I finally finished something
Aug. 15th, 2014 10:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Title: Lavender
Genre: Fantasy
The Troops: Tegre and Cassandra
Status: Complete but very rough
Rating: PG-13, disturbing imagery and also just very depressing
Summary: Sometimes your body stays alive while your brain slowly rots...
Prompt: NA
Author's Notes: I'm not too happy with this, but I AM happy to have finally finished something. I'll let this stew before going back to flesh it out a bit more. This story was first posted here.
"There, just one foot in front of the other... There. You're doing it."
The oddly-neutral encouragement came from far away -- everything did, these days, processing through a fog that had enveloped his world. He walked on a dead man's feet and stared at them, expecting at any moment they may finally realize that they should not walk. He put one leg forward, the strong one, the normal one. After that came the left one and its cane. Pain shot through him, blasting from his ruined hip as he made the step, but he barely noticed, anymore. All of the pain was blending together, and he did not have the energy to keep track.
One foot forward, then the other and its help, then the other foot, and so on. It was a perfect marionette routine, following the will of the doctors holding the strings. If he really thought about it, he thought that the floor may be an old stone, slate and tired, ready to be cast back into nonthing just as he was. But it took too much to think about, especially when he had to be alive at the same time.
He reached the chair that had been set up as the limit he could walk, and then instinct told him to move around.
"No, not yet." A stranger's hand grasped his stranger arm, forcing him gently into the seat. "You need to rest."
His bones quickly felt heavy as he sunk into the chair, resting his cane across his legs. He perhaps could have stared at the floor forever, fading away as he should have weeks ago -- but movement caught his attention and he looked up, tired old mind still able to process and think like a training soldier.
The doctor looked as old as Tegre felt. Wrinkles criss-crossed his weathered face, his eyes almost hidden among the folds. His back had begun to hunch, and Tegre felt he should give up his cane to the man, though he still stood strong if not exactly tall. His hands, despite the swollen joints, were steady and strong as he made notes to himself, humming softly as he stared at the distance Tegre had traveled. He was not focused on him, and that was all Tegre needed to shut down again, head drooping back into dull near-death.
"You're faster than I expected. That's good. Means you likely won't need the cane permanently." The doctor paused for an eternity. "Are you well? Are your humours okay?"
Sluggishly, Tegre processed the questions, realizing they were for him. He looked up to find the stranger staring at him with concern, brow furrowed to the point of near-endless creases. He reached out a hand and placed it to Tegre's forehead; it felt strangely cool, and foreign. "No fever. But you are melancholic."
He knew, distantly, that he should say something -- anything, just to convince the doctor that he was in fact fine, just a living corpse waiting for the world to realize it was over. The concern over the mention of humours was smothered by it not mattering. If he could only get those words out, perhaps the doctor would understand, and would leave Tegre to quietly die in peace.
"We will need to have lavender in your pillow, and burning oils of nutmeg and rose. Have you been eating a bland diet? Simple broths, soft meats?" At the question, Tegre found the energy to nod; he could not remember if he was eating, or what it tasted like, so he could only assume it was bland. "Good. I'll confirm with your nurse and make sure she provides the incense and lavender as well. Now, can you stand up?"
An undead arm reached out with his cane, and with numbed pain he rose -- the ground felt shaky under him, and perhaps he would collapse, at least catching up with his mortality. He stayed upright, however, and with a soft sigh Tegre realized that whatever nightmare he was floating through, it was not ending this time. He would have to play along, make the right moves, a self-aware marionette helpless to its strings. Slowly he looked up, but even with reluctant resolve, he could not meet the doctor's critical eyes.
"No lavender." He spoke to the doctor's chest instead, examining every little stain or small crease.
"It will help your mood." The doctor admonished him, and Tegre felt irritation break the darkness, cracks in the window of his mind.
"It smells too strong." He did not want to dream of fields, slowly darkening at the coming of night, barely illuminated by the light of two moons--
"That's good. It will wake your senses." The stranger was so persistent, so sure as he wrote endless notes.
"I can't sleep with it." All he wanted was to never wake up. He did not want to stare at a crooked leg and feel chips of bone inside his muscles. Each crack was the horrible sound of steel meeting flesh, wielded by a man smelling of alcohol and disappointment.
The scratching of the doctor's pen paused. "How is your sleep?"
"Disturbed." Twilight had passed into night, and even as he felt tired, all he could smell were flowers. The night shift had finally arrived with some new lie, and he was putting his pistol in his pocket...
"Chamomile instead of lavender, then. It should help ease your mind and let you sleep better." More of that damn scratching.
"Must there be flowers?" The lamps were on in the dining room, and even outside on the street, he could hear the screaming. Screaming, crying, until it faded into a gurgle and a thud on the floor.
"We need to do everything we can to aid your recovery. Sit down. You are shaking. I will get your sister and have you returned to your room."
"No--" But the white coat had already left, and in the stranger's place, he saw blood slowly trickling down an unseen corpse.
It should be, but was not, his.
~~~
"Are you doing better?" She asked that every time as the wheels of the chair squeaked. Even they protested carrying him any longer.
"I can walk." He stared at the walls as they passed tiredly by. He did not know why Cassandra wheeled him so slowly back. It felt like she wanted the walk to never end, while he wished he could skip it entirely, return to fading.
"Good!" He could not tell if the excitement was genuine or not. "Maybe soon you can return to the academy."
"I told you." Every time, every moment, every breath. "I don't want to go back."
"Tegre..." She sighed heavily, and the chair slowed further, until he feared they would stop entirely and be stuck in stasis. "You have to go back."
"Why?" This was a change from routine. Usually they would begin to argue, and Cassandra would start crying, and Tegre would return to willing his corpse to begin rotting. Now, he feared they had skipped past the anger and straight to pain.
"I... What else is there to do?" She did not sound upset, though, just tired and older than she was. The chair was quieter, perhaps listening.
He could die. He could finally follow his father home and beg forgiveness. He could hug his mother again. But he could not say it. All that happened was denial and refusals to let him go. It was a waste of their time to go into it again.
"A letter came for you."
That was a complete break from routine. With a wince, Tegre shifted to look up at Cassandra. Her face was blank, but he could see the anger in the clenches of her fists. Was it at him? Great Dragon knew he deserved it.
"It was from Uncle." She spat the words out, but Tegre already knew what was coming.
"Disowned."
"He's a piss pot. Tramp. Fucker." She did not notice the nurse looking over with wide eyes, opening her mouth to admonish before choosing to walk away.
"No." But it was all he could get out, and soon Cassandra was ranting, stomping down the hallway as the wheelchair squeaked again. Her words were muddy, as the fog swept back in with a whisper: disowned. Disowned. Unwanted. Useless. Undeserving. Disowned.
It had been sealed with a gunshot. The words had been written in his father's blood. It was perverted and backwards, just like him. Corpses should not live, and men should not kill kings. Kings should not die. Only the Great Mother could take a king, and even She asked permission. She released them from their responsibilities, showed them home.
He would never go home. He could close his eyes and pray to Her, asking for relief. But he did not deserve it. He was in the wings of the Fallen, draped in claws and blood. Those fields of flowers whispered lies and warnings, but he could not hear them to save himself. All he could hear were the screams and the crack of a gun, or maybe of bone, though whose he could not say.
In the darkness of night, broken by gas lamps, he returned to his bed. The letter was intact, but the envelope it came in was in shreds. A corpse's hand picked it away before life could deny its existence. Cassandra was telling him not to read it, but surely every corpse was read their last rites.
We have been granted by the Court of Pooselridge to besmirch your name. The name Soner is sacrosanct, and to you it is thus forbidden. You have violated the name of Soner and the name of your Father by taking his life.
To use our name is a grave punishment. To speak to us again would be far worse. Your name and memory will be erased to prevent it from blighting our reputation. Should you fraternize with any Soner, you may meet the Fallen Dragon beneath the bowels of this world.
Your Father looks down and cries with the Great Mother as long as you take breath. Only when your blood enriches the earth will they know salvation.
Only when his blood met the earth. He put the letter aside, stared as Cassandra turned it into a shredded flurry. There were tears in her eyes, and Tegre closed his own. He deserved no mourning and no dignity. Let the Fallen deal with him.
And already, his grave smelled of chamomile.
Genre: Fantasy
The Troops: Tegre and Cassandra
Status: Complete but very rough
Rating: PG-13, disturbing imagery and also just very depressing
Summary: Sometimes your body stays alive while your brain slowly rots...
Prompt: NA
Author's Notes: I'm not too happy with this, but I AM happy to have finally finished something. I'll let this stew before going back to flesh it out a bit more. This story was first posted here.
"There, just one foot in front of the other... There. You're doing it."
The oddly-neutral encouragement came from far away -- everything did, these days, processing through a fog that had enveloped his world. He walked on a dead man's feet and stared at them, expecting at any moment they may finally realize that they should not walk. He put one leg forward, the strong one, the normal one. After that came the left one and its cane. Pain shot through him, blasting from his ruined hip as he made the step, but he barely noticed, anymore. All of the pain was blending together, and he did not have the energy to keep track.
One foot forward, then the other and its help, then the other foot, and so on. It was a perfect marionette routine, following the will of the doctors holding the strings. If he really thought about it, he thought that the floor may be an old stone, slate and tired, ready to be cast back into nonthing just as he was. But it took too much to think about, especially when he had to be alive at the same time.
He reached the chair that had been set up as the limit he could walk, and then instinct told him to move around.
"No, not yet." A stranger's hand grasped his stranger arm, forcing him gently into the seat. "You need to rest."
His bones quickly felt heavy as he sunk into the chair, resting his cane across his legs. He perhaps could have stared at the floor forever, fading away as he should have weeks ago -- but movement caught his attention and he looked up, tired old mind still able to process and think like a training soldier.
The doctor looked as old as Tegre felt. Wrinkles criss-crossed his weathered face, his eyes almost hidden among the folds. His back had begun to hunch, and Tegre felt he should give up his cane to the man, though he still stood strong if not exactly tall. His hands, despite the swollen joints, were steady and strong as he made notes to himself, humming softly as he stared at the distance Tegre had traveled. He was not focused on him, and that was all Tegre needed to shut down again, head drooping back into dull near-death.
"You're faster than I expected. That's good. Means you likely won't need the cane permanently." The doctor paused for an eternity. "Are you well? Are your humours okay?"
Sluggishly, Tegre processed the questions, realizing they were for him. He looked up to find the stranger staring at him with concern, brow furrowed to the point of near-endless creases. He reached out a hand and placed it to Tegre's forehead; it felt strangely cool, and foreign. "No fever. But you are melancholic."
He knew, distantly, that he should say something -- anything, just to convince the doctor that he was in fact fine, just a living corpse waiting for the world to realize it was over. The concern over the mention of humours was smothered by it not mattering. If he could only get those words out, perhaps the doctor would understand, and would leave Tegre to quietly die in peace.
"We will need to have lavender in your pillow, and burning oils of nutmeg and rose. Have you been eating a bland diet? Simple broths, soft meats?" At the question, Tegre found the energy to nod; he could not remember if he was eating, or what it tasted like, so he could only assume it was bland. "Good. I'll confirm with your nurse and make sure she provides the incense and lavender as well. Now, can you stand up?"
An undead arm reached out with his cane, and with numbed pain he rose -- the ground felt shaky under him, and perhaps he would collapse, at least catching up with his mortality. He stayed upright, however, and with a soft sigh Tegre realized that whatever nightmare he was floating through, it was not ending this time. He would have to play along, make the right moves, a self-aware marionette helpless to its strings. Slowly he looked up, but even with reluctant resolve, he could not meet the doctor's critical eyes.
"No lavender." He spoke to the doctor's chest instead, examining every little stain or small crease.
"It will help your mood." The doctor admonished him, and Tegre felt irritation break the darkness, cracks in the window of his mind.
"It smells too strong." He did not want to dream of fields, slowly darkening at the coming of night, barely illuminated by the light of two moons--
"That's good. It will wake your senses." The stranger was so persistent, so sure as he wrote endless notes.
"I can't sleep with it." All he wanted was to never wake up. He did not want to stare at a crooked leg and feel chips of bone inside his muscles. Each crack was the horrible sound of steel meeting flesh, wielded by a man smelling of alcohol and disappointment.
The scratching of the doctor's pen paused. "How is your sleep?"
"Disturbed." Twilight had passed into night, and even as he felt tired, all he could smell were flowers. The night shift had finally arrived with some new lie, and he was putting his pistol in his pocket...
"Chamomile instead of lavender, then. It should help ease your mind and let you sleep better." More of that damn scratching.
"Must there be flowers?" The lamps were on in the dining room, and even outside on the street, he could hear the screaming. Screaming, crying, until it faded into a gurgle and a thud on the floor.
"We need to do everything we can to aid your recovery. Sit down. You are shaking. I will get your sister and have you returned to your room."
"No--" But the white coat had already left, and in the stranger's place, he saw blood slowly trickling down an unseen corpse.
It should be, but was not, his.
~~~
"Are you doing better?" She asked that every time as the wheels of the chair squeaked. Even they protested carrying him any longer.
"I can walk." He stared at the walls as they passed tiredly by. He did not know why Cassandra wheeled him so slowly back. It felt like she wanted the walk to never end, while he wished he could skip it entirely, return to fading.
"Good!" He could not tell if the excitement was genuine or not. "Maybe soon you can return to the academy."
"I told you." Every time, every moment, every breath. "I don't want to go back."
"Tegre..." She sighed heavily, and the chair slowed further, until he feared they would stop entirely and be stuck in stasis. "You have to go back."
"Why?" This was a change from routine. Usually they would begin to argue, and Cassandra would start crying, and Tegre would return to willing his corpse to begin rotting. Now, he feared they had skipped past the anger and straight to pain.
"I... What else is there to do?" She did not sound upset, though, just tired and older than she was. The chair was quieter, perhaps listening.
He could die. He could finally follow his father home and beg forgiveness. He could hug his mother again. But he could not say it. All that happened was denial and refusals to let him go. It was a waste of their time to go into it again.
"A letter came for you."
That was a complete break from routine. With a wince, Tegre shifted to look up at Cassandra. Her face was blank, but he could see the anger in the clenches of her fists. Was it at him? Great Dragon knew he deserved it.
"It was from Uncle." She spat the words out, but Tegre already knew what was coming.
"Disowned."
"He's a piss pot. Tramp. Fucker." She did not notice the nurse looking over with wide eyes, opening her mouth to admonish before choosing to walk away.
"No." But it was all he could get out, and soon Cassandra was ranting, stomping down the hallway as the wheelchair squeaked again. Her words were muddy, as the fog swept back in with a whisper: disowned. Disowned. Unwanted. Useless. Undeserving. Disowned.
It had been sealed with a gunshot. The words had been written in his father's blood. It was perverted and backwards, just like him. Corpses should not live, and men should not kill kings. Kings should not die. Only the Great Mother could take a king, and even She asked permission. She released them from their responsibilities, showed them home.
He would never go home. He could close his eyes and pray to Her, asking for relief. But he did not deserve it. He was in the wings of the Fallen, draped in claws and blood. Those fields of flowers whispered lies and warnings, but he could not hear them to save himself. All he could hear were the screams and the crack of a gun, or maybe of bone, though whose he could not say.
In the darkness of night, broken by gas lamps, he returned to his bed. The letter was intact, but the envelope it came in was in shreds. A corpse's hand picked it away before life could deny its existence. Cassandra was telling him not to read it, but surely every corpse was read their last rites.
We have been granted by the Court of Pooselridge to besmirch your name. The name Soner is sacrosanct, and to you it is thus forbidden. You have violated the name of Soner and the name of your Father by taking his life.
To use our name is a grave punishment. To speak to us again would be far worse. Your name and memory will be erased to prevent it from blighting our reputation. Should you fraternize with any Soner, you may meet the Fallen Dragon beneath the bowels of this world.
Your Father looks down and cries with the Great Mother as long as you take breath. Only when your blood enriches the earth will they know salvation.
Only when his blood met the earth. He put the letter aside, stared as Cassandra turned it into a shredded flurry. There were tears in her eyes, and Tegre closed his own. He deserved no mourning and no dignity. Let the Fallen deal with him.
And already, his grave smelled of chamomile.