us, we never made it to graceland — [andal + emberlowes ]
Jan 18, 2023 17:15:11 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 18, 2023 17:15:11 GMT -5
Dark.
Liquid dark, the sort that almost seems to glide like black water and feels just as cold, sloshes around him in jagged currents. It’s so dark. Too dark. Impossibly dark.
Andal, slowly, remembers to peel back his eyelids.
The dark transitions into a twilit forest with the same fatigued pace, half slashed by shadow, half slashed by moonlight. Mist eddies about his ankles. And now that it isn’t dark anymore, it’s only cold, too cold, his bones shivering as if hoarfrost has sneaked in and wedged itself between each one. He breathes out a plume of white. Every part of him feels ice-sculpted, except for the one area Andal has been trying to ignore, the one spot amid two of his ribs, the—
White hot pain bursts out from it a muscle spasms.
He doubles over, stifling a scream.
I can’t. The night is too quiet, glassy air unbroken by not one shred of sound except the occasional bird call. To scream would be to alert a nearby entry. To scream would be to bare his secret like a pallid throat for the blade. To scream would be to confess a fear that he has been keeping in that same, liquid dark for months.
The secret fear that caught up with him.
Worse- it put a bullet in him. He could feel it. Elvena’s fire doesn’t feel as hot as the steel buried in his gut, burrowed there like an insect. He puts a hand to the wound and watches it come away red. The air stinks of iron. Of gunpowder. His ears haven’t stopped ringing from the initial gunshot, probably set off by some terrified farmer. What happened to them? The question hangs in the air, hefty.
He lurches up to his feet. Onward.
But where? He couldn’t go back home. His mother had only begun to stop looking at him with those scared eyes. His family had only begun to rebuild from the wreckage. He could not, pardon the language, fuck this up.
In the darkening edges of his vision, Andal thinks he sees a pair of eyes looking back at him, irises flecked with vindication.
You’ll always be the monster.
Isabella hadn’t died a liar.
When the antidote was administered, Andal thought of it as the end of that chapter, a sordid tale he can close the pages on, but oh how wrong he was.
It began on his victory tour, after they left Nine behind with its ramshackle houses and lawlessness. En route to Ten, back home. He excused himself to bed early that night after dining with the Paris Vanburen on the train, a little befuddled by the richness of her perfume and the magic of her presence, and he had fallen asleep with the prospect of waking up surrounded by fresh country air.
Instead, Andal woke up in an abandoned farmhouse nearby, bloodied and bearing bruises, with no memory of how he’d gotten out of the train. He saw it later on: a broken window, polished silver paint marred by claw marks. Rogue bears frequent these areas, the news told. He only swallowed hard.
All those months, all the moments he begged the others to keep hidden, had led to this.
Staggering forth, it isn’t much of a challenge to feel as though he’s back in the arena. If he loosens the hold on his focus for a moment, he can almost see a girl with short dark hair and glittering skin. There are shadows within shadows, shapes within shapes. He fights back the urge to get on all fours, trying instead for a steady gait and deep breaths. If he faints here, perhaps a bear would find him. Imagine that. Andal Searley, victor of the ninety-two games, mauled to death by an animal. He goes for a laugh, but growls as his side flares up again.
He wills his feet to move again.
One step, then the next. One step, then the next.
Andal sees the porch first, so warm and inviting in its orange glow that he wants to dash towards it. The rest of the house reveals itself shortly.
The Emberstatts' abode is an old dream, its bright panels looking as if they have yet to lose the warmth of the afternoon sun, its charm both an architectural feat and an ode to family. To survival. He pauses. Takes a brief look at his own house nearby, the windows still night-dark, empty because his parents haven’t decided on whether to move in or not.
He looks back at the Emberstatts’ home.
“Dear ripred, I hope I’m not intruding,” Andal murmurs. Taking labored steps forward with labored breaths, he drags himself up the porch steps, across the patio, and comes to stand in front of the main door. His hand rises to the doorbell and hovers before it. Maybe the doctor would be better, maybe the peacekeepers even … maybe … maybe he’s about to faint. Yeah. Suddenly as heavy as a statue robbed of its gravity center, he all but tips forward, slumping against the door with a loud thud.
The doorbell howls a lonely note.
A pause.
“… Ms. Lowe?” His words scrape from gut to the throat, raw as they leave. He gulps down the fire in his throat, trying again: “Mr. Emberstatt? It’s Andal.”
Isn’t there a story about a wolf that mimics human words to deceive its prey?
They should keep their doors bolted shut.
Liquid dark, the sort that almost seems to glide like black water and feels just as cold, sloshes around him in jagged currents. It’s so dark. Too dark. Impossibly dark.
Andal, slowly, remembers to peel back his eyelids.
The dark transitions into a twilit forest with the same fatigued pace, half slashed by shadow, half slashed by moonlight. Mist eddies about his ankles. And now that it isn’t dark anymore, it’s only cold, too cold, his bones shivering as if hoarfrost has sneaked in and wedged itself between each one. He breathes out a plume of white. Every part of him feels ice-sculpted, except for the one area Andal has been trying to ignore, the one spot amid two of his ribs, the—
White hot pain bursts out from it a muscle spasms.
He doubles over, stifling a scream.
I can’t. The night is too quiet, glassy air unbroken by not one shred of sound except the occasional bird call. To scream would be to alert a nearby entry. To scream would be to bare his secret like a pallid throat for the blade. To scream would be to confess a fear that he has been keeping in that same, liquid dark for months.
The secret fear that caught up with him.
Worse- it put a bullet in him. He could feel it. Elvena’s fire doesn’t feel as hot as the steel buried in his gut, burrowed there like an insect. He puts a hand to the wound and watches it come away red. The air stinks of iron. Of gunpowder. His ears haven’t stopped ringing from the initial gunshot, probably set off by some terrified farmer. What happened to them? The question hangs in the air, hefty.
He lurches up to his feet. Onward.
But where? He couldn’t go back home. His mother had only begun to stop looking at him with those scared eyes. His family had only begun to rebuild from the wreckage. He could not, pardon the language, fuck this up.
In the darkening edges of his vision, Andal thinks he sees a pair of eyes looking back at him, irises flecked with vindication.
You’ll always be the monster.
Isabella hadn’t died a liar.
When the antidote was administered, Andal thought of it as the end of that chapter, a sordid tale he can close the pages on, but oh how wrong he was.
It began on his victory tour, after they left Nine behind with its ramshackle houses and lawlessness. En route to Ten, back home. He excused himself to bed early that night after dining with the Paris Vanburen on the train, a little befuddled by the richness of her perfume and the magic of her presence, and he had fallen asleep with the prospect of waking up surrounded by fresh country air.
Instead, Andal woke up in an abandoned farmhouse nearby, bloodied and bearing bruises, with no memory of how he’d gotten out of the train. He saw it later on: a broken window, polished silver paint marred by claw marks. Rogue bears frequent these areas, the news told. He only swallowed hard.
All those months, all the moments he begged the others to keep hidden, had led to this.
Staggering forth, it isn’t much of a challenge to feel as though he’s back in the arena. If he loosens the hold on his focus for a moment, he can almost see a girl with short dark hair and glittering skin. There are shadows within shadows, shapes within shapes. He fights back the urge to get on all fours, trying instead for a steady gait and deep breaths. If he faints here, perhaps a bear would find him. Imagine that. Andal Searley, victor of the ninety-two games, mauled to death by an animal. He goes for a laugh, but growls as his side flares up again.
He wills his feet to move again.
One step, then the next. One step, then the next.
Andal sees the porch first, so warm and inviting in its orange glow that he wants to dash towards it. The rest of the house reveals itself shortly.
The Emberstatts' abode is an old dream, its bright panels looking as if they have yet to lose the warmth of the afternoon sun, its charm both an architectural feat and an ode to family. To survival. He pauses. Takes a brief look at his own house nearby, the windows still night-dark, empty because his parents haven’t decided on whether to move in or not.
He looks back at the Emberstatts’ home.
“Dear ripred, I hope I’m not intruding,” Andal murmurs. Taking labored steps forward with labored breaths, he drags himself up the porch steps, across the patio, and comes to stand in front of the main door. His hand rises to the doorbell and hovers before it. Maybe the doctor would be better, maybe the peacekeepers even … maybe … maybe he’s about to faint. Yeah. Suddenly as heavy as a statue robbed of its gravity center, he all but tips forward, slumping against the door with a loud thud.
The doorbell howls a lonely note.
A pause.
“… Ms. Lowe?” His words scrape from gut to the throat, raw as they leave. He gulps down the fire in his throat, trying again: “Mr. Emberstatt? It’s Andal.”
Isn’t there a story about a wolf that mimics human words to deceive its prey?
They should keep their doors bolted shut.
