[Original - original fic] Heraldry of the Human Body.

PG, Original Fic.
In the future, he searches for a companion and discovers a plot. In his story, a mystery unfolds among swords.
Written November 1, 2008 by Zekkass.

---

When, Where, Who, Which; Chapter One.

Louis Llywd Argant often went by the name Llywd, irritating his family and his secretary. When he signed documents, he used his entire name. When he did anything else, he used only his middle name.

'You simply cannot do such a thing, Louis!' was a cry that often came from his closest relative - his mother, Mrs Argant.

'Can I?' was a retort that often came after a deliberate pause. 'Mother, we are in the future, not the past. I can do whatever I want.' He waved a hand at the servants who didn't blink, and nodded. 'These are the mark of the age we live in, and I will not be held by petty restrictions from an outdated age. Do you have anything further to tell me, or may I continue on that cursed relic you want me to work on?'

That cursed relic was the one point that Llywd conceded to his mother - he worked on it as often as he could, simply to complete it. He had no desire to write, nor to even view such old things as books, but this was one task that he could do for her.

His mother gave him a Look That Said Unpleasant Things About His Chosen Name, but she at last smiled and closed her eyes. 'You may go, but you will always remain Louis to me, dear.'

'I never doubted that you would, mother.' Llywd laughed, a full sound that sounded real, unless you were well versed in the customs of this family - he was faking amusement with this, and when he stood to leave, the look mother and son exchanged was anything but friendly.

There was nothing like family to provide enemies, Llwyd thought, and it wasn't for the first time. Oh, they would never do anything overt, but if there was a chance of success, there would be a rumor, or worse, coming to haunt him.

However, those were unpleasant thoughts, and he did not have to deal with them at the moment. No, he could focus on removing clothing, sealing himself away from the world, and creating stories.

He did publicly despise the task, but once he was locked away, he could enjoy it. So he closed the doors that led to his chambers, dismissed the servants, and ascended the stairs that led to his inner rooms. Once the servants were gone, he was alone, and once he had locked the doors in his inner rooms, he was sealed off from the world.

Rooms of white and gold, the expensive colors appearing bright against his own outfit - dark blues and purples with his shock of red hair.

Llywd removed his suit jacket, and then his well-tailored pants, and finally his shirt. After that were his undergarments, and then he could seat himself on a dyed leather chair and tend to the difficult task of removing his gloves. These were made to be removed only for medical and personal reasons, and were quite easy to put back on.

Taking them off, however, was another matter.

Llywd cursed as he removed the fingers, turning them off, and laughed to himself once the surprisingly resilient technology was off of him. He couldn't be contacted, now. Not without breaking in and telling him in person, and that was just frowned upon.

The gold hand skeletons glinted on the floor, and he left them there, rising to move to the inset pool. The pool was pure decadence, and he delighted in such things - the warmth, and the feeling of being clean!

Wonderful, and that level of comfort was how Llywd intended to write his story.

The process for writing his story was this: he would dictate it to his voice-activated recorder, and then he would later write down what he had come up with into the old fashioned book.

Once he was finished with a volume, he would give it to his secretary, and copies would be distributed to those who were interested. Those parties included his mother, and several other antique fetishists.

He was being paid handsomely for this task, of course. Llywd would not submit to such work otherwise.

Llywd hmmed and turned the jets on, lounging. This was blissful, and if not for his desire to be alone today, he would have a servant come and wash him. They were told to forget everything he said or did, and they did so with a marvelous efficiency.

Human servants were for other days, and if he ever desired a permanent human servant, well, that would come when he found the right one.

'This is Llywd. Turn on,' He said, and there was a slight whirring sound as the machine began to work. The sound soon died away, and Llywd began to speak - to write.

.excerpts from Louis Llywd Argant's writings.

Simply put, we are pulling swords from each other and dueling to possess something that cannot be possessed. We are dueling.

I breathe as I lower my sword, watching my opponent. I have skewered more fools on my sword than I have lost, and that is why I am still here. I know that this is organised by someone. I know that this someone doesn't care if the duelists are injured, and that is why when someone lies on the floor of the arena, clutching a badly bleeding wound, the duel does not end (the bells do not ring) until I pluck the rose from their chest.

We are quiet until we rush at each other again, yelling, and I pull back in time to let my opponent stumble, and I drive my sword into their chest.

It hits something hard, and the bells ring, so I have not killed them. I have sliced the rose and hit their ribs.

I have beaten them, however, and that is as good as killing them.

I walk away, and the Rose Bride follows me. I know that without looking. If she pauses to say something to the fallen, I do not listen.

All I listen to is the sound of bells.

#

'This is Llywd. Turn off,' he said as he rose out of the water. That small amount served for now. Llwyd wanted to see people, and dress, and simply pouring out imaginary people from his mouth won't satisfy that need.

Why bells? Why swords? Why dueling?

He was inspired, and he didn't know where the ideas came from. Why, he saw sword fights often, but never with bells, and he never saw duelists in reality fighting for a prize.

Their prize is their life, for they are dueling to survive after they make their challenge.

Llywd couldn't duel, as he had no talent with weapons that were solid, and physical. His weapons were his wealth, his position, and his words.

He was very careful to avoid angering those who would challenge him to duels.

He was also very careful to know what all of his enemies eat, and how they react to poisons.

Llywd dried off the old fashioned way, then set to donning the gloves again. They connect to his nervous system quickly, and he is hit with the load of information connection brings.

He adjusted quickly, and was soon donning hair-ties and undergarments and a suit.

He glanced at his sleeves and decided that he needed ruffs on his clothing. That would be dashing, and would send titters up in his social circles. Lovely.

A glance at the clock that wasn't visible on the wall before his gloves, and Llywd was heading out to see the outside world.

Down the stairs, summon the servants, and into the parlor.

The parlor was done in reds and blacks, unlike his chambers, and Llwyd loved it so. He was tall, has long red hair, and was slender. He kept himself fit, of course, even if he does not duel or wrestle.

He was elegant, as befitting a man of his status.

And what is his status?

That of First Technology Lord, of course! Only the best can live in luxury like this, and only Technology Lords can afford to be the best.

The rest of the people are envious, and must always be kept in line.

If necessary, of course, they are made into robots.

Where do you think Llywd gets his servants, after all?

'Goodbye, home!' Llywd called to his secretary and servants and home, and he left again.

Leaving home does take a while.

~

'Darling!'

'Handsome!'

These were not rare cries, in this room. When Llywd chose his club, he chose carefully, and indulged a desire that made him tingle. Sitting among beautiful people was such a wonderful treat, especially when these people will dress prettily.

Even those with ugly scars or worse have them to accent their beauty. No one has injuries without reason, these days, as they can be removed with the touch of a button.

It was awful, Llywd thought as he reclined in the Roman style, last month, when everyone thought amputation was fascinatingly beautiful.

He hadn't liked that fad much at all, and had been pleased when it had passed.

Now, those who were vocal about the array of pretties in the room - they were brought in to coo over those who needed to stroke their vanities. Why, Llywd had tried one once, and it had been pleasant, even if it grew boring after a while.

He wanted someone to talk to, not someone who agreed with every single one of his comments.

It didn't need to be an intellectual debate - no, he shied away from people who dragged science or worse into the conversation - but politics and fashions and creations were certainly up for fun.

'Penny!' Llywd exclaimed as one of the ladies entered the room. He knew her, and she was more than eyecandy.

'Llywd!' She called back, waving a glove-clad hand. Her outfit was dashing - why, it could even be called handsome. Her hair was not in its usual braids, and hung free. Her clothing reminded one of the Pirate King from that antique light opera, 'The Pirates Of Penzance' by Gilbert and Sullivan.

Llywd couldn't say he liked it any more than he liked her dresses, but it was certainly different.

---