InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Sandstorm"

fear_cuts (fear_cuts) wrote in we_coexist,
@ 2015-01-17 22:41:00

Entry tags:

arya stark, erik, zz:status complete

Did anyone catch the number of that car? (Erik)
Everything hurt. Arya felt as though she'd been stomped by a horse and then thrown from a tall tree for good measure. Her head felt fuzzy. She groaned and opened her eyes, only to freeze immediately. This was no room that she was familiar with. It was beautiful. It made her think of Sansa and how much she would have loved a room like this. Her heart clenched and for a moment that hurt more than everything else.

Then it came back to her. Being somewhere new, being hit by--whatever it was--and being picked up by the strange man. Erik. Was this his house? Was there a maester here? Or a doctor? Whatever they called themselves? Whatever had happened between the morphene last night and waking up now, she couldn't just lie here until someone saw to her. Even if this place was safe, she knew nothing about it. Sliding out of the bed (and what a wonderfully soft bed it was--she'd never had a bed so soft as this) she limped painfully over to the fireplace, grabbing a poker. It would serve as a better crutch than Needle would, though she feared that she would be unable to use either as a weapon given how much it hurt to do so much as take a deep breath.

Arya made her way to the door and found it unlocked. She limped down the hall, her splinted leg and the makeshift crutch making it impossible to be sneaky.

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i_haunt
2015-01-18 06:27 am UTC (link)

It wasn't just empty; it hadn't been touched all night. The corners were perfectly squared, the curtains pulled back neatly, the comforter smoothed completely across the great expansive mattress... and though she was many things, his wife had never been so precise with her house keeping. Dread came to him in the form of a large and invisible hand, slowly squeezing his chest.

Erik threw open the double doors that led to the bathing chambers, next. There was no light, no moisture hanging in the air, no sense that his wife had come or gone through this room at all in the last few hours. He went to the shower she preferred and knelt on the cold tile, pressed his numbing hand down flat, and tested for water - just in case, just in case. When he stood, it wasn't just dread pressing in on the composer; it was also frantic desperation.

The closet was filled with his clothes. He tore them all out, heedless of the mess, as he tried to find a single silken dress, a solitary shining scarf. Nothing. Nothing. As if she'd never existed. As if he'd never had a wife. Rasping, metallic cries -- utterly devoid of warmth or compelling charm -- rang around him. He pulled out the last of his clothes, desperate enough to believe that he had just missed seeing something of hers. But no. No.

The rest of the house, next, then. He raced, barefoot and wide-eyed, from the suite of room he held with his wife. Tearing down the tiered staircases to the ground floor, he passed Arya blindly on his way into the kitchen. But the kitchen was as silent as the rest of the rooms, but for the sound of her name as he called for her. She wasn't answering.

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fear_cuts
2015-01-18 10:51 pm UTC (link)

Arya started at the sound of shouting. A man's voice calling an unfamiliar name. Erik, the man who'd helped her, sprinted by looking shaken.

Had he lost something? Someone? A person, or a pet? Perhaps he was just looking for servants. But he looked frightened. Arya began the slow process of stumping after him, too curious for her own good. On the bright side, she found the kitchen in the process and filched some fruit from a bowl set out. "Who's that?" Arya said, easing herself onto a stool and gnawing at the pear.

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i_haunt
2015-01-18 11:25 pm UTC (link)

Someone entered the kitchen behind him, and he whirled... As distracted as he was, he didn't immediately recognize the girl, and certainly didn't connect meaning to the nagging sense of wrong when he saw her leaning there. She wasn't Christine. She wasn't his wife. He ignored the pang of warning when he turned back around and slapped his hand into the empty sink. He could already see that there were no left-over breakfast dishes within, and he saw no spray of lingering water that would've indicated that Christine had eaten here this morning -- but yet he searched, not believing only his eyes.

When the question came from behind him, he tried to answer "My wife," but his mouth was still full of her name. He took a breath, raked his hands through his hair, and tried to calm down. He'd suffered before. He knew how to get through it. But this... This was wholly different. He hadn't lost his dignity, he hadn't lost his shame, he hadn't lost blood or tears or the ability to stand (again, the nagging warning - again, he ignored it); he'd lost the better half of himself. At last, he choked out her title - "Wife," - between mad thoughts that tried to explain why she wasn't here.

She could have gone to the Opera House, or out gardening, or shopping. But no, she'd have showered, eaten... No. Her clothes, her clothes - why were they completely missing? Erik's head hung low enough so that his chin touched his chest. He gripped the countertop as he stood in front of it. Did she have any secret suitors? God and all his damned angels knew that she could sway any man she wanted -- but no, no, he was certain she was faithful, and had never been given cause to fear. And even if she had abandoned him (and he wouldn't blame her if she chose that; he knew what he was).... Even then, there would have been something left over of hers. A hair brush in the bathroom. Toiletries that only she used. Dear God, how could she have moved all those clothes by herself in even a day?

It was as if she never existed.

"Oh God," Erik said.

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fear_cuts
2015-01-19 01:12 am UTC (link)

On her stool, Arya's eyebrows furrowed slightly as she watched him panic. She shrugged. So his wife had run off. Or died. People did that all the time. And it wasn't like Arya had anything to do with it. She finished the pear, winced as she got back to her feet, and returned to the fruit bowl. She kept her eyes on Erik as she took the entire bowl. If he became violent, if he blamed her, she would make him regret it. She could not swing a sword right now but she could see a dozen sharp instruments within arm's reach.

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i_haunt
2015-01-19 03:07 am UTC (link)

There had been rumors. He'd heard the same stories from others. He'd even read about the disappearances here in The City. This strange place had given him many things - a face, overt control over his Opera House, a manor designed as well as he could have imagined, and... Christine. But if this same entity that was The City had taken her away...

Movement and sound pulled him out of the miasma of grief and retribution filling his head. He looked up, and saw the small young one pulling a fruit bowl to her chest. Her eyes - he knew eyes like those, had felt the same wariness wash over his own tragedy of a face. Erik pulled in a breath and tried, tried.

"You should not be up, Arie," he said, his voice a wreck.

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	fear_cuts 2015-01-19 03:24 am UTC (link)
	"I don't like being locked away," she said, her voice tight with pain even around a mouthful of apple. "And I was hungry. Is your wife dead? Did she run off with someone else?" She took another bite, chewing loudly. (Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

i_haunt
2015-01-21 03:51 am UTC (link)

The suggestion that she had abandoned him --

It was not rational, given that he'd entertained the notion moments before, but Erik still glared at the girl for voicing the suggestion. The pain in her voice caught him before any logic returned, and he forced down the seething retort. In its place, he answered:

"No. It is the nature of The City. We are all called here without our wills behind us, and some of us are returned with as little a say." He swallowed, breathed, then swallowed again. She was gone. The vast, perfect voids where she and her things had been were very clear. She was gone.

His eyes lost their focus briefly, before he caught himself. Seeking anything to draw himself away from that great yawning loss, his roving gaze fell again on the girl. Her skin was pale from pain, mouth pinched; he knew that shade too well.

"Stay here," he said, remembering the wheeled contraption that had been brought to him after his surgery. Eric had too much pride to use it, but the thing was still in storage. Perhaps the girl could put it to good use. "Stay here," he repeated, as if he'd forgotten he'd said it the first time.

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