sixthiterationlogs | of earthquakes and aftershocks

Entry tags:

of earthquakes and aftershocks

WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 10th September and a few days after
OPEN TO: Inn Residents, whoever else might be in the building: then, everyone!
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Open

Earthquake

It's 5pm, or would be, if anyone paid much attention to things like clocks here. Sunset isn't for another two and a half hours or so, and the day's been hot. Not as humid as it has been. The Inn is mostly quiet, as it's hours after the midday dinner and the only people around either live at the Inn or have reason to be there. Supper will be made soon, as it's been a good day with the food supply.

Then, a minute later, the ground starts to shake.

Repairs and Aftermath

The Inn hasn't been as badly damaged as some other buildings. Foundations are still strong, walls haven't been cracked. But it's a big building, with lots of furniture and light fixtures, and it got shaken.

Having been turned into the unofficial community centre, it'll take some work and a few days to get everything straightened up again.

There's also the little matter of the water supply...

ooc: this is a party-style post, so set up your own OTAs or tag around and have fun! Setting is both for the day of the quake and a few days after to try and fix things up.

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Really, she'd wanted to scream. Scream as the sudden shaking sent her weight harshly against her bad ankle, scream as she fell because she's Kate Kelly and she's never fallen off a bloody inanimate thing since she was four years old and trying to walk on a fence.

But she can't scream. There's that little cry, all that escapes the fear strangling her and her breath fleeing her. And then... And then she doesn't know, because Sorellin's caught her in his arms and pulled her close. Because she's clinging to him as the only stable thing in this room. Because the ground is shaking, shaking like it's sifting them all for gold, angry that there's nothing there, and all that can escape her mouth is an almost silent sobbing.

Kate, he'd call her.

At least if she died, the last thing anyone said to her would be her name.

But she doesn't die, and neither does Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster. The shaking stops. She can hear herself, those frightened whimpering cries. She can hear his harsh, shaken breathing, and as she turns her head against him to peer out against the kitchen, she can hear his heart.

They're alive.

But she doesn't let him go.

Miss Kelly's small hands are surprisingly strong as she clings to his shoulders, digging through the soft shirt he wears to press into his flesh. He wouldn't be surprised if he walked away from this — if he walks away from this — with little pink-prick bruises across his shoulders from where her fingers dig into his skin.

He's grateful for the grounding touch as the actual ground shakes beneath his knees. It's all he can do to hunch his broad shoulders over her, cradling her close up against him as he tries to avoid being knocked over.

He wants to curse, but nothing comes up from his throat. Not even a prayer. All he can do is breathe and hold her tightly, shifting his grip on her so he can fit one palm to the back of her head and hold her as gently as he can against his shoulder, shielding her head from anything that falls. Dimly, he's aware of something colliding with his shoulders, a sudden pain that has him grunting, but the adrenaline of the moment subsumes that enough for him to avoid focusing on it at all.

And then, as suddenly as the tremors started, they stop.

For a moment, all Benedict can do is remain exactly where he's been, curled around Miss Kelly on the floor with his head ducked down against hers. Then, after managing to suck in a handful more shaking breaths, he cautiously lifts his head to look around the wreckage that is the kitchen, seeing everything they've worked so hard for strewn about like toys after a child has thrown a tantrum. It's distressing, of course, but he's finding it hard to focus on that, hyper-aware of the girl in his lap who's all but crying into his shirt.

"Miss Kelly," he croaks, his hands trembling as he loosens his death-grip on her so he doesn't hurt her. "Are you alright?"

Kate doesn't reply at first. Her breath is a shuddering, sobbing thing, never quite settling into either crying for sure or calming down into merely harsh breathing. She can't reply, either. She's too shocked, too scared. She's so aware of herself, of being alive. Of the movement of her lungs, the sensations dancing over her skin, the way her heart is thudding so hard it hurts.

His arms around her, too. His chest next to her. Legs underneath her. And, there, still, strong, his heart.

They're alive. They're alive.

The world almost feels too still now, and she's distracted by it that she doesn't really register his question. Instead, she lets go of him with hand only, crossing herself and pressing her fingers to her lips as she whispers an incoherent prayer of thanks.

They're alive.

"Are you all right?" Kate asks, looking up at him with too-wide, too-bright hazel eyes. "Are you hurt?"

She looks terrified. Benedict can relate.

He nods reassuringly, attempting to smile at her even though his shoulders ache with a dull throbbing pain thanks to whatever it was that was knocked into him and he feels half-convinced the ground will start to shake again at any minute. "I'm fine," he assures her, smoothing a piece of hair out of her face with a trembling hand, letting that same hand linger a little when he knows he should not. But she is frightened, and so is he, and he doesn't think a gentle, grounding touch is out of the question at a time like this, especially when she looks at him the way she does.

"Are you alright?" he asks again, resisting the urge to shift off his knees or to roll his shoulders to dull the pain radiating across them.

He will focus on the important things first.

"Good, I'm glad, I'd hate for you to get hurt," she says, dimly aware that her words are coming too fast. But they are honest. She doesn't want him hurt, not at all.

It's when Sorellin brushes a wavy lock of hair out of her face that she realises just how close they are. Arms around each other, her hand still griping him; she's curled up on his lap, curled in against his chest, and if she moved her head in she could-

No, no, she's not thinking about that.

"I'm fine," she says in an unmeaning echo. "I. My ankle's hurt again, but other than that, I'm in one piece.

Thank you. For catchin' me."

She's not the only one realizing just how close they are. They're so close, in fact, that he could count her lashes as they fan across her cheeks, count the freckles they touch that are scattered across her nose. They're faint little things, and he's surprised by how charming they are. He feels he shouldn't be finding her quite so charming as he does, especially not right now, when things are still potentially quite dire.

Her confession about her ankle has him frowning at her. "It is?"

Right, that won't do. If she's hurt again, she won't be able to escape easily in case the quaking starts up again. Shifting his arms around her, Benedict slides one beneath her legs and wraps the other about her waist, rocking back onto his heels before standing and lifting her up in the air as he goes, ignoring the twinge of his shoulders. He'll figure out what he did to himself later, after he gets Miss Kelly to safety.

"Of course," he assures her, holding her securely to his chest as he carefully picks his way out of the kitchen towards the door. "I would not let you fall."

That he can carry her had never been in doubt. She's over a foot shorter than him, and slender with it. If she's heavier than she might otherwise be due to her wiry muscles, she's aware she's still a light weight for most. And yet the ease with which he gets to his feet is still impressive.

Kate curls in close, fingers unconsciously tightening again on his shoulder as she's moved up into the air and then loosening. He's got her. He won't let her fall, she trust him not to.

She doesn't say anything until they are outside, until she can twist her head and look at the building she's just been carried from.

"It... Do I risk sayin' it looks in one piece?" Kate whispers, as if she doesn't want anyone to hear but Benedict. But Mr Sorellin.

The way she curls in against him makes him feel even more protective of her, something that has him tightening his grip on her as he picks his way outside until they're standing in front of the Inn and he can set her down carefully on the bench that conveniently placed there.

Kneeling before her, his hand forgotten on her hip as he twists to look behind them, he shrugs.

"I will way it for you, then. It looks in one piece," he agrees, turning back to her and pulling up as reassuring of a smile as he can. "I think perhaps that was the worst of it," he adds, although he knows that's just tempting fate. "We are not being bombed, which is a relief, so it must be a natural calamity. And as nothing has tumbled to the ground just yet, I think perhaps we have weathered the worst of it."

He feels he should leave her and go look for the others, or at least go check out what's happened inside, but he doesn't want to. He'd rather stay out here with her, even if he's just realized he's been casually resting his hand on her waist, which brings a fresh heat to his face as he gingerly removes it. Sorry, Kate.

She grabs his hand. Not to put it back against her waist, a state which makes her a little flushed herself, but to hold. It's not a graceful grip, no delicate and lady-like hold, but something rougher, more desperate. Stay with me.

"I don't understand what you mean by bein' bombed. Is that an attack? Where the ground moves?"

She's trying to understand, but she doesn't. She can't. She's heard of the earthquakes, she has, and there had been that smaller one earlier - smaller, only in comparison to this.

When Kate grabs his hand like that, Benedict is only too happy to settle back on his knees before her and wrap both his hands around hers, holding it securely to comfort her as best he could.

"...It meant to have an explosive device dropped on you, usually from the air," he explains, a little surprised that she's never heard of bombing. Then again, maybe the place she's from is so much more peaceful than Spire Albion, although he'd always considered it a relatively peaceful place to live.

Realizing that might be an upsetting thought, he hurries on. "But that is not a concern, I think, we are safe enough."

Kate knows explosive. Dynamite and gunpowder, and there are explosions in her nightmares, from where the fire licked at all the powder and ammunition in Mrs Jones' Best Inn and made it explode. She saw, later, what that fire did to the bodies of her brother Dan and his mate Steve Hart, and that too is carved cruelly into her mind.

But from the air?

"How, from a hot air balloon? Now that don't sound very safe," she begins, but there's a slight shake of her hands that suggests she really, does not actually, want to pursue this concept just now. No matter what her mouth is saying.

"All right. Safe enough. Oh, God. Why, why would they put us here, if earthquakes happen?"

Benedict has been raised to answer questions when they are posed to him, but he has a feeling Kate doesn't really want him to explain the finer points of air-based warfare, so instead he just reaches for her other hand and folds it between both of his like its twin, holding them both carefully between warm palms as he looks up at her with his odd golden eyes.

"Don't think about it," he orders, doing his best to keep his voice calm and low. Her shaking hands and frazzled conversation makes him think that she might be spiraling into panic. He has to keep her calm.

"It's alright. You're alright. I'm here with you, and I won't leave until you ask me to," he promises, squeezing her hands carefully. "Just...focus on your breathing. Deep breaths, like this." He fills his lungs and then blows it out slowly, his thumb stroking over her captive fingers in time with his breathing, seemingly without him noticing.

His hands are reassuring around hers, hands that aren't intimidating despite their size because they are the hands which caught her when she fell. Kate meets his eyes, and for a moment she seems to listen to him.

Benedict's voice is calm, low, and while she's sure it's not the colour that makes his eyes so compelling, it seems to help. It's the colour of lions and wolves, but he's not a wild creature. He is a man, with a man's choices and reliability.

But none of it, not his voice, not his presence, nor even the soft stroke of his thumb over her fingers, dampens her rage.

"I hate them," Kate breathes out, mouth twisting and her own hazel eyes becoming too bright. "They've just, they've stolen us. From our families, from everything and, they've put us and make people vanish and now the bloody ground shakes."

Benedict is still breathing calm and steady, and her body wants to respond. Is responding. A slowing down of heart and breath, and she fights it.

"You know what it reminds me of? Medieval lords, just goin' out and huntin' down the peasants for fun. But oh, they'll give us helpful little boxes, watch us all run around tryin' to survive. Well they can, they can all go and bugger an echidna!"

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of earthquakes and aftershocks

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