An old Changeling Story
Going back to what used to be Reflections of the Dreaming, Bedlam Boys, Rochester's old Camarilla (tm) Changeling Venue game, always makes me feel... weird. I retired Sarabeth/Aerenwynn years ago, but something still seems... unfinished. Like being a ghost in your own house, unable to interact with people.
Here's her end story. Maybe that will help. It's not nice, not happy, not okay. But it's how she died.
Sarabeth is scared to death
To hear what the doctor will say
She hasn't been well
Since the day that she fell
And the bruise it just wont go away
Her eyes were red from crying, beyond red and into that ugly, painful, puffy stage, when she could finally draw a breath that didn't immediately slide its way into gasping sobs. She held Gateway tight against her chest, rubbing her snotty face in his pristine black-and-white fur, and the cat chimera made no complaint, but simply murr'd soothing noises, helplessly. They had been together for years, travelled together places no-one else had followed, and he did not insult her by telling her it would be all right. It would not be all right.
Even if it had been caught early, there would have been nothing the doctor, the hospitals could have done for her, and likely nothing fae magic could have done, except extend her life, keep her healthy longer. As it was, she had postponed the visit to the doctor, come up with reason after reason not to go (the cold sterility of doctors' offices made her feel as if she were being dipped in formaldehyde, slowly chilled to death)... when she had finally gone, he had said, frankly, he was surprised she was still alive.
Whether Tomcat had given it to her, or one of the double-dozen other lovers she'd taken since her Chrysalis, she didn't know, nor did she want to. She had agreed with the doctor to contact everyone she might have infected, wince at the thought but not sharing just how impossible that list was, and, home in her maiden-librarian apartment of white lace and victorian furniture, had written out note after note for every lover for whom she had an address, passionless, businesslike little notes. When it came time to write a letter to Tomcat - to Kyle - however, she hesitated, ripped up what she'd begun and started again, and again, and finally broke down and cried, and cried, and cried.
Gateway prrt'ed at her softly, and butted his head against her nose. ::Write it,:: he commanded, ::not for him, but because you need to say it. You need to tell him good-...oh, dear::
Good-bye. She drew ragged breath after ragged breath, hyperventilating, pulling the air in almost more quickly than she could let it out again, until the cat-chimera bit her hard on the hand.
::Stop it,:: he commanded, and, abashed, she did. Forcing her breath more calm, one inhalation at a time, she picked up her pen. Methodically, she placed a new piece of stationery on the table and positioned it just so, and wrote his name, his mortal name, concentrating on every curve of ever letter, and followed it with his fae name, the name she'd given him so many years ago.
The comma took her long seconds to write, but after that, it was as if she'd reached the top of the hill on some hellish roller-coaster.
Kyle-Tomcat,
I'm dying.
After all we've been through, it seems kind of silly that such an entirely mundane thing could kill me, but by the time this letter reaches you, I'll be dead, not just Aerenwynn, but Sarabeth, virgin librarian and vagabond poet both.
Remember me.
Good-bye
Sarabeth Wilderheir
She folded the letter carefully, her hands trembling, and left it on her desk. She only barely made it to the bathroom, her knees shaking as badly as her hands, Gateway walking beside her in emotional, if not physical, support.
"I'm scared, Gateway," she told him, as the tub filled with warm water.
::I know, little one,:: he told her, butting against her ankles.
"Will it hurt?"
::I've never died, child. But I imagine it will be like waking from a dream.::
"Like waking from a dream. I like that." They were silent for a moment, only the sound of the water running filling the emptiness, and then she turned the water off. She set the diagnosis from the doctor, its cold harsh words, in the doorway, where anyone entering would be sure to see it, and climbed, painfully, slowly, into the warm, warm water.
The knife was very, very sharp, and very precise. She'd used it to cut lovely scars into her body, the dragon tail around her thigh and the cat's-paw just above her left hip bone. Today she did the same, the sharp tip creating, carefully, slowly, a series of images on her forearms and on her belly...
A spider: Edward, and the undertaker, but most especially Charomanar. It sat on her collarbone, dripping bloody webs onto the rest.
A cat: Tomcat, who had shed her first blood, and Gateway, who would watch the last. Below the spider, the cat curled around her left breast.
Panpipes: Mnemmy, and Donald McGillifry. The satyr-sister she couldn't help but loving, because of rather than despite Mnemmy's love for Gregory, and the singer whose passion had never been enough to ... to subsume hers, but still! the fires they'd ignited! She carved them just above her mons - passion, and the baby she'd never have. Truth enough there.
The small bee hovered on her shoulder, a reminder and a prayer that Granny would look over what was left of her. The gears were the hardest, taking most of her right thigh: Ken Doll, who she had loved but never understood.
A hammer, oh, lords, the troll! She was past tears, but it was Gregory's hammer she cut in long, precise lines down her left wrist. Her right wrist was the hardest, and it seemed her compass, the mark of her kith, had lost its way, but the lines were deep and straight.
The cuts were all bleeding freely, the blood mingling with the water in a soft pink haze. She used both hands, steady now at the last, to carve a butterfly above her breastbone, and then she dropped the knife into the water. There was no strength left.
"I always thought..." she mumbled weakly.
::I know, little one.:: I always thought that I'd at least get a fairy-tale ending.
She slumped in the water, her eyes finally closing.
Gateway sat vigil over her until the last breath escaped from her body, until her fae soul had moved on, until the night had fallen. Then, silently, he moved on. He vanished the letter she'd written to Tomcat, and went to find someone to discover the body.
Sarabeth closes her eyes
And she dreams she dancin' around and around
With out any cares
And her very first love
Was holding her close
And the soft wind was blowing her hair
Lyrics from "Skin," by Rascal Flatts
Here's her end story. Maybe that will help. It's not nice, not happy, not okay. But it's how she died.
Sarabeth is scared to death
To hear what the doctor will say
She hasn't been well
Since the day that she fell
And the bruise it just wont go away
Her eyes were red from crying, beyond red and into that ugly, painful, puffy stage, when she could finally draw a breath that didn't immediately slide its way into gasping sobs. She held Gateway tight against her chest, rubbing her snotty face in his pristine black-and-white fur, and the cat chimera made no complaint, but simply murr'd soothing noises, helplessly. They had been together for years, travelled together places no-one else had followed, and he did not insult her by telling her it would be all right. It would not be all right.
Even if it had been caught early, there would have been nothing the doctor, the hospitals could have done for her, and likely nothing fae magic could have done, except extend her life, keep her healthy longer. As it was, she had postponed the visit to the doctor, come up with reason after reason not to go (the cold sterility of doctors' offices made her feel as if she were being dipped in formaldehyde, slowly chilled to death)... when she had finally gone, he had said, frankly, he was surprised she was still alive.
Whether Tomcat had given it to her, or one of the double-dozen other lovers she'd taken since her Chrysalis, she didn't know, nor did she want to. She had agreed with the doctor to contact everyone she might have infected, wince at the thought but not sharing just how impossible that list was, and, home in her maiden-librarian apartment of white lace and victorian furniture, had written out note after note for every lover for whom she had an address, passionless, businesslike little notes. When it came time to write a letter to Tomcat - to Kyle - however, she hesitated, ripped up what she'd begun and started again, and again, and finally broke down and cried, and cried, and cried.
Gateway prrt'ed at her softly, and butted his head against her nose. ::Write it,:: he commanded, ::not for him, but because you need to say it. You need to tell him good-...oh, dear::
Good-bye. She drew ragged breath after ragged breath, hyperventilating, pulling the air in almost more quickly than she could let it out again, until the cat-chimera bit her hard on the hand.
::Stop it,:: he commanded, and, abashed, she did. Forcing her breath more calm, one inhalation at a time, she picked up her pen. Methodically, she placed a new piece of stationery on the table and positioned it just so, and wrote his name, his mortal name, concentrating on every curve of ever letter, and followed it with his fae name, the name she'd given him so many years ago.
The comma took her long seconds to write, but after that, it was as if she'd reached the top of the hill on some hellish roller-coaster.
Kyle-Tomcat,
I'm dying.
After all we've been through, it seems kind of silly that such an entirely mundane thing could kill me, but by the time this letter reaches you, I'll be dead, not just Aerenwynn, but Sarabeth, virgin librarian and vagabond poet both.
Remember me.
Good-bye
Sarabeth Wilderheir
She folded the letter carefully, her hands trembling, and left it on her desk. She only barely made it to the bathroom, her knees shaking as badly as her hands, Gateway walking beside her in emotional, if not physical, support.
"I'm scared, Gateway," she told him, as the tub filled with warm water.
::I know, little one,:: he told her, butting against her ankles.
"Will it hurt?"
::I've never died, child. But I imagine it will be like waking from a dream.::
"Like waking from a dream. I like that." They were silent for a moment, only the sound of the water running filling the emptiness, and then she turned the water off. She set the diagnosis from the doctor, its cold harsh words, in the doorway, where anyone entering would be sure to see it, and climbed, painfully, slowly, into the warm, warm water.
The knife was very, very sharp, and very precise. She'd used it to cut lovely scars into her body, the dragon tail around her thigh and the cat's-paw just above her left hip bone. Today she did the same, the sharp tip creating, carefully, slowly, a series of images on her forearms and on her belly...
A spider: Edward, and the undertaker, but most especially Charomanar. It sat on her collarbone, dripping bloody webs onto the rest.
A cat: Tomcat, who had shed her first blood, and Gateway, who would watch the last. Below the spider, the cat curled around her left breast.
Panpipes: Mnemmy, and Donald McGillifry. The satyr-sister she couldn't help but loving, because of rather than despite Mnemmy's love for Gregory, and the singer whose passion had never been enough to ... to subsume hers, but still! the fires they'd ignited! She carved them just above her mons - passion, and the baby she'd never have. Truth enough there.
The small bee hovered on her shoulder, a reminder and a prayer that Granny would look over what was left of her. The gears were the hardest, taking most of her right thigh: Ken Doll, who she had loved but never understood.
A hammer, oh, lords, the troll! She was past tears, but it was Gregory's hammer she cut in long, precise lines down her left wrist. Her right wrist was the hardest, and it seemed her compass, the mark of her kith, had lost its way, but the lines were deep and straight.
The cuts were all bleeding freely, the blood mingling with the water in a soft pink haze. She used both hands, steady now at the last, to carve a butterfly above her breastbone, and then she dropped the knife into the water. There was no strength left.
"I always thought..." she mumbled weakly.
::I know, little one.:: I always thought that I'd at least get a fairy-tale ending.
She slumped in the water, her eyes finally closing.
Gateway sat vigil over her until the last breath escaped from her body, until her fae soul had moved on, until the night had fallen. Then, silently, he moved on. He vanished the letter she'd written to Tomcat, and went to find someone to discover the body.
Sarabeth closes her eyes
And she dreams she dancin' around and around
With out any cares
And her very first love
Was holding her close
And the soft wind was blowing her hair
Lyrics from "Skin," by Rascal Flatts