Duncan (jesuispret) wrote in cirque_rp, @ 2017-12-07 19:36:00 |
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Cold did not seem an adequate enough word to describe the winter that had pressed down upon them. The air was frigid and unrelenting, cutting through the furs that they had wrapped themselves in, as though they did not exist. There was a part of Malcolm that wished nothing more than to simply be back in the cabin with the memories of his mother and sister, not long since passed. That part of him glanced back towards the disappearing structure, only the chimney remained in sight as he followed in his father’s footsteps, heading down the hill. Small bouts of smoke still rose from the fire that had died out, the remnants of warmth fading into small white wisps into the fierce cold air. Setting his jaw, Malcolm turned his head away from the view to look instead at the grey fur that wrapped around his father’s back, leaving behind the idea of a warm night by the fire in exchange for a chance at game and sustenance to fill their bellies. It may have been a futile hope, to spot a deer or bigger game, but even the thought of a rabbit or squirrel appealed to him. Anything really. So long as there was a little meat to cook over a fire and put hot into his stomach, Malcolm wasn’t picky over it. It seemed however, the further they moved away from the warm haven of their home, the more bleak things were looking. There had been hope that there would be more options, further away. The snares and traps set near their homestead had all gone undisturbed for some time now. The fall harvest had not brought inasmuch as the family had hoped, nor for many of their neighboring friends; leaving them with little to no choice but to venture out. Searching for food… something… anything… They had walked a good half day and were quickly losing light. Making camp was more imperative now than searching for food. With nothing but damp or wet wood to collect, starting a fire took them til nightfall. It went that way for the next few days. The little food they had left with did not last them long. Any hope for finding game was quickly growing futile and just as they had decided to give in and head home to not much more than grain, nuts and warmth -- the air shifted, bringing with it a new harshness. One that beat down upon them with little to no regard for their well being. What damp wood there was quickly became soaked through, making fire building impossible. The snow came down hard and heavy, quickly covering what tracks had been there and blinding them to the point of only being able to see a few feet in front of them. By time the night fell upon them once more, there was little they could do but huddle together under a tree and hope to make it through to the next morn. But even that hope seemed dubious. Malcolm could feel his father shivering fiercely next to him. It was hard to decipher if it was his father’s chattering that made his teeth rattle inside his head, or his own. To look at the man was difficult. Blue tinged at his lips and nose. Snow froze within his hair and beard, creating ice crystals that were hypnotically beautiful despite the bleakness of their presence there. At first the cold was painful. Malcolm’s fingers and toes ached with it and that ache moved through his entire being. But after a while the ache stopped, the pain subsided into nothingness. He had grown numb to the cold and was sure that was not the best sign. Beside him, his father too had stopped shivering quite as fiercely. The fire and fight seeming to leave his body as well. “Athair...” Malcolm whispered, his voice barely audible in the wind. Alasdair looked over to his son, hopeless and guilt ridden, for it was his idea to bring them out this far. A fool's errand that was quickly turning into each of their demise. “maighdinn dhomh, bhalaich.” Alasdair spoke, his voice hoarse in his throat. Malcolm wanted to tell his father, there was nothing to forgive. Both of them had decided to come out. Both of them wanted to find food, to try and survive, to live for the sake of their beloved family that had already perished. He wanted to convey that it was not his fault, it was no one’s fault. But all he managed to do was purse his lips in a line and give a nod that was barely there, accepting his fate. His father’s fate. Leaning into the older man, Malcolm pressed the side of his head against his father’s, in a gesture of support, love and camaraderie. His eyes closed for a span of time that Malcolm could not keep, it could have been meer moments or hours. When they opened again, he wasn’t sure whether or not he was seeing things or if he was even still within his own body or simply a spirit preparing to pass from one world to the next. A form moved towards him with ease in the ever growing snow with a grace that seemed quite impossible… inhuman. As it moved closer, Malcolm could make out the chestnut brown of his hair. It flowed over his shoulders, lose from a thong that could have or would have held it back. The flakes did not seem to melt quickly as it touched the porcelain skin, rather rolled off of it as the figure moved. For a moment, Malcolm wondered if it was perhaps St. Michael or another angel, coming to fetch them home. “Beatha, mo charaid.” The angel offered. Any delusions that it was a dream or even an accompaniment into the next world were broken when Malcolm heard his father’s raspy voice speak. “Cuideachadh, leigibh.” Alasdair pleaded with the stranger. “Dìreach aon.” Malcolm’s eyes widened at the words that fell so casually from the lips of the angel… man… Whatever he was. But even more so at the words that fell from his own father’s lips. “Mo mhac, an uairsin.” Alasdair spoke as firmly as his hoarse voice would allow. “Athair!” Malcolm protested, not seeing a point of going on without his father. Without the last remaining member of his family…. Alone.... “Sàmhach, mo mhac. Ma dh 'fhaodadh tu a bhith beò, an sin dh' iarr mi ort sin a dhèanamh. Oir tha gràdh agam agus tha mi air a bhith a 'fuireach gu math. Is e do ùine a-nis. Is e seo mo mhiann dhut.” Malcolm stared at his father for what seemed like an eternity, but he could see the resolve within the older man’s eyes and finally, pursed his lips and gave a stiff nod as his throat contracted painfully, holding back tears that burned at the back of his eyes. Without further adieu, Alasdair looked up to the stranger and nodded. The stranger stood there for a moment before speaking once more. “Tha prìs ann...” Alasdair assured the stranger that he would pay whatever the price was. If he wanted it in money or trades, Malcolm could take him to their home. He could wipe the out if he wished. But that was not what the stranger wanted or meant. Though he did not explain further once Alasdair offered to pay whatever the price was. Something in the stranger’s face shifted. It was not quite as peaceful and statuesque as it had been. The face bent down and moved closer to Malcolm and something within those eyes turned dark. Full lips drew back and sharply pointed incisors stared at him for a moment before a hand gripped his hair and jerked his neck sharply to the side. Malcolm’s eyes grew wide and he heard his own intake of breath as a realization hit him. This stranger was most certainly no angel. In fact… he was quite the opposite. |