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rainbowfic2012-12-22 03:33 pm
auguris) wrote in rainbowfic2012-12-22 03:33 pm
Dove Grey 22; Sulphur 7
Name: auguris
'verse: Ghost Sight
Story: Her Ghost
Colors: Dove Grey 22. The family exists for many reasons, but its most basic function may be to draw together after a member dies. Sulphur 7. Deceiver
Supplies and Styles: Canvas, Pastels: impossible
Word Count: 820
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Mitchell discovers his mother isn't completely gone.
They sat crossways from each other at the kitchen island. Mitchell stared at the marble countertop, not sure if the brown swirl was a stain or part of the pattern.
"I feel like I'm drowning," Tam said, her murmur loud in the silence.
"You're not," Mitchell said without looking up. Maybe it was a coffee stain. How many cups of coffee had sat on this counter, waiting for one or the other to grab before school or work, left behind to cool (what a waste) or set down clumsily and spilling its contents? Sometimes it was Tam but usually Mom made their morning coffee, not because Mitchell was too lazy but because they were morning people and he definitely was not and now Tam was going to make it most of the time, unless Mitchell made himself get out of bed earlier.
"Here," Tam said. She pushed the necklace into his view: silver chain, silver sword. Excalibur.
Mitchell blinked. "Didn't we... I thought she was still wearing..." He turned the little sword over in his hand.
"She has." The silence stretched out between them. "She had two. Our father gave her one. Nieve gave her the other."
"Which is which?"
"I have no idea."
Mitchell looked up at Tam's dry, blotchy face. "Don't you want it?"
Her mouth twitched. "I have the shield." She closed his hand over it. "You get the sword."
*
The basement stairs creaked as Mitchell descended. He stopped once he reached the concrete floor, hand rising to touch the silver sword at his neck. He couldn't decide if he wanted to wear it or not; it felt weird, heavy, like a noose.
Old tendrils of magic flowed around him, aimless and harmless, leftovers of countless lessons. White-gray-blue-red-gold shimmered in the air, his own and his mother's and even some of Tam's intertwining. Old chalk circles overlapped each other, the odd symbol here and there faded and inactive.
He strode towards his mother's desk, but something made him stop. He could smell it -- she wore this alfar perfume that was supposed to smell like oranges but didn't really smell like anything yet now, now smelled like Mom -- as if she had just walked through the room.
"No." Barely a whisper, a senseless cowardly word that meant nothing. He turned in a full circle, using nothing but his physical sight; he came back around, relief floating in his chest, knowing it was nothing, it really was just her perfume, she certainly spent enough time in the basement and those in mourning often had non-ghost related yet still physiologically haunting
she was sitting in her chair.
He blinked.
She was still sitting in her chair.
Not really her, obviously, what was left of her -- what was supposed to be left of her -- was displayed in her memorial and locked away and she couldn't actually be sitting here, alive, so she wasn't.
But part of her was sitting in her chair.
Mitchell had never truly been afraid of a haunting. He knew he was supposed to be, it was smart to be, but the few truly dangerous ghosts he had dealt with, he had his mother or Nieve or both at his side, and he had never been in any real danger. Now he felt it, clammy dread in his mouth and dead weight in his limbs and his heart tight in his chest.
He took in a long, shaken breath, and she appeared in front of him, shocking that air right back out. She smiled, moved her mouth. A moment later a single word, a single voice that didn't really sound like her but reminded him of her said, "Dearboy."
He backed away, one slow shaking step at a time until he hit the stairs and then ran for it, shutting the door and locking it and leaning against it, listening, waiting for her to come through.
When she didn't, he reached out with his Sight, cautiously pushing himself beyond the door, ready to jump back -- but he couldn't sense her. There was nothing, nothing his magic could sense, nothing his Sight could see. He pulled back to himself, staring at the door. If he hadn't seen her, hadn't smelled her perfume, he never would have known.
"Mitch?"
He jumped, whirling to stare at his sister. She reacted the same way she had reacted to pretty much everything these past few days -- not at all.
"I," he started, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I was going to go through her paperwork."
Tam placed a hand on him, at the juncture where shoulder became neck. "Okay."
He should have said: And she was there. She's down there, part of her, she's haunting the basement and I need to exorcise her and make her leave.
Instead he said: "And I couldn't."
It wasn't a lie.
Tam squeezed, gently. "It's okay. It can wait."
auguris'verse: Ghost Sight
Story: Her Ghost
Colors: Dove Grey 22. The family exists for many reasons, but its most basic function may be to draw together after a member dies. Sulphur 7. Deceiver
Supplies and Styles: Canvas, Pastels: impossible
Word Count: 820
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Mitchell discovers his mother isn't completely gone.
They sat crossways from each other at the kitchen island. Mitchell stared at the marble countertop, not sure if the brown swirl was a stain or part of the pattern.
"I feel like I'm drowning," Tam said, her murmur loud in the silence.
"You're not," Mitchell said without looking up. Maybe it was a coffee stain. How many cups of coffee had sat on this counter, waiting for one or the other to grab before school or work, left behind to cool (what a waste) or set down clumsily and spilling its contents? Sometimes it was Tam but usually Mom made their morning coffee, not because Mitchell was too lazy but because they were morning people and he definitely was not and now Tam was going to make it most of the time, unless Mitchell made himself get out of bed earlier.
"Here," Tam said. She pushed the necklace into his view: silver chain, silver sword. Excalibur.
Mitchell blinked. "Didn't we... I thought she was still wearing..." He turned the little sword over in his hand.
"She has." The silence stretched out between them. "She had two. Our father gave her one. Nieve gave her the other."
"Which is which?"
"I have no idea."
Mitchell looked up at Tam's dry, blotchy face. "Don't you want it?"
Her mouth twitched. "I have the shield." She closed his hand over it. "You get the sword."
*
The basement stairs creaked as Mitchell descended. He stopped once he reached the concrete floor, hand rising to touch the silver sword at his neck. He couldn't decide if he wanted to wear it or not; it felt weird, heavy, like a noose.
Old tendrils of magic flowed around him, aimless and harmless, leftovers of countless lessons. White-gray-blue-red-gold shimmered in the air, his own and his mother's and even some of Tam's intertwining. Old chalk circles overlapped each other, the odd symbol here and there faded and inactive.
He strode towards his mother's desk, but something made him stop. He could smell it -- she wore this alfar perfume that was supposed to smell like oranges but didn't really smell like anything yet now, now smelled like Mom -- as if she had just walked through the room.
"No." Barely a whisper, a senseless cowardly word that meant nothing. He turned in a full circle, using nothing but his physical sight; he came back around, relief floating in his chest, knowing it was nothing, it really was just her perfume, she certainly spent enough time in the basement and those in mourning often had non-ghost related yet still physiologically haunting
she was sitting in her chair.
He blinked.
She was still sitting in her chair.
Not really her, obviously, what was left of her -- what was supposed to be left of her -- was displayed in her memorial and locked away and she couldn't actually be sitting here, alive, so she wasn't.
But part of her was sitting in her chair.
Mitchell had never truly been afraid of a haunting. He knew he was supposed to be, it was smart to be, but the few truly dangerous ghosts he had dealt with, he had his mother or Nieve or both at his side, and he had never been in any real danger. Now he felt it, clammy dread in his mouth and dead weight in his limbs and his heart tight in his chest.
He took in a long, shaken breath, and she appeared in front of him, shocking that air right back out. She smiled, moved her mouth. A moment later a single word, a single voice that didn't really sound like her but reminded him of her said, "Dearboy."
He backed away, one slow shaking step at a time until he hit the stairs and then ran for it, shutting the door and locking it and leaning against it, listening, waiting for her to come through.
When she didn't, he reached out with his Sight, cautiously pushing himself beyond the door, ready to jump back -- but he couldn't sense her. There was nothing, nothing his magic could sense, nothing his Sight could see. He pulled back to himself, staring at the door. If he hadn't seen her, hadn't smelled her perfume, he never would have known.
"Mitch?"
He jumped, whirling to stare at his sister. She reacted the same way she had reacted to pretty much everything these past few days -- not at all.
"I," he started, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I was going to go through her paperwork."
Tam placed a hand on him, at the juncture where shoulder became neck. "Okay."
He should have said: And she was there. She's down there, part of her, she's haunting the basement and I need to exorcise her and make her leave.
Instead he said: "And I couldn't."
It wasn't a lie.
Tam squeezed, gently. "It's okay. It can wait."
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