Mortals tat
Jan. 10th, 2008 04:46 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
kathminchin.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsPlease be aware unless you're Becky you don't know about this :o)
I hereby hold this up as evidence that Bethany at least does try to help.
“Okay, so this is me, asking for help.
I would say I was sorry if this comes across badly, but frankly niceties can get stuffed right now.
My father's dead.
Since there's absolutely no way in hell this was an accident, I've pretty much no choice but to assume it's in some way related to the fact I started hanging out with you bloody bunch, at his request. He knew something was going on, and now he's dead.
So, if any of you have any more contacts than me in the police or whatever and can set them to finding out what the fuck really happened...I'd appreciate it. I can put you in touch with the family lawyer doing all the investigation work so far if needed. Because I want some fucking answers, and I want whoever's responsible.
Felicity”
I read the e-mail twice, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The first reply had already arrived; from Dr Catherine Benedict. I glanced up towards Fliss’s desk and spotted her rather pale face frowning at the computer screen.
I could hear my Nana and Gran’s voices in my head (though fortunately not literally.)
“You have a gift. It is your duty to help those who need your help; only help that you can give. Never refuse; never tell them they’re wrong to seek answers. Just be ready for when the answers aren’t what they wanted to hear.”
I pick up my coffee, and wander to Fliss’s desk, waiting quietly for her to look up and acknowledge me.
“Sorry to read your e-mail.” I begin, once more awkward and self conscious. Why is it whenever I speak to this woman I feel as though I’m fourteen and covered in spots again…?. Fliss to her credit accepts the offered sympathy, but I can feel the rage and the unshed tears making her emotions vibrate.
We discuss things lightly, she’s more interested in telling me about a photo of an area which made her feel “wibbly” and where something tried to drag her into the world. Sighing I add it to me to do list. I wait for her to broach what I would think is obvious to me but she doesn’t. I’d leave it there, but I’ve always had a personal terror of what would happen if I didn’t offer – an image of my Gran storming u to me and castigating me for failing my duty.
“Most folks have asked me by this point.” I state rather bluntly. She looks confused.
“You know everything I do, it’s in the e-mail.” I sigh slightly.
“Flick, what do I do?” I ask. I don’t even get a rise from her for using the nickname she hates.
“But it happened in Tokyo.”
“Did he have a great link to Tokyo?”
“Not really, it was just business.” I explain about ghosts and fetters; stressing that he may not be a ghost. I ask if she can bring me something that held significance to him, and when she asks if she doesn’t count I smile slightly and point out that I can’t actually lift her up. She nods, and says she’ll ask her mother.
“I do know how you feel.” I end with. I’ve no clue why, it just slips out really. Fliss nods, and alludes to my sister. “No, my dad was shot when I was about six.. He was a Hero. His killers never got caught. I kept talking to them, and Nana worked out I was getting replies…”
Fliss gives me a slightly wan smile and thanks me. I leave her then, after teling her to wrap whatever it is in white silk, and to try not to handle it too much.
Occasionally I wonder if my Nana’s ways of doing things were just to add to the mystique.
I bring in my Nan’s ouji board the following day. Fliss brings me a small bundle which turns out to be a white silk scarf containing a silver St Christopher. I commandeer the meeting room and sit on the floor, the pendant still wrapped up in the middle of the board and centre myself before grasping the planchette.
The world of the dead is bone chilling cold. I cast out my call into it, trying not to shiver too much as it always upsets the audience. No I’m not shivering because I’m terrified – but because I’m freezing. I’m with Charles I about not letting this on.
No answer. Which either means he’s a: not a ghost, b: held somewhere or c: ignoring me.
I open my eyes and see Fliss’s expression. I can’t help but try again. I take a deep breath and gently touch the medallion whilst saying his name out loud.
Oh Jeez this is cold, it’s going straight to my heart and I can half fancy I can feel it slowing. And then wallop, the cold is gone, driven out by a sudden rush of emotions – anger as hot as fire, roiling anguish – the passions’ almost enough to make me throw up. I hear a voice, crackling as though it’s over a phone line with bad reception “It’s Your Time Mr Calthorpe” and there’s a mask; with some kind of heraldic crest on it. I scrabble for the paper and pencil by my right hand, clinging to the pendant with my left as I awkwardly sketch out what I see – shorthand notes of colour and creature in case my ability to draw is even worse than normal. I’ve seen this crest before, and image of a hallway and echoing footsteps – but that’s one of my memories and not this vision so I ignore it and let the images play on.
The voice is familiar, hauntingly so, I can only hope next time I hear it I’ll make the connection. There is a flash of a knight, connected to the voice, and he’s giving a command; but it’s to one of his superiors, or a master, someone of greater rank than he by far and yet it’s an order.
There’s a flash and I see the hallway again, and I realise it’s Fliss’s house. I can see Fliss standing there, oddly as old as she is now, and yet a young child at the same time. A woman with her … her mother stands with her; her voice gentle as she says to Fliss “Your father is going away darling. You know he has to go.”
I see her father, a man I have never met, but I know it’s him, shadowed in a doorway. Tears start in his eyes, and he tears the St Christopher off from his neck and suddenly I’m staring at the pendant in my hand; rather embarrassed to find I’ve gripped it so tightly that it’s cut into my palm, and the blood is seeping into Fliss’s white scarf.
Oh crap
I clear my throat, and tell her gently that he’s not a ghost. He’s passed on whatever that means and so can’t be called. I consider not telling her the rest …
And then my conscience pricks me. Damn me and my conscience. This is going to get me even deeper with the damn owner of this newspaper; and all I want is a normal life …
“But I did see something …” and I haltingly begin to explain what I did see; ending with “I could try again in your hallway if you like …”
I'm a glutton for punishment really.
I hereby hold this up as evidence that Bethany at least does try to help.
“Okay, so this is me, asking for help.
I would say I was sorry if this comes across badly, but frankly niceties can get stuffed right now.
My father's dead.
Since there's absolutely no way in hell this was an accident, I've pretty much no choice but to assume it's in some way related to the fact I started hanging out with you bloody bunch, at his request. He knew something was going on, and now he's dead.
So, if any of you have any more contacts than me in the police or whatever and can set them to finding out what the fuck really happened...I'd appreciate it. I can put you in touch with the family lawyer doing all the investigation work so far if needed. Because I want some fucking answers, and I want whoever's responsible.
Felicity”
I read the e-mail twice, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The first reply had already arrived; from Dr Catherine Benedict. I glanced up towards Fliss’s desk and spotted her rather pale face frowning at the computer screen.
I could hear my Nana and Gran’s voices in my head (though fortunately not literally.)
“You have a gift. It is your duty to help those who need your help; only help that you can give. Never refuse; never tell them they’re wrong to seek answers. Just be ready for when the answers aren’t what they wanted to hear.”
I pick up my coffee, and wander to Fliss’s desk, waiting quietly for her to look up and acknowledge me.
“Sorry to read your e-mail.” I begin, once more awkward and self conscious. Why is it whenever I speak to this woman I feel as though I’m fourteen and covered in spots again…?. Fliss to her credit accepts the offered sympathy, but I can feel the rage and the unshed tears making her emotions vibrate.
We discuss things lightly, she’s more interested in telling me about a photo of an area which made her feel “wibbly” and where something tried to drag her into the world. Sighing I add it to me to do list. I wait for her to broach what I would think is obvious to me but she doesn’t. I’d leave it there, but I’ve always had a personal terror of what would happen if I didn’t offer – an image of my Gran storming u to me and castigating me for failing my duty.
“Most folks have asked me by this point.” I state rather bluntly. She looks confused.
“You know everything I do, it’s in the e-mail.” I sigh slightly.
“Flick, what do I do?” I ask. I don’t even get a rise from her for using the nickname she hates.
“But it happened in Tokyo.”
“Did he have a great link to Tokyo?”
“Not really, it was just business.” I explain about ghosts and fetters; stressing that he may not be a ghost. I ask if she can bring me something that held significance to him, and when she asks if she doesn’t count I smile slightly and point out that I can’t actually lift her up. She nods, and says she’ll ask her mother.
“I do know how you feel.” I end with. I’ve no clue why, it just slips out really. Fliss nods, and alludes to my sister. “No, my dad was shot when I was about six.. He was a Hero. His killers never got caught. I kept talking to them, and Nana worked out I was getting replies…”
Fliss gives me a slightly wan smile and thanks me. I leave her then, after teling her to wrap whatever it is in white silk, and to try not to handle it too much.
Occasionally I wonder if my Nana’s ways of doing things were just to add to the mystique.
I bring in my Nan’s ouji board the following day. Fliss brings me a small bundle which turns out to be a white silk scarf containing a silver St Christopher. I commandeer the meeting room and sit on the floor, the pendant still wrapped up in the middle of the board and centre myself before grasping the planchette.
The world of the dead is bone chilling cold. I cast out my call into it, trying not to shiver too much as it always upsets the audience. No I’m not shivering because I’m terrified – but because I’m freezing. I’m with Charles I about not letting this on.
No answer. Which either means he’s a: not a ghost, b: held somewhere or c: ignoring me.
I open my eyes and see Fliss’s expression. I can’t help but try again. I take a deep breath and gently touch the medallion whilst saying his name out loud.
Oh Jeez this is cold, it’s going straight to my heart and I can half fancy I can feel it slowing. And then wallop, the cold is gone, driven out by a sudden rush of emotions – anger as hot as fire, roiling anguish – the passions’ almost enough to make me throw up. I hear a voice, crackling as though it’s over a phone line with bad reception “It’s Your Time Mr Calthorpe” and there’s a mask; with some kind of heraldic crest on it. I scrabble for the paper and pencil by my right hand, clinging to the pendant with my left as I awkwardly sketch out what I see – shorthand notes of colour and creature in case my ability to draw is even worse than normal. I’ve seen this crest before, and image of a hallway and echoing footsteps – but that’s one of my memories and not this vision so I ignore it and let the images play on.
The voice is familiar, hauntingly so, I can only hope next time I hear it I’ll make the connection. There is a flash of a knight, connected to the voice, and he’s giving a command; but it’s to one of his superiors, or a master, someone of greater rank than he by far and yet it’s an order.
There’s a flash and I see the hallway again, and I realise it’s Fliss’s house. I can see Fliss standing there, oddly as old as she is now, and yet a young child at the same time. A woman with her … her mother stands with her; her voice gentle as she says to Fliss “Your father is going away darling. You know he has to go.”
I see her father, a man I have never met, but I know it’s him, shadowed in a doorway. Tears start in his eyes, and he tears the St Christopher off from his neck and suddenly I’m staring at the pendant in my hand; rather embarrassed to find I’ve gripped it so tightly that it’s cut into my palm, and the blood is seeping into Fliss’s white scarf.
Oh crap
I clear my throat, and tell her gently that he’s not a ghost. He’s passed on whatever that means and so can’t be called. I consider not telling her the rest …
And then my conscience pricks me. Damn me and my conscience. This is going to get me even deeper with the damn owner of this newspaper; and all I want is a normal life …
“But I did see something …” and I haltingly begin to explain what I did see; ending with “I could try again in your hallway if you like …”
I'm a glutton for punishment really.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-01-11 01:49 am (UTC)Just sending the e-mail to Shek now.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-11 08:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-11 10:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-11 10:26 am (UTC)Like the location of the regnant who failed to tell a certain person that he was back and she had to find out from a post on the International ghouls list.
Oh and the location of the people who knew but who didn't tell her.
and erm... yeah.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-11 11:29 am (UTC)As far as Charlotte knows, no, her regnant isn't back. His granddad appears to be though ...