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 Posted: Thu Feb 18, 2010 11:08 pm
Adal glanced to Georgie, responding to Chauhn with a mere click of the tongue, sharp and demeaning. "Pity, Mister Chauhn. You shan't let such flighty wishes dull you."
It was apparent to both of the brothers the nature of their work. The Malt brothers both shared an eager wanting to keep themselves occupied with their one special task, one twinkle of an opportunity amongst the vast dullness of their lives, and at times the two had gotten so carried away in their race for scouting information that they had forgotten just what they were scouting for. It rarely struck neither of them during their duty the gravity of their job, their heads often too focused on their boyish games.
And, now, the two boys stared at one another, as if passing off invisible messages to each other, urging their brother to take the task. Never before had they forgotten about their game.
With a frustrated sigh and one last mean stare at Adal, who took an elegant step back whilst putting on the plumed hat that he had held in his hands for so long, Georgie sniffed and searched through the little bag tied around his waist, taking out a small, frail little journal, covered in black leather now faded from age and overuse.
"There's not much use to getting Clurie back, Chauhn, but you have the power to bring a similar essence of him back. Have you really never heard of the Plagues before?"
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Posted: Fri Feb 19, 2010 1:26 am
Chauhn didn't pay any mind to Adal, instead choosing to focus his attention on Georgie, a person he was far more willing to trust and listen to than the quirky and cheeky Plague. Once, twice, he tried to pry his hands away from the makeshift pendant hanging on his neck, heavy with the weight of his brother's ashes, but his hands continuously snaked up, reaching to hold on to the woven twine. It was a comfort to him, to feel the lifelike beat of ash within, even while the Malt brothers refuted his current knowledge and lack thereof.
They exchanged glances, a language between them that even Chauhn could partly read. He once knew the ways of speaking with blood like that, it was still familiar. Granted, he couldn't and could never completely understand what they were saying with the slight twitches of the brows, the gentle twinge of the eye or mouth, but he could sure interpret the general meaning.
They knew something.
When Georgie stepped forward, replacing Adal as main speaker, Chauhn was nearly tempted to take a step back. He held himself firm, eyes warily inspecting the black worn journal now clasped tightly in Georgie's fingers. He tightened his grip on the pouch, as if there were something threatening about that book. The ashes beat against the pouch in a tabor, very much alive. It seemed that Clurie knew something that Chauhn didn't. Whatever it was, Chauhn had to guess that what Georgie presented him with now, was good, despite the following statement that came from his mouth.
Chauhn furrowed his brows deeply at Georgie, the dimples on his face returning with the spread of a disapproving frown. "Clurie WILL come back," he said, his voice firm and belief even firmer, "'E will."
Well, that was one sad picture: the last living Clemmings, clinging desperately to the notion that his beloved family member would return from the ashes, a phoenix to his plight. He was immobile from the thought that Clurie was gone, absolutely dead set on believing it was CLURIE who would return, not a ghost of his blood and plague. He was fixed on the idea.
Chauhn quieted and continued, his face softening, "No, sir, nev'r 'eard of 'em. I 'eard of the Plague and all, 'ow could ah not? But not...The Plagues, if'n you mean others like Adal. Nev'r seen 'em, 'eard 'em, not at all and that's tellin' the truth, sir."
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Posted: Sun Mar 07, 2010 4:06 pm
Georgie's breath stifled as Chauhn remained adamant on believing that his brother would return. There was something pleasant about the Clemmings' determination, though he reasoned it was because of the rarity of such brevity; while the urchin's plight was illogical and very much impossible, there was something very reassuring about the boy.
Despite the fruits of their fantastical adventures across the countrysides of Panymium, the boys had remained rather unfazed by the splendors of the world. Their desires for something greater and a boy's typical appreciation for the magnificent had been replaced by brisk years of studying, observing, learning, and understanding. What was once a fantastical fairytale woven by the great kings and wizards of Panymium was replaced by the reality of The Bubos. The Great Threat.
But what were they to know? Adal and Georgie had remained unmarred and emotionally detached by The Plague. They had none to cherish that could have gotten the disease in the first place.
That pinch of humanity from Clemmings, then, was refreshing. The idea of a Plague born because of the desperation of love and not the desperation of greed was truly fascinating.
The boy's brows knitted together, confounded by the sweep's unknowing. He had often thought the humanized Plagues had gathered infamy through all classes, from the highest noble to the lowest beggar, though his experiences might have been skewed because of the nature of his occupation.
"That's very strange, mister Chauhn, but I pray you be careful. Your bag of ashes there are worth more than a good share of shillings."
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Posted: Mon Mar 08, 2010 12:43 am
Chauhn nodded his head to the other boy's warning, his too-large newspaper boy's cap slipping slightly over his eyes as he did so. Lifting his hand up to push back the bill of the cap, he tried his best to keep himself strong before Georgie. He didn't like these little snippets and statements of concern and enlightenment that the Malt brothers were trying to feed him about Plagues. While he was glad it wasn't being force fed down his metaphorical throat, he was sure not liking what it meant for him, and of that he knew very little. What little he retained from this small conversation disturbed him, particularly since it rubbed against his one and only last hope. Everything he worked for, everything he lived for, everything he continued on for, was for Clurie. As soon as he felt the ashes wiggle to life in the pouch, Chauhn was more than convinced that it was his little brother struggling to piece himself back together through sheer will. So Chauhn waited for him. What these people were saying, claiming that it was not his brother...That was stupid. Of course it would be his brother! It was HIS ashes! It has to be him. No one else. There could not possibly be anyone else. Besides, Chauhn needed his brother.
Ignorance? Sure. Impossibility? Definitely. Desperation? Of course.
It was these things that kept the little sweep going. If not for Clurie, then what did Chauhn have to live for? It was a simple question in his mind. If he didn't have Clurie, he wouldn't live. And that was that, until he could be convinced otherwise.
In response to Georgie's last comments, the urchin gave an honest tilt to his head, shifting the straps of his brooms across his chest, "Ah keep 'im, Clurie ah mean, safe 'n me shirt most of d'time. Outta sight. Ah dun want no one t'see 'im, all wigglin' 'n 'is bag 'n all. Big brother 'as to protect 'is litt'lun, right? Ah dun want folks to try 'n' take 'im from me. 'E's m'brother 'n' 'e's worth d'world t'me. Ah dunno what'd ah'd do without 'im. Prolly 'ave a lie down 'n a street somewheres 'n' wait to be run o'er or sleep 'n some snow 'til ah dun wake up." Chauhn gave a shrug, seemingly okay with this alternate solution.
"Whot's Plagues 'ave to do wit' Clurie?" he asked, still not quite making the distinction.
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Posted: Tue Mar 30, 2010 9:05 pm
Adal had thought of a game: How many times would he have to explain a concept to this boy to understand? Every hint would've been worth ten points.
Though, not every game was worth playing-- the Locos was hardly inclined to continue their spiel. Chauhn had made the reason for his stubbornness loud and clear. If the two of them met at any other time, years before, Adal would've thought Chauhn a brave brother, as he blindly placed faith upon his return. His unyielding strength for someone long gone would've done more than fascinate him.
Of course, he learned the wrongs of blind faith-- there was no sense in such a thing. A life spent to gain an unattainable dream was as honorable as the Cult was-- and, unfortunately, the Cult had never endorsed such a thing.
"I've little interest in rambling for hours so you can understand one question answered time and time again, mister Chauhn. Your bag of ashes was once Clurie, it is now Plagued. To put simply, you are fostering the same thing that killed your entire family."
Oh, sweet Panymium-- Adal was predictable, yes, maybe too predictable-- there was little point in asking him to be quiet, as there was no point in arguing with him. Georgie could do little but fiddle with his leather book and admire how clear of a brown the dirt below them was...
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Posted: Wed Mar 31, 2010 2:15 am
Chauhn didn't like what this Plague was saying. Of course, he was trying very hard and quite obviously to remain ignorant to the nature of the thing within the pouch, but it was getting harder and harder to defend his naivety. He was struggling so hard to believe that what was within his pouch was his little brother, coming back to him to heal his loneliness. It just had to be that way. It was the only thing keeping him going. For whom else would he live for if not his brother?
...This plague? The thing that killed his family? The thing that slowly choked them and tattooed their young bodies with buboes of welled puss and dark blood? Would he live to harbor and protect that?
Chauhn's face broke then, his stony facade finally faltering as the facts pressed in upon him like the jaws of an iron maiden of truth. It punctured him. It made him bleed. It made his body slump with the pull of gravity so much that his limbs quavered with the strain to keep himself on his feet. He held the pulsing pouch in his hands then, his head hanging low.
Was this life in the pouch really the life stolen away from his family? The result of a hunger fed that led to the beat and wiggle of the ashes in the bag? Could he really be harboring the same beast that ran rampant through his family and swallowed up their lives?
To all these questions, Chauhn decided no.
No, it wasn't.
While reality was the favorable position on this troublesome topic for the two before him, Chauhn knew that he had to believe in his imagination. If what they said was true, and if Chauhn took it to heart, he would be done and rid of the thing at once. He would throw the bag of ashes into the sea, bury it, or sell it to someone else. He also knew that once he did that, he would have nothing else to struggle for. He would just stop. Collapsing somewhere, out of the way, out of sight, maybe, he would just drop and stop. Give up.
Blind faith was all he had to go on.
"NO."
Lifting up his face, his cheeks hot with anger and wet with tears, Chauhn stared down Adal Malt with a burning determination and stubbornness that could have lit candles aflame. "Say whotever y'want, but these ashes are Clurie and only Clurie. 'E's got to be Clurie and nothing else, y'hear?! 'E's my little brother, no Plague! No evil black thing that swallows up brothers 'n' sisters 'n' their fathers 'n' mothers! 'E's no thing of death! 'E's MINE! 'N' 'e didn't kill m'family! Whotever's 'n this bag IS my family!"
Breathing hard, the boy pushed his way past Adal, his chimney brushes clinking and clattering on his back as he stumbled past him, possessed by angry denial. He moved by Georgie, too, bypassing him without a second glance as he stumbled clumsily through the sand towards the edge of the forest. His eyes were burning with moisture and his nose was wet and red with sniffles.
Chauhn wasn't so much angry at Georgie and Adal...He was angry at the sneaking suspicion that they, in the end, just might be right about the heavy pouch of ashes that hung around his neck.
...That what he was protecting was not Clurie, but a monster in his brother's skin.
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Posted: Wed Apr 21, 2010 10:10 pm
The Locos watched in curiosity as Chauhn stormed away. As childish and hopeless it was, Adal found a special kind of amusement through it-- his own claim was true, of course, he was sure of it. Their proposal was neither outlandish nor false; it was truth, and it was the urchin's predictable denying of things that kept Adal's head held high as Chauhn walked away. The conversation came to a simple end; these were pleasant, and Adal couldn't help but let a small chuckle escape his lips.
What was so amusing? The boy's reaction? No. Nothing had changed; the Plague was what it was, and the boy was what he was; the trees did not bend and the clouds did not melt away when Chauhn denied his object of affection's sordid fate. It was to be expected, the way the urchin reacted; his bout of anger was rhythmic, so destined and melodic, that time hummed its graceful tune to Adal's ears.
It amused him just how satiric it was, the boy's spiel. As Chauhn's cold glare locked onto Adal's own peculiar pair of oculars, the blond's smile widened to reflect the pleasure of his findings. He maintained his posture, steady and painfully smug. He had no reason to speak, no room for it; whatever Georgie or he could have said simply would've passed the lonely waif's mind.
Georgie waited. He waited for a long while, his head dipping and wrinkling with every second of retaliation Chauhn could muster. When the urchin, so bitter and blindly faithful, turned to march away, Georgie could take it no longer. The mousy boy kept his head low, his eyes trailed to Chauhn's back, until he found himself skittering after him in a plight of desperation.
His voice stale and coarse, Georgie called to Chauhn with a broken voice. "W-wait, Mister Clemmings, you're--!"
"Let him be, Georgie."
Helpless, Georgie turned to face Adal. His useless staggering to the urchin stopped; the wrinkles knitting his brows together and his lips, so desperate yet afraid to speak, were gaped and dumbfounded. Adal glanced past Georgie's small shoulders to catch a glimpse of Chauhn, whose figure receded to the shadows of the trees.
"Adal, it's our faults, isn't it?"
Fault? Adal knew this was no fault; and to that he smiled.
"Fault? No."
"He wants his brother back..."
"Yes, he does. Those ashes control him, his reason for living-- and it is a guarantee that the Plague will grow."
"He'll kill it at the sight of it."
"He's but a boy, like you and I." Adal made slow, surly steps to Georgie, wrapping his arm across his Grimm's shoulder with a boast of confidence.
"His heart is not that of a man's. He knows not how to kill."
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Posted: Wed Apr 21, 2010 10:26 pm
..................... | END | ......................
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