perhaps i have caught her [inception]
Title: perhaps i have caught her
Fandom: Inception
Summary: I know the bottom. I do not fear it: I have been there.
Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur
Rating: R
Notes: FINALLY got my Sylvia Plath inspired fic all done! From "Elm" in her Ariel collection. You can read that poem here! And I highly recommend you do.
Winter comes and the last leaf falls with a resounding silence -
(who are we to say unto the lovers that they may not find one another again?)
He searches. Searches for her. The land is harsh and unforgiving and he wonders why she's made it this way. Her name is a constant noise on his tongue and there is no one there to silence him, no one else around to put him out of his misery and tell him, go back, go back now before it is too late and he will save her before he saves himself.
Madness is the cost of love, he thinks.
This is Ariadne - and he knows that name. Knows it like he knows Arthur and Lancelot and the tales of his childhood. Knows her name like he knows her mythology, sculptured and rounded like marble statues along the waterfront of history books and tall tales. Alone, she's shy, and she never looks at him when she speaks.
But he knows from the moment he sees her that she is the one he's waited for.
There were others before, but there will be none after. He swears, he'll cross hell for her. And he doesn't even know her last name. There's something fragile about her. Tiny and breakable - like she might crack and shatter in his hands. The wave of her hair aligns with the curve of her back and Arthur finds himself remembering golden ratios and perfect squares and right angles.
It's Arthur, right? she'd asked, finally looking his way.
Yes. It is.
Arthur doesn't know what hell might be -
(too many levels and who are we to tell the lovers that they may not sacrifice themselves for one another?)
but he knows this. He knows the layers and layers of raw energy and subconscious, titillating with anger and love and desire and suffocating under the weight of the people above. He knows that the mind pulses like a sea creature, that it is fluid and moves and changes with the coming hours and days. He knows that it is but a brief second above that makes an entire lifetime below - he knows this well.
Mal used to whisper stories about this place. Like some haunted shadow lingering along his spine - she would tell him of runes and skyscrapers and she would draw out people he knew could not exist on long pieces of paper, the lines smudging and their faces blurring together to all make one singular person.
He meets no one else while he travels. There is thirst in him, and maybe hunger, too, but he wills those away. He knows he only thinks he's thirsty because he believes he should be. There are more important things. She is more important. All the water in the world couldn't make him turn back now.
Ariadne - he whispers her name and then he screams it because he wants her to hear him. He wants her to stand up and scream back and he wants her to come home with him. He wants (needs) her to let go -
Just let go, he moans. Please. Let go.
When he kissed her the first time, he was being coy. Not once did he look her in the eye, watch to see what she looked like. There was a tremor beneath them, and he couldn't tell if it was from one level above, or if it was her, the slightest tremble of her hand, or a quiver of the thigh. He got up before he could see.
They spent a week not speaking in those last hours of dreaming. Arthur didn't dare move from his look-out spot in the warehouse. Didn't hardly breathe and she handled herself with enough grace for the both of them. When his eyes opened, when the sedative wore off and everyone was blinking the past and the memories and the sleep from their eyes, he didn't look at her. He took his bags from the baggage claim, walked past her - and she played just as well. Played pretend with the big boys and came out on top.
(when you don't see it, when it is not there - that is when it will be the most obvious)
He kissed her again, later, harder and full of want and she kissed him back.
Arthur remembers that now.
Ariadne. Let go.
He remembers and he pleads.
There's a house in the middle of the field and Arthur thinks she might be there. The door is open and then it is locked because there is door upon door upon door here and at the very last one he needs a key.
I don't have a key.
Then you don't get in, a voice says, full of mirth and cheer. Arthur looks up and finds a boy sitting on the roof. No key, no can do mister.
Who are you?
Who are you? the boy mocks, jumping down onto the porch. Who are you? he demands, jabbing Arthur in the chest with a thin and bony finger. Then he laughs and cartwheels off the porch and into the field, grabbing a fistful of daisies and throwing them at Arthur. Who we are doesn't matter here, don't you agree?
I'm Arthur, he says quietly, more to himself than the child. The boy stops and looks right at him. I'm Arthur. I'm looking for Ariadne.
Arthur. Are you sure? You look an awful lot like a Paul. Or Harry. Or even a Nancy. This sends the boy reeling backward with laughter, but Arthur doesn't find it funny at all.
I'm looking for Ariadne.
That's a stupid name.
Where is she?
I told you, no key - no entrance. And with that, the boy leaps from the field to the roof. He reminds Arthur of someone, but his mind draws a blank. For now, he's just another piece of this land, and he will, in time, fade into the raw subconscious around him. Arthur backs slowly away from the house and away from the boy. Love is a shadow! the boy suddenly cries. How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves! It has gone off, like a horse!
Sometime in the day or the night - Arthur finds a path.
(when time stops, but the second hand keeps moving, what day will you call it? where will you be? what will you become?)
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
Arthur knows the bottom. He knows the top and the sides and the deep, deep chasm between his heart and hers. He knows where the scars are and he knows they make a perfect map, that their lines all lead to one place and that place is home. Arthur wants to go home now. And he wants to take her back.
It is what you fear.
Arthur knows the bottom.
Arthur fears the bottom.
Arthur braves the bottom and he takes it on with two fists raised and a black eye already blooming across his pale face. He takes it on with both eyes wide open and his jaw clenched and stomach tight to take the punch.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Arthur and Eames have never gotten along, but it's mostly because Arthur was never good at telling jokes and Eames doesn't have the patience for Arthur's research. But Eames is the closest thing to a friend Arthur's ever had, and he told the Brit about her the moment they got into a bar alone together.
I think I love her.
You're drunk, darling. Better to think about this in the morning.
We almost had sex.
Now there's a nice thought for a dirty mind. Go on. Humor me. Why didn't you?
She didn't want to.
Smart girl. You're a dangerous man. Arthur had laughed, but now he thinks there might be a bit of truth in that. Now, as he trudges through a forest that he watched grow second by second and he wonders if that was something he should have remembered before he followed her back to Paris and they gave it a try.
Gave it several tries. Tried for a long time.
We're still trying, he whispers. I want to try again. I need you to try this with me again. She never responds, but he thinks she can hear him. He hopes she can. Along the edge of the forest, he hears the ocean crash along the shore and begins to run toward it. There's a memory, buried someplace, and he scrambles to reach the end of this wood, because his own mind is the last thing he needs to lose before he finds her.
At the end of this path, there is sand and Arthur's feet sink into it, hot and gritty, blindingly white and smooth. There's a flock of gulls tearing apart a loaf of bread and along the beach there's a girl, blonde and small. Older than the boy. She looks up and waves.
Arthur! And he thinks he must know this child. You're looking for Ariadne.
How did you now?
He told me. The boy from the house is building a sandcastle. They're too old to be building sandcastles, but Arthur says nothing. Nearly teenagers, both of them. The girl smiles and takes his hand. You're not too far. But stay here. Just for a bit.
No, he says. I need to find her. The girl looks up and drops his hand. The smile fades from her face. In a low voice, she murmurs: Is it the sea you hear in me? Arthur steps back, startled. You're not far from her, Arthur. But it won't be easy.
Arthur knows this. Nodding, he turns from the children on the beach and away from the shore and the forest, along another path that twists further and further away from the sea. After a while, he can no longer heard the lapping of the waves, but the voice of the girl lingers in his ears.
Is it the sea you hear in me?
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Farther up the path, there is a red light. Arthur moves toward it. He runs toward it.
He followed her back to Paris, but only after the talk of their mission had quieted. Three jobs were offered to him in a matter of months, but Arthur turned them all down. He went after her, showed up on her door, haggard and worn looking, a bottle of wine in his hand.
Can we talk? She smiled and let him in. She told him the story of her name, even though he'd heard it a thousand times, and she read something to him while he slept on her sofa, off and on, fading in and out of the poem and her voice -
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously, till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, echoing, echoing. Stopping, she over at him on the sofa. Are you awake?
Mmm.
Do you like it?
It's strange.
Well you're a strange man, Arthur.
Duly noted.
Did you want to kiss me again? Arthur's eyebrows shot up, but his eyes remained shut. Arthur?
That's a bit forward, don't you think?
You brought the wine.
I suppose I did.
The first time he watched her come, Arthur was certain there might have been nothing as satisfying. Then he watched her a second time, and he knew he was wrong. The first time she straddled his waist and slipped over him, grinding and clutching his chest, curls in her face and breath coming in shallow gasps, Arthur didn't think there could be anything more beautiful. And he was right.
When he watched her sleep for the first time, sleep like humans should, Arthur thought it was possible to be saved. To wash his hands of the blood and memories of his past. For once, he wanted to be saved. And he wanted it to be her.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is the rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.
On the second day of eternity, it begins to rain. Arthur opens his mouth and drinks, but the thirst he pretends is there does not go away. His skin is burnt and the clouds that linger are a god-send. For days, the sky is grey and black, choked with rain and sometimes hail. He feels the icy pellets fall and sting his skin, but there is no where to hide now. The forest is far behind him. Now there is just an open path.
Ahead, he sees a city and he sees nightfall. A place of perpetual evening.
Arthur walks that way because he thinks that's where he might find her.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
(if there is nothing at the start, does it all live at the end? what will you have when everything is in your arms?)
He can't remember the last time he slept. It must have been eons ago. There's a voice in the back of his head now, and it whispers - don't let go. you've got to hang on. The voice sounds like Cobb, but Arthur could be wrong. He's been wrong about a lot of things.
Like -
this won't take long
she's waiting there
i won't lose myself
All of it - lies and wrong answers. Arthur digs himself a hole in the night and he buries his jacket there because it smells like the sea and he can't will it away. He walks on, the never-ending night of the city before him growing darker and darker, until it swallows him whole. A ripple passes through the air and the noise of the town breaks through - sirens and horns and people.
Arthur swallows and takes a deep breath - it smells like rain and the ground is slick with water. The projections ignore him. He looks up -
The moon, also, is merciless.
Arthur blinks. There's a voice in his head. There's a voice in the street and he stretches him arm out to perhaps touch the thing that might be in front of him, but there is nothing.
He is nothing.
A memory of promising someone he wouldn't lose himself.
(where's the end of this red thread? who holds the spool?)
She does, he whispers.
At his feet is a thick, red string.
Arthur picks it up, winding it through his fingers as he walks.
Her radiance scathes me.
Or perhaps I have caught her.
A long time ago, a girl was in his bed. And she whispered in his ear -
I think I'm falling.
And he tried to hold onto her, but she was slipping away. There was nothing he could do. So he sand to her and he kissed her and finally he read to her and she gripped him tight.
I let her go. I let her go... She moved above him, wrapped her legs around him, and his heart beat faster because she was so beautiful there, moving against him, soft words that sent him over the edge as he keened and arched into her touch and -
How your bad dreams possess and endow me, he'd whispered in her ear. I am inhabited by a cry...
If I go, will you come for me?
Always.
The thread is tangled and wrapped around his hand. It binds his fingers tight together and he feels a numbing sensation at the tips - but he doesn't might. The thread winds through the streets and around lamp posts and parking meters and ankles. It is thick and strong in his hands, unbreakable almost. Arthur doesn't dare let it go. Doesn't dare to even think of cutting it.
Somewhere at the end, she's waiting.
I am terrified by the dark thing
That sleeps in me.
(it's cold and if the sun never shines, where will we be?)
Ariadne.
Her name comes from his mouth like a groan. Like a plea. She's sitting alone at a table outside a cafe, her eyes watching the people milling about. Arthur tears the thread from his fingers and runs to her.
Ariadne.
Are those the faces of love? she murmurs, not looking at him. Those pale irretrievables?
Ariadne. It's me.
Is it for such I agitate my heart? Arthur sits down across from her and takes one of her hands in his. She pulls back, scowling. Who are you?
A friend.
You're not Maurice's cousin are you? she asks, regarding him with dark eyes. Arthur laughs and shakes his head. He's been talking about his cousin for months on end. I don't care. I'm waiting for someone else anyway.
Who? Ariadne narrows her eyes at him.
Someone. She looks at the string that he's thrown to the ground. Where'd you get that?
I found it. It led me to you. She throws her head back and laughs, exposing her throat. Arthur fights the urge to touch her. It's been so long. It feels like an eternity since she kissed him.
Really, he thinks, it has been.
She talks to him for a while. Tells him about the man she's waiting for.
Every day, I come here and wait.
Why?
Because he promised he would come for me.
Arthur gently takes hold of one of her hands. This time, she doesn't pull away. Her fingers tremble and his own just won't be still. She shakes her head and just repeats he said he'd come for me, he said he would, he promised he would -
I know the bottom, Arthur whispers.
I do not fear it. I have been there. Finally she looks up. Arthur.
She takes him to a room above the cafe and undresses him. Arthur wants to tell her that it's time to go. He's found her like he promised and it's time to go home now, even if she's afraid. They've got to go back
But she's kissing him and he's been alone too long in this wasteland. Arthur groans into her lips, takes her hands in his and wraps his arms around her and holds her face in his hands.
I've miss you. I've missed you so much, she whispers, crying now. They stand naked in the dark until she pulls him to her bed. I haven't slept. I haven't touched anyone. Ariadne shakes her head and trembles in his arms as Arthur moves between her thighs.
For a while, he watches her, kissing tears from her cheeks and slipping a hand between her legs, relishing in her warmth and her need -
(who are we to tell the lovers they may not love?)
she gasps when he finally pushes into her and Arthur thinks he might lose himself here forever if they don't get out soon. Because all this could be perfect, if they stayed. All this could be wonderful, this strange descent into madness.
Now I break up in pieces...
Ariadne comes apart like red thread beneath him, writhing and gripping him close and kissing him hard, sobbing and shaking her head and pushing him close with her heels until Arthur comes with a harsh grunt, her name leaving his lips and sucked in my her mouth, sharing her breath -
I love you, she whispers. I love you so much. I do. I want to go home, Arthur. Take me home. He pulls away from her, nodding and kissing her cheeks, tongue running along her jaw and her neck and her shoulders. They dress and he walks with her to the roof of the building. The ground is so very far away.
Don't be afraid. He wraps his arms around her.
With you around? Never. Arthur presses his lips to her forehead.
They jump.
Arthur opens his eyes.
A haggard looking Eames is pulling the lead from Ariadne's arm, his hands shaking as he helps her up. You're back, he keeps saying, over and over. You're back.
Eames. Ariadne laughs and kisses his cheek, cupping his face in her hands. Eames. I missed you. The forger shakes his head and turns to Arthur, finally standing.
You did it.
I promised I would. Eames nods and looks away. Arthur thinks he might be crying, but he'll preserve his dignity for the day.
Arthur. Ariadne grips his tight and then pulls him down toward her for a kiss. It's long and Arthur doesn't ever want to let her go - never wants to see her lost again. He never wants to know that girl by the cafe, the one who waited and couldn't recognize his face. He never wants to tangle his fingers in thick, red string again. Never wants to meet those children (mystery children, cobb's children, he thinks. the only children who could ever understand) and never wants to watch sandcastles crumble on that beach.
Arthur never wants to lose her again.
You came for me.
I told you.
I was gone and you came for me. He nods, holding her close. I want to go home, she murmurs. I want to sleep. Arthur wraps an arm around her shoulder and leads her out of the warehouse. Eames is long gone now, and Arthur can almost hear the sound of his money hitting the wooden bar, see the drink being poured, Eames toasting to no one (to the world).
Love is a shadow, Ariadne murmurs. How you lie and cry after it. She presses kisses along his chest, fingers leaving tiny marks along his skin.
No shadow here. Arthur loops his fingers in her hair, pressing his forehead to her. Just you.
Just us, she says, nodding.
Yeah. Just us.
Fandom: Inception
Summary: I know the bottom. I do not fear it: I have been there.
Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur
Rating: R
Notes: FINALLY got my Sylvia Plath inspired fic all done! From "Elm" in her Ariel collection. You can read that poem here! And I highly recommend you do.
Winter comes and the last leaf falls with a resounding silence -
(who are we to say unto the lovers that they may not find one another again?)
He searches. Searches for her. The land is harsh and unforgiving and he wonders why she's made it this way. Her name is a constant noise on his tongue and there is no one there to silence him, no one else around to put him out of his misery and tell him, go back, go back now before it is too late and he will save her before he saves himself.
Madness is the cost of love, he thinks.
This is Ariadne - and he knows that name. Knows it like he knows Arthur and Lancelot and the tales of his childhood. Knows her name like he knows her mythology, sculptured and rounded like marble statues along the waterfront of history books and tall tales. Alone, she's shy, and she never looks at him when she speaks.
But he knows from the moment he sees her that she is the one he's waited for.
There were others before, but there will be none after. He swears, he'll cross hell for her. And he doesn't even know her last name. There's something fragile about her. Tiny and breakable - like she might crack and shatter in his hands. The wave of her hair aligns with the curve of her back and Arthur finds himself remembering golden ratios and perfect squares and right angles.
It's Arthur, right? she'd asked, finally looking his way.
Yes. It is.
Arthur doesn't know what hell might be -
(too many levels and who are we to tell the lovers that they may not sacrifice themselves for one another?)
but he knows this. He knows the layers and layers of raw energy and subconscious, titillating with anger and love and desire and suffocating under the weight of the people above. He knows that the mind pulses like a sea creature, that it is fluid and moves and changes with the coming hours and days. He knows that it is but a brief second above that makes an entire lifetime below - he knows this well.
Mal used to whisper stories about this place. Like some haunted shadow lingering along his spine - she would tell him of runes and skyscrapers and she would draw out people he knew could not exist on long pieces of paper, the lines smudging and their faces blurring together to all make one singular person.
He meets no one else while he travels. There is thirst in him, and maybe hunger, too, but he wills those away. He knows he only thinks he's thirsty because he believes he should be. There are more important things. She is more important. All the water in the world couldn't make him turn back now.
Ariadne - he whispers her name and then he screams it because he wants her to hear him. He wants her to stand up and scream back and he wants her to come home with him. He wants (needs) her to let go -
Just let go, he moans. Please. Let go.
When he kissed her the first time, he was being coy. Not once did he look her in the eye, watch to see what she looked like. There was a tremor beneath them, and he couldn't tell if it was from one level above, or if it was her, the slightest tremble of her hand, or a quiver of the thigh. He got up before he could see.
They spent a week not speaking in those last hours of dreaming. Arthur didn't dare move from his look-out spot in the warehouse. Didn't hardly breathe and she handled herself with enough grace for the both of them. When his eyes opened, when the sedative wore off and everyone was blinking the past and the memories and the sleep from their eyes, he didn't look at her. He took his bags from the baggage claim, walked past her - and she played just as well. Played pretend with the big boys and came out on top.
(when you don't see it, when it is not there - that is when it will be the most obvious)
He kissed her again, later, harder and full of want and she kissed him back.
Arthur remembers that now.
Ariadne. Let go.
He remembers and he pleads.
There's a house in the middle of the field and Arthur thinks she might be there. The door is open and then it is locked because there is door upon door upon door here and at the very last one he needs a key.
I don't have a key.
Then you don't get in, a voice says, full of mirth and cheer. Arthur looks up and finds a boy sitting on the roof. No key, no can do mister.
Who are you?
Who are you? the boy mocks, jumping down onto the porch. Who are you? he demands, jabbing Arthur in the chest with a thin and bony finger. Then he laughs and cartwheels off the porch and into the field, grabbing a fistful of daisies and throwing them at Arthur. Who we are doesn't matter here, don't you agree?
I'm Arthur, he says quietly, more to himself than the child. The boy stops and looks right at him. I'm Arthur. I'm looking for Ariadne.
Arthur. Are you sure? You look an awful lot like a Paul. Or Harry. Or even a Nancy. This sends the boy reeling backward with laughter, but Arthur doesn't find it funny at all.
I'm looking for Ariadne.
That's a stupid name.
Where is she?
I told you, no key - no entrance. And with that, the boy leaps from the field to the roof. He reminds Arthur of someone, but his mind draws a blank. For now, he's just another piece of this land, and he will, in time, fade into the raw subconscious around him. Arthur backs slowly away from the house and away from the boy. Love is a shadow! the boy suddenly cries. How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves! It has gone off, like a horse!
Sometime in the day or the night - Arthur finds a path.
(when time stops, but the second hand keeps moving, what day will you call it? where will you be? what will you become?)
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
Arthur knows the bottom. He knows the top and the sides and the deep, deep chasm between his heart and hers. He knows where the scars are and he knows they make a perfect map, that their lines all lead to one place and that place is home. Arthur wants to go home now. And he wants to take her back.
It is what you fear.
Arthur knows the bottom.
Arthur fears the bottom.
Arthur braves the bottom and he takes it on with two fists raised and a black eye already blooming across his pale face. He takes it on with both eyes wide open and his jaw clenched and stomach tight to take the punch.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Arthur and Eames have never gotten along, but it's mostly because Arthur was never good at telling jokes and Eames doesn't have the patience for Arthur's research. But Eames is the closest thing to a friend Arthur's ever had, and he told the Brit about her the moment they got into a bar alone together.
I think I love her.
You're drunk, darling. Better to think about this in the morning.
We almost had sex.
Now there's a nice thought for a dirty mind. Go on. Humor me. Why didn't you?
She didn't want to.
Smart girl. You're a dangerous man. Arthur had laughed, but now he thinks there might be a bit of truth in that. Now, as he trudges through a forest that he watched grow second by second and he wonders if that was something he should have remembered before he followed her back to Paris and they gave it a try.
Gave it several tries. Tried for a long time.
We're still trying, he whispers. I want to try again. I need you to try this with me again. She never responds, but he thinks she can hear him. He hopes she can. Along the edge of the forest, he hears the ocean crash along the shore and begins to run toward it. There's a memory, buried someplace, and he scrambles to reach the end of this wood, because his own mind is the last thing he needs to lose before he finds her.
At the end of this path, there is sand and Arthur's feet sink into it, hot and gritty, blindingly white and smooth. There's a flock of gulls tearing apart a loaf of bread and along the beach there's a girl, blonde and small. Older than the boy. She looks up and waves.
Arthur! And he thinks he must know this child. You're looking for Ariadne.
How did you now?
He told me. The boy from the house is building a sandcastle. They're too old to be building sandcastles, but Arthur says nothing. Nearly teenagers, both of them. The girl smiles and takes his hand. You're not too far. But stay here. Just for a bit.
No, he says. I need to find her. The girl looks up and drops his hand. The smile fades from her face. In a low voice, she murmurs: Is it the sea you hear in me? Arthur steps back, startled. You're not far from her, Arthur. But it won't be easy.
Arthur knows this. Nodding, he turns from the children on the beach and away from the shore and the forest, along another path that twists further and further away from the sea. After a while, he can no longer heard the lapping of the waves, but the voice of the girl lingers in his ears.
Is it the sea you hear in me?
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Farther up the path, there is a red light. Arthur moves toward it. He runs toward it.
He followed her back to Paris, but only after the talk of their mission had quieted. Three jobs were offered to him in a matter of months, but Arthur turned them all down. He went after her, showed up on her door, haggard and worn looking, a bottle of wine in his hand.
Can we talk? She smiled and let him in. She told him the story of her name, even though he'd heard it a thousand times, and she read something to him while he slept on her sofa, off and on, fading in and out of the poem and her voice -
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously, till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, echoing, echoing. Stopping, she over at him on the sofa. Are you awake?
Mmm.
Do you like it?
It's strange.
Well you're a strange man, Arthur.
Duly noted.
Did you want to kiss me again? Arthur's eyebrows shot up, but his eyes remained shut. Arthur?
That's a bit forward, don't you think?
You brought the wine.
I suppose I did.
The first time he watched her come, Arthur was certain there might have been nothing as satisfying. Then he watched her a second time, and he knew he was wrong. The first time she straddled his waist and slipped over him, grinding and clutching his chest, curls in her face and breath coming in shallow gasps, Arthur didn't think there could be anything more beautiful. And he was right.
When he watched her sleep for the first time, sleep like humans should, Arthur thought it was possible to be saved. To wash his hands of the blood and memories of his past. For once, he wanted to be saved. And he wanted it to be her.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is the rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.
On the second day of eternity, it begins to rain. Arthur opens his mouth and drinks, but the thirst he pretends is there does not go away. His skin is burnt and the clouds that linger are a god-send. For days, the sky is grey and black, choked with rain and sometimes hail. He feels the icy pellets fall and sting his skin, but there is no where to hide now. The forest is far behind him. Now there is just an open path.
Ahead, he sees a city and he sees nightfall. A place of perpetual evening.
Arthur walks that way because he thinks that's where he might find her.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
(if there is nothing at the start, does it all live at the end? what will you have when everything is in your arms?)
He can't remember the last time he slept. It must have been eons ago. There's a voice in the back of his head now, and it whispers - don't let go. you've got to hang on. The voice sounds like Cobb, but Arthur could be wrong. He's been wrong about a lot of things.
Like -
this won't take long
she's waiting there
i won't lose myself
All of it - lies and wrong answers. Arthur digs himself a hole in the night and he buries his jacket there because it smells like the sea and he can't will it away. He walks on, the never-ending night of the city before him growing darker and darker, until it swallows him whole. A ripple passes through the air and the noise of the town breaks through - sirens and horns and people.
Arthur swallows and takes a deep breath - it smells like rain and the ground is slick with water. The projections ignore him. He looks up -
The moon, also, is merciless.
Arthur blinks. There's a voice in his head. There's a voice in the street and he stretches him arm out to perhaps touch the thing that might be in front of him, but there is nothing.
He is nothing.
A memory of promising someone he wouldn't lose himself.
(where's the end of this red thread? who holds the spool?)
She does, he whispers.
At his feet is a thick, red string.
Arthur picks it up, winding it through his fingers as he walks.
Her radiance scathes me.
Or perhaps I have caught her.
A long time ago, a girl was in his bed. And she whispered in his ear -
I think I'm falling.
And he tried to hold onto her, but she was slipping away. There was nothing he could do. So he sand to her and he kissed her and finally he read to her and she gripped him tight.
I let her go. I let her go... She moved above him, wrapped her legs around him, and his heart beat faster because she was so beautiful there, moving against him, soft words that sent him over the edge as he keened and arched into her touch and -
How your bad dreams possess and endow me, he'd whispered in her ear. I am inhabited by a cry...
If I go, will you come for me?
Always.
The thread is tangled and wrapped around his hand. It binds his fingers tight together and he feels a numbing sensation at the tips - but he doesn't might. The thread winds through the streets and around lamp posts and parking meters and ankles. It is thick and strong in his hands, unbreakable almost. Arthur doesn't dare let it go. Doesn't dare to even think of cutting it.
Somewhere at the end, she's waiting.
I am terrified by the dark thing
That sleeps in me.
(it's cold and if the sun never shines, where will we be?)
Ariadne.
Her name comes from his mouth like a groan. Like a plea. She's sitting alone at a table outside a cafe, her eyes watching the people milling about. Arthur tears the thread from his fingers and runs to her.
Ariadne.
Are those the faces of love? she murmurs, not looking at him. Those pale irretrievables?
Ariadne. It's me.
Is it for such I agitate my heart? Arthur sits down across from her and takes one of her hands in his. She pulls back, scowling. Who are you?
A friend.
You're not Maurice's cousin are you? she asks, regarding him with dark eyes. Arthur laughs and shakes his head. He's been talking about his cousin for months on end. I don't care. I'm waiting for someone else anyway.
Who? Ariadne narrows her eyes at him.
Someone. She looks at the string that he's thrown to the ground. Where'd you get that?
I found it. It led me to you. She throws her head back and laughs, exposing her throat. Arthur fights the urge to touch her. It's been so long. It feels like an eternity since she kissed him.
Really, he thinks, it has been.
She talks to him for a while. Tells him about the man she's waiting for.
Every day, I come here and wait.
Why?
Because he promised he would come for me.
Arthur gently takes hold of one of her hands. This time, she doesn't pull away. Her fingers tremble and his own just won't be still. She shakes her head and just repeats he said he'd come for me, he said he would, he promised he would -
I know the bottom, Arthur whispers.
I do not fear it. I have been there. Finally she looks up. Arthur.
She takes him to a room above the cafe and undresses him. Arthur wants to tell her that it's time to go. He's found her like he promised and it's time to go home now, even if she's afraid. They've got to go back
But she's kissing him and he's been alone too long in this wasteland. Arthur groans into her lips, takes her hands in his and wraps his arms around her and holds her face in his hands.
I've miss you. I've missed you so much, she whispers, crying now. They stand naked in the dark until she pulls him to her bed. I haven't slept. I haven't touched anyone. Ariadne shakes her head and trembles in his arms as Arthur moves between her thighs.
For a while, he watches her, kissing tears from her cheeks and slipping a hand between her legs, relishing in her warmth and her need -
(who are we to tell the lovers they may not love?)
she gasps when he finally pushes into her and Arthur thinks he might lose himself here forever if they don't get out soon. Because all this could be perfect, if they stayed. All this could be wonderful, this strange descent into madness.
Now I break up in pieces...
Ariadne comes apart like red thread beneath him, writhing and gripping him close and kissing him hard, sobbing and shaking her head and pushing him close with her heels until Arthur comes with a harsh grunt, her name leaving his lips and sucked in my her mouth, sharing her breath -
I love you, she whispers. I love you so much. I do. I want to go home, Arthur. Take me home. He pulls away from her, nodding and kissing her cheeks, tongue running along her jaw and her neck and her shoulders. They dress and he walks with her to the roof of the building. The ground is so very far away.
Don't be afraid. He wraps his arms around her.
With you around? Never. Arthur presses his lips to her forehead.
They jump.
Arthur opens his eyes.
A haggard looking Eames is pulling the lead from Ariadne's arm, his hands shaking as he helps her up. You're back, he keeps saying, over and over. You're back.
Eames. Ariadne laughs and kisses his cheek, cupping his face in her hands. Eames. I missed you. The forger shakes his head and turns to Arthur, finally standing.
You did it.
I promised I would. Eames nods and looks away. Arthur thinks he might be crying, but he'll preserve his dignity for the day.
Arthur. Ariadne grips his tight and then pulls him down toward her for a kiss. It's long and Arthur doesn't ever want to let her go - never wants to see her lost again. He never wants to know that girl by the cafe, the one who waited and couldn't recognize his face. He never wants to tangle his fingers in thick, red string again. Never wants to meet those children (mystery children, cobb's children, he thinks. the only children who could ever understand) and never wants to watch sandcastles crumble on that beach.
Arthur never wants to lose her again.
You came for me.
I told you.
I was gone and you came for me. He nods, holding her close. I want to go home, she murmurs. I want to sleep. Arthur wraps an arm around her shoulder and leads her out of the warehouse. Eames is long gone now, and Arthur can almost hear the sound of his money hitting the wooden bar, see the drink being poured, Eames toasting to no one (to the world).
Love is a shadow, Ariadne murmurs. How you lie and cry after it. She presses kisses along his chest, fingers leaving tiny marks along his skin.
No shadow here. Arthur loops his fingers in her hair, pressing his forehead to her. Just you.
Just us, she says, nodding.
Yeah. Just us.