Tomorrow and Tomorrow - Printable Version

The sound Archon made was helpless, but not "helpless" in the romance novel sort of way. Not "stuck in a laundry room" helpless. It was "I give up, I really don't get this shit" helpless, a half-cry, half-sigh but tamped down to reasonable volume. "I... admit, I do not fully understand the rules," he confessed, studying the image with no trace of irony in his own expression. He really was just trying to get it.

Without thinking, he reached a finger out and tapped the butt.

"This seems to be... indication? Maybe it's like cooking," he decided, then immediately realized that his metaphor sucked. He hesitated, then stuck with it, a captain sinking with his ship five seconds after he tried to launch it. "Where the ingredients aren't exactly what makes up the final meal..? But then-... I mean, maybe the ingredients can be used for other meals. As--a soup can be broth and noodles and meat, but the noodles could also be a stir-fry-..." he hesitated.

His mind wandered.

Had he been spending too much time indulging in Nedies' kitchen?

Coilean's eyes darted to the side. "...Why do you follow them, then?" It takes two to make an oath - a knight and a royal, of some kind, and both have to agree to them, or else the oath won't work, because there's no mutual responsibility - Keep an open mind. He stopped the train of thought before it left the station.

He nodded sagely at the metaphor, as if it was the very best one Archon could have picked, and waited patiently for the rest of it to wobble out of his mouth (and to perish in the cold light of this cruel world. Tragedy is the overarching theme of the Universe).

Coilean was part dog. It was his job to drown alongside his captain. But the mention of broth and meat began to tug at his stomach, and a bead of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. Mmm.

Archon was so intently focused now on trying to puzzle out the whole "romance" thing, including with his piss-poor metaphor, that he was momentarily blindsided by Coilean's question. "Follow who?" he echoed blankly, blinking up at him from where he'd been staring at the book.

Perhaps Coilean would elaborate on the question, and turn Archon's mind back to deeper insights toward loyalty and philosophy and militaristic organizations that raised children to be fucked-up interstellar soldiers.

Or maybe Archon would answer blankly, if reminded of the conversation they'd been having only a few moments ago, but with a planted seed of doubt and thought.

Or not, because he was staring brow-furrowed at Coilean's drop of escaping drool. "Err. Are you hungry?" he hazarded. He was still, truth be told, half-thinking about the kitchen.