shelley_winters

The garden is especially pretty in the morning, she thinks. Maybe it's the angle of the sun filtering through the rose bushes, or the pale blue of the sky. Something.

Hair still damp for her morning shower, she sits crosslegged on the grass, leaning back on her elbows and staring upwards at the wispy clouds.

Shelley tugs at her jacket once more. Wearing it over the blouse was the best she could think of for making it look like she was wearing her own clothes. It worked, more or less, she had thought, eyeing the effect. It doesn't look too outlandish, and certainly not for Milliways.

It's almost evening outside, and arriving back there Friday night - she hopes it's Friday there, and that she's got the time-conversion right - would be sensible. That way she has even longer on Antar to help with the wedding and catch up on work.

For the second time that day, she knocks on Ishamael's study door.

It is raining in earnest by now as Shelley runs through the darkened garden, heedlessly through bushes and stands of trees made menacing by the dark and the cold wind whipping the branches through the air. She can't remember the exact point the orderly and quiet garden become the outskirts of the forest surrounding the estate, but all she cares is that he isn't following.

It's cold, and she eventually stumbles to a halt, heart beating almost painfully from running so hard, and looks about, disoriented. Her wet hair sticks to her cheeks as she frowns through the treetrunks. Attempting to shelter beneath one fails to protect her from the wet, and the girl shivers as she tries to figure out where exactly she is.

She has to go back some time, only he can get her back to the bar. Assuming he doesn't decide to take his chances with people coming to find her...

No. No, he can't.

The girls swallows, trying to stop her teeth from chattering, and turns around to look for which direction she came from. Was it-?

A low growling sound makes her freeze still, suddenly aware that through the scent of the rain on leaves, she can smell sulphur.

(I will have to ask you not to leave the house or gardens until I instruct the Darkhounds not to tear you to pieces on sight)

Hands shaking, she wheels frantically, hands scrabbling on the wet ground for something she can - anything. A large stick is inadequate, but she hefts it in any case, trying to quiet her frightened breathing as she shrinks back against the treetrunk in hopes that they won't see her.

Little hope. Three of them advance through the trees, growling loud above the rush of the rain, and teeth bared. Shelley glances desperately from one to the other of the huge creatures, before reaching for a rock and flinging it hard at the nearest. It hits, more by luck than anything else, but the huge body simply yields to it, then reforms, Darkhound not even pausing.

Terrified, and trapped by their advance and the tree behind her, she grits her teeth and waits.

Shelley is sitting outside. Why not? It's a nice day, for Spring, and she has a cup of tea and a book.

It's nice and peaceful.

You'll ignore the way she looks up suspiciously every time someone passes.

Or maybe you won't.

So, dudes.

I'm doing this because I said I would, and I think it's a bit necessary, because if any plot was tl;dr, it was this one. Also, bits were squicky and I completely get not wanting to read it if it's going to bother you. That said, I will not include many details of the leadup plot, since it's mainly the millicrowd bit that we're concerned with here.

( Medea: The condensed version )

And then we all passed out.

Much later, dressed in his robe, sitting in his bedroom, on his couch, Shelley miserably reflects that she'd very nearly had a way out there. Nearly.

She'd felt it all go dark, even the pain had been stopping until- No. He had to arrive, and doesn't it just figure that he won't let her die except when he kills her? She shuts her eyes bitterly, staring in anger at the door.

Dark thoughts come easily just now.

The straight posture and determined stride lasts a few steps down the corridor before Shelley stumbles gracelessly on the edge of her dress. If anyone follows her now, she can't pretend any more.

What if they do?

Grabbing at her skirts, she breaks into a blind run to get away from the room before she begins to cry. And open door and and empty sitting room are enough, and she goes in and shuts the door hard behind her before sitting down on the floor, like a puppet with suddenly-cut strings, sliding down against the wall.

She buries her face in her hands, feeling hot tears already.

It has to have been enough. Oh, the looks on their faces, the break in Nita's voice-

It's a slightly awkward position to be sleeping in, is the first thought Shelley has. Curled up rather than stretched out, and the room is uncomfortably bright, even from behind closed eyelids.

She shifts, uncomfortable, then freezes. She can feel him now, arms around her, and hear soft breathing by her ear. And that's when she remembers. Oh. Oh, no. Only... yes. The girl exhales, squeezing her eyes tighter shut, and moving more tentatively. She has to get up away from him before he wakes up.

Shelley can't imagine how tired she must have been to let Elan sit by her, let alone hold her as they slept, and she doesn't really want to, either. It's hard to disentangle herself without moving his arms, and they're heavy around her. One foot slips out from under the blanket, and she begins to shift herself towards the edge of the bed. She can do this. Please, let her do this...

I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

The soft light shines into the room in a multitude of colours, throught the stained glass of the windows. The white hall almost seems warmer from the dim colours. Only the muted sound tells of the storm still blowing outside.

DA

Shelley and Ishamael sit at a table across from one another, an odd sense of deja vu in the seating. The meal is small but elegant, the room empty apart from the two of them.

Both dressed in dressing gowns - albeit fine ones - is a very odd feeling, and not one that Shelley likes. Her self-control is better, aware that she can't anger him. It's not just her stuck here now and the thought makes her stomach turn in icy, nauseating terror. She is thinking desperately as she sits in near-silence. She hasn't eaten a thing.