Ominous? If only the chilly severity in his eyes could hold people at a distance with any consistency. Ienzo glancees off and mutters something under his breath, a fleeting thought which sounds an awful lot like Gargoyles in the Gurney.
It would make a fine club, for bookish boys with nowhere else to belong, lurking like corvids on a fence.
Snitch was a particularly nasty insult, for a boy who had seen what he'd seen and had never gone wagging his tongue about it. He knew too much about the methodical torments that happened in the basements of his former house, and the fellowship who dared to called it research beyond all pretenses of establishing their pecking order. It wasn't the rules of the game that interested them, because every boy who'd ever been through school knew them, but the science of it, the theory that interested his collegues. Despair could be measured, catalogued, extracted, turned to potent substance in the soul of a broken person. Ienzo knew it had been well-documented, much of it by his very own hand. Those papers had vanished in a locked valet case, along with his friend and master's other polished writings, off to serve some grander purpose in the great scheme of the world.
He heard whispers that his old building had been emptied for an "airing out" over the summer, before term. Wondered what the walls would say if they could speak, if whitewashing over them had ensured their silence.
"Oh, you can read whatever materials you fancy, Pevensie, I don't care a whit about that." Ienzo chuckles flippantly, reaching out to pat the shoulder strap as if to wave off the matter of the satchel's contents entirely.
"But," His fingers closed and tightened around the leather strap, and he pulled firmly enough to reel Edmund in closer, his voice dropping deeper as he lurched up onto tiptoes. Ienzo cut far from an intimidating stature from a distance, but up close there was a certain dangerous intensity in his eyes that made blood between your ears seem thunderous. "If you give that sanctimonous arse and his cassocked cronies reason to have anything on these shelves pitched to the furnace..." God help the upstart moron who gave the chapel any fuel to host a bookburning by quoting Zarathustra like a proud, phenomenally boorish born again atheist on the lawn. "Forget snitching. I'll end you."
Big, hot words, for such a bantam Bint, but at least it's a nobleminded ultimatum.
Ienzo relinquished his hold and took a step back, rattling out a too-tense breath and looking Edmund up and down with a bewildered, owlish sort of incredulity, as if he already regretted getting too confrontational. He let breathing room ease out between them for a moment, uncertain, biting at the insides of his mouth as Edmund casually accused him of dodging the fag-masters. Ienzo rolled his eyes. Weren't they all?
"You're awfully keen on barreling down the hill for a pint today, aren't you?" He clucked back, lofty with reproach. "Nothing's very private about a public house. But I'm certainly not about to entertain a tell-all with you right here, either."
So they were headed off to elsewhere, unless Edmund had any further objections.
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Date: 2016-11-25 03:43 am (UTC)It would make a fine club, for bookish boys with nowhere else to belong, lurking like corvids on a fence.
Snitch was a particularly nasty insult, for a boy who had seen what he'd seen and had never gone wagging his tongue about it. He knew too much about the methodical torments that happened in the basements of his former house, and the fellowship who dared to called it research beyond all pretenses of establishing their pecking order. It wasn't the rules of the game that interested them, because every boy who'd ever been through school knew them, but the science of it, the theory that interested his collegues. Despair could be measured, catalogued, extracted, turned to potent substance in the soul of a broken person. Ienzo knew it had been well-documented, much of it by his very own hand. Those papers had vanished in a locked valet case, along with his friend and master's other polished writings, off to serve some grander purpose in the great scheme of the world.
He heard whispers that his old building had been emptied for an "airing out" over the summer, before term. Wondered what the walls would say if they could speak, if whitewashing over them had ensured their silence.
"Oh, you can read whatever materials you fancy, Pevensie, I don't care a whit about that." Ienzo chuckles flippantly, reaching out to pat the shoulder strap as if to wave off the matter of the satchel's contents entirely.
"But," His fingers closed and tightened around the leather strap, and he pulled firmly enough to reel Edmund in closer, his voice dropping deeper as he lurched up onto tiptoes. Ienzo cut far from an intimidating stature from a distance, but up close there was a certain dangerous intensity in his eyes that made blood between your ears seem thunderous. "If you give that sanctimonous arse and his cassocked cronies reason to have anything on these shelves pitched to the furnace..." God help the upstart moron who gave the chapel any fuel to host a bookburning by quoting Zarathustra like a proud, phenomenally boorish born again atheist on the lawn. "Forget snitching. I'll end you."
Big, hot words, for such a bantam Bint, but at least it's a nobleminded ultimatum.
Ienzo relinquished his hold and took a step back, rattling out a too-tense breath and looking Edmund up and down with a bewildered, owlish sort of incredulity, as if he already regretted getting too confrontational. He let breathing room ease out between them for a moment, uncertain, biting at the insides of his mouth as Edmund casually accused him of dodging the fag-masters. Ienzo rolled his eyes. Weren't they all?
"You're awfully keen on barreling down the hill for a pint today, aren't you?" He clucked back, lofty with reproach. "Nothing's very private about a public house. But I'm certainly not about to entertain a tell-all with you right here, either."
So they were headed off to elsewhere, unless Edmund had any further objections.