stilljustandrew | (no subject)

A soft snort.

"Oh, gee."

Ava glances ahead, down to the end of the space.

"Just a little."

Two vast thrones stand at the far end of the room, with a red carpeted aisle leading toward them; there is a figure on each throne, regally poised, very still.

"My lord," says Justice. "My lady. We have visitors."

One figure stirs first, and then the other, as though rousing from something like sleep.

Andrew steps forward, drops to one knee and bows his head, and rises to his feet. "Your majesties," he says. "We have come seeking a friend of mine."

Ava hasn't hung out on diplomatic missions for deposed Nova Pylean royalty in awhile, but she does remember how to drop a curtsey.

She's a little rusty, but she thinks she does all right.

The Emperor looks out at them, his gaze distant, focusing on them with difficulty. "Greetings, visitors. Will you take refreshment? Temperance went to find food, and I am sure she will be back soon."

The Empress studies Ava, pensive and silent.

Ava studies her right back.

If Andrew's right, then they're not in danger, which means she could've stayed back in the bar and waited for him to regain consciousness. Ugh.

... All the same, this place is kind of creepy.

"Um, I'm fine," she replies after a moment.

"Thanks."

"As you wish," says the Empress, sounding only slightly more present than the Emperor.

Their hands lie still on the arms of their thrones; they might be paralyzed from the neck down, for all anyone can tell.

"Your majesties?" The urgency in Andrew's voice sounds somehow out of place here. "Please, can we -- may we have your leave to search here? For our friend?"

Oh God.

This is going to be like looking for a needle in a shifting post-universal haystack, isn't it.

"We won't disturb anything," Ava adds, although she can see how the necessity might arise and is pretty all right with doing whatever they need to.

"We just want to bring her home."

"You will need a guide," the Emperor says. "Many of us have gone into the tunnels that honeycomb the castle, and only some have come out again...."

"The Fool can guide you," offers the Empress, "if he will. You may ask him."

Andrew's hands close tightly. "Where is he?"

"Not far," says a merry voice behind them, "not far at all, good master and mistress. You need never look far to find a Fool."

Leaning against a pillar (or something that might be a pillar) is a brown-haired young man with a lopsided grin. He's dressed in green patterned with red and yellow, and carries a cloth bundle on the end of a stick, and wears a pair of comically oversized glasses with no lenses in them.

Andrew's mouth drops open.

Ava takes in the newcomer and nods slowly.

"Okay," she says, blinking.

"That works."

"Tim?"

The Fool laughs. "Not Tim, master, but Tom; for Tom O'Bedlam is a witless wanderer, or Tom-Fool. A Tom-cat, when I trouble the ladies --" and here he grins at Ava, so exaggeratedly that it's more a caricature than a genuine leer; "Thomas the Rhymer, when I sing for my supper; Tom Thumb, when I tell tales of my travels; and Tommy Dodd, when I find myself the odd man out."

He seems entirely delighted with his own persiflage.

You don't want to trouble me, buddy.

Ava doesn't actually say it, but her expression may be rather eloquent on the subject.

(Who's Tim? Didn't Andrew mention a Tim in connection with Baby?)

"Nice to meet you," Ava decides reluctantly.

"Uh-- so will you? Guide us?"

"They do say," Andrew says, looking into the Fool's face as though hoping to find something there, "that more knows Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows."

"So they do, master." The Fool beams at him, and at Ava. "Gladly would I guide you -- but to follow a Fool, one would have to be a greater fool still."

"Eh," Ava says.

"I've followed worse."

"But you will never follow a better," the Fool carols happily, swinging around a narrower pillar and making a face at her from its other side. "And before I lead you, how will you show yourselves to be greater fools than I?"

"Ohhh," says Andrew slowly, and a bit dryly, "I get it. I get it. Very cute."

"I don't get it," Ava murmurs to him, though she too sounds rather dry.

Maybe it's the face-making.

"He wants a contest." Andrew doesn't look away from the Fool. "We have to out-fool him before he'll take us into the castle."

"... In the sense of out-wit, or out-dumb?"

Ava's not actually sure which of those is the dicier alternative.

"Could be either." He glances at her. "Or both."

"Oh," Ava says.

She nods.

"Okay. Great."

This place is ridiculous.