Sleepwake (Part 15/?)
For disclaimer, see Part 1.
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Natalia watched Hwoarang leave with his oblivious demon, a glint of sharpness in her eyes. Then she sighed, willing her thoughts to soften, and drew her gaze back to the girl. Even after so long, the unexpected meeting with Hwoarang had drawn fresh pain from her closing wounds. As for the . . . the being that had hung back in the dark corner of the room, taking instinctive shelter from her second vision-- well, Natalia could afford to take the precautions later.
She slowly lifted the girl onto a soft cotton mat, placing pillows under her neck and the small of her back. One inanimate hand was curled over an egg and the Natalia lay other hand open, palm up. Finished with her preparations for the moment, Natalia sat back on her calves, waiting, observant. It was easier to wake someone when the person wanted to awaken, and it was easier to persuade someone whom Natalia knew. The witch fanned out her mind, broadening her grasp. She sifted for impressions of a personality, or any flicker of mental activity.
Natalia's eyes stayed open while she cast her cognitive nets. The girl looked to be relaxed and sleeping, although Natalia had seen enough by now to know she wouldn't blink and sit up at only a firm shake. Her round face also divulged little by means of personality, beyond the fact that she was young, and blessed with attractive parents.
But now, the clothes. . . The frivolous bow accompanied by insane hues of pink, that told her something. The girl truly had a child's heart, and was either unashamed or unaware of it. Natalia's pulse quickened, just the slightest, as she felt a link work itself into materiality like a ribbon connecting the girl's mind to hers, a highway for the insight she would need to have. And from a hairline crack in the shell, it came: a feeling of roughness, the texture of stone dragged under her palm.
Natalia stared, her hand curling under her chin. The brevity and intensity of the sensation had startled her. The origin remained elusive when she tried to follow the feeling back to the person, but more fragments flashed by. They were coming faster, with exponential frequency: chill air drying her sweat; a spider above them that weaved on undisturbed by her gasp; fluorescent light, flickering and yellowed, hitting smooth armor; biting metal under her jaw; the inexplicable presence of the memory of a memory-- it was about flowing water; thin white needles spraying from the wall, the woman sinking, emptied, so much, wash it away-
Natalia found herself immersed in the dark. She was a little disconcerted; it'd never happened that fast before, but she ignored her apprehension and hoped there would be no more surprises. Natalia called on the greatest -- and sometimes, when she lay awake at night, replaying memories of failed attempts, the worst-- force behind her power. She drew on her compassion, pouring it into the black void, holding back nothing, erecting no barrier to protect herself because to do so would be to lose faith, to lose that all-important ribbon.
In a soundless voice more gentle than any she had been lucky enough to hear in her lifetime or could hope to produce outside of this dimensionless place, Natalia called to the girl, and urged her to return to warmth and candlelight, and to friends who worried. She was not entirely unprepared for the answer: a fierce wave of confusion, grief, guilt, and an anger that blazed even as it drowned.
Taken aback by the unexpected anger, Natalia was uncharacteristically inactive while she puzzled. There was no subtle sensitive way to learn the reason behind it, so she asked:
:: Why are you angry? ::
In response, there was pain.
:: Because you've been harmed? ::
A voice took the place of raw sensation, a voice even smaller than the girl's physical size.
not my pain
:: Whose? ::
Back to the wordless: the sting of guilt.
:: You are angry because you caused pain? ::
yes no we them I killed her
An image of a body, lying on its side, leaking like an upset bottle of expensive red wine.
A horrible sucking noise; moist, wheezy.
It must have been a chest wound, Natalia thought, recalling that there had been a shootout. Only a punctured lung would sound like that.
Another image, through the girl's perspective: the same corpse seen from sixty feet away, as she crawled to safety.
And then nothing.
:: What happened? After? ::
no after the same again over again then here this
Gradually Natalia understood. She had known other lighthearted people who became vulnerable to this darkness, misunderstanding it, misplacing the blame for its presence in their lives. The girl was so; she'd left behind a victim, but in a situation where she could've done nothing else. Her guilt, however, was blind.
Natalia told her this, not in so many words. She poured and poured --Not your fault. Let it go-- unable to clamp down on the fear that it wouldn't be enough. Sometimes nothing was enough. Some resisted, falling into their own self contempt. Some gave up too soon. The girl has to reach, Natalia thought, she needs to try. Reach for me. Let it go.
Her hesitancy unfolded then, a blackened bloom of confusion, but a relief to Natalia because it meant hope. The girl longed to leave, wanted it enough to act despite a tower of doubt, looming above them like Pisa.
:: I will guide you back. ::
to the brook? no I don't want to go back I can't it wants it calls
This new puzzle worried Natalia. However, she wouldn't be diverted from her goal. There was time for questions later.
:: Back to- ::
She wanted to say "back to reality" but at this point the girl didn't seem capable of distinguishing between the two; this transient and insubstantial locale, and the outer world. Natalia thought quickly, searching for a name she would recognize.
:: Back to Hwoarang. ::
A silence, an absolute stillness, and then-- then a flood of relief. Natalia was momentarily dumbfounded that anyone could associate this particular species of emotion with the caustic sharp-eyed sharp-tongued redhead she knew. Nonetheless, the witch had found her way. The darkness withdrew.
* * *
Xiaoyu opened her eyes, heavy eyelids only half cooperating. She couldn't see far in the limited, moving light of the candles, but that alone was enough to tell her what she wanted desperately to know. She was out of the cell. She would never let herself be put there again.
"Jin and Hwoarang," she whispered, her throat struggling with thirst and the long lack of use, "Did they make it out?"
"Shh, they're safe," said a voice that sounded both familiar and new, as a bowl was brought to Xiaoyu's greedy mouth. She drank deeply, draining the bowl too soon.
"Rest."
Xiaoyu was already asleep.
* * *
"Half dance club, half hotel," Hwoarang pondered aloud, wondering whose idea it was. Probably Natalia's, seeing how Mike was possibly too dimwitted and too naïve to even understand why the dancers would flock to hotels.
"Which one are you taking?" asked Jin.
Hwoarang shrugged. He knocked on the door immediately to his right and, hearing no groan of irritation from within, said, "This one."
"I'll take this one then." Jin walked through the open door opposite to his and closed it behind him, presumably to fling himself onto the bed in complete darkness.
Hwoarang remained in the hallway, his gaze burning into the carpet, a hand absently resting on the doorknob to his room. Random thoughts presented themselves for his not-quite-sound judgement. This shade of maroon didn't match the mint walls. Had he left the burner on at home? Donahue could benefit from some Prozac. Who knows, he was an older man, maybe Viagra too. It was a while before Hwoarang shook himself out of his stupor and rubbed vigorously at his face. Sleep. He was tired, and the thought should have been tantalizing, but felt instead like a chore, a task he needed to complete in order to function efficiently once again. Hwoarang looked down, almost surprised that the doorknob was already in his hand. He turned it.
Jin's door opened, and his face popped out, slightly red.
"I- I should've thanked you. So. . . thanks."
"What?" Hwoarang tried not to yawn. He failed.
"You've done a lot to help us, Hwoarang. I'm- in your debt."
Hwoarang stared at Jin. He wasn't up to being gracious, but recognized both the badly-veiled discomfort and also the earnesty. He waved him away.
"Yeah, yeah, Kazama. Remember that the next time you're cursing me behind my back. Or to my face. Whatever. Just let me sleep."
Reluctantly, Jin returned to his room, and Hwoarang unceremoniously entered his, threw a pillow from the bed onto the floor, and collapsed onto it face first. Hotel beds were always too damn soft. He hoped somebody had vacuumed.
.
.
Author's notes:
I know, earnesty's not a word. I'm frustrated and grumpy and earnestness pales infinitely in comparison, so there you go. The birth of a word. Use it well.
Also, many thanks go to Sam!
For disclaimer, see Part 1.
.
.
Natalia watched Hwoarang leave with his oblivious demon, a glint of sharpness in her eyes. Then she sighed, willing her thoughts to soften, and drew her gaze back to the girl. Even after so long, the unexpected meeting with Hwoarang had drawn fresh pain from her closing wounds. As for the . . . the being that had hung back in the dark corner of the room, taking instinctive shelter from her second vision-- well, Natalia could afford to take the precautions later.
She slowly lifted the girl onto a soft cotton mat, placing pillows under her neck and the small of her back. One inanimate hand was curled over an egg and the Natalia lay other hand open, palm up. Finished with her preparations for the moment, Natalia sat back on her calves, waiting, observant. It was easier to wake someone when the person wanted to awaken, and it was easier to persuade someone whom Natalia knew. The witch fanned out her mind, broadening her grasp. She sifted for impressions of a personality, or any flicker of mental activity.
Natalia's eyes stayed open while she cast her cognitive nets. The girl looked to be relaxed and sleeping, although Natalia had seen enough by now to know she wouldn't blink and sit up at only a firm shake. Her round face also divulged little by means of personality, beyond the fact that she was young, and blessed with attractive parents.
But now, the clothes. . . The frivolous bow accompanied by insane hues of pink, that told her something. The girl truly had a child's heart, and was either unashamed or unaware of it. Natalia's pulse quickened, just the slightest, as she felt a link work itself into materiality like a ribbon connecting the girl's mind to hers, a highway for the insight she would need to have. And from a hairline crack in the shell, it came: a feeling of roughness, the texture of stone dragged under her palm.
Natalia stared, her hand curling under her chin. The brevity and intensity of the sensation had startled her. The origin remained elusive when she tried to follow the feeling back to the person, but more fragments flashed by. They were coming faster, with exponential frequency: chill air drying her sweat; a spider above them that weaved on undisturbed by her gasp; fluorescent light, flickering and yellowed, hitting smooth armor; biting metal under her jaw; the inexplicable presence of the memory of a memory-- it was about flowing water; thin white needles spraying from the wall, the woman sinking, emptied, so much, wash it away-
Natalia found herself immersed in the dark. She was a little disconcerted; it'd never happened that fast before, but she ignored her apprehension and hoped there would be no more surprises. Natalia called on the greatest -- and sometimes, when she lay awake at night, replaying memories of failed attempts, the worst-- force behind her power. She drew on her compassion, pouring it into the black void, holding back nothing, erecting no barrier to protect herself because to do so would be to lose faith, to lose that all-important ribbon.
In a soundless voice more gentle than any she had been lucky enough to hear in her lifetime or could hope to produce outside of this dimensionless place, Natalia called to the girl, and urged her to return to warmth and candlelight, and to friends who worried. She was not entirely unprepared for the answer: a fierce wave of confusion, grief, guilt, and an anger that blazed even as it drowned.
Taken aback by the unexpected anger, Natalia was uncharacteristically inactive while she puzzled. There was no subtle sensitive way to learn the reason behind it, so she asked:
:: Why are you angry? ::
In response, there was pain.
:: Because you've been harmed? ::
A voice took the place of raw sensation, a voice even smaller than the girl's physical size.
not my pain
:: Whose? ::
Back to the wordless: the sting of guilt.
:: You are angry because you caused pain? ::
yes no we them I killed her
An image of a body, lying on its side, leaking like an upset bottle of expensive red wine.
A horrible sucking noise; moist, wheezy.
It must have been a chest wound, Natalia thought, recalling that there had been a shootout. Only a punctured lung would sound like that.
Another image, through the girl's perspective: the same corpse seen from sixty feet away, as she crawled to safety.
And then nothing.
:: What happened? After? ::
no after the same again over again then here this
Gradually Natalia understood. She had known other lighthearted people who became vulnerable to this darkness, misunderstanding it, misplacing the blame for its presence in their lives. The girl was so; she'd left behind a victim, but in a situation where she could've done nothing else. Her guilt, however, was blind.
Natalia told her this, not in so many words. She poured and poured --Not your fault. Let it go-- unable to clamp down on the fear that it wouldn't be enough. Sometimes nothing was enough. Some resisted, falling into their own self contempt. Some gave up too soon. The girl has to reach, Natalia thought, she needs to try. Reach for me. Let it go.
Her hesitancy unfolded then, a blackened bloom of confusion, but a relief to Natalia because it meant hope. The girl longed to leave, wanted it enough to act despite a tower of doubt, looming above them like Pisa.
:: I will guide you back. ::
to the brook? no I don't want to go back I can't it wants it calls
This new puzzle worried Natalia. However, she wouldn't be diverted from her goal. There was time for questions later.
:: Back to- ::
She wanted to say "back to reality" but at this point the girl didn't seem capable of distinguishing between the two; this transient and insubstantial locale, and the outer world. Natalia thought quickly, searching for a name she would recognize.
:: Back to Hwoarang. ::
A silence, an absolute stillness, and then-- then a flood of relief. Natalia was momentarily dumbfounded that anyone could associate this particular species of emotion with the caustic sharp-eyed sharp-tongued redhead she knew. Nonetheless, the witch had found her way. The darkness withdrew.
* * *
Xiaoyu opened her eyes, heavy eyelids only half cooperating. She couldn't see far in the limited, moving light of the candles, but that alone was enough to tell her what she wanted desperately to know. She was out of the cell. She would never let herself be put there again.
"Jin and Hwoarang," she whispered, her throat struggling with thirst and the long lack of use, "Did they make it out?"
"Shh, they're safe," said a voice that sounded both familiar and new, as a bowl was brought to Xiaoyu's greedy mouth. She drank deeply, draining the bowl too soon.
"Rest."
Xiaoyu was already asleep.
* * *
"Half dance club, half hotel," Hwoarang pondered aloud, wondering whose idea it was. Probably Natalia's, seeing how Mike was possibly too dimwitted and too naïve to even understand why the dancers would flock to hotels.
"Which one are you taking?" asked Jin.
Hwoarang shrugged. He knocked on the door immediately to his right and, hearing no groan of irritation from within, said, "This one."
"I'll take this one then." Jin walked through the open door opposite to his and closed it behind him, presumably to fling himself onto the bed in complete darkness.
Hwoarang remained in the hallway, his gaze burning into the carpet, a hand absently resting on the doorknob to his room. Random thoughts presented themselves for his not-quite-sound judgement. This shade of maroon didn't match the mint walls. Had he left the burner on at home? Donahue could benefit from some Prozac. Who knows, he was an older man, maybe Viagra too. It was a while before Hwoarang shook himself out of his stupor and rubbed vigorously at his face. Sleep. He was tired, and the thought should have been tantalizing, but felt instead like a chore, a task he needed to complete in order to function efficiently once again. Hwoarang looked down, almost surprised that the doorknob was already in his hand. He turned it.
Jin's door opened, and his face popped out, slightly red.
"I- I should've thanked you. So. . . thanks."
"What?" Hwoarang tried not to yawn. He failed.
"You've done a lot to help us, Hwoarang. I'm- in your debt."
Hwoarang stared at Jin. He wasn't up to being gracious, but recognized both the badly-veiled discomfort and also the earnesty. He waved him away.
"Yeah, yeah, Kazama. Remember that the next time you're cursing me behind my back. Or to my face. Whatever. Just let me sleep."
Reluctantly, Jin returned to his room, and Hwoarang unceremoniously entered his, threw a pillow from the bed onto the floor, and collapsed onto it face first. Hotel beds were always too damn soft. He hoped somebody had vacuumed.
.
.
Author's notes:
I know, earnesty's not a word. I'm frustrated and grumpy and earnestness pales infinitely in comparison, so there you go. The birth of a word. Use it well.
Also, many thanks go to Sam!