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

[star studded]

give me life
give me pain
give me my
self again

"He walks."

The words echoed in an almost empty church mass. Hardly anyone lit votives on Monday evenings, and when the Boy Who Knew was there, lighting one after the other and mumbling Latin laced prayers, the fact that there were assorted other men wandering the aisles made him slightly unnerved. Fingers lightly touched at forehead, chest, shoulder and shoulder while his eyes slid from staring at the rows and rows of patchwork flame to the strangers he hadn't seen here before. And that in itself made veins twitch.. he knew nearly everyone in this place. At least everyone that came to Sunday mass and stayed long enough to socialize afterwards.

Turning when the man beside him stepped forward, he realized who it was almost instantly, and nerves slowly calmed themselves back to a regular thudding pulse instead of a jackhammering pounding.

"Father Andrew.."

A palm slid to Asher's shoulder, and whispered words echoed throughout the nave.

"When he walks, there will be disciples who will undoubtedly follow."

"Wot?"

"There will be Romans who will try to oppress him, my child."

Asher's eyes took on a dark and uncharacteristic confusion. Usually riddles came so clear to him, but there was a trickery in Father Andrew's voice that he could not seem to pin down and decode.

"There will indeed be a reckoning when the Son of Man walks once more." Robes swished as he retracted his steps, leaving a befuddled boy in front of the altar, staring after him. He came here to seek clarity and he had been left with nothing but a broken puzzle stretched before him.

"I don't know wot yew mean!" Asher's voice rang pristinely off the walls, and his blood dripped cleanly onto the tile from clenched palms. The Boy Who Knew remained oblivious.

"You will, son. You will."

<font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ May 19, 2004 11:47 PM: Message edited by: shipwrecked ]</font>

[star studded]

"Don't you think it's about time we tell the boy, John?" Elizabeth Stanton was standing over her coffee cup with a stern stare, her hands wringing as she plodded the kitchen floor in her favorite blue housedress, blonde-graying hair pinned up like some moviestar, which it appeared she could have been. Her face was aging, but it still held up like a Grecian monument. John, however, wasn't so lucky. Tall, broad, but aging, from the lapse of hairline all the way to the crows feet at the corners of light eyes.

"Are you absolutely mad, Lizzy? He's already sick, telling him will just fuel his little delusions more.."

"He's not sick..."

"The doctors said he was! Are you going to stop trusting them too!? What else do you need in front of you, more tests? We can call and have them.."

"No! No more tests, no more medicines, no more doctors.. he's had enough. Leave him alone, ever since Serena... he's been touchy, John, sensitive. I just think he ought to know.. maybe it can help him.."

"Help him? How is telling him going to help him? It's just giving him what he wants to hear, don't you see? He wants to believe he's some saint, some gifted martyr.."

"That's not true, you don't know that that's what he thinks."

"Do you listen to the boy when he speaks, Elizabeth!? He's been telling us for ages about the voices, he only stopped when I said I wouldn't hear it anymore! All of his nonsense, you drove it all into his head! Every last bit of it! You encouraged him and listened and now you want to tell him? I don't understand you, it's almost like you want to keep him sick!"

"He isn't sick, John!"

The room echoed in silence when John Stanton's fist crashed into the counter top like a judges gavel declaring a case closed.

"To hell with the lot of you then. Tell your precious son all about it, Elizabeth, tell him every last lying little detail if it helps you sleep at night. But know that when he goes out and strings himself up on a cross, that the guilt won't be on my head! No more of this. I don't want to hear another word of it, do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Do you understand!?"

"Yes!"

The front door slammed and for a brief, fleeting moment, Lizzy Stanton swept a hand over her stomach as if in aching, heartbreaking remembrance.

[star studded]

"He exists."

"The living and breathing?"

"He is not without legions, rest assured."

"And he knows of his honorable fortune?"

"You shall take him at your will. I will be there to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us."

"..of sound and motion."

"...wary of what he knows..."

"It is time."

The flutter of speech and sound reminded him of echoing wingflaps, doves released and scattering away, the sound dissipating as it moved further and further from where he was. Where he was, however, seemed inopportune at the moment. Resisting the urge to cover his ears, Asher spent a cold hard moment staring at the reflection of his face in an ornamented bathroom mirror.

"Time?" A British murmur was visible, his mouth moving to construct the word clearly and quietly, in hopes something, somewhere would answer.

Nothing.

Why was there never an answer back? Why was there never dialogue? Why was he the only one listening? In abandonment and disgust, The Boy Who Knew turned his face away from its reflection.

[star studded]

Part One.

Full Name:? Asher Malachi Stanton.
Goes by..: Asher.? Mr. Asher.? Mr. Stanton.? I work in the kids' room at the library, cut a guy a break.
Current location: (I wanna be a part of it) New York, New York
Description: Lots of floors.? And a mess.? We're working on it, however.
Occupation: By day, a mild-mannered librarian.? By night?? Batman.

Current age: Twenty four.
Date of birth: December 31st.
Birthplace: Manchester, England.
Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of parent(s): John Stanton - 50.? Headmaster of St. Michael's School for Boys.? Lizzy Stanton - 47.? Math teacher.
Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of sibling(s): Serena Stanton.

Height: Six feet!
Weight: 145.
Hair color: Brownish.
Eye color: Blue-green.
Left-, right-handed, or ambidextrous: Ambidextrous.? It comes from going to a Catholic school and being naturally left-handed.

Heritage/Nationality: Slightly French.? Mostly British.
Religion: Catholic.
Education: A few university courses.
Marital status: Unmarried, but involved.
Children: None.

Part Two.

Likes: I don't know, I like a lot of things!?
Dislikes: Not much.? Lies, I don't like lies.? And laziness.? Unless I'm really tired.
Phobias: Heights, gore, fire, sharp things..

Part Three: Do you...

Smoke: No.?
Cuss: If you rile me up, I become quite the trash mouth.
Sing well: I don't sing, really, I yell.? Or at least, I think so.
Sing in the shower: Terrible, embarassing habit, really.
Talk to yourself: I certainly do.
Believe in yourself: Yes!
Play an instrument: I've got years of piano with Sister Anne under my belt.? She was a stickler, that one.
Want to go to college?: I'd love to.? Want to pay the tuition for me?
Want to get married?: I'd like to some day, yes.
Want to have children?: Dozens.?
Think you're a health freak?: I attempt to watch what I eat.
Get along with your parents?: We have our arguments, but it's only because they love me, really.
Get along with your siblings?: Yes.

Part Four: Current...

Clothes: Slacks and a t-shirt and sweater.?
Mood: Quite pleasant, actually.
Music: Joni Mitchell - Both Sides, Now.
Taste: Um.? My mouth?
Make-up: Well, I've got a bit of rouge on.? Kidding!
Hair-style: Um.? Short?? Lucy calls it bed-head.
Annoyance: Itchy collar!
Smell: Paint and plaster.
Book you're reading: I'm rereading my copy of Hamlet In Purgatory. It's this collection of essays about religion in Shakepeare--yes, I'm going to stop there.
CD in CD Player: I believe I have Elliot Smith in there somewhere.
DVD in player: Horatio Hornblower! Oh, and Nicholas Nickelby is going in next!
Refreshment: I am a sucker for apple juice.
Worry: Long story. I am a worry wart.

Part Five: Favorites:

Food: I am a sucker for fish. Like, salmon, or something along those lines.
Drink: Juice of the apple or orange nature.
Color: White.
Album: Oh my, I have so many it would be impossible to pinpoint.
Shoes: I have a pair of really comfortable sneakers?
Candy: Orange tic tacs are discreet and delicious.
Animal: Sid.
TV Show: I liked Friends and then it went off of the air. So my Thursday nights are reserved for reading now.
Movie: Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park.. I am a sucker for period pieces.
Song: Famous Blue Raincoat - Leonard Cohen
Girl's name: Serena, Anne, Leah.
Boy's name:? David, Michael, Stephen.
Vegetable: Hmm. I like peppers on things.
Fruit: Apples and oranges. So traditional!

Part Six:

If I were a month, I'd be: March.
If I were a day of the week, I'd be: Sunday.
If I were a time of day, I'd be: 6pm.
If I were a planet, I'd be: Mars.
If I were a sea animal, I'd be: A big whale. I'd love to take up that much space!
If I were a direction, I'd be: Up.
If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be: A big chair.
If I were a sin, I'd be: Oh dear. Um. Sloth?
If I were a historical figure, I'd be: Guy Fawkes.
If I were a liquid, I'd be: Water.
If I were a tree, I'd be: An olive tree.
If I were a bird, I'd be: A sparrow.
If I were a flower, I'd be: A tulip?
If I were a kind of weather, I'd be: Windy.
If I were a mythical creature, I'd be: A satyr. They were decadent and fun.
If I were a musical instrument, I'd be: Organ. Loud and echoing.
If I were an animal, I'd be: A bird.
If I were a color, I'd be: White.
If I were an emotion, I'd be: Calm.
If I were a vegetable, I'd be: A potato.
If I were a sound, I'd be: A chorus of voices.
If I were an element, I'd be: Air.
If I were a car, I'd be: Can I be a bicycle?
If I were a song, I'd be: The Water Is Wide
If I were a movie, I'd be: Harry Potter!
If I were a food, I'd be: Cotton candy.
If I were a place, I'd be: Picadilly Circus.
If I were a material, I'd be: Cotton.
If I were a taste, I'd be: Sweet.
If I were a scent, I'd be: Clean laundry.
If I were a religion, I'd be: Catholicism.
If I were a word, I'd be: Open.
If I were an object, I'd be: A book.
If I were a body part, I'd be: Hands.
If I were a facial expression, I'd be: Smiling.
If I were a part of a house, I'd be: The closet.
If I were a subject in school, I'd be: Theology
If I were a cartoon character, I'd be:? Schroeder.
If I were a shape, I'd be a: An equals sign.
If I were a number, I'd be: Three.

<font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ May 24, 2004 02:31 AM: Message edited by: shipwrecked ]</font>

[star studded]

It was a reticient thing that lingered in the back of an otherwise nervous brain. It buzzed and whirred there until something struck the match that lit it aflame, sparking a whole new level of this .. this thing! He had no name for it. It wasn't a talent, or a blessing, or a curse. It was like an extra sort of sense, without being sensory at all. It was a key.

A child had followed him today. On his way home from work, weaving in and out of people, Asher had a penchant for people watching. He'd rudely eavesdrop on brief parts of people's conversations, watch the way they checked their watches like they had places to zoom to. Today had been different. Today he had been plagued. A boy no higher than his waist, scurrying up to him and babbling in some sort of play-language. He ran around the ecstatic in circles, tripping him up and making him stagger. People shot him strange sideglances, and he was sorely apologetic. His release had been arriving at the library. The boy had stopped at the bottom of the steps to the door. He had tried to alert Carla, but she told him to hush. Looking back out the window, the boy had taken off.

He could have sworn he saw something. Something darting behind the books on the second floor. Behind the American History section, something moved.

And now here.

Lani had fallen asleep after endless questions answered and the quiet whispers that he attempted to soothe her into sleep with. He found that it was like putting a child to sleep sometimes. If you stroked at their cheek, or their spine, they were instantly calm and groggy. And if you sang lullabyes, they were yours eternally.

His eyes were closed. There was something itching them to open.

"Wake up, Asher."

When he did, he rocketed from the mattress to sit up, his throat raw from a choked out scream that he couldn't push back down or quiet. His chest heaved, his palms smearing at betraying eyes. No matter how loud he screamed (and screamed), or how hard he clawed, a voice and face were forever embedded into the back of Asher Stanton's already busy brain.

[star studded]

A friend loves at all times,
and a brother is born for adversity.
--Proverbs, 17:17

"Don't do that." Asher's voice was quiet, poignant and informative. This was, after-all, her training session. The chess board spread before them was a scattered jumbled mess of hand-carved wooden pieces. Lucy watched over the darker pieces like an expectant muse, mournful as each one was plucked away by Asher's steady hand. She kept her queen immobile, advertently guarded by the assortment of pawns she had left, a rook here, a king's bishop there.

"Why not?" Her fingers draped over the rook warily, as though he were setting a trap. Clear nails barely grew past the tips of her fingers, and Asher noted the way she chewed her bottom lip in heavy concentration. She never lifted her pieces off of the board, just slid them around, her fingers acting as catalysts for fluid movement rather than the Hand of God on this sprawled out battlefield as his did.

"I'll have yew in check." He pointed to his clear path, right through the side she'd absent-mindedly leave open. His finger twitched in the route of intended attack. For such a sweet boy, she thought, he sure was a vicious chess player.

Her sigh was in lazy frustration, dual fingertips instead bracing the base of a heavy pawn to ease it forward across the board. His knight would gobble it up, but she assumed that self-sacrifice for the life of the queen would be a noble way to die.

"You aren't supposed to tell me that. However will I learn?"

Asher's glasses were readjusted, his expression stoic and contemplative. This was the oldest she had ever seen him look.

"Blessed are the merciful, Lucy, for they will be shown mercy."

[star studded]

What time was it? Five-thirty in the bloody morning. Asher's bones creaked as he sat up, fumbling drunkenly from bed to bathroom, his shoulder hitting the wall as he ushered himself inside, fumbling to flick on the light. The door behind him was closed, and he peered at his face in the mirror. Drunk. Red and drunk. But he hadn't swallowed a drop. Smearing his hand over his face, in an attempt to sober up, he sighed.

Something inside of him said something was very, very wrong.

His stomach felt full, as though he had just eaten a huge meal that wasn't going to agree with him in a few hours. Lazily, his head shook, and he backtracked a step or two to wheel himself to sit on the side of the bathtub, forearms stretched out before him. Hands shook. Fists clenched unknowingly. His body did not feel under his own control.

"Wot, wot, wot do yew want now, wot are yew trying to tell me..." It was directed to no one in particular, because he was well-aware that who he talked to most about these things never listened. No healthy dialogue. Just orders, and this. This shit. He was just waiting for it, for his palms to tighten and open up like seas once parted.

Instead, it was his left wrist, slicing in a slash-mark of strange proportions. It hurt, so he cried out, folding his forearm into himself for two reasons. Pressure on a wound, and a refusal to look at the blood it was obviously going to spill.

He wanted to throw up. He needed to throw up.

In a rather crude motion, he was kneeling on the floor, knees thunking to linoleum, his head full like it was stuffed with cotton. Two fingers slid into his mouth and he pressed down on the back of his tongue. His body lurched, his gag reflex kicking in, but nothing was coming up. One more attempt only yielded another dry-heave.

He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to do anything. He just wanted to sit here and wait it out. Just.. wait it all out, because things like this ended with time.

Oh God, but who? Whose body was this?

"Lani!" He called in a rather authoritative tone, because he knew the fairy-queen was asleep in bed. "Lani!" Louder this time, just incase she didn't happen to hear. Dizzily, his head dropped and he yanked it back up again.

"Come here!" Now.

The only panic Asher ever endured was the empathetic kind.

<font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ June 21, 2004 08:29 PM: Message edited by: dead ends ]</font>

[star studded]

london. spring. eighteen years old.

The chapel used on the Wesley campus was more like a cathedral, its vaulted ceilings high and emcompassing. The music that filled it, the only sound allowed, was in a minor key, the raised notes stringing in sad, somber tones. The boys of Wesley Hall were staunch and pressed, all identical. Navy blue blazers with the seal of the school emblazoned over each and every sinful heart, trousers light and pressed, shoes shined and tied. Their collars were starched, the blue and sand-colored striped ties around their necks in perfect Windsor knots. The only thing different about them were their heights, ages and faces, though each expression was taut and stoic. Their progression into the pews was silent, each boy genuflecting at the edge of the pew before sliding in to take his seat.

This was Sunday. Just like any other Sunday in the famed school. Inside these walls, the boys lost their silly, youthful smiles. They had no traces of playful aggression, no charming laughter, no wisecracks. They were mere vehicles of God sent to sit and listen to the warnings set out to them. Wayward paths were preached against, the torment of Hell struck into the heart of each and every boy. The oldest boys sat furthest front, the count down to their release becoming more and more evident every day. Hands folded, deep voices chiming in unison when prompted to, everyone raising from their seats to recite the Lord's Prayer in eerie unison.

One by one they filed up the center aisle, mouths and hands open to intercept the small, paper-flavored wafers and the sip of wine. Asher Stanton stood in the line of the oldest boys, his footsteps muffled as they wandered in slow, paced steps up towards the priest. As he stood at the head of the line, his movement paused. The wafer was offered up and his mouth opened, letting it settle on his tongue. Lips closed, fingers dancing from forehead to sternum, across both shoulders.

There was a disruption to the silence and stillness of the service. The boys' line faltered and turned into a huddle as the thin and tall frame of Asher Stanton went tipping. Simon Kent stood behind him, as usual, and the moment the boy's knees began to buckle, he was stooping forward to catch him beneath his arms. Limply, he toppled, eyes knocked closed. The scuffle was strange, nothing had ever disrupted service. Nothing was allowed to. The staff that sat and stood behind the boys were craning their necks to stare over in an attempt to see what had set the room into a storm.

Christopher Harper had shoved to the front of the crowd to see Asher being scooped into Simon Kent's grip.

"Where are you taking him." It was a harsh demand from the man whose hand reached to wrap Simon's upper arm. The dark-haired boy wrenched out of his grip, the protector hovering over his roommate and friend as he slid through the wondering group.

"The infirmary."

"Bring him back here!"

Simon paid no attention, the dark wooden doors of the chapel backed through and pushed open as he started the burdened walk across campus.

[star studded]

I remember that morning's mass. I remember getting up and getting dressed. I remember sitting. I remember the sermon. I remember the hymn. I don't remember the eucharist. Which is just as well, I suppose. That's when Simon tells me that I fainted. I wasn't dizzy, or distracted, or bleeding. I just .. fainted.

The nurses ran over Asher's story several times, keeping him home from class the next Monday just to ensure that there would be no added stress so soon after something so sudden. When he did return to classes, it was with the same silent, obedient air that he had any other time. Books were tucked under an arm, and he dipped silently into the French classroom, tucking himself into his chair and flipping over to the assignment he had already completed. A French composition was dragged from between the folds of notebook cover and first neatly-written page of notes, and it was handed up to the student in front of him. A quick lock of eye contact sent his stare back down to his pages.

"Monsieur Stanton. Glad to see you've joined us today."

The voice was familiar and chilling, one that cut through the clutter of conversation before the boys hushed themselves and sat still. Harper walked through with a stiff-edged air of confidence, sweeping towards the boy's desk and glaring down at him. Asher kept his head down, staring at notes rather than at the man leering over him like a storm cloud ready to burst.

"Are we going to have another episode today, Asher, or have you had your fill of the necessary attention you so desperately crave?"

Asher's jaw locked into place his mouth a line of firm resolve. Simon watched from across the aisle as his friend bubbled and boiled and never said a word.

"Well? Are you going to answer me, or have you decided to become defiant as well?" Harper's hands flattened to the top of the boy's desk and Asher's strangely calm stare slid to his right, looking up at the man before his mouth dared to form words.

"It wasn't a ploy for attention." He paused, his courage mustered for the wrong and right reasons. "Sir."

"Well what was it then? A swoon? A phantom illness?"

"I fainted, sir."

"I find that terribly difficult to believe."

"I imagine you would." It was the most daring thing he had ever managed to say to someone in a more powerful position than him, and his adrenaline immediately started to pulse through him, his chest tight, his breath starting to come a bit more deeply.

"Are you going to sit there and tell me that all of your strange occurences this term have not been the obvious attempts at gaining some sort of sympathy and displaced affection from your peers that you obviously lack from your parents? I have dealt with children like you for years, Stanton, and when I see something like this.."

"You make your bloody foolish, inaccurate assumptions."

The room stilled. Simon winced. Asher stared straight ahead into the face of his own personal terror.

"Are you saying I'm wrong?"

"Not at all. I'm saying you're incompetent, brutish and unfeeling--" In one swift motion, the collar of his jacket was snagged, and he was being dragged to his feet. Shuffling and sidestepping as he was dragged to the front of the classroom. He never attempted to struggle out of his grip, simply wandered along with him until he was facing the rest of his stunned classmates.

"If I have to make an example of you, Stanton, I won't hesitate to do so." It was seethed at him through clenched teeth, and the boy merely stared back. Harper's hands were close to his throat, but not dangerously so.

"Wouldn't you just be feeding into my desperate need for affection, Mr. Harper?"

At once, the room erupted into chaos. Asher was being shoved back against the oak desk by Harper's brisk shove of fists, the side of his head catching against the corner of the desk to smash painfully. Stars fluttered a moment, but he wasn't pushing back. He was watching as Simon and Jonathan eached manned a side of Harper and dragged him off, leaving Asher to sit up and press a hand at the side of his head. It bled. The very warm and sticky feel of it sent stars to sparkle in front of his eyes again, and he was crumbling to the floor and into darkness.

Christopher Harper's pink slip and five stitches later, he was allowed back into class. Nothing went spoken aloud. Everything was content to be left unsaid, and would remain so in the years that followed.

[star studded]

[ age nineteen. home in london. ]

"I don't want you to go."

"You've made this abundantly clear. Several times already, actually, with colored illustrations and bar graphs." Asher peeked across at his sister, his hands busily folding winter clothes to pack away in a sprawled open box. Sweaters were stacked on top of each other and the cardboard flaps were folded over, pressed down before packing tape was used to seal them closed for good.

"Why New York? Why not Manchester, or somewhere close? Somewhere you can drive to.."

"Because it's away from here. Far, far away from here." The comments were grinned through as he leaned onto the box which crunched under his weight.

The girl that sat across from him was short, a witchy-blonde with subtle features that resembled the reflection of her brother's and the same seawater eyes. Serena was just a year younger than her brother, fashion-conscious and mystical, and the two seemed to share everything. Secrets and experiences, eye color and the same knack for cards and chess.

"It's only been a year, Asher. He'll get better with time, I promise. You need to give him time.." The peacekeeper did her best to span a bridge between father and son, but neither seemed apt to comply and cross to the other side. There would be no meeting in between.

"I don't want to give him time. I didn't get time." The slightest words packed a forceful hit. Serena was easily reminded of her brother being shipped off to school. She remembered holidays and sparse weekends, the summers that they sucked dry with laughter and competition. Her reminiscence was cut short as Asher stood and inadvertently, she stood too, leaving both of them to stand in the middle of a slowly deteriorating room. He was emptying it of his things, the walls being stripped down to blank canvas.

"Will I get to come visit?"

"Of course."

"And you'll take me to see the Statue of Liberty, and the museums, and a rock and roll show?"

"Yes, and then I will laugh because I will be a pro, and yew will be a New York novice."

Asher looked around for a moment, silent as he surveyed damage done and what was left to be taken on head first. He had two more days to finish this and then it was packing up and shipping off. In the midst of his anticipating daydream, he felt thin and flimsy arms flinging around his neck. Sighing, he drew his own around the younger of the Stanton children, smothering Serena into a classic embrace.

"Don't go."

"I have to." She knew this. When she retracted, she was reaching into her pocket to retrieve two silver trinkets that she placed in the upturned palm of her brother. He examined them, a small silver necklace with a fairy charm, and a ring that matched the necklace in its simplicity, a thick band with the black impression of a fairy in the silver.

"Wot is this for? Yew want me to wear this?" He joked with her, leaving Serena to shove at his shoulder.

"I want you to give them to a girl."

"I don't know any girl I'd give them to besides you." That was a sad truth at the moment. Asher Stanton was petrified of the prospect of love.

"Give them to the girl you're going to marry."

"I'll be holding onto these for an awful long time, Serena."

Her smile widened clandestinely. It was an eerie expression that never lied, and he had become used to it over the years. "No you won't."

<font color="#A7A49B" size="1">[ July 04, 2004 03:31 AM: Message edited by: a firestarter ]</font>