Kilnarak - Title Goes Here

[kilnarak]

“You weren't supposed to come back,” he says, his voice soft and just a little sad. It's impossible to tell if the emotion rings true, his eyes are so dark to near be black in the night and his features are unmoved as if set in marble.

“I'm pregnant.” She shivers as the cold salt water laps about her calves, wraps her arms across her chest as if that might keep the sea from leeching away her heat. Her voice is a small thing, miniscule and dwarfed by the immensity of the ocean about her, the cliffs at her back, the handsome man with the dark eyes, and all the others that she glimpses watching – dark heads bobbing in the gentle swell of the tides, eyes black as ink glittering in the moonlight.

“It doesn't matter. They won't take you.” That note of sadness has left his voice, and he shakes his head, curls of wet-black hair clinging to his cheeks and jaw. She steps toward him, reaches for him, but he steps back. He sinks a foot or so into the sea, water up to his neck, water rising.

“You were never meant to come back.” His voice gurgles as the water rushes into his mouth, the points of his teeth flashing needle sharp, and then his head was under the water. She stepped forward again, staggering into the tide, but she couldn't catch him. The sleek black form of him evaded her grasp, and with a faint splash he was gone.

Even as he left, the others were losing interest, their dark heads bobbing beneath the water: some sinking smoothly without the slightest ripple, others turning with loud splashes as they left. One by one or in small groups they left her, and she sank to her knees in the surf, the rocky beach sure to leave scrapes and bruises on her pale legs. Water up to her waist, up to her belly, up to her chest.

She closes her eyes, listening to their splashes and to the surf. She opens her eyes when she hears one of them chuckling, its voice guttural and mocking. She opens her eyes to find its doglike head mere inches from her face. Its ink-black eyes regard her coolly, its maw slightly agape to show her needle-sharp incisors and large hooked fangs. Its whiskers sweep forward, prickling against her skin. And then just as abruptly as it appeared, it turns and disappears with a splash into the sea that birthed it.

She is left sobbing in the surf, the water rising as high as her shoulders before it recedes. She remains some hours, hoping they will return, hoping they will think better, will take her with them. But they do not return, and in time she rises, the faintest glimmer of the sun on the horizon. And she turns, and she trudges back up the gravel onto the sand, forcing herself not to look back on what she has lost.

[kilnarak]

(( Reposting the beginning of this bit 'cause it got more added to it. ))

“This is the place,” Rhys sighed as he heaved their suitcases onto the raised wooden porch. The weathered boards creaked, but they held up under the combined weight of Rhys and the baggage. The house was built in the style of a ranch and was a nearly uniform shade of gray, the walls covered in wooden shingles. The slanted, shingled roof was only a shade darker than the walls. Windows made up nearly all of one wall, facing the ocean, while on the other walls they were more normally spaced. They were all heavily curtained, and the largest of the windows facing the coast bore a large crack. The place looked weathered, as if it had been abandoned to time and wind for longer than the year it had stood empty.

“You'd think Grandda would have taken better care of this place, huh?” He glanced back at his sister with a smile – but Roma didn't give any sign that she'd heard him. No, the lanky girl was on her knees in the sandy dirt near the porch, reaching for something in the overgrown weeds about the base of the house. Rhys leaned to the side to peer down at her, curious. After a moment she stood again and dusted off the knees of her jeans, a faded green object clutched in one hand.

“We used to play here when we were little.” When she smiled back it was a little wan, but she offered the item she held to her brother. It was a cheap plastic toy dinosaur, about three inches tall. Rhys was sure it was supposed to be a tyrannosaurus, but it looked more like Godzilla, all things considered. Its mouth gaped open in a perpetual roar, its eyes small circles of white paint with a stark black dot in the middle of each – only one had been mostly scraped off and now only showed more of the green plastic. Rhys took the toy from her, smirking a little at it.

“Yeah, we did. That feels like forever ago. But it was only... what, ten... twelve years ago?” He ran his fingers over the plastic figure. It had a little ridge of bumps along its spine, although most of them had been worn down. It was a wonder the thing hadn't melted in the sun, but then again, maybe it had been in the shade of the house all that time.

“I think it's more like thirteen. You were ten and I was... seven, I think?” Roma bit her lip as she thought on it, then shook her head, the dark waves of her hair falling into her eyes. “Well, I had to have been seven if you were ten. You always got to be all the cool dinos. I had to be the crappy looking ones. We always came here in the summer.”

“Yeah, until Mom got sick,” Rhys frowned a little, then he shook his head. “Hey, help me with some of this stuff, huh? We should at least get it all inside, even if we don't have time to unpack everything today.” He handed the little plastic dinosaur back to Roma. She took it and slipped it into one of her pockets – her jeans were cargo-style with big pockets, although still it bulged out with the odd pointed angles of the small figure.

“Mn. 'kay.” Roma circled around and climbed up the stairs to take their suitcases and bring them in, while Rhys went back to the car to retrieve more.

So passed the remainder of the day, unloading and unpacking the things that would be necessary for that day, as well as a few of the things that weren't. Still, when they finally abandoned the endeavor most of their belongings still sat boxed and bound shut just inside the door.

For all that the exterior showed signs of wear and neglect, the interior was cozy enough. The rooms were spacious, if a little cluttered with Grandda's furniture, and they were relatively clean if a bit dusty. The floors were all wood (in need of polish) or tile, save for the bedrooms, which were all carpeted. There were three bedrooms, but no beds: the largest had been Grandda's, the other two, of equal size, were a bit harder to place. One of them must have been their mother's, when she was young, and the third a guest room, or perhaps a studio. It was difficult to tell which was which, as none of that furniture had been left behind, merely the tables and chairs and couches in the front room and the dining room, and necessary household appliances such as the fridge and the oven. Three bedrooms and a narrow hallway leading from one to the other, to the kitchen and the front room, a smal bathroom off the hall, and another door that lead down into an unfinished basement. All in all, the house was larger than anywhere they had lived before, but it wasn't overly so. It had seemed so much larger when they were younger...

After they had unpacked all they would today, Rhys cooked them a simple dinner – ramen noodle packets, with chopped green onion, lunchmeat, and scrambled eggs. He would need to go into town to the market tomorrow to get them some real food, but for now this would do well enough. Truth to tell, Rhys was getting sick of the stuff – they'd been eating it too much, lately – but Roma never complained. They didn't talk much during dinner, listening to the sounds the house made, the distant hiss of the tides.

Once they had finished, Rhys took care of the dishes, while Roma went to see to her room. They would need to get beds too – or, more likely, futons. That was near as high a priority as the groceries. For now they had sleeping bags and more than enough blankets and pillows, but the floor rarely made a good bed.

Rhys sighed to himself once he was left alone in the kitchen, raking his sink-damp fingers through his hair and pushing it out of his eyes. He had worn it in a short tail for most of the day, but it had slowly slipped free of its binding as they day had progressed. Now he wore the tie about his wrist like a particularly tight bracelet. He scrubbed lightly at his forehead with his palm.

This place would be good for them. It had to be. It was an actual house, not just a room in someone else's house. And they payments they would make here were less than rent usually was – Grandda had made sure of that, at least, before he'd passed. Rhys was surprised the man had willed it to them – he hadn't really had time to think of the man beyond being another name to send cards to during holidays.

He and Roma had loved being around Grandda when they had been young, but then they had moved further inland, too far for regular visits. He hadn't even felt that sad when he had heard the man had died – he knew he should have, but it had been so long, Grandda felt half a stranger. There was an emptiness left by his death, but it was an emptiness that had grown small, that had tried to close in on itself with time apart. Roma had taken Grandda's death a little harder, but still, she hadn't cried – at least not so far as Rhys had seen – just been more distant than usual for a few weeks, maybe a month. He hoped this place would be better for her than the last...

With a sigh, Rhys finished rinsing the dishes and left them out to dry, retreating to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He paused at the door to the room Roma had chosen, rapping his knucles against the door. He could hear the quiet pulse of her music – Sarah McLaughlan or Loreena McKennit, one of those folksy sounding female singers – and he could hear when that pulse stopped abruptly.

“Hey, I'm gonna be in my room if you need help with anything,” he called, not too loud, but loud enough she could hear through the door. “Or if you want company. Or... you know, anything like that.”

“'Kay.” There was a pause before she answered, and another after. “Night.” She waited long enough for him to return with his own 'good-night' before the pulse of soft music thrummed against the door again.

Rhys retreated to his own room, to surf the 'net on his laptop a while before he turned in for the night.

[kilnarak]

(( Don't know where this stuff goes or in what order. Probably at the beginning of each 'chapter' if I ever end up dividing it up into those. >>; Probably edit this with new bits as I write them. ))


Connor had left her. Father told her it was a good thing. It was good that she and her two year old son were homeless – after all, Father had room for them until she got back on her feet. It was good that her son did not have a father – he had her, after all, he had a grandfather. Certainly it was good he looked nothing like his fater – he had her dark hair and eyes rather than Connor's ruddy blonde curls and blue eyes.

It was true, at least: Connor had not made a good father or a good mate, for that matter. He had promised to marry her, promised after the bulge in her belly began to show, after the birth, and after their son's first birthday. His promises were empty, and his pockets often were as well – what money he earned he spent on himself, on drinking and on frivolous pleasures. It was a good thing he was gone, and she had to remind herself of that.

Father had told her to take some time to her self – to rest and recoup – and her friends had as well. They didn't say as much, but she knew the diner didn't need a mopey waitress. Father told her he would look after her son, so she needn't worry for that, either. He seemed to enjoy the task, so she left him to it – checking in now and then, but mostly following his advice.

She walked the beaches when she tired of her room, tired of the noises of the house. The sound of gulls crying, the steady sussurus of the waves washing in and out – they were soothing. The more primal song of nature calming her when the wholely human cacophony of the house could not.

She saw dolphins now and then, their backs cresting the waves. She saw a dark fin cutting the water once – either one of the monstrous sharks lured by the nearby rookery, or an orca brought in by the same. And, of course, she saw the seals – she could see them off the coast, clamoring about the rocks of their rookery, or perched atop buoys, sunning themselves. Occasionally, she even saw them in the water – small round heads popping above the lapping waves, just a touch darker than the water around them, the splash of a flipper hitting water, lithe dark shadows dancing through the waters of the bay.

They always seemed so happy, playing in the shallows. Sometimes it made her smile and laugh to watch them. Other times she begrudged them their play, how easily they claimed happiness. Sometimes she threw the smooth stones of the beach at them, her projectiles splashing well short of their marks. Sometimes she simply knelt in the rock-strewn sand and wept, the cold tide tugging at her knees.

---

It had been hidden in Father's closet, tucked away with what was left of Mother's things. Buried beneath old jewelry, empty glass vials that once held perfumes, faded dresses, and there it was: a soft fur cape or shawl. Although the silver and black fur had faded with age, the leather skin still felt supple and soft. The clasp still worked as well – a tarnished silver set with an oval of abalone.

It was more a cape, for her at least, falling down her back and brushing the backs of her thighs when she twirled about. She wore it over one of Mother's dresses, the soft blue fabric too long, bunched about her feet in an impromptu train. She wore Mother's jewelry as well – more disks of abalone, pearls, silver, and turquoise.

When Father had found her later that day, he had been furious. He had shouted at her to take it off, to put it away where it belonged, and why had she been going through those things, they were hidden away for a reason! Tears had glittered in his eyes as he reached the end of his chastisement, and he turned away from her, his shoulders shuddering as she meekly removed her mother's things. As she folded them neatly and put them away again, back in the box she had found them in.

She had apologized, and then tears had sprung up in her eyes as well. She hiccoughed as small sobs escaped her, wiping at her eyes and her snotty nose, and suddenly she was bawling – distraught that Father had been angry with her, and worse, that she had made him cry as well. Fathers weren't supposed to cry, they were supposed to be strong and brave and perfect, and if she had made him cry, then surely she must have done something terrible.

Father had come to her then, taken her in his arms and lifted her as if she were nothing more than a feather's weight, hushed her and stroked her dark hair. It was all right, he wasn't really angry with her. It was just... he missed her mother terribly, and seeing her there, like her mother in spirit, her mother young and healthy and beautiful, it frightened him and made him sad. He missed her just as much as she missed her. He wasn't angry, not really...

She didn't understand, not entirely, but she still wrapped her little arms tight about his neck and hugged herself to him, crying herself out against his shoulder and letting him soothe her.