a little rain must fall (CJ)

[DAVID JOFFREY MERCIER]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]733 WORDS FOR THE BIRD outfit <- outfit merrrr a tad short, but brain's a lil fried xD hope it's good enough for ya! <3 DREAM [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;] david was planning to spend the day from the world. he'd called in sick at work - oh, god, he'd hate to see how the people down at the station would react if they knew he was faking a sick call for this - well, actually . . . he was feeling sick, just not in the usual way. he didn't have a fever, he wasn't throwing up, his throat wasn't sore . . . but his chest hurt. god, did his chest hurt. if it were any other day, he'd have been worried about some sort of premature heart attack; since today was the anniversary of his sister's death, he knew what the real cause of it was. guilt. standing there, at his sister's grave, david could feel nothing but guilt - the pain in his chest proved this. naturally, the day had agreed with him - today was a day of mourning. the clouds in the sky were dark, threatening to rain down on him at any moment. david didn't care, though; he liked the rain, and it would be good for him. the weather had been too cheery the past few days for the hunter's tastes. he found it kind of funny how the world seemed to know that today was a sad day for him . . . through all the spring warmth and sunlight, today of all days it chose to be dark and gloomy. luckily, the male had brought an umbrella, just in case it started to rain heavily; however, he didn't really know if he wanted to use it. sometimes, a little rain helped him feel better. it showed the world was sad, too, and that crying was okay. the male let out a soft sigh as he knelt down on his sister's grave. it was depressing, seeing her gravestone again. hannah mercier - fifteen years old - beloved daughter and sister, elle va nous manquer. david tried not to cry on her grave - she had started to hate how soft he was after mom died and would tell him to suck it up - but it was harder than it seemed. he couldn't help but think of all the happy times they had back when they were really young; she would always stick up for him and protect him like alex would. they protected the youngest member of the family, but why did no one protect her? that had been david's job - to protect his sister, his twin - but he'd failed her. how could he not cry about that? " it's, uh, been a while, hannah . . . " he said softly, looking down at his hands, not able to really keep still. " we're doing fine, kind of. alive. alex doesn't really talk to me much, still, but i'm doing well without him. alex is fine, as far as i know. we . . . still do what we do. i'm not really much better at it, but i try . . . for you, " he told the grave, holding back tears. david was silent for a few moments, the serenity of the graveyard oddly haunting. a few raindrops hit the back of his head and he let out a choked laugh. " it's like even the gods are sad that you're gone . . . " even though she hadn't been the nicest sister towards the end of her life, she was still his twin. he couldn't help but love her through all her faults just as he knew she loved him through all of his. the rain simply drizzled for the moment; it was just barely noticeable as actual rain. david took a deep breath; he'd always loved the smell of rain. the hunter laid the single flower on the girl's grave just before hearing someone walking closer to him. he didn't turn to look, nor did he make any motion to draw the weapon he carried at his side; he didn't want to provoke someone that was just innocently at the cemetery . . . or so he told himself. he just really didn't have the willpower to address the person. if they wanted to talk to him, they would; if not, they would carry on with their business. with a shaky sigh, david uttered a quick french phrase under his breath. " we miss you . . . " [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[CYRUS LENNOX REID]

Some people liked to avoid the cemetery, which Cyrus always thought was a shame. There was no bigger part of life, in his opinion, than death. Nobody could run from death forever, not even those who were blessed (or cursed, as some believed) with immortality. Dorian and Cyrus had lived throughout the ages and had seen triumphs, failures, births, and deaths. There were just as many reasons to celebrate as there were to mourn, and everything in life had such a gorgeous balance that Cyrus now believed missing out on even the smallest part was only a cruelty to your entire experience. Whether you got one hundred days or a million, the journey, when it came to a close, was always what the person who reached the end of the road made of it. The hybrid looked to the sky, and saw the clouds darkening, which he found signaled rain more often than not. He had no reason to dislike the rain – he'd fought wars in the rain, and it was just another part of the weather. Rain, to him, was a renewal of the earth, and everything got washed away for a moment. When Catholicism was first developed, Cyrus had seen this principle used in their baptism ceremony, and in his opinion, it was one of few concepts that they actually got right.

At least the cemetery had little to no foot traffic, especially in the rain. Therefore, he got to wander along at his own pace and enjoy himself. There was nobody around to bother him, and while he knew sometimes, these areas could be dangerous, and humans feared the apparitions and spirits that were said to wander the headstones (Cyrus knew this to be an absolute truth), but he feared very little. Death was just another part of living, and if you could call his existence living, then one day he would great death when he'd reached the end of his journey.

About halfway through the cemetery, Cyrus rounded a large oak tree with a mighty trunk and sturdy branches, and heard the voice of a young man speaking. The hybrid slowed his steps, walking on the earth with a silent precision that he had practiced for nearly two thousand years; when he wanted to, Cyrus could almost be like a ghost. There was no reason for him to startle the young man who was speaking, and truly he didn't mean anyone harm, but there was always some reason to be a little bit careful, just in case the person speaking ended up being predatory, or decided that he looked suitable to hunt. For the most part, Cyrus thought what the hunters did was a worthy cause, albeit somewhat ridiculous in that no matter how skilled they were, in taking on those like himself, they were always a bit unmatched. No sword or training within a human lifespan could match the expertise of thousands, or even hundreds of years. Yet, he was no enemy to them unless they chose to make him one. As he moved past the tree, the young man stopped and muttered a French phrase, which Cyrus understood, as he had lived in France for a number of years during the Revolution and the language, along with many others he'd picked up during his travels, had stuck with him. The man's body language changed, and Cyrus knew that he'd been heard, because he'd wanted to be.

”Les morts écoutent avec les oreilles parfaites,” (The dead hear with perfect ears.) Cyrus' words were meant to be a comfort, since he could see the man's aura, and practically feel his sorrow like a physical caress. He was lost, and he was here to mourn. Cyrus knew that, respectfully, he could have left him alone, but there was something else... his sister... that was who he'd lost. If Cyrus had ever been unfortunate enough to lose Dorian, there would be no bringing him back from the world of agony he'd live in. Losing Mae had nearly plunged him into hell on earth, and if not for his dear brother's presence, he might have attempted to join her. The fact that the boy ached so deeply, and yet still stood made Cyrus want to know him. The much older man was nearly blind to age, but had a profound respect for anyone who could lose so much and still keep living.

”It's dangerous out here, you know,” Cyrus said when he knew he had the young man's attention. There wasn't any reason to greet him with more sorrow, but understanding, and perhaps even some comforting advice, if that was what he needed. But if not, Cyrus would happily go along his way, not bothered, but keeping the memory of a young man who had seemed to be aged by sorrow beyond his years.

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