Alfred’s mind was drawn inexorably to the caving and backpacking vacation he’d taken with Shane and Steve and Matt a few years ago. He’d had one of the best times of his life, and the others had complained he’d been a little too obsessed with the stalagmites and stalactites, but really, what did they know? He’d been studying a really interesting column set, when he’d begun to feel dizzy and clumsy, and a little stupid (he’d gotten major ribbing about that symptom later.). Steve had taken a look at him, tasted the air, and hauled them all back up to the surface again. Dying from CO2 overexposure would not be a fun death, Steve had later assured him, and had gone on to lecture him for about forty-five minutes about air quality and safety. Not fun. Shane had then told him, quite seriously, “Dead men do tell tales, they are just rarely of themselves.” Alfred hadn’t known quite what to make of it back then, and thought the sheep shearing nation was simply pulling his leg or something. But his words echoed hollowly in Alfred’s mind now, as it was spinning over and over again.
No one answered his call, but suddenly, there were whispers. Nothing distinct, really, just syllables indiscernible, and they seemed to be getting louder. In fact, the loudness of those whispers was directly correlated with the twitchiness of Alfred’s trigger finger. Boy, Alfred regretted his earlier thought now. He’d rather have no whispers and no craziness, truth be told.
“Étrad… cráes…” They came closer, and Alfred whetted his lips, trying to sort through his dozens of languages in order to find something that matched this lilting tongue. Nothing, nothing… “Accobar… leisce…” Alfred frowned, turning his head a little. Hold on a sec, that sounded a bit like Irish, actually… “Roisre… format… bocásach…” That was it! Some form of Irish or Celtic or something. Alfred hoped in his deepest of hearts that these were good Irish words whisperings. “I can’t understand you!” He called out in his best Irish. And then he remembered that Arthur had said that the fae valued politeness, so he quickly added on: “I’m sorry!”
An indistinct form appeared on his right, and Alfred fired off a bullet in the space of an eyeblink. But it simply went right through. “Fuck!” Alfred shouted, blind panic beginning to set in. He was now willing to bet that those were not good Irish words whisperings. A second figure appeared in front of him, and in the dimness of the almost total blackness, he could barely make out a woman’s features, beautiful and dark. She had blood red lips and she smiled kindly and ferally all at once in a way which was much too reminiscent of Crowe for Alfred’s admittedly already shattered sense of comfort. Then she leaned forward, and despite hands which passed right through him in a cold and not at all comfortable way, she kissed him, on the lips, then pulled away, and dissolved before his eyes. Alfred spun, lunging away from the wall and towards the light at the center of the room, breathing heavily, looking for more, but feeling the press of her lips on his. The amulet was vibrating like a lawnmower in his pocket, and a tinkling laughter filled all the halls.
That kiss… That was weird in a not altogether unpleasant way. It was almost a nip, her lips soft and inviting and fierce and demanding, again a swirl of beautiful contradictions. It could be anything in the world and it would be true, but it was all very pleasant. If Alfred was to describe the perfect kiss… No. Alfred shook his head quickly to clear it. No, he was attached, he had a boyfriend, who he was very determined to save, thank you very much. Good gravy, this was no time to get distracted! Alfred wiped at his lips with the back of his right hand and focused very firmly on Arthur in his mind, his rare smiles, his delightful, intriguing, reliable stubbornness, his undeniably sexy body. But in the back of his mind echoed that first word, Étrad, wasn’t it… His mind was drawn much further back than he’d like, to thoughts he generally liked to avoid.
Crowe 5b/?
No one answered his call, but suddenly, there were whispers. Nothing distinct, really, just syllables indiscernible, and they seemed to be getting louder. In fact, the loudness of those whispers was directly correlated with the twitchiness of Alfred’s trigger finger. Boy, Alfred regretted his earlier thought now. He’d rather have no whispers and no craziness, truth be told.
“Étrad… cráes…” They came closer, and Alfred whetted his lips, trying to sort through his dozens of languages in order to find something that matched this lilting tongue. Nothing, nothing… “Accobar… leisce…” Alfred frowned, turning his head a little. Hold on a sec, that sounded a bit like Irish, actually… “Roisre… format… bocásach…” That was it! Some form of Irish or Celtic or something. Alfred hoped in his deepest of hearts that these were good Irish words whisperings. “I can’t understand you!” He called out in his best Irish. And then he remembered that Arthur had said that the fae valued politeness, so he quickly added on: “I’m sorry!”
An indistinct form appeared on his right, and Alfred fired off a bullet in the space of an eyeblink. But it simply went right through. “Fuck!” Alfred shouted, blind panic beginning to set in. He was now willing to bet that those were not good Irish words whisperings. A second figure appeared in front of him, and in the dimness of the almost total blackness, he could barely make out a woman’s features, beautiful and dark. She had blood red lips and she smiled kindly and ferally all at once in a way which was much too reminiscent of Crowe for Alfred’s admittedly already shattered sense of comfort. Then she leaned forward, and despite hands which passed right through him in a cold and not at all comfortable way, she kissed him, on the lips, then pulled away, and dissolved before his eyes. Alfred spun, lunging away from the wall and towards the light at the center of the room, breathing heavily, looking for more, but feeling the press of her lips on his. The amulet was vibrating like a lawnmower in his pocket, and a tinkling laughter filled all the halls.
That kiss… That was weird in a not altogether unpleasant way. It was almost a nip, her lips soft and inviting and fierce and demanding, again a swirl of beautiful contradictions. It could be anything in the world and it would be true, but it was all very pleasant. If Alfred was to describe the perfect kiss… No. Alfred shook his head quickly to clear it. No, he was attached, he had a boyfriend, who he was very determined to save, thank you very much. Good gravy, this was no time to get distracted! Alfred wiped at his lips with the back of his right hand and focused very firmly on Arthur in his mind, his rare smiles, his delightful, intriguing, reliable stubbornness, his undeniably sexy body. But in the back of his mind echoed that first word, Étrad, wasn’t it… His mind was drawn much further back than he’d like, to thoughts he generally liked to avoid.