derbildhauer: (Side Smirk)
*The door he had just opened should have led to the law section of the prison library. In the past three months it had become as familiar to him as the door of his study in the house in Germany.

It had become his sanctuary, somewhere that he could make his final arrangements and write his appeals. Not for clemency, but for the speedy conclusion of his sentence - for the needle in his vein that was the only acceptable penalty for failure.

But this is not the library... his eyes dart around, although he remains perfectly composed. He notes absently that he is once more wearing his own clothing - the silk against his throat a welcome contrast to the rough denim to which he had become accustomed. He notes the people, recognises some, although they don't notice him.

His eyes light on a picture that hangs on the wall, and his brow furrows slightly as he moves closer.

Two granite headstones - empty of decoration, free of tributes - standing like smears of grey against the white of snow. Behind, the bare branches of the trees making ominous shapes against the moonlit sky.

Without looking away, he reaches into his breast pocket for his monocle. Holding it to his right eye, he peers closer at the picture.

"Gregory Edgeworth, Loving Father of Miles"
"Miles Edgeworth, Patris est Filius"

He places the eyeglass back in his pocket, staring at the picture impassively.

Then, with a slow smile that is meant for no-one but himself, he turns on his heel and exits the room.*

derbildhauer: (Spectacles)
*He's spent the few days since he arrived quietly observing and learning all that he can about the nature of the place in which he has found himself. The occurrence of so many versions of the same people was jarring at first, but he has become accustomed to it, and started to study individuals to determine the best way to tell them apart. Miniscule differences in body language, vocal infection, mannerisms - things that would be of little importance in the outside world, yet in here take on a significance all of their own. His own presence seems to have called little attention, and from that he deduces that there must be or have been other versions of himself here, although he has seen none.

The many versions of the boy that he has observed is disconcerting, and there is a deep revulsion every time that he encounters one - although thus far he has succeeded in remaining outwardly impassive.

He has also learned the art of creating rooms, although it was not intentional. The day he arrived, he spotted a door that he thought he recognised, and upon opening it found himself in an exact replica of his study in Germany - stone floor covered in heavy rugs, walls lined with bookcases and cupboards - ancestral portraits filling the gaps between. The familiar heavy walnut desk and several blue leather upholstered chairs are deceptively perfect replicas of his own. The oversized stone fireplace behind the desk had a welcoming fire in the grate, and his sword cane and a small hunting knife had been where he expected to find them in a cupboard by the door - the latter now concealed in his pocket as was his usual practice when at home.

It had always been a sanctuary, and it is now, as he sits at the desk with a laptop in front of him and a cup of Earl Grey cooling rapidly beside it next to the inkpot and quill. The conversation he is having on-line concluded, he sits back with his eyebrows knitted in a frown, a slight smile playing on his lips still.

He reaches for the cup and takes a sip of tea, staring at nothing in particular, but with a deeply thoughtful expression on his face.*

Hnnn... we shall see.
derbildhauer: (Laughing)
Take a litle walk to the edge of town
Go across the tracks
Where the viaduct looms,
like a bird of doom
As it shifts and cracks
Where secrets lie in the border fires,
in the humming wires
Hey man, you know
you're never coming back
Past the square, past the bridge,
past the mills, past the stacks
On a gathering storm comes
a tall handsome man
In a dusty black coat with
a red right hand

He'll wrap you in his arms,
tell you that you've been a good boy
He'll rekindle all the dreams
it took you a lifetime to destroy
He'll reach deep into the hole,
heal your shrinking soul
Hey buddy, you know you're
never ever coming back
He's a god, he's a man,
he's a ghost, he's a guru
They're whispering his name
through this disappearing land
But hidden in his coat
is a red right hand

You ain't got no money?
He'll get you some
You ain't got no car? He'll get you one
You ain't got no self-respect,
you feel like an insect
Well don't you worry buddy,
cause here he comes
Through the ghettos and the barrio
and the bowery and the slum
A shadow is cast wherever he stands
Stacks of green paper in his
red right hand

You'll see him in your nightmares,
you'll see him in your dreams
He'll appear out of nowhere but
he ain't what he seems
You'll see him in your head,
on the TV screen
And hey buddy, I'm warning
you to turn it off
He's a ghost, he's a god,
he's a man, he's a guru
You're one microscopic cog
in his catastrophic plan
Designed and directed by
his red right hand
derbildhauer: (Regret)
As the months and years passed, he watched the boy’s progress with increasing satisfaction - noting in his journal each unsuspecting footfall taken down the path that he had marked out, all those years ago. The quill scraping on the pages measured in ink the devotion and effort that he had poured into his design; its movement mirrored the inexorable force of his will that drove the plan forward.
The boy belonged to him, now – worshipped him and obeyed him without question, as if he had been a stray dog found on the street and offered food and shelter. He smiled when he reflected how elementary – how surprisingly effortless - it had been to take someone else’s creation and make it his own. How simple to twist and bend the product of another’s art into a shape and form that mocked its author – and to do so with little more than the promise of justice and the suggestion of affection. Would the creator have wept bitter tears at the ease of it? Probably, but that thought only brought with it further satisfaction.
The first time he had met the boy – no, not the first time, he corrected himself - the second time, when they had actually spoken, he had been apprehensive. If he had encountered resistance, then, his plan would have been doomed before it had begun. Only a willing surrender was acceptable if he was to achieve his ends.
It had been a whimsy, that first possessive hand on the boy’s shoulder – a momentary weakness on his part - an instinctive response to the first time they had met, when the boy had left a mark on him that would never heal. He’d almost regretted it at the time until he saw the effect it had. The pathetic eagerness for approval and affection that had flickered across the boy’s face for just that single moment had told him everything; illuminated his means and his method in one, bright instant of revelation.
It had all been so laughably simple in the end. The aunt had been only too eager – grateful, even - for his apparent benevolence. And the boy … he had been ridiculously easy to seduce.
The fault lay at the door of the father, of course. The boy should have been warned, guarded against the deceit and the lies of the world around him. But the father was a gullible fool who believed in the goodness in men’s hearts, in trust and honesty. That had been the father’s own undoing and would now be that of his son’s. It was a legacy of sentimental foolishness that had unwittingly provided him with the perfect tool for revenge against two generations of his enemy.
At the beginning of the journal he had recorded his concerns that the stain of a foreign, state school system would be forever present – that after a poor start the boy would stagnate and fail to reach his promise. That had been the only potential pitfall that had given him cause for unease. But his fears had been groundless, and the academic progress had been startling – even he could grudgingly admit that the boy did have a brain in his head, despite the unfortunate accident of his parentage.
The boy would never be as perfect as his own children, naturally – that was never in question. But they had not suffered the handicap of a weak father frittering away the first nine years of their lives in a fog of romantic idealism. And after all, the boy only had to be perfect enough to secure his own downfall – no more, no less. His daughter would be the one to carry on the family legacy, the family name – not this cuckoo in the nest that he tolerated and nurtured in the name of charity.
Hours of his time had been devoted to rigorous tutelage in the law and inculcation of the values that befitted a prosecuting attorney working in his law office. His own career had become secondary to ensuring that the boy’s dedication remained constant. Failings had been punished, naturally, but it had been a simple matter to ensure continued devotion by offering carefully calculated and meticulously recorded signs of approbation. His lip curled in disgust as he recalled the contemptible gratitude with which those deliberately rare gestures had been received, and how hard the boy had pushed himself to earn each one.
The nightmares had been an unforeseen and worrying circumstance to begin with, of course. The boy never spoke of them, but he had heard enough while working into the early hours to be aware of their content and their form. It was the only period in which he had felt any apprehension of discovery - a slight unease each morning when he rose that the boy would look at him with different eyes, with fear or recognition. He had been ready, then, to take the necessary action should the situation arise – it was a contingency he had been prepared for from the start. But his concerns had been unfounded and over time had dispersed. Fortuitously, the dreams had only spurred the boy on to greater effort and keener dedication; hardening his resolve and making him retreat further into his own world.
If he had been the kind of man who could derive pleasure from simple victories, he would have had many to celebrate as his journal had progressed. The suffocation of those moral values taught by the father that had still flickered in the boy’s eyes when he first arrived. The childhood desire for knowledge that he had curbed and redirected into the only field that was of use to his future plans. The shy reserve that he had observed gradually freezing into a guarded and wary aloofness. The teenage desires that he had guided into a fulfilment of physical needs at the expense of emotional attachments. All these had been carefully observed and recorded, but they were merely way markers that led to a greater end, not reasons for celebration in themselves.
He did allow himself to derive some satisfaction from his creation, as he reviewed his work almost a decade since it had begun. The beauty of it, and the simplicity – the way he had shaped it into the realisation of his vision. All those years of hard work and sacrifice that he had devoted to his task were vindicated more each day as the boy reached adulthood. Now he could see every lesson and every value reflected back at him with a degree of trust and deference that a lesser man might have found … touching.
Soon, it would be time for the endgame. He would return the boy to the place of his birth, show the world what he had wrought, and exact his final revenge. His quill stilled for a moment as he imagined that moment – how it would feel, how he might savour it. But complacency was not something he allowed, in himself or others, so he set aside those thoughts and returned to his work - to the careful and meticulous documentation of ten years of perfection.


derbildhauer: (Default)

January 2009

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