Post by Yoko on Apr 11, 2011 14:48:44 GMT -6
(This is shortly after Azazel(Twistedclaw) was bitten by a werewolf. His already lycanthropic brother Cassiel(Lizardeye) worries their parents might catch on, while Raphael(Snaketail) is worried that the bite might kill their youngest sibling)
No candlelight flickered within Cassiel’s room. Although he was reading, and had been doing so when the sun arose bright, when its heavenly blush reddened, and even when it laid to rest hours ago. Instead of reading by the light of flame, he was fortunate enough to be in the presence of the moon as it shone white through his high window, criss-crossed by thin lines which looked as thick as bars in the shadow they cast. His forest green eyes, the crown-jewels of the family, were encased in his glasses improving his sight as he scanned small words on the illuminated pages.
As he sat in a plush leather chair, leaning heavily into the unabashed moonlight, the rest of his room was shrouded in darkness. His bed was a sharp dark outline without color or the illusion of comfort. His bookshelves (which so covered the wall that the elaborate beauty of the wallpaper was wasted) stood as tall and imposing shadows. They were a reminder of all the knowledge he had attained and could never rid himself of. His hand-carved oak desk sat in the far corner with a shapeless mass of parchment sprawled over it. How such a vast and handsome room could suddenly become so dark and crowded was just proof of how the world was so much more than what the senses perceived. In these not-so-quiet hours of the night, Cassiel quested for more, he hungered for it. It mattered not that he was alone. The eighteen year old had grown used to solitude since his childhood play with Raphael. Fond memories, but no use in missing what could not be replicated. As he devoured the final page, Cassiel was already twisting in a fierce stretch. He closed those green and gold book covers firmly, rose from his chair and glided into the through the shadows as naturally as he would in broad daylight.
Turning the cold door handle, he saw the hallway for the first time since lunch. A single light poured into the hallway through a doorway. He could see shadows flitting about every once in a while. There were hushed voices and although Cassiel knew what it was about he still strained to hear. In soft leather shoes he moved towards the light, bright orange and flickering. He could now distinguish the voices, though most were quiet and worried.
“Has it worsened?” asked Raphael in a troubled whisper.
“No Sir, but his fever’s been high since the mornin’. I ‘aint seen nothing quite like it,” murmured the old house servant. “Go fetch some mo’ water.”
A young dark girl shuffled out of the doorway, reluctant to take her eyes away. When she turned to see Cassiel, her eyes widened in momentary fright. There seemed to be no color to them, just rings of white surrounding dots of black. She gasped a little, her mouth formed a little “o”. As recognition sank in, for it was rare that Cassiel was ever seen or heard, she curtsied hurriedly.
“Excuse me, Massir,” she whispered. She looked up and saw he had not moved. “Excuse me…”
She shrank and skirted around him like a frightened mouse. Cassiel watched her go with his eyes, but moved coldly forward once she was out of sight. He snaked around the corner of the door way, easing his whole head into the room, but as always his presence went unnoticed. The room had but three people in it, though it made the rustle and fuss of seven. Cassiel saw on Azazel’s large bed, the red-haired prince himself, his upper body, draped in silk pajamas, was sprawled tragically over the olive green comforter, while his lower half was tugged snuggly beneath sheets. His pale neck was arched smoothly to one side, facing their mother. His young face, sweating feverishly, was tilted upward to her, yet his eyes were closed as if in a peaceful sleep. Their mother’s hands combed freely through his hair, brighter than the flames of any candle or fireplace.
She looked ill with age, their mother, whenever one of her sons was in peril. Every wrinkle stood out when she gave that grimly loving smile. Her eyes were marred by crow’s feet as she squinted down at her youngest boy, her angel. Her chestnut hair was pulled back and knotted in a night-time bonnet, the few curls that weaseled out looked somehow grayer as she crooned over the sick boy’s bed. Her nightgown was plain and lacked the splendor for which she was so widely known.
Cassiel turned from her to the bed’s other side. Raphael stood with his arms folded tightly, his own night shirt loose and untidy, as he had thrown the night clothes on and hurried back to his youngest brother’s bedside. The dark green eyes of the eldest ran up and down the bed, as if he could somehow think of a way to extract the illness from the fragile ailing body. At one point, he leaned over, and spread his hands over the bed comforter and murmured, “You’ll be fine.”
“Master Cassiel,” said the startled older house servant.
Both mother and brother turned to him. Raphael rose from his worried lean and made it to the doorway in a few long strides. He wrapped his arms around Cassiel and drew him into the room. He led Cassiel to the other side of the bed.
“It’s terrible,” Raphael whispered tensely. “He’s been like this all day.”
Cassiel’s expression was unchanged. They had all been ill at one time or another, but considering Azazel’s daily outdoor activity, Cassiel could hardly feel sympathetic for the younger’s plight. He doubted his sibling would die. No, that was unthinkable. But he marveled at the fuss that was being done over him.
The commotion continued for another two hours or so. The younger house servant had returned and continued to give Cassiel odd glances throughout the night. Raphael had begun to play with Cassiel’s hair, and their mother was half-asleep. The time seemed to pass slowly, but thankfully Azazel’s fever had cooled. Finally, their mother asked the house servants to leave. Raphael suggested that they go to bed too. Their mother insisted on another hour, and so Raphael placed his arm around Cassiel and the two made their way out.
They had hardly taken a few steps before they recognized the slender figure of their father, leaning against the wall outside of Azazel’s room. He turned to his sons, but his expression was hardly discernable. His voice was quite cold and clear.
“It’s his own fault. Learn from his mistakes. The fields are no place for respectable men like ourselves. They are filled with all sorts of primitive diseases. Get to bed. Don’t bother yourself with him any further. He’ll be fine.”
“Yes father,” the brothers echoed, and slid past him one after the other.
“If you love him,” their father added icily. “You’ll tell him to stop this nonsense.”
“Yes father.”
Raphael kept his hands firmly on Cassiel’s shoulders. Cassiel knew that his older brother was seething with rage. If the bond between father and son was like gold, than the bond between brothers was like silver, stronger and more plentiful.
“Azazel will be fine,” Raphael asserted.
“I know.”
“Everything will be fine.”
“I know.”
The eldest smiled down at his quieter brother. He ruffled Cassiel’s raven hair, just like their father’s. With a swift kiss on the forehead, the eldest of the Roscoe family sank into the dwindling shadows of the night.
To Be Ill
No candlelight flickered within Cassiel’s room. Although he was reading, and had been doing so when the sun arose bright, when its heavenly blush reddened, and even when it laid to rest hours ago. Instead of reading by the light of flame, he was fortunate enough to be in the presence of the moon as it shone white through his high window, criss-crossed by thin lines which looked as thick as bars in the shadow they cast. His forest green eyes, the crown-jewels of the family, were encased in his glasses improving his sight as he scanned small words on the illuminated pages.
As he sat in a plush leather chair, leaning heavily into the unabashed moonlight, the rest of his room was shrouded in darkness. His bed was a sharp dark outline without color or the illusion of comfort. His bookshelves (which so covered the wall that the elaborate beauty of the wallpaper was wasted) stood as tall and imposing shadows. They were a reminder of all the knowledge he had attained and could never rid himself of. His hand-carved oak desk sat in the far corner with a shapeless mass of parchment sprawled over it. How such a vast and handsome room could suddenly become so dark and crowded was just proof of how the world was so much more than what the senses perceived. In these not-so-quiet hours of the night, Cassiel quested for more, he hungered for it. It mattered not that he was alone. The eighteen year old had grown used to solitude since his childhood play with Raphael. Fond memories, but no use in missing what could not be replicated. As he devoured the final page, Cassiel was already twisting in a fierce stretch. He closed those green and gold book covers firmly, rose from his chair and glided into the through the shadows as naturally as he would in broad daylight.
Turning the cold door handle, he saw the hallway for the first time since lunch. A single light poured into the hallway through a doorway. He could see shadows flitting about every once in a while. There were hushed voices and although Cassiel knew what it was about he still strained to hear. In soft leather shoes he moved towards the light, bright orange and flickering. He could now distinguish the voices, though most were quiet and worried.
“Has it worsened?” asked Raphael in a troubled whisper.
“No Sir, but his fever’s been high since the mornin’. I ‘aint seen nothing quite like it,” murmured the old house servant. “Go fetch some mo’ water.”
A young dark girl shuffled out of the doorway, reluctant to take her eyes away. When she turned to see Cassiel, her eyes widened in momentary fright. There seemed to be no color to them, just rings of white surrounding dots of black. She gasped a little, her mouth formed a little “o”. As recognition sank in, for it was rare that Cassiel was ever seen or heard, she curtsied hurriedly.
“Excuse me, Massir,” she whispered. She looked up and saw he had not moved. “Excuse me…”
She shrank and skirted around him like a frightened mouse. Cassiel watched her go with his eyes, but moved coldly forward once she was out of sight. He snaked around the corner of the door way, easing his whole head into the room, but as always his presence went unnoticed. The room had but three people in it, though it made the rustle and fuss of seven. Cassiel saw on Azazel’s large bed, the red-haired prince himself, his upper body, draped in silk pajamas, was sprawled tragically over the olive green comforter, while his lower half was tugged snuggly beneath sheets. His pale neck was arched smoothly to one side, facing their mother. His young face, sweating feverishly, was tilted upward to her, yet his eyes were closed as if in a peaceful sleep. Their mother’s hands combed freely through his hair, brighter than the flames of any candle or fireplace.
She looked ill with age, their mother, whenever one of her sons was in peril. Every wrinkle stood out when she gave that grimly loving smile. Her eyes were marred by crow’s feet as she squinted down at her youngest boy, her angel. Her chestnut hair was pulled back and knotted in a night-time bonnet, the few curls that weaseled out looked somehow grayer as she crooned over the sick boy’s bed. Her nightgown was plain and lacked the splendor for which she was so widely known.
Cassiel turned from her to the bed’s other side. Raphael stood with his arms folded tightly, his own night shirt loose and untidy, as he had thrown the night clothes on and hurried back to his youngest brother’s bedside. The dark green eyes of the eldest ran up and down the bed, as if he could somehow think of a way to extract the illness from the fragile ailing body. At one point, he leaned over, and spread his hands over the bed comforter and murmured, “You’ll be fine.”
“Master Cassiel,” said the startled older house servant.
Both mother and brother turned to him. Raphael rose from his worried lean and made it to the doorway in a few long strides. He wrapped his arms around Cassiel and drew him into the room. He led Cassiel to the other side of the bed.
“It’s terrible,” Raphael whispered tensely. “He’s been like this all day.”
Cassiel’s expression was unchanged. They had all been ill at one time or another, but considering Azazel’s daily outdoor activity, Cassiel could hardly feel sympathetic for the younger’s plight. He doubted his sibling would die. No, that was unthinkable. But he marveled at the fuss that was being done over him.
The commotion continued for another two hours or so. The younger house servant had returned and continued to give Cassiel odd glances throughout the night. Raphael had begun to play with Cassiel’s hair, and their mother was half-asleep. The time seemed to pass slowly, but thankfully Azazel’s fever had cooled. Finally, their mother asked the house servants to leave. Raphael suggested that they go to bed too. Their mother insisted on another hour, and so Raphael placed his arm around Cassiel and the two made their way out.
They had hardly taken a few steps before they recognized the slender figure of their father, leaning against the wall outside of Azazel’s room. He turned to his sons, but his expression was hardly discernable. His voice was quite cold and clear.
“It’s his own fault. Learn from his mistakes. The fields are no place for respectable men like ourselves. They are filled with all sorts of primitive diseases. Get to bed. Don’t bother yourself with him any further. He’ll be fine.”
“Yes father,” the brothers echoed, and slid past him one after the other.
“If you love him,” their father added icily. “You’ll tell him to stop this nonsense.”
“Yes father.”
Raphael kept his hands firmly on Cassiel’s shoulders. Cassiel knew that his older brother was seething with rage. If the bond between father and son was like gold, than the bond between brothers was like silver, stronger and more plentiful.
“Azazel will be fine,” Raphael asserted.
“I know.”
“Everything will be fine.”
“I know.”
The eldest smiled down at his quieter brother. He ruffled Cassiel’s raven hair, just like their father’s. With a swift kiss on the forehead, the eldest of the Roscoe family sank into the dwindling shadows of the night.
