Labyrinth

Mar. 28th, 2017 08:02 pm
tu_vas_triompher: (Default)
[personal profile] tu_vas_triompher
One moment, the Labyrinth doorway. The next, a narrow bed in a cold room. A scuffling sound at the window pane, sparrows landing and then taking off again. An argument in some other room, muffled by walls but not very well: Go to hell, you're not my husband, you can't come here and talk like that to my kids.

It's all in French.

Date: 2017-03-29 12:18 am (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
Harry becomes aware of it all in pieces, unsure which actually woke him-- the bird, the cold, the shouting. He hovers for a moment in hazy half-sleep, then is abruptly jolted to full waking by his own body: a fit of fierce coughing that makes his chest burn and his shoulders shake. He flops back on the thin little bed, wheezing. Ow. He's been ill, yes, but it hasn't felt like this.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. The room is unfamiliar, too completely to be waved away as the distorting effects of a fever. And-- wait, hadn't he gone into the Labyrinth? He carefully pushes himself upright.

Date: 2017-03-29 12:56 am (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. The movement makes him momentarily light-headed, but even when that passes, he doesn't feel-- right. His body, like the room, feels wrong in ways he can't pin on a fever.

His hands look wrong. He looks down: his feet look wrong. But the hands, they aren't-- they aren't his, but they look familiar all the same, somehow?

He shuffles over to the window and jerks back the makeshift curtain to see if he can get any kind of look at himself in the glass.

Date: 2017-03-29 01:06 am (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
whatwhatwhatwhat

Harry stumbles back from the window in a fit of coughing that turns into laughter and then back again. He runs his hands over his-- Feuilly's-- face, his hair.

What the hell kind of Labyrinth trick is this?

He pokes around until he finds some clothes: trousers, shirt.

Date: 2017-03-29 03:23 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
The saber's the real prize, obviously: he sits down to inspect it.

Date: 2017-03-29 04:04 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
--oh god and he's going to have to speak French.

He rises to call back to her, but it sounds like she's already gone. He sets the sword aside and carefully pushes the door open anyway.

Date: 2017-03-29 04:55 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
"Not at you," Harry retorts, and is startled to hear it come out in French without effort-- Feuilly's French, different from the courtly French he grew up speaking.

Date: 2017-03-29 05:10 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
Harry is very tempted to reply, but-- no. He's Feuilly, and holds Feuilly's reputation in his hands. If any of this is real. Probably safer to assume it is.

But since the door is open, since he's dressed, he decides to venture into the hall.

Date: 2017-03-29 07:51 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
Sounds! Well, let's follow the sounds, certainly. He wonders dimly, as he makes his way down the stairs, where that woman thought he ought to be.

Date: 2017-03-29 10:47 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
Iiiiinteresting. It's nothing like any building he knows. He makes his way down and down, and finds himself at last opening the door out to the street.

Date: 2017-03-31 04:03 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
The pipe smoke, and then the sudden damp, cold air of the street sets him coughing again. He braces himself against the frame of the door as he tries to catch his breath, and dimly wonders if he should go back up. But all those stairs are an unpleasant prospect in this wheezy state, so he presses on.

(After all, it's Feuilly's body, but he's still Harry.)

Date: 2017-03-31 04:49 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
He turns towards her and, --ugh, that pipe. He angles away slightly, brings his sleeve to his mouth so he doesn't cough in her face.

"I--" He has no idea what the answer is. "Why do you ask?"

Date: 2017-03-31 05:02 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
"No," Harry cuts in immediately. "No, I just--" why do people not go to their job

"No," he says again, firmly. She said it's none of her business, so he just won't elaborate. "I have work."

Date: 2017-03-31 05:15 pm (UTC)
harryhotspur: (Default)
From: [personal profile] harryhotspur
"It's nothing. A cold, it's nearly gone." He's never been this easy with Feuilly's type of French before-- he's not entirely sure he actually is now, or if something in the Labyrinth is translating it even to his own ears. "Anything else?"

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Feuilly

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