Post by Eira on Jul 13, 2014 17:28:41 GMT -5
The celebratory atmosphere in the manor following Living a Legacy 6 had faded into a quiet sort of reflection for both Eira and Murdoc. One musing over future possibilities and renewed purpose, but as for the other...
Murdoc smiles down at her, the small tray he holds dwarfed by his huge hands. Hardly the domestic type, nor ever the sort to be pegged as a die-hard romantic, he still certainly knew how to rise to the occasion. The Japanese tea set arranged on the tray’s surface was simple enough, a predictable black, shiny porcelain teapot with matching cup and even a tiny lotus-shaped dish holding the raw turbinado sugar Eira preferred as a sweetener.
Setting it down on the polished mahogany table near her end of the couch, he reaches forward to brush errant strands of hair away from her face. There was something endearing about seeing her curled up in a blanket (his blanket, to be more precise) and reading a book, willfully oblivious to the outside world. The book lowers in her hands, her face instinctively leaning into his tender ministrations before her eyes finally focus on him in recognition.
“Are you SURE you don’t need to go to the doctor? You’ve taken so much head injury lately, Eira, I’m worried that -”
She smiles at him, a soft, warm sort of smile that fades before it can reach through the haze of pain in her eyes.
“Honest, Love, I’m fine. If it gets to be too much, I’ll head in - scout’s honor.”
“Scout’s honor? I somehow can’t picture you going door to door selling cookies.”
“Well, you know what I mean, anyway.”
“Mm. Well, if you say so.” Gazing down at her, it’s glaringly apparent that he doesn’t believe a word of her reassurances, but neither can he press the issue without clear indication she actually NEEDS medical attention. “Enjoy your tea and your book, sweetheart. I have a few things to attend to, but I’ll be just down the hall in my study.”
“Alright, hon.”
“Call if you need anything, okay?” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s just a headache, Beloved, I promise.” She holds the composed expression on her face long enough for him to offer her one last smile and pad silently down the hallway before her face creases in a wince.
Just a headache.
Yeah.
Sort of like how a third degree burn could be described as a bit of singed skin.
Eira picks up her cup of tea, staring blankly at the thin-walled cup for a moment before finally raising it to her lips, the delicate, woodsy scent of oolong enticing even through the fog of discomfort. Taking a slow sip, her eyes close with renewed appreciation for the simple but profound pleasure in a properly made cup of tea. Lifting the small cup to her forehead, Eira lets out a long, soft sigh as the hot porcelain meets her skin. The intense ache in her skull is soothed instantly by the warmth while the heat itself stings the healing lacerations from her cage match with Whitey. Cure and curse in the same, simple object.
But hey, you win some, you lose some, right?
Lose some.
Yeah, there was that, too. She’d be lying if she said the loss hadn’t hurt in more than just the physical sense. There’s a downside to talking a whole lot of shit and setting your mind on a single goal as if it’s your Universe-given right to be victorious:
When you don’t pull it off.
Whitey Ford. Whitey “The Asshole” Ford. STILL Pure Class Wrestling’s World Champion despite her best efforts in that cage. Bashing his stupid face into the bars had been satisfying, no lie, but clearly it hadn’t been enough. Sure, she could easily say it was all down to Whitey’s little lackey interfering, but arrogance never was Eira’s sin - it had been that damn close.
So what now?
For her... no idea. Management might let her stay in the World Title circuit, or they might come up with somewhere “better” for her. The last time Eira had floundered in the higher levels, she got stuck den mothering the Genesis circuit until she took a break from the company entirely. This time, at least, the Genesis circuit no longer existed. Though now there was the Underground. As much fun as hardcore ass-beatings normally sounded, Eira was feeling pretty tapped out in the “pain for the sake of pain” department.
What now indeed? A First Blood match with none other than PCW newcomer Stacy Jones. So first a cage match to try and get back a belt she might never have deserved to lay finger on in the first place... and now a match DESIGNED to draw blood? While hardly the squeamish type, even Eira had her limits, and to her mind the whole situation was approaching the point of ridiculous.
The Universe wasn’t listening. What was just, what was right, what was fair... the Universe had turned a blind eye. The balance was gone, harmony was gone, and chaos was threading its dark tendrils of discord throughout her reality. Perhaps it was time to stop pursuing the idea of fairness. The idea of doing what’s right, the idea of even honor or sportsmanship. Time instead to go back to the old ways. The ways long since renounced by the Order, of archaic blood sacrifices to long forgotten gods. But Stacy Jones? A newcomer with a lukewarm record, the proud reigning champion of not fuck-all. There was no real point in talking with Murdoc about it. He had been convinced she’d win back the World Title. Hell, he’d been convinced she wouldn’t have lost it at her ill-fated first title defense. She’d let so many people down. Most of all, however, she’d let Murdoc down. He trusted her, he had faith in her and her ability, but again and again she failed to deliver. Not this time. This time there would be BLOOD.
Blood for the dark Gods and Goddesses of old.
Blood for the PCW Faithful who clamored for violent displays.
Blood for Whitey Ford, that he might remember to be wary of her.
Blood for herself, to cleanse her soul of her recent failures and disappointments.
Blood from Stacy Jones, sprinkled across the wrestling mat like an offering on an altar.
A glance down the hallway convinces her that Murdoc is safely still ensconced in his study, duly occupied with his own matters. So be it, then. She pours the last of the tea, the dregs of roasted tea leaves and grains of sugar that hadn’t quite dissolved. A bittersweet, tepid swill of what was, and what could have been. Pulling out the drawer in the side table, she pulls out a small silken pouch, shakin several coarse brown grains ingo her palm and sprinkling them into the last remnants of liquid. Upon contact, the grains explode out into bursts of crimson, swirling threads dancing in a seamless display like blood eddying through water. Twirling the liquid in the cup three times, she holds it in her hands, eyes closed as she whispers a prayer.
“The white of the lotus blossom...”
*sip*
“The red of the poppy flower...”
*sip*
“Crushed by Morpheus’ hand...”
*sip*
“Grant me a blood sacrifice worthy of the Old Ones, that I might regain my purpose.”
Her voice softer now, barely audible as her eyes begin to close, a faint tremble in her hands as she lifts the cup to her lips one final time. The words breathed on the end of a sigh, a final swallow of the tea and her body wilts into the cushions; safely wrapped in warmth and softness until she awakens.