![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jezebelinhellI wrote this as part of the Robert Frost writing prompt for Morbid Aristocracy. However, I deem the writing and story a dud so I am posting it here instead. I consider it part of her storyline after Tristan-mun gives his blessing, I just don't think it's worthy of community wide distribution. :) This immediately follows Long Live the Prince with Grayest_Night.
If I could have yelled out, I would have. Like a child I would have pounded my fist against his chest, I would have clawed at his face and cut where I could. But those infequent childish occurrences, vague to my memory at all, accomplished little then and they would have accomplished absolutely nothing now. I smiled when he smiled; I teased when he let me and I took my leave as quickly as I could. Tristan.
“Madam?” Asked the driver.
“The penthouse.” I replied shortly, grasping the shirt with claw-like nails between my hands as it touched my skin as if it burned me. It took all my nerve not to rip it off my chest then and there. Instead I ripped it off once I made it half-way through the door of the penthouse, wadding it up and throwing it into the corner. Quite oddly, my skin was raised with thousands of goosebumps. It was easy to divine my discomfort between the little bumps.I stared at the torn garment—his shirt—as if it were a viper made to strike. But it appears that it was us that were the snakes, cultivating different poisons that did the same thing.
Tristan, I thought with a sort of morose aggitation as I stared down the shirt. It wasn’t seduction or necessity that prompted me to request his shirt for the ride home, the one he wore, when he ruined mine in his amusement and my humiliation, but it was curiosity. I’m shaking. I don’t recall the last time this emotion was dredged up from the muck of my humanity. Humanity, yes. It had to be. It was unavoidable, because, wearing this shirt, I came to realize that I still had a worn thread of it. That knowledge is only available to those that can compare their humanity with someone who has little to none. Someone like Aidan. That this was Tristan’s path, however, had been entirely unexpected. I did not know what I thought about it yet.
Warily, I reached out for the tatters of the shirt on the floor, then recoiled. Again. I watched my fingers shake. Ridiculous. I shook them out. I had no room for fear, not in others and most assuredly not within myself. Again, my fingers gingerly reached out for the shirt, picking it up by the lapel of the collar. Was it possible that he was not aware that I could read the resonants from the shirt? Each fiber wove a story. I placed the offending fabric to my nose and took a deep breath. My eyes shot open wide, but I am looking at a world that I do not recognize.
I’m falling. It’s cold. Darkness swirls like black snow around me and the feeling, something I can’t describe, feels something like being the last undead thing when the universe dies. I am being taken apart piece by piece. A horrible laugh echoes across the desolate land as it is destroyed. No longer am I certain if this is the past, present or the future. Terror quite literally blinded me but I didn’t let get of the shirt. I had to see.
The deluge is coming. For many moments I could only hear those words repeat in my head, thudding behind my eyes and burning them as if someone were running razor blade across my corneas. The ground was holding me down and for a moment, I was thankful.
It was impossible, I thought with hope withering in my chest. Whomever Tristan had engaged in Amaranth with was so powerful that I could not see how a shred of him could had survived to integrate his “self" with it in any significant way. Still, there were a few moments where he was recognizable to me. Was that enough? There is only one man that I knew who would have a very extensive knowledge of Amaranth. Aidan. But there was no way that I could possibly engage Aidan without being killed where I stood. Not anymore. I stung him like a bee and now he was allergic to my presence.
“What the hell were you doing?” I chided the Tristan in my vision, hearing more notes of concern in my voice then anger. How did he not know? That seemed impossible. I didn’t know what to make of this development. The visions came with such a dark force that I found myself clutching the shirt to my chest, probably making the visions worse. Something was happening. I tugged. I struggled. I could not remove myself from the abyss of my visions. I was drowning in them.
“Tristan!” I yelled into the darkness, trying to invoke an image that would allow me to follow the thread of his visions. He was there, retreating into the shadows, his face obscured by them. My visions were never cryptic. Usually they gave me insights into present day events, impressions, conversations. This made little sense and yet, I understood perfectly. It was obvious to me that Tristan had taken someone powerful. That I could not even budge from his thrall was...odd, considering my generation as known only to me and my Sire and considering who the Tremere in my lineage actually are. Tristan was powerful, undoubtedly, even older then me, but I had given myself to a perverse darkness and learning to attain some the abilities I had. Yet budge I did not.
Things are not what they seem, Catherine. Isn’t that what he had said? The image that just thundered through my head made me shoot up straight with a open mouthed gasp. The shirt fell from my fingers. Like a statue, I sat there for another hour while I collected the jumble of thoughts buzzing around in my head.
Getting up I wandered about the suites of my penthouse. Still, the images in my head had literally shaken me to the core. It was...apocalyptic. I needed to suppress the personalities in Tristan’s mind or strengthen his so that I can find out what he did, without the influences of the vampire he had diabolized. Then a decision could be made.
That was going to be a problem for I had lied. The book that I needed was not in the Chantry in Vienna. It was in Aidan’s personal library.
If I could have yelled out, I would have. Like a child I would have pounded my fist against his chest, I would have clawed at his face and cut where I could. But those infequent childish occurrences, vague to my memory at all, accomplished little then and they would have accomplished absolutely nothing now. I smiled when he smiled; I teased when he let me and I took my leave as quickly as I could. Tristan.
“Madam?” Asked the driver.
“The penthouse.” I replied shortly, grasping the shirt with claw-like nails between my hands as it touched my skin as if it burned me. It took all my nerve not to rip it off my chest then and there. Instead I ripped it off once I made it half-way through the door of the penthouse, wadding it up and throwing it into the corner. Quite oddly, my skin was raised with thousands of goosebumps. It was easy to divine my discomfort between the little bumps.I stared at the torn garment—his shirt—as if it were a viper made to strike. But it appears that it was us that were the snakes, cultivating different poisons that did the same thing.
Tristan, I thought with a sort of morose aggitation as I stared down the shirt. It wasn’t seduction or necessity that prompted me to request his shirt for the ride home, the one he wore, when he ruined mine in his amusement and my humiliation, but it was curiosity. I’m shaking. I don’t recall the last time this emotion was dredged up from the muck of my humanity. Humanity, yes. It had to be. It was unavoidable, because, wearing this shirt, I came to realize that I still had a worn thread of it. That knowledge is only available to those that can compare their humanity with someone who has little to none. Someone like Aidan. That this was Tristan’s path, however, had been entirely unexpected. I did not know what I thought about it yet.
Warily, I reached out for the tatters of the shirt on the floor, then recoiled. Again. I watched my fingers shake. Ridiculous. I shook them out. I had no room for fear, not in others and most assuredly not within myself. Again, my fingers gingerly reached out for the shirt, picking it up by the lapel of the collar. Was it possible that he was not aware that I could read the resonants from the shirt? Each fiber wove a story. I placed the offending fabric to my nose and took a deep breath. My eyes shot open wide, but I am looking at a world that I do not recognize.
I’m falling. It’s cold. Darkness swirls like black snow around me and the feeling, something I can’t describe, feels something like being the last undead thing when the universe dies. I am being taken apart piece by piece. A horrible laugh echoes across the desolate land as it is destroyed. No longer am I certain if this is the past, present or the future. Terror quite literally blinded me but I didn’t let get of the shirt. I had to see.
The deluge is coming. For many moments I could only hear those words repeat in my head, thudding behind my eyes and burning them as if someone were running razor blade across my corneas. The ground was holding me down and for a moment, I was thankful.
It was impossible, I thought with hope withering in my chest. Whomever Tristan had engaged in Amaranth with was so powerful that I could not see how a shred of him could had survived to integrate his “self" with it in any significant way. Still, there were a few moments where he was recognizable to me. Was that enough? There is only one man that I knew who would have a very extensive knowledge of Amaranth. Aidan. But there was no way that I could possibly engage Aidan without being killed where I stood. Not anymore. I stung him like a bee and now he was allergic to my presence.
“What the hell were you doing?” I chided the Tristan in my vision, hearing more notes of concern in my voice then anger. How did he not know? That seemed impossible. I didn’t know what to make of this development. The visions came with such a dark force that I found myself clutching the shirt to my chest, probably making the visions worse. Something was happening. I tugged. I struggled. I could not remove myself from the abyss of my visions. I was drowning in them.
“Tristan!” I yelled into the darkness, trying to invoke an image that would allow me to follow the thread of his visions. He was there, retreating into the shadows, his face obscured by them. My visions were never cryptic. Usually they gave me insights into present day events, impressions, conversations. This made little sense and yet, I understood perfectly. It was obvious to me that Tristan had taken someone powerful. That I could not even budge from his thrall was...odd, considering my generation as known only to me and my Sire and considering who the Tremere in my lineage actually are. Tristan was powerful, undoubtedly, even older then me, but I had given myself to a perverse darkness and learning to attain some the abilities I had. Yet budge I did not.
Things are not what they seem, Catherine. Isn’t that what he had said? The image that just thundered through my head made me shoot up straight with a open mouthed gasp. The shirt fell from my fingers. Like a statue, I sat there for another hour while I collected the jumble of thoughts buzzing around in my head.
Getting up I wandered about the suites of my penthouse. Still, the images in my head had literally shaken me to the core. It was...apocalyptic. I needed to suppress the personalities in Tristan’s mind or strengthen his so that I can find out what he did, without the influences of the vampire he had diabolized. Then a decision could be made.
That was going to be a problem for I had lied. The book that I needed was not in the Chantry in Vienna. It was in Aidan’s personal library.
no subject
Date: 2015-09-15 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-09-17 12:20 am (UTC)Ugh, I don't know. I really don't like this piece. In some instances there's too much reveal, in others, it's just bland. Maybe I'll come back to it after a while. :)
Thanks for the vote of confidence though.
no subject
Date: 2015-09-20 04:50 pm (UTC)