Celestial

Mycroft rolled off of his mat and stood. He had gotten used to the weight of the awkward forged metal gloves he wore long ago, yet the painful reminder that his hands were trapped tugged at his shoulders every day. He lifted them above his head and stretched up to the low ceiling. His fingertips clanked against it clumsily. He shifted and stretched down, pressing his horrendous metal coated palms against the cold concrete floor. With his hands in this condition, he was barred from exercising the talent that made him so special - but it was what had gotten him locked up for eternity in the first place.

When you’re alone for hundreds upon hundreds of years, you have time to think about nearly everything. And Mycroft was no stranger to wishing that he had been born a human, or at the very least born mortal (that is, as mortal as a human is). Or dead. Standing straight, Mycroft spent a minute or so staring into the small mirror upon the wall. His golden eyes glinted, as dangerously sharp as ever, yet his skin had worn ghostly pale and his expression seemed permanently apathetic. Mycroft sighed, shifted on his feet, and fell into a soft, practiced step. He walked in meditative circles around the room along a worn path in the floor.

Mycroft walked until it was time for breakfast. One of his captors - he had long ago given up the practice of learning their names - would soon come to feed him. He expected it to be the older woman, the one who looked upon him as an animal. He missed the man who had brought him books and newspapers. How long ago was it him that put the spoon so clumsily in Mycroft’s mouth?

Classes had been dull, boring compared to Wendalyn’s life at home. Three more doodles of cages and the creatures within them had been added to her sketchbook due to her boredom - and, there would have possibly been more if not for the fact that she’d come close to getting caught not paying attention once or twice. When she got home, though, she could overhear conversation between a few members of the family - the older woman who normally provided meals for the creature the family kept secret had ended up having a bad fall. While she would heal quickly with the medical assistance they were surrounded with, it meant that somebody would have to take over.

This was her chance - her chance to learn more about the creature her family so intensely found disgust in, her chance to learn why the creature was held prisoner. Moreover, it was her chance to learn whether the creature really was as awful a being as her father suggested. She’d been quick to offer her assistance and, before anybody could deny her chance at involving herself, she’d taken the tray of food and rushed downstairs, eager to have this chance now whether than to have to wait until the old woman passed for somebody new to be chosen to replace her duties. Even then, there wouldn’t have been any sort of guarantee that the someone would be Wendalyn. She’d have to take the opportunity while she could.

Upon reaching the final step, though, she paused, hesitating. What if her father was right? What if her family’s distrust and fear regarding this creature was justified? She felt an ache in her heart at the thought - was she setting herself up for the trouble it would cause if her father was correct. Chewing on her lip for a few long moments, she debated before she breathed out and forced herself down the final step and rounded the corner to head to the cage. Seeing the creature there, walking, she found herself pausing in her steps for a moment. She was taught not to engage, but she felt the urge to and the urge was so overwhelming that she couldn’t simply ignore it.

“Excuse me,” she mentioned after a moment as she made her way closer, offering a cautious smile, “I brought your meal.” She held up the tray for a moment before moving to take a seat so that she could prepare to feed him.

Mycroft was just about rounding the far corner of the room when the incredibly unfamiliar sound of a youthful voice vibrated through his space. He stopped walking and turned to face the voice, his lips parting in pleasant surprise as his eyes fell over the figure standing before him. He watched as she moved, as she sat - she seemed unsure of herself. Perhaps she was afraid of him. He averted his uncanny eyes when she looked up at him once more.

Mycroft hadn't spoken in a while. The only interaction he was ever afforded was at meal time, and his most recent caretakers had certainly not thought he was capable of conversation. His throat crackled and rumbled lowly as he reawakened his voice. "An exquisite surprise," he said, one corner of his mouth lifting into an ever so subtle smile. He had been careful to keep his eyes to his toes, because it was the only distinguishable difference between them, as long as his hands were encased in metal. "Is...the woman before you, has she passed?" He wondered if the woman was related to her, and so he refrained from referring to her with the sadness that he had felt in her discrimination. He wondered if his dialogue was colloquial enough or if she could tell the last person he'd talked to was sixty years removed.

He had not yet committed to sitting before her. He hoped to demonstrate his consciousness before he sat and lifted his glassy golden eyes to hers, paranoid that in that act she would shed her benevolence. The woman had called him 'creature' - and her successor, regardless of her astonishing stride in speaking to him, had likely been raised to think the same. Then, maybe that would be the best foot to put forward. "What is your name?" He asked as he moved across the room, cautiously, slowly, closing the distance separating them. He turned to face the wall and sat, near enough to hear the nuances in her voice, but far enough to still protect the fragile new bond between them.

(Sorry this took so long! I’ve been struggling to catch up to replies lately. x.x)

Wendalyn found herself mildly surprised to hear him talking to her. For some reason, she expected her time down here to be spent in silence; she hadn’t heard any talk of him talking from the old lady who seemed to only ever complain about her duty of feeding him. She wondered, idly, if perhaps he had tried to speak to the old lady in the past and she had just ignored him. Or perhaps he only spoke when spoken to. Her curiosity got the best of her in the situation and she watched him for a long while, trying to figure him out.

“Oh, no, she hasn’t. She just injured herself, that’s all. I’m sure she’ll be fine soon,” she told him, offering a small smile, in case he was worried, but she couldn’t really be sure, nor could she really blame him if he wasn’t. After all, by the way the old lady talked about him upstairs, she was certain that, if the old lady did speak to him, it was likely nothing but cruel nonsense that escaped her lips. But, she didn’t want to bring that up and instead focused on watching him, on listening to him, on learning about this man that everybody seemed so fearful of. “Admittedly, I’m sure that, if my father were to learn that I’m down here, he’d likely raise hell and there’s a possibility that I might not get the chance to provide any sort of company in the future, but… Well, I saw the opportunity to take over feeding duty and I took it.”

There wasn’t a point in hiding that, after all. If she got to be on pleasant terms with him, she didn’t want him to be caught off guard if today was the only day she got to visit in her lifetime. But, he seemed calm enough, and she was relieved that he didn’t seem entirely bothered by her presence, so she personally hoped to be able to visit again in the future. “My name’s Wendalyn. You can call me whatever you wish, though.” She offered a small smile before she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Do you have a name?" For as long as she could remember, she hadn't heard any mention of it - not surprising, considering the old lady had been in charge of feeding time and, if she hadn't spoken to him, there certainly hadn't been any talk of a name. “Are you ready to eat?” She motioned, holding up the spoon, though she was unsure of how to properly go about this routine.

Just injured herself, that is all,

Mycroft found himself caught in a whirlwind of memories. Memories of the man who had brought him books - James - memories of the hectic period of time in which Mycroft assumed death had befallen that lovely man. There had been a frantic scramble to find a replacement, and during that time several different people came down to Mycroft’s small prison. Eventually it was the woman who replaced him, the bitter caustic brittle boned...

Correcting himself and refocusing, Mycroft realized he must’ve seemed to be apathetic towards the budding conversation. He quickly remembered his concentration upon this delicate girl and the possibilities she offered. His heart raced when she told him that this may be her only time. Best to not squander it, Mycroft told himself.

“Wendalyn, a lovely name. Old-fashioned, if I’m not mistaken,” Mycroft spoke slowly, taking a small gamble in saying her name was a dated one. He had read the name before, where it was he couldn’t remember.

“My name is...” Mycroft paused, wondering if he should feign a name that would fall more casually upon her ears. James had told him that his name was unusual these days, and in their long talks of the possibility of release he had mentioned perhaps - Mycroft shuddered recalling that he had once foolishly hoped that this room would not contain him forever - a change of name would be in order. Maybe he could call himself James, Mycroft thought except as he went to say it he found that he could not lie to Wendalyn. Wendalyn who had been so kind to him thus far. “Mycroft,”

He turned towards the iron bars, standing to walk the remaining distance and sitting directly in front of Wendalyn. He was scared, because once James had told him he shouldn’t look people in the eyes. He had said that Mycroft’s eyes possessed some sort of compelling power, that they had shaken him to the core the first time, that there was evil within them.

The majority of the wall was solid cement, as the rest of his cell. Mycroft remembered when he had been drugged to sleep to allow cobblestone to be replaced with cement. A section roughly the shape of a door had been cut from the cement, the same shape that had once been in the cobblestone. It was crossed with the same iron bars that had been there in the very beginning. The bars were clearly from an ancient time, and therefore it was fascinating the sheer amount of metal that had been used to ensure very small square gaps. Each was hardly large enough for four thin fingers to fit through.

“The spoon goes through that,” Mycroft searched his brain for the word, “circular section,” he murmured, gesturing towards the only hole in the iron. Even the hole was hardly big enough for a child’s fist. Mycroft tried to summon his bravery, but he could not look at her.