themidnightson: ([Person] Carlisle - Little Dedicant)
[personal profile] themidnightson
He can smell the boy before he walks in.
Young, powdered and perfumed, humming bird heart.

It's annoying when he stops in his door, black eyes landing on the child. Slim build, no more than, perhaps, eight, nine, at the most. Golden haired-head bowed over something in his hands, and (when Edward, frustrated at this newest interruption, uttered, "What are you doing here?" making his small head snap up) bright blue eyes.

"I was--I was--"

Listen to his heart go. A mini-marching band.
Edward grit his teeth, his fists tightening. "Yes."

He swallowed, hands tight on whatever the thing was he was holding. "I'm didn't mean-- I got lost. The man, the blonde one?, told me to wait here. He said you'd know what to do with me, but--"

Edward almost groaned out loud.
"Get out," is too small.

"--I didn't break it. I just found it here. I'm sorry."

He's only seeing it now. Even starved his vision is immaculate. It's an oddly shaped object in those tiny hands. An odd arrangement of feathers. Then, he sees it actually more defined: wings. Except one of them is broken, right along the line in the center where only one side had enough of the thick yellow substance.

The message is too easy.

"Get. Out." is a black growl this time.

He's surprised enough that the child, who's heart hammered suddenly as he cried out, didn't curl up into a ball behind the setee he was sitting on. Edward was next to him an instant later, pulling him up none too kindly up. Listening to the clatter of shoes and more on the floor right next to him, everything to the terrified squeal of his fearful thoughts.

"Leave." Pushing him to the door with a hard shove.
It'll probably leave bruising, both actions.

They boy almost toppled with the force, but he ran. Smart enough and Edward was left scowling at the artifact on the floor near his feet. Raising a foot and stomping the thing into shards between his shoe and the floor. Again. And again. Before staring at the now further broken pieces on the floor.

Feathers and wax. If it lacked class, now it lacked a defined shape. But he wouldn't forget it. Or the message it sent. A broke set of wings where the wax was melted away. Daedalus. Craftsman or magician, it did not matter, who managed to outwit the Great King of Crete and fly, on wings of leather and feathers and wax, to his freedom.

And it was his son, not him, who perished for it.


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March 2012

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