To Knit A Raveled Sleave
Aug. 6th, 2005 10:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
horseboykarlStarts right after Karl and Eric break up
Ire is glad to see me when I come home. Poor fellow, I’ve abandoned him, just coming around long enough to feed him and change clothes for the last two weeks. I pet him absently and then look around, not seeing, not thinking, afraid of what scene will unreel behind my eyelids.
I don’t want to be inside for some reason, so I build a campfire down by the pond, as the evening sun disappears. Ire flops beside me as I stare into the flames, tracing and retracing the tangled path of alternatives that led me here. When did I have a choice where I could have turned aside? . . .
I wrench my mind away from the ‘what if’s’ before they drive me crazy.
The night grows colder and I look at the house with my bed in it and I still don’t want to go in there. I go inside to get a blanket and wrap it around me while I watch the fire some more. I know I should be in bed, that I really need to sleep, because my body and all the bruises and cuts are protesting sitting out here in the cold.
My eyes close, but all the things that I haven’t let myself think about while I was arguing with Eric come surging into my brain. The fight, the fire . . . but mostly . . . I killed a man. I’ll never get his shocked face out of my mind as long as I live. Visions of the obscene things that were exposed when I cut his head off crawl across my brain, blood and worse things. I leap to my feet.
I spend the night alternately pacing around the fire and staring into the flames. When morning comes I go inside to get something to eat, but my stomach rebels at the sight of food and being in the house still bothers me, so I spend the chilly morning using one hand to pile more firewood beside the ashes of the fire. I brush Smokey Joe for a long time, the mindless task soothing as I put all my concentration into carefully grooming him. My muscles are aching and protesting when I finally stop, the bruises on my back throbbing. I get a beer and bring it outside, taking another painkiller.
Darkness falls again and I still can’t face my bed, so I spend another night in front of the fire. The memory of the punk’s face when I knew he was going to kill me and Eric’s broken body flit around in my brain, until I want to scream and I lunge up, stalking desperately around my woodlot, tripping over things in the dark.
Every time I sit down, my head nods forward and I start dreaming . . . he’s holding the sword this time, dripping with my blood and I put my hands to my neck but nothing’s there except revolting softness and my hands are covered in blood. I jerk in panic, crouching on the ground, heaving and losing the beer I had for dinner. I don’t sit down again until the sun comes up.
In the morning, after several cups of coffee, I pull out Gúthwinë and examine him.
He has several notches and dings on him and I didn’t clean him very thoroughly. I could have taken him into the shop, to my grinder, to fix him, but that seems too impersonal for him. Peter Lyon had showed me how to hone him by hand, so I get the stone out and some soft cloths, and put him across my knees. While I work, I try to think why this sword suddenly has a personality to me, why he’s not an ‘it’ to me anymore. He’s not the real Gúthwinë, that one is still in Middle Earth, but Éomer has used him. Maybe some of his spirit lives in this blade. I hold him on my lap for a long time when I’m finished, wondering about swords in general, and why so many of them have names. Perhaps other people have discovered this strange sense that they’re alive. Or perhaps I’ve just finally snapped.
I wish I could blame Éomer for all of this. Fuck, I wish I could blame anyone but myself. If I had told Eric about the shifts, maybe he wouldn’t have put that window up, and maybe if he hadn’t gotten hurt, he wouldn’t have been so scared. But I didn’t realise the bloody fanboys were still around . . . would I have warned him about the danger of Tolkien things? I just don’t fucking know.
I waste another day and a night trying not to think, trying not to see Eric or the dead guy
When morning comes again, I remember the shares of Moby Dickens that Eric gave me and I go find the paperwork. I’ll give them back to him and it will be an excuse to see him, to swallow my pride and try to talk him out of this, out of leaving me. I haven’t really slept since I woke up at his house three days ago so I’m extra cautious driving to Mt. Victoria.
No one answers the bell and when I peer in the windows, a sick feeling clenches my gut. I can’t see the furniture, the place is empty, and he’s already fucking gone.
I’m still standing there, stunned, when an attractive Asian woman drives up in a big car. One look at her careful hair style and I don’t need the sign on the car to tell me she’s an estate agent.
“My you’re an eager one. I just got the listing this morning. Haven’t had time to get my sign up. Are you interested in it?” She pauses and looks at me expecting an answer. My throat is too tight to respond.
“Well, here’s my card.” She digs through her bag, before shoving a pasteboard slip in my hands. “These old places are quite the rage, the auction is September 10, and I expect it will be lively.”
I get back in the truck and sit in the seat, shaking and sweating, feeling lightheaded. I don’t know what to do with myself, so I post the shares in an envelope bound for Drew’s address in Auckland. I’d like to drive around aimlessly, not wanting to go home, but my hand is starting to ache from pushing the shift around, so I head back, trying to shove things out of my brain.
When I get home, I think about getting some food, not remembering when I ate last, but everything seems unappetizing and I go back to my fire. I’ve drunk two beers in quick succession, trying to dull the knife-edge of pain, when rain begins falling, not hard but a light endless rain that will go on for hours. I concede that this time spent out here brooding has probably set my healing back several days. I kick dirt over the fire and go inside to face the ghosts that are haunting my house.
Inside, I roam like some caged beast, unable to settle. I remember Jay, how messed up he looked, and I call Gareth, and find out that everyone got away with mainly minor injuries and the girl is mostly fine. After I hang up, I try to watch a movie, but I’m so fucking tired I can’t concentrate. It’s after midnight now, and I know that after days of this, I can’t go much longer without sleep. In desperation, I finally go to my medicine cabinet and find the sleeping pills that I haven’t used in over six months. My dreams may be filled with horrors, but I can at least drug my body into resting. I lay down, leaving my eyes open until I can feel the pills starting to work. As I drift off, my brain groggily reaches across time and space for the one man who might understand my anguish . . .
I wake a bit later and he’s there, lying beside me, his arms wrapped around me. His hair is falling loose around his face and he’s wearing a tunic of some soft weave and matching pants.
“Éomer,” I breathe and though he smiles at me, he doesn’t answer and I know that I’m not really linked to him, that I’m dreaming him the way I have in the past. I remember the last time this happened, how brutal my dreaming mind was to him and I cringe. One more awful thing I’ve done.
His hand shifts to my face, cupping my chin and looking searchingly into my eyes. Then his callused fingers comb through my hair, a gentle, comforting touch.
His tenderness breaks me.
I wrap my arms around his neck and let all my agony come bursting out, cried out against his strong shoulder. I tell him everything that has happened . . . Eric, the fanboys, Gúthwinë responding to me like a living thing, scaring me with the ease that I killed that bloke, even apologizing for treating him badly. His arms come around me and he rocks me as though I’m a child, while I sob wildly.
I get control of myself and while his hands are steady on my back, I cautiously tuck away all the things I can’t bear to think about for the moment. He kisses me lightly and his arms go around me, holding me tightly, his legs tangling mine and pulling me closer. But there’s nothing sexual about it, just the security of one warm body against another and I let the contact soothe my mind out of the dream and back into oblivion.
When I wake up, it’s early afternoon and the rain is still falling, but the sound is somehow relaxing. Today I’m more adept at shutting away the most horrific of my memories. My injuries feel much better, but I feel weak and ravenously hungry, and I know my diet of nothing but beer and coffee did fuck all to help my recovery. Most everything in my fridge has died of neglect, so I make some toast and sit on the deck, under the overhang.
I stare out at my rain-drenched woods and take stock of my life. There are things I regret seeing and things I regret doing and there’s a hole in my life and my heart where Eric used to be. And there’s something inside of me that’s broken and I don’t know how to fix it. So now what?
Work. Only thing I have left. I’ll call Sid after I finish eating and tell him to put my name out everywhere.
When Paris calls a few days later to set up a horseboy fuck session, I turn my life over to Éomer with a feeling of almost relief. He can’t ass my life up any worse than I have. He has no memory of how I broke my hand, which just confirms that my dream went only one way, no link. So I tell him I was in a bar fight and to keep the cast dry, and then I fade out quickly.
Ire is glad to see me when I come home. Poor fellow, I’ve abandoned him, just coming around long enough to feed him and change clothes for the last two weeks. I pet him absently and then look around, not seeing, not thinking, afraid of what scene will unreel behind my eyelids.
I don’t want to be inside for some reason, so I build a campfire down by the pond, as the evening sun disappears. Ire flops beside me as I stare into the flames, tracing and retracing the tangled path of alternatives that led me here. When did I have a choice where I could have turned aside? . . .
I wrench my mind away from the ‘what if’s’ before they drive me crazy.
The night grows colder and I look at the house with my bed in it and I still don’t want to go in there. I go inside to get a blanket and wrap it around me while I watch the fire some more. I know I should be in bed, that I really need to sleep, because my body and all the bruises and cuts are protesting sitting out here in the cold.
My eyes close, but all the things that I haven’t let myself think about while I was arguing with Eric come surging into my brain. The fight, the fire . . . but mostly . . . I killed a man. I’ll never get his shocked face out of my mind as long as I live. Visions of the obscene things that were exposed when I cut his head off crawl across my brain, blood and worse things. I leap to my feet.
I spend the night alternately pacing around the fire and staring into the flames. When morning comes I go inside to get something to eat, but my stomach rebels at the sight of food and being in the house still bothers me, so I spend the chilly morning using one hand to pile more firewood beside the ashes of the fire. I brush Smokey Joe for a long time, the mindless task soothing as I put all my concentration into carefully grooming him. My muscles are aching and protesting when I finally stop, the bruises on my back throbbing. I get a beer and bring it outside, taking another painkiller.
Darkness falls again and I still can’t face my bed, so I spend another night in front of the fire. The memory of the punk’s face when I knew he was going to kill me and Eric’s broken body flit around in my brain, until I want to scream and I lunge up, stalking desperately around my woodlot, tripping over things in the dark.
Every time I sit down, my head nods forward and I start dreaming . . . he’s holding the sword this time, dripping with my blood and I put my hands to my neck but nothing’s there except revolting softness and my hands are covered in blood. I jerk in panic, crouching on the ground, heaving and losing the beer I had for dinner. I don’t sit down again until the sun comes up.
In the morning, after several cups of coffee, I pull out Gúthwinë and examine him.
He has several notches and dings on him and I didn’t clean him very thoroughly. I could have taken him into the shop, to my grinder, to fix him, but that seems too impersonal for him. Peter Lyon had showed me how to hone him by hand, so I get the stone out and some soft cloths, and put him across my knees. While I work, I try to think why this sword suddenly has a personality to me, why he’s not an ‘it’ to me anymore. He’s not the real Gúthwinë, that one is still in Middle Earth, but Éomer has used him. Maybe some of his spirit lives in this blade. I hold him on my lap for a long time when I’m finished, wondering about swords in general, and why so many of them have names. Perhaps other people have discovered this strange sense that they’re alive. Or perhaps I’ve just finally snapped.
I wish I could blame Éomer for all of this. Fuck, I wish I could blame anyone but myself. If I had told Eric about the shifts, maybe he wouldn’t have put that window up, and maybe if he hadn’t gotten hurt, he wouldn’t have been so scared. But I didn’t realise the bloody fanboys were still around . . . would I have warned him about the danger of Tolkien things? I just don’t fucking know.
I waste another day and a night trying not to think, trying not to see Eric or the dead guy
When morning comes again, I remember the shares of Moby Dickens that Eric gave me and I go find the paperwork. I’ll give them back to him and it will be an excuse to see him, to swallow my pride and try to talk him out of this, out of leaving me. I haven’t really slept since I woke up at his house three days ago so I’m extra cautious driving to Mt. Victoria.
No one answers the bell and when I peer in the windows, a sick feeling clenches my gut. I can’t see the furniture, the place is empty, and he’s already fucking gone.
I’m still standing there, stunned, when an attractive Asian woman drives up in a big car. One look at her careful hair style and I don’t need the sign on the car to tell me she’s an estate agent.
“My you’re an eager one. I just got the listing this morning. Haven’t had time to get my sign up. Are you interested in it?” She pauses and looks at me expecting an answer. My throat is too tight to respond.
“Well, here’s my card.” She digs through her bag, before shoving a pasteboard slip in my hands. “These old places are quite the rage, the auction is September 10, and I expect it will be lively.”
I get back in the truck and sit in the seat, shaking and sweating, feeling lightheaded. I don’t know what to do with myself, so I post the shares in an envelope bound for Drew’s address in Auckland. I’d like to drive around aimlessly, not wanting to go home, but my hand is starting to ache from pushing the shift around, so I head back, trying to shove things out of my brain.
When I get home, I think about getting some food, not remembering when I ate last, but everything seems unappetizing and I go back to my fire. I’ve drunk two beers in quick succession, trying to dull the knife-edge of pain, when rain begins falling, not hard but a light endless rain that will go on for hours. I concede that this time spent out here brooding has probably set my healing back several days. I kick dirt over the fire and go inside to face the ghosts that are haunting my house.
Inside, I roam like some caged beast, unable to settle. I remember Jay, how messed up he looked, and I call Gareth, and find out that everyone got away with mainly minor injuries and the girl is mostly fine. After I hang up, I try to watch a movie, but I’m so fucking tired I can’t concentrate. It’s after midnight now, and I know that after days of this, I can’t go much longer without sleep. In desperation, I finally go to my medicine cabinet and find the sleeping pills that I haven’t used in over six months. My dreams may be filled with horrors, but I can at least drug my body into resting. I lay down, leaving my eyes open until I can feel the pills starting to work. As I drift off, my brain groggily reaches across time and space for the one man who might understand my anguish . . .
I wake a bit later and he’s there, lying beside me, his arms wrapped around me. His hair is falling loose around his face and he’s wearing a tunic of some soft weave and matching pants.
“Éomer,” I breathe and though he smiles at me, he doesn’t answer and I know that I’m not really linked to him, that I’m dreaming him the way I have in the past. I remember the last time this happened, how brutal my dreaming mind was to him and I cringe. One more awful thing I’ve done.
His hand shifts to my face, cupping my chin and looking searchingly into my eyes. Then his callused fingers comb through my hair, a gentle, comforting touch.
His tenderness breaks me.
I wrap my arms around his neck and let all my agony come bursting out, cried out against his strong shoulder. I tell him everything that has happened . . . Eric, the fanboys, Gúthwinë responding to me like a living thing, scaring me with the ease that I killed that bloke, even apologizing for treating him badly. His arms come around me and he rocks me as though I’m a child, while I sob wildly.
I get control of myself and while his hands are steady on my back, I cautiously tuck away all the things I can’t bear to think about for the moment. He kisses me lightly and his arms go around me, holding me tightly, his legs tangling mine and pulling me closer. But there’s nothing sexual about it, just the security of one warm body against another and I let the contact soothe my mind out of the dream and back into oblivion.
When I wake up, it’s early afternoon and the rain is still falling, but the sound is somehow relaxing. Today I’m more adept at shutting away the most horrific of my memories. My injuries feel much better, but I feel weak and ravenously hungry, and I know my diet of nothing but beer and coffee did fuck all to help my recovery. Most everything in my fridge has died of neglect, so I make some toast and sit on the deck, under the overhang.
I stare out at my rain-drenched woods and take stock of my life. There are things I regret seeing and things I regret doing and there’s a hole in my life and my heart where Eric used to be. And there’s something inside of me that’s broken and I don’t know how to fix it. So now what?
Work. Only thing I have left. I’ll call Sid after I finish eating and tell him to put my name out everywhere.
When Paris calls a few days later to set up a horseboy fuck session, I turn my life over to Éomer with a feeling of almost relief. He can’t ass my life up any worse than I have. He has no memory of how I broke my hand, which just confirms that my dream went only one way, no link. So I tell him I was in a bar fight and to keep the cast dry, and then I fade out quickly.
