The silence of his own living room encroached deeply on Alastor, grave dirt pressing in around him on all sides. He was both too practical and too prideful to consider his choices mistakes, most of the time. For one, they simply almost never were. He knew what he was doing, and did precisely as he meant to. For another, he was too pragmatic to think he couldn't resolve anything that did go wrong. He always had.
But most of the time, his shadow whispered to him, the things that went wrong were bound to be Alastor's own fault, and there was a mile of difference between that and letting someone else be responsible for his sink or swim.
No, he reasoned, that wasn't true, anyway. Any responsibility Lotte had was only what Alastor gave her. Maybe he'd been remiss in favouring the theatrical over sitting her down properly at her little wooden table and describing to her in more detail the path the host of hell would take, the formation in which they would ride, every trial he could possibly imagine the Queen putting her through. Ultimately, h3 couldn't imagine it would really help. There were rumours this type of plot had both been tried and succeeded in the past, but it was no more than that - rumours. He had no way of knowing what would really happen. It thrilled him to find out.
Time stretched. Alastor could be said to be Lotte's exact opposite in these short and waning days between their last meeting and Halloween night. He plotted nothing, and made no plans. If anyone had been bothering to keep tabs on him, they might have said his behavior was suspiciously lax. With an easy and knowing smile on his face, he spent his days walking the areas of Hell he hated most, to remind himself what he wouldn't miss. Ugly, dingy, steel-beamed streets with no pattern or order to them. Hideous. No green. Revolting.
In the evening, he sat outside a small cafe near to his home, one of the few places here that felt anything like the world he missed. He said nothing, spoke to no one, only watched with sharp eyes over the rim of his teacup as folks passed on the street, memorizing their gaits, their faces, the way they spit and swore and raged at one another. This, too, he would not miss, and the wider his smile grew behind that plume of steam from his tea, the wider berth the denizens of Hell cast around him.
Truth be told, it didn't occur to him much during these brisk autumn days to wonder what Lotte was doing or feeling. This was not to say that he didn't think of her. He thought of her quite often, glowing bright in his mind's eye, he imagined her picking through the snapshots of the ugly world around him, as he committed them to memory. When he dressed on Halloween night, all in plain black to match the rest of the riding host, he thought of the witch with every button he fastened, but not about her private state of mind. He only wondered if she would succeed, or not. If she didn't, he had no plan, but then again, he barely had one if she did. It would be a great adventure, either way.
***
The night was cool and sharp like pine needles digging into bare feet, the spectral horse beneath Alastor colder still, if that was even possible. Or perhaps he, himself, was burning up. Surely he looked suspicious in some way, eyes too bright, smile too smug, and the others were only afraid to question it. That was often enough the case, as surely as it was now, as the Queen's host marched over deserts, over moors, through dense forests, and finally plodded through the dusty crossroads where Lotte made her home.
Clods of dirt kicked up under each horse's hooves, strange marks that would mostly fade by morning, leaving just enough impression in the road to confuse and unsettle the farmers. And this was always so, and would always be so, but with any luck, Alastor would never be here to see it, again.
It was only in that crossroads that he finally felt the smallest flinch of nerves, like an ancient, human wound cracking to life inside him. Lotte was here, somewhere, hidden in the brush or just down the road or cleverly concealed by some doing of her own, waiting for him. And he was suddenly, vividly aware that he had no idea when the moment of her strike would land. His fingers loosened on the reins in his hands, let him lay as loose as he could. His entire body loosened from its posture - when she came, he would be ready to fall.
no subject
The silence of his own living room encroached deeply on Alastor, grave dirt pressing in around him on all sides. He was both too practical and too prideful to consider his choices mistakes, most of the time. For one, they simply almost never were. He knew what he was doing, and did precisely as he meant to. For another, he was too pragmatic to think he couldn't resolve anything that did go wrong. He always had.
But most of the time, his shadow whispered to him, the things that went wrong were bound to be Alastor's own fault, and there was a mile of difference between that and letting someone else be responsible for his sink or swim.
No, he reasoned, that wasn't true, anyway. Any responsibility Lotte had was only what Alastor gave her. Maybe he'd been remiss in favouring the theatrical over sitting her down properly at her little wooden table and describing to her in more detail the path the host of hell would take, the formation in which they would ride, every trial he could possibly imagine the Queen putting her through. Ultimately, h3 couldn't imagine it would really help. There were rumours this type of plot had both been tried and succeeded in the past, but it was no more than that - rumours. He had no way of knowing what would really happen. It thrilled him to find out.
Time stretched. Alastor could be said to be Lotte's exact opposite in these short and waning days between their last meeting and Halloween night. He plotted nothing, and made no plans. If anyone had been bothering to keep tabs on him, they might have said his behavior was suspiciously lax. With an easy and knowing smile on his face, he spent his days walking the areas of Hell he hated most, to remind himself what he wouldn't miss. Ugly, dingy, steel-beamed streets with no pattern or order to them. Hideous. No green. Revolting.
In the evening, he sat outside a small cafe near to his home, one of the few places here that felt anything like the world he missed. He said nothing, spoke to no one, only watched with sharp eyes over the rim of his teacup as folks passed on the street, memorizing their gaits, their faces, the way they spit and swore and raged at one another. This, too, he would not miss, and the wider his smile grew behind that plume of steam from his tea, the wider berth the denizens of Hell cast around him.
Truth be told, it didn't occur to him much during these brisk autumn days to wonder what Lotte was doing or feeling. This was not to say that he didn't think of her. He thought of her quite often, glowing bright in his mind's eye, he imagined her picking through the snapshots of the ugly world around him, as he committed them to memory. When he dressed on Halloween night, all in plain black to match the rest of the riding host, he thought of the witch with every button he fastened, but not about her private state of mind. He only wondered if she would succeed, or not. If she didn't, he had no plan, but then again, he barely had one if she did. It would be a great adventure, either way.
***
The night was cool and sharp like pine needles digging into bare feet, the spectral horse beneath Alastor colder still, if that was even possible. Or perhaps he, himself, was burning up. Surely he looked suspicious in some way, eyes too bright, smile too smug, and the others were only afraid to question it. That was often enough the case, as surely as it was now, as the Queen's host marched over deserts, over moors, through dense forests, and finally plodded through the dusty crossroads where Lotte made her home.
Clods of dirt kicked up under each horse's hooves, strange marks that would mostly fade by morning, leaving just enough impression in the road to confuse and unsettle the farmers. And this was always so, and would always be so, but with any luck, Alastor would never be here to see it, again.
It was only in that crossroads that he finally felt the smallest flinch of nerves, like an ancient, human wound cracking to life inside him. Lotte was here, somewhere, hidden in the brush or just down the road or cleverly concealed by some doing of her own, waiting for him. And he was suddenly, vividly aware that he had no idea when the moment of her strike would land. His fingers loosened on the reins in his hands, let him lay as loose as he could. His entire body loosened from its posture - when she came, he would be ready to fall.