mr_gaeta | [Road to Najmi]

[Road to Najmi]

Once they're out on a road not pockmarked with stones and potholes -- or, at least, dotted with fewer of them -- the constant jostle of the cart settles into an easy, rolling rock from side to side.

Given his usual lack of sleep the night before, it isn't terribly surprising that that's enough for Gaeta to slip into a light doze, leaning against the back wall with his bag bunched up like a pillow.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I knew a sailor, once, who lost his arm." But he's shaking his head. "He'd never talk about it. Oh, the tale of how he came to lose it, that he would tell over and over ... but never anything about how it healed."

Gaeta huffs out a near-soundless -- and nearly humorless -- laugh, leaning his head against the wall once more. "Wish how I'd lost mine was glamorous enough to turn into a story."

More often, of course, he wishes that he'd never lost it at all. But.

He takes a small breath. "After you go through an amputation, sometimes it feels like the limb's still there." A far more faint and rueful smile twitches his lips. "And most of the time it hurts like a motherfrakker. It's all psychological, though, it's -- just in your head; so when it happens, there isn't any medicine you can take to make the pain stop."

A sidelong glance to Azimar.

"So I'd sing, to get my mind off of it. It made the phantom pains hurt less."

He's listening. His eyebrows twitch upward at the unfamiliar word psychological, and lower again when it's explained.

"Phantom pains," he repeats softly, in appreciation of the phrase. "Pain's ghost, dead but lingering. And singing ... banished the ghosts? At least for a while?"

Speaking of Gaeta's reality being far less glamorous. He mirrors Azimar's earlier expression, more or less unconsciously, as his eyebrows rise a fraction.

"A little bit," he answers. "And...yes. For a little while."

Again he gives that slow exhalation, like a silent whistle.

"And that was how you came to begin to sing?"

He nods; a silent beat passes.

"So if you wanted to call it a gift," he murmurs as he thinks it over, "I guess you could. But it's more like the scales being balanced out. You lose one thing, you gain something else."

And by and large, that's better than most of the last four years, which saw far more loss without a balancing gain.

"Oh, but a fair balancing of the scales is the rarest gift of all," says Azimar, with a quirk of melancholy smile.

Gaeta can understand that. Quite well, in fact.

Enough so that he's giving Azimar a curious look, unsure if the other man will elaborate.

Azimar looks back at him, and raises his eyebrows again.

"Surely you've noticed, friend Felix."

"From my own experience, sure."

It's neutral enough that it could easily be left at that.

"As have I," he answers easily, "my own experience, and all I have ever heard or observed of the world and its workings. Once in a very great while, the scales tip unevenly in one's own favor; and when that happens, most men call it justice."

There's a thread of merry cynicism in his voice, and a matching tilt to his smile.

"What would you call it?"

"Fortune," he says, and his smile goes a touch more sober, "or a gift of the gods."

Maybe they're on the same page after all. To automatically think of any favorable outcome as such a blessing that it's a gift from the gods, though --

Gaeta knows what he's gone through to reach that point.

And it's not his place to pry an answer out of Azimar on the topic.

"I suppose," is all he says instead, quiet, and with a slight nod to accompany it.

"In the meantime," he says, still evidently cheerful, "you've done me the great honor of teaching me a song; shall I teach you one now?"

He exhales another breath of near-laughter; this time, though, it's genuine.

"What did you have in mind?" he asks.

"Oh, I've songs for any occasion," he says expansively. "Shall it be another tragic love song, or shall we have something happier?"

Settling more comfortably, "I'd prefer something happier."

By Azimar's definition, even happiness could be considered a gift. Gaeta won't turn it down.

His eyes gleam. "I know of just the one," he says, and reaches for his second pack, carefully stowing the flute inside and drawing out a small stringed instrument.

"I had this song from a streetsinger in Lantares," Azimar confides, settling the instrument across his lap and plucking an experimental chord. His lip twitches at the sound, and he reaches for the tuning pegs. "Minnowmead by name."

He quirks a brow, watching the tuning with interest.

Maybe it's just a sympathetic reaction, but the chord sounded a little off to him, too.

"Interesting name," he remarks, a touch dry.

"I've no idea if it was his real name," he admits cheerfully, plucking one string as he turns the peg, gauging the sound. "It suited him, though."

A barely audible snort. "What does a guy have to do for a name like Minnowmead to suit him?"

"Oh, he was a little fellow --" Azimar's moved on to the next string by now, but lifts his hand long enough to make a swift darting movement, not unlike a fish in a pond. "-- and very quick. Good at slipping out of trouble's nets, if you take my meaning."

He plays the chord again, and a second one, and looks satisfied.

"Oh, I do, believe me."

There's no mistaking the dryness now. (Gaeta did know Gaius Baltar for four years, after all.)

His eyes narrow thoughtfully when he hears the chord. It's...not something he can place, exactly, not like a clear and decisive change of oh, yes, that sound is a little higher and that one's a touch lower. It just feels better against his ears; it has the satisfying click of code aligning or a tactical maneuver falling into place.

"And this --" He plays a much more decisive chord, a sharp beat of sound. "-- may have had to do with his outlook on life."

A few bars of introduction, swift and rhythmic, in a minor key but somehow managing to be jaunty all the same, and Azimar sings:

Oh, a traveler's tale I sing to you, a traveler's tale I sing
I'll walk a mile in beggar shoes and crown myself a king
I have no home, I'm free to roam, I sing my little song
And if you feel like singing, well, come on and sing along!

The chorus is wordless, a spirited line of melody on two repeated nonsense syllables, dan dan da da da.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject