(Untitled)

[literallyrotten]

There is a pile of five thousand sweaters in the corner.

Underneath and inside them, somewhere, can be found Darren Nichols, director and lemming extraordinaire.

There are hands in the mess, holding cocoa.

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[bitter_mercy]

The cocoa is temporarily wine.

Temporarily.

And in front of Darren, rather suddenly, is a solemn-looking redheaded god, his palms pressed together.

"Do this in memory of me."

He makes the sign of the cross over Darren.

The cocoa is back.

Which might actually be a shame. It was good wine.

[literallyrotten]

"In nomine patre, filius, blah blah blah."

No, Darren doesn't remember his religion well enough. It's been decades since he went to church.

He has a smile for Sheogorath, despite the immediate question.

"Are you why I'm freezing?"

[bitter_mercy]

"Oh dear. It's possible. I've never sent an otherworld mortal through the Void before. What's it like?"

He sits on the table, legs crssed almost girlishly, leaning close to Darren.

There's that electricity. It's brilliant. It's not exactly warming, but it makes the heart beat a little faster.

[literallyrotten]

It draws Darren in, hooks him. His eyes on Sheogorath's.

"It's like everything's far away. I'm tired, and all I can do is sleep. I'm cold, even when my skin is being scalded. It's a little bit frightening."

He's glad to know it wasn't on purpose, though. That this isn't a price.

[song_tra_bong]

A pile of sweaters with hands.

Even in Milliways, you don't see that every day.

Being a curious girl, Mary Anne puts her investigative powers to the test and pokes it.

[literallyrotten]

"What?"

Darren sits up straight, emerging, and peers at her unhappily.

[song_tra_bong]

She beams.

"Just checking to see if there was, in fact, anyone in there. Hello."

[literallyrotten]

"Hello."

Darren, white faced and tired looking, takes a sip of his hot chocolate.

[no_sin_but]

And the pile is being stared at by a dark-garbed, brown-haired and one-eyed poet/playwright/assassin/spy/person.

In confusion.

[literallyrotten]

"Kit."

:O! Look closer. Under the sweaters/blankets etc, is a Darren! SURPRISE.

"God almighty, you get up early."

[no_sin_but]

"It's a bad habit, I know. Call it a grammar school/university hang-up if you must."

[literallyrotten]

"It won't usually be a problem."

Just last night, a shivering Darren tangled around him like a creeper vine, making extrication rather a challenge.

[precocioustilda]

There's a six-year-old.

She has a basketful of cookies.

"Hallo," she says to the pile of sweaters with hands. "Are you quite all right? Would you like a biscuit?"

Basketful of cookies! It is offered to the pile, generously.

[literallyrotten]

"Thank you."

One hand unwraps itself from around the mug. And picks up a cookie.

They go well with cocoa.

[precocioustilda]

"You're quite welcome, I'm sure."

Darren is peered at. Dubiously.

Why is he so cold? Perhaps he's some form of cryogenic entity.

[literallyrotten]

If only she knew.

"Are you selling them for something? You're not a girl guide, are you?"

God.