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a . griffiths (soundedfury) wrote in valesco,
@ 2015-10-23 11:28:00

Entry tags:

arista sykes, arthur griffiths, owl

Owl to Arista Sykes

Arista,

I just received the proofs from the photo shoot and wanted to say that

Artie sighed, sitting back in his chair. He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to write Arista about the photos, but he did, and he couldn't leave the letter unfinished. His gaze drifted toward the glossy photos splayed out across his small desk and his lips formed a small smile. Artie was sure that he'd never taken a picture he'd been happy with, but he had to say he was pleasantly surprised by how the whole thing came out. He gave Arista most of the credit, and leaned back forward, picking up his quill.

I doubt it would have come out so well if it hadn't been for you.

How is your extended off season going so far?

- A. Griffiths

It was only polite to ask, wasn't it? Feeling strangely satisfied, Artie rolled up the letter and beckoned Banquo, his small, dark feathered owl, so he could tie the letter to his leg.

"Take your time," he said with a gentle petting of the owl's head, knowing that the flight was going to be the longest he'd ever flown. Artie stretched across the desk and opened up the window, the warm Portuguese air gently breezing in as Banquo hooted and took off.

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Letter Dated 28 October 1986

thegoldfinch
2015-11-07 05:07 pm UTC (link)

She had sat down to reply to the letter every day for the last five days, and all that had stared back at her for the last four of them was his name, neatly printed.

Artie,

Every time she entered the little owler on the estate, the owl that had delivered his letter hooted at her in an unimpressed manner, fully aware that Arista was rudely putting off its master. Normally, the idea of being rude to Artie Griffiths wouldn't have phased her in the least, but now… After that photoshoot… Well, she was reading too much into the note, she decided. Best to just scratch a brief acknowledgment of receipt off to him and be done with it.

When you do enough campaigns, it's sort of second nature.

Naturally she had approved the proofs before they had gone on to be featured in magazines and posters and things. They did… look good, Arista could not deny that, nor would she have allowed them to be published if they had not. The aesthetic went very much against her cultivated image, which she had heard from numerous people, but the funny thing was that she didn't mind, really.

It's quiet here, which is a nice change, though shockingly not much to do once one has exhausted relaxing, etc.

Perhaps a little too quiet, in all honesty. With Saoirse and Miles gone and Hudson busy, things were starting to get a little lonely without the constant hubbub of practice to occupy her. She pressed her quill to the parchment, laid it down, picked it back up, and held it aloft for a long moment before scrawling hurriedly, as if trying to squeeze the words in before she changed her mind.

How are you finding Portugal?

-A.

Knowing the journey would be a longer one, she opened the cage of one of several Withers-Sykes estate owls, and attached the rolled up letter to one with caramel coloured feathers, crooning softly at it as Artie's owl was released as well. Climbing up the few steps to the large bay window, she pushed it open.

"I suppose you know where to find him," she told his owl, which gave her a nice long scratch along the middle finger as it took off, followed shortly by her own. Without another thought, she climbed back down from the window and latched it shut once more.

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Letter Dated 3 November 1986

soundedfury
2015-11-09 07:14 am UTC (link)

Josef Mattias had somehow managed to convince Artie to be his lifeguard that afternoon. While everyone else had gone to the beach, Artie and the five-year-old stayed behind for the pool. Artie, while he enjoyed the sun, wished that the beach came with a lot less sand, because no matter the precautions, it seemed to get everywhere. The itch of knowing that there was sand on his body ruined the experience for Artie, and it had been the mere thought of having to deal with the beach that had swayed him into joining Josef.

Which, turned out, wasn't too difficult of a thing to endure. The five-year-old entertained himself for the most part, and only requested that Artie join him in the pool for a game of catch. Catch and toss a quaffle pool toy? He could handle that, surely. The idle chatter that came out of Josef's mouth was amusing, as well, and Artie found himself thinking that he had not been able to enjoy his younger siblings at this age, that he'd spent a lot of time angry and jealous of them, for all the attention they received from his parents, attention that he had never been given.

Perhaps he didn't mind kids all too much, perhaps it was just the reminder of how much his parents hadn't wished he'd been born.

At any rate, they had been coming in from the pool, drying off on the hot porch, when the owl arrived. Josef grew excited at the prospect of post, and let out a great groan of disappointment as the letter was dropped in Artie's lap. He did not recognize the owl, but he did know the seal that adorned its neck, and he couldn't help his surprised. She'd responded?

Josef let out that he would go get a quill and parchment as Artie read the letter, nodding in dull response to the boy. Not only had Arista responded, but she'd inquired of his stay as well, and he couldn't be bothered to be embarrassed by his cheeks heating up at the lame thought that she was truly interested and that this wasn't simply protocol. Thank Merlin that his face was already crisp from the sun.

Arista,

Portugal is relaxing, but not really. Team practices are intense, and I have been staying with the Mattias family, who have three children. They're all very kind, but sometimes exhausting.

"Hey!" Josef exclaimed, as he had been reading over Artie's shoulder.

"Sorry," he said. The boy jumped from the seat on the porch couch to the floor so he could examine Arista's letter, which was unrolled on the small table Artie was using to write his response.

"Is she your girlfriend?" Josef asked, causing Artie to blanch.

"No! How do you even know what that means?"

Josef puckered his lips and made kissing sounds before running away with a peal of giggles. Artie had to put his quill down for a few moments to regain composure, and then set back to writing.

I would recommend taking the time to travel, especially as the weather gets colder in Scotland. ~~Do you have any friends who were sent to warmer locations?~~

Was he a friend who had been sent to a warmer location? Artie stared at the words he'd written, thinking that it could be all in proper etiquette and manners if he...though, it wasn't his...

I'm sure Adrian would love to have his seeker visit him, now that I think of it.

- A. Griffiths

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Letter dated sometime in November? LOL

thegoldfinch
2015-11-15 06:17 am UTC (link)

When she had read his letter, Arista's lips curled into a little smile imagining the fastidious Artie Griffiths with sticky children climbing all over him and shrieking for his attention. Personally, Arista was not really one for children (and they felt similarly about her), but the picture she had painted in her head was a funny one. When she got to his parting line, however, she did a double take.

Surely he didn't mean… come to Portugal? Adrian and she were not very close at all. She was already shaking her head slightly, sure she'd read much too much into his words. Then, as she sensed was becoming ritual, she tucked his letter away for the next few days to mull over a response.

Because surely he was not suggesting her coming to Portugal.

Like all her other days, she tried to keep to a schedule, keep herself busy so boredom and loneliness didn't send her out of her mind. Saoirse had returned after news of Louis Bonaccord's kidnapping, but even though her friend was back, a weight had settled heavily over that group of friends she often found herself on the periphery of. Understandably, of course, but it made her outsiderness all too obvious as they circled their brooms, metaphorically speaking, in the time of upheaval. So Arista focused on mundane tasks, amidst her rather rigorous training and therapy routine.

Once weekly, a box-load of parchments and assorted items were given to her to sort through. The fan mail, everything addressed to those who didn't know her private residential address, was sent to an official owl box in the Withers-Sykes Estate name. Every letter was given an official reply by her people on behalf of the estate, but on occasion, there were one or two she liked to personally respond to.

She went through the contents of the box diligently, putting aside nearly everything for her assistant to see to, until one in particular caught her eye. It was a very lovely drawing of her likeness from the latest Comet campaign—the one, in fact, with Artie. Every detail had been captured perfectly, rendered perhaps even better and more flattering than the picture itself had been. With just one small exception: her eyes appeared to have been gouged out.

Frozen at first, she could not look away from the chilling sight. Her mail was given a cursory glance through for security purposes, given previous but ultimately unfulfilled threats, but… more for physical objects, not the contents of her letters. At look, there didn't even seem to be anything wrong with the illustration. Knowing her hawk-eyed assistant would notice at once if she put it with the rest of the fan mail, she tucked it into a drawer in her desk and tipped the rest of the letters, unread, back into the box for someone else to contend with.

Instead, she ran a long, hot bath, and stayed in it until the water had gone cold twice. Wrapped in a towel, still pink from refreshing the water one last time, she undid the second towel around her hair and began combing out her prized locks, trying to avoid looking in the mirror because the sight of her eyes was suddenly unnerving to her. But the face on the other side chirped, "You need to get some sun, pasty," and she glanced up sharply at it.

Outrage was brewing underneath the prickle of fear, but when she managed to take a good look at herself, Arista realised that, insulting as it was, her reflection had a point.

That night, she pulled out Artie's letter again and read his last sentence for the umpteenth time more than she was comfortable admitting.

Artie,

Travel sounds nice, actually. Everything here just seems a bit… gloomy. I think getting away for a bit would be good. Miles Lufkin is in Morocco for the rest of the season, which sounds very beautiful and exotic and worthy of a trip.

Portugal sounds mysterious and exotic, as well. How are the Mattiases and their exhausting brood? In my experience, children are often jammy in addition to exhausting, which can be less than charming.
—A.

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Sent last night, 11/14

soundedfury
2015-11-16 01:26 am UTC (link)

It was probably not in good practice to disapparate merely with the thought of anywhere but here!

Also, it wasn’t a good idea to do such things without shoes on.

Artie had heard the door of his bedroom opening as his body pinched away into the night, and a moment later he found himself spotlighted by the moon, the only sound being the lapping of the sea on the beach. He looked down at his feet sinking into the moist sand as if questioning his subconscious decision, but it was easy to figure out. He’d been avoiding the beach since he had arrived in Portugal, but the avoidance wasn’t because he did not enjoy the beach, but from fear. Artie had not wanted to...behave poorly in front of the Mattias family, so though he really did want to enjoy the ocean, that he wanted to participate in the fun that they said he would have, he forced himself away.

Now, miles down the coastline and surrounded by cliffsides that towered high into the nighttime air, he stood stiff and alone. His feet sunk deeper into the sand with each lapping wave, and Artie could feel his nerves begin to spark, he felt the tingling in his skin that wanted him to jump away, to clean himself up, but...he pushed them aside. Shoved, forced the craziness he dealt with every minute of his life away with the anger he felt toward so many. Thinking this would not hold, that he would not be able to hold the demons back for too long, Artie tossed his bag away from the waves and pulled his shirt over his head before he ran into the ocean.

When he felt particularly dirty, Artie could find himself in the showers either at the stadium or his flat for ridiculous lengths of time. Scalding hot water had seemed to be the only solution to his troubles, and sometimes not even an hour’s worth of cleansing could help. So, he jumped into the ocean hoping it could wash away all the confusion he felt, all the anger, all the worries of what might come from this revelation of his true parentage.

After what was probably too long of a time drifting, Artie trudged back up the shore, hair plastered to his forehead, thankful that there wasn’t much of a breeze so that the warm night air could help him dry. He dropped into the sand beside his bag, thinking that now, it didn’t matter if his body itched, or twitched. Nothing was going to be the same, nothing was going to make things…right, no matter how hard he tried. He would have to deal with the changes, accept what agitated him the most, learn to live with all that plagued him.

With his head in his hands, Artie’s thoughts drifted and wandered as if they were still out to sea. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the ruffle of feathers or feel the presence of a visitor until it bit him in the shoulder. Artie jumped, and gawked at the sight of an owl, precariously perched atop of his belongings. Artie, for a split second, wondered if Adrian or Odette had managed to track him down here through the post, but the familiar Withers-Sykes seal adorning the owl’s neck brought a small smile to his face.

“I gave you treats last time,” he reminded as a quick scold of the owl, who simply turned its head away. Artie frowned and unraveled the letter. His eyes scanned her words quickly, and he could not say that he had been expecting...she did not exactly say that...but she didn’t say, either...Arista’s last line about jammy children made him laugh, and it was then that he realized he had not thought about Hamish MacFarlan, or his mother, or the craziness that was to be his new life, since the owl had bit him.

Arista Sykes seemed to have that effect on him.

He had to have a quill or---something, didn’t he? Precariously helping the owl off the bag and onto his laid out shirt (it would not touch the sand), Artie dug into his bag, thinking...Adrian had recommended he carry the tools for autographs, because while the crowds weren’t as crazed as in England, the Braga supporters were strong. Sure enough, he had a quill and some scrap parchment at the bottom of the bag. Artie attempted to flatten it out as best he could on the back of his bag, and scribbled a quick response before he could think better of it.

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soundedfury
2015-11-16 01:26 am UTC (link)

Arista,

The children are very sticky,

His niece and nephews, if he wanted to be more exact…

but they’re amusing and seem to like me, which is a feat upon itself. Adrian and Maggie are wonderful hosts, and I’m thankful they took me in.

Artie held the tip of his quill down on the period, causing it to blot. He felt a pang of guilt at running from the house, thinking about how Adrian had been so kind to him even before he had known...He felt a tightness in his chest and continued,

Odette MacFarlan is here visiting, which should lead to excitement.

(He couldn’t help but smirk at that)

Morocco sounds brilliant, I hope you make it there. I hope you can make it to Portugal, too.

He did, he most definitely did wish she could make it, and though it could all be made up in his head, Artie felt like with how his world had turned upside down in the last few hours he was allowed to believe in the small hope he had in his chest that the rush of excitement that Arista’s letters brought him wasn’t one-sided.

Stranger things had happened, hadn’t it?

I think I’d like to see you very much.

- Artie

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Owl to Adrian Mattias, weekend of the 14th

thegoldfinch
2015-11-23 04:56 am UTC (link)

I think I'd like to see you very much.

Well, Arista had put that letter away without a second thought. At least, that had been her intention, yet she still found her mind wandering to those few lines when she should have been otherwise occupied. There were few letters, made up of fewer sentences still, and yet… Arista felt as though there had been a whole conversation between the lines of their correspondence that perhaps they had not been privy too.

Or, she wondered dryly, was she perhaps just reading too much into a—colleague's polite words?

The days blended into a blur. Her schedule consisted of training, some event be it charitable or social or perhaps both, and promotional activities for the Comet Trading Company. To the best of her knowledge, there was no more illustriously terrifying artwork of her, nor any sort of reference to the ominous fan mail. Arista couldn't be sure if that was good or not, but she chalked it up to a one-time occurrence which, in spite of her feeling that there were eyes on her whenever she left her house, was never to be thought of again.

Until a few nights later, when, with a gasp, she shot upright, sticky with perspiration despite the frigid chill in the air. It took a moment for her to realise that, despite the black spots swimming in her vision, she could still see, and the warmth running down her face was tears. Not blood.

Breathing heavily, she tried to compose herself. It was just a nightmare; nothing more. The sweat had cooled rapidly on her skin, leaving her shivering and the blankets she pulled around herself seemed to have lost whatever little of her body heat they had retained. Knowing returning to sleep was a hopeless prospect, Arista wondered what to do with herself until her eyes fell on her writing desk, dimly illuminated from the little candle lamp by her bedside table.

I think I'd like to see you very much.

With her mind made up, Arista wrapped the bedclothes around herself and trudged to the desk, lighting the lamp on the tabletop. As she reached for the quill, she scrubbed a hand over her face and tried not to think too hard about the words she was about to put to parchment.

Dear Captain,

I hope this owl finds you well! Braga has been very exciting to follow since mid-fall.

Arista nibbled one thumbnail delicately as she looked at the brochure her travel agent had owled a few days prior.

I am writing to see if you will be able to receive visitors next week.

Did that sound as if she were asking to stay with him? Hurriedly, as if Adrian could somehow see what she was writing as she wrote it, she clarified:

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thegoldfinch
2015-11-23 04:57 am UTC (link)

Scotland is so terribly gloomy, and I thought what better way to cheer up than to cheer on my teammates around the world. I am staying nearby in Póvoa de Varzim, and it would be lovely to visit with you and your wonderful family again.

And now that she had knowledge of his exhausting, somewhat sticky children, thanks to their house guest, Arista felt much better equipped to deal with them and was therefore really not quite lying. The mere thought of Artie, however, had her neck flushing a deep, foolish pink, because she was about to do something rather stupid, wasn't she? She could write as many airy, conversational owls as she wanted, but she still felt as transparent as a jellyfish. And it would be suspicious, wouldn't it, to make absolutely no reference to the man also in the pictures plastered all over Wizarding metropolises with her?

And coincidentally, your new teammate Artie Griffiths and I have been corresponding for some time, since we---did that campaign earlier for the Comet Trading Company, so it would of course be nice to see him, as well.

Please let me know if I have the pleasure of calling upon you next week!

Scribbling out both the stiff and informal closes that came to her, she settled on one and neatly rolled up the letter.

All my best,

Arista

Before sense could dawn on her with the morning sun, she slipped out of her room, ensured the rest of the staff was asleep, and padded to the owlery to send off the letter. Arista knew she owed a letter to Artie, but she quite thought she had done enough foolishly impetuous things for the time being. Kissing a good night's rest good-bye, she grabbed her broom and took off through the bedroom window for a midnight fly.

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