you're the fiercest calm i've been in - asher stanton

[star studded]

<center>Something is changing inside of me, colors seem darker in light
And I don't know what that means but it's not a good sign
You could just add 'em up, then you could memorize prehistoric bones
And all of those old memories, you could push them out and prep yourself
For brand new information

Don't deconstruct, man, fill me in
I'm not that basic I swear
I've had enough of breakdowns and diagrams

Judging from picture books apparently heaven is a partly cloudy place
And if the sky opened up and they let you in and gave you a formal invitation
Would you go?
You can work from home

Rilo Kiley - Don't Deconstruct

</center>

<center>"So maybe we're a bliss of another kind."</center>

From the London whir of motion, to Manchester's suburban streets, to the halls of Wesley Reformatory to the high rises and bustle of New York City, he was the unlikely hero in the fairy-queen's love story. Whirled up in a storm of pixie dust and intoxication, the mute librarian was thrust from shy sweaters and khakis and into another man's low-slung jeans, pushed on a dance floor and told to live. Living came hard with inexplicable pheonomena, visions of the future, dreams that danced with live action characters and pieces of a fragile past and a thousand things that one was simply not accustomed to. He fumbled through love like a fawn on new legs, tripping over pieces and tumbling beautifully into a new reality, with a home, a wife, a future, a mother, a touch of tragedy and a fairytale ending that not even he could have read in the book stacks of his old library.

<center></center>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ April 11, 2005 06:37 PM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font>

[star studded]

age seventeen. twelfth year. friday, june 14th, 2:47pm
"Breathe.."

"I... can't..."

"Asher, breathe.."

The plethora of boys gathered in his room were beginning to panic. Staring down at Asher as he clutched at his chest in an attempt to force air into his lungs, which rasped with some sort of eerie, bubbling sound. Simon had lunged forward, loosening his tie and collar, stripping him of the navy blue jacket and trying to sit him up.

"It sounds like he's choking.."

And indeed it did. The boy that was skinnier, smaller than the rest of them was shaking his head. It wasn't in his throat. Nothing was in his airway. It was his lungs. His fucking lungs were filling. He jerked and shook, trying to exhale rather than suck more air in.. he had to get it out.

"What the hell happened?"

"I don't know, I was just sitting here.. he was reading on his bed! Just reading!" Simon shouted, Asher's roommate, his closest confidant.. the boy who had seen the scars beneath wrapped palms and nearly vomited when he saw the wounds reopen. They didn't tear.. they inverted.. as though something invisible were pushing through them.

"Asher!"

"Oh fuck, someone get the infirmar--"

"NO! Don't get anyone, don't fucking touch him.. Asher.. Asher, come on.."

He had fallen limp against Simon, who supported him with a panicked expression, chest heaving with adrenaline and fear.

Seconds ticked on. Nearly a minute.

In a jolt, Asher's frail frame snapped to attention, his eyes went wide and he coughed this harsh, liquid-soaked cough, sending some sort of fluid spilling all over the immaculate gray carpet.

"That's it, Ash.. get it out.."

Leaning forward, he coughed and coughed, sputtering the clear, warm liquid out of his grateful lungs and onto a dark stain on the floor. He sucked air in and expelled it, again, again, calming his breath from gasps to a normal rhythm once more.

"You alright, man?"

Asher nodded.

"What the fuck was that?"

The boys remained silent until the boy spoke up.. exhausted and raw.

"Salt water."

-----

shoreside, friday, june 14th, 2:47pm

Miles away, on holiday with friends, Serena Stanton was sprawled on her spine on the beachside sand, coughing up salt water when Michael Larson pumped her drowning lungs to life, after falling off a pair of water skis and sucking in more than her body could seem to handle.

[star studded]

So Pilate asked Jesus, "Are you king of the Jews?"
"Yes, it is as you say." Jesus replied.
Then Pilate announced to the cheif preists and the crowds, "I find no basis for a charge against this man."
-- Luke 23: 3-4

Jesus said, "Forgive them, Father. They do not know what they are doing."
And they divided up his clothes by casting lots.

The people stood watching, and the rulers even sneered at him. They said "He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Christ of God, the Chosen One!"
--Luke, 23: 33-35


I.
"Monsieur Stanton.."

Asher had his head hanging down, focusing on the concept of breathing for the moment, remembering that the lungs had to expand to allow air, his chest had to rise. He'd hold it there and then press it back out again, conscious of the feeling of his lungs contracting, his body temporarily wilting. Exhaling to him always felt like tiny deaths, expelling the refuse of what you took in, the one thing you needed to keep you alive.

"Asher.."

The boy with the sand colored hair snapped to a dizzy sort of attention, his fists clenched , his knuckles pressed to the flat of his desk.. a strange sort of positioning, but Mr. Harper refused to even ask. Asher was part of a troublesome lot as far as he was concerned. He was always quiet and plotting.. he rebelled in his mind rather than in class, and that was the most dangerous sort of upstart.

"Oui, Monsieur.." His voice was quiet, his eyes staring past the instructor rather than at him.

"Comment ca va?"

Asher took a moment, forcing a harsh swallow, scanning his brain for the proper answer, something robotic and immediate, something he had been saying since he was ten years old when he first wrapped the noose of this place around his neck, slid into a navy blue blazer and attempted to turn himself into a shadow.

"Ca va bien, Monsieur." About as steady as his first reply had been, nothing progressed or dented.

Mr. Harper, a snide, skinny man of thirty-something, adjusted his bowtie and wandered to the frail boy's desk. All twenty pairs of eyes in the room were on him. The boys of Wesley Hall knew that he had a grudge against The Boy Who Watched, and right now, those seaglass eyes looked distant and hazy.

"I'm not quite sure you're being honest."

Asher clenched his palms tighter.

"Show me your hands."

"Mr. Harper, he looks like he's gonna puke.."

"Quiet. Asher.. show me your hands."

The boy with the sea scrawled on his face stared up at his teacher, blinking glassed over eyes and shaking his head. He had never spoken back before. Not ever. Humiliation, however, was something much more powerful than one's will to remain compliant.

"Please. Don't make me open my hands." Quiet, solemn, and oh-so-begging. This sort of thing had never happened to the sixteen year old Asher Stanton before, and today (St. Crispin's Day. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.) he had felt his palms aching since he woke.

Mr. Harper took this as an open invitation to reach down and pry Asher's fingers back away from the fists they had hardened themselves into.. revealing a bloody, gore-filled mess. Some boys lurched forward, to see, and Simon Kent nearly lunged at the instructor, but he resisted the urge to slam him to the floor in defense of his friend and roommate. Asher was staring to the side, refusing to look at the mess that was being made on the desk, running blood and broken skin. The backs of his hands were in the same mess. One wound for each hand. Circular. His palm bore the entrance, the back of his hand, the exit.

"Is this how you get yourself attention, Asher? Stabbing your hands with pencils? Look, look at the mess you're making."

"Don't make him look." Simon's voice sounded strong, a boom over the rest of the quiet, curious lull. Mr. Harper replied by grabbing Asher's jaw, twisting his head to stare down at the pool of swiftly spilling blood. It spread over the smooth wooden top of his desk, evidence of the struggle to keep his hands clenched while his teacher pried them open like he was hiding candy or pocket money he had stolen.

Asher's eyes met the bloodstreaks and his broken open palms, which resulted in his face taking on a sick countenance.

"Look at this mess.."

Asher did. He stared at the blood for as long as he could stand, until he leaned his head back out of Mr. Harper's grasp. Wrenching his hands away from him, he skidded his chair back away from the desk, wincing and staring at his bloodied palms. In one strange motion, he was lurching forward to expel that afternoon's lunch over the hardwood floor, a hot, acidic burn that rose in his throat and leaped from his mouth and made his head dizzy. Simon was diving over desks to prevent what he knew would come next. The Boy Who Saw Things couldn't handle this sort of thing. His knees were buckling and his eyes were fluttering into the back of his head, and if Simon hadn't caught him in time, he would have fallen head first against the back of his chair and undoubtedly sustained a nasty smash of his skull.

"Have a fucking heart for once, Harper.." Snapped at the teacher as he was hoisting Asher up to haul him to the infirmary.

"Get back here, Kent!" Echoed down the halls, but it was too late. Doors swung behind him and he never let a voice like that ring in his ears.

"Christ, Stanton.. what the hell is happening to you?" Mumbled as he wound past the white doors of the infirmary wing. The limp body in his arms couldn't hear him. His ears were filled with much more important voices during these moments of unconsciousness.

[star studded]

Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
--Matthew, 5: 8

II.

"This is the third time he's been in here this week, Marge, you think we might send him off to see a doctor.."

"No.. the boy can barely handle being in here, if we send him to Mercy, he might have a fit. I say we call his parents."

The two women in white stared down at the limp and light frame stretched out on the small bed, resting on the white, crisp cotton sheet and covered with a red blanket. His hands were bandaged and he showed no signs of fever.. but he simply wouldn't stop bleeding.

"You know what this looks like, Sharon.."

"I know. I know."

"They say he.."

"I know."

"And his hands.. Sharon, we pulled splinters out of them.. splinters! And the wounds, they were.. they were lined in rust!"

"You don't know it's rust.."

"Christopher Harper says he stabbed himself with a pencil in the middle of class, but I don't believe it. The boy can barely look at blood, I don't think he has the stomach to sit there and stab a pencil through his hand without making a noise. Simon Kent, bless his little heart.. he said that he looked at the blood and threw up!"

"Marge.. stop gossipping, it's not your place."

Marge, her face round and motherly crouched bedside, smoothing her hand over Asher's forehead, brushing his hair back.

"He's not like the rest, Sharon. He doesn't belong here. What did he ever do? The rest of these boys.. arsonists, street rats from good families. This boy .. he gets headaches. He sits in his honors classes and never makes a peep.. and that Christopher Harper.."

"You're gossipping.."

"I don't bloody care that I'm gossipping, Marge! That git has another thing coming to him, torturing Asher Stanton because he simply has nothing better to do.. spreading all those nasty rumors about how he lacks discipline and strives for attention. Attention is the last thing this boy wants.."

"Are you his mother? Do you know these things? He's here for a reason, because his parents couldn't handle what he did at home, so they left him up to Wesley. It's bound to be good for him. Teach him discipline.."

Marge shook her head, blinking down and pulling her hand away from his forehead with a gasp.

"Sharon!" Hissed as she stared at her hand, and then at the place where his hair met his forehead, gasping and nearly tumbling back.

"Bleeding.. his forehead.. it's bleeding, Sharon.."

Marge could barely catch her breath as Sharon rushed to dab at blood that barely trickled in rivulets from his brow. Slight, pin-prick scratch marks all along his forehead.

"It's just like.."

"Don't you say it, Marge. Don't you say it."

But the round, trembling woman spoke anyway, in a silent, petrified whisper. "..they stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head."

[star studded]

"Do you refuse to speak to me?" Pilate said. "Don't you realize I have
power to either free you, or to crucify you?"
Jesus answered, "You would have no power over me if it
were not given to from above. Therefore the one who handed
me over to you is guilty of a greater sin."
--John, 19:10,11

III. three weeks before commencement.

"If the test is not returned to me by noon tomorrow, the entirety of this class will fail not only it, but the remainder of the semester." Mr. Harper's voice rang like ominous churchbells. Repent for your sins or suffer the wrath of hell. Asher, sinking into his seat, scanned the faces of the other boys in the class, trying to discern which one managed to sneak into the French classroom and swipe the test questions and answer key. Maybe Harper just misplaced it. Maybe it was David, he was always struggling when it came close to test-time. Asher had attempted to study with him a few times, but to no avail.

The bell sounded, forcing the boys in identical blazers and ties to shuffle their books into their arms and file out one by one in a cacophony of accusation.

"I'm not failing this test because of you, Williams, I know you fucking took it--"

"That's bullshit! Sean hasn't cracked a book all year, you think he's gonna start now? No way, much easier to steal the bloody test, isn't it?"

Asher was tempted to cover his ears, green eyes darting around in search of an escape of what he assumed would turn into a hallway brawl betwen the boys that couldn't keep their tempers in check. Simon was beside him, looking equally distressed. The dark-haired roommate could rob three convenience stores in one week, and nearly set his house ablaze in a fit of rage, but shove him in a corridor with boys just like him and his alerts were on high.

"Someone ..." Asher's voice was cracking with static, so he cleared his throat and started over. "Someone must have taken it, unless we can prove that Harper just misplaced it. So it's best that whoever took it, just admit it now.. or return it. It's a breach of the Honor Code, and none of us want to sit in front of the disciplinary jury.."

The boys stared in awe. That was the most they had ever heard Asher speak in a stretch.

"I don't give a shit how it's returned. I swear to God, I'm going to beat the fuck out of whoever took that test.." Carter took to storming off, signaling for the rest of the crowd of boys to disperse.

the following morning.

Then Peter remembered the words Jesus had spoken.
"Before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times."
And he went outside and wept bitterly.
-- Matthew 26:75

"Aren't you his closest friend, Simon? What would make you bring this to me? Other than you, of course, could get in trouble too if you kept it hidden.."

"... I'm just his roommate, Mr. Harper."

two days later.

"Asher Stanton, do you understand why you have been brought before us?"

He sat folded in a leather and wooden chair before a table of seven instructors, including Mr. Harper and the headmaster himself. All in all, it made his hands tremble.

"N-not entirely."

"Allow me to refresh your memory, then." The headmaster flipped open a manilla folder and read to him, adjusting a slender pair of bifocals that reminded Asher of the ones his grandfather used to wear. "You've been accused of stealing the copy of your French five Honors final exam, with the intent to use the questions and answer key to your advantage, and compromise the integrity of the exam. I remind you that upon your being entered into the Honors program here at Wesley Reformatory, you signed an Honor Code that stated that each and every aspect of your academic career here is taken on with the utmost amount of honesty."

Asher nodded. Silent, his fingers gripping the edges of his chair as he darted vision from one panel member to the next. The headmaster continued.

"The events are as follows. Mr. Harper reported his copy of the exam missing from his briefcase on the twelfth. On the thirteenth, a student reported seeing the exam in your desk drawer, and upon investigation by the head of your dormitory hall, the missing test was retrieved from that location."

Asher nodded again.

"I can imagine your classmates aren't particularly pleased with you. Tell me, Mr. Stanton. Did you steal the test?"

"No." Answered confidently, without a waver in his voice.

"Then why haven't you appealed your case with us? You've been quite compliant."

"Someone has to take the fall. No one's going to confess. We gave them a chance, we said that they could just slide it under Harper's door before the next day, and no one did."

"So you're sacrificing yourself for what? If you didn't take the test from Mr. Harper's room, you're awfully noble for martyring yourself for the good of your classmates."

"I didn't take the test."

"I don't believe you, Mr. Stanton, and frankly your antics are starting to become tiresome. Constant phantom illnesses, countless injuries.. I have half a mind to invite your friends in here and leave you to their brand of justice."

That was even more frightening than being expelled. Asher opened his mouth to protest, but the sound of the door whipping open made him crane his neck. Staring, he saw Simon, nearly out of breath from sprinting down the halls.

"He didn't take it. Asher didn't take it."

"Simon Kent, this is a closed hearing--"

"Asher didn't take it. Carter--"

"You were the one that came to Mr. Harper with the evidence against him, and now you're going back on it? Did you lie, Mr. Kent?"

Asher could barely feel the breath in him flowing.

"No. Carter Hill confessed to planting the test in Asher's room. That's why I found it there, that's why .. I told you."

Harper looked distressed and defeated. The headmaster seemed intrigued.

"Where is Carter Hill right now?"

"Outside. He came with me, he's ready to talk.."

"Mr. Stanton, Mr. Kent, if you'd excuse us, I'd like to see Mr. Hill in here alone. Wait in the hall, we might need you."

Asher and Simon retreated from the room as Carter, who was broader than the both of them pushed past in a frenzy of self-depricating rage, slamming the door behind him. Seated on the oak bench outside of the office, Asher folded hands in his lap, Simon beside him.

"I'm sorry that I told them you had the test." Simon spoke quietly, staring at Asher's clenched hands. The Boy Who Saw Things simply stared down at them before glancing over at his roommate.

"You did what you had to do."

[star studded]

four years past. age twenty. seventeen months in new york city.

What do you want?

Asher's head snapped to the left, and the spoon he was holding dropped to the floor. A loud, startling noise, metal on wood. Who was that. That voice was familiar. Speak again. Speak again.

I don't have anything. I told you to leave. Just go.

"Hello?" Head looked in the other direction. No. No, he was alone. Reality check. He was used to this, having to make sure he was awake. Fingers waggled, toes moved. Yes. Yes, he was awake. In dreams, he couldn't move his fingers or toes on command..

"Hel--" And in a swift motion he was expelling air, doubling over, sending a bowl of soup crashing and knees crumbling to the carpet. A punch. Right to the stomach. But there was no one. There was just him, struggling to suck in air, and feeling pinned. Right on his back.

'No!

"NO!" Asher's mouth bled the same word, because his tongue swelled with it. For a moment, there was blankness.. a swirling black, even though his eyes were wide open. But that gave way to a much more gruesome image. He had seen green once before, blossoming fruits and trees higher than New York buildings. Now.. now. The fruit rotted on the vine, the leaves wilted and withered, the flowers were colorless, the green a dull brown. Flies swarmed at rotten fruit, maggots crawled. And Asher felt invaded.

Breaths game in digging, ragged gasps, and he felt tired, overworn.. run over. Skidding his spine along the carpet he flailed a leg, slamming it into the coffee table and overturning it. And in a moment he was up and running, clammoring up the stairs, only to plant face first in the miniature hallway, skidding palms along the ground, bloodstains running from them. His adrenaline screamed so high that he didn't even feel the common, usual pain, or collapse at the sight of the red. He felt like he had to run. To get up, and run. Legs pressed beneath him and he was clawing his way into his white-washed bedroom, just to collapse on the carpet again. A moment of peace. Safe. For a moment, he felt safe.

Safe moments were fleeting.

He had come to learn this, which was why when he jerked to his side, and attempted to kick something off of him that wasn't there, he wasn't that surprised that his moment of calm didn't last too long. A choke of breath in his throat and it felt like he was being sliced in two, jerking, his chest compressed, struggling for breath. It felt like there was something wrapping his throat, like a choke chain on a dog, and he gasped for breath around it. Choking. He was choking to death and there was nothing he could do but pry stunted fingernails at his neck until he left red trails in the wake.

Sixty seconds. It took sixty seconds before his lungs gasped their last, and eyes fluttered into black (but not before suffering through visions of dirty fingernails, bloodstained concrete and a body he recognized.)

Two minutes. If there had been paramedics there, they would have pronounced his body legally and clinically dead for two whole minutes. His ressurection would have lacked an explanation, but somehow, his heart beat again, his eyes pried wide, and his lungs ballooned to life.

[star studded]

four years and three days past. age twenty. two days in manchester.

"On this mountain He will destroy the shroud that enfolds all peoples, the sheet that covers up all nations; He will swallow up death forever. The Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces.."

If the circumstances had been any different, he would have been elated to be in Grosvenor Square again, among the droves of people. Instead, he was cramped inside St. Augustines, amidst a crowd of whispers and choked out sobs, pressed between his catatonic mother and his stoic-stone father. He had noosed himself in a tie, his suit a solid shade of charcoal. The young boy bore an uncanny resemblance to his father, which was something whispered among the crowd of people clad in a collective hue of funeral black.

He had made it through the processional as the stone one, with his mother clinging to his arm. He had prayed silently, clutching plastic rosary beads, and knowing that after this, his rosary would be replaced (a new blood colored one would sit wrapped in cloth in his top drawer, and when he would crack the lid of the box he kept it in, he would forever smell this place and the roses that they dressed her casket in.) He barely drew himself to stand when the rest of the congregation moved in one wave of creaking pews and shuffling cotton. A masculine palm gripped his arm and he moved with it, his father instructing him silently to rise. Gripping the back of the pew in front of him with cotton-wrapped hands, he could barely force the ash in his throat to crack and give way to words that came so easily before.

"Our father who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy Name.."

His fingers clenched wood so hard that he thought his fingernails might dig into it in frustration. The clotted wounds of his palms began to crack in protest from the strain, his throat clogged with words he had never said. His parents said nothing about the blood stained gauze. They just hugged him and told him to be well. To be strong through the mass for their sake, for her sake.

"Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.."

Serena. God Serena.

"They say he chased her not even half a block before he caught her and raped her. A jealous ex-boyfriend. She had just gotten engaged, too. He choked her to death.. the poor dear. The family couldn't even have an open casket wake, she was so .. they say her older brother knew. Just inexplicably knew. He flew out here from the states before they even called to tell him what had happened.."

He felt dizzy, and his legs felt faltering. His head swam with seawater-thrashing thoughts, and thousands of rumor-whispers in his ear. The Boy that Bled was going to bleed eternal for this. A stone of hurt rose in his throat, and he felt his eyes glossing with saline. Keep it together.. he had promised his father he'd keep it together. The crowd murmured, seawater eyes slid to glance at the casket, red and white roses, twined with dasies and baby's breath, all colors that reminded him of his younger sister. His protector, his defender, the one person who believed that his hands were not his fault, and that his mind was far from sick. He had died when she did, in a heap on his bedroom floor, and he regretted that he was not stuck on cold, wet London concrete like she was. He regretted that his death was not longer than two minutes.

Tears he had held back rolled, and he smeared at them with the reverse of his wrist, catching them on the cuff of a white shirt. His father caught his arm.

"Not here. Don't you do this here." Hissed at him in a whisper.

"Wh--" Glancing down at his wrist, he saw them. Tearstains of streaking, warm red. Fingers touched his cheekbones, wiping the residue away to stare at it.

Blood. His eyes were leaking a thick, coppery mixture of saline and blood.

"Not here. You won't turn your sister's death into another circus."

No. No he would not.

Palms smeared his cheeks before anyone could see. There would be no more tears. Not through the end of the mass. Not through the psalm reading at the cemetary. Not back at home.

He would not make this his circus. He resolved that morning that he would not allow himself to ever cry for Serena Stanton's death.

<font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ March 31, 2004 09:55 PM: Message edited by: shipwrecked ]</font>

[star studded]

give me hope, give me hope
wake me up and give me hope

Sleep. Who slept anymore these days anyway? Certainly not Asher, but that was for a simple reason. He was afraid of what happened when he closed his eyes, what weird things crept into his brain and left messages and twisted his thoughts. He heard Serena when he slept lately, so he had stopped. He had just stopped going to bed. Going to sleep was no longer an option.

Exhaustion caught up to a body after nearly seventy two hours of being awake. He was sprawled out on his couch, his head drooping back, an arm dangling off the side, the book he was reading tumbled on the floor, the pages creased from the fall. Asher Stanton had finally lost his battle with the waking world.

Deep breath. Wake up.

Eyes shot open and he jolted to life like an overdose patient shot with adrenaline, with one heaving gasp. The same living room. The clock flashing twelve. Power outage? Fuck. Standing, he was stumbling towards the kitchen to check the appliances in there.

Stop.

"Who are you?"

The petite thing before him was barely waist high, well dressed.. blonde and pale and strangely familiar looking. He was about to reach out, to touch her in an attempt to see if she was real or just a figment of his imagination, but he was interrupted by a thunk from upstairs. Her head shot up to stare at the ceiling in response. A scar. He had to remember that, a scar, a scar.. a...

He couldn't move his toes. He wasn't awake, if he was awake he'd be able to wiggle his toes. He had to wake up. Had to remember, a scar, a scar, a scar. He thrashed his arms, he jumped and screamed, pounding screaming, he tore his kitchen to wreckage, smashing mugs. The nameless girl with the scar simply stood there, staring at him.

"WAKE UP!"

It took him screaming in his own fucking dream to finally wake himself up, in a tangle of sheets and sweat. On his floor. So that had been the thunk. A deep breath and he was staring at the clock.

12:00. Blinking.

Bare feet and cotton, he was a blur, smearing down his tiny flight of stairs towards the kitchen, skidding into it, wide eyed and searching. Panting, paranoid, and still overheated. His head ached.

Nothing.

A scar. A scar, he had to remember. Watch-glance. 3:47 am.

Fumbling through his coat pockets, he retrieved a napkin with a phone number scrawled on it, underneath effeminate script that read 'Julia'. He'd make an early morning phone call and unlike most, he wouldn't be bearing bad news. He had a feeling. And feelings with Asher were the closest thing to fact.

[star studded]

once upon a time
before the Lord, the skies they parted
so a few must die
to bring us back to where we started
two at a time
do what you're told

A casual London evening alone, in the midst of an unoccupied hotel room. Asher was sprawled on the bed, shorts and a t-shirt, his socked feet sticking up. If he rocked his foot back and forth, he found it mildly amusing that he could cover the face of Tony Blair on the television. A remote press and the channel changed. He turned to his side.

Something pinched.

"Motherfu--" Reaching behind him, he pressed a hand to the spot that felt needle-stabbed. It faded, so he ignored it once more, attempting to pay attention to the television and nothing else. Moments later, he casually shifted back to his spine, which proceeded to feel immediately on fire.

"Wot the fuck!?" Sitting up, he contorted an arm behind him, just to discover that touching only made what was embedded in his back sting further. "Ow. Ow ow ow.." Wincing, he turned to stare down at the bed. It was littered with little green slivers of plant, stinging and sharp. Nettles? Yes. Little green stinging nettles.

Gently, he pried the cotton shirt over his head and set the pins free from his skin in one rip, his jaw clenched, a little grunt of pain at the feel of it. Feet hit the floor, and he turned to head towards the bathroom for a quick inspection of body damage, but stopped short. There was someone in his way.

The same girl from his previous dream. Blonde hair. White nightgown. She turned around. The same nettles were stabbing at her back and down her arm. Whether or not she was a mere apparition was inconsequential right now, and he crouched down, imploring her to come forward.

"Come here. I won't hurt yew.." Hushed sweetly in a pronounced British lilt. She obeyed, tentatively, silently, and he held out his hand for her to take. "Squeeze tight."

His other hand proceeded to pluck the little needles from her back, from her arm in swift motions. The longer it took, the worse it would feel, so he worked quickly, and within moments, he had freed them all. "Better?"

She nodded.

"Do yew have a name?"

Rocketing from the sheets, shooting to a seated upright, snapped from a dream, Asher Stanton found himself hysterically screaming the same word over and over again, for want of someone who was an ocean away (or so he thought) to hear it.

Kate.

[star studded]

Three was his sacred number for various reasons. The representation of two extremes and a moderate, the concept of two molding into one, of one coming from two. But the night before he would have sworn up and down that the number he was searching for was not three. But two.

Wrapped in sheets and gripping a pillow beneath him, his eyelids fluttered in the process of waking. There was no one beside him anymore, but he was sure she hadn't gone far--the bustle from the kitchen below said so. Eyes still closed, he rolled, dragging the sheets with him, sprawling on his back.

There was a sensation in him that felt like spikes being driven through him, and the pain was so sharp and sudden that he couldn't help the cry that came from his throat. Slamming back onto his stomach, he refused to pry his eyes open. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to see. Reaching behind him, he felt along the slope of his spine, wincing and biting at the edge of the sheet he had pulled up around him to stifle another choked out cry. The skin was raw and warm, wet. Sticky. Blood. It was blood. He, after all this time, knew the feel of blood on skin.

He had to look. He just had to see. Had to assess.

Green eyes pried open, and Lani's sheets had been ruined. Someone had been murdered on them.. or that was how it seemed to appear. Blood soaked the sheets beneath him, his hands had smeared red down the pillow and the tops of the sheets. His feet stung, ruining the bottom of the bedsheets with sticky, copper smelling fluid. Pushing up on his hands, he stared at the mess below him, at the way his hands were gushing, feeling the slow roll of viscous blood down his torn apart back.

Six lash marks. Six. A perverse, impure double of three.

He had to throw up. The overwhelming tightening of his stomach told him so, and when his throat opened and he lurched forward, nothing came but a nauseous gagging sound. This was bad. This was terrible. This was awful. This was the worst thing that could happen after a night that he could commit to his list of most amazing things to happen. Another gag, a choke, and he attempted to stand himself on the floor to no avail. He had to crawl. Hands and knees, elbows pulling him from the bedroom to the bathroom floor, where he collapsed, gasping for air.

There were whispering voices between his ears, voices he remembered, and words that only he could recognize.

This was his punishment. This was his repentance. This was what happened to the Holy, when they consummated marriage with the base.