Random writing no.1
Apr. 5th, 2007 08:37 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
wraithwitch.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
zg_shadowsMaking shit up as usual. Cam venue...
The girl who sat at the leather-topped desk in the imposing study was writing in a large foolscap journal as the oil lamps burnt and cast orange-gold shadows across the room.
She twitched suddenly and looked up, like a cat that had heard a noise it didn't care for. She frowned, her mouth opening into a little 'oh' of surprise, her eyes focusing on something unseen. And then she slumped her head to her hand on the desk and began to cry...
That was how Max found her ten minutes later, the sleeve of her white coat stained iridescent blues, golds and purples by her tears, a small and perfect picture of misery. He found it easy these days to know when Cinnamon's mood crashed because Wards 3-7 would always be put on immediate suicide watch. A person's moods were so much easier to gauge when resonated back by an entire hospital. He gave her a clean linen handkerchief to fret with and dye with impossible coloured tears. "What's wrong, Cinnamon?" he asked, crouching down beside the desk.
She didn't look at him, stared instead at the mess she'd made of her journal page. "Why do they hate me?" Her voice was tired and blank, absent even of the self-pity that should have saturated such a question.
Max tipped his head to the side quizzically. "Who hates you?"
He was given no reply.
He sighed. "People fear what they don't understand and what they can't control." He gave a weak smile. "And you, dear one, are both."
"I suppose they'd prefer me like I was before." A dangerous undertone crept into her words. "Weak and broken little victim girl, too mad to know green from Tuesday, shattered into so many splinters she was no danger to anyone..."
The Ventrue interrupted her, diffusing Bedlam's growing anger before it had a chance to ignite. "Well, personally, I rather like you how you are now. The conversation is just as stimulating and I don't have to sacrifice so many suits tending to your arms." Or jugular, or lungs or any other damn place you'd sliced up with those claws, he thought darkly, feeling an old but familiar stab of anger towards the Gangrel who’d taught her the trick.
"What have I actually done to them other than offer sanctuary and protect my own?" she asked quietly, and Max wasn't sure whether it was Cinnamon or Bedlam who spoke. "Those few who accepted don't trust me. They'll take my protection when they need it but mostly they just wish I'd go away – like something terrible summoned in an hour of need that doesn't have the grace to leave. Is that all I am?"
Max bowed his head and his long sleek hair slipped past the shoulders of his suit jacket and hid his expression. Cinnamon's gifts as a seer had always been accurate, but with the energies of Bedlam fizzing beneath her skin they became phenomenal. He wondered how much it cost her not to listen – not to hear the clumsy thoughts of every creature that lived in this bloody city. No wonder she always looked so tired.
"You're much more than that Cinnamon, you know you are."
She twitched like something that had just had its neck snapped and her eyes washed over blacker than the night between the stars. "Those who live more lives than one, more deaths than one must die," she quoted liltingly. "And we have been so many things."
Max recoiled ever so slightly. That was not Cinnamon – he didn't even think that was Bedlam, at least no face of Bedlam he'd ever known.
"The new world the old world, this world and that world," she rasped to herself. "The land of Kehm, the land of Nod, the land of the dead, the realm of shadow and the realm of Elohim. All these places and so many more and a splinter of me for each. One day, little girl, there will be a reckoning. One day you will run out of worlds as they blaze to ash in your wake. And our dying will take a long, long time."
Cinnamon's eyes blanched gold in an instant and she dragged the air into her lungs like someone saved from drowning. Her breath hitched in her throat in shock and then she was crying again, her fingers snaked in her ash-white hair, her palms gripped against her temples as if she feared her skull would explode.
Max winced, unsure how to comfort her. "Cinnamon, it's all right, please... Cinnamon...?"
"It's happening again," she keened. "It's like reliving a dream I never had and I can't stop it – couldn't stop it – could never stop it – there wasn't enough to hold up the sky. I tried to walk the path but no one ever listened and the city of diamonds was a lie!"
Max shuddered remembering the long and futile search for salvation she'd had, speaking with gods and receiving blessings from angels; hating herself more and more for failing to be some imagined holy paragon. Not that he was one to talk – he'd almost landed up in Hell.
She looked at him then, a horrified porcelain face marred with nacreous tears. "The star's come again – it's here again Max – and they're waking up – they're waking up! Midday at midnight and darkness at noon – the blood-dimmed tide is loosed and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned..."
The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity, he finished silently. Hadn't their kind been like that for centuries already?
Her voice cracked with mounting hysteria. "I don't even know Azrael any more – Anubis' children would kill me – I can't tell them – I can't tell them," she wept, curling in on herself, her words becoming more indistinct, a litany of Cassandra-prophecy.
"Cinnamon," he coaxed. "You don't know, you don't know what will happen..." his words were soothing but hollow: may as well tell the sun not to rise for all the difference it made.
"I-I want to go home," she whispered.
Max kept silent as he didn't know where home was nowdays – he doubted in truth that Cinnamon knew either. It was simply an ideal, a place of safety and absent of spite. He reached forward and embraced her, offering her the space within the circle of his arms; because that was the best he could do.
She quieted as he soothed her, holding her close and murmuring needful but meaningless phrases of comfort. At length she drew back, sniffing and sitting up straighter, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and streaking the shining tears into her hair so she looked like some mad cyber child.
Inwardly Max sighed: he recognised that look. She had come to some decision about the predicament of the world and decided to do something about it. "So?" he asked, unsure he actually wanted to hear her answer.
"I'll go and see the Children of Anubis."
"You will not!" Max snapped suddenly pale with rage and sick with worry. "You just admitted that they'd kill you on sight, how can you calmly announce that you'll..."
She looked at him, wise and sorrowful. "Being dead isn't so bad, remember?"
Maximillian did his best to forget; that was not a time of his lengthy existence he cared for. He glared at her, his blue-grey eyes cold and imperious. "And what about me? What about Jon, Merlin, Rebus, Cass, Bruce, Harlequin..."
She flinched away from the names he spoke, a fragment of the long list of those she'd saved: she couldn't stand its silent twin – the even longer list of those she hadn't.
"How many souls does this place house now? Five hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? What will happen to us all when you die, Bedlam?"
She shrugged unhappily, refusing to admit he might be right. "I'm only the Vessel..."
"And we need you," he told her brutally.
She looked at him and then nodded her head, a slight and grudging agreement. She rubbed at her eyes again and hooked her hair behind her ears, not exactly stable but no longer broken. "I have to finish my reports now, Max," she said quietly.
The Ventrue pressed his lips together; hiding behind duty and protocol was a move she had swiped from him and he didn’t much care for it. He didn't care for the dismissal either, but if he didn't take his leave then the room would just warp until he found himself locked out on the other side of the study door. He sighed. "Very well."
The girl who sat at the leather-topped desk in the imposing study was writing in a large foolscap journal as the oil lamps burnt and cast orange-gold shadows across the room.
She twitched suddenly and looked up, like a cat that had heard a noise it didn't care for. She frowned, her mouth opening into a little 'oh' of surprise, her eyes focusing on something unseen. And then she slumped her head to her hand on the desk and began to cry...
That was how Max found her ten minutes later, the sleeve of her white coat stained iridescent blues, golds and purples by her tears, a small and perfect picture of misery. He found it easy these days to know when Cinnamon's mood crashed because Wards 3-7 would always be put on immediate suicide watch. A person's moods were so much easier to gauge when resonated back by an entire hospital. He gave her a clean linen handkerchief to fret with and dye with impossible coloured tears. "What's wrong, Cinnamon?" he asked, crouching down beside the desk.
She didn't look at him, stared instead at the mess she'd made of her journal page. "Why do they hate me?" Her voice was tired and blank, absent even of the self-pity that should have saturated such a question.
Max tipped his head to the side quizzically. "Who hates you?"
He was given no reply.
He sighed. "People fear what they don't understand and what they can't control." He gave a weak smile. "And you, dear one, are both."
"I suppose they'd prefer me like I was before." A dangerous undertone crept into her words. "Weak and broken little victim girl, too mad to know green from Tuesday, shattered into so many splinters she was no danger to anyone..."
The Ventrue interrupted her, diffusing Bedlam's growing anger before it had a chance to ignite. "Well, personally, I rather like you how you are now. The conversation is just as stimulating and I don't have to sacrifice so many suits tending to your arms." Or jugular, or lungs or any other damn place you'd sliced up with those claws, he thought darkly, feeling an old but familiar stab of anger towards the Gangrel who’d taught her the trick.
"What have I actually done to them other than offer sanctuary and protect my own?" she asked quietly, and Max wasn't sure whether it was Cinnamon or Bedlam who spoke. "Those few who accepted don't trust me. They'll take my protection when they need it but mostly they just wish I'd go away – like something terrible summoned in an hour of need that doesn't have the grace to leave. Is that all I am?"
Max bowed his head and his long sleek hair slipped past the shoulders of his suit jacket and hid his expression. Cinnamon's gifts as a seer had always been accurate, but with the energies of Bedlam fizzing beneath her skin they became phenomenal. He wondered how much it cost her not to listen – not to hear the clumsy thoughts of every creature that lived in this bloody city. No wonder she always looked so tired.
"You're much more than that Cinnamon, you know you are."
She twitched like something that had just had its neck snapped and her eyes washed over blacker than the night between the stars. "Those who live more lives than one, more deaths than one must die," she quoted liltingly. "And we have been so many things."
Max recoiled ever so slightly. That was not Cinnamon – he didn't even think that was Bedlam, at least no face of Bedlam he'd ever known.
"The new world the old world, this world and that world," she rasped to herself. "The land of Kehm, the land of Nod, the land of the dead, the realm of shadow and the realm of Elohim. All these places and so many more and a splinter of me for each. One day, little girl, there will be a reckoning. One day you will run out of worlds as they blaze to ash in your wake. And our dying will take a long, long time."
Cinnamon's eyes blanched gold in an instant and she dragged the air into her lungs like someone saved from drowning. Her breath hitched in her throat in shock and then she was crying again, her fingers snaked in her ash-white hair, her palms gripped against her temples as if she feared her skull would explode.
Max winced, unsure how to comfort her. "Cinnamon, it's all right, please... Cinnamon...?"
"It's happening again," she keened. "It's like reliving a dream I never had and I can't stop it – couldn't stop it – could never stop it – there wasn't enough to hold up the sky. I tried to walk the path but no one ever listened and the city of diamonds was a lie!"
Max shuddered remembering the long and futile search for salvation she'd had, speaking with gods and receiving blessings from angels; hating herself more and more for failing to be some imagined holy paragon. Not that he was one to talk – he'd almost landed up in Hell.
She looked at him then, a horrified porcelain face marred with nacreous tears. "The star's come again – it's here again Max – and they're waking up – they're waking up! Midday at midnight and darkness at noon – the blood-dimmed tide is loosed and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned..."
The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity, he finished silently. Hadn't their kind been like that for centuries already?
Her voice cracked with mounting hysteria. "I don't even know Azrael any more – Anubis' children would kill me – I can't tell them – I can't tell them," she wept, curling in on herself, her words becoming more indistinct, a litany of Cassandra-prophecy.
"Cinnamon," he coaxed. "You don't know, you don't know what will happen..." his words were soothing but hollow: may as well tell the sun not to rise for all the difference it made.
"I-I want to go home," she whispered.
Max kept silent as he didn't know where home was nowdays – he doubted in truth that Cinnamon knew either. It was simply an ideal, a place of safety and absent of spite. He reached forward and embraced her, offering her the space within the circle of his arms; because that was the best he could do.
She quieted as he soothed her, holding her close and murmuring needful but meaningless phrases of comfort. At length she drew back, sniffing and sitting up straighter, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and streaking the shining tears into her hair so she looked like some mad cyber child.
Inwardly Max sighed: he recognised that look. She had come to some decision about the predicament of the world and decided to do something about it. "So?" he asked, unsure he actually wanted to hear her answer.
"I'll go and see the Children of Anubis."
"You will not!" Max snapped suddenly pale with rage and sick with worry. "You just admitted that they'd kill you on sight, how can you calmly announce that you'll..."
She looked at him, wise and sorrowful. "Being dead isn't so bad, remember?"
Maximillian did his best to forget; that was not a time of his lengthy existence he cared for. He glared at her, his blue-grey eyes cold and imperious. "And what about me? What about Jon, Merlin, Rebus, Cass, Bruce, Harlequin..."
She flinched away from the names he spoke, a fragment of the long list of those she'd saved: she couldn't stand its silent twin – the even longer list of those she hadn't.
"How many souls does this place house now? Five hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? What will happen to us all when you die, Bedlam?"
She shrugged unhappily, refusing to admit he might be right. "I'm only the Vessel..."
"And we need you," he told her brutally.
She looked at him and then nodded her head, a slight and grudging agreement. She rubbed at her eyes again and hooked her hair behind her ears, not exactly stable but no longer broken. "I have to finish my reports now, Max," she said quietly.
The Ventrue pressed his lips together; hiding behind duty and protocol was a move she had swiped from him and he didn’t much care for it. He didn't care for the dismissal either, but if he didn't take his leave then the room would just warp until he found himself locked out on the other side of the study door. He sighed. "Very well."
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