[ If only there were any place in the world devoid of guns or blood.
Small mercies: of all the villages and hamlets and cities in this world bolstered by the weight of corpses and war, Mère-Lachaiselongue is built on deaths long past. Stones like dried skulls crowd the walls of the inner mausoleum, and the veinous cluster of roots running through hard-packed dirt are like the dried hands of something ancient and unbothered by the passage of time.
Regis, perched on the edge of a sprawling sarcophagus lining the far wall of his inner sanctum, is reading when his new houseguest arrives as a pile of color and bell-chime curses. It's startling in a way that not a lot of things are, lately; he supposes that he should have every inclination to hide, to vanish before this spontaneous crash-landing can threaten the tenuous equilibrium he's made for himself here.
Instead, Regis closes his book over his knee. Gets up with a soft sigh, and steps into flickering candlelight. ]
Mind the flasks, please. [ Gesturing to a little pile of decoctions just to the colorful stranger's left. ] I suppose asking you if you're quite alright will sound more facetious than well-meaning, so I'll rephrase: are you hurt?
[ Barber-surgeon. His voice remains even, his concern wary but sincere. ]
no subject
Small mercies: of all the villages and hamlets and cities in this world bolstered by the weight of corpses and war, Mère-Lachaiselongue is built on deaths long past. Stones like dried skulls crowd the walls of the inner mausoleum, and the veinous cluster of roots running through hard-packed dirt are like the dried hands of something ancient and unbothered by the passage of time.
Regis, perched on the edge of a sprawling sarcophagus lining the far wall of his inner sanctum, is reading when his new houseguest arrives as a pile of color and bell-chime curses. It's startling in a way that not a lot of things are, lately; he supposes that he should have every inclination to hide, to vanish before this spontaneous crash-landing can threaten the tenuous equilibrium he's made for himself here.
Instead, Regis closes his book over his knee. Gets up with a soft sigh, and steps into flickering candlelight. ]
Mind the flasks, please. [ Gesturing to a little pile of decoctions just to the colorful stranger's left. ] I suppose asking you if you're quite alright will sound more facetious than well-meaning, so I'll rephrase: are you hurt?
[ Barber-surgeon. His voice remains even, his concern wary but sincere. ]