if we might hold onto anything.
"Man's--and, pardon, woman's--rage at love may stem from a desire to believe too firmly that this star-struck devotion in fact exists. Where is love but in words, in our minds, in a world of ideals that can never intersect with actuality? We exist in a state of perpetual desire and label our passing wishes deep-felt passion.
"The truth of all love is illusion. The edge of love's dagger is our own ignorant, wonderfully stubborn capacity for belief."
All apt enough. But he has other matters to consider. Taking a drink from the bottle, Grantaire considers the--what is it again?--the NV tucked into his jacket pocket. A device through which he might meet Enjolras. And it can't be too soon. After the final moments... Well.
So, write him. Leave words to which he may respond. Give him space, give him time; the wounded lion is never pleased at being seen in seeming shame.
But perhaps Grantaire can be of aid.
Perhaps waiting would mean the harmful delay of any aid.
And speaking through this NV is so distant, so unreliable. Already finding himself jarred out of position (or whatever little position he had ever held) in this unknown and unknowing world, Grantaire feels no particularly strong urge to work through its particular systems. Better to bypass those unknown mediators. Better to simply go.
Simple as that.
Grantaire laughs quietly and pulls himself to his feet, taking another drink. "'Ponine, I may have been struck with a great madness, but this is a day for taking leaps as well as vacillating. This is a day the like of which have never been set down. Who then is to say what may occur? Who then is to say what stands for sense? You claim to know where Enjolras is, and so implore you to lead be thither.
"Quickly, now. Shall we?"
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She scrubs quickly whilst he talks, crawling around the kitchen, and grunting every now and again to show she's listening. His words are relaxing, trancelike almost. They seem to run in circles and trip over each other. She scrubs, quick quick quick until she finishes that half of the kitchen. Done. Now there are only potatoes to peel and chop before she goes to Mr Gold's.
She stands up, smoothing down her wet skirt, and picks up the bucket to pour down the sink, still letting Grantaire's soliloquy run over her head.
But then she hears her name - her nickname no less, and she turns in astonishment.
"How did you know to call me 'Ponine? Most people say Eponine, you know? I like that you call me that though, 'Ponine."
She has no idea what a lot of the other words mean, so she looks a bit blank at first, but then she laughs.
"I will tell you what will happen. I will peel potatoes and go to Mr Gold's to clean, and then I will come here and make Hattie's dinner before leaving for Uzushio, where I will clean another kitchen, and then I will to bed. That is what shall happen, M'sieur."
And then it occurs to her - he had never stopped talking and she hadn't replied aloud, apparently, or he was choosing to ignore her.
"You wish to see M'sieur Enjolras? Now?"
She looks around quite helplessly at the kitchen. There's the bag of potatoes... But, she HAS been good most of the week. Hattie will just have to deal with it. Eponine wants to see Deadpool again.
"I will take you, M'sieur. It is another walk, though."
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