[At first, there is only silence. Rather like how it was at the Beginning of All Things, though Louis doesn't fancy himself nearly so grandiose as all that
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[And you just did the best thing anyone possibly could in this situation. FED HIS EGO.
He really needs a warning sign. 'Do not feed after midnight'. He may not multiply or turn rabid like certain small fuzzy gremlins one might name, but Ezra does earn a wry chuckle.]
Is that any way to treat a maestro?
[But, almost obligingly, he rattles off a short little trill. It conjures images of fish, catching sunlight along their sleek silver forms as they leap from their watery territories for the sheer joy of living.]
But seriously, where did you learn to play, you're amazing.
[Ahh, that music, beautiful. You're too generous, Louis. His species has a certain appreciation for music that others lack, and hearing you over these comms is the equivalent of finding a large, unguarded pile of gold with a note taped to it saying 'here, for you'.
[This open transmission would be your son attempting to formulate some response to this incredible solo, but his mouth is gaping and his mind is filled with inadequacies - even as it commits everything to memory in the hopes that he may one day use it.
Lady Dawn and he had played out the beauty of music, but his perception is that they never quite compared, limited by the scope of his experience. Eliot thinks he could only play half so good, but an artist is their own worst critic.
Yet, to play this half so good would be to stand in the shadows and footsteps of his father. Is that right for them?
That doesn't matter, not right then. It's just one more thought jumbled in his brain and blocking the flow of words, a statement that might do Louis justice.]
That--
[Frog in his throat? Maybe. Eliot tries something less complex, drawing on their last conversation to summon something familiar - a gift for his father, though poor return on what he just heard.]
Louis's thoughts turn to a cant he's unused to. Not melancholy, no, but something else, older, deeper. Fierce pride twined with the acceptance and acknowledgment of impending obsoletion.
You may have tomorrow, Eliot, but Louis has today. For the time being, he is content with that, and is currently feeling magnanimous enough to be proud of it, of you. So strange, to think of his part in your creation. Such a fragile thing he finds in you, and nurtures.]
[Where he stands, Eliot's brow is furrowed in concentration as his memory replays this impossibly one-manned symphony and compares it to the notes on the playing card and his memory of that.
Your son: Completely oblivious to the things going on in your narrative.]
That was different from Hamelin's Lament.
[Not question, not accusation; only a statement from a boy starved for more music, more variation that he could draw upon, learn from his father.]
[It's probably best that way. Eliot might be a little more wary of daddy if he knew all the Infernal thoughts that putter about in his Infernal mind.
Audrey would think them nothing worthy of note. Typical. The same sort of lies and sinuous thinking that saw her cut his shadow, powers and heart from him. But Audrey would be only half correct.
Infernal instinct of course, was to kill Eliot. There was no way to sugarcoat that. There was a reason they did not reproduce. A reason they warred amongst themselves, and a reason they enjoyed it. Though Louis fancied himself a touch more refined than certain cousins he could name, he was at his core one of them.
And he hoped, though such a thing was alien to him, that Eliot was the same. For no matter what his instincts bade, damnit, he cared for the boy.]
This is a segment of its fugue. Thematically similar, but ideally polyphonic. It's difficult to replicate with only the pipes.
[Say it, Louis, say it, say it--]
I'm quite certain you could master it, with some practice.
[threadjack - IT'S ALL FOR YOU, DAD]infernaldorkFebruary 1 2011, 03:22:19 UTC
Yeah.
[Eliot is not claiming the music, not at all. He continues his statement.]
That's my dad.
[There is part pride and part envy there, not to mention part 'if you decide you want Louis for a tutor, just say so now and he will totally understand' added for fun!]
HE IS A LITTLE INSECURE - after that performance, who wouldn't be?infernaldorkFebruary 1 2011, 03:36:07 UTC
Yeah, he is. And he's pretty cool.
[Eliot is not sure how else to respond to that. Don't most people have dads? Despite thinking his was dead for most of his life, he had known that one existed. It's just that he'd known him as dead, not as the impoverished hobo that took dumpster-diving to an Olympic level.]
They're called 'panpipes', I think.
[Rule 34 rears its ugly, ignorant head. Eliot is not actually certain.
And then, in an attempt to actually sound like he could be the progeny of this maestro, he clears his throat.]
I have a set I could show you.
[For the record, he is scuffing the ground with his foot.]
Alice! Alice Kingsleigh, at your service. Terribly lovely, father would have liked it too, so long as there wasn't any dancing involved, he did so dislike quadrille. I'm fairly certain that's where I got my distaste from, though I confess I do like a good Futterwacken.
Comments 118
[Someone isn't very happy. B|]
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[Why does he always encounter the women with the long memories and the iron will? It must be fate.]
I daresay I've found what you're looking for, though, should you care for it still.
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That was good. That was really good.
Play more.
[Ordering people around? Never.]
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He really needs a warning sign. 'Do not feed after midnight'. He may not multiply or turn rabid like certain small fuzzy gremlins one might name, but Ezra does earn a wry chuckle.]
Is that any way to treat a maestro?
[But, almost obligingly, he rattles off a short little trill. It conjures images of fish, catching sunlight along their sleek silver forms as they leap from their watery territories for the sheer joy of living.]
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But seriously, where did you learn to play, you're amazing.
[Ahh, that music, beautiful. You're too generous, Louis. His species has a certain appreciation for music that others lack, and hearing you over these comms is the equivalent of finding a large, unguarded pile of gold with a note taped to it saying 'here, for you'.
Meet your new number one fan.]
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It's just a small amount of skill I've picked up over the
[many, many, many, many, many]
years. It's hardly remarkable.
[Oh is that false modesty? IS IT? If you answered 'yes', guess what! You win a NEW CAR!
That is totally a hint: moar ego stroking plz.]
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Lady Dawn and he had played out the beauty of music, but his perception is that they never quite compared, limited by the scope of his experience. Eliot thinks he could only play half so good, but an artist is their own worst critic.
Yet, to play this half so good would be to stand in the shadows and footsteps of his father. Is that right for them?
That doesn't matter, not right then. It's just one more thought jumbled in his brain and blocking the flow of words, a statement that might do Louis justice.]
That--
[Frog in his throat? Maybe. Eliot tries something less complex, drawing on their last conversation to summon something familiar - a gift for his father, though poor return on what he just heard.]
Lies and salutations?
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Louis's thoughts turn to a cant he's unused to. Not melancholy, no, but something else, older, deeper. Fierce pride twined with the acceptance and acknowledgment of impending obsoletion.
You may have tomorrow, Eliot, but Louis has today. For the time being, he is content with that, and is currently feeling magnanimous enough to be proud of it, of you. So strange, to think of his part in your creation. Such a fragile thing he finds in you, and nurtures.]
May you destroy everything you touch, son.
[You hear that, Eliot? He's smiling.]
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Your son: Completely oblivious to the things going on in your narrative.]
That was different from Hamelin's Lament.
[Not question, not accusation; only a statement from a boy starved for more music, more variation that he could draw upon, learn from his father.]
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Audrey would think them nothing worthy of note. Typical. The same sort of lies and sinuous thinking that saw her cut his shadow, powers and heart from him. But Audrey would be only half correct.
Infernal instinct of course, was to kill Eliot. There was no way to sugarcoat that. There was a reason they did not reproduce. A reason they warred amongst themselves, and a reason they enjoyed it. Though Louis fancied himself a touch more refined than certain cousins he could name, he was at his core one of them.
And he hoped, though such a thing was alien to him, that Eliot was the same. For no matter what his instincts bade, damnit, he cared for the boy.]
This is a segment of its fugue. Thematically similar, but ideally polyphonic. It's difficult to replicate with only the pipes.
[Say it, Louis, say it, say it--]
I'm quite certain you could master it, with some practice.
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Oh, wow!
[THAT WAS AWESOME]
That was awesome!
[DID YOU DO THAT]
Did you do that?
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[Eliot is not claiming the music, not at all. He continues his statement.]
That's my dad.
[There is part pride and part envy there, not to mention part 'if you decide you want Louis for a tutor, just say so now and he will totally understand' added for fun!]
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[Eliot is not sure how else to respond to that. Don't most people have dads? Despite thinking his was dead for most of his life, he had known that one existed. It's just that he'd known him as dead, not as the impoverished hobo that took dumpster-diving to an Olympic level.]
They're called 'panpipes', I think.
[Rule 34 rears its ugly, ignorant head. Eliot is not actually certain.
And then, in an attempt to actually sound like he could be the progeny of this maestro, he clears his throat.]
I have a set I could show you.
[For the record, he is scuffing the ground with his foot.]
When we meet like we talked about.
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Why, that's really quite lovely.
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I am glad you could find some joy in it, Miss, ah--?
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Alice! Alice Kingsleigh, at your service. Terribly lovely, father would have liked it too, so long as there wasn't any dancing involved, he did so dislike quadrille. I'm fairly certain that's where I got my distaste from, though I confess I do like a good Futterwacken.
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[Insert extravagant courtly gestures here!]
It is a time for confessions, it seems, for I have no idea what a 'futterwacken' might entail?
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