stilljustandrew | (no subject)

She's been trying to think of riddles. She really has.

But all she can think of is the sphinx one, and everybody in every universe has to know that one. What's the one about nothing?

There's a lot of nothing here. The Fool'd guess it right away.

This is making her start to feel frustrated.

"Here's one," Andrew says, without flourish; the fun's gone out of it for him. "And this should be something you recognize. I know a word of letters three. Add two, and fewer there will be."

The Fool frowns in thought, and doesn't answer immediately.

God damn these fucking riddles.

Ava doesn't know this one.

(Add two letters? Add too? Uggggh.)

Abruptly he brightens, and laughs. "O, clever. Could the answer be 'few', perchance?"

A beat, and a sigh. "Yeah."

Dammit!

"Nice one," she murmurs.

"Thanks," Andrew mutters back.

The Fool rubs his chin thoughtfully, and then grins. "Tell me this if you can: what is it that was given to you and belongs to you and you alone, and yet others will always use it more than you do? If it is a good one, its worth is beyond price; if it is a bad one, you will never be rid of it; and even then, none can say who you might be without it."

Andrew looks at him in dawning dismay, and then glances at Ava.

Ava glances back to Andrew.

The look on his face does not exactly fill her with confidence.

"... Hold on," she says.

Given to you and belongs to you ...

If it's a bad one you'll never be rid of it.

Your soul? No, that doesn't work, nobody else uses your soul...

(At least not under ordinary circumstances.)

Is it talking about some kind of exploitation, or ...?

He can't think of any answer that makes sense.

"No," Ava says, in pleasant surprise.

"I actually get this one, I think."

Andrew turns to her, eyes widening. "Yeah?"

The Fool tilts his head at her with lively curiosity. "Do tell, mistress."

"Yeah," she says slowly.

"It's your name."

The look on Andrew's face turns from momentary surprise -- why didn't I think of that? -- to swift, fierce approval.

He knows it's the right answer, even before the Fool gives another graceful bow.

Ava brightens.

Nice to be pulling her weight around here, even if a riddle contest is pretty much the lamest thing ever.

... Speaking of, something finally occurs to her.

Names, Andrew's thinking; and more knows Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows. And wasn't it John Constantine that the Fool resembled, when Tim Hunter visited here in the flesh?

Here at the end of time, though, here from the long way around ... this must be every Fool. And, by extension, every Magician.

Tim, if you're in there at all ...

The Fool stands on one foot, kicking the other up as high as he can behind, until the toe of his shoe brushes his trailing hair. "Is this not the finest of games? Come then, your next riddle."

Ava decides not to answer that one, since it seems like a recipe for diplomatic breakdown.

"Okay," she says.

Likewise, she avoids brandishing the riddle like a weapon.

(But maybe not by that much.)

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

This time, with an effort, Andrew does not turn his head to stare at her; he keeps his gaze on the Fool, and muffles a most terrible smile.

He has to know this one, but --

The Fool beams, and holds up one finger to declaim an answer.

And pauses, finger still held aloft, mouth slightly open.

Ava smiles faintly.

Take your time, buddy.

She's prrrrretty sure he's not the kind of guy to come up with her answer. Maybe she's wrong!

"Why," he says, although not with any great confidence, "for that they both have quills dipt in ink, mistress."

"... That's pretty good," Ava admits.

"But not what I was thinking of."

"Which means we win," says Andrew. Serenely.

"Indeed it does not," the Fool says, indignantly.

"You didn't give the right answer," Andrew says. "She asked a riddle that you failed to answer correctly. Those were the terms."

"I can tell you the answer," Ava says, generous.

"It's a variation."