“Shawchert?” Her voice chimed, hollow in the empty hours of the Treetop Terrace. A rhythmic drumming accompanied her as her foot paws landed softly on the planks that made up their stable world while she walked towards Shawchert's treetop home. It was not her own cottage, but they had both taken up places near one another. Now she stepped off of one of the many bridges that made up the forest network and onto the platform that served as his porch. She had come to talk to him about the invitations to their mateship ceremony. She had found some nice stationery in one of the shops in Thornbury and dug out her old pens and ink – now carrying them with her in her old satchel - and wanted to finalize the list of guests that they would be inviting outside of Cercatori d'Arte. “Hey Shawchert, you home?” She asked the air as she knocked on the door. Somehow the latch hadn't been pulled shut and the door swung open when she tapped it. She waited a moment, glancing around before leaning into the house.
“Shaw?” Why was she still calling? Obviously there was no one home. I'll come back later, she thought to herself as she began to turn away, but just as she was going to leave something prickled at the back of her senses. With a raised bow she turned back, slowly stepping into the doorway. What was that? She wondered as she pushed the door open a little more, peering into the empty house. It was like something had called to her, yet there had been no sound, no sight, not even a spooky breeze. An ear flicked in annoyance but she couldn't shake the strange feeling.
I really shouldn't be doing this... was her mantra as she took another step, now just past the threshold. But something wasn't right here, and she needed to know what. Maybe it was Shawchert, maybe he was inside and unable to call out to her. Maybe he was sick.
Worried, now she stepped freely into the man's home, all apprehension gone. Her eyes studied the living room, looking at each piece of furniture in turn as she walked toward his sleeping quarters. When she came to his bedside and pulled back the blanket he wasn't there. Nothing was wrong, no one was here and there was no reason for that funny feeling. You're just being crazy again... she thought to herself, shaking her head as she walked toward the door. What was with her? What made her feel so out of place that she would invade Shawchert's privacy? Sure, they were engaged now, but up until they moved in together the man still deserved his peace. Why woul...
THWAP!!
Orin nearly jumped out of her skin when the book hit the floor. She whipped around to face whatever danger had suddenly snuck up on her, but as the prickles of adrenaline subsided, she saw there was again nothing there... except for a book that had fallen on the ground. Oh, Orin, you're too jumpy, she scolded herself as she bent over to pick up the book. Only, it wasn't just any book...
“Cercatori d'Arte's history...” She had been working on it before... well, just before. Now she couldn't stand to look at it – or at any book for that matter. The reality of what she was holding suddenly sank in and she swore that the leather binding was heating up right there in her hands. She yelped and leaped back, dropping it again. When she recovered, she stared down at it, wide-eyed. It had landed open, on a page half-finished. No one had written in it since her.
Orin knelt down next to the tome, setting her satchel on the floor. Slowly, precariously, she reached out to it, gently touching the rough pages with the pad of one finger. It felt just at is had before; this horrible world had not changed it. It was still there, waiting for her, but she had rejected it. She would never write in it again.
Astonished at the thing that was before her, she moved so that she was sitting on her rump, gazing at the book as though it would leap up and bite her. Gingerly she turned the page, flipping to a previous entry, traveling back in time...
Event: January 15, 2011; Pregnancy: Orin Takekuro; Father: Shawchert Menue; Diagnosed by: Alaine Winters
She ran her fingers over the ink. It was one of the happiest entries she had ever made, and also one of the last. Her eyes closed as she slumped forward, trying to stave off the pain that lanced her heart. She sat there for a moment breathing deeply with her lids tightly shut when the satchel at her side fell over, seemingly on its own. “Mmm?” she muffled a noise as she opened her eyes and looked down. The top flap had opened and her ink well had come out, rolling to a stop next to the book. She stared at it for a moment before noticing the tip of a pen poking out of the satchel as well.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. Whatever was happening, she wasn't going to give in. This was terrible, this was evil! What poltergeist was here playing with her like this? She balled her hands up into fists, tears of anger finally forming in her eyes. “No!” She yelled defiantly to whatever force that was trying to torture her. A tear streamed down her cheek, dripped off her muzzle, and landed on the pages of the book. This time her, “no!” was a shocked whisper as she looked at the marred entry and gasped. The ink had smeared where the tear landed, but came back together to form the shape of a heart.
A chill rocked her body, so harsh it made her shrink as if caught by a snowstorm. She drew her legs up and curled her tail around herself for warmth. She waited another moment before finally taking the tome into her arms as well. She stared at it, flipping back to the empty page. The empty page, it was a disgrace... this book had been crafted to tell the story of d'Arte. To tell all future generations of what the pack had been through, so they could remember their ancestors and their heritage. But in her obstinance, in her fear, she had put a stop to that memory. A stop to... “Demetrius...”
The name was barely a whisper on her tongue, but when she spoke it the chill subsided and she knew what she had to do. Her fingers righted and uncorked the ink well, and then the pen was in her grasp. And, like she had done so many times in her early seasons, she watched the contrast as dark, fresh ink drew symbols and lines across the paper, scrawling the tale...
It was not easy. Whatever had brought her here, whatever goaded her into finally updating everything she could in the tome, it hadn't made the memories any easier. She relived every moment with each letter she wrote, often pausing to wipe at her damp eyes or holding a minute while she caught her breath. Sometimes she wrote in haste, furiously trying to finish a passage, whilst another moment she would take her time. The ink smeared onto her hands, making dark blotches on her white fingers, but she didn't care. This is how it had always been, writing was a messy business, both for body and soul.
She was exhausted when she finally completed her task. Hours had passed and her back ached from how she hunched over the tome. Her fingers and wrist were so cramped she thought she might never move them again, and the bottle of ink had been used up completely. Carefully, silently, she set the book down before her, leaving the pages fanned open to dry, and lowered herself to the floor next to it. There, on Shawchert's floor, she curled around the gilded book, her heavy lids fluttering closed as sleep finally took her.
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