It is said that in the moments before a person dies, the air feels different; incomplete, heavy. A warning sent by none other than Death himself. Such theories had never much interested Elm Deadwood, who in honour of her name had never feared death – in all reality, it was being left behind that she feared, being left to mend the pieces of a broken life after someone else's time had ticked to an end. This was what Elm Deadwood claimed to fear. But in those last few moments as she watched her own death walk calmly towards her, shrouded in the barrel of a well concealed gun, Elm did not feel as though the air was at peace. She did not feel that its warning had come soon enough, as tangled fear enveloped her from the inside out.
She hadn't intended to die that day – beginning much as any other, she found herself falling through work, shopping, pub, home; her usual routine. But much unlike any other, her return home found Elm entering into perhaps the last conversation she would hold, with a complete stranger seated at her kitchen table, helping himself to a small sandwich and drink. It is usually considered safe to say, that when walking in on a stranger helping himself to food inside your own home, you do not engage them in conversation. Instead, you phone the police, leave the house and run for help, or simply batter them with a heavy object until they are rendered unconscious or lying in the arms of Death. All these things however, although presenting themselves fleetingly to Elm, held no interest, no curiosity, as the oddity of the situation gripped her tightly, threatening to engulf her – breaking through the humdrum melodrama of an average life existing in a purely average world. Nothing else at that moment seemed to matter all too terribly to Elm, regardless of the entity feeding himself on her food, other than what had drawn him here, to her kitchen, instead of some other home on some other street.
The prospect of losing such an opportunity was impassable – feeling her feet conduct themselves in a slow march, Elm approached the table, seating herself in the chair exactly opposite her mysterious intruder. She coughed; dusty, shocked vocal chords chiming against interest. She coughed again, louder. The balding man nodded, the air around him singing its warning.
'Who.. who are you?' a small voice, high pitched in involuntary uncomfortability. He nodded again, fingers twisting around the only remaining crust. Elm repeated her question, growing confidence morphing like white hot tendrils into inescapable anger and intrigue.
'Me? My dear I am not someone you want to know. Although I am afraid you do; quite inexplicably, too,' he raised his eyes, meeting hers for a fleeting moment, dark blue irises freezing the blood still pumping through her veins, forming frosted icicles over her heart.
'I don't recognise you,' tilting her head she examined his face – his head – the balding spot surrounded by ever receding hair – the fine patchwork scars coating his forehead – the hair pin mouth raised vindictively, loathingly.
'You won't,' he smiled further, lowering his head and organising the food in front of him; alphabetising the jars, closing the tofurkey packet. She watched him askance, willing him to continue. Finally looking up, his smile flashed higher, bared teeth visible through. 'I'm a man not of your past, but of your future – which I've decided to remove. You don't need it, and neither do I; therefore it is worthless to me,' Elm's features froze, her mouth, pulled purposefully into a delicate, polite smile faltered, dying on her face. The man dipped a hand under the table, returning it to its surface moments later, containing two objects. Elm rose to her feet – she staggered, heart pounding, thumping, pumping blood into her legs willing them, commanding them to move, the air now screaming out its warning, its ghostly, corpse-like mantra stinging her ears.
Upon the table now lay the man's two objects – a heavy wooden stick, mottled and weather-worn, lying peaceably by the side of a much larger weapon. It was from this that Elm felt herself recoil, its slick silver handle and slither-like trigger only too familiar. The pistol was aimed towards her, the line of sight ploughing, unforgiving, through the centre of her stomach. A thought cascaded over her mind – blood splattering over her kitchen, thick red liquid falling down her walls, warm as her heart to the touch, her body, long brown hair, black denim encased legs, pale bare arms flayed in exaggerated death. She flinched painfully, shivering as the man's hand rested over the handle of the gun, his fingertips curling lovingly around it.
'Now, now, don't try and run. It'll only make this last so much longer and I am a very busy man,' his smile gleamed at her, causing her stomach to twist violently with disgust.
'You're busy? Oh, well poor you. I'm so sorry to keep you waiting,' trying to find the nerves in her brain to move her feet, Elm glanced cautiously towards the door, hoping, praying. To no avail. No one came, no one sensed the danger.
'You are a good girl,' his smile widened, his eyes, deceptively kind though they were, glinted with a madness Elm could not deny. 'You'll make this easy for me, won't you? You'll let me – how do we say this – shoot you?' he toyed with the gun, flicking the safety on and off again, the gentle tick mingling into the flowing tune of Death's own clock. A robed hand, skeletal as the plague, wound its way through Elm's chest, clutching softly at the beating entity living within it, though she remained completely unaware. 'Or if you'd prefer,' he glanced at the table, his elfin smile elongating, revealing yet more perfect, white, sharks teeth. 'I could use this. I've been wanting to experiment a bit,' the man exchanged the pistol for the wooden stick, weighing it heftily in one hand.
'What-'
'What is it? Oh I'm sure you don't need to know that, my dear,' he stared at her, his pulse slow and steady, punctuating the silence of his mind, the delicate tick tick rhytheming throughout him.
'If you're not even going to tell me what you plan on killing me with –' her heart lurched, an invisible force, a skeletal hand, gripping ever tighter. '- then at least tell me your name. It's my – my dying request,'
'Well, then I must oblige. This is, is it not, a civilised society?' the man inclined his head, dropping his hand to his side, the wooden weapon clattering against his leg. 'My name is Avery Dormichael. Like dormouse,' the sweet smile returned, eyes locked to hers. 'Now, if you don't mind –' however he had spoken too late. A delicate hand, half the size of his own – however small they were – fell precariously over the gun placed against the tables shining surface, it's fingers closing like a vice. Elm had lunged for it, feeling her chin connect with the wooden surface. She fell to the floor. The man lurched forward, slow from surprise, reaching for her hair. Finding it he heaved, drawing a scream dry as bone from her lips before he crashed her face back down onto the table top.
'Stay still!' all semblance of calm vanished from his face, he raised his hand, the wooden stick pressing painfully into the side of her cheek, breaking the skin and calling ruby-like drops to fall down its end.
'What, so you can kill me?' he struck her, talon-esq nails extending from his hands, finding yet more blood as it washed over her skin, smearing into her makeup.
'I will not be spoken to like that!' he cried out, thrusting the stick yet again into her face, the ghosts of words on his lips. 'Avada –' Elm reached, her fingers connecting with the wood as she took hold of the weapon. Tugging desperately at it, she managed to twist it away from herself, before falling back, yet more talons raking this time over her shoulder splitting clothing and skin as though it were merely paper. She felt herself scream, hoarse and broken with fear.
'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' the strange man, so desperate to cause her death, stopped at the entrance of a new voice. Calm and assured, it entered the fray, gently releasing the corpse-like hand from around Elm's heart, easing the screaming voices floating against the air, drenching them with the promise of life. The absence of blood.
'And you are who, to be telling me what I should and should not do?' to this, the man merely smiled, his flame-red hair flickering as though a wick, beneath the glaring bulb above them.
'Oh, I'm no one you want to know. Ring any bells? Should be – would be if you had any sense. Well.. maybe it won't then,' he smiled wider, sliding a freckled hand underneath the opening of his robe, withdrawing a long wooden stick great in resemblance to that of Avery, only this one was made of light looking, pale brown wood, delicate symbols burned into its surface.
'Impressive wand you have there,' the stout balding man measured, taking a step towards Elm – strewn across the floor she felt herself fade, weaving in and out of consciousness – and away from the strange red-headed figure.
'Could be said,' he merely grinned, reminiscent of that of a Cheshire Cat. 'Or it could just be that yours is about as useful as a Niffler in a snow storm. You sure it can even perform that particular spell? What was it – Avada –' he raised his own 'wand', smirking evilly as the balding man cowered, spluttering for him to halt his words. 'Oh, you don't like that? Well, why don't you just run along and get out of here then. And bare this in mind – I'll be watching this girl. If you come after her again, you won't be so lucky,'
Avery nodded feverently, reduced to muttering, eyes half mad with fright. However, as he turned to leave, the mysterious red-headed man raised his hand – the one that remained empty cascaded down onto the older, shorter man's face, striking blood from his lip where their flesh connected. A departing gift, the red-head allowed Avery Dormichael to leave, turning his attention instead, to Elm. He crouched by her side, gazing gently into her eyes, dimmed and bleary. He smiled.
'Elm? Elm Deadwood? My name's George, I'm going to help,' with these words he placed his hands around her waist, hauling her onto her feet, catching her as she began to fall. They left the kitchen in silence, exiting onto the darkened street beyond, the whispered voices in the air merely murmuring, their warning no longer evident as Fate saw fit to flit a fleeting hand into the turning cogs of her brother's clockwork.
Author's note: My first chapter! I really hope you all liked it, but I am slightly worried as to whether it's any good, so any feed back via reviews would be so utterly amazing. Follows and favorites would be fantastic also, so please please please if you liked it, do! I've had this story partly written for around a year now, and only recently re opened and edited it, but have yet to continue. I'll probably only do so if I get some feedback, so don't be shy! I'm nothing like that pillock of a man Avery, I don't scratch! :) (I know, my humour's crap, sorry! hahaa). Anywhoo, I've rambled on enough, I really hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. - Siriusly.