Zach Smith (swk_zacharias) wrote in secrets_we_keep, @ 2014-05-28 16:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | may 2005, ongoing, zach smith |
RP: Waves
Who: Zacharias Smith
When: 28 May, 2005
Where: Cornwall
Rating: TBD
Status: Could be a solo; open if anyone would like to jump in
His bare feet hit the sand, slapping down in an even rhythm that complemented the neverending rush of the sea meeting the shore. Running cleared Zach's head, slowed the turmoil until he could ignore it completely. The beach brought him peace. He breathed deeply, the salty air entering his lungs and exiting in smooth exhalations. Running was easy now. It still did the trick. He ran until he reached an isolated stretch of sand, away from the travellers that were beginning to infiltrate the beaches of St Ives now that the weather was turning more pleasant.
Once he was mostly alone, he sank down onto the sand. A father and, presumably, his son stood a fair distance away, fishing poles in hand. Zach stared at them a long while, reminded of his father doing the same with him when he'd been small, remembering how very large his father had seemed as he'd wrapped his arms around him and shown him how to cast the line. His father had seemed so untouchable, so unflappable. Zach had assumed his dad had everything figured out, and would always be there to guide him.
Zach wished his dad was there to guide him now. But Darius Smith had died when Zach was eleven. Zach wondered if he would have confided in his father, had he been given the chance. He liked to think so. He liked to think that if his dad was still alive, he wouldn't be shouldering his burdens all alone. Wouldn't be stumbling along, trying desperately not to fuck things up any worse than he already had.
The full moon had been bad this month. Zach had been stressed, exhausted and irritated by the final push at Nimbus before the new Infinity was revealed. Press conferences, unveilings, gladhanding at Quidditch supply stores, appearances at matches. His shift had come early, swift and harsh and far too fueled by anger and pain. Those were always the worst moons, the ones when the man was subsumed completely by the beast, the ones when Zach lost himself completely. He had gotten himself out to the Hammett family graveyard, down into the tomb on his ancestors' land. He hadn't had time to chain and padlock the door.
He'd woken up naked and bloody, and the blood was not his own. The story in the local Muggle paper, buried in the back pages, said that a wild creature had ravaged some goat-herder's flock, not far from his grandfather's estate in Boscastle. Zach knew with a burning shame that he'd done it. He'd had the bank send over an anonymous cheque to cover the loss, but that hadn't rid him of the guilt he felt.
The full moon had fallen shortly after his birthday, as well. That had gone largely ignored, thank the gods. He'd been summoned to dinner with his mother and grandfather, and received a few owls from the few friends that could be bothered, but it had been a quiet day. Which was how he preferred it. He liked to age with little fanfare. Maybe then people wouldn't notice he was doing so much more slowly than was typical even for wizards. He was twenty five now. A quarter century. And who knew how long he'd live, so long as he didn't catch a stray bit of silver in an inopportune location.
What had finally pushed him over the edge, however, was the arrival of the owl with his grandfather's handwriting on it, a fancy, looping scrawl that Zach knew only as a harbinger of things he wouldn't like. Gawan Hammett was a commanding sort, every inch the Slytherin patriarch, and while he loved his daughter, and his grandson very much, it was sometimes difficult to detect any warmth under the exterior. Zach knew it was there. Knowing so didn't mean he was pleased to open an envelope that no doubt contained some sort of marching orders.
As it had turned out, the envelope had contained two bits of unpleasant information. The first stated that Zach, along with the other members of their family of three, had been invited and was most unarguably expected to attend, the Remembrance Gala at the Ministry next month. His grandfather had oh so generously allowed Zach to bring a date of his choosing, but Zach couldn't think who he would ask. Gawan found Quidditch groupies unpalatable, and Zach had pulled so distant from most of his friends that he doubted an invite from him would be welcomed. He had no desire to go at all. He hadn't been at the final battle, a fact that had escaped the notice of exactly no one. He'd had very valid reasons, but they were the sort he wasn't willing to share.
Briefly, he wondered if Brown had a date. Likely so, with the personality she had. With the bombshell looks she had. And she'd been attacked by Greyback at the battle, hadn't she? It seemed wrong to ask her to spend time honoring the day that had happened with another werewolf at her side, even if she didn't know that was the case. It was a no go.
The other news had been even worse, in Zach's estimation. His dog was failing. Zach wasn't sure the Artful Dodger could properly be called his dog any longer, since the Newfoundland had pretty firmly rejected him as the lycnathropy had taken root within his body. Zach didn't hold that against Dodger, though. And it was miserable to know the dog he'd loved as well as any human was living out his last days, and Zach couldn't even be there to comfort him.
What else could he have done, but toss down that envelope and run? Run from his flat out into St Ives, a city that was a refuge from pureblood family, filled as it was with Muggles and blue-collar sorts, and from there down to the beach, and from the beach to the isolated cove where he now sat? He'd sat there a while, now. The father and son had packed up their poles and headed into town. With a sigh, Zach reckoned he'd better do the same.
He stood, dusting the sand from his bum, and began jogging back the way he'd come. He was starving now, anyway, and could do with a pint and a meat pie or several. Ready now to deal with what had to be done, he began making a list, crafting it mentally to the rhythm of his feet on the wet sand. He'd need a suit, new shoes. And some dog treats, to send back to Boscastle. By the time he'd arrived back in the town proper, and pulled his t-shirt back over his head, he felt a little more ordered. A little more human, as much as he could anymore.