Sleep No More [closed]

[bibliophale]

Aziraphale's personal spaces are beginning to get a bit crowded. It isn't that he requires privacy wherever he goes. If that were so he wouldn't have put his shop right next to Sunshine's bakery. Spike is a wonderfully effective and low-maintenance employee, and Sunshine is a friend who brings treats when she visits. Crowley's occasional (increasingly occasional) stays in the back room are an assumption. And he certainly doesn't mind having Melanie in his flat - that's quite nice. Nicer than he thought it would be.

So really it's just Illyria. Suffering the God-King of the Primordium, squatting as they are, both in his shop and in another person's body, is really a bit much to ask, he thinks. All the rest would be fine. If it weren't for this one nuisance.

Well, at least she doesn't make too much trouble. And she seems content to mind her business and sit motionless for long periods of time.

Actually, that last part is a little creepy. And right now, as he's trying to read the lovely 1893 copy of the Sanskritized Hindi translation of Macbeth he had the good fortune to come across, it's distracting.

He lowers the small volume and looks at the God-King. "Illyria," he says, "do you ever sleep?"

Comments

[noteasybeingblue]

Illyria would not classify herself in the realm of bored in the human conception of the term, because boredom would imply a significant degree of preexisting interest that has since depleted, and Illyria is yet to experience any sort of considerable, quantifiable interest. The books are old - relatively speaking; they are young and fragile things in comparison to the being in their midst - and they remind her of Wesley, and she does not examine them.

She opts instead to study the fabric of the world she now resides in, take note of its deviations and similarities, the interplay of conflicting auras perpetually at molecular war. The air itself is different, minutely, not in any form detectable to what is mortal and small.

Thus, the God-King has not been observing the passage of time. She considers it a poorly defined concept, fickle and subjective in its design, and so intrinsically human that she has no desire to understand it at any great length. Time progresses for her now in its incremental linear motion and she pays it no heed.

When the principality asks a question she looks at it with a vague disinterest.

"Sleep is a human design," she says, now observing the drifting trajectory of a pair of hydrogen molecules without much enthusiasm. "I do not require it. Not in the form most would understand it."