I did a new thing - a Prongsfoot Historical AU Ghost Story with a twist -
for @squintclover because you are wonderful and like Prongsfoot 💕💕
(Presque vu - intense feeling of being on the very brink of a powerful insight, without actually achieving the revelation)
The cold has seeped into his bones by the time he awakes. Getting up seems to take a lifetime. And already, gnawing at the back of his mind as he struggles to stand, the certainty that something is wrong. Horribly wrong.
The back of his hair feels matted. It is dark with a sliver of moonlight. A light drizzle, and the south-westerly wind is picking up. Soon the gnarled, stunted trees will bend with sideways rain. The waves crash to shore, rhythmic like a heartbeat. He knows this Connemara coast in the West of Ireland from Ballyconeely to Roundstone like the back of his hand. The fishing village, the castle ruins upon the hill, the white sand dunes and wildflower commons behind them. The usual smell of rotten eggs produced by the blankets of seaweed replaced by the stench of rotting pork, unpleasant. God only knows why.
He has to speak with his best friend, James Potter, immediately. When he attempts to button his woollen jacket, his hands feel something warm and wet - blood. He sighs with relief. That explains it. Someone attacked him out here. Someone who did not want him to warn James.
He can see the house, right above him, at the edge of the cliff. James must be in his room, the window is open, curtain pulled to avoid prying eyes. He tries to shout up to him, but his voice carries away in the opposite direction. He can hear raucous laughter, the sound of a fiddle, the steady thrum of the bodhrán. It beats fast, like a warning. He feels alert and desperate.
The knowledge, as sure as the fact that he loves James: he is running out of time…
Keep reading
