thearena | cogi qui potest [OPEN]

Entry tags:

cogi qui potest [OPEN]

Who| Merlyn and OPEN
What| Merlyn accustoms himself to the Arena and sets things on fire
Where| The castle, main hall
When| The first night
Warnings/Notes| TBD

Merlyn had to say that, so far, he was not taken with this place. The village stank quite hideously of rot and decay, and the whole place was bitterly draughty. At least his outfit wasn't too bad. It was heavy, of course, but to a man used to weighty robes, it wasn't too bad at all. He did resent that they had taken his hat away again, though. Was it so much to ask that he be left with a skullcap, at least?

But all that was purely cosmetic. The real problem, of course, was that he was here at all. He had no intention of participating in their barbaric Games, no matter how they might browbeat him. At the Cornucopia, the moment he had felt his powers kick back into gear, he had abandoned his plans of running; squatting down and making himself small, as he'd once taught the Wart, he had turned himself into a blackbird and flown for the rooftops. He'd been mobbed by crows on the way, but he was a deft flier, and they had lost interest around the time he darted in through one of the castle's arrowslits.

When the sun started setting, he was settled in the rafters above the Great Hall, an old man again. He had taken off his heavy gloves, tucking them into the pocket of his leather apron, and was sitting with his skinny legs dangling over twenty feet of nothingness, considering the fire flickering over his head.

"A queer kind of trick," he announced at last, to whoever might happen to be watching. "You might have put less thought into firelight and more into better architecture. Why, even the Castle Sauvage is less draughty! I should give a great deal for less fire over my head, and more in the grate!"

He got his wish a few moments later, when he grew bored with contemplating his surroundings and attempted to conjure up some knitting to keep him occupied. No sooner had he stuck out his hand and said "Knitting!" than the rafter he was sitting on burst, rather unexpectedly, into flames. Yelping in a very unwizardly manner, Merlyn dropped the yarn and needles that had just appeared in his hand. They clattered to the floor far below as he scrambled back and beat at the flames with his apron. Echoing around the chamber, along with the flapping of leather, the occasional ..."by-our-lady..." sounded out.

When he finally managed to smother the fire, he looked down at the hall below. More specifically, at the bright blue yarn in the middle of the floor. "Drat it!" he snapped, and started to shuffle along the rafter. It was going to be a long climb down, for an old man.

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"My dear girl," Merlyn begins, then harrumphs and starts again. "Time, you see, is something of a slippery slope. No, no, we oughtn't to dive directly into that, it seems to confuse people far too easily. No, let's start at the beginning, and keep it simple. Hm. Perhaps the simplest way to explain it," he decides at last, "is that I am very, very old. Very old indeed. I've lived through a lot of stories in my time, very few of them my own. From the twenty-first century to the... twelfth, if memory serves? I'm afraid it all merges together after a while. And, of course, I was tricked into a cave by that dratted Nimue - shouldn't speak ill of her, really, she was only following her own fate, I suppose, as we all must. And she was charming company, while it lasted. In any case," he goes on, dragging himself back to the point, "I spent a good four or five centuries in that cave, talking to myself. I got some debate in on the relative merits of the Hellenistic philosophies as applied to the modern day, but of course when I got out, the modern day had quite changed. The moles were a blessed relief, to tell you the truth. One can have a good conversation with oneself, if one tries very hard, but after a few decades the discourse does begin to grow a little stale."

Rose perks up as he launches in, with the kind of interest of someone who isn't unfamiliar with the topic - at least to an extent. But she neither interrupts, instead letting him go on (and he does go on), quite willing to learn what she can while he's offering. Besides, it's genuinely interesting.

"Consider me well corrected," she says first, once he's hit a lull. "Though I'm not as unfamiliar with time as you might think. I was only just railroaded into completing a stable time loop before I arrived here, and I have a brief scattering of memories from a short, branching timeline. Of course, you'd do better to ask my brother if you wanted to get into a real discussion; Time is his aspect."

Though she's not sure how Dave might get along with him. She's only just feeling out his personality as it is, and what bits she recalls of the legends - varied things that they were - feels woefully inadequate now that she's learned how long-lived he is.

"I'm not so sure I want to buy into fate as unalterable, though. I'm sure in your eyes I must be traipsing willfully into the jaws of my own naivety; but even after being tricked by inevitability, I won't give up that easily. I've already evaded one fate in coming here, and I've borne witness to the fruit of a doomed timeline coming to ripen in another."

She never was much for the straightforward path, anyway.

Edited 2015-06-06 23:50 (UTC)

"Oh, not at all. Not at all." Merlyn frowns at her, scratching the side of his nose. "I don't believe for a moment that fate is unalterable. Although one does gain a slightly different view on the whole matter, living as I do. Fate isn't inevitable, my dear. Fate isn't a force, or a thing at all, you see. Fate is only a description. She had to put me into the cave, or someone did, because otherwise, why would I have been in the cave already?"

He looks at her earnestly, as if everything he just said made perfect sense.

Rose blinks at him, eyebrows lifting in pleasant surprise. There is a bit of confusion at the end, but it resolves itself shortly after into a presumed explanation.

"Ah, your own time loop? Or temporal predestination, in any case. I admit I am getting a bit tired of dealing with that in my own life."

It's led to a lot of frustrations in the last day, even if the last one might have turned out a means to save her from oblivion. Her feelings there are complicated and largely made moot by the situation at hand.

"I'm glad to see you have faith in the ability to change things, though. It's refreshing to have it validated," she says, letting herself smile again.

"Of course I do," Merlyn says, reaching over to pat her hand. "Otherwise, I should be a rather poor excuse for a tutor. Or a wizard, for that matter. Both professions rest rather heavily on one's own belief in changing things, you see."

He settles back again, considering for a moment before adding almost to himself, "As for time loops, not at all, no. I've never had the inclination for that kind of nonsense. Time is quite enough of a pain, without meddling in it any further. Even," he adds thoughtfully, "if I could, and I'm not at all sure that I can."

She finds herself surprised again at the pat to her hand, but it's the kind of gesture that's kind and easy, a thoughtless little thing. She finds she doesn't mind, even likes it. "That's a good way of viewing it."

He intrigues her again as he goes on.

"No? What did happen to you, then?" she asks, eyebrows lifted again. She's turned partly to him, not enough to jeopardize her stability on the rafter. "For my part it was never intentional. The effects of the loops had already manifested, so I had no choice but to comply, no matter how I tried otherwise."

Edited 2015-06-09 15:50 (UTC)

"That sounds inconvenient, to say the least." Merlyn's tone is sympathetic, as his expression. He's never been a fan of that kind of thing, and being trapped in it against one's will would be quite dreadful, he imagines. "As for me, nothing happened, precisely. Or rather, everything happened, but in rather the wrong order from most people's perspective. Hm. How can I put this?"

He scratches his head, then sticks out his hand, starts to say "Mirror," considers the burnt rafter they're sitting on, and stops halfway: "Mirr- Oh, drat it, never mind. Never mind the blasted thing. It can wait until we're on the ground and less liable to be set on fire." Glaring quite ferociously up at the ceiling (and, nominally, the Gamemakers beyond it), he flexes his outstretched hand and draws it back into his lap. "Imagine that I have a mirror here. Imagine that everything you do, everything you see, everything you write or draw, you must do based solely on the reflection in the mirror that this by-our-lady place is so against my summoning. Then you will have something of an inkling of how I understand time."

"In a number of ways, yes," she answers, though she doesn't elaborate now so as not to interrupt.

There is something about watching and listening to him that's fascinating, she decides. There seems to be almost a process in his approach to life, slow and deliberate, taking his time. It's not the frustrating dawdling some take to, but endearingly old-mannish.

She is listening, though, and her brow eyebrows knit together as she considers what he's told. A mirror... Mirrored...

"Reversed?" Her tone is uncertain. It seems too complicated a comparison to be that easy of an answer. If he lived in reverse, surely he could have said so without the artifice.

Merlyn blinks. Blinks again, rather owlishly and quite clearly caught off-balance. "...Yes," he says after a moment, sounding a little impressed, a little affronted, and mostly just surprised. After the lengths he's gone to to explain it, it's rather shocking for someone to pick it up that quickly. It hasn't occurred to him that maybe the reason for that is the lengths he's gone to. "Yes, exactly. I was born in the twenty-first century, if I recall correctly, and I lived for a great number of years, and in my old age, I finally got to the point of aiding Arthur, and then I retired. And then," he adds rather bitterly, "I was brought here, which I must say was a very unpleasant surprise."

Rose looks frankly dumbfounded. It's that simple? It really is? And he goes to explain and yes, that's exactly it, reversed. Huh.

Gathering her wits up (and her posture with it), she says, "You went to such effort with the mirror I thought it had to be more complicated. At least I won't have to explain computers to you, even if I am a little sad at the lost chance for trolling."

She only would have teased him lightly. She likes him.

"That I admit I can't fathom living through. Are you living forwards now, or is this a long act of being railroaded into the mirror metaphor through my having stated you already used it?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"You had a good note to retire on, even if it was already foretold to you. No... hm. I can't think of a word for foretold in reverse." She waves her hand, dismissing it. "And you have my sympathy. I can't say I reacted well, myself, when I learned what I'd missed out on by coming here."

"Apparently, I am living forwards." He nods. "Which, it must be said, was very confusing to be thrust into. Everyone talking backwards like this. Quite unnatural, I must say. Though not as unnatural as the oligarchical capitalism and crass consumerism of the world I found myself in." He wrinkles his nose, his scorn thoroughly evident. "Count yourself lucky, young lady, that so far you have only seen the transparently cruel aspect of this place. The backstabbing and posturing and politics..." This last word he says with particular venom, almost spitting it. "...of this whole by-our-lady world is quite nauseating."

And left him with a still-swollen wrist from the sprain, although it's barely noticeable now. He looks down at it nonetheless, shaking his head, and clears his throat. "As for going to great effort, well, nobody has seemed to understand the simple truth."

She makes a small laugh - backwards. Which she supposes it must be for him after literal centuries of living the other way. Then he busts out the big vocab and her attention is drawn back up without a bit of misunderstanding. Not only long-lived and legendary, but smart and observant. She'll take it.

"Mm. I'm taking things as they come, and I'm not sure what I'll think of the rest just yet. Though I've already run into the capitalistic part--my brother and I shared a heartfelt embrace for the cameras." She looks up and out to give a little wave. They're surely watching, whoever is out there being broadcast to.

"You can feel free to speak plainly to me, if you like. If I need clarification, I'm the last person to shy from asking pertinent questions, and I'd like to think I have a ready enough mind to figure things out." She got this one, after all. "Speaking of questions, who's 'our lady'?"

"Goodness only knows," Merlyn says, quite cheerfully. "I think we agreed it probably refers to the Virgin Mary, but frankly, after a few decades, you start to forget where you picked up those kinds of bits and bobs. They just become part of the verbal landscape, as it were."

It's true that he's never really considered it until coming here, or, if he did consider it, it was long enough ago and trivial enough that he's long forgotten any conclusions he came to. He doesn't mind the question, though. It's not exactly relevant, but it's rather nice to have somebody to ask questions at all.

"You have a brother here?" he asks, after a moment, and frowns. "I'm very sorry to hear it."

"Hm. Perhaps so. I'm not remotely your age, but I know how these things get picked up." Though it was almost more deliberate among her friends: a collection of memes, in-jokes made relevant through force of repetition and pertinent situations. She almost regrets there are no stairs in this room to warn him about.

Then nodding, she says, "Yes. Dave Strider, if you've met him? I mentioned him before when the time discussion came up, though his thing is more jumping around, making loops, things like that, and whatever other powers he's accrued past the point our benevolent masters chose to pluck me from like an underripe grape." Not that she's bitter or anything.

"It used to be that he was only a day my senior, but now he has a span of a few years. He's probably wondering where I am now."

She doesn't sound regretful of sneaking off, though. She got to meet Merlyn and obtain some knitting needles, and that was more than she hoped for. But just the same she shows no great mourning. It's no pleasure in being here, not in the least, but there's little she can do about it just yet.

"Dave?" Merlyn's voice is a little scornful. "Yes, I've met him. Interminable. Remarkably dense, if you ask me. He didn't seem to understand the principles of mirrored time, no matter how I might try to explain it. And he insisted on calling me Dumbledore. Anachronistic and insulting."

Rose can't help it; she bursts out laughing. That's him, unmistakeably him, and something about him consternating Merlyn so is just the funniest thing she's heard all day. She braces herself against the rafter until she has a greater hold of herself.

"Yes, that's him. Definitely interminable, in a number of ways, and yet absent whenever you need him to be around most. At least, he was for me." She draws in a deep breath as her posture straightens, then releases it. "I'm sure he didn't mean badly, though. I've dealt with all his insufferable whiles more times than I can count."

Then glancing over with a quirk of her lip, she notes, "He is rather susceptible to soft balls of yarn if you ever need to knock him asleep."

Edited 2015-06-11 17:06 (UTC)

Merlyn's smile is little more than a twitch, but there's amusement in it, nonetheless. "Worth knowing," he says gravely. "I'll take it under advisement."

Truth be told, he's rather glad to have made her laugh, although he'd deny it vehemently if asked. Laughter is a valuable thing, especially in a place like this... and especially when it's not aimed at him. Not that he has a fragile ego or anything.

Rose's expression melts into a proper smile at that. She feels similarly; it's a relief to be able to laugh and relax at all in a situation like this, and she is deeply in need of it. It's been a very, very rough day, and she knows there's only worse to come. She won't make it out of here without dying, after all, unless everyone else perishes first.

But here in the present, where things are still light, she falls quiet but for a hmm of consideration. A moment later she asks, "So, you do knit? Assuming there's not some magical property to your yarn, in which case as both a fellow knitter and magician I would be eager to learn about."

"There's magical properties to anything and everything," Merlyn says gravely, "if you look hard enough. But as for the yarn, it's no different to any other wool. At least, I assume not, although the conjuring is fairly unreliable even without this dratted place and its blocks on power. I just enjoy knitting. It passes the time, you know."

"You would know better than me," she admits without shame. "My magic tends more toward the dramatic and flashy, so any magic I might do with yarn would be limited to the kind of honor reserved for skillful execution of the mundane." She shrugs.

"If I can find you after this," and she motions outward, indicating the arena in the broad but inadequate scope, "then I might have to bug you for patterns or where to find good quality yarn."

"Oh, I ought to be easy enough to find," Merlyn says airily. "I've been making a nuisance of myself for quite some time, usually in public spaces. Just look for the knot of concerned citizens trying to get the best view without being dragged into my seditious ranting." He chuckles, low in his throat, and shakes his head. "In any case, I'd be quite happy to take you yarn shopping. There are some rather good shops around the place."

Seditious ranting, hm? Her eyebrows lift, curious, but she doesn't dare say a thing. Dave already impressed on her that they're always being watched, and comparisons to Nineteen Eighty-Four already came up together with the requisite Battle Royale reference. She's watching her tongue.

Taking the safer subject, she says, "I'll look forward to it then. Once I'm adjusted to whatever is waiting for me outside the arena, or as much as I can be at the start, I'll hunt you down and rope you into a shopping trip." Perhaps she can dissuade him out of the dangers of open sedition with it, she thinks.

"In the meanwhile, do you have any idea how we might get down from here? I would just use magic, but I'm not looking forward to being accosted by bats for the trouble."

"I was thinking of climbing," Merlyn says, with a little frown. "Although I don't look forwards to it. They sprained my wrist a few weeks ago, and I'm afraid my rheumatism plays up horribly in draughty castles like this. Frankly, I was planning to stay up here until something better comes along, and be profoundly boring to the viewing public. Maybe give some lessons on Millsian socialism for the erudition of the bats and the spiders. Who knows? It all seems a great deal more peaceful up here, in any case, fire-starting aside."

Climbing, huh? Makes sense. She glances off to the sides, gauging possible footholds and the lay of the stonework making up the walls. It's not a low ceiling in here, so simply dangling from the rafter then dropping would invite too much chance of broken bones, even with efforts to land lightly.

"Who are 'they', if you don't mind my asking?" she says with a look his way. It had to have been before the arena, right? It's concerning, and she likes him enough already to worry.

"The rather ironically-named Peacekeepers," Merlyn replies after a moment's thought, and sighs heavily. "Our host government doesn't take so very kindly to dissent, I'm afraid. The Peacekeepers are their 'strong arm of the law', as it were. Disgusting, if you ask me. Quite disgusting. Takes police brutality to a new level."

He rubs the wrist in question ruefully, scowling.

cogi qui potest [OPEN]

oh god so much merlyn-blabber forgive me

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