Post by Moira ap Eiluned on Sept 24, 2012 12:51:47 GMT -8
When the vision finally recedes, Moira finds herself curled on the dirt, filthy, cold and aching. The last, final image is burned in front of her, and the endless sense of trying, trying to keep her balance spins in her head, causing her to stagger drunkenly down the now-light path. She finds her way back to the river; the need to be clean overcomes her, and she plunges into the icy river, using the sandy bottom to scrub at her skin, scrub away the failure, until her flesh is scraped raw. She comes out only when she can no longer stay standing against the current.
She crawls out onto the bank, over to her clothes. For a moment she stares, contemplates the immense effort of getting dressed, and gives up. She scoops her garments up and hauls herself painstakingly to her bare feet. They no longer hurt, but seem to be the wrong sort of blanched white color. Moira stares for a moment at them, trying to remember what her feet are supposed to look like, and gives that up as too much work as well.
On numb feet Moira stumbles back to the car. She doesn’t feel cold anymore, and somehow she thinks that this is a bad thing, though she can’t quite put her finger on why. Tea. She needs tea. Or Mountain Dew. Or Coke. Something. It takes her an untold eternity to get back to her car, and a second one to find her keys in the pocket of the skirt she is not wearing. She drops the keys five times before she gets them into the lock.
She tosses her clothes onto the passenger seat, and slides bonelessly down into the driver’s side. She reaches for the thermos of tea she brought, only to find it is empty. She blinks, confused, then vaguely remembers drinking it on the way up here after she had finished off the first cup she’d brought. Not good, not good, not good.
Moira turns on the car, and is blasted by a wave of cold air. She screams, a high, embarrassingly girly sort of scream, and bats at the dashboard until the fan goes off. She twists around to the back seat to retrieve the blankets that she rather abruptly remembers putting back there. She drapes them over herself and blinks owlishly at the console. Heat…on. High. Oh, wait, car has to warm up, right. She goes to pick up her cup of tea, and discovers again that it is empty. Damn.
The heat finally kicks in, but Moira practically whimpers as it sears her skin while leaving her bones icy. Finally she cranks the fan down and, buried under blankets, carefully starts driving home.
The drive is a road-hypnotized blur, retracing the route she drove in; she finally finds herself parking in front of Hans’ place without having quite decided that she was going back there. She clutches her blankets close to her; her hair is mostly dry but hangs in tangled snarls, her lips and toes are a faint blue, and her teeth chatter noisily. She opens the door and staggers in.
Hans is there. A feeling of relief flows through her, warm as Spring. “Ttttt- Ttttt- Ttttttea?” It takes Moira three tries to get the single word out through the shakes. Hans’ answer is matter of fact and somehow infinitely comforting in its unconcerned tone. “Kettle’s on the stove, and there’s soup ready.” A huge sigh of relief rushes from Moira, and she stumbles her way into the kitchen, blessing his calm pragmatism. He didn’t make a fuss, didn’t ask questions; he trusted her to know her limits, accepted the need for sacrifice in matters of the Dreaming…and then was there with exactly what she needed most afterward. Soup and tea!
Two bowls of soup and three cups of tea later, Moira was feeling much renewed. Her fingers and toes were still full of pins and needles, but the worst had passed and nothing seemed to be permanently damaged – physically, anyhow. The vision…well, she’d known that she wouldn’t like what she saw, and she didn’t. But now she had the information she needed. Whether or not she could use it to make good decisions…remained a thing of the future.
She crawls out onto the bank, over to her clothes. For a moment she stares, contemplates the immense effort of getting dressed, and gives up. She scoops her garments up and hauls herself painstakingly to her bare feet. They no longer hurt, but seem to be the wrong sort of blanched white color. Moira stares for a moment at them, trying to remember what her feet are supposed to look like, and gives that up as too much work as well.
On numb feet Moira stumbles back to the car. She doesn’t feel cold anymore, and somehow she thinks that this is a bad thing, though she can’t quite put her finger on why. Tea. She needs tea. Or Mountain Dew. Or Coke. Something. It takes her an untold eternity to get back to her car, and a second one to find her keys in the pocket of the skirt she is not wearing. She drops the keys five times before she gets them into the lock.
She tosses her clothes onto the passenger seat, and slides bonelessly down into the driver’s side. She reaches for the thermos of tea she brought, only to find it is empty. She blinks, confused, then vaguely remembers drinking it on the way up here after she had finished off the first cup she’d brought. Not good, not good, not good.
Moira turns on the car, and is blasted by a wave of cold air. She screams, a high, embarrassingly girly sort of scream, and bats at the dashboard until the fan goes off. She twists around to the back seat to retrieve the blankets that she rather abruptly remembers putting back there. She drapes them over herself and blinks owlishly at the console. Heat…on. High. Oh, wait, car has to warm up, right. She goes to pick up her cup of tea, and discovers again that it is empty. Damn.
The heat finally kicks in, but Moira practically whimpers as it sears her skin while leaving her bones icy. Finally she cranks the fan down and, buried under blankets, carefully starts driving home.
The drive is a road-hypnotized blur, retracing the route she drove in; she finally finds herself parking in front of Hans’ place without having quite decided that she was going back there. She clutches her blankets close to her; her hair is mostly dry but hangs in tangled snarls, her lips and toes are a faint blue, and her teeth chatter noisily. She opens the door and staggers in.
Hans is there. A feeling of relief flows through her, warm as Spring. “Ttttt- Ttttt- Ttttttea?” It takes Moira three tries to get the single word out through the shakes. Hans’ answer is matter of fact and somehow infinitely comforting in its unconcerned tone. “Kettle’s on the stove, and there’s soup ready.” A huge sigh of relief rushes from Moira, and she stumbles her way into the kitchen, blessing his calm pragmatism. He didn’t make a fuss, didn’t ask questions; he trusted her to know her limits, accepted the need for sacrifice in matters of the Dreaming…and then was there with exactly what she needed most afterward. Soup and tea!
Two bowls of soup and three cups of tea later, Moira was feeling much renewed. Her fingers and toes were still full of pins and needles, but the worst had passed and nothing seemed to be permanently damaged – physically, anyhow. The vision…well, she’d known that she wouldn’t like what she saw, and she didn’t. But now she had the information she needed. Whether or not she could use it to make good decisions…remained a thing of the future.