Storm Caught
By PapillonCameo and Tachigami

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His lights flickered for the fourth time tonight, but he didn't want to let the threat of a power outage deter him from his writing. Victor hadn't written all day, and now, now when he was finally inspired, a dreadful storm had to roll in. He relied on his computer to finish chapters and send them to his editor, but tonight he didn't want to risk losing hard work to an outage. So in his hand was a notebook, which he didn't like using because it looked so messy, and he sat in front of his fire, hoping to use it for a moment's light in case the electricity did go out. For the millionth time, Victor was sure, he thought about investing in a generator, but he didn't really like to go out too often. He hadn't had the need for a generator in the past, after all. With a sigh, Victor pushed back his pin-straight hair that liked to hide his face and his dark, heavily-lashed eyes and leaned back, staring at the rafters above him. He liked the bare-bones look, the dark oak. He poised his pen on the paper again, studying what he'd already written. He wanted to take inspiration from the storm, but had done that before, he was sure. How many stories had he written sitting up by the light of a few candles, tapping away while rain slapped the window behind him? Those had been gentle storms, though.

He stood up, out of his wide chair---it looked twice as large as an ordinary armchair and was by far his favorite seat to sit and think in front of the fire---and slapped down the notebook on the top of the bar in the corner while he took stock. If he couldn't write or think, he could at least drink and feel a little warmer. He took a bourbon bottle from the middle shelf, foregoing a glass and drinking straight out of the bottle. Who was around, after all, that would mind? No one really visited him because he didn't bother to tell anyone where he lived. Victor had fans of his work, people that wanted to know him, and cameras that followed him when he went to town. But no one really knew where he lived, somewhere outside the town, because it seemed most high-living authors liked to live in highrises or condos, beach houses, townhouses. He didn't like it, though---Victor liked the isolation.

He twisted the bottle on the polished wood counter, staring at the blank page full of small dots where he had tried to start writing, pushing his pen in then taking it away from the paper when inspiration seeped away. He felt like it was taunting him, the blank page, and rolled his eyes, brushing his hair back and sitting on a stool just nearby, rearranging his sweater a little. Maybe if he didn't focus so hard, he would be able to come up with something. So many of his ideas came to him while he slept, after all. Victor huffed, massaging his forehead. It felt like it was going to be a very long night.

Curran could tell the storm was only going to get worse. Already raindrops pummeled and beat at his sensitive skin. It hurt, every inch of him covered in bruises for reasons he couldn't remember. No, that was wrong, he didn't want to remember what had happens, and so the simplest thing was to lock it all away as he dragged himself across lush grass and rocky ground alike.

Worm. Nothing more then that. Such a thing to become, for one who had once been so important. He had fallen. That much the man with green tinged hair could remember. His vision wavered as his fingers brushed against dead wood. Hard, unyielding and so lifeless that it hurt one such as he. Perfect.

With a groan, the young seeming man pulled his worn body from the ground and forced himself to knock against the cabin's door with some semblance of dignity, even though his clothing was ragged to the point of being nothing more then scraps. His dark brown eyes held resignation, that of one who has completely given up, and still struggles on anyway.

With a resounding pop the power finally went out, as Victor knew it would. With an annoyed sigh, he went around in the light offered by the fireplace and dug candles out of the cabinet over the bar. He used matches to light one, and started going around the hallways both upstairs and down, lighting oil lamps that were installed just below the electric lights. They were safe to leave on throughout the night, as meticulously placed sprinkler systems didn't let fire move but a foot or so, leaving only a little charring and more than enough water damage. And when he didn't need them, a pull cord near the front door sent a burst of air into every lamp, blowing them out immediately. It wasn't because he wanted a unique home, of course---it was necessary because of the power outages that plagued Victor's home in the winter and early spring, which it was.

As he lit the last of the hall lamps and found the one he carried when necessary, he heard something knock against the front door. Glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner of his den, Victor knitted his brow at the time. Nearing ten in the evening. He doubted anyone would be out so late, but suddenly he was curious. Taking his lamp with him, Victor went into the hall and listened. Thunder banged about in the sky, and the steamed windows flashed with lightning. He felt like an idiot when he unlocked his door, remembering all the short stories he wrote that started just like this. But when he pulled it open, he almost dropped his lamp.

He could barely write a scene so shocking, at least to him. A rather young-looking man, leaning on the frame and about to fall, covered in dark, ugly bruises and possibly a good amount of blood, clothing that looked like it was put through a wood chipper and given back. He hung the lamp on a hook that was usually reserved for coats, pulling the man in and closing the door to the whipping, biting air and settling him against the wall. "Oh, holy hell..." Victor didn't know what else to say. In the flame-toned light the man looked pale, but it was hard to tell. "Hey, are you okay? Well, shit, you can't be okay... God... Hold on..." He ran down the hall, diving into the bathroom under the stairs and pulling thick towels out of the cabinets, seven in total, and took them into the den, lying several across the nearest seat---a couch in the middle of the floor. The last two he brought with him, wrapping one around the man's shoulders, pulling him up and egging him along. The situation in itself was numbing, but Victor wasn't a fool. This man was freezing and needed to be in front of a fire first and foremost.

He hadn't expected to find anyone home. In fact, Curran had simply been looking for someplace to lie down and let the cold seep into his bones. Then this happened. It was shocking. Pulled from the drilling rains, and slid into warmth and comfort while surrounded by silent dead wood and man made things. It was painful and bearable for that. The cinnamon skinned man shook his head of dark brown hair, and said not a word as he was guided to sit near dreaded fire. Such a thing .. He could reach out and be consumed entire by it in but a few moments.

But why did he want to do that? Curran tilted his head and licked his lips. A stranger had taken in a stranger. That was a more interesting thing to wonder about then his memory lapses, forced upon himself he knew. What kind of man would allow someone he knew nothing about into his home, under any circumstances. Instead of wondering more, he settled into the couch, and sank into the warm towel snaking about his bare shoulders. There were paintings on the walls, wildlife and people alike, but mostly of enchanting landscapes and far away places Curran knew he'd never seen, and would never see.

Victor settled the man down carefully, feeling bones move under his hands. How thin was he? Emaciated? Or was that Victor's overactive senses putting too much into small movements? The rags and towels wrapped around the man were too thick, hanging too loosely, to tell him anything. He knelt in front of the man, shaking his head. What had happened to him? A wreck? A beating? Was he running for his life? Victor made a mental note to grab his handgun when he felt safe enough to leave this stranger. "Hey, you... Look up." He put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Are you okay? Look... Do you know where you are?"

He sighed. Where had he come from? Victor lived far enough away from town that he would, even in a heavy downpour, hear a vehicle pass by, and none had done so recently. This man couldn't have come this far out on his own, in the torrential downpour, after being beaten half to death.

Startled, he lifted his eyes. Feminine lashes and a kind face met Curran's gaze. So this was the person who had taken him in. "In the forest ..." He knew that much. There was a name to be attached to it, but it had been hidden along with many of his memories. Water slipped slowly across skin, and Curran shivered a little despite all the warmth surrounding him. The cabin was cozy, it couldn't be denied. Despite that, Curran felt cold to the bone.

Softly, he spoke again. "Who are you?" He wanted to ask why the stranger had taken him in, but stopped himself. It would have been impolite.

In the forest? He hadn't come from the city at all, then. Or he had been taken to the forest for some ugly means and left to die. He couldn't imagine why, but some concepts entered his mind. Criminal, runaway, loan sharks, just a few ideas that wormed their way into Victor's mind. But if they had left him, no doubt they thought he would die. So in their minds, this man was dead.

He sat on the cushion alongside the mysterious man, carefully checking his hair and head for wounds. "I'm Victor Peritte, a writer. I could ask the same question about you, but..." He grimaced, shaking his head. He knew spending time in freezing, soaked clothing just wouldn't help warm someone, even in a heated room and in front of a fire. "That doesn't matter right now---I think you should get out of those cold clothes or you'll either get sick or come down with hypothermia." He stood. "Think you can follow me? I've got plenty of spare rooms upstairs you can recover in for a bit." There was no way they could get to the city like this, after all.

A writer? That was something he knew he wasn't familiar with. The written word had never been something people like him found important. He knew what it was, of course, but to think someone could make a living off such things... It was absurd. "Victor," said Curran as he struggled to stand. His hands went to the off brown cushions of the couch. The support was all he needed to find his feet again.

"I can follow." That was something he thought he was used to. Once upright, Curran stepped lightly towards his savior. Every step made him wince, not because of the step itself, oh no .. Rather it was the silent screams of trees felled without a care that had him making faces and breaking out in shivers. It was horrible!

Victor grimaced, but didn't help the man. There was something about leaving one to help themselves while staying close to them, offering a helping hand when needed, and only when needed. He led the way around the couch and to the front entrance, picking up his lamp from the hook he'd hung it on and leading the man along the soft carpet. Each day he was amazed that he'd simply found this home and refurbished it, as it looked so newly built now. Not even the stairs squeaked when they walked up.

On the second level he brought the man forward, down the short hall, passing another staircase and bringing the stranger to a door to the right. "This is one of the spare rooms I have." He said, opening the door and going around to light various candles in their glass holders. Slowly, the dark room came to be bathed in a bright, flame-toned glow. A green-draped canopy bed sat in the corner of the room, two doors to the right, one leading to a closet and one to a bathroom. An entire wall of stone bookshelves stood against the left wall, in front of a desk and a chair, and a fireplace that shared the chimney of the one below it stood quiet and empty. "There are clothes in the closet, but they're ones that I don't necessarily wear. They're warm, though, and... I guess better than cold rags." Victor looked around to the man. "And you can clean yourself up in the bathroom there." He pointed. "Are you hungry at all? You might have been out in that forest for a pretty long time..." He put a hand to his chin, thinking. The forest was pretty big, and he was surrounded by the outskirts of that forest.

Such a soft carpet, it made a big different to Curran's bare feet. When they entered the room that was to be his own, the young seeming man tilted his head. The green canopy comforted, invited. The stone book shelves were too cold and lifeless to his mind, and all the books ... They were the corpses of trees. But at least they were seemingly treated with respect and care. "Anything but meat, please."

Victor nodded. "Sure, sure. I have plenty of food that doesn't include meat." He paused. "Whatever happened to you... if you can remember, I mean... you can tell me. I won't judge, you know." Of course he didn't, but Victor wasn't in his right mind. His mind was on getting this stranger warm and competent again, because he seemed to be dazed. Nodding, Victor backed away. "Just put those rags on the floor wherever, okay? I'll do something with them tomorrow, at the latest." He brought the door with him as he left the room, unconcerned with the possibility of having something stolen. But he was worried about who might have beaten this man half to death, and went to his room, collecting his pistol and tucking it behind his back. Victor hated violence, but he felt as if he needed to keep both of them safe. With the gun hidden away, Victor went downstairs to the kitchen and looked through his food. No meat, he remembered, so he still had a large concept to work with.

Curran didn't wait for Victor to leave the room before he started to strip down to bare skin. Cloth slipped to the floor, leaving skin that at times seemed like bark exposed to the air. Dark bruises marred near every inch of him. Curiously, he stared down at himself and sighed. It had been deserved, he thought .. That had been his thought. He couldn't figure out why he was still alive. Seeking help had been more instinct then anything else. "I don't remember," murmured the soft spoken man.

"I get the feeling ... I did something bad ..." He wasn't sure if the other man heard. Shaking his head as Victor left, the young man went to the closet and started rummaging through the clothes. He didn't know how to use zippers, and so ended up wearing a pair of snug gym pants and a loose t-shirt. It was comfortable, and softer then anything he'd thought people could create.

Something bad... Victor couldn't help but wonder what the man could possibly have done to warrant a beating so bad it left him clueless and somewhere near death. He shook his head, chopping vegetables. Lettuce, cabbage, cucumber, broccoli, button mushrooms and thin-sliced carrots and mild peppers. A salad was safe, especially if someone didn't eat meat. Scooping it into a bowl, he lightly dressed it with a natural olive oil and tossed it, leaving it on the counter and going upstairs. Working in candlelight was nice, in its own way, but the flames were often so unreliable. Setting the lamp he carried on the shelf beside the door, he knocked before pushing it open a little. "You okay?" He asked, not necessarily looking in. "I didn't know what you like but I put something together when you want to come down..."

He pushed himself back, fighting the urge to go inside, and took the lamp back down with him. He made a note to ask the man about his name, at the very least. He couldn't have a complete and utter stranger stay with him, and knowing the man's name at least took some of that edge away.

The trees outside were whispering. Their soft voices, so like his own, vouching silently for the man who had taken him in. Curran bit his lower lip. Safety, did he really deserve that? The light of candles lit the way as he walked from the room. He had to put his hand against the corpses that the whole building was made of, needed their support to make his way downstairs.

Once at the foot of the stairs, he sank down to the floor and took long breaths. It felt like the walls were closing in. There was no sky, just beams of dead wood. It offered no comfort at all. A cage of wood. He could have imagined a prison of iron, of stone, but never of wood. Curran wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed.

At the bottom of the stairs, Victor studied the man and crouched in front of him. "Are you sure you're okay?" He asked carefully. "You don't look good at all." He couldn't imagine someone dying here, in the home he had found, refurbished, and called a safe haven from the realities of the world outside. Of course it was lonely, but people overwhelmed him. "I can take you to a hospital if you're feeling off... you might have a broken bone somewhere, or a concussion, or bleeding internally..." He grimaced at the thought. It was less concern about a death defiling the home that concern for the man himself. Victor wanted him to be okay, and eat something before he fainted.

"I never said I was ... okay." He was far from it. How could anyone think otherwise? "But a place like a hospital ... it wouldn't help me." It would destroy him to be so far from the forest. Curran knew he couldn't explain that to the human before him. He was something other, a creature of myth and legends ... The author before him would think he was crazy, and Curran didn't want that. It was already bad enough, what had made him choose to lock away his memories. He knew it had been horrible, bad

Victor shook his head. "You never said you weren't okay, either." He said sternly. "Look, I'm not a doctor, I don't know what's wrong with you, but I won't go... forcing you to do something you don't want to do. When you're ready, come in the kitchen, it's where I'm going. Maybe then you'll tell me your name and how you got here." He stood, leaving the man alone and sitting at the kitchen's island after drawing a couple glasses of water. Writing was the last thing on his mind, now, but he didn't really care. He had one thing on his mind, and it was the stranger that had come to his home.

Curran lowered his deep brown eyes to stare at the floor. It was true, he hadn't said such a thing. The young man lifted himself from the ground and walked into the kitchen, leaned against the counter and leaned even more in, so his face was too close to the other man's. "I wonder why you took me in, and waited so long to ask my name." He blinked. "What a strange man ..." And he still felt like speaking his name was wrong. It wasn't the right time. It was an instinct, and one Curran intended on following.

When the man joined him, it was a bit of a relief. But Victor backed away a little when he leaned forward so far, and in the firelight, Victor could see different tones in the man's brown eyes, light and dark and everything in between, clear, but there was something there he just couldn't pick up. "I didn't ask before because I was more concerned with getting you safe and warm than with your name." Victor said, leaning forward as the man did. "I'm not the strange one here---you are. So will you tell me your name now?" The fact that he didn't know it ate away, and made him more and more curious. The man was strange, so strange, and Victor needed to know about him.

He laughed. It was the first time he had done so in ... a long while. "It doesn't feel right for you to know yet." Curran leaned back once more, and grabbed the bowl of leafy greens. There was a pleasant crunch, a sweet juiciness. Every bite was full of new flavors, unlike anything he'd ever had the chance to eat. Then again, he was used to far different fare then things filled with ... Gagging as the pesticides, the chemicals, that had been used in the process to grow his fare, Curran spat it all out.

Victor rolled his eyes at the whole thing, turning away and walking to the sink. "Fine, with all your... customs, wherever you come from." He muttered, splashing his face with water to hopefully wake up from whatever dream this was. "But I have to call you something, so that something will be... Fred." He snickered, feeling a bit more of a bite in his words than usual. But hew as tired, and he wanted to sleep, but knew he couldn't with this stranger around, and so obviously confused with where he even was. "Didn't think those were bad." He commented on the vegetables. "But you can't trust supermarkets I guess." He shrugged, nodding for the man to come along as he left the room and went down the hall to a set of double doors. Pulling them open, he started lighting candelabras. "Here, my greenhouse. I usually grow half the things I cook with so take your pick, just don't make a mess." With daily inspection and watering, and careful cultivation with insects he allowed in and out through windows, Victor didn't rely on anything but the soil he dug up from the forests and the water he preferred to collect from the lake on his property rather than anything from a tap. It felt more natural, after all.

"Oh I have no preference for what you call me, until the time is right." He swallowed and set aside the mess of mush and veggies. "As for these, well .... I am rather more sensitive to some things then most." Wordlessly, he followed. It always felt like he was following another. That was what had gotten him in trouble before. That he did remember. Probably a silent warning to himself, not to fall into the same kinds of traps.

Candles everywhere. They were so unnerving. Curran was glad when they stepped through a pair of doors and into a house full of green. It felt so much safer there, and so much like home. He didn't wait for Victor's explanation, instead he headed straight for a tomato and ate it as was directly from the vine. As the juices of dribbled down his chin, Curran made small sounds of happiness. So wonderful, so good and so whole, and untainted.

Victor leaned against the wall, watching the man he decided to nickname 'Fred' in his mind, mow through a tomato. He had quite a collection of both fruits and vegetables, and the room was heated to necessary temperatures and humidity to keep things growing all year round. He went to the corner, where he'd hung a cloth bag-like seat from the ceiling and sat down. "Don't eat everything in sight." He warned. "I'd like to keep a bit for the next week or so." Some plants that continued to bear fruit he'd had for several years, and they never ceased to produce. He changed the soil every six months, though, and dug up worms and soil insects to keep in the soil, letting it move about and stay lively. "So you don't want to tell me your name because it's not the right time..." Victor tapped his head, brushing his hair back. "When's the right time, then?" What did the man even mean?

He moved from the tomatoes to pluck a bunch of carrots. He brushed them off and started munching on them happily. After a while he lifted his head and smiled. "Oh I wouldn't do such a thing. " Curran brushed his fingers over the earth, reveled in the welcome he felt from the plants whose roots lay within. They were also glad to be under Victor's care.

"They are very happy, these plants." Even those that grew in climates not their own were glad to be where they were. This man, this human, was one of the good ones. It was so easy to see. The fact had shone forth from the very moment they'd met. The moment Victor had decided to help Curran in fact.

Victor knitted his brow curiously. Had he taken in a crazy person? Did he hear voices? Did he wander into the forest and beat himself up, and forget all about it? His hands looked rather fine, not bruised as if he had inflicted his own wounds. And how had his clothing become so utterly torn? No one could do that to themselves. "Um, good?" He shook his head, rearranging himself so the gun that sat against his back would sit more comfortably. "What's that mean, do they talk to you or something...?" He tried to laugh it off as a joke, but felt incredibly disconcerted.