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rainbowfic2014-04-10 04:02 pm
auguris) wrote in rainbowfic2014-04-10 04:02 pm
Dove Grey 2
Name: auguris
'verse: Ghost Sight
Story: I Know What You Told Me
Colors: Dove Grey 2. In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.
Supplies and Styles: Glitter (Family), Brush (kith), Seed Beads, Novelty Beads (I will love you when you are a still day./I will love you when you are a hurricane. fromlinesoflearning)
Word Count: 1080
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Death and murder.
Summary: Alistair considers his next move and runs into an old friend. Title from this song.
Krixos smelled of sulphur and wet leaves at its best; now it smelled of smoke and piss and Lady knew what else. Alistair was nearly overjoyed to let himself into the Pixies Cup. It had once been a sandwich shop under the name Arthur's Eats; the interior had a much more sombre look and the menu relied heavily on caffeine as opposed to sandwiches, but he managed to purchase a nearly identical meal to the last one he'd eaten here.
The coffee was better, the sandwich was worse.
The table's previous occupant had left behind their copy of the Paranormal Tribune; there was Mitchell's article again. The cultists were now front page news and causing a great deal more trouble: arson, political assassination, summoning strange creatures from the Deadlands. There was Nieve's smiling face, older now -- but who wasn't? -- alongside a man named Aldric Dweven (somewhat familiar) and another woman: Kaija Liyfendal.
That explained Donat's foul mood.
He didn't have many options; he had assumed Moira or Nieve would let him stay, at least a few days, but Moira was... Moira wasn't, really, that was it, she was gone.
Moira was gone.
Eight years past; he'd been in the desert, hadn't he? Smoking hookah and watching the ifrits dance, while she crashed into a tree.
She was gone and Nieve was, apparently, crazy. She'd always been intense, but worshipping the False Lady and killing humans? What had happened to the young woman, proudly showing off her Adept ring and dancing barefoot under the moonlight before they all huddled together in a too-small tent and kissed each other to sleep? How could that person have become so obsessed with heretical nonsense that she killed over it?
He left behind the paper, an empty coffee cup, and his half-eaten sandwich. Helena and Ciardha, gone. Their little girl, gone. Their son abandoning their research, perhaps not understanding its significance or unable to stifle painful memories. Helena was -- had been -- the only other wizard who seemed to understand Excalibur's significance without also cloistering herself with Her Scholars. They were interested in the Sword as an historical artifact, nothing more; if the stories were even half true, it could save them.
It could save everyone.
The humans needn't fear them, needn't shy away from the basic truth that magic was the only real difference between a human and a wizard. Wizards could live as they had in Arthur's time; alongside the humans, unafraid of their own abilities, able to be their whole selves. None would be afraid to admit "Firestarter" or "Harbinger". Ghost Seer would return to "Necromancer", once more revered for their place in the cycle instead of quietly hidden unless ghosts hung about.
It had been done before, it could be done again -- Emeris and Niviane and Arthur were extraordinary people but they were not gods; their efforts could be reproduced. The world could be safe for everyone.
"Did you feel that?"
The woman -- wizard -- caught his gaze, brows raised. Her hair color shifted when she moved, a brave glamour even in Krixos. Or maybe not; no one else gave her a second glance.
"Feel what--" but then he did. A working shifted around them, weaving natural magics into a pattern he couldn't quite make out. He followed it, swerving around a group of mostly human teenagers and a handful of suits on their lunch break. The woman kept apace, lips set in a grim line. Something about the working felt off, like lukewarm coffee. A forest absent of birdsong.
Moira being dead.
Brakes screeched to a halt down the block, just out of sight. He turned the corner at a jog, half sandwich churning in his gut; the glamour-haired woman whispered Lady preserve us and came to a stop beside him, staring at the beast.
It was nothing. Not nothing as in "how much food is left" or "what's wrong" but actually nothing, a complete absence, defined only by the something around it; it neither absorbed nor reflected light, a gap in reality that shifted across his vision, dismissed as a trick of the eye if he didn't know better. If it weren't shaped, vaguely, as a four-legged creature larger than most cars. If said cars weren't shoved aside and left crumbling in its wake. If he couldn't feel its gaze on him, coming for him, whispering-
"Look out!"
She shoved him away and the beast went for her instead, her screams swallowed up, small remnants of sound escaping around it. Alistair tried to look at it, for her, but his gaze slipped around it, away, unable to see what couldn't possibly exist.
It was a glamour. Had to be. 'Nothing' was a concept, not a thing you could hold or manipulate; in order to understand existence they had to create non-existence. Sapience understood opposites: hot and cold, here and there, order and chaos, alive and dead. But there couldn't actually be nothing. It wasn't a thing that could appear in mid-morning traffic and terrorize downtown.
Someone was pulling him up, to his feet, telling him to get away -- he shook them off, staring at the creature, searching for the working. It was there, that's what he had sensed, someone had done this.
"--this isn't meant for you, please, come with me now!"
He knew that voice; she grabbed him again and he didn't fight this time, allowing her to drag him down the sidewalk, into an alleyway and across a thru-path that he didn't recognize as such until he realized they were no longer in the alley.
"Alistair," she said, voice full of wonder, and she looked just barely like her photo in the paper. Black hair in a crimped halo, brown eyes sunken in, lips cracked and dry. Tears spilled as she pulled him close. "You've returned."
"Just this morning," he murmured. He cupped her cheeks and she laughed, a short broken crack of a thing. "Moira's dead," he said.
"I know." She touched her forehead to his and he closed his eyes, breathing her in. "I sent a letter."
His laughter came out worse than hers. "I was beyond letters, deargirl."
"Alistair." She breathed his name like a prayer and Lady he couldn't help but love her still, again, despite what Tamsin and Donat said. They didn't know her like he did. She couldn't be as they said. "Did you find it?"
"Not yet," he said, and she smiled when he kissed her.
auguris'verse: Ghost Sight
Story: I Know What You Told Me
Colors: Dove Grey 2. In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.
Supplies and Styles: Glitter (Family), Brush (kith), Seed Beads, Novelty Beads (I will love you when you are a still day./I will love you when you are a hurricane. from
linesoflearning)Word Count: 1080
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Death and murder.
Summary: Alistair considers his next move and runs into an old friend. Title from this song.
Krixos smelled of sulphur and wet leaves at its best; now it smelled of smoke and piss and Lady knew what else. Alistair was nearly overjoyed to let himself into the Pixies Cup. It had once been a sandwich shop under the name Arthur's Eats; the interior had a much more sombre look and the menu relied heavily on caffeine as opposed to sandwiches, but he managed to purchase a nearly identical meal to the last one he'd eaten here.
The coffee was better, the sandwich was worse.
The table's previous occupant had left behind their copy of the Paranormal Tribune; there was Mitchell's article again. The cultists were now front page news and causing a great deal more trouble: arson, political assassination, summoning strange creatures from the Deadlands. There was Nieve's smiling face, older now -- but who wasn't? -- alongside a man named Aldric Dweven (somewhat familiar) and another woman: Kaija Liyfendal.
That explained Donat's foul mood.
He didn't have many options; he had assumed Moira or Nieve would let him stay, at least a few days, but Moira was... Moira wasn't, really, that was it, she was gone.
Moira was gone.
Eight years past; he'd been in the desert, hadn't he? Smoking hookah and watching the ifrits dance, while she crashed into a tree.
She was gone and Nieve was, apparently, crazy. She'd always been intense, but worshipping the False Lady and killing humans? What had happened to the young woman, proudly showing off her Adept ring and dancing barefoot under the moonlight before they all huddled together in a too-small tent and kissed each other to sleep? How could that person have become so obsessed with heretical nonsense that she killed over it?
He left behind the paper, an empty coffee cup, and his half-eaten sandwich. Helena and Ciardha, gone. Their little girl, gone. Their son abandoning their research, perhaps not understanding its significance or unable to stifle painful memories. Helena was -- had been -- the only other wizard who seemed to understand Excalibur's significance without also cloistering herself with Her Scholars. They were interested in the Sword as an historical artifact, nothing more; if the stories were even half true, it could save them.
It could save everyone.
The humans needn't fear them, needn't shy away from the basic truth that magic was the only real difference between a human and a wizard. Wizards could live as they had in Arthur's time; alongside the humans, unafraid of their own abilities, able to be their whole selves. None would be afraid to admit "Firestarter" or "Harbinger". Ghost Seer would return to "Necromancer", once more revered for their place in the cycle instead of quietly hidden unless ghosts hung about.
It had been done before, it could be done again -- Emeris and Niviane and Arthur were extraordinary people but they were not gods; their efforts could be reproduced. The world could be safe for everyone.
"Did you feel that?"
The woman -- wizard -- caught his gaze, brows raised. Her hair color shifted when she moved, a brave glamour even in Krixos. Or maybe not; no one else gave her a second glance.
"Feel what--" but then he did. A working shifted around them, weaving natural magics into a pattern he couldn't quite make out. He followed it, swerving around a group of mostly human teenagers and a handful of suits on their lunch break. The woman kept apace, lips set in a grim line. Something about the working felt off, like lukewarm coffee. A forest absent of birdsong.
Moira being dead.
Brakes screeched to a halt down the block, just out of sight. He turned the corner at a jog, half sandwich churning in his gut; the glamour-haired woman whispered Lady preserve us and came to a stop beside him, staring at the beast.
It was nothing. Not nothing as in "how much food is left" or "what's wrong" but actually nothing, a complete absence, defined only by the something around it; it neither absorbed nor reflected light, a gap in reality that shifted across his vision, dismissed as a trick of the eye if he didn't know better. If it weren't shaped, vaguely, as a four-legged creature larger than most cars. If said cars weren't shoved aside and left crumbling in its wake. If he couldn't feel its gaze on him, coming for him, whispering-
"Look out!"
She shoved him away and the beast went for her instead, her screams swallowed up, small remnants of sound escaping around it. Alistair tried to look at it, for her, but his gaze slipped around it, away, unable to see what couldn't possibly exist.
It was a glamour. Had to be. 'Nothing' was a concept, not a thing you could hold or manipulate; in order to understand existence they had to create non-existence. Sapience understood opposites: hot and cold, here and there, order and chaos, alive and dead. But there couldn't actually be nothing. It wasn't a thing that could appear in mid-morning traffic and terrorize downtown.
Someone was pulling him up, to his feet, telling him to get away -- he shook them off, staring at the creature, searching for the working. It was there, that's what he had sensed, someone had done this.
"--this isn't meant for you, please, come with me now!"
He knew that voice; she grabbed him again and he didn't fight this time, allowing her to drag him down the sidewalk, into an alleyway and across a thru-path that he didn't recognize as such until he realized they were no longer in the alley.
"Alistair," she said, voice full of wonder, and she looked just barely like her photo in the paper. Black hair in a crimped halo, brown eyes sunken in, lips cracked and dry. Tears spilled as she pulled him close. "You've returned."
"Just this morning," he murmured. He cupped her cheeks and she laughed, a short broken crack of a thing. "Moira's dead," he said.
"I know." She touched her forehead to his and he closed his eyes, breathing her in. "I sent a letter."
His laughter came out worse than hers. "I was beyond letters, deargirl."
"Alistair." She breathed his name like a prayer and Lady he couldn't help but love her still, again, despite what Tamsin and Donat said. They didn't know her like he did. She couldn't be as they said. "Did you find it?"
"Not yet," he said, and she smiled when he kissed her.