Valencia Lambe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vitainmorte) wrote2020-08-22 01:59 pm
vitainmorte) wrote2020-08-22 01:59 pmmemories
idk i'll post em here as i think of em
oc suffering
oc suffering
vitainmorte) wrote2020-08-22 01:59 pm
memory #1
This memory is just a collection of snippets; little glimpses into Cypress's consciousness as she goes about her day.
Waking up in a very large and spacious house-- this is clearly a family from good money-- and getting dressed, being served a small breakfast in the kitchen and eating(alone) before heading out. Driving to school(in a fairly expensive car), attending her college classes.
Meeting up with a couple of other girls her age and getting a late lunch together at a local cafe, chatting about nothing of any real consequence-- shows they watched over the weekend, complaining about some homework in another class... Cypress seems to remain pretty quiet during most of these conversations, but clearly finds them enjoyable and relaxing, and chimes in when necessary.
Then back to class, apparently working on finishing a painting, driving home. Working on homework until she's called to dinner, where she sits opposite a woman who has her red hair(in a tight bun) and freckles and they eat in relative silence. Cypress finishes, hands her dish off to a maid,and curtsies before bidding the woman-- her mother-- goodnight and heading back to finish her homework.
She finishes, changes for bed, secures the handgun she's carried under her clothing all day in the lock box in her bedside table, says her nightly prayers, then goes to sleep.
memory #2
Cypress has a small table beside her with a basket of flowers, some of them half-wilted(they may have been there a while...), and seems to be working on the finishing touches of her still life; colors muted and a little washed out, clearly drawing inspiration from much older paintings, though the flowers are still as full and beautiful as they presumably were when she started. The girl next to her-- one of the ones from the earlier memory-- looks over, stares, and begins quietly cracking up.
"Oh my god," she says, and the professor comes over to see what the commotion is.
... and sighs, amused but clearly not surprised, saying, "Again, Miss Lambe?"
"Yes," she says, with a mild smile, apparently affected by her friend's laughter. "I had one yesterday, so I figured it was topical."
Nestled gently in the basket in her painting between the flower stems, is the vibrant yellow and red packaging of a single Slim Jim.
memory #3
Cypress is intensely aware of her mother's eyes on her, of course anxious about it, as she raises the shotgun to her shoulder to take aim. But her focus shifts entirely as the cardboard targets begin to drift in on their moving belt, her aim sure and deadly accurate for the most of them. Pump, press the trigger; a hole in the chest, the stomach, the head, anything off-center gets a quick follow up for good measure. Circle for shoot, X's for don't, pulling her gun up for those split-second decisions before she can pull the trigger and hit the wrong target.
When the targets cease coming and all is clear, her vision almost seems to widen, like awareness returning to her peripheral. Her mother is closer now, as Cypress sets the safety on and removes her ear protection, and surveys the series of targets with a small frown.
... then, after a long moment, she gently sets a hand on Cypress's wrist, and looks down at her with a small smile. "Oh, I've taught you well," she says, voice soft. "We'll see about getting you ready for the next step soon, my darling."
The pride and gratitude that swells in Cypress's chest is not insignificant, and she looks up at her mother with wide eyes, saying, "-- Truly?"
Her mother nods, and draws back to start to leave. "We'll talk to your father about it over dinner and I'll contact the pastor tomorrow."
"Oh-- yes, of course. Thank you...!"
memory #4
It details bits and pieces-- the memory itself kind of scattered and pockmarked with age-- of a day out in the woods with her parents. Her mother, dressed slightly more comfortably than she has in previous memories, but with her red hair just as tightly bound. Her father, a tall man with short-cropped blonde hair and square glasses, dressed in dark clothes. Both of them carry guns; her mother's is strapped to her back, and her father is holding his at the ready.
They're walking in the woods, it seems, the sun already setting; she's young enough that her mother alternates between letting her walk and carrying her; frequently her parents pause to talk to each other or point out various things on the trees or in the dirt. Tracks or scratches in the bark, maybe, the details too far off for her young mind to remember.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, in her mother's embrace; her eyes snap open to the crack of a rifle and darkness, and her mother one-handed pulling her own gun off of her back-- or starting to, anyway, before letting it go. Holding Cypress, she strides over to where her husband is crouched in front of something on the ground, flashlight in his hand.
The creature illuminated by the light seems to be a large deer, pelt seeming to shine tawny-gold in the beam, its antlers many-pronged and sharply pointed.
"Good shot," her mother says to her father, and he nods, standing again.
"Thanks. Still not sure what all the fuss was about-- you'd think this thing would've run circles around us," he says.
The edges of the deer's form wavers, slightly, and Cypress rubs her eyes-- it's late, and she's clearly tired.
"Well, Mrs Lawson certainly isn't known for her good shooting or her tracking. They should have called us in the first place..." her mother scoffs, her words fading off as Cy starts to drift off again.
memory #5
7pm sharp
Tonight's the night. Come prepared.
She stares at it in silence for a long couple of seconds, coffee in hand; one of her classmates leans over to look and she quickly swipes over to a browser window-- some renaissance painting from school work earlier.
"Aw," the girl says with a pout. "You were looking so serious I thought something happened!"
Cy just gives a weak smile, tucking the phone in her pocket. "Mm, no, just considering something from earlier. But I've got to get going-- my parents want me home for dinner."
"Rich kids have family dinners too?" another girl across the table asks with a laugh in her voice, and the other girls giggle over their coffee too, chiming in to tease.
"You should invite us sometime!"
"Send me some pics if it's from the same chef as last time, dude."
"I'd like to see what kind of fancy shit that guy can do with like, steak and potatoes."
"Yeah, but what if it's like... caviar and toast, or something nasty like that?"
"Oh, ew..."
"Doesn't Val's fam do that no meat on Fridays stuff, though?"
"That's Lent. It's like, October--"
Cy-- Val-- tolerates this good-naturedly for a moment before downing the last swallow of coffee and standing, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. "I think I heard them saying something about gold-leaf black truffle lobster tails cooked on Himalayan salt blocks this morning," she says, joking, to a couple of faux gags. "I'll send some pics in the group chat tomorrow, if I can. See you all on Monday."
A few waves goodbye and Val climbs into her car and drives home.
Predictably, there is no family dinner once she's showered and changed into her gear-- covering and warm but most of all, protective-- but she is greeted at the table with some of the help, and a simple stir-fry of steak, veggies, and noodles. A bit more plain than usual, she noted with some surprise, but filling and energizing, and she figured it was as good of a potential last meal as any. No sense in being weighed down by something heavier. She ate sedately, thanked the maid when she came to take her plate, enjoyed a cup of tea, and when she was finished got up to head across the long hallways of the mostly empty house into a wing farther in.
The hallway, off from a main room and into the back of the house, is dimly lit. Mood lighting, her father had always said. Need to be in the right frame of mind when going out hunting. A joke, she realized now; it was more likely that they simply didn't use the main lights unless they had company down this hall, which was rarer even than the once-in-a-while lunches her mother might host for her church friends.
Val pauses in front of the armory door, where the head of house was already waiting. The short brunette, about her mother's age, had been with the house since before Val could remember, and had kept the armory keys possibly even longer.
"Evenin', Miss Lambe," the woman said with an accent softened by her years in the States, already opening the door and standing aside for Val to enter. "Your da's sent word ahead. Tonight's the night, eh?"
Val nods, entering the room ahead of her. "Hello, Miss Ailbhe. It seems to be that way..." she starts, then trails off; the room is brightly lit, of course, and not quite as decorated as the rest of the house. This is a room for utility, after all; the storage locker is tightly shut, and every inch of wall and shelving is filled with all manner of weaponry and useful items: bows, arrows, machetes, knives, of course all cleaned and polished to shines as sharp as their edges, as well as some odder items... vials of clear liquid, containers of salt, iron cuffs and silver mirrors, and other things of the sort.
On the center work table lies a rifle and a handgun, with extra ammo for both. Val hesitates a moment before going to them, as Ailbhe says, "Got your favorites out for you-- figured somethin' a bit more comfortable in hand'll make it easier for you."
Val smiles, faintly, and takes the items, turning to the servant as she straps them on. "Yes-- thank you for preparing them for me," she says, and almost as an afterthought, takes one of the hanging hunting knives from the wall to strap to her thigh, as Ailbhe starts to chat again.
"Been a good long while since the Lambs had a new hunter to test," she says; the way she says Lambs sounds less like she's referring to Val's name and more like a title. "Sandra McKee's boy, eight years ago, I think, and then the Lawsons' son-- had to retake it twice, that one-- ten before that. Your da, when he joined the flock, and your ma when she was seventeen."
Val pauses as she tightens the final strap, looking up. "You remember Mother's test?"
"Aye," Ailbhe says. "Bloody affair, but thorough. Didn't want no room for doubt, she said. Things were a bit rougher on the lasses who wanted to hunt, back then. Things have changed a bit since the Missus was young, and you've got a good eye, so I'm confident you'll be fine."
"I see... thank you, Miss Ailbhe," Val murmurs, finishes up, and makes to leave, with the other woman following behind her to the front entry.
"Good hunting, Miss Lambe," Ailbhe says as Val heads out of the house to her car. "May the Lord watch over you."
memory #6
She knocked, and the door immediately swung open to reveal a young man with a torn, ragged scar from ear to lip: the Lawsons' son, Zeus. The one who had to take his test twice.
"Miss Valencia Lambe," he said with a frown, but stood aside to let her in nonetheless. "You're early."
She stepped in so he could close the door again, and offered her usual polite curtsy to greet him. "Of course, sir. Good evening."
"Good evening." A pause, before he continued, "Excited to prove you're worth that lofty title?"
Val frowned, embarrassment and offense visible on her cheeks, but responded, "Only that I am of use as a hunter, and willing to help those in need, as I should."
"Practiced that one, huh?" Zeus said with a roll of his eyes, and gestured down the hall. "Your parents are already waiting for you at the altar, so don't get held up on my account."
She nodded, and headed that way, with Zeus following; down the modestly lit and undecorated hall, and down a set of steps into what would have been part of a cellar, if it had not been converted some decades before. Another door, at the bottom of the steps, unmarked; this Val turns herself and enters, quickly and quietly shutting it behind her.
The room itself is not overly large; it had maybe half a dozen pews, and the available standing space found itself with a handful of people milling about. All recognizable to Valencia, of course, as these were almost all of the hunters she'd known since she was a child: Sandra McKee and her son Morgan and his wife Dahlia, who both waved Zeus over to chat; both of the Lawsons, who sat quietly talking with an older man she didn't know as well named Noah Lindquist. Her mother stood at the altar with an elderly man Val didn't recognize, Father Erickson, and her father, who smiled and motioned for her to join them when he caught her eye.
"Valencia," he said, offering a gesture of introduction to the elderly man, "This is Cyrus Olson. You won't remember him; he's retired from hunting. He's the one who sets up the tests."
"That's right," Cyrus said, his voice slightly slurred with age and missing teeth, but jovial. "Been at it a bit too long, but I'm still young 'nough to tell the youngins how I want a test run, heh. Nice meetin' our little lamb all grown up."
Val curtsied to him, and he took her hand in both of his for a brief shake. "Not grown yet, sir," she said politely, blushing, but he only laughed.
"Old 'nough to hunt! Not to worry, Miss Lambe. You're your ma's daughter, after all. I helped set up her test and I got faith you're up to the same challenge."
"I hope," her mother interjected, with a slight edge to her voice, "you didn't go too easy on her with your choice of challenge."
"'Course not," Cyrus said, unbothered. "I'm no fool. She goes the same as the lads, young or no."
Her mother's lips parted, as if to say something, but Father Erickson's stern but gentle tone cut through the conversation before she could speak. "Well! It looks like everyone's here, and it's almost seven, so I think now's a good time to get started!"
...
The service started much the same as it did in the main hall above, to much smaller scale; Val stood between her parents as their small group sang with Father Erickson and said their prayers, and sat quiet and attentive as the Father read the story of Abraham and Isaac, smiling at her as he read, "... and Abraham answered, “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.""
And it was not much longer before the Father eventually said, "Valencia, come forward." And she obeyed stopping an arm's length before the priest and the altar he stood next to.
The altar itself was a small affair; the one in the main hall above was a large, lovely thing, in brightly-stained wood. This one was just enough to hold its contents, old and scuffed in places and a bit dull with age, scarcely carved with decoration. A strip of bright red altar cloth ran over the edges, and in a nest of dried thorny vines sat the skull of a creature long-faced and wickedly fanged, covered with the remnants and drippings of the yellowed candles that were situated around and atop it. Behind it sat a small, unassuming chalice in gold, its luster slightly faded; to the left, a decanter of wine and a hand-bound leather journal Val knew to be the history of the hunters. To the right, a round censer smoking with fragrant incense, a small gold bowl, and a deadly-sharp knife hewn from bone, its handle only wrapped with hide.
"Though this one has been part of our flock and hunting alongside us for some time," the Father said into the quiet, his hands open, "today is the day she officially joins us.
"Will you continue in the apostles' teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?"
Val's heart was beating hard-- with anticipation or anxiety, she didn't know. "I will, with God's help," she said softly back.
"Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?"
"I will, with God's help."
"Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?"
"I will, with God's help."
"Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?"
"I will, with God's help."
Father Erickson nodded, smiling, and continued with, "And you will vow to pledge your life in pursuit of that most honorable of deaths in service to the Lord, and be sacrificed as our lamb."
It was not a question. It was never in question, but she responded nonetheless. "I will, with God's help."
The Father clasped his hands together and quiet fell in the room once more as he turned to the altar and pours a bit of wine into the chalice, bring it to the front to set down, and picks up the knife.
He holds his hand out. "Your hand, please," he says, and Val offered hers with only the barest hesitation as he continued, louder to the congregation, "Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving, and make good your vows to the Most High." She winced when he sliced into her finger, tugging her hand over the bowl to drip a couple of drops of blood into it before offering a cloth, which she gripped firmly to the small wound.
He took the bowl into his now-free hand, and raised it. "I appeal to you, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present yourselves as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual Worship..."
Father Erickson's voice continued into prayer as the other hunters stood and made their way up, Valencia taking a step to the side to make room; once there they received their communion of bread and a sip of wine, and were bled into the bowl in turn, one or two offering a whisper of congratulations or a smile to Val as they passed before sitting again.
Valencia received hers in hand last and placed it carefully on her tongue and dutifully sipped the wine. And she then flustered, when she felt an unexpected touch press against her forehead-- no: smeared in a cross-- a cold liquid dripping down her nose with the unmistakable iron tang of human blood as the priest's hand fell away.
"Let us with gladness present the offerings and oblations of our life and labor to the Lord," Father Erickson says, "Amen."
"Amen."
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-Val is about 16 here and in the previous memory.