Trapped.

There was only one word that could describe how Archer felt. That was the one. Trapped. Utterly trapped. He felt claustrophobic. He was on a wide open stadium. He felt snared. He had fallen into no trick nor schemed. He felt confined. He could walk. And fight. And there were no bars he could see. Yet he was trapped. Certainly trapped. There was a heavy weight over his chest. It seemed to constrain his breath. In. Out. In. Out. Everything came fast. Everything came slow. He was trapped. He needed to get out. Out of his body. Out of his head. Out of this world. In. Out. Out. Out.

His thoughts raced. Fast. Clipped. Stopped suddenly as uneven as his respiration. He thought of everything and nothing all at once. He was in a river. Floating on a wave of things he could not see. Vague memories. Blurred photographs. Slurred words. Rocks and branches flew past him. Yet he could hold on to none of them. Gone. Gone. Gone. The waves that were his psyche forced himself forward. There was no stopping. He was building up to a climax. And soon, the rollercoaster would tip over. And soon, they would all fall. The last few months his thoughts had been so slow. All of this. All at once. All so fast.

His senses were overstimulated. The world around him was too much. It was summer. The sun was beating. It was hot. He was sweating. He was sweating as if he laid under a weighted blanket that had been draped over him despite the temperature seeming to push 40 degrees at its lowest. Although Archer probably new better he felt feverish, so shrugging of his light jacket and sitting down because he felt faint and nauseous and fucked up in general he brought a hand to his forehead. His fingers manoeuvred to his temples, where all the pain seemed to have been stemming from and no matter how long he kept them there, drawing soft circles, the fast revolving world just won’t stop. He was trapped and he needed a break.

Then everything came too long, far too long, winding onwards without an end, an endless downward spiral of thoughts that overtook his actions. Disorientated, Archer leaned back against the tree, not quite certain which direction led back to his tent, or the activities, or anything else that would distract him. He needed to sleep, the only coping mechanism that drove everything away; all these past months he had been sleeping so much, and now all he felt like was far too awake, like a little kid over-caffeinated drinking from his mother’s espressos. He didn’t know what to do with all this energy, and as his breaths turned to quick exhales, he just wanted out.

For the past brief minutes his brain had been projecting the situation to far grander a severity than it truly was, and to a passing outsider, perhaps they would have deemed nothing out of place. Indeed, Archer's current state was no less common for him as being sat in a library with a book or stroking Zeno as he meowed his way to a treat. No, he was just a boy, eyes closed, head back, relaxing perhaps, and in classic Archer fashion, as far away as he could be from any company. Seclusion was safety, but not when he needed help.

Not anymore though, he was certainly going to draw attention. As long as they walked close enough to the grenade he was was no sane person would think he was alright now. Face riddled with distress as stray tears with no emotion behind them began sliding out of his eyes, his hands formed into fists and pounded the earth below them.

Fire. Rage. Fury. Madness. Her black dress with all it’s lace, leather, straps and hoops, may be spotless, lightly rippling in the breeze, as if freshly cleaned but her insides were still at war. It didn’t matter if she fought or ran or yelled or screamed or seethed or whispered, the control she felt was always ripped away from her by boys. In a tea party in France, she just wanted to smile and have nice conversations with them, but she felt humiliated time and again with the memory of being little more than an afterthought.

Even her family, she was an outcast, someone to be despised, even her welcome was ruined by her cousins. Whether it was having tea or fighting for what felt her life, boys always had a way of taking everything from her. Even when she was the one in control, like moments previously. That redheaded loser should have feared her, she could have seriously hurt him, she wanted to seriously hurt him, yet he didn’t resist or fight or think much of her as a threat in general it seemed. The more she thought about it the more humiliated she felt.

The sun was beating down and whether it was the tightness of her straps across her waist, her temper, or the heat, she was feeling flushed and hot. A tree, someways off, beckoned her, the shade, the respite, away from the noise and the noxious merriment. She made her way over, her eyes narrowing when she found yet another boy. She reached for the anger, that burning desire for violence that wrapped her heart like a blanket, tried to tap into the volatile magic it seemed to unlock within her. With every step forward, she gripped her wand trying with all her exertion to bring up the hatred she knew was always only a whisper away.

Whether it was the exhaustion from the heat, the draining of the energy from her ordeal previously, or the fact that this boy looked miserable and just so so very sweaty, she was only met with resignation when she reached for the malice she wished for. Even her body refused to give her what she wanted. The shade looked really nice though.

Reaching the tree, opposite the very wet, like soaking wet fresh out of the lake wet, boy, Maria held up her wand. At least she could do what she wanted with this tree. “Glacius,” she said softly, sadly, perhaps a little haggard. The softness of her casting, as if she were gently caressing the tree left a coat of cool crystals that wrapped around the tree, a light dusting of frost. With her back to the tree, and to the boy, she pressed her own hot sweaty body against the new coolness of the tree and slid down the slippery slope it created.

“Aaaaah” she breathed as she laid there enjoying the refreshing cold. “What a day.” She couldn’t have her ice cream but at least this felt like paradise in the shade and away from the heat. She didn’t even know if the boy would welcome the reprieve but if he did, he was certainly welcomed. Blessed in fact, on this day, to encounter Maria in such a state.

@Archer Duncan

Then, a bolt of pure clarity — sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore. A ledge suddenly protruding out of the river’s currents as they brought Archer perilously chose to the waterfall soon to come. His breath hitched, and his body relaxed, leaned back on the tree as the world narrowed to the dual points of contact where the cold seared through the unbearable heat of panic. Tender-palmed and bitingly stinging against the ice, the overstimulating world of colours suddenly stops churning far too fast for him to control. A flare of emotion shot like a shock through a fog of racing, spiralling thoughts.

Surprise touched Archer’s face as the spell spread on the bark and the ground, and he opened his eyes into slits as the ice crept up his spine. The cold dug in through his thin, cotton shirt, and as some of it melted against his body heat, soaked onto his back. His breath, once frantic and hastened, almost panting in the summertime heat, came rhythmic and steady. How oxymoronic it was that the ice seemed to burn with more intensity than the heat— yet for one fleeting moment there was nothing but this: a crystalline ache and the way his skin flushed. That panic lingered, it wasn’t gone, but at least Archer felt something else besides the terror.

Somehow, it was far more grounding than whatever lecture on emotions he would have received for the display. Then he wished for nothing more than to sleep, and wake up tomorrow calling it a dream, like he had chosen to do every day of the past year since Christmas. Because closing his eyes and drifting into slumber meant he could finally find some relief from the overwhelming thoughts and emotions; it was the only coping mechanism he had ever learnt and worked. In his fight or flee he had always chose to flee.

Today, the sudden overstimulation was a reminder he could not run forever.

The noise of the crowded fields didn’t die down, the heat was still searing in his bones, yet at least he was focusing on something, anything else. Soon Archer’s gaze turned to the one’s that had casted the spell, a girl he had never come across before, dark-haired and -eyed, dressed in distinctively goth clothing. He blinked slightly, before flitting his eyes back and staring up at the foliage instead, as if she seemed to be too much for his sight to handle.

Maria sat with her back to the tree, the crisp chill of the frost slowly melting against her warmth and the heat of the day. It was exactly what she needed. It not only cooled off her body but also her temper. With that red hair freak firmly in the past, Maria turned her attention once again to the mopey mess on the other side of the tree. She hadn’t heard much from him since she arrived, he barely even reacted to her spell. “You know…” Maria started, loud enough for him to hear. “It’s considered polite manners, even by your culture standards, to greet a lady when she sits next to you.” She meant to be playful but she couldn’t hide all of her indignation at being ignored.

Was she so invisible that a boy can run into her and another could not notice she cold off the tree he was sitting on? For all her efforts at both being noticed, and making an impact, it really seemed like she was failing miserably at becoming her own person. No, that simply wouldn’t do. Life didn’t happen to Maria, not anymore. She happened to life. You needed to give a little to get what you wanted. Maria would debase herself, at least this time, in the hopes of finding company. “I’m Maria. This summer camp has not been good for me. How about for you?”

@Archer Duncan

Sorry for the short length. I'm just trying to give the thread a bit of forward oomph the next one should be longer.

Her voice was not particularly loud, but like the ice she had summoned, it was cuttingly sharp to Archer’s ears. He was not quite sure if the statement had been meant as a joke, or if she was serious, but if it happened to be the latter, perhaps she could have learnt to read the room. If anyone genuinely thought he was in a state to greet someone, much less further socialise, was either deeply misinformed or a sadist desperate to watch him suffer. His brows furrowed as he sat, not turning to face the girl on the other side of the tree.

Her continued attempt was not particularly helping him, especially as the daunting thought of introductions dawned on him. Although Archer had never been one to care much about impressions, he certainly wasn’t making a wondrous first. Someone finding him in the midst of Merlin knows what, practically being suffocated under the summer heat and the world’s flames — it was not a notion he enjoyed entertaining. And so Archer barely paid attention to her words. His ears caught his name, but unlike the usual scrutiny he applied to anyone regardless of state of opinion he could only stare straight ahead as he refused the invitation of introduction, instead breathing, “Thank you, Maria, but….”

His words seemed to trail off, a thought not entirely formed as he blinked back the tears that threatened to surge up again, hands reaching up on impulse to brush away the hot streaks on his stained cheek. With a deep inhale and exhale, he felt as if the reins of his life’s horse were finally placed more steadily in his hands. Yet the road ahead was not one he wanted to face, and talking more so. Closing his eyes against the prospect, he muttered, “Go away.”