Gift Post
The fury was spent, and all that was left was the soul-deep bitterness.
Shattered ceramics littered the floor and crunched beneath his bare feet, pictures hunt askew on the walls, the curtains flapped, tattered, in the wind through the smashed window. The bar at the end of the canopied bed had the imprint of his clenched hands around it. Down floated to the thick black carpet like snow, soundlessly, the deflated carcass of the pillow torn open and cast aside.
Daemon was crumpled in a heap on the floor, shuddering and gasping, trying to hold back the screams that would rip him apart. He ground the heel of one hand ruthlessly into his eye, trying to erase the image imprinted there.
The unicorn’s horn - the scepter - broken, twisted, shattered -
He flinched from it, feeling the sharp edges of the memory twist in his belly, the ashes of disillusionment flat in his mouth. A soft noise slipped from between clamped lips. If he lingered too long on that memory, he knew his mind would shatter into as many pieces as the vases he’d broken, and this time no one would be able to bring him back. Because Jaenelle was gone.
“The Queen of the Darkness is gone…”
He couldn’t recognize his own raw voice as it ripped out of his throat in a scream of horror and despair.
“The Dark Court no longer exists.”
The wind grew stronger, howled through the window and whipped around him, raising goosebumps on his neck as the howls faded into agonized sobs. He locked his hands on the rail of the bed and dragged himself to his feet, stumbling over to the door that he hadn’t dared to open, clawing at the doorknob until it creaked inward.
The wash of psychic scent made his knees wobble. Clutching at the ebony chest-of-drawers to stay upright, he closed the door to his room quietly behind him and took a deep breath of the cool, clean air in this room, free of the smell of pain and despair that permeated the destroyed room behind the door.
He closed his golden eyes in mingled pain and bliss. This room still smelled like her.
He opened his inner barriers and let the dark psychic scent wash over and through him, soothing him and also sweeping away the nonfeeling cold of the sedative that had been in his food for days. He hadn’t tried to avoid them, welcoming the peaceful numbness it gave him. But has he stood and breathed the sweet smell of her, as he dark psychic scent washed over and around him like a breaking wave, that lack of feeling was swept away.
He wobbled, but forced himself to remain upright. She’s not here. It truly hit home again here in the fading of her scent. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. “Steady, old son,” he murmured, locking his knees and walking over to the small blackwood desk, trying not to look at the too perfectly made bed as he sat down at the desk. He stared blankly at the elegant stationary, imagining Jaenelle sitting here, writing…
His gaze wandered and snagged on the folded slip of paper, his name inscribed on it in calligraphic script. His hand shook as he reached for it, picked it up, broke the seal of wax that held it closed.
Daemon, he read, dearest Daemon - a chunk of crossed out scribbling. I’m sorry. I know I told you - more scribbles. It was the only way. I had to save the land. Please understand… A blot of black ink marred the page and a line of blurred, tear-stained parchment. He could see her writing, late at night - as he tormented his brother and witnessed the bleak despair in his father’s eyes - his hand twitched involuntarily. Further down the paper in a reckless, hurried scrawl. Goodbye. I love you.
He felt his shoulders spasm. The paper crumpled too easily in his hand. “Damn you, Jaenelle,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Damn you -“ He choked on the words, swallowed hard, threw the paper across the room and into the ashes of the fireplace that hadn’t burned for weeks. “You promised to marry me - I sacrificed everything for you and you just leave me?”
But he could not summon the anger back. All that was left was the soul-searing bitterness.
And the loneliness.
He stumbled to the bed and fell onto it, burying his face in the pillows, breathing in the smell of her hair, imagining that she was only away, that any moment she would be back…
He curled up into himself and cried.
I love you.
“Damn you, Jaenelle,” he sobbed, “Come back. Come back to me.”
Title: Six Feet Under
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Jaenelle Angelline, Leland, Phillip, Alexandra, Robert
Prompt: 014. Coffin/Buried for 50_darkfics
Word Count: 857
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: Being home is not much of a respite for Jaenelle.
It was like being buried alive.
Jaenelle sat in her room surrounded by pastel colour and frills of lace, toys she never touched, the bed immaculately made as if it had never been slept in. The “playpen” at Briarwood was more her home than this too clean, barren cell, suffocating, smothered beneath the bland mask, the smell of cleaning agents still acrid in the air.
The rain cascaded down the windows with a soft, soothing tap-tap sound, muffled by the glass. The door creaked quietly as it open, the soft whispers conferring and one set of feet crossing the soft carpet.
“Dear?”
Jaenelle blinked once, masking her eyes before turning around. It was Leland today, to her relief - Leland was better than Alexandra. There was no sign of the family matriarch. Philip hovered over her should. He could today - Bobby wasn’t here. She knew where he was. Oh, how well she knew where he was.
Briarwood is the pretty poison…
“Darling? Why don’t you go wash? We have a guest this evening…”
A guest. From Briarwood? Jaenelle wondered bleakly. She stared through Leland and didn’t answer.
“Jaenelle,” Philip cut in. “Jaenelle, is something wrong?”
She resisted the urge to laugh, bitterly, mirthlessly. She couldn’t help an involuntary spasm and a small noise, though. Leland flinched, hesitated, then reached out and took Jaenelle’s limp hand in hers, giving it a squeeze.
“It’s all right, sweetheart, you can tell us.”
Jaenelle took a breath. “Doctor Carvey is a -“
“This is a waste of time,” Alexandra’s voice said harshly. “She’s just telling the same old lies and stories. You heard what the Doctor said. She’s not well at all yet.”
I’m not sick, Jaenelle thought viciously. I’m not I’m not I’m not - I didn’t imagine the gardens at Briarwood, didn’t imagine Saetan and the kindred and -
But there was still that seed of doubt that itched under her skin, saying ‘but what if you were wrong?’ She closed her eyes and couldn’t help the tears that leaked out.
Someone was giving her a hug. She stayed limp and unresisting as Leland’s perfectly maintained hands brushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed her there. “Darling, please,” she said. Jaenelle could hear a touch of tears in her voice. “Just tell the truth and maybe we can help…”
Jaenelle withdrew into herself stubbornly, hunching her shoulders and closing her face. “You wouldn’t believe the truth,” she said hoarsely. “You don’t want to hear the truth.”
Alexandra’s voice was suddenly very near and very hoarse as she set a hand on Jaenelle’s shoulder and shook her gently. “Jaenelle, do not speak to your elders that way,” she snapped. “Go get washed up. You should look your best for dinner.”
Jaenelle looked up at Alexandra and dropped the mask on her eyes for just a moment before she blinked and resumed her regular expression. Alexandra dropped her hand, looking confused and a little frightened as she stepped back.
“Come with me, I’ll help you get cleaned up,” she said briskly.
Jaenelle rose reluctantly and looked at Leland where she was standing, her face a little blotchy, Philip’s hand resting on her shoulder. She curtsyed to both of them. “My apologies, Lady, Prince,” she said formally, and walked out after Alexandra. The soft sob from Leland tore at her soul, but it hardly hurt. Jaenelle was too far buried again, locked inside the coffin of the Benedict family. All that remained was the numb, pretty, polite girl with the face that the uncles saw and the body they wanted… and the girl they could not touch.
When Alexandra wasn’t looking, she pinched her arm beneath the sleeve, reminding herself that she was still alive. She was buried here, but when she was free…when she was free she could live again.
As if she could ever be free.
She turned a corner and saw Alexandra talking to a tall male, his psychic scent making her wrinkle her nose, but it was more than that that produced her distaste for him. Robert Benedict.
He looked past Alexandra at her and smiled a greasy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Daughter! You’re home! How wonderful to see you!”
You knew I was coming home, Bobby.
He knelt down and opened his arms, as if she were a toddler still. “Come and give us a hug, sweetheart.”
I don’t want to touch you ever again, Uncle Bobby.
Alexandra was watching, and she started forward reluctantly and gave him a quick squeeze that made as little contact as possible before drawing back and wrapping her arms around herself, scurrying away from him. He smiled indulgently and laughed.
“Such a shy child. Too bad she can’t play with more children her age…”
Oh, but you wish you could, don’t you, Uncle Bobby?
She hunched her shoulders and shuddered. Buried, safe six feet beneath the earth in her warm, safe coffin, suffocating… but at least she didn’t have to breathe the stale air of Briarwood that stank of fear and other more disgusting emotions.
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the earth.
…there is no cure for Briarwood.
You get icons too.
All of Queen of the Darkness makes me cry like a leaky bucket, but the worst part is the ending. It makes me want to squeeze Daemon and love him. Meh. I'm going back to my corner to gnaw on my liver some more.
Shattered ceramics littered the floor and crunched beneath his bare feet, pictures hunt askew on the walls, the curtains flapped, tattered, in the wind through the smashed window. The bar at the end of the canopied bed had the imprint of his clenched hands around it. Down floated to the thick black carpet like snow, soundlessly, the deflated carcass of the pillow torn open and cast aside.
Daemon was crumpled in a heap on the floor, shuddering and gasping, trying to hold back the screams that would rip him apart. He ground the heel of one hand ruthlessly into his eye, trying to erase the image imprinted there.
The unicorn’s horn - the scepter - broken, twisted, shattered -
He flinched from it, feeling the sharp edges of the memory twist in his belly, the ashes of disillusionment flat in his mouth. A soft noise slipped from between clamped lips. If he lingered too long on that memory, he knew his mind would shatter into as many pieces as the vases he’d broken, and this time no one would be able to bring him back. Because Jaenelle was gone.
“The Queen of the Darkness is gone…”
He couldn’t recognize his own raw voice as it ripped out of his throat in a scream of horror and despair.
“The Dark Court no longer exists.”
The wind grew stronger, howled through the window and whipped around him, raising goosebumps on his neck as the howls faded into agonized sobs. He locked his hands on the rail of the bed and dragged himself to his feet, stumbling over to the door that he hadn’t dared to open, clawing at the doorknob until it creaked inward.
The wash of psychic scent made his knees wobble. Clutching at the ebony chest-of-drawers to stay upright, he closed the door to his room quietly behind him and took a deep breath of the cool, clean air in this room, free of the smell of pain and despair that permeated the destroyed room behind the door.
He closed his golden eyes in mingled pain and bliss. This room still smelled like her.
He opened his inner barriers and let the dark psychic scent wash over and through him, soothing him and also sweeping away the nonfeeling cold of the sedative that had been in his food for days. He hadn’t tried to avoid them, welcoming the peaceful numbness it gave him. But has he stood and breathed the sweet smell of her, as he dark psychic scent washed over and around him like a breaking wave, that lack of feeling was swept away.
He wobbled, but forced himself to remain upright. She’s not here. It truly hit home again here in the fading of her scent. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. “Steady, old son,” he murmured, locking his knees and walking over to the small blackwood desk, trying not to look at the too perfectly made bed as he sat down at the desk. He stared blankly at the elegant stationary, imagining Jaenelle sitting here, writing…
His gaze wandered and snagged on the folded slip of paper, his name inscribed on it in calligraphic script. His hand shook as he reached for it, picked it up, broke the seal of wax that held it closed.
Daemon, he read, dearest Daemon - a chunk of crossed out scribbling. I’m sorry. I know I told you - more scribbles. It was the only way. I had to save the land. Please understand… A blot of black ink marred the page and a line of blurred, tear-stained parchment. He could see her writing, late at night - as he tormented his brother and witnessed the bleak despair in his father’s eyes - his hand twitched involuntarily. Further down the paper in a reckless, hurried scrawl. Goodbye. I love you.
He felt his shoulders spasm. The paper crumpled too easily in his hand. “Damn you, Jaenelle,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Damn you -“ He choked on the words, swallowed hard, threw the paper across the room and into the ashes of the fireplace that hadn’t burned for weeks. “You promised to marry me - I sacrificed everything for you and you just leave me?”
But he could not summon the anger back. All that was left was the soul-searing bitterness.
And the loneliness.
He stumbled to the bed and fell onto it, burying his face in the pillows, breathing in the smell of her hair, imagining that she was only away, that any moment she would be back…
He curled up into himself and cried.
I love you.
“Damn you, Jaenelle,” he sobbed, “Come back. Come back to me.”
Title: Six Feet Under
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Jaenelle Angelline, Leland, Phillip, Alexandra, Robert
Prompt: 014. Coffin/Buried for 50_darkfics
Word Count: 857
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: Being home is not much of a respite for Jaenelle.
It was like being buried alive.
Jaenelle sat in her room surrounded by pastel colour and frills of lace, toys she never touched, the bed immaculately made as if it had never been slept in. The “playpen” at Briarwood was more her home than this too clean, barren cell, suffocating, smothered beneath the bland mask, the smell of cleaning agents still acrid in the air.
The rain cascaded down the windows with a soft, soothing tap-tap sound, muffled by the glass. The door creaked quietly as it open, the soft whispers conferring and one set of feet crossing the soft carpet.
“Dear?”
Jaenelle blinked once, masking her eyes before turning around. It was Leland today, to her relief - Leland was better than Alexandra. There was no sign of the family matriarch. Philip hovered over her should. He could today - Bobby wasn’t here. She knew where he was. Oh, how well she knew where he was.
Briarwood is the pretty poison…
“Darling? Why don’t you go wash? We have a guest this evening…”
A guest. From Briarwood? Jaenelle wondered bleakly. She stared through Leland and didn’t answer.
“Jaenelle,” Philip cut in. “Jaenelle, is something wrong?”
She resisted the urge to laugh, bitterly, mirthlessly. She couldn’t help an involuntary spasm and a small noise, though. Leland flinched, hesitated, then reached out and took Jaenelle’s limp hand in hers, giving it a squeeze.
“It’s all right, sweetheart, you can tell us.”
Jaenelle took a breath. “Doctor Carvey is a -“
“This is a waste of time,” Alexandra’s voice said harshly. “She’s just telling the same old lies and stories. You heard what the Doctor said. She’s not well at all yet.”
I’m not sick, Jaenelle thought viciously. I’m not I’m not I’m not - I didn’t imagine the gardens at Briarwood, didn’t imagine Saetan and the kindred and -
But there was still that seed of doubt that itched under her skin, saying ‘but what if you were wrong?’ She closed her eyes and couldn’t help the tears that leaked out.
Someone was giving her a hug. She stayed limp and unresisting as Leland’s perfectly maintained hands brushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed her there. “Darling, please,” she said. Jaenelle could hear a touch of tears in her voice. “Just tell the truth and maybe we can help…”
Jaenelle withdrew into herself stubbornly, hunching her shoulders and closing her face. “You wouldn’t believe the truth,” she said hoarsely. “You don’t want to hear the truth.”
Alexandra’s voice was suddenly very near and very hoarse as she set a hand on Jaenelle’s shoulder and shook her gently. “Jaenelle, do not speak to your elders that way,” she snapped. “Go get washed up. You should look your best for dinner.”
Jaenelle looked up at Alexandra and dropped the mask on her eyes for just a moment before she blinked and resumed her regular expression. Alexandra dropped her hand, looking confused and a little frightened as she stepped back.
“Come with me, I’ll help you get cleaned up,” she said briskly.
Jaenelle rose reluctantly and looked at Leland where she was standing, her face a little blotchy, Philip’s hand resting on her shoulder. She curtsyed to both of them. “My apologies, Lady, Prince,” she said formally, and walked out after Alexandra. The soft sob from Leland tore at her soul, but it hardly hurt. Jaenelle was too far buried again, locked inside the coffin of the Benedict family. All that remained was the numb, pretty, polite girl with the face that the uncles saw and the body they wanted… and the girl they could not touch.
When Alexandra wasn’t looking, she pinched her arm beneath the sleeve, reminding herself that she was still alive. She was buried here, but when she was free…when she was free she could live again.
As if she could ever be free.
She turned a corner and saw Alexandra talking to a tall male, his psychic scent making her wrinkle her nose, but it was more than that that produced her distaste for him. Robert Benedict.
He looked past Alexandra at her and smiled a greasy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Daughter! You’re home! How wonderful to see you!”
You knew I was coming home, Bobby.
He knelt down and opened his arms, as if she were a toddler still. “Come and give us a hug, sweetheart.”
I don’t want to touch you ever again, Uncle Bobby.
Alexandra was watching, and she started forward reluctantly and gave him a quick squeeze that made as little contact as possible before drawing back and wrapping her arms around herself, scurrying away from him. He smiled indulgently and laughed.
“Such a shy child. Too bad she can’t play with more children her age…”
Oh, but you wish you could, don’t you, Uncle Bobby?
She hunched her shoulders and shuddered. Buried, safe six feet beneath the earth in her warm, safe coffin, suffocating… but at least she didn’t have to breathe the stale air of Briarwood that stank of fear and other more disgusting emotions.
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the earth.
…there is no cure for Briarwood.
You get icons too.
All of Queen of the Darkness makes me cry like a leaky bucket, but the worst part is the ending. It makes me want to squeeze Daemon and love him. Meh. I'm going back to my corner to gnaw on my liver some more.