Haunted By Blue
Title: Haunted By Blue
Flavors: Blueberry Yogurt 1: the blues, Cheesecake 9: Manhattan babies don't sleep tight until the dawn, Papaya 20: you remind me of someone
Extra: Malt (birthday present: Ninablues: the girl in the corner)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1083
Summary: There will be no fresh air for his lungs tonight.
Notes: I tweaked Jem's age on account of I forgot to do it before I hit send last time.
The night was suffocating and precisely eight degrees hotter than the average summer temperatures of Hell, but Jemesk needed air. Any air that wasn't breathable from his apartment, he amended, which was a different, more lasting kind of suffocating. The stars were in hiding, the moon full, bright, and still a bit bloodied from its earlier, angrier harvest colors. It should have been dark, by that token, but the city was afraid of the dark, so the night glowed unnaturally from the soft, eerie light of many gas lamps. Perilain Street was oddly empty, and so Jemesk remained alone with his thoughts on the streets of New Kaddar he couldn't remember thinking of as anything else but his.
As his memory only stretched back about six weeks, that was not quite as lofty a claim as it could have been from the average twenty-five year old man, but if he couldn't even have that, then all he was left with was the bluebells. He closed his eyes against the thought, breathed in the stink of the muddied Faindown, the burned bread smell that came strong from one of the houses across the way, despite the sizable cobble road that separated him from the house in question.
The sudden, all-engulfing smell of cloves and tobacco.
Jemesk opened his eyes, and not even six feet away stood a man under one of the gaslights, gazing out at the black mirror that was the Faindown at midnight (or, hell, midday on certain feast days). He turned to look at Jemesk and smiled with too many sharklike teeth, smoke rising thick and murky from his pipe. Jem wondered what it was he smoked; the smell was more than tobacco and clove, and whatever the something extra was turned his stomach.
"A lovely night, wouldn't you say, sir?" the man asked, looking very much like a man who knew something you did not but should. Sounding like it, too. His voice was a pleasant, cheerful tenor, almost a song. Jemesk recalled enough of his life experiences to know that quite a number of pleasant, cheerful songs were murder ballads. Also, he made it an unspoken policy of his never to trust men who menaced him while having meticulously arranged a number of little hairpins into the Roman numeral eighteen in his hair. It was just sense.
"It is a night," Jemesk said. "I'm not sure I'd like to know just where you come from that you consider it lovely, but I congratulate you on having clearly fled some festering abcess upon the earth."
"Festering abcess. Yes," the man's smile sharpened. "You are Jemesk Graymarch. How splendid you - live, is that the right word? It would hardly be sporting if you did not. I would have been disappointed."
"Well," Jemesk blinked. "I would hardly want to disappoint you."
"Yes," the man said, simply. His eyes were the same blue of the superheated center of a flame, his body tall and some variation of thin, and he was neither terribly old nor terribly young looking. When Jem tried to examine the man any further, he got the most distracting sense of vertigo, like he was staring down an abyss and not a person. In all likelihood, he was. Faeborn, if not faekind, and leaning against an iron gaslight. Which meant the fae had taintbloods now too, and all the fresh new breeds of crazy the inevitable failures entailed. Lovely. And he appeared to Jemesk specifically, speaking cryptically about Jem's continued breathing being some kind of fair play. Jemesk's heart stuttered a broken sentence. He was quite certain he didn't want to know how it ended.
"I have advice for you, Jemesk Graymarch, and good news! The price has already been paid," The man said, and licked his lips. "Do give Dawn my regards when she appears, by the by."
Of course. Dawn. There had to be a thousand Dawns in New Kaddar alone, and he was expected to know which one he was talking about. That more than anything else settled it. He was talking to a faeborn.
"Jemesk Graymarch is dead," the man said, pleasantly sanguine as ever. "You are everything he was, but without any of his depth; it isn't anything to worry about, these things happen when you take the brain bleach. You don't remember your ex-life, but who you were sticks around for a while. What do they say? Yes, like a chicken with its head cut off. I suggest you find your head. You may not like what will grow back in its place."
"That's it?" Jemesk said, refraining from informing the man that, no, that was not advice, that was a riddle.
"Yes," the man said, either smiling or baring his teeth. "Terribly important stuff, you understand. It just might save your, ah, life."
It probably wasn't a good thing that he'd hesitated to call Jemesk living twice now. Jem sighed. "Right, that's it. I'm going home. Some scalding hot tea sounds amazing right now, and whiskey even better. Will we meet again?"
"Oh, yes," the man said, eyes bright and flooded entirely by blue, now. The smoke from his pipe gathered around him, obscuring him and absorbing him, and soon there was nothing but a thin strand of mist to show there was ever anything with a pipe under the gaslight. "You can depend on it."
Jemesk walked home as carefully as if the road was paved with shattered glass. Nothing happened to him on the way back, but he closed the front door behind him feeling lucky rather than foolish. He remained out in the hall for a few moments before returning to his apartment, which still smelled powerfully of bluebells, though none were kept in the entire building. His apartment was sparse, colorless, and stocked with more weapons than his work with the Nine strictly needed, but he never felt safe, regardless. Perhaps it was time to wonder the wherefores of that.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black blob. When he turned his head toward it, he saw a woman, head topped with wavy black hair and a blue headband, standing at the curtains. She turned around, gorgeous and smiling, and said, "Hello, Jemesk."
"Dawn," his mouth said, completely without his permission. He sighed, and then said, "Sorry, have we met?"
"Oh, of course they would have taken everything," Dawn said. "I should hope we've met, husband. You only killed me, after all."
Flavors: Blueberry Yogurt 1: the blues, Cheesecake 9: Manhattan babies don't sleep tight until the dawn, Papaya 20: you remind me of someone
Extra: Malt (birthday present: Ninablues: the girl in the corner)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1083
Summary: There will be no fresh air for his lungs tonight.
Notes: I tweaked Jem's age on account of I forgot to do it before I hit send last time.
The night was suffocating and precisely eight degrees hotter than the average summer temperatures of Hell, but Jemesk needed air. Any air that wasn't breathable from his apartment, he amended, which was a different, more lasting kind of suffocating. The stars were in hiding, the moon full, bright, and still a bit bloodied from its earlier, angrier harvest colors. It should have been dark, by that token, but the city was afraid of the dark, so the night glowed unnaturally from the soft, eerie light of many gas lamps. Perilain Street was oddly empty, and so Jemesk remained alone with his thoughts on the streets of New Kaddar he couldn't remember thinking of as anything else but his.
As his memory only stretched back about six weeks, that was not quite as lofty a claim as it could have been from the average twenty-five year old man, but if he couldn't even have that, then all he was left with was the bluebells. He closed his eyes against the thought, breathed in the stink of the muddied Faindown, the burned bread smell that came strong from one of the houses across the way, despite the sizable cobble road that separated him from the house in question.
The sudden, all-engulfing smell of cloves and tobacco.
Jemesk opened his eyes, and not even six feet away stood a man under one of the gaslights, gazing out at the black mirror that was the Faindown at midnight (or, hell, midday on certain feast days). He turned to look at Jemesk and smiled with too many sharklike teeth, smoke rising thick and murky from his pipe. Jem wondered what it was he smoked; the smell was more than tobacco and clove, and whatever the something extra was turned his stomach.
"A lovely night, wouldn't you say, sir?" the man asked, looking very much like a man who knew something you did not but should. Sounding like it, too. His voice was a pleasant, cheerful tenor, almost a song. Jemesk recalled enough of his life experiences to know that quite a number of pleasant, cheerful songs were murder ballads. Also, he made it an unspoken policy of his never to trust men who menaced him while having meticulously arranged a number of little hairpins into the Roman numeral eighteen in his hair. It was just sense.
"It is a night," Jemesk said. "I'm not sure I'd like to know just where you come from that you consider it lovely, but I congratulate you on having clearly fled some festering abcess upon the earth."
"Festering abcess. Yes," the man's smile sharpened. "You are Jemesk Graymarch. How splendid you - live, is that the right word? It would hardly be sporting if you did not. I would have been disappointed."
"Well," Jemesk blinked. "I would hardly want to disappoint you."
"Yes," the man said, simply. His eyes were the same blue of the superheated center of a flame, his body tall and some variation of thin, and he was neither terribly old nor terribly young looking. When Jem tried to examine the man any further, he got the most distracting sense of vertigo, like he was staring down an abyss and not a person. In all likelihood, he was. Faeborn, if not faekind, and leaning against an iron gaslight. Which meant the fae had taintbloods now too, and all the fresh new breeds of crazy the inevitable failures entailed. Lovely. And he appeared to Jemesk specifically, speaking cryptically about Jem's continued breathing being some kind of fair play. Jemesk's heart stuttered a broken sentence. He was quite certain he didn't want to know how it ended.
"I have advice for you, Jemesk Graymarch, and good news! The price has already been paid," The man said, and licked his lips. "Do give Dawn my regards when she appears, by the by."
Of course. Dawn. There had to be a thousand Dawns in New Kaddar alone, and he was expected to know which one he was talking about. That more than anything else settled it. He was talking to a faeborn.
"Jemesk Graymarch is dead," the man said, pleasantly sanguine as ever. "You are everything he was, but without any of his depth; it isn't anything to worry about, these things happen when you take the brain bleach. You don't remember your ex-life, but who you were sticks around for a while. What do they say? Yes, like a chicken with its head cut off. I suggest you find your head. You may not like what will grow back in its place."
"That's it?" Jemesk said, refraining from informing the man that, no, that was not advice, that was a riddle.
"Yes," the man said, either smiling or baring his teeth. "Terribly important stuff, you understand. It just might save your, ah, life."
It probably wasn't a good thing that he'd hesitated to call Jemesk living twice now. Jem sighed. "Right, that's it. I'm going home. Some scalding hot tea sounds amazing right now, and whiskey even better. Will we meet again?"
"Oh, yes," the man said, eyes bright and flooded entirely by blue, now. The smoke from his pipe gathered around him, obscuring him and absorbing him, and soon there was nothing but a thin strand of mist to show there was ever anything with a pipe under the gaslight. "You can depend on it."
Jemesk walked home as carefully as if the road was paved with shattered glass. Nothing happened to him on the way back, but he closed the front door behind him feeling lucky rather than foolish. He remained out in the hall for a few moments before returning to his apartment, which still smelled powerfully of bluebells, though none were kept in the entire building. His apartment was sparse, colorless, and stocked with more weapons than his work with the Nine strictly needed, but he never felt safe, regardless. Perhaps it was time to wonder the wherefores of that.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black blob. When he turned his head toward it, he saw a woman, head topped with wavy black hair and a blue headband, standing at the curtains. She turned around, gorgeous and smiling, and said, "Hello, Jemesk."
"Dawn," his mouth said, completely without his permission. He sighed, and then said, "Sorry, have we met?"
"Oh, of course they would have taken everything," Dawn said. "I should hope we've met, husband. You only killed me, after all."