ataraxionlogs | (no subject)

CHARACTERS: Jean Prouvaire & Death
LOCATION: The Kitchens
WARNINGS: None
SUMMARY: Meeting of the minds. A romantic poet fanboying over death incarnate. Tea.
NOTES: N/A.

He had rather taken to the tradition of having a cup of tea; a tradition that was not his own, but fancied, and then adopted, as with so many traditions of other cultures and times he had discovered in dusty books in Paris, and in other people, abroad this ship; ever since the picnic with Seraphim in the gardens. That he had gotten a good deal better at brewing it, and felt almost a meditative quality in watching the water boil and then cool to a level at which it would not burn the darkened leaves trapped in their little satchels, only added to the pleasure of the task.

When the ship had been very cool in places, he had welcomed the warmth of it. When too warm, he had left it to get chilly in the freezer, and it was as a tonic in ten minute's time.

There was also a bit of joy in the knowledge of how much sugar to add (much), and what went well with it (chocolate, of which he had a little left), and the feeling of having some mastery of something in this room with its bizarre machinery and its daunting ingredients.

So, Jehan waited patiently astride a kettle, watching the steam begin to curl from its lip with gently engaged interest.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She remains entirely calm through his reaction. She's used to it. And she answers him simply. "I've had a lot of names over the years, but Death is what I am." It was simpler that way. Though she had become awfully partial to Didi in the past few years.

"I'm not on duty here." That was always a good thing to clear up early. Otherwise it tended to make people uncomfortable and that was the last thing she wanted.

You must excuse him if his eyes widen just so, and his hand upon the curvature of the cup slows to nothing, dallying in its task, if not forgetting it altogether.

Because you, Lady Death, have just admitted to being the fabric on which all romantic epics are spun, the thread that is cut at the finish of every Greek poet's life, the integral frays that punctuate the end of a bolt of otherwise flawless silk, marking each as unique and measuring each by where it began and where it has ended. Also, truth be told, a friend whom he has fast forgotten; shamefully enough; as he is certain he must have met you before, in his final earthly moments on Paris' streets.

"Ereshkigal of Babylon, Nephthys of Egypt, Freyja in the Germanic poems lauded of the 13th century, Macaria in Greece's eye, mĕmītǐm in concept in the old Biblical tales, and called the twelve-winged one in the Hewbrew Midrash." He breathed out through a smile, and his rambling on the matter was at least reined in by his desire to only refer to her as the female titles. Male Gods of death were much more plentiful, in myth and story.

So suddenly shot through by excitement and awe as was rare in him (but with a grip so hard it would take a moment yet to shake it yet), he went on, still smiling: "Yes; you have had many names. You showed Dante the poetic justice contrapasso while he journeyed through fierce dangers, and were kind to the leaders of the siècle tortu in Aubigné's tragedies; 'As a swimmer runs out of depths in his dives, He is all out of death as one out of a dream... Here we do not need a new dress, Because we are dressed in eternal splendor.'"

So, he's a little bit thrilled. Just a little.

"...But. Didi, you said, you prefer?"

That... was not at all the usual reaction. She was used to fear not... excitement. And a rather impressive list of deities from various pantheons. It was refreshing, in a way.

"Yes, all of that." As she'd said, she was older than just about anyone on board. Perhaps all of them, she hadn't exactly done a survey. It wasn't really important. "Didi was a name I used the last time I was mortal. There are a lot of people who aren't exactly comfortable walking up to me and saying 'Hi, Death!'"

Dream had never entirely understood the fear. But she got it.

"I cannot imagine why not. You are a friend that we all shall meet someday, and a destiny that is certain. To find that you are as comely as you are kind in voice, mien, and intent might only be a comfort; for many view Death as something darker, more sinister, and with a frigid, boney grip..."

A smile then, into his collar, sheepish.

"Forgive me. I do not wish to insult. And I suppose I can imagine why such an introduction might startle most." A nod. "I will call you Didi, if you would call me Jehan? A nickname, too."

She smiles. "Jehan, then. And don't worry, I'm well acquainted with how other people see me. There's a reason I decided to be a more comforting presence."

It was kinda nice to talk to someone who didn't expect her to look like... well, her fiance, if she was being honest. "You're a poet, aren't you?"

His brows rose gently at that, some surprise surfacing on his face, but hardly shading the delight still bright about it.

"It is obvious to you? Of course, Death would be wise." A beat, a pause before; "Or... do you recall me? I must admit, I don't recall having met you, though I know that I must have."

"The different worlds make that a little more complicated. But I've met a lot of poets." Well, all of them so far. But that wasn't the point. "Poets have always seen me differently. I sometimes wonder if my brother had something to do with it."

Dream was so awkward, but she could imagine it being his version of a kindly gesture.

"Your brother?" Asked, with a upward arch of brows, before he quite remembered he was to be getting to the tea things. Going to prep the glasses now with the bags, he went to turn the heat upon the kettle down, and to pour. "Poets are reverent of death, surely; and the romantic poets almost more so than the classic ones."

"Dream." Well, she has several brothers. But Dream's the one who matters at this particular moment. "Poets and storytellers fall under his domain."

Perhaps it was his strange way of thanking her. Though they were family, she needed no thanks for caring for him. "Sometimes he'll inspire one as a gesture to someone else."

"Your brother is Dream?" Why, that was the most charming thing he had ever heard, quite frankly. "...He sounds like a sweet brother to have, to give such a gift. Do you have many siblings?"

Passing her her tea, now, and taking up his own cup.

"He has his moments." Oh, sure, sometimes she just wanted to throw things at him, but he he was her brother and she loved him. "There's seven of us and all. Destiny, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair and Delirium."

She was already preparing for the comment about the letter D.

"That's a rather large family. Do all the children... match their names, per say?" Delirium sounded interesting. Despair as well. Destruction? Less so.

"And did you want for any sugar, or lemon?"