Broken Space

I have been here long enough now that my English has much improved, though I do not speak it so well as Ianto. And thought I am no braver than when i came, it is time to do some things I promised long ago.

Pursing my lips and gathering my strength, I head outside. Though honestly, this is as far as I had planned on getting. I don't go into the woods very often; I can't guarantee I won't get lost.

For a variety of reasons, Amelie is throwing a masquerade ball. It had not occurred to her until the later stages that this meant that she would be attending a party. Thankfully, she had found a suitable dress in the basement. Elizabethan, by the look (and feel) of it, but it had a matching mask. Both were light green and embroidered with gold. The mask also had golden feathers.

Of course, there were too few people here for her to be truly anonymous, but that hadn't actually occurred to her until just now.

She tries not to panic - breathing too quickly might make her faint - as she surveys the room. Food, music, and she had found flowers as well. Now all she had to do was hope everything went all right. And play matchmaker. And hope no one talked to her.

She took the biggest breath she dared to take. Should be easy.

Amelie is trying to be good. Well, to keep herself busy, at any rate. And so she finds herself sitting outside on yet another perfect day with a sketchpad and some watercolors.

Her painting is going very slowly, though. She had stuck in a rabbit and an armadillo, walking side by side on the beach, only they keep talking to one another about how Ianto had been so kind in welcoming them to the island.

With the pettiness of a someone who is sure she will be able to justify such things later, she paints over them both with black splotches. This doesn't shut them up so much as provoke the rabbit to say, "I say! It gets dark quickly around here, doesn't it?" And the armadillo to answer, "Yes. Shall we ask Ianto what people normally do here when it is dark?" The rabbit replies in the affirmative, and in her mind's eye, Amelie watches them badger Ianto into doing something for dinner.

Amelie decides she doesn't like art.

Fionchadd is not as bothered as some by the stagnation of time on the island. That hours blend into days that blend into weeks with scarcely a change is hardly strange to a citizen of Faery, and he keeps himself busy the same ways he always has (mostly sex and hunting, two things the island is no worse at than any other place).

Angharad, despite her small size, is as keen a hunter as the Sidhe, with a predator's instincts, and so when her head raises and her tail twitches like a cat's, Fionchadd is immediately interested.

The eoraptor leads him toward the bushes at a rocking, short-limbed gallop, and the Faery jogs after her. He catches sight of the tracks in the dry dirt just before she stops, squeals, and crashes into the leaves, where he can hear her rustling around--after an insect, perhaps, or a small rodent, for when Fionchadd drops to a knee to get a better look at the tracks, he knows that such small shrubbery would never hide that which left them.

"Oh, this is prey indeed!" he says happily. For he knows those tracks, left by a creature that even in full Power has given him more than a challenge to fight.

Manticore.

There was, Bright thought, something pretty cool about being able to have a New Year's party on the beach. He'd made a bonfire, got some brews, fired up the grill, and harassed everyone he knew into hauling a whole lot of food down to the main beach. His iPod was hooked up to some speakers Alec had gotten working again, and there were some towels and cushions tossed onto the sand for people to sit on.

Success was his.

"Happy new year celebration in progress!" he yelled. "Let the party begin! Who's got karaoke?"

[NYE party! Tag now/late/slow/whatever at will!]

It had seemed like fate that a large (Johnny estimated at least 15 foot) fir tree had appeared near Summerfell in early December.

"You know what this means, don't you?" Johnny had said to Robb.

His goodbrother, in atypical good humour, had replied, "Vodka distilled from fir needles?"

Which had only made Johnny cross. "No, medieval boy king, it means that Christmas is coming. And this baby is going to be a Christmas tree," Johnny corrected, patting the fir's branches fondly. "It's the perfect tree for the perfect feast."

Which is why, Christmas Eve, the fir tree is now decorated with garlands made from strung beads, and all sorts of ribbon, and homemade ornaments made from grass and sticks and stones, and small clap lamps lit with oil.

There's a large table with benches to one side, covered with partially eaten plates of food and drink, and torches and lamps strung around the area. There's a large fire, upon which sweetmeats are being roasted, and corn popped.

The only thing missing, Johnny would say, is music, but there's family, and friends, and plenty of Christmas spirit.


[Tag in! Carolers, I expect a thread of your own! Everyone else can come and go as they please.]

Since the Rift activity had slowed following the eradication of the zombies Ianto had taken the opportunity to set up what he'd been wanting for some time now.

An official archive.

He took over one of the storerooms and, like he had in Cardiff, he organized it properly, creating a master list of all artifacts, no matter how banal they might seem upon first inspection. Jack had taught him that. It might look only like an overly large marble, but it might, as was the case, turn out to be a Dogon Sixth Eye.

Currently, the so-called leader of Torchwood Five was sorting through another pile of recently collected Riftwood, as he'd named the items that slipped through the Rift without particular attachment.

"And what are you," he murmurs to himself, touching a brass coloured box with markings in an unfamiliar language about the size of a shoebox.

By the time Amelie is finished moving in the furniture, she's exhausted. She had meant to decorate Ianto and Finno's room in two days, painting the first day and decorating the second. But painting had gone faster than she had thought, and she had been so excited - and Ianto and Finno were still distracted - that she had decided to rush. So now, the walls are painted blue, with the trim painted brown to make it look like wood (if she got the chance, she would paint in grain), and there are old tables with old lamps and some lace and curtains and she had found a new bed set to match, and even though she's tired, she has to get the furniture moved into place before Ianto and Finno get home. She's rather looking forward to falling into the bath after this.

Oh, no. The bathroom. She sets down the figurine she'd been holding and moves cautiously to the other door. After a second's hesitation, she steps inside and looks around. Should she do this as well? Not today, obviously. But... but maybe?

Far beneath the soil, buried deep, there is movement--slow but sure, clawing toward the surface of the earth, inch by agonising inch. Dirt moves against bony, flesh-tattered fingers, ever further upward. And then--

Stone, a barrier, and instinct impulses movement, seeking along its surface. At last, an opening!

And from beneath the compound, beneath the dry earth of the island, the dead begin to rise and move.

It is September 1, 1997, and as Amelie Poulain walks down the street, plans are rolling about in her mind. She is going to be a better person, and she is going to make the world a better person. She has to find the boy who owned that box, first, and then... then... Well, she would have to take it from there, wouldn't she?

She wraps her sweater more tightly around her and wonders why it is taking so long to get to the fruit stand. She must have walked past it, but as she turns, she sees...

She whistles, one long, low tune. Hmm.