[fic] Blind Eye
title: Blind Eye
universe: N/A
characters: Brannoc Llyr
word count: 1116
A/N: For brigits_flame, September Week 1. The prompt was the video version of a cover of The Rolling Stones's "Gimme Shelter." It's one of my favourite songs by the Stones, and I took my inspiration mostly from the lyrics. Granted, I have no idea how this came out because I just kept writing and it took me so long to start, but hopefully it makes sense and is halfway decent. :)
The city still burned.
Jagged remnants of buildings jutted out of the broken earth like fractured bones. Stone, metal, and wood viscera spewed through gaping wounds onto the ground below, riddling it with shrapnel. The skies had been overcast for months, and everything had turned grey. The colour seemed to have been sucked from the world, and even the blood, caked scablike in cracks in the sidewalks, tainting the now undrinkable water, looked nearly indistinguishable from dirt and dust and debris.
There were embers still glowing, and fires that wouldn't go out because there wasn't anyone there to put them out. It was quiet. There were no birds, no voices. And as Brannoc walked, his footfalls were muted by a thick carpet of ash.
He had left alone and returned alone. His family had stayed. They'd said, noses high in the air, we bled for this earth, we built on this earth, we were born on this earth and have lived here since the beginning of time.
There had been no shelters. The radios had been turned off. They had dances and spoke of engagements. His father complained of the lack of work ethic among the servants, who went about the mansion like ghosts, pale and quiet and gloomy. He'd said to the butler before he'd left, "Why don't you go?"
"Go?" said the butler with a sigh that sounded like a balloon sadly and slowly losing its air, "Master Llyr, where is there to go?" He'd rubbed a dirtied cloth along the side of a silver candlestick, as though spick and span silver was far more important than considering impending doom.
But it wasn't just the servants. The rural families, wealthy and untouchable, like Brannoc's own, seemed completely oblivious to the danger ahead, as though they thought their status, their pedigrees, their loads of money squirreled away in beautiful stone walls would save them from the doom the rest of the land would suffer. And when he took great, long strides into the walled city, he found, to his surprise, that everyone was simply going about their business.
Women in long dresses towed their children around, scolding them for running too close to the street. Teenagers laughed and showed off to anyone who could be bother to watch. He went into town to get supplies, and when he asked for a gas mask, the shopkeeper's smiling face froze, like a computer glitch, and then went right back into smiling. She said, plump cheeks reddening, "My dear, what need for those do we have here?"
Brannoc leaned against the counter and said, "The war."
"The war?" She looked briefly bemused in the way that someone who had just been asked if they'd read Oliver Twist might look if they vaguely knew the name but hadn't the slightest idea of what it actually was about, who had written it, or where they'd heard of it in the first place.
"Yes," he said, words emerging clipped and sharp like a slap in the face. "The war. Turn on the radio."
"Oh, no," said the shopkeeper. "We like to steer clear of depressing things. It's almost the solstice, you know, and there are so many preparations -- why get all glum about something so far away?"
He'd left the store with his lips pressed tightly together. Outside the streets were bustling. An old black man had a radio tuned to a station playing calming muzak and Brannoc walked over to him, seized the radio, and turned it to the proper station.
He turned it up and the world came to a grinding halt.
"---Bombs over Oxford today," crackled the radio. "Fatality count is a hundred and counting, casualties are clocking in at over a hundred fifty and still more people are being pulled from the rubble. Rescue crews are working double-time to ensure the safety of all citizens -- please, everyone at home, do be careful; stock up on provisions and find an adequate shelter. As stated before, the prime dimensions for a bomb shelter are--"
The old man knocked the radio away from Brannoc's hands. It smashed against the cobblestones and the batteries popped out and rolled away. And everyone stared, their faces twisted in some expression he did not recognise.
"There is no need," said one man, voice frosty and eyes hard like chips of stone, "for that nonsense." And everybody, murmuring a joint hum of agreement, turned, their faces relaxing and becoming blank canvases again. A child's laughter broke the daze, and suddenly the city was back to its busy, everyday pace.
Brannoc said, "This is absurd," and the old man replied, "well what do you expect?"
"Sense," said Brannoc. "We all could die."
"We all will," said the old man simply, shutting his eyes and soaking up the summer sun. "And it's not up to you to tell us when."
Brannoc left and was certain he wouldn't go back. There was a heavy sick feeling hovering somewhere around his ribcage and he thought of all the things and people that would inevitably be destroyed. He felt a bizarre mix of horror and disgust. Let them die, then, he thought, and realised that the only thing he cared about in this manic-depressive city was the surface, which kept getting polished so brightly that its silver, glittering coat rubbed away and became something that hadn't nearly as much worth as he'd thought.
He wouldn't take it with him.
He told the butler when he opened the door, "I'm leaving."
The butler said with perfect impassivity, "but Master Llyr, you've only just arrived."
"I mean -- going abroad," said Brannoc. He would not fight because he didn't care enough to do so. He wouldn't stay.
"Where will you go?" asked the butler.
"I don't know," said Brannoc.
"A most excellent plan," the butler said with dry sarcasm.
Brannoc said, "you're welcome to come," and the butler said, "No thank you, sir, I'd prefer a roof over my head."
"The bombs are coming."
"Even so," said the butler, "a burning roof is better than none at all," and he scrubbed at the silver a little bit more.
Brannoc said, "Stop that, it's only veneer."
The butler said, "Is it, sir? I hadn't noticed."
--
The city still burned and no one was in it. He'd come back to bid his farewells to what was left, and he was unsurprised to see that Llyr manor was nothing more than a pile of ruins. He sat on one of them. "Well," he said to the partially decomposed skull of the butler, as calmly as if he were conversing with a living person, "I did warn you."
The butler only grinned back.
universe: N/A
characters: Brannoc Llyr
word count: 1116
A/N: For brigits_flame, September Week 1. The prompt was the video version of a cover of The Rolling Stones's "Gimme Shelter." It's one of my favourite songs by the Stones, and I took my inspiration mostly from the lyrics. Granted, I have no idea how this came out because I just kept writing and it took me so long to start, but hopefully it makes sense and is halfway decent. :)
The city still burned.
Jagged remnants of buildings jutted out of the broken earth like fractured bones. Stone, metal, and wood viscera spewed through gaping wounds onto the ground below, riddling it with shrapnel. The skies had been overcast for months, and everything had turned grey. The colour seemed to have been sucked from the world, and even the blood, caked scablike in cracks in the sidewalks, tainting the now undrinkable water, looked nearly indistinguishable from dirt and dust and debris.
There were embers still glowing, and fires that wouldn't go out because there wasn't anyone there to put them out. It was quiet. There were no birds, no voices. And as Brannoc walked, his footfalls were muted by a thick carpet of ash.
He had left alone and returned alone. His family had stayed. They'd said, noses high in the air, we bled for this earth, we built on this earth, we were born on this earth and have lived here since the beginning of time.
There had been no shelters. The radios had been turned off. They had dances and spoke of engagements. His father complained of the lack of work ethic among the servants, who went about the mansion like ghosts, pale and quiet and gloomy. He'd said to the butler before he'd left, "Why don't you go?"
"Go?" said the butler with a sigh that sounded like a balloon sadly and slowly losing its air, "Master Llyr, where is there to go?" He'd rubbed a dirtied cloth along the side of a silver candlestick, as though spick and span silver was far more important than considering impending doom.
But it wasn't just the servants. The rural families, wealthy and untouchable, like Brannoc's own, seemed completely oblivious to the danger ahead, as though they thought their status, their pedigrees, their loads of money squirreled away in beautiful stone walls would save them from the doom the rest of the land would suffer. And when he took great, long strides into the walled city, he found, to his surprise, that everyone was simply going about their business.
Women in long dresses towed their children around, scolding them for running too close to the street. Teenagers laughed and showed off to anyone who could be bother to watch. He went into town to get supplies, and when he asked for a gas mask, the shopkeeper's smiling face froze, like a computer glitch, and then went right back into smiling. She said, plump cheeks reddening, "My dear, what need for those do we have here?"
Brannoc leaned against the counter and said, "The war."
"The war?" She looked briefly bemused in the way that someone who had just been asked if they'd read Oliver Twist might look if they vaguely knew the name but hadn't the slightest idea of what it actually was about, who had written it, or where they'd heard of it in the first place.
"Yes," he said, words emerging clipped and sharp like a slap in the face. "The war. Turn on the radio."
"Oh, no," said the shopkeeper. "We like to steer clear of depressing things. It's almost the solstice, you know, and there are so many preparations -- why get all glum about something so far away?"
He'd left the store with his lips pressed tightly together. Outside the streets were bustling. An old black man had a radio tuned to a station playing calming muzak and Brannoc walked over to him, seized the radio, and turned it to the proper station.
He turned it up and the world came to a grinding halt.
"---Bombs over Oxford today," crackled the radio. "Fatality count is a hundred and counting, casualties are clocking in at over a hundred fifty and still more people are being pulled from the rubble. Rescue crews are working double-time to ensure the safety of all citizens -- please, everyone at home, do be careful; stock up on provisions and find an adequate shelter. As stated before, the prime dimensions for a bomb shelter are--"
The old man knocked the radio away from Brannoc's hands. It smashed against the cobblestones and the batteries popped out and rolled away. And everyone stared, their faces twisted in some expression he did not recognise.
"There is no need," said one man, voice frosty and eyes hard like chips of stone, "for that nonsense." And everybody, murmuring a joint hum of agreement, turned, their faces relaxing and becoming blank canvases again. A child's laughter broke the daze, and suddenly the city was back to its busy, everyday pace.
Brannoc said, "This is absurd," and the old man replied, "well what do you expect?"
"Sense," said Brannoc. "We all could die."
"We all will," said the old man simply, shutting his eyes and soaking up the summer sun. "And it's not up to you to tell us when."
Brannoc left and was certain he wouldn't go back. There was a heavy sick feeling hovering somewhere around his ribcage and he thought of all the things and people that would inevitably be destroyed. He felt a bizarre mix of horror and disgust. Let them die, then, he thought, and realised that the only thing he cared about in this manic-depressive city was the surface, which kept getting polished so brightly that its silver, glittering coat rubbed away and became something that hadn't nearly as much worth as he'd thought.
He wouldn't take it with him.
He told the butler when he opened the door, "I'm leaving."
The butler said with perfect impassivity, "but Master Llyr, you've only just arrived."
"I mean -- going abroad," said Brannoc. He would not fight because he didn't care enough to do so. He wouldn't stay.
"Where will you go?" asked the butler.
"I don't know," said Brannoc.
"A most excellent plan," the butler said with dry sarcasm.
Brannoc said, "you're welcome to come," and the butler said, "No thank you, sir, I'd prefer a roof over my head."
"The bombs are coming."
"Even so," said the butler, "a burning roof is better than none at all," and he scrubbed at the silver a little bit more.
Brannoc said, "Stop that, it's only veneer."
The butler said, "Is it, sir? I hadn't noticed."
--
The city still burned and no one was in it. He'd come back to bid his farewells to what was left, and he was unsurprised to see that Llyr manor was nothing more than a pile of ruins. He sat on one of them. "Well," he said to the partially decomposed skull of the butler, as calmly as if he were conversing with a living person, "I did warn you."
The butler only grinned back.