Feuilly

Once everyone has been warned about the hallucinatory flu situation, there's really not much a person can do but wait it out. At least, that's what Feuilly has been telling himself. So he's been bringing work down into the main room--books, sketchpad--and trying very hard to Make Sensible Use of the time...while mostly straining to keep half an eye at all times on Harry-who-thinks-he's-Ashley. And while ignoring a headache and a twinge in the back of his throat. And while managing the dogs.

Somewhere amongst all this Feuilly finds himself sitting on one of the couches by the fireplace. He's absolutely not going to lie down, because that way lies the danger of napping. But he might put his feet up. And he might rest his head on the cushion for a little while.

And his eyes might close in spite of all his best intentions; and he might begin to snore, just a little, the open book lying on his chest.

No matter what else may be happening in Milliways, some constants remain. Among them, the need to walk the dogs, or at least let them out, before going to bed. So Feuilly is out in the last light of the evening: just enough light to see the white tip of Lady's tail when she runs off to the edge of the mowed lawn and starts weaving in and out of the longer grass. Hector has no such flighty notions. He's a self-respecting lymer who likes his leash and likes to plod along at the length of it, nose to the ground, while he finds a suitable spot to do his business.

Food is one of the best ambassadors. Having eaten ham and cheese with Harry Percy, Jeannot Feuilly feels more than confident enough to follow him out to the lake, even though--

"Do you know how to swim?"

Jeannot does not. Would he rather admit that, or admit that the water looks really quite cold?

It's a mild day--for February, anyway--the sort of day that one feels needs to be used before it goes away. So Feuilly had proposed a return to the quintain they had found. "We can take apart the broken section, and maybe clear some of the saplings if Bar will let us borrow a hatchet," he'd said. And bar had obliged, and he and Harry had set forth, and he had given Harry the hatchet, and--honestly, glancing over at Harry's attack on some brambles, Feuilly is a little concerned about the decision. Did the brambles commit some unforgivable offense?

It's good to be starting a new project, Feuilly reminds himself. It is, it really is: he's had trouble finding things to do, now that his fan commission is complete and his translation for Fawkes is done. He's been feeling selfish, lazing about the way he has been. So it's...good, to be staring at an empty notepad, an open laptop, and a stack of books, with no idea how to begin.

It's good.

Feuilly looks down at Hector, who is snoring and has no advice about pedagogy.

He looks over at his door, and hopes it opens with an interruption.

The switch from the desk in his room to a branch halfway up an oak is, naturally, a bit of a surprise. Feuilly's physical reflexes catch up to it before his thoughts do. It saves him a broken arm, maybe a broken neck. Thank you, Bahorel, for taking his body up into a tree without warning. A tree in the center of some strange landscape of--art?

It's art. It's certainly art. It's Bahorel art, but it's art. An art installation, that's what they'd probably call it in the future. Whatever Bahorel is in the middle of, up this tree, it involves knots--a rope web--cooking-pan noisemakers strung like beads--a bolt of Lyon jacquard silk--

Extracting himself from the situation is enough to keep Feuilly from thinking too much about the paint? all over his arms: he looks like he's been painted on fire, red and gold swirls on black. His hair feels as if it's full of--something sticky. He's wearing--oh, never mind

When he walks through one of the back doors of the bar building, his first thought is to go straight to his room, wash, and hide for a week. Instead he takes a deep, deep breath, and goes to knock on Harry's door.

How bad is it?

One thing had led to another. The afternoon finds Feuilly deep into the history of the FIFA World Cup, with an entire channel of klezmer music to listen to. He's been trying to untangle the complaints about the decisions to host the competition in Russia and Qatar, and humming along to the music, when he suddenly becomes aware of two things.

First, the song he's half-singing without thinking about it isn't quite what he was expecting.

Second, he's supposed to be expecting John Segundus any moment now; they'd made a plan to meet at his room and then go to the library. Now--how do you turn the music off--?

They eat their breakfast--lunch?--by the lake, occasionally chucking rocks into the water, but not talking much. Letting some time pass after the conversation in Harry's room. Letting the morning warm up. After they split the last cup of hot chocolate, they leave the satchel by a large rock, to be retrieved--later. (They'll remember, honest! Feuilly will, anyway.) It seems like a good time to meander around the edges of the woods.

There is a path. Feuilly looks at it doubtfully, glances at Harry. "I think that one doesn't do anything--you know--magical."

The walk to Harry's room is made awkward by Feuilly having to carry a laptop computer, a practice sword, some books, a notebook, a tablet, pen and pencil, etc.

Also by the whole thing where Harry just appeared in the bar all bloody and cheerful after vanishing for a bit to go fight Viking raiders. That makes things a little awkward too. Not that Feuilly disapproves of going and rescuing villagers from violent murder! It's an excellent thing to do! But...he's never seen Harry so much in his professional capacity before.

Not knowing what else to do, he settles in to handle it the way he handles Bahorel adventures: stolid and pragmatic. They'll get Harry cleaned up and patched up and fed and watered and--sort out whatever else needs sorting out.

Feuilly has been telling himself that it's all right to be bound here, after the bitter defeat to their cause. Time isn't passing in Paris--however that works--he's using the time to rest, to study, to learn for the republicans' next attempt--

--he's resting with Harry, Prince of Wales, and studying the swordsmanship of four hundred years ago, and learning how to communicate a few faint ideas of 1830 to a long-gone English kingdom.

So now, spurred by Bahorel's restless energy, the news of Joly's illness, he's pulled out the work he's neglected lately, a sort of extract or paraphrase or adaptation--whatever you want to call it--of the Communist Manifesto. It's challenging work, pulling it together in terms for 1830 Paris, but it's not so very far past their time as all that. It's not a moment too soon for socialism!