memeboxy | The IC Anon Questions Meme!

Of course you have a heart. I think, if we're going to speak of it as if it is its own entity, it will always try to lead you somewhere. Do you listen very carefully? Or do you let your mind quiet its speech?

My heart is a lucky thing as I listen to it every chance I have. It has done me some good.

Your heart is effervescence, 'Chetta, and not without its share of wisdom. I suspect that all hearts could stand to take a lesson from your own, though it is to be doubted that they will. Hearts--perhaps even the weakest hearts--are notoriously stubborn.

My own is no exception, and I cannot help but hear its every beat and whisper. No amount of talk or drink, even of thought can drown that singular resonance--I have tried, of course I have tried, but that heart shows such resilience! It... How might I say, it shakes me through, persists in dogging my senses. But my heart is not yours, dear girl, nor do my heart and I have such a fanciful relation. We make an incorrigible pair.

I am lucky, too, knowing that my heart is full. If only that were the same for the rest of the world. If only the world could have such an amiable relationship.

You drink to quiet your heart? What a terrible shame! You ought to have a conversation, man to heart, you know. Perhaps you could be less incorrigible together. Who knows!

Pardon, I drink in a futile endeavor to quiet my heart and my head, or the world that we encounter. But heart and head forever match me drink-for-drink, and so we move through varying gradations of consciousness as one. We converse--Oh, we hold magnificent dialogues not fit for public hearing, and certainly ill-suited to your delicate ears. My heart has brought me where I am; it is in our communion that Grantaire stands and staggers rough as you see him.

It may prove difficult for your heart to grasp--I mean this with no disparagement, 'Chetta, you must understand--but it is possible to bear a heart that lacks in light. We must all make do--what a phrase!--with what we have.

There are many hearts kept in darkness, I know. But it does not stop me from hoping that there might one day be spark from within.

I assure you, however, that my ears are not as delicate as you might assume! But I won't pry much.

Ah, but such words are not worth their while; do not doubt.

Life, alas, cares not for our wishes or our hearts; as I hear it, the universe barrels ever on without our consent, scarcely noting our existence. We are dull flashes scattered across immeasurable time and occurrence, indiscernible from our fellow flashes.

But I wax toward lamentation, and though your heart sings with strength enough to withstand the sinking of my own, this is hardly the place for such gloom. And I think you need not fear the indifference of the universe; for your soaring soul,
even the universe in all its expanse must pause for a few sweet moments and breath the melody of your name.

If I am as luminous as you say, then I must keep your company in order to penetrate this gloomy. gloomy cloud that settles around your shoulders.

[ She lightly pats his shoulder, smiling fondly. ]

The world, I think, needs optimists like me, if only to help such cynics as yourself smile once in a while.

[He takes her hand, grateful, giving the slightest squeeze.] There, I cannot and would not argue. You've a talent for lightness, lovely lady, and might rightly be called a weaver of whims light as air and spectacular to behold, a creator of gossamer substance where I see only absence. In a sense, it might be said that I am your opposing force: one who calls disintegration wherever his mind and tongue may touch.

Still, your brightness mutes my dissipation, and you extend--nay, give without thought more patience than I can warrant. Simply put, Musichetta, you are wonderful, a laughing spirit flitting through our dreary world.

"A weaver of whims!" If I were a lady of some title, then I would insist one should tack that onto my name.

[ That simply delights her, and she rests her hand over their intertwined fingers. ]

And if that is the case, then I shouldn't ever leave your side. The very idea would be a little upsetting to two people in particular, so I may just limit to the sentence to "very often."

Very wise of you; we must all practice moderation, particularly when you are possessed of such charm and I have long since proven myself a confirmed rake. [His smile is warmth, the words a jest bereft of lewd intent. She is something and someone else to him, something closer and more lasting than any physical encounter.] A jealous Joly would be more than the revolution could bear. We must have our doctor-to-be in top form if we are to fight for the people; after all, someone must tend to the wounded in our wake. And of course, you must share your delightful company. I will count myself privileged for every minute spent within the cover of your grace, and will content myself with whatever spare minutes these may be.

And if you would like, I shall know and call you our weaver of whims, for so you are, and so we ought to sing your praise.

And please do sing my praise. I do so love to hear it. You indulge me too much, in that respect, but of course I shan't complain.

I do my best, of course, to help maintain his good spirits so that he does not worry. Ah - I ought to correct myself. "So that he worries less." But I've no doubts that he will perform superbly under the pressures of battle.

[ The thought causes her lips to twitch, unsettling her smile. ]

[His own expression clouds, and in lieu of seeking response in silence, he bends his head to kiss her hand. When he looks up again, his eyes are largely untroubled and he offers a soft smile.] No doubt at all. Our Joly keeps a remarkably clear head when under pressure; such occasions offer no space for worry, freeing the whole of that deftly tuned mind to articulation. However many would-be-ailments he perceives and creates, Joly has a firm heart, and more sense than may be found in many students (present company, it need hardly be said, included).

With his paranoia, he still has a strong heart and a stronger stomach, when the time calls for it.

[ Musichetta giggles with a toss of her head. ] Perhaps I should have been a student to study and fight alongside all of you. Perhaps in another time, I might have been. What would you say about that? Would I immerse myself in laws or medicine, like my darlings?

[Joining the fight? Grantaire raises his eyebrows slightly, leaving the remark untouched and focusing on the subject of supposed studies.]

I sincerely hope not. A student, perhaps, if you can withstand the outpourings of obscenely well-informed men who would feign invade and rework your mind; I suspect you can, I suspect your spirit would evade their grasp without difficulty. But law and medicine? A free spirit ought not to contain itself in such dry--if admirable, and since we seem bound to affix designations in this world, 'admirable' will suit as well as any other term--business. Besides, your boys would do best with a sensibility to balance their own (lord knows that Joly had better not be any more inundated with medicine).

But what would you like, 'Chetta? If all of the glamorous options of study lay open before you, where-to would you tend?

Hrm. [ To belong to such a group is just a fancy she has from time to time. She knows her place, how it is somewhat separate from the affairs of the Amis. They keep her informed, certainly, but were she asked to contribute, she wouldn't know where to start. At the question, 'Chetta rubs her chin thoughtfully. ]

Perhaps I would be best suited to the arts. Though - hm. Not behind an easel but an instrument. I could play the piano. I could teach the piano.

Though! I would much prefer to dive into the world of literature. I could learn five different languages and translate ancient books into French. I would like that very much.

A fine choice in either case! I deem your taste exquisite, and would suggest that perhaps your talents may encompass both and so find their fullest expression. If music draws you from your depths, then by all means, set your delicate fingers across responsive keys. If the echoing of ancients gives you voice, then you must give yourself to well-worn pages (of Euripedes? perhaps Catullus? but ah, your taste would guide you), must know them so dearly that even as you flutter your way through the city, their call resounds within your being, breaking open the brilliance that is Musichetta.

Then would you let fly the verse and find its color in our native language, then would you share your revelation with us. And we earth-bound students could only gape in awe at these heaven-sent words, counting ourselves fortunate to witness such enchantment.

It would be a dream to have the Muses speak to me, as they did for the writers of yore. But it would be much more than that, than me acting as a mouthpiece.

Oh, I do wish they would inspire me. [ She casts her gaze skyward. ]

What would you have me say! Speak to me, o celestial beings, I am listening!

Well, O inspired Poet? What untold tales have you gathered from the air? Come, speak the divine secrets and share a taste of your voice! For I have heard much of your enchantment and the deft touch of your virtuosity (indeed, to call it artistry would be a sin, for yours is the voice of pure inspiration), have long yearned to hear the words of Musichetta, Impossible Sprite and Weaver of Whims!

Impossible Sprite!

Oh, now I am very distracted now that I've added another name to my list of many, many names. Each and everyone of them better suited to my sensibilities, of course, than the name given to me when I first entered this world. Why am I "impossible," I must ask you? I'm as real as these bricks and these specs of dust.

There you have the key to your very impossibility: you exist, you are possessed of flesh and frame, of heartbeat, and yet in you curls a breath so ethereal that it can only hail from another realm. So light that it outslips even my prodigious cynicism. I rightly profess myself a master in the art of skepticism, yet you outrun the contagion of my fog; indeed, your otherworldly self lifts me in moments from this murk, no mean feat! I tell you true: no earthly man or woman may uncloud a confirmed cynic as such. And so, in short, you are impossible.

Aha! My greatest skill, it seems, is to outrun your skepticism. Think of me not as an impossible thing, but perhaps a creature with wings so that you may momentarily walk the earth with shining, clear eyes.

Not an angel of course, nor a fairy. Perhaps a bird. Or a moth, as Combeferre might suggest, a pretty moth with delicate wings. More practical than a butterfly.

Practical, yes, but uncommonly drab! And my ears have been so filled with talk of moths, moths, moths that I now become instantly fatigued at the mere mention of the creatures.

What say to to a bee? The bee presents an ideal blend of practicality and color: to the bee, the labor of the honeycomb and the pleasant scent of the flower are equally indispensable. She requires the company of her bee-fellows, and they in turn depend on her to sustain their vibrancy. Though the bee is graced with a charming dexterity and glass-spun wings, it must never be presumed that she is by any means helpless. She hums about in seeming bliss, and what she creates is sweetness itself.

May I call you our dear bee?

I think, Monsieur, that you have conjured my favorite metaphor, out of all of the words that have passed through these ears of mine. Of course, you say much, and you often say much to me, but I like to listen.

Could her open 'ears' be why the madame bee is so loved by her court? Other than her sweetness?

In any case, I shall accept your title and with gladness!

But of course! The bee is not so flighty as the butterfly, and lives uncommonly in-tune with the world around her and its creatures. Flying through fields and forests, she comprehends the vitality of all life forms and the content of their speech. Indeed, the bee gives credence to their chatter, takes time from her busy buzzing to lend her bee-ears and offer earnest consideration. It is a skill that few creatures care to develop, and one that we sorely need.

As you have so gracefully accepted this title, that I do deem thee Lady Musichetta, our Weaver of Whims and Impossible Sprite, and the Dearest Bee that Ever Did Buzz.

[ Musichetta cannot contain a toss of her head and a laugh at the sheer pomposity of her new, full title, holding her stomach as she doubles over. ]

M. Grantaire, what is quite a mouthful! How would you introduce me to new friends and strangers? Oh, I do love each and every new title, but I think I am better suited to simply Musichetta to those who aren't yet aware of my impossibility and whim weaving.

[ She rubs a tear of mirth away from her cheek and bounces on her heels, reaching for his hands happily. ] Now, enough of this showering me with praise for now. Let us find some entertainment.

The IC Anon Questions Meme!

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