Post by Judas D'arc on Dec 18, 2019 17:24:53 GMT -5
“If we all looked the same, we wouldn't play these games;
Me dressing for you, you dressing for me;
Undressing for me.” -- Faces and Names by John Cale and Lou Reed, 1990.
Their secret encounter, ill-lit by waning moons’ light, where troubled seas touched dusty shores. A pair of sailors boots, hard-worn and leather, leapt from a derelict, wooden skiff to soft sand, as a pair of fashionable shoes, recently debuted at the Tailor of the Isle, slipped across the city in small, furtive steps. They passed each other outside the house of the dead, without a kind greeting or glance of acknowledgment, then twice-walked its perimeter in opposing directions, until they were assured of privacy. Then, slowly and softly, they opened that iron gate, so as not to disturb the residents, or any passersby. It was not their first time.
They kept their tones careful and muted, although an occasional exchange or phrase was not concealed in its entirety. Two voices, not the same, yet not dissimilar. Complementary.
“The Skaran farmer knows not a thing of true value,” said the wearer-of-boots, “but others know about her. One of these times when inaction can yield more.”
The wearer-of-shoes nodded in agreement. “A trail as dead as those who laid it.”
“Though, there’s one marker that’s at risk of repeating himself.”
“Fact now, not just rumor?” The sigh was thoughtful and lacking in judgment. “Those links are too direct for my liking. I shall arrange for someone to keep watch. Most probably Percival.”
“No trust in the old promises?” The grin was brief, but not subtle.
“As dead as those who made them. The ship?”
“Flawless to the tiniest plank. The land?”
“Percival exceeded all our expectations. The family?”
“Playing all parts, like planned. And the prize?”
“For the taking. They shall claim it soon enough.”
Each then reached for the other, tightly clasping hands as they did so, their gazes comfortably entangled. They had the same eyes. Just like their mother.
“Blood is all,” whispered the wearer-of-boots.
“Nay.” A slight shake of the head followed. “Blood is us.”
Me dressing for you, you dressing for me;
Undressing for me.” -- Faces and Names by John Cale and Lou Reed, 1990.
Their secret encounter, ill-lit by waning moons’ light, where troubled seas touched dusty shores. A pair of sailors boots, hard-worn and leather, leapt from a derelict, wooden skiff to soft sand, as a pair of fashionable shoes, recently debuted at the Tailor of the Isle, slipped across the city in small, furtive steps. They passed each other outside the house of the dead, without a kind greeting or glance of acknowledgment, then twice-walked its perimeter in opposing directions, until they were assured of privacy. Then, slowly and softly, they opened that iron gate, so as not to disturb the residents, or any passersby. It was not their first time.
They kept their tones careful and muted, although an occasional exchange or phrase was not concealed in its entirety. Two voices, not the same, yet not dissimilar. Complementary.
“The Skaran farmer knows not a thing of true value,” said the wearer-of-boots, “but others know about her. One of these times when inaction can yield more.”
The wearer-of-shoes nodded in agreement. “A trail as dead as those who laid it.”
“Though, there’s one marker that’s at risk of repeating himself.”
“Fact now, not just rumor?” The sigh was thoughtful and lacking in judgment. “Those links are too direct for my liking. I shall arrange for someone to keep watch. Most probably Percival.”
“No trust in the old promises?” The grin was brief, but not subtle.
“As dead as those who made them. The ship?”
“Flawless to the tiniest plank. The land?”
“Percival exceeded all our expectations. The family?”
“Playing all parts, like planned. And the prize?”
“For the taking. They shall claim it soon enough.”
Each then reached for the other, tightly clasping hands as they did so, their gazes comfortably entangled. They had the same eyes. Just like their mother.
“Blood is all,” whispered the wearer-of-boots.
“Nay.” A slight shake of the head followed. “Blood is us.”