Always You, without time or space - Sam/Dean - NC-17 (spn_j2_bigbang 2009) - Pt. 2
"We should split up today," Sam suggests over a large gulp of coffee and a bite of onion bagel with cream cheese.
The decision is made quickly. Sam will head back to the library while Dean goes back to the Met, trying his luck with the Temple of Dendur and the EMF meter again. Dean's only comment from the sidewalk after Sam drops him off at the museum, "I warn you, dude, if something happens to my car, I'll kill you," is barely audible underneath the Impala roaring back to life.
The façade of the Public Library is almost familiar when Sam walks up the stairs. He's relieved to see a different receptionist today who quickly points him in the right direction. Sam starts at the same room Dean and he were at two days ago. He loses track of time as he tries to find his way through endless rolls of microfilm, searching for that vital piece of information he needs. When the only articles he finds are ones written after the accidents or general articles in the culture sections of large newspapers - certainly nothing on a ghost story tied to the Met - he decides to go for a different approach. None of this information will help them solve the case, so instead of possibly wasting his time here, he changes the reading room and tries his luck with Egyptian gods and culture.
He's being handed five books that look heavy enough that they could kill something bigger than a spider. Not that Sam would ever disrespect a book like that. He finds a table and starts digging again, intent on finding something on Isis and Osiris, who this temple is dedicated to, or any kind of link between them and the mysterious ghost. Some of the information isn't particularly new to him. He'd known before that Osiris was linked to the Afterlife and that he was a judge of the dead, but also the one who granted life from the underworld. Sam reads about the cult surrounding the god but nothing strikes him as particularly weird, nothing gives him any material to work with.
For a brief moment, he wonders whether he'll find his answers in the myth of Osiris and Isis. Brother and sister, husband and wife. The thought does something to Sam, provokes a sensation inside his belly that he can't name. None of the words that come to his mind seem to capture exactly how he feels. It's fluttering excitement, but it's also covered in disgust. He thinks about Dean and it becomes stronger. The two of them, together, only having each other. His face is hot and he shakes his head to clear it away, not ready for thoughts he's been ignoring for a while now. Instead, he refreshes his knowledge of the myth. After Osiris was murdered by his brother Set, Isis brought him back to life temporarily with the use of magic for them to conceive the child Horus. Even though the myth contains the living and the dead and rising from the dead, he's got the impression this isn't it.
Sam's frustration increases with each word he reads and with every page he turns. He's taking notes because it may turn out to be the missing piece of the puzzle but at this point, it all seems like a giant waste of time. None of the other Egyptian myths he looks into - even those whose protagonists have nothing to do with the Temple of Dendur - bring him any closer either. The hieroglyphics fail him too.
He gets another idea. Asking for more publications and combining it with internet research, Sam finds out that Dr. Brett O'Leary was the leading archeologist of the committee that transferred the Temple of Dendur from Egypt to the United States in 1978 when it was threatened by the rising waters behind the Aswan High Dam. It was gifted to the US by Egypt for all the work the Americans had done to preserve other important Egyptian culture heritage like Abu Simbel. There are no mentions of any weird occurrences happening during the dismount of the Temple of Dendur in the Egyptian region of Nubia and the rebuilding at the Met, but that doesn't mean nothing happened. Maybe by removing the Temple from its original location in Africa something was awoken from the dead that should have stayed dead. It's not a good theory, but it's the only one Sam got.
A pounding headache crawls along his skull from the crown to his forehead where it settles comfortably, resulting in a sharp, piercing pain. Sam groans. He's nowhere near done yet. Going back to work, he finds out that Dr. O'Leary worked at the Met as a curator for a long time before he retired several years ago, and he now lives in Newton, Pennsylvania. Sam's tempted to drive down, estimating that it might take him about an hour and a half. He checks his watch; it's only two in the afternoon. He decides in the spur of the moment, aware that Dean will bitch at him for leaving him in the city - at the museum, Dean's favorite place above all - to take the car and drive to Pennsylvania all by himself. Sam doesn't care all that much. He packs up, calls Dean on the way to the Impala to let him know where he's headed - Dean has a go at him and insists that Sam come pick him up first, just like Sam knew he would - and then he gets behind the wheel.
The drive to Newton takes longer due to the heavy traffic. He finds O'Leary's house, a beautiful two-story home in what looks like a nice, upper-middle class neighborhood. A woman in her fifties opens the door, Sam can't identify her as a daughter or wife. Without hesitation he tells her the story he had plenty of time to prepare.
"Hi," he says, giving his sweetest smile with a hint of shy. "My name's Sam Torres, I'm a student of Archaeology at Princeton. Uh, and I'm writing a paper on the preservation of cultural heritage and I thought I might be able to talk to Dr. O'Leary. I know that I might have come at a bad time and I apologize for not having called in advance but I was somewhat nearby."
He gives her a friendly smile, the touch of embarrassment very real. Despite knowing that lying to people is a necessary evil of their job, it's never really been easy for Sam. He doesn't like it, probably never will.
"I would like to talk to Dr. O'Leary about the Temple of Dendur and its relocation from Egypt to New York if that's possible. If I'm coming at a bad time, I can go."
This time his look is a little more pleading. Sam can tell the exact moment she buys his story and takes pity upon poor student Sam Torres. A soft, almost maternal expression spreads across her face.
"Sam, it is, correct?"
He nods.
"Please wait here, Sam. I'll go see my husband. I'm sure you can steal a few minutes of his precious post-retirement time," she says with a wink before she heads inside.
Only those minutes blend into hours. Turns out that Dr. O'Leary is chatty if lent an observant ear. Sam starts with random questions about the conditions when relocating the Temple of Dendur, how they prepared the team, which obstacles they anticipated and so on. He praises the fantastic work of the team and it only seems to give him even more brownie points in Dr. O'Leary's book.
"So, Dr. O'Leary," Sam says. "When you dismounted the Temple, how was it? Did anything weird happen?" Going for the humorous attempt, Sam laughs, "Like, any mummies coming after you like in the movies?"
Dr. O'Leary shakes his head and laughs too. The skin around his eyes crinkles, a clear indicator of his advanced age. "Sorry to disappoint, Sam. No mummies. No ancient curses. No one died."
Sam sticks out his bottom lip in a pout. "Not even chills or flickering lights? Or weird sounds? Not even a brief scare that turned out to be nothing but imagination?"
Dr. O'Leary laughs again. "No, nothing like that. Everything went according to the book. No one even had a cold - despite the extreme weather conditions. I guess I'm not Indiana Jones."
Sam snickers. Yeah, looks like it. Unfortunately. There's nothing else for him to do here. So Sam wraps the conversation up, gets up to thank Dr. O'Leary for being so generous and taking so much time to talk to him. Then he goes to thank Mrs. O'Leary. Sam has to force a smile when they wish him good luck with his paper and his studies. He hopes it's not too awkward. He's already back in the Impala when he checks his watch again for the first time after coming to Newton. His heart nearly stops. With Dr. O'Leary telling him all these stories, Sam totally forgot time and that Dean's still at the Metropolitan Museum. It's half past seven in the evening when Sam switches his cell phone back on. There are several voice mails from Dean and Sam doesn't have to listen to them to know what they're all about. He knows Dean.
On his way back to Manhattan, Sam ponders whether he achieved anything today. He hates this feeling. The emptiness when he comes up with nothing, when he keeps missing the hidden link. He's frustrated and disappointed with himself. He's smarter than this and he's annoyed at himself that whatever this is, it's taking him so long to figure out. For a brief moment he doubts himself, wondering whether maybe this isn't their kind of job after all. It wouldn't be the first time that a Winchester is interpreting the signs wrong, but Sam gets a really different vibe about this one. Despite spending half the day at the library and the other half talking to Dr. O'Leary, he feels unproductive and like a failure. Heading back to the museum, he hopes that Dean had more luck than him.
He calls Dean as soon as he enters Manhattan. "Where are you?"
Sam's fully prepared for Dean to rant at him for forgetting about the time. Dean's tone is sharp; no attempt to disguise his anger. "Waiting outside the museum. For a few hours now. Like a school kid that hasn't been picked up. Get me now."
The temptation to point out that Sam's not his subordinate is there but he doesn't think petulant behavior on his part is going to help. He bites his tongue as best as he can. "Look Dean, I'm on my way, okay? Calm down. I'll be there in a few minutes."
He picks Dean up at the corner of 82nd Street and Madison Avenue. Dean's scrunched, angry expression is bad news and when Dean opens the driver's door and hisses, "Scoot," Sam doesn't argue. They drive a few blocks in uncomfortable, thick silence.
"Listen, I'm sorry. Okay? I lost track of time," Sam apologizes. He watches Dean from the passenger seat, studies his hard, sullen face. Dean's eyes are solely focused on the road, his forehead furrowed. He grunts but doesn't comment.
At first.
"Hope it was at least fucking worth it," Dean's tone is defiant and the fact that Sam will have to tell him that no, he's not sure, isn't making him feel any better.
"I don't know," Sam admits with a heavy sigh. Dean glances at him for a brief moment, his concentration shifting from the road to Sam for only a few seconds.
"What do you mean, 'you don't know?'"
"I researched the Temple of Dendur some more, I researched Egyptian myths. I even drove down to goddamn Pennsylvania to talk to some doctor of archeology. I read every little thing that could be related to this, no matter how distantly. But nothing makes sense. Nothing's the missing link to our ghost."
Sam mimes a fumbling gesture with his hands that mirrors his frustration. Dean doesn't comment, instead he kills the engine as soon as they reach the previous parking area. Getting out of the Impala, he says, "Let's go eat."
They head toward the diner they've eaten at the last few nights. With each step, Sam's annoyance grows. Not only does he have a case he seems unable to solve but he's also got a pissed off brother who's unwilling to talk about things. They sit down and order, and a few more minutes pass before Dean finally picks up the conversation.
"So nothing on ghostie?" he asks, an eyebrow cocked, his mouth tight in a challenging look.
Sam shakes his head. "No. Like I said, I came up with nothing. O'Leary couldn't tell me anything either. Apparently everything went peachy when they brought it from Egypt to New York. Nothing on ghosts, nothing on curses, nothing on mummies. Nothing on nothing."
He sighs heavily.
The waitress brings their food and when she sets it down, Dean grins at her broadly, his smile flirty and easy. She blushes and scurries away before Dean can make a move on her. Dean's expression goes back to the sour one from before. Sam's incredibly frustrated at this point.
"Did the EMF pick anything up?" he asks, hopes high that at least Dean's got something.
Between two bites of burger, mouth full, Dean says, "Yes'n no."
Sam stops stabbing his greens and asks, "Huh? Yes and no?"
Before he goes on, Dean wipes his mouth with his hand. "Yeah, like, it did pick up signals but not strong ones. And not just around the Temple. It was more like ghost fog all over the place. The whole fucking museum seemed to be affected."
"That's weird." Sam scratches the back of his head. This whole thing is so bizarre. "It's not making any sense at all."
"Tell me about it, Dorkface."
Sam gives Dean a fierce look at the unwanted nickname but Dean being Dean either doesn't notice or care. When the waitress comes back for their plates, Dean sits up a little straighter and smirks at her again. He's not even trying to hide that his gaze wanders from her face to her cleavage. Surprisingly, once she notices she doesn't slap Dean in the face - like Sam thinks she should - but blushes again and smiles at Dean. She tucks an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear and returns Dean's grin. Sam's pretty sickened by the Neanderthal flirting.
"Hi," Dean says.
Sam doesn't know what it is that makes his insides cramp like they do. He should be used to Dean flirting with anything that has two legs and a pair of breasts by now. Still, he's becoming more and more unnerved each time. When Dean doesn't react to the glares or the kicks underneath the table, Sam tries a different approach.
"Hi." Sam interjects. The waitress gives him a puzzled look - together with Dean throwing metaphorical daggers at him - as he asks, "Could we get the check please? We're in a bit of a hurry so we gotta get going. Thanks."
The waitress is still perplexed, Dean returns the kick in the shin, but in the end, Sam wins. She nods and takes their plates as she goes, mumbling something about bringing the check immediately.
She's barely out of earshot when Dean hisses, "What the fuck was that Sam?"
"Nothing. Just thought we should go," Sam shrugs, nonchalant.
"What the hell?" Dean repeats. "What's your fucking problem?"
Dean's tone is more aggressive, his agitation crystal clear. Almost automatically Sam reacts to it, his voice rising to a matching volume. "My problem? Dean, I don't have any problem. It seems to be you who's being so prissy today."
"Because you took my car to drive to fucking Pennsylvania while you kept me waiting at the museum for hours, dude." There it is. Sam knew that Dean not mentioning it earlier and not reacting to Sam's apology didn't mean the problem was disposed. Deep down, Sam knows that this is how both of them work. They might pretend to be okay after a fight but Dean's stupid unwillingness to talk about these kinds of things makes it almost impossible to avoid situations like the one they have now. They never talk until it escalates.
Before Sam can defend himself, Dean takes it up a notch, "What's with the cockblocking now?"
Sam doesn't trust his ears. "I'm not cockblocking you. I just think we have a case to solve."
Dean growls furiously and leans across the table. He lowers his voice, making him sound even more dangerous. "Fuck this shit, Sam. Maybe you wouldn't be such a tightass if the last time you got laid with something other than your right hand wasn't back in the day when you had a girlfriend. Maybe you should have taken Sarah's offer. 'Cause you know, maybe you wouldn't be such a bitch now."
Sam's stomach drops, rampant anger building in his belly. He meets Dean halfway across the table, can feel Dean's breath on his face when he hisses, "Don't you dare bring Jessica into this."
Just as Sam thinks Dean and he are going to jump at each other's throat, the waitress comes back with the check. Despite Dean throwing another blinding grin in her direction, she just drops it off quickly. She probably saw the way Sam and Dean glared at each other. Sam takes a few deep breaths and tries to calm down again. Getting physical with Dean isn't going to solve this situation.
"You know this whole case is a big joke, right? There's nothing here, Sam," Dean snarls, still agitated.
Sam takes a few more calming breaths and asks, "How can you be so sure, man?"
His placid attitude seems to have its effects on Dean as Dean himself exhales deeply, relaxing. His voice is still insistent but no longer as hostile as before. "'Cause we've been digging for two days and haven't found a single clue. Don't you think that if this were our kind of gig there would be some kind of information we could find?"
Of course, Sam's been wondering that himself. It's part of why he's been so frustrated today. He blames his edginess on his disgruntlement and not other things. He runs a hand over his face. "Maybe we need to look harder. Don't know. Maybe- maybe we need to look into the hieroglyphs again. Or uh, I don't know-"
"That's exactly my point, Sam!" Dean interrupts. "What else are we gonna look into? Huh? We checked everything there is to check. Don't you think that if there were anything wrong with this damn pile of stones that we'd at least have a hint by now?"
For a split second Sam wonders whether he should point out that calling cultural masterpieces like the Temple of Dendur a pile of stones is offensive but he doesn't think now's a good time to bring that up.
"I don't know. What about the EMF?"
Dean leans back in his seat and scratches his stomach. "Cell phone interception, power lines or something. Don't know, dude. What I do know is that we're wasting our time here. Let's go somewhere else where there is something to kill."
Sam wanted to take this case so bad. Maybe he's been feeling it all along, maybe his frustration was an indicator that he was wrong. That this isn't their kind of gig. He lowers his gaze and picks at his napkin when he admits, "I- I guess you're right."
Dean thumps the table before he gets up. "Good, let's go. Hurry."
On the way back to the Impala they decide to sleep another night in the car before they head out tomorrow morning. They have nowhere else to go yet and they're both too worn out to figure out a new destination that would get them out of the city. Sure, Sam would rather have a bed to sleep in tonight, even if it's in a crappy motel room, but he's not complaining.
Reaching the car, they find a flyer clipped behind the windshield wiper. Dean takes it with a frown, reads it and grins before he holds it up for Sam to see. "A gentleman's club. We should go. It's our last night in New York."
"Dean, you're not a gentleman." It's only partly meant as a joke. As soon as it's out though, Sam wants to take it back.
Too late.
Dean's face clouds again, his expression hardening. Some of his earlier anger is back, Sam can tell.
"So what, I'm a dude. D'you really think those strippers are gonna care about my virtue when they take my money?" Dean snarls.
They're facing each other and Sam wouldn't be surprised if Dean spontaneously decided to punch him. He's already clenching and unclenching the fist not balling up the flyer. Sam doesn't want to fight. Not again.
"Dean-"
"You know what, let me rephrase that. I should go. I don't give a rat's ass what you're doing tonight. Go out, get shit-faced, get laid. Stay in the car and mope and cry to yourself. I don't give a shit. I'm going."
Sam sucks in a breath, not believing what Dean just said. His throat tightens as if someone had laid an invisible hangman's knot around his neck.
"Dean, listen. I'm sorry, okay?" Sam tries again.
However Dean doesn't budge. "Without you."
Sam grabs Dean by the biceps but as soon as he sees the look on Dean's face, he knows he needs to let go immediately. Unless he still wants that punch. Sam's shoulders sag as he watches Dean stalk off. If they were at a motel, Dean would take the car, drive to the nearest bar to get drunk and then pick up a random girl. It's almost comical how Dean's walking away from him; if only the whole fucking thing weren't so serious.
It's too early to try to sleep, not that Sam could anyway in his current state. So he decides to walk a few blocks until he reaches Central Park. He goes inside and sits down on a bench to think. He knows that the last few days have been stressful for both him and Dean. They've barely gotten enough sleep, let alone good, restful sleep. They've been in each other's space nonstop except for the few hours they've been separated today and it certainly didn't help that they were crammed in less space than normal. They didn't even have their usual hiding space: the motel bathroom. He knows why both of them are so on edge. And he doesn't like it.
Today's been a weird day for him too. He doesn't even understand why he interfered in Dean's philandering at the diner earlier. He's known Dean long enough to get that Dean's a hopeless flirt. Sure, it's bothered him in the past because he doesn't agree with the way Dean plays women and uses them to his advantage, but Sam's mostly managed to bite his tongue. The brief twinge of jealousy earlier was unfamiliar and Sam's still shocked by it. That and the weird switch his brain made today as he was researching the Osiris and Isis myth. He doesn't know where it came from and what to do with it other than ignore it. In the end, he tells himself that he wants Dean to concentrate on the case rather than a woman but Sam's not sure he can make himself buy it.
A wave of melancholy overcomes him when he thinks about the job and how they're leaving tomorrow. Of course he's aware that rationally speaking, Dean's absolutely right. If there were a case to solve, they would at least have a starting point. They'll have to grab a paper tomorrow to find themselves a real hunt, maybe check Dad's journal. Once they've left town and have a little more space to themselves again, he hopes things between Dean and he will be put right.
For a brief moment he contemplates calling Dean to apologize. His thumb even strokes over the call button when he's got Dean's number highlighted on his cell. But there's no sense right now, Sam knows it. Dean left to blow off steam and Sam will have to accept that. He stays in the park a while longer, it's a mild night with only a slight breeze. He enjoys the soft wind on his skin while he's watching the amount of people who pass him by become less and less. Eventually, he heads back to the car to try to get some sleep at least.
Sam's trying to doze a little when his phone rings. He quickly picks up without even checking the caller ID. It's not something he usually does, but nights like these, when Dean's out by himself, especially after a fight, Sam can't help but worry - despite knowing that Dean's a big boy who's always been perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
"Sammy," Dean croaks before Sam can even say something. Sam's first reaction is to be relieved about the familiar nickname, a sign that Dean's no longer mad. But then Sam's stomach flips, fear that Dean's in trouble washing over him.
"Are you okay? Dean, where are you?" Sam tries to sound not too worried, but then he remembers that no one knows him better than Dean and that there's no sense in trying to fool him.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm at some chick's apartment."
Sam's not sure what's worse, the fact that Dean sounds so blasé about it, as if heading home with a random girl he met at a strip club is no big deal or the little jab of jealousy he feels. He certainly doesn't want to know the details. As quick as it came, he chases the thought away. There's no time and no place for that. Not now, not ever. Dean hooks up with random chicks all the time; this is something Sam should be used to by now.
He tries to distract himself with humor instead. "You still know what to do, right? Or d'you want me to talk you through it, Dean?"
"Ha, ha. Very funny Sam." The fact that Dean called him Sam might not be a good sign. "Listen, we don't have forever. So just get over here. Think you can do that?"
Sam wants to question Dean but Dean's rattling down an address so quickly that Sam barely can keep up. He doesn't have a good feeling when the line goes dead so he immediately heads to where Dean had directed him. It takes him exactly thirteen minutes to drive from East Harlem to Washington Heights, where the address is. Sick with worry that Dean's in trouble, Sam practically jumps out of the car, calling Dean, when Dean opens the front door, letting him into the apartment of a random girl.
A random girl who's lying on the bed, unmoving. Sam's eyes spring wide open and a cold shiver runs down his spine when he sees her. For a moment he's simply perplexed, unsure what to think of the situation. He glances as Dean, finding his face tired and exhausted, devoid of emotion. Then he sees her breathe deeply. She seems to be merely sleeping much to Sam's relief.
"What happened?" Sam asks, daring to take a step closer to her. She's pretty and exactly Dean's type; long blonde hair, big breasts, slim, the kind of girl Dean would take home. Or go home with.
"She's just taking a nap. She'll be fine," Dean insists, his voice not leaving much room for discussion.
Sam just can't help it. He can't let it go. "Did you- ? Dean, what happened?"
"Listen, Sammy," Dean hisses. "Met her at a bar, had a few drinks, came back here to have a little fun and then she passed out. I thought you and me both could use a shower before we sleep another night in the car, okay? Not sure whether you can smell it too but you don't smell particularly like roses at the moment. Now do you want that shower or not?"
Almost instinctively Sam lifts his arm and sniffs. And God, Dean is right. Sam makes a face and for now, doesn't question Dean any further about why the nameless girl's sleeping. He feels guilty for even considering that Dean's got her drugged. He knows Dean better than that, knows he isn't capable of something like that. Studying Dean's face again, Sam sees how glassy Dean's eyes are, a sign that he's been drinking too. It all points to the theory of Dean and the girl simply having had more than she could stomach. Sam feels stupid for nearly jumping to wrong conclusions.
Dean's right though, they both could use a shower. He's got no clue how long she'll stay unconscious so they better get going. Sam heads to the bathroom first. He wishes he could take an extensive, hot shower, let all the water soak up the dirt and dust on his skin and in his hair, but he needs to hurry. He's out again in no time, not speaking with Dean as he silently goes to watch the girl while Dean's cleaning up. As soon as the water's running, Sam takes a closer look at her. There's a fine trail of what appears to be vomit on her chin. Her breathing is deep and even. From up close, she looks even more as if she were just sleeping. She's still dressed in a party outfit; miniskirt and a small, sequined top. Sam wonders whether this means what it seems to.
Before they leave, they roll her onto her side to make sure she won't choke to death, in case she throws up again. Dean places a glass of water on her nightstand, next to a package of Advil. They're in the Impala, freshly showered and Sam feels like he hasn't in days. Even though the road was questionable, the outcome certainly is a good one. He studies Dean from the side. He doesn't know what makes him say it, especially when all evidence spoke against it. It's as if his mouth worked faster than his brain. "Did you sleep with her?"
The moment it's out, Sam realizes how he sounds. He's shocked at himself and his voice. How it's shaking. How it's more than just general curiosity. He doesn't know where this jealousy is coming from. Dean's his brother for fuck's sake and they've been past the I get jealous when my big brother isn't with me all the time phase after Sam passed the age of six. His eyes widen in horror at what he just said. How he said it. When he glances to the side, just for a split second, he can make out a questioning look on Dean's face.
"No," Dean says with a shrug, dropping the subject.
She's been working here for over 35 years and from the very first minute the Ancient Near Eastern Art galleries have been her favorite. She can't put her finger on what fascinates her so much, maybe it's the myths about Babylon and its Hanging Gardens and the Ishtar Gate. Maybe it's simply how bright and colorful the art is and how positive it makes her feel and has been making her feel for so many years. Or maybe it's the amazing detail of the stone reliefs of the human-headed winged lion and bull.
In the end, it doesn't matter.
She strolls from the Ancient Near Eastern Art along the balcony toward the wing with Asian Art. She smiles to herself, laughing a little despite knowing that no one's nearby to laugh with her. She loves all kinds of art and she wouldn't want the other galleries to think she's playing favorites just because she visits some more and others less often. She's all about equal opportunities. In the middle of the balcony, she comes to a stop. Walking closer to the edge, she leans on the handrail and looks down at the Great Hall. The round information desk is prominent in the center of the foyer. And while it's empty now - in the middle of the night - she knows life will return with people tomorrow who will share her love for all the beautiful things on display here.
Just as she's straightening back up - she's definitely getting older - she feels a cool breeze on her neck. As quickly as she can, she turns around, only to stare into a familiar face. She's seen her before, told others about her, even though it merely resulted in being called crazy and accused of making things up. But she knows what she's seen in the past 35 years. She knows what she's seeing now.
She looks different today. Angry. Bloodthirsty. Her black hair frames her pale skin, her eyes are sparkling dangerously. Something's not right tonight, so she takes a step away, until her back is pressed against the handrail. There's nowhere to go. She nearly panics when she realizes the jeopardy of the situation. She knows about the other people who died. The other people she's warned about her. Is this the revenge for trying to save other people's lives? She wants to beg for forgiveness, promise that she won't tell the story anymore, but her throat is restricted, so much she can barely breathe. Her head becomes lighter with each second, her knees weaker.
She's already unconscious when she's being pushed over the handrail of the balcony, falling down into the Great Hall.
Masterpost | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 & Thanks/Acknowledgements | Art Masterpost