InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Insouciant."

Pandora Montgomery (pandacharms) wrote in finnigans_rpg,
@ 2014-11-25 08:01:00

Entry tags:

character: orla quirke, character: pandora montgomery

RP: Triggered
Who: Pandora and OPEN

What: visiting the gallery triggers Dora unexpectedly

Where: Towpath Studios, Camden, London

When: Tuesday, late afternoon, November 25

Rating: NSFW (language, PTSD episode, flashbacks, etc. Possibly violence)

Dora was treating herself a little tonight. At least, that was the plan. She’d had to miss the Gala on Friday, since she’d had things she had needed to do and she’d not really felt like company outside of Tristan, who had been very understanding lately. Of course, it was a mutual thing, given their problems, and she never minded if she woke up because he had a problem. She had taken to putting a mild silencing charm on her side of the door, though, one which only the screams of a real night terror would go past, instead of just her normal nightmares.

It all seemed like it was getting more intense with the holidays coming up. This wasn’t unusual, it had happened last year. She’d hoped it would get a bit better this year, with her actually having some family around as well. And in many ways it was. Her waking hours were much calmer, and on the hwole she was much happier.

So this afternoon, after finishing one of the tents in the queue, she stopped for some sweets at sweet shop in Monument, stopped for some delivery on the way to the gallery, leaving Tristan a message so he’d know to look for it, and then went on to the gallery. It had been so long since she’d been to an art museum, she was really looking forward to it.

The artwork didn’t disappoint. Dora walked slowly around the gallery, stopping and just resting her eyes on many of the pieces. Some of the jewelry that broke up the other pieces were lovely, but it was the paintings that tended to draw her eyes the most. Back home—home as in the Montgomery country estate she’d grown up in—she had some artwork she’d started choosing herself from age eleven on up. A pang spiked through her at the memory, and a wistful feeling of longing for the many things she’d never have access to again, from jewelry to paintings to the antiques that were supposed to be hers one day.

She strolled, taking her time and trying to decompress after a weekend that she’d filled mostly with work. That was probably why it took her by surprise, those paintings lurking in the corner on the far side of the gallery. At first the dark, brooding trees drew her in, the moving limbs almost hypnotic as she moved closer to look at it.

The memory caught her offguard. The swaying limbs of the picture transported her to a clearing so much like that one that it took her breath away, the dark limbs against the sky filling her with dread. Because there was someone behind her, she knew there was; the soft cackle of Aunt Bellatrix filled her ear and goosebumps pimpled her entire body as she broke out into a cold sweat.

Breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t get enough air. Dora clutched at her wand, caught up completely in the memory, the urge to flee strong in her, but the fear locking her in place because she knew what Aunt Bellatrix and Uncles Rodolphus and Rabastan would do if she ran. They’d chase, they’d toy with her, they’d take her down and play with her until they got bored, and if they were in a good mood, they might just dump her back at the manor where she probably wouldn’t die.

Probably.

And Greyback… Greyback could be out in the trees. Waiting. He loved to chase. And then he’d leave her just alive enough to make her watch him punish her family. She had to protect them.

She gulped for air, feeling the cool breeze on her clammy face as she tried to be brave. To be as brave as Peri, with his Gryffindor mentality that made it look so damn easy. She’d always been so controlled in the moment, but these things… these things caught her offguard and showed her how terrified she’d been beneath it all at the time. It took away her control and left her helpless. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t fucking breathe.

With immense effort, she wrenched herself to the side, her eyes finally tearing away from the painting but immediately landing on another clearing, one that had blood in it, and she jerked back violently. She didn’t want to watch, didn’t want to see, no not watch don’t make me watch, Aunt Bellatrix, please. Imperio, Imperio, locked in place. Watch, little girl. Enjoy the show, it’ll be brilliant!

She lurched back a little farther, backed into a corner. Her elbow hit something hard, and the sharp pain jolted her into her normal detachment at such pain, but all that did was lodge her more firmly in the cascade of memories.

She turned, trying to leave, hyperventilating in a way she hadn’t done in over a year – in public, at least. She always managed to find a safe place to break down. But it had been so long, and it came as such a surprise. Sound, like an almost silent scream, whistled from her throat as she looked at the running figure through the woods, the running figure through the corridor. She reeled back, trying to breathe because if she could only breathe she could calm down and get out of here and freak out in a much more private place where she could hide in her closet and pretend she didn’t exist.

She ran into someone, and she whirled in an utter panic, scrambling back with a distinct lack of her usual grace. Her arms shoved at whoever it was, defensive rather than offensive when it came down to it. She was used to bearing down on herself so hard, with magic roiling around her and violence under her skin. “Don’t hurt me!” Sharp, breathy, high-pitched. “Don’t touch me! Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t make me, don’t touch me, don’t don’t don’t!” The words came out thready, and it was obvious that she was in distress, hyperventilating. Heart racing, she felt dizzy and sick and she needed, needed, needed to get out of here, before she died right where she stood. Remembered pain coursed through her, peripherally acknowledged in her detachment from it, and her Mark burned with a pain second only to Aunt Bellatrix’s perfect Crucios.

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quirkybeater
2014-11-25 08:01 pm UTC (link)

Orla's hands instantly went up when she was shoved, palms out in a placating way. Under normal circumstances, that would have been her reaction to being shoved by a random person. Off the pitch, she was not a fighter unless pushed beyond her limits. But given the words that came out of the woman's mouth, she was even less likely to react negatively. Whatever the reason for the shove at accidentally running into her, this woman was clearly in distress. "I won't hurt you," she said, voice calm as if talking to a frightened animal. And that's what this woman reminded her of, and her instincts told her not to make any sudden movements while her eyes quickly darted around, both to see if there were nearby reinforcements as well as to make sure no one else was too near and posed an unintentional threat.

"I won't touch she," she said, voice still calm, making it as soothing as she could. She inhaled slowly, held her breath for a second, then exhaled, keeping herself calm. There'd be no sense in both of them panicking or freaking out, even if a tiny part of her was a bit nervous. What had caused this woman to react so badly? Was it something in the gallery, or had this woman escaped some kind of custody? Maybe St. Mungo's had lost a patient. Maybe...

Orla took a few seconds to look at the woman, and part of her stiffened.

She knew her. It may have been years since the last time she saw her, but she knew her. They'd briefly been in the same room in St. Mungo's after... after she'd been saved from Azkaban. From what she could recall, they'd gotten along well enough, until Orla had found out she'd been a Death Eater. She may not have been directly responsible for her false imprisonment at fourteen, but, at the time, she hadn't made any distinctions from one Death Eater to the next. She had the Mark. She was one of his followers. And that was all she needed to know at the time.

Now, though... Pandora was having some kind of breakdown from what Orla could tell. And while a part of her recoiled at the thought of being so close to this woman, another part of her told that part to sod off. She closed her eyes, took another deep breathe, let it out, and opened them, calming herself and her features.

"Pandora? Can you hear me?" she asked, keeping her voice steady. "If you can, just know that you're safe. No one's going to hurt you." Ugh, what had the healers done for her when she'd been having a hard time? Orla wracked her brain trying to remember something, anything, that might help. "I promise, you're safe," she repeated, idly wondering just how fast she could reach for her wand if she absolutely had to. She didn't want to, but if it came down to it, she would stun the other witch and take her to St. Mungo's for her own safety. Lord, she really didn't want it to come to that.

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pandacharms
2014-11-25 10:56 pm UTC (link)

"Don't hurt them either," Dora said, eyes darting around without really seeing what was in front of her. Her gaze never settled on Orla, seeing instead things in her mind, threats that lurked in the woods. Blood, danger, threat, they better not hurt her family, not after everything she'd done. "That was the deal. Don't hurt them. I'll do whatever you want." The words tumbled out between struggling breathes. Her complexion was pale and clammy, like someone either ill or half a step away from fainting.

Her back hit the wall, inducing another surge of panic. Her heart felt like it was going to burst right out of her chest. Dora's hand rubbed her chest and throat, unconsciously trying to help herself draw breath. Magic sparked faintly off her hair, roiling and threatening to spill over though not seemingly in a violent manner.

She needed to breathe. Her hands came up and covered her eyes, a move that went all the way back to her youngest childhood. Always having been hard of hearing, it had been what she'd done to block out the world and center herself, even moreso when she'd lost more of her hearing. Her aides were still working, though, and she finally registered Orla's speech.

She peeked from between fingers at her. "Orla?" She said uncertainly, between shallow, inefficient gasps. Her eyes darted around again, registering more and not quite as glassy as the moment before. "Not... not at st mungos, am I?" That was a different terror, a different nightmare. She peered worriedly at the other woman through the faint stars speckling her vision, associating her at thr moment only with the place she'd really known her. "Don't let them take me there. Don't don't don't."

Her knees, weak already, buckled slightly and Dora sat down on the floor abruptly with a small sound of distress, but her back was safe against a wall even if those awful paintings were nearby, and her head was near her knees, prompting her to put it between them. She still wasn't aware enough to know her legs were akimbo or her robes rucked up in a way she'd be aghast at later, but Orla had made her a little more aware of her surroundings as opposed to her memories. She started to gulp down air, pulling everything back into herself. It settled her slightly, and Dora was able to stop murmuring about memories and start a quiet chanting count, starting in Latin for the focus it forced on her. She'd start backwards in French once she wasn't still caught up in a cascade.

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quirkybeater
2014-11-26 05:05 am UTC (link)

"I'm not going to hurt them," she said, her tone placating. "And I won't let you or them be hurt." She had no idea who Pandora was talking about, or what she seemed to be seeing, but it was the only thing she could think of to say in response to that. She didn't dare move closer, especially if Pandora thought she or someone else were truly in danger. That would just cause everything to go to hell, Orla assumed. But Pandora was responsive, at least to an extent, so that had to be a good sign. She wasn't sure if she was hearing what she was saying, and she couldn't make eye contact with the other witch, but her responding had to be a good sign.

At the sign of magic sparking off her, Orla decided she'd made a good choice in staying put, even if Pandora seemed to panic more at hitting the wall. If she felt cornered.... Orla would deal with it then. For now, she kept a steady eye on her, gently asking, "Pandora, love, can you tell me where you are? Can you tell me what you see?" A medi-witch had asked her that before. She couldn't explain why, but, for her, it had helped. She didn't know if it'd help Pandora, but there wasn't much else she could do.

When Pandora said her name, Orla smiled, lowering her hands slowly. "No, love. We're at an art gallery in Camden. I won't let them take you anywhere you don't want to go."

Her hands went back up when Pandora slid down, partially from surprise. She gave the witch another warm smile, internally shoving aside her own issues she had. She took a slow, deep breath, then slowly, quietly let it out, steeling herself. "Would you be alright with me coming to sit by you? I won't touch you. I can sit in front of you, if you want, so you can see me best." And so she could block Pandora, keep her away from any other patrons, keep them away from her, and keep them from seeing too much of what she would assume Pandora might not want seen under normal circumstances.

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pandacharms
2014-11-26 06:18 am UTC (link)

Her language had started out the crisp, bitten off Scots accent that was her norm around strangers. As her panic grew, however, it started to devolve into a much thicker Scottish accent that was more her norm, especially when upset. It had always been that way. When she totally lost herself she'd been known to go into Scots Gaelic, but she wasn't that far gone.

"Woods," she murmured, gaze unconsciously finding one of those paintings and she shuddered, a full body thing that was hard to miss. "Aunt Bellatrix. Blood. I hate her laugh." She spoke low and thready, eyes darting around nonexistent trees fearfully. "If I run, they'll hurt me. If I run, they'll kill Peri and Seph and Phillip just like they did Perseus. But I don't want to watch." Didn't want to participate, didn't want sick pleasure curling in her, or the shame she felt at it to show.

Her eyes flickered around Orla, trying to pull out of the memories with effort. It was often easier at home, mostly because she was used to it, and Tristan always knew what to do, or so it seemed at times. Breaths shuddered in and out, and she remembered the paintings, and hated them even as they had a dreadful pull on her mind. If she hadn't been to those places, she'd been to places just like them.

Pandora nodded without looking up, giving her permission to sit. For now she just focussed on pulling air in and out. She rested her head on her knees, her hands going to the back of her neck, wand clutched and almost forgotten in one of thrm. Her nails dug deep crescents into her skin, unfelt for now. She managed to start controlling her breathing, and the very beginnings of utter humiliation tickled at her. It had been so long, and never in London, that she'd broken down. Most of her lapses happened in private, or after Azkaban in Hogsmeade or abroad. "Heart's gonna pound outta my chest, fucking hell," she muttered to her knees.

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