Desperate Measures
“How are you progressing?”
Progressing? It was an odd question, a damned frustrating one. Not as bad now, but bad enough. Despite all the time that had passed—as he felt it—it was frustrating to the smallest point. As if the tip of a needle that would barely pricked him everytime Esme dared to bother him with the query. He supposed he looked busy enough to warrant the question...
Leaning over a desk... not really reading slips of paper in front of him... trying to ignore the golden wispy glow of the woman next to him...
He sighed, palms flat on the wooden surface. Everything around him had color, had substance, looked at if it were the home he’d once entered more than a hundred years ago—was now trapped in. It all looked the same, smelled the same, but it didn’t feel the same. And it didn’t help that he was lethargic all the time... a consequence of trying to save human lives.
How his brethren would mock him, not that he gave a damn. They always had other things to mock him for anyway.
“Ambrose?”
He stood straighter at the whisper of his name. That’s how they all spoke—in whispers; half there things that had once been able to do more than flit around a manor like too-tired apparitions. His dimmed garnet orbs, once the bright color of flames, settled on Esme. “There hasn’t been much progress, no.”
“I see.” She wasn’t frowning; half fumbling with her hands, but not wringing them. And that was progress, at least; Esme-progress. She’d stopped frowning once he’d informed her there’d been more than stray burglars about—that he had arrived, the one who’d found the book; the one would help undo all of this rotten mess he should have stopped right from the start when Quinn had been playing with things he’d been better off not playing with. She looked less sad, he supposed. One would think all the golden colorful light she washed in would make her look brilliantly lovely... she did. Always did, but he couldn’t ever ignore the guilt and defeat in her eyes. He wondered if she tired of the Victorian gown she was stuck wearing...
For a moment, in the back of his mind he was reminded of his own regrets... but... there wasn’t much to do about those until after, when one wasn’t only barely able to control a half version of oneself to manage the energy needed. If he could just...
He refrained from sighing again; it wouldn’t do to worry her further with more visible human emotion. He would take care of the doctor once he was whole again, when he wasn’t starved out of his mind. If he could just get a few more people... if his other half could just glean him a bit more energy... Harmless and wasted human emotions that held just a smidgen of what he fed on... then he’d have enough to take care of this whole damned mess. Then he could deal with all the blame anyone wished to lay on him—leave if that’s what people wanted. Maybe find another world to explore and catalogue.
He couldn’t stop himself from brushing long strands of opaque white from his line of vision before taking a seat in the ever present desk chair. His hand moved to his chin, caressing... scratching, and barely noting as Esme moved to take a seat on the edge of the office desk.
“I miss apples the most, I think,” she said.
He smiled, a rare sight these days.
Her smile was wane in return; she looked towards the wall behind him. “I suppose it might seem silly, my missing apples.”
“Not really.”
She hummed in response. “I miss keeping busy too.”
“Drove you a bit crazy in the start.”
“Indeed.”
Then they were both silent for a time before she said, “I’m sorry if I’m a bother... But I know how bloody close you are to...”
He could stop the sigh this time.
She forced a smile. “All in good time, I know.”
“You’re not a bother. You’re anxiety in understandable. Were it I could feed off your expended emotional energy, everyone’s? We’d have left long ago.”
She nodded and stood. “You’ve worked very hard for us, doing more than anyone could have expected... You... You’re very kind, Ambrose. Believe me.” And then she was gone, as if it didn’t matter to say goodbye anymore here. It didn’t. Not with everyone always feeling as if one day more mattered less than the previous.
He didn’t feel like arguing with her assessment either, even if he disagreed. And she knew he would. Kindness would have been stopping her husband, not resorting to this. Not resorting to grasping at a cursed item in hopes of it leading to their freedom, dooming someone to terrors for an unforeseen amount of time. All because he couldn’t have been better, smarter.
He would not ask for forgiveness.
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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