The One Who Was Lost

225 - "Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?" - Marcel Marceau

Can't talk with your throat cut, you know, so I suppose I didn't have much of a choice.

But then again, what would I have said if I were able? I'd already committed an act of betrayal so terrible that I'd felt incapable of revealing my intentions to anyone, including friends I treasured beyond words and beyond family. I had already struck a deal with Angel's enemy and stolen Angel's infant son. And then-- almost inevitably, in hindsight-- that I myself had been betrayed, and had been played for a dupe.

Once Justine's knife had done its work, and I'd been left to die an ignominious death, what would I have said?

( Plea )

(356)

219 - Headlines

The things we do don't make the headlines. When the LAPD completes a covert sting operation, netting a dozen or more organized crime luminaries, their triumph is celebrated on the front of every broadsheet in town. When the fire department battles a downtown blaze and saves a half dozen historical landmarks from destruction, or when paramedics make a daring helicopter rescue of hikers stranded in the hills, everyone in town knows about it.

When we turn a nest of vampires into dust, or unseat a would-be demon lord bent on absorbing an entire apartment building's worth of tenants, or avert yet another end of the world, our only recognition is from one another.

Usually, that is.

( Extra, extra )

(366)

214 - "To be great is to be misunderstood."

London, September 1981

"Come in, Wyndam-Pryce, come in," said the Headmaster drily as he ushered the then fifteen year-old Wesley into the cavernous office. The entire space smelled of old wood, leather and dust between the gigantic desk and two huge chairs set before it and the acres of books stacked neatly along the shelves that lined every available space except the windows. The morning was grey and cool outside, and Wesley had just barely set his suitcase atop the footlocker at the end of his bed when the message had come, summoning him to Headmaster Kincaid's office.

( Proud pupil )

(468)

209 - What are you afraid of?

( One moment )

(323)

206 - What do you live for?

New books have a smell, not dissimilar to a new car. Whether it is the paper itself, or the glue in the binding, I'm not sure, but it is distinctive. Old books are even more remarkable. The leather and gild on the cover, the brown-yellow pages and the old, fading ink. The opening of an old book is a something that touches every one of the senses.

( Inventory )

(439)

200 - Quote prompt, White Teeth, Zadie Smith:

Greetings cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.

Love is never what we are told, and it is never as we expect. As children, we are raised on fairy stories and fantasy, worlds where love conquers all and is the greatest and truest and most powerful force in all creation. When we become adolescents, we find ourselves drawn to the stories of star-crossed love and of young lovers forced apart, yearning and pining and always devoted.

If we are wise, we grow to adulthood understanding that fairy tales are allegories, cautionary tales meant to teach young hearts and minds lessons about not straying from the path and not reaching for the things one cannot hold. We grow to understand that more often than not, the only thing crossing us in love is ourselves, and not the mischievous stars.

( Patient, kind and understanding? Really? )

(454)

197 - Is there anyone in your life who you feel is exceptionally wise? Who, and how did you meet this person?

It was the most important, most imposing door in the entire house. From Wesley's point of view, a bit more than a metre or so above the polished-smooth parquet floor, it seemed at least three of him high and two of him wide, and might have weighed a long tonne for as reluctant as he was to attempt opening it. The eight year-old had been through the door on occasion, of course, and he knew if he closed his eyes, he could picture the room beyond.

Inside, books lined every empty bit of wall that was not already occupied by a window, and those were likely to be hidden behind the heavy, dark green curtains. A pair of large, high-backed chairs stood to one end of the room, flanking a tiny wood-burning fireplace. To the other end was a massive wooden desk, stained a dark, rich red-brown that reminded the boy of the skin of roasted chestnuts. A green-shaded brass banker's lamp would be spilling a bright circle of light upon the surface of the desk.

And behind the desk, scowling more like than not, would be Father.

( Ours is not to reason why )

(716, not including cut-tag quote)

OOC Note: Mun or Meta comments only, please.

195 - What makes someone a hero? What makes someone a villain?

"We all want something, Wes. It's the way of the world. Everybody's got an agenda."

"And you want to tell me mine."

"You want to come down here, get your vital stats on lava boy, play the big hero--"

"I want to know how to kill the Beast. It has nothing to do with being a hero."

( And shall I couple hell? )

(556, not including direct quotes: episode and Hamlet, I.v.)

192 - Write about a recurring dream you've had.

Hot. Cold. Loud. Sharp.

The words echo like the refrain of a song, though if Wesley ever knew the words, he cannot, in that particular moment, recall them. Not that one would blame the man for having trouble concentrating. In the moment Wesley dreams of, he is sitting on a chair-- tied down to it, to be precise. The chair is in a kitchen. The kitchen is in an apartment. The apartment has been broken into and belongs to neither of the people in the kitchen, not the man tied to the chair and not the young woman brandishing the chef's knife as if she were ready to begin deboning a chicken.

( Look back in anger )

(777)

190 - You've temporarily turned into a child -- what do you do?

I'm sure that I'd be quite upset at the start, more than likely. I've gotten well used to a lot of the advantages that come from adulthood: independence and autonomy, primarily, not to mention the particularly enjoyable pursuits made possible by having reached the age of majority.

But those losses would not long after pale in comparison to the opportunities presented by my newfound childhood.

I would run across the great lawn of my family's estate barefoot, shouting at the top of my lungs, and, if I managed to time it right, straight through the sprinklers just as they began to water the grass. I'd run to the pond that sits at the very edge of the property, roll up my trouser legs and wade into brackish water and collect a frog or two.

There are hallways in the Junior Wing of the Watchers' Academy that would be ripe for redecorating with crayons or markers or fingerpaints. Days could be enjoyed in the park, feeding birds with bits of bread or sitting on blankets, watching the world pass by. There could be trips to Bournemouth beach or even all the way to Spain for holiday to sit on the sand and build castles or such.

There could be Cadbury Flake bars and Walkers crisps and sticky toffee pudding in the middle of the week for no special reason.

There could be all the things there weren't the first time 'round.

(240)