Burning within, seen from without, [Artemis]

[hal theophilus mercure]

“Seems,” madam? Nay, it is. I know not “seems.”
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed “seem,”
For they are actions that a man might play.
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

It was after a tremendously long absence of around a day that he returned to the Old Town Library. Or rather, just merely the library, as all that burnt before Hal were books and pages and words, words, words. Ink pressed onto paper by hand then machine or keyboard then machine, and if it was the latter then the typer (not writer) did not allow for enough of their blood to flow from the underbelly of their being. Hal was here for Shakespeare, as well as some assistance to shower his students with on the side. Some days ago he had allowed them to choose any Shakespearean play to perform later in the future, and they had chosen tragedy. He wouldn't say that it grated against his (undeniably flexible) nerves, nor would he say that he was completely in a positive mood at the fact that they were quick to denounce the comedies. Whatever happened to laughter humming amongst the so-called 'younglings'? It waned, at fireswarm speed, (from) the moment they chose to perceive ('material') freedom as equivalent to adulthood as equivalent to sophistication (what an ugly word, and an uglier concept) as equivalent to depression.

Hal was here for Shakespeare. His tragedies. Commentary after commentary on Hamlet, Macbeth, Anthony & Cleopatra, Julius Caesar which wasn't really about Caesar), Timon of Athens, Titus Andronicus, King Lear, Coriolanus, Othello. Notice the absence of Romeo and Juliet -- that was no tragedy, but a stupid 'love story' not about love, with the exception of Mercutio and Benvolio behind the metaphorical curtains. He would be damned if he had to watch his students produce a performance of Romeo and Juliet. He hated commentaries, but the thrill of removing something he hated from a bookshelf and hauling them back to his (bed)room and then onto the heads of his students was more than enough to entice him into reading them.

He had no order in his mind; he'll just walk in and pick up whatever he finds appropriate when they appear in his vision. All puns uncheekily intended -- whether or not you believe they insinuate a truth is (entirely) up to you. You could be wrong, you could be right, left, up, down & everyone&everything was not necessarily wrong but boy were they blind, blind, blind. He entered the library and breezed his way to that section nearly crumbling under the weight of Shakespeare and the weights of Shakespearean druggies. Lifted book after book, purposely releasing them from high above so that they landed on the floor with a loud splat. His smile widened. That particular librarian, that prim and proper little girl, was going to murder him.

[artemis oswin howard]

With an almost musical jingling of keys, Artemis opened the door to the Old Town Library that morning. She had stepped inside the great room, and immediately submersed herself in the great oak bookshelf forest. Filing, sorting, labeling and categorizing had become her life in those few short years since she had left her family's estate in search of not only a new life, but a new self. It was here among the ancient and wise leather-bound parchment that she found her self; no longer did she feel the need to smile that awful fake smile or preform like a blue-ribbon winner in the county fair. Soon after, the new life followed, all wrapped around her deep love of books. Indeed, there was nothing Artemis needed anymore but the serene silence of her day-to-day work. If ever there were a moment of small sadness in her days, she simple need place her nose between the pages of an old copy of The Taming of the Shrew, and the smile, genuine and wide, would return to her face. There was something about books that not only brought about her happiness, but her respect, for the written word was here long before she was a thought in her parent's minds, and would be there long after her own skin had been reduced to dust in the wind.

On days where the Library was busy (although it was a rare occasion, it did happen), the walls teeming with children and teenagers and college students and the few elderly of the Westfield Community, Artemis took to her work like a merry dance. One, two, three went the rhythm in which she re-shelved the classic mysteries they left around the long tables used for studying, where the seniors often found themselves discussing their old works. One, two, three, and she found herself dancing around the children's section, nearly holding back tears as she removed the spilled contents juice cups from the pages of Skippy-Jon Jones, and old Doctor Seuss rhymes. One, two, three, one two three, and she was chasing out hormone-driven teenagers from the back tables, threatening them with calls to their mothers and wondering why on earth someone would want their tongue that far down someone else's throat, in public nonetheless.

But it was days like this one that she lived for, days where there was calmness and peace throughout the shelves, where all of her real work had been accomplished in the first few hours and there was time in the afternoon to simply sit back and read whatever it was that she felt appropriate for the day. Over the years, Artemis's pupils had focused on more pages than she had previously thought possible. She had simply memorized the great works of Pablo Neruda, of Virgina Woolfe, of Edgar Allen Poe, of Ernest Hemmingway but none more so than the works of William Shakespeare. In her mind, there was no truer poet, and she sat behind the librarian's desk on that particular day, her mind focused on nothing else but his words:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking s-

BOOM...BOOM. With the utmost care, Artemis gently placed her own reading material on the desk, as lovingly as a mother would place her child in a crib, and as if she had suddenly been placed on fast forward, she found herself in front of the culprit of the bursts of noise. And there, she found him, a grin spread across his face as he dropped book after book, as if he were purposely trying to offend her.

"Oh....absolutely...not." She managed a snap through her shock. She felt her face turn red and her bones shake with the idea that anyone would purposely do anything that could harm her books. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

[/blockquote][/blockquote]

[hal theophilus mercure]

"Seems," madam? Nay, it is. I know not "seems."
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed "seem,"
For they are actions that a man might play.
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

Shakespeare and Tragedy. Hamlet and Misogyny. The Murder of Ophelia. Iago's Sexuality. As Hal dropped each commentary his own theories began to appear in his mind and gut. Othello and Desdemona had achieved a sort of equality so rarely even considered by the countless lovers in the world. The only woman Hamlet ever hated was a portion of his mother. Claudius was a 16th century hippie who pursued the highest form of unity. And achieved it with his death. Tragedies were terribly gorgeous, if you drowned in them from the pit of your heart and allowed the blood to rush to your gut. Death was not beautiful, but the reasons for it, or the revelations that came from it, were. Plop, plop, splat. The books fell. Not like rain, nor like ashes from a volcanic eruption. They fell inelegantly, as if he was trying to destroy them, no, not even trying. As if he was already destroying them. And yet he wasn't. Commentaries were already half-dead in his mind, and the people that followed them were the particles of soil used to cover the coffins. There was and (perhaps) would never be a gravestone, because over majority of the nutters and nonnutters in the world were unaware of the half-death of commentaries.

There was a sound. It was probably her. Artemis. He remembered her name, all too well, perhaps. What on earth do you think you're doing. He wanted to laugh, so he did. It was a short laugh, the second ha nearly inaudible as it shot out immediately after the first one. What. Was. He. Doing. "Accumulating a pile of books to take back to my book-respecting abode," he answered, smile still on his face. She was ugly, so tenuously ugly; the long lashes drifting above her eyes, blue like stained glass, her yellow hair like a thread of clouds, neck long like a crane's, welcoming him to press his fingers around it and strangle the stars into her.

"I have students to help with Shakespeare," he continued, whether she wanted to hear his voice or not. "Do you not see that I am helping them? The books by my shoe, these commentaries -- none shall be mine, just theirs, temporarily." A pause, barely a second. And then a tinge of sarcasm: "Do forgive my rudeness. How goes the day for you, good my lady? How is my lady for this many a day?"

[artemis oswin howard]

Her gaze focused steadily on the pile of books that he had created; it was almost as if a great tornado had come through, knocking books off shelves and tossing them every which way without any discrimination. The sight of books, with covers painted with Shakespeare's wise old eyes and almost sullen face, treated in such a manner was almost enough to turn her into a babbling mess of emotions. There was a moment in her mind where she wondered if this wasn't a personal attack; she wondered if he hadn't simply walked in the door and took notice of her, with her own copy of Macbeth, it's pages tattered but cared for after almost daily use, and simply decided at that moment which set of writing he would abuse. This was a disgrace, an absolute disgrace. Artemis kneeled down and with much precision and speed began sorting the books into separate stacks, placing loose pages back into the arms of each of their owners, barely listening to the nonsensical garbage he must have been spewing.

And then he laughed. It seemed harsh and cruel to her, and there was nothing the blonde could do but take it to heart. Her mind suddenly was filled with images; him, lining the pages of her books in the cage of some tropical bird that spouted the same dribble, the same uncaring, rude tones, him, using covers as dinner plates to microwave the previous night's left overs, him, abusing, mangling and torturing her. books. There had to be something she could do. Almost on an impulse she gathered up the materials, a mother pulling a semi-truck off of her trapped children, uncertain of what her next move might be. There was no true reason she could not allow him to take them, their policy dictated that so long as he did not have any books missing under his watch, and if there were no fees to be paid, she would have to let him take them. She simply couldn't deny him the books because she didn't want him to have them.

"My day would go along much better if I did not have to waste it among imbeciles" She snapped her response, arms full in a way that even the other librarians marveled at, pulling the books to her chest in a way that almost resembled a comforting embrace. "And if you can't respect them here, there is absolutely no way I can believe you would respect them in the privacy of your own home."

Her eyes were guarded, protective globes of periwinkle as she awaited his next move. Certainly, if the books were for a class there was no way she could deny them such a wealth of knowledge, especially if this was their educator. Logic told her that although she could not possibly let this person take her books, she could not possibly let him leave them. And she was at an impasse.

[/blockquote][/blockquote]

[hal theophilus mercure]

"Seems," madam? Nay, it is. I know not "seems."
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed "seem,"
For they are actions that a man might play.
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

He watched her as she knelt, knees against the floor. Her fingers carefully caring after the books. And then, all of them at once, gathered in her arms like a she-wolf feeding Romulus and Remus. He could feel the frustration, the irritation, anger, all at and stirred by him. He let his smile reduce, but only in size. It would still irk her. "Respect?" He let a chuckle vibrate through his teeth, straight out his lips, much lower and quieter than his first laugh at her (for the day). "Have you ever witnessed me damaging these books that you claim to be yours?" And by damaging, he meant damaging. "Did I ever enter this grand library with pages missing, covers torn, pieces and nails of dinner forced into osmosis with the printed ink?" He moved towards her, shoulders beginning to hunch. "Did I ever?" Closer. "Did. I. Ever?"

Then he drew back, just by a microscopic nanometre. Only a (so-called) hatred so strong would be able to detect the difference in their proximity. His gaze fell to her skin, and he looked into it. Pale, the colour of chalk rubbed with cinnamon dough. He wouldn't be surprised if she, so obstinately posh and overtly dainty, refused to believe that he, quite frankly, did consciously remember to keep the books he borrowed in shape, that he reminded his students to do so whenever he sensed, intuitively, a tingling of rowdiness. But of course, what was a loose page in the end? Nothing, meaningless. Absurd. And yet, whenever he felt like breaking something, he chose not to break the books. He did feel beauty curling in the pages, and not just because of the way they smelt. It could be a cup, a teapot, the remote control (which he barely used), the bottles of sandalwood oil in the bathroom, zucchini, giant zucchini, tiny zucchini. Yogurt. Strawberry yogurt. And milk. He always, always spilt his milk.

"I can prove my innocence." He smiled, reached up with his arm. "If you'd like to believe it." Placed his fingers spreadeagle on the stack in her arms. "What says my lady?" Took off the book on the very top. Slowly. Because she wasn't holding them loosely, a lioness protective of her cubs. "Will it be a yes?" Another book, failure. "Or a no?" And another try. He paused. Then widened his smile. "Such a mother hen."

[artemis oswin howard]

Blue eyes met stormy green, and Artemis' brow furrowed in frustration. There was something so entirely irritating about this being before her that she let out the most unladylike grumble at his laughter, something that surprised even her. Usually, her temper was at it's worst, controlled, but strict and authoritative. Here, she did not even know her next move, something entirely unheard of for any of the Howard brood, but even more so for her, it's youngest member. His smile had diminished, but only to become slightly less cheeky, and still there was something that felt like she was about to become the victim of some cruel prank attached to it. She felt him drawing closer and inch by inch backed herself into the bookshelf behind her, an almost claustrophobic twinge deep inside her chest at the lack of space between the two of them. She couldn't help but feel at least the smallest bit improper.

"These books are mine. I don't claim it, it simply is." She said as soon as it was comfortable for her to do so, as if it were an absolute and just fact, a bottom line that ought not to be crossed. "I care for them, I determine when they retire, I clean off their dust, protect them from moths and bring them home to be repaired when they happen upon careless borrowers. I go above and beyond what anyone else does for them, and if someone assumes that just because I haven't purchased them, they aren't mine, then they are under a grave misunderstanding. And I must say, I don't appreciate your suggesting otherwise, Mister Mercure."

Innocence. Even the tone in which he said the word presented an absence of it. Not one fiber of her being nor cell in her body believed in his innocence, or the idea that he wouldn't simply destroy her books on a whim, something she had heard that he was entirely capable of. Destruction and chaos seemed to thrive around him specifically, so why should she believe he would be careful, be kind, be respectful of her books, when it appeared he was none of those things to anything else, if it did not please him?

"I'd like to trust you, but I'm really not sure it would be worth the risk, as I'm sure you've realized these are...some of my favorites" She was sure there was something of an accusatory tone to her voice. It was true, the subject upon which the books were written was paramount in her heart to all but a fair few things, a subject that she held with as much importance as her own being.

She tightened her grip around the stack as he attempted to remove book after book from it, and soon, whether it was gravity, coincidence the entire stack clattered to the floor in front between them.

"Oh!" The exclamation was more of a noise, than anything else, and truly distraught. Once again, she found herself in a hurry to pick them up. "You did that on purpose, didn't you!"

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[hal theophilus mercure]

"Seems," madam? Nay, it is. I know not "seems."
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed "seem,"
For they are actions that a man might play.
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

Her back was against one of the countless glorious bookshelves erected in the library, and he hoped it scraped her until it peeled the skin off her body like a monkey peels a banana. He could feel discomfort creeping up her spine and wrapping round her shoulders. It was attractive. Not her. Her discomfort and annoyance, the distress that his actions, his words, hell, perhaps even the mere underbelly of his voice plunged into her.

"Ah-ah-ah," he tilted his head to a side, smile now lopsided. "Did I ever say these books are mine?" He switched his voice to a higher octave. To mock her: "These books are mine. I don't claim it, it simply is." Quite frankly, what she said gave him a certain satisfaction, at the very least -- Ms. Pompous here was now hurling reason out her window. And while cause and effect may possibly not exist, just like originality, uniqueness, the idea of special, all human constructs, powered and idolised by societal propaganda that mothers and fathers whether in love or not thought wonderful and simply loving, a sign of affection, a way of showing how much they care, and so they in turn shower their children in this shrouded superstition. He looked down on her, wordplay very much intended, her eyes like diluted lapis lazuli, the eyes of a Pharaoh's coffin after centuries of weathering.

"Oh?" Some of her favourites? His eyebrow rose. And his smile wasn't so lopsided anymore. Shakespeare. She liked -- no, loved, he was sure, or he would like to play with in his mind and tongue -- Shakespeare. But you couldn't love Shakespeare without having (much) more than a fraction of depth within you. Otherwise, his plays would be all text and no play, no pun intended. "I never see thy face but I think on hell-fire," he quoted, moving his face closer to hers. Took in every ugly curve, every hideous shade available in the form of facial... assets. "And what would living be without a few risks?" Nothing, he answered in his mind. Risk or no risk, thrill or no thrill, debauchery or so-called "decency," there would never be an organic meaning to life. All you did was get used to something and live (by) it.

Her grip was mighty strong -- ah, PLOP went the books! He did not bother to pick them up. Just stayed where he was and watched her hands scrambled as if they were on fire.

He did not do that on purpose, but he kept his mouth shut about it. Her annoyance was worth it.

"Your favourites, huh," he murmured. "Does he touch that certain part of your chest with all his madness and grace?"

[artemis oswin howard]

"Do teachers not have classrooms? What about those classrooms make them theirs, other than the fact that they're the ones who care for them?" Her eyes bore daggers into the floor at his mockery, and there was something of a shake to her voice. She didn't understand what sort of boredom one must have in their lives to feel amusement at other's frustration, but she knew that everything he did, every move, every facial expression was calculated. Everything he did was something personalized to offend her, and that was simply the way it was.

She rose from her knees once more, arms cluttered with books, shifting to tuck a renegade strand of hair behind her ear. Artemis watched his facial expressions change, his general mood switching to slightly more quizzical than it previously felt. It was comforting, in a strange, inexplicable way.


"How very..." A wrinkle formed in her forehead and her mind had wandered away in the center of her sentence, for lack of the proper wording. There was some kind of comfort in knowing that another being had respect for the words, if not respect for the ink and page they were printed on. She supposed she understood the destructive properties to an extent; why care for and keep up the tedious medical needs of old leather, sheets of wood and black lettering, when memory served the same sacred purpose. So sad that he had already been placed in an ever justified seat as a buffoon in her mind. "Curious."

Artemis felt no need to defend her love of Shakespeare's words, and so there was a moment of silence (whether it was an anxious quiet or not, she couldn't say) before she opened her mouth to speak once more. She could almost hear her mother's voice in her head, "Artemis dear. Do not speak, unless you what you are saying is more beautiful than silence".

"I do desire we may be better strangers." She spoke quietly, and unknowingly developed her own little lopsided smirk, carefully mischievous in it's appearance. It was the most she could do to improve the silence, a quote in regards to his quote. There was something mildly teasing about the way she said it, and for some reason she felt the absurdity of two adults insulting each other with Shakespearean words in the middle of a nearly unoccupied room of books. She let out a little laugh of her own, and wrapped her arms around the books stacked in her arms. It was just like him to behave so childishly. She didn't have to sink down to this.

(NOTE: Sorry this took so long. I ended up in the hospital the other day :X nothing serious, but it definitely delayed my response </3)

[hal theophilus mercure]

"Seems," madam? Nay, it is. I know not "seems."
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed "seem,"
For they are actions that a man might play.
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

"Teachers are merely working in those classrooms," replied Hal, particularly stressing those. He wanted to say more, but decided against it because it was not something he agreed with based on his own introspection. While he only looked after the classroom the school had so very administratively bestowed upon him because he did not want any litter attracting insects in, he could not, and he should never not, although his modus operandi was (more or less) a denouncement of should, say that this was the same for all the other teachers in, at the very least, West Field High School. He watched her body rise from the floor, and as her hand curled to slip a strand of sawdust hair behind her ear his eyes moved along with it, drinking in the sudden(?) grace in her movements. Now that he thought about it, her physique, at times, seemed to merge well, however faintly, with the colours of her surroudings.

He found himself leaning in to her words. How very -- how very what? Curious he was, even though, in the end, the answer or solution or solution-riddle or riddle-solution wouldn't matter at all. And then. She said it. One word only: Curious.

He smiled, and this time, he wasn't doing it on purpose.

And he saw her lips breathe into a smile -- no, a smirk. Lopsided. His smile grew wider. For a lost moment he felt a shade of gall pulsate from within her, or the air so close to her skin that it was nearly plastered against it, sandstone-smooth and marble-clear. Strangers. They were strangers, were they not? And yet he knew just how to annoy her, vex her until her eyelids flared and her nostrils shot green fire, all aimed straight & square at him. Yes, strangers, they were: Little Miss Pompous and the Enigmatic Wanderer. (Now write a musical out of this.)

He watched her laugh, mouth opening, vowels and consonants spilling out into the open air confined by the spine of the library he knew he had an affection for. Then he took two steps in, so that his shoes were on hers, and bent his back, so that his mouth was level with her ear, and whispered into it: "We long to know each other worse, and also, you're not that bad when you loosen that volcanic heart of yours." Volcanic being an assumption still in progress, sprung only from that laugh and that unpompous noise, all from the welling in her throat.

ooc: There's nothing to apologise for.