Stevie
Visitor
((This is a sequel to The Lost Float, Yes It Goes On and On, My Friends, and Necromancy for Dummies.))
King Blackthorn regarded the strange item before him.
"Why is it called a dog if it is not actually made of dog?" he asked.
From the other side if the table Sherry reared up on her back legs and strained to peer over an identical object. Her thoughtful expression contrasted sharply with the tomato paste all over her tiny face and forearms.
"I'm not sure…" she said. "I tried one in Trinsic and it was a little different. Maybe some actually do have dog."
"And you are eating it."
Sherry shrugged mousily. "It's delicious!"
He skeptically prodded his with a fork.
“Then how ARE they made?”
“As I understand it there are two ways. One is with meat and bread, if you’re lucky enough to haul the biggest panther or turkey or whatever to the ranger’s guild in Skara Brae and they give you the recipe. The other is a little more… esoteric,” Sherry said.
Blackthorn frowned. “Go on.”
“Well, I have heard that a tinker can create some kind of enchanted picnic basket out of wood and reeds, and when they are made, the food is just in them.”
“How can that be?”
“I did say enchanted.”
“So these tinkers are mages? Or are they chefs?”
“No, just tinkers.”
Blackthorn eyed her skeptically.
"Oh, just try it! Honestly, you really could stand to be a little more adventurous, maybe even get out of Britain once in a while…"
A strange expression crossed her face.
"I get out of Britain from time to time," he grumbled, continuing to prod the odd food before him. It was some kind of meat product in a strange bread pocket, but it wasn't quite a sandwich. The meat was shaped like a sausage but the coloration was weak and uniform, so it ultimately bore little meaningful resemblance to any meat he had ever seen. He wasn't entirely convinced that it was indeed meat all all.
The thing seemed unnatural, as if it originated on another plane of existence. Maybe it did. The kingdom had been rife with oddities of late.
Sherry blinked. "I've known you for years. Decades! But I just realized I don't know your first name. I've always just called you "you"."
Blackthorn began to laugh, then suddenly went silent.
"Well," Sherry prompted. "What is your first name?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at the dog-thing.
"I can't know?" Sherry said indignantly. Though the thought had only just occurred to her after years of friendship--or at least companionable association--she was clearly and immediately displeased.
"No, no, it's just..." he trailed off. An acrid metallic tang filled his mouth, the feel of cold metal against his skin, of flesh cut and burnt and altered. His vision blurred for a moment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He had a name. Surely he had a name.
But it wasn’t coming to him. It was buried deep beneath fire and metal, rust and ruin.
He opened his eyes to find that Sherry was still glowering at him expectantly, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort.
"Lord," he said with as much confidence as he could muster. "My first name is Lord. You knew that!"
"That is not a name," she said. "It is a title. You are not Lord Lord Blackthorn."
"Of course not," he said. "I am King Lord Blackthorn."
“Very funny, mister,” she retorted mousily. “Really, what is it?”
He frowned and looked down at the table.
“Oh,” Sherry said softly. “Oh. You don’t know. You don’t remember.”
“No,” he reluctantly admitted. “My internment changed me. There are gaps in my memory. Gaps in my thinking. It didn’t occur to me that I didn’t know my own name any more than it occurred to you that it hadn’t until this very moment.”
“There are no gaps in MY thinking; I just didn’t--”
He gave her an irritable look and she fell silent.
She fell back on her haunches and frowned.
“I don’t think there is anyone left who would know,” she said.
“Not that I am aware of.” He snorted. “Exodus or Minax perhaps.”
“Hmph! Well, this cannot stand. That wretched mechanical monster may have taken your memories but he did not take you!”
Blackthorn gave Sherry a small smile. “Your support is most appreciated. I don’t think there is anything to be done about it, though.”
“Of course there is!” Sherry was undeterred. “You just need to choose a new name!”
“I’m not sure that I--”
“Yes! Something… strong. Strong and perhaps a little mysterious. Unusual, but not actually strange.”
“That really won’t be necess--”
“How about… Percy? Or Ichabod? Zaphod? Geordi? Draco?”
He shook his head at each one. “I have gone without this long; I don’t think I need--”
“No?” she continued. “What about... Thalmain? Enoch? Tobias? Ezekiel?”
“Sherry, I appreciate the sentiment but I am quite fine without a first name,” he said.
She tore a chunk of meat out of her hot dog and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
“How about…” she said after a moment, “Oscar? Short, simple, classic but not common.”
“Oscar? Oscar Blackthorn?” he said. It was clear she was not going to give up.
“You’re right. It’s missing something. You need a middle name too,” she said. “Do you remember your mother’s family name?”
He racked his brain for a moment, but could not produce any clear memories. He shook his head.
“Something surname-y. Like... Humperdinck? Longbottom? Brandybuck? Targaryen? Grimes?”
“What have you been reading in your book club?”
“Too much, yes, you want something simple. Something plain, common-ish but not ubiquitous. How about… Meyer?”
“Oscar Meyer Blackthorn?” he said dubiously.
“Yes! It’s perfect!” She wiped her paws off and scrambled down to the floor. “I’m going to the bakery to have a cake made for this occasion. One of those big fluffy ones. Oh, I’ll get some confetti too--they’re practically giving it away now since the parade ended and no one is buying it anymore. We’ll celebrate together!”
“Sherry--” he began, but she had already scampered out the door.
The name felt odd, ill-fitting to him and indeed to the world, just like the hot dog before him.. It was a feeling he was growing accustomed to.
Once Sherry got her mind set on something, he knew very well that she could not be deterred. If she had to give him a name, though, he would have preferred something plain and common. John, maybe.
Or Lord. There was nothing wrong with Lord as a first name, he thought to himself. There was no need to retroactively revise or fix what wasn’t broken.
At least with Sherry gone he would not feel obligated to eat the thing. He whisked it into the trash and headed for his basement freezer to search for leftovers.
King Blackthorn regarded the strange item before him.
"Why is it called a dog if it is not actually made of dog?" he asked.
From the other side if the table Sherry reared up on her back legs and strained to peer over an identical object. Her thoughtful expression contrasted sharply with the tomato paste all over her tiny face and forearms.
"I'm not sure…" she said. "I tried one in Trinsic and it was a little different. Maybe some actually do have dog."
"And you are eating it."
Sherry shrugged mousily. "It's delicious!"
He skeptically prodded his with a fork.
“Then how ARE they made?”
“As I understand it there are two ways. One is with meat and bread, if you’re lucky enough to haul the biggest panther or turkey or whatever to the ranger’s guild in Skara Brae and they give you the recipe. The other is a little more… esoteric,” Sherry said.
Blackthorn frowned. “Go on.”
“Well, I have heard that a tinker can create some kind of enchanted picnic basket out of wood and reeds, and when they are made, the food is just in them.”
“How can that be?”
“I did say enchanted.”
“So these tinkers are mages? Or are they chefs?”
“No, just tinkers.”
Blackthorn eyed her skeptically.
"Oh, just try it! Honestly, you really could stand to be a little more adventurous, maybe even get out of Britain once in a while…"
A strange expression crossed her face.
"I get out of Britain from time to time," he grumbled, continuing to prod the odd food before him. It was some kind of meat product in a strange bread pocket, but it wasn't quite a sandwich. The meat was shaped like a sausage but the coloration was weak and uniform, so it ultimately bore little meaningful resemblance to any meat he had ever seen. He wasn't entirely convinced that it was indeed meat all all.
The thing seemed unnatural, as if it originated on another plane of existence. Maybe it did. The kingdom had been rife with oddities of late.
Sherry blinked. "I've known you for years. Decades! But I just realized I don't know your first name. I've always just called you "you"."
Blackthorn began to laugh, then suddenly went silent.
"Well," Sherry prompted. "What is your first name?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at the dog-thing.
"I can't know?" Sherry said indignantly. Though the thought had only just occurred to her after years of friendship--or at least companionable association--she was clearly and immediately displeased.
"No, no, it's just..." he trailed off. An acrid metallic tang filled his mouth, the feel of cold metal against his skin, of flesh cut and burnt and altered. His vision blurred for a moment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He had a name. Surely he had a name.
But it wasn’t coming to him. It was buried deep beneath fire and metal, rust and ruin.
He opened his eyes to find that Sherry was still glowering at him expectantly, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort.
"Lord," he said with as much confidence as he could muster. "My first name is Lord. You knew that!"
"That is not a name," she said. "It is a title. You are not Lord Lord Blackthorn."
"Of course not," he said. "I am King Lord Blackthorn."
“Very funny, mister,” she retorted mousily. “Really, what is it?”
He frowned and looked down at the table.
“Oh,” Sherry said softly. “Oh. You don’t know. You don’t remember.”
“No,” he reluctantly admitted. “My internment changed me. There are gaps in my memory. Gaps in my thinking. It didn’t occur to me that I didn’t know my own name any more than it occurred to you that it hadn’t until this very moment.”
“There are no gaps in MY thinking; I just didn’t--”
He gave her an irritable look and she fell silent.
She fell back on her haunches and frowned.
“I don’t think there is anyone left who would know,” she said.
“Not that I am aware of.” He snorted. “Exodus or Minax perhaps.”
“Hmph! Well, this cannot stand. That wretched mechanical monster may have taken your memories but he did not take you!”
Blackthorn gave Sherry a small smile. “Your support is most appreciated. I don’t think there is anything to be done about it, though.”
“Of course there is!” Sherry was undeterred. “You just need to choose a new name!”
“I’m not sure that I--”
“Yes! Something… strong. Strong and perhaps a little mysterious. Unusual, but not actually strange.”
“That really won’t be necess--”
“How about… Percy? Or Ichabod? Zaphod? Geordi? Draco?”
He shook his head at each one. “I have gone without this long; I don’t think I need--”
“No?” she continued. “What about... Thalmain? Enoch? Tobias? Ezekiel?”
“Sherry, I appreciate the sentiment but I am quite fine without a first name,” he said.
She tore a chunk of meat out of her hot dog and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
“How about…” she said after a moment, “Oscar? Short, simple, classic but not common.”
“Oscar? Oscar Blackthorn?” he said. It was clear she was not going to give up.
“You’re right. It’s missing something. You need a middle name too,” she said. “Do you remember your mother’s family name?”
He racked his brain for a moment, but could not produce any clear memories. He shook his head.
“Something surname-y. Like... Humperdinck? Longbottom? Brandybuck? Targaryen? Grimes?”
“What have you been reading in your book club?”
“Too much, yes, you want something simple. Something plain, common-ish but not ubiquitous. How about… Meyer?”
“Oscar Meyer Blackthorn?” he said dubiously.
“Yes! It’s perfect!” She wiped her paws off and scrambled down to the floor. “I’m going to the bakery to have a cake made for this occasion. One of those big fluffy ones. Oh, I’ll get some confetti too--they’re practically giving it away now since the parade ended and no one is buying it anymore. We’ll celebrate together!”
“Sherry--” he began, but she had already scampered out the door.
The name felt odd, ill-fitting to him and indeed to the world, just like the hot dog before him.. It was a feeling he was growing accustomed to.
Once Sherry got her mind set on something, he knew very well that she could not be deterred. If she had to give him a name, though, he would have preferred something plain and common. John, maybe.
Or Lord. There was nothing wrong with Lord as a first name, he thought to himself. There was no need to retroactively revise or fix what wasn’t broken.
At least with Sherry gone he would not feel obligated to eat the thing. He whisked it into the trash and headed for his basement freezer to search for leftovers.