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Raga's Story
05:19 Jun 18 2007
Times Read: 770

This is a background story I made for one of my D&D characters. She's a Tiefling wizard named Raga. Love her to bits!!!







The small figure crept, hunched and cloaked against the cold winter’s morning, out from the shadows hesitantly. In all her few years of life – Raga was never entirely sure how many – she had never been able to walk confidently amongst the other children of her small village. “Freak” they called her, “Demonspawn”, and other things entirely too harsh for children to be calling each other. And then when they ran out of inspiration for hurtful names, they would start on the physical abuse, small childish faces screwed up in hate and anger as small childish fists clenched and battered and threw handy projectiles at her. Raga had learned over several painful years that winter was a bad time to be venturing out alone in the day, as all the other children turned on her as their source of amusement when other avenues were denied to them due to the cold weather.



However today she had no option. Today her mother’s cough had gotten so bad that she had crept, silently and in desperation from their tiny cot on the village outskirts to see the healer. She could not bear watching her poor mother, fever ridden and twisted in pain by the racking coughs, any longer. She had taken their last precious silver piece from its hiding place behind the fire, quietly, without disturbing her mother who had lapsed into a fitful sleep. It was tightly clutched in her hand. She looked at it briefly, drawing reassurance from its bright gleam, before venturing out of the shadows into the village square to reach the healer’s cottage.



She had barely taken five steps into the sunlight when she was accosted. A hard hand pushed her roughly on the shoulder, making her stumble. Crossing her arms defensively across her thin chest, with the silver piece safely hidden in her small fist, she stopped. Hunching further within her thin cloak, she peered out from under her hood. Inwardly she grimaced. It was Roald, the biggest bully in the village, along with five or six of his friends. Roald was the son of the butcher. He was well fed and arrogant and never let an opportunity to harass her pass by.



“Well, well, freak, and where were you thinking of going today, out in the bright sunshine and all?” Roald smirked down at Raga from his lofty vantage of several years’ worth of good food and warmth, while his friends snickered behind their hands at her.



With a timid voice, she stuttered, “N-Nowhere… j-just to the healer’s…p-please let me go…”



Roald laughed unpleasantly and with a sinking heart Raga realised she had said exactly the wrong thing.



“To the healer’s is it then freak? And where would something like you manage to find money for the healer then?” How he managed to make the words drip with so much scorn and derision Raga never knew. “I think that any money you have you must have stolen. Yes, you must have stolen it because we know your whore of a mother can’t earn any money any more.”



Raga tensed, she hated hearing any reference to her mother’s “work”. It wasn’t her mother’s fault; she knew her mother wasn’t bad, she just couldn’t find any decent work. Or no one was willing to let her work for them because of her demonic heritage.



Roald exchanged significant looks with his mates, who moved to encircle Raga. “So, freak, since you stole the money, you have to give it to me.” He moved to grab her wrist, but Raga dodged. She glared up at Roald defiantly. “No,” she said.



“No?” repeated Roald, as if trying the word on for size. “You dare tell me no? Give me the money. Now!”



Raga gritted her teeth. “No,” she repeated. “It’s mine, and you can’t have it. I need it.”



Roald frowned. “Give it to me now, freak. Or else…” He nodded to one of his friends who cracked his knuckles nastily while grinning at her.



Looking around, Raga realised she was surrounded. She swallowed hard, then made a desperate break to her left, dodging the heavyset boy standing there. She had run two or three steps before a heavy body crashed into her from the side, throwing her to the ground and driving the breath from her. Automatically she curled up on her side, the hand holding the silver piece tucked into her body. She felt Roald or someone trying to grab for her hand and started to writhe around on the ground to avoid them. She heard someone swear. Then she felt a kick to her side. Her mouth opened in an “o” of surprise and pain and her hand dropped the coin into the dirty slush covering the stones beneath her.



Roald crowed triumphantly as he grabbed the silver, holding it up into the air and admiring it. He looked down on her and snorted. Tucking the silver into his belt pouch, he sauntered off, tossing back over his shoulder, “Go on, have some fun boys. I’m off to have a warm cider from the tavern.”



His friends looked at each other, then down at Raga lying in the snow. They grinned, then clenched their fists and moved in.



The next few minutes were some that Raga preferred not to recall too clearly in later life. She remembered the cold of the snow on her face and the misty breaths of the boys as they exerted themselves in the cold air. She remembered the sound of fists hitting flesh, of booted feet hitting flesh. She remembered trying in vain to protect herself by curling into a ball and the feel of cruel fingers grabbing her and stretching her out. But it wasn’t until she felt herself being dragged and heard one of them saying, “Let’s take her into the alleyway and… you know…” that she started to fight back.



Baring her teeth she strained against the arms holding her. Her wiry legs kicked out and thudded into someone. She heard a muffled groan, one of the arms let go, and she snaked around and sunk her teeth into the other one. The boy screamed shrilly and dropped her. She landed on her back, banging her head, and lay stunned for a second before recovering and scuttling away on all fours. She had nearly reached freedom when someone grabbed her hair from behind, yanking her head back abruptly. Then a fist connected with the side of her head and she collapsed.



Roald grinned around at his friends. “Lucky I came back, isn’t it. You bunch of girls can’t even keep one freak in check.” He kicked her hard in the side for good measure, and again when all he got was a muffled groan in response. “Right. You two grab her legs, and you grab her arms. If I have to come back I’m at least going to have some fun out of it.”



Roughly he tore the front of her shirt and breeches, exposing her to the cold and the stares of her tormentors. The boys sniggered and pointed at her thin chest and stomach. Roald unbuckled his belt and pushed down his trousers, then without ceremony pushed himself into her.



Raga was jolted back to herself by the searing pain and started to scream. “Shut her up,” said Roald hoarsely. One of the boys cuffed her, but she kept screaming, a thin high sound that carried eerily in the shadowed alleyway. He hit her again, then when that had no effect punched her hard. She slumped, dazed, her body jerking to Roald’s efforts. She could hear nothing over the pounding of blood in her ears. So she didn’t hear the sound of boots running on the cobblestones and an angry voice behind her. She didn’t see as the boys holding her down were dragged off and thrown to the ground to the side. She didn’t appreciate the grace of the punch that connected with Roald’s chin, snapped his head back, and dropped him like a sack of turnips onto his friends. She only roused when she felt soft, cool hands on her hot face. A cloak smelling cleanly of horses and smoke was dropped onto her naked body. Blearily she looked up, blinking blood and tears from her eyes. As her sight cleared all she could see was the face of an angel. Golden curls framed intense blue eyes that gazed into her own. “Shhh,” said the angel, cradling Raga’s thin body in her arms. “Shhh now, it’s all right. I’ve got you. You don’t need to fear any more.”

Loved, and Lost
05:15 Jun 18 2007
Times Read: 771

*Disclaimer: this story is based on characters which I didn't create. It contains implied Slash. If you don't like it, or don't like fanfic, or don't like R/S, don't read.







In the window’s reflection, he sees someone he should know but no longer cares enough to. He ignores them, ignores their aura of sympathy and caring, and stares blankly out into the grey London drizzle.

Footsteps join the reflection. “He’s doing it again.”

A sigh, exasperated yet remorseful. “He can’t keep this up.”

“Bugger him, I can’t keep this up.”

Silence. The voices retreat. He pays no attention, preferring instead to let the apathy consume him. Apathy is preferable to what he would feel since… since… His thoughts skitter away from completing the sentence, even in his mind, like a rabbit fleeing in terror from a wolf under a full moon.

He’s always been quiet, introspective, but now the introspection is merely habit, a façade covering the gaping wound of his loss. Inside he’s floundering, drowning. He’s lost the one sure point of his unsure existence. He doesn’t know how to go on, let alone if he even wants to.

Unnoticed, a solitary tear emerges, gleaming dully in the fitful grey light. Caressingly, it traverses the bleak planes of his face, and drops with finality into his cold cup of tea.

---



He wakes with a start in the night, sure he felt someone just leave the bed, and reaches for the accustomed warmth at his side. Too late he remembers. His defences aren’t up, and the agony sets in. He curls up on his side, head in his arms. His body wracked with grief, he cries, intense, physically draining sobs which exhaust him but don’t give him emotional release. He doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t feel the weight of a slight body sitting next to him on the mattress.

“Shhhh, shhhhh.”

The voice whispers meaningless comforts while a hand rubs warm circles on his back.

He tries to stifle his sobs but ends up keening his grief into the cold dark room. He feels the hand withdraw, grabs for it, and turns into the body seeking comfort as if he were a puppy blindly seeking milk. The body stiffens, then relaxes. Arms encircle his shaking shoulders. A hand strokes his hair. His tears soak the cotton beneath him, but slowly, gradually, the agony quietens and he drops into an uneasy sleep.

When he wakes in the morning the comfort is gone and there’s not even the memory of warmth in the bed beside him.



---



Days pass, endless grey days, as grey as the dismal London weather outside, as grey as a wolf’s coat on its solitary nocturnal expeditions. He refuses to acknowledge the days, refuses to resist the grey seeping into his heart and mind and existence. He welcomes it. Grey is what he feels, grey is how he should feel. There can be no colour in his life, not since his Sun has died. He lets the grey envelop him and welcomes its numb cocooning embrace.



---



“There’s a Muggle saying.”

He ignores the voice, since it is not the one voice he wants to hear.

“It’s better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all.”

A pause, then the voice moves hesitantly closer.

“Come back to us, Remus,” it whispers. “We love you too. We miss him too. Talk to us, talk to me. Please?”

A hand tries to turn his face around, but he resists, and it stops. He hears a sigh, and quiet footsteps leave the room.

Better to have loved and lost? He tries to snort derisively but his throat is too unused to the action to comply. Better to feel this pain, this all encompassing suffocating agony, then not? He’ll never see his smile again, never see that familiar devilish glint in his eyes, never get lost in the wondrous intricacies of that body he knew so well, never feel that sweet ecstasy and shuddering release in his embrace.

Tears well in his eyes, true tears, cleansing; and he lets them fall as he remembers. He remembers their fist kiss, how sweet and shy and awkward and sexy it was, and how he felt like a giddy girl afterwards. He remembers the taste of his lover in his mouth, the feel of him in his arms, and weeps for what he has lost and will never experience again.

“Sirius.” He whispers the name in his creaky disused voice, and bows his head as he lets the tears dissolve some of the grey inside.

Outside, a beam of sunlight pierces the low clouds and briefly gilds the neighbouring Muggle houses as he watches through newly opened eyes.

It was a Dark and Stormy Night
05:12 Jun 18 2007
Times Read: 773

*Disclaimer: this story is based on characters which I didn't create. It contains Slash. If you don't like it, or don't like fanfic, or don't like R/S, don't read.





It was a dark and stormy night, Remus thought melodramatically, staring anxiously out the rain-beaten window into the lightning ridden darkness beyond. Where was Sirius? He was due back hours ago. These were dark times, and being late on a night like this was not trivial matter. Remus went into the kitchen to check the back windows in case Sirius came in that way.



He was just starting to make himself a cup of tea in distraction, when he heard the familiar angry rumble of Sirius’ motorbike striving to out-growl the thunder outside. He turned with a relieved smile on his face that was quickly replaced with concern as Sirius opened the door and stood there, framed by the storm.



“Sirius,” he gasped, “you’re soaking wet. Where have you been?”



Sirius didn’t respond. Remus stifled further queries and handed him the tea towel. “Here,” he said practically, “use this to dry yourself off while I get a towel.”



He quickly filled the kettle, put it on the stove, and turned the element on before heading to the bathroom at a trot. Coming back with an armful of towels he saw Sirius still standing in the same spot, tea towel dry, as he dripped on the lino.



“Sirius, what’s wrong?” Remus asked.



No answer.



He grabbed the top towel and draped it over Sirius’ shoulders, dropping another one on the floor to mop up the growing puddle. The kettle started to whistle, and he turned away to pull it off the stove, but before he could move more than a step he felt Sirius’ cold hand on his shoulder, gripping. He stopped, and turned a quizzical face to his flatmate. Sirius was looking at him, grey eyes stormy and hard, mouth compressed.



He looks terrible, Remus thought, looking at the deep shadows under his eyes and the blue tinge to his lips. More than that though, Sirius looked… haunted, agonised. His face was deathly pale and slicked by the rain. His hair was flattened to his skull, a far cry from his usual easy debonair elegance.



“Sirius,” Remus whispered, barely audible over the shrill insistent whistle of the kettle, “are you OK?”



As if in answer, Sirius’ hand tightened on Remus’ bony shoulder, cold fingers gripping almost painfully. He took a step forward, levered Remus around to face him, then without warning or ado pressed his mouth violently to Remus’ in a fierce kiss.



His lips were as cold and clean and harsh as the blade of a sword. Remus could feel the steel behind the kiss even as his lips parted in a gasp of surprise. He felt the sharp edges of Sirius’ perfect white teeth and tasted rainwater and blood. Sirius’ other hand came up behind his head and his fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tightly, holding his head in place as his mouth was ruthlessly, coldly plundered.



Even though he felt repelled by Sirius’ strange behaviour, Remus couldn’t help but be excited. Finally, he had what he’d been dreaming of ever since they’d left Hogwarts – Sirius in his arms and kissing him. He swayed forward and pressed his hands to Sirius’ cold wet chest, feeling his heart beat. The blood rushed in his ears in a strange, compelling antiphony to the screaming kettle in the background. His eyelids fluttered closed as he gave himself to the kiss. It felt like it lasted an eternity.



Remus was brought back to himself as Sirius wrenched himself free and stumbled back out the door. His bike roared to life in the yard. By the time Remus had gathered the presence of mind to look out the open doorway, Sirius was gone.



Bemusedly, he closed the door against the storm then wandered to the stove and removed the kettle. Gingerly he fingered his chill, bruised lips. Pulling his hand away, he saw a drop of bright red blood on his finger. He shivered and wiped his hand on the tea towel, dropped forlornly on the kitchen floor, then mopped up all the water before heading upstairs to bed.



~



The next day he heard the news – Lily and James killed by Voldemort, young Harry homeless, Peter dead, and Sirius imprisoned for the deed.



Heart breaking, he wept, a quick scatter of tears that was all he could allow himself at the loss of his friends, his dreams, and the potential that had been hinted at. He went on blindly, lonely, trying in vain to reconcile his life, to find answers.





It wasn’t until much later, when his heart had finally stopped aching at the mere mention of his name, that he realized Sirius had been telling him goodbye.



And by then it was too late.

Beds
05:10 Jun 18 2007
Times Read: 774

*Disclaimer: this story is based on characters which I didn't create. It contains implied Slash. If you don't like it, or don't like fanfic, or don't like R/S, don't read.



In the cool of early dawn, two boys lie entwined in the womb-like darkness of their canopied bed. There is just enough light glimmering through the gaps in the closed curtains to make out the gleam of naked pale skin. The boy with the long black hair lies back, cradling the other in his leanly muscular arms. The boy with the short brown hair rests his head on the other’s chest, hand measuring heartbeat, and smiles in sleepy satiated contentment. Stirring with the sun, they turn to each other and greet the day with a kiss, ardent with youth and innocent in their passion.

Love you Moony.

They smile, the day is just beginning.

Love you Padfoot.





On a bright, cheerful morning, two youths lie in an untidy sprawl of limbs, clothes askew and missing and pale flesh kissing the balmy breeze. The youth with the long black hair rests his head on the other’s stomach and smiles as he listens to the fierce growling within. They both laugh, the one even more as his head bounces in time to the other’s mirth. The youth with the short brown hair softly strokes the silky skin of his companion as he smiles his tenderness.

Love you Padfoot.

They hold each other in the contentedness of those who know the world is just for them.

Love you Moony.





On a rainy afternoon, two young men lie together on a bed as far away from each other as they can possibly get. In an uncomfortable silence, they both study the ceiling intently, searching for interesting marks or obvious flaws to occupy their attention. The young man with the long black hair tenses as the other sighs, then slowly gets up. As he puts on his shirt the young man with the short brown hair avoids looking at his lover, lying naked and defenceless on rumpled sheets. He leaves the room and shuts the door firmly behind him.

Love you Moony.

On the other side of the door he lets the tears fall at last.

Love you Padfoot.





On a quiet evening, two men lie together as they have not done for years, cradled in warmth and comfort and love and light. The man with the long black hair stares desperately at the face of the other, leaning anew his familiar features. The man with the short brown hair tenderly holds his lover, wondering at the etchings of time and suffering in his face. They gaze intently into each other’s eyes, re-remembering how it was and discovering how it is now. They talk softly, reminiscing on stolen moments together, moments much like this one except that they were young and bright and free.

Love you Padfoot.

They smile, content to take each moment as an unlooked for blessing.

Love you Moony.





In the darkest depths of night a man lies alone in a bed that should be holding two. His body curves, waiting in vain for a familiar other to join it. Hands clenched in grief and denial, he waits for the words that will never come.









Love you Padfoot.