![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
http://users.livejournal.com/_crimsonearth/ posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsThis topic is such a big one - I couldn't pick one character - so I picked all of them. Snippets of the background story of each.
February 1984, Borzya
She peered silently around the edge of the parlour door, dark eyes surveying the crippled ruin of the man she had once called ‘Father’ slumped in the armchair by the fire, his grizzled brow furrowed in sleep. It had been thirty years, almost, but she had aged only seven in that time, while he had grown decrepit and grey, reduced to a shadow of the strong, proud man he had once been.
The sputtering out of the fire in the grate roused him from his slumber to find her crouched in front of him, eyes watching his expression carefully, anxiously, waiting for the moment of realisation. As his eyes drew into sharp focus upon her, he blinked rapidly, and shrunk back into his chair with rasping breaths, a mixture of horror and disbelief written upon his hard features.
She reached a hand out towards him. “A-tyets…” she said in a low voice.
“N-Natalya…” he croaked. Then his eyes widened and the panic set in, and he began scrambling, clawing at his chair, kicking back away from her. “Nyet! It cannot be – n-nyet! Back! Stay away!!”
She rose to her feet quickly, her hands spread out in front of her, palms open. “I’ve come home, Papa…”
“Traitor! Devil! Stay back!”
He stumbled to his feet, gripping the mantle with wild eyes as he drew the hot poker from the embers of the fire and brandished it at her. “You are not my daughter!”
“Please, A-tyets, let me explain…” But even as she approached him, she felt the Beast stirring in her gut.
“Devil! Fiend – you are not mine! Get out! Get out!!” And as he swung at her and a hot burn seared a strip of flesh from her chest, she felt the darkness descend upon her mind and the blood curdle in her veins as her fangs drew. Then all she remembered were the screams.
August 1993, Port Elizabeth
Robyn tugged the pillow down over her ears, trembling, and curled into as tight a ball as she could manage, tucked down between the dressing table and the bed. A door slammed and she nearly jumped out of her skin, but a moment later, in a flurry of white, her mother was wrapping her arms around her, and huddling down with her, pushing into the small space she had chosen to hide.
She curled her fingers around the sleeve of her mother’s dress and pressed against the warmth of her chest, an un-uttered whimper quivering on her lip. Shouts came in volleys like gunfire from the next room, followed by a deafening smack, the crack of bone on plaster. Robyn flinched sharply, and felt her mother’s grip tighten protectively around her ribs, bruising.
More shouts, pitch rising with volume, and another crash; this one shook the floor for a moment. A shattering of glass. Then another splintering blow, and a dull thud. They shook together in the gaping silence for a few moments, until a scrape outside the door kicked Robyn into a blind frenzy as the handle jammed down and the door flew open. She screamed – a shrill, useless scream that just made him angry every time, but she had not yet learned how not to.
He stormed in and grabbed a fistful of her mother’s hair, dragging her to her feet as Robyn continued to squeal, tears coming readily and filling her throat, eyes screwed tight shut as she felt her mother’s hand pull away from her shoulder.
“Whore!” he spat, and Robyn covered her ears to try and block him out.
“Please – don’t. Not in front of Robyn!” her mother pleaded.
Robyn opened her eyes to see a sheen of thick, bright red across her father’s knuckles, and digging her fingers into the mattress, she clutched the side of the bed and sobbed loudly, breaking into wails whenever her lungs would allow, unable to form words as he pushed her mother out through the door with a bruising blow between the shoulder-blades, and slammed the it firmly shut behind him.
December 2005, London
At four years old, sitting on the back patio, watching a worm she had just halved with a toy spade wriggle away, leaving half of itself behind. The smell of damp earth on her fingers; the closeness of the air – a storm coming. A blinding white flash and white noise followed by darkness.
Nine with her first stethoscope pressed to her best friend Amy’s chest. She frowned and listened, an expression of utmost concentration etched upon her face. “Yes, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” she declared brightly, “you’re definitely dead.” Amy burst into tears. White flash and the white noise. Then black.
Thirteen. Kissing Tommy Bray on the back seat of the school bus. Over-eager and inexperienced. He tasted like peanut butter and jam. Eva hated peanut butter. And one of his shoe-laces was undone, she couldn’t help but notice, as she turned her head. That niggled her. White flash, white noise. An ache in the chest. Black.
Twenty. Spring formal and a dress that rustled like leaves and was soaked with YSL Paris; duchesse satin in blue. Michael Emrys whispering in her ear behind the marquee, the scent of cider on his skin and her head swimming with vodka. White flash, white noise. And oh God, the pain.
All white. All noise. A stirring under her ribs and suddenly everything got dragged away: marquee, duchesse satin, shoelaces, peanut butter, tears, stethoscope, damp earth, toy spade; everything.
She opened her eyes to the three heads peering over her, and that bruising, stinging pain in her chest. “You’re back…” said a voice, sounding very far away, as the mouth moved slowly, out of sync, lowering the paddles back over to the trolley.
Eva blinked. “…How long was I down for this time?”
April 2006, Croydon
“I heard gunshots. I think someone’s been shot!”
It was a lie but it didn’t matter, it would be true soon enough. Vianne gave them the address and hung up as she crept on toward the back of the lockup, thankful that the moon was out of sight for the time being.
And then came the gunshot; just the one. Too late. She was too late! She tugged the camera strap off over her head and broke into a run, despite her better judgement. She slowed, quieted down as she reached the alley. She knew she was in a dangerous position but she couldn’t turn back, not now. She had missed it, but she was only moments behind. As she rounded the corner, she saw him, lying in a gathering pool of his own blood. Instinctively, she raised the camera to her eye-line, glancing about and seeing no one as she neared.
Click. A face wracked with pain. Click. The blood seeped further. Click. A twitch of the fingers. With a bullet to the throat she had been sure he was dead. Unmoving. She dropped gently to her knees. Click. A gaping wound. A rasping breath. Click. Click. Click.
“They’ll be here soon,” she uttered, guiltily.
Then she felt it against her shoulder-blade: the cold hard metal of a gun barrel pressed against her skin. Slowly, tremblingly, she lowered the camera away from her eyes.
October 2009, Nottingham
“I knew you’d come,” he said, peering down at her from the bough upon which he was crouched, swathed in darkness. “I always knew… it would be you who’d come.”
Nemoa’s gaze flicked up to meet his, the gentle swirl of ash giving him the scent of charcoal, not ill-suited to the moment. Her eyes filled with sadness.
“If I had come for that… I would not have worn this face,” she said softly. “Please… please just help me understand?”
He shook his head. “I know you. You would have worn a different face if you’d known one I would trust more, but in this case, it’s you. Yours is the best bait you have. You’re the honey trap.”
“I didn’t need to wear a face at all,” she bit back, resentfully. “I could have stayed invisible. Or sent someone else with what I know. There are a hundred things I could have done, please, I just… I can’t let you walk away. Not you too. Not without knowing why.”
His smug self-certainty crumbled away and he landed softly on the ground, a few feet from her, with a wary gaze. “I have to go back,” he said quietly. “Knowing – knowing what I know now… God, you can’t imagine the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done. And I didn’t even know. What I remembered…” he shook his head. “How was I ever supposed to make you understand?”
Her head dropped and a shy, shameful tear crept its way upon her cheek. “So… this is goodbye.”
He wavered, torn. “N-Nem… d-don’t cry. Please. You – you’re stronger than that. You don’t cry.”
She lifted her hands to her face and covered her eyes, feeling herself break apart as he watched her. A moment later, his arms were around her shoulders, pressing her head gently to his chest. “You… you are the only thing I will miss about this place,” he said softly. “You know?” He stroked her hair. “You’ve been… like… a light… in all this darkness.”
Tremblingly, she curled her arms around him in return and held him tightly for a moment, sobbing quietly. Finally, she lifted her head and pressed her cheek to his.
“You were the only one I trusted…” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” And as she sank the two blades swiftly and smoothly into his back, laced with poison, and felt him buckle against her with a cry, more tears came. “I’m sorry…”
March 2010, Paris
She lay in a sea of taffeta and tulle, in dark plum shot with ebony, laughter tumbling from her painted lips, lifting her pale chest, long devoid of breath. Her gaze danced brightly across him as he wedged the back of the chair under the ornate door handle, and flashed a beautifully wicked smile back over his shoulder at her.
His eyes were like wood-smoke as he prowled back across the room, shedding clothes like a snake sheds its skin, all the pressed, starched formality of society lying in crumpled heaps across the floor in his path back to her arms as the orchestra played outside and the voices carried on their clipped and vapid conversations just beyond the door.
He closed his hand tightly around her throat, over the velvet choker, forcing her chin up as she looked on him with lustful eyes. “Bleed for me, Sister,” he growled softly, his mouth a whisper away from hers. Her eyes passed back and forth between his a moment, a softness in her smile, before closing her eyes under a flutter of thick dark lashes. A slow, winding rivulet of red emerged from under his hand, and snaked its way down over her collarbone and curved across her chest.
Later, as he lay in her arms, her hands caught up in his hair and her limbs wrapped tightly about him, the heat fast diminishing across his body, she felt the familiar heavy tug of sadness pulling at her gut, stinging at her eyes, closing up her throat.
“Don’t go to England…” she whispered. “You’ll be miserable away from me. There’s nothing there for you…”
“I’ll come back. Before you know it I’ll be back,” he murmured against her skin. “And when I do, we’ll banish the Strix from France…”
“Everyone who leaves for England ends up staying there,” she demurred. “Everyone leaves…”
He lifted his flaxen head and offered her a casual, if slightly wry smile. “Darcy… I’m not him. I’ll come back. I promise.” And he kissed her, less than gently, to seal the promise soon to be broken.
February 1984, Borzya
She peered silently around the edge of the parlour door, dark eyes surveying the crippled ruin of the man she had once called ‘Father’ slumped in the armchair by the fire, his grizzled brow furrowed in sleep. It had been thirty years, almost, but she had aged only seven in that time, while he had grown decrepit and grey, reduced to a shadow of the strong, proud man he had once been.
The sputtering out of the fire in the grate roused him from his slumber to find her crouched in front of him, eyes watching his expression carefully, anxiously, waiting for the moment of realisation. As his eyes drew into sharp focus upon her, he blinked rapidly, and shrunk back into his chair with rasping breaths, a mixture of horror and disbelief written upon his hard features.
She reached a hand out towards him. “A-tyets…” she said in a low voice.
“N-Natalya…” he croaked. Then his eyes widened and the panic set in, and he began scrambling, clawing at his chair, kicking back away from her. “Nyet! It cannot be – n-nyet! Back! Stay away!!”
She rose to her feet quickly, her hands spread out in front of her, palms open. “I’ve come home, Papa…”
“Traitor! Devil! Stay back!”
He stumbled to his feet, gripping the mantle with wild eyes as he drew the hot poker from the embers of the fire and brandished it at her. “You are not my daughter!”
“Please, A-tyets, let me explain…” But even as she approached him, she felt the Beast stirring in her gut.
“Devil! Fiend – you are not mine! Get out! Get out!!” And as he swung at her and a hot burn seared a strip of flesh from her chest, she felt the darkness descend upon her mind and the blood curdle in her veins as her fangs drew. Then all she remembered were the screams.
August 1993, Port Elizabeth
Robyn tugged the pillow down over her ears, trembling, and curled into as tight a ball as she could manage, tucked down between the dressing table and the bed. A door slammed and she nearly jumped out of her skin, but a moment later, in a flurry of white, her mother was wrapping her arms around her, and huddling down with her, pushing into the small space she had chosen to hide.
She curled her fingers around the sleeve of her mother’s dress and pressed against the warmth of her chest, an un-uttered whimper quivering on her lip. Shouts came in volleys like gunfire from the next room, followed by a deafening smack, the crack of bone on plaster. Robyn flinched sharply, and felt her mother’s grip tighten protectively around her ribs, bruising.
More shouts, pitch rising with volume, and another crash; this one shook the floor for a moment. A shattering of glass. Then another splintering blow, and a dull thud. They shook together in the gaping silence for a few moments, until a scrape outside the door kicked Robyn into a blind frenzy as the handle jammed down and the door flew open. She screamed – a shrill, useless scream that just made him angry every time, but she had not yet learned how not to.
He stormed in and grabbed a fistful of her mother’s hair, dragging her to her feet as Robyn continued to squeal, tears coming readily and filling her throat, eyes screwed tight shut as she felt her mother’s hand pull away from her shoulder.
“Whore!” he spat, and Robyn covered her ears to try and block him out.
“Please – don’t. Not in front of Robyn!” her mother pleaded.
Robyn opened her eyes to see a sheen of thick, bright red across her father’s knuckles, and digging her fingers into the mattress, she clutched the side of the bed and sobbed loudly, breaking into wails whenever her lungs would allow, unable to form words as he pushed her mother out through the door with a bruising blow between the shoulder-blades, and slammed the it firmly shut behind him.
December 2005, London
At four years old, sitting on the back patio, watching a worm she had just halved with a toy spade wriggle away, leaving half of itself behind. The smell of damp earth on her fingers; the closeness of the air – a storm coming. A blinding white flash and white noise followed by darkness.
Nine with her first stethoscope pressed to her best friend Amy’s chest. She frowned and listened, an expression of utmost concentration etched upon her face. “Yes, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” she declared brightly, “you’re definitely dead.” Amy burst into tears. White flash and the white noise. Then black.
Thirteen. Kissing Tommy Bray on the back seat of the school bus. Over-eager and inexperienced. He tasted like peanut butter and jam. Eva hated peanut butter. And one of his shoe-laces was undone, she couldn’t help but notice, as she turned her head. That niggled her. White flash, white noise. An ache in the chest. Black.
Twenty. Spring formal and a dress that rustled like leaves and was soaked with YSL Paris; duchesse satin in blue. Michael Emrys whispering in her ear behind the marquee, the scent of cider on his skin and her head swimming with vodka. White flash, white noise. And oh God, the pain.
All white. All noise. A stirring under her ribs and suddenly everything got dragged away: marquee, duchesse satin, shoelaces, peanut butter, tears, stethoscope, damp earth, toy spade; everything.
She opened her eyes to the three heads peering over her, and that bruising, stinging pain in her chest. “You’re back…” said a voice, sounding very far away, as the mouth moved slowly, out of sync, lowering the paddles back over to the trolley.
Eva blinked. “…How long was I down for this time?”
April 2006, Croydon
“I heard gunshots. I think someone’s been shot!”
It was a lie but it didn’t matter, it would be true soon enough. Vianne gave them the address and hung up as she crept on toward the back of the lockup, thankful that the moon was out of sight for the time being.
And then came the gunshot; just the one. Too late. She was too late! She tugged the camera strap off over her head and broke into a run, despite her better judgement. She slowed, quieted down as she reached the alley. She knew she was in a dangerous position but she couldn’t turn back, not now. She had missed it, but she was only moments behind. As she rounded the corner, she saw him, lying in a gathering pool of his own blood. Instinctively, she raised the camera to her eye-line, glancing about and seeing no one as she neared.
Click. A face wracked with pain. Click. The blood seeped further. Click. A twitch of the fingers. With a bullet to the throat she had been sure he was dead. Unmoving. She dropped gently to her knees. Click. A gaping wound. A rasping breath. Click. Click. Click.
“They’ll be here soon,” she uttered, guiltily.
Then she felt it against her shoulder-blade: the cold hard metal of a gun barrel pressed against her skin. Slowly, tremblingly, she lowered the camera away from her eyes.
October 2009, Nottingham
“I knew you’d come,” he said, peering down at her from the bough upon which he was crouched, swathed in darkness. “I always knew… it would be you who’d come.”
Nemoa’s gaze flicked up to meet his, the gentle swirl of ash giving him the scent of charcoal, not ill-suited to the moment. Her eyes filled with sadness.
“If I had come for that… I would not have worn this face,” she said softly. “Please… please just help me understand?”
He shook his head. “I know you. You would have worn a different face if you’d known one I would trust more, but in this case, it’s you. Yours is the best bait you have. You’re the honey trap.”
“I didn’t need to wear a face at all,” she bit back, resentfully. “I could have stayed invisible. Or sent someone else with what I know. There are a hundred things I could have done, please, I just… I can’t let you walk away. Not you too. Not without knowing why.”
His smug self-certainty crumbled away and he landed softly on the ground, a few feet from her, with a wary gaze. “I have to go back,” he said quietly. “Knowing – knowing what I know now… God, you can’t imagine the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done. And I didn’t even know. What I remembered…” he shook his head. “How was I ever supposed to make you understand?”
Her head dropped and a shy, shameful tear crept its way upon her cheek. “So… this is goodbye.”
He wavered, torn. “N-Nem… d-don’t cry. Please. You – you’re stronger than that. You don’t cry.”
She lifted her hands to her face and covered her eyes, feeling herself break apart as he watched her. A moment later, his arms were around her shoulders, pressing her head gently to his chest. “You… you are the only thing I will miss about this place,” he said softly. “You know?” He stroked her hair. “You’ve been… like… a light… in all this darkness.”
Tremblingly, she curled her arms around him in return and held him tightly for a moment, sobbing quietly. Finally, she lifted her head and pressed her cheek to his.
“You were the only one I trusted…” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” And as she sank the two blades swiftly and smoothly into his back, laced with poison, and felt him buckle against her with a cry, more tears came. “I’m sorry…”
March 2010, Paris
She lay in a sea of taffeta and tulle, in dark plum shot with ebony, laughter tumbling from her painted lips, lifting her pale chest, long devoid of breath. Her gaze danced brightly across him as he wedged the back of the chair under the ornate door handle, and flashed a beautifully wicked smile back over his shoulder at her.
His eyes were like wood-smoke as he prowled back across the room, shedding clothes like a snake sheds its skin, all the pressed, starched formality of society lying in crumpled heaps across the floor in his path back to her arms as the orchestra played outside and the voices carried on their clipped and vapid conversations just beyond the door.
He closed his hand tightly around her throat, over the velvet choker, forcing her chin up as she looked on him with lustful eyes. “Bleed for me, Sister,” he growled softly, his mouth a whisper away from hers. Her eyes passed back and forth between his a moment, a softness in her smile, before closing her eyes under a flutter of thick dark lashes. A slow, winding rivulet of red emerged from under his hand, and snaked its way down over her collarbone and curved across her chest.
Later, as he lay in her arms, her hands caught up in his hair and her limbs wrapped tightly about him, the heat fast diminishing across his body, she felt the familiar heavy tug of sadness pulling at her gut, stinging at her eyes, closing up her throat.
“Don’t go to England…” she whispered. “You’ll be miserable away from me. There’s nothing there for you…”
“I’ll come back. Before you know it I’ll be back,” he murmured against her skin. “And when I do, we’ll banish the Strix from France…”
“Everyone who leaves for England ends up staying there,” she demurred. “Everyone leaves…”
He lifted his flaxen head and offered her a casual, if slightly wry smile. “Darcy… I’m not him. I’ll come back. I promise.” And he kissed her, less than gently, to seal the promise soon to be broken.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}