[Changeling] The Storm

Outside of Smoking Rocks, the storm raged. Either every gust of the cutting wind, the entire building shook down to the foundations. The sidhe, sitting in front of the picture windows looking out onto the bay, estimated that the entire structure would be gone by the end of the night. He wasn't sure if it was safe to remain inside the building - but it certainly wasn't safe to be outside. Not that it truly mattered, in the end. The storm would, by the end, sweep everything away.

He was such an idiot! He had theorized that this would happen, months ago, when the Gates first starting drinking the very glamour from the land. The gates would suck everything into Arcadia, and then explode it outwards as a new Dreaming was created. There was always the chance that anything of the "old" Dreaming would be obliterated in the creation of the new - how could you create anything new without removing the old?

But he was suckered. He allowed the hope that the opening of the Casque of Sorrows had filled everyone with to blind him. He had committed the ultimate sin for an academic, and lost his objectivity. And now everyone who stayed behind was going to pay the price for his failure, for not convincing them of the danger and that the only way to survive was to go through the gates. He hadn't, though, and now everyone was going to die.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. On a table next to him were the objects of the new world that was supposed to have been. At the bottom was a letter printed with the letter-head of Harvard University, dated from the previous summer. It was an acceptance letter; he hadn't been able to go at the time because he couldn't afford it. He knew the others would have gladly paid for his entry, but he could never bring himself to ask. A few days earlier, he had hoped fervently that they wouldn't mind if he used their money to go anyways.

On top of the letter was a picture. He had taken it last summer, at the Renaissance Festival in Sterling. Catalin was smiling in the picture, as she so often was. Charles wondered where she was now. Probably at home. He had tried, in the first hours of the storm, to drive out of Boston, to get to her. He had nearly killed himself on 95 - he couldn't see a thing, but every other motorist assumed that he could see just fine. He still didn't entirely know how he had made it back to Smoking Rocks after the attempt. He looked over at the photo, and prayed that Catalin would at least meet her end with her family.

That was it, then. There was one more thing to attend to. He had made a promise to keep the stories alive, for future generations. Given matters, there was just one way he could make sure that happened. He stood up, his hand reaching down and taking a book from the side table. His purposeful stride took him to the door and then outside, into the storm. He could feel it blowing, shredding the very glamour from himself. His voile was quickly shredded to pieces in the cutting blades of the wind. It didn't matter - he kept moving, as best as he could. He headed for the spot overlooking the ocean.

When he got there, he could barely stand. He fell, in fact, nearly tumbling over the edge before he caught himself. He made it up to his knees, setting the book out onto the grass before him. He could see the storm wearing away at the cover, trying to rip apart the glamour of the book itself. He couldn't let that happen - he would not let that happen. From a pouch that was barely holding together (from a pair of jeans that didn't look ratty at all), he pulled a knife. He didn't know how the process would work, but he hoped that if he gave the book enough glamour, it might hold against the storm, long enough that at least some of it would survive. The problem was that he didn't know how to do it. And so he was guessing.

He brought the knife up, and held out the other arm, watching the storm carry away the fragments of his shirt. He placed the flat of the blade against his wrist and closed his eyes for a moment, uttering a small prayer to anyone that was listening that this would work. After a moment, he opened his eyes and, without a moment's more hesitation, slashed once with the knife. The blood welled up quickly, more quickly than he thought it would. When he thought the wound was deep enough, he turned the wrist over. Slowly, painfully slowly, he drew his wrist around the book. His head swam as he finished and he felt moisture on his cheeks. He wasn't sure if it was the rain, or if it was the tears.

As the darkness descended over him, as he surrendered to the storm around him and waited for death to take him, he had one last thought. I'm sorry, Catalin.