thedressingroom | (no subject)

(no subject)

[There's a pile of books beside the beanbag this wolf is sitting in, a collection that seems to dip into some fairly advanced magic. Remus frowns as he flips through the pages. He's decided that he really ought to take advantage of his time here, and this little studying session promises to be the first of many. He seems preoccupied, though, and occasionally stares off into the corner of the room instead of at the pages before him, thinking about all he has to look forward to when he heads back to the cottage.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Now is that merely courtesy or do you actually like my company?

I said that I wanted to hear your story, didn't I?

Surely those old storytellers have already told and retold them, and others written them down for people like you to search them out?

Would you like to see what the books say about werewolves?

Oh? [A shrug- why not?]

[Really? Remus blinks, but then holds out a hand and one of any number of books on the creatures of his world appears in his hand.]

Near the back. Labeled "incurably violent."

[He flips through to the back, finds the entry and scans through it. It's certainly not an unfamiliar concept.]

Along with feral and out-of-control. Are you sure you're a werewolf?

Positive. Every night of the full moon.

I don't mean to imply that what I become is less horrifying than the picture that entry paints. Those adjectives are... fair.

No, I understand your point. [He continues to browse through the book, though his attention is clearly not entirely on the pages.] So what do you think is different from what those storytellers have to say about us?

Do you ask what I know to be different about myself, or what I suspect to be different about you?

[It takes a moment, but he shuts the book and regards Remus with all his attention.]

You could answer both.

In response to the first...

The assumption is that werewolves, in their human form, retain some delight in... violence that makes them dangerous to be around. That they enjoy "infecting" others. It is also assumed that they are low class, lacking in manners, and prone to... shabby appearances and a variety of diseases.

These last are largely a result of the social prejudice against employing those known to be lycanthropes, or even admitting them into schools. I have no way of earning money for myself - if it weren't for the support of my friends, I would be destitute. If it weren't for the careful secrecy and support of my school's headmaster, I would have had to remain self-taught at home.

Hence the need to run from your world.

I see.

And yet I still fight for them.

There is a war on, and though I try very hard not to think on it, it sometimes comes painfully to my attention that there is no "side" that would unanimously welcome me with open arms. If anything, it is the enemy that professes acceptance for werewolves, though their freedom is the freedom to murder and run wild, which I will never do. I will fight and I will die for a cause that occasionally feels like... a very selective liberty.

I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm saying. It's been a trying day.

I don't understand. You have escaped, you have found somewhere else that will accept you, and yet you return to fight for your oppressors?

What are you trying to achieve?

I am not... I am not the only one who is in danger. Innocent people are dying, my friends are being murdered by a group that believes that all magical blood is superior and must be kept pure. For this cause, they kill everyone and everything in their path that doesn't reflect these ideals.

I will go back, I know that I have to, eventually. I am not a coward. But, yes, I found this place. And I somehow managed to conjure Sirius into it. So I do plan to stay here and enjoy a bit of respite for awhile and hope that it doesn't make me a failure of a soldier.

[Ah. Alright, now he understands- he's met a boy with more ideals than sense, more honour than self-preservation. Not altogether a bad thing, really, as far as things go.]

Better to go into battle well-rested than weary, there is no shame in that. Wars take years. [Centuries to the Aesir, sometimes. But they are mortals, they can't afford to keep a war going that long, surely.]

I shouldn't have gone into all of that.

What do you wish to know of the Aesir? Or of me?

I want to know... well, everything you're alright with me knowing. Pretend that I know nothing, tell me your... your story.

What a bold request.

Well. Odin Borson, All-Father, King of Asgard and Guardian of the Nine Realms had two sons. One was bright as day, a true warrior of the Aesir- that is to say, he was dull, foolish, and far too good-natured to be a good king, and yet he was heir to the throne. The other was night, if the elder was day- his path lay through sorcery and words, things that were usually the domain of the womenfolk of Asgard. The two brothers, however, were steadfast brothers despite their differences.

I shall not tell of their childhood, except to say that the younger, knowing that the elder was to be king, tried in every way he could to dissuade him from actions too brutal or stupid. He did not always succeed. Of course, the younger also took his pleasure where he could, in seeing a fool made of his brother. After all, is that not the way of siblings?

[And so he goes, beginning to narrate the story of the coronation, of the Jotunn disrupting, and Thor's banishment. He speaks like he's reciting a tale in the mead halls, his voice sometimes almost seeming like it's veering into a long melodic poem, only to turn sharply back to low, murmuring prose. After all they call him the Silvertongue, and it is not only on account of his lies.]

[Remus is quite a good listener. He watches Loki closely as he speaks, a slight frown creasing between his eyes occasionally, an expression of interest and concern, though also occasionally of sympathy and even pity. It's a painful story in some ways, in part because it reminds him of some he's read in books lately when searching through histories of the war - people he thought he knew rediscovered through different eyes, their private pains laid bare. He has to stifle some urges to offer Loki some chocolate or a comforting cup of tea because he doesn't want to interrupt him.]

[As he spoke, he had gazed downward, at the floor, pulling words fast and thick from his mind; now he looks back up, at the conclusion.]

And so the younger fell- and so the story ends. [He huffs a small chuckle.] Surely your appetite for tales has been satisfied, with such a lengthy one.

Could you ever make peace with him?

[He scoffs.]

When he has learnt to listen to me, even on occasion, then perhaps. When he has learnt that the world is not his to take, like a ripe fruit.

Perhaps.