It's time for a swap! (roomsswap) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-06-08 21:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, plot: swap |
Who: 'Crane'
What: Reveal
Warnings/Rating: Sadness and magical panic attacks?
The moments leading up to morning were panic stricken, fleeing all too slowly like a bad dream, chased by something he didn't turn to look for. He was chased just as much as by the pounding knowledge that he had been found. The sense of unease had meant something. A branding had taken place, and he couldn't cut it away. Nameless and winding, hiding just under the surface for days. Those teeth and eyes snarling at him, ready to pounce - they were its face tonight.
But when he started awake in his own body, the deafening breath in his lungs and the pounding of his heart had been replaced by the shrieking of wind. He was inside the apartment again, still laying on the couch. The first nightmare blended seamlessly into the next as he jumped to his feet, moving away from the pursuer he had left behind already.
In the moment of transition from sleep to wakefulness he felt the itch of pain at his sternum and a blast of wind on his face, stumbling forward, eyes shut against the onslaught. It was like a tornado had hit the little apartment, and mist flowed up from the ground like it was sinking deeper into the ground, taking him with it. The basement windows were battered against their frames by a scouring wind, powerful enough to sweep the curtains from their rods. He ducked his head, swirling with fear and sickness. A bookshelf groaned and overturned, scattering and crushing its contents. Doors burst open, clattering against the walls, and something howled in the storm.
It died, then, abrupt as a cord plugged from the wall. Fear dropped out as something, somewhere, turned the power off.
Louis was tired, so tired. He forgot what he had run from, forgot the knowledge of something scarred onto his soul, forgot whispers over his shoulder and a windstorm that had come from nowhere on a clear morning to tear furniture from its places and slam open all the doors.
He knew nothing, only that he was tired, and that he ought to rest, darkness dropping down over his eyes like a veil. He sat down on the edge of the couch. Yes, sleep. Sleep would make the things he was already forgetting seem that much more like dreams.
Tomorrow he would remember none of this, but he would dream of eyes - wolf's eyes, and, too, the eyes of men.