ArchivedLogs:By Dark of Moon
| By Dark of Moon | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2015-08-17 "{A choice turn of phrase will flash you a little ankle and you will be lost.}" |
| Location
<NYC> Tessier Residence - Backyard - Greenwich Village | |
Living in the heart of Manhattan means space is precious, and as such, the yard behind this house is small. It is as exquisitely well-kept as the rest of the place, though; all available space has been meticulously cultivated and transformed into a lush retreat from the concrete and asphalt of the city. The borders of the garden are lined in a wealth of flowers, the selection chosen to provide a panoply of color in all seasons save winter. A grassy rock-bordered pathway separates these from the raised-bed vegetable garden that dominates its center. The far left corner of the garden plays host to a tiny rock-lined pond, goldfish and a pair of turtles living in its burbling water. To one side of the pond is a garden table and set of chairs and presiding over the pond, a large oak tree with a hammock underneath, its branches spreading out over the tall brick wall that screens the entire area off from the city outside. In the heart of New York, even a new moon does not bring complete darkness. Through the endless din of the sleepless city, crickets chirp languidly in the shade of the plentiful foliage in the Tessiers' garden, joined by the odd frog now and again. Matt sits cross-legged beneath the oak tree, wearing a black t-shirt with the silhouette of man clutching a book to his chest, engulfed in abstract orange flames, and ancient worn blue jean shorts. A black onyx bowl full of water lies on the ground before him, flanked by two guttered white votive candles in glasses, and he cups a freshly dug-up root between his hands. Across from Matt, Lucien is kneeling in the grass, in lightweight linen pants and a pale mandarin-collared button-down. His eyes are a little unfocused, attention drawn to the flickering candlelight. There's a pale stone nestled in the palm of his hand, though he's not particularly paying attention to /it/ either. His other hand flicks fingers lightly through the flame. Matt's head tilts to one side. Reflections of the candle flames dance in his eyes. "{By word and silence, by root and by stone,}" he does not so much chant as sing, softly, as one might a lullaby, "{thus works our will by dark of moon.}" Leaning forward, he drops the root into the bowl. Matt's voice calls Lucien back to the present -- or near enough, at least, to look up. First at his brother and then at the bowl. His hand stretches out, slowly turning over to let the stone slide from his palm down into the bowl with a heavy chink, a small splash of water stirred up by the motion. Somewhere beyond the walls a police siren wails by. A car horn honks. One of the frogs jumps off a rock into the pond with a bigger splash. "Silence is overstating the case, a bit." There's amusement in Lucien's quietly spoken voice. The the root and the rock lie side-by-side in the bottom of the bowl amidst a faint swirl of dirt. Matt plants his now-empty hands against the ground, amongst the gnarled roots of the oak. "The dark of the moon isn't all that dark, either." He leans back against the tree trunk and looks up into its leaves, lit from beneath by candlelight and above by skyglow. "{You don't have a monopoly on dramatic flair in this family, you know.}" His grin is easy and bright. Lucien's fingers drop to the ground as well, shifting from toying with the candle flame to running, instead, against a few blades of grass. "{By word and white noise?}" His eyebrows quirk upwards. "{By -- greyish --}" Squinting upwards towards the sky, he considers, "{pallor of moon?} Perhaps not the same flow, to that." He has no corresponding grin but there's laughter bright in his green eyes all the same. "{One of the earliest things you learn in drama is that acting is about telling the truth. You are taking some liberties.}" The long breath Matt lets out is *almost* a raspberry. "The moon hasn't got a lot to do with how that sky looks. {Though I'm sure we can still workshop that into something passably earthy and poetic.}" He looks down at the bowl, the sediment introduced by the root now settled. "I'm not taking liberties," he insists, feigning indignity, "I'm employing metaphors." "{Again?}" Lucien leans back, bracing one palm against the ground behind him. His fingertips work slightly down into the earth. "{This is getting to be a dangerous habit with you.} I am not sure whether I should stage an intervention or simply encourage you to start teaching English lit instead." "{Sometimes we must brave the perils of overextending literary devices to plumb the depths of meaning, each in our own ways.}" One of Matt's eyebrows lifts, his expression smoothing into a semblance of superior half-bemusement...but not for long. He breaks down giggling. "I'll reflect upon my recreational metaphor use. Maybe cut back a little and keep it concrete for a while." Leaning forward again, he stretches out his hand to deftly snuff out one of the votives, already almost drowned in its own wax. "{At least until school starts.}" "Mmhmm." Lucien sounds extremely unconvinced. "I give it two days. Three, tops. One good novel and you will be off the wagon." He cups the second candle in a palm, lifting it to blow it out with a small puff before setting it back in place. "{There are areas of life where you have great forbearance, but resisting the allure of some attractive imagery? A choice turn of phrase will flash you a little ankle and you will be lost.}" “{There is beauty in more direct language, too, but…}” Matt heaves a wistful sigh, gazing off at the hazy Manhattan sky. “{...you are right.} How can I resist the figure of the figurative? But *you* are enabling me with your own metaphors.” He picks up the bowl and pours the water out (dirt and all) into a glass jar, leaving the stone and the root to glisten in the dim light. “{You, too, succumb all too easily to the seduction of the written word.}” "Me? /Succumb/? Slander." Lucien scoffs, lying back, now, to pillow his head against one hand in the cool grass. One knee crooks up toward the sky, his other leg stretching out lazily past where Matt sits. "{You are trivializing the relationship that language and I have. It is no tawdry /fling/. Our courtship has been long and always one of mutual respect.} Unlike /some/ men I could name, I do not simply flirt with every pretty piece of rhetoric that passes me by." "{So, I love easily and often,}" Matt admits, "{it does not then follow that I love less truly or less deeply. The highest love should set the heart free, as language does the mind.}" He unfolds his legs and flexes each in turn, throwing one willy-nilly over his brother's. "Are you certain *you* are not envious, secretly longing for the life of a literary libertine?" "{You know me too well.}" Lucien's tone is dry. "Every night I lie awake pining for the freedom to be profligate with my affections. But alas." The sigh he heaves is somewhat exaggerated. "{My heart is caged. Bound by the heavy chains of literary constraints.}" "Don’t worry." Matt stretches out one hand and gives Lucien's shin a reassuring pat. "{You, too, will find your way to the light in time. Or…}” His hand sweeps across the arc of smoggy sky visible between the oak boughs and the house. “{...to the grayish pallor of moon, at any rate.}” This draws a chuckle out of the younger Tessier. The pat of hand comes with a soft flutter of warmth, light and calm as it threads through Matt's emotions. Lucien's eyes fix up on the grey sky a moment longer, then close. "I am not worried. {Not with such a shining beacon here to guide me.}" | |
