shelley_winters | (no subject)

(no subject)

Her room looks empty.

It almost makes her feel better, that it doesn't look familiar. Almost.

Shelley hadn't been able to make herself get onto the bed. She had curled up, wrapped in a duvet, but on the floor, and now sits crying. She hadn't been able to stop, even though her head aches and her throat is sore. There's nothing to make it stop. She can't.

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The absence of the characterstic sliding sound of the door is palpable. There are no footsteps. Hanging in the dark room before her eyes is a lacy black kerchief. The first sound out of the still, silent room is a low, soothing voice.

"Shhh... Lady Shelley."

Shelley doesn't answer, just carries on crying. Because that's it. If she can't ever get away... what now? Is there anything else?

She pulls the blanket closer around her, sinking further down inside.

Gently with the kerchief he wiped a few of the tears from her cheeks as he spoke softly to her. She was so very fragile and it made her all the more beautiful. He knelt down beside her as he spoke.

"It is all right, Lady Shelley. It will all be well."

It won't. It never will, he's seen to that.

Shelley tries to pull away, but is prevented from it by the blankets wrapped around her.

His voice was soft and calm as he sat on the floor beside her. A soft smile on his face barely visible in the shadows.

"You can make a new life here... Let it all be well. No need to be miserable anymore."

Shelley screams.

She doesn't want a new life, whatever kind of a life she could have here. She doesn't want any of this, she wants to get away and just go home and she can't stop screaming now...

Cringing slightly at the shrill cry, Ishamael reached out to take her in his arms. Pressing her head to his chest to stop the screaming, he shifted his torso to prevent her from curling up like a dying leaf in autumn. His hand rubbed across her back in slow, steady circles as he murmured meaningless syllables to her softly.

Shelley chokes once, shaking as he shifts her, cutting off the scream. She struggles feebly against him, limbs feeling unnaturally taut and hard to control.

She can't stop the tremors, or the sobs as she manages to catch hold of his shirt, and more or less clings for dear life. She can't see, oh god, and she can't move and stop it-

His hand continued to stroke her back softly as saying nothing at all, he purred softly to her. She was simply having a bad time of it, and that would amend itself shortly. There were many matters that little Shelley would soon find were easier and easier to accept. It only took time.

She shivers continually, not consciously moving, but unable to stop. Only his arms and body swamping her stop her thrashing and struggling.

Her head hurts, and she's cold.

Stopitstopit stop...

But he did not stop. His hand kept smoothing her back, in slow circles as he spoke softly to her. She would wear down. It could not be fought. In time, she would accept him, open her legs, forgive him, and even love him for what he has done.

(And all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well)

"Be still... Shhh..."

Shelley can't stop the tremors, only his arms and body swamping her keeping her from thrashing and struggling - against everything, for no specific reason, just that she can't stop.

A whimper escapes her as he speaks - and she can't make sense of it, although she knows he's talking, she can't...

The pain of the birthing process was well known. The dissolution of the old and the emanation of the new. The birth-- or is it the end we start from? --of a new thought-form for in the beginning, chaos runs through the fingers, and then there is--

(Λογος)

--Thought, for in the beginning all came from nothingness, and to nothingness it must return if something new is to be born. This was an ending of fire and like the flames painful to the touch.

"Shhh... Shelley..."

But was she?

Hunched small and tense, Shelley forces herself to remain still through the roaring in her ears. She's frightened, now it's dying down, the lack of control. Her hand remains caught in his shirt. He probably won't care, she knows it even as she struggles to stop sobbing and shaking.

His shirt was damp now, wet with tears--

The funny thing about tears is that they taste better than they smell. Stop it, Mother

--He smiled so very prettily at her. Girls like it when you smile. Why don't I ever see you with any girls, dear? Mother! Smells of apples. Or is it pomegranates this time?

Please move.

Wake up, Mother. Son, I love your mother very much, but it is important to keep matters in perspective. Wake up, Mother. Hurry up, please. Hurry.

"Shhhh, dear... it will be well."

Hurry. It will all be better soon... If I just.

It's lessening, slowly. She hurts, in a vague, dreamy way, from twisting and tensing too hard. She stays still in case she screams again, and she might, there's that tight hysterical feeling in her chest and throat. So she doesn't move, trembling and cold in spite of the arms around her.

Pressing his lips gently to her forehead,--

Time to sleep, Elan. Very well, Mother.

--Ishamael smiled and spoke softly. The soft places between sleep and awake wherein reality was tenuous. Sometimes, it seemed odd that his mother was. No, nothing. Is that you, Azazel?

"...Shelley..."

His. Pomegranates, yes, not apples. Never again.

The girl shudders convulsively in his arms, and slowly brings her hands up to her face. Her cheeks are hot, and soaked with tears. She tries not to move, still, unsure how well that will go.

His voice is soft as he inquires of her gently. His hand still stroked her back. There was little left, really. Not much longer.

"Do you want to rest? Simply nod."

It's a moment before she responds - it takes time just to think about what he's saying - but she nods, slowly and shakily.

She wants to stop.

Lifting her into his arms, he closed his eyes. This was not quite the place for her.

A sound as of a rushing wind.

It was still a dark, quiet room, but a different one. Reaching down with one hand, he wove fire to warm the bed as the sheets pulled themselves back. Gently, he laid her into the warm bed with a soft smile.

"Rest, Lady Shelley."

She moves slightly as he lies her down, feeling the sudden warmth from the sheets under her. Her cheeks are still wet, and her lashes stick to them oddly, but she can't summon the will to open her eyes. One hand wipes over her face, as the other feels for the edge of the bed, or maybe just something to hold onto.

The warm sheet folded over her body, covering her to the shoulders. The light was dim, almost too dark to see, as he smiled and gently pressed his lips to her forehead. So very pretty with the color in her face from crying.

"Shhhh.... Rest, Lady Shelley."

The blanket traps her hand down, and she gives up, almost relieved. If she can't struggle, she doesn't have to, she can just go to sleep...

She turns her hand to the side, feeling the soft pillow. Sleep. Go to sleep.

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