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fellowshippers2003-10-26 10:03 pm
http://users.livejournal.com/_peapod/) wrote in fellowshippers2003-10-26 10:03 pm
(no subject)
wash, london, 1837. pg-13.
tomorrow, elijah is gone. dominic wakes to the sound of prayers, silvered words cutting through the marble silence. a black form looms over him, heavy boots planted on the grey stone floor.
"my child?"
dominic scrambles to aching feet, lips forming a panicked apology.
the priest's eyes are kindly and there's a deeper question in his voice, but dominic cannot stay here.
"i'm sorry, i must have fallen asleep."
a smile falls from the old man's lips, and dominic aches for his concern.
he has to leave.
"please, i must go. forgive me, father."
i have sinned.
he heard the footsteps in the snow last night, a sussuration of icy breath, and he knew. whilst dominic slept, elijah crept from beneath the waxy pews. genuflecting brought memories of his mother, false piety and desperate hope.
the church door creaked on rusty hinges, and the cold snatched air from his lungs.
orlando was waiting - for him? for dominic? - and he beamed when elijah emerged.
"grant you good even"
ridiculous formality, but there's no self-consciousness in his smile. elijah scowls.
"what do you need?"
his pulse is erratic.
"him"
"you're insane"
and for a moment, orlando looks crushed.
he takes him to a tavern in a better part of town, where gas-lights spill blue onto the polished streets. orlando lounges in his seat.
"you know"
"yes." a cough seizes elijah until he hawks an old man's bloody phlegm.
"why does it trouble you so?"
orlando's eyes are scorch-marks in the wood of his face.
"because it's wrong"
"so are the whores, the beggars, the gentlemen"
this last word he spits.
orlando paid for gin with his last shilling and received two dirty pennies in return. elijah knows that tomorrow, his pockets will be empty.
unless.
unless he leads him to dominic.
yesterday blurs into tomorrow, and the ache in her thighs grows until she is consumed by a crippling pain. how many has it been?
a score, two shillings', a weekend of gin.
this last is shy, apologetic. he tells her his story, though she doesn't want to know. miranda doesn't believe in the art of conversation.
what's your name, where are you from?
there's no artistry to it, just terror, of a silence only broken by the pounding of your heart.
but his small hands are gentle, amazed, and he tells her his daughter's name was alexandra.
miranda's heart is broken with the silence.
dominic waits in the rough wooden cave, and listens to the breathing of the city. his coat hangs heavy from his shoulders, and across the road they are burning books. when hardship beckons, words are the first to turn to ashes. his father told him once that great men seek comfort in books, but perhaps this is not what he meant.
elijah comes for him in the evening, carrying stolen bread.
"i've something to show you."
dominic garbles a half-chewed query, but no answer comes.
"follow me."
the streets are empty.
elijah turns, a ghost in moonlight.
"come on."
he's treading the path from some half-remembered dream, feet drifting over the glassy streets.
"where are we going?"
"not much further."
elijah is muttering something, over and over until the words melt together and dominic cannot understand.
i'm sorry.
but when they reach a certain alley in which a dark shape lurks and flashes ice-white teeth, comprehension hits him like a ton of coal.
dominic pales.
orlando has one hand hidden in a deep pocket. dominic thinks of freshly-shone steel and welling blood.
elijah falls back into the shadows; they don't notice his depart.
orlando smiles.
"it's been so long."
he comes back again and lays his money on the dresser.
"may i tell you a story?"
miranda blinks, but it's not the strangest request she's had.
"how does it begin?"
the man stares at his feet against the stained wooden boards; his cheap shoes shine with polish.
"with a woman in a red dress."
miranda listens.
the next time he comes, she presses his coins back into his reluctant hands.
"just talk to me."
so he paints his pictures on the canvas of her mind, and she forgets her price.
sean wants to know everything.
"take me to where you began."
tomorrow, elijah is gone. dominic wakes to the sound of prayers, silvered words cutting through the marble silence. a black form looms over him, heavy boots planted on the grey stone floor.
"my child?"
dominic scrambles to aching feet, lips forming a panicked apology.
the priest's eyes are kindly and there's a deeper question in his voice, but dominic cannot stay here.
"i'm sorry, i must have fallen asleep."
a smile falls from the old man's lips, and dominic aches for his concern.
he has to leave.
"please, i must go. forgive me, father."
i have sinned.
he heard the footsteps in the snow last night, a sussuration of icy breath, and he knew. whilst dominic slept, elijah crept from beneath the waxy pews. genuflecting brought memories of his mother, false piety and desperate hope.
the church door creaked on rusty hinges, and the cold snatched air from his lungs.
orlando was waiting - for him? for dominic? - and he beamed when elijah emerged.
"grant you good even"
ridiculous formality, but there's no self-consciousness in his smile. elijah scowls.
"what do you need?"
his pulse is erratic.
"him"
"you're insane"
and for a moment, orlando looks crushed.
he takes him to a tavern in a better part of town, where gas-lights spill blue onto the polished streets. orlando lounges in his seat.
"you know"
"yes." a cough seizes elijah until he hawks an old man's bloody phlegm.
"why does it trouble you so?"
orlando's eyes are scorch-marks in the wood of his face.
"because it's wrong"
"so are the whores, the beggars, the gentlemen"
this last word he spits.
orlando paid for gin with his last shilling and received two dirty pennies in return. elijah knows that tomorrow, his pockets will be empty.
unless.
unless he leads him to dominic.
yesterday blurs into tomorrow, and the ache in her thighs grows until she is consumed by a crippling pain. how many has it been?
a score, two shillings', a weekend of gin.
this last is shy, apologetic. he tells her his story, though she doesn't want to know. miranda doesn't believe in the art of conversation.
what's your name, where are you from?
there's no artistry to it, just terror, of a silence only broken by the pounding of your heart.
but his small hands are gentle, amazed, and he tells her his daughter's name was alexandra.
miranda's heart is broken with the silence.
dominic waits in the rough wooden cave, and listens to the breathing of the city. his coat hangs heavy from his shoulders, and across the road they are burning books. when hardship beckons, words are the first to turn to ashes. his father told him once that great men seek comfort in books, but perhaps this is not what he meant.
elijah comes for him in the evening, carrying stolen bread.
"i've something to show you."
dominic garbles a half-chewed query, but no answer comes.
"follow me."
the streets are empty.
elijah turns, a ghost in moonlight.
"come on."
he's treading the path from some half-remembered dream, feet drifting over the glassy streets.
"where are we going?"
"not much further."
elijah is muttering something, over and over until the words melt together and dominic cannot understand.
i'm sorry.
but when they reach a certain alley in which a dark shape lurks and flashes ice-white teeth, comprehension hits him like a ton of coal.
dominic pales.
orlando has one hand hidden in a deep pocket. dominic thinks of freshly-shone steel and welling blood.
elijah falls back into the shadows; they don't notice his depart.
orlando smiles.
"it's been so long."
he comes back again and lays his money on the dresser.
"may i tell you a story?"
miranda blinks, but it's not the strangest request she's had.
"how does it begin?"
the man stares at his feet against the stained wooden boards; his cheap shoes shine with polish.
"with a woman in a red dress."
miranda listens.
the next time he comes, she presses his coins back into his reluctant hands.
"just talk to me."
so he paints his pictures on the canvas of her mind, and she forgets her price.
sean wants to know everything.
"take me to where you began."