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meja;
logs ¤ HMD ¤ OOC contact ¤ fun ¤ CR ¤ dæmon
IC contact ¤ permissions ¤ possessions ¤ visualocity
story;
the journey
logs ¤ HMD ¤ OOC contact ¤ fun ¤ CR ¤ dæmon
IC contact ¤ permissions ¤ possessions ¤ visualocity
story;
the journey
Chains of Fate
Oct. 8th, 2012 11:56 pmEach day was its own, different struggle. Sometimes Meja's arm only burned a little, like a slow ache from a long and arduous run, and sometimes it felt as though someone had poured acid into the veins themselves (which was, more or less, true). The cut itself, from which it had entered her system, was healing at a slow rate, but the flesh was beginning to mend. It no longer felt as though her arm was in two separate pieces.
Which helped, really. It made her feel like a person again, rather than a person who should have still been in the infirmary. But no, she wasn't checking herself back in, not even with Helen there. She either felt good enough for a walk or two, per day, or she curled up on her bed and focused on breathing, when it got too bad. Honir was there each step of the way, nuzzling his head against hers, trying to be as encouraging as a stern and dry dæmon was capable. But on the worst days, even he couldn't summon the words, and would curl up silently alongside her in shared pain.
The visions and little auras didn't help. Sometimes on her walks, Meja would see white wisps of fog out on the water, in the middle of the day. Or someone would walk by and she would see an odd blur on their skin, like an image on top of theirs. She and Honir tried to puzzle each one out, usually to no avail.
( And most confusingly, that chain around her right arm hadn't gone everywhere. )
Which helped, really. It made her feel like a person again, rather than a person who should have still been in the infirmary. But no, she wasn't checking herself back in, not even with Helen there. She either felt good enough for a walk or two, per day, or she curled up on her bed and focused on breathing, when it got too bad. Honir was there each step of the way, nuzzling his head against hers, trying to be as encouraging as a stern and dry dæmon was capable. But on the worst days, even he couldn't summon the words, and would curl up silently alongside her in shared pain.
The visions and little auras didn't help. Sometimes on her walks, Meja would see white wisps of fog out on the water, in the middle of the day. Or someone would walk by and she would see an odd blur on their skin, like an image on top of theirs. She and Honir tried to puzzle each one out, usually to no avail.
( And most confusingly, that chain around her right arm hadn't gone everywhere. )
Contact Post
Sep. 19th, 2012 03:41 am[...]
This is Meja Urdahl.
Er, leave a message after the beep, if you need to get a hold of me? I think that's how this goes. Anyway! I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Tusen takk.
[Beeeeeeep.]
This is Meja Urdahl.
Er, leave a message after the beep, if you need to get a hold of me? I think that's how this goes. Anyway! I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Tusen takk.
[Beeeeeeep.]
Interrupted
May. 17th, 2012 08:30 pmShe doesn't know why, but after visiting Forks she can't sleep at all. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before one of her dreams wake her up. The earlier ones weren't as intense as these are. They jerk her awake, gasping, filling her mind with violent images and sounds. Her father yells, the town burns, someone in the distance laughs.
Even when they aren't as intense, she still can't stomach them. Her mother holds her, reading to her from the Prose Edda, telling her about godly struggles. You're dead, she wants to say, but the words never leave. She curls deeper into her mother's embrace, smells the candle wax and wood smoke that comes off of her hair.
These things are what her mother used to smell like, before her frequent trips and stays in the hospital made her smell like cleaning fluid and sterile lilac. Freya Urdahl had loved to make homemade candles, because the wax was fairly cheap and re-purposed. She'd put Meja to work with the repeated dipping, whenever she made a large amount of them. It had distracted them both away from the fact that, most of the time, Stellan Urdahl didn't come home from the wastes for days. Freya would tell her that he was "working," but never told her what he did.
Now, in her dreams, he screams at Meja and makes her feel shame and rage in the same moment.
Meja stops sleeping. She knows that she shouldn't -- she knows, somewhere, that she should go for help, to figure out what in the nine realms is wrong with her. Her dreams have never been this bad before, or this vivid. But she can't bring herself to ask anyone for help, because the voice unconsciously convinces her that she should be able to work this out herself. She is the Rune Guardian. She needs to take care of herself.
It's so convincing that she doesn't stop to consider that someone has her chain, and is yanking it so hard she can't see straight.
When she returns to the Observatory, she spends long hours remembering the various stories -- and runes -- that her mother imparted to her. She keeps Daybreaker at bay, because summoning it means that her palms bleed for hours on end, and she keeps away from people as best she can. Eventually this practice comes up with some fruit: she remembers protection runes and carves them into parts of her body easily hidden. They work, but not to the extent she wants. She sleeps ten minutes more than usual, and her head hurts less when she wakes.
Not a permanent fix, but it makes her feel less insane.
Even when they aren't as intense, she still can't stomach them. Her mother holds her, reading to her from the Prose Edda, telling her about godly struggles. You're dead, she wants to say, but the words never leave. She curls deeper into her mother's embrace, smells the candle wax and wood smoke that comes off of her hair.
These things are what her mother used to smell like, before her frequent trips and stays in the hospital made her smell like cleaning fluid and sterile lilac. Freya Urdahl had loved to make homemade candles, because the wax was fairly cheap and re-purposed. She'd put Meja to work with the repeated dipping, whenever she made a large amount of them. It had distracted them both away from the fact that, most of the time, Stellan Urdahl didn't come home from the wastes for days. Freya would tell her that he was "working," but never told her what he did.
Now, in her dreams, he screams at Meja and makes her feel shame and rage in the same moment.
Meja stops sleeping. She knows that she shouldn't -- she knows, somewhere, that she should go for help, to figure out what in the nine realms is wrong with her. Her dreams have never been this bad before, or this vivid. But she can't bring herself to ask anyone for help, because the voice unconsciously convinces her that she should be able to work this out herself. She is the Rune Guardian. She needs to take care of herself.
It's so convincing that she doesn't stop to consider that someone has her chain, and is yanking it so hard she can't see straight.
When she returns to the Observatory, she spends long hours remembering the various stories -- and runes -- that her mother imparted to her. She keeps Daybreaker at bay, because summoning it means that her palms bleed for hours on end, and she keeps away from people as best she can. Eventually this practice comes up with some fruit: she remembers protection runes and carves them into parts of her body easily hidden. They work, but not to the extent she wants. She sleeps ten minutes more than usual, and her head hurts less when she wakes.
Not a permanent fix, but it makes her feel less insane.
She hears the same meaty sound, every time; the same small gasp for air, and then the sound of a body hitting the snow. Every time, she goes in the opposite direction, hoping not to find the day that her father died, and every time it finds her instead. She even stops running, at one point, but it doesn't do anything. The memory comes upon her every time.
"Get out of my head!" she yells aloud, sitting up. For a moment, she's hopeful that she's woken up -- hopeful for the first time in more than a week, since she hasn't gotten much sleep in that time, and she needs all that she can get.
But it's her own home that greets her eyes, and she knows that she's not really there. So it's a dream.
It's different than usual, in any case. All of her personal touches are gone. All of her mother's books are gone. Whereas home is familiar, this could be someone else's home easily. Especially since most of the homes have the exact same layout.
Someone raps on the door, and she feels all of her muscles freeze at once.
"Meja. Meja? We're going out now. Come on. Don't be late." It's her father's voice: terse, belligerent, somewhat drunk. The way she remembers it most. "Meja, you're holding up our rounds."
"We never had rounds," she murmurs, sinking further into her blankets. Resentment floods every pore. "You never told me anything about this."
He continues to jabber away, never coming inside, and Meja just climbs into her blankets and pretends not to hear him.
Until she wakes up, exhausted.
"Get out of my head!" she yells aloud, sitting up. For a moment, she's hopeful that she's woken up -- hopeful for the first time in more than a week, since she hasn't gotten much sleep in that time, and she needs all that she can get.
But it's her own home that greets her eyes, and she knows that she's not really there. So it's a dream.
It's different than usual, in any case. All of her personal touches are gone. All of her mother's books are gone. Whereas home is familiar, this could be someone else's home easily. Especially since most of the homes have the exact same layout.
Someone raps on the door, and she feels all of her muscles freeze at once.
"Meja. Meja? We're going out now. Come on. Don't be late." It's her father's voice: terse, belligerent, somewhat drunk. The way she remembers it most. "Meja, you're holding up our rounds."
"We never had rounds," she murmurs, sinking further into her blankets. Resentment floods every pore. "You never told me anything about this."
He continues to jabber away, never coming inside, and Meja just climbs into her blankets and pretends not to hear him.
Until she wakes up, exhausted.
