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lt_safe_houseTime: May 1st 2003
Place: Ground floor
Status: Public (Baraq, Trilby) - Complete
Summary: Immediately following this thread. Trilby and Baraq meet. Hilarity ensues!
He raises his head to the sky. The summer heat is palpable, a warm hand pressed against his forehead. Although he cannot see where he is, there is an impression of space. Open horizon, open sky, sunlight on long grass. This is a place where he can breathe.
A voice fills his being: It talks of patience, acceptance, forgiveness. He cannot tell if any words are spoken, but he knows he's been waiting to hear them for three thousand years.
Someone's fingers press into his shoulder, someone leans to whisper something in his ear. Barachiel turns around, smiling—
And then he woke up.
Barnaby sat up. He stared blankly at the opposite wall.
He could handle memories. Reliving his lowest moments almost every night had been humiliating, but he'd survived. He was good at surviving. As a matter of fact, he suspected it was the only thing he actually excelled at. But dreaming of a possibility...
"Don't kid yourself," he said to the empty room. "Possibility? Ha! Forget it."
In the dream, the voice had brought with it a well of deep calm and stillness. He had almost forgotten about it until it had been burned out of him. The dream had given him a taste of what it had been like.
He kicked away the blankets, suddenly restless. He'd left the window open again, letting in rain and an unusually violent wind. An unseasonable storm? Whatever. He had to get out, get moving—
And then he woke up.
"Oh, thank goodness." He covered his face with his hands, stifling a bubble of relieved laughter.
Beside him, a sleeping form twitched. He shook his head. "No, it's nothing. I just had this weird dream, I was in a hotel, and there were all these people, and I thought I was a..."
There was a sharp gust of wind, the smell of copper and rust riding on its back. He looked up.
The walls of the room were thin. There was no privacy in these cells: You could hear the other prisoners mumbling and talking and fighting (if they were "lucky" enough to have a cellmate) easy as anything. There was the occasional grunt of pain from someone nursing their injuries, a supremely pointless action. Hell's torturers were too good at their work. If they didn't want you to perish, you wouldn't, but neither would you heal if it was against their wishes.
This was where they put the ones of no use, where they could be safely forgotten about: The incompetent, the uncooperative, the mad—not crazy in interestingly cracked ways, these poor creatures had simply gone catatonic. Of the three, Baraq was not certain which he fell under.
He didn't belong here. Did he?
Pushing the thin blanket aside, he raised himself off the ground and immediately scraped his head on the low ceiling. He ducked, wincing, and recoiled. Splayed by his feet was a body, spasmodically twitching. It was unrecognizable, slashed to ribbons and cut open; its hair might have been blond before blood had darkened it.
He made a low, animal noise of revulsion and backed towards the cell door. By some miracle, it swung open.
He bolted down the corridor, his broken wings trailing uselessly behind him.
Place: Ground floor
Status: Public (Baraq, Trilby) - Complete
Summary: Immediately following this thread. Trilby and Baraq meet. Hilarity ensues!
He raises his head to the sky. The summer heat is palpable, a warm hand pressed against his forehead. Although he cannot see where he is, there is an impression of space. Open horizon, open sky, sunlight on long grass. This is a place where he can breathe.
A voice fills his being: It talks of patience, acceptance, forgiveness. He cannot tell if any words are spoken, but he knows he's been waiting to hear them for three thousand years.
Someone's fingers press into his shoulder, someone leans to whisper something in his ear. Barachiel turns around, smiling—
And then he woke up.
Barnaby sat up. He stared blankly at the opposite wall.
He could handle memories. Reliving his lowest moments almost every night had been humiliating, but he'd survived. He was good at surviving. As a matter of fact, he suspected it was the only thing he actually excelled at. But dreaming of a possibility...
"Don't kid yourself," he said to the empty room. "Possibility? Ha! Forget it."
In the dream, the voice had brought with it a well of deep calm and stillness. He had almost forgotten about it until it had been burned out of him. The dream had given him a taste of what it had been like.
He kicked away the blankets, suddenly restless. He'd left the window open again, letting in rain and an unusually violent wind. An unseasonable storm? Whatever. He had to get out, get moving—
And then he woke up.
"Oh, thank goodness." He covered his face with his hands, stifling a bubble of relieved laughter.
Beside him, a sleeping form twitched. He shook his head. "No, it's nothing. I just had this weird dream, I was in a hotel, and there were all these people, and I thought I was a..."
There was a sharp gust of wind, the smell of copper and rust riding on its back. He looked up.
The walls of the room were thin. There was no privacy in these cells: You could hear the other prisoners mumbling and talking and fighting (if they were "lucky" enough to have a cellmate) easy as anything. There was the occasional grunt of pain from someone nursing their injuries, a supremely pointless action. Hell's torturers were too good at their work. If they didn't want you to perish, you wouldn't, but neither would you heal if it was against their wishes.
This was where they put the ones of no use, where they could be safely forgotten about: The incompetent, the uncooperative, the mad—not crazy in interestingly cracked ways, these poor creatures had simply gone catatonic. Of the three, Baraq was not certain which he fell under.
He didn't belong here. Did he?
Pushing the thin blanket aside, he raised himself off the ground and immediately scraped his head on the low ceiling. He ducked, wincing, and recoiled. Splayed by his feet was a body, spasmodically twitching. It was unrecognizable, slashed to ribbons and cut open; its hair might have been blond before blood had darkened it.
He made a low, animal noise of revulsion and backed towards the cell door. By some miracle, it swung open.
He bolted down the corridor, his broken wings trailing uselessly behind him.
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