cv (ephemeras) wrote in repose, @ 2018-05-04 22:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, atticus mcvickers, f eames |
[Dreaming: Atticus & Eames]
Who: Atticus & Eames
What: Dreaming
Where: Atticus' head, for starters
When: During this
Warnings/Rating: Nay
It wasn't anything new for Atticus. He hadn't been sapped by the haunts in a long time, but it wasn't anything new. In fact, it was old. It was something that had happened since his youth. He didn't remember it with any fondness, but he wasn't worried. Even before the darkness overtook him, he was calm. Had told Aiden and Nishka it was normal. Had no reason to worry. They'd put him in bed. Would be fine in a few days. Darkness had come. Wasn't precisely a dream. Was too dark for that. Was deeper. Maybe that was a better way to describe it, to say it was deeper. The house was an old brownstone. It was meticulously restored. The furniture was all Edwardian. Old velvet couches circled a sitting room with a dark piano in the corner. The carpets were lush. There was probably asbestos in the wallpaper. The stairs were brown balustrade and narrow climbing into a darkness that was unnatural. Were probably rooms up there, but they couldn't be seen. The door out of the sitting room boasted a stained glass window and a flower motif in red and greens. Was cracked open, the door. Beyond, a long hall led to a kitchen with bronze bells high on the walls. Placards displayed the names of rooms that corresponded to the bells: Martha's Room, Benjamin's room, Nursery, Sitting room, Gold room, Dining room, Library, and so on. The kitchen was dark, but the bells jangled often and could be heard in the sitting room. At the piano, a woman sat. She didn't play, and she was dressed in burgundy bell-bottoms and a silken white shirt with a bow at the shoulder. Her hair was blonde, so fair to almost be pallid, and she had an angular nose and delicate features. Her hair was loose, with thick bangs and feathering, and she read a book aloud. "Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, and splinters, and boards torn up, and places with no carpet on the floor -- Bare. But all the time I'se been a climbin' on, and reachin' landin's, and turnin' corners, and sometimes goin' in the dark where there ain't been no light. So boy, don't you turn back. Don't you set down on the steps 'cause you finds it's kinder hard. Don't you fall now -- For I'se still goin', honey, I'se still climbin', and life for me ain't been no crystal stair.” Her voice was refined. Her accent was the kind of accent that didn't exist, and that thereby existed. The words didn't belong to her. She was too fair, too young at barely 30. A bell rang in the kitchen, and the man that was spread in a comfortable slouch on the couch shook his head. "They'd tear her apart on Facebook," he said. His accent was slightly New York. He was olive skinned, and his curly hair was dark. He had a full beard and a full belly. He didn't seem surprised to have company. He wore a velvet shirt in navy blue, v-neck and displaying a fair smattering of dark curls on his chest. His pants were cream colored and corduroy. Somewhere, music played. The stained glass on the door shook and the door slammed shut. "It always does that." Next to the piano, the bay window was darkened by shades. "They always do that." The woman at the piano keeled over, face frozen in an increasingly blue-lipped exclamation of shock. "She always does that." He crossed his bare feet at the ankles. |