#danke @sorrel-ly

[schoethe]

@sorrel-ly: #what is a philosophical talk about the Urpflanze if not #the 18th century version of gay people on their first date at a botanic garden #fun fact the house where they met got bombed away but the current building in its place #has their letters running in an infinite loop along two walls #Briefwechsel-Apollo-Filiale my beloathed <3 #OTP: Ein Gedicht. #and that's how i met your mother.

Und dann auch noch:

Am heutigen Haus Unterem Markt 1, an dessen Stelle einst das Kirstensche Haus stand, lebte im ersten Stock niemand geringeres als Friedrich von Schiller von Mai 1794 bis April 1795. Man kann hier, wenn man genau hinsieht, auf einer 31 Meter langen LED-Laufschrift den vollständigen Briefwechsel zwischen den beiden Schriftstellern nachlesen. Konkurrierend dazu existieren auf dem Unteren Markt 60 handtellergroße Messing-Bodenplatten, die 30 stilisierte Blattarten zeigen. Dahinter steckt natürlich auch eine interessante Geschichte. Die Plaketten zeigen den Weg, den Goethe und Schiller vom ehemaligen, nicht mehr vorhandenen Bachsteinschen Haus in der Rathausgasse 1 bis zum ehemaligen Kirstenschen Haus, also das Haus, in dem Schiller wohnte, entlangschlenderten. Hier auf diesem Schlenderweg, symbolisch mit den Messingplatten dargestellt, fand das erste intensive Gespräch zwischen den beiden statt. Beide waren sich nach einer Sitzung im Bachsteinschen Haus nähergekommen, bummelten die wenigen Schritte bis zu Schillers Wohnhaus, während sie sich angeregt über die Metamorphose der Blätter unterhielten und ließen den Abend dort ausklingen. Der Rest ist Geschichte. Schiller ist glücklich über diese Begegnung und Goethe erhält bald darauf erste Post von ihm. Der rege Briefwechsel zwischen den beiden nimmt seinen Anfang.

[x]

[authorticity]

May I request some soft Clayleb Cuddles? As much fluff as humanly possible

“This is unnecessary,” said Mr. Caleb.

Caduceus couldn’t see much more than the top of his head. Humans were so small. Caduceus had carried injured deer like this, splayed out on top of his arms so that they could still see. Caleb was easily to carry than a deer though, especially a buck. The antlers tended to get in the way of things.

Mr. Caleb was speaking in that monotone voice that meant that he could feel his emotions inside of him like weeds. Forbidden things that stole and gave in secret, sullen ways, drinking in sunlight they were not supposed to have. Caduceus had heard Nott talk about weeding out weakness. Perhaps it was that—Caleb had not weeded his weaknesses, and now they were lovely and rioting and good in that subtle way that stung.

‘Weeding out weakness’. That was a good phrase. Caduceus was going to use it.

Mr. Caleb was still talking. Caduceus adjusted his grip so that Caleb could sit up a little bit more in his arms and listened.

“--Not wanting to trouble you, Herr Clay, I was not injured--”

Yeah. That sounded like something Mr. Caleb would say.

You aren’t troubling me at all, Mr. Caleb. Just rest that ankle and we’ll have Jester out a little ice on it. she’s awfully good at ice, isn’t she?

...Was what Caduceus was going to say, except that he stubbed his toe and had to bite his lip to keep from swearing in front of Mr. Caleb. What actually came out was “You’re not trouble--!” and then a little undignified hitch in his voice that made up the first syllable of a Silvan curse.

(Swearing in front of a patron of the cemetery a friend. His sister would have yanked his ear.)

Caduceus stole a glance down at Caleb, hoping the tip of his nose wasn’t as pink as it felt. The least he needed was looking flustered in front of...well, looking flustered. Decorum was an asset.

Oh, dear. Caleb’s ears were very faintly pink—he must have been offended. Or shocked. Or unsurprised, because Caduceus had so much difficulty keeping his feet under him these days, what with the pirates and the dragons and the frogs and--

“You are,” Caleb said, voice brittle as dried stems. “Also, ah, not trouble. Danke.”

Caduceus almost didn’t register the words under the tone, which was soft, and cold with neglect rather than distance. It reminded him of icemelt streams, back before the water in the Savalier Woods turned strange tasting and metallic. It made him think of cat fur.

And he had been thanked. Right. He should say something back.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Caleb,” Caduceus said. Mr. Caleb was a good fellow to have around, when he wasn’t caught up in his head or staring into the middle distance like prey smelling the air for smoke or snapping at people who weren’t Nott or Frumpkin when they were just trying to bring him supper.

Well. He was alright then, too.

...Caleb was talking. “Aren’t your arms tired? I am, ah, very lanky. I am a long person to hold.”

“Nah,” Caduceus said. “S’kinda like carrying a tree branch or a body. There’s a trick to it—you bend at the knees, you know.”

“...Is a tree branch like a body?”

“If you wait long enough,” Caduceus said amiably. “But not too long, though.”

“Not too long,” Caleb repeated. He almost sounded like he was—taking notes in his head, sort of, committing it to memory. That was a nice thought.

...Caleb was talking again. “I was wondering, Herr Clay, if you have any experience with the...prolonging of flowers. Of keeping them fresh and good for longer.”

“Oh. Huh.” It had never really occurred to him to think about that. Dying flowers were just so good—halfway caught between the beauty of seeing them alive and the anticipation of seeing what would happen next. “I can’t say I do, unfortunately. I don’t know any flowers that would go in for that sort of thing. Mint might. Or sorrel.” He was in a weed sort of mood today, apparently. Although in fairness, there were only so many flowering plants that he knew for sure would want to subvert the natural span of their life. Sorrel was a softly auspicious plant, low and hard to spot but good when you did. Mint was…

Well. Mint was a bastard.

“--f course,” Caleb was halfway through saying. “It was just a trifle. Thank you for indulging, ah, my curiosity.”

“Yeah,” Caduceus said happily. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything more. You know knotweed?”

“...Nein?”

“S’an invasive plant in the north. Mostly we’d get corrupted varieties at the borders, but my aunt used to make a dessert sauce out of it before we burned the roots. It’s good.”

“I was thinking of enchanting a flower with a message,” Caleb said distractedly. “One of the ones that you put in bouquets, and it means things. Did your people do that?”

“No,” Caduceus said honestly. “But I heard about it from Nott. I think it’s a halfling thing.”

“...Maybe.”

They fell into silence.

“Were you going to make a talking flower?” Caduceus asked, “or one that has symbolism behind it?”

“Ah,” said Caleb, “Uhh. The second one.”

“Oh.”

“Ja.”

“Because a talking flower would be very cool.”

“...Ja.” Caleb shifted away from Caduceus, digging in his armpit for a book, and Caduceus was forced to press him closer to keep them both from overbalancing. If he noticed, Caleb didn’t comment, focused on writing...something in his book. It had the look of an arcane equation, but Caduceus only knew that because Jester had dropped some books down three flights of stairs, and they had gathered them together.

“If you had a talking flower,” Caduceus said, feeling inexplicably careful. “What would it say?”

“It would say,” Caleb said slowly, “’I am a flower’. I would put it in front of Beau’s room to irritate her and in front of Jester’s to make her happy and Nott’s because then she could use it to torment other people.”

“That’s nice,” Caduceus said, even though he had a +9 insight modifier. Lying Caleb had a tendency to curl up into a little sullen pile when he was called out on it sometimes, and that would much, much harder to carry.