Title: Vanilla Moon
Author:
jibunnohanaTheme: #12 Candle
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ni~yaxSakito (Nightmare)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Comments: AU, very loosely based on the movie Bell, Book & Candle.
Part 1 Burning, burning alive. So hot… Niya awoke with a start, immediately patting his bed frantically to put out the imaginary flames. The inferno from his dream disappeared within moments, leaving him shivery and clammy, beads of sticky sweat drying on his brow.
“What the hell?” he wondered out loud, dragging a shaky hand across his forehead to dislodge the clinging strands of hair. Flames, he remembered flames. But before that…? A slender figure, dark, playing the same tune he had heard the previous night. That damned song, Niya couldn’t get it out of his head. With the music came images of a youthful face and twilight eyes, the face of the strange young man. Shaking his head and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes to banish the dream, Niya rose sluggishly from his bed, reaching for the pitcher of water on the nightstand. The hallucinations may have been gone, yet the heat was only slightly relieved. Feverish, he decided, which would explain the queer dream and the fact that he’d left the lamp burning, forgotten, while he slept like the dead.
Moving slow as molasses, Niya dressed himself and, on a suggestion from the maid, set out toward the apothecary on the edge of town for some medication. Normally, he would send his valet out for such menial errands, but he had generously given the man a month’s holiday and the housekeeper refused. Thus the sunny day found him shuffling out of his flat and down the street, a scribbled map clutched in his sweating hand. Rays of light stabbed painfully at Niya’s eyes, and he was grateful when the clouds blew in ten minutes into his journey. ‘You can’t miss it, there’s a bright red door,’ the old maid had told him, jabbing her finger at the map. The entire world looked a funny shade of red to him, but that door had the unmistakable gravity of crimson, deep as the blood pounding in his head. Merely glancing at the color made his chest thump like the hooves of a heavy beast.
Eyes averted, Niya peered at the green grass and flowers planted around the rough hewn plants of the porch, wildflowers mostly. But they, too, seemed to bleed and wilt under the returning blaze of inner fire. He would be lucky if he didn’t collapse on the first step, sour thoughts brought hints of the unwanted trouble that would cause. Mustering his waning energy, Niya reached the door and pushed it open, the light jangle of entry bells seeming like cymbals crashing around his head. Niya didn’t realize he was clenching his teeth until the noise settled, allowing him to relax. Colors shifted back into place and a soft breeze from the window cooled his burning skin. From a door to the side, a voice called, “I’ll be right there.”
While he waited, Niya stepped up to the counter and examined with interest the various jars and vials, bowls and plants decorating the shelves. Powders he’d never heard of appeared suspicious in place of medicine, but, then again, he was no doctor. Even stranger things rested in a dusty case - dried moths, bat wings, disarticulated bones, a tribal mask. Waxy candles, bulbous with overuse, oozed over almost every surface. Puzzled, Niya leaned over for a closer look, only to be interrupted by the last person he ever expected to see again. “Can I help you?”
The young man he’d pegged for a gypsy was waiting, incensed, behind the counter, rubbing a rag over some smudges on an empty jar. Niya’s mouth hung open, flummoxed. “You’re not…?”
“Homeless?” the other replied shortly. “No, I’m a respectable member of society, just like you. I happen to like playing music in the park. It’s a good way to meet new people.”
Unable to respond without sounding like a royal idiot, Niya clamped his mouth closed and focused on the jars of powder next to him, face burning in shame. Assuming the young man was homeless should have been an obvious faux pas to a high society gentleman, but daft was often his middle name. “Sorry about that…” Niya mumbled, stealing a glance at the other’s calm face. He didn’t seem particularly angry now, almost amused even.
“Forgive and forget. Now, what was it you needed? I’m assuming you didn’t come in here just to apologize.”
“Right… I had this bizarre dream last night - about you actually - and woke up with a fever…” But as he said it, Niya realized the heat was gone suddenly. Odd… Would it come back? “…Do you have something for that?”
Very briefly, the features on the man’s face lifted in surprise, and he seemed about to say something. Thinking better, he nodded slightly and reached to the shelf behind him for one of the medicines. Brackish dried plants filled the glass with their gnarled tentacles, putting up a good fight with an attempt to remove a few stalks. Perhaps it was a final trick of the fever, but Niya swore he could momentarily see the blackened stems writhe and recoil. The young man finally disentangled a small amount and put them in a pouch to hand to Niya. “This ought to neutralize the fever. Brew one stem in hot water to make a light tea. They look ghastly, but the taste isn’t bad.”
“Are you some kind of witch?” Niya commented suspiciously, taking the bag gingerly between two fingers, expecting it to bite.
The reply was flippant and nonchalant, “I believe the masculine term is warlock.”
For the blink of an eye, Niya believed him. When their eyes met, a jolt like the shock of lightening ran through him, but the feeling didn’t last. Both men laughed, and Niya thanked the other as he left the shop.