#;drabble

[Echoes of the past] //For whoever you want? Seems interesting. // @starlighttrain ↳ Send "Echoes of the past" for your muse to experience one of my muses memories in a vision/dream.

The sky is red.

Fire burns amidst rubble and stone. The cinders drift in an unsung dance, eating away at what precious air remains. Yet the fire—no, the fire itself does not burn. It will not burn. Not you, not ever, even as it burns everything else to ash.

The remnants of splendid towers of humanity's finest ingenuity, reduced to naught but dust in an instant. The particles fill your lungs; fill you with dread for an end that gallops from the edge of the universe. Yet all you can do is stare aimlessly at the sky.

The sky is still red. The ground is still red; the liquid pooling under you is still red, red, red. The screams around you pierce your soul. Those who beg, those who plead. Those strangled by despair for something precious now lost. Those who yearn to live. Those who couldn't be saved.

You couldn't save them. You tried, but couldn't. The bodies continue to pile on and on, an endless pyre of dreams unfulfilled. Faces you once knew, melted down. Faces of strangers, whose wishes you still heard. Soon, there wouldn't even be bones or ash to remember them by.

Would anyone remember? Would anyone be here to remember—to remember that they once lived?

The flames rage on—all-encompassing, all-consuming, and without mercy. Somewhere, you hear a song. It's quiet, but it grows. It grows louder, and louder, and louder still.

The sky is not red; it is brilliant gold. And then?

...

Then there is nothing.

OBSERVE // @epiosirida ↳ send  “OBSERVE”for a mini-drabble of how MY MUSE sees and/or thinks about YOUR MUSE while they do something completely ordinary

The sound of movement is what awakens her. Quiet, controlled; the steps of someone practiced in the art of silence. It would've been easy enough to ignore in favor of slumber—this comfortable warmth that had stolen her away. Unless, of course, you happen to be Miya Tō.

Eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness. All was still, save for the subtle snoring of a patient further down. The window reaveals the answer to the question circulating in her head; it was the middle of the night.

It is then she notices it: the dim lamplight from the corner of her vision. A lone woman stands before a bed, stature petite, presence no less strong. It is unmistakably the silhouette of one Hyacynthia, caretaker and guardian of this bastion of healing.

Miya doesn't say anything, merely observes. The way she checks over her patient, the way she speaks softly to soothe with words what medicine alone could not heal. The way, when, at last, they begin to drift off to sleep, and she ever so gently adjusts to make them more comfortable: a sip of water, a fluffing of a pillow; a small tuck of the blanket to ensure their warmth.

There was something peaceful in watching her work. So, she doesn't speak. Merely observes until the dim lamplight fades with the soft clacking of her footfalls. Miya remains awake for a few moments more, silent contemplation, before she too closes her eyes and drifts back into slumber.

Here in the Twilight Courtyard, she could sleep at ease. Nothing would happen to any of the patients here; Hyacynthia would ensure it.

Vibrant, uplifting sounds of a lone violin reverberated off of the large, empty room's walls, drifting to catch keen ears in the hallways beyond. The royal ballroom had been completely vacated from the night's festivities except for three individuals: the solo musician, appearing quite pleased to be there despite the late hour, and two old men dancing to his tune. It was a happy song, serene yet also a bit playful, with a moderate pace; it led the dancers to-and-fro in an intimate waltz, with a predictable, rhythmic ease that created grace. With candles illuminating the ornate walls a golden hue, the scene, albeit simple, was as though from a storybook.

The smile on the player's face was sensible, as he'd been tipped him a handsome sum by the larger of the two dancers, who he knew to be the renowned Sir Walter Beck, to stay a while longer and play this tune. This way, the knight could dance with his lover in private—no one to impress, no one to perform for, as was always the point of these blasted social gatherings of the upper crust. Walter led both of their bodies with the confidence that that privacy afforded, holding his partner as close as he liked, moving how he liked, and beaming like the fool he was.

No one to perform for— or at least so they thought.

"Isn't it beautiful?" the young maid asked, not turning to see who it was that had joined her peeking in the darkened doorway. "To think they're still dancing together so happily after all this time... Oh, I hope I find a love like that one day..."

If one caught a view of Jasper's face in that moment as it turned round toward them, they would find a bright, genuine smile, far more relaxed than the expected mask of semi-stoicism he wore during his day. His body trusted his partner's lead implicitly, his usually stiff posture yielding under a strong arm and assured direction. Behind his shining eyes, looking up to meet those that enchanted him now, were decades of cherished memories shared with this very same man. (And to think, once he had helped to show him how to dance—in this very ballroom, no less!)

After a time, the song came to a close with a sustained note slowly fading, their movements slowing along with it. With their final step, Walter dipped his partner gently, bracing the elder's slender waist against him with ease and care not to bend too deeply. At once, Jasper's hands left their posts to cup his lover's bewhiskered face; Walter took the hint and closed the gap between their lips in a sweet and tender kiss.

She knew, she just knew.

She knew he was having a bad day. It was something in her bones that felt it. There was something off about his texts and she knew. She knew something had happened. Something that had affected him.

She couldn't tell that much from the tone of his messages. She couldn't tell exactly what it was but it was likely one of a few things; a victim, a witness or a child being involved.

Iris had asked her to lunch but Maria turned her down, instead she was going to head to the lab and make sure that Horatio actually ate something. Make sure that he remembered what a good man he was, what he had waiting for him at home. Iris opted in that case to order in, there was a sandwich shop around the corner with a new, what Iris referred to as a 'gorgeous hunky and age-appropriate delivery man'. Maria just rolled her eyes because the fact that Iris was having to emphasize the fact the man was age-appropriate was just so her.

She left Iris, telling her she'd be back later and headed off to the lab calling at the little sandwich shop she knew they both liked on the way and picking up some dessert to. At the minute she was craving mango, very specifically this dessert that was layers of mango and cream that had been whipped with icing sugar to be sweet. So she picked up one of those in a little pot and then picked another one up that was orange flavoured for Horatio.

"Hey Maria!" Calleigh greeted her with a smile when she arrived at the lab. "You look positively glowin'"

"Thank you, how you doing?" Maria asked her.

"Good, I mean we had a two shootings this morning and then there was a pile up. We've been workin' flat out." Calleigh admitted as someone walked over to her with a file. "Horatio's in his office, he needs that." She gestured to the lunch in Maria's hands.

"If I'd have known how bad you were all having it I'd have brought enough for everyone."

"Oh, don't you worry, I'll send Ryan out for dinner later." She teased.

Maria said goodbye to Calleigh and made her way up to Horatio's office. It seemed she'd already been spotted, though, because she could see him stood in the window and she gave him a little wave. He was opening the door and taking the bag off her before she was even half way up the stairs.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing here?" He asked her giving her a gently kiss on the cheek as he put a hand on her back guiding her into his office.

"I thought you might need lunch." She said and Maria knew he knew, she knew he knew that it was that sixth sense of hers that had kicked in and told her he needed a visit. Told her he needed lunch. "Calleigh said it's been a rough one."

"Hmmm, better for seeing you though." Horatio put the lunch on his desk, not even peeking in the bag before he came over to Maria, sliding one hand around her waist and the other going to move the hair from her face. "How are you two doing?" He asked looking between them and Maria grinned at him, reaching up to touch his face and then giving him a soft kiss.

"I bought another mango thing." Maria admitted, sheepishly.

"It's clearly what you both need." Horatio nuzzled his nose against hers and brought his hand round to her stomach.

"We brought daddy one too. Orange yours though." Then she paused. "If you don't have time it's okay. I just wanted to make sure you ate and that you had a reminder of how much we love you."

"Sweetheart, I will always have time for you." Horatio replied. "Especially when you come bearing lunch."

"I got juice too, though I probably should have got you a coffee."

Those were the words written on the paper slipped beneath my office door. I would love to say that I was confused, but I knew immediately what they were referring to. My other hand had shifted into my coat pocket, feeling the weight of the new watch that had been handed to me earlier in the night.

Beneficial, she'd said. Her gaze tender, her words wrapped in warmth that her hands could not replicate. I knew the woman I was working with and I knew what she was capable of. Yet in that moment as her hands folded around mine, pressing the watch down into my palm, I felt safe.

I should have heeded the warnings. I thought that I was playing her. That I would be the one man to conquer something that moved with the same fury as the sea. I was a fool who could not see that her coy smiles and gentle laughs were merely the call of a siren. It cost me everything.

Through me she spread like a plague to my business partners. They too fell into her hands, seduced by her strikingly cold touch and the addiction that was her bite. My men beneath me - my company - all withered as she drained me, body and soul.

What a fool am I, don't you think? That even now knowing the true curse that is the Madame that I find myself longing to feel her teeth sinking into my throat. Is this how the rabbit feels? Surely not as they run from the fox. No, I am no rodent. They are wiser.

I tell you now as I was told then, friend. Do not gamble against her. You will not win."

It started with Anomaly trying to explain how one of their favorite songs was a waltz. It wasn't a song Dr. Carrard knew, and after a few days of searching, Anomaly was able to find it through slightly less than legal means.

The two of them debated on whether or not it really counted as a waltz for awhile, and to settle the debate, there seemed to be only one solution. Dance to the song to see if they could keep in a waltz timing. Neither Anomaly nor Dr. Carrard were ballroom dancers, but they both knew the basics of the dance well enough to keep up with the shifting rhythm of the song. Their musicality, both apart and together, was impressive.

The dance comes to an end with Dr. Carrard's laughter matched by Anomaly's grin.

"we could do this again, you know!" Dr. Carrard says, his gloved hand still on Anomaly's back, the other intertwined with one of theirs as they both hold the position they had been dancing in. "i like doing these things with you!"

He doesn't know if it's the way he said it. He doesn't know if it's something else. Anomaly has always been nearly impossible to read, and their mood can sour suddenly, like it does now. They tense under his touch, their body stiff and still, the smile turning to a sharp baring of the teeth, just barely visible against the angry buzzing of glitches that makes up their face.

"let go," they say, their voice maintaining the monotone, pulling their hand free from his.

"what-?" He's more confused than hurt, the light of his visor dimming. He doesn't let go right away, trying to find some way to make peace with them before this turns into something much more volatile. "anomaly? what did i--?"

He doesn't get to finish the question, they're yanking from his hold now, the feedback hum they usually give off increasing sharply, painfully, a howling, screeching warning that he should be heeding and quickly. The monotone is gone, suddenly their voice is sharper, panic bleeding into the edges of it. "don't touch me! don't! touch me!"

[ Drabble. Inspired by this song. Not proof read, not edited, just pure train of thought. ]