#rememberances.

[atailoralwaysknows-blog]

She.

It’s been months since he last ventured into the rooms reserved. It’s a little known fact, even to some of the Manor inhabitants (past or current), that his boutique housed many branch-offs. Worn doors leading to rooms filled with medical supplies, more pristine for rooms housing finer fabrics. But this door, at the very end of the hall, is dedicated to Her.

Just as there is a door leading to a room holding the funeral gown never worn, never gifted, this one leads to the most perfect of fabric concoctions. Under his hand, the door unlocks with one of the few keys he actually keeps on his person. He wouldn’t trust anyone to enter this room but he.

Not where She is concerned.

It’s been so very long since he looked into this room, looked over the creations, the presents, the gifts that he constructed for Her and all Her elegance. Her grace. It’s been days. Weeks. Months. Years? But with his personal abilities, not quite repairing the tear in the coat that hovers about this room has left a timelessness to it.

No dust. No wear and tear. No decay.

She wouldn’t have any of that.

...

Stitch closes the door once more, trudging down the hall with a pronounced limp. His fingers curl into a tight fist, the key clenched in his against his left palm. His eyes burn slightly.

He’s gotten old.

[atailoralwaysknows-blog]

Ring A-round...

The sweat drags trails over the fuzz over his skin. It leaves tracks over his chest, flecked with the froth of heavily-breathing mouths and blood from those very same maws. Marks on the floor from when heads beat against it, grooves from sets of feet settling in the same corners again and again, the screeches from the crowds gathering around the ring. All heaving in unison as he rested his foot against the chest of his opponent.

The bastard clearly has no idea when to give in. He, and Jahkob decides to call him “idiot” because the pathetic maggot’s name escapes him even now, slams a fist into his upper thigh. With Jahkob staggering back, Idiot sidles onto his feet for a quick one-two.

They’re both winded, but Idiot’s a lumbering buffoon, and his esteemed opponent remains steady despite the bruising in his legs and the split knuckles and the dislocated shoulder. It hurts like a cornerfucker, but defeat is not an option. He can cry later, die later, lose later. Now, he has the obligation to himself to win, and to win strong.

The previously mentioned blows strike him, solar plexus and gut. A stagger, back into the wall separating the fighters from the screaming rabble. He waits for Idiot to come closer before lifting his leg and dropping his heel into the nearest knee. Idiot crumples in on himself like a house of cards, leaving room for Jahkob to kneel over the top of him for a few solid strikes to his jaw.

It’s finished when his hand wraps around the fool’s throat, pinning him until he slammed the palm of his hand against the ground for mercy. The fighters are graced with cheers and jeers alike, in equal portions. Nothing new.

Idiot staggers to get himself something to drink in the hopes of deadening his pain before he head for a hospital, towering above much of the crowd. Jahkob isn’t exactly small himself, but one of the things that added the most heat to his fights was the constant pitting of himself against the big guy.

It’s gonna kill you someday, his rational mind supplies faithfully, unneeded and unwanted. There’s truth there, and he’d never been a very truthful man after...

The night air’s crisp, and his favored back-alley doctor’s never closed during the brawling nights. He takes his time shuffling along, watching the moon, and lights up a cigarette to take the edge out of the biting urge to crawl into a gutter to let the wounds fester. The voice of reason returns, badgering him, trying to make him move along faster.

There’s no need for a rush, though. He always gets there in time.