Zachariah Ellis, at your service, but only if I choose to be. You can look around and ask questions, but if you ask a stupid question...well, you know how the saying goes. TOW Intro [[For the TOW roleplay]]
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A young boy once went off to war and came back a statistic. He'd received an honorable discharge for it and lost the use of his eyes in the process. His arrival at home had been less than memorable, and he had avoided the crowds he had assumed would be there. But rather than a great hero's return, he was greeted with the sound of people shuffling out of his way with an occasional, "Thanks for your service."
He nodded in answer, but otherwise made his way in silence.
He was tired.
The months of little sleep had left him with little energy to spare. His feet dragged, and his chin he held up high for so long began to sag. The soldier was wilting. He told himself, "Just make it to the hotel, Zachariah. Just make it to the hotel." From there, he would organize, plan, and maybe get a full night of sleep. He just had to make it.
He found his way onto the train station with his cane, meeting no one on the way. No, they shuffled to give him room as they had in the airport. Part of him, the part that touched his eyes when no one was looking, the part that grasped his cane as if squeezing it to death would give him back his sight, was grateful. No invasive questions, no faint feelings of stares drilling into him.
But another part of him was less thrilled. He was trapped in a bubble that pushed others away, a bubble mandated by the length of his cane. No one came nearer, and the soldier was left alone.
The train seat was enough, and he sank into it with a heavy sigh. Plastic seating, minimal cushion, but it wasn't rock. It wasn't dirt. And he hadn't dug it himself. It might as well have been heaven for aching bones. The more he sat, the harder it was to focus. The lull of the train mixed with the distinct pattern of clicks and clacks as the wheels ran on the tracks. The voice announcing stops grew more and more distant until, finally, it faded altogether. And Zachariah Ellis was, for a short time, asleep.
The warmth on his shoulder, and the pleasant smell that accompanied it, woke him.
Someone nestled against him and they smelled like the woods, like clean air and nature, something struggle to take root against the soot of the city; something that persisted. A warm smell and a warm body. A head resting on his shoulder with a light snore, and Zachariah had been resting his head against them.
He didn't have the heart to wake whomever it was. And deep inside, he knew that that heart was quietly singing for just one tiny taste of human contact.
Ignoring that he'd missed his stop, he closed his eyes and leaned his head quietly back against the sleeping person.
He awoke with a start, quite like the other person did, and Zachariah's ears were soon greeted with the muffled sounds of someone trying to gather everything together. "I'm so sorry, mate," came a British accent. "I don't know wh-what came over me."
Zachariah held up a hand to assure the other passenger it was alright. "Blame it on the train or a long day and we'll call it even. I fell asleep on you too."
"Y'did, didn't ya?" The voice laughed, albeit awkwardly.
Silence started to split them apart, and a feeling in Zachariah's stomach said they were nearing the end of the line. Holding out his hand in what he assumed, and desperately hoped, was the direction of the voice, he offered a weary soldier's smile. "Zachariah Ellis."
A pause. Then a hand took his and gave it a shake. "George. Sands."
"It's nice to meet you, George."
"It's--nice to meet ya too, Zachariah."
"Listen, I don't suppose you could help a soldier out and give him some directions?" he asked, beginning to take out his cane.
George hesitated again before he spoke. Zachariah could hear the fidgeting and briefly wondered if he was asking too much, or reaching for too much companionship in one go. "Wh-Where were you trying to get to?" he finally asked.
Relief passed through Zachariah, and he reached into his jacket pocket to pull out the name of the hotel and his reservation number. He held it out, and could feel George grab it from the side. He'd missed.
"Right. That's--where I'm goin'." George sounded incredulous, and maybe Zachariah looked it too because George quickly filled in, "I can help ya get there."
"I'd really appreciate it," Zachariah said with a slowly growing smile. "I was beginning to think I'd be the first man lost to a train."
A faint strain of laughter reached his ears and he thought that, maybe, coming home wasn't so bad after all. If there were people like George. "Ya aren't, mate. Ya aren't even the first to fall asleep and miss his stop either."
"We passed it?"
George was silent again, a sheepish silent this time, and Zachariah waited for the inevitable, "Yeah, mate. I fink it was a while back."
The soldier shook his head. "Would you believe I used to run tactical support for the army?"
"Would ya believe I'm a nurse?"
George laughed. Zachariah laughed with him. And for a while, it was less about a tired nurse and a tired soldier laughing, and more about two tired men who'd fallen asleep on the train laughing. And maybe, just for that moment, that was enough for the two of them.
As the man entered the room, the demon's gaze feel to meet his whether he knew it or not. Zachariah had faced him and Tristan faced Zachariah, tracing the lines in his friends face. He pried for any hint of falseness, finding about as much as he ever expected. The demon sighed as the pressure of those words bore down on him. "Demon, Zachariah. Zhat is what I am, what I 'ave always been. Evil, ugly, twisted zhings. Not a man, not a wolf, a vampire, nor a fae. A full-fledged, 'ell-bred demon."
"And you pulled me out of how many situations? And you had my back how many times? You think I could just blow all of that in an instant because you turn around now with--with this? How heartless do you think I am?" He was getting angry, a little frustrated. But anger, flushed in his veins from head to toe, was just to mask the hurt like a bandaid when surgery was needed instead. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking as he did.
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"Try this." The words were rasped almost as soft as the wind, the cane set gingerly back in Zachariah's hands as George pressed a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of the hunter's lips--then lower, to his chin, and to the side, to his cheek, lingering slightly with eyes closed and breath held as he waited for judgment to fall on them both. Gnarled hands played across well-worked ones, the 'wolf's palms dry and warm, calloused from countless moons. "Missed ya. So much, Zachariah Ellis. So much."
He wasn't sure what he was about to try, and his trust for surprises came in a limited variety ranging from none to never, but for George, he waited. His fingers wrapped around the cane as his mouth dropped open from the kiss. George was close, and Zachariah leaned even closer at the feeling of forgiveness in the form of kisses. His eyes fluttered shut and he let it rain upon him. "I missed you too. George sands." And he let his free hand run up to grasp George gently by his cheek as he pulled in to press his lips to George's, months of anxiety and worry muddled together in one, desperate kiss. "So much."
The good dog in George Sands laid down, rolled over, and tucked its tail between its legs--leaving the man standing rooted to the spot in the swaying grasses. He was left, likewise, to gaze at the still, quiet man with the resonant voice and the seeing hands, who offered him the option to stay. The option that seemed safest; nicest. Maybe it'd end with his head blown off, but for now, George found himself picking up Zachariah's cane and moving closer, murmuring, "then we better get to talkin'."
He could hear everything. He could hear the way the wind picked at the grass, messed with the leaves in the tree, whipped at his clothes and George's. He could hear the footsteps, and the way the dominant foot sunk in further. Everything was loud. Everything was clear. And his head jerked to the sound of his cane being picked up, but tilted in to hear George speak. "I'm--not sure where to start, actually."
"Yes." George's breath escaped him in a shaky laugh, hands rising to run across his scruffy face once more. "Jesus Christ, Zachariah, I fought it was obvious, I--I could 'ardly keep away till the dam broke, so to speak--then I f-fought you'd--rav'er I just left, shit--" He turned away, still weakly chuckling. "I mean, it's not every day the monster finds out the bloke 'e's infatuated wiv' is a hunter, bloody 'ell." As if realizing what he just said, however, George abruptly stopped short.
"No, I'd rather you didn't," Zachariah said, his smile turning faintly larger with every astonished huff of breath he managed to breathe. "I'd rather you--didn't leave. If you..." Come on, Zachariah, just say the words. "Stayed."
But his smile hit a hitch and he winced. "There's....a story behind that," was all he managed to say. "There's one behind yours too, I'd imagine."
He'd mucked it all up, as usual. George Sands, clumsy in all things--couldn't be expected to hold onto anything without breaking it. He watched Zachariah fall apart with a devastating feeling of guilt breaking over him, long-fingered hands twitching systematically as if tallying up his mistakes. "I was--scared." George whispered; brokenly. "A-and I fought. You hated me." The whine in his voice rose piteously. "That--that you'd never wanna 'ave me 'round again, I missed y-ya to, though--so much."
"No, no, you had a right to be." Zachariah lowered his hands, his lips twitching into a smile unforgiving towards himself. "Finding out....I'm what I am or...was. You had every right to run. It's what any smart person would do..."
He let out a sigh, his hands finding their way to his hips, to his sides, fidgeting in the very air they stayed in. "Hate you? No, I never hated you. Never." And a smile, a very small one, broke through at that. "Really?"
The tang of fear and tension was metallic between them. The animal could smell it, hackles raised and dark eyes burning under thick and furrowed brows. Sniffing through his ill-fitted nose once again, George pressed his mouth; finding words hard to force through pale and shaking lips. "Missed me? Missed--me? Zachariah, I can't--" his voice cracked, then rose again. "Izzis a ploy, then? Some--trick? Or d'you mean to say I could've come back and said sorry t'ya too? Sorry for--for so much, Jesus."
Zachariah shook his head, lips curling in anguish. "No, it's not a ploy. Why would it be--no, don't answer that. I know what it sounds like, but it isn't." He held his hands up, his cane falling to the ground even in his act of surrender. "I mean--you could always have come back. That kind of missed you...Do I have to put it in writing, because...I really did--miss you, George. I missed you. You just...ran out on me and didn't say anything about where you were going and..."
He ran a hand through his hair again. "I guess I deserved that, but I did--do miss you."
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Tristan remained settled, gaze turning unfocused on a distant point ahead. His posture remained relaxed and his face calm, but still, he betrayed by his trembling hands that he hid buried in his lap. "I do not know about zhat, not anymore," the demon answered slowly. "But I do not zhink I would deprive you of zhe act if zhat is what you would wish.I 'ave not zhe 'eart for it."
Zachariah let out a breath, half-way in disgust, half-way in sorrow. Somewhere deep in his chest, Tristan's words bounced around, ricocheting off of his ribs, each time with deadlier force. "Do you really think I could just turn around and kill you? Like it's nothing?"
He turned, abandoning his cup of tea to go back to the living room, trying to find Tristan; to face him, for what good that would do.
"Oh--well, I guess I'm cured, then!" Nerves brought out raw sarcasm in a flourish as George Sands in question spread his arms and sacrificed himself to the air, rolling dark blue eyes that had begun to fleck with burning gold. "Not a monster at all, just some poor bloke who's been mixed up this 'ole time after all--" He paused, slowly dropping his arms back down to his sides, and blinked at Zachariah disbelievingly. "Wait, wh--why does that. Matter, exactly?"
Zachariah took it with only the slightest flinch. He deserved that, at least. He wouldn't even deny it. Just like he wouldn't deny that George had every right to run, and probably should. Run from the hunter who maybe was a hunter, maybe wasn't, but was definitely stuck, wandering blind through a crisis of his own making.
"Because," he answered softly, his chest falling, "It does. Because it means...you're not--a monster. You--may be a...werewolf, but that doesn't make you...a monster, it just makes me..." He brought his hands up to his face, rubbing hard at the skin as if that could wish this away somehow, or wish time backwards. "I'm sorry, George, okay?" He lowered his hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you. I didn't want to scare you. The truth is..." He choked again, lowering his head. "I missed you."
"Wh--" George looked nonplussed, turning in a half-circle to gesture to anyone else who might've seen his disbelief. The blind man notwithstanding, they seemed to be entirely alone. God as his only witness, George tossed up his hands and dragged them over his face, sniffing sharply. "You--I'm sorry. Correct me if I'm wrong, but. I'm gettin' a bit'uva mixed signal'ere." His blurry accent began to smudge even more; anxious and exasperated. "I'm a monster, Zachariah, or are we dismissin' that?"
A hand ran through brown strands of hair, each thread feeling greyer and greyer somehow, which only made sense in Zachariah's head. He sighed. It wasn't like he had a speech prepared for this moment. Truth be told, he hadn't expected George to even come back. His hand dropped to the back of his neck with a knead of calloused digits.
"You're not a monster," Zachariah returned hastily. He dropped his hand, slipping it into his pocket. "You're George; George Sands first. And--" His words were bitten off by his own silence as he tried to say something, anything. But words were jewels thrown into the ocean, and every wave sent him closer to the shower. "That's what matters."
Things like this? Tristan could not help but smile. "Do zhey? To just happen would imply no fault and he knew there to be many faults. "I do not zhink I am inclined to agree wizh zhat." His gaze fell once more to Zachariah's knife, the one on the table before his trap, and his smile fell with it. "Do you want to kill me, Zachariah?" The demon asked calmly, pushing a few strands of hair behind his ear. "I do not zhink zhat would be so terrible."
[why]
"They do," Zachariah answered easily. "All the time. Here, anyway." Because the Isle played by different rules. Everyone knew that, or at least, Zachariah knew it now. He shook his head, dragging the tea up to his lips, letting it burn.
Only to set it down in front of him, his back to Tristan and to the knife. His hands clenched against the counter, each knuckle turning white from the pressure he placed on it. "Do you want to die?"
"Right." George's voice rose in pitch and somehow dropped in timbre, the growl of an agitated, cornered wolf evident beneath the shrill, splitting tone of an agitated, cornered man. "Classy, Zachariah--really." Jaw clenching with a click of tension and bone, George swept up his hands and took a slightly smaller step back and away. "This was a mistake, yeah? I won't--be makin' it again, Mr. Ellis. Really. Y'just--stay well, and I'll stay outuv your hair." It'd be better that way, surely.
"No, I didn't--" Zachairah's brows furrowed, frustration breaking through the cracks of self-control he had, slipping like a mask off its ribbon. "I didn't mean to upset you. That's the last thing I wanted." The absolute last thing, really.
He knew he was pushing it, but he took a step towards George, his cane still held tightly against his chest. "Please--don't call me that, George...You don't have to do that." All he could think was that he needed to say it, to say something, to say...say... "You don't have to leave. Really."
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"I would not say zhat it 'asn't zhrown any," the demon shrugged, finally moving to setting on the arm of the chair nearest the kitchen. He glanced at the broken trap he'd left behind and considered fixing the lines for a moment, even stepping right back in when the door started looking nice again. "But I do and I am, mon ami," he replied the hint of smile entering his voice. "Zhat is all zhat I can do."
"I don't see what you're sorry for," Zachariah said from the kitchen. He moved about his normal routine. Cup, leaves, water. It was therapeutic and he kept to it to keep the therapy of it. Cup, leaves, water. Ordered. Maybe not precise, but if nothing else in his life, in one thing would he have order. "Things like this happen."
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