.. . . . ]| A Boy and his Shadow |[ . . . ..
May 3rd, 1411
Clurie leaped forward.
From where he was pressed against the wall, his cheeks glowing with the puff of each angry breath, he watched Chauhn's nightmare in real time. He had sometimes imaged the boy's day dreams, the memories that must have haunted him, the things he might see echoed in his mind for long enough to drive him mad, but never had he imagined something like this. They moved with such genuine care and concern, the kind of tenderness still echoed in Chauhn to this day, that Clurie thought them exaggerated. But no, they were honest. That's just how they moved. Clurie hadn't imagined them like that, together and smiling, close and gentle. He hadn't really bothered to imagine them at all. But Chauhn did. He must have seen them in every reflection, around every corner, heard them echoing his every step.
Now, he could he see what Chauhn saw on a day to day basis.
However, as enlightening of a moment this was, Clurie couldn't let this last. He pressed forward, throwing his arms into the ashen state of weapons, glinting with the fiery embers reflected in his cheeks. "CLEMMINGS!" he shouted, arcing his hand made weapons through the air in an effort to get Chauhn's attention. He couldn't leap forward then, he couldn't move. If he attacked now, Chauhn would be in the way. He could get hurt and Clurie wasn't sure he cared enough to be careful. Though, somewhere deep inside him though, a tiny little Phasmas still lived, shaking his head with his hands planted on his stitched cheeks, shouting "No, no! Don't hurt him! Don't!" Clurie listened.
He prowled the edge of the ring of figures, slowly converging upon Chauhn until Clurie himself began to panic for his Grimm's well being. They could tear him apart in there, rip him asunder or worse! Clurie screamed again, "CLEMMINGS, you have to get out of there! Don't listen to them! They aren't your family! Your family is dead! They're all dead! This isn't them!" But Chauhn didn't listen. He was trapped inside the loving embrace of their arms, happily folding himself into their embrace, giving up like he was ready to join the dead.
Abruptly, the Plagued Clemmings dropped. Collapsing like a wave, once powerful but now too weak to hold up the frames of their shapes, they disappeared into black sludge, evaporating until all that remained of them was a dark stain on the bath house floor and a small shivering boy laid upon it. Clurie leaped forward then, dropping the shape of his weapons into his own outstretched claws. He scrambled to him, digging his fingers underneath his arms so he could pull the choking and sobbing boy away from the black pitch, whatever it was. With every yank and pull, Clurie dug his feet against the tile, slipping back and falling sometimes until he wrenched himself back up onto his feet to drag Chauhn's trembling body another foot or two, as far away from the black stain as he could. In his chest, his heart was beating so fast that Clurie felt sick, but with what? It couldn't be worry, could it?
Clurie's back collided with the wall, and he slipped down, dragging Chauhn's body up against him. He wanted to run from that place, but first, he had to shake his Grimm from his coma. Gathering Chauhn in his arms, awkwardly trying to turn him so he could jostle him, Clurie stared hard into his Grimm's face. The boy was pale and clammy, wrenching his voice out with each breath into a terrible sob.
"Clemmings," Clurie said, slapping his face with his ashen palm, "Come on, Clemmings."
The boy didn't respond. Well, he did respond, but not in the way that Clurie wanted. Chauhn began to sob harder.
Clurie craned back his head with a loud sigh and for a moment he let his arms slip loose from around Chauhn's shoulders. He tried to wiggle out from underneath him, push him off to the side, but Chauhn reached out and held himself to him, burying his face into Clurie's ashen clothes. Then, just barely on the edge of comprehension, Chauhn retched out a couple words.
"...They are dead. All of them. They are dead."
Clurie paused, struck stiff by a pang in his heart. He looked down at what he could see of Chauhn, his browning golden blonde hair messed up and stapled to his shoulder. He pushed the boy away so that he was sitting up on his own and Clurie was able to pull himself from around him. Chauhn slumped lifeless in reply, threatening to fall over and continue sobbing into the tile, but as soon as Clurie had his legs again, he propped him up against the wall beside him. He could see Chauhn's face now, and he kind of wished that he had allowed Chauhn to remain faceless in his shoulder. The look on his face was terrible. There was nothing but stark horror, blasted into his face like heat from an explosion. Etching a pained set of wrinkles to frame every feature, the living nightmare twisting the boy's usually tender face into expressing nothing but utter horror.
Clurie winced and looked away, steadying his breathing, as his own face slowly twisted into a reflection of Chauhn's horror. He had seen it too, the Clemmings family, yanked up from the depths of Chauhn's rooted nightmares. He understood now what it was that hurt him so deeply, the memories he dragged like weights clasped in iron around his ankles, the faces he carried around with him like a pile of burning splinters, flickering and spluttering echoes of the past. Clurie knew now, and, as much as he hated to admit it, he was scared and hurt too.
"Come here."
Slowly, his face looking the other way, Clurie arced his arm over Chauhn's shoulders and pulled him towards him. The boy melted almost instantly into him, sobbing aloud and harder, grateful for a warm body to cling to.
"They're gone, but..." Clurie bit his lip, then continued with a shrug, "You're not alone."
Pressed up together and shivering against the tiled floors and walls of the abandoned bathhouse, the Grimm and his Plague stayed, waiting for the shroud of darkness, the land of walking nightmares and dread, to melt and burn away with the coming of the morn. Wariness still hung in the air, their bodies bruised and tired from the trials of the Ides, but at the same time, they were able to slump and shiver with peace. There was an ending in sight, the coming of the dawn.
They still had each other.
.. . . . ..
May 3rd, 1411
Clurie leaped forward.
From where he was pressed against the wall, his cheeks glowing with the puff of each angry breath, he watched Chauhn's nightmare in real time. He had sometimes imaged the boy's day dreams, the memories that must have haunted him, the things he might see echoed in his mind for long enough to drive him mad, but never had he imagined something like this. They moved with such genuine care and concern, the kind of tenderness still echoed in Chauhn to this day, that Clurie thought them exaggerated. But no, they were honest. That's just how they moved. Clurie hadn't imagined them like that, together and smiling, close and gentle. He hadn't really bothered to imagine them at all. But Chauhn did. He must have seen them in every reflection, around every corner, heard them echoing his every step.
Now, he could he see what Chauhn saw on a day to day basis.
However, as enlightening of a moment this was, Clurie couldn't let this last. He pressed forward, throwing his arms into the ashen state of weapons, glinting with the fiery embers reflected in his cheeks. "CLEMMINGS!" he shouted, arcing his hand made weapons through the air in an effort to get Chauhn's attention. He couldn't leap forward then, he couldn't move. If he attacked now, Chauhn would be in the way. He could get hurt and Clurie wasn't sure he cared enough to be careful. Though, somewhere deep inside him though, a tiny little Phasmas still lived, shaking his head with his hands planted on his stitched cheeks, shouting "No, no! Don't hurt him! Don't!" Clurie listened.
He prowled the edge of the ring of figures, slowly converging upon Chauhn until Clurie himself began to panic for his Grimm's well being. They could tear him apart in there, rip him asunder or worse! Clurie screamed again, "CLEMMINGS, you have to get out of there! Don't listen to them! They aren't your family! Your family is dead! They're all dead! This isn't them!" But Chauhn didn't listen. He was trapped inside the loving embrace of their arms, happily folding himself into their embrace, giving up like he was ready to join the dead.
Abruptly, the Plagued Clemmings dropped. Collapsing like a wave, once powerful but now too weak to hold up the frames of their shapes, they disappeared into black sludge, evaporating until all that remained of them was a dark stain on the bath house floor and a small shivering boy laid upon it. Clurie leaped forward then, dropping the shape of his weapons into his own outstretched claws. He scrambled to him, digging his fingers underneath his arms so he could pull the choking and sobbing boy away from the black pitch, whatever it was. With every yank and pull, Clurie dug his feet against the tile, slipping back and falling sometimes until he wrenched himself back up onto his feet to drag Chauhn's trembling body another foot or two, as far away from the black stain as he could. In his chest, his heart was beating so fast that Clurie felt sick, but with what? It couldn't be worry, could it?
Clurie's back collided with the wall, and he slipped down, dragging Chauhn's body up against him. He wanted to run from that place, but first, he had to shake his Grimm from his coma. Gathering Chauhn in his arms, awkwardly trying to turn him so he could jostle him, Clurie stared hard into his Grimm's face. The boy was pale and clammy, wrenching his voice out with each breath into a terrible sob.
"Clemmings," Clurie said, slapping his face with his ashen palm, "Come on, Clemmings."
The boy didn't respond. Well, he did respond, but not in the way that Clurie wanted. Chauhn began to sob harder.
Clurie craned back his head with a loud sigh and for a moment he let his arms slip loose from around Chauhn's shoulders. He tried to wiggle out from underneath him, push him off to the side, but Chauhn reached out and held himself to him, burying his face into Clurie's ashen clothes. Then, just barely on the edge of comprehension, Chauhn retched out a couple words.
"...They are dead. All of them. They are dead."
Clurie paused, struck stiff by a pang in his heart. He looked down at what he could see of Chauhn, his browning golden blonde hair messed up and stapled to his shoulder. He pushed the boy away so that he was sitting up on his own and Clurie was able to pull himself from around him. Chauhn slumped lifeless in reply, threatening to fall over and continue sobbing into the tile, but as soon as Clurie had his legs again, he propped him up against the wall beside him. He could see Chauhn's face now, and he kind of wished that he had allowed Chauhn to remain faceless in his shoulder. The look on his face was terrible. There was nothing but stark horror, blasted into his face like heat from an explosion. Etching a pained set of wrinkles to frame every feature, the living nightmare twisting the boy's usually tender face into expressing nothing but utter horror.
Clurie winced and looked away, steadying his breathing, as his own face slowly twisted into a reflection of Chauhn's horror. He had seen it too, the Clemmings family, yanked up from the depths of Chauhn's rooted nightmares. He understood now what it was that hurt him so deeply, the memories he dragged like weights clasped in iron around his ankles, the faces he carried around with him like a pile of burning splinters, flickering and spluttering echoes of the past. Clurie knew now, and, as much as he hated to admit it, he was scared and hurt too.
"Come here."
Slowly, his face looking the other way, Clurie arced his arm over Chauhn's shoulders and pulled him towards him. The boy melted almost instantly into him, sobbing aloud and harder, grateful for a warm body to cling to.
"They're gone, but..." Clurie bit his lip, then continued with a shrug, "You're not alone."
Pressed up together and shivering against the tiled floors and walls of the abandoned bathhouse, the Grimm and his Plague stayed, waiting for the shroud of darkness, the land of walking nightmares and dread, to melt and burn away with the coming of the morn. Wariness still hung in the air, their bodies bruised and tired from the trials of the Ides, but at the same time, they were able to slump and shiver with peace. There was an ending in sight, the coming of the dawn.
They still had each other.
.. . . . ..
