the bottom of the pit

hold your head up

The first and last time I'll wear white

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<div style="width: 490px; font-family: Stalemate; font-size: 50px; color: #6D6E71; text-align: center; line-height: 100%; position: relative; top: -100px;">Fiona Little & Alric Bolstridge
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You--yes you! Or your characters, anyway--are cordially invited to the wedding of Fiona Little and Alric Bolstridge this Friday, January 18th.<br><br>
It will be made of superduperawesomesaucosity so be there or be square.<br><br>
…No but, seriously, Ricona is getting hitched. <333 And Cat and I want all your lovely people to be there, because it’s HAPPY and LOVELY and FULL OF LOVE and we can all return to our regularly scheduled drama after. Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a camel in my eye. <s>Don’t ask</s><br><br>
But yes. Basically… if you want your characters to be there, we can find a reason for them to be there! Even if it needs retro-plotting! Friends, colleagues… dates of people who have a reason to come… WE WILL FIGURE SOMETHING OUT. <333<br><br>
But seriously. Come watch these two be all lovey and happy. <s>This is the calmest we’re going to see Fi. Thank Harry and his amazing potion skils</s>.<br><br>

<b>Bridal Party</b><br><br>

<b>Bridesmaids</b><br>
Leona Santos (maid of honor)<br>
Sky Sutherland<br>
Melanie Woodbane<br><br>

<b>Groomsmen</b><br>
Landon Hastings (best man)<br>
Harry Berkwood (best man)<br>
Emric Bolstridge<br><br>

Lily Williams - Flower Girl
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hanging on the edge

The theater was an odd choice for a place to study. Half the time, really, Fiona even forgot it was there, for how infrequently she went inside. On a day to day basis, though, the place was deserted, and when a person wanted solitude, you really couldn't ask for a better spot. It wasn't off-limits, it wasn't particularly mysterious--it was none of the things that tended to lure students into exploring a place's depths. It was just the theater, with its rows and rows of seats, its big stage with the curtains and the rafters and the little platforms that hung out of the way. It was empty most of the time, except for when someone was of a mind to put on a play, but it never felt spooky or anything like that, the way deserted places tended to feel. So, for that reason, the badger thought that it was a perfectly logical place to seek out when she was craving some solitude.

With the holidays fast approaching, though, the usual throng of students was starting to thin out. The fifth year had had a letter from her parents that morning, outlining the family's plans to spend Christmas Day in London with Mrs. Little's sister and her family. They did this most every year, and Fi didn't really need a reminder, but it was still nice to always know that some things stayed constant. The sixteen year old had opted to stay behind for a few extra days before going home, just to take advantage of the quiet. The witch knew from experience that time spent at home usually meant a serious decline in her studying, so the best thing to do was get as much done as possible at the front end of things.

The trouble was, the Hufflepuff was just so tired. She'd parked herself on the cold, hard stage of the theater just so that she would be too uncomfortable to fall asleep over her Charms textbook. It wasn't working very well. She should probably just give up and head to bed. It didn't matter than it one in the afternoon. Fiona was tired. She'd been running on four hours of sleep at most for a while now. Between classes, studying, working in the hospital wing and finding time to spend with Alric, the badger had to fit it all in somehow, and that usually meant going to bed late and getting up early so that she could study a bit more before breakfast. It didn't matter how much information the fifth year tried to cram into her brain, she still always felt like she was behind.

Sitting cross-legged and hunched-over her book so that her back was starting to ache, Fi told herself that she could quit in a little bit. She'd just look over another chapter or two. Then she could go relax and maybe sleep like she desperately wanted to. The fifth year's head was starting to droop, but she kept jerking it back up and blinking her eyes furiously. She could stay awake for one more chapter, couldn't she? Of course she could.

a certain kind of hell

It's a funny thing, the way the human mind works. Sometimes, it is capable of recalling every detail of a moment. Good or bad, those moments that are vital to remember because of some lesson learned are all stored away for later recollection. And then, sometimes, when an event was just too awful to even be worth contemplation, the mind had a way of blocking it out--either to be revealed at some harrowing moment later, or never at all. Sometimes there were just things better left forgotten.

Fiona's memory of everything after the first explosion was fuzzy. She remembered the screaming--that part was firmly rooted in her sub-conscious, overlaying over everything else. She remembered the pain, concentrated mostly in her chest and legs but really there wasn't anything that didn't hurt, and the witch was vaguely aware of maybe having been stuck under something, but she couldn't recall what, or how she'd gotten there. Had she fallen? The twenty-four year old thought she must have done, since she'd been high up in the stands before then--or had she already left her seat? Had she been up and moving before everything had gone to hell? The woman couldn't remember. Every time she tried to recall what exactly had happened, it was like she was running into a brick wall. She didn't try to get around it for very long. What could be remembered--those brief glimpses of chaos and pain and horror--were enough.

The retired badger's first relatively clear memory was waking up to that healer trainee she'd met last week, the one whose name she couldn't remember now, hovering over her head. The younger woman had quizzed Fiona on allergies, whether or not she was pregnant and whether or not she happened to be taking any muggle medicines--all in a rapid-fire fashion which left the witch dizzy. That was the last time anyone had said anything to her, though. There had been a lot of dashing around, a short debate over the fact that something in Fi's usual anti-anxiety potion counteracted something else in the pain killer potion they wanted to give her, and... that was all. Someone had put the former Hufflepuff's left leg in a cast, and she could see it through her slitted eyelids, elevated in one of those slings. She could feel bandages around her chest and stomach. The fact that this was all very odd compared to how things usually went at St. Mungo's was barely registering in the healer's brain. Everything was kind of foggy in there, really. Anti-anxiety had won the argument--if only because no one wanted to deal with a hysterical patient when there were other patients who needed attention.

The potion made Fi feel mostly numb. Her body still ached, but the part of her brain that cared and worried about that had been temporarily silenced. Somewhere in the back of the woman's mind was the thought that Harry had made it too strong, that she shouldn't feel like she was floating through a weird sort of limbo, but it was hard to argue with a lack of serious pain.

That had been the entirety of the last twenty-four hours. A few blurred, nightmarish hours, a relatively short flurry of activity around her bed in the hospital, and then a long stretch of nothing. Well, no, not nothing. There was a brief visit from Alric's father, who stopped in for the ten seconds he could steal away. Fiona wished he could have stayed. Al was away for work, and she didn't know when he'd be back--if he'd hear about everything and come home, or... or just anything. The retired badger didn't have the slightest idea what was going on beyond her room's door. She could hear bits and pieces, but nothing distinct.

After a few hours, the potion started to wear off, and the pain--or at least the acknowledgment of the pain--returned. There was no one in the room with her at the moment, and although Fiona was sure there was a way for patients to call for help, she couldn’t remember where the device to call was. Everything was so strange and foreign on this side of things, and the witch’s mind was hardly in top working order, anyway. The healer could feel her breaths coming in short little gasps as she shifted on the bed, turning her head to look at the chair where her things had been laid. There was a bloody jacket draped over the back--Fi had the vague memory of someone using it as a makeshift bandage. Strange that she could remember that, but not the person’s face. Her purse was perched on the seat of the chair, and the twenty-four year old was sure she had an extra vial of potion hidden away in there somewhere. Under normal circumstances, the retired badger could have reached her purse from where she was lying, could have scooted and rolled her body until her hand snagged the strap that hanging over the side of the chair. It was impossible to reach that far now, but maybe she could reach the chair leg and drag it closer.

Fiona placed her hands firmly against the bed and pushed, lifting her torso with a painful slowness. It felt like someone was sticking her with daggers up and down her chest. Hissing through her teeth, the witch angled herself toward the chair, turning so that she was lying on her right side. Tears were starting to build up in the woman’s eyes, blurring her vision. She would not cry, damn it. She would not cry. There must be people who had it so much worse. People were dead--must be, she thought, though she had nothing to base that assumption on just then besides a nightmarish blur of memory. Still, the thought caused the former Hufflepuff to tremble so violently that her hands could barely hold her up. She eyed her purse, wishing now that she’d spent time learning wandless magic, because of course her wand was in her purse, too. Taking a deep breath, Fi leaned out as best she could, letting out a pathetic sort of whimpering sound as her efforts caused more stabbing pain in her abdomen. Gritting her teeth, the witch edged her body closer to the edge of the bed, this time causing her leg to shift painfully in its sling. She was nearly there. A few more inches and she could get it. Her torso was half-hanging off the bed now, one hand positioned under her, holding onto the bed. She could feel something warm and sticky against her wrist, realized suddenly that her efforts were causing her to bleed through her bandages--and through the flimsy hospital gown she was wearing--the retired badger tried to pull back. Her movements caused her hand to slip, though, and before Fiona knew it, she was hanging down off the side of her bed, her head hitting the floor, and her injured leg nearly pulling itself out of its sling. The pain now was unbelievable, concentrated mostly in her chest where she’d stupidly reopened a wound. The witch couldn’t pull herself back up. She could only lay there, panting and unable to stop the tears from leaking down her face--or up her face, really, since gravity seemed intent on pulling her tears into her hairline. Someone would come to check on her soon, right? Things weren’t so bad out there that everyone would forget about her, right?