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Entry tags:
- ace attorney: athena cykes,
- eureka seven: anemone,
- harry potter: remus lupin,
- harry potter: sirius black,
- homestuck: jade harley,
- homestuck: rose lalonde,
- inception: ariadne,
- killjoys: dutch,
- merlin: merlin,
- narnia: edmund pevensie,
- star wars: rey,
- the vorkosigan saga: byerly vorrutyer,
- wynonna earp: wynonna earp
video; un: eproghuefgdzptrrw
[ Byerly Vorrutyer is sitting in front of a piano, fingers on the keys. Byerly Vorrutyer is also, apparently, drunk. There's a bottle of brandy in front of him balanced beside the music rack that's two-thirds drained, and there's a tiny sway in his posture, and he looks sloppy - suit coat opened, shirt-collar loosened. When he speaks, his voice slurs. But as he talks, he plays Chopin beautifully, expressively. He only misses the very occasional note. ]
God help me, but this place is dull. And I know from dull. I spent an entire season - an entire season! - on the Vorinnis estate on the South Continent. If Lady Vorinnis hadn't been there to distract me with all her deliciousness, I'd have actually, literally, died of boredom. I nearly set fire to the whole taiga. Roasted all the little birdies and rabbits and peasants. Pheasants. Peasants. Whichever.
[ He sighs mournfully, casting a sorrowful glance at the camera. ]
Say, fellows, how does a man have fun around here? It's clear no one knows how to play whist, so that's out, and dueling for laughs seems tacky. I've already watched a few of you brutes bash one another's faces in, which had its charms and no doubt, but the time for that is over. I can't play bed, wed, behead with you, because you're all proles of no account and no education who wouldn't know the high-society names I mention to you. Oh!
[ He sits up a bit, stopping his playing mid-note, right before the end of the first section of the piece. What a musical anticlimax. ]
I've got one. I'll write limericks about you. Tell me a bit about yourself, and I'll write limericks. Go on, do. They'll be funny, I promise - this is one of my favorite games. Absolutely kills at parties.
[ And then, with a small bow - ]
Byerly Vorrutyer, Emperor of Barrayar, at your lyrical service.
God help me, but this place is dull. And I know from dull. I spent an entire season - an entire season! - on the Vorinnis estate on the South Continent. If Lady Vorinnis hadn't been there to distract me with all her deliciousness, I'd have actually, literally, died of boredom. I nearly set fire to the whole taiga. Roasted all the little birdies and rabbits and peasants. Pheasants. Peasants. Whichever.
[ He sighs mournfully, casting a sorrowful glance at the camera. ]
Say, fellows, how does a man have fun around here? It's clear no one knows how to play whist, so that's out, and dueling for laughs seems tacky. I've already watched a few of you brutes bash one another's faces in, which had its charms and no doubt, but the time for that is over. I can't play bed, wed, behead with you, because you're all proles of no account and no education who wouldn't know the high-society names I mention to you. Oh!
[ He sits up a bit, stopping his playing mid-note, right before the end of the first section of the piece. What a musical anticlimax. ]
I've got one. I'll write limericks about you. Tell me a bit about yourself, and I'll write limericks. Go on, do. They'll be funny, I promise - this is one of my favorite games. Absolutely kills at parties.
[ And then, with a small bow - ]
Byerly Vorrutyer, Emperor of Barrayar, at your lyrical service.
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Little jewelled daggers do sound pretty.
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How long do you think you'll be, being melancholy at the piano?
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Melancholy? I'm just bored.
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Well. It was just a guess.
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They say that Chopin heard one of his students playing his etude, and he broke down weeping, sobbing - Oh, my homeland. [ Another key played, and then he drops his hand, taking a breath to center and square himself. ] I do wish I felt a little more over what happened to Barrayar. It makes me feel inhuman, just how little it's affecting me.
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[Said as someone who forces himself not to cry as much as possible because God, once it starts it's so damn hard to stop. Said as someone who knows people who weep too much, and achieve nothing by it.
Said gently enough, even so.]
Finding yourself numb in the face of loss is far from inhuman. On the contrary, to be numb is to have something inside yourself you're trying to protect.
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[Also, why make someone into something they already hardly seem able to help.]
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[ He plays a languid arpeggio. ]
Ah, well. No matter. I'm being dull. And you have the most charming habit of seeing the best in people, don't you? Ah, I do like that. You really do have a freshness about you.
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Loss fucks people up. And there is so much of it, we're fucked up over and over. Maybe, since it happens so often we should learn to accept it with nothing more than good grace and a brave smile but it's impossible. Loss turns some of us into screaming wrecks and some of us into statues and who knows how you'll be affected this time, or the next. So I'm not going to judge someone on how they lose things, that's all.
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You missed your true calling. You should have been a Betan therapist.
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You're going somewhere with this. Come on, get to it.
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Living in a glass house myself, I do try not to tell others how to hammer in nails. I was sharing, as people sometimes do in the process of getting to know one another. And I've no interest in playing agony aunt, but if something seems reasonable like - maybe you should learn to throw a punch, I might suggest it.
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