a . griffiths (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} soundedfury) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} valesco, |
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.