View source for This/Deathgods song

After 200-some years, Abearanoth was different. It still had the general vibes of myth and legend, and the strange, strange sensations of perfect normalcy, but it was, all in all, a different world. Technology and Progress had passed by, though as far as Coraline was concerned they were still well behind anything she was comfortable with, even outside of the Angler's Internet realm of stolen Star Wars monikers and impossible science. This, she supposed, was more... Victorian, perhaps? She wasn't sure, something about having spent her recent History courses reading Discworld instead of actually paying attention to the lectures, but it was probably something along those lines. Not that the Victorians of her world had ever done much by way of blimps.

Whatever the case, the world of Abearanoth had passed her by without actually catching up in the slightest. They had phones and such and magic and such and some semblance of industrialisation, but that was about it. It was still pretty damn backwater, really. 

So Coraline was lost, standing on a street-corner as carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians passed her by amidst the general hubbub of city life, where people came and went full of purpose (or at least direction). She felt like the entire thing was just some distant dream, except she knew it wasn't - this was real. This was the reality she had yearned for, the freedom of the real world, the world of the living, the world of change. The world where she had previously spent an important part of her life, such as it had been, utterly and unequivocally drunk.


----


"Hey."

"Huh?" Coraline looked up.

"You mind is elsewhere - what were you thinking about?" he said.

"Pirates!" Coraline said. Might as well tell the truth. He just looked blank, however, so she waved an imaginary cutlass and continued, "Arr! Avast, ye landlubber!"

"Pirates," the old elf repeated.

"Right."

"Like in the moving pictures?"

"Erm... sure." Coraline hadn't even realised they had moving pictures already, but if they did of course there would be pirates. There were always pirates.

The elf nodded, sipping his tea. "All the rage amongst the youngsters these days. I understand it, Saint Cloud has another one in the making, too, but it won't be out for awhile yet."

"What, a travelogue by Edward Teller? Short film on the kingdom of death?"

"No..." he said, looking at her. "Why would you ask that?"

"Well..." She didn't quite know how to ask. "It's not... ''Emily'' Saint Cloud, is it?"

He nodded. "This one's ''Wasteland'', they called it. Supposed to be something special, something new, the likes of which nobody has ever seen. Like anyone has ever seen any of these before." He snorted. "Moving pictures... like anyone's seen anything like these at all."

"Fern was right," Coraline whispered. "Same names. Same things. Mirrors." The old elf was watching her over his tea, but she didn't even care. "I could have sworn Ypheirod was a cat, Kyrule a writer... and Vardaman was dead. The entire point of Vardaman was that he was dead, and dead mum never even knew the difference. But it's all different."

"Life," he said. "Always is."

Somehow Coraline resisted the urge to do a Marvin impression in response.


----


Gorm, proprieter of the Empty Cistern, glanced up when he heard the door open and a waft of argument drift in. It was still fairly early in the afternoon, so the place was mostly empty, but these two looked like customers so he picked up a cup and obligatorily began wiping it, as much for the look of things as for the fact that the cup in question was quite heavy and if aimed right could probably kill an orc. He wasn't sure because whenever he hit someone with it they tended to disappear quite quickly; the Cistern was known as much for its interest in bodies (and subsequently making them disappear) as for its overpowering shalott.

"What'll it be?" he asked the women as they sat down. A human and an elf, one in grey and the other in black; neither were dressed exactly fashionably, but the clothes looked well-made. Probably skilled workers of some sort, passing through on business.

The elf looked to her friend, who said, "Can't you figure? Shalott as appropriate."

Interesting. She knew the trade, then. "You a barkeep?" he asked as he poured them both a 15-stone.

"Was. Long time ago. Leave the bottle."

The elf sniffed her mug suspiciously, then took a tentative sip. "Ghuck," she said.

"Welcome to booze." The other grinned, downed her mug, and quickly refilled it. "You don't sip this stuff. It's not supposed to taste good, so you drink it as quickly as possible and then get a refill, is what you do."

The elf looked at her shalott. Then she drank quickly, twitched, and then said again, this time with feeling, "Ghuck."

"Yup." The mugs were quickly refilled - in the human's case, again.

Two minutes later they needed another bottle. This took Gorm by surprise. It wasn't that people didn't tend to go through a bottle of shalott very quickly - in fact they usually didn't get through them at all. These two, however, were clearly just getting started, though it was also pretty clear the elf had never actually tried alcohol before and still wasn't sure she wanted to be here. But she held it as well as her companion, probably because she was an elf.

Three bottles of 20-stone later, the elf was starting to get into the swing of things. And the human was clearly in heaven as far as she was concerned.

"Man, it's good to be back."

"So this is how some people live?"

"It's how I always wanted to die."

"Is it? Why didn't you?"

"Life. Always gets in the way."

The waste disposal was almost full. Gorm normally dumped it into the toxic dump outside the mages' College every month - it was just not practical to throw old shalott bottles into the main garbage because of its tendency to eat through anything it touched, including the floors of bins and garbage coaches - but that required a bin that could store it in the meantime without getting eaten itself. And he only had one of those. And exploding a garbage coach in the middle of the street was not good publicity. Was it?

Then again, considering his usual clientelle, he didn't reckon any of them would mind even if it did get tracked back here. If anything they'd find it funny. They found the floor funny enough a lot of the time.

"Do you make funny fiddly drinks? With thingies. And things?" 

"Brollies?"

"Swhat?"

"Puts brollies in the colourful ones. They do."

"Who?"

"They. Them. People."

"God any fiddly brolly drinks? Them's what people do, right?"

"Shalott's what people do here."

"Needs a brolly."

Was this even possible? Gorm wondered. A single bottle of shalott would be enough to kill most men, and floor an immortal, but now these two, after quite a few more, were... well, upright, at least. Mostly. He pulled out a bottle of grog and poured them another round. Grog was, once you were drunk enough, almost indistinguishable from some of the worst shalott in the world, and indeed they didn't even notice.

"Whaddabout that shiny god of yours, what'd he say?"

"'Snot shiny. Dreary-like, more."

"Add some glitter, then he'd be shiny."

"Be glittery then."

"Totally would."

"Not shiny, though."

"Would be kind of sexy..." She slumped onto the bar.

Coraline looked at her mug, tapped out some dregs from the last bottle, and stared at it.

"Huh," she said. She tried to think, stood up in the hopes that it would help, and promptly fell over instead.

Now this part Gorm knew well. People passed out at the Cistern all the time, and some even were still very much alive when they did. Normally that wouldn't be a problem a good heavy cup couldn't solve, but since it was still too early in the evening for anyone to just make them disappear, he settled for emptying their pockets and dumping them out in the street to sleep it off instead.




The three of them sat down by the fire and stared at various things in the room that weren't each other. Finally they agreed that the entire thing had probably been a horrible idea. Technically they had all died. They were in another universe, in the middle of a fight that had nothing to do with them and that next to nobody else even knew about. They had each, on various occasions, utterly betrayed each other. They were also the closest thing to family any of them really had anymore.

What they didn't agree on was what the entire thing had been, or if it was even over.




It helps to stay in motion. It helps to have a center, a place to return to, a family to turn to, a dream to cling to...