∞ [ action post ]

[fatespoken]

✏ LOGGING: This is your thread for logging, whether spontaneous or plot-related, silly or serious. His normal haunts include shifts at the Blue Light, various city bars, cafes, random encounters, etc. Prose preferred, [] are fine too.

✉ TO SET UP: Just drop me a line at aeloriax[at]gmail.com or Y!M/AIM (listed in the post below) to give me a heads-up. I'm open to anything as long as it fits ICly.

TRACKING:
March;
Peter & Amory [ Blue Light ] ✯ this is a song lyric [ in progress ]

Comments

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

Peter's age may not be the immediate point of the conversation, but as haphazard dots and patterns often interlock themselves with independent circumstances, it certainly has become a point. Currently, it's the sharp-tongued spur lodged in Amory's temper; venom brimming beneath anger, delineated in a smoldering scowl layered against sheets of night. It's a look perfected and practiced, measured and utilized in only appropriate circumstances, choice situations, which make it one of the rarer entries in Amory Felix's catalog of evil eyes. For the mere act of advising him-- guidance, advice, suggestion, direction, being amongst a category of nouns that will always drag him along kicking and screaming. He hates being told what to do. He hates being advised, especially by one who's face still echoes angles of youth, the softer curve of a cheek unpressed by time— features that even the older one is criminal of. Amory isn't that much older physically, but those few years mark an important difference. Important, in the sense that even as his manager, even as someone mentally older, Peter has no right to tell him to go home. It's an upturn of that age-old phrase "Respect your elders," incorporated into the set of values that order his pride.

When off work, Peter Pevensie has no rule over him.

"You have no right to advise me. No right to tell me to go home," he sucks in a breath of air, a tempered space between silence and rancor that continues to fight its way through. A showcase of anger won't lose the King, nor will derision, and Amory feels the last ends of his nerves snapping, dissolving into the miasma of his cresting nausea and temper.

"Just be quiet, Kid."

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[orderofthelion.livejournal.com]

It is something that Peter Pevensie has any rule over Amory Felix at all, work or not, really, just saying. Very interesting. But again, with no particular aptitude for that niche of telepathy, well, it's fortunate for the barkeep that Peter thus misses out on this likely inadvertent note of admittance. This is not, as far as Peter is concerned, of much immediate importance, however.

"Perhaps not," he admits, almost too amiably. "But that won't stop me, no more than someone's advice will stop you from running head first into whatever is that's bothering you." To Peter, that is what it seems that Amory is doing, avoiding, avoiding, avoiding, but avoidance only works for so long before, like most things under tension, the thread snaps and frays beyond repair. It is something worth worry, worth the act of running metaphorically into a wall face-first over and over with the hopes of changing anything at all.

And Peter does not like to idle away when action is an alternative. Not all action garners desired results, and some ends up without any results entirely, but the adage of never knowing until one tries applies here in full. For all their often mutual dryness, wryness, and the unspoken, unwritten agreement to give each other generous berths of personal space, this does not automate out all traces of care and good intention. Certainly, the High King never gives word to it, but that can be said of his care for even the people closest to him. Bypassing the talk, there remains only the thing of making something happen, or keeping it from happening.

Tonight, he supposes, is a little bit of both.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

He tastes it even before the words slip, silver glancing across his tongue to gather in the blunt ridges of his molars. It’s like the tang of metal, a simile that carries equal force in the distribution of weight over his shoulders, a lead-lined mantle. In usual succession follows the cold, spreading like the cob-webbing of ice through muscles and veins. Stereotype says it should be warmth, as if the mind’s image of energy as activity, like the many moving parts of a machine, inspires the same in the preternatural sense. It’s more the sensation of frozen hands against bare flesh, whites of a nail’s edge lodged deep into skin. Why the sensation feels as it does, Amory has no explanation, even wondering once if it was the transliteration of a metaphorical burden. A constant that reminded men who held the infinite in their palms that they were still only men. Or it could be a warning call for what's about to happen. For the wall is crumbling, chunks and bits and pieces of power, of magic as people like to call it; a thin stream at first but crashing through suddenly as a tidal wave.

"You think you're an adult. An adult stuck in the body of a brat. But it's all pointless. You're not King, Pevensie. You're not even a man, no matter the truth. No one sees that, all they see is what you appear to be." he breaks off, severing his words with contained laughter, "You should just forget about all that. Forget about Narnia, forget about being a man. You're just a fucking kid."

He's too muddled to notice the thread snap, gathered pressure sinking back as suddenly as it came. It now rests behind the tired walls, but the deed has already been done, and the deed is irrevocable.