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Painkiller
May. 9th, 2012 06:35 pmShe wakes to the sound of unpleasant, screechy beeping and the dull pitter-patter of hurried footsteps. A door close by opens, and more sounds spill in -- muttering, a few cries, squeaky wheels. Her stomach turns and jumps into her throat at exactly the same moment. She knows those sounds, intimately, and sits up in the chair she finds herself in.
Orvon-Cross Hospital, many hours from home but the closest modern facility (funded by surviving Americans, supposedly), looks exactly the way it did the last time she'd seen it. The night that her mother had patted her, gently, on the arm and told her that everything was going to be all right. And then it hadn't been.
Her mother, breathing weakly, lays before her on the bed, and her father sits on the other side. He has bags under his eyes and red around the rest of them.
"Fuck," she mutters, emphatically. This is her least favorite place in the world -- in any world. Normally she revels in any dream where she gets to see her mother, but the feeble corpse-like woman on the bed is just barely still her mother.
Stellan Urdahl looks up, accusatory, and Meja quiets -- even though this is just a dream.
"Meja," murmurs the woman on the bed, coughing very specifically. This is a dream crafted from a horrific memory. It's the last night they spent at Orvon-Cross. Meja freezes in the chair.
She should go over and listen to what her mother has to say. These are her last words. But no. This is just a dream, just something that already happened. She doesn't have to do anything.
Meja lurches to her feet and leaves a vapor trail getting out of the room. Her father yells, in a strangled tone, as she closes the door. She ignores him, looking down at her hands. She's fifteen, again, in clothes that are too big for her.
"Fuck," she says again, otherwise speechless. The hospital dreams had stopped for a while. Were they back now, on top of the repeating dreams of finding her home town a mess?
She closes her eyes. Sometimes that gets rid of her dream and wakes her up, though she doesn't know why. But it doesn't work this time. The cloying smells, and sounds, of the hospital are practically melded into her skin. She shudders. Meja never tells anyone that she has a hospital phobia because of her mother's ten-year sickness. But it doesn't matter -- her unconscious is using the information with plenty of sadistic intent.
Meja keeps moving until the dream goes away, navigating a maze constructed just to drive her into a panic attack.
She wakes with a gasp, covered in sweat; the dream felt like an eternity.
Orvon-Cross Hospital, many hours from home but the closest modern facility (funded by surviving Americans, supposedly), looks exactly the way it did the last time she'd seen it. The night that her mother had patted her, gently, on the arm and told her that everything was going to be all right. And then it hadn't been.
Her mother, breathing weakly, lays before her on the bed, and her father sits on the other side. He has bags under his eyes and red around the rest of them.
"Fuck," she mutters, emphatically. This is her least favorite place in the world -- in any world. Normally she revels in any dream where she gets to see her mother, but the feeble corpse-like woman on the bed is just barely still her mother.
Stellan Urdahl looks up, accusatory, and Meja quiets -- even though this is just a dream.
"Meja," murmurs the woman on the bed, coughing very specifically. This is a dream crafted from a horrific memory. It's the last night they spent at Orvon-Cross. Meja freezes in the chair.
She should go over and listen to what her mother has to say. These are her last words. But no. This is just a dream, just something that already happened. She doesn't have to do anything.
Meja lurches to her feet and leaves a vapor trail getting out of the room. Her father yells, in a strangled tone, as she closes the door. She ignores him, looking down at her hands. She's fifteen, again, in clothes that are too big for her.
"Fuck," she says again, otherwise speechless. The hospital dreams had stopped for a while. Were they back now, on top of the repeating dreams of finding her home town a mess?
She closes her eyes. Sometimes that gets rid of her dream and wakes her up, though she doesn't know why. But it doesn't work this time. The cloying smells, and sounds, of the hospital are practically melded into her skin. She shudders. Meja never tells anyone that she has a hospital phobia because of her mother's ten-year sickness. But it doesn't matter -- her unconscious is using the information with plenty of sadistic intent.
Meja keeps moving until the dream goes away, navigating a maze constructed just to drive her into a panic attack.
She wakes with a gasp, covered in sweat; the dream felt like an eternity.
The clouds promise sleet, or snow, as Meja opens her eyes. Every bone in her body feels as though it was ripped out and then put back in. She can smell charred flesh and smoke as she, groaning, climbs to her feet.
Vardø surrounds her in chaos, its buildings burned and docked ships still on fire. Looking at her town -- empty, gutted -- makes the aches and pains worse, and makes her forget that the smell of charred flesh is also her own.
Her throat is dry, but she manages to croak, "What..." as she turns slowly.
You were supposed to protect them.
The voice makes her want to curl up and die, like it did when she was small and she'd done something wrong. She's a child again as she looks wildly in all directions. But her father's voice falls silent, and she instead hears quiet whimpering. A child's whimpering.
Staggering -- she can't move more gracefully, with her injuries -- she finds her way to a house that, somehow, took less damage than the others. She kicks the smoldering door in, carefully, and finds her way inside, coughing.
"Hello? Is someone in here?"
A pause, and then, "Meja?"
The small voice is hard to locate, but eventually she finds its owner, buried beneath a collapsed table. Inga Wrolstad, a young girl she once saved as a toddler from a rabid winter wolf, coughs from the disturbed ash. She has deep wounds in her abdomen that didn't come from a fire, wounds that only a blade can make.
"Inga." Meja puts a hand, gently, on her forehead. "What happened?"
"They came from underground," Inga whimpers. "We couldn't see them. They were black as night, and they... they..." Her words dissolve into more coughing, this time with blood, and she looks up at Meja with a look that Meja has seen before. Despair.
She smooths back Inga's hair, trying to think of something comforting to say. But the town is dead around them, and Inga is joining them. There's nothing to say, other than, "I'm sorry."
Inga wraps her small hands around Meja's and closes her eyes. She doesn't open them again.
You will always fail. This will always be your fate. You cannot protect them. You are our weakest successor.
Meja pulls away, cringing, and goes outside to where the voice is echoing, but her father is nowhere to be seen. Anger briefly chokes her -- resentment -- before the sorrow, and panic, returns. She staggers back until she hits a charred wall, leaning there, feeling empty.
"This is a dream," she mumbles.
You are my greatest disappointment.
She shakes her head, hard, rubbing at her face with a hand that barely resembles one, and then catches sight of her rune there. þurisaz, rather than lit up white like sunlight, is darkest red, and bleeding around the edges. Every pulse of its energy begins to hurt.
You were never meant to have these gifts.
She wakes, runes hurting as in the dream, glowing dark red. She stares at them, deep in thought, until the sun rises and forces her to start her day.
Vardø surrounds her in chaos, its buildings burned and docked ships still on fire. Looking at her town -- empty, gutted -- makes the aches and pains worse, and makes her forget that the smell of charred flesh is also her own.
Her throat is dry, but she manages to croak, "What..." as she turns slowly.
You were supposed to protect them.
The voice makes her want to curl up and die, like it did when she was small and she'd done something wrong. She's a child again as she looks wildly in all directions. But her father's voice falls silent, and she instead hears quiet whimpering. A child's whimpering.
Staggering -- she can't move more gracefully, with her injuries -- she finds her way to a house that, somehow, took less damage than the others. She kicks the smoldering door in, carefully, and finds her way inside, coughing.
"Hello? Is someone in here?"
A pause, and then, "Meja?"
The small voice is hard to locate, but eventually she finds its owner, buried beneath a collapsed table. Inga Wrolstad, a young girl she once saved as a toddler from a rabid winter wolf, coughs from the disturbed ash. She has deep wounds in her abdomen that didn't come from a fire, wounds that only a blade can make.
"Inga." Meja puts a hand, gently, on her forehead. "What happened?"
"They came from underground," Inga whimpers. "We couldn't see them. They were black as night, and they... they..." Her words dissolve into more coughing, this time with blood, and she looks up at Meja with a look that Meja has seen before. Despair.
She smooths back Inga's hair, trying to think of something comforting to say. But the town is dead around them, and Inga is joining them. There's nothing to say, other than, "I'm sorry."
Inga wraps her small hands around Meja's and closes her eyes. She doesn't open them again.
You will always fail. This will always be your fate. You cannot protect them. You are our weakest successor.
Meja pulls away, cringing, and goes outside to where the voice is echoing, but her father is nowhere to be seen. Anger briefly chokes her -- resentment -- before the sorrow, and panic, returns. She staggers back until she hits a charred wall, leaning there, feeling empty.
"This is a dream," she mumbles.
You are my greatest disappointment.
She shakes her head, hard, rubbing at her face with a hand that barely resembles one, and then catches sight of her rune there. þurisaz, rather than lit up white like sunlight, is darkest red, and bleeding around the edges. Every pulse of its energy begins to hurt.
You were never meant to have these gifts.
She wakes, runes hurting as in the dream, glowing dark red. She stares at them, deep in thought, until the sun rises and forces her to start her day.
She's climbing stone steps, somewhere in the mountains. Somewhere very cold, the wind and snow lancing right through her coat and -- strangely -- freezing her to the bone. She hasn't felt cold in years, not since inheriting the runes, and pauses.
Meja.
The voice comes from far away, whispered on the wind that makes her want to seek shelter; she knows the voice, and swallows.
"Mother," she murmurs.
Come to me.
Meja stares out at the mountain range, squinting, before quickly ascending the rest of the stairs. At the top is a cave, and she hesitates, turning back around.
"Mother, where are you?"
I'm where it ended, skatten min.
She goes into the cave after a moment, wondering what that really means, and finds herself on a rocky spit of land that she knows far too well. It's a place she's successfully avoided for seven years. Her mother's words dawn on her fully, and she gives an involuntary shudder, sinking to her knees in the snow.
"Not here," she murmurs, feeling her face grow hot. "Anywhere but here." She wipes, irritably, at her eyes. Crying isn't something that she does. What does crying accomplish? Absolutely nothing.
A hand squeezes her shoulder. She looks up, through still-blurry eyes, and smiles: her mother is standing next to her, in her beautiful white, lacy nightgown. It makes her look even more ethereal than she already is, her platinum blond hair -- where Meja got it -- shining ever so slightly.
Why don't you come see me? She strokes her fingers through Meja's hair, smiling. I miss you.
Meja doesn't answer for a long moment. It's been nine years since Freya Urdahl's death, and she indulges herself in kneeling next to her -- even it's a dream. Even with her mother's voice louder, and positively empyrean, than it was in life, it's still like curling up with her to read stories. Almost exactly like when she laid her head against her mother's cheek, and her mother's voice resonated through her, as her mother read stories of gods, monsters and distant, far-away places.
"This isn't where you died," she says, eyes closed. "This is where pappa died."
Come find me, skatten min.
She wakes, missing the sight of her runes flaring dark red as her eyes swim.
Meja.
The voice comes from far away, whispered on the wind that makes her want to seek shelter; she knows the voice, and swallows.
"Mother," she murmurs.
Come to me.
Meja stares out at the mountain range, squinting, before quickly ascending the rest of the stairs. At the top is a cave, and she hesitates, turning back around.
"Mother, where are you?"
I'm where it ended, skatten min.
She goes into the cave after a moment, wondering what that really means, and finds herself on a rocky spit of land that she knows far too well. It's a place she's successfully avoided for seven years. Her mother's words dawn on her fully, and she gives an involuntary shudder, sinking to her knees in the snow.
"Not here," she murmurs, feeling her face grow hot. "Anywhere but here." She wipes, irritably, at her eyes. Crying isn't something that she does. What does crying accomplish? Absolutely nothing.
A hand squeezes her shoulder. She looks up, through still-blurry eyes, and smiles: her mother is standing next to her, in her beautiful white, lacy nightgown. It makes her look even more ethereal than she already is, her platinum blond hair -- where Meja got it -- shining ever so slightly.
Why don't you come see me? She strokes her fingers through Meja's hair, smiling. I miss you.
Meja doesn't answer for a long moment. It's been nine years since Freya Urdahl's death, and she indulges herself in kneeling next to her -- even it's a dream. Even with her mother's voice louder, and positively empyrean, than it was in life, it's still like curling up with her to read stories. Almost exactly like when she laid her head against her mother's cheek, and her mother's voice resonated through her, as her mother read stories of gods, monsters and distant, far-away places.
"This isn't where you died," she says, eyes closed. "This is where pappa died."
Come find me, skatten min.
She wakes, missing the sight of her runes flaring dark red as her eyes swim.
Handling things
Apr. 4th, 2012 04:06 pmThough she's expecting it, at least partly, the blow still comes as a surprise when the troll decides to strike right instead of left. It knocks her against the rocks, forcing all of the air out of her lungs, and Meja can't even gather the air to curse him. Or her. It was very hard to tell, with trolls, when you were fighting them. Especially this one, which had acquired some furs -- which was decidedly unusual. But they had probably been stolen from a human town or city.
Honir hangs to the side of her, hissing angrily, as Meja gets to her feet, cheeks flushed, and draws Daybreaker back into her grip.
( You're either a genius -- for a troll -- or you forgot which way you were going to swing. )
Honir hangs to the side of her, hissing angrily, as Meja gets to her feet, cheeks flushed, and draws Daybreaker back into her grip.
( You're either a genius -- for a troll -- or you forgot which way you were going to swing. )
She steps through the Window with all of her reticence -- or at least most of it -- gone. Immediately, she finds herself bathed in darkness and cold, and Honir growls warily behind her. The window is hidden, neatly, by a boulder in the side of an icy hill, not by design but by sheer coincidence. And behind the boulder is now a very cold cave, of sorts, where Meja finds herself, breathing clouds into the air.
"Home sweet home," she notes, not without some dryness.
( Outside of the makeshift cave is the howling wind and cold that she's used to. )
"Home sweet home," she notes, not without some dryness.
( Outside of the makeshift cave is the howling wind and cold that she's used to. )
Important Stuff
Jan. 9th, 2012 05:57 pmmeja;
logs ¤ HMD ¤ OOC contact ¤ fun ¤ CR ¤ dæmon
IC contact ¤ permissions ¤ possessions ¤ visualocity
story;
the journey
logs ¤ HMD ¤ OOC contact ¤ fun ¤ CR ¤ dæmon
IC contact ¤ permissions ¤ possessions ¤ visualocity
story;
the journey
