'Nother tiny fic-bit
Aug. 11th, 2004 11:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bodldopsI've got lots of bits, but not so many full stories. Alas for my lack of focus!
I want to go home.
I am tired of hiding in dark corners and deserted alley-ways, only able to go about the city in disguise. I am tired of hearing news of my wife from Ramses, or from elders gossiping in the cafes about the illustrious Father of Curses and his family. I am tired of watching the dark circles under Ramses' eyes grow darker every night. He doesn't sleep, you know. I think he knows that I know, but he never says anything. Neither do I. We cannot afford to be weak at this point of the game. Those bloodthirsty young revolutionaries will slit his throat if they even suspect he is playing them.
The cafe is crowded tonight. Thick tobacco smoke (as well as the smoke from other, less innocuous leaves) fills the air, aiding my intent to stay obscure and safe. Something in the air has me edgy tonight. Aunt Amelia would call it a foreboding, and Emerson would curse, loudly and inventively. Whatever it is, it makes me fidget in my seat. I resist the urge to check my watch for the tenth time that evening. I am not even sure Ramses will come tonight, we have no set date. Dear God, I hope we are out of this soon. The noose is growing tighter, and soon this city will collapse into riots and anarchy if we do not act soon. Those idiotic, pompous English fops that run the militaristic details around here aren't concerned, of course. 'Johnny Turk' is a coward, after all, wot wot? It continually amazes me that supposedly intelligent people can be so purposefully dense.
The wail of the storyteller over-rides the mutter of conversation, and I turn my seat so I can watch the proceedings. He is doing well, telling his tale in fine style, with many superflorous adjectives and the requisite wailing chorus giving all praise to Allah. My fellow cafe-goers seem capivated, so I risk a peek at my watch.
This is going to be a long night. It isn't even eleven yet. I hope Ramses isn't off doing something patently idiotic. He gets those urges sometimes. Admittedly, he doesn't go haring off headless of danger as much as he did when we were both young, but every once in a while... I wish he would confide in Nefret, she could always rein in his wilder impulses. He has promised me he will speak to her, eventually... I only pray we live long enough to see that day.
Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I turn to see the cafe door open.
Dear God, it's Ramses, and he didn't even bother to wear a disguise. He's wearing his 'stone pharoah' face. I can feel the blood leaving my face - who is hurt? Emerson? Aunt Amelia? Nefret? Please God, not Lia. Not our child. Surely you have more mercy than that.
And there it dies. *pokes it*
I want to go home.
I am tired of hiding in dark corners and deserted alley-ways, only able to go about the city in disguise. I am tired of hearing news of my wife from Ramses, or from elders gossiping in the cafes about the illustrious Father of Curses and his family. I am tired of watching the dark circles under Ramses' eyes grow darker every night. He doesn't sleep, you know. I think he knows that I know, but he never says anything. Neither do I. We cannot afford to be weak at this point of the game. Those bloodthirsty young revolutionaries will slit his throat if they even suspect he is playing them.
The cafe is crowded tonight. Thick tobacco smoke (as well as the smoke from other, less innocuous leaves) fills the air, aiding my intent to stay obscure and safe. Something in the air has me edgy tonight. Aunt Amelia would call it a foreboding, and Emerson would curse, loudly and inventively. Whatever it is, it makes me fidget in my seat. I resist the urge to check my watch for the tenth time that evening. I am not even sure Ramses will come tonight, we have no set date. Dear God, I hope we are out of this soon. The noose is growing tighter, and soon this city will collapse into riots and anarchy if we do not act soon. Those idiotic, pompous English fops that run the militaristic details around here aren't concerned, of course. 'Johnny Turk' is a coward, after all, wot wot? It continually amazes me that supposedly intelligent people can be so purposefully dense.
The wail of the storyteller over-rides the mutter of conversation, and I turn my seat so I can watch the proceedings. He is doing well, telling his tale in fine style, with many superflorous adjectives and the requisite wailing chorus giving all praise to Allah. My fellow cafe-goers seem capivated, so I risk a peek at my watch.
This is going to be a long night. It isn't even eleven yet. I hope Ramses isn't off doing something patently idiotic. He gets those urges sometimes. Admittedly, he doesn't go haring off headless of danger as much as he did when we were both young, but every once in a while... I wish he would confide in Nefret, she could always rein in his wilder impulses. He has promised me he will speak to her, eventually... I only pray we live long enough to see that day.
Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I turn to see the cafe door open.
Dear God, it's Ramses, and he didn't even bother to wear a disguise. He's wearing his 'stone pharoah' face. I can feel the blood leaving my face - who is hurt? Emerson? Aunt Amelia? Nefret? Please God, not Lia. Not our child. Surely you have more mercy than that.
And there it dies. *pokes it*
