Hey everyone, I just wanted to tell you a few things before the fiction. First off, most of this is NOT my work. It is thoroughly based on Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven.The character Bill Kaulitz isn't mine ether. *sigh!!!!* The character Eleonor Von Kemplen is mine though, so you can't have her! haha. Also, I want to say a HUGE! thanks to Erin Russel for her thoughts on it. And a HUGE HUGE HUGE thanks to Christina Ballen (Zara01 I think....God I hope that's right, so many fangirls, so little time) for her fantastic comments and The name for the fiction. Hope you like it. Lurve, ME!
Also, I have another chapter for this, but its sorta humrous and goes off the deep end of whatever writing theme I had going on...
so erm, If you wanna read it give me a shout, and I'll send it away. just a thought
Stillness resounded in the lightly colored hotel room as the snow formed thick on the windowsill and reflections from the blazing fire flickered off the glass.
A tall, stately, man with ink black hair sat in a chair and stared into the flickering flames of the grand fireplace.
He was so quiet, so still, so utterly tranquil that you would have thought he was asleep had it not been for his deep, almond shaped eyes staring into the flames with an unsettling ease and the long, white fingers that were tapping on the arm of the chair.
His long black finger nails made a tick tick tick tick noise as they hit the coarse cloth.
The red and yellow flames reflected off his deep brown eyes and made them seem alight with passion and pain.
The wind blew harshly against the window as the man looked up from his gazing.
With a bang the window broke free of its latch and opened, as if someone had kicked it in.
The flames blew and hissed at him as he rushed to the window.
For a few heart stopping moments the man grappled with the window, the wind blew snow and sleet into his hair and eyes.
His fingers, already pale in comparison to many people, seemed ashen or even blue as they shook with the sudden coldness.
His sharply angled cheeks were a bruised red from the ruthlessly cold air.
Finley, with a thud the man shut the window and locked it tight, the wind still howling before his now sheltered eyes.
He looked out over the balcony and at the fury of the storm below him.
With a strangled cry he yanked shut the curtain and turned his back on the window.
For him, the silent, calm room was anything but.
To the man, the quietness haunted him with an unwavering passion.
He stomped to the door, checking the locks as he always did, simple paranoia could do that to a person.
He looked into the well lit hall through the small peep hole in the center of the door.
Nothing walked past.
With a quick step he found himself pacing back and forth along the length of the room.
This went on for quite a while.
With each step, he looked the same, head bent, arms clasped behind his back and eyes disturbed.
At last, with a sigh he stopped pacing and went back to his arm chair by the fire.
A large bag sat next to him; with a groan he picked it up and opened it.
It felt heavy on his lap.
Inside were nothing but stacks of paper.
Slowly he sunk to the ground. He took each stack out with a methodical hand, laying each in front of him with a reverence not often found for stacks of paper.
Soon, each stack was before him.
There were twenty seven and a half.
Some were thick, some were thin, and only one was half finished.
On top of each were two things.
The first, title a captivating, entrancing title.
The sort of name that at the mere mention of it catches your attention, like a child snaps his head towards their mothers voice, cooing their name and sweet words of encouragement.
And the last, a name.
Eleonor Von Kemplen.
Ahh! Such a beautiful name that the heavens did proclaim.
The man sighed and picked up a medium sized one and started reading.
Many hours later the man was still reading, although just hardly.
The sheer exhaustion of the day and night before was finally catching up to his weary soul.
As he nodded, nearly napping, suddenly, there came a tapping.
As if someone gently rapping, rapping at his hotel door.
Suddenly he jumped awake and looked around the room with wide, cautious eyes.
The flames from the fireplace had burnt down to mere embers; they cast their eerie glow on the ground and walls.
Oh! How he wished that he could go back to sleep, in the bed perhaps.
But he knew he could not, for he had heard the knock as well as you or I would have, had we been in the room of course.
"It's just a visitor." The man mumbled under his breath trying to calm his jittery nerves with empty promises of normality and rationality.
"It's just someone knocking not a Ghost or something weird like that."
Oh! How he wished for the morning to come, in vain he had tried to make it come faster. Make the night that was so desolate and confusing behind him.
From the books and stories he had tried to find peace, but instead he found an excess of sorrow, sorrow for his lost Lenore.
Sorrow for the rare and radiant girl whom the heavens had named Lenore, but now, now she would remain nameless forever, her name never being known, her very words never read.
The echo of the strange knock resounded around the room, seemingly going through the space like a breath of air.
With the sad, uncertain rustlings of each purple curtain, thrilled him, and filled him with fantastic terrors never felt before; so that now, he stood in front of the locked door saying the words, "It's just someone wanting to come in." said he over and over again. "Just that and nothing more."
His fear seemed to ebb away slightly and he waited no longer.
"SIR!" said he as he opened the door no more than half an inch.
"– or Ma'am." He added somewhat begrudgingly. "Sorry, but I was just sleeping when you knocked." No one answered, for no one was there.
The man let out a humorless laugh at his own paranoia.
Had it been only seconds ago that he had looked out the peep hole to assure that no one was there? And now he was speaking to no one!
Surely all that reading has turned his brain to a pile of over imaginative goop.
"IN FACT!" He said, bravado filling his voice, rising just slightly over the fear that had been there since he had heard the knock.
"That knock was so quiet that I'm not even sure I heard it!" With a large, brave yank he opened the door wide.
But what his eyes met were darkness, only this and nothing more.
All bravery went from his soul as fast as a bolt of lightning.
Why weren't the hallway lights on? Surely that was against hotel policy to turn the lights off, if not the law.
Fear washed down his spine like a cold splash of water and filled his veins like chips of ice.
Deep into that darkness he stood. Long he stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no hint of its depth.
The only word that was spoken was one off his own tongue.
For in that moment, he felt that he was a character in one of the many books, so unneatly settled between the arm of the chair and the half empty bottle of whiskey.
For this was something she would like.
This moment he was living in was something she would relish in.
"Lenore."He whispered into the darkness.
"Lenore...?" murmured an echo back the name.
The voice was not his, nor one of his many acquaintances, nor was it anything of this earth for which he stood.
With a resounding thud he slammed the door shut in shock.
He turned back into the hotel room, his soul burning with fear.
He sat down heavily and looked around for his drink.
He found it sitting atop one of the many stacks of paper.
He took a hasty drink, his hands shaking as he tried to calm himself.
Though soon he heard the tapping again, only this time somewhat louder than before.
"It's probably just something wrong with the window lattice." He said, tittering to himself. "I'll just take a quick look."
"It's just the wind," said he, "What else would it be?" he asked the darkness.
Thankfully, there was no answer.
With a slow step he walked to the window, tore the purple window curtains open, reached for the catch and threw the window wide.
This time, only a small amount of snow came in the window and at his face.
But with the snow also came something else.
With many a flapping wing, a large, black, stately raven flew through the window.
It flew through the window and past his head only to perch its self atop the armoire and look at him with large, black eyes.
And for some odd reason, this bird caused him to smile.
How odd was it that a bird fly through the window!
"I don't think I have seen anything quite like you." He said, looking up at the bird. "I wonder what your name is...."
And then, much to the man's dismay, it answered.
Qouth the raven, "Nevermore."
Birds did not talk! Of that much he was sure.
The man wondered at the bird, the talking bird who sat on top of the large dresser.
He wondered at his answer, it meant very little to him, but the word "Nevermore" seemed to have more meaning than it would appear.
The raven sat on the dresser and simply looked down at the man.
"Who are you?" asked he, "What do you want?"
"Nevermore…" said the raven once again in its most gangly and unfavorable, rough voice.
The raven, sitting lonely on the tall armoire, spoke only, that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
He looked at the bird, and the bird looked at him.
"Sure…" muttered he, "You're just repeating what some unhappy owner who decided to teach his bird that like an idiot!" The man laughed a low harsh laugh. "You're quite scary aren't you birdie?"
But the raven still caught the man's attention, not only did he catch is attention. But he fascinated him.
In his life, he had never seen something quite as odd as this.
Of course, it was probably just the alcohol and sleep deprivation talking.
Slowly, he smiled, a bitter smile, but a smile at that.
But as he slowly sunk himself unto the bed in front of the huge, ominous black bird he started to wonder.
Now, as you all now, most things that start as 'wonders' become something great and terrible.
A wonder is a great and wondrous thing. It can turn into something great and new, or it can fester beneath the surface and become something dark and sinister.
If there ever was a thing in the world that could not be stopped, it was not the ocean, or the day becoming night, or people or this or that and the next thing that come every day.
It is a wonder. A wonder cannot be stopped; a simple wonder could become the corner stone of a very, immense, idea.
What did this bird mean, when he said Nevermore.
What other meanings could that simple word hold?
Was there something sinister about it?
Or simply a bird talking?
Was it prophetic? Would something or someone become, Nevermore?
Was it in reference to the woman who was Nevermore to breathe, to hear, to taste, to love, to write, again?
Each thought that flew through his head seemed as unlikely as the next, but he couldn't help thinking such things.
As the man sat, perched on his bead, thinking hard with his eyebrows furrowed and his chin resting on his palm the bird sat still on the armoire by the wall.
Suddenly, the air became dense, perfumed with something unknown.
Ahh, how he had missed that smell, of Cranberry lotion and Orange oil dribbling down her chin.
That smell that smelled of love and home.
How he had wanted to smell that so many times before, never to smell it again while awake.
In his many dreams he had only had a whiff, a memory of a smell to dream by.
But this! This was striking and sudden.
He was sure that if he never smelled that again that he would be content to live out the rest of his days!
"BIRD!" he shouted. "WHAT DO YOU WANT!?"
The bird simply blinked.
"WHY DO YOU COME HERE? ARE YOU HEAVEN SENT OR SOMETHING EVIL?! WHY DO YOU COME HERE AND REMIND ME OF HER?! WHY DO YOU DO TAKE SUCH PLEASURE IN MOCKING MY PAIN?"
Such a feeling had never come up in his chest before.
Such an anger, such a pain, such a wondering.
Qouth the raven, "Nevermore."
At this he flew into a rage.
Body tense and eyes wild as he shouted. "THAT WILL BE YOUR GOODBYE! GO BACK TO WHEREVER YOU CAME FROM! TO WHO EVER SENT YOU! YOU'LVE TOLD ME WHAT YOU WANT! AND I DON'T UNDERSTAND! 'NEVERMORE!' WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"
The bird blinked slowly at the screaming man.
"AHHH! YOU BLASTED BIRD! SAY SOMETHING!" he shouted.
The slowly burning embers in the fireplace burst out in hot sparks of red and yellow as he screamed and raised a hand as if to hit the bird.
The man jumped and looked at the fire.
"What's the point of all this? What are you trying to tell me?!" He almost moaned as he curled into himself and wrapped his arms around his chest.
He had much expected the bird to say the simple words 'Nevermore' just to spite him (or lash out while spitting fire in a very dramatic way.) the bird simply, fluttered down off the armoire and next to the fire.
Slow the bird blinked at him, but the man did not look at the bird.
Instead his eyes were drawn to a small, burning piece of paper that sat next to the fireplace.
With a slow step he walked across the room and to the paper.
The wind rushed through the room as it had been for quite some time, causing him to become quite cold, even when standing in front of the now, burning fireplace.
Slowly he picked it up, picked up the paper that was chard and burning on the end and read the words that were written in an all too familure, loopy, feminine hand.
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting _____________________________________________________________________________________________
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Ende.
God, I hope you have a better time reading this, I swear, I was at the epitome of drama, writing fiercely, and my door, creaked shut. HOLY SHIT THAT WAS CREEPY!
Okay, thanks for reading! Review.