Voices from Heaven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thespaceopera) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2015-10-20 10:06 am
thespaceopera) wrote in driftfleet2015-10-20 10:06 am
Entry tags:
Sweet dreams are made of these...
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and maybe it's all of the hidden runes scrawled into the bones of this place, but the very air seems to reject outside magic. looks like the fireplace can only be stoked the old fashioned way.]
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Adra gets up--slowly, as if worried about spooking the kid--and then goes to kneel by the fireplace.]
Mind if I try stoking this? I'm just not a huge fan of the cold.
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and he answers with a shrug--he's so used to the dreary chill of the place, he hadn't noticed that he'd failed to shuffle the poker around to wake up the coals in a long time. they're barely glowing now.]
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He pokes the coals awkwardly.]
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the previously-locked door suddenly pops open with BANG, as it is very quickly caught by a secondary chain lock. it's only able to open by a couple of inches, and there still doesn't seem to be any way to actually undo the chain lock, but it's enough that sound and light from the other side can come spilling in through the gap.
There's horrible, furious shouting from what sounds like a middle-aged woman, drowning out a much smaller voice.
Coil jumps in surprise and whirls to face the door, and even goes creeping a step or two toward it, but ultimately stops short of looking through the gap.]
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He tries to pull at the door, too, as though he can somehow dislodge the latch, but that's a futile effort before it starts.
So he just looks, and listens.]
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beyond the door is some central room of what is likely an ancient manor, a dining hall perhaps, though the details outside the glow of the fire in the hearth are hard to make out. the attention is all on the woman haloed in the firelight-- tall and severe, with features that clearly show a family resemblance to Coil. and he's there too, with his missing eye bandaged, face red from sobbing.
he's saying something; he may be pleading by the way he practically grovels at her, trying to reach for sleeves or her hand or anything she's willing to offer him. but, maybe he has even lost his voice in his memories, because the sound is small and muddled, and she's not listening anyway. she keeps her arms folded and doesn't yield and inch as he begs.
"Forgive you?" she booms over the boy. "How do you expect to ever account for your transgressions? How can you ever offer enough penance for what you've done?"
he continues to plea, and the scene continues to warp and steal his voice. all that remains of the recollection are muffled, impotent murmurs. and as the woman hisses about how his unruliness, his incompetence and his treacherous tongue have ruined her, the whole scene becomes even more unclear.
in the next clear moment the woman's back is turned for one second. and in that moment, the boy finds a pair of serrated tongs and a boning knife on a nearby tray of torturous instruments that hadn't been in focus before. they're visible now, highlighted by the sick overcontrast that comes with riding high on adrenaline. because the boy is at the end of his rope, and the only answer he sees is lying on the tray.
mercifully, his back is turned toward the door when he sticks the tongs into his mouth. he pulls, and draws the knife across in one swift, numb motion.
if she isn't going to listen, all he has left is showing her his remorse. he'll cut out any treacherous thing if it will make her happy.
the gush of blood hitting the stone floor is what reclaims her attention. and she stares for only a moment before she's lunging at him, because she knows that he's not expecting to survive his little display... and she's not about to let another child of hers be ruined beyond repair. the feel of her silent, furious will rings off the wall around the real sounds--choking on blood, and the scrape of a poker dragging across the iron grate as she rips it out of the fire.
shoving the drowning boy back against the table until he's practically lying across it, she jams something else from the tray into his mouth to jack open his jaw... and in goes the poker, to seal the wound. the heated metal hits his lips on the way in, as he kicks and screams and struggles, and he will carry those scars for the rest of his life.
he will be maimed, rendered more useless than he'd been already, but she is not letting him get away with this.]
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When the scene shifts, he stops fighting; it's clear now that this is sorcery, some kind of memory being replayed in front of him. The instinct to help doesn't just go away, though. If anything, it mounts, mixed in with anger, with frustration, with his own memories of people he was too late to help.
Adra pants, sweat beading his neck and forehead, and his stomach churns. He looks down at the boy, and his eyes are wet.
His voice is rough, thick with the lump in his throat.]
That's why you don't talk, huh.
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he only answers with a small, shamed nod.]
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He jabs his thumb at the door.]
Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don't think I'm getting out this way.
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he winces like the effort is causing him pain, but the skin underneath looks unharmed--no bruising, no burns or scars across his lips. it's as if nothing had ever happened there, and he lets the bandages just fall to the damp floor.]
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Did you escape from her?
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and it takes him a moment to offer any answer beyond that. he rallies himself, but he still can't help but find himself afraid. he'd revoked his own right to speech for so long, even when he suspects that it has been granted back to him, he can't help but feel that it's wrong to even attempt it.
he opens his mouth and hesitates, before finally answering in a very rough little whisper.]
...What do you mean?
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[Adra's ears twitch. Coil's voice is harder to catch than the wind, but thank the Light: Adra was born an elf.]
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...She was taken from me.
[he never would have chosen to leave her himself. he can't even fathom the thought.]
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don't feel obligated to reply if this is too old!