Post by TRISTAN O'SULLIVAN on Dec 4, 2012 8:15:51 GMT -5
(OOC: Whoa, this ended up being waaay longer than I was expecting! I was experiencing a surge of creativity though so at least I made the most of it. XD)
Beneath a poster of the Irish National Quidditch Team, Tristan was sprawled out in his bed, fast asleep, his breathing slow and even. He lay on his back with his muscular midriff bared, his arms above his head, his hair tousled and the sheet tangled around his waist. Tristan was dreaming. He didn't realise this, of course, in the way that most people don't realise their visions aren't reality until after they wake.
In his dream, Tristan walked the lane that led away from his farmhouse home, heading up the hill, with a shovel slung over his powerful shoulder. If he had thought about it, Tristan would have realised that he couldn't recall leaving the farmhouse and that he had no idea where his twin brother or father were but, as is the way with dreams, these thoughts didn't cross his mind. The sun was riding high, it was deliciously warm and there was hardly a cloud in the beautiful Irish blue sky. It was a good day to complete his task, though Tristan wasn't yet sure what that was exactly.
Eventually, Tristan came to a plot on the hillside. It looked familiar but he couldn't quite place it. It was the perfect spot and so Tristan began to dig. He was digging for what seemed an eternity, a chasm growing in the earth where he worked. A sweet breeze licked his skin and ruffled his hair but the sun did not move across the sky. It was hot, Tristan's shirt clung damply to his skin but he felt no thirst. In time, he peeled his shirt off and hung it on a fence post, before continuing with his work. He dug and dug until blisters were threatening to appear on his already work-hardy hands - but there was no pain.
Tristan paused, holding a hand up to shade his eyes from the sun as he looked at the sky and savoured the wind. A pair of seagulls, flowing low, went gliding past crying loudly to one another. A storm is coming, Tristan thought. They lived only a ten minute walk from the beach but Tristan knew from experience when seagulls flew low like that, braying, it could only mean one thing. He knew he had to hurry.
The young farmer turned his attention back to his project only to see it was suddenly completed. Before him was a rectangular hole in the earth, six foot deep. Glancing around, Tristan finally recognised the plot as the O'Sullivan family graveyard - but the tombstones, graves and even the old yew tree were missing. No matter, in a dream all things are accepted. Besides, the job was done.
Tristan jumped into the hole. Down here the air was damp, earthy and sweet. Tristan lay flat on his back, the dirt feeling deliciously cool and soothing against his hot skin. From this spot he gazed up at the sky, watching the occasional seagull glide past, and felt a great peace wash over him. Tristan crossed his arms across his chest, like a cadaver laid to rest, and closed his eyes. He felt no fear.
That was when Tristan woke up.
Tristan gazed at the canopy of his bed a moment, running through the details of his dream as he passed a hand over his face sleepily. It wasn't a nightmare, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he could not deny that it gave him an unwelcome sense of foreboding. Back home, there was a Muggle woman from the village who once dreamed three nights in a row that she was baking fresh, homemade bread. It had not been a nightmare but it had worried her, so much so that she had confided in her friends (and so, in a sense, had confided in the whole village - in such a small, peaceful community word of such peculiarities travelled fast). After the third night of this dream, her newborn baby had died suddenly of cot death. Some years later, this same woman had had the same dream again, three nights in a row. Fearing the safety of her children, she kept them home from school and forbade them to leave the house. Clodagh, one of her daughters, a bonnie child of only seven or eight years of age, had sneaked out the back door - no doubt thinking it a game. When the woman discovered her child missing, she frantically searched for her daughter, calling on friends, family and neighbours to help. Tristan and Conor had been part of the search party, flying over the fields and moors on quad bikes calling for the child. In the end, they were not the ones that found Clodagh, but found she was - drowned in a creek near her home, which she had tumbled into. It was heartbreaking and, having witnessed these events with his own eyes, Tristan did not doubt the power of dreams - or the overwhelming tragedies that one person could face in their lifetime. If something as innocuous as baking bread could be a death omen, what did his dream mean? Did it even mean anything if he only had it once?
Tristan opened the curtains around his bed. Despite the fact he had been having trouble sleeping he still woke early and, as per usual, he was the first of his room-mates to waken. Ernie Macmillan's steady breathing suggested he was still asleep and Justin Finch-Fletchley's bed was, well, empty and neatly made. Being Muggleborn, Justin had not been allowed to return to Hogwarts. Tristan rather missed his friend but hoped he was safer away from the school.
Tristan paused, glancing thoughtfully at the photographs he kept beside his bed. One was of himself, Conor, Cait and Cass when Cait had come to visit one summer. They smiled happily, arms around each other, the sun kissing their faces. In another, a young Tristan (twelve years old in fact) kneeled with bright, eager eyes smiled up at the camera, his arms wrapped around a small, pretty coloured foal that was lying down on the straw-strewn stable floor. The third was taken by the front door to the farmhouse only a couple of years ago. Bridget stood on the doorstep, her hair tied back, wearing an apron that bore smudges of flour – she must have been in the middle of baking something - Conor and Tristan were sitting on a quad grinning widely, while their father stood beside them, walking stick in hand, flat cap on and his favourite sheepdog, Baron, at his feet. Tristan smiled a sentimental smile. What a suck you are, Ossie, he thought to himself - but the people in these photographs were the centre of his world.
Quickly and quietly, Tristan rose, washed and dressed. Not in robes, it was the weekend after all, but into a worn pair of jeans, a plain t-shirt, his Barbour jacket and boots. A tramp around the grounds was what called to him. That wasn't against the rules yet, was it?
Tristan walked briskly out of the dormitory, through the Hufflepuff Common Room and out of the castle and into the grounds, not seeing another soul along the way. It was a crisp, bright, autumnal morning and Tristan savoured the cool, fresh air and the exercise - that would certainly clear away the cobwebs! As he approached the lakeside, Tristan slowed, shading the sun from his eyes as he identified a bird flying over the lake - an osprey! Tristan had never seen one before and the sight made his face split into a grin. For the moment, his dream was forgotten. He took a seat on a large rock near the water's edge and, after watching the osprey for a moment, turned his face towards the sun and closed his eyes. As its rays warmed Tristan's face, thoughts of Cait warmed his heart. He could still feel Cait's warm body next to him, taste her lips, feel her soft hair between his fingers and, for a moment, he relived those intimate moments the pair had shared by the fireside in the Common Room. That girl had stolen his heart and he couldn't be happier.
Feeling joyous, enjoying the peace and being outdoors, Tristan opened his eyes to watch the osprey, and began to sing quietly to himself. He had a beautiful singing voice, even for an Irish boy (or so he was told), but he was rather reserved about singing in front of others. When he sang he felt like he was baring a bit of his soul and that made him feel vulnerable.
“It's cold and raw, the north winds blow
Black in the morning early
When all the hills were covered with snow
Oh then it was winter fairly...”
Beneath a poster of the Irish National Quidditch Team, Tristan was sprawled out in his bed, fast asleep, his breathing slow and even. He lay on his back with his muscular midriff bared, his arms above his head, his hair tousled and the sheet tangled around his waist. Tristan was dreaming. He didn't realise this, of course, in the way that most people don't realise their visions aren't reality until after they wake.
In his dream, Tristan walked the lane that led away from his farmhouse home, heading up the hill, with a shovel slung over his powerful shoulder. If he had thought about it, Tristan would have realised that he couldn't recall leaving the farmhouse and that he had no idea where his twin brother or father were but, as is the way with dreams, these thoughts didn't cross his mind. The sun was riding high, it was deliciously warm and there was hardly a cloud in the beautiful Irish blue sky. It was a good day to complete his task, though Tristan wasn't yet sure what that was exactly.
Eventually, Tristan came to a plot on the hillside. It looked familiar but he couldn't quite place it. It was the perfect spot and so Tristan began to dig. He was digging for what seemed an eternity, a chasm growing in the earth where he worked. A sweet breeze licked his skin and ruffled his hair but the sun did not move across the sky. It was hot, Tristan's shirt clung damply to his skin but he felt no thirst. In time, he peeled his shirt off and hung it on a fence post, before continuing with his work. He dug and dug until blisters were threatening to appear on his already work-hardy hands - but there was no pain.
Tristan paused, holding a hand up to shade his eyes from the sun as he looked at the sky and savoured the wind. A pair of seagulls, flowing low, went gliding past crying loudly to one another. A storm is coming, Tristan thought. They lived only a ten minute walk from the beach but Tristan knew from experience when seagulls flew low like that, braying, it could only mean one thing. He knew he had to hurry.
The young farmer turned his attention back to his project only to see it was suddenly completed. Before him was a rectangular hole in the earth, six foot deep. Glancing around, Tristan finally recognised the plot as the O'Sullivan family graveyard - but the tombstones, graves and even the old yew tree were missing. No matter, in a dream all things are accepted. Besides, the job was done.
Tristan jumped into the hole. Down here the air was damp, earthy and sweet. Tristan lay flat on his back, the dirt feeling deliciously cool and soothing against his hot skin. From this spot he gazed up at the sky, watching the occasional seagull glide past, and felt a great peace wash over him. Tristan crossed his arms across his chest, like a cadaver laid to rest, and closed his eyes. He felt no fear.
That was when Tristan woke up.
Tristan gazed at the canopy of his bed a moment, running through the details of his dream as he passed a hand over his face sleepily. It wasn't a nightmare, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he could not deny that it gave him an unwelcome sense of foreboding. Back home, there was a Muggle woman from the village who once dreamed three nights in a row that she was baking fresh, homemade bread. It had not been a nightmare but it had worried her, so much so that she had confided in her friends (and so, in a sense, had confided in the whole village - in such a small, peaceful community word of such peculiarities travelled fast). After the third night of this dream, her newborn baby had died suddenly of cot death. Some years later, this same woman had had the same dream again, three nights in a row. Fearing the safety of her children, she kept them home from school and forbade them to leave the house. Clodagh, one of her daughters, a bonnie child of only seven or eight years of age, had sneaked out the back door - no doubt thinking it a game. When the woman discovered her child missing, she frantically searched for her daughter, calling on friends, family and neighbours to help. Tristan and Conor had been part of the search party, flying over the fields and moors on quad bikes calling for the child. In the end, they were not the ones that found Clodagh, but found she was - drowned in a creek near her home, which she had tumbled into. It was heartbreaking and, having witnessed these events with his own eyes, Tristan did not doubt the power of dreams - or the overwhelming tragedies that one person could face in their lifetime. If something as innocuous as baking bread could be a death omen, what did his dream mean? Did it even mean anything if he only had it once?
Tristan opened the curtains around his bed. Despite the fact he had been having trouble sleeping he still woke early and, as per usual, he was the first of his room-mates to waken. Ernie Macmillan's steady breathing suggested he was still asleep and Justin Finch-Fletchley's bed was, well, empty and neatly made. Being Muggleborn, Justin had not been allowed to return to Hogwarts. Tristan rather missed his friend but hoped he was safer away from the school.
Tristan paused, glancing thoughtfully at the photographs he kept beside his bed. One was of himself, Conor, Cait and Cass when Cait had come to visit one summer. They smiled happily, arms around each other, the sun kissing their faces. In another, a young Tristan (twelve years old in fact) kneeled with bright, eager eyes smiled up at the camera, his arms wrapped around a small, pretty coloured foal that was lying down on the straw-strewn stable floor. The third was taken by the front door to the farmhouse only a couple of years ago. Bridget stood on the doorstep, her hair tied back, wearing an apron that bore smudges of flour – she must have been in the middle of baking something - Conor and Tristan were sitting on a quad grinning widely, while their father stood beside them, walking stick in hand, flat cap on and his favourite sheepdog, Baron, at his feet. Tristan smiled a sentimental smile. What a suck you are, Ossie, he thought to himself - but the people in these photographs were the centre of his world.
Quickly and quietly, Tristan rose, washed and dressed. Not in robes, it was the weekend after all, but into a worn pair of jeans, a plain t-shirt, his Barbour jacket and boots. A tramp around the grounds was what called to him. That wasn't against the rules yet, was it?
Tristan walked briskly out of the dormitory, through the Hufflepuff Common Room and out of the castle and into the grounds, not seeing another soul along the way. It was a crisp, bright, autumnal morning and Tristan savoured the cool, fresh air and the exercise - that would certainly clear away the cobwebs! As he approached the lakeside, Tristan slowed, shading the sun from his eyes as he identified a bird flying over the lake - an osprey! Tristan had never seen one before and the sight made his face split into a grin. For the moment, his dream was forgotten. He took a seat on a large rock near the water's edge and, after watching the osprey for a moment, turned his face towards the sun and closed his eyes. As its rays warmed Tristan's face, thoughts of Cait warmed his heart. He could still feel Cait's warm body next to him, taste her lips, feel her soft hair between his fingers and, for a moment, he relived those intimate moments the pair had shared by the fireside in the Common Room. That girl had stolen his heart and he couldn't be happier.
Feeling joyous, enjoying the peace and being outdoors, Tristan opened his eyes to watch the osprey, and began to sing quietly to himself. He had a beautiful singing voice, even for an Irish boy (or so he was told), but he was rather reserved about singing in front of others. When he sang he felt like he was baring a bit of his soul and that made him feel vulnerable.
“It's cold and raw, the north winds blow
Black in the morning early
When all the hills were covered with snow
Oh then it was winter fairly...”
