Triangles

A Rosencrantz and Guildernstern are Dead fan fiction

By Extra Large Cows

Twirling a ball point pen in his hands, he thought.

It was sunny. His left hand propped up his head as he doodled on a piece of paper. He didn't quite know why he was doodling.

Perhaps he was waiting. He really didn't know what he was waiting for, but the lull in time seemed to indicate a brief pause. An intermission between acts. Or a knocking at hell's gate. Perhaps, he was waiting for the thousand and first coin flip, a tails after a thousand heads in a row.

What he did know was that he was waiting on a ship. The sun was shining. He was on a ship-to where? He forgot. But he knew that he was escaping that place that had nearly driven him and Guildernstern-or was it Rosencrantz?-mad.

He doodled, waiting. He didn't really have a penchant for drawing-or for anything else for that matter; he was a rather plain character-so he did stick figures. Judging by the bent back and the seated figure, it was The Thinker again. Il Penseroso.

Deep in thought, like he was.

He sketched and sketched and sketched, iterations upon iterations upon iterations. He then paused, then inked "TRIANGLES!" into the paper. He underlined it a few times for good measure.

That's all The Thinker was: triangles. Iterations of triangles. The angle of his back and thigh. Of his right arm and forearm. The angle made by his knee. His hands were triangles.

Somehow, this revelation was more exciting than figuring out why he had a ballpoint pen instead of a quill. Or a piece of paper instead of a parchment. (After all, he was talking about law of probability before the Western world cared and pondering time loops when people trying to find clocks better than their heartbeats.) It was more invigorating than wondering about the fateful knock on their door or who the king (or queen; musn't be sexist) of England was. It was more exciting than playing babysitter to a clinically depressed teen or figuring out the machinations of an evil monarch. It was better than strange plays of the Tragedians, stronger than the burning sensation of the letter of doom in his pocket.

He had been wondering why he hadn't been chatting with Rosencrantz-or was it Guildernstern? He thought it was because he had been asleep, but now, he realized it was really because this revelation was waiting for him.

All hell broke loose.

"PIRATES!" They yelled. He rushed to find his partner, then-where was the prince? The prince?

Before he could soak in the glory of his discovery, a southerly wind carried the paper gently away.