Post by England on Nov 1, 2013 4:47:50 GMT -6
"No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first. And is waiting for it." -- Terry Pratchett
Blackness.
He knew that he was drowning. Could feel the burning in his lungs from holding his breath for too many long, desperate minutes. Arthur could not fathom how he had come to this. Just minutes ago he had been walking with Francis through the stretch of a corridor, and now? A sudden rush of water with enough force to send him tumbling head over feet, spinning in that tumult with one last strained grasp for the Frenchman's hand in his panic. Of course Francis would likely fare better. The other man could swim, while he -- no. No such luck.
There was only clawing in the darkness that drowned out all traces of light, feeling along floating furniture and walls until Arthur's hand had finally broken through to crest upon a dry surface. The Englishman hauled himself up from the water, sputtering and hacking with every pulsing protest of his deprived lungs. His clothes felt as if they were weighted, far heavier than before, and his limbs were weary from the effort to clumsily make his way to safety. Arthur rested prone upon the landing, cheek upon the time-faded fabric of carpet, dripping until the entire span of fabric around him was darkened by moisture.
It wasn't just the fear of the water that had pitched him into panic; it was the darkness too. That blasted darkness. For Arthur, the shadows were a potent threat that he had never shaken despite facing greater hardships. At least he had managed to free himself from both. He waited for the harsh burn in his lungs to subside before weakly pushing himself up onto hands and knees to search his surroundings. His lips were shaking, teeth chattering from the cold chill of the water as he croaked out a concerned question. "Francis?"
Of the Frenchman, there was no sign. The unity they had enjoyed together in the graveyard outside had been easily shattered by the latest trick of the Manor. Arthur tried not to let the disappointment crush him. He tried not to consider that the waters might have claimed Francis. Cautiously, Arthur forced himself to the edge of the water to stare down at those depths with wide eyes and a crestfallen twist to his face. He considered himself brave in almost everything, yes -- but try as he might he could not force himself back into that water to try and seek out the Frenchman. Just the spawned idea froze him more than the lowered temperature of his body, and Arthur dug his fingernails into the carpet in frustration, teeth clenched until his jaw ached.
He might have guessed that security would pass. Having Francis at his side, that old enemy and ally, had provided Arthur a sense of comfort in believing that there was a chance in them getting out of this situation. Now that was gone again. He was so intensely frustrated that he could have cried. Instead, the Englishman channeled that into anger, fingers going flat as he slapped his palms down hard upon the ground, venting that impotent rage. His enraged voice accompanied the sounds of those slaps, volume pitching higher. "Damnit. GODDAMNIT! FUCKING SHIT! BUGGER, BUGGER, BUGGER!"
Arthur clapped a hand over his mouth to silence his tirade. Shouting like that could bring him all sorts of trouble. He tried to steady his breathing behind the press of his palm, forcing his body back under his command. It wouldn't do to lose his head when there was so much danger around. There was no way of knowing what could be lured to him if he continued being overwhelmed by his anger. The Englishman swallowed heavily to choke down the thick lump of emotions in his throat, until that weight rested like a lead weight in his gut. He would find Francis again. Fate had a sneaky way about sending them to cross paths. All Arthur had to do was wait it out until the Frenchman turned up again. Patience was key.
In the meantime, there were other closer concerns. His wet clothes were weighting him down. Already he was chilled to the bone, and without any heat around he'd sink into shock eventually. A fire would need to be built, or at the very least he'd have to find a means of getting his clothes dry. It was strange to have to worry about these mortal concerns. Fortunately, Arthur had seen enough in his experiences to know that dying from exposure wasn't a fun way to go. He pushed up onto his feet with this goal in mind. The Englishman dragged his soaked jacket further around his body as he went staggering down the hallway. His body felt sore, likely bruised from being tossed around in the churning waters, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to lie down somewhere without having to get back up anytime soon.
He began testing the doors along the corridor, trying his luck to see if any of them would reveal anything useful. A fireplace, or blankets, or something combustible that he could use to make an improvised fire. There had to be something around that he could use for getting warm again. Arthur paused with his hand hovering near one of the doors, tilting his ear upwards. He could have sworn that he heard movement from somewhere down the corridor. In a meek voice, hoping that it wasn't anything hostile, he called out to the source of the sound. "Hello? Is anyone there?"
Blackness.
He knew that he was drowning. Could feel the burning in his lungs from holding his breath for too many long, desperate minutes. Arthur could not fathom how he had come to this. Just minutes ago he had been walking with Francis through the stretch of a corridor, and now? A sudden rush of water with enough force to send him tumbling head over feet, spinning in that tumult with one last strained grasp for the Frenchman's hand in his panic. Of course Francis would likely fare better. The other man could swim, while he -- no. No such luck.
There was only clawing in the darkness that drowned out all traces of light, feeling along floating furniture and walls until Arthur's hand had finally broken through to crest upon a dry surface. The Englishman hauled himself up from the water, sputtering and hacking with every pulsing protest of his deprived lungs. His clothes felt as if they were weighted, far heavier than before, and his limbs were weary from the effort to clumsily make his way to safety. Arthur rested prone upon the landing, cheek upon the time-faded fabric of carpet, dripping until the entire span of fabric around him was darkened by moisture.
It wasn't just the fear of the water that had pitched him into panic; it was the darkness too. That blasted darkness. For Arthur, the shadows were a potent threat that he had never shaken despite facing greater hardships. At least he had managed to free himself from both. He waited for the harsh burn in his lungs to subside before weakly pushing himself up onto hands and knees to search his surroundings. His lips were shaking, teeth chattering from the cold chill of the water as he croaked out a concerned question. "Francis?"
Of the Frenchman, there was no sign. The unity they had enjoyed together in the graveyard outside had been easily shattered by the latest trick of the Manor. Arthur tried not to let the disappointment crush him. He tried not to consider that the waters might have claimed Francis. Cautiously, Arthur forced himself to the edge of the water to stare down at those depths with wide eyes and a crestfallen twist to his face. He considered himself brave in almost everything, yes -- but try as he might he could not force himself back into that water to try and seek out the Frenchman. Just the spawned idea froze him more than the lowered temperature of his body, and Arthur dug his fingernails into the carpet in frustration, teeth clenched until his jaw ached.
He might have guessed that security would pass. Having Francis at his side, that old enemy and ally, had provided Arthur a sense of comfort in believing that there was a chance in them getting out of this situation. Now that was gone again. He was so intensely frustrated that he could have cried. Instead, the Englishman channeled that into anger, fingers going flat as he slapped his palms down hard upon the ground, venting that impotent rage. His enraged voice accompanied the sounds of those slaps, volume pitching higher. "Damnit. GODDAMNIT! FUCKING SHIT! BUGGER, BUGGER, BUGGER!"
Arthur clapped a hand over his mouth to silence his tirade. Shouting like that could bring him all sorts of trouble. He tried to steady his breathing behind the press of his palm, forcing his body back under his command. It wouldn't do to lose his head when there was so much danger around. There was no way of knowing what could be lured to him if he continued being overwhelmed by his anger. The Englishman swallowed heavily to choke down the thick lump of emotions in his throat, until that weight rested like a lead weight in his gut. He would find Francis again. Fate had a sneaky way about sending them to cross paths. All Arthur had to do was wait it out until the Frenchman turned up again. Patience was key.
In the meantime, there were other closer concerns. His wet clothes were weighting him down. Already he was chilled to the bone, and without any heat around he'd sink into shock eventually. A fire would need to be built, or at the very least he'd have to find a means of getting his clothes dry. It was strange to have to worry about these mortal concerns. Fortunately, Arthur had seen enough in his experiences to know that dying from exposure wasn't a fun way to go. He pushed up onto his feet with this goal in mind. The Englishman dragged his soaked jacket further around his body as he went staggering down the hallway. His body felt sore, likely bruised from being tossed around in the churning waters, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to lie down somewhere without having to get back up anytime soon.
He began testing the doors along the corridor, trying his luck to see if any of them would reveal anything useful. A fireplace, or blankets, or something combustible that he could use to make an improvised fire. There had to be something around that he could use for getting warm again. Arthur paused with his hand hovering near one of the doors, tilting his ear upwards. He could have sworn that he heard movement from somewhere down the corridor. In a meek voice, hoping that it wasn't anything hostile, he called out to the source of the sound. "Hello? Is anyone there?"