poor thing ( darin&lore )

[ollie]

lore wasn’t quite sure why she went out that night. barefooted, as she preferred it, she’d pulled on a cloak as the temperature had dropped dramatically in the night, and she held it close around herself as she walked along the stone of the courtyard. her breath billowed in a frosty fog in front of her, and she raised the collar of the cloak higher, trying to trap the warmth of her breath into the space. it did nothing, other than bring the satiny material closer, which was almost entirely useless in this damned cold. her hair fell like a curtain over her shoulders, catching the moonlight, which made her appear almost ghostly—her sweet face silvery and as eerie as the rest of her, in the middle of the pitch dark night. she looked ’round herself, at the trees that looked as though they’d been fashioned out of silver, the grass that was already accumulating dew, making it all appear as fantastical as her dreams as a child, drunk on hope.

hope was such a funny word; not literally, in a ha-ha sort of way, but rather in that way that makes you hate it for being so fleeting, a feeling that you can pin as easily as a live butterfly or a wild thought. her lips gently curved downward, the feeling of unease settling in her stomach, and she could taste the comparably weightier, dependable emotion in her mouth. it was hardly emotion; more like a state of being, hopelessness was—a feeling that no matter who was to blame, or what you wanted, you would never achieve your goal. like in a dream when you run as fast as you can and no longer how slow the person in front of you is walking, the distance never grows shorter, hopelessness seemed to lock your knees in place, metaphorically speaking, and keep you in your horrible place, nowhere to run, without a way to escape. she sighed, closing her eyes, before opening them and realizing she’d grown as still as her metaphorical knees.

humming a quiet traditional tune under her breath, a melody that was a mix of lullaby and ballad, lore tuned out the rest of the world. she imagined herself surrounded by no walls, just walking on the grass that slipped under her feet, damp and springy. she smiled, having not done so in a long while, looking down at the sprigs of green coming up from between her toes. what a perfect moment it could have been. if not, of course, for the man she didn’t hear behind her. she didn’t know he was there until she heard his breath, hard and almost nervous, and turned. she just saw his silvering hair, the wrinkles beginning at his mouth and eyes, and she stumbled backwards when her eyes met his. she knew that look very well, and her steps came faster, too fast, and her balance slipped from under her. she landed, unceremoniously, on her bum, yelping at the pain shooting up her spine, and began pushing herself backward as he came closer. he dropped to his knees, shoving her onto her back without warning, the breath rushing out of her. dazed, she watched as he climbed upon her, straddling her hips, pulling at her cloak desperately.

she gasps out a breath, the chant of no echoing in her mind. finally, as if the idea had first come to her, she began pushing, fighting desperately at his hands. he growled at her, glaring, and grabbed her hands, tightly enough to come close to breaking them, and she cried out again, the first sob escaping her lips. “no. please, no, no, no, nonononononono.” she sobbed, still moving, and with merciless anger, he sank his teeth into her thumb, making her shriek again, her knees now moving desperately to attempt to get him off. “someone.” she croaked, sobs racking her body now as he tugged at her clothes.

[Mimi]

Darin stepped along, whistling a jaunty tune that he'd heard earlier that night at the local tavern - a drinking song, if he remembered correctly. The inhabitants of the tavern and those of the brothel next door had been good to him, kinder than he was expecting from a Reginien to a Silian. Then again, he supposed the money he'd brought might have had something to do with it. He laughed under his breath, the laugh sounding much louder in the abandoned streets than he'd meant it too. He looked up, feeling a bit giddy (whether from the women or the alcohol, he wasn't quite sure), and took to the formidable task of counting the stars. After all, he had a good walk until he reached the castle; why not while the minutes away with a good challenge?

Somewhere behind him, the moon shone persistently and lit up the world that the departing sun casted in darkness. Darin could see every stray alley cat and drunken straggler in his peripheral vision, and the sheer brightness of it all made him want to find the candle responsible for it all and blow it out (even though he knew in the back of his mind 'twas not a candle at all). Hm. He must have been drunk if he was taken to such fancies or perhaps it was the night that was intoxicating him? Because it had been so long since he could enjoy himself like so, and he had to admit, the freedom of it all made his senses tingle with excitement (or perhaps it was the aftereffects of the rum? Truly, one could never really tell when one was thoroughly drunk.)

Silian nights used to be like these, clear and cloudless, and he even remembered taking -- no. He grimaced as he suddenly hit upon that mental barrier. Memories welled up in his mind faster than he could push them away, and that all too familiar bottomless sensation of sadness, of grief and heartache and hopelessness resettled in the pit of his stomach. He scoffed, his lips drawing into a thin line. Fours years, he'd thought he'd forgotten, but then again, if he had, what was he doing here? Hadn't he come here because he hadn't forgotten? Hadn't he come to try to forget and move on with his life as he'd constantly been telling himself? But try as he might, the images persisted, fleeting chimeras like a transient fog, tangible and yet intangible, and held onto in vain. What good was it? Dwelling in the past?

Hm. He supposed this was his punishment for a night of intemperance, and as he gradually resurfaced from the mire that was his mind, he noticed that he'd stopped whistling. Indeed, he'd stopped walking altogether, and whilst he'd been so preoccupied, he'd come nearly right up to the castle. He blinked, a good deal soberer now than he'd been a few minutes prior and silently moved on. The guards noiselessly motioned him in as he flashed the hilt of his sword bearing the Silian coat of arms; he didn't resume whistling until he was well within the walls, and even then, the tune had lost its original gaiety and seemed strained and even a tinge melancholic. Darin shuffled along, taking no notice of the chill air. He'd dressed simply - white tunic and brown breeches and vest - and had carried nothing on him other than the money (all gone now) and his sheathed sword. One could never know whom one would encounter in the dead of night.

By then, all he wanted to do was go to bed and sleep off the night and be done with the wretched day. He trudged on, through the courtyard, and made haste now that he was so close to his destination when a sudden cry stopped him cold in his steps. He glanced around with a curious quirk of the brow and saw -- no one. That is, no one -- his eyes widened slightly as they fell upon the struggling mass a few paces away. There was no doubt about it; the man was forcing himself upon the girl, and the mewing cries nonononononono that came a few seconds later confirmed his theory. It wasn't an uncommon sight, but it made Darin fume, and his eyes flashed angrily. He grit his teeth, and his hands clenched, but he remained standing, not interfering. Perhaps it was the chivalry imbued into him as a result of his training for knighthood, but this - this was so wrong, and - and he couldn't legally do anything about it. After all...this was no business of his, and the man, judging by his audacity to attack the girl in public, must have been of high-ranking nobility. A Duke, perhaps? A relation of the Reginien King's? And who was he but a foreign squire with no right whatsoever to meddle in the noble's affairs no matter how vile they were. And - and that aside, what if he hadn't come this way? Then the matter would have played out as it was now, and - and the political consequences of the Silian Prince's squire attacking a --

"shit," Darin muttered and without another moment's pause, he drew his sword from its scabbard and advanced on the man straddling and clawing at the girl's clothing, so desperate and revolting that it made Darin all the more hateful towards him. He could see the silvers in the man's hair now, and there was an insouciant urge to stab him through the chest and be rid of the vile creature altogether, but just before he the sword fell on the man, he paused and, with considerable difficulty, reversed his hold.

The man was larger than Darin had initially thought, and even as his hand went forward, he knew he hadn't used enough force to knock him unconscious. He swore mentally; if the man caught sight of his face, then his life might as well have been over.

The hilt of his sword made forceful contact with the back of the man's neck, and he fell forward with a sudden grunt, dazed and stunned but not unconscious.

Darin reached out his hand for the girl's, his eyes pleading and a bit desperate and wild (another effect of the rum). The dim lighting in the courtyard obscured most of her features.

"Come, come," he hurriedly whispered, "He is still very much conscious. If we do not hurry, he will fully revive in less than a few minutes."

In fact, the man seemed to be pulling himself back up right then.

Shit. He hoped he didn't regret this.

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