Kotomine . . . Kirei (言峰 綺礼) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
structuraldefect) wrote2012-12-19 08:07 pm
structuraldefect) wrote2012-12-19 08:07 pm
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[rl] [kirei + gilgamesh] walking in a winter wonderland
[The worst part about fighting snow filth was cleaning up after it.
He lacked some of the magical skills and abilities put on display during the melee. Black Keys, it turns out, aren't very much good against piles of snow. Not in any sort of specialized way, at least. Still, he's alive, at the moment, and it seems the snow has finally taken the hint and stayed down this time.
Right now, he's shoveling the pathway around the church. The snow might vanish when the virus ends. Or perhaps it will simply melt in the heat. Already he notices the lack of people noticing. A localized snow plague, nothing more and nothing less.
Still, it is something to do, so it's something that will get done. He shovels the walk, all the same. Watches the last few flurries shake out of the trees.]
He lacked some of the magical skills and abilities put on display during the melee. Black Keys, it turns out, aren't very much good against piles of snow. Not in any sort of specialized way, at least. Still, he's alive, at the moment, and it seems the snow has finally taken the hint and stayed down this time.
Right now, he's shoveling the pathway around the church. The snow might vanish when the virus ends. Or perhaps it will simply melt in the heat. Already he notices the lack of people noticing. A localized snow plague, nothing more and nothing less.
Still, it is something to do, so it's something that will get done. He shovels the walk, all the same. Watches the last few flurries shake out of the trees.]
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Cold doesn't bother him. He's cold enough to begin with. A chill in the bones that runs deeper than the chill in the air.
He speaks up, the air puffing into a visible cloud.]
It's hardly petty. If it's left alone, someone might trip.
[And hurt themselves.]
Where've you been?
[A slight raise of the eyebrow.]
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A half-laugh, and it carries - sharply. Cuts easily across distance, though narrow it becomes, with the effortless tread of footsteps. A predictable answer - a predictable response. He holds temptation like a chain in his hands, but it is not firm pull that greets him. It is not more than fainter trembling of shoulders - lightly: ]
Around the back of the church? [ A mirrored arching of an eyebrow, as he passes. As the snow and ice does not impede him - his balance - as he lets the current of his motion catch him. Close, but not close, as he steps easily over the walkway - turns, fluidly: ] Would it not be their own error, should they trespass?
[ Steam coils from behind teeth and off tongue - around the curve of lips - gives the illusion of smoke or fire as he shields himself beneath an overhang - rests his back against the sturdy walls of the church as though he had always known its structure, its contours. Or, perhaps, it had familiarized itself to him as he seems to abate the cold with little more than the languid slide of his hands into his pockets - the fainter tilt of his head, lazy - and out of the crosswinds. ]
The manor has lost its charms, [ offhand. An allowance, though not an answer. A means of continuing conversation, as he observes him absently - notes his tolerance of the weather. A strange anomaly, to be certain, but the snow held far less interest. ]
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Maybe. But we can't take that sort of chance.
[His father insisted upon it. Clean walk the entire way around. But his back wasn't as strong as it used to be, which left only one option for shoveling. He hardly minded, truth be told, and he found the cold air rather refreshing. Much more freeing than the stone building could be at times. The cold hung around like icicles in the gutter.]
Does he know you've wandered off?
[Idly. Sets to work scooping the next part of the walk. Lets loose the snow and ice crystals that cling so stickily to the path.]
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None that he can see.
Or maybe there is one. A nagging sort of voice, like snowflakes on the back of the neck. Not that he finds the work distasteful.
He doesn't have to keep his head so far down.
But he raises it, as he raises the shovel and raises his gaze to look at Gilgamesh's shrugs. Wonders what the silence qualifies as. The distaste that flows through the shrug and the absence of caring is answer enough, he supposes. He doesn't shake his head, but he is tempted. He doesn't laugh, but he is tempted. He shovels walks and keeps the church in order, but he is tempted.]
I'd guess not.
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That'd be up to you. Wouldn't it?
[Another pile removed from the walk. He takes longer this time, to return the shovel to the task. Distraction. That's all this was. It had to be. Idle hands and devil's playthings. Work, constantly, to keep them busy. To keep them focused to the task. To keep him walking the pathway, so he doesn't go so far astray.
Every time he looks over at Archer, he feels it's already too late.]
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It hardly matters. He shifts his grip on the shovel. Scoops the next pile. Returns the gaze, if not the bubbling up of laughter. He's frozen in place as much as the snow and ice around them. It'd take more than one sunny day to defrost.
And he knows he was once almost gone for good. Somewhere far off but still close. The echoes of pain up his shoulder, and the sound of a laugh.]
Is that all you have to say?
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It has to be done eventually.
[More idle. Just a conversation, more or less. It shouldn't feel as if he's walking a tightrope.
It doesn't. Not entirely. Not as much as it maybe should.]
You can wait inside, if you'd like.
[A gesture to the church. Almost a shrug.]
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Surely you have better things to do than watch me clear the path. [A scoff.]
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Did I?
[Oh. There it is. He shrugs his shoulders, still scoffing. Palms the handle of the shovel as he sets to work. Goes a bit slowly. It wouldn't do to be so hasty. The work'll all get done in good time. He looks up, having cleared the way, and noticed the lack of golden earrings swaying. He smiles as he turns his head down, returning to the shoveling.
He doesn't know why. It feels like...
Victory.
A small one. But victory nonetheless.]
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He tilts his head, almost. Scoffs, voiced. Looks away, to the snow lining the path. Down. Rests a hand on the handle of the shovel. Lets the wind whip his hair as it picks up and drops off.]
I'd go faster if you'd stop pestering me, Archer. [He glances up to face him again.] In any case, the work's still getting done.
[He turns away. Another shovel to the pile. Another foot or so cleared.] I can keep this up for much longer.
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And oh, he does. He does indeed. And there's still a sort of quiet to it. An inability to boast. The work will get done because it must, and because he's capable enough to do it. The cold doesn't bother him, and he doesn't work overly hard to keep it at bay. Only feels it in his fingers and the depths of his heart.]
Of course. Don't tell me the cold's getting to you?
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[The layer of cloud breaks. Sun peaks through. It makes the cold worse, in his eyes. The promise of a clear day in the depths of winter. Worse still is the notion that tomorrow this snow will all melt away. A tomorrow that feels like ten minutes from now, and three days that feels like yesterday. The haze like fog that clutters his head, that can't be escaped.
Still he works. Time passes. He's not sure how much. The sweep of wind across the path. The shifting of cloud. The shivers down his spine. The blade of the shovel. And always, there's the work.
Until he breaks. A survey of the path uncovered. Rests the shovel against a nearby tree, still covered with leaves despite the chill and the frost and the snow. He smiles, accomplished.]
Coming in?
[And he walks inside his father's church.]
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He leans against the wall. Arms crossed in front of him. Glances to the hunched over ancient king making do with a blanket. There's a chill in his bones, or something deeper than that, but he pays it no mind. Tries to, at least. He isn't sure if he succeeds.]
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Surely you can do better.
[Is he referring to the blanket or the dare? Either way, he doesn't clarify. He stays by the wall for a time. Hears and sees the rise of challenge. An order. He's become an expert in them. He eyes the chair, and the empty space he's probably meant to fit into.
Is it a compulsion, then, that makes him sit down? The inability to disobey? Or is there something else to explain it? A sort of willingness? Maybe something of both, or something of neither, and in any case it hardly matters when it results in the same action.
Sitting in the chair. Hands in his lap, held together to keep the cold at bay.
And waiting.]
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Really?
[But he breaks the gaze. Faces forward. Reports. Not quite relaxed. A routine to it, if not for the topic. And as he speaks, without even quite being aware of it, slowly the robotic quality fades away. The stiffness of it all. He still attempts to keep himself at bay, but things seep out of the corners and become lost.]
It isn't much of a story. They appeared in the early morning. Apparently, my teacher and his family built them, as I'm sure you already know. [Then why did he say it?] They quickly grew in numbers, which made fighting them more difficult than anticipated. However, once a perimeter was established, it was just a matter of holding them back until the spell broke.
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He doesn't realize he's left himself an opening, or that he's falling down into it. He just answers like he was told, in the way he does the telling. He nods his head a bit. An acknowledgement.]
They seemed to take joy in it. At the time, at least.
[And then he continues on. An easiness to it. Truthfully, the snow filth was difficult to deal with. More came up for every one put down. Still. He managed well enough. More than well enough, to be honest. But bragging didn't suit him. He stated plainly, and tended toward the understatement. When he was... well, as good as he was? He didn't even feel the need to boast.]
The sheer amount of them made keeping up difficult at times. But, for the most part... no, it wasn't very difficult at all. The trouble was in setting up the perimeter, but once it was established... dealing with them was quite simple.
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Yes, I've heard. I doubt he'd believe the actual story, so I'm fairly sure that's where the blame will stay.
[What are you talking about? Snowmen came to life the other day, a time far removed from winter to hammer the point home. If any point was the time to tell about this place, it was this one. And yet he'll keep this detail to himself. Shift the blame to a third party. A very useful third party. The sort that's already raising heat and anger in the wake of the crimes. It wouldn't take long for someone like Tohsaka to lose patience, in the name of his morality.
Why is he thinking of things like this? He shakes his head, and dismisses the thought. Becomes lost in the matters of counting.]
Mine? [A thoughtful pause, followed by a thoughtful hum.] To be honest, my teacher's fire usage won the day. [Another pause. A deep breath, as if swallowing around water.] However... the black keys worked well enough. I suppose I must have felled around twenty or so, not counting the ones Assassin took care of.
[Another pause.] I admit, it became difficult to keep track.
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But those sound like justifications, somewhere deep down in a place he supposes might count as a conscience. And he still hasn't sounded concerned for his teacher. At all, actually. Perhaps he gives him too much credit. Perhaps he supposes the concern is unwarranted. Perhaps perhaps perhaps. It still doesn't change what he didn't say, and what he'll continue to not say.
He continues on, following the thread of conversation and unaware of the growing ball of yarn behind it, in which he'll inevitably be entangled.]
They refused to stay down for very long, it's true. Vicious little things, too.
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A few seconds, maybe. Not long.
[-- exciting.]
Yes. It's why holding the perimeter became essential.
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Oh? [A head tilt. Interest. Something close to it.] And how did your battles go?
[Returning a favor. Or at least returning a question.
When everything crushes together, what will remain of this conversation? What feeling would stay? Or would they all fade away, lost to the spaces between flashes.]
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In that moment, just for a flash, Kirei almost swore he saw the future. In vague shapes and vague patterns, but clear and distinct. Tokiomi would keep giving orders. Archer would keep disliking them. Until he couldn't take it anymore. Until the last line had been crossed. And there would be no going back.
Kirei lets Archer's voice wash over him, and keeps what he knows of the line to himself.]
I doubt the community would take your notes. It seems most of the others found themselves overrun.
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He thinks the both of them have been cheated, in a way. Surely there must be something more he's meant for than assisting his teacher and his father. And surely, Archer's wish would have to remain unfulfilled.
Kotomine Kirei still doesn't have a wish, despite the pit of dread that opens whenever he feels himself edging towards what he wants.]
It seems I have. [An acknowledgement.] Still. Perhaps next time, the community will take skill levels into account.