stilljustandrew | (no subject)

(no subject)

Blackness.

Two minds, hovering in the blackness; they believe themselves to still have a shape, and so they do.

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."

The Fool eyes her narrowly --

and then breaks out into laughter. "Well played, mistress! Yes, tell me the answer, and I shall be your guide."

"You got it."

Ava smiles.

"It's because both of them are really quiet after you hack them apart with an axe."

Yeah, Andrew's just going to stand here and work mightily to keep a straight face.

(On the inside, though, he's grinning like a --

well.)

"Sooo," she says, hopeful.

"Guiding?"

"Indeed," says the Fool, and gives her a deep, sweeping bow, until the feather on his hat brushes the floor.

"Follow me, dear friends! Forward the Fools!"

And he heads toward one of the yawning corridors branching out from the throne room.

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