MUSE (MUSE)
A source of inspiration, a guiding genius.
Disclaimer: I do not own Juvenile Orion or any of its characters, especially the ones in this story: Gabriel-san and Kuro-san.
Important Note: This fic is a supplement to my other fic Courageous Fire. If you want to find out the rest of what happens to Kuro and the G-man, you'll have to read C.F. If you don't like the KusakabexItsuki paring in C.F, just send me a message and I'll send you parts of the paragraphs from C.F with explanations and stuff. Still…I'd like it if you read my other fic. (shuffles feet shyly)
Note to people who have already read C.F: Hi, Foolish Mortal again. I had a whole spiel on Gabriel and Kuro's story in Courageous Fire; I've looked and looked and tried everything but I don't have any room to put it into the fic. Since it's so much about Su and Kusakabe after a point, I felt it was distracting to put it in. Anyway, this is just a fic-out (a part of the fic cut out of the main story, a bit like a deleted scene, hmm?) but it will you'll get to know more about Gabriel and Kuro and what's not to like about that?
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A carriage clattered past and Kuro Sakaurai just managed to leap nimbly aside before he was assaulted with filthy street water.
How beautiful a rainfall could be if one had not the ill fortune to live in the city. Unfortunately, with the advent of a sudden early spring shower, all he could hope for was a day of mincing around puddles swimming with muck.
'It is my heritage to look up into the rapturous heavens as my ancestors have.'
"'Ah, but these rude city lights bar me from the stars,'" Sakaurai whispered and his hand convulsively clenched the slim book that was tucked into his coat pocket. He loved that poem especially. He loved them all. The book's softly worn softly creased pages attested to that.
He was attracted to its verses and rhyme as helplessly as a moth drew itself to flame. The poetry had a unique texture to him; he felt as if it had spun itself out of the very fabric of his soul. He felt as if the book had been written singularly for him.
Miscellany, the book was called and within a few weeks of its release, it had quickly become the most popular works in the city- nay, in the country. And yet, Sakaurai was sure the book did not sound something within the public as it did within him. The poetry understood him, he thought, The poet understood him, knew him better than he knew himself.
The poet.
Such a person of intellect must he be. A divine vessel of passion, life, and everything else that divides human from automaton. Sometimes, when he could not sleep, Sakaurai would lay awake dreaming of what he would say to such an artist, were they ever to meet. Think of his delighted surprise when he discovered the poet lived close by. In his own city, to be very precise.
Gabriel Merethi.
He had finally summoned up the courage to pay the poet a visit. He wanted to…he wanted to tell Merethi what the poetry did to him and how it called out to him like an old friend. The words would pour like bright ribbon from Sakaurai's mouth.
He turned left into a series of apartments and nervously walked up the flight of steps to the front door. He rang the bell and peered up at the tall narrow ordinary looking flat wedged between two others that looked just like it.
An ubiquitous servant answered the door after a few moments.
"I am…er." Sakaurai cleared his throat. "I am here to see Mr. Merethi."
"Is he expecting you?" she asked indifferently. Her face bespoke rough lines and hard labour.
"Ah, no, but…well, I was hoping…"
Her dark eyes lost some of their impassiveness at his comical distress. "Come in. I'll see if he is available to meet you."
He breathed in the soft scent of dried flower petals and dusty velvet that lingered like rich perfume in the air. As he followed the woman down the hall, he saw all the windows were masked in heavy dark curtains that permitted almost no light in.
"Wait here," she told him as they approached a small rectangular couch placed in a small niche at one side of the corridor wall; the two marble pillars that stood sentinel on either side protruded outward like teeth. She walked on as he settled himself into the chair.
Hello, Mr. Merethi, he rehearsed. I am Kuro Sakaurai; I read your Miscellany. I…it spoke to my soul…I…
He cursed softly. His stomach was busy tying itself into knots.
He looked around. The house had the perpetual feeling of grime and dust no matter how diligently the maids may have cleaned the floors and windows. It even had a musty antique smell to it. Everything was hard lines, dull colours, and cold drafts. It did not feel…lived-in.
What sort of man bears living in a place like this? he wondered. Even the electric lamps had a shadow to them. Even the sunlight had a dusky blue-grey tint.
Sakaurai heard soft footsteps clatter down the stairs and trail up the hall. He did not notice their approach until they stopped only a few paces from where he stood. He looked beside him and noticed an elfin figure hovering near the stone pillar. His skin looked grey against the pallid marble stonework but against Sakaurai's warm colour, it was smooth ivory.
He rose from the seat. Mr. Merethi?
Gabriel Merethi's black woollen jacket hung on his frame too loosely. He was pale-eyed and hollow-cheeked. Pale-cheeked and hollow-eyed. His long pale untrimmed hair fell past his waist like a woman's. Sakaurai half-expected to find things caught up in it: feathers and leaves- flower petals. Thorns. Mice with tiny noses and soft velvety ears. Bejewelled little spiders weaving translucent nets to bind back his hair. Merethi's face was seemed to be modelled after the archaic statues that only existed in museums now- the high cheekbones, the elegantly sloping nose, the full lips. Still, there was something uncertain and tentative about his expression, as if he were a trapped bird.
A bird trapped in his own house, Sakaurai thought to himself.
When the poet saw that he had been noticed, he stepped back into the meagre shadows the pillar cast; eyeing Sakaurai for a moment, he tilted his head thoughtfully. "Who are you?" His voice was like a vapour melting on a chilled windowpane. He pursed his mouth in a tight line, as though he believed if his lips parted, poetry might spill out and he feared it.
Looking at him, Sakaurai began to believe the old adage that a virtuoso's gift fed on its host's soul. "Kuro Sakaurai," he answered; his voice sounded warm in the frigid vault-like house and for a moment it surprised them both. He shook the man's hand and thought that the poet had fingers of cold alabaster marble. The black jacket's sleeves bunched up at Merethi's spindly arms and fell over his thin wrists, yet his grip was strong and sure.
"Come, we will talk in the parlour," he replied and smiled faintly, like the glimmer of dawn cresting over a rough horizon.
Merethi had a fragile wasted sort of elegance, Sakaurai thought as he followed the poet into another room. An invalid's fluid poise. A starry cascade of hair sprayed over the poet's narrow slight shoulders as he descended the small flight of stairs to a parlour with tall curtained windows.
The room's fireplace was dark and dead but chairs clustered around it and hoped for warmth. Merethi gestured for him to take the couch; he seated himself across, perching on the chair like a figurehead on a ship or a dove tensed for flight. The rays of light peeping through the curtains made his skin translucent and luminous; it had such a taut fragile quality about it that Sakaurai thought it would crumple at a touch.
Is this the payment his art demands of him? His life-force, his soul?
"What is it you wished to speak with me about?" Merethi asked finally in a soft voice like a musicbox tune.
A melody like that could lull anyone to sweet dreams. "I…" Gone were the dramatic words. "I…" Gone were the bright flowery syllables of praise. "I wish to seek employment here." The words startled him.
"Merethi's brows arched. "Indeed?" He looked playfully amused. The edges of his mouth quirked; Sakaurai held his breath but the rice-paper skin did not tear. "I have enough servants under my pay. What need would I have of you?"
"If you cannot see it, then perhaps it is too late." A part of Sakaurai was shocked at his own brazen tone but his mouth was working automatically.
"Is it so?" His soft sad gold eyes gleamed merrily. "Very well, then. I give you one day's probation, after which I have the liberty to either choose to take you on or send you off back whence you came. Is that to your liking, Mr. Sakaurai?"
He only smiled back. "Which day?" he inquired.
"Tomorrow morning."
"When shall I come?"
"Eight o'clock should suffice."
"Yes."
Silence was crystallising like snow in the air. Merethi tilted his head. "I do not know a thing about you, Mr. Sakaurai."
"No."
"For all I know, I could be harbouring a criminal."
"I am no criminal."
"I'm sure you would tell me if you were," Merethi said reasonably. "Tell me, why should I hire you?"
"I live on your poetry as man lives on food." The words were out of his mouth before he could swallow them down. His eyes widened in shock. "I…I apologise! I did not mean to-"
Merethi laughed. It sounded like bells. "So you come for my poetry, not for my pay?" His eyes faded. "If only I had poetry to give," he murmured to himself.
"Sir?" Sakaurai asked curiously.
Merethi looked back to him and an odd strained smile came to his face. "Tomorrow morning, yes? Till then."
It took a moment for Sakaurai to realise that the poet had risen from his chair to see him out.
"Er, yes," he answered bewilderedly. He certainly has a gift for ridding himself of people.
In a few spacings, he was standing on Merethi's doorstep with the door shut firmly in his face. What…what did I just promise him? he wondered as he looked into a curtained window. I cannot ask him, for I do not know, myself.
Frowning, he turned away into the bustling street. Halfway home, he noticed that the scent of dried flower petals and dusty velvet still clung to his person.
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Gabriel: Why did you speed up so many parts of the fic?
FM: I was lazy.
K-chan: Just tell the reviewers you didn't want to bore them.
FM: Good deal.
Gabriel: Review!
FM: Indeed.