fic: "All the Points of the Compass" (Organization XIII, #4)
Title: All the Points of the Compass
Author: laylah
Claim: Organization XIII
Character: Luxord
Theme Set: Light
Theme: #4, Wisdom
Disclaimer: Squeenix owns me, not vice versa.
Summary: Luxord has a...philosophical discussion with a pirate, in the course of duty.
All the Points of the Compass
"May I?" Luxord asks, reaching for one of the apples in the bowl on the table. They're gorgeous, bright gold enough to belong in a classical tale. The pirate's eyes follow his gloved hand avidly, watching him select the choicest of the bunch and lift it to the light to admire the color.
"Be my guest," the pirate captain murmurs. The words clearly cost him a great deal.
Luxord smiles. "Thank you." He takes a bite, and finds himself surprised -- the apple tastes too perfect, as well, crisp and tart-sweet, more like the idea of what an apple should be than the mealy, tasteless reality one might expect on shipboard. "My compliments, Captain Barbossa," he says. "This really is superb."
Barbossa's answering smile is ghastly and strained. "Perhaps in return," he drawls, "you can tell me what it is you want with us."
"Of course," Luxord says. "I'm gathering information for my," and there's never a word that feels quite right for Xemnas, "employer, and...forgive my bluntness, but you and your crew are unlike anything I've run across in my travels. There's not a man on this ship who's alive, is there?"
A beat of silence, as Barbossa stares at him. "You be counting yourself among that number?"
"Perhaps." Luxord shrugs one shoulder. "My kind are always a bit tricky to pin down."
"Devils," Barbossa guesses, and when that nets him only another shrug, he nods. "True enough, though, as regards my crew and myself. It's a rare man who can see our curse, when the sun be shining."
He ought to just ignore the implicit question, but Luxord supposes that volunteering a little information never hurts, when one is trying to win cooperation. "It's a rare man, if you'll pardon me for boasting, who has my particular talents." He gestures with his apple as he speaks. "There are few things that are common to everything that lives, but one of them is...within my power, let us say." The pirate will think of this as more evidence that he's a demon, but that may yet be an advantage. "There's one course that all of them chart, and follow without hesitation. Everything living moves toward its death." He holds up what's left of his apple, focusing on it, nudging it down that slope so that time collapses on it all at once, the apple browning and whithering and then crumbling to dry dust in his hand. Even on such a small scale, it's exhausting to speed time this much, to compress months into moments -- but the reaction it provokes, the pirate's rheumy eyes wide and staring, is worth the effort. "Everything living, Captain. But not you."
The silence doesn't quite have time to settle before Barbossa laughs, a harsh barking sound that does nothing to hide the starved frustration underneath it. "You don't miss much, do you? No, death won't have the Black Pearl. Ten years, we been courting her, sending her gifts with every ship we take, and still we've yet to lift the curse."
"I'd think it would be quite useful, really," Luxord says. "Surely men in your profession have a distinct use for the ability to avoid her attention." He flips his wrist, fans out a hand of cards: spades, the black spot, the gravedigger's shovel, the point at which luck runs out.
"Aye, if that were all," Barbossa agrees. "But a man who doesn't live doesn't feel." He glances at the bowl on the table, and back at Luxord again. "Tell me, did you enjoy that apple?"
Luxord smiles faintly, and nods to acknowledge the hit. His cards fold, and disappear back into his sleeve. "Tell me the story of this curse, Captain. It's just possible that we might be able to help each other."
"The curse," Barbossa starts, with the tone of a man who knows his tale and relishes it, "belongs not to us, but to a stone chest, filled with medallions of Aztec gold."
Luxord sits back in his chair, getting comfortable. He likes this tale already.
For all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure. - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
Author: laylah
Claim: Organization XIII
Character: Luxord
Theme Set: Light
Theme: #4, Wisdom
Disclaimer: Squeenix owns me, not vice versa.
Summary: Luxord has a...philosophical discussion with a pirate, in the course of duty.
All the Points of the Compass
"May I?" Luxord asks, reaching for one of the apples in the bowl on the table. They're gorgeous, bright gold enough to belong in a classical tale. The pirate's eyes follow his gloved hand avidly, watching him select the choicest of the bunch and lift it to the light to admire the color.
"Be my guest," the pirate captain murmurs. The words clearly cost him a great deal.
Luxord smiles. "Thank you." He takes a bite, and finds himself surprised -- the apple tastes too perfect, as well, crisp and tart-sweet, more like the idea of what an apple should be than the mealy, tasteless reality one might expect on shipboard. "My compliments, Captain Barbossa," he says. "This really is superb."
Barbossa's answering smile is ghastly and strained. "Perhaps in return," he drawls, "you can tell me what it is you want with us."
"Of course," Luxord says. "I'm gathering information for my," and there's never a word that feels quite right for Xemnas, "employer, and...forgive my bluntness, but you and your crew are unlike anything I've run across in my travels. There's not a man on this ship who's alive, is there?"
A beat of silence, as Barbossa stares at him. "You be counting yourself among that number?"
"Perhaps." Luxord shrugs one shoulder. "My kind are always a bit tricky to pin down."
"Devils," Barbossa guesses, and when that nets him only another shrug, he nods. "True enough, though, as regards my crew and myself. It's a rare man who can see our curse, when the sun be shining."
He ought to just ignore the implicit question, but Luxord supposes that volunteering a little information never hurts, when one is trying to win cooperation. "It's a rare man, if you'll pardon me for boasting, who has my particular talents." He gestures with his apple as he speaks. "There are few things that are common to everything that lives, but one of them is...within my power, let us say." The pirate will think of this as more evidence that he's a demon, but that may yet be an advantage. "There's one course that all of them chart, and follow without hesitation. Everything living moves toward its death." He holds up what's left of his apple, focusing on it, nudging it down that slope so that time collapses on it all at once, the apple browning and whithering and then crumbling to dry dust in his hand. Even on such a small scale, it's exhausting to speed time this much, to compress months into moments -- but the reaction it provokes, the pirate's rheumy eyes wide and staring, is worth the effort. "Everything living, Captain. But not you."
The silence doesn't quite have time to settle before Barbossa laughs, a harsh barking sound that does nothing to hide the starved frustration underneath it. "You don't miss much, do you? No, death won't have the Black Pearl. Ten years, we been courting her, sending her gifts with every ship we take, and still we've yet to lift the curse."
"I'd think it would be quite useful, really," Luxord says. "Surely men in your profession have a distinct use for the ability to avoid her attention." He flips his wrist, fans out a hand of cards: spades, the black spot, the gravedigger's shovel, the point at which luck runs out.
"Aye, if that were all," Barbossa agrees. "But a man who doesn't live doesn't feel." He glances at the bowl on the table, and back at Luxord again. "Tell me, did you enjoy that apple?"
Luxord smiles faintly, and nods to acknowledge the hit. His cards fold, and disappear back into his sleeve. "Tell me the story of this curse, Captain. It's just possible that we might be able to help each other."
"The curse," Barbossa starts, with the tone of a man who knows his tale and relishes it, "belongs not to us, but to a stone chest, filled with medallions of Aztec gold."
Luxord sits back in his chair, getting comfortable. He likes this tale already.
For all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure. - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead