Thomas Raith (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
emptynight) wrote2009-10-04 10:53 pm
emptynight) wrote2009-10-04 10:53 pm
Entry tags:
Roadtrip of Denial: Swallow a drop of gravel and blacktop 'Cause the road tastes like wintergreen
Darkness. The night was so ink-black and thick, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, much less the path in front of him. He stumbled, and the unseen rocks and jagged ice cut into his clothes and his skin. An icy wind blew and seeped into the growing rips in his clothes and his skin, a chill that lodged into his very bones, that seemed to grow until it obliterated the very memory of warmth. He couldn’t stop. Something was driving him onward, one painful step at a time. He shivered from the cold, and that only made him fall again, in the dark, into the ice and glass and rocks. His hands were cold, slick with icy slush and blood, but he still moved, on hands and knees until he could get his feet back under him, and then stumbling steps in the dark. Relentless. Always moving.
And suddenly there was light. Where there had been darkness and uncertainty there was now light. Light that illuminated his path, that showed him the world, a place of beauty and marble statues. He left behind jagged rocks for artful columns and tasteful drapery, a place of sunlight and warmth. The wounds on his hands and knees healed, flesh knit closed and warm water rinsed away traces of blood and ice. The drive to move, to always keep moving forward faded, and he found rest. Rest in this place of marble and ivory where there had been before only lost wandering. Warmth where there had been ice. Fulfillment where there had been hunger.
Hunger. Warmth. Something warm and soft at his feet. Thomas looked down, and instead of warm cloth and blankets, it was a woman, slim and lovely, her face frozen in a moment of utter bliss. Dark hair, smooth olive skin. A rosy flush in her cheeks. Wide dark eyes, empty and staring. The warm world around him seemed to change, or perhaps he did. Where there had been ivory and marble was now bleached bone, the lovely columns taking on a patina of decay, the air so warm and inviting a second ago now curling with the sickly sweet scent of rot.
The fall of another at his feet, a man this time. Sinewy and well-muscled. Dark hair and dusty chin. His eyes staring wide and empty at the ceiling, his face forever twisted into panting desire. Another. Red hair and a haughty face turned wanting and mindless with desire. Dead green eyes. Another and another and another. Blonde hair mingled with black, with strands of gold and shocking pink. Eyes staring, lips parted. Always staring. He tried to step backwards, but found himself surrounded. More and more and more. A neverending parade of them spread out at his feet.
Fear rose in his throat, black and bitter, as he fumbled, stepping over the tangled limbs. His legs caught on one and he fell into waiting arms. This one perhaps the worst. Pale smooth skin. Long silken hair the colour of chocolate. The curve of a throat that fit perfectly into his hand. Wide eyes that had held such strength and understanding now empty and frozen. Trembling lips that had parted for him a thousand times now fighting for a single last breath.
They were his. All his. All wanting and needing and walking to their deaths. The world of bleached bone mocked him in its cold austere beauty and terror. A cold wind whipped through him, carrying a whisper on the wind, telling him this was his, all his. All there would ever be…
*****
Thomas woke with a start, trembling as the tenacious tendrils of cold terror and sleep clung to him. He reached out instinctively for Alice, a familiar warm presence against his mind, but found nothing. The logical part of him sighed in relief, not wanting anyone to see him like this, shaking and terrified of unseen things. It wasn’t until he sat up, throwing the covers aside with every intention of making a cup of strong coffee, that Thomas noticed he wasn’t alone.
A young woman sat on the hotel room issue couch, slim and pale, with short dark hair, and her face buried in the hotel directory. “Lacci?” Thomas asked, rubbing his eyes with a hand.
At his voice, the young woman looked up, a smile on frozen raspberry lips. “Is that her name?” Maeve cooed, the short hair flowing back into cool glacial colours as she stood up. She managed to cross the small hotel room slowly, with unnaturally graceful, undulating steps despite the short distance, and stopped within arm’s reach of Thomas.
“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, fingers tightening on the hotel bedspread as he forced himself to still, not to flinch away.
Maeve blinked, and her eyes shone with the colours of a winter sky. “You haven’t been sleeping well, my knight,” she said, conversationally, trailing a finger on the bedspread, following the curling design with a tracery of ice. “I only came to see if I could offer my services.”
Thomas’ eyes flickered between Maeve and the creeping ice on his bedspread, but he kept his voice calm despite the tension he couldn’t hide. “I’m not your knight, Lady Maeve,” he said, careful and firm. “I don’t think there’s any service you could render me.”
“Oh really now, Thomas Raith.” The way his name rolled off her tongue made something tingle between his shoulder blades, and Thomas tried hard not to think about it. “There are many services I think you would be interested in.” She smiled again. The gesture would have been warm and inviting if she hadn’t be so cold, her beauty and pull so obviously inhuman. “Dreamless sleep. Power. And end to your struggles. An end to fear. Even, if you wish it, to touch that girl again.” The last was spoken with almost casual indifference even as Maeve shifted again, hair growing long, pale as snow. Her eyes grew dark and knowing. A sweet smile curved on her lips, painful in how familiar it was, as she touched his hand with her fingertips, trailing a cool path up his arm.
Justine’s touch had always been warm. The dissonance made Thomas jerk away, moving to place himself between Maeve and the door. “I don’t think so. But I’m flattered by your consideration. I’ll send you my resume if I change my mind,” Thomas answered, his sarcasm’s effectiveness blunted by quaver of longing that escaped. His hand tightened on the door knob and he opened the door, gesturing to the hallway. “If you don’t mind, I’m expecting company. Dinner.”
Maeve laughed, melting back into herself, icy dreadlocks and frozen berry lips. “I adore resolute men,” she purred, brushing past Thomas with a whisper of snow. “It’s all the more satisfying when they accept.”
The breeze that whispered by smelled of pine and snow-covered mountaintops, and Maeve was gone. With slow, deliberate movements, Thomas closed the hotel room door and sat down on the couch, watching the bedspread, where the elaborate pattern of frost was beginning to melt.
((Tag Alice!))
And suddenly there was light. Where there had been darkness and uncertainty there was now light. Light that illuminated his path, that showed him the world, a place of beauty and marble statues. He left behind jagged rocks for artful columns and tasteful drapery, a place of sunlight and warmth. The wounds on his hands and knees healed, flesh knit closed and warm water rinsed away traces of blood and ice. The drive to move, to always keep moving forward faded, and he found rest. Rest in this place of marble and ivory where there had been before only lost wandering. Warmth where there had been ice. Fulfillment where there had been hunger.
Hunger. Warmth. Something warm and soft at his feet. Thomas looked down, and instead of warm cloth and blankets, it was a woman, slim and lovely, her face frozen in a moment of utter bliss. Dark hair, smooth olive skin. A rosy flush in her cheeks. Wide dark eyes, empty and staring. The warm world around him seemed to change, or perhaps he did. Where there had been ivory and marble was now bleached bone, the lovely columns taking on a patina of decay, the air so warm and inviting a second ago now curling with the sickly sweet scent of rot.
The fall of another at his feet, a man this time. Sinewy and well-muscled. Dark hair and dusty chin. His eyes staring wide and empty at the ceiling, his face forever twisted into panting desire. Another. Red hair and a haughty face turned wanting and mindless with desire. Dead green eyes. Another and another and another. Blonde hair mingled with black, with strands of gold and shocking pink. Eyes staring, lips parted. Always staring. He tried to step backwards, but found himself surrounded. More and more and more. A neverending parade of them spread out at his feet.
Fear rose in his throat, black and bitter, as he fumbled, stepping over the tangled limbs. His legs caught on one and he fell into waiting arms. This one perhaps the worst. Pale smooth skin. Long silken hair the colour of chocolate. The curve of a throat that fit perfectly into his hand. Wide eyes that had held such strength and understanding now empty and frozen. Trembling lips that had parted for him a thousand times now fighting for a single last breath.
They were his. All his. All wanting and needing and walking to their deaths. The world of bleached bone mocked him in its cold austere beauty and terror. A cold wind whipped through him, carrying a whisper on the wind, telling him this was his, all his. All there would ever be…
*****
Thomas woke with a start, trembling as the tenacious tendrils of cold terror and sleep clung to him. He reached out instinctively for Alice, a familiar warm presence against his mind, but found nothing. The logical part of him sighed in relief, not wanting anyone to see him like this, shaking and terrified of unseen things. It wasn’t until he sat up, throwing the covers aside with every intention of making a cup of strong coffee, that Thomas noticed he wasn’t alone.
A young woman sat on the hotel room issue couch, slim and pale, with short dark hair, and her face buried in the hotel directory. “Lacci?” Thomas asked, rubbing his eyes with a hand.
At his voice, the young woman looked up, a smile on frozen raspberry lips. “Is that her name?” Maeve cooed, the short hair flowing back into cool glacial colours as she stood up. She managed to cross the small hotel room slowly, with unnaturally graceful, undulating steps despite the short distance, and stopped within arm’s reach of Thomas.
“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, fingers tightening on the hotel bedspread as he forced himself to still, not to flinch away.
Maeve blinked, and her eyes shone with the colours of a winter sky. “You haven’t been sleeping well, my knight,” she said, conversationally, trailing a finger on the bedspread, following the curling design with a tracery of ice. “I only came to see if I could offer my services.”
Thomas’ eyes flickered between Maeve and the creeping ice on his bedspread, but he kept his voice calm despite the tension he couldn’t hide. “I’m not your knight, Lady Maeve,” he said, careful and firm. “I don’t think there’s any service you could render me.”
“Oh really now, Thomas Raith.” The way his name rolled off her tongue made something tingle between his shoulder blades, and Thomas tried hard not to think about it. “There are many services I think you would be interested in.” She smiled again. The gesture would have been warm and inviting if she hadn’t be so cold, her beauty and pull so obviously inhuman. “Dreamless sleep. Power. And end to your struggles. An end to fear. Even, if you wish it, to touch that girl again.” The last was spoken with almost casual indifference even as Maeve shifted again, hair growing long, pale as snow. Her eyes grew dark and knowing. A sweet smile curved on her lips, painful in how familiar it was, as she touched his hand with her fingertips, trailing a cool path up his arm.
Justine’s touch had always been warm. The dissonance made Thomas jerk away, moving to place himself between Maeve and the door. “I don’t think so. But I’m flattered by your consideration. I’ll send you my resume if I change my mind,” Thomas answered, his sarcasm’s effectiveness blunted by quaver of longing that escaped. His hand tightened on the door knob and he opened the door, gesturing to the hallway. “If you don’t mind, I’m expecting company. Dinner.”
Maeve laughed, melting back into herself, icy dreadlocks and frozen berry lips. “I adore resolute men,” she purred, brushing past Thomas with a whisper of snow. “It’s all the more satisfying when they accept.”
The breeze that whispered by smelled of pine and snow-covered mountaintops, and Maeve was gone. With slow, deliberate movements, Thomas closed the hotel room door and sat down on the couch, watching the bedspread, where the elaborate pattern of frost was beginning to melt.
((Tag Alice!))