Voicemail
You've reached Eliot. Why are you calling me? Please hang up and send a text.
Entry tags:
First Impressions, Basic Appearance:
Here are some things about Eliot that would catch someone's attention upon meeting him:
~He is tall and skinny (6'1"), a bony noodle who does not value good nutrition.
~He has a congenital deformity of his lower jaw, causing it to stick out at an awkward angle; his smile looks like a grimace.
~Occasionally wears glasses, doesn't actually need them.
~Dresses in a very dapper style that is also conspicuously queer but not to the point of being flamboyant. [style refs to come]
~He's a smoker, Merits are his brand.
~Affects a transatlantic accent; when he's especially drunk, relaxed around someone, or angry, his native Oregon accent comes through.
~His hair is perfect.
~He is tall and skinny (6'1"), a bony noodle who does not value good nutrition.
~He has a congenital deformity of his lower jaw, causing it to stick out at an awkward angle; his smile looks like a grimace.
~Occasionally wears glasses, doesn't actually need them.
~Dresses in a very dapper style that is also conspicuously queer but not to the point of being flamboyant. [style refs to come]
~He's a smoker, Merits are his brand.
~Affects a transatlantic accent; when he's especially drunk, relaxed around someone, or angry, his native Oregon accent comes through.
~His hair is perfect.
Entry tags:
If you’re asking, I can’t say no
The sound of an incoming text stirs Eliot from uneasy sleep. He feels hungry and sick, and part of him wants to curl up and return to unconsciousness, but there’s a sense of urgency from the muddle of half-remembered stress dreams that makes him reach for his phone.
One arm reaches out from the cocoon of the duvet and fumbles at the nightstand. Eliot winces at the chill of cut crystal against his hand, and the subsequent soft thunk as the whiskey glass tumbles to the carpet.
( Read more... )
One arm reaches out from the cocoon of the duvet and fumbles at the nightstand. Eliot winces at the chill of cut crystal against his hand, and the subsequent soft thunk as the whiskey glass tumbles to the carpet.
( Read more... )
Entry tags:
The Continuing Adventures of Little King Trashmouth (for Jack)
He comes to in a sprawl on the floor of his bathroom, and above the tangle of memory and sensation and physical discomfort Eliot feels an amazing sense of relief. It worked, and he is himself again. He laughs, a sound of near-manic delight that bounces on the cold tile, and grins at his accomplishment.
Eliot’s knees creak as he shifts to look around the small room, taking stock of the ephemera he’d made off with while he was transformed. His memory is something of a jumble and looking at the physical evidence helps; a scattering of bottlecaps, stolen cigarettes, the beautiful piece of sea glass resting on the sink. It was, he thinks, a good day. He’s aware of the weight around his neck but it takes a moment before he really inspects the pendant. He can’t recall seeing Jack without it, now that he thinks about it, but he’s never had the opportunity to study it up close: a two-headed bird of some kind, silver set with a drop of carnelian and other smaller stones. It’s more intricate that Eliot expected, and he thumbs at the cord wrapped in brass rings and feels rather bad about the theft.
He feels too tired still to begin cleaning up the transmutation sigil but he does have enough energy to pick up his phone and check what he’s missed.
“Oh dear,” he murmurs, voice scratchy and unfamiliar, upon listening to the voicemail. He can’t help smiling, though. For all that he hates the thought of Jack being in confusion or distress about it all day, Eliot still feels some smug bird pride at the successful mischief. He texts back with a photo, feeling a bit silly. Perhaps he should get today’s newspaper to complete the effect of a hostage negotiation? But a reply doesn’t come right away so Jack must be busy eating or...something, and Eliot occupies himself with the business of setting things back in order.
When he stands he’s hit with an immediate wave of dizziness and he grips the edge of the sink for balance. He’s hungry, he realizes, and near sick with it. He grimaces. It’s not nearly the same bone-deep exhaustion he felt from being a goose, but it’s unpleasant enough that it takes a while to reason through the steps he ought to take to fix the problem. Eliot needs to feel comfortable; he needs to be grounded, present in himself, and he needs to fucking eat.
He’s halfway into his pajamas when the phone buzzes and he reads Jack’s reply. He should give the necklace back as soon as possible, and it would certainly be nice to have some human interaction again, to remember what that’s like. Surely Jack, of all people, will forgive his disarray. He finishes dressing, slips on a robe and, after a moment’s consideration, puts on his crown as well. The weight of it is familiar, soothing, and he straightens his shoulders and shuffles to the kitchen to eat a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter from the jar.
It’s enough of a boost that he’s able to tidy up the bathroom. It takes a while to clear up the magical effects in place and organize his plunder, but there’s a definite intellectual satisfaction in having everything just so. Once it’s done Eliot settles on the couch with a notebook, to document the results of his experiment, and to wait.
Eliot’s knees creak as he shifts to look around the small room, taking stock of the ephemera he’d made off with while he was transformed. His memory is something of a jumble and looking at the physical evidence helps; a scattering of bottlecaps, stolen cigarettes, the beautiful piece of sea glass resting on the sink. It was, he thinks, a good day. He’s aware of the weight around his neck but it takes a moment before he really inspects the pendant. He can’t recall seeing Jack without it, now that he thinks about it, but he’s never had the opportunity to study it up close: a two-headed bird of some kind, silver set with a drop of carnelian and other smaller stones. It’s more intricate that Eliot expected, and he thumbs at the cord wrapped in brass rings and feels rather bad about the theft.
He feels too tired still to begin cleaning up the transmutation sigil but he does have enough energy to pick up his phone and check what he’s missed.
“Oh dear,” he murmurs, voice scratchy and unfamiliar, upon listening to the voicemail. He can’t help smiling, though. For all that he hates the thought of Jack being in confusion or distress about it all day, Eliot still feels some smug bird pride at the successful mischief. He texts back with a photo, feeling a bit silly. Perhaps he should get today’s newspaper to complete the effect of a hostage negotiation? But a reply doesn’t come right away so Jack must be busy eating or...something, and Eliot occupies himself with the business of setting things back in order.
When he stands he’s hit with an immediate wave of dizziness and he grips the edge of the sink for balance. He’s hungry, he realizes, and near sick with it. He grimaces. It’s not nearly the same bone-deep exhaustion he felt from being a goose, but it’s unpleasant enough that it takes a while to reason through the steps he ought to take to fix the problem. Eliot needs to feel comfortable; he needs to be grounded, present in himself, and he needs to fucking eat.
He’s halfway into his pajamas when the phone buzzes and he reads Jack’s reply. He should give the necklace back as soon as possible, and it would certainly be nice to have some human interaction again, to remember what that’s like. Surely Jack, of all people, will forgive his disarray. He finishes dressing, slips on a robe and, after a moment’s consideration, puts on his crown as well. The weight of it is familiar, soothing, and he straightens his shoulders and shuffles to the kitchen to eat a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter from the jar.
It’s enough of a boost that he’s able to tidy up the bathroom. It takes a while to clear up the magical effects in place and organize his plunder, but there’s a definite intellectual satisfaction in having everything just so. Once it’s done Eliot settles on the couch with a notebook, to document the results of his experiment, and to wait.
Give Me A Look Like I'm Way Out Of Bounds (for Anne and Jack)
Eliot rubs his hands together, his breath fogging as he reactivates the warmth spell keeping him comfortable while he waits in the park. It's bleak and overcast, the sky the sort of thin mean gray that holds a potential for snow, but he doesn't expect to be outside for much longer. A few yards away at the entrance to the garden, the Darrow Horticultural Society has put up a sign proclaiming a showcase of tropical blooms at the Conservatory greenhouse. The sign is garish and amateurish, more like a palm tree set-piece from a high school production of Guys and Dolls than anything approaching good advertisement, but the greenhouse itself is a grand art deco edifice with a stepped roof and the silhouettes of leafy branches visible inside even at a little distance. Eliot smiles in a tight line as he thinks about being really warm, with air that doesn't sting to breathe. He checks his phone for the third time and huffs a sigh.
It's not that he has regrets, and it's not that he's nervous. There's nothing to be nervous about, certainly not because the actual execution of this outing doesn't match the idea Eliot had when he'd first heard about the flower show. So if he's early it's because he doesn't know Anne well enough to be casually late; if he's pacing by the entrance it's because perhaps he had too much coffee with his lunch. And it's cold out. That's all. It's a miserable day and he is determined to have a good time, as soon as the pirates actually show up.
It's not that he has regrets, and it's not that he's nervous. There's nothing to be nervous about, certainly not because the actual execution of this outing doesn't match the idea Eliot had when he'd first heard about the flower show. So if he's early it's because he doesn't know Anne well enough to be casually late; if he's pacing by the entrance it's because perhaps he had too much coffee with his lunch. And it's cold out. That's all. It's a miserable day and he is determined to have a good time, as soon as the pirates actually show up.
Entry tags:
To Pass The Time Between The Wars (for Martin)
There's been altogether too much serious shit going on in Eliot's social circle; it's the latest in the series of surprises Darrow has presented, and he's tired of reacting to each subsequent piece of news with bafflement and blithe acceptance in the absence of any other alternatives. It's annoying, is what it is: a perpetual low-level irritation that he works with two of the most infuriatingly English people he's ever met. People who are oathbound to cosmic horrors, who get into terrible danger from sources supernatural and mundane, who apparently manage to scrape through by the skin of their teeth, if at all, and through it all refuse to ask for real assistance or keep their friends properly informed, even.
Two deaths now, in Eliot's periphery, and even if one of them didn't exactly stick, he's goddamn sick of pretending like everyone can just keep calm and carry on through it.
He doesn't say this, of course. What good would it do? It's far easier and more effective to offer what help he can, and throw himself into that to stave off the fear of what might have happened if things had been different.
So he walks Martin home from work, and spends the week filling the distance with anecdotes to keep him from getting too anxious from the ambient noise. It's nice, certainly, even moreso when he can nudge Martin out his thoughts to tell stories of his own. And maybe it would be enough, to know that he's helped someone a little who's going through some trauma, to grow closer as friends as a result. But Eliot still feels itchy with energy, and it's not as if this is a quest but in the core of his being he knows that it's not enough, not when he could do more.
Friday evening, the simmering frustration of inaction wins out over patience and propriety, and Eliot holds the door for Martin and prepares to make a mistake. He looks at Martin, whose ears and cheeks are red from the cold, who laughs when his glasses fog up immediately upon entering the building, who is sweet and kind and deserves so much better than what the world has dealt him.
Eliot clears his throat. "So," he says, as they head to the elevator, "I don't want to presume, but I have some experience with...coping, and I know that after something really horrible happens it can be hard to stop being reminded of it, and it's good to have...more positive input." He can't quite look Martin in the eyes, not because he's embarrassed but it's still crossing a kind of a line. He smiles, earnest. "You deserve to feel good, Martin, after everything that's been going on. And if you're amenable, I wonder if you'd like to come up to my place."
Two deaths now, in Eliot's periphery, and even if one of them didn't exactly stick, he's goddamn sick of pretending like everyone can just keep calm and carry on through it.
He doesn't say this, of course. What good would it do? It's far easier and more effective to offer what help he can, and throw himself into that to stave off the fear of what might have happened if things had been different.
So he walks Martin home from work, and spends the week filling the distance with anecdotes to keep him from getting too anxious from the ambient noise. It's nice, certainly, even moreso when he can nudge Martin out his thoughts to tell stories of his own. And maybe it would be enough, to know that he's helped someone a little who's going through some trauma, to grow closer as friends as a result. But Eliot still feels itchy with energy, and it's not as if this is a quest but in the core of his being he knows that it's not enough, not when he could do more.
Friday evening, the simmering frustration of inaction wins out over patience and propriety, and Eliot holds the door for Martin and prepares to make a mistake. He looks at Martin, whose ears and cheeks are red from the cold, who laughs when his glasses fog up immediately upon entering the building, who is sweet and kind and deserves so much better than what the world has dealt him.
Eliot clears his throat. "So," he says, as they head to the elevator, "I don't want to presume, but I have some experience with...coping, and I know that after something really horrible happens it can be hard to stop being reminded of it, and it's good to have...more positive input." He can't quite look Martin in the eyes, not because he's embarrassed but it's still crossing a kind of a line. He smiles, earnest. "You deserve to feel good, Martin, after everything that's been going on. And if you're amenable, I wonder if you'd like to come up to my place."
Entry tags:
Say When (A New Year's Brunch)
Eliot had been warned by various people that New Year's often brings some kind of supernatural mischief to Darrow, and this news had only made him more determined to stick to his plan. No power of god or man or eldritch entity place-spirit or army of fish people will prevent him from throwing a damn party.
It made sense, really, and part of him wishes he'd done something like this before now. He needn't frame it as a sort of surrender to this imprisonment, but rather just indulging in something frivolous because, as far as his understanding of the metaphysics goes, none of this really counts. So why shouldn't he enjoy it? He's been here long enough to decorate the apartment some, and it really is a marvel the amount of things available through Nile. There's more comfortable furniture, potted plants, and a series of apothecary cabinets and display cases for magical components that give the whole place the air of some eccentric explorer's gallery of curiosities.
He's even managed to get enough appliances that the little kitchen is decently functional, and has spent a few days stocking up and preparing for what he hopes will a successful brunch. He has enough eggs to feed an army. There will be copious crepes. There will be mimosas for days.
Eliot's used to working through a wicked hangover this time of year, so he built that into consideration in his prep time. Thanks to the night's adventure, though, he spends his downtime sober and scrubbing mer-blood off of himself, and still feels a bit frazzled by the time the first guests arrive.
[It's time for brunch! Brunch is a state of mind, not an actual timeframe, so please feel free to have your pups show up whenever in the day, honestly. Tag in, tag around, chase the memory of merman horror away with a mimosa, air your grievances and dirty laundry in the neutral ground of Eliot's apartment. This is a safe space. For Drama.]
It made sense, really, and part of him wishes he'd done something like this before now. He needn't frame it as a sort of surrender to this imprisonment, but rather just indulging in something frivolous because, as far as his understanding of the metaphysics goes, none of this really counts. So why shouldn't he enjoy it? He's been here long enough to decorate the apartment some, and it really is a marvel the amount of things available through Nile. There's more comfortable furniture, potted plants, and a series of apothecary cabinets and display cases for magical components that give the whole place the air of some eccentric explorer's gallery of curiosities.
He's even managed to get enough appliances that the little kitchen is decently functional, and has spent a few days stocking up and preparing for what he hopes will a successful brunch. He has enough eggs to feed an army. There will be copious crepes. There will be mimosas for days.
Eliot's used to working through a wicked hangover this time of year, so he built that into consideration in his prep time. Thanks to the night's adventure, though, he spends his downtime sober and scrubbing mer-blood off of himself, and still feels a bit frazzled by the time the first guests arrive.
[It's time for brunch! Brunch is a state of mind, not an actual timeframe, so please feel free to have your pups show up whenever in the day, honestly. Tag in, tag around, chase the memory of merman horror away with a mimosa, air your grievances and dirty laundry in the neutral ground of Eliot's apartment. This is a safe space. For Drama.]
Entry tags:
murder in the morning but it's good for morale (for Daisy)
Eliot hasn't been able to determine if Darrow is enough like America that they do Thanksgiving, but he's not taking his chances. It's easily his least favorite holiday; back home he'd wondered when Millennials were going to kill that industry too, since everyone he knew had horrible emotional baggage about it. But he works with a couple of Brits, and Kat's been sort of withdrawn lately, so Thanksgiving doesn't even feel fun to complain about.
Instead it's been business as usual at the Archive, for which Eliot's grateful. He still feels an uncomfortable itch like there is a holiday happening and he should be thinking about it, positively or no, and he doesn't care for that shit at all. So when Eliot leaves work on Thursday he shrugs on his coat and walks homeward, instead of getting a cab, and ducks into the first bar he finds that looks like it might have a chill vibe.
Twenty minutes later he's chatting up one of the locals (Charlie, librarian, looks Yaley but in a shy way) and feeling very pleased with his efforts. Townies might be a bit dull but Eliot asks him what the weirdest thing he ever found in a book drop was and he lights up and begins telling a slew of appalling anecdotes. It's fun, in a way, using social muscles that he's let atrophy. Even if random hookups aren't the best way to cope with being stuck here, Eliot has to make do. And tonight, he likes his chances.
Instead it's been business as usual at the Archive, for which Eliot's grateful. He still feels an uncomfortable itch like there is a holiday happening and he should be thinking about it, positively or no, and he doesn't care for that shit at all. So when Eliot leaves work on Thursday he shrugs on his coat and walks homeward, instead of getting a cab, and ducks into the first bar he finds that looks like it might have a chill vibe.
Twenty minutes later he's chatting up one of the locals (Charlie, librarian, looks Yaley but in a shy way) and feeling very pleased with his efforts. Townies might be a bit dull but Eliot asks him what the weirdest thing he ever found in a book drop was and he lights up and begins telling a slew of appalling anecdotes. It's fun, in a way, using social muscles that he's let atrophy. Even if random hookups aren't the best way to cope with being stuck here, Eliot has to make do. And tonight, he likes his chances.
Entry tags:
Pay Courtesy Its Due (for Anne)
Of course Eliot could have called, instead of actually going over to see how Jack's settling in, but that feels...impersonal. He doesn't like to think of his friendships as 'projects' necessarily but in this case it's more true than it might normally be. The man's 300 years out of his depth, after all, and despite that chasm of cultural difference they get along surprisingly well, so Eliot feels like it's only kind to make sure his friend isn't constantly on the verge of a meltdown over this terrible future he's trapped in.
He also brought food. Who knows if these poor pirates are eating well when they're probably used to hard tack and rum? He knows he's being something of a mother hen, but that doesn't stop him from toting a pyrex full of pasta along as he makes his way to the High Gate Terrace apartments. Eliot grins when he knocks on the door; after how strained things have been at work post...mortem, it'll be good to have a friendly, uncomplicated afternoon.
He also brought food. Who knows if these poor pirates are eating well when they're probably used to hard tack and rum? He knows he's being something of a mother hen, but that doesn't stop him from toting a pyrex full of pasta along as he makes his way to the High Gate Terrace apartments. Eliot grins when he knocks on the door; after how strained things have been at work post...mortem, it'll be good to have a friendly, uncomplicated afternoon.
Entry tags:
Call Off Your Ghost (for Martin)
He'd heard that weird things tend to happen in the city, and that Halloween is one of those times where things tend to happen, so he shouldn't be surprised. And yet.
At 9:05 p.m. on an unremarkable Tuesday Eliot feels a sudden and intense wave of vertigo, which is odd in that he hadn't been drinking and he's also sprawled more or less comfortably on his couch. He sits up, wincing, but the feeling is gone as quickly as it came on. There's no other immediate effect, and Eliot frowns. It could be some effect of large-scale magic, but he has no way of knowing where it came from, or what might occur. He goes to the fridge for a St. Crosse (mandarina almost tastes like a childhood dream about a tangerine, and they're good for a sour stomach besides), cracks it open, and thankfully hasn't yet taken a sip when he turns and sees the ghost standing directly in front of him.
"Motherfucker!" Eliot shrieks. He's not proud of it, but there it is. And then he throws the can of seltzer, which of course passes clean through the apparition, who frowns and looks perturbed. It's the figure of a man, his features seeming to shift and warp like sunlight underwater. Well whatever the fuck he looks like he's can't just turn up unannounced in someone's apartment. Eliot doesn't even think about it; he thrusts his arms out and wills the thing the fuck away from him.
It's raw magic, messy and instinctive, but it gets the job done. In an instant the force of the spell shunts the specter about twenty feet backwards; it passes through the kitchen window with a horrible squelch and Eliot can see it, hovering outside in the air like a puff of smoke. The window is covered with a smear of what he can only assume is ectoplasm, in the shape of a human head and torso.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Eliot grumbles, shaking his hands out and rummaging in the drawer of the coffee table for some chalk.
He spends the next fifteen minutes muttering and scribbling wards on the windowsills, and when he's done Eliot's reasonably certain he won't have any more uninvited guests. He looks out the window to check on the ghost, now bumping against the glass, a grumpy little stray balloon. "Sorry compadre," Eliot says in the ghost's general direction as he checks his phone and starts composing a text. "I'm not in the market for a fucking roommate."
At 9:05 p.m. on an unremarkable Tuesday Eliot feels a sudden and intense wave of vertigo, which is odd in that he hadn't been drinking and he's also sprawled more or less comfortably on his couch. He sits up, wincing, but the feeling is gone as quickly as it came on. There's no other immediate effect, and Eliot frowns. It could be some effect of large-scale magic, but he has no way of knowing where it came from, or what might occur. He goes to the fridge for a St. Crosse (mandarina almost tastes like a childhood dream about a tangerine, and they're good for a sour stomach besides), cracks it open, and thankfully hasn't yet taken a sip when he turns and sees the ghost standing directly in front of him.
"Motherfucker!" Eliot shrieks. He's not proud of it, but there it is. And then he throws the can of seltzer, which of course passes clean through the apparition, who frowns and looks perturbed. It's the figure of a man, his features seeming to shift and warp like sunlight underwater. Well whatever the fuck he looks like he's can't just turn up unannounced in someone's apartment. Eliot doesn't even think about it; he thrusts his arms out and wills the thing the fuck away from him.
It's raw magic, messy and instinctive, but it gets the job done. In an instant the force of the spell shunts the specter about twenty feet backwards; it passes through the kitchen window with a horrible squelch and Eliot can see it, hovering outside in the air like a puff of smoke. The window is covered with a smear of what he can only assume is ectoplasm, in the shape of a human head and torso.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Eliot grumbles, shaking his hands out and rummaging in the drawer of the coffee table for some chalk.
He spends the next fifteen minutes muttering and scribbling wards on the windowsills, and when he's done Eliot's reasonably certain he won't have any more uninvited guests. He looks out the window to check on the ghost, now bumping against the glass, a grumpy little stray balloon. "Sorry compadre," Eliot says in the ghost's general direction as he checks his phone and starts composing a text. "I'm not in the market for a fucking roommate."
Entry tags:
sparks are spilling out the gears (for Martin and Daine)
Eliot straightens up and feels his back crack. Another late night scribbling equations until he nearly passes out from exhaustion. It's probably not a good sign that he's getting used to waking up smelling like scotch and chalk dust, but at least he's managing to make himself presentable for shifts at the Archive. At this point the aggressively nonsensical nature of city records is almost a relief, and he's been surprised to find that he actually enjoys the mundane office work.
He knows somehow that there's probably an easy solution to his magic dilemma, that trying to brute-force the math is about as reasonable as searching an entire beach of keys one at a time for one in particular. But he's never been inclined to do things the easy way. So he's run the numbers on calculating Planck's constant three different ways, determined that no, this earth shouldn't be any larger or smaller than the one he knows, and tried a dozen other approaches without finding what he's looking for.
Eliot switches to water at midnight, slumping on his uncomfortable couch as he examines the charred remains of an oak leaf. Blue's power boost has helped, certainly, as well as attuning to the ley line for his sense of a cardinal direction, but what spells he's tried are still liable to just end explosively rather than doing exactly what they're supposed to. It shouldn't be this much work to transmute materials. He sighs and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift in a free-association haze brought on by low blood sugar, probably. He thinks about turning carbon to gold, and how gilded leaves would make for nice autumnal decor, and how if he were home he'd probably be well into costume planning in his continued efforts to get Fillory to celebrate Halloween. He thinks about gold leaf and Mycenean treasures, lost caches of ancient kings. He thinks about computer code as archaeological strata. A name drifts up from the depths of his subconscious. Schliemann.
He sits up too fast, his head suddenly throbbing, and frowns as he reaches for another leaf from the pile on the coffee table. he holds it in one hand while gesturing with the other, adjusting the movement of his fingers and trying to keep the metaphorical image in his mind. The incantation, a Cycladic dialect pronounced more musically than he'd done before. He doesn't reach as deep, doesn't feel the prickle of static in his hands. There is only a faint shimmer around the leaf in the moment before it grows heavier and changes from red to gleaming gold.
He grins, and sets it down with a soft metallic clink before firing off a series of texts.
He knows somehow that there's probably an easy solution to his magic dilemma, that trying to brute-force the math is about as reasonable as searching an entire beach of keys one at a time for one in particular. But he's never been inclined to do things the easy way. So he's run the numbers on calculating Planck's constant three different ways, determined that no, this earth shouldn't be any larger or smaller than the one he knows, and tried a dozen other approaches without finding what he's looking for.
Eliot switches to water at midnight, slumping on his uncomfortable couch as he examines the charred remains of an oak leaf. Blue's power boost has helped, certainly, as well as attuning to the ley line for his sense of a cardinal direction, but what spells he's tried are still liable to just end explosively rather than doing exactly what they're supposed to. It shouldn't be this much work to transmute materials. He sighs and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift in a free-association haze brought on by low blood sugar, probably. He thinks about turning carbon to gold, and how gilded leaves would make for nice autumnal decor, and how if he were home he'd probably be well into costume planning in his continued efforts to get Fillory to celebrate Halloween. He thinks about gold leaf and Mycenean treasures, lost caches of ancient kings. He thinks about computer code as archaeological strata. A name drifts up from the depths of his subconscious. Schliemann.
He sits up too fast, his head suddenly throbbing, and frowns as he reaches for another leaf from the pile on the coffee table. he holds it in one hand while gesturing with the other, adjusting the movement of his fingers and trying to keep the metaphorical image in his mind. The incantation, a Cycladic dialect pronounced more musically than he'd done before. He doesn't reach as deep, doesn't feel the prickle of static in his hands. There is only a faint shimmer around the leaf in the moment before it grows heavier and changes from red to gleaming gold.
He grins, and sets it down with a soft metallic clink before firing off a series of texts.
Entry tags:
Went Down Again Headfirst | Arrival in Darrow (for Martin)
They make their farewells, and even this type of epic literary leave-taking can't dampen the buoyancy of the mood, not really, after all they've won! It's quite literally a miracle! Still, Eliot's expression is serious as he pulls Quentin into a hug.
"Never doubted you for a moment, Q," he says, patting his back. "Well. Maybe just a moment. But you pulled it off! And not a moment too soon, as they say." He looks up at the sky, marveling at the snowflakes. It's cooling off fast, after the brutality of that dire, endless summer. And now it's time for things to change.
Quentin shrugs, and gives a smile that does nothing to hide how tired he looks. "I guess I'm not the fuckup everyone always thought."
"Oh don't be like that, you know we never thought of you like that." He thinks a moment. "Well I didn't at least, I can't speak for Janet."
Janet looks over upon hearing her name and gives Quentin a brief nod. It's hard to read.
“In any case,” he continues, “best of luck out there, we'll try not to trash the place in your absence, et cetera.” And then, because this is the end, he clears his throat and kisses Quentin on the cheek. “Love you. You're going to be amazing.”
Quentin, in classic fashion, fumbles at the sentiment before answering, red-faced, with a “-you too!” and Eliot scoffs.
“I know. Now get out of here, you've got your own adventures to do.”
If his mood is a little less excitable after Quentin and Alice and Julia leave, it doesn't worry him. He and Josh continue chatting about architectural improvements as they make their way to the entrance to the castle. The gates are askew, huge chunks of masonry strewn in the courtyard, and the survivors, bewildered but whole, already trying to get things back in order.
And then of course, there are the bodies of the fallen. Eliot pulls up short, somber, at the sight of it and the thought that here, in place he'd done so much to protect, it all almost ended in such mindless violence.
He straightens the crown on his head. “First things first,” he says, addressing Plum and his fellow royals with all his High Kingly gravitas. “We bury the dead. We will mourn, and then we will rebuild.” A breeze swirls through the courtyard at that moment, dramatically sweeping the snow flurries in spiraling eddies. Time to get to work. He takes the stairs to the keep two at a time, and then-
A sensation of falling, like he's missed a step, and it feels like that because he has and he is, and before Eliot can register any more than that he's landed, sprawled facedown on the sand.
Sand. Sand? It doesn't make sense, and he's jarred enough by the impact that for a second that's all he can think about, it doesn't make sense, there is sand in his mouth and he spits, it doesn't make sense, and he struggles to his hands and knees.
There is no snow, no evening light, no castle. This is somewhere else.
"Never doubted you for a moment, Q," he says, patting his back. "Well. Maybe just a moment. But you pulled it off! And not a moment too soon, as they say." He looks up at the sky, marveling at the snowflakes. It's cooling off fast, after the brutality of that dire, endless summer. And now it's time for things to change.
Quentin shrugs, and gives a smile that does nothing to hide how tired he looks. "I guess I'm not the fuckup everyone always thought."
"Oh don't be like that, you know we never thought of you like that." He thinks a moment. "Well I didn't at least, I can't speak for Janet."
Janet looks over upon hearing her name and gives Quentin a brief nod. It's hard to read.
“In any case,” he continues, “best of luck out there, we'll try not to trash the place in your absence, et cetera.” And then, because this is the end, he clears his throat and kisses Quentin on the cheek. “Love you. You're going to be amazing.”
Quentin, in classic fashion, fumbles at the sentiment before answering, red-faced, with a “-you too!” and Eliot scoffs.
“I know. Now get out of here, you've got your own adventures to do.”
If his mood is a little less excitable after Quentin and Alice and Julia leave, it doesn't worry him. He and Josh continue chatting about architectural improvements as they make their way to the entrance to the castle. The gates are askew, huge chunks of masonry strewn in the courtyard, and the survivors, bewildered but whole, already trying to get things back in order.
And then of course, there are the bodies of the fallen. Eliot pulls up short, somber, at the sight of it and the thought that here, in place he'd done so much to protect, it all almost ended in such mindless violence.
He straightens the crown on his head. “First things first,” he says, addressing Plum and his fellow royals with all his High Kingly gravitas. “We bury the dead. We will mourn, and then we will rebuild.” A breeze swirls through the courtyard at that moment, dramatically sweeping the snow flurries in spiraling eddies. Time to get to work. He takes the stairs to the keep two at a time, and then-
A sensation of falling, like he's missed a step, and it feels like that because he has and he is, and before Eliot can register any more than that he's landed, sprawled facedown on the sand.
Sand. Sand? It doesn't make sense, and he's jarred enough by the impact that for a second that's all he can think about, it doesn't make sense, there is sand in his mouth and he spits, it doesn't make sense, and he struggles to his hands and knees.
There is no snow, no evening light, no castle. This is somewhere else.