A Storm Approaches (Celeste)

”What do you want? I’m rather busy right now!”

The doors would crash open abruptly, the sound unmistakable in her ears, and sure enough there was the bartender calling after the witch. The splashes of her boot persisted in her march away from the pub. She half-expected another retort, another final nail in the coffin and word to settle the score, to make sure she never came back or bothered him again. Instead, he would grant her the benefit of the doubt, voicing realization that she had, after all was said and done, offer him a hand in need when it mattered. The blond let slip a wry smirk to herself before turning to face him, once more to look on this broken traveler with passive disinterest.

The rain pelted hard against this scene; the moments between the drops almost seeming to slow when Dion continued on, the girl’s focus trained entirely to this apology she felt was unnecessary. There were no words, no snide remarks nor gesture to offer in return for what she believed a genuine, touch of heart – not to herself, but for Dion’s own well-being. These words weren’t to her, just like she felt so many lapses of innocence and grace from anyone else in the past had been. A soul such as hers didn’t deserve to hear such things they were never meant to.

A fixation of scarlet would narrow.

So misguided, so fractured.

It baffled and infuriated Celeste to no end how this young man continued to let the world and its cruel ways continue to dictate the course of his fate. The answer to all his woes and problems could very well rest at his very fingertips, and yet he was too blinded by petty squabbles in order to see it. There was no doubt that her own abilities terrified her to no end, even to this day, yet they were her demons to master and control, to weaponize, to steer the course of her fate to her whim alone. Indeed, it was like looking into a mirror, albeit a rather warped one.

This was the face of weakness without desire, this is what Celeste could have been without a will to fight. The silence that came between them would almost last an eternity against the rain.

”Does it hurt?”

The witch waited a moment to see if she had his attention again.

”The hiccups. How bad do they hurt?”

The more the bartender spoke about his affliction, truly addressed it in her eyes, the more Celeste began to see the similarities to how her own troubles started. It wasn’t an uncontrollable force that threatened to consume her very being, or at least, not in the way Dion was experiencing it now. Though she understood well what it felt like to be ostracized by loved ones, even the world. Disagreements between the ones she cared about led to words Celeste could never take back, though she wasn’t here to mediate on Dion’s trifles, merely his life.

Their situations differed in many regards, but she recognized where things stood, and herself on the matter. It would benefit them both if they made to better understand this power – for Celeste, to utilize it in whatever means she saw fit, like a fun new toy or spell to possibly play with. Truly old habits die hard, there was no denying she wished to see the depths to which this anomaly might be explored. The task didn’t come without its troubles, truthfully, she wished to have stumbled upon this rarity in a more natural form. The company of others was tedious as is, but to so carefully watch for and tend to such an incessant whiner of a vessel, the very thought was almost unbearable.

A means to an end, so she would tell herself – do her utmost best to treat it as any other possession or bewitchment case like in the past. It wasn’t anything she couldn’t accomplish if she kept her wits about her, tapped into what few resources still remained at her disposal. With a little faith, a lot of patience, and maybe a shove in the right direction here or there, and Celeste held confident that Dion’s life might also be salvaged by the end of this tale.

The witch would approach softly against the cacophony of the rain, her steps slow as she remained mindful to his presence, should another resurgence of that power come about. When confident she could approach without concern for her own well-being, the blond knelt next to the broken bartender. She eyed him once over, that reminder of how pathetic he looked evident by the mask of dispassion on her face.

Celeste wasn’t sure why she did it – maybe it was a need for the subject to feel secure, or perhaps fleeting traces of her own sincerity at work. The witch would reach out to gingerly rub a palm against the side of his head, cradling his cheek gently to offer a smile.

”You’re such a crybaby!” she would tease, making to rub his hair playfully. ”Come on, up we go.” She would offer him a means to help return to his feet, before relinquishing her hand to twirl a lock of hair about absentmindedly. Celeste would move to step back into the musty and quiet bar, the draft billowing in after her. She gave the empty establishment a weary glance in passing, taking a moment to try and fathom what this place might’ve been like during a brighter time.

”Look, I know you’ve really no reason to trust what I say, not many do. But if it’s all the same to you I’d still like to try and help.”