[ There's a moment, as the Saint of Patience regards Ortus's hand, stretched out before him — a moment of expressionlessness, a moment of befuddlement, a moment of sheer and uncomplicated surprise, a moment of doubt that compassion might be so readily offered, after so many conversations in which Augustine only pretended to be unaware of how uncomfortable he has, surely, always made poor Ortus Nigenad —
There's a moment, as he stares, and then he puts his cigarette in his mouth, shakes his hand in midair as if attempting to be rid of a cramp, or stray dog hairs, or maybe just the very fine cloud of tobacco particulates drifting away on the breeze outside — and then he clasps the hand of the Ninth (Secondary) in his own, holding it with a firm affection that lasts several seconds longer than the gesture actually requires. ]
There was a language, once, that I think I knew, as a child, [ he offers, in an all-too-casual tone — just making conversation, as you do. ] It made a point of differentiating between different forms of farewells, different closing statements — highlighting the differences between what you'd say to someone you expected to see in a few hours, or the next day, or at some uncertain point, or not until after you had both died and found each other somewhere in Heaven's copious acreage.
[ The expression on his face might, charitably, be called a smile. On the other hand, Ortus is assuredly no stranger to the rictus grin of a death mask. Perhaps this is somewhere between the two. ]
Au revoir, then, my dear boy; I do look forward to the recital — probably more than to the dinner party, unless young Paul recovers enough to take charge of the kitchen.
[ His accent's not bad, on the French; he has no idea at all if the words will translate, but that's not the point, now, is it? ]
no subject
There's a moment, as he stares, and then he puts his cigarette in his mouth, shakes his hand in midair as if attempting to be rid of a cramp, or stray dog hairs, or maybe just the very fine cloud of tobacco particulates drifting away on the breeze outside — and then he clasps the hand of the Ninth (Secondary) in his own, holding it with a firm affection that lasts several seconds longer than the gesture actually requires. ]
There was a language, once, that I think I knew, as a child, [ he offers, in an all-too-casual tone — just making conversation, as you do. ] It made a point of differentiating between different forms of farewells, different closing statements — highlighting the differences between what you'd say to someone you expected to see in a few hours, or the next day, or at some uncertain point, or not until after you had both died and found each other somewhere in Heaven's copious acreage.
[ The expression on his face might, charitably, be called a smile. On the other hand, Ortus is assuredly no stranger to the rictus grin of a death mask. Perhaps this is somewhere between the two. ]
Au revoir, then, my dear boy; I do look forward to the recital — probably more than to the dinner party, unless young Paul recovers enough to take charge of the kitchen.
[ His accent's not bad, on the French; he has no idea at all if the words will translate, but that's not the point, now, is it? ]