tushanshu | Verse 03 -- Video

[It is not a happy Jean Prouvaire who greets the world today.

Those who don't know Jehan might be able to tell that something's off. He almost looks sick, but not quite, and his clothes are in disarray. Those who do know Jehan?

They can tell right away that something is terribly wrong with the Romantic poet. He hasn't been out of his house in a few days--he hasn't left his house much at all since a few days before the snow day, actually, but in the last few days he's been a total recluse--and hasn't been seen on the network since Courfeyrac's last post. He's not looking at the feed like he normally does, his hands seem to be shaking a little, and he just seems off. Sleep has clearly been eluding the poet, too.

It takes a few minutes before he speaks. When he does, his voice is lacking his usual emotion. Still gentle, Jehan could never be anything but, but it's a bit flat]

I...I was wondering if someone...

[He bites his lip before trying again]

A-a flute. Does anyone know where I might--

[Another pause, this one longer. Jehan closes his eyes and shakes his head, reaching up to turn the feed off]

No, never mind.

[Just before he cuts the feed, the sounds of him starting to cry can be heard]

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[A faint sound of disbelief: as relieved as he is that Jehan is not hurt, that is not the answer he wanted to hear.] Then whatever is the matter? It cannot only be the flute, surely?

Oh, oh no. The flute is not--no, it isn't the flute.

[He won't say what it is, though]

[That's two blatant attempts at avoiding the question--enough for even Temeraire to know he's getting no answers anytime soon. Still, if Jehan listens closely, he might be able to hear the sound of the dragon's tail lashing back and forth in helpless frustration.]

Then, if you will not tell me what is wrong-- [He hesitates, aware that he may be coming on too strong, and resumes in a quieter, more hesitant voice:] Surely--surely there must be something I can do to help?

[Oh Temeraire. Jehan makes a small noise]

Perhaps...you could tell me more about dragons.

[It probably won't help, but maybe he needs something totally unrelated to everything]

[Dragons. Temeraire is quiet for a moment longer. He still cannot think what might possibly make someone like Jehan cry, and so does not know what subjects to avoid, but at last he settles on something, and begins to speak.]

You asked once, I think, about what China was like. It is a vast country, and there is farmland as far as the eye can see, to support its dragons; and its rivers are broad and swollen in the early summer, and cut through mountains like great winding snakes. The dragons of China outnumber those in Europe by far; they come in all colors and sizes, and live among people quite peacefully. When they hatch, they are given the same education as any human citizen, and learn alongside children until they are fifteen months old, at which point they may choose their companions. A Chinese dragon may take any profession; there are soldiers, and scholars, and--poets...

[He hesitates. There is the sound of his wings rustling uncertainly, before he takes a deep breath and recites:]

Pure wine costs, for the golden bowl, ten thousand coppers a flagon,
And a jade platter of dainty food calls for a million coins.
I fling aside my bowl and meat, I cannot eat or drink…
I raise my talons to the sky, I peer four ways in vain.
I would cross the Yellow River, but ice takes hold of my limbs;
I would fly above the Tai-hang Mountains, but the sky is blind with snow.
I would sit and watch the golden carp, lazy by a brook—
But I suddenly dream of crossing the waves, sailing for the sun…
Journeying is hard,
Journeying is hard.
There are many turnings—
Which am I to follow?
I will mount a long wind some day and break the heavy bank of clouds,
And set my wings straight to bridge the wide, wide sea.

[Poetry. That makes Jehan feel a little better]

A dragon wrote that?

He did; his name was Lung Li Po, and he wrote it over a thousand years ago. Did you like it?

I did. Not my usual fare, but it was very pretty. Are there many dragon poets in your world?

There are in China--not so much in the rest of the world. I suppose it takes a certain temperament to become a poet. What is your usual fare, Jehan?

After your time, for the most part--the Romantics. However, my favorite poets are Dante, Aeschylus, Isaiah, and Juvenal.

[A faint rustling sound as Temeraire relaxes minutely. This seems to be a fairly safe topic, as far as he can tell.]

Oh, I have read a little of Dante, and Isaiah, but not the other two; pray tell me about them?

Juvenal was a Roman poet in ancient times, known for his satires. Aeschylus was a Greek playwright and writer of The Oresteia, about the myth of Orestes.

[Temeraire makes a thoughtful noise. An idea is stirring in the back of his mind, but he has to be certain first--]

Might I ask what you like about them? I imagine it will be very difficult to find any poets we know in the bookstores here, but we might certainly try.

Perhaps when I am feeling better. Any other day and I would happily explain why I love their work. Today, I...

[oh

oh no]

No, I understand perfectly! Pray forgive me, I only thought--well, it is not important now, and you should rest, I think; I am very sorry, I did not mean to disturb you.

You did no such thing, Temeraire. I...you were concerned, and there is no harm in that.

Verse 03 -- Video

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