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rainbowfic2012-06-07 08:57 am
auguris) wrote in rainbowfic2012-06-07 08:57 am
Dove Grey 5; Sulphur 12; Fire Opal 9
Name: auguris
Story: Ghost Sight
Colors: Dove Grey 5: For some moments in life there are no words; Sulphur 12: Manipulation; Fire Opal 9: Adrenaline
Supplies and Styles: Pastels: Worrying
Word Count: 1038
Rating: PG
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Summary: Mitchell has a very strange not-dream.
Mitchell was not dreaming. One of the first things he learned was to consciously recognize his own dream-states, to differentiate them from reality and illusion. A strong enough ghost could get into your head, a strong enough wizard could make see and hear and think that you were someone else, someone else -- and both could be easily mistaken for dreaming. The latter counted on it.
He was not awake, either; he couldn't remember where he had fallen asleep, but he was either in his apartment, at Cag's penthouse, or -- and this was very unlikely but more likely than where he was now -- at Tam's house. The house. Their mother's house.
He had not fallen asleep beside a body of water, cushioned by long grass, curled up around a pack that look both sturdy and well-worn. He could feel and smell the leather. Water lapped at the shore to his back. Sunlight warmed his face.
He sat up slowly, looking around him. No one else around. The grass extended to the horizon in one direction, the lake in the other. He could, in spots, see the other side -- trees, or maybe an outcropping of rocks, indicated that there was an other side, at least.
This place was not real, but it was also not inside his head. Not in the traditional way. He was here, somehow, wherever here was.
"Cag?" No answer. "Tam?" Nothing. "Elina?" He hesitated before trying, "Broker?"
Not even him.
He stood up, magic arcing across his fingertips. No one called out to him, nor attacked him, nor made their presence known in any way. He licked dry lips, surprised to find them cracked. He realized he was incredibly thirsty, thirstier than he'd ever been in his life. He dug through the pack, but he hadn't brought a water bottle. Or one hadn't been provided. He turned to the lake, frowning even as he stepped forward. There was no such thing as a clean, natural source of water anymore. Not in the city, not in the towns surrounding Krixos, not up north or out east. The pollutants in the water were frightening and uncountable, and he had never had a knack for cleansing spells.
But he was so damnably thirsty.
He knelt and drank from his cupped hands, wondering what toxin or chemical he was swallowing -- at the very least fish peed in there, for Lady's sake -- even while slurping it down.
He leaned forward on his hands, panting, staring at his rippled reflection. Dark hair, grey eyes, pale skin. Same as always. No glamour. His face aged, darkened, his hair grew longer and turned white, a beard he didn't have grew and thinned --
he snapped back, gripping his normal-length hair. Mist gathered at the far shore, moving fast enough to track. Moving towards him.
As he turned the sky went dark. The long grass shuddered in the sudden, violent breeze. Lightning stuck somewhere beyond, bringing thunder and rain in an instant. He whirled back to the lake to find the mist upon him. He brought his arms up over his head, sure that the mist would hurt him, somehow, would swallow him alive and eat his magic and leave him a lifeless husk.
He stumbled into the water, arms tight around his head, and fell into someone with more than enough force to knock the both of them over -- but they held him strong, held him as he found his footing, wrapped strong, thin arms around his chest.
"Hush, dearboy."
He froze. His mother's voice, whispered in his ear, not the disconnected echo of her ghost but real, and those were her arms, and he recognized the sleeves of her robe, and she was warm and alive.
"Lady, what is this?" He tried to turn but couldn't; she held him fast. "Mom?"
She whispered in his ear, "It is not a sword, dearboy."
He sat up, the covers flying off, nearly shouting. He clamped a hand over his mouth and stared: a dark room, light from a dim lamp near the door, Cagri shifting beside him. Silk sheets that a journalist could never afford.
He stood, turning and gripping his hair. She wasn't here, of course she wasn't, but where she was was impossible, it had to be a dream but it wasn't, he had been thoroughly trained to know his dreams and that wasn't one, it was a place and he had been there a moment ago and--
"Mitch?" Cagri's slurred murmur, covers shifting as the kernan pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Love?"
"Bad dream," he muttered, turning away. He left the bedroom, running a hand over his face. How to explain? Dreaming of his mother was normal. Seeing her again, reliving conversations, training, the times she'd held him or scolded him or lay on a slab, unmoving and forever silent. But not like that. Not in a way he could feel, not right there behind him, alive and impossible, in a place he'd never visited or imagined.
He shoved a thick curtain aside and peered out the floor-to-ceiling window pane. Mundane parts of the city slumbered; others roared on, bright and loud and flickering in and out of sight. Mostly alfar, some kernen, and some of the more esoteric races that didn't quite live on this plane or the next. His breath fogged the glass and he closed his eyes.
Cagri came up behind him, wrapping arms around his middle, pressing himself up against Mitchell's back. "Would you like to talk about it?"
Mitchell sighed. "I'm not sure how."
Cagri hummed and kissed the back of his neck. "Perhaps you would like to come back to bed and I could distract you?" Cag's hands wandered lower, resting at the waistband of his briefs.
Mitchell laughed. "Really? You've been awake for less than five minutes."
"That is all the time I need." He nipped Mitchell's ear. "Do not comment on my unfortunate phrasing. You know what I mean."
He leaned back into Cagri, grinning. "Distract me, then."
He let Cagri take him by the hand and lead him on. Even as he turned, letting the curtain fall back, something in his reflection shifted -- but he looked away. Whatever had happened, whatever he had stumbled into or had stumbled into him, he would deal with in in the morning.
Or possibly the afternoon, knowing Cag.
augurisStory: Ghost Sight
Colors: Dove Grey 5: For some moments in life there are no words; Sulphur 12: Manipulation; Fire Opal 9: Adrenaline
Supplies and Styles: Pastels: Worrying
Word Count: 1038
Rating: PG
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Summary: Mitchell has a very strange not-dream.
Mitchell was not dreaming. One of the first things he learned was to consciously recognize his own dream-states, to differentiate them from reality and illusion. A strong enough ghost could get into your head, a strong enough wizard could make see and hear and think that you were someone else, someone else -- and both could be easily mistaken for dreaming. The latter counted on it.
He was not awake, either; he couldn't remember where he had fallen asleep, but he was either in his apartment, at Cag's penthouse, or -- and this was very unlikely but more likely than where he was now -- at Tam's house. The house. Their mother's house.
He had not fallen asleep beside a body of water, cushioned by long grass, curled up around a pack that look both sturdy and well-worn. He could feel and smell the leather. Water lapped at the shore to his back. Sunlight warmed his face.
He sat up slowly, looking around him. No one else around. The grass extended to the horizon in one direction, the lake in the other. He could, in spots, see the other side -- trees, or maybe an outcropping of rocks, indicated that there was an other side, at least.
This place was not real, but it was also not inside his head. Not in the traditional way. He was here, somehow, wherever here was.
"Cag?" No answer. "Tam?" Nothing. "Elina?" He hesitated before trying, "Broker?"
Not even him.
He stood up, magic arcing across his fingertips. No one called out to him, nor attacked him, nor made their presence known in any way. He licked dry lips, surprised to find them cracked. He realized he was incredibly thirsty, thirstier than he'd ever been in his life. He dug through the pack, but he hadn't brought a water bottle. Or one hadn't been provided. He turned to the lake, frowning even as he stepped forward. There was no such thing as a clean, natural source of water anymore. Not in the city, not in the towns surrounding Krixos, not up north or out east. The pollutants in the water were frightening and uncountable, and he had never had a knack for cleansing spells.
But he was so damnably thirsty.
He knelt and drank from his cupped hands, wondering what toxin or chemical he was swallowing -- at the very least fish peed in there, for Lady's sake -- even while slurping it down.
He leaned forward on his hands, panting, staring at his rippled reflection. Dark hair, grey eyes, pale skin. Same as always. No glamour. His face aged, darkened, his hair grew longer and turned white, a beard he didn't have grew and thinned --
he snapped back, gripping his normal-length hair. Mist gathered at the far shore, moving fast enough to track. Moving towards him.
As he turned the sky went dark. The long grass shuddered in the sudden, violent breeze. Lightning stuck somewhere beyond, bringing thunder and rain in an instant. He whirled back to the lake to find the mist upon him. He brought his arms up over his head, sure that the mist would hurt him, somehow, would swallow him alive and eat his magic and leave him a lifeless husk.
He stumbled into the water, arms tight around his head, and fell into someone with more than enough force to knock the both of them over -- but they held him strong, held him as he found his footing, wrapped strong, thin arms around his chest.
"Hush, dearboy."
He froze. His mother's voice, whispered in his ear, not the disconnected echo of her ghost but real, and those were her arms, and he recognized the sleeves of her robe, and she was warm and alive.
"Lady, what is this?" He tried to turn but couldn't; she held him fast. "Mom?"
She whispered in his ear, "It is not a sword, dearboy."
He sat up, the covers flying off, nearly shouting. He clamped a hand over his mouth and stared: a dark room, light from a dim lamp near the door, Cagri shifting beside him. Silk sheets that a journalist could never afford.
He stood, turning and gripping his hair. She wasn't here, of course she wasn't, but where she was was impossible, it had to be a dream but it wasn't, he had been thoroughly trained to know his dreams and that wasn't one, it was a place and he had been there a moment ago and--
"Mitch?" Cagri's slurred murmur, covers shifting as the kernan pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Love?"
"Bad dream," he muttered, turning away. He left the bedroom, running a hand over his face. How to explain? Dreaming of his mother was normal. Seeing her again, reliving conversations, training, the times she'd held him or scolded him or lay on a slab, unmoving and forever silent. But not like that. Not in a way he could feel, not right there behind him, alive and impossible, in a place he'd never visited or imagined.
He shoved a thick curtain aside and peered out the floor-to-ceiling window pane. Mundane parts of the city slumbered; others roared on, bright and loud and flickering in and out of sight. Mostly alfar, some kernen, and some of the more esoteric races that didn't quite live on this plane or the next. His breath fogged the glass and he closed his eyes.
Cagri came up behind him, wrapping arms around his middle, pressing himself up against Mitchell's back. "Would you like to talk about it?"
Mitchell sighed. "I'm not sure how."
Cagri hummed and kissed the back of his neck. "Perhaps you would like to come back to bed and I could distract you?" Cag's hands wandered lower, resting at the waistband of his briefs.
Mitchell laughed. "Really? You've been awake for less than five minutes."
"That is all the time I need." He nipped Mitchell's ear. "Do not comment on my unfortunate phrasing. You know what I mean."
He leaned back into Cagri, grinning. "Distract me, then."
He let Cagri take him by the hand and lead him on. Even as he turned, letting the curtain fall back, something in his reflection shifted -- but he looked away. Whatever had happened, whatever he had stumbled into or had stumbled into him, he would deal with in in the morning.
Or possibly the afternoon, knowing Cag.
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I like the... not spooky, but otherworldly atmosphere about this. You get the feeling that something of immense importance has just happened, even if this is cryptic right now. Good job.
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Thank you! I can't say much without spoiling, but there's definitely something big going down.
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I'm also with Kat--I feel like something big's just happened, but the impact's yet to be seen.
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Yeah, something huge just happened, something Mitchell can't quite wrap his head around yet.
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It is not a sword
Ah, that ties into something I haven't found a chance to dig into yet -- the main wizarding religion is (very VERY loosely) based off of Arthurian legend. The Lady of the Lake is their deity and Emeris (Merlin) is their prophet.
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