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 Posted: Thu Jun 29, 2017 11:42 am
Surrounding Blanks
Word Count: 816
Bifrost takes him to the surrounding and it turns out to be a horrible idea.
The first two minutes are fine, even if Midgard is still struggling to adjust to the sudden displacement that comes from leaving Earth and going to someone’s wonder. In the third minute, something hits him hard and he collapses to the ground from the weight of it.
His knees hit the ground first, legs caving beneath him as his lungs constrict and his throat feels like it’s closing off. One gloved hand clutches at his chest, balling fabric beneath his first as if it’ll help him breathe and the other presses his palm flat against the concrete because it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Even then, his arm is trembling and he has to squeeze his eyes shut as he tries to focus on anything but the overwhelming sense of deja vu plaguing his senses.
Vaguely, even though it sounds so distant over the roaring in his ears, he can hear the knight calling to him - is that a hand on his back?
It doesn’t matter, he can’t focus. He can’t focus -
Midgard manages one shaky breath, lungs burning from the lack of oxygen before he careens sideways and collapses on the ground.
…
……
………
”Are you? Are you really sorry?”
He can hear Chrono’s voice clearly, despite the tha-thump-thump of his heart.
“All Chaos has ever done is to twist people’s hearts, and to steal lives away.”
Yes. Yes, he knows.
“Chronos - “ her name spills from his lips in a strangled gasp and he’s reaching -
Where is she?
He can’t find her - oh.
There’s the body of his sister, bleeding out. Midgard scrambles forward, palms pressing against the open wound in an attempt to stop the blood to no avail.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” His face feels wet, is he crying?
“Don’t - “ the girl’s voice comes out raggedly, fingers pressing against his cheek, “f-forget a-about....” there’s a ragged breath, it’s probably her last - “space.”
Space? What is space? Midgard doesn’t understand but the girl in his arms can’t respond anymore, she’s dead -
Why can’t he remember?
His palms are pressed against his eyes, gloves wet from the tears that won’t stop falling and he can’t think - can’t focus - can’t remember.
Whatever space means or is, he knows it’s important and he just -
Don’t forget about space. That’s what the girl - his sister, he guess - told him...but why?
Why…
Why……
……..why.
Midgard wakes with a start, sitting up suddenly with a racing heart and mouth open, gasping for air that rushed into his burning lungs. Next to him is a concerned looking Bifrost, whose brow is furrowed as she peers down at him.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he says immediately, noting the way she tries to speak. Part of him feels bad, because the knight was simply trying to show him some of the ropes when it came to his new knighthood and he passed out on her, of course she’s concerned…
But he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“I - “ his voice shakes, breathing even shakier. “I’ll be okay, something - something about this is familiar and it...triggered…” Midgard trails off, waving his hands because words seem to fail him. His companion seems to understand and just helps him to his feet.
“Can we go back?” The question makes him embarrassed, because they had only just arrived but he knows that if he does any exploring it’ll be a disaster.
“Yeah,” Bifrost agrees, readily, arm around his waist to help support him and he thinks the image must be laughable because she’s holding him up and he almost towers over her. “We’ll try again later.”
When she helps him back to Fiona’s, he thanks her for her help, for everything and agrees that when he’s ready, he’ll call on her again for another try.
Later, while he’s laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness it hits him.
Space was the Surrounding.
He still doesn’t know what that means, outside of the fact that both are apparently impactful on him but he can’t figure out why.
Remember…
Remember……
Tristan doesn’t know if he’ll ever remember, but he at least prays that he can overcome the effects the Surround has on him, because how can he be half the knight he wants to be if he can’t go back to his wonder?
One step at a time, he reminds himself. Take things one step at a time and it will get better.
Probably.
Tristan hopes anyway, locking his phone with Charlie’s contact information pulled up before the screen goes black. He doesn’t want to worry her, she worries too much about him as is. Instead, he rolls over and attempts to sleep.
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Posted: Mon Jul 03, 2017 12:39 pm
On My Own
Word Count: 948
Bifrost teaches him the phrase to go to his wonder for when he thinks he’s ready to try and go back. The knight is a beautiful, wonderful thing of a person with her infinite patience and her lack of questions. Her presence doesn’t calm his rapid fire pulse the way Connie’s does, or even Danny’s, but it doesn’t exasperate it any further and for that, he is grateful.
One day, Midgard hopes to be well enough that the attacks are a thing of a past. Or, such a rare occurrence that he is a more functional person. One day, one day, one day he won’t be a man atoning for his sins, but a man who strives only to protect those who cannot protect themselves and lives a life he thinks he could be proud of.
One day, someday.
Four days have passed since he and Bifrost attempted to visit the surrounding when he decides that he wants to try and visit Midgard. He’s a mess of nerves about the decision and has pulled out his phone and started typing texts to three different people before he erases them and puts his phone away only to repeat the motion at least half a dozen times in a thirty minute time frame.
In the end, he tosses the phone on his bed and leaves it there when he exits the house. It’s better that way, so he doesn’t clog up the voicemails or message boxes of his friends while he embarks on a quest that might prove futile.
Midgard knows, ultimately, that he is not ready to go to his wonder or to face the Surrounding yet, especially not alone, but he already failed Bifrost once and doesn’t feel like he should call on her.
Then there is Connie, beautiful and precious Connie who would jump at the chance to spend time with him but -
No, the notion is unthinkable. Midgard cannot stand the idea of letting her see him at his weakest. He wants to be strong for her and he knows that when he goes, he will panic and an attack will come and he is not ready for her to witness that from him.
Perhaps one day, but that day is not this day.
Midgard’s voice shakes when he recites the vows he’s been taught, the one that a voice inside tells him he already knew them.
I pledge my life and loyalty to Chronos, and to Migard.
I humbly request your aid, so that in return, I may give you mine.
The shift is just as disorienting as the first time and Midgard has to visibly focus on not collapsing and vomiting in the aftermath. One day, things will be easier. For now, it’s one queasy step at a time. To his pleasant surprise, Midgard does not collapse to his knees as he takes in his surrounding.
He still feels incredibly overwhelmed, chest tight and his lungs closing in on him, but he is still standing and he counts that as a tiny, tiny victory.
The building before him is old, but mostly solid, a laboratory from the looks of it with it’s multiple stories and windows, a chimney that stretches up into the impossible high skyline, and a dry river moat that seems to circle it. Somewhere, he thinks he sees the outline of a bridge that he believes will lead him to the nearby Zodiac posts.
He does not allow himself to see which outposts bracket his wonder because he’s afraid that he’ll crumble beneath the sight. Instead, he steps towards the building wondering if the doors are push or pull or if they’ll open automatically. Dead grass crunches beneath his boots as he edges forward, the line of his shoulders tense with worry.
Breathe, he reminds himself, pausing to take in a deep breath that seems to settle the shaking of his hands when he comes to stand a few yards from the entrance. Breathe and you will be okay.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind he hears the voice he thinks is supposed to be his sister’s. Don’t forget about space! Her voice is so bright and cheery, he wonders what the girl behind it was like. He can’t remember anything about her except she didn’t want him to forget and that she died by his hand.
A tragedy, but the price he had to pay for the second chance Chronos and the cauldron thought him worthy of.
Midgard moves to take another step when the doors open of their own accord, creaking hinges and the groan of wood scraping across concrete enough to rattle his bones.
“There you are,” a young woman announces, shoulders squared and hands folded behind her back. Long strands of pale green- green that reminded him of Chronos - fell down her back and across her shoulders and purple eyes stared at him while lips quirked into a kind and patience smile.
“Je suis désolé,” he murmurs quietly, head dipping when he steps forward, trying not to focus on the way his heart skips out of fear and nerves. He doesn’t know who she is or what she wants or what it means for him, but he still feels guilty. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “My apologies. I seemed to have lost my way trying to get here.”
She smiles even more gently than before, as if she forgives him so easily for stumbling into the wrong book at first. “Worry not,” she tells him, stepping towards him before moving to the side and extending her arm for him to enter.
“My name is Amelia and I’ve been waiting for you, new knight of Midgard.”
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Posted: Fri Jul 14, 2017 1:11 pm
The Universe Pouring into my Head
Word Count: 859 Takes place directly following On My Own
Amelia has been waiting for him for a millennium it turns out and Tristan doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse about how long it took him. She mentions that the times were lonely, but she had her laboratory and the things she was able to tinker with. It’s not much, but it’s something and she’s managed to keep herself distracted in the absence of another knight of Midgard.
“I can’t do much, I’m only a sliver of the person I once was,” Amelia laments, somehow sitting in a seat that looks to be decaying as he sits opposite of her in a chair that doesn’t seem very well preserved. “I am...more of a guide now, for you. “ Her hand waves dismissively, folding across her chest as she adjusts her position so her legs dangle over the side of one of the armrests.
It’s hardly lady like, but he can tell that has never been a priority of hers.
Really, it comes off like Amelia cares not what people think of her and he wonders if that’s a product of who she is or if it’s an effect of all those years alone. Regardless of the reasoning behind his ancestor’s actions, Tristan admires that about her and wishes that he too could come to care little for how he is perceived.
Unfortunately, he is too hyper-aware of how all of his actions have an effect on the people around him and that, despite how he tries, there’s always collateral damage.
Something grips at his heart as he thinks of the way Tourmaline threatened Connie and her safety because she cares for him and his hands curl into fists before he thinks to uncurl them.
Amelia, wise and clever Amelia with eyes like a hawk, notices immediately. “Tell me Midgard, what troubles you?”
“The thing that troubles all soldiers.” He replies, distant and angry beneath his calm exterior.
“You are not a soldier,” she stated, purple eyes narrowing and green brows crinkling as she looks upon her new charge.
His tone is solemn when he replies. “I used to be.”
Amelia grows quiet and Midgard finds that he cannot look at her. Instead, he looks at the hands he’s wringing in front of him and focuses on the way he can feel the steady pulse of his heart in his throat because he can’t swallow hard enough to get it to go back down into his chest. He can hear his ghostly companion shift, the sound of her boots hitting the wooden floor beneath them and he looks up to find those purple eyes of hers watching him intently.
“Everyone is fighting for something, maybe as a soldier you felt you had no freedom or say but now…” Amelia’s smile is gentle and Midgard thinks that his heart might shatter from the kindness he sees. “As a knight, you have a duty to serve, but you have a freedom too.” Her elbows come to rest upon her knees, her coat resting in a wrinkled pool between her legs, and her fingers lace together.
“Or at least, Chronos always gave us a choice. Protect the people that matter and simply do your best, new Midgard.”
His gaze drops and he stands abruptly, a roaring in his ears that he can’t ignore.
“Stop pretending like you know me,” he snaps, a quiet building anger that leaves him shaking as he looks at her sharply.
Amelia sits upright, shoulders tense and eyes alight with a fire. “I - “
“You don’t know me.” Midgard reiterates. “You just met me and you don’t know what I have gone through.”
How I have sinned and how I suffer for it. How I struggle, everyday, to be better than I used to be.
Something angry and wild flashes in green eyes and the squire stands, feeling the room start to spin around him but he doesn’t focus on that. He can’t. If he does then he is going to crumple to his knees and forget how to breathe and he outright refuses to let that happen.
He is proud that he’s still standing, capable and breathing.
“New Midgard,” Amelia tries, sliding out of her seat and rising to her own feet.
Like this, Midgard can see how small she is and he wonders how a personality like hers fits into such a compact package.
“Don’t.” There’s a warning in his voice and he shakes his head, scrambling backward back towards the entrance of the laboratory. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.” He wets his lips before he turns, thoughts of Earth and home bright in his mind because he needs to go back.
I want to go home, he thinks, heart pleading desperately because he doesn’t know how to do it. Why hadn’t he asked Bifrost -
Something shifts around him and when he collapses, he finds himself in a bed of grass, the sound of crickets chirping around him and the familiar building rising up around him.
Earth, he’s back on Earth -
Things stop spinning and Midgard thinks he can breathe again.
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Posted: Mon Jul 17, 2017 2:23 pm
Made of Stardust
Word Count: 1231
When he first makes it back to Earth, Midgard resolves to never go back. He thinks he doesn’t need someone in his life telling him how to go about life or who he is when they don’t even know the first thing about them. Amelia may be his ancestor, the last knight of Midgard before he tried to leave the dark, whisping coils of chaos behind, but she does not know him.
There is a tight pain in his chest as he makes his way home, shifting from Midgard to Tristan as he gets closer to the large home Fiona constructed as a safe haven for those that had lost their way or needed someone to lean on. It still shames him that he is both and he cannot help but pray for the day he feels like he has a life worth protecting again.
One day, someday, he will be more than just a shell of a man barely keeping the threads of his identity together.
Who is he, now that he has turned his back on the faction that sunk their claws into him with a vice grip that left scars on his soul when he managed to rip himself free?
He has a name, Tristan Lestrange. Two names pulled from fantasy stories, one of a hero and one of a villain, twisted and warped and dragged so deep into darkness there was never a hope for salvation for her. He has his knighthood, Midgard, Squire of Chronos, but what does that mean in the scheme of things? If he died, would another, better suited heir come about who wouldn’t be tainted with red on their hands and blood crusted beneath their nails that no amount of scrubbing can remove?
Maybe, probably. But...he’s been given a second chance at life and he doesn’t think he can waste it. Not when people have come into his life and carved a space into it.
The pain in his chest only constricts tighter when he gets inside and sees the phone he left on his bed, screen lighting up with a message.
Crawling onto his bed is a slow process, comforter wrinkling beneath his knee and the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Tristan’s breathing is labored, slow and shaky intakes of air as he tries to make his lungs expand and remember how to function. Something he can’t place crawls beneath his skin, leaving goosebumps that itch in their wake and he thinks that if he were to break the skin whatever it was would come pouring out in droves and smother him.
The thought is concerning and he tries to shove it away, distracting himself by taking up the phone as it flashes a battery warning and dies in his hands.
Wait - if the battery died...how long was he gone?
It takes twenty minutes before his phone has enough of a charge to turn it on and he swears in French as he looks at the date and the series of messages that he’s missed over the last few days. Several are from Charlie and induce an ache of his heart that has nothing to do with his general inability to breathe properly, but there are a few from Fiona, asking if he’ll be home for dinner or if he needs anything. There are missed calls from both girls and he feels guilty immediately.
Both of them get a text that says, Sorry, I went for a trip and was gone longer than I thought. Left my phone at home, I’ll be more careful next time.
Then, he gets to the texts from Danny and he’s hit with guilt fresh and new all over again. The text to the man is longer than the one to the girls, because his relationship with Danny is new and he doesn’t want to lose one of the only friends he’s managed to make that weren’t inevitably part of his other life.
He makes plans with Danny, promises to see Charlie soon, and swears he’ll be at the next dinner to Fiona. Things feel like they’re going to be fine, normal for a while.
Tristan finds that despite his disgust, the way thinking of his wonder makes something inside of him shut down, he can’t stop the way he thinks about it and aches to return. It’s troubling, extraordinarily so, because he can tell, feel it deep in his bones, that if he goes back and sees Amelia that he will break and every ounce of strength he’s fooled himself into thinking he has will be lost.
One day, he’ll be strong enough to stand on his own two feet and face his demons, but he’s not sure when that day will come or if he’ll ever truly be ready.
He wishes to possess Fiona’s bravery, envious of the way she holds her ground and refuses to run because there are people out there who need her and she’s never been able to turn her back on them. He doesn’t feel very brave most days anymore.
But he also wishes to possess more of Charlie’s cheery optimism, because she’s always a welcomed sight who brightens his entire world and fills him with hope, something that he thinks he would do anything to protect. Charlie is the fresh breath of air in his lungs after they’ve stopped working and he can breathe freely for the first time in days.
Then, of course, there’s Danny and his friendliness, the welcoming smile and warmth that spreads through him from head to toe every time he’s with the man that might as well be made of sunshine because of the way the right look from his blond friend can make him feel like he’s stepping outside and basking in the sun after days of rain.
It’s those traits he wishes so desperately to see in himself that convinces him to try again.
So, he does.
Despite several attempts, he finds that no matter how correctly he recites the oath, he cannot go back. It’s troubling, wondering if for some reason, he’s been rejected by wonder and yet - he can still power up, so that can’t be it.
Can it?
It takes nearly three weeks since he first tries when he’s able to go back.
As he expects, Amelia is waiting for him at the doors with a contemplative look on her face and her arms behind her back as she regards him.
“I wondered if you would return.”
He doesn’t respond, too busy focusing on making sure he’s breathing with his fingers smoothing out the fabric over his chest like it’ll relieve the tension that’s built. Amelia appears to take note of his discomfort and steps back into the open doors of the wonder.
“There’s a tea blend in the cupboard that might aid your ailment, but I caution you because who knows if the spices held up over the years.” Before long, his ancestor’s form disappears from view.
It takes him a while, but he makes his way inside, stopping against the door frame to catch his breath.
Remember Fiona’s bravery and Charlie’s optimism. Don’t forget Danny’s warmth. You’ve got this, he tells himself when he swallows and steps again.
There with be no more somedays. Tristan’s one day is around the corner and he’ll be damned if it let him pass him by.
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Posted: Mon Jul 31, 2017 2:30 pm
Grave Digger
Word Count: 1,274 Directly follows this.
Things are tense between himself and Amelia, but that is what he expects. After the abrupt and abrasive way he dealt with the woman, he knows that he ought to apologize, but every attempt ends up with words lodged in his throat. A few attempts later and Midgard gives up, resigning himself to the deafening silence that fills the room when the two of them occupy the same space.
Amelia doesn’t appear to be upset, but she won’t speak and that troubles him even if he does not voice it.
Instead, he looks for something to distract him and that turns into him leaving the study she always leads him to and further into the laboratory. The wonder is not at all what he expects and resembles a fancy school more than the typical labs he thinks of when he hears the word laboratory.
He expects something you see in the movies, when people end up at a medical facility that does lab tests or whatever.
Instead, it’s more like a huge university building with older architecture and three stories, if you count the basement level as a story. He hasn’t been anywhere but the main floor, or some rooms on the main floor, but the inside never seems to end despite how small it looks from the outside.
The first room he goes into is at the end of a long hallway, an old chalkboard looking standee with smeared chalk sitting before it. Once he goes inside, he realizes it’s the kitchen his ancestor mentioned when she told him there might be tea he could make.
Dust covers nearly everything there, which he muses is to be expected, considering how much time has passed since any living thing has been here.
From behind him comes Amelia and her voice startles him as he takes in the somehow still intact skeletons of what he assumed used to be researchers that once lived here. “I had hoped to remove their remains before the next knight was awakened, but as you can see, I’m not really capable of such feats.”
Midgard can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge and he turns slowly with a hard swallow and nods. “I would imagine it would be difficult.” He doesn’t really mention her semi-permeable state because it seems rude to. Plus, it must be awful, seeing all these dead and not being able to do anything about it.
“I’ll do it.” He offers, even if the idea makes him sick to his stomach, but he can’t very well go on about exploring what his wonder has to offer if there’s a skeleton in every corner that he looks. Midgard cannot begin to imagine what it has been like for Amelia, who has had centuries to face the ghosts of her pasts - her failures?
“That’s not necessary,” she tries to insist but Midgard is firm in his resolve, it’s a way for him to apologize and that’s enough motivation for him.
“It needs to be done though,” he argues, finally turning to look at her. “Someone ought to lay the innocent to rest. You can’t, so I will.”
It’s the least he can do, the first in many small steps to repenting properly.
“Tristan,” Amelia begins cautiously, as if she is afraid that he will blow up and storm off again. “This is not your burden to bear,” she states and he wants to laugh at her, a cold bitter laugh that he swallows down his throat when he shakes his head.
“I am Midgard, it is my burden now.” He counters, smiling ruefully at her as he goes to collect the remains of the people who once inhabited this academy .
He can tell that Amelia has more she wants to say, but she says nothing and exits the room to leave him to his task. He doesn’t blame her, it would be hard for him to watch someone else move the dead if they had once been apart of his life.
The task is long, daunting and Midgard sees three sunsets before all of the skeletons he can find have been removed from the building and to the plot of land behind it. Burying all of them sounded like a reasonable idea, until he was put in a position to do so. The only tool he could find to dig up the hard packed dirt is rusted shovel he fears might break if he’s not careful.
Grave digging is long, tedious work but he manages to dig a large enough ditch that he can fit most of the skeletons in it without too much trouble. It seems wrong, throwing a bunch of bones into one mass grave, but there isn’t room or time to plot individual graves for these people doesn’t know.
It isn’t until he finishes packing the dirt back on top that he sees Amelia resting against the side of the building with her arms crossed before her chest.
“Thank you,” she tells him quietly.
Wiping sweat from his brow he shrugs, fidgeting in place. “It’s the least I could do. I’m - “
“I know. Me too.” Amelia interrupts when she offers him a hesitant smile. “I hope this means we can move past that terrible first impression. I think we both have much to offer to each other.”
He swallows, nodding as he looks at the mound of upturned dirt.
“That would be nice.” He replies.
The truth of it all is that he hopes to find someone he can talk to, about everything, because he’s still hesitant to open up that can of worms with the people who already exist in his orbit. They’re too precious to him to drag into the nitty gritty grime that makes up his red ledger stained past.
He thinks Amelia might be different, considering the state of her existence and, well, it’s easier to talk to a near stranger you only have to see when you choose to rather than the people you want to enjoy the time spent with.
“I need to go back,” he tells her, stomach rumbling and body generally feeling fatigued.
“Yes,” she agrees, observing him quietly. “Next time, bring some tea, I think there’s much for us to discuss.”
He hesitates to agree, because there’s an idea in his head that he wants to see out and...well, he’s not sure he can endure another visit alone, not with the way his pulse is rising and he feels like he might start losing the ability to breathe if he keeps staring at her - or the grave he dug and filled - for much longer.
“Not next time,” he breathes shakily. “I want to bring a friend, she can help me build a garden out of the grave.”
Amelia looks pensive when she purses her lips together. “I think they might appreciate being repurposed. You know scientists.” She says with a waved hand before she disappears into the wonder once more.
Going home is easier this time, with his phone still full of missed calls and messages. To Fiona, he sends a text that says went home, just got back. To Danny he apologies and asks when the man is free next.
When he gets to Charlie’s message thread he hesitates before typing out the message.
xxxxguine [ To Charlie: I need some help with some space things, do you mind? ]
When he pockets his phone, he thinks that maybe his shoulders feel a little lighter, like some of the weight has been shed. Perhaps with Charlie’s, and Amelia’s, help, he can keep shaving off little loads.
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Posted: Mon Aug 21, 2017 2:30 pm
Totality
Word Count: 1,261
It takes him a bit to figure it out, but eventually Midgard finds the rhythm and the frequency in which he can visit his wonder. While he was trying to figure it out, he just kept reciting the oath over and over again, day after day, until it worked and he started noting it down. After a few attempts, he finds the pattern to be about every other week give or take.
He doesn’t understand the reasoning behind why he can only go that frequently, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that it likely has to do with his connection to the wonder. He is but a lowly squire barely developing his connection to the place he gets his power from, infrequency makes sense.
Sort of.
But, after taking Charlie with him during his last visit, Tristan messes up his timing and forgets to go when the cycle resets and he’s able. Panic nearly overwhelms him because they just started planting new seeds in hopes of getting something to grow upon the tilled soil and he can barely water them as is.
As a result, he brings probably too much stuff including an automatic waterer, some fertilizer and some other things the guy at the plant store recommends. He’s overdoing it and he’s aware of that fact, but he doesn’t want another fumble to jeopardize everything that he’s striving to accomplish.
He also leaves exceptionally early, when the sky is still dark and the birds aren’t awake yet.
While he’s gathering up his bags for the trek, he spots the envelope on the fridge with his name on it in Fiona’s neat script. Inside is a card and some paper glasses tucked inside. It takes him a minute to realize what they are and what today is.
Dear Tris, the first part of the card reads, I don’t know if this is something you’d be interested in, but I got a certified pair for you just in case. Be safe! Love, Fiona. The whole thing is incredibly thoughtful and the man is ashamed that he doesn’t make more time for the sweet woman who opened her home to him.
Tris doesn’t know if he’ll be back in time, because he seems to struggle with recognizing time passing on Midgard, but he tucks them into his pocket just in case.
The shift from Tristan Lestrange to Midgard of Chronos is becoming more and more natural to him in a way that going from whomever he used to be to Captain Aluminite had never been. His heart rate picks up, as it always does when he finds himself suddenly nervous for no good reason, but the anxiety is different.
He’s no longer scared of what he might have to do when he’s powered now. It’s a freeing feeling that he knows he would have never felt if he stayed.
Maybe he’ll discuss it with Amelia when he sits for tea.
She’s waiting for him as she always is outside of the wonder, shoulder leaning against the doorframe. The concept is strange to him, knowing that she is almost tangible and can do things like that but she’s not really real.
I’m an observer now, Tristan. She had told him once. Now that you’re here, my role is to guide.
From his point of view, she’s little more than a ghost.
“I thought perhaps you changed your mind after you brought the girl along,” Amelia says, something icy in her tone when she pushes herself off the wall and strolls towards him.
“What?”
Amelia doesn’t answer, choosing instead to turn her back on him and disappear into the building with a shrug. Confused, Midgard trails after her, brain whirling in a poor attempt to make sense of her words. He had thought that she liked Charlie-- Connie as she was introduced.
But his judgment had been poor before and he is reminded that he does not know his ancestor as well as he thinks.
While he desires to follow after her and press her for information Midgard knows that there is a garden to tend to and he heads to the back of the building. It takes at least two hours to set everything up, with Midgard spending at least thirty minutes making sure everything gets watered appropriately before sprinkling the fertilizer across the damp dirt.
Setting up the automatic watering system eats up most of the time and he’s covered in mud by the end of it but he’s also proud. When he finishes there’s a smudge of dirt across his cheek and he’s sweating, because he hadn’t thought to pull his cloak off.
Amelia stands behind him when he turns, expression thoughtful as she looks over his hard work.
“You’re very dedicated to the tasks you create for yourself,” she points out like it’s normal, easy conversation.
“I try to be.” He answers despite the uncomfortable feeling building in his stomach. She’s going somewhere with this, he can tell.
“Be careful not to put everything you are into a person, New-Midgard.” Purple meets green sharply and he feels as if he’s been slapped in the face. “It will only damage you in the end,” Amelia adds, lips pressed into a firm line. Her eyes have a far away look to them like she’s remembering something she wishes she wouldn’t.
“That girl, she’s important to you?” He hesitates to respond and Amelia sighs. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. You look at her like she’s an embodiment of everything you’re willing to believe in. Like she keeps you breathing and present.”
Midgard says nothing because hadn’t he said as much to Danny when asked about Charlie?
“It is important to have people that you trust and believe in,” she pauses like she’s debating something. “You are your own person and I cannot tell you what to do, but I would advise against putting everything you are into one person. That’s an easy way to ruin yourself.”
Still, he says nothing, staring back at her until she looks away. Something about the woman has her looking forlorn and he wants to ask why she’s saying this to him. Why she’s telling him that keeping Charlie as close as he hopes to is a bad idea but, like before, the words get stuck in his throat and he says nothing.
Instead, he collects his things and slings the bag over his shoulder. From the way she looks at him, he knows that she realizes he’s going to leave and not stay like he had planned.
“Tristan.”
“Don’t.” His voice is firmer than he expects and his grip on the strap of his bag tightens. “I don’t want - I don’t need a lecture. I understand your concerns.” He doesn’t though, not really. “I’ll...see you later, Amelia.”
Leaving seems wrong, but there’s a twisting of emotions swirling around in his chest and her words keep echoing in the back of his mind. He’s not ready to confront what she might mean, he knows that he has a tendency to put people on a pedestal, so he leaves instead.
It turns out that he makes it back in time for the eclipse to pass over and he pulls out the glasses Fiona got for him and puts them on, then lays in the patch of grass of the clearing he used for his venture.
Tristan lays there until the eclipse passes, playing Amelia’s words over and over again in his head until they’re nothing but a repeating phrase echoing in his thoughts.
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Posted: Mon Sep 04, 2017 7:05 pm
Feel It Still
Word Count: 1530 words
Convincing himself to go back to his wonder is more difficult than he expects.
Going every other Monday had become a routine for him, but after the last time, Tristan isn’t sure if he’s ready to face Amelia again. After all, every time he thinks about the woman he can hear her warning too loud in his ears. Be careful not to put everything you are into a person.
He knows that he is being cowardly as the morning passes but it’s easy to keep putting off returning to Midgard and checking on the garden. He can wave his morning away by stopping the Sugar Cube to say hello to Danny and pick up a tea and pastry to start his morning. He can excuse his evening by trying to make plans with Charlie for the week.
He tries to see both of his best friends at least once a week but preferably twice if he can manage it.
But seeing Charlie’s name on his phone screen reminds him that Amelia is advising against their relationship and he wants to know why. As much as he wants to avoid he knows that he can’t, not after he spent all that time to clean up the dead and give them a resting place.
And what of the garden? The one that he and Charlie had worked painstakingly to till and plant; he couldn’t abandon it.
So, he packs an overnight bag and forces himself to return to Midgard. Like usual, his phone is left behind in his bedroom with the screen lighting up when he steps out the door. As always his bag is packed with at least two water bottles and enough food to get him by if he loses track of time like he tends to and a few emergency supplies.
Still, the act of leaving makes him nervous and he can feel the sharp grip of anxiety clenching around his heart when he powers up away from Fiona’s and closes his eyes when he recites the oath he’s come to memorize.
For the first time in a while arriving at the surrounding brings Midgard to his knees. He can feel his airwaves constricting and the inability to breathe threatening to knock him out. One hand keeps him upright with fingers digging into the cracked cement that he kneels upon. The other is grasping at his chest, bunching the fabric beneath his grip while his brow is wrinkled-- those green eyes of his are squeezed shut like it will help him concentrate on his breathing.
Somewhere in the muffled white noise that has his mind frazzled he can hear careful footsteps and the crunch of grass beneath boots.
Dizziness makes his body sway and his chest rises and falls with shallow pants of breath. He thinks he feels the ghost of someone’s hand on his shoulder and a woman’s voice -- it must be Amelia, she’s the only one…
He blacks out before his train of thought finishes.
When he comes to the sky is dark and Amelia is at his side, knees pressed into the grass and hands folded in her lap while her expression is wrinkled with concern.
“New-Midgard,” she says careful and quiet.
“I’m fine,” he huffs, slowly sitting up and pinching the bridge of his nose. Having her in such close proximity nearly sends him spiraling into another attack and before he can help himself he snaps. “Can you please get away from me?”
Midgard doesn’t have to see his ancestor’s face to know that she is hurt when she rises and puts several feet between them. Frustrated with himself, he presses an elbow into a propped up knee and pushes fingers through his curly brown locks. His palm sits against his forehead and his gaze is fixed on the sash wrapped around his waist while he tries to keep his breathing regular.
“Why are you against my friendship with Connie?” He manages to ask, face shifting so he can look at her from the edges of his vision without fully turning his face towards her.
“I am not sure that now is a good time for such a conversation,” Amelia replies diplomatically, hands folding before her as her purple-eyed gaze levels.
“I don’t care,” he barks, realizing that all of the stress, anxiety, and tension has him like a tightly wrapped coil that’s about it to break and send metal shrapnel flying. “We either have the conversation now or never.” Midgard’s voice waivers because he has to consider, truly consider, what he’s about to wager. If he threatens this and she calls his bluff…
Could he really leave and never look back?
“Fine,” Amelia snaps in return, arms visibly folded over her chest when she glares at him. “I had expected more from you New-Midgard,” she starts and something about that upsets him.
For the first time since he left chaos behind Midgard is angry.
“Stop,” he nearly spits in her face when he turns and climbs to his feet. His ancestor is not small, not like Connie is, but he is still tall enough to loom over her if he stands straight. His hands are shaking fists at his side and his jaw is tightly clenched. “I will remind you that you don’t know me. And as such, you don’t get to claim to expect more from me.”
Her hands lift in surrender and she takes another step back to compensate for the steps he’s taken towards her.
He cannot harm her and he wouldn’t (or at least he thinks he wouldn’t) but to see her retreat is jarring. It reminds him that he must actively work to be better than he once was and he forces himself to breathe deeply before he talks again.
Amelia waits a minute until she feels like his anger has dropped from a boil to a simmer before she attempts to speak. “When I was young, like you, I put everything I was into a person because I loved her. She was the creature that hung the planets in the sky and set fire to the stars for me and there was nothing I would not do for her. I even abandoned my wonder and the princess I had sworn myself to.” To her credit, her voice does not shake but he can hear the pain in her voice.
“Nothing became more important to me than her because of what she meant to me and when we were finally caught and separated I didn’t know what to do with myself.” Amelia’s jaw tightened, nails digging into the fabric of her sleeves when she wet her lips to keep talking. “I had lost sight of myself and who I was because my identity became about her and my relationship with her. I do not regret it, do not mistake my caution for regret, but I see the suffering you have endured in your eyes and your reluctance to let anyone shoulder your burdens but yourself.”
Midgard can feel himself stiffen at the statement but he says nothing. Now is not the time for him to speak.
“It is not that I dislike her,” the woman explains unwinding her arms and forcing herself to smooth out her clothing. “She seems like a wonderful young woman but she also limits you. I worry that when it comes down to it you will be too preoccupied with her and her safety to remember why you are here. You are Midgard, knight of Chronos and your duties are to the Surrounding and it’s cause.”
“I did not choose this life,” he weakly argues.
Amelia’s smile is sad in response. “But you have not turned your back on it and you have accepted that it is a part of who you are. Have you not?”
“I have.”
“Then your duty is to the protection of universe and not the individual. Don’t make the same mistakes that I did, please,” says Amelia.
“And what mistakes are those exactly?” Midgard asks.
“Forgetting what it means to stand for yourself instead of just standing for others,” she replies.
After a moment the simply stare at each other but then Amelia turns and starts a slow walk back to the doors of wonder. While he does not want to he follows her and tries to make sense of the swirl of emotion that her words brought upon him.
“I do not mean to tell you what to do, you are your own person New-Midgard, but I will advise you against putting too much of yourself in her, or anyone else, because when you do...you risk losing yourself as, or if, you lose them.” She stops to glance over her shoulder and look at him. “That’s all I ask. Well, that and that you remember that you cannot save everyone no matter how badly you want to.”
Midgard does not respond and instead, steps past her to tend to the garden.
When he leaves, he finds that he cannot settle the storm that has begun to brew in his core because he is still angry, upset and he cannot understand why.
(But that’s not quite true, is it?)
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Posted: Mon Oct 23, 2017 1:40 pm
Idle Worship
Word Count: 2223
His chest hurts, breathing is difficult, and he feels a sharp pain like icy air in his lungs with every breath he takes. Sweat beads along his brow, drips down the side of his face and makes homes between the furrowed lines in his forehead and the crinkles in the corner of tightly shut eyes. His cheeks are flushed, skin hot to touch, and it isn’t difficult to surmise that he’s experiencing a fever in the wake of his injury and the fitful sleep he can’t shake.
Trembling hands grasp at the sheets below while he feels himself slip in and out of wakefulness.
As he fades out, he’s certain he can hear someone’s voice-- Danny’s probably, it was Danny who he went to after...right? -- calling his name and something cool and damp pressing against his forehead.
The next thing he remembers is feeling hazy and opening eyes to fog.
Tristan doesn’t realize he’s dreaming.
He’s on his a**, hands splayed out behind him like he just fell, and Tristan can’t make heads or tails of his surroundings. Everything is coated in a thick blanket of fog that is almost tangible from the way it crowds around him and his skin feels damp.
He knows he should feel chilly from it, but the water droplets the kiss of fog leaves behind sizzle up from the heat of his skin. Yet, there’s still a chill that shivers down his spine as he climbs to his feet in a poor attempt to explore this place he’s found himself in.
It does not matter how far or how long he treks, the landscape is never changing. It’s always endless fog that curls around his ankles and wraps around his frame.
Breathing hurts, like frost particles have made a home in his lung and are blossoming throughout the organ until it starts to freeze and his breathing becomes labored. His chest aches, on a surface level, right above his heart and when he clutches that the fabric that rests above it, it’s tender to the touch.
“Where am I?” He calls, voice echoing back at him in a quiet hush. “Hello?” Tristan tries again, feet shuffling in a panicked circle as his lungs constrict in protest of how his heart chooses to beat; a steady, too fast tha-thump, tha-thump against the cage that confines it.
“Hello?” He tries again, entire body swaying as he roots himself in place. “Hello---”
The ground opens up beneath him and Tristan falls.
Down...
Down……
Down……...
Further still--
Thunk.
His body hits the ground, face first, and he’s dazed from the impact. Weak fingers claw at the cobblestone pathway beneath him, arms shaking when he tries to push himself up only to collapse back down.
“Tristan?” Someone calls to him and he’s barely capable of lifting his head, the outline of the person visible but the details...the details are missing. He can only see a silhouette that grows bigger as they approach him, body curling when they seem to hunch over in concern. “Hey, Tris--”
“Tristan?” The soft voice of his blonde haired companion calls, gentle fingers sweeping across his forehead to push away damp strands of brown that try to cling to his skin. “Hey buddy, are you…?”
Weakly, green eyes blink open and everything shifts from fuzzy and out of focus to too bright and painful. Immediately he squeezes his eyes shut once more and groans, shaking his head as it swims. “D-d?” He murmurs weakly in return.
His throat hurts, the vibration from his attempt at speaking leaving it scratchy and painful. His mouth is dry and not amount of moving his tongue seems to produce enough saliva to alleviate the uncomfortableness of it. “W-wa…” He tries, but black creeps around the edge of his vision and he’s gone again.
He still doesn’t know where he is, except he’s not where he landed after he fell, but he’s standing at least, which he takes a good sign.
There’s a sharp pain in his chest again and his hand moves instinctively to cover it, groaning when his fingers press around whatever is making him hurt. “What did I--”
“Tristan!” A happy, feminine voice calls distracting him when he turns.
The bouncing blob of pale blonde hair with pink and orange streaked in it tells him who it is before his gaze even reaches his face and he smiles tiredly in response to his sudden companion.
“Charlie, what are you---”
Everything fades out around him, his arm still outstretched to catch her when she tries to hug him.
“Oh god, Tris, can you hear me?” It’s Danny’s voice again above him and he can feel something being moved around on him. There’s a sticky peeling noise and he winces as whatever the man is pulling at tugs at his skin. “Shoot, shoot.” He can hear above him and the panic is unmistakable.
“It’s...gonna...be...okay,” Tristan can hear himself say, his voice a quiet wheeze and his arm, it’s still outstretched like he’s waiting for that hug that didn’t come. Shaking fingers grasp at the edge of a sleeve and he tries to open his eyes, everything above him blurry even when he makes a poor attempt to smile. “I...p-promise.”
He blacks out again and his arm falls against his side.
The scenery has changed and Tristan finds him standing in the defunct kitchen of Midgard. Standing next to one of the large windows is Amelia, who turns when she realizes that he’s staring.
“Midgard,” she says in a sombering way that gives him chills. “What have you done?”
Green eyes blink, staring back at a face that looks at him with disappointment. “What are you--?” He shakes his head.
This isn’t real, it can’t be...he didn’t...he didn’t do anything.
“You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved,” Amelia hisses, turning from her window to advance on him. “You need to stop putting everything you are in other people! When will you learn?!” Her voice raises, echoes loudly through the room and he winces.
“I’m not-- I’m trying!”
“That’s not good enough!” She shouts at him and he recoils backwards, his chest burning when he folds into himself.
“Stop it.” He begs but she’s still yelling at him. “Stop it!” He cries.
The windows shatter--
Tristan wakes with a start, gasping when he shoots upright to his companions fright.
Nails scrape across pale cotton sheets and his chest rises and falls rapidly. His green-eyed gaze is unfocused, staring past the bewildered and worried boy at his side to the foot of the bed.
“Tris?”
He can hear Danny calling his name but it feels so faint and far away. Somewhere he hears a dog bark-- is that Gatsby?
Oh. His head hurts and the room is spinning--
Tristan falls back against the bed and it’s light’s out again.
When he blinks he finds himself in the crumbling, decaying church where he spent his last moments as Captain Aluminite and the man beneath the cloak and chaos.
Before him he can see everything playing out. The terseness of the situation, tension thick enough in the air he thinks it might be tangible as he watches the conversation pass back and forth.
“I thought I made it clear you need to stop.”
“I can’t.”
Her head tips back and laughter spills from her lips in a cruel bitter taunt that makes him wince, recoil into a nearby beam that he’s surprised is still in tact. The stone is cool against his burning skin and gives him something to lean again, which he’s grateful for because he’s not sure he’d be able to remain standing otherwise.
“You’re a coward and it’s time for you to stop running and make a choice.”
Her words sting as much then as they do now and he’s just an observer, a ghost watching his past replay around him.
He blinks and the scenery changes. Now, he’s kneeling with the girl’s body cradled in his arm and air is plugging his throat-- s**t, s**t, he doesn’t remember how to breathe--
“Are you? Are you really sorry?” Chronos’s voice cuts across his panic. His face feels wet, is he crying?
Did he cry then? If not...then why is he crying now?
“All Chaos has ever done is to twist people’s hearts, and to steal lives away.”
“I know, I know,” he murmurs, rocking himself and the girl in his arms. His head bends, pressing his nose into her hair and he weeps.
“I can do better, I will do better.” He struggles to promise but when he lifts his head, Chronos is gone as is his sister.
Out of the fog steps Amelia with her furrowed brows and this frown she seems to always be sporting.
“What are you even fighting for?”
Tristan’s mouth opens, but the fogs swallows him before he can answer.
His head lolls and he finds that it’s difficult to open his eyes. The light, barely peeking in through blinds covering the windows, stings and he groans. One arm lifts weakly only to fall back onto the bed, but it creates enough noise that his companion notices and hurries over, a fresh towel in his hand which shakes when he presses it against a feverish forehead.
“D-Danny?” Tristan croaks, squinting at the shadow that leans over him.
“Yeah,” the blonde responds is a quiet voice, like he’s scare if he speaks too loud he’ll scare Tristan off. “I’m here.”
One of Tristan’s hands finds Danny’s and he squeezes it, fingers slipping through the spaces of the other man’s hand. “T-thank you…” he mumbles, mouth opening and a long exhale escaping before he fades out again.
”It doesn’t have to be this way,” he hears himself say and it feels too fresh, too recent in his mind. His head shakes and his steps draw him back until he hits a wall.
Before him is Dia and she’s got something sharp and jagged in her hand. “Hold still dear,” her sing-song voice says, a grin slipping across her mouth as she advances on him. “You don’t want me to mess this up, do you?”
This is where he thinks she tosses her head back and laughs haughtily but cloudiness is wrapping around his head and he feels paralyzed as he stands there.
Why can’t he ever do anything when it counts?
Out from the fog, once again steps his ancestor and wild, panicked eyes dart her way. “Stand for yourself Tristan.”
Amelia hardly calls him Tristan and certainly not when he’s dressed as Midgard...what is--
“Stop putting so much of yourself into others that you forget what it means to be you,” she tells him right as Dia’s candy shiv pierces his skin.
His mouth opens and he screams.
It turns out that the screaming isn’t reduced to just his dream and he wakes up screaming, feeling as if his chest is on fire and he thrashes in the bed while clawing at the bandaging over his chest.
It hurts. It hurts so goddamn much that he can’t see past the haze of white the feeling has created.
“Tris, Tris, you need to stop moving!” Danny pleads.
He can’t though, he can’t stop writhing from how much everything hurts especially his chest and his nails pull up the adhesive of the bandage affixed to his skin. “It hurts! It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!” His hoarse voice screams.
His wrists are caught by cool hands and pressed into the bed but he resists and thrashes and tries to break free. It’s Dia, she’s come back-- or...or it’s him sent to finish the job.
“GET OFF OF ME.” He snaps, straining against the already struggling hold on his arms.
Suddenly knees are pressing into his biceps and there’s a weight on his chest. “Tristan please,” he hears the man beg. “It’s me, it’s me. Danny? You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”
The haze seems to fade a little at the name and bleery green eyes open, blinking several times until the concerned face of his dear friend comes into focus. Very quietly he asks, “Danny?”
“Y-yeah,” the man heaves, chewing on his lip. “It’s me.”
Tristan’s body goes limp and his head tips back when his eyes close. He can feel something sticky and warm on his chest which he concludes to be his wound re-opened and bleeding. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, cheeks flushed from embarrassment rather than fever.
“I’m okay,” he manages with a nod. “I’m okay, you can get off.”
Reluctantly Danny does just that, but before he can get too far, Tristan’s arms wrap around his middle and tug him down for a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for scaring you.” His voice chokes, tears gathering in his eye.
“It’s-- It’s okay.” Danny says quietly before he’s gently pushing himself away. “I-I have to fix this.” He insists, fingertips gently pushing against the angry red skin that Dia had carved up the night before. “But...are you really okay?”
Tristan is quiet for a moment before he nods, then hesitates. “I don’t know,” he admits, trying to meet his friends eyes. “But I’m trying.”
And maybe that’s all he can say right now with dream memories pressing against his thoughts.
A slow shaky breath and another nod later he says, “I will be. I promise.”
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