OUT OF TEA---OPEN

[DONALD MACLEAN]

Donald's facial features constricted unpleasantly as the squeals of younger children rang through the air. He looked up from his book in irritation, watching as a few young girls chased delightedly after a white butterfly. Next to them, a pair of boys were setting up a game of Snap Apple by gouging a small coin into the center of an aging fruit. Both groups were chatting animatedly, some of the girls even breaking into shrill laughter as the butterfly landed on the smallest girl's shoe. Och, did they have to be so loud? Donald briefly toyed with the idea of yelling at them to be quiet, but he restrained himself when he noticed the expressions of pure joy written across the children's faces. If the adults were still running the place, they would have never received this chance to feel such happiness. Donald would be damned if he was going to be the one who stopped it now that the elders were gone. The elders, yes. He remembered them. How could he forget them? Wispy visions of the past crept into his mind, conjuring flickers of images that he would rather die than to repeat. "Don't even start thinking about things like that." he commanded himself, firmly. He yawned quietly before forcing his head back down to the story in his hands. Donald tried not to let his mind wander too far into that black time, a time of fear and pain that had struck all the children in some way. It was hard, nearing impossible at times, not to think back however. Although many adults, including the past owners of the orphanage had physically been destroyed, the imprints that they had left behind still caused emotional and mental memories to arise in Donald, some so intense that it felt as if he was there all over again.

He remembered hands reaching out at him, a dark musty room, and a deep menacing voice demanding him to speak. He couldn't. Instead, he was quivering, licking at his lips as if this wetness would cause him to talk, or at least utter a sound that resembled a word. Time passing was no longer something to be only vaguely aware of. It was like a physical being, reminding him that every second that he wasted of it was another chance to be beaten. He should just give the voice what it wants. He'll talk. He will. He will. Oh God, let him talk. Then he was no longer quivering on his own. He was being shaken by those same calloused hands that he just knew belonged to the voice. And then there was a cracked face looming down at him. Angry words. A slap. A cry. Something sharp against his skin. Complete panic. Why hadn't he spoke? He opened his mouth but all that escaped was a strangled gasp. He tried again but was caught off. "Too late. Much too late indeed." the voice whispered. Donald sat upright suddenly, escaping from the darkness of the memory. He exhaled loudly as he glanced at his surroundings, still stuck in a dreamlike daze. His book lay forgotten at his side, and the children that had been causing such a racket before were gone. In their place, a single half-eaten apple dangled from an oak branch, connected only by a weak thread. The sun that had once been high in the air now rested closer to the west, signifying that it was now later in the afternoon. So he really had fallen asleep. Relief washed over him in a heavy wave. For a moment, Donald thought he was back to his old self. That nervous and sensitive runt that was too scared even to talk. A weak mute that couldn’t do anything. Ever since his 12th birthday, Donald had vowed never to return to that frightened little boy. The fact that he had anyway, even in a dream, was rather disturbing for him.

A rustle of leaves behind him finally brought Donald out from his thoughts. Whipping his head back, he saw the end of a faded pink skirt and a flash of blond hair. Curiously, he stood up and quietly followed who he suspected to be a younger girl, perhaps one of the butterfly-chasers from earlier. Pushing his way through bristly plant after plant, he finally found himself in a small clearing within the garden. A blanket was spread across the grass, teacups and stuffed animals set up around it to resemble a party. The girl he had spotted before sat at the end of the blanket. She must have been only seven or so, judging by her small size and her face that was still chubby from youth. Donald was more focused on the environment though. Where were they exactly? Except for the areas surrounding the fountain, he didn't recall a clearing such as this. Oddly, the gentle trickling of the water seemed fainter here than his usual spot under the tree opposite of the swing. Before he could puzzle over this further, he noticed the girl staring at him with eyes that were puffy from tears. He hadn't expected this. Honestly, seeing people cry made him uncomfortable. Regardless of his inner discomfort, he approached the girl. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly. The girl sniffed before replying, "Johnny and Matthew stole my tea packets. My guests only have plain water now." Donald peered at the cups filled with water in silence. He knew better than to roll his eyes. It was just a little girl after all. The fact that no one here was here to see him made him more of his decision to play along with this conflict.

"We can't have that, hmm?" he returned, smiling brightly at her. The girl shook her head and stared at him expectantly. Grabbing a few petals from behind him, he began to rip and smash them in his hand. "I guess we'll just make our own." he explained, while still squashing the colorful shreds of flowers in his hand. At last, the mixture looked slightly more similar to what you would find in a tea bag. The girl watched with him as he sprinkled a bit into each cup. It really wasn't that impressive, but the girl appeared to be a lot happier than before. "Enjoy." Donald commented, before turning to go back. He was stopped by the young girl tugging lightly at his arm. "Don't you want to stay, sir? You'll be the guest of honor!" she asked, obviously still playing her tea party game. (why else would he be called sir?) Donald bit his lip in thought. He didn't especially want to play this silly game, but at the same time, he didn't want to hurt the girl's feelings. She kind of reminded him of his sister, who had been adopted almost immediately after they had been sent to the orphanage. Seeing that the girl was still eagerly awaiting his reply, Donald decided that it wouldn't hurt to be the "guest of honor" as long as no one else saw. He'd be the laughing stock of the entire orphanage if someone did. "Aye, I'll stay." he answered reluctantly. The little girl clapped her hands happily and led him to the other side of the blanket. Before he could protest, the girl adorned his head with a sweetly smelling daisy chain. "You're the prince. You need a crown." she muttered as she fixed the flowers on his head. "This is ridiculous. No one is EVER going to know that this happened." he thought, while he resisted the instinct to swat the chain from his hair.

Backing away, the little girl smiled at her handiwork. "You look lovely!" she exclaimed. "I look like a proper eejit is more like it." he thought glumly. Despite this, he continued to smile at the easily excitable girl. At least she was pleased with this. "I'll be back in a bit. I need to get the biscuits." she said, vanishing into the garden before Donald was able to speak. This wee lass, with her undying energy, made him feel beyond his fourteen years. He could barely keep up with everything she did and said. One moment she was messing with his hair, and the next she was prancing into the garden to find food. Donald hoped she came back soon. He felt more foolish with his appearance without the little girl to justify why he was doing all this in the first place. He could just see the face of someone if they wandered in on him sitting at a toy tea party on his own. Donald upheld a rather tough and boyish image at the orphanage, more for self-security than show. Still, he didn't want this strong pretense he gave out to be tarnished by people thinking that he was girly enough to cover himself in flowers and drink fake beverages. Donald sighed and leaned back on his palms, wanting to get this over with. At the sound of footsteps, he looked up expecting to see the girl returning with biscuits. Naw, it wasn't the little girl at all! His cheeks flushed as he realized that someone had definitely seen him in such a vulnerable position. Now what could he do to stop himself from looking soft?


(OOC: Okay, wow. That was a bit of a muse overflow. Most of the time I only write around the 1000 mark. So fair warning, I probably won't get this high every post. Unless you give me a lot to work with. I like to try to match my RP partner's post even if it is higher than my usual word count. )

[Eowyn Walker]

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She was barefoot.

Eowyn had slipped her shoes off long ago—didn’t quite remember when—out of sheer capitulation, or more possibly boredom. And that was driving her a lot these days: apathy, but then, it might worry her, if she started to care. She went out alone now, to London and the rest of the adult world. (Sometimes she wandered, nicked things from shops, but the where didn’t really matter—she was out, and it felt great.) She never mentioned it to anyone, left just as casually as she returned. Maybe her dress looked a little worse for the wear, and her hair was wilder, and people stared because she looked like one of the nation’s improper youth, but there was nothing to be done, even if it had bothered her. The others had learned not to ask, probably because it got them nowhere.

“Out,” she always said. “I was out.”

The gravel prickled, leaving little indentations on the soles of her feet. Every once in a while she felt the skin tear, imagined it must leave little drops of blood where she’d been cut, like Hamsel and Gretel left their trail of breadcrumbs. Only she didn’t want to be found, yeah—none of them did. The orphanage existed separately from the rest of the world, in its own little protective bubble. It was disorienting then, leaving it for long (and it was long, she supposed—a couple of days). All her nights had begun to bleed together, and she’d managed to see the sunrise more often than not on the days she was out. But like every other child of St. Anne’s, there was no real place for her outside the orphanage. Not in London, and not on Notting Hill.

Her pace was languid, but Eowyn closed her eyes wearily, such a change in demeanor—even returning with muddied feet and a slightly torn skirt, she still projected something maddening, something that both infuriated and charmed the rest of the world, and what she could only name as aplomb. But this girl, with her arms crossed and her eyes shut, suddenly looked small, so thin, like she’d just had the longest days of her life and barely scraped by. This girl could hardly be recognized.

Notting Hill was not be discussed or thought of, sure as hell not to be dwelt on. Anyway, what was there to think of—she hadn’t been there in eight years. Eight long years since her father had passed her off to Faust; eight years since her first beating; seven years since she had a father; six hours since she’d last sat at the gates to Notting Hill, wishing she weren’t. It didn’t amuse her quite, but she though it funny that the other children so desired revenge upon their families. Faust she could understand—his cruelties were undeserved, extensive—but she had come to understand something: no one stays, no one cares. They should not be surprised. No one thought of her in Notting Hill, and she didn’t think of them either. (It was the sort of thing she told herself—that if she didn’t think about it, it’d be like it never happened. She never had a home there, but the orphanage wasn’t much of a home either. Lately, she wasn’t sure she had a home to speak of.)

Slowly, the tall stone building came into view. The gate looked foreboding, long and black and surrounding the whole of the property, but to the children it contained their land. Stepping off the path, Eowyn traced the metal bars around back. An unexpected visitor would find the front gates locked and their fate sealed if curiousity led them into one of the numerous traps set by mischievous children but more experienced, she circled round until her gaze found the twisted steel bar—bent by God-knows-what in the rebellion—that served as her entrance. The gap was small, too small for a man or woman, or even a few of the taller boys, but for now it served just fine. Dropping the shoes she’s been carrying in one hand, Eowyn squeezed through, not bothering to reach back for them; someone would steal them no doubt, but it didn’t matter, she’d stolen them in the first place. Property had a loose meaning at St. Anne’s. They’d had so little before that the rebellion and the creation of factions had destroyed much of the order some might have hoped for. Still, the Aristocrats rose to power. The situation was tentative, Eowyn had watched from afar as they rebuilt their protective layers—fragile, easy to break if she wanted. (She didn’t.) Stepping carefully through the grass, Eowyn supposed she might be better suited for the Derelicts, because she’d always thrived on chaos, yeah, but chaos of her own making, and maybe that was why she stayed with Lily.

Dirt stung her feet, rubbing against cuts, and remembering Hansel and Gretel, she sighed shakily before looking ahead to spot the strangest thing she’d seen all day: a boy, adorned with a flowered crown, sat at a blanket, stuffed animals and a children’s tea set before him. The toys were arranged as guests, their cups filled with what looked like dried dirt. She stared for a moment, biting back laughter. What a proper young man. Straightening, Eowyn Walker was back: placid, detached, nonchalant. She moved forward, stopping just behind him, a foot’s length between the two. He seemed to tense up as if he could hear her coming, and she leaned forward. “Looks delicious.”

They—the older ones, who arrived late, who remember their families—knew their manners, but back in the time before eight years ago, Eowyn was a Notting Hill Smith. She was the type of girl to learn those things when others were still in nappies, so she knows what should come next, whether this is a real party or not; she ought to wait for an invitation, which was maybe that’s why she didn’t. Stepping past the boy, she sat across from him, smoothing her skirt. Her smile was slow, calculated, deliberate.

“Afternoon. My name's Gretel.”

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tag: donald
status: first post
words: 1022
music: starry eyed (jakwob remix) - ellie goulding
other: not quite 1500 words, but it'll do. ;)
credit: me!

[DONALD MACLEAN]

Donald stared warily at the new arrival, though he had quickly regained his composure. One would have to be amazingly observant to notice that his face was still tinged with a touch of nervousness. Or maybe they would just have to care enough to check. Much more apparent than Donald’s partially buried worry was the openly stormy expression that had found its way onto his face. His eyes churned with unhidden agitation, his eyebrows had caved in at an almost comical slant, and his nose was childishly wrinkled. Only his mouth gave him away. Sure, he was frowning discontentedly as he should, but he had lost control of one important component. Without Donald consciously choosing to, he had begun to abuse his lip by lightly biting on it in a classic sign of uneasiness. Damn his unconscious. It always made him do things that he didn’t want to do at all. Even his fear seemed worse when it was in his mind. Granted, he was aware of the wee bit of anxiety he held toward these unpleasant turn of events. Still, annoyance had taken the lead role in his array of emotions now. It was the idea of someone seeing him that had gotten him so worked up. Now that this distantly familiar girl had appeared, it didn’t seem so threatening. It was like thinking about ghouls concealed in the darkest corners of a room. While what was actually there was hardly worth his attention, if he let the thought of it fester in his mind, it grew to a massive dread that could border on paranoia. In a twisted way, it may have been a good thing that this girl had appeared. If not, he would have dwelt on what would happen if someone had come for the entire afternoon. Surely, he would have come up with the worst possible scenario. This being said, he certainly wasn’t going to act thankful for this girl’s appearance. Not in the least.

At the mystery girl’s comment about the tea looking delicious, Donald peered down at the cups. All he saw was a dirt-colored liquid with soggy petals stuck to the bottom of the cup. Not caring whether the she had meant it as a sarcastic comment he flatly replied, “It looks like shite to me. “ He hadn’t said it just to be difficult. It really did look disgusting; it probably would taste worse. “Aye, it almost looks as bad as you.” He thought, eyeing the girl. Donald had enough self-control not to be that obviously rude out loud, but he couldn’t help the thought from slipping into his mind. Naturally, he supposed that the older girl may be more attractive. However, with her hair slightly knotted, her skirt ripped up in the front, and her feet –oh god, her disgusting feet-, she looked no better than an everyday street urchin. Of course, it wasn’t his place to criticize. He probably didn’t look much better. His clothing had grown too small for him since his last growth spurt and his hands and feet were now large and awkward. Oh, and he had that outrageous daisy chain in his hair as well. How could he forget about that? Donald supposed that he was once again letting his frustration at being caught take his reactions over. He wasn’t usually so critical of others… at least not of their appearances. Deciding to just let it go, he watched as this uninvited girl took the seat where the younger girl had sat previously. It was amazingly hard not to snap at the girl that her seat was taken. In fact, he had just opened his mouth to do so when the girl, who he now knew as Gretel, interrupted him by introducing herself.

He stared past Gretel for a moment, internally wondering whether he should tell her his name. He may have seen her in the orphanage a couple of times, but this didn’t mean anything. He still had virtually no idea as to what personality she had. So far she had appeared uncaring, aloof almost. Then again, people sometimes thought that of him, and this was sometimes just an act. For all Donald knew, Gretel could go off and tell half the orphanage by the end of the day. What rumors would spread about him then? Ah, but there was his little problem emerging. He was blowing this situation out of proportion, completely over-analyzing every move he was making. Who the hell cared if she told the entire universe? All he was doing was sitting by a fake tea party! It wasn’t like he was conspiring with a pack of sadistic adults! Those and similar thoughts still ringing through Donald’s head, he turned to Gretel and looked directly into her eyes for the first time. Not at the ground, not at her tattered clothes, nor even just barely past her shoulders (something he did often with people during conversations). He was determined not to let his inner views get a hold of him. This new resolve forced his tempestuous features to melt into a crooked though not yet friendly smile and he once again leaned back, more at ease with this situation than ever before. “Afternoon to ye too. My name is Donald. Our hostess should be back at any moment, so please do enjoy the herbal tea while you wait.” He said, almost laughing out loud at his words. Donald had never been to a formal gathering, nor had he ever been taught proper manners. Nevertheless, he had heard enough from some of the more well-mannered orphans to try to imitate their behaviors. Besides his Scottish accent, he thought he was doing an alright job.

As if the little girl had heard him mention the hostess, she pranced in with a tin filled with tiny biscuits. In mid-skip, she suddenly stopped and stared at Gretel. “Who is she?” asked the little girl, directing her question at him. Donald shrugged apologetically at the girl before answering, “She said her name was Gretel, Miss. Are you displeased with her?” He had to hide another smirk at himself when he continued to play along with this tea party roleplay. Perhaps he was even enjoying it? “No, no. Why would you enjoy acting out this thing?” his mind replied automatically. True. He was going along with it only to get it done faster. Donald didn’t like things like this. No way.

(OOC: Sorry that my reply is suckish. Oh, and you can control the little girl too, since I don’t want it to seem like I’m manipulating her to push the thread in a certain direction.)