(Untitled)

[esoteric_rose]

Characters: Juliet and open
Date/Time: Night of September 18th/early morning of 19th
Location: Dreamspace
Rating: PG to start?
Summary: Juliet and her dreams.

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[fragmentofagod]

He drags his hands in the lake, catching ripples on his fingers and looking for the mask that washed off of Juliet's face.

[esoteric_rose]

The mask is dark, slippery pieces now, black drops that let off long trails of blood-red the longer they float about. She glances over when she hears him, resisting the urge to sit up. The little lavender butterfly has not yet become accustomed enough to stay.

"It makes sense, that you'd be here."

[fragmentofagod]

"Don't you want it?" The skull-shaped mask is important for a reaper, he knows this in his soul.

[esoteric_rose]

"I cannot speak when it is on, it freezes and kills my voice in my throat. I've been wearing it for the past ninety six hours...just one free breath is all I ask." The butterfly seems to have completed its exploration and allows her to sit up now. "It's like breathing smoke and being unable to cough when I'm down there..."

[fragmentofagod]

"Do you not want it?" Yes or no. The answer is not important, only that she give it.

[esoteric_rose]

"It doesn't matter whether I want it or not, it will always return to me as easily as it is to see the repetition of four." She sighs. "But if we don't move now, we're going to be late." That said, she stands and walks straight into the lake, sinking down into the darkness.

[fragmentofagod]

He follows, not satisfied with the answer. "It doesn't matter if it will always return. Do you want it?"

[esoteric_rose]

It leads down, and strangely the both of them remain completely dry until it bottoms out into the white courtyard. She looks at him over her shoulder. "My desires do not enter into my duty. There are only two ways out, shame and submission, and I do not intend to let either touch my soul."

A true scythe is in her hands, not the blade she crafted herself but what it was before. "Seven...does the name Longfellow mean anything to you?"

[fragmentofagod]

He stares at the scythe, trying to figure what about it is so substantially wrong.

"No, it does not."

The scythe should be... different. Somehow.

[esoteric_rose]

The scythe is her, she is the scythe, they are one.

She smiles at the answer. She does love educating people on art.

Walking through the courtyard, she stops at the far end, slashing the wall, and in a small shower of sparks it opens. Bleeding? No. Not bleeding. Red flowers blooming from it. Poppies, to be exact. She gently feels their petals, almost laughing at them.

"'My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,'/The Reaper said, and smiled:/'Dear tokens of the earth are they,/Where he was once a child.'"

Plucking two (two for symmetry, two for balance), she then turned and offered them to him.

"'They shall all bloom in fields of light,/Transplanted by my care,/And saints, upon their garments white,/These sacred blossoms wear.'"

[fragmentofagod]

He has never been one for poetry, but he takes the flowers. Poppies. They stand for... dreams. Death. Funeral services and war. There's something, some poem that goes with poppies.

"Take up our quarrel with the foe:/To you from failing hands we throw/The torch; be yours to hold it high..."

It doesn't sound quite the same, but poppies and scythes (the scythe isn't quite right) make him think of the words.

A sudden wind, dry and hot, sweeps in from the desert and catches at their clothes.

[esoteric_rose]

The poem is unknown to her, but it feels appropriate for the moment. When she can, she'll have to look it up.

Warmth...it's been a while since any warmth entered this place, and it's refreshing no matter where it came from. She turns to look at the source and smiles, taking a poppy to wrap around her wrist.

"Do you think if I sat in the sun long enough that everything that's frozen inside would melt? I think it could keep going once warmed enough..."

[fragmentofagod]

He, being who he is, takes the statement at face value.

"You would probably get sunburnt first."

[esoteric_rose]

She laughs. "Quite right. But not if we take along a veil to cloak ourselves." The words so said, she sets the near-transparent grey cloak on his shoulders. "It lessens the blow so you can tell when it's been long enough, when you'll scorch should you face it longer."

[fragmentofagod]

Things are taken at face value. Metaphors must be explained (except for puns, puns are something he understands). The veil settles on his shoulders, darkens somewhat, grows curled at the edges like a drawing of smoke.

"That's useful."

[esoteric_rose]

"Perhaps it will be kinder to you than it has been to me."

Always, always her hands. Seeking warmth and getting too close to the flame, and there is not always a hand belonging to another to pull them back when she's only burned her fingertips. They've nearly healed this time, and nearly is good enough. Her veil will be grey as well, and she dismisses the scythe to put it on, drawing up the hood to protect her face.

"What lies across the desert?"