George standing in front of the Mirror of Erised after his son is born, and all he sees is himself passing the newborn Fred to the adult Fred so the namesakes can meet at least once. Adult Fred looks so happy and proud.
She recognises her. It’s vague, like in a dream really. Blonde hair and blue eyes like her own. A park, and laughter. She remembers little of her toddler years, but the memories are there, as vague as they are. “I remember the story of the king, a mighty warrior who would do anything for his princess.” A smile graces the redhead’s lips as she looks up, before she smiles up. “You used to tell me that story.” Hope finishes her eyes going back to the drawing before hand. “Am I a princess, auntie Bekah?” ||
loveconsumed starter from hope
Scents of parchment and dried herbs and the left-over ghosts
of incense surrounded the Warlock as she sat upon a plump purple cushion. The
hidden basement chamber was cool, though flickers of orange glow from candles
set onto wall-sconces, book shelves, and the alter gave warmth to the
windowless room. Curled forward in a pose that might leave an acrobat mildly
impressed, she leaned down close to the hulking Felhound that lay patiently on
the floor, one hand filled with a brush that carefully traced bone-white
pigment onto leathery red hide. The Horde symbols had worn off of the beasts
and needed to be refreshed; this time with inks that had been enchanted to last
as well as afford them added protection in battle.
It was an almost meditative activity, requiring such quiet
concentration that it hushed her mind for a time, let her ignore the flares of
magic within that sometimes made her twitch and wince, took her thoughts away
from the battles against the Legion that waited on Azeroth. Draenor, at least
for now, was still safe, and returning here allowed her to be rid of the
oppressive hum that seemed to linger in the air at sites where the Legion was
striking, a sense of foreboding that came each time she felt a pull toward the
sickly green energy that seemed to linger on every horizon of the Broken Isles.
Were she not already in a contortionist pose, the sudden
harsh pull of magic linked to her would have bent her double; as it was, she
gasped sharply and the paint brush clattered to the floor. Grymmie, the burly
Felhound she’d had with her since youth, snarled and tensed, inching closer to
provide support so Rijhanni could heave herself upright; his magic-seeking
tendrils arched so the spread-petal tips aimed at the alter.
She was able to turn in time to see the foggy form of Theron
fade into view before the alter and it caught her breath in her throat. She’d
not heard from the man since Winter Veil, and the only thing she could think
was that he was in danger and trying to flee using a piece of himself as a target.
A deep violet sphere of perfect crystal pulsing with wavers of red at the
center sat carefully on a small velvet pillow, one soulstone among several that
sat on her alter for safe-keeping.
“Theron?” Her voice came out more wavering than
she would have liked, but a tugging sensation of dread was building within like
a string pulled too taut, latched to some part of her no one could name. One
hand on the Felhound’s sloped horn, she moved unsteadily toward the translucent
form that hovered like smoke from the flickering candles, reaching out. That
string pulled tighter when her hand passed through to find nothing she could
Everything seemed to slow as though trapped in resin. Jade
eyes widened as she saw the faint cracks start to spread around the sphere
she’d taken such care to tend well, the essence within pushing at the shell.
She reached out as if she could hold it together with her hand, to keep it safe
as she’d promised what seems like years ago.
With a high-pitched keen, the sphere shattered, violet
shards blowing apart, some embedding in her palm to draw beads of scarlet in
alabaster skin, that string pulled so tight that it finally snapped and left
her reeling. The Felhound snarled, hunkering down as though seeking something
to attack, but there was no enemy, only fading smoke and swirls of dwindling
Rijhanni dropped to an ungainly sprawl at the base of
the stone alter, legs askew, staring down in horror at the fallen pieces of the
soulstone. Shaky hands attempted to gather up the shards as though somehow she
could put them back together. She’d promised to keep it safe…
Its a funny thing, really, how people react differently to the death of a loved one. There are some who find the shock and loss too great that their minds shut down and they find themselves with no memory of their loved one. Then there are others who refuse to accept the truth and run themselves ragged trying to find the loved one they insist is ‘missing’ rather than believe the grim truth.
For Chey, the news that Lewis was dead hit a little too close to home. After losing her mother only a few years prior, the death of another loved one wasn’t easy to deal with. Still, she thought she could keep it together. After all, it should get easier each time it happened … right? At least, that’s what she naively told herself.
She had responsiblities to take care of, she couldn’t allow herslf to break down the way she had when her mother died. She knew Lewis wouldn’t want her to wallow in sadness and sorrow, so she did her best to treck on. Seeing the empty casket at the funeral was hard, scrolling through Lewis’ tumblr and knowing it would never be updated again with his quirky posts and cute artwork was even harder, but the hardest thing? Holding a live art stream in honor of Lewis.
Of course she thought she could handle it, having waited a few days to give herself time to mentally and emotionally prepare herself. She gathered her materials, 7 x 10 inch hotpress watercolor paper, Windsor and Newton watercolors, some watercolor brushes, masking tape and fluid, and she was ready.
This art stream had the most viewers than any other art stream she’s ever done. People from both her and Lewis’ tumblrs tuning in to see the painting process. The chat was full of people sending their condolences, well wishes, and general inquries if she was okay. Even then she did her best to stay positive despite a concerning ache growing in her chest. She’d be fine. She’d be fine.
Playing some of Lewis’ favorite songs in the background since this painting was in his honor, Chey didn’t talk much during the process. What was she supposed to say? She didn’t even speak at her own mother’s funeral all those years ago. Words could never truly describe how she felt. That was why she painted and drew instead. She couldn’t speak with words, but she could speak with her art. That’s why she did what she did.
She didn’t know when it first started or when her followers first pointed it out, but at some point she realized as she was mixing her watercolors … her tears were falling into the paint. With hands that trembled like an autumn’s leaf in the breeze she reached up and wiped them away. It was futile. More and more tears cascaded down her cheeks and before Chey even knew what was happening, she was sobbing over her painting.
The chat exploded with messages of concern and worry, the viewers not sure what to do. Some attempted some sweet messages and numerous heart emojis were sent her way, but it didn’t seem to help the sobbing mess that she had become.
Through her tears Chey could see Lewis’ warm smile staring up at her from the paper. She had gotten as far as painting it before her breakdown. Who knew such a simple image could reduce her to such a blubbering mess. She hadn’t cried like this since she lost her mother.
That was all she was able to choke out before she cut the live feed to the stream and closed her browser. Burying her face into her hands, Chey wept, and from the corner of her room, a lone figure stood in the shadows. Golden heart thumping in a sad and slow manner, they took a tentative step forward. Transparent hands reached out, wanting to comfort the broken hearted woman, but hesitated. Pained magenta eyes peeked out from dark purple hair, ethereal whisps escaping from their form.
Like a whispered through the breeze the sound just barely caught the weeping woman’s attention. Slowly, tears not stopping, she lifted her head and her eyes widened, feeling an odd chill land solely on her shoulders.
'It’ll be okay … I’m sorry. Please, don’t cry for me.’
This only seemed to make her cry even more, her form trembling.
“Oh, Lewis …” She whimpered, losing herself in her tears once more.
Lewis could only watch helplessly as she continued to weep before looking away, guilt flooding him, and disappearing fully. There wasn’t anything he could do. Not now at least.
After all, how was the dead supposed to comfort the living?
(A/N: I’m back from the dead! I apologize for my hiatus, but now I should be able to get back to updating this blog more frequently.)
“What do you mean you can’t go there? He has Y/N! Nothing matters except getting her back. Come on, we’re wasting time!” Damian shouted. Bruce shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Damian, I really am. I know how much Y/N means to you, but you have to wait for your brother. I cannot go there, which is the reason Joker took her to that location,” he said calmly. Damian wanted to scream.
“Why? What the hell is so special about the Monarch Theater? She could be dying and you’re making me wait? I’ll just go alone!” he raged. Bruce put out a hand to catch him, but Damian evaded his father’s grasp. He stormed out of the cave, somehow managing to avoid Bruce on his way out.
“Damian, stop.” The older man’s orders fell upon deaf ears.
Robin couldn’t even recall most of the fight. His recollection was blurred by the rage coursing through his veins. The clown himself hadn’t even been there, a fact that made Damian even angrier. I would have made him suffer for this… the boy thought to himself. He was pulled from his musing by Dick.
“What the hell were you thinking? Robin, you would have died if I didn’t come in when I did,” he scolded. Damian ignored him.
“Belittle me when she’s safe,” he said, continuing to search for Y/N. Dick sighed but gave in. It wasn’t long before they found the girl. As Damian took in her appearance, he let out a sharp breath. She was barely conscious, decorated with bruises and dried blood. A rag gagged her mouth, and her leg was bent grotesquely out of shape. A bloody crowbar lay near her.
“Y/N!” Damian called to her. “Dick, get help, she’s here!” Y/N raised her head slightly, clearly exhausted by the effort. Damian ran to her, untying her bindings. When he pulled the gag out of her mouth, she coughed.
“Robin…” she whispered in a croaky voice. Tears mingled with the blood on her face. Damian took the mask off, letting it slip to the floor.
“It’s me, Y/N. Damian. I’m here,” he said softly, gingerly taking her into his arms. It was then he realized how bad her condition was. Several of her ribs were broken and her heartbeat was incredibly faint. His heart, however, slammed harder against his chest with each wheezing breath that escaped Y/N’s lungs.
“I knew you would come for me…” she said, wincing when Damian strengthened his hold on her. There were so many things Damian wanted to tell her he was sorry for. Letting the Joker get her, not realizing what had happened sooner, taking so long in coming for her… words started spilling from his mouth, but his apology was interrupted by her coughs.
“You’ll be okay, Y/N. The ambulance is coming, you’ll be okay,” he said shakily. She shook her head slightly.
“Everything hurts so badly,” Y/N murmured.
“I know, I know, but everything will heal… Just stay awake, keep going…” he tried his best to comfort her. More tears fell from Y/N’s eyes.
“I don’t… Damian, I don’t know how much longer I can… I think I’m dying, Damian,” she whimpered. He shook his head, almost able to hear his heart shattering.
“Don’t say that. Don’t. Y/N, I love you more than anything in this world… which is why you have to stay here. Stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking as he spoke. Hot tears ran down his face. A broken smile graced Y/N’s lips. Sirens could be heard outside.
“Just hold on for a little while longer,” he said desperately.
“Your mask,” she responded weakly. Damian nodded, quickly fastening it over his eyes just before several EMTs flooded into the room and lifted Y/N from his arms. A haze descended over Damian. Dick appeared at his side, guiding him out of the building.
“It’s probably not the best idea going to the hospital in costume, but I’ll drive you as soon as you change…” Everything Damian heard sounded like it was echoing through water.
“You can’t die,” he whispered, watching the ambulance drive away. “Please don’t die.”