runaway_cub (runaway_cub) wrote in snark_n_bark, @ 2008-01-03 19:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | complete, faelan, harry, sirius |
Help Me Get My Feet Back on the Ground
Characters: Faelan, Harry, Sirius
Summary: Faelan makes a mistake, and the truth comes out.
Hunched over and shivering, Faelan puffed on his cigarette and watched the smoke whip away from his face in the frigid wind. It was cold as shite, especially up on the roof of the barn at Haven's Loft, where there was nothing to block the wind's full impact.
He didn't even smoke that much anymore, really; he was too busy between work, lessons with Gaius, art, and the goings on of the household, but something about being outside in the fresh, crisp air had made him crave a cigarette like he hadn't in ages.
Realizing how stupid it was to be staying out in the cold just for a smoke, he puffed faster and watched the clouds roll by. The sky looked like it was about to drop buckets of snow any minute, and Gaius had mentioned a storm was called for. But what to others would become just another wintry occurrence was, to Faelan, an artist's rare dream.
Frustrated by the obscured view of the horizon from the house's porch, he'd found an old ladder in the barn and climbed carefully up the slope of the roof to perch himself right at the pinnacle. Behind layer after layer of fluffy clouds were streaks of sunlight, cutting in gleaming beams to paint the tops of the trees in silvery light. High up in the sky, the clouds were nearly black, but lower they glowed in grayish pastels. In the distance, down in the village, smoke billowed up from chimneys like so many giant cigarettes, and in the fields beyond the outermost pub, a few goats stood huddled to eat in a makeshift shed.
It was too perfect not to draw, and he'd already decided to pick up a canvas in London so he could paint it fully, using his sketches as a guide.
Hair flying in his face with a sudden gust of icy wind, Faelan cursed, and decided to call it a day. Stubbing his cigarette out in an old pile of snow, he gathered up his sketchbook and supplies, sticking everything in the zippered bag Harry had given him for Christmas. It was a wicked useful gift, really. The bag was big enough that he didn't have to carry his ratty old backpack anymore, and when the zipper was pulled closed, it shrunk the bag and its contents down to a size no bigger than a deck of cards. He could carry it anywhere in his pocket now, and with a quick unzip, everything expanded to its normal size again. It was one of the very few magical items he owned, and deep down he thought it was way cooler than he would ever admit.
Sticking the tiny bag in his coat pocket, he levered himself to his feet with caution, stepping his way back over to the ladder. Gripping the tops of the sides tightly, he began to turn in order to climb down...
And promptly planted his foot right onto a sheet of invisible ice.
Slipping beyond recovery, he tried to grab the ladder to steady himself, but fell forward anyway, taking the ladder with him as he tumbled from the roof, plummeting to the ground in what felt like slow motion.
He hit with an impact that knocked the wind out of him, and he felt a tremendous pain in his skull. He rolled onto his side with a soundless groan, and the next thing he knew, small flakes of snow had begun to cover the ground all around him. Gingerly, he moved his arms and legs, aching so badly that he couldn't be sure anything wasn't broken. Once he felt sure he wouldn't do himself more damage by moving, he pushed himself into a sitting position, and was overcome with a nauseating wave of dizziness. Looking down, he saw that the ground beside where his head had been, as well as the splintered edge of the wooden ladder, was stained with blood.
"Fuck..." Reaching up, Faelan pressed his hand to the side of his head, grimacing in pain. His hand came away sticky, red, and shaky, and he knew he had to get into the house. But it suddenly seemed very confusing that he couldn't see the door, and his legs didn't seem to want to work. Finally, he made it to his knees and crawled his way from the barn to the side of the house and up the steps. Vision swimming, he realized a few moments later that he was inside, and he called out for Sirius, afraid that he would pass out again if someone didn't come. Unfortunately, he couldn't make his voice carry, so he tried to crawl a bit further to the staircase, then from step to step, and into the upstairs bathroom. He knew he needed healing, could remember the sound of the spell Sirius had used when Faelan had cut his hand in the kitchen... but he was helpless without a wand and a wizard who could use it.
"Help, help, help," he muttered, and fumbling, he pulled himself to his feet with the assistance of the toilet. Reaching into the cupboard, bottles tumbling over as he fished blindly inside, he came out with an armful of potions. It looked like they had labels, but he couldn't read them; the words swam and multiplied, and he sagged, feeling warm blood dripping down into his ear. "Moon..." he thought out loud, trying to remember... "After...potions...Sirius..." In his memory, Sirius pulled bottles out of his jacket, making Faelan drink before he gave him his clothes, picked him up to Apparate home...
What color? Not red, not yellow or green or pink...
Healing. What color is healing?
He held a light blue bottle, a dark blue one, and a purple. After a second of staring at them, the purple one fell from his grip, and that seemed like a pretty good reason to decide it wasn't the one. He was tired, too tired to make this decision, and while neither bottle was as big as his palm, the light blue one was slightly bigger. He needed a lot of healing. The answer seemed logical.
Un-stoppering the light blue bottle, he tipped it up, draining the contents in a few long swallows, and sank against the wall, waiting for it to work.