simplestgift: (Don't you understand?)
[Last he knew, Archie Kennedy was lying in his cot on board His Majesty's Frigate Lydia, in the surgeon's cabin. No one really remembers falling asleep, do they? But when he was falling asleep, he was very warm. It's the cold that wakes him.

When he opens his eyes, he's lying in a bed of grass. Overhead is a pale blue sky, and November bites the air.

He's back. After more than three years, he's back.

He sits up, shivering, and looks over his shoulder. The wings are there again. He's had a good long break from them, but there's something that is both thrilling and horrifying about their existence. Beside him, folded nicely, are civilian clothes, on top of which lies his journal. He dresses quickly, but only so he can stop shivering before his shaking hands open the journal. He speaks with a stammering quickness, voice unsteady.]


This is...M-Mr. Kennedy. [Using his real name in front of everyone has come to feel very wrong.] I've come back. I've come back, and it's been three years. How long has it been here? Who is still here? Elizabeth?

[He'll wind up both at house 36 and house 7, desperate to see sorely-missed faces. Later, much calmer, he makes another announcement, this one writen.]

It has come to my attention that it is November already. On December the First, beginning at four o'clock PM, as happened one year ago in Luceti, there will be a Christmas ball and feast. I will require help with the food, setting up, and cleaning after. Anyone wishing to attend may do so, so long as they are properly dressed. This year it shall be held in the Battle Dome.

[OOC: Archie is returning from his mallynap believing he went home for three and a half years, somehow alive and with memories of Luceti. He looks no older, but he's definitely thinner and his hair is no longer than shoulder-length now, so he does look somewhat different.  Have fun.]
simplestgift: (Lost in thought because I have to be)
[Archie Kennedy opens his eyes with his back against something hard, his wings spread out over solidness even as he grows aware of the prickle of grass underneath him. He is curled up on his side, wearing new feather trousers and shivering horribly. He hugs himself for warmth, and movement brings the rain to his attention. He is soaked.

My God, what did I lose? His hand grasps for the St. Michael pendant Horatio gave him for his birthday last year, only to find empty air.

He left it at home.

His wings twitch, and he twists to find himself pressed against a tall rock, probably near one of the lakes. His disorientation in full swing, he doesn’t even bother to try to figure out which lake it is. He sits up, waits for the world to stop whirling, and takes a shaky, hasty inventory.

Arms and legs. Nose and ears and eyes. Touch, taste, smell, sight, hearing. Ten fingers, ten toes, a wild mass of blond hair unbound and sticking to his damp neck and forehead.

What did he lose?

Still trembling, he curls against the rock and tries breathing for a bit.

Memories, maybe? Any holes in his memory? How is he to know?

Horatio. He remembers Horatio, thank God. Buffy, Jilly, Jack, Leonard, Elizabeth. Father is Finley Kennedy, mother is Elspeth, siblings Finley, Neil, and Abigail. His grandfather pushed him into the Navy. His first ship was the Swiftsure. Is everything important there?

Off on a mission, and now he's back as if he'd never left. Nothing hurts. The only pain now is in finding out what he paid to come back to life. And in telling…

No. He is not going to tell Horatio about another instance where he wasn’t able to protect him, especially from death. He can’t call for help, because anyone who finds him in this state will know, and no one can know.

His wings shiver, shaking off water, then wrap around his body as well as they can. He’s always so inclined to forget they exist, but they do help to stave off the rain and warm him a little. Then, weakly, his knees threatening to buckle under him, he stands up. It’s a long walk home, and he has to make it alone.

The next two hours pass in a haze as he finds the road and follows it, limiting himself to two thoughts every quarter-hour if he can help it. After a while, he doesn’t feel especially cold anymore, which he vaguely knows from his first appearance in Luceti is a bad sign. Sheltering in the tree village won’t help him get dry when he’s already soaked, so he continues at the quickest pace he can manage. It’d be even worse to die of hypothermia just after coming back from the dead.

In the village, he steals quietly toward the clothes shop, shivering hard and pale as a ghost.

It’s going to have to be a matter of putting on the face again. No one can suspect something is wrong. Those who aren’t scornful will be compassionate, and he doesn’t think he can take compassion right now.

The door to house 36 opens very, very quietly, and the lieutenant slips inside as if he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s there. As quickly as he can, he’ll find the St. Michael pendant and slip it on.

It takes some time, but in the evening, over a cup of tea in the tea shop, he writes on the journals, shortly:]


I’m back from my mission.

-AK

[At night, he goes out for a drink. He doesn't make it to Good Spirits.]

[OOC: First chronological tag goes to Amelia, last to John Watson.]
simplestgift: (Please no.)
[He'd won her a stuffed penguin. She'd been hanging on his arm and squeezing it with a giant grin on her face. Everything felt, finally, like it was going to be okay. Like this trouble between them since sleeping together was just a little thing.

He turns away to grab a strawberry daiquiri for her, still holding her hand. When he turns back, she's gone.

He wanders Lucetiland for a while, looking for her, shaking, still holding the drink, but he knows what's happened. When someone dematerializes while you are touching them...

She was just there, grinning, cheeks rosy. The warmth of her hand hasn't quite faded yet.

He sits on a bench in the middle of the park, staring into space, and nothing in the world draws his attention until, mechanically, he draws out his journal. He's shaking too badly to write, so he has to voice it, and he sounds weak.]


Dawn Summers was sent home.
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