#there might be more thoughts as I continue with Ivan’s interlude

[kiwikipedia]

So this definitely brings up the question of is the Ivan we Summoned the Ivan from the Lostbelt or Our Human History’s Ivan fused with that one’s. Because theoretically shouldn’t Ivan know why he’s like. A mammoth?

If all Servants retain the memories of their life upon summoning, why wouldn’t this Ivan who is a lostbelt servant technically, not know why he’s a demonic beast fusion? Or do the lostbelt servants only have the memories of the figures from our Human History instead because they were summoned through the System and not through a lost belt again?

We see Li Shuwen in a similar situation, where he essentially asks why the hell he would ever work for Qin Shi Huang.

I just think this is an interesting part because some of the other lostbelt servants seem to remember their Lostbelt Past (Qin Shi Huang does for sure actually, but I don’t have any of the other LB kings to confirm the rest).

[orangegreet]

Photo by Florian Olivo on Unsplash

The morning of the twin’s birthday, Alina woke from a fitful sleep.

Strange dreams colored her feelings and her ears rang with the sounds of a dark chanting verse that had haunted her thoughts and that she could not place.

Dreams aside, the incident in the study, too, left unresolved emotions which clung to her insides like sludge and would not go away.

Her mind reminded her again and again of that feeling of being pressed into the door by Lord Kirigan’s body.

The hard plane of his chest crushing her soft breasts. The heat of his breaths on her skin. His lungs pushing out, hers falling in.

The raw desire that blazed to life when she thought he was going to kiss her. The crashing humiliation after.

She should be disgusted.

Clearly, he had been so, given the way he threw her from the room and slammed the door. Left alone and without a candle to find her way back to her room.

Desperately, she searched for that anger toward him that she had been diligently collecting and storing for weeks on end. Holding it inside of her like a talisman against his pull, against the thrall he had on her.

By the time she had washed and dressed for the day, Alina found herself right side up again.

Completely prepared to go to his study and drag him to the party regardless of the state of their professional relationship.

********

Genya and Marie were finished setting the garden together, ready to receive the guests while Nadia and Tamar ran the food from the kitchen.

Alina exited the garden to go take a rest in the house before the party when she caught sight of a little white blur at the edge of the woods.

Lillian.

The little girl looked at her and then ran into the woods and out of sight.

Alina gathered her skirts in her hands and gave chase, “Lillian! Please slow down!”

Though she had not explored the woods much in her time at Blyth Fell, having been preoccupied with the garden in the first couple weeks and then quite busy with the children since, Alina was certain it would not be a completely safe place for a seven-year-old to venture into alone.

The white pinafore dress stood out against the shadowed woods and Alina just barely kept the girl in her line of sight even though she was losing her speed.

By the time she caught up, she found Lillian stopped in a small clearing, looking over her shoulder at Alina.

The governess approached slowly, hands aloft to say, ‘I come in peace’. Lillian turned away.

She was standing in front of a little stone block. Grass seed grew up close to it and Alina looked at Lillian and then sank to her knees, guessing what this was in an instance.

She brushed the weeds down, snapping them and breaking them away so the writing on the stone was legible.

LUDA ZENIK KIRIGAN

BELOVED WIFE & MOTHER

CHERISHED SISTER & FRIEND

The birthdate was some twenty years prior to the death date which was…today’s date, just seven years ago.

Alina stared at the words, moving slowly out of the way so Lillian could sit in front of the cleared space.

They sat in silence for a very long time.

So long that Alina wondered how close they were to the start of the party. Still, she waited for Lillian to say something first.

“My Aunt Nina said I look like her…that I have her eyes,” Lillian said eventually.

“Uncle Fedyor says she was very sweet so…” Lillian trailed away, wiping her nose on her sleeve and then sitting up straight again, “So I think Georgie must have gotten that part of her.”

Alina would have laughed if she did not feel so sorrowful in this moment.

The idea that the traits of your parents were doled out to the children like pieces of pie—that the total is finite—it was so child-like to believe that broke her heart to hear it.

“I am not so sweet,” Lillian said finally, scrunching her face and pulling up a blade of grass. “I am not like her really so I must be like him,” she said with disdain, “and that is why mother died. I am bad like him.”

Alina was careful not to refute the child outright, it would not be helpful. She was careful to make sure she understood. Instead she asked, “Why do you think she died?”

Lillian turned her gaze upon the governess, wide blue eyes shining and wet, “Georgie was born first and then me. She died because I was all tangled up in her belly.”

“And you think because you were born second, you caused her to die?” Alina asked.

Lillian nodded.

It was easy to forget sometimes that children had a higher threshold for morbidity. Much higher than adults. The way they could simplify life and death and boil it down into ‘if and then’ statements was shocking each time.

“I understand why you might think that, Lillian. I was not there when you were born but I do know now I am older that it is not babies who kill their mother’s in childbirth. It is just something that happens sometimes. It is not anyone’s fault.”

Lillian scrunched her face further and Alina continued, “You do not have to believe me right now but I do hope you will listen when I say, I know what it feels like to be without a mother. It is lonely and scary.” Alina stared at the headstone. “I wished to be held all the time when I was your age.”

Lillian glared at the ground, tears falling silent into the grass. A shuddering breath extracted from her mouth every few moments.

“You are not alone.” She finished.

Lillian wiped her nose on her sleeve again. Alina did not feel invited to touch the girl and so she waited.

Neither of them spoke for a few more minutes and then the little girl got to her feet.

“I-I am ready to go to the party now.” She left without a backward glance but Alina felt that something in their relationship had been resolved at last. Alina followed close behind her.

********

Despite the interlude in the woods and the tearful admissions, Lillian and George thoroughly enjoyed the festivities planned.

The joy and excitement from each of the attendees was contagious and each person had planned a special game or activity for the group.

Nadia and Tamar had made several special cakes with surprises inside. Something stuffed and hidden in each one as a little game.

Maxim coaxed Ivan into a race wherein the children were lifted onto their respective shoulders as each man raced across the yard.

Ivan won with a mad-cackling Lillian gripping his ears and spurring him forward like a tyrant. He looked more thrilled than she had ever seen him.

Alexei, Marie and Sergei had put their heads together to come up with the best parlor games and refused out right to play anything which had previously been deemed ‘boring’ by either of the twins.

This, Alina gathered, alluded to a game of charades played last winter which contained several references that went promptly over the children’s heads but which had the adults roaring in laughter. The twins had spent the hour bored and unamused and declared they would never play the game again.

Genya and Alina had gone into town and picked up a special gift for each child.

A skipping rope with wooden handles carved in delicate patterns and a kaleidoscope with colored glass beads inside. Alina had not yet been paid but Genya assured her this money was directly from the Lord himself since, to their knowledge at the time, he would not be in attendance.

It was unusual, to be sure, to see servants show such happiness and care for the children of the household but then, looking around, Alina realized that of all the people gathered here, one glaring fact seemed to be shared—none of them had homes or families to go back to anymore.

At least, not to her knowledge. A great many of them had confirmed their status in the world noting that either war or the cholera outbreak or simply poor living standards had left each of them quite alone in the world before coming to Blyth Fell.

It was a grim truth but one which seemed to bind them all here now.

Alina wondered idly how it was that they all happened to find employment here. It pressed on the definition of coincidental.

The only person conspicuously absent, aside from the Lord himself, was Misha.

Alina asked Alexei about this while the others were tasting cakes and he wrinkled his brow and looked away from her. “He had a rather, er…difficult evening. His duties sometimes are more challenging than…well he will be around for dinner tonight, I expect.”

Alexei patted her arm and walked away, inviting no further discussion on the matter.

********

As the hour passed and Lord Kirigan had not made his appearance, Alina contemplated the very real possibility that she would have to corner him in his study and frog march him into the garden.

She wondered briefly to feel bad about accosting the Lord last night now she knew today marked the anniversary of his wife’s death.

But then, the memory of Lillian’s tearful face as she stared at her mothers headstone and George’s pained tone when he inquired for weeks whether his father would return for his birthday, reinvigorated her.

And so, just as they slipped a blindfold over Lillian’s eyes for her turn in Blindman’s Bluff, Alina resigned herself to her duty and slipped away to collect their father.

She made it halfway across the yard when she saw him.

Lord Kirigan appeared around the broadside corner of the house, walking toward the garden and fumbling with an oddly shaped box in his arms.

Alina warmed at the sight of him and promptly blamed it on the sun which was currently hidden in the overcast sky.

She was, however, pleased to see that he looked very nervous. At least this indicated some amount of care and concern for the children.

“Where are you going?” The Lord asked, sharply. “Is the party no longer in the garden?”

Alina straightened her posture, “Of course it is. I was simply heading inside to…fetch a few extra napkins—”

The box in hands emitted a strange noise and she thought for a moment she saw it tipping in his hand.

He grabbed a strong hold on it and called back, “Come along then, Miss Starkova. Some gifts do not keep well and we do not want this day to spoiled by another ill omen.”

His words relieved her lingering tension. He meant to act as if last night had not happened at all and Alina was content with this decision.

She turned in the opposite direction and led the way into the garden, her excuse with the napkins well forgotten until she was already back inside the walls.

The shock at the sudden appearance of Lord Kirigan was written on the faces of everyone in the garden caused a laugh to bubble up her throat.

The Lord glared at her and then turned back to the children.

George was beside himself at his father’s presence, hugging him then standing on the table to press the kaleidoscope over his father’s eye and twist it for him.

Lillian looked neither pleased nor dismayed. The vulnerability she had displayed this morning lingered around her and she simply accepted his presence without many words or interaction to follow. Reserving her judgement for later.

As the children opened the box from their father and exclaimed over the little orange kitten inside, Alina wondered later if the ‘ill omen’ to which Lord Kirigan had referred was an allusion to the anniversary of his wife’s passing or if it was a reference to that dead pet of hers, the pony in the bog.

Alas she would not be able to ask him with the excitement and horror of what would follow later that day.

********

The party itself was very successful and though Lord Kirigan did not participate in any of the games but rather took a seat next to Ivan, he did help himself to a few cakes left near his reach.

Alina watched him with covert eyes and relished the image of icing on the corner of his surly mouth. An image which she could save up for some inevitable moment in the future when he would try to intimidate her again.

The break in the games was welcome as the kitten was passed around to be cuddled.

Maxim disappeared to the stables and reappeared with a long piece of leather and brutally removed an aster bloom to attach to the end. He handed it to Lillian who dragged it around for the kitten, urging it to pounce.

Alina lingered near Genya as they watched when a shouting occurred from the door to the garden.

“It’s ready now and today is the perfect day to try and so if you could all gather in a line, we can put it to the test!”

Alina turned toward the newest party attendee.

A young man with dark hair holding a large box and setting up what looked like a three legged stool.

Looking around, Alina was not the only one confused but the others, at least, recognized the man and began to laugh. Genya was flushed as she pulled on Alina’s arm and directed her to stand near the end of the group.

“Genya, what is going on?” Genya looked distracted and did not seem to hear Alina. It was Nadia who answered.

“That is our Mr. Kostyk. He is a business partner of Lord Kirigan’s. He does actually live under this roof with us but I suppose this might be the first time you have seen him in person.”

Something clicked into place and Alina nodded. The man in the workroom who received his meals hand-delivered by the grace of Genya.

“And what is happening now?” Alina asked. Genya moved along the line, arranging people into view and pulling the children to stand in front of their father.

The kitten did not seem to want to still in their hands so it was shoved into Ivan’s arms who accepted it with a grunt.

Nadia smiled at the sight of Ivan and answered, “It seems Mr. Kostyk has engineered yet another device to try to get a portrait taken.”

“A portrait?” Alina asked as Mr. Kostyk was setting his box on top of the three-legged stand and hiding beneath a heavy black curtain behind the box.

“It’s something of a family business for Lord Kirigan,” Nadia explained. “The late Lord Kirigan and his business partner also worked on the inventions and would also have the people in the house to test out his progress. Or so I hear.”

She arranged the hair around her shoulders, “Although Genya says some of those models required sitting for thirty minutes at a time so I can only hope Mr. Kostyk does not expect that right now.”

“Look this way,” Mr. Kostyk pointed at the black circle in the middle of his box, “and do not move, if you please!”

They stood still for a few minutes, long enough that the children began to shift their feet in boredom.

Ivan held the cat in place and Alina, on the other end let her mind wander as she contemplated this inventor from the workroom and his patron, Lord Kirigan. She had seen examples of these paint-less portraits in London, of course, but never imagined she would be the subject of one.

When Mr. Kostyk was done, he stood and smiled at them all, not really seeing them and said goodbye with a short wave. Then he was gone as quickly as he had come. Alina giggled and wondered if he had been there at all.

Lord Kirigan watched Mr. Kostyk’s retreating back and then followed the man out of the garden, effectively leaving the party as well.

Alina frowned and glanced at the children. Lillian took the blow stoically and went back to her cake. George looked distressed once more but Ivan plopped the kitten in front of him in the next moment and he was well distracted.

********

When the party was over, Alina gathered the children to go inside for a rest. As they passed the edge of the woods again, however, Lillian spoke.

“I want to go back to my mother.” She said.

George hesitated and Alina surveyed him. “All right, let us take George inside and then you and I can go back out.”

“No.”

Lillian looked at George and took his hand, “Let us go, Georgie, please. I want to go with you.” George looked fearful but nodded.

It was hard to explain the distinct feeling of foreboding Alina felt upon entering the woods now.

It was still as dark and shadowed as it had been in the morning but now there was something in the air which was disquieting. Alina wrapped her hands on either of the children’s shoulders as they walked the same path toward that small clearing.

They had been walking for a few minutes when George stopped again, shaking his head and looking at his sister. “Lillian, I don’t want to go.”

Lillian scowled at him, tugging on his arm, “You have to, you have to come see mother, with me. Please, Georgie. Just once.”

George was shaking his head and staring past the thinning trees, fear widening his eyes.

They were in sight of the little clearing now and even through the trees, Alina looked to where she knew the gravestone sat.

Only the place where she knew the stone sat, the place where she herself sat just this morning, was covered in dark shadow.

Alina squinted, trying to discern what she was seeing and she stared, the black mass thickened.

It grew and spread like a dense, black smoke, covering half the clearing like a slow-moving predator.

A frisson of fear shot through her body and inexplicably she thought of the chanting from her dreams and more words bubbled into her throat and she prayed to Alatyr with a fierce concentration.

While she was distracted George took off on the path back toward the house.

“George, wait!” Alina called, pausing only to take Lillian’s hand in hers as they ran after the little dark-haired boy.

“George, wait for us!” Lillian shouted, sounding fearful herself.

He turned a corner and slipped from their sight and Alina panicked at the realization that he was taking a different path. One that did not lead them back to the house.

“George, stop! You are going the wrong way!”

They followed, turning the corner and he came into sight yards ahead. He stood stock-still.

“Georgie?”

His hands were up in front of him and as they drew closer, Alina saw a thick black mass rising before the boy’s body like a snake from a basket.

Was it a snake?

The woods were so dark, it was difficult to see for sure but Alina thought it’s shape was distinctly snake-like.

“Stay still, George.” Alina cautioned. She held Lillian in place with a sharp look and began to slowly approach the quivering little boy.

She was not sure what to do. Did not understand what she was seeing. Not exactly.

The snake rose up to eye level with George.

It reared back.

The boy threw his arm over his face and the snake struck with a whip-like movement.

“George!” Alina yelled, running forward to grab his shoulders as he screamed out.

It echoed around the forest and bounced off the trees and Alina held him in her lap as he continued to scream and cradle his arm.

Frantic, Alina looked around for the creature and saw nothing but dead leaves crushed on the forest floor. Everything was still and silent save the screaming from the boy in her lap.

“Let me see, Georgie,” she soothed, trying to move his hand to get a look at his arm.

George whimpered and cried and Alina gaped at the mark.

Two little puncture wounds on his pale little forearm, seeping black liquid like ink running down a page.

[kikizoshi]

Gogol Dialogue w/ Turgenev then Dostoyevsky

Gogol stared suicidally down at a blank page.

        He didn't bother brushing off the itchy black flakes accumulated in his hair from the quill nib's scratching, nor did he concern himself with the fact that he was, as was he every evening, due in the dining room in about… negative five minutes, so indicated the glowing clock. His only care, rather, was the fact that, in the four hours he sat staring at the page, not a single image in his mind seemed to want to grace its empty canvas.

         Unlike many who tried this craft, he wasn’t want for stories. He imagined a Tsar enjoying a heroine, embracing her and singing her praises as she slid a knife from her thigh into his back. He remembered two young men talking in a plain drawing-room, sparsely furnished--especially compared to the men, one of whom’s shiny black suit hugged his frame in place of the woman long-since gone; the other who quite resembled a gentlemanly peacockish clown, with frilly lace and a quilt of vibrant patterns--yet the atmosphere remained homey and comfortable nonetheless. He saw through his mind’s eye these stories as clearly as the neon numbers before him, but he couldn’t find /written/ words to express them.

         If Gogol wanted to orate the story to someone, to make a grand spectacle of it, the words would flow endlessly. He could go on for hours about the most inane of matters, and men would hang on his every word. However, those magical, honeyed phrases he just never seemed to be capable of forcing through his quill.

         And so tonight, exactly as every night for the past three months, a restrained knock came upon his door, and Gogol sighed.

         “Come in,” he said as he resignedly set the quill down. “I was practically finished anyway.”

         “Ah, good,” the man's voice came muffled from behind the door, which he opened thereafter. The relatively average-sized man--an Ability user by the name of Turgenev--held quite the appearance of the black-suited man previously described, though I’m afraid Gogol neglected to mention the quite striking scarlet hair. “Dinner’s ready," he continued, "I know you probably don’t feel like eating, but you should at least come out of your…” he looked around, blatantly fraternally concerned about the, frankly speaking, hovel of a room his friend managed to subsist in, “nest.”

         Gogol chuckled and stood, cracking his back at an alarming volume. He waved for his friend to leave, and went about the room, picking up the black-and-white vest he discarded as too confining hours ago and grabbing his cape from the hat rack. While he went on reassembling his outfit, Turgenev spoke once more.

         “You didn't get up once?”

         “Mm, yes, so it seems,” Gogol said, agitated, after a moment. “I’ve taken your advice to ‘try and write something’, but nothing comes to mind! It’s not even art block… I just have nothing I want to tell the page.”

         Turgenev sighed. “You don’t /have/ to write, it was just a suggestion. Now, frankly, I wish I’d said trapeze instead and avoided this whole ennui.” He held the door as Gogol moved to exit. Gogol shuffled out.

         “Seriously,” he continued as they entered the hall, “at first I thought some rest would do you good, but now it’s clear that being cooped up for days at a time is draining the little sanity you have left. What am I supposed to do when you get jobs that have you killing again? Watch your slow descent into madness from the sidelines like some half-rate circus hand watching the clown set the tent ablaze?”

         Gogol forced a laugh, “Well, why not? All of your work--which has always been excellent, at least as long as I’ve known you--has been shrouded. Where’s the harm in a change of scenery?”

         “I said seriously.” Turgenev sighed. “Be serious.”

         “Hmm, well, seriously,” Gogol considered, turning into the dining room and taking his seat across from his friend, “Seriously, then, isn’t madness the point? After all, my namesake wouldn’t /be/ my namesake without his madness! And what am I, if not, his namesake-ee?”

         “Ha,” Turgenev said, “Hilarious, I’m dying. Have you considered stand-up?”

         “Eh? No, I’m writing stories right now.”

         “Comedians can tell stories. I know, become a trapeze comedian.”

         Gogol huffed merrily, “Well, why don’t you?”

         “/I/ don’t-”

         “Excuse me,” the butler of the house, Gregor, interrupted, “I wasn’t instructed to account for the palate of Gogol, so I need to have your order now.”

         “Hm, well Gogol,” Gogol said with a conspiratorial wink, “probably wants--though I don’t know, you’ll have to ask him directly for confirmation, God knows where he may be--whatever’s leftover. I’ve heard he’s not picky! Although that could be just a rumour…”

         “Very well,” Gregor said, unperturbed, and turned to Turgenev, “and for you? I’m afraid I wasn’t informed of your coming either, Sir.”

         “Ah, no,” Turgenev said, “that’s because I won’t be eating here. There’s an assignment I’ve gotta do not long from now, but I wanted to see Kolya here first.”

         “How gentlemanly,” Gogol gasped, starry gold eyes twinkling, “I’m almost jealous of your lover, Vanya! If this is the treatment she gets...”

         Turgenev simply smiled. “And I,” he said, “am not in the least jealous of yours.” Gregor took the moment to slip away.

         “How proper…” Gogol gazed at Turgenev, lost in bittersweet memories, “You never used to be so cordial, to imply I’d manage something as sophisticated as that.”

         “Don’t be ridiculous,” Turgenev scoffed. He flatly punched the side of Gogol’s arm in jest, “I’m still every bit of the strapping young chap you knew. Just… in a different skin.”

         “Hmm…” Gogol donned a severely suspicious face, “But old Vanya wouldn’t have implied such! No, you must be Ivan Sergeyevich now… If not, then tell me: where’s the grin in your eyes?! The coil in your limbs?! The fire in your heart?!” All of a sudden, Gogol’s face fell into a deep melancholy, and he lay a single finger over the centre of Turgenev’s breast, “It’s bitter cold in here now, I can barely feel myself.”

         Turgenev frowned. “It’s cold,” he said, “because fire without fuel always burns out eventually. There’s no if, and’s or but’s. Oh, but one but,” Turgenev rekindled some warmth into a smile, “you should still be able to feel yourself; the fire hasn’t gone completely. It’s just muted right now.”

         “A muted fire…” Gogol thought aloud, retracting his hand, “How very… poetic.” He laughed, “Like your hair.”

         “My hair?” Turgenev tugged at his short red ponytail in confusion. “How is my hair poetic?”

         “Exactly in the way that it exists!” Gogol exclaimed, “In this dull, drab, dreary, /monochrome/ colour scheme our boss seems so fond of, not one colour stands out when you’re away! Not Sigma’s grey-and-darker-grey hair, not our boss’ white-and-black suits, and /especially/ not either of my own! The only slight argument you could possibly make is for the Recluse’s eyes, and their purple is so muted they might as well skip the middle man already and turn black. No, only yours,” Gogol concluded, “is a colour that inspires.”

         “Well, I disagree,” Turgenev said, smiling, “For you at least. You’re not wrong about the Recluse, definitely, but you have some colour in your eyes. Yes--they’re pale. But they’re very expressive, even when they’re trying not to be. They have a liquid shine, so maybe they’re the gasoline that keeps the red flame burning.”

         Gogol clutched his chest dramatically, “My, how sincere! If I were a woman, no kings or horses could ever restore me after how far I must’ve fallen!”

         Turgenev’s face lit up, and he laughed, “So, in other words, the women in my life are eggs? Give me a hundred years and I’ll never crack what on /earth/ that’s supposed to represent!” He cackled and nearly fell over. Gogol grinned along.

         It wasn’t just Turgenev’s face that lit up when he laughed, Gogol thought, but his entire being. His shoulders relaxed from their usual stiffness, the rigidity melted away and the true man--the ‘Vanya’, as Gogol loved to refer to it--shone through with a blinding passion.

         Every time Gogol saw it, it was as though the gamma was suddenly switched from near-debilitating dark to enlightening technicolour. Alas, the times nowadays that such an occurrence happened were few and far between. And unfortunately, Turgenev took the time in Gogol’s silence to check his watch.

         “It seems my stay is up,” he rose, “or was up way too long ago. But eat when Gregor comes. He went through the trouble of getting it ready, so don’t be an ass.”

         Gogol nodded and waved as Turgenev hurried off, smile taking time to fade from his face. He sighed. Along with Turgenev’s departures, Gogol’s happy interludes vanished just as soon as they appeared.

         ‘It’s just as well,’ he thought, ‘happiness isn’t something that’s meant for me, and Vanya’s too nice to be corrupted by me for long. Plus, I shouldn’t get carried away. He’s wrong about my eyes… If anything, mine are like Fyodor’s--no, worse, because mine aren’t weathered by compassion. Maybe an empathy, but I have no compassion to keep some sort of innocence in my eyes like he. If Fyodor’s eyes are the dead twigs left in the ashes of the fireplace, mine are the cracked stone, with no hope of ignition. But we’re both dead.’ Gogol sighed at his conclusion. ‘Lone Vanya, then, has the only touch of colour, the only spark of happiness in this God-forsaken world of ours. I suppose I should thank Him that happiness isn’t my goal.’

         “...Are you going to eat?” A voice, soft but not hesitant, crept past his thoughts.

         Gogol forced the mask of his smile into place and turned to look at Fyodor. “Yes! Yes, I’m just waiting…” As he spoke, he noticed the distinct smell of seasoned tomato. Quite strong was it, in fact, so strong that it surprised him, and he looked down to see an innocent bowl of tomato soup staring politely up at him.

         “Gregor brought it while you were disassociating,” Fyodor supplied.

         “Hm…” Gogol contemplated for a moment, mask still firmly in place, and continued, “Hm, well, I suppose…” But he, so lost in a state of confusion, couldn’t figure out how to continue. The boy seemed to take pity on him, and sat gently next to him with a bowl of his own.

         “Turgenev sent me to you,” he went on, “to ensure that you would eat. So you will eat?...”

         “Yes,” Gogol said, a spark of amusement in his eye as he replied. “I will eat.” He noticed, looking at Fyodor’s eyes, that his former thoughts were eerily close to the mark, though perhaps Fyodor was more like he than initially suspected. The simmering mania and deep morbidity felt sickly familiar.

         “Good,” Fyodor replied. He left it at that and stirred his soup quietly. He must have known, Gogol realised in that instance, what Gogol and Turgenev thought of him--that they called him the Recluse. He was smart, even if young, and so Gogol couldn’t help wondering why Fyodor would waste time on them. On a whim, he inquired thus.

         “Why?” Fyodor paused, then smiled benevolently, “‘As you do to the least of these, so you do unto me.‘” Gogol raised an eyebrow.

         “You fancy yourself our saviour, then?” Fyodor merely sipped his soup carefully in lieu of a reply. Despite the care, he winced as the tomato seared his lips, and set his bowl down. After a moment, he appeared to deem it worthy of a second attempt, and brought the bowl’s lip to his own gingerly. He blew softly this time on a tilted portion before sipping slowly, and, as evinced in Fyodor’s lack of reaction, he managed to consume the cooled viscous liquid harmlessly. For reasons unknown, the boy’s actions struck Gogol as odd.

         “Well, if that’s the case, then surely you’ve a plan for our salvation,” He prompted as Fyodor set his bowl down once more, “Care to share?”

         “A plan…” Fyodor considered for a time, “For you two, no, not yet. Is it necessary?”

         “‘Is it necessary?’” repeated Gogol, as though he couldn’t believe the words were uttered, “Of course it is! How can you save someone without the slightest clue of how you’re to go about it? Your enemy--no matter how metaphysical--isn’t going to just sit there and wait patiently for you to come up with plans. If you start a performance haphazardly, if the bar gets tossed just a second too late without the safety net of a plan, the trapezist comes crashing down and all the show is ruined.”

         “Much to my fortune, the trapezist is more than capable of catching himself and his fellow performer.”

         “No, not like that,” Gogol said. “That’s my point. If I’m a trapezist, then I can’t perform with a cape--it’d ruin everything preemptively! And so I couldn’t catch anyone. It’s up to the choreographer to ensure that the performers have a set route more ingrained than their own morals. If a saviour can’t ensure the safety of his save-ees, then he’s no better than an incompetent stage director.”

         Fyodor frowned and drank more of his soup. After all that remained in the bowl was a splotchy red residue, and he had nothing else to occupy his thin mouth with, he sighed and rested his chin on his palm. The angle couldn’t have been comfortable, Gogol mused. Fyodor’s wrist bent at a right angle and his sharp chin dug into the delicate skin of his hand, where Gogol could already see the blood gathering under the surface. Gogol’s own hand ached in sympathy.

         “Safety of what?” Fyodor asked after another moment. “If the matter is of the physical, then you’re correct. However, if it’s the soul, then so long as a person devoutly follow their God, their spirit shall be forever saved.”

         “And eviscerated over time,” Gogol continued for him, “as what’s first assumed as a benign happenstance crushes self-expression and crumbles autonomy. Metaphor or not, we’re talking about performers, and performers can’t perform if they can’t hold a simple form.”

         “...Eat your soup, please.” Gogol sighed, but acquiesced.

[yellowninjaleopard]

undertrust interlude: a kind encounter.

Jasmine was seen within one of the trap rooms in the ruins, jasmine was practicing her magic by disintegrating each spiked platform into a slimey mush, jasmine melted a few more spikes before a fairy monster came bumping into the woman's back, jasmine turned around and saw whimsley, a student from the grade school. Jasmine fully turned around and smiled warmly. [*Why hello whimsley, what brings you here little one?] Whimsley panicked and started to shake. "Miss jasmine! Please don't tell my parents! Chara can't know I'm back here but i have to check on my friend!" Said whimsley in a stuttery voice. Jasmine gentley held whimsleys hands and shushed him. [*Shh it's ok, little one. Remember what i said? It's ok, i will pardon you for entering without asking chara, i will talk with him.] Whimsley calmed down and whiped his tears. Whimsley looked behind jasmine and at the grey shiny mush. "What's that miss jasmine?" Asked whimsley. Jasmine then sighed and gathered the mush together into one big blob. [*I was...Just fixing something my dear, no need to worry, now, tell me about this friend of yours-] suddenly, a crack was heard from above, jasmine squinted her eyes and looked up at it, suddenly the ceiling broke apart and a human came falling down, screaming. Panicked, jasmine leaped up eight feet into the air and caught the human with all four arms and then crashing against the wall using two arms to jump from the wall and then landing on the floor with a loud thud, dust flew around jasmine as one arm supported her while she held the human with the other three of her arms. Opening her eyes, jasmine looked at the human and set them down, it was a female child, with curly black hair in three buns with mint green streaks, dark skin, wearing a striped long sleeved shirt, long skinny pants, sneakers and a bandage around her leg, the child also wore an apron, stained with dirt and food. The child then opened her eyes, revealing them to be a bright green. The child then shook and spoke just above a Whisper "he tried to kill me..." Jasmine bent down and looked at the child's face. [*Come again dear?] The girl then pointed up and screamed. "HE TRIED TO KILL ME!!" Jasmine looked up, only to see the familiar brown hair of [*CHARA!] chara jumped, crawling over to the edge of the trap only to see jasmine with the human...Still alive. "Yes?" Said chara, annoyingly. [*You cannot just push humans into the traps!!] Jasmine was more than furious. Chara winced at jasmines raised voice, chara shrugged. "Why not?" Said chara, seemingly not caring about the child at all. Jasmine sighed in frustration. [*You need to remember chara! Humans, especially children, are not like us or even you.They are fragile and are unfamiliar with this world.] Chara grunted and Dissapeared from jasmines sight, presumably to head on home. Jasmine looked back towards the girl, only for her to back away in fear, jasmine knelt to the girl and took her hand in two of her own. [*Do not be afraid my dear, i will not hurt you, look at your wound, i have healed you, you needn't be afraid.] The girl looked at her leg and felt no blood beneath the cloth. "You...You did!" Said the girl, suddenly the girls eyes widened. "Oh! You must be jasmine right?" Said the girl suddenly remembering a thought. Jasmine smiled. [*Well, yes. I am jasmine, i am a caretaker of these ruins, my brother chara lives here while i pass through these rooms Every now and then to see if anyone has fallen. You are the first human to fall in a while my dear.] The girl smiled, finally feeling safe. Jasmine  helped the girl to stand, only to gasp as the child was shown to be as tall as her. Jasmine chuckled. [*My, my. *chuckle* quite the tall one aren't you my dear?] The girl laughed a bit and said "hehe yep! I'm the tallest in my class!" The girl then noticed jasmines four arms. "Um..if it's ok to ask, why do you have four arms?" Jasmine smiled a bit. [*Do not worry, that is a perfectly normal question. As for the awnser, i was simply born this way.] The girl nodded, then noticed whimsley. "Whimsley!" Said the girl, whimsley then flew over and hugged the girls shoulder, the girl laughed and smiled. Jasmine then noticed the girls eyes were red and puffed. Jasmine placed a hand on the girls shoulder. [*What is your name dear?] The girl looked at jasmine and said "oh! My name is kleo!" Jasmine then looked at kleo and placed two hands apon her shoulders. [*My dear, have you been... Crying? I know it may be none of my concern, but you are still a child in pain and i want to make sure you are ok.] Kleo looked at jasmine, before everything came rushing back to her, tears had then begun to flood her eyes, jasmine pulled kleo close and hugged her with all four of her arms, petting her hair gently, kleo sobbed into jasmines shoulder, gripping the back of her robe tightly. [*There there... shhh it's alright my dear, you are safe...Please dont cry...] Kleo then pulled away from jasmine, still sniffling, Jasmine still held kleo's shoulders. "*Sniff, i really want to go home now.." Jasmine looked at kleo sorrowfully. [*I think that might not be for a while...My dear, i may not be aware of what's occurred, but i shall look after you until then.] Kleo sniffed and wiped her tears. "Ok..." Jasmine smiled and took kleo's hand, leading her out of the ruins, sometime later jasmine and kleo had finally arrived at jasmines home. [*You know, kleo, i am sure my other children will be very happy to meet you.] Jasmine then opened the door, only to find brandon fast asleep on the staircase, jasmine chuckled, closing the door behind them, thus waking Brandon. "Mom! Guys moms home!" Suddenly, Ivan and Polly came running down the stairs, all three stood in front of jasmine and smiled. Ivan then saw kleo and asked "who's she mom? Did she fall down today?" Jasmine then clasped two hands together, smiling warmly. [*Children, this is kleo, she will be staying with us.] Brandon's eyes trailed up kleos body. "Wow! Your super tall!" Said Brandon in awe. Kleo jumped and giggled. "Yep! I'm the tallest in my class!" Jasmine smiled. [*Well, why don't you three help kleo settle in while i get a pie ready?] The four then rushed off upstairs leaving jasmine to her own devices, jasmine leaned against the counter with two arms, the other two covered her face, jasmine sighed and opened her eyes, feeling as if she would need to visit chara and have a serious talk, but first, she would go and see her parents tomorrow to introduce them to her children. Jasmine smiled at the thought of her parents meeting their adoptive grandchildren and continued to make the pie, smiling and thinking of her children.

To be continued...

[*Knowing that you have encountered a very kind child fills you with TRUST.]

[the-hindu-times]

January 2019 reviews roundup

Before I knew his backstory, I handed rock-wordsmith, Neil McCormick, one of my own demo CDs at a charity event he was hosting at Islington Assembly Hall, which included performances from Gabriella Cilmi, Bo Bruce, The Magic Numbers and fellow underachieving musician, David Ford. He gave me a look of ‘thanks but no thanks’; gritting his teeth through a previously care-free, joyous smile which immediately swayed to the upset expression of someone taking the most offense possible. After hearing him talk on stage of how he tracked down the evening’s headliner, David Gray, for an interview, I thought he might entertain my similar-styled efforts for a potential leg up. His expression seemed to suggest that he should be the one doing the approaching – maybe that was just what he was used to as he first came over to London from Dublin in time for the early 1980s to chase record labels. Either that, or me handing him the CD had dragged up his unsuccessful past to the surface. Fast forward a couple of years. ‘Later with Jools Holland’ is on the TV, and there he is - Neil McCormick, promoting the new film based on his life (and book ‘I Was Bono’s Doppelganger’) ‘Killing Bono’. Suddenly, his unanticipated mannerisms began to make sense. Fast forward another few years to tonight. We were at the Soho Theatre for ‘Chasing Bono’ - the latest adaption of the tale, in the form of a play. Most of the 1.5 month run (+ matinees) had limited availability but tonight, there are a few extra seats that could have been taken. Sat directly in the row in front of us, though, was nonother than Neil McCormick, himself – awaiting the accuracy of his fantastic fable. As soon as we entered the theatre, the stage-set suggested that this was not the typical, low-budget production expected to be housed here. This was already as mainstream and ‘West End’ as the credits would suggest; billed as a new comedy by Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais - creators of acclaimed television programmes and films including ‘Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads?’, ‘Porridge’, Auf Wiedersehen, Pet’, ‘Lovejoy’, ‘The Commitments’, and ‘Still Crazy’, whilst directed by Gordon Anderson (‘The Catherine Tate Show’, ‘The Inbetweeners’, ‘Shameless’ and ‘Fresh Meat’). The attention to detail on design was a spot on as the delivery of the dialect in the best play we have seen since ‘The Edge Of The Pier’. 

The irony is that Neil and Ivan McCormick’s band, Shook UP!, achieved the kind of success that most new bands would love but will never achieve. Not many groups could still be continuing their success now, since the mid ‘70s though. However, we headed north straight from the theatre to see a group that fitted that exact description.  Taking their name from Arabic for the meaning of "black", Asward continued to add R&B and Soul to their Reggae sound tonight at Camden's Jazz Cafe. Although they are descendants from the Carabien, they pointed out that they are from Ladbroke Grove. With at least one song played from all their previous LPs, it was setlist closer 'Shine' that had first brought me to the attention of the band in 1994.

After Enter Shikari the following evening at Brixton Academy, we learned how both Ricky Gervais and Ben Howard had made their shows for named ticket holders only, with fans not even able to give their spare tickets away; losing out on money whilst those, willing to take them off their hands, missed out on the show altogether.

The following week saw 2 nights from Irish national treasures, Bell X1, at the Union Chapel in Islington. Starting out life as Juniper, lead singer Damien Rice soon left the band to pursue a solo career, forcing Paul Noonan to make the transition from behind the kit to lead vocals. Tonight, he was still switching between the two, rotating roles with David Geraghty after the band scaled down to a three-piece since the departure of film composer, David Crosby. The numbers were made up by the addition of the ‘Dowry Strings’ section, who created a delicate subtlety, impossible to have been attempted at Bell X1’s high energy, 2006 arena performance at the Dublin Point for their live DVD. I had only witnessed the band live once before – and that was just in soundcheck when they played at the Kings Cross Scala; having left to go to Soho for Ed Sheeran at the Borderline, before he later announced his own headline Scala show at that larger, 800 capacity club.   The second half of tonight’s show was opened by just the three band members huddled around one microphone, otherwise playing purely acoustic – certainly not breaking the sound barrier - but similar to Norah Jones’ encore when we saw her at the Palladium. Their songs performed this way felt better than on record, and the intimacy gave them a stronger meaning, if not forgiving of some literal lyrics and some often, Frames-styled, cheesiness.

After Dan Skinner’s character, Angelos Epithemiou, headlined Outside The Box at the Fighting Cocks in Kingston, we went to see Stephen K Amos’ new show ‘Bouquets & Brickbats’ at Epsom Playhouse a couple of days later. Ever since leaving his role as the interlude, in-between the booked comics, at the Big Fish Company clubs in South London in 2001, he has been travelling to Edinburgh to perform a new show every year. Tonight, rather than just leaving it at one hour, he calls back to material from previous tours when necessary. He covered thought provoking ideas on race, sexuality and political correctness, before revealing some true tragedies that have struck him and reasons why we need to laugh. Maybe that’s why he is at the best he’s ever been, reflecting on the turnout; having nearly doubled since the last time he was there, making the show close to a sellout.

The following evening saw a disappointing show from Gruff Rhys at the Roundhouse. After seeing an impressive solo instore from him at Rough Trade East, I went along to the Barbican Centre to see him and his band brilliantly perform his fantastic new album with an orchestra. Remembering how good Lisa Hannigan was at an all-seated Roundhouse, having also seen her with an orchestra at the Barbican, I was hoping for a repeat experience. However, this evening’s sound and lighting were in battle to see which one could give you a headache first whilst the songs were not coming across as strong at all, with little dynamic.

The next day, I was in Angel for Star Shaped club at Islington Academy 2 – a one off evening that felt like how every evening was in the ‘90s but everyone there tonight was much, much older than back then. Maybe it’s strange to have a club that isn’t for the young, and mainly for larger-drinking men but who else would want the non-challenging musical playlist of Shed 7 and The Bluetones? Tonight had the guitar and percussion wizardry of Aziz Ibrahim and Inder Goldfinger performing the songs they made with Ian Brown for his solo albums. Taking on the additional roles of singing and operating a drum machine, Aziz demonstrated how important his riffs were. The small room, still with plenty more space to fill, made it possible to appreciate the techniques involved in producing these sounds and grooves, with the whole show benefiting from bringing these two masterful players to the forefront. January ended with Josh Widdicombe at Outside The Box comedy club and Nina Nessbitt at Banquet Records. Nic Bennett