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London, 1867
Nov. 11th, 2005 12:33 pmOOC: [After this]
There was a crowd gathered on the docks, talking and waving their hands in the air.
"She's clearly Quality. They can't just go dumping Quality down 'ere. They'll have the rozzers on us quicker'n you can jump."
"But what would a girl like her be doin' 'ere that time o'night?"
"Meetin' a lover, an' that jus' goes t'show you she weren't any better'n she should be," a fishwife said self-righteously.
Midir paled slightly, slipping between them.
The sun, fighting it's way through the fog caught a glint of red, turning a curl gold. He started to shake when he met her blue eyes, empty and glassy in death, face frozen in shock and pain.
"Etain..." He murmured it softly, dropping to his knees beside her, heedless of the blood. The crowd pressed in for a moment, then seemed to sense something, moving back.
"The Rozzers'll be here soon," one woman said quietly, almost in warning.
He touched her cheek, but it was cold. How? Why? Why had she been here long enough to be cold? He'd said 9 and the clock had just struck a few moments before.
He choked back tears, looking her over almost desperately for some sign of life, or some clue. A piece of paper, clutched tight in her fist. He extracted it gently, and flinched to see his handwriting. He'd given it to a boy to take to her home, not trusting himself to not just sweep her away if he saw her again.
His handwriting, yes. But the note had been altered, though whether by magical means or human he couldn't say. The nine was a four, and that was all he needed to tell him who had done this.
Four in the morning. Twenty-eight hours from when they'd met. He crumpled the note in his hand, kissed her cold forehead, and closed her eyes.
"I'm sorry, my love. So...but never again. I won't let it happen ever again."
He kissed her again, then moved swiftly to an alley. Glancing around he shifted out of mortal guise and took to the skies in search of his wife.
There was a crowd gathered on the docks, talking and waving their hands in the air.
"She's clearly Quality. They can't just go dumping Quality down 'ere. They'll have the rozzers on us quicker'n you can jump."
"But what would a girl like her be doin' 'ere that time o'night?"
"Meetin' a lover, an' that jus' goes t'show you she weren't any better'n she should be," a fishwife said self-righteously.
Midir paled slightly, slipping between them.
The sun, fighting it's way through the fog caught a glint of red, turning a curl gold. He started to shake when he met her blue eyes, empty and glassy in death, face frozen in shock and pain.
"Etain..." He murmured it softly, dropping to his knees beside her, heedless of the blood. The crowd pressed in for a moment, then seemed to sense something, moving back.
"The Rozzers'll be here soon," one woman said quietly, almost in warning.
He touched her cheek, but it was cold. How? Why? Why had she been here long enough to be cold? He'd said 9 and the clock had just struck a few moments before.
He choked back tears, looking her over almost desperately for some sign of life, or some clue. A piece of paper, clutched tight in her fist. He extracted it gently, and flinched to see his handwriting. He'd given it to a boy to take to her home, not trusting himself to not just sweep her away if he saw her again.
His handwriting, yes. But the note had been altered, though whether by magical means or human he couldn't say. The nine was a four, and that was all he needed to tell him who had done this.
Four in the morning. Twenty-eight hours from when they'd met. He crumpled the note in his hand, kissed her cold forehead, and closed her eyes.
"I'm sorry, my love. So...but never again. I won't let it happen ever again."
He kissed her again, then moved swiftly to an alley. Glancing around he shifted out of mortal guise and took to the skies in search of his wife.
