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thejusticelounge2014-03-30 04:03 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2014-03-30 04:03 pm
golden [what happened in between]
When he had been a child, and had devoured every book his father had owned on Greek mythology, Bruce had always imagined Hell to be hot, and Elysium to be golden-white, shimmering like the inlaid gold of his mother’s ark, his father’s cross.
He was surprised to find that the dewy grass was a dark, verdant green; it was soft under his hands. Bruce was also surprised, upon opening his eyes, that those hands were small, smooth. Child-sized. No knife and bullet scars, the jagged teeth of a near-loss of a finger laced the tops of his hands. Untouched. Undamaged.
A willow tree. Above him, it swayed, gently, the tips of long tendrils brushing his forehead, reminding Bruce too much of his mother’s kiss when he was ill, or just too sleepy to wake up. He lifted himself to his feet and looked around, where he was.
There was a pool, to the side of him, and while Bruce knew he would not drink from it, he moved over on hands and knees—Alfred hated trying to get grass stains from his shirts and shorts—and peered down into the water.
Staring up at him, was his eight-year old self.
Interesting.
Rising up, unsteadily—his legs felt weak and unused—he looked across the pond and spotted the girl on the other side, asleep as he had been. He made his way over.
The girl had been sleeping much longer than Bruce, that much was clear. No older than three or four, her tiny body was clothed in a tremendously, almost comically, puffed white dress, layers and layers of tulle filling the space between where the dress’ hem ended and the short, stout orange limbs poked out. The fabric itself was iridescent, catching the too-bright sunlight and sending it off in little flickers of rainbow purples and blues. A hint of pink. A shock of yellow.
Someone, somewhere, had attempted to tame her long, dark hair into two loose buns atop either side of her head, but somewhere in her sleeping, the little girl had rolled over and around, and the right bun had spilled down the aubergine locks in thick, spiraling curls. They were too long, too thick, much more hair than one would expect from a child her age, but the strands themselves were testaments to her heritage, her background. A little girl whose mother had tumbling, too-long locks. A little girl who came from womb with all her hair already twisting and curling around her little pinkened ears, her little bloodied face.
Her cheeks weren’t bloodied now, though. They were round and apple-bright, pushing her little moon-eyes up even more, and they curved down to the fatness of her lips, the roundness of her tiny chin. And there was wetness there, on her cheeks, on her lips. A child who slept with her mouth open; a child who cried often.
As Bruce approached, without waking, the little girl—Mar’i Grayson, age three-and-a-half—murmured: “엄마…”
Instantly the word translated in Bruce’s head. Mommy. Mom. The cadence and the language registered for Bruce as only one person—Mar’i—and, yes, as he looked down at her, it was obvious, despite her age, her Tamaranean heritage. She was darker as a child than she was as an adult.
Settling on the ground, Bruce reached out a hand and gently touched the girl’s shoulder.
“Mar’i,” he began, his voice crackling. Bruce stopped, frowned, and cleared his throat. Too high. Too.. soft. He tried again, and pushed his hand against the soft roundness of her shoulder.
"Mar’i, wake up.”
Ever the fitful sleeper, Mar’i slapped lazily at Bruce’s hand, the chubby fingers on her own pushing, then gripping his. Her entire hand wrapped around three of his fingers, and the size difference was still astounding, even in a place like this. She snuggled her cheek against the cool grass, nose scrunching up momentarily before it relaxed again and her mouth went even more slack.
At Bruce’s second call, she pinched her entire face up, letting out a high, keening whine. ”아니…” But, just like a child being awoken by her parents, Mar’i raised her head up, eyes swollen from sleep, and rubbed at her cheeks, looking up at Bruce. If she had visible pupils, they would’ve contracted as she stared up at the older boy.
She sat up, tulle settling down around her knees like the base to some exotic cupcake, and the little girl asked, voice bird-chirping: “Where is Mommy?”
He was surprised to find that the dewy grass was a dark, verdant green; it was soft under his hands. Bruce was also surprised, upon opening his eyes, that those hands were small, smooth. Child-sized. No knife and bullet scars, the jagged teeth of a near-loss of a finger laced the tops of his hands. Untouched. Undamaged.
A willow tree. Above him, it swayed, gently, the tips of long tendrils brushing his forehead, reminding Bruce too much of his mother’s kiss when he was ill, or just too sleepy to wake up. He lifted himself to his feet and looked around, where he was.
There was a pool, to the side of him, and while Bruce knew he would not drink from it, he moved over on hands and knees—Alfred hated trying to get grass stains from his shirts and shorts—and peered down into the water.
Staring up at him, was his eight-year old self.
Interesting.
Rising up, unsteadily—his legs felt weak and unused—he looked across the pond and spotted the girl on the other side, asleep as he had been. He made his way over.
The girl had been sleeping much longer than Bruce, that much was clear. No older than three or four, her tiny body was clothed in a tremendously, almost comically, puffed white dress, layers and layers of tulle filling the space between where the dress’ hem ended and the short, stout orange limbs poked out. The fabric itself was iridescent, catching the too-bright sunlight and sending it off in little flickers of rainbow purples and blues. A hint of pink. A shock of yellow.
Someone, somewhere, had attempted to tame her long, dark hair into two loose buns atop either side of her head, but somewhere in her sleeping, the little girl had rolled over and around, and the right bun had spilled down the aubergine locks in thick, spiraling curls. They were too long, too thick, much more hair than one would expect from a child her age, but the strands themselves were testaments to her heritage, her background. A little girl whose mother had tumbling, too-long locks. A little girl who came from womb with all her hair already twisting and curling around her little pinkened ears, her little bloodied face.
Her cheeks weren’t bloodied now, though. They were round and apple-bright, pushing her little moon-eyes up even more, and they curved down to the fatness of her lips, the roundness of her tiny chin. And there was wetness there, on her cheeks, on her lips. A child who slept with her mouth open; a child who cried often.
As Bruce approached, without waking, the little girl—Mar’i Grayson, age three-and-a-half—murmured: “엄마…”
Instantly the word translated in Bruce’s head. Mommy. Mom. The cadence and the language registered for Bruce as only one person—Mar’i—and, yes, as he looked down at her, it was obvious, despite her age, her Tamaranean heritage. She was darker as a child than she was as an adult.
Settling on the ground, Bruce reached out a hand and gently touched the girl’s shoulder.
“Mar’i,” he began, his voice crackling. Bruce stopped, frowned, and cleared his throat. Too high. Too.. soft. He tried again, and pushed his hand against the soft roundness of her shoulder.
"Mar’i, wake up.”
Ever the fitful sleeper, Mar’i slapped lazily at Bruce’s hand, the chubby fingers on her own pushing, then gripping his. Her entire hand wrapped around three of his fingers, and the size difference was still astounding, even in a place like this. She snuggled her cheek against the cool grass, nose scrunching up momentarily before it relaxed again and her mouth went even more slack.
At Bruce’s second call, she pinched her entire face up, letting out a high, keening whine. ”아니…” But, just like a child being awoken by her parents, Mar’i raised her head up, eyes swollen from sleep, and rubbed at her cheeks, looking up at Bruce. If she had visible pupils, they would’ve contracted as she stared up at the older boy.
She sat up, tulle settling down around her knees like the base to some exotic cupcake, and the little girl asked, voice bird-chirping: “Where is Mommy?”