OOM - entering Paris
Jul. 22nd, 2017 10:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thewidewideworldIt seemed almost inevitable that Sinric should find himself walking the road to Paris. It was not the capital of the growing Carolingian Empire. That was Aachen, home to Charles the Great. The man who had, with the Pope’s blessing, supplanted the grandson of Sinric’s beloved Constantine as Imperator Romanorum Emperor of the Romans. But Paris was a shining light, it’s white stone walls a beacon of an empire born from the ruins of Rome.
Sinric travelled simply, using the tricks he had learned to be as people expected him to be. A wanderer, yes but with just enough of an ascetic simplicity to his dress that most people never wondered at his nature or religious persuasion. After all, everyone knew Charlemagne’s court was a Christian one and fiercely so. Why would any but Christians go there?
His tunic and robes were grey and unbleached dun rather than the cloistered brown but the cut was suggestively monastic. The cowl and hood acted to hide his long hair, which magic allowed him to show as silvering rather than his usual gold.
Never mind that the rosary beads at his belt were Buddhist prayer malas made of lotus seed, worn golden brown with much use. Nor that the bound sticks that formed the crucifix had come from the side of the road and acted only to hide the malas’ tasselled silk end.
No makeup, few decorations – no one molested him on the road. Quite the opposite in fact, often he was asked to join groups of travellers, his presumed status as wandering monk making him welcomed by their fire.
Never once did he claim to be a man of the cloth. But nor did he bother to correct anyone he assumed he was. When greeted he spoke Frankish haltingly and with a heavy Latin accent. And that he chose to sing, either on request or absently to himself, it was more often hymns, soaring as the vault of Heaven.
With this, he passed into Charlemagne’s new city, as unnoticed as if he wore the mantle of shadows a magician had taught him years before.
He had no intention of going too near the palace, or of bringing himself to the attention of the Emperor Charles, a title to freshly stolen from Byzantine. But the palace library was renowned, as were the great scriptoriums attached to the palace chapel. And Sinric found it hard to stay away.
The Palace School had once been little more than a study for the royal children but under the mastery of Alcuin of York, it had become so much more. A scholar and poet, and Charlemagne’s right hand in matters of learning, Alcuin and his assistants had turned the school into a centre of enlightenment and discussion the likes of which Sinric hadn’t seen since leaving Constantine’s city.
Careful not to draw too much attention to himself, Sinric found a place amongst the clerics and clerks who gathered on the school’s steps to talk philosophy, theology and science. He rarely spoke up, but listen intently.
He managed to go unnoticed, or so he thought, for several weeks. It wasn’t till he was listening to a discussion on Virgil that he gave himself away as anything other than yet another gawker come to listen to the wise men speak in hopes of advancement. And care-worn wandering monk trying to ape his better.
Virgil’s writings were a special favourite of the School Master and so was hotly discussed. Mostly by Alcuin’s students and mostly in the hope of coming up with some witty insight that would earn them their master’s approval. One young man, blustery and red-faced was reciting some passage or other and Sinric couldn’t keep himself from wincing.
“His voice rather grating.” Said a soft voice from beside him, pitched low. Sinric had been so engrossed in the discussion he hadn’t noticed Pyttel, one of Alcuin’s Yorkish assistance sit beside him on the step.
“It isn’t that.” Sinric answered, apologetically. Although the young man’s oratory skills were chaffing bad. “His translation.” He shook his head and moved to stand, figuring it was time to leave.
But Pyttel’s hand caught his sleeve. “No, stay. Speak your piece.” The teacher’s voice was soft but commanding and everyone turned to look at them.
Sinric cleared his throat and raised his head, letting the hood fall back enough to show his silver hair, in hope it would gain him a little respect from the fuming youth whose recitation he’d interrupted. “Forgive the interruption.” He bows to the speaker and then the crowd. “But the translation would be more correct as iam vacuo laetam, rather than laetificus. The dove is now exulting in joy at the sky rather than in the sky. It is not being in the sky that brings her joy but that it exists for her once more, as it had not while she was tethered. The sky, like freedom, is an abstraction, defined sharpest by separation from it.”
“Well spoke.” A voice rang from the doorway of the Palace School. Alcuin, the master himself stook there, leaning on a cane they all knew he didn’t need but was never seen without.
Sinric turned his face away, trying to pull the magic of his disguise around him but too slow.
Alcuin’s eyes saw through him, saw to the heart of him. The flash of recognition was all too clear. “Aureus?”
Sinric sighed and lowed his hood. “Yes, Praeceptor.” He greeted his old tutor with a deep bow.
Alcuin came down to him, the crowd of jealous students parting before the master. Charles’ personal tutor and teacher.
Sinric was careful to let the mask dissolve slowly, so it seemed as if he was simply being seen in better light.
Alcuin touched his chin, making Sinric look up. “I was told you had died, my student.”
“And so I did, Praeceptor. For Aureus could not live after his master’s death. I am Sinric now.”
“And so you are.” Alcuin kissed his brow and embraced him. “Come, let’s leave this ignorant rabble and talk somewhere private.
Sinric travelled simply, using the tricks he had learned to be as people expected him to be. A wanderer, yes but with just enough of an ascetic simplicity to his dress that most people never wondered at his nature or religious persuasion. After all, everyone knew Charlemagne’s court was a Christian one and fiercely so. Why would any but Christians go there?
His tunic and robes were grey and unbleached dun rather than the cloistered brown but the cut was suggestively monastic. The cowl and hood acted to hide his long hair, which magic allowed him to show as silvering rather than his usual gold.
Never mind that the rosary beads at his belt were Buddhist prayer malas made of lotus seed, worn golden brown with much use. Nor that the bound sticks that formed the crucifix had come from the side of the road and acted only to hide the malas’ tasselled silk end.
No makeup, few decorations – no one molested him on the road. Quite the opposite in fact, often he was asked to join groups of travellers, his presumed status as wandering monk making him welcomed by their fire.
Never once did he claim to be a man of the cloth. But nor did he bother to correct anyone he assumed he was. When greeted he spoke Frankish haltingly and with a heavy Latin accent. And that he chose to sing, either on request or absently to himself, it was more often hymns, soaring as the vault of Heaven.
With this, he passed into Charlemagne’s new city, as unnoticed as if he wore the mantle of shadows a magician had taught him years before.
He had no intention of going too near the palace, or of bringing himself to the attention of the Emperor Charles, a title to freshly stolen from Byzantine. But the palace library was renowned, as were the great scriptoriums attached to the palace chapel. And Sinric found it hard to stay away.
The Palace School had once been little more than a study for the royal children but under the mastery of Alcuin of York, it had become so much more. A scholar and poet, and Charlemagne’s right hand in matters of learning, Alcuin and his assistants had turned the school into a centre of enlightenment and discussion the likes of which Sinric hadn’t seen since leaving Constantine’s city.
Careful not to draw too much attention to himself, Sinric found a place amongst the clerics and clerks who gathered on the school’s steps to talk philosophy, theology and science. He rarely spoke up, but listen intently.
He managed to go unnoticed, or so he thought, for several weeks. It wasn’t till he was listening to a discussion on Virgil that he gave himself away as anything other than yet another gawker come to listen to the wise men speak in hopes of advancement. And care-worn wandering monk trying to ape his better.
Virgil’s writings were a special favourite of the School Master and so was hotly discussed. Mostly by Alcuin’s students and mostly in the hope of coming up with some witty insight that would earn them their master’s approval. One young man, blustery and red-faced was reciting some passage or other and Sinric couldn’t keep himself from wincing.
“His voice rather grating.” Said a soft voice from beside him, pitched low. Sinric had been so engrossed in the discussion he hadn’t noticed Pyttel, one of Alcuin’s Yorkish assistance sit beside him on the step.
“It isn’t that.” Sinric answered, apologetically. Although the young man’s oratory skills were chaffing bad. “His translation.” He shook his head and moved to stand, figuring it was time to leave.
But Pyttel’s hand caught his sleeve. “No, stay. Speak your piece.” The teacher’s voice was soft but commanding and everyone turned to look at them.
Sinric cleared his throat and raised his head, letting the hood fall back enough to show his silver hair, in hope it would gain him a little respect from the fuming youth whose recitation he’d interrupted. “Forgive the interruption.” He bows to the speaker and then the crowd. “But the translation would be more correct as iam vacuo laetam, rather than laetificus. The dove is now exulting in joy at the sky rather than in the sky. It is not being in the sky that brings her joy but that it exists for her once more, as it had not while she was tethered. The sky, like freedom, is an abstraction, defined sharpest by separation from it.”
“Well spoke.” A voice rang from the doorway of the Palace School. Alcuin, the master himself stook there, leaning on a cane they all knew he didn’t need but was never seen without.
Sinric turned his face away, trying to pull the magic of his disguise around him but too slow.
Alcuin’s eyes saw through him, saw to the heart of him. The flash of recognition was all too clear. “Aureus?”
Sinric sighed and lowed his hood. “Yes, Praeceptor.” He greeted his old tutor with a deep bow.
Alcuin came down to him, the crowd of jealous students parting before the master. Charles’ personal tutor and teacher.
Sinric was careful to let the mask dissolve slowly, so it seemed as if he was simply being seen in better light.
Alcuin touched his chin, making Sinric look up. “I was told you had died, my student.”
“And so I did, Praeceptor. For Aureus could not live after his master’s death. I am Sinric now.”
“And so you are.” Alcuin kissed his brow and embraced him. “Come, let’s leave this ignorant rabble and talk somewhere private.
