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 Posted: Wed Feb 15, 2017 1:46 pm
Cause and Effect
Word Count: 1027
Sleeping is difficult for the first few weeks and as time continues to pass it gets better, mostly.
Some night, he still wakes up from night terrors and others he sleeps too deeply for dream, but if he had to pick, he would never dream again. Surely anything is better than seeing flashes of that girl’s face - his sister he remembers, but only because he remembers the pain and horror he felt when her glamour melted away and he cradled her body to his chest - or seeing the blood on his hands, the way it stains his skin and then leaves an ugly blot on his soul.
Jackie, he knows her name because he saw the newspapers after, was not the first death on his hands and he sees their faces almost every night when he tries to sleep.
His hands feel too idle for all he’s done.
Repent, repent, repent.
The girl that was his sister is certainly the worst, but there’s another that haunts him just as painfully. Tristan doesn’t recognize her, not any longer which he attributes to magic and glamour, but he knows she was important. He doesn’t think she was someone important to him, but to someone else around him.
He doesn’t think she was important to Tourmaline, the house he remembers is too extravagant for what he remembers was the life his ex-girlfriend led.
What he does remember, however, is the pain that rippled across this nameless person’s face as his hand sunk in, past the flesh and bone and muscle and into a cavity that should have remained sacred. Tristan can see it all too vividly when he sleeps, as he tosses and turns in the expensive sheets Fiona has fitted his bed with.
Retrieve her starseed. The order is always the same in every dreamt recollection. It’s cold and calculated, the warning and demand so intricately woven together. Tristan can distinctly remember how desperate he is to reject the orders, to stand against this woman, his queen, and tell her no.
But he is not a rebel and he lacks the strength of heart to deny her.
Tristan wakes to the screams of No, no! Please! ringing in his ear and an erratic heartbeat. Dark brown locks of hair are matted to his forehead, sweaty keeping sticky strands plastered to his neck and the sides of his face, and his chest is a rapid rise and fall as he struggles to catch his breath.
Something unrelated passes through his mind, a different memory that is no less painful. This - this isn’t c-conviction, the girl had gasped, this is anger.
A more pressing thought is what ultimately pushes him out of bed, the wooden floor cold beneath his bare feet as he pads across the room. W-what do you fight f-for? Jackie had asked.
Even now, now that he’s made the jump and he has tried so hard to put that ugly, twisting darkness behind him he has no idea what he is fighting for.
He didn’t know then, he doesn’t know now and he still feels like he’s suffocating, being crushed beneath the weight of all the deeds and sins he committed for a cause he didn’t believe in.
For a long time, Tristan had thought that all he wanted to do was protect people. Now? He’s not sure what he wants or what he’s capable of anymore and there’s so much red in his ledger now.
(But not that much, when he thinks about the blood that stains the people he knew.)
The process of finding socks and putting on his shoes is longer than he expects. Each thread of a shoelace through a loop is slow, labored and his fingers keep fumbling when he tries to tie his knots. Eventually he gets his shoes tied and grabs a jacket out of the closet.
Tristan has to be careful when he exits the house, because Fiona is a horribly light sleeper and while he appreciates her and the company and safety she offers, he needs this time alone. If she knew that he was going out, and would likely end up powering up, then she would insist on joining him.
He doesn’t want that, he wants to be alone.
Chills leave goosebumps along his skin despite the layers he wears and he pulls his hood up over his ears to protect against the cold. The motion reminds him too much of the life he left behind and immediately, he yanks the hood down and shoves his hands into his pockets, teeth gritted together as he tries to stand the way the bitter night air nips at his skin.
What do you fight for?
No matter how hard he tries, or how fast he walks, he cannot leave the question behind him and his heart seems to sync with the words. “Arrête!” He snaps, wincing at himself and how loud his voice is in the quiet of the night. “Assez,” he mumbles, more quietly this time, green eyes turned downward as his pace quickens.
But what do you fight for? His ghost asks again and he can hear the curiosity in what he perceives to be his sister’s memory’s voice. He can hear the sorrow too and it’s overwhelming, threatening to crush him beneath the weight of it all and he can’t breath -
His knees hit the pavement, one hand flying out of his pocket to catch himself and the other with it’s fingertips pressed against his chest. Airwaves are constricting, his head swing and -
Tristan can’t think, can’t breathe.
Black spots dance across his vision with his mouth open and gasping for air like a fish pulled from water. He feels like his chest is constricting, tightening in a manner that threatens to become permanent if he cannot convince himself to breath.
In.
Out.
Breathe.
It’s okay, he’s okay.
He stays on the ground until he feels like he’s less likely to fall apart.
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Posted: Wed Mar 15, 2017 9:23 pm
Start Again: Hope
Word Count: 1,001
Tristan couldn’t get to the developer lab for a few weeks after he had met Charlie and gotten the opportunity to take some rather lovely photos of her. Developing film instead of digitally wasn’t always the most practical and the art was dying certainly, but there was something about the process that the man adored.
Here in the darkroom, everything is under his control, there were no variables out of his hands or that could throw all of his hard work wayward. Thanks to Fiona, he had a place that was all his own. Somewhere she had rented out for him, because somehow, the woman understood how desperately he needed it.
Tris wonders if there would ever be a way to repay the woman for her kindness.
People would probably think him crazy, but he loves the waft of chemicals as he pushes the film in and out. The gloves he wears are itch against his skin, smell of rubber as they always do when they’re pulled fresh from the package. Tristan prefers the wafting chemical smell to the rubber one.
It’s easy to lose track of time here, while he’s too engrossed in his work to risk checking the time and damaging film. It means that he spends hours upon hours holed up in the dark room, delighted by the sense of familiarity and calm it brings him. Developing film and photos is a process and skill that is fading out, but the man loves it all the same.
To him, it doesn’t matter that it’s not practical or that photography is easier and just as well done digitally, he likes the old method and will cling to it for as long as he’s able.
In the end, he has several pictures printed on 8x10 sheets of matted photo paper clipped and hanging for drying. Some of them have developed perfectly, like the first picture he got of Charlie and her awed and flustered expression. Others were a little too bright, settings not quite what he needed for proper development. Then, there were the really dark ones who he had left in the developer for too long.
A rookie mistake.
As they dried, green eyes drifted across each other the images he had hung up and lingered on his favorites. Charlies beautiful grin and her teary eyes. Her hand grasping her coat tightly, wrinkles in the fabric sharp and present until the image fades to something blurry.
Even now, he was surprised at the authenticity of emotions and feelings she had displayed and allowed him to capture.
While he stares at her teary-eyed face, he cannot help but think of the story she told him.
It was just a story I made up, she had told him and he wanted to believe that because it would relieve him of the guilt that churned his belly, but Tristan cannot shake the idea that she was talking about him.
He had taken a very important person to him to the top of the tallest building when he was capable of teleportation. The coincidences were too much.
If there was a chance -
Tristan rips a photo off of the drying rack and leaves the developing lab.
Later that night, when he cannot sleep as he’s prone to being unable to, he drafts one letter, then two, and finally a third as he proofreads and adjusts his spotty english. Once content, he carefully slides the photography into a properly sized envelope along with the handwritten letter. In neat, block letters he addresses it.
”guine” Dear Connie,
Tu me manques.
I met someone that reminded me of you. She gives me hope, like you. I fear I have worried you. Je suis désolé. I live.
Please stay safe. I worry. Mon coeur ne pourrait pas survivre si vous n'êtes pas. I hope you find this. That you understand. I do not know if you will get this, but I hope because of you and her.
I am no prince and my story is no fairytale, but I am grateful for the magic you have brought in to it.
Please, if you do find this. Meet me here, in two weeks at dusk.
Cordialement,
Aluminite
There is a date printed in the top corner of the letter and the photograph is the one of her hand in her clothing, to avoid drawing any sort of attention to who she is outside of her powered existence or to his own. He’s still hiding and he would be loathed to cause her any sort of trouble or pain. The french is mixed in, because there are things he wishes to express but is not confident enough to reveal himself so openly.
He is still learning to live again, being too open is difficult.
The shortness of the trek to one of the nearby and less towering buildings than the one he had taken his fellow Chronos knight to surprises him. His ability to scale it as well does too, because he’s still re-learning his capabilities. Being a Squire isn’t much different than being a Captain, outside of being able to pull out life forces and teleporting.
He has magic too and a weapon less lethal, which he appreciates immensely knowing what what he had done with his last one.
Being atop the building provides a sight that takes his breath away, but pales in comparison to the view they had shared, still. She had expressed the inability to return to the ‘tower’ so he hoped that if she tried, she picked this place and would be able to find the envelope he carefully placed in the corner of the roof, held down by a rock in case wind was too strong.
His chest is mixed with a feeling of longing and something he lacks the words to describe.
Green eyes linger on the carefully written CONSTANTINOPLE one last time before he takes his leave.
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Posted: Sun Mar 19, 2017 8:49 pm
Capsize
Word Count: 636
Midgard shows up thirty minutes before dusk is about to sweep and stretch across the city with his heart in his throat and anxiety crawling across his skin.
In truth, the squire isn’t sure what to expect, because he has absolutely no idea if the letter was received by it’s intended recipient and he wishes, as he often does, that he understood his new place in the world and had all the tools and resources he ought to have at his disposal. He knows that it is foolish, blind faith to believe that Connie would come to this shorter building and find the message he desperately wants and needs her to find but there is very little for him to grasp and hold onto in this life that he cannot help himself.
The meeting time comes and passes without the flicker of another, familiar, aura. Still, he waits, leans up against the door that provides access to the building with worry dressing his face and effecting the way he holds himself. Arms crossed over his chest with fingers digging against his sleeves, pressing nails against his arms. He knew that being a knight, or someone powered on either side of any kind, came with risks that could delay someone.
Maybe she had run into something…or someone….
He could wait. Surely Connie would show up eventually.
So he waited. And waited. And kept waiting, but still there was no sign of the Chronos page.
Where was she?
Panic began to swell in his stomach, rising up until it lodged into his throat and he felt like he couldn’t breath - the sharp edge of a panic attack stabbing him in the jugular as a warning.
Breathe, just breathe. She’s probably fine...maybe she got the date wrong. Maybe - Suddenly, a thought hit him forcefully and his lungs seemed to open, air whooshing into them. What if she never saw the letter?
Pushing off the door, Midgard strolls across the rooftop, shoulders tense and hands balled into tight fists and finds the envelope in the same spot as before. Pressure is uncoiling in his chest a strange mix of relief and disappointment pervading his senses as he stares down at it.
Well, at least Connie hadn’t been standing him up.
Midgard is kneeling before the letter, gloved fingers reaching out to touch the edge. It’s still completely intact and he supposed that’s relieving but…
Maybe he had been wrong.
Charlie couldn’t have possibly meant him - the old him, the bad him - when she was telling that story. He was just a damned fool who wanted so desperately to hold hope in his hand because she reminded him of someone he had lost.
Perhaps he had been too desperate to hold on to something new, after seeing Tourmaline again and being rebuffed by her.
Thinking about his ex-girlfriend stings because he misses her, more than he misses anything else in the life he left behind. The way she looked at him...the way she clearly ached and hurt -
He hadn’t meant to leave her, but here he was hurting her and everyone else all the same.
It’s probably a good thing Connie didn’t show up, Midgard thinks, staring down at the envelop that he chooses to leave in the corner of roof. I don’t deserve the hope and faith and...happiness.
Standing forces his muscles to stretch in a painful manner because he’s been squatting longer than he thought. His heart is in his throat when he turns his back on the letter and steps over to the building’s edge, staring down at the concrete beneath him, street void of people.
When he drops, he tries not to let his disappointment get the better of him.
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