forum Gold Chains and Fingertips (Romance) (REBOOT) (Closed, One on One)

Started November 14, 2018 by @Desvelarse pets

tune

(Right)
Ember looked over to his sleeping, unearthly pale mother. "I'm sorry, Mama. What I'm about to do…. but for you. Forgive me, please." he whispered, gently brushing a strand of curly, grey hair from her sallow, sunken, tired eyes, and kissing her forehead. He then tiptoed through the house, eventually coming to an abandoned cellar. There were three rooms nobody ever entered, and this was one. The only real reason they had was that there was an ungodly amount of mildew that no amount of cleaning spells would remove, and it wouldn't work well for storage. There was no point in entering. So this would be the safest place. Ember cleared of a patch of the concrete floor, and took a piece of red chalk from his pocket. He adjusted his rectangular spectacles, then began to draw a symbol on the floor. A very specific symbol. He then recited an incantation, and waited. Please, oh great and powerful goddess Naelia, the goddess of life and death, I beg of you, let this work. he prayed silently, fingering a small silver charm. Naelia's charm. It was the one that had chosen him, after all. She was from that point on, his patron goddess, the one he was generally obligated to pray to for just about everything. That was partially why he chose to continue his father's work. He stated at the symbol on the floor, waiting.

Thatcher didn’t feel well. The subject was putting up a fight. He considered it to be useless. More specifically, he thought that humans fighting to their last dying breath was a pointless act. The man- a Tyler Alder- had his stomach sliced open by Thatcher’s scythe. Yet the man was still struggling to cover the gaping would and take gasping breaths. He was almost curious of the way that the man fought for every breath he could take.

His eyes flicked away from the dying man and over to the large hound standing impatiently nearby. The three headed hellhound, Nike, was giant seeming. She was up to his shoulders in height, and he stood tall at 6’4. She looked to be built of all muscle, but he knew well that she was just a puppy at heart. Considering that at times she shifted into a moody 13 year old girl with a personality disorder, he thought that ‘preteen’ would be a better word over puppy.

He had been about to finish off the dying man when he felt a jerk on the inside. He let out a gasp before grunting. The force almost forced him to fall, and Nike gave a soft growl. No. He knew exactly what this was. It had happened before many years ago, but he was free. But sure enough, he was suddenly appearing in the circle that appeared to be in a cellar. He appeared disoriented at first, still splattered with the man’s blood. His icy blue eyes snapped to the man standing before him, and he know realized that he was a slave once again.

"Oh my patron goddess, are you alright?!" Ember asked, noticing first thing that the man before him was covered in blood. Just like his father had been when they finally found the body. Ember suddenly felt sick. He shook the memory off, and turned back to the man. Reaper. He wasn't sure if Reapers technically counted as people, having never even seen one before, and only having heard a few stories.

Thatcher ignored the individual’s question. He looked around, and appeared to be about to step out of the symbol, but there was a force that kept him from doing so. With a gruff noise, he flicked his hand. His scythe should have appeared, but it didn’t.

He turned on the man, his eyes seeming to burn with hatred. “You insolent swine!” he suddenly roared in an enraged tone. This was unnatural. A Reaper should not be controlled by a lowly mortal. “You are lucky that I am unable to slaughter you where you stand,” he growled. But he remembered Nike. She would find him, she always did. She would help him get out of this situation.

"Okay, why the ever-loving fuck are you up at this hour, and-" a young girl, around 19, peered in the doorway, face contorted with rage. She looked rather similar to Ember, but with longer hair and a tattoo of a sun on her left wrist, although she still had the very same glasses he wore. "Just leave it, Poppea. I'll handle this. Just go back to sleep." Ember ordered. The girl, Poppea apparently, glared. "You know what, I'm not even gonna ask." she said dryly, rolling her eyes and walked off. "Sorry, my sister. Poppy means well, she's just… well, Poppy. Anyways, stop insulting and threatening me. I only need one thing from you, okay? So, how does the whole thing work? I'm a little unclear on concept. You can heal people, right?" Ember asked, tone suddenly turning urgent.

“Of course you are unclear,” Thatcher hissed. These mortals knew nothing. It wasn’t as simple as needing one thing. He would be bound to the goddamn person until they died or were killed. The last time, he had to wait until the man died of old age.

It was during medieval times. The man was a rich englishman who turned out to be very greedy in a sense that he wanted all the riches in the world. He had summoned Thatcher, thinking that the Reaper could kill to get him what he wanted. Thatcher had been miserable. Reaper’s weren’t meant to be controlled, they were meant to naturally keep the balance. And the man barely had him killing. It was like buying cooking utensils and never cooking anything. He was made for a specific purpose that was wired into his brain, and he wasn’t able to complete those purposes.

But healing was a whole other topic. Healing would take years off of a Reaper’s life. He had only healed to save Nike one time about a century ago, but that was it. “I can,” he simply stated, a hateful edge to his tone.

"Right. There's a woman. My mother. I want you to heal her. How do I make that happen, exactly?" Ember asked. If this did work, he would be eternally grateful. "Also, you don't really have to stand there anymore if you don't want to." he motioned to the circle.

Of course, the male’s mother. That was to be expected. The male seemed like he didn’t know anything about Reapers whatsoever. “You don’t make it happen, I do,” he growled in an annoyed tone. He gave the other a sharp look at the male’s second comment. “You ignorant fool,” he snapped. “I can’t. You need to break it,” he huffed.

"Okay, right. So to leave, the circle must be broken. Got it. Alright, do I just do this then?" he asked, rubbing out a little of the chalk circle's edge. "Now, can you help me?" Ember said, a little quickly.

Thatcher watched as the male made a break in the symbol. He promptly stepped out of it, and the large scythe appearing in his hand. He resisted the urge to slash the other male, ending it switftly. But that would get himself killed as well in a much more painful and slow way.

“I would rather not, but I have to,” he growled. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing it from his eyes. He would waste his life force, but he would be forced to do it.

"Okay, good then. Is there any specific way I need to, like, officiate it or something?" Ember asked, a little stupidly. He had just then noticed how attractive the Reaper was, and urgently pushed the thought from his mind.

Thatcher’s eyes narrowed at the mortal male. He dug into his pocket and took out a slip of paper and a pen. “Name and intention,” he huffed. God, how he hoped that this man would just drop dead so he could be free of this slavery. He held it out, looking at the other in an impatient manner.

"Esmeralda Jane Wick, healing." he muttered aloud as he wrote. "Now please, help her." he pleaded, his voice lowering into a broken, pathetic whisper.

Thatcher watched reluctantly. He snatched the paper away from the mortal when he was done writing. He glared at it for a moment before turning on his heal. He seemed to know exactly where he was going as he left the cellar, and eventaully found himself standing in front of a sick looking woman. He stared down at her before bringing his own scythe to his wrist, slicing open the skin so blood could flow out. But the blood was not red. No, it was a shiny white tone. In a literal sense, it was white gold.

Ember followed, and watched in awe as the color began to return to his mother's face, her pale cheeks becoming rosy once again. "Mama?" he whispered. "Ember, baby? Is that you?" Esmeralda asked. "Mama, you're okay now, you're fine. Just sleep. You'll feel much better in the morning." he said, hugging her. "That's what you always say, my little lion." she chuckled weakly. "Don't worry, Mama. Just rest. I'll be up with breakfast in a few hours, okay?" he asked. Ember's mother gave a sigh that approximated to an affirmative, and fell back to sleep. She hadn't even noticed Thatcher. "Thank you. You… you can go now if you want. I won't keep you." Ember said quietly, as to not wake his mother.

Thatcher watched the interaction, his blood still dripping. He had dripped the blood onto the woman’s lips, which had allowed her to be heald. His wrist ached something terrible. The metal of his scythe would cause the wound to stay open longer than usual. His eyes snapped to the male when he was addressed. He almost could have let out a harsh laugh.

“That is not how that works. I am enslaved to you until you die, you fool,” he growled.

Ember's face blanched. "Well, I didn't quite anticipate this." he said slowly. "Come on, I don't want Mama to freak out if and when she wakes up." he beckoned, trying to sort the situation in his head while maintaining calm.

(Hey, sorry for not answering last night, I was with a friend for the evening!)

Of course the mortal didn’t. No one ever read the fine print, the warnings that came with this job. Thatcher had his wrist pressed to his black button up, and he assumed that it would leave a clashing white stain on the fabric. He had given a grunt in response to the male, throwing a glance back at the sleeping elderly woman.

"So, er, my bedroom's this way. We can chat there." Ember offered, leading the Reaper to a simple room, with grey walls and curtains, and a bleached white bedspread, as well as a dresser and bedside table and walk-in closet. There was a planetary alignment chart on the ceiling, and vials of all sorts on the dresser. "It isn't much, I don't normally stay here. Busy, work and all that."

Thatcher followed after the male at a leisurely, slow pace. He didn’t see the point of owning such a home. He had resided in various motels most of his life. He didn’t need to sleep, or eat for that matter, but it was nice to shower and get the blood off of his skin. His eyes scanned the inside of the room as he stayed silent. He should be working, but now he is unable to.

"My na!e is Ember. Ember Wick. You are?" he asked, sitting down on his bed. The springs creaked a little loudly beneath him.

Thatcher stayed standing near the doorway. He kept quiet for a moment, and could have sworn that he heard a howl in the distance somewhere. Finally, there she was. “Thatcher Wain,” he introduced, tilting his head to look away from Ember and to somewhere else in the room.

"Th-that's a… a pretty, er, name…." Ember trailed off, heat rising to cheeks.