Having Fun Isn’t Hard When You’ve Got a Library Card

[gyouten]

Who: Ginshu & Lavi
Where: Leith, Scarback Monastery
When: ~2 months ago
Summary: Two nerds hang out in the library
Restrictions/Warnings: None

Shafts of early morning sun pierce small windows, but the interior of the monastery library remains dim. Many of the scriptures stored here are written in fading inks on fragile paper, both of which would be degraded by light. Properly stored, paper or parchment can outlast most digital records, and they have a physical weight that mere data lacks. (Naturally, the temple maintains extensive digital archives as well, but they're stored discreetly out of sight where they won't spoil the sense of ancient majesty.) The faint, drifting sound of Scarback aunts and uncles reciting daily meditations accentuates rather than overwhelms the library's contemplative quiet. This is a temple too - not to the Mother Tree, not to blood or salvation or ritual, but to human knowledge, some of it so old that the meanings have been lost.

It's also the best place in the entire Scarback Monastery for napping. As might be expected of a cult dedicated to the mortification of the flesh, the monastery's accommodations are austere and idly lounging about is generally discouraged. So on days when Ginshu feels unwell (which is, frankly, the majority of them) he tends to spend his time reading. In the year he's spent at this particular monastery, he's become something of an unofficial member of the library staff. Transporting "religious educational materials" to Westerly is good cover for his real activities on the other moon.

So when footsteps disturb the library's silent halls, Ginshu recognizes the sound immediately: sturdy boots instead of the sandals or bare feet favored by most monks. He excitedly greets his fellow scholar before the other even enters the reading room.

"Lavi!"

Comments

[inksplashes]

His patches have been left on Noah, his badge--his gun--everything that would set him apart as killjoy waits tidily now in a box in his room, tucked away. That aspect of his life is left out of sight, out of mind.

It's easy for him, slipping through one life to the next. From killjoy to bookman, from liar to secret keeper.

Of course, Lavi still walks the hallowed halls with his usual smile, but there's a quieter air to him, a softness to the curve of his lips taming the plastic mania. Each step he takes in this dusty temple is another he takes away from the tangle of lies that supports his every day reality, another piece of the chessboard that disappears beneath him.

One less game to play. One less mask to wear.

It lets him breathe a little easier, to loosen the hold on his personas even that little bit.

He rounds the corner, bowing his head in thanks as an Aunt holds the door to the library open for him. He's been a common enough fixture over the last three years that there's few in the temple who aren't at least accustomed to spotting him from time to time, and fewer yet who don't know where he inevitably winds up.

"Lavi!"

He grins on cue despite the lack of audience, shaking his head slightly as Ginshu comes into view. Beneath his elbow is a book, carefully and meticulously wrapped in old animal hide, but he isn't reaching for it just yet. Robbing him of the chance for a dramatic entrance is quite rude, he'll have you know.

"Hey," he murmurs casually, if a bit tiredly, looking over Ginshu with his usual knack for analytics, "How are you feeling today?"

[gyouten]

"Oh, I'm fine, just a bit tired," he replies with a smile. Normally he'd stand and greet his friend with a polite bow, but he fears that his creaking joints might betray him. Even the thin blanket, wrapped around him by a Scarback acolyte to ward off the morning chill, is a heavy weight on his shoulders. "I returned from Westerly a few days ago, and I'm afraid the trip wore me out!"

Ginshu's lies tend to be sins of ommission. He doesn't mention the real reason why he was on Westerly (using his guise as a traveling religious scholar to bring much-needed supplies to an anti-Company resistance cell), and nor does he elaborate on the real reason for his debilitated state (getting shot by Company enforcers - twice, actually - followed by a particularly shaky regeneration that's left him weak and exhausted).

Lavi doesn't need to know. It's better if Lavi doesn't know. Bookmen are meant to be the impartial observers of history, and Ginshu intends to create history. Besides, Lavi seems like the sort who appreciates stories that have surprise twists.

"How have you been? Is your research coming along well? You were studying the history of the Scarback order when you were here last, right?" It seems like a dry topic for such a young researcher (admittedly, Ginshu's literary tastes run more towards dreamy poetry and fantasy adventure novels) but he supposes that bookmen are bound to record the histories that are useful for future generations, not just those that are interesting. He'll have to give Lavi something worth writing about.

[inksplashes]

Friendships, in Lavi's experience, are a balance of lies and skimmed truths. Social contracts that obligate one to uphold the niceties with that much more attention to detail than you might afford others.

So in the same way that Ginshu never asks too much about the callouses between his digits or the way he scans a room for every viable exit strategy before he enters it, Lavi never presses the point about the other man's excursions, either. Maybe he's doing missionary work, maybe he has a nasty jakk habit--whatever it is, it's none of Lavi's business, even if his truths always ring a little hollow on the ears.

"It's hit a bit of a roadblock, actually," he sighs, slipping into the nearest seat with a sprawl. He studies Ginshu for another moment before he cracks another grin, moving the book out from under his arm to hold it out for his 'friend'. Inside, he'll find an old copy of Hijikata Toshizou's terrible poetry. Not a first edition, no, those have long since disappeared, but one of the oldest renditions still in existence.

"But all pursuits worth following often do, no? I thought I'd clear my head and try going over some of the source material again." He doesn't really mean books, but the people here--their social functions, how they interact with one another--that's another side of history for him to record, another angle to pursue.

"Looks like you guys finally got some sweet Aunts in here, too," he whistles, though he speaks low, mindful that his humor isn't the sort to broadcast here, "You sure it was Westerley that has you so tired, Old Man?"

[gyouten]

"Oh? For me?" Curious, Ginshu takes the leather-wrapped package carefully and fumbles with the twine securing it. His hands are covered with the same pinkish-red scales that mar his face, so he has to force the cracked, reptilian skin to move. "A roadblock, hm?" he asks as he pulls at the twine. "Well, if there's anything I can do to help, just ask! Some of the older aunts and uncles won't talk to outsiders, but I grew up in the order even though I was never able to take the robes myself."

He laughs pleasantly, pausing to shake one bent, scaly finger in warning. "You'd best keep your hands off those aunties, though! We may not be the sort of religion that prohibits relations between the sexes, but we are the sort of religion that tends to carry concealed weapons."

Ginshu ignores the comment about his age. He may feel old sometimes, but the unblemished parts of his face appear not much older than Lavi's own. There was a time when he even had matching red hair, although the color has long since faded to a sickly grey. So while he appreciates the concern, he's in no danger of dying. If only it were that easy. Although "immortal" in a sense, Ginshu occupies the twilight between life and death, never quite reaching one or the other.

Finally, he manages to loosen the twine and pull apart the leather wrapping. The book inside is very old, and the spidery writing on its cover is illegible to all but a few scholars. "The Collected Poems of Hijikata Toshizou...?" Ginshu breaks into a grin. "Oh Lavi, I can't believe you managed to find this! Thank you! I've seen references in other books, but never the original... it's supposed to be truly terrible!"

[inksplashes]

"That's what makes them so dreamy," he says with an air of wistfulness, though it's unclear if he means the aforementioned Aunts or the indeed terrible contents of the once samurai's poetry. Chances are, he means both.

Still, he seems genuinely pleased with the almost childish delight in Ginshu, enough to skip past the pang of concern low in his gut as he watches those hands crack and struggle to move within the confines of their disease.

(Don't get attached. Don't let yourself be swept up in the emotions of others.

These are all just temporary acquaintances.)

"I picked it up a few years ago, actually," he adds as an afterthought, "Before my pilgrimage. I don't need it any more, so I thought you might enjoy it instead. I'm glad to see I was right." Lavi trusts that the book will find safe haven in the archives here, though even if it should fall out of Scarback hands, its content have long been engraved into his memory. Bookmen are more concerned with the data of history than its artifacts. Those breed more sentimentality than usefulness.

Yawning, he whines melodramatically as he forces himself into a stand again, the strain evidently more than his young body can handle when it had only just gotten comfortable. "I'm going to go digging through the shelves before I decide to steal your blanket. Want me to grab anything for you? More terrible poetry maybe?"

[gyouten]

"Ah, no thank you, I have plenty of terrible poetry right here!"

At Lavi's fleeting look of sympathy, Ginshu looks away in awkward discomfort. He doesn't deserve such concern. The Scarbacks may believe that the pain can cleanse humanity of its sins, but Ginshu suffers for no crimes but his own. There's already been too much blood spilled in the name of sin and redemption. He opens the book to a random page and reads the first poem out loud, grateful for the distraction.

"Untouched by dew, rice flowers bloom nobly
I gaze upon the snow wearing a comfortable robe
As the morning sun rises over frozen weeds
If one follows one's path, one will not be lost in love
If one strays from the path, one will lose the way of righteousness"

As he completes his recitation with dramatic flourish, Ginshu hides a gleeful grin behind his sleeve and laughs. "Oh my, it's even worse than I expected! He can't even stick to one set of overused seasonal metaphors! And what stuffy wording! Perhaps Mr. Hijikata should have allowed himself to be carried away by love once in his life, hm?" The long-dead poet would have fit in well among Leith's minor nobility - he'd affected a pretentious pastime as a way of showing off his status and sophistication despite not actually having much of either.

"Still, we can't judge him too harshly, can we?" he muses, mostly to himself. "No confusion, no ambiguity, no insecurity... it's easy and comforting to stay on a straight path. We've all wandered down those paths at some point, only to arrive at a dead end..." He glances down at the book and turns the page, murmuring softly as he thinks of his own past regrets. "'The warrant is all,' right?"

[inksplashes]

He listens to the lull of Ginshu's voice with a quiet smile, letting most of the mirth and excitement drain from his expression once he's out of sight. It's exhausting, at times, to maintain such tight strings over his outer appearance, even if age has made it easier.

So when he has quiet moments to discard them, he allows himself the reprieve, stripping away the painted porcelain of his face to leave behind the truth.

For this moment, this smile is true, tired and weak as it may be.

Books gathered from different shelves, he returns a few moments later, mask firmly returned and eye brightening as he laughs warmly at Ginshu's commentary. "I can judge him harshly," he says, though he's still mostly hidden beneath a tower of expertly balanced tomes, "That's just poorly written."

Carefully lowering the books down to the table, he considers the comment about the warrant with a touch of occupational paranoia, glancing at his arm. No RAC patch--the weight (or rather lack thereof) at his thigh confirms there's no gun, either..

Best not to open that line of questioning, he decides, 'lest he reveal too much about himself in the process.

"So I've heard," he chuckles, "We have a similar creed. History is all. Great travel. Long hours. Low turnover. Unless you count dying, of course."

Eager to get the topic onto something else, he takes his seat again with a sigh, opening the first book off his pile with tender care. "Well go on--read me another, Uncle."

[gyouten]

Ginshu realizes his mistake too late and flushes with embarrassment. There are few even among the Scarback order who know of his shameful past, and Lavi is the last person he wants finding out about his life as a bounty hunter - not because he's ashamed, but because he knows that Lavi's fearful intellect will seize upon that interesting tidbit of information, tearing apart the lies until Ginshu ceases to be a friend and becomes a part of history.

"L-let's see, what's next..." he stammers, quickly flipping through pages.

"A man of virtue has no need for a two-sided fan
Birdsong is muffled by the sound of water
The inkstone in my hand has not yet been used up
Mountains in springtime - white peonies dyed by moonlight
Even the ghostly wraiths of incense smoke know my wish"

His voice steadies as he reads through the poem, comforted by the steady rhythm and the familiar (albeit clumsy) use of standard seasonal imagery. Hijikata may not have been a subtle writer, but there's an intensity of purpose in his writing that cuts through the awkward phrasing.

"Ah, of course, you're probably thinking 'but Ginshu, don't all fans have two sides," and of course they do. But it's actually a reference to an old custom in theatre where an unreliable character would carry a fan that was painted gold on one side and silver on the other. When they were speaking the truth, the actor would show the gold side to the audience, but when they were lying or trying to hide something, they'd flash the silver side. So you see, when Mr. Hijikata moves away from his overused nature metaphors, he's actually quite clever..."

Ginshu raises one hand, holding it in front of his face as if to mark a line of separation, and gives Lavi a cryptic smile. "But all fans, and all people, have two sides."

[inksplashes]

They're all just splashes of ink on the pages of history to him.

Hijikata Toshizou. Ginshu. Kanda. They're just ink drying on parchment that will disappear as the tides of time ebb and flow, and he is nothing more than a ghost on the sand.

So he notices the stammer, the cover, and after a few cycles of analysis and paranoia, he lets it fade, expression unchanged, spirit unmoved. Lavi doesn't ask or dissect because it's unimportant information for now, stowing the data away merely because it might become relevant later.

Gaze trained on his book, his fingertips roam just above the porous pages. Like most things in life, he looks but never gets close enough to truly touch 'lest his skin should ruin the delicate material. Ginshu's voice continues to pour down his ears like a background melody, absorbed but largely disregarded, a pleasant, albeit distant siren.

But he is practiced at this distracted sort of conversation and so there's nary a skipped beat between his rejoinder and a turned page, "Is that the case?"

Chin leaning against his knuckles, Lavi considers his answer for a spell, opting for that rare moment of truth. The usual bland pleasantness of his voice ebbs away, tone cool and stoic, "We both know they have many more than that, don't we?"

[gyouten]

"...Indeed. We all do." Ginshu's own smile fades and is replaced by something weary and inscrutable.

He's never heard Lavi speak with such a cold, detached voice, but it fits with what little he knows of bookmen. Their histories are complete, precise and objective, free from bias or moral justification. Unlike other works, which seek to influence the present by manipulating the past, bookman records are as steady and immutable as the flow of time itself. The only thing missing from their painstaking chronicles... is the name of the author. The author's name, personality and past aren't even worthy of a byline.

Whether flirting with acolytes or laughing about the naughty books in the library's restricted section, Lavi seemed like an ordinary, carefree young man... not unlike the person Ginshu himself had been many years ago. He'd even had the same flame-red hair back then. Ginshu had found it easy to empathize with someone else who'd been forced to bury his true self in the confines of duty and obligation... but what if the carefree young man had been the mask all along?

Ginshu lightly pats the book in his lap. "'History is all'... but that's not really true, is it? Take the author of this book, for instance. Historians have written at length about his career as a warrior, but it's only from his own words that we see him as clumsy poet who tried to make meaning at a time when his struggles must have seemed meaningless. Even the best records fail to capture every side of a person, or every side of a story."

[inksplashes]

Individuals don't really matter.

Not to Lavi, not to the Bookmen, not to history. Their personal motivations are interesting, certainly, but addressing the cause is not the goal of his work--it's not what ultimately matters. What must be preserved is the effect. That data, quantifiable and perfect when recorded by the right set of hands, allows future generations to build a pattern.

The cause, the individual, the singular person and purpose.. those are things that are byproducts of the pattern, but not its true function.

Not, Lavi thinks, that humans ever learn. He could lay out a thousand tomes on the mistakes they've made since the dawn of time and point to the impact of each and they'd still clumsily lead themselves into another war, another fire.

This, however, is not a truth he's willing to share with Ginshu. Mindful of letting his persona slip, he eases back into it with a slow smile, shaking his head softly at the other man. "Perhaps that's true, but that's outside the scope of my work, Uncle," he murmurs quietly, almost reverently, "And it's really depressing when you put it that way."

Attention seemingly returned to his own book, Lavi turns another page, humming lightly under his breath, "We may never build a perfect record, but chicks dig guys with imperfections, so it all works out."