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[ open ] when you're barely breathing; while your heart's still beating
Who: Adrasteius; perhaps you
When: June 21
Where: Early morning - Lasker Cathedral; Night - Caissa; the House
What: it is his birthday and he will be sad and die if he wants to
Rating: rated a for angst
i. i'm so stubborn; that's how i got here;
[ This is not a cathedral of Light. The people of Lasker do not worship as he does, do not believe as he does, and their sacred house is like his own in design only. But it's better than nothing.
Adra walks--limps, really--down the aisles, leaning on his staff, feeling as tired as he ever has in his long life. His blood burns in his veins even so, a hot itch that prickles up and down his limbs, across his chest and stomach and throat. He's a walking desert; he's scorched to the bone. It's Midsummer, it's the day he was born, and he feels just about ready to die.
But he has to do a few things first.
Adra makes his way past the nave, past the transept. He stands before the choir. No one's really here yet; it's hours until the 8'o'clock bell, which suits him fine. There's just the altar, the stained glass, and rows and rows of unlit votive candles.
He thinks of the war, of their failure. He thinks of the corpses, civilian and soldier alike, their bodies twisted with agony, their lungs full of lightning and poison. The coagulated blood on their mouths; their ashen skin. He thinks of the people he healed, of the close press of the air in those train cars. The metallic and earthy scent of torn flesh, the sweat and the salt, the crisp ozone hiss of residual magic.
He thinks of the people he killed, and he thinks of his twin brother.
Adra waves his hand over a candle, lights it. Lights two more, then five or six after that. Ultimately, he just thinks, hell with it, and doesn't stop until every wick is burning.
Then, he sinks down into the front pew. He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead to the staff, and he prays. ]
Light give me strength. Bless me, Light, where I am. Bless him, Light, wherever he is. Keep us from harm. Keep us from doing harm. Bless us.
[ He sighs. ]
Give me strength.
ii. like a hurricane, it takes everything from me;
[ He's home, at last. It's early evening; outside, the sun's just setting, the end of a long, long day. Its warm glow suffuses his garden, turning everything to molten gold. Adra stands by the window in the kitchen, fingertips against the glass, watching. From his vantage point, he can see not only his blazing flowers, but the thin, foamy strip of sea just beyond. The waves shimmer as they rise and crash, brilliant in the fading light.
He feels dull and thin by comparison; he feels diminished. He presses his forehead to the glass. Everything aches, from his heart down to his joints. The ride home was agony. But he made it, somehow.
Pain pulses between his temples. He should drink some water, he thinks, but he doesn't move. He just stays right where he is, held up by will alone. He's sure that he'll collapse eventually, but that's all right. He's in his own place. If he's allowed to fall apart anywhere, it's here. ]
When: June 21
Where: Early morning - Lasker Cathedral; Night - Caissa; the House
What: it is his birthday and he will be sad and die if he wants to
Rating: rated a for angst
i. i'm so stubborn; that's how i got here;
[ This is not a cathedral of Light. The people of Lasker do not worship as he does, do not believe as he does, and their sacred house is like his own in design only. But it's better than nothing.
Adra walks--limps, really--down the aisles, leaning on his staff, feeling as tired as he ever has in his long life. His blood burns in his veins even so, a hot itch that prickles up and down his limbs, across his chest and stomach and throat. He's a walking desert; he's scorched to the bone. It's Midsummer, it's the day he was born, and he feels just about ready to die.
But he has to do a few things first.
Adra makes his way past the nave, past the transept. He stands before the choir. No one's really here yet; it's hours until the 8'o'clock bell, which suits him fine. There's just the altar, the stained glass, and rows and rows of unlit votive candles.
He thinks of the war, of their failure. He thinks of the corpses, civilian and soldier alike, their bodies twisted with agony, their lungs full of lightning and poison. The coagulated blood on their mouths; their ashen skin. He thinks of the people he healed, of the close press of the air in those train cars. The metallic and earthy scent of torn flesh, the sweat and the salt, the crisp ozone hiss of residual magic.
He thinks of the people he killed, and he thinks of his twin brother.
Adra waves his hand over a candle, lights it. Lights two more, then five or six after that. Ultimately, he just thinks, hell with it, and doesn't stop until every wick is burning.
Then, he sinks down into the front pew. He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead to the staff, and he prays. ]
Light give me strength. Bless me, Light, where I am. Bless him, Light, wherever he is. Keep us from harm. Keep us from doing harm. Bless us.
[ He sighs. ]
Give me strength.
ii. like a hurricane, it takes everything from me;
[ He's home, at last. It's early evening; outside, the sun's just setting, the end of a long, long day. Its warm glow suffuses his garden, turning everything to molten gold. Adra stands by the window in the kitchen, fingertips against the glass, watching. From his vantage point, he can see not only his blazing flowers, but the thin, foamy strip of sea just beyond. The waves shimmer as they rise and crash, brilliant in the fading light.
He feels dull and thin by comparison; he feels diminished. He presses his forehead to the glass. Everything aches, from his heart down to his joints. The ride home was agony. But he made it, somehow.
Pain pulses between his temples. He should drink some water, he thinks, but he doesn't move. He just stays right where he is, held up by will alone. He's sure that he'll collapse eventually, but that's all right. He's in his own place. If he's allowed to fall apart anywhere, it's here. ]
no subject
He just wants to do something good for someone. ]
Of course I did! [ Then, he looks a little sheepish. ] I'm still angry at myself for not getting you a housewarming gift so.
[ But that was that, and this is now. Opening up the drawer, he takes out a velvet box which is, sadly, not wrapped. But there's still enough mystery about the contents at least.
(It's a rather pretty fountain pen that Bolin had found.) ]
no subject
So he opens the box with a look of wonder, and that turns to a soft smile as picks up the pen, as he turns it over in his hands. ]
Oh, Bolin. How thoughtful ...
[ He murmurs, his eyes half-lidded. ]
Thank you.
no subject
Yeah! I remember how you had all that ink, and the writing in your journal is so pretty, so I thought maybe you liked writing.
[ He plops down next to the elf looking pleased. ]
I guess it’s not that original, but it looks really elegant—hey. [ He stops, peering curiously at the other man. ] Am I boring you? Are you sleepy?
no subject
[ He rubs his aching temples. ]
Bolin, you never bore me. It's just been a long few days, hasn't it?
no subject
[ They all have off days, but whatever had been fatiguing his friend seems rather relentless. He peers at Adra carefully. ]
Are you sick or something? Maybe you should go to a doctor.
no subject
No doctor here can help me. Don't worry about it, Bolin.
[ He glances at Bolin's anxious hands, and reaches to touch the top of his knuckles. ]
Don't concern yourself.
no subject
Then what is it? Some of that smog from the mages?
[ His shoulders rise slightly as he asks, bunching up from the tension. He's still high strung from the events of the train, easy to frustrate and get worked up. ]
no subject
[ Bolin's radiating tension, and Adra's too empathic not to feel it. His brother used to get like this sometimes. There was much angrier, more threatening quality to Aurelius's tension, of course, but the strained posture, the tight voice, the worried movements. These are all things Adra recognizes intimately.
He rubs the side of his face. ]
Try to calm down. It's ... a sickness.
no subject
[ It must be a relatively new development since he's never heard Adra mention it before, though he wonders when the other man could've contracted an illness. ]
no subject
About the past ten years, acutely. It's something shared among all my people.
[ He shakes his head. ]
An addiction to magic.
no subject
So... what does that mean? That you have to keep casting magic or something?
no subject
[ He frowns, because things are a bit different--and even more aggravating--in Enprise. ]
In Azeroth, I would drain small elementals of their energy, or draw magic out of otherwise inanimate objects. Here, the only way to satisfy the addiction is through this world's concept of 'exchange'.
no subject
[ He can figure that it would've been difficult for Adra, when he seemed so averse to physical contact, but the elf seemed to have become more trusting lately. Bolin doesn't think anything of it then, when he holds a hand out as an offering between them. ]