Work Text:
Download: MP3 (SIZE 29,9 MB), M4B (SIZE 29,6 MB)
Length: 00:32:29
Podficcer notes:
This fic was honestly a bit of a Frankenstein’s monster kinda creation. I recorded it all, and then when I edited I thought that I could do a better job with Near and Mello’s voices, so I re-recorded those parts, only when I spliced them in L sounded like the odd one out so I decided to re-record those lines as well (and then I thought about re recording the rest but then I had to put my foot down or I’d never get done).
If I were good at doing different accents I would have given each a different British one, but alas, I can’t do that in any language.
I aimed for a softer Mello than the shows since he didn’t run off to join the mafia and get blown up in this universe (and because Wammys isn’t a soul crushing hellhole in this fic like it was in the last fic I podficced)
It was also my first turn at sound effects. I spent a lot of time going through freeSFX and freesound and ended up not using some of the sounds I’d downloaded for fear of bogging down the fic, but some sounds, like the door knocking in the middle of the night were so clear for me when I read it that I couldn’t imagine not putting in the work of adding them. (I tried to emphasize that it is Mello who is seeking out L by by having him knock on L’s door twice…but I doubt anyone will have picked up on it hahaha)
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Language can be a funny thing, you think you know how a language is supposed to work and then you stumble upon a piece of literature that shows you something new, and it completely knocks the breath from you.
L is the world’s three greatest detectives, and he is its first most foolish man.
he has seen them; they are; they would patter on the stairs but that now hide within rubber and steel and tight laces over a canvas tongue
Mello smiles a little, and L’s stomach makes a twist-jerk maneuver like an elevator with half the cables snapped.
It just figures that the world is boundless when he wants to hold it, save it, cradle its weight; and shrinks to a matchbox when he seeks to hide.
He’s colored like peach flavor, with butter-hair and a strawberry mouth.
—three blankets drape over limbs which are bent like they’re broken.
They learn, linger, trace, translate—the river is in L’s temples now, and he can’t hear over its voice.
And it’s so, so, beautiful.
Not gonna lie, every time I read this I fall a bit in love again with the way Tierfal has made the English language bend and turn.