Friday fic (on Monday!)
As I promised last week. Hopefully I'll be able to get another fic up for this Friday, but I make no promises this time. :)
Title: Gone Away.
Fandom: Count Cain.
Characters: Cain, Riff, mention of others.
Prompt: 071 - Broken.
Word Count: 1,097.
Rating: G
Summary: "'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome/And I don't feel right when you're gone away."
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: Count Cain and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Title and summary from the song "Broken" by Seether, which also doesn't belong to me. Despite what you may be thinking, no spoilers (unless you haven't read "Sound of a Boy Hatching" from Cain Saga Volume 2, from which coincidentally comes all the dialogue).
The baby bird is dead.
He stares at its body for a moment, as if trying to determine whether his surprise or lack thereof is more prevalent. His lack, he decides. Toys break often, pets disappear (his father claims that they run away). He had not even bothered to name the fragile little thing, though he had had been taking care of it for over a fortnight. It was almost as though he had not expected the bird to live-
It isn’t until his back flares up in sudden pain that he realizes he has been backing away from the cage and has now run into a bedpost. Hissing quietly, he moves away, trying not to jerk too quickly, as experience has taught him that such an action will only hurt, not help.
He does not know what to do. Father has forbidden him from leaving the house without permission, even if only to the grounds, but he can’t leave the poor little bird in its cage. He wipes the tears (caused by pain fresh and fresher as well as grief) from his cheeks absently as he considers. He exhales through his nose moodily, knowing that he is about to choose the more foolish option and unable to stop himself.
Soon, clad only in his nightshirt since he was unwilling to take the time to change, he is ghosting down the corridors, the bird’s small body shrouded in one of his old handkerchiefs. He hopes his father is still smoking after his last punishment (this one more for routine than any individual sin); he does not care if he sees a servant, since they doubtless will not notice him.
He is fortunate, and meets no one between his room and the gardens. There is a quiet, little-used glade he often goes to, not far from the path yet not close enough for a casual passerby to spot - it is to there he directs his steps. The route is so well known to him that he does not even observe the fair head momentarily visible through a gap in the bushes; nor does its owner see him.
He has not brought anything to dig with, but again in the interest of time and secrecy he opts to merely use his own hands. The body is small, after all, and even building a cairn for it is no difficult task. More problematically, tears threaten to turn the soil into mud between his fingers; he ignores this hindrance, however, and works steadily until his self-imposed duty is complete.
He is shaping the final burial mound when he hears a crackle behind him, as of someone pushing away the limbs of a bush.
For a moment, he freezes, like the rabbit catching sight of the circling hawk, before he summons up all of his aristocratic bearing. His father would not deign to sneak around so and none of the servants can see him. Unless a new tutor has unexpectedly arrived (unlikely, at such a late hour and in the gardens no less), it must be a robber, perhaps even a kidnapper or serial killer. He has often heard of such things, even if he has no personal experience with that sort.
All of this passes through his mind in a flash before, boldly, he turns to face the interloper, unconcernedly wiping at his wet face with the back of one dirty hand.
“Who are you?” he asks, sizing up the stunned stranger with one glance. Tall, no more than twenty-five, pale complexion, paler hair, blue eyes with curiosity and surprise but no aggression, good quality but by no means fine suit, thick book under one arm. Not how he would have imagined a criminal to look.
Pale Man starts, but replies without resentment. “I, uh… was just wondering what you were doing at this time of night.”
He is staring at Cain’s eyes.
Cain suppresses a frown of irritation and closes them, aware of the way the moonlight catches them and makes them gleam, catlike in the night. He replies matter-of-factly but retaining his haughtiness, “I dug a grave for my dead baby bird.” Re-opening his eyes, Cain notices Pale Man’s eyes flick back-and-forth between his own, and this time he cannot stifle his annoyance.
Quickly stepping toward Pale Man, Cain grabs his tie and gives it two sharp tugs. What does this man mean by striding into his home and then acting as if Cain is some sort of display at a menagerie? “What are you staring at?” he snaps. Pale Man swallows audibly. “Is something wrong with my eyes?” Without waiting for an answer, he adds, “What book is that?” He releases Pale Man’s tie and looks at him expectantly.
He has done well. Pale Man is caught off-guard - yet he recovers with admirable speed and stammers, “Uh… It’s a medical book.” He appears relieved to be back on familiar ground, conversationally speaking, and continues without invitation. “I was a student but my family lost their fortune so I had to leave school. I suppose I thought I might as well study on my own…” he trails off, looking almost morose, but a sudden thought has occurred to Cain and he is no longer paying attention.
Feeling the pain in his back give a sudden throb (certainly stirred by all of his recent quicker-than-was-wise movements), he says softly and swiftly, “You can… see me, can’t you?” He stares at the Pale Man, watching surprise sharpen the stranger’s gaze. He does not know why, but he feels as though Pale Man’s response will be important. In years to come, Cain will never be certain why he had become so immediately dependent on a stranger’s reply to such an odd question. It is almost as though, as he himself says, Riff instantly took the place of the baby bird in Cain’s mind.
Now, however, as Pale Man says “What?” in stark confusion, Cain suddenly finds that he cannot breathe properly. He feels his head lighten, his vision spiral away, and a part of his semi-conscious mind braces for the jarring impact when his unresponsive body will hit the ground.
But there is no such impact. Even as his eyes roll back, Cain feels gentle yet surprisingly steady arms catch him. “Huh? Wait…” he hears dimly at the furthest reach of awareness, but he is too far gone to answer, to plead for the stranger not to leave him quite yet, or to wonder why the stranger’s presence comforts him as dozens of now-vanished pets and scores of long-broken toys never did.
END
My Little Damn Table.
Title: Gone Away.
Fandom: Count Cain.
Characters: Cain, Riff, mention of others.
Prompt: 071 - Broken.
Word Count: 1,097.
Rating: G
Summary: "'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome/And I don't feel right when you're gone away."
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: Count Cain and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Title and summary from the song "Broken" by Seether, which also doesn't belong to me. Despite what you may be thinking, no spoilers (unless you haven't read "Sound of a Boy Hatching" from Cain Saga Volume 2, from which coincidentally comes all the dialogue).
The baby bird is dead.
He stares at its body for a moment, as if trying to determine whether his surprise or lack thereof is more prevalent. His lack, he decides. Toys break often, pets disappear (his father claims that they run away). He had not even bothered to name the fragile little thing, though he had had been taking care of it for over a fortnight. It was almost as though he had not expected the bird to live-
It isn’t until his back flares up in sudden pain that he realizes he has been backing away from the cage and has now run into a bedpost. Hissing quietly, he moves away, trying not to jerk too quickly, as experience has taught him that such an action will only hurt, not help.
He does not know what to do. Father has forbidden him from leaving the house without permission, even if only to the grounds, but he can’t leave the poor little bird in its cage. He wipes the tears (caused by pain fresh and fresher as well as grief) from his cheeks absently as he considers. He exhales through his nose moodily, knowing that he is about to choose the more foolish option and unable to stop himself.
Soon, clad only in his nightshirt since he was unwilling to take the time to change, he is ghosting down the corridors, the bird’s small body shrouded in one of his old handkerchiefs. He hopes his father is still smoking after his last punishment (this one more for routine than any individual sin); he does not care if he sees a servant, since they doubtless will not notice him.
He is fortunate, and meets no one between his room and the gardens. There is a quiet, little-used glade he often goes to, not far from the path yet not close enough for a casual passerby to spot - it is to there he directs his steps. The route is so well known to him that he does not even observe the fair head momentarily visible through a gap in the bushes; nor does its owner see him.
He has not brought anything to dig with, but again in the interest of time and secrecy he opts to merely use his own hands. The body is small, after all, and even building a cairn for it is no difficult task. More problematically, tears threaten to turn the soil into mud between his fingers; he ignores this hindrance, however, and works steadily until his self-imposed duty is complete.
He is shaping the final burial mound when he hears a crackle behind him, as of someone pushing away the limbs of a bush.
For a moment, he freezes, like the rabbit catching sight of the circling hawk, before he summons up all of his aristocratic bearing. His father would not deign to sneak around so and none of the servants can see him. Unless a new tutor has unexpectedly arrived (unlikely, at such a late hour and in the gardens no less), it must be a robber, perhaps even a kidnapper or serial killer. He has often heard of such things, even if he has no personal experience with that sort.
All of this passes through his mind in a flash before, boldly, he turns to face the interloper, unconcernedly wiping at his wet face with the back of one dirty hand.
“Who are you?” he asks, sizing up the stunned stranger with one glance. Tall, no more than twenty-five, pale complexion, paler hair, blue eyes with curiosity and surprise but no aggression, good quality but by no means fine suit, thick book under one arm. Not how he would have imagined a criminal to look.
Pale Man starts, but replies without resentment. “I, uh… was just wondering what you were doing at this time of night.”
He is staring at Cain’s eyes.
Cain suppresses a frown of irritation and closes them, aware of the way the moonlight catches them and makes them gleam, catlike in the night. He replies matter-of-factly but retaining his haughtiness, “I dug a grave for my dead baby bird.” Re-opening his eyes, Cain notices Pale Man’s eyes flick back-and-forth between his own, and this time he cannot stifle his annoyance.
Quickly stepping toward Pale Man, Cain grabs his tie and gives it two sharp tugs. What does this man mean by striding into his home and then acting as if Cain is some sort of display at a menagerie? “What are you staring at?” he snaps. Pale Man swallows audibly. “Is something wrong with my eyes?” Without waiting for an answer, he adds, “What book is that?” He releases Pale Man’s tie and looks at him expectantly.
He has done well. Pale Man is caught off-guard - yet he recovers with admirable speed and stammers, “Uh… It’s a medical book.” He appears relieved to be back on familiar ground, conversationally speaking, and continues without invitation. “I was a student but my family lost their fortune so I had to leave school. I suppose I thought I might as well study on my own…” he trails off, looking almost morose, but a sudden thought has occurred to Cain and he is no longer paying attention.
Feeling the pain in his back give a sudden throb (certainly stirred by all of his recent quicker-than-was-wise movements), he says softly and swiftly, “You can… see me, can’t you?” He stares at the Pale Man, watching surprise sharpen the stranger’s gaze. He does not know why, but he feels as though Pale Man’s response will be important. In years to come, Cain will never be certain why he had become so immediately dependent on a stranger’s reply to such an odd question. It is almost as though, as he himself says, Riff instantly took the place of the baby bird in Cain’s mind.
Now, however, as Pale Man says “What?” in stark confusion, Cain suddenly finds that he cannot breathe properly. He feels his head lighten, his vision spiral away, and a part of his semi-conscious mind braces for the jarring impact when his unresponsive body will hit the ground.
But there is no such impact. Even as his eyes roll back, Cain feels gentle yet surprisingly steady arms catch him. “Huh? Wait…” he hears dimly at the furthest reach of awareness, but he is too far gone to answer, to plead for the stranger not to leave him quite yet, or to wonder why the stranger’s presence comforts him as dozens of now-vanished pets and scores of long-broken toys never did.
END
My Little Damn Table.