Egg Whites and Lavendar Sugar


In this, he sits alone. For once, he speaks by himself, and speaks well, he thinks. He slides a hand up his neck to his ear, and his fingers curl around a stem. Rosemary. Of course. There's a dreadful lot of rosemary. He always has rosemary in his hair; bits and pieces wove into the gold.

To be or not to be, he says.

Someone counters, there's rosemary, that's for remembrance...

A voice, another of those unknown voices, murmurs those words to him. But it's not an unknown voice, or rather it is, save twisted around. He knows the voice, and yet he doesn't. It's familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Rosemary...

That's why there's always rosemary in his hair. To remember. There are so many things to remember; to be mad, he must remember to be mad. That's not so hard any longer. Madness comes easily to him, soaking into his fingertips. It's a tremendous game of pretend, and sometimes it's not pretending.

That is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them? he demands softly.

The voice, strangely pleasant, though it is tainted with a certain uncertain harshness, retorts, pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Thoughts...

He has thoughts. They're just rather a bit jumbled together right now. But they're good thoughts. He has nice ideals, too, if you cared to know. The difficulty is not knowing.

Carefully, he pulls away rosemary, picking some of it out, twirling it and crushing it between his fingers so that they stink of the herb. He lifts his fingertips to smell a little of the juice that came from the slender leaves, and then rubs it on that spot on his collarbone. He's not quite sure why, but it seems as though something important happened... as though something touched him there. The memory won't come. It fights, rebelling against him, and with it comes a tiny jot of pain, just as that same thin line along his skin. Where something happened that he can't remember.

So he bathes it in rosemary. Clever, that.

To die, to sleep-- no more; and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to-- 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished: To die, to sleep-- to sleep, perchance to dream, he finishes triumphantly.

The voice is softer, and yet closer, protesting, there's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb to grace o' Sundays. Oh you must wear your rue with a difference.

Flattery...
Thanklessness...
Repentance...

Wear rue with a difference? Wear repentance with a difference? The difference of the repenting. Now he has flattery, and he's been given thanklessness, and he's also in possession of repentance... thus is the voice. They share one plant, one stem.

There is wrong that must be made right, this he remembers. There is wrong, and he must right it. But suppose it's too heavy to turn upright, suppose then? With his shoulder to the cart, his eyes closed, straining all his body in a vain attempt, he's terribly vulnerable.

He imagines robes, dark purple in colour, like wine. And a crown, a thin gold circlet. Why, it wouldn't even show up on his head. It would sink into golden hair, and become invisible. He cannot help but smile, thinking of his hair now. It's fluffy, and there doesn't seem to be another word for it. It's like goose down; it's so unbrushed, and tangled, and light now, and it makes him think of silk threads. What one is left with after unravelling a silk shirt. That pile of airy fibres, all netted together. No, a golden coronet would disappear if it tried to sit in his golden fluff.

His crown was always meant to be made of rosemary. Rosemary that was purple-green, and showed up well. Rosemary.

He was never meant to be King, really, it's obvious. But the man who is King was not intended for it either. Rosemary.

He remembers who the robes belong to.

Ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause; there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life, for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of the disprised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? He speaks calmly, unhurriedly, making sure each word comes out properly. He speaks like a boy who was never meant to be king, but who could have been. He speaks like one who wears rosemary, so as to remember things that must not be forgotten. It's a good speech he makes, and it shall be heard. Those that hear it shall know of him; of his dignity though beset by madness; of his task though he was not made to kill. He keeps on, still without hurry, although the other voice might break on him at any time. Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. A long speech, so, but a goodly one. He's said what he must say, and someone will have heard it. Someone will have heard him, and someone will listen.

The voice, finally given its space to return a few words, does this: there's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made good end...

He did. Don't worry. He did.

Dissembling...
Faithfulness...

Faith withered...

The voice spoke far fewer words than he did, and yet they have the power to silence him, as clearly his words could not the voice. He sighs unhappily.

Soft you now, the fair Ophelia... Nymph, in thy orisons, be all my sins remembered...

Rodolphe bites his lip momentarily. Sitting across from a sleeping Olympian, listening to him recite soliloquies from excellent tragedy, and answering him back with different lines, none of which you could profess to know, but which you were reading off from the script-book open by his hand, is a difficult task, if only because you're hard pressed not to stroke his hair. Besides, the next lines in the script for Ophelia are singing. Singing. What madness.

It is a play about madness...

He clears his throat hesitantly, and half-sings, half-falters through "For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy," and then gives up. He rests a hand on Enjolras' shoulder and shakes him gently.

"Wake up. Apollo."

Christophe-Marie blinks sleepily, and whispers, "What is it?"

"One o'clock in the morning. You fell asleep."

"I did?" Enjolras lifts his head, and Rodolphe notes that there's a pattern marked into his cheek from it being pressed against the open books so long. He daringly reaches out and runs his fingertips along the mark.

Christophe pulls back, gathering up his things. "Grantaire," and his voice shakes a little; angry, of course. "Grantaire, one night I was drunk and I allowed you to overstep the boundaries of respect for a man's person. Do not make the mistake of thinking that will happen again." Books collected, he makes for the door, leaving Rodolphe alone.

"Alas... I am scorned Ophelia as well as Horatio, am I, my lord? I would play your whole cast for you, if it would please you. Be run through as Polonius, battled as Laertes, made to drink poisoned wine as Claudius - a fate fitting to one such as I. Alas, prince... You'd only want a woman for your Ophelia."


Chapter Five.
Back to Chapter Three.