Post by Missy on Feb 17, 2013 16:13:52 GMT -8
Because all of you gave me feels, here's my kokoro. It has been brokoro.
Includes: Kirkland angst, Iain/Este and Estelle's important relationships with her friends.
Includes: Kirkland angst, Iain/Este and Estelle's important relationships with her friends.
Five minutes.
It was really only a brief span of time, merely a flicker of a moment if one was to step back and look at life in whole. Yet how five minutes could mean so much as well - a piece of eternity, a lifetime of choices coming back to haunt you. Consequences, finally returning home.
Five minutes, that was all that he'd asked from the guards. They had let him through, of course; who would deny the Quartermaster? One might wonder what business he would have with a criminal, 5 minutes from the end. To gloat, perhaps? Or maybe to relish in the victory of the capture. Who knows? Who could comprehend the workings of that brilliant mind?
(He just wanted to say goodbye.)
Somewhere the church bells rang. Five minutes to the end.
She sat in the centre of a vast, white room, bare of anything save the chair she was bounded to. No noise, no movement, no life. One could find the ribbon end of sanity in this room and Iain wondered if that was more merciful.
But she was sane, very sane; he could see it in her eyes. They were smiling, just as she was, an unfitting simper and tasteless mirth. How very much like her, to see humour even at a noose's knot. She would never allow her smile to falter. He knew that - he knew her.
Sinner, lover, Public Enemy No. 1 - Estelle Aimée Bonnefoy.
He knew her.
There was so much to be said, things that had ran through Iain's mind as he pieced together broken thoughts like a imageless puzzle. Yet it all felt like unnecessary rambling now, slack on his tongue like meaningless weight. It didn't matter at all what he said now, her sentence had already been written and in the unforgiving eyes of a merciless society, the world would be a better place in--
(Four minutes to the end.)
(But he needed to know.)
"Ye didne kill him - Arthur. Ye didne."
"Of course I did, honey," Amusement laced her mild words. She would never be phased, never quite honest and always trying to veil her gears even if she couldn't mask the bruises.
"You must have already seen the gun, sweetie. One bullet fired and one missing shell."
"This isnae yer style, Estelle. Yoo're nae murderer." A gun in her hands was a familiar sight and she was no less than proficient in wielding it. That was why it couldn't be her; she would never pull the trigger for a life.
"I know what's going through that pretty little head of yours, Kirkland. You think you know me so well." There was a gentle tremor, a tiny spark in her soft undertone. Perhaps in any other situation, he would be angry. Broken as she was, pride was the remaining thread that held the fragments together. A game being played and she didn't want to lose, but Iain was too tired to move his pieces.
"Ah know ye as well as ye know me, Este."
Then came a silence he did not want but needed it natheless.
(Three minutes.)
"How are they coping?" The other Kirklands, she meant, the ones who were alive but not exactly living. And how could he answer that question? Was there a word suitable for what they were going through? Cerys kept her shaky smile throughout the day, but Iain had heard the cracks in her voice every time she sang. She would cry herself to sleep every night but still she tried to keep the family together. She was the only one trying though.
Aoife was gone. It was easy to track her enough. His little sister found her salvation in her work. Distraction, pain and lies, they were the pillars of her haven. One day, Iain thought, they would find her body at the bottom of a stair case, beaten and bruised, but that would be more preferable to his stubborn sister as compared to moping around in regret. A broken body, a damaged soul, finally returning home in a body bag.
Donny had stopped praying. Cerys had packed them all into the same house a few weeks back, not so much out of concern and love for her shattered family, but as a individual who was so human and so selfish, she simply needed her staple to be in arm's reach. But that was what they all were, wasn't it? Selfish - and human. So human that you're really quite powerless and you look to a higher power and pray to a God unseen for your selfishness to be granted. So what happens then, when pleas go unheard and wishes ungranted? Does one stamp a foot in a bratty tantrum, cursing deaf ears and a cold heart when we ignore that human selfishness bore the mark of blame?
Donny must have done that, Iain could tell from strain on his face and the storm in his eyes. Eyes, beautiful eyes, but hopeless, soulless, godless.
All of his little habits started to drop one by one; hand clasps before meals, soft worship behind closed doors and prompt 'bless you's after sneezes. Silly little actions that Iain would have never thought he would miss.
One day he found the Bible in the bin.
Then there was Peter. Oh, Peter. There was a lump in his throat just thinking about the poor lad. He had not been the same since that day. But of course, who would? He was just a kid. A child needed a pair of shoulders to rely on, to cry on, to stand up on and go so very far, but those shoulders grew slack and Peter tumbled from the stars. Perhaps the Kirklands had performed some serious sort of blasphemy in the past, for God did not even spare the littlest. It has been thirty-seven days since Peter spoke his last word. Five weeks and two days with a kid whose eyes gazed but never saw. They've tried bribing him, begging him and even scolding him, all for just even a murmur of a syllable.
Even Aiden couldn't cheer up his master.
So Peter remained quiet, and the Kirklands forgot what laughter sounded like.
No matter how conflicted relationship ran amongst the Kirkland siblings, there was a constant underlying notion that everyone would be there, right where they are supposed to be, always. But Arthur's death made them confront their own muted desire, a conceited thought that went unsaid but shared among blood. The Kirklands were powerful, the Kirklands were special, but even the Kirklands were not immortal. People die, that was what they do. So ask 'how are they coping' and the only words that could be put together are,
"Fine. Jist fine."
Because all they would truly be from here on was 'just fine'.
Then, Estelle's shoulders buckled as she shuddered under the burden of her stress. They had marked her - and so came a spark of anger - with blooming chrysanthemum and rings of violets scattered across her skin. He crouched down and cradled her face in his palms, tender, as he always was. Of course they would hurt her, Iain thought with a grim chuckle, it would have made them feel so good. Striking her fed their pathetic misogynistic ego and their need for alpha dominance, and who cares for a prisoner who was to be delivered to the noose?
But the blood on her lips told Iain that Estelle did not allow them their satisfaction. She had neither screamed nor whimper, and strikes after strikes, Estelle must have simply smiled, the same smile she was giving now.
(It did little to tamper a fire.)
"Why are you here, Iain? Crumpled clothing indicates that you've been sleeping in it for several nights now, and not very well either, which means you have been out drinking. Not at the lab because you don't spell like sanitizer and machine oil, you smell like Scotch. You drank at home too, alone, because you smell solely of Scotch and if you had company, you would have had the odour of sex and discharge on you. So you're not in the bars, not with your family either, you're here with me. The question is, Iain, why are you running to me?"
God, how was he supposed to respond to that? A slight drizzle of frustration finally broke the drought in him. Trust Estelle Bonnefoy to summon forth aggravation of all emotions.
"If nae ye, 'en who? Ah told ye, Ah willnae abandon ye." She was right; his family needed him, now of all times, but even a great man could be a coward. Everyone had dealt with this in their own way, they all fled to their own pillars, their haven, their sanctuary. And Iain came to his. He didn't have answers, no good excuses either. He simply needed to run away, for at least a coward lived and Iain desperately needed to know he was still living.
"Mah turn 'en," (Two minutes.) "Why are ye daein' this, Este? Ye arenae a murderer."
She wasn't. She couldn't be.
(Why not?)
A sigh passed her lips and suddenly she looked so, so tired. She leaned into his touch and for that act alone, she was swallowing her pride.
(She was so tired.)
"But I am, love." She said. "So I'm sorry,"
"And goodbye."
The strikes came simultaneously; a knee to the ribs and an elbow to the skull. Iain's body slumped heavily to the side as Estelle eased her wrists out of the loosened bondage.
"Well, that took you long enough," She groused mildly.
"Nicoleta."
"Apologies, draga mea," She cooed her lax reply. "I was getting my nails done." Such perfect manicure, indeed, coated with a layer of varnish with its hue as red as blood. And it must have been windy out today if Nicoleta's disheveled, grimy appearances were anything to go on by.
"Well then, honey, ready to skip?" She offered her arm and cracked her a grin.
"Can't, sweetie," Estelle replied breezily with a light smile of her own. "Got to stay."
"...Pardon my French, but why the fuck not?" Her face darkened into a scowl as she snarled.
"Someone needs to die, Nico, and apparently I'm nominated."
"Fuck it, Este, someone else can take a roll in the grave. Someone placed that gun in your apartment to inculpate you; you didn't do it."
"You're taking this the wrong way, chérie. Think of it... as an adventure. We all have to take that journey some day."
"Sure, an adventure. Let's go frolic in the pits of hell and have a lovely little tea party with scones and jam amongst the tormented souls of the damned," Nico drawled, a crease forming between her brows when she slanted a glance downwards. "It's him, isn't it? The reason why you don't want to leave."
"Goddamnit, Este. All this for a man?"
"You're one to talk."
"It's not a good enough reason, Bonnefoy."
"Whoever said I needed a good reason?" She mused lightly. "Out there a noose is waiting for me, and no matter where we run, a coffin that bears my name is waiting. So why run when you're tired? Tick tock, goes the clock. My five minutes is at its end."
"So won't you help me, Nico? Even now, I have my pride. I won't let them win," She laughed, just a bit. "So help me, Nico - running, that would be killing me softly."
"There's no way to convince you otherwise, is there?"
"None."
A sigh, one of defeat and lethargy. The battle is won but the war is lost; the Lawless were fleeing and the good men were fighting. London was burning and Estelle was just the first of many to fall.
A pistol was drawn, levelled with a steady hand. "Why didn't you do it yourself?"
"I would have missed," She laughed, embarrassed by her confession. "Especially now. I can't do it, not with him here. I want to live, actually. I really want to live. But I can't. If not with him."
"You're honest."
(You're afraid.)
"Yes."
Tick.
"Do you want me to pass a message?"
"Tell Carmen that I'm sorry - I can't be the bridesmaid at her wedding. But I'm sure she's the most beautiful bride that the world has ever seen. Thank you."
Tock.
"And Francis, remember that time we got married? I enjoyed being a princess. Thank you for always treating me like one."
Tick.
"Dear Lucille. You're finally free. You're going to be amazing. I'm sorry."
Tock.
"And you,"
She didn't get to say she wanted. A few strides forward, Nicoleta grasped her friend in a tight embrace. The way their body fitted together was all too familiar and their lips found themselves in their last lock, relaying all the words unsaid; apologies for the times they fought, thanks for the memories and laughter, 'you're right' for all the cries that went bad on men that were not.
And, 'I'm glad we met.'
They separated, with the taste of salt and regret on their lips. Silent goodbyes and a faithful salute as the pistol rose in honour.
"One last thing," Estelle said, her eyes fluttering close.
"Tell Iain,"
Click.
"That I know he's listening."
The church bells rang, mourning another end.
It was really only a brief span of time, merely a flicker of a moment if one was to step back and look at life in whole. Yet how five minutes could mean so much as well - a piece of eternity, a lifetime of choices coming back to haunt you. Consequences, finally returning home.
Five minutes, that was all that he'd asked from the guards. They had let him through, of course; who would deny the Quartermaster? One might wonder what business he would have with a criminal, 5 minutes from the end. To gloat, perhaps? Or maybe to relish in the victory of the capture. Who knows? Who could comprehend the workings of that brilliant mind?
(He just wanted to say goodbye.)
Somewhere the church bells rang. Five minutes to the end.
She sat in the centre of a vast, white room, bare of anything save the chair she was bounded to. No noise, no movement, no life. One could find the ribbon end of sanity in this room and Iain wondered if that was more merciful.
But she was sane, very sane; he could see it in her eyes. They were smiling, just as she was, an unfitting simper and tasteless mirth. How very much like her, to see humour even at a noose's knot. She would never allow her smile to falter. He knew that - he knew her.
Sinner, lover, Public Enemy No. 1 - Estelle Aimée Bonnefoy.
He knew her.
There was so much to be said, things that had ran through Iain's mind as he pieced together broken thoughts like a imageless puzzle. Yet it all felt like unnecessary rambling now, slack on his tongue like meaningless weight. It didn't matter at all what he said now, her sentence had already been written and in the unforgiving eyes of a merciless society, the world would be a better place in--
(Four minutes to the end.)
(But he needed to know.)
"Ye didne kill him - Arthur. Ye didne."
"Of course I did, honey," Amusement laced her mild words. She would never be phased, never quite honest and always trying to veil her gears even if she couldn't mask the bruises.
"You must have already seen the gun, sweetie. One bullet fired and one missing shell."
"This isnae yer style, Estelle. Yoo're nae murderer." A gun in her hands was a familiar sight and she was no less than proficient in wielding it. That was why it couldn't be her; she would never pull the trigger for a life.
"I know what's going through that pretty little head of yours, Kirkland. You think you know me so well." There was a gentle tremor, a tiny spark in her soft undertone. Perhaps in any other situation, he would be angry. Broken as she was, pride was the remaining thread that held the fragments together. A game being played and she didn't want to lose, but Iain was too tired to move his pieces.
"Ah know ye as well as ye know me, Este."
Then came a silence he did not want but needed it natheless.
(Three minutes.)
"How are they coping?" The other Kirklands, she meant, the ones who were alive but not exactly living. And how could he answer that question? Was there a word suitable for what they were going through? Cerys kept her shaky smile throughout the day, but Iain had heard the cracks in her voice every time she sang. She would cry herself to sleep every night but still she tried to keep the family together. She was the only one trying though.
Aoife was gone. It was easy to track her enough. His little sister found her salvation in her work. Distraction, pain and lies, they were the pillars of her haven. One day, Iain thought, they would find her body at the bottom of a stair case, beaten and bruised, but that would be more preferable to his stubborn sister as compared to moping around in regret. A broken body, a damaged soul, finally returning home in a body bag.
Donny had stopped praying. Cerys had packed them all into the same house a few weeks back, not so much out of concern and love for her shattered family, but as a individual who was so human and so selfish, she simply needed her staple to be in arm's reach. But that was what they all were, wasn't it? Selfish - and human. So human that you're really quite powerless and you look to a higher power and pray to a God unseen for your selfishness to be granted. So what happens then, when pleas go unheard and wishes ungranted? Does one stamp a foot in a bratty tantrum, cursing deaf ears and a cold heart when we ignore that human selfishness bore the mark of blame?
Donny must have done that, Iain could tell from strain on his face and the storm in his eyes. Eyes, beautiful eyes, but hopeless, soulless, godless.
All of his little habits started to drop one by one; hand clasps before meals, soft worship behind closed doors and prompt 'bless you's after sneezes. Silly little actions that Iain would have never thought he would miss.
One day he found the Bible in the bin.
Then there was Peter. Oh, Peter. There was a lump in his throat just thinking about the poor lad. He had not been the same since that day. But of course, who would? He was just a kid. A child needed a pair of shoulders to rely on, to cry on, to stand up on and go so very far, but those shoulders grew slack and Peter tumbled from the stars. Perhaps the Kirklands had performed some serious sort of blasphemy in the past, for God did not even spare the littlest. It has been thirty-seven days since Peter spoke his last word. Five weeks and two days with a kid whose eyes gazed but never saw. They've tried bribing him, begging him and even scolding him, all for just even a murmur of a syllable.
Even Aiden couldn't cheer up his master.
So Peter remained quiet, and the Kirklands forgot what laughter sounded like.
No matter how conflicted relationship ran amongst the Kirkland siblings, there was a constant underlying notion that everyone would be there, right where they are supposed to be, always. But Arthur's death made them confront their own muted desire, a conceited thought that went unsaid but shared among blood. The Kirklands were powerful, the Kirklands were special, but even the Kirklands were not immortal. People die, that was what they do. So ask 'how are they coping' and the only words that could be put together are,
"Fine. Jist fine."
Because all they would truly be from here on was 'just fine'.
Then, Estelle's shoulders buckled as she shuddered under the burden of her stress. They had marked her - and so came a spark of anger - with blooming chrysanthemum and rings of violets scattered across her skin. He crouched down and cradled her face in his palms, tender, as he always was. Of course they would hurt her, Iain thought with a grim chuckle, it would have made them feel so good. Striking her fed their pathetic misogynistic ego and their need for alpha dominance, and who cares for a prisoner who was to be delivered to the noose?
But the blood on her lips told Iain that Estelle did not allow them their satisfaction. She had neither screamed nor whimper, and strikes after strikes, Estelle must have simply smiled, the same smile she was giving now.
(It did little to tamper a fire.)
"Why are you here, Iain? Crumpled clothing indicates that you've been sleeping in it for several nights now, and not very well either, which means you have been out drinking. Not at the lab because you don't spell like sanitizer and machine oil, you smell like Scotch. You drank at home too, alone, because you smell solely of Scotch and if you had company, you would have had the odour of sex and discharge on you. So you're not in the bars, not with your family either, you're here with me. The question is, Iain, why are you running to me?"
God, how was he supposed to respond to that? A slight drizzle of frustration finally broke the drought in him. Trust Estelle Bonnefoy to summon forth aggravation of all emotions.
"If nae ye, 'en who? Ah told ye, Ah willnae abandon ye." She was right; his family needed him, now of all times, but even a great man could be a coward. Everyone had dealt with this in their own way, they all fled to their own pillars, their haven, their sanctuary. And Iain came to his. He didn't have answers, no good excuses either. He simply needed to run away, for at least a coward lived and Iain desperately needed to know he was still living.
"Mah turn 'en," (Two minutes.) "Why are ye daein' this, Este? Ye arenae a murderer."
She wasn't. She couldn't be.
(Why not?)
A sigh passed her lips and suddenly she looked so, so tired. She leaned into his touch and for that act alone, she was swallowing her pride.
(She was so tired.)
"But I am, love." She said. "So I'm sorry,"
"And goodbye."
The strikes came simultaneously; a knee to the ribs and an elbow to the skull. Iain's body slumped heavily to the side as Estelle eased her wrists out of the loosened bondage.
"Well, that took you long enough," She groused mildly.
"Nicoleta."
"Apologies, draga mea," She cooed her lax reply. "I was getting my nails done." Such perfect manicure, indeed, coated with a layer of varnish with its hue as red as blood. And it must have been windy out today if Nicoleta's disheveled, grimy appearances were anything to go on by.
"Well then, honey, ready to skip?" She offered her arm and cracked her a grin.
"Can't, sweetie," Estelle replied breezily with a light smile of her own. "Got to stay."
"...Pardon my French, but why the fuck not?" Her face darkened into a scowl as she snarled.
"Someone needs to die, Nico, and apparently I'm nominated."
"Fuck it, Este, someone else can take a roll in the grave. Someone placed that gun in your apartment to inculpate you; you didn't do it."
"You're taking this the wrong way, chérie. Think of it... as an adventure. We all have to take that journey some day."
"Sure, an adventure. Let's go frolic in the pits of hell and have a lovely little tea party with scones and jam amongst the tormented souls of the damned," Nico drawled, a crease forming between her brows when she slanted a glance downwards. "It's him, isn't it? The reason why you don't want to leave."
"Goddamnit, Este. All this for a man?"
"You're one to talk."
"It's not a good enough reason, Bonnefoy."
"Whoever said I needed a good reason?" She mused lightly. "Out there a noose is waiting for me, and no matter where we run, a coffin that bears my name is waiting. So why run when you're tired? Tick tock, goes the clock. My five minutes is at its end."
"So won't you help me, Nico? Even now, I have my pride. I won't let them win," She laughed, just a bit. "So help me, Nico - running, that would be killing me softly."
"There's no way to convince you otherwise, is there?"
"None."
A sigh, one of defeat and lethargy. The battle is won but the war is lost; the Lawless were fleeing and the good men were fighting. London was burning and Estelle was just the first of many to fall.
A pistol was drawn, levelled with a steady hand. "Why didn't you do it yourself?"
"I would have missed," She laughed, embarrassed by her confession. "Especially now. I can't do it, not with him here. I want to live, actually. I really want to live. But I can't. If not with him."
"You're honest."
(You're afraid.)
"Yes."
Tick.
"Do you want me to pass a message?"
"Tell Carmen that I'm sorry - I can't be the bridesmaid at her wedding. But I'm sure she's the most beautiful bride that the world has ever seen. Thank you."
Tock.
"And Francis, remember that time we got married? I enjoyed being a princess. Thank you for always treating me like one."
Tick.
"Dear Lucille. You're finally free. You're going to be amazing. I'm sorry."
Tock.
"And you,"
She didn't get to say she wanted. A few strides forward, Nicoleta grasped her friend in a tight embrace. The way their body fitted together was all too familiar and their lips found themselves in their last lock, relaying all the words unsaid; apologies for the times they fought, thanks for the memories and laughter, 'you're right' for all the cries that went bad on men that were not.
And, 'I'm glad we met.'
They separated, with the taste of salt and regret on their lips. Silent goodbyes and a faithful salute as the pistol rose in honour.
"One last thing," Estelle said, her eyes fluttering close.
"Tell Iain,"
Click.
"That I know he's listening."
The church bells rang, mourning another end.
