Ah, is this how you're managing things at work now? Customers only get assistance if they bring suitable tribute (I would suggest asking for baked goods)?
And it seems that this shall be a double post, the first in a while at least, since Death meeting someone famous for receiving tributes has run over the character limit.
Tribute Death walked through the door of the long hall without bothering to open it. From his perspective the door only lasted a few centuries and was less tangible than the threads of a spider web. He looked around inside, feeling instant warmth from the log fires burning in three fireplaces each down each side of the hall and smelling fragrant apple-wood smoke, fat-laden bacon and a sweet-acid note of onion. The long hall was gloomy, lit only by small windows near the roof that also served to let smoke out when it avoided the chimney, and the firelight cast dancing shadows across the walls and floor. Also on the floor were thick rugs; some animal skins and some hand-made from fine cotton and coarse wool. A long wooden table ran down a third of the hall, with benches neatly tucked underneath and plates and knives laid out on top. Three large barrels of beer were stacked pyramidally nearby, and Death was pleased to note that the barrel bore the name of Belgian beers. He walked up the hall past the table and into the second third where there was now space to dance. Stairs on either side led up to a wide balcony where the orchestra would sit and play; sunlight falling through the small windows illuminated the balcony far better than the floor below, both to ease the orchestra’s sight of their instruments and music, and to allow whoever sat on the high chair at the end to see them. The high chair wasn’t quite a throne, but only because it was written in the Accords that Death was not allowed a throne. There had been practically no debate over that at all; whatever titles Death was Accorded it was agreed that he may not set himself above them. Behind the high chair was a wall, and a door at either side of the hall led through it and into the last third. Death stopped however in the middle of the dance floor, and eyed the occupant of the high chair. “Mercy,” he said, and his voice was like the crashing of an avalanche in the darkest part of a winter’s night. The whole hall seemed to shake with the impact of the word. Mercy looked up from the papers she was reading, and her eyes widened when she saw Death. She stood up hastily, and the papers spilled from her lap over the floor in a soft rustle. “Oh poot!” she said, with emphasis. “I hope they’re not going to get dirty down there.”
“You could always pick them up,” said Death. He modulated his voice now so that it echoed around the room but stopped short of trying to deafen anyone. “I would view them as litter, given this is my house.” “You don’t have a caring bone in your body,” said Mercy. “And you have plenty of bones, it’s not like you couldn’t spare one to do a bit of caring. I’m a lady, I shouldn’t have to kneel down and pick up pages.” “Then you shouldn’t sit in my chair and spill your words over my floor when I come home,” said Death. “What are you doing here, Mercy? Shouldn’t you be listening to supplicants? Your house, as I recall, is rather grander than mine. Marble, glass, crystal, precious gems: every tribute man can think of, brought to beg your intercession.” Mercy smiled, a tight, selfish smile of satisfaction that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the face of a cat. “This is rather drab,” she said, waving a hand carelessly. “I could lend you some stuff, you know. A nice vase, perhaps 11th century Chinese? A couple of mirrors would really lighten this whole place up you know, and I’ve got a couple made in 5th century Venice… they’re adorable.” Death gestured and the papers on the floor disappeared. He watching Mercy’s face closely, and he saw the flicker of annoyance before she controlled herself. “While some do believe that Death is a mercy,” he said, “I suspect that Mercy providing for Death is going to breach the Accords somewhere. Shall we check?” Mercy shook her head. “No need,” she said cheerfully. “You’re right, I can’t lend you anything. I can only borrow from you, when the time is right.”
Greg - indeed. I have a tribute basket now - I don't even acknowledge people until something suitable has been placed inside. With reverence and the proper respect, obviously.
Death and Mercy. I like this. A lot. Not sure I like Mercy, but then my fondness for Death might skew my opinion on the matter...
Really enjoyed the description of Death's home, by the way. I think you enjoyed writing it as well.
3 comments:
Ah, is this how you're managing things at work now? Customers only get assistance if they bring suitable tribute (I would suggest asking for baked goods)?
And it seems that this shall be a double post, the first in a while at least, since Death meeting someone famous for receiving tributes has run over the character limit.
Tribute
Death walked through the door of the long hall without bothering to open it. From his perspective the door only lasted a few centuries and was less tangible than the threads of a spider web. He looked around inside, feeling instant warmth from the log fires burning in three fireplaces each down each side of the hall and smelling fragrant apple-wood smoke, fat-laden bacon and a sweet-acid note of onion. The long hall was gloomy, lit only by small windows near the roof that also served to let smoke out when it avoided the chimney, and the firelight cast dancing shadows across the walls and floor. Also on the floor were thick rugs; some animal skins and some hand-made from fine cotton and coarse wool. A long wooden table ran down a third of the hall, with benches neatly tucked underneath and plates and knives laid out on top. Three large barrels of beer were stacked pyramidally nearby, and Death was pleased to note that the barrel bore the name of Belgian beers.
He walked up the hall past the table and into the second third where there was now space to dance. Stairs on either side led up to a wide balcony where the orchestra would sit and play; sunlight falling through the small windows illuminated the balcony far better than the floor below, both to ease the orchestra’s sight of their instruments and music, and to allow whoever sat on the high chair at the end to see them. The high chair wasn’t quite a throne, but only because it was written in the Accords that Death was not allowed a throne. There had been practically no debate over that at all; whatever titles Death was Accorded it was agreed that he may not set himself above them.
Behind the high chair was a wall, and a door at either side of the hall led through it and into the last third. Death stopped however in the middle of the dance floor, and eyed the occupant of the high chair.
“Mercy,” he said, and his voice was like the crashing of an avalanche in the darkest part of a winter’s night. The whole hall seemed to shake with the impact of the word.
Mercy looked up from the papers she was reading, and her eyes widened when she saw Death. She stood up hastily, and the papers spilled from her lap over the floor in a soft rustle.
“Oh poot!” she said, with emphasis. “I hope they’re not going to get dirty down there.”
“You could always pick them up,” said Death. He modulated his voice now so that it echoed around the room but stopped short of trying to deafen anyone. “I would view them as litter, given this is my house.”
“You don’t have a caring bone in your body,” said Mercy. “And you have plenty of bones, it’s not like you couldn’t spare one to do a bit of caring. I’m a lady, I shouldn’t have to kneel down and pick up pages.”
“Then you shouldn’t sit in my chair and spill your words over my floor when I come home,” said Death. “What are you doing here, Mercy? Shouldn’t you be listening to supplicants? Your house, as I recall, is rather grander than mine. Marble, glass, crystal, precious gems: every tribute man can think of, brought to beg your intercession.”
Mercy smiled, a tight, selfish smile of satisfaction that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the face of a cat. “This is rather drab,” she said, waving a hand carelessly. “I could lend you some stuff, you know. A nice vase, perhaps 11th century Chinese? A couple of mirrors would really lighten this whole place up you know, and I’ve got a couple made in 5th century Venice… they’re adorable.”
Death gestured and the papers on the floor disappeared. He watching Mercy’s face closely, and he saw the flicker of annoyance before she controlled herself. “While some do believe that Death is a mercy,” he said, “I suspect that Mercy providing for Death is going to breach the Accords somewhere. Shall we check?”
Mercy shook her head. “No need,” she said cheerfully. “You’re right, I can’t lend you anything. I can only borrow from you, when the time is right.”
Greg - indeed. I have a tribute basket now - I don't even acknowledge people until something suitable has been placed inside. With reverence and the proper respect, obviously.
Death and Mercy. I like this. A lot. Not sure I like Mercy, but then my fondness for Death might skew my opinion on the matter...
Really enjoyed the description of Death's home, by the way. I think you enjoyed writing it as well.
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