Mainly Bronte OneShots

OneShots #1 Bronte and Fintan

Bronte wrapped his arms around himself, his nervous habit, as Fintan approached him. Slow steps, fire at the ready, a dangerous grin? He'd seen it all before, not that he'd ever admit it.

"Ah! Bronte..." Fintan cried. "Back to your old nervous habits hey? Shame..." the word was drawn out, as if he wanted to give it purpose. Bronte had the sudden mental image of a fluffy, spoilt persian (see pic above) saying the same thing and had to hold back a snigger. Fintan glared.

"I do know you tried so hard to break them" 

Bronte glanced away, his hands twiching, wanting, wanting to inflict. But he didn't let it free. It could simmer and brew until he was ready. He refused to let his calm facade down unless absolutely necessary. Or that's what that plan was, at least. Fintan smirked and Bronte braced for the worst . But what he said was worse than anything Bronte ever imagined. It left him vunerable... and hurting. More than he wanted to admit. 

"Now I understand why our mother didn't want you!" 

Bronte saw red.

Everything was burning, the heat was clawing at his throat, hands, head and it took him a second to realise that it wasn't his inflicting. 

It was fire. 

Pure, bright, Fire.

Bronte bolted upright, cold sweat dripping down his forehead, tears apperaring fast at his cheeks. He sucked in a shaky breath, greatful it was only a nightmare. Ever since Fintan had been murded by The Black Swan he had been having terrifingly realistic nightmares. Oralie had begged him to go to Elwin about it but he refused. He had been able to withstand a millenia of it, so why not anymore? Sure they were a bit more realistic- but that didn't make a difference!

Bronte groaned and clutched his head, The room spinning and spinning. He couldn't think, couldn't move. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Bronte whimpered and clutched his stomache, willing himself not to throw up. He'd never been good with spinny things ever since he went on a human rollercoaster with- Bronte stopped the thought just in time, but it still rang around his pounding head.

fintan

Fintan

FINTAN

Bronte groaned again and it became apparent that his stomache very much dissagreed to his earlier wish. He slowley pulled off his covers, rubbing his temples. When he finally made it to the bathroom, he paused in the doorway, trying to calm his raggad breathing. Nope. Nothing he tried worked. Nothing.

No wonder your mother didn't want you. Such a hopless idiot, you can't even calm your self down!

Bronte felt the cracks appear.

Little by little.

But he pushed through them. He had to be strong. 

For Oralie.

For Kenric.

For Fintan.

Another wave of dizziness hit, resulting in him bolting to the sink. And there he stayed, drifting in and out of nightmares and dreams until he heard his imparter chime, somewhere around 5 am, his usual waking time. Or what was usual a year ago...

For the first time in about 300 years, he called in sick. As much as he hated it, he knew he couldn't go to work like this. He eventually crawled back into bed, just as he remembered the message. Bronte slowley pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing as he moved. Once he found his imparter he opened the message, his eyes flashing with pain in protest.

It read:

Dear Bronte,

Hey. I heard about Fintan. 

I know how much he meant to you, and I'm sorry.

Vespera

A single tear slipped down his face.

She cared.

And for now, that was all that mattered.