#⊰ ` i. study: residence / / shining marble on the mountain side. ´ ⊱

[rahorak-a]

tag dump 01 : portrayal.

[peeves-a-legend]

Maximum Entropy

Original Fem!Elementalist x Wizarding World 

A.N. ~ Sooo... I made a new account finally!! And I wanted to restart my page with this piece that I had started a while ago. I hadn’t gotten around to finishing it, but I couldn’t let this idea slip through my fingers with the potential that it has (at least in theory lol). As of right now, the main love interest is undecided; I’m just going to let that unfold as a write. 

Summary ~ Beatrice Drayton is a fourth year at Arctosov Academy for Elementalists when a stranger comes searching for an alliance. Despite centuries of turmoil between hands and wands, she finds herself across the world, willing to work with the folk that bare wands. Harry isn’t the only one with a prophecy, and it just so happens that Drayton’s destiny relies on the success of Potter’s. End of HP book 4 and onward.

Warning ~ Language and probable violence (eventually)

Word Count ~ 4k

Chapter One

There are only a few days left of this term. Only a handful of classes left to study and then I’m free of academic duties for the summer. The bitter Canadian frost had finally submitted to the heat that the lengthened days brought, allowing the vast Boreal to bloom lush with green. Up until now, the school grounds remained in a turbulent state of snow, slush, and mud. Spring was honestly my least favourite time of the year. Maybe if the school was farther South I’d appreciate the season for what it’s worth, but sleet storms and the rapid amplification of mosquito swarms were all too common in the Northwest Territories prior to the sun and shine of the summer months.

I ran through the sun-lit halls of Arctosov Academy in a desperate attempt to get to class on time. It’s moments like this where I’m grateful for the sleek material of the uniform that hugs tight to my limbs and torso. When I was given the purple and black spandex in first year I complained about the tight-fit jumpsuit till I was blue in the face. It’s so itchy. I’ll freeze come wintertime in this cloth. It’s too tight. Blah, blah, blah. Little did I know that I would eventually praise the aerodynamic nature of it when gliding through the crowded corridors.

 The halls of the school were simple, straight passageways that stacked 13 floors high, etched into the side of one of the many mountains that framed the expansive waters of Great Bear Lake. The walls that continued with the face of the mountain were made of tall, clear diamond windows. The bottom of the diamond glass meets a white marble floor while the top of the smooth surface contrasts sharply against the jagged ceiling made of mountain rock. The wall opposite to the lake view was different on all 13 floors. For example, the 9th floor hall (the one that I am currently sprinting down) has a wall made of solid gold. It looks quite gaudy if you ask me. I much prefer the wall made of pure orange flames on the 4th floor. Along each of the distinctive corridors are doors that lead to different rooms that lay in the belly of the mountain. Classrooms, dorms, restrooms, the gym, the dining hall, the kitchen, the library, multiple training rooms, and so on. The only routes that connect each parallel floor to each other are the stairwells that resided at either end of the halls.

 As I dodge through bodies, I can’t help but curse my luck. Not even a time-turner could spare me a few moments of peace between classes that I have back to back and over each other. My brothers and my friends tell me I’m just being dramatic, but it’s not like they would actually know the stress of going through the amount of training that I’m subjected to. To think that I’m only in fourth year!

 I reach the last door on the opposite side of the hall that I entered from and swiftly glide through the misty veil that floats where a door would be placed anywhere else in the world. Arctosov is all about the dramatics when it comes to decor. As soon as the frothy air clears I’m met head on with a group of fifteen or so third, fourth, and fifth year students standing in a large circle. My brother Zaidyn notices me first, taking a step over to make room for me in the ring. I mouth a silent thanks and he offers a small smile in return.

 Our attention is quickly turned to the tall and slender man that paces in the center of the group. At least he had stopped publicly addressing my tardiness every time I showed up to his class a little more than five minutes late.

 ‘…We will be spending a great deal of time in today’s lesson harnessing the energy in the room in combination with the particles that occupy this space,’ thin lips stated as narrowed eyes observed the group of students. ‘We will be conjuring vortex winds; a tornado if you will. But the key is to keep it controlled and clean. If I witness any funnels produced above the hip,’ Professor Turcoff said, addressing a poor third year directly now, ‘consider your Friday evening booked with a detention.’

 ‘Well he seems to be in a stellar mood today, don’t you think?’ Zaidyn huffed quietly enough so that only I could hear.

 ‘Absolutely.’

 ‘Want to work together?’ 

I nodded in response as the circle separated off into smaller groups setting to work. We found a less crowded area off towards the edge of the large circular room. All the training rooms are circular in shape with high steel walls, a steel floor, and a steel ceiling. It’s like being trapped in a tin can and we’re the beans. Cool beans, might I add.

 ‘Now I want you all to focus,’ Turcoff said firmly over the mild chattering that circulated in the room. ‘I don’t just want you to start pushing the molecules around in your vicinity. I want you to feel them. Connect with them. Turn the gases into a fifth limb. Then, and only then, will you have total control.’

 With that, I closed my eyes and opened my palms at my side. This was always my favorite part of conjuring magic. To just feel the vibrations of the atoms that are at my mercy for manipulation. The fluid motion of the air as it swirls around each finger, catching ever so slightly on the craters of my fingerprints. The fuzzy, almost ticklish sensation when my skin radiates deep crimson and ripe orange flames. When I suck the moisture from the air that is plentiful, turning the vapours into a blanket of water that obeys at my command. The deep and gyrating rumble that surfaces from all four sides of the room that I’m standing in, mountain rock waiting to collapse if I let it.

 But the others wouldn’t understand, you see. For the individuals that attend this very class with me cannot feel the lick of a flame. They cannot consume the hydrogen and oxygen in the atmosphere that is necessary for the flickering lattice of its corresponding liquid. They cannot part the earth at its surprisingly brittle seams, only to allow greenery of sorts to erupt from deep within those cervices. They can only control the air that streams gently over the purple fabric of our jumpsuits. Of course, there are other things that all benders are capable of, but the limit of those abilities is always an arm’s reach away.

 All because of one silly chromosome.

 Now’s a great time to mention that I’m the only girl in a school full of boys. Why? Because I’m the first female bender that had been born in over 4000 years. The third one ever, to be exact. For whatever rhyme or reason it is extremely rare for a female bender to be conceived, to the point where it is literally unheard of. At least until my existence, that is. 

All male benders pass down their elemental ability to the children they procreate. If a son is born, he will take after his father’s magic. So will his sons, and his sons’ sons. But if a daughter is born… it’s a slightly different story. 

Female benders harness power differently than their male counterparts. They are able to tap into magical stores that allow access to all areas of elemental manipulation, rather than a single vault. We assume it has to do with the fact that the first bender was a woman herself. Born from the earth and nurtured by the universe, or however that story goes. 

But why are female benders so scarce? Nobody really knows. I personally think it’s a method to mediate power. I could not even begin to imagine a world filled with all-powerful women with a temperament like mine. The globe would combust in a matter of seconds. Nuclear, man.

 I open my eyes and witness a knee-height funnel of air directly in front of me, swirling gently in a clockwise coil. With a slight curl of my fingers, the twister begins to steadily grow till it’s at the height of my belly button.

 ‘That’s tall enough, Ms. Drayton.’ But I wasn’t going to feed it any more than I already had. I am in control. The particles will not control me. I look to my brother who has also mastered the task at hand, posture poised with a satisfied smirk playing at his lips. The rest of the room seemed quite confident as well, mind a few individuals who had let the wind get away on them.

 The rest of class seemed to be swept away and before long I’m reaching into the skin-hugging collar of my jumpsuit to retrieve the time-turner from around my neck. Four down, only eight more classes to go till dinner. Kill me now.

 When I started school in first year, I was beyond excited to learn how to let my powers flourish. But if somebody would have told me that I would be taking four times the amount of school work as every other student at Arctosov, I think it’s fair to say that my enthusiasm wouldn’t have peaked so high. It is partially my fault though. I had been advised to extend my school years to double the standard duration. Unfortunately, fourteen years fell onto deaf ears. 

Finding shortcuts is my specialty. 

At least some classes are mandatory for all students, like elemental and magical history, calculus, magical and muggle variations of physics and chemistry, and other basic level classes that focus on universal bender abilities. I guess that knocks a couple extra classes off my horrendously long list of academic requirements. Unfortunately, that still leaves quite a hefty load of ability-specific classes on my plate.

 ~

 The day couldn’t have gone any slower. I mean, it was all fine and dandy until some imbecile pissed off Professor Yawny in Flora Manipulation. The idiot conjured a garden of nettle and didn’t know how to retract the growth, which ultimately led to the suffering of some unsuspecting bystanders. Got a hive or two myself, but nothing compared to the group of students that took the brunt of it on the front line. This little stunt earned the class a ten-page essay on retracting plant growth and the dangers of uncontrolled herbage. Honestly, just what I needed.

 As soon as the last period bell chimed (for the third time today), I quickly chucked my notebook and ballpoint into my bag and hurried out of Atomic Theory. I always change out of my jumpsuit before dinner. I hate eating in clothes that expose my well-fed stomach. 

I make my way up to the thirteenth floor to access my dorm. The thirteenth floor is by far the coziest of them all. Instead of cleared and pristine halls, upon entering the corridor one is met with a scattered array of sofas, tables littered with magical and muggle games, bookshelves cluttered with various paperback and hardcover copies, and the single Jadeite wall lined with primarily hockey and quidditch posters. A stereo plays some top muggle hits; the audio competes for volume with the crackling sounds that emit from the large pit in the centre of the hall where a seven-foot high flame resides. There are only two doors carved into the green wall: the girl’s and the boy’s dorms. 

The boy’s dorm is essentially a revolving door. People are always filing in and out of the community space. The girl’s dorm on the other hand was simply built out of respect. They never expected anybody to occupy the space, but knew that even though the chances were slim, a female student might enrol one day or another. Thank God for those engineers’ prognostic train of thought, otherwise I’d be either bunking in the fifth-floor supply closet or with a bunch of dudes.

 Weaving my way around a collection of occupied ping-pong and pool tables, I move quickly not to interfere with the final plays of said matches. These boys tend to get cranky with hunger and exhaustion during the final countdown before supper. The steady sound of the hall dies as I pass through the veil that mists over the entrance to the girl’s dorm. It’s a plain space, but what can I say, I’m the only chick to enter this part of the underground school. I’ve managed to liven the place up with some creeping vines and flowers along the tall, straight marble walls that lead to several bedrooms and baths. Even though the hall is meant to appear light and spacious, the lack of fellow roommates makes this place feel more than empty. Like a blank sheet of lined paper, everything here remains untouched and waiting for scuffs and scrapes of wear, something to push its clean order into the hands of disorder. 

Chaos theory loves to make a mess of things.

 I swing through the eighth door on the right into the space that I had claimed as mine. I got rid of the other three unoccupied beds and transformed the room into one that I could proudly call my home away from home. Just like every other room in the school, the dorm is circular, so placing furniture in a way that I didn’t hate turned out to be a real pain in my ass. It took me all of first year to decide where I wanted to place my bed, my desk, and my wardrobe in relation to the door. Once I figured that out, the rest was quite fun. Potted plants invade any and all counter space available in the room, while little knick knacks can also be spotted within the jungle. The skylight ceiling illuminates the white brick walls, casting an intense glare to any prying eyes above the diamond-glass. I think it’s chic.

 I rummaged through my wardrobe for a pair of blue jeans, sneakers, and my royal purple Arctosov crested pullover. One look in the full-length mirror, quickly fixing my hair to get it up and out of my face, and I set off towards the dining hall. I was at the top of the thirteen flights of stairs when a hand closed around my shoulder, slowing my quick pace.

 ‘In a rush are we, ‘B’?’ Jaxon. The only person in this school foolish enough to get between me and my awaiting meal. I sped up, forcing the gangly fourth year to keep stride.

 ‘You try tack on eight extra classes to your schedule. See how you fair come dinner time.’

 ‘I think you’re just complaining for pity,’ he teased, meeting my rib with his elbow. ‘“Look at me, the most powerful being alive. Tired, stressed, and hungry! You have no idea what it’s like to be so damn awesome all the time! It’s exhausting! I –”’ My hand shot out to push Jaxon off balance, nearly sending him down the last couple stairs in the flight we were walking down.

 ‘Your impression of me is beyond inaccurate.’

 ‘And your muscles are beyond underestimated,’ Jaxon shot back with a smirk, rubbing his arm where I contacted him with the blow. ‘Didn’t know you possessed the power of super-strength as well.’

 ‘Like you said, I’m just so damn awesome.’ Our grins mirrored each other as we bounded down the rest of the steps to the first-floor dining hall. This is how our banter went most of the time. It was quick, it was witty, it was smooth. He always knows just how far to push to elicit a shove back, and I always shove back. But he also knows when he’s about to push too far. Rarely ever had we actually fought with one another. In the last four years of school, we’ve only actually fought once, and that’s a story nobody talks about anymore. It was stupid, but it was explosive, and I mean literally explosive. Jaxon is a fire bender, so I’m lucky that I have the ability to take the heat. The library shelves that surrounded us during the dispute… well, they didn’t survive. 

Jaxon was my best friend. A brother. Nothing more, nothing less. In my eyes at least.

 Like cattle, students were milling into and about the dining hall trying to find a place to sit at the single spiral table that coiled into the center of the round room. Purple banners bearing our school crest hung from the high rock ceiling, flashing the menacing stare of the Kodiak that was featured in the heart of the emblem. The student body had encountered a few of the rather large bears during my years at the academy. I never thought I’d ever get the chance to witness such fear amongst a group of insufferably cocky teenage boys, and I loved every second of it. Bunch of pansies.

 ‘B!’ My attention is quickly captured by my two brothers sitting in the middle of the spiral of students. Jaxon and I walk down the winding aisle to sit in front of Zaidyn and Treston, who have also changed out of their uniforms. It is only when we take our seats that I realize that something is definitely not right.

 ‘Hey guys, why the long faces?’ I ask, hesitation evident in my wavering tone. If Treston looks startled, then something big must have happened. This sixth year is not easily phased. 

A couple of our other friends join the group, sitting on either side of Zaidyn and myself. They also become attentive to the tension held within the conversation. Bret and Oscar share a look between themselves then with me, silently looking for an explanation. I simply shrug my shoulders. 

This is weird.

 Treston is the first to speak. ‘Didn’t you hear?’

 ‘Hear what?’ Jaxon and I replied in unison.

 ‘One of them is here,’ Zaidyn continued. ‘Apparently wants to give a speech or something after supper. Not sure what about though.’

 ‘What do you mean here?’ snaps Jaxon. ‘I thought that they weren’t allowed on our turf?’

 ‘Yeah, I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate it if someone of our kind went poking a nose over the fence,’ Oscar added. Zaidyn simply shook his head in shock. ‘I mean, legally they can’t be here, right? Documentation exists for a reason –’

 ‘Documentation is nothing but a piece of paper and a couple of lousy signatures. Words mean nothing to them. They’ve always turned their backs on allies and their own. Don’t you ever pay attention in Magical History?’ It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but I can still see how my sharp words stung Oscar. He’s always had too much pride for his own good, especially when it comes to his grades in school. His glare notified me that I’d hit a weak spot.

 ‘Alright ladies, claws away,’ Bret chimed in. Always there to referee, but it’s usually Jaxon and I that he tries to simmer down. ‘I know it’s news that none of us want to hear, but if it’s true then we have to keep our heads on our shoulders and on a swivel. I can’t see anything good coming out of this, and I know neither can any of you,’ he said addressing the quiet group.

 ‘All I’m saying is that agreements were made for a reason. If they hadn’t been made, then the magical world would be in a completely different state as of right now. They should be considering themselves lucky that they aren’t extinct,’ Oscar sighed. I had to agree with him there. ‘Our ancestors were patient and wise, which is why we lost so much blood to the wands. But too much animosity had festered for far too long, and quite frankly I don’t consider myself patient or wise. You can’t tell me today’s generation would be so kind as to forgive and forget.’

 Oscar was right and we all knew it. Everybody in the hall knew it, too. We may have forgiven them, but we sure as hell have not forgotten. We are reminded every day we walk through these halls – the only halls on the planet that houses students of our kind. The number of benders left was a thought to make my blood run cold. Although, we are making a comeback; slowly but surely. I gave Oscar a small half-understanding, half-apologetic smile.

 Before I could add anything further to Oscar’s words of truth, a lavish dinner appeared on the table below our chins. Elk roast, wild salmon, kale salad, stuffed mushrooms, and more. I prayed that saskatoon pie was being served for dessert later in the evening. The apprehensive atmosphere quickly dissipated as we dug into our grub. Frowns were replaced with filled-cheek smiles, and the uneasy silence was enveloped in hearty laughter. Talk of the latest playoff news and summer plans seemed to entertain the table enough to keep the conversation going. It was interesting being a part of the guy’s gossip sessions during meals. Not that I would actually call it gossip; maybe more along the lines of petty pissing contests. Wouldn’t be the first time I sat through a mine’s bigger than yours argument.

 It was when our Headmaster stood up from the semi-circle teacher’s table at the back of the hall that the reality of the situation set in once again. Professor Fobert never has to gather the attention of the many eyes leering in anticipation, for their focus was already on him. Fobert’s aura demanded one’s gaze, it did not ask. He was tall, sternly featured, and looked tough as nails. His black-scaled tunic wrapped snugly around his torso, making the greying man look ready for battle at a moment’s notice. When the hall’s sound died down, all that could be heard was the vibrations from deep within the mountain’s abdomen, rock waiting to respond to our Headmaster’s request.

 ‘Good evening, students. I shall speak frankly and I shall speak clearly, that way you will not misunderstand what I am about to tell you.’

 Well that’s a new introduction.

 ‘I have never assumed any of you as naive, therefore I refuse to start now.’

 A very new introduction.

 ‘Most of you are aware that we have a guest joining us this evening. A guest that has come from overseas to speak to you all.’ It seemed as though our Headmaster couldn’t speak quickly enough. Every student in the room was now perched on the edge of their seat, listening intently for the next words to leave Fobert’s mouth. We knew where this was going, but nobody wanted to acknowledge the elephant in the room. 

Fobert opened his mouth to speak again, but words never escaped. Instead, a toothy grin tightened the flesh around his chin, and his eyes looked over the heads of the students sitting before him. Naturally, we all turned our heads in the direction of our superior’s gaze towards the entrance to the hall.

 If the hall was quiet a moment ago, it sure as shit wasn’t anymore. We didn’t even need a second take to confirm our suspicion.

 The man was about the same height as Professor Fobert, but the age difference was quite notable. Where Fobert was steeled with sharp middle-aged wear, the other man appeared worn with the drooping and sagging lines of old-age. He did not wear a tunic and pants, but a floor-length grey robe that matched the colour of his long, neatly kept beard. The cuffs on his sleeves tapered off in the shape of a bell at the knuckles of his boney fingers.

 Only people of wizarding blood dressed like that.

 ‘Albus!’ 

[clumsybookworm18]

and my burden to bear is a love (i can’t carry anymore) | pt.6

ao3 | Moodboard | parts: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Summary: Josh awakens after dawn and makes an upsetting discovery.

A/N: This is me trying to write a simple flashback scene that ended up turning into a whole chapter and a bunch of ANGST™

 Enjoy :)

Josh didn’t remember how he got here.

One moment he was in the mines. The next, he was walking through the station’s doors. The precinct was crawling with activity. Phones continuously ringing, rangers coming in and out, even a few EMTs walked in. For the life of him Josh couldn’t remember how he got here. Everything was so fuzzy. 

The mines... He’d been in the mines with Mike. They were supposed to regroup with Sam and the others at the lodge. But he doesn’t remember getting out of the mines… He followed Mike. He saw a stranger's body hanging on a hook. He jumped into the freezing water. And then… and then… and then what?

Josh peered down at himself. His- the Psycho’s- overalls had been replaced by black clothes. His hands weren’t dirty anymore. His face no longer hurt. What happened? Did he make it out? Had the others?

He approached the man sitting in the front desk. Josh cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” 

The man didn’t look up.

“Uh excuse me,” he repeats a little more louder. The man still didn’t look up.

Okay, rude. “What are you, deaf? Hellooo?”

Still not looking at him.

“Listen pal, I just had one of the worst nights of my life so if you could help me out here, that’ll be fucking swell.”

But the man kept scribbling some forms on the desk and didn’t answer him. 

Oh, fuck this.

His eyes flickered towards the open door where an officer just came out of. Since the man in the front desk was still ignoring him, Josh saw no fault in walking in. Nobody stopped him as he made his way through the hallway, nobody acknowledged him. 

For a moment, Josh wondered if this was another of his hallucinations, but it didn’t feel like one. Usually his hallucinations involved accusations or pointed fingers at him. Here, there was nobody telling him what a piece of shit he was, instead they were just ignoring him. 

“Okay…” he murmured to himself. “This is freaking me the fuck out.”

Even with all the activity, there was a preternatural quiet- like an omen. Josh kept walking, ignoring the trepidation that tugged inside him. The flutter of uneasiness that grew as he slowly treaded farther. He took a turn and-

There she was. Sitting alone in the hallway, was Sam, her fingers clutching the blanket thrown around her shoulders. 

“Sam,” he breathes, relieved to see a familiar face.

He doesn’t hesitate to approach her but she doesn’t look up, not even when he’s standing right in front of her. Josh frowns, studying her in the wan light, his eyes going to the blood smeared across her forehead and her cheek. She looked like she’d been to hell and back. “Sam.”

She didn’t answer. He grew more nervous with every passing second of silence. Josh knew he’d fucked up, that he and his friends weren’t on the best terms at the moment but Sam wasn’t one to ignore him for the sake of it. Especially at a time like this. Josh kneeled before her, her unseeing eyes making him uneasy. This wasn’t the same girl he saw in the mines. 

Something was wrong.

“Sammy?” He raised a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from her face only for it to go through her. Josh stumbled back, falling on his ass. 

Something was very wrong. 

He touched his chest, his face, but they felt solid. He felt a sinking dread as he reached out, as he tried to touch Sam again but his hand went straight through. 

What. The. Fuck.

“Samantha Giddings?” 

They both looked up to see a cop approaching. Josh didn’t react fast enough, didn’t have time to move away before the man walked right through him. He doesn’t feel it, not physically, but the reality of the situation arrowed into him. 

No. No way this was happening. Not to him. This had to be some mistake, he couldn’t… he wasn’t...

Dead.

Josh’s ears were ringing. No one can see him, no one could hear him, no one could touch him. Shit, someone just walked through him like he was nothing... 

The cop said something. Josh couldn’t hear him. His eyes went to Sam again. She was being led to a door labeled as Interview Room 1. He called her name in a hoarse whisper. 

Look back. Please.

She didn’t.

***

Rain fell without mercy as Josh walked upon rows and rows of gravestones, the sound of water hitting stone growing louder with every step he took. The cemetery was empty, something he didn’t find surprising, considering that not many people liked to spend their time among the resting dead. 

After that godawful funeral that put his memory to shame, Josh didn’t know where else to go. Didn’t know what else to do. Since there was no way in hell he was going back to the manor (he had already haunted those halls long enough), he’d ended up making the graveyard his new lair. Josh was still getting used to the idea of being dead when he wasn’t actually gone. Not completely. And he found the grim ambiance of it all a perfect fit for his new predicament. 

He finally reached the miniature city of mausoleums, striding his way across the sea of white marble to enter what had been appointed as his permanent residence. It had grown dark inside thanks to the stormy weather, the only light in the room coming from the candles placed on the small altar and the entryway. 

The Washington mausoleum was a big, black block of granite with stained glass windows and arched bronze doors, placed on the outskirts of the cemetery with the ominous Washington supported by roman columns. Posh. Lofty. A bit Gothic. Pretty hard to miss. 

What can he say, his family had a dramatic flair. Himself included.  

For the past few days, he’d been prowling around the grounds, searching for signs of any other ghosts, lost souls, anything at all. Something that indicated that he wasn’t alone on this other side. And the cemetery seemed like the perfect scenario for wandering spirits, with its eerie atmosphere, and the obscure mist surrounding the graves. Makes perfect sense that it would be haunted. Right?

Yeah, no. 

So far there have been no sightings of anything. Zero. Zilch. No other ghosts or spirits. No guardian angel to lead him up. No fiendish demons to lure him down. Not even the Grim Reaper himself. Nothing. He was truly alone on this ghostly plane. 

So Josh had been biding his time, lingering close to his crypt. Waiting for any signs or answers because something had to give. Fate, God, Death or whatever the fuck is supposed to be in charge couldn’t just leave him here. Stranded.  

The echo of footsteps alerted him to a presence. Josh instantly recognized the gait of the person striding his way. The heels of her shoes clicked against the polished granite floor, drowning the sound of the drizzle beating against the windowpanes. 

She hadn’t been to the funeral. Everybody else had gone. Chris. Ash. Mike. Even Emily. But not Sam. So nobody could really blame him for being surprised when she showed up to his family’s mausoleum out of the fucking blue. That she even showed up at all. 

She looked so tired. Even in the faint light he could see the smudged purple beneath her eyes, that familiar haunted look brought by a night of nightmares. He wanted to believe he was wrong, that this couldn’t be her. But it was. Josh was surprised to see how much she’d changed in such a short time. 

Sam stopped in front of the joint grave beside his and murmured something he didn’t quite catch, before hesitantly moving to his own. She ran a tentative hand over his name engraved on the stone. Josh didn’t like it. It felt so… final. Well, as final as it could get, since apparently death wasn’t as permanent as he would’ve liked it to be. 

Two tears slid down her face. Swift and cold. She didn’t wipe them away. “You lied to me.”

He went to stand next to her. “As much as I want to apologize, you can’t hear me,” he offers with a sad smile, looking at her face glowing in the dim light of the candles, her skin still glittering with rain. “So I won’t.” 

“I am so angry with you. Furious,” she went on, unaware of the ghost at her side, her eyes desolate. “But for the most part I’m just tired. Tired of racking my brain, of trying to understand why, and I just-” The snag on the words was like a blow to his intangible gut. Sam puts her hands on her face, running them up through her wet hair. “Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. It’s not like you can hear me or anything.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t.” He cups her face between his hands, trying to wipe away the tears. The corners of his mouth turned down when he couldn’t. “Don’t say that. I’m right here.”

He scans her eyes, her face, looking… What was he looking for? Some sign of recognition? And if so, was he able to handle Sam’s reaction? Would she still be saying the things she’s saying now? Would she recoil at the sight of him? Would she be scared? Or would she be angry? 

He drops his hands. If Josh were alive, she would hate him. He knows that much. 

But her face didn’t change. Her eyes were still liquid, somber, lost. “You know I was thinking about what I last said to you,” she said, her voice quiet and loud at the same time in the silent mausoleum. “‘Josh, do you have the key for the cable car.’ God, I was so stupid…. All I was thinking about was getting us out of that mountain, you know? I didn’t think about saying goodbye- didn’t think I needed to. You were supposed to come back with us.”

He remembers her urgent expression, clear in the darkness of the mines. The light of her headband shining brightly on his filthy face. Her cold, bloodied hands brushing his palm, her touch brief but soft as he handed the key. Her voice, somehow still composed, even after everything she had gone through, as she and Mike planned their escape while he uselessly stood on the sidelines. The quick glance she gave him before she climbed away.

Sam took a shuddering breath, her voice turned unsteady. “I know you were hurting. That you lost your sisters, that  your parents became more distant than they usually were, that you pushed everyone away but you had me… You had me. I only hoped that you saw that through this mess.” 

Josh doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say. Not like it would matter anyways. So he only stands frozen in place as she walks out of the mausoleum, the rain still beats outside. 

Later that night, he finds himself staring up at Sam’s bedroom window like he had done so many times before. Only this time, the lights were off. 

***

Josh stays around her after that. 

The days came and went, and Sammy seemed unaware of the time passing. She mostly stayed in her room, not getting out of bed, refusing to eat, not answering any of her texts or calls. What little time she managed to sleep, she awoke gasping and shaking. The liveliness that lived inside her now quiet. A static that made him uneasy.  Everything about her was now static. 

She was a ghost. Just like him. 

Josh has stopped trying to make sense of it. He was dead and he couldn’t do anything about it. Instead, he spends his time trying to communicate with Sam, trying to let her know he was still there. But it’s proving to be difficult, especially when she doesn’t care about anything. She couldn’t hear him, no matter how loud he talked. He tweaks and moves some stuff here and there but she doesn’t pay any mind to it. Josh doesn’t bother to try touching her again, not wanting to see his hands go through her again. 

It was hard to see her like this. But Sam was strong. She could survive this. She could survive anything. 

Josh didn’t leave- he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. When he needed someone, Sam had been there. Month after month, Sam had been there for him. Even when he pushed everyone away, couldn’t bring himself to care about anything, Sam hadn’t given up on him. 

And Josh wouldn’t give up on her.  

***

She searches for him in the dead of night. Puzzling, since he was the root of many of her nightmares and yet she wakes up coated in cold sweat, her hand palming what used to be his side of the bed, searching for the familiar heat of his body. Hoping that her nightmares were just nightmares, and not the cold, harsh truth. But she could never forget for long. Inevitably, she relieves her grief all over again when she finds nothing but frigid sheets and emptiness. 

Sam adds it up to the fact she had gotten used to sleeping next to him, to the codependency they both developed  the last year (even though deep down she knows it was more than that- for her at least). A habit, she tells herself. And habits die hard. 

But she can’t help but feel that his presence was still there with her, hiding in the shadows. 

***

One afternoon Sam picks up her sketchbook. The one he gave her for her 19th birthday- the last one they celebrated together. She stared at it for a long time. Long enough that Josh was convinced she might throw it out in the trash or even burn it. But to his surprise, she flipped it open, flashing through the pages with enough agility that he couldn’t catch a glimpse of her older drawings, as if she herself didn’t want to see them either, until she settled on a blank sheet. 

Mindlessly grabbing a pencil, she started sketching, brows furrowed and hand gliding through the page forming unsure lines that turned into rough curves that turned into confident shapes, transforming into something. Josh looked over her shoulder and-

Huh. 

She had captured its cloudy predatory gaze, all of the sharp teeth and sharp claws, with its long limbs curved, the Wendigo looked ready to strike out of the page. Of all the things she could’ve drawn, she drew that. Don’t get him wrong, he was all in for the weird and creepy shit, but Sam? Trying to get her to watch a scary movie was a trial in itself. 

Sam doesn’t stop to take it in. No, she passed that page and started doing another sketch. Then another. And another. Before they both knew it, it was already dark out and Sam had spent most of her day doing something other than moping.  

***

The creepy drawings became a thing. Not that Josh was complaining. Her coping mechanisms were a hell lot better than his, that’s for sure. 

In a matter of days, Sam had turned her room into a makeshift art studio. An easel beside the window. Paintbrushes in glass jars. Charcoal stained finger prints. She’d dropped out of all of her classes and had nothing else to do but paint and draw. Channeling all of her pain, sadness, and frustration into her art. Josh lingered by her side as she poured her heart out, filling white sheets with mountains and darkness, with monsters and death. It was terrifying… he loved it. 

Sam had always downplayed her artistic skills, something Josh never understood. Sam was an artist, had always been. He’d seen it from something as simple as her nails, over to the rare occasions she’s shown him some of her drawings, either of a landscape she saw during one of her hikes, or a quick sketch of one of his sisters doing a silly pose (Beth) or staring off with a dreamy look on her face (Hannah). Hell, he was pretty sure she was the one that had helped Hannah design her tattoo. When he’d ask, she’d always shrugged it off with an It’s just a hobby. 

Josh knew, even if he was stuck on his own personal hell, that Sam was gonna be alright. 

Tags: @xmxisxforxmaybe​

Anyone who wishes to be tagged can let me know! 

[motiveandthemeans]

Laurelworth

Chapter I: Mrs. Holmes

Margaret Louise Holmes (nee Hooper), known as Mrs. Holmes, Mistress, Missus ‘olmes, Missus Molly, Doctor Holmes, Doctor Molly, or just Molly, woke to early spring mist clouding the large, frost-tinged window adjacent her bed in her room at Laurelworth Manor. The room was quite large and one of her favorite in the entire 13,000 square foot house. Complete with a lovely window seat overlooking an ancient oak tree and side yard, a large fireplace (currently nearing embers), an impressive closet for her everyday clothes and shoes, a wardrobe for her finer things and a vanity. Several book shelves lined the walls littered with books, pictures and knick-knacks, a sitting area and a beautiful marble tiled en suite; she really could not ask for more. Her large canopy bed served as the loveliest of escapes from real life and each night she looked forward to her feather mattress.

A little over a year ago, Molly had come to Laurelworth seeking refuge and had not returned to London since. The 23 room manor upon a 10,000 acre estate was a wedding gift from her brother-in-law, Lord Mycroft Holmes. The estate was a three hour carriage ride from London, it contained two lakes and a large pond, 16 orchards and grew (that they knew of) 59 varieties of plants. Surrounded by mountains, Laurelworth Manor itself was at an elevation of 1,400 meters. The sweeping landscape never ceased to take Molly’s breath away, no matter how many times she saw it.

Her husband, the infamously brilliant (and equaling infuriating) William Sherlock Scott Holmes, spent his days in London at 221 B Baker Street solving crimes and conducting experiments with his closest friend and confidant Dr. John H. Watson. Her father Sir Charles Barrett Hooper, a respected and knighted Colonel Physician in Her Majesty’s Royal Army, God rest his soul, had arranged for the marriage with the hearty consent of Lord and Lady Holmes. Her father had been a war hero and his living children were considered to be the most eligible bachelor and bachelorettes when they had been introduced to society.

Molly let out a sleepy chuckle, remembering the letter her father had sent while she was abroad in America at the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania informing her of the engagement. She was stunned, she’d never met the man, only reading about his many cases and brilliance in newspaper articles. Begrudgingly, she left at the end of her spring semester and returned to England within a fortnight. Two months later they married, she twenty and Sherlock twenty-five, in a small ceremony, much to the displeasure of the paparazzi and gossips in London society.

With the apathetic blessing of her new husband, Molly returned to America five days after their wedding to complete her education. She attempted to keep in regular correspondence with the Consulting Detective, but found he only wrote short replies back to satiate her desire to know he was doing well and breathing. After two more years of continuous study, Molly returned to England a Doctor. However, she was only allowed to practice in obstetrics at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital as it was a “womanly profession”. She was grateful to be able to put her skill to use anywhere and enjoyed her career, but her heart had always been in the field of pathology.

In the fourteen months she’d been at Laurelworth, Molly had made a happy life for herself, free from the constraints of social niceties and peerage. She ran the estate like a well-oiled machine and was loved by all in its employ. Every third day she spent at the village surgery looking after the women of the surrounding areas and delivering their babies if on duty at the time.

 Molly’s gaze drifted to the pictures on her bedside table which contained four framed photographs close to her heart. The first in an old, simple frame was a picture of her family when they lived in India before her mother and younger brother Rupert had died of Malaria. In her mind’s eyes, she could still see the fiery red of their hair.

The second photo in a lovely painted frame was of Mrs. Hudson and their dearest friends John and Mary Watson (nee Morstan) on their wedding day. Mary was a nurse midwife she’d met during Molly’s time at St. Bart’s, the two had become instant friends. Sherlock and John had been on a case involving the murder of a heavily pregnant woman who had been under Molly’s care. Despite the rather gruesome circumstances, love had blossomed between John and Mary and within six months, the pair were married. The blonde beauty had visited her at least half a dozen times while their husbands had been out for days on end chasing a case. However, she’d not visited since entering her third trimester at the behest of both John and Molly, not wanting to risk her well-being during this delicate time. Mrs. Hudson, the beloved landlady -not housekeeper- of 221 B Baker Street had visited three times and would have come more often had it not been for her troubling hip.

The third photograph set in a gilded frame was of Molly and her two living siblings in the parlor of their London townhome 10 days prior to the announcement of her engagement to Sherlock was put in the papers.

Standing in proper English fashion behind his two seated sisters was her elder brother, Mr. David Charles Hooper, his cocoa-colored hair slicked back and mouth set in a firm line. He was an Oxford educated solicitor and now a founding partner in one of London’s top law firms.  At twenty two he married Sarah Jane Turner, the daughter of the Lieutenant Colonel in their father’s regimen. The pair were childhood sweethearts and would have married sooner if David hadn’t been so determined to make something of himself to support Sarah on his own without the financial aid of their parents. Molly loved her sister-in-law and their three children dearly. Their eldest Andrew David was 6 and a half, Margaret Jane (known as Maggie), four, and Eleanor Kaye was now 18 months old. The family had come to visit twice and only two weeks ago Sarah had written they were expecting their fourth in October!

Her younger sister, Viscountess Camilla Marie Poitier had visited for three months while her husband, the Viscount Raul Poitiers was in Parliament at Paris ardently fighting for the rights of the lowest class. Molly could only roll her eyes and smile indulgently, remembering how sixteen year old Camilla had begged David to let her marry the obscenely handsome, romantic, enlightened, artistic twenty-one year old aristocrat who was in England visiting his mother’s family. Raul had fallen hopelessly in love with her beautiful golden haired sister at first sight; they spent the evening dancing together as if they were the only two in the ballroom.

The older siblings, however, were not ignorant to the Frenchman’s reputation for being a serial philanderer. So it came as no surprise that when the offer of marriage was made two weeks later, Molly sought out Mycroft for his opinion on the Viscount’s character. She was disheartened to discover that even the British Government’s sources had reported that while he was a religious man and much loved by the people, fidelity was not in Raul’s nature. David had reluctantly given his consent (after many rounds of tears and threats of elopement) and the two were married within a fortnight in a grand ceremony. The pair had not yet been married a year and were already expecting their first child in August.

The last picture was of her and Sherlock on their wedding day. Molly’s chest constricted at the impassive expression juxtaposed with the earnest hope so evident on her face as she gazed up at him. Sherlock had only stayed at Laurelworth twice since she’d taken up residence there permanently, the first time was at Easter, the second at Christmas and neither were of his own volition. In the year she spent at Baker Street, the young obstetrician had fallen deeply in love with his genius and (under several layers of sarcasm, impatience and a surely disposition) kindness. The latter had never been directed towards her but she’d witnessed it on several occasions in his interactions with Dr. Watson, Mary (who he’d taken a genuine, friendly shine to), Mycroft’s wife Anthea, and even on occasion Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Molly’s reminiscing was broken when a knock sounded at her door.

“Come-in!” She called, rising from the warmth of her sheets as her ladies maid, Anna, entered with a tea tray in hand.

“Good Morning, Mistress Holmes. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you. I dreamed of lemon cakes and swimming on the moon.” Molly laughed at the amused expression on Anna’s lovely face, her wheat colored hair in a tight bun, the standard black ladies maid dress she wore was adjusted to accommodate the slight swell of her belly. “What did you dream of, Anna?”

“Ducklings, ma’am. Odd, I know but I’m told it’s normal to have funny dreams when expecting.” She replied, setting the tray down on the coffee table and helping Molly into her berry colored dressing gown before scurrying off to replenish the fire.

“No stranger than swimming on the moon, I assure you.” Molly chuckled, settling down on the chair with her leather bound diary, sipping her tea. “Anna, if you so much as put a log on that fire I will force you to take an extra week’s leave fully paid when the baby arrives.”

“Mrs. Holmes, you know I’m perfectly well enough to lift a few logs.” Anna admonished. “I like to earn my keep, ma’am-“

“Anna, you do not have to prove your worth to me.” Molly said earnestly, rising to grasp her hands. “Your place at Laurelworth is set in stone, my dear. Having a baby will not prompt me to eject you from your positon, I assure you.”

Anna’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Yes, Mrs. Holmes…Thank you.”

Molly nodded with a smile. “I think the blue riding habit with the white linen blouse will do today, a bit dressy for me, I know, I’m scheduled to inspect the orchards and ensure none of those confounding beetles have eaten away the peaches, but I’m also to visit the estate’s accountant so I suppose some effort couldn’t hurt.”

“Yes ma’am.” The lady’s maid gave a rueful smile. “What would you like for breakfast this morning?”

“Scrambled eggs, sausage, tomatoes and porridge with cinnamon sugar. I’m positively famished this morning. In the sunroom as well, it’s too lovely a day not to look out at the view.”

“Right away ma’am. I’ll be back in a mo’ to help you dress.” Anna smiled once more and left the room.

Molly went to the washing bowl and splashed her face, cleaning herself with a soaped wash cloth. Anna returned just as she had finished, helping her into her petty coats, corset and blue riding habit. They had just finished brushing Molly’s thick, sandy auburn locks into a simple ponytail when a knock resounded followed by a series of barks.

“We’re decent Mrs. Lyle, you can come in!” Molly called.

First through the door were Molly’s three favorite companions, her beloved pets. Brutus, her 90 pound three year old Great Pyrenees-Shepherd who always wanted to play and somehow always managed to find mud puddles to jump into (frustrating Mrs. Lyle to no end). Freida, her 30 pound seven year old beagle mix that loved to cuddle and worm her way into places she had no business being in (much to the amusement of the groundskeepers). Third was Toby, her 10 year old tortoiseshell Calico cat that spent his days lazing in the sun, ignoring everyone (save for Molly, he always made a point to know her location if she was in the Manor) and chasing mice for cream.

“Good morning, my loves!” Molly greeted each with several loving belly rubs and affectionate kisses, laughing at their licks on her cheek. “Shall we go and see what wonders Mrs. Honeycutt has made of our breakfast?”

“Mrs. Holmes, I wanted to inform you that Mister H-“ Mrs. Lyle, the head housekeeper, started but Molly was already gone, racing the dogs down the main staircase, greeting various members of the household staff by name and with a warm smile. They in turn greeted her happily and chuckled watching their mistress race her beloved mutts, Toby - aloof as ever- maintained a decent pace behind. The glowing smile was still upon her face as the four rounded the corner to the sunroom; laughter echoing in the halls of the house, she entered to see a familiar, yet estranged figure seated at the head of the table. He looked just as he had the last time Molly had seen him, dressed in a finely tailored dark suit under a scarlet dressing gown, sipping coffee as his blue-green eyes looked up from his paper and locked with hers.

They never ceased to take her breath away.

“S-Sherlock!” She stuttered confusedly. “I-I mean, Mr. Holmes. Welcome back.”

He smirked, obviously satisfied with his surprise appearance. “Good Morning, Mrs. Holmes.”

[vincentcastleton-blog]

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[juuryoku]

Filling the blanks and erasing letters.

From the outside, you would never guess what this place is. It looks like a house about to be demolished, in the sense that there is some flourishing overgrowth rooting deep within the walls, some of the windows are broken, and the door made a very distinctive and loud creaking sound when it opened.

I was taken to a neat and comfy sofa in a small waiting room by a nurse with spectacular teeth, dressed in her pink and white scrubs, and the brisk pace of youth. My cellphone didn’t get much reception on the way here, so when a message from one of my students came through, I was taken a bit aback by its suddenness. I realized then that it was not only a warm place: its silent nature hid the absolution and calm that I felt. There were no magazines, no books, no screens, and no coffee or snack machines. No source of motion or sound. Just two noticeable signs that I could ever know of: “Waiting room” and “Do not speak loudly or scream in the corridors or rooms.”

Three minutes later, through the same entrance I came in, Young miss plaster-teeth asked me to follow her. I noticed her tag pin above her bosom, but her name was either blurred or illegible.

 - “The... “Residents” must never know our names” She shined towards me with her perfect smile “I gather that’s why you’re staring at my chest with confusion. My name is Tania, Mr. Jones.”

- “Oh. Makes sense... Tania. Affiliation and stuff.”

- “More stuff than afiliation, sir.” She stepped slower to keep my curious gaze from jumping room to room and so I could fixate it on her. “If they know your name, they start asking for your visits more often. If they see you frequently, they start thinking you are their doctor, or their family. They project a lot, sir. Some of them are absolute geniuses in the fields of math, cryptography and literature. Our name tags are... squiggles. Meaningless.”

-“You’re here just to fill a spot.”

- “So are you, Mr. Jones.” Keys loosened from her hip. Plastic. Nothing metallic. “Here we are. Room 99-21. Leo Borland. You have three hours. Here’s your escape kit.″ She stated, handing me a button and with a cute bow and some generic words, she walked away into the many halls of the building.

The door opened without more than a push, and closed silently behind me.

Leo rested sitting on his bed. A small pillow attached to his hand and a lemon on the other. His eyes affixed on paper copies of a symphony. Two desks filled with sketches of the halls and rooms. A metallic shining mirror, embedded in a wall. Unbreakable. I closed the space between us, and in my path, dragged a chair to the bed. Right in front of him. He doesn’t see me. Leo never sees anyone.

A cough.

A rasp of my throat. 

A louder cough. 

- “Hey. Lunchbox.” I sound off.

He looks at me. There we go.

- “Hey asshole. Nice of you to visit me. Six hundred and seventy seven days without a single visit. At least you remember me.”

- “I brought you a birthday gift, Leo.” I said with a pang of shame.

I produce a small package from my sweater. It contains a scarf, knitted by my son, a plastic thermos sent by his mom, sweets and exotic food from his friends around the world, and from me, he gets three marbles. It’s what we played when we were kids. He told me years later it was what drove him into studying physics. Later into learning three-dimensional models of light redistribution. Later into probability and statistics. Later into a laureate thesis from Yale, quoted and recognized by no less than 10 different science magazines. Later into object theft compulsion and obssessive collectible disorders. Later into a heavy depression and dissociation.

Later into paralyzing his sister, 5 years younger than him, because she had erased a page of research results by accident. A blow to the head with a 5-pound metallic drawer.

- “I assume that the news have reached your side of reality, then.”

- “You assume correctly, my dear lunchbox.” I watch as he grasps the marbles with a grin, then stands and opens a great wooden box, on the head of his bed. Many more marbles are there. My head feels too heavy all of a sudden, and all I can do is feel it sink below my shoulders, my chin hitting heavy on my chest. “Your mom was... devastated. Is it really that complex now?”

- “You are seeing me in a bright day, Felix. I have taken my pills, I enjoyed a good shit, and some french singer was on the speakers, not three hours ago. I am tip top, right now. Ten days from now, you will find me with a hole drilled in my head, drooling and with a fixed stare.”

- “So, Is this our last chat?” My voice betrays my sadness, and its trembling announces my tears, even when my gaze is fixed on my shoes.

- “I don’t think so, Jones. You will come back. You will see me. I just won’t be there. My conversation will be... less famous than before.”

It’s a call for mayhem and desperation. Might as well kill the genius. I should end his life right now, before I see his brain snuff our like a candle in a heavy rain.

I compose myself before standing up, and going to the mirror. My eyes are red shot.

- “So something must have happened, right? No one gets a selection of his brain trepanated over nothing.”

- “Ever so brilliant, Felix. Do you also get this snarky when teaching math to your schoolkids?”

- “I can see you are in pain, Leo. Spill.”

An awkward, mismatched blink. He grips the lemon with enough frustration to make it start bleeding. Ah. I see now. Blood limes. The fancy stuff.

- “I developed a new theory, Felix. One that makes sense, finally. it’s a complete mechanical breakthrough of particle positioning. It erases a 95 percent of the uncertainty principle. I could look at the box of the cat, and know, nineteen out of twenty times, if the cat was either alive or dead.”

I sit down. This shit is heavier than an entire mountain. He continued.

- “It requires expensive material, and I started testing it on the outer labs of this very facility, by disassembling a TV, and some of the leisure computers, but it held out. It all held out. I have the entire formulaic knowledge within my brain. I can even write it out for you. I forgot most of my world, just so that this piece of knowledge could be arranged into existence.”

- “That’s why you called me.”

- “Out of all the fucking idiots outside, you would be the only one sane and knowledgeable enough too understand.”

-”So what happened?”

- “The idiot in charge, mainly. Doctor Daniel Montgomery. Fucking idiot. Found the experiment, didn’t understand it, I didn’t explain it, and now thinks I’m too fucking dangerous to exist. Staged a fight between me and one of the guards. A dumb gorilla called Diane, or Sarah, or Donna, or whatever the fucking five-lettered beef bimbo they put on my charge is called. It’s always five letters you know?”

- “Last time it was Erika, yeah.”

- “So yeah. I’m not even going to protest. If you saw the apparatus, it would be understandable. Looks like a bomb without a keyboard. An assortment of wire, circuitry and saliva. It was a probability capacitor. You could feed it events via voice and it would give you an answer. A Nuanced answer. Everything in it’s right place. Every puzzle piece connected. And it stored it to match other future and past events. A full storage of many chances, if you will.”

- “And they saw it and panicked.”

- “And now... I’m next for holehead land.”

My mind raced. I memorized a lot of shit in my life, but a map would be something hard. I’m a slow visual learner. I was already racing through the motions and ideas, concocting plans to get out of here with Doctor in Chaos Mathematics, Leopold Borland Williams.

- “So you started using that dumb gray sack in your skull, right?”

I stopped dry on my calculations.

- “Why did you call me?”

- “Because, you fucking dumb idiot of a half man... The only letters that appeared on the screen of the device, when I turned it on, read “Lunchbox Carried by Happy Thoughts”. Happy now, Mister FELIX Jones?”