[Legend] Vanishing Point

[eponymous_rose]

Written for curuchamion, who requested Legend fic about the weather, featuring Bartok. Hope you enjoy! That wraps up this round of the Ficlet Project, I think.

Title: Vanishing Point
Word Count: 1400
Rating: PG
Characters: Janos Bartok, Ernest Pratt
Warnings: None

Summary: In which our heroes settle their creative differences.


Nicodemus Legend stood at the edge of a particularly dramatic geological feature, observing with interest the way the atmosphere scattered the evening light via a process examined in depth in a recent paper by noted physicist Lord Rayleigh (see Appendix B: References), and exhaled heavily, appreciating the lower-wavelength light that made its way to his corneas-

"No. No, no, no. Also, in case I didn't make myself clear the first four times, no."

Janos lifted pencil from paper and glanced up to see that Ernest's face had taken on an unusual hint of purple. "Merely a touch of artistic license, Ernest."

Ernest made a grab for the paper, was hindered somewhat in his effort by the bandages around his arm, and came perilously close to falling into the fireplace. "No, Janos. No artistic license. No scientific license. I came to you because I thought – mistakenly, I might add – that you might be a little less prone to editorializing than Ramos."

"Ramos did study comparative literature at Harvard," Janos said, and added, under his breath, "Though I suspect even he might not have been able to salvage-"

"Careful." Ernest started to raise a hand in warning, winced, uttered a word that would have made Nicodemus Legend blush, and finally slumped down in the chair next to Janos. "Don't mistake this for a sign of surrender. We Pratts have a history of stubbornness."

"I would never have guessed."

Ernest groaned and rested his forehead against the desk. "Who shoots a writer in the arm? You'd think they could at least have been considerate enough to finish me off."

"If you'll forgive me for saying so, Ernest, I've found that well-armed thieves and brigands are rarely concerned with courtesy." Janos tapped the pencil against the paper, re-reading his artistic output. A trifle ambiguous, perhaps, and maybe even slightly beyond the comprehension of the layman. Perhaps a diagram or three- "Besides, you did manage to rescue the young lady's kitten from the tree in spite of their mistaking you for local law enforcement. Eventually."

"Look," Ernest said, apparently still addressing the desk, "I have to get this novel into publishable shape sometime in the next week. I can't write, ergo, I need help. Ergo, I need less of people assuming they're a better writer than I am. Ergo, I need you to write down precisely what I'm saying."

Janos cast a wistful look at his paper, then sighed and crumpled it up. "Precisely?"

Ernest glanced up. "No more references to recently published academic literature?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Janos put a hand over his heart. "I promise."

"No more twenty-syllable words where one syllable will suffice?"

"Of course, Ernest."

Ernest was squinting at him, apparently trying to gauge his sincerity. "All right, then," he said, finally, and pushed himself to his feet again, resuming his pacing. "Let's continue."

Nicodemus Legend stood at the edge of the precipice, watching the world unfurl out in all directions to the distant gash of the horizon, already red-orange with the last rays of sunlight. Times like these, the grasses seemed to glow, like there was a fire burning somewhere just out of sight, like the whole world was holding its breath, just waiting for that fire to spread. Times like these, who the heck put that chair in the way, what in the-

Janos paused. "How do you spell that? Precisely?"

Ernest, hopping on one foot, shot him a glare that he probably thought made him look terribly impressive. "This isn't working," he said at last. "I'm going outside."

Janos watched as he hobbled to the door, stepped outside, and slammed it shut behind him. Precisely three seconds later, a thunderclap echoed, followed immediately by the sound of a torrential downpour of rain. A rhythmic thudding followed, and it took Janos a moment to recognize it as the all-too-familiar sound of Ernest Pratt banging his head against a wall.

With a sigh, Janos dropped the paper back on the desk – in his current state, Ernest would likely try to tear it to shreds on sight – and took his experimental Bartok Impermeable Wind-Breaking Longcoat from the peg beside the door. Stepping outside, he winced at the spray of water that greeted him; the prairie was prone to drought, but every now and then, it seemed to want to reach its yearly precipitation quota all at once.

To his surprise, Ernest was merely sitting on the ground, staring up at the rain, getting well and truly soaked. Janos approached him carefully, and when no further shouting was forthcoming, crouched down beside him, trying to drape the Longcoat over Ernest's shoulders to cover the soggy bandages. "Ernest?"

A brilliant flash of lightning caught his eye, and he held his breath, waiting for the thunder. He felt it before he could hear it, a vibration that went deep into his bones and built until he almost feared his body would shake itself apart.

He glanced over; Ernest, gripping the Longcoat tightly around him, was staring up at the storm with a strange, contemplative look. "You probably see something completely different than I do when I look at something like this," he said, softly enough that Janos could barely hear him over the pounding rain. "Electrical discharges and water droplets and whatever it is you've been doing with silver iodide lately. I see the kind of dark and stormy night that could set the ambiance for some dastardly crime, the wind that buffets our hero as he tries to save the fair damsel, that kind of thing." He shrugged, winced. "Maybe we're just kidding ourselves that there's any common ground at all."

They were silent for a moment, letting the storm do all the talking, and then Janos said, "You're not entirely correct, Ernest. I do see the scientific principles behind this storm, but I also see it for what it is." He paused, and Ernest glanced over, meeting his eyes. "I've been devoting my life to these people, Ernest, to the people in this town. I've been trying to make it rain because it's a worthy scientific endeavor in and of itself, of course, but also because rain here could save crops." He nodded up at the storm, which obliged him with a particularly stunning display of lightning. "It gives life. That's what I see. And to be frank, I'm surprised that you'd think so little of my motivations."

Ernest looked away, then sighed. "I'm sorry, Janos. I shouldn't have yelled, back there." He was quiet for another moment. "You know full well how much all this business of heroics scares me, sometimes."

Janos scoffed. "Nonsense. Nicodemus Legend is entirely without fear, the very picture of gallantry."

The corner of Ernest's mouth twitched. "A champion of courage."

Janos paused for a moment, considering, then said, "A paragon of pluck."

Ernest guffawed. "You have a way with words yourself, Janos."

"So I keep telling you, but do you ever listen?"

"All right, all right," said Ernest, and seemed to remember just in time that raising his hands in a gesture of surrender would be more painful than anticipated. "We'll try a compromise. But I don't want word of this getting around. Ernest Pratt works alone."

"I'm sure he does," Janos said, and straightened, offering Ernest a hand. "But Nicodemus Legend doesn't have to."

Ernest stared at the outstretched hand for a long moment, then said, "Mother Pratt always told me I never had the good sense to come in out of the rain." But, smiling, he took Janos's hand in his good one and hauled himself to his feet with a minimum of grumbling. "Granted, since I met you, I've come to realize that sense is overrated. As is, say, sanity."

"How strange," Janos said. "I would have said the same about meeting you."

And, some time after they'd trudged back inside, after the storm had moved on to vent its fury on some neighboring county, the sky cleared to reveal a sunset that could have been described in any number of ways.

For now, though, it meant only that one more day was done, and that another would dawn before too long, full of possibilities, full of life.