herr_bookman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
herr_bookman) wrote2014-11-24 04:11 pm
herr_bookman) wrote2014-11-24 04:11 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: A Ritual Repeated
After Autor's dramatic reentry into the bar, he hid from everyone in his room, wrapped up in a cocoon of denial. Pride goes before a fall, and Autor had indeed fallen, though he refused to acknowledge it.
He thinks in if only statements. If only the oak tree had talked to him. If only he were chosen, and not Fakir. If only he'd been born with Drosselmeyer's blood. If only he'd never been born.
It's not that he wanted to die, necessarily, just that he didn't want to be there right now. He was overwhelmed, and clearly couldn't handle everything coming his way at the moment. Autor tried not to dwell on his desire to run away, tried to focus on what he could do. What he should do.
He also thinks in what ifs. What if the Bookmen are wrong? he thinks desperately, pacing. Fakir can't be the only Spinner. I worked too hard for this. What if the whole thing's just a nightmare? He snorts at the ridiculous notion, glaring at the floor. But what if... I did the rituals wrong? And I could still prove myself?
Well, he could test that. Autor drinks a glass of water, and washes his face. He digs his toes into the wood, facing the door, and prepares to clear his mind.
Three days later, he's still standing there.
He thinks in if only statements. If only the oak tree had talked to him. If only he were chosen, and not Fakir. If only he'd been born with Drosselmeyer's blood. If only he'd never been born.
It's not that he wanted to die, necessarily, just that he didn't want to be there right now. He was overwhelmed, and clearly couldn't handle everything coming his way at the moment. Autor tried not to dwell on his desire to run away, tried to focus on what he could do. What he should do.
He also thinks in what ifs. What if the Bookmen are wrong? he thinks desperately, pacing. Fakir can't be the only Spinner. I worked too hard for this. What if the whole thing's just a nightmare? He snorts at the ridiculous notion, glaring at the floor. But what if... I did the rituals wrong? And I could still prove myself?
Well, he could test that. Autor drinks a glass of water, and washes his face. He digs his toes into the wood, facing the door, and prepares to clear his mind.
Three days later, he's still standing there.
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"You are no failure, Autor," Rae reiterates, holding him steady. "If your father thinks that, he's a shortsighted fool."
She will go home with him and protect him, if need be.
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The boy pushes away from her, staggering over to the middle of the floor again. "T-That's why I need to finish this ritual. I m-might have to start over."
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No punching walls because of a story someone else wrote.
"You've been awake without food or water for, what, three days and nights? If you... if you must, finish the ritual, Autor, but there's no way you're starting over without recuperating first."
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"You need something to drink, at least - there's tea, if you want," she offers, seeing his cracked and parched lips, "and you need a good long sleep. Things will look better in the morning, I promise."
"Please, Autor," she pleads, quietly.
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...ritual doesn't work when you start out....
...ritual doesn't work...
Autor's breath hitches. Rae's words ring in his ears, and he clutches his pounding heart. He bites through his lip and lets loose a strangled sob, tears pricking his eyes. The boy whirls to point at her, but overbalances himself and lands on his hand and one knee with a crack!
The rejected Spinner stands slowly, shaking. "The hell do you mean the ritual doesn't work?" he snaps. "It's only not working because I'm doing it wrong!"
He pushes his glasses up, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. The boy sways on his feet, close to falling again. He sobs uncontrollably, his voice cracking and his breath coming shallow and quick.
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"You're not doing it wrong. You're doing it the only way you know how," she murmurs miserably, voice unsteady, wishing she could somehow make it all hurt less. "I know you - you are so careful, so meticulous. You map out every step. You aren't doing it wrong. If it hasn't worked yet... the ritual... isn't going to work."
It would be best if Rae never met Drosselmeyer, the author so carefree with dolling out misery and pain to those who have to live his stories and be discarded by them. Drinking in the characters' hurt like a vampire drinking in so much tears and blood. Sunshine hugs Autor close, wanting so much to shield him from the pain of this, but knowing she cannot carry him through it.
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Worse still, in his heart of hearts, he knows she's right. He just doesn't want to--just can't accept it. Dr. Lecter was right, the boy thinks groggily. I used to be better than this.
"You've made me... weak," Autor whispers to his friend in a croak. Then he sags against her, collapsing, his body unable to bear the abuse he's given it over the past week. His head thunks against her shoulder, his grip loosens, and he starts falling, glasses askew.
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She has never really believed in any deity, no overseeing power that directs the lives of those living in the world the deity presumably created. Few people in her world do - those that don't believe generally say that if they did, they would probably want to kick the deity in the shins for doing such a shit job at everything. But even with no one listening, Sunshine wishes as fiercely as she can on her friend's behalf. For peace, and rest, and healing. For understanding and support.
His words, when they come, are a sudden strike to her very heart. Her eyes flash open, and she nearly drops him in sudden shock. A deep flood of cold horror wells up in her like blood, chilling her bones and numbing her movement. Gasping, she is barely able to catch Autor's unconscious, collapsing form, her knees giving way, awkwardly sinking down to the floor with him to keep him from falling.
('Do you really think...')
Rae can't think clearly. It's all static. For a long moment, it is all she can do to sit crumpled on the floor, her breathing ragged, holding Autor half in her lap and staring at his battered, exhausted face. Then, as her tears begin falling in earnest, Autor's words begin encroaching again upon her scattered thoughts like an infection, the original strike having already found its mark. Had she? Had she really? Has all her good-will and friendship done nothing but make things worse for him? Would he be a Spinner, if she hadn't... muddled his focus? Surely not. She couldn't have.
('...being more trusting and vulnerable...')
Lifting her head and trying to get the wracking sobs under control, Rae moves her shaking hand to gently straighten Autor's glasses and wipe away the drying tears that mark his face. He looks so young without his glasses. She forgets, sometimes, just how young he is. He always acts so confident. He had when they first met. Had she ruined that? ('You've made me... weak.') Though she tries to wipe away the dark blotches on his blue blazer, her tears still fall thickly, her own quiet sobs shaking them both together in the floor of the darkened room.
('...will properly prepare him for the world he has to live in?')
Autor had hoped to escape the war through his Spinning. Had pinned everything on that. She hadn't known. And now he can't. Can't escape. He may die. The thought that she... that her friendship, all those memories she cherishes... may have weakened him to the point where he couldn't save himself... that he may die because of her - 'distractions,' he had said, with her weak promises that his friends would see him safely through war's devastation - it only makes the sobs come harder, helpless misery wetting her cheeks and Autor's dark hair as she rests her head against his.
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The boy--for that's what he is really, only seventeen--curls into her for warmth, mumbling, and completely unaware of her turmoil.
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('I'm so sorry.')
Very slowly and gently, Rae shifts Autor so she can stand, lifting him in her arms. The boy doesn't eat enough even when he hasn't starved himself for three days; even in her emotionally exhausted state, he is easy to carry over to the bed.
('I'm sorry. I didn't know.')
Almost mechanically, she takes off his shoes and loosens his collar, then covers him with a blanket so he won't get cold as he sleeps. The tea tray lies forgotten and cold by the bedside. Rae settles in the chair, though she isn't sure why she doesn't just leave. Some part of her says she should keep watch, but another, nastier part says, 'Against what? Haven't I already done enough damage? Perhaps someone should keep watch against me.' She stays, anyway. Even if some of this damage is her fault, she will not abandon him now.
('Please forgive me.')
For a long time, the only sound in the room is the quiet, sleep-steady breathing from the boy in the bed. If Rae sleeps, she doesn't remember it. She leaves at first light, unable to stand it any longer.
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He dreams--as he so rarely does--of an angel smelling of cinnamon. She tells him 'everything will be all right in the morning', and he believes her. He wakes contented, well-rested, with a peaceful lassitude in his limbs.
Rae...
His contentment pops like a bubble. Autor gasps, what he said the night before flooding back to him. He sits up--and immediately falls back down, dizzy, narrowly missing cracking his head on the headboard. Autor presses his hand to his stomach, trying to tamp down the sick feeling there mixing with the gnawing feeling of not having eaten.
The boy peels his lips apart. He spots the tea and drinks some--slowly, to wet his mouth. Too fast, and he'd be nauseated. He sets the cup aside, trying not to think on who brought that to him, and what he said to her--but he can't not think on it. Despite its taste, the tea is bitter in his mouth. Citrus-lavender-sage tea, what Rae drinks when everything has gone to hell.
He'd thought he was done with crying. Apparently not. Oh, god, Rae! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. The boy leans his arms on his bent knees, tears staining his arms. He can't convince her that he didn't mean it, because he did mean it, every word. How could he not? To be a Spinner was his dream, his safety. Everything in his life had been building to this moment. Now, not only was he proved incapable, he may have lost a friend. His best friend. He was thoughtless, and hurtful--he thought he'd outgrown that cruelty after he'd cut himself on Lohengrin's sword.
I have to find her. I have to tell her that I was wrong, the boy thinks, raising his head. Tears bead on his cheeks and slip down to his throat. He stands, and then falls back on the bed, dizzy. Will she believe me?
Autor cleans his glasses. First, he must order food. The boy vows to find his friend--if she's still willing to be called that--as soon as he takes care of himself. She was right about one thing, he thinks bitterly. The ritual doesn't work. I'm not a Spinner. I'm not... Oh, Rae.