ext_31179 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
http://users.livejournal.com/_peapod/) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2003-10-28 07:11 pm
http://users.livejournal.com/_peapod/) wrote in fellowshippers2003-10-28 07:11 pm
fic: wash, part 6
part 6 of wash. london, 1837. pg-13
follows on from this.
the alleyway sucks sound into its walls. a shadow passes across the entrance way, and momentarily everything goes black.
dominic searches for words, but his tongue is frozen to the roof of his mouth. if his memory could step from his head and take form, it would look like orlando.
"what do you want with me?"
"i want what i'm owed.
orlando's hand tightens sharply in his pocket.
"i don't owe you anything."
dominic knows that this is a lie. elijah's words echo through the cavern of his mind.
you have to stop him. you're the only one who can.
the police station is brightly-lit, a beacon in the wintry sky. he pushes open the door into a stinking, dead-eyed room, picks a path through the tangle of urchins and whores who cover the floor in a heaving carpet.
he's been here before, when his hands were too slow.
the policeman at the desk looks up, tall hat perched atop a balding head, and elijah's chest constricts at the memory of what was.
he calms himself.
"you must come with me. there's going to be a murder."
the policeman scowls.
"no silly games, lad."
but it's not a game anymore.
orlando's voice sounds like the collapse of buildings, high walls that crumble under their own weight and crash down.
dominic didn't notice when he started speaking, because the voice had been in his head all along, an orchestra playing behind closed doors. but now the sound is spilling out, flooding the street, flooding him.
a stain is spreading over the fabric of orlando's coat, where his fingers are curled around the blade of the knife.
dominic waits for a pause.
"orlando, why?"
why what? why this, why anything.
"because i can."
it's a better reason than most.
miranda guides sean through a maze of lanes strung with ragged washing, where huge-eyed children play joyless games in the dirty snow.
everything is stained monochrome, and miranda talks to him quietly as they wind their way deeper into the city's heart.
"this is the street where i was born - the room with no windows, up there."
she hurries past the blank terrace.
"and this is the corner where my mother died, and the gin-house there is where i first began to work."
sean turns shocked eyes to her.
"miranda -"
she smiles, gently chiding.
"you wanted to know."
the city dreams. its factories churn out clouds of thick smoke that hang in a curtain on the horizon.
it dreams in lives, endings and beginnings that seep into each other like blood into water. it feeds on the people, drawing them through its cold veins into its silent, brooding heart.
the red-lipped, sullen whores, the huddled shapes in the snow, immobile and blue-lipped, the children who crawl into the clacking, untiring machines to tie snapped threads with sleep-numbed fingers, they belong to the city and it takes them all.
the city watches the alley where dominic faces orlando and it wants.
mine.
orlando's gaze desn't falter when dominic takes a step towards him, fists clenched at his sides.
"no more. you have no right to take their lives, no matter how much it angers you."
orlando's eyes mock him.
"you blame yourself."
"what?"
"because it should have been you. i wanted you, but you wouldn't let me have you. and now, when i take something else, you won't let me have that either. so which will it be, dominic? you, or them?"
dominic remembers the woman in green, the pennies on the dead girl's eyes. all the silenced voices.
he breathes ice.
"neither."
follows on from this.
the alleyway sucks sound into its walls. a shadow passes across the entrance way, and momentarily everything goes black.
dominic searches for words, but his tongue is frozen to the roof of his mouth. if his memory could step from his head and take form, it would look like orlando.
"what do you want with me?"
"i want what i'm owed.
orlando's hand tightens sharply in his pocket.
"i don't owe you anything."
dominic knows that this is a lie. elijah's words echo through the cavern of his mind.
you have to stop him. you're the only one who can.
the police station is brightly-lit, a beacon in the wintry sky. he pushes open the door into a stinking, dead-eyed room, picks a path through the tangle of urchins and whores who cover the floor in a heaving carpet.
he's been here before, when his hands were too slow.
the policeman at the desk looks up, tall hat perched atop a balding head, and elijah's chest constricts at the memory of what was.
he calms himself.
"you must come with me. there's going to be a murder."
the policeman scowls.
"no silly games, lad."
but it's not a game anymore.
orlando's voice sounds like the collapse of buildings, high walls that crumble under their own weight and crash down.
dominic didn't notice when he started speaking, because the voice had been in his head all along, an orchestra playing behind closed doors. but now the sound is spilling out, flooding the street, flooding him.
a stain is spreading over the fabric of orlando's coat, where his fingers are curled around the blade of the knife.
dominic waits for a pause.
"orlando, why?"
why what? why this, why anything.
"because i can."
it's a better reason than most.
miranda guides sean through a maze of lanes strung with ragged washing, where huge-eyed children play joyless games in the dirty snow.
everything is stained monochrome, and miranda talks to him quietly as they wind their way deeper into the city's heart.
"this is the street where i was born - the room with no windows, up there."
she hurries past the blank terrace.
"and this is the corner where my mother died, and the gin-house there is where i first began to work."
sean turns shocked eyes to her.
"miranda -"
she smiles, gently chiding.
"you wanted to know."
the city dreams. its factories churn out clouds of thick smoke that hang in a curtain on the horizon.
it dreams in lives, endings and beginnings that seep into each other like blood into water. it feeds on the people, drawing them through its cold veins into its silent, brooding heart.
the red-lipped, sullen whores, the huddled shapes in the snow, immobile and blue-lipped, the children who crawl into the clacking, untiring machines to tie snapped threads with sleep-numbed fingers, they belong to the city and it takes them all.
the city watches the alley where dominic faces orlando and it wants.
mine.
orlando's gaze desn't falter when dominic takes a step towards him, fists clenched at his sides.
"no more. you have no right to take their lives, no matter how much it angers you."
orlando's eyes mock him.
"you blame yourself."
"what?"
"because it should have been you. i wanted you, but you wouldn't let me have you. and now, when i take something else, you won't let me have that either. so which will it be, dominic? you, or them?"
dominic remembers the woman in green, the pennies on the dead girl's eyes. all the silenced voices.
he breathes ice.
"neither."
no subject
Hi - me again.
I got all excited when I saw you posted. And now I'm all anxious to know what happens next. I'm hooked.
no subject
hi again! thank you so much for continuing to read, i'm really pleased you like it.
<3
no subject
morepleasesoon. or else i'll...uh...spontaniously combust, or something.
this series rocketh the socks off. dude.
no subject
*scribbles frantically*
essay? what essay?
no subject
he breathes ice
:)
no subject