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31_days2008-01-12 10:36 pm
sophiap.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2008-01-12 10:36 pm
[Jan. 12] [D.Gray-Man] End of Days, Part 12
Title: End of Days pt. 12
Day/Theme: Jan. 12/one thing I can treat myself to, and if it's to be had I mean to have it
Series: D.Gray-Man
Character/Pairing: Ensemble, with a few OCs.
Rating: PG-13
(Shortish installment tonight - I's tired. Thanks to those who are following along with this experiment of mine. I'm already pinpointing lots things I want to rearrange and tweak.)
Part 11
It was rare that Bookman had a moment of quiet to himself. It was not something he indulged in often; time spent in solitude was time not spent observing the passage of history, and was thus a dereliction of duty.
The doctors had cleared him of any serious injuries, but advised him to get some rest. His age was not mentioned, but Bookman knew what they meant. It was rare for an exorcist to live past forty, and the doctors worried what the strain of battle, including an encounter with a Level Three akuma, could do to a man in his eighties.
To be honest, so did he. In the rush of battle, he could only focus on what had to be done. Now, though, he had more than ample awareness to spare for the ache in his knees and the stabbing pain that came and went in his hip.
Rest would be good. Yes.
Back in his rooms, he was pleased to see that yes, there was a small parcel with British postmark. One of the advantages of being in one place for more than a few months was that it made it much simpler to get one's mail. He meticulously avoided the package as he set a small kettle on to boil and measured out some tea. He had to stop himself from putting two measures in the pot.
Bookman spared a thought for Lavi--his apprentice had nearly been killed several times over--but then decided he would enjoy the boy's rare absence. As rare and valuable an observer as Lavi was, the boy's bumptiousness and enthusiasm could be incredibly wearing.
A quiet night, with tea and then a rare bit of personal indulgence... After all they'd been through, he thought he could spare the time.
Work came first, of course. This meant the mental sorting out of all that they had seen and done over the past several weeks. He sat quietly, eyes half closed as he sipped at the smoky green tea. The warmth of the cup between his hands was soothing--almost as good as acupuncture for calming old, abused joints.
First, there was the matter of fitting what he now knew about the Ark into the context of what was known before--an arduous task, and one that would take him days to complete. That was what many people missed about what he and Lavi did. Bookmen did not simply record and memorize random fact. They synthesized those facts, found meaning and connection. They made educated guesses as to what filled in the gaps found in every history. They even made note of what would have happened, had events taken a slightly different turn.
Lavi was exceptionally good at that last part. It was the only reason Bookman had been willing to take on someone so young as his apprentice.
Bookman grumbled as he realized that some of this synthesis would have to wait until Lavi was released from the infirmary and he could grill the boy about what had happened inside the Ark.
Meanwhile, he could deal with a few things Cross had let drop in casual conversation about "Thomas Howard" and "Robert Ford." The trick there, however, was sifting how much of what Cross said was true, how much was lie, and how much was just enough truth to make the lies sound convincing.
Enough was enough. He was too tired to think properly, but not tired enough to sleep. He was also blessed with an evening free of interruption.
He allowed himself a slight wince as he stood up to retrieve his package. It was thin, more an envelope than a packet, and addressed to an alias he kept simply for things like this.
The yellow cover of The Strand magazine was reassuringly familiar, and he hmph'd with satisfaction as he opened the magazine and saw what he hoped he might.
He settled down on his bed, pulling his pillow up behind his back for support and otherwise taking the time to make sure that he would be comfortable. For an hour or so, the man who concerned himself with finding out what was true could lose himself in a world of tidily constructed and ultimately harmless falsehood. He began to read.
HOLMES had been seated for some hours in silence with his long, thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his breast, and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank bird, with dull grey plumage and a black top-knot...
He hadn't even reached the discovery of the first body when there was a knock at the door and someone yelling that he had to come to the infirmary right away: Lavi was seriously ill.
Part 13
Author's note: The text in italics is from "The Adventure of the Dancing Men," by Arthur Conan Doyle.
Day/Theme: Jan. 12/one thing I can treat myself to, and if it's to be had I mean to have it
Series: D.Gray-Man
Character/Pairing: Ensemble, with a few OCs.
Rating: PG-13
(Shortish installment tonight - I's tired. Thanks to those who are following along with this experiment of mine. I'm already pinpointing lots things I want to rearrange and tweak.)
Part 11
It was rare that Bookman had a moment of quiet to himself. It was not something he indulged in often; time spent in solitude was time not spent observing the passage of history, and was thus a dereliction of duty.
The doctors had cleared him of any serious injuries, but advised him to get some rest. His age was not mentioned, but Bookman knew what they meant. It was rare for an exorcist to live past forty, and the doctors worried what the strain of battle, including an encounter with a Level Three akuma, could do to a man in his eighties.
To be honest, so did he. In the rush of battle, he could only focus on what had to be done. Now, though, he had more than ample awareness to spare for the ache in his knees and the stabbing pain that came and went in his hip.
Rest would be good. Yes.
Back in his rooms, he was pleased to see that yes, there was a small parcel with British postmark. One of the advantages of being in one place for more than a few months was that it made it much simpler to get one's mail. He meticulously avoided the package as he set a small kettle on to boil and measured out some tea. He had to stop himself from putting two measures in the pot.
Bookman spared a thought for Lavi--his apprentice had nearly been killed several times over--but then decided he would enjoy the boy's rare absence. As rare and valuable an observer as Lavi was, the boy's bumptiousness and enthusiasm could be incredibly wearing.
A quiet night, with tea and then a rare bit of personal indulgence... After all they'd been through, he thought he could spare the time.
Work came first, of course. This meant the mental sorting out of all that they had seen and done over the past several weeks. He sat quietly, eyes half closed as he sipped at the smoky green tea. The warmth of the cup between his hands was soothing--almost as good as acupuncture for calming old, abused joints.
First, there was the matter of fitting what he now knew about the Ark into the context of what was known before--an arduous task, and one that would take him days to complete. That was what many people missed about what he and Lavi did. Bookmen did not simply record and memorize random fact. They synthesized those facts, found meaning and connection. They made educated guesses as to what filled in the gaps found in every history. They even made note of what would have happened, had events taken a slightly different turn.
Lavi was exceptionally good at that last part. It was the only reason Bookman had been willing to take on someone so young as his apprentice.
Bookman grumbled as he realized that some of this synthesis would have to wait until Lavi was released from the infirmary and he could grill the boy about what had happened inside the Ark.
Meanwhile, he could deal with a few things Cross had let drop in casual conversation about "Thomas Howard" and "Robert Ford." The trick there, however, was sifting how much of what Cross said was true, how much was lie, and how much was just enough truth to make the lies sound convincing.
Enough was enough. He was too tired to think properly, but not tired enough to sleep. He was also blessed with an evening free of interruption.
He allowed himself a slight wince as he stood up to retrieve his package. It was thin, more an envelope than a packet, and addressed to an alias he kept simply for things like this.
The yellow cover of The Strand magazine was reassuringly familiar, and he hmph'd with satisfaction as he opened the magazine and saw what he hoped he might.
He settled down on his bed, pulling his pillow up behind his back for support and otherwise taking the time to make sure that he would be comfortable. For an hour or so, the man who concerned himself with finding out what was true could lose himself in a world of tidily constructed and ultimately harmless falsehood. He began to read.
HOLMES had been seated for some hours in silence with his long, thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his breast, and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank bird, with dull grey plumage and a black top-knot...
He hadn't even reached the discovery of the first body when there was a knock at the door and someone yelling that he had to come to the infirmary right away: Lavi was seriously ill.
Part 13
Author's note: The text in italics is from "The Adventure of the Dancing Men," by Arthur Conan Doyle.