Page 95 of Even Robots Die
Faibles comme le néant.
Lamartine
“They were what we are,
Dust, toys of the wind;
Fragiles like men.
Weak like nothingness.
Lamartine”
Ainsi tout passe sur la terre
Esprit, beauté, grâces talent
Telle est une fleur éphémère
Que renverse le moindre vent.
“So everything fades on earth
Mind, beauty, grace spoil
Like an ephemeral flower
That gets toppled with the smallest wind.”
It all sounds beautiful, but the message behind those words is more starkly illustrated by the material of the walls.
Skulls.
The walls are covered with skulls, and it should look scary, but instead, it just makes one reflect on the passing of time and the fleeting length of life.
Or at least it does to me. I have no idea how long bats live, so maybe Brice doesn’t feel so concerned by those messages, but it’s not like I would know. He always looks so serious. I thought it was because he couldn’t feel any emotions, but I met him before the birds tinkered with his brain. I should have known it wasn’t—only—that. He always looks calm and collected, almost always unbothered by what is going on around him.
We pass a few doors and then the man stops in front of one. It has nothing special. It doesn’t stand out, and maybe that’s on purpose.
Anyone attacking Notre Dame would know where to hit first if it was to kill or neutralize Elhyor. The door to his office is painted in a gaudy gold that no one can miss.
“Wait here,” the man commands as he opens the door and slips inside.
We’re left in the corridor with barely enough light for me to see. I know Brice has no trouble, but it still annoys me, which makes me even more grumpy than I already was.
“Such a nice and polite host,” I say between my teeth, crossing my arms under my breasts. I want to lean against the wall, but stay put instead.
I’m not sure how I’d feel doing so against skulls.
They’ve been dead for a while, but it would feel wrong to act as if they’re here just for decoration.
“Can you blame him? You basically told him, in not-so-subtle words, that he was an idiot. Even if he very well deserved it, he must be currently nursing his ego,” Brice says, and I can hear in the tone ofhis voice that he is highly amused. There’s no chuckle, but it’s like I can hear the warmth of him seeping through the words.
What the hell am I saying? His warmth can be felt in his words? Brice isn’t warm. He’s a pain in my ass. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I thinking stuff like this? My mind can’t be right. Is that Stockholm syndrome finally kicking in? Of course not. It kicked in way before now, or I wouldn’t have wet dreams of Brice. But is it really Stockholm syndrome? Brice has been abundantly clear that I wasn’t a prisoner. He is a client, not my jailer.
My train of thought is cut short by the door opening once again and the same man coming out.
“She’ll receive you,” he tells us with a dark glare.
