If Augustine were a little more sober, he'd maintain a smug poker face while Mercy does her best to clean up ash with a stiletto. Instead, he's much too tipsy for that right now, and chuckles at the scene. The Saint of Joy looks almost as idiotic as Cristabel used to, which, from Augustine's perspective, is very difficult to do.
As much as he hates to admit it, however, Augustine does not disagree with Mercymorn's assessment of the Third House vintage. True to form, it's all sparkle and no substance, which means it's not getting Augustine drunk as quickly as he might like. He shoots Mercymorn a disdainful look, and throws back the rest of his flute. "Intolerable? This is nothing. If you want intolerable, look in the mirror. I'm going to need several more of these if I'm to make it though a party that you've so kindly decided to attend."
Augustine's gaze turns to the now-vomiting Cassiopeia. He shrugs, completely unbothered. "You ought to give it a try sometime. It'd be the first funny thing you did in your life. I'm sure Ulysses would even cheer. Breaking down the door, on the other hand, absolutely counts as ruining the party." Augustine really should have stopped talking several sentences ago. But his judgement isn't in the best state right now -- that's probably why he's talking to Mercymorn at all, honestly.
He keeps going, despite himself. "It really would be such a shame. For all your inane zealotry, you'd really destroy holy property like that?" His voice has taken on a bitter, scornful tone. That sentiment has always been lurking under the surface whenever Augustine speaks to his eldest sister, but now, thanks to the drink, it's bubbling up to the surface.
Any time the others had suggested she simply sit out these parties, Mercy had still recoiled and refused — because she may hate the parties, but she hates being left out more. So she sits here, and she suffers.
And she answers, distractedly, "Our work is holy. God is holy. The walls and doors and tables of the Mithraeum, however, are not holy. They're just things."
Even as those words leave her lips, however, murmured into the edge of her glass, Mercy's already second-guessing them and hating herself for second-guessing them. Is God holy? She saw him this morning with a coffee-stain on his pristine white shirt. He's just a man. The First and Second Saints, above all, know this better than most. They've been with him the longest, and they remember him back when he was still shaking off the last vestiges of mortality, or even pre-Resurrection, back when he was just a man. He's now a very powerful one, and immortal, but still. Those cracks are there.
Augustine is the very last person she wants to bat these thoughts around with. She wishes Cristabel were here, to pick her brain and go over these quiet worrisome subjects. (But she isn't, and she's dead, and isn't that part of the whole problem?)
"Anyhow, I suppose this one could be worse, even your company aside. There's no herald alert to interrupt it and we haven't all been eaten alive yet, so."
What is a fist or a gesture, if not a tool? What is a tool, if not a thing? Mercymorn's answer, Augustine thinks, proves his point. Either it's all holy, or none of it is. Either way, just because it's holy doesn't mean it's good. But, like Mercymorn, Augustine wishes he could say that to Alfred, not her. Augustine the First has all the time in the world, but what he craves, deep down, is five more minutes with the dead.
Augustine makes a whole, pretentious show out of lighting another cigarette and taking a drag. "Aren't we all things, Joy?" Once again, he's being deliberately annoying. Depending on how you look at it, this is either his worst or best drunken philosophy in the last century. He's on a roll tonight.
Mercymorn, apparently, is as well, since she's just gone and said something horrifically funny. Augustine barks a laugh, false and brittle. "Could be worse? Why, I'd much rather have an RB eat me alive than spend time with you." At least in that case, he probably wouldn't be conscious.
Come to think of it, however, he could make himself a little less conscious, here. Augustine lazily rises from his spot and fetches a bottle of the Third House vintage, first filling his flute up before returning to fill up Mercymorn's. Assuming she doesn't jerk the flute away, that is. If she doesn't, Augustine will fill up the flute just a tad too full, so that a little of the champagne spills on her gown.
The way he always insists on calling her Joy feels like nails on a chalkboard, a pebble in her shoe. Rubbing her nose in the irony and hopelessly reminding her of Cristabel, all the damned time. "You are so dramatic, Augustine," she says, rolling her eyes at his declaration. (As if Mercymorn isn't one of the most melodramatic bitches on this space station, but.)
Her sleeve is now damp, as is the tulle of her skirt, making the gossamer-thin fabric stick to her thigh. It's not disastrous, but it's mildly uncomfortable. He loves making her uncomfortable. She takes a deep swig of the glass to make up for it.
"If you're losing control of your hands, by the by," a pointed look at the spilled champagne, "you might want to get that checked out. Could be a stroke, or deteriorating motor function. I could take a look, if you like." She flutters her fingers at him. A threat if ever there was one; they both know what damage Mercy can do with a touch.
"Oh, I assure you, I am perfectly in control of my hands." That spill was intentional, thank you very much. Augustine's tone is as even and conversational as ever. His smile might pass for warm, but that smile doesn't reach his eyes. Alfred's eyes rarely lie, and right now, they're a cold, steely gray, filled with an ancient contempt. "If you bring those silly, wiggling fingers of yours any closer to me, Joy, I will throw you so deep in the River that an extra-special stoma will open just for you."
Augustine takes up his seat again. He's blissfully quiet for several long moments, sipping his drink and surveying the party with those steely eyes. God, who must think that he and Mercymorn are finally managing some polite conversation, gives the two of them a happy little wave. The gesture makes Augustine feel nauseated. Augustine mutters darkly, mostly to himself, but just loud enough for Mercymorn to hear. "You don't deserve that, you know. None of us do. But especially not you."
Nobody should be friendly towards a monster. No one should love a tomb. And Augustine has a special contempt for the prim grave who sits beside him. He has spent the better part of the last thousand years convincing himself that his state is her fault. For all of Mercymorn's obsession with control, she couldn't control her stupid cavalier. Now, halfway through his fifth glass, Augustine is more convinced of this than ever.
Her fingers tighten around the edges of her delicate glass, almost hard enough to shatter that fragile vessel. She imagines shards embedded in her palm, in Augustine's eye.
"John is friendly to everyone. I think it comes from a pathological need to be liked." Mercy says it flippantly, airily. God's fists and gestures are the only people who can critique him so coolly, who could even dream of insulting him even as they love and worship him in the same breath. (Or do they? Do they still? Sometimes she finds herself wondering. Do you love the sun, or are you simply too accustomed to living beneath its warmth, to having it power the solar system in the background?)
She watches the Emperor as he makes his rounds, cheerfully chatting to the other Lyctors. She should tear herself away from this chaise, remove herself from Augustine's orbit and him from hers, but for a disorienting moment she can't actually think of a preferred alternative, and so realises that she would rather be here. Small-talk is everywhere. Pleasantries are everywhere. Frothy insubstantial conversation is everywhere.
At least with the Saint of Patience, she can be brutally honest.
"Anyway, if you try to drown me in the River, I'm taking you with me."
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As much as he hates to admit it, however, Augustine does not disagree with Mercymorn's assessment of the Third House vintage. True to form, it's all sparkle and no substance, which means it's not getting Augustine drunk as quickly as he might like. He shoots Mercymorn a disdainful look, and throws back the rest of his flute. "Intolerable? This is nothing. If you want intolerable, look in the mirror. I'm going to need several more of these if I'm to make it though a party that you've so kindly decided to attend."
Augustine's gaze turns to the now-vomiting Cassiopeia. He shrugs, completely unbothered. "You ought to give it a try sometime. It'd be the first funny thing you did in your life. I'm sure Ulysses would even cheer. Breaking down the door, on the other hand, absolutely counts as ruining the party." Augustine really should have stopped talking several sentences ago. But his judgement isn't in the best state right now -- that's probably why he's talking to Mercymorn at all, honestly.
He keeps going, despite himself. "It really would be such a shame. For all your inane zealotry, you'd really destroy holy property like that?" His voice has taken on a bitter, scornful tone. That sentiment has always been lurking under the surface whenever Augustine speaks to his eldest sister, but now, thanks to the drink, it's bubbling up to the surface.
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And she answers, distractedly, "Our work is holy. God is holy. The walls and doors and tables of the Mithraeum, however, are not holy. They're just things."
Even as those words leave her lips, however, murmured into the edge of her glass, Mercy's already second-guessing them and hating herself for second-guessing them. Is God holy? She saw him this morning with a coffee-stain on his pristine white shirt. He's just a man. The First and Second Saints, above all, know this better than most. They've been with him the longest, and they remember him back when he was still shaking off the last vestiges of mortality, or even pre-Resurrection, back when he was just a man. He's now a very powerful one, and immortal, but still. Those cracks are there.
Augustine is the very last person she wants to bat these thoughts around with. She wishes Cristabel were here, to pick her brain and go over these quiet worrisome subjects. (But she isn't, and she's dead, and isn't that part of the whole problem?)
"Anyhow, I suppose this one could be worse, even your company aside. There's no herald alert to interrupt it and we haven't all been eaten alive yet, so."
no subject
Augustine makes a whole, pretentious show out of lighting another cigarette and taking a drag. "Aren't we all things, Joy?" Once again, he's being deliberately annoying. Depending on how you look at it, this is either his worst or best drunken philosophy in the last century. He's on a roll tonight.
Mercymorn, apparently, is as well, since she's just gone and said something horrifically funny. Augustine barks a laugh, false and brittle. "Could be worse? Why, I'd much rather have an RB eat me alive than spend time with you." At least in that case, he probably wouldn't be conscious.
Come to think of it, however, he could make himself a little less conscious, here. Augustine lazily rises from his spot and fetches a bottle of the Third House vintage, first filling his flute up before returning to fill up Mercymorn's. Assuming she doesn't jerk the flute away, that is. If she doesn't, Augustine will fill up the flute just a tad too full, so that a little of the champagne spills on her gown.
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She holds the flute out, unthinkingly, only to be rewarded with a splash of champagne for her trouble. The look Augustine gets in return is spiteful, glaring daggers at him; for a brief moment, Mercy daydreams optimistically about sharpening her ulna into a knife and stabbing him with it. Bone magic isn't her forté, but she could make do.
Her sleeve is now damp, as is the tulle of her skirt, making the gossamer-thin fabric stick to her thigh. It's not disastrous, but it's mildly uncomfortable. He loves making her uncomfortable. She takes a deep swig of the glass to make up for it.
"If you're losing control of your hands, by the by," a pointed look at the spilled champagne, "you might want to get that checked out. Could be a stroke, or deteriorating motor function. I could take a look, if you like." She flutters her fingers at him. A threat if ever there was one; they both know what damage Mercy can do with a touch.
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Augustine takes up his seat again. He's blissfully quiet for several long moments, sipping his drink and surveying the party with those steely eyes. God, who must think that he and Mercymorn are finally managing some polite conversation, gives the two of them a happy little wave. The gesture makes Augustine feel nauseated. Augustine mutters darkly, mostly to himself, but just loud enough for Mercymorn to hear. "You don't deserve that, you know. None of us do. But especially not you."
Nobody should be friendly towards a monster. No one should love a tomb. And Augustine has a special contempt for the prim grave who sits beside him. He has spent the better part of the last thousand years convincing himself that his state is her fault. For all of Mercymorn's obsession with control, she couldn't control her stupid cavalier. Now, halfway through his fifth glass, Augustine is more convinced of this than ever.
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"John is friendly to everyone. I think it comes from a pathological need to be liked." Mercy says it flippantly, airily. God's fists and gestures are the only people who can critique him so coolly, who could even dream of insulting him even as they love and worship him in the same breath. (Or do they? Do they still? Sometimes she finds herself wondering. Do you love the sun, or are you simply too accustomed to living beneath its warmth, to having it power the solar system in the background?)
She watches the Emperor as he makes his rounds, cheerfully chatting to the other Lyctors. She should tear herself away from this chaise, remove herself from Augustine's orbit and him from hers, but for a disorienting moment she can't actually think of a preferred alternative, and so realises that she would rather be here. Small-talk is everywhere. Pleasantries are everywhere. Frothy insubstantial conversation is everywhere.
At least with the Saint of Patience, she can be brutally honest.
"Anyway, if you try to drown me in the River, I'm taking you with me."