Urquhart the Wolf

Urquhart does not care for Christmas.

He has not for years, and despite recent events, he still doesn't.

All the cheerful people make him feel like the devil in a midnight mass, apart and angry.

That entire religion is a sham, and the holiday is just a case of whistling in the dark to make the sun come back, when science clearly says that the sun will come back anyway.

Urquhart is sitting in his room, the snoring dog by his feet, drinking scotch and reading a book about sharks.

Science. Yes.

Then, he looks up. There is somebody in his room that shouldn't be there.

A woman?

[[After this]]

The house by the lakeshore had been scary, for people who could be scared. Urquhart doesn't count himself among them.

He had been startled, he tells himself.

Still, in the evening, he finds it a good idea to drink considerably more whiskey than usually, which make going to sleep easy and problem-free.

But as soon as he closes his eyes, he is back in the mist, in that house.

He bends again, his hand on the grey fallen stones of the crumbled wall, picking up that paper.

When he looks up again, things have subtly changed. It is morning, a misty morning, and the shape of the hills and mountains around the lake have shifted, from the familiar landscape of the Milliways outside to something achingly, hauntingly known. Similar, but different; not just indifferent, but just right.

Home. The hills and glens around Loch Ness, as seen from his own home where he grew up.

Urquhart is home, in Urquhart castle.

He picks up a stone, and stands. There is fog wafting through the buildings, because you can't call them buildings any more: nothing has all four walls any more, and roofs seem to have gone out of fashion centuries ago.

This happened because of him. Urquhart had left his family on their own, and they have failed and died out, and their home has fallen into ruin over the centuries.

People come here to look at the old ruins, presumably -- there are railings and paths in the grass, and a booth somewhere to sell them tickets, but closed still because this is the very early morning.

Urquhart is all alone. He left them, and now he is back home, they are all long gone. Icy dread runs through his veins that is part-fog, part-guilt, and all a loneliness that he didn't even know he minded.

A spindly staircase leads up a crumbling wall, the only piece of coherent structure in sight, but sight is limited by the fog; so Urquhart climbs the thin, improvised stairs up to whatever is to be found at the top, which he can't see on account of the mist.

Climbing them becomes a great chore, the way things can sometimes be; when he finally reaches the top, all he finds there are a kind of modern outbuildings.

Who puts the privy on the top of a wall, balanced on the crumbling masonry?

Urquhart opens one of the doors, but before he can peer inside, he hits himself with the swinging door of that ill-perched box.

He falls off the wall.

His own shout for help wakes him. He is in his own bed, drenched in cold sweat, chilled to the bones.-

Urquhart walks into his room, with Atton slung over his shoulder like a bag of books, dumps him on the divan, and kicks the door shut.

"So," he says, looking down at him with a smirk, "what about that bantha creature?"

Urquhart's rooms smells of spices and smoke when he opens the door. There is a fire in the brazier, and a tray of small spicy pastries by the divan, exuding a scent of cardamom and cinnamon and aniseed and cloves.

It's already dark outside, and Franz the dog contentedly goes to lie in his corner and dream of hunting demon bunnies, his feet moving as he sleeps, sometimes.

Urquhart puts down the jug of mulled cider and the mugs he brought, nudges the door shut, and turns to look into Moist's eyes with all sorts of lewd promises.

[[From here]]

Urquhart's room is as sumptuous and oriental as ever, perhaps even more pleasant as somebody seems to have opened the windows to the balmy evening air, and the pleasant scents of the late summer gardens are drifting in.

Franz the dog is ambling to his place, lying down in a warm and cosy corner, on a shaggy rug that's just for him.

"Wine?" Urquhart offers to the Fool and Moist, turning around after leading them in, his yet-unadorned hair swinging with his movement.

Urquhart's room is medieval, of course; and it's oriental.

There are tiles and silk in deep, luxurious colours, turquoise patterns and deep ultramarine lines, large copper dishes and a pool along the dainty latticed windows, and a rug-covered divan in a corner.

There are even potted plants.

Urquhart has spent years in the orient, and it shows in what the bar thinks he would feel at home in.

Urquhart lights a brazier, more for light than warmth, and smiles at Posner as he does so.

Urquhart lounges by the door to the inn, sipping a last cup of tea while waiting for 'Mr. Astaire' to turn up so he could follow him to the funeral.

He's got no idea what a funeral on the Disc would be like, what with polytheism and very real gods. So, after a pleasant and relaxing night (and brief jump from window to window, back and forth), now is probably the right time for business.

Urquhart wanders in, followed by Moist.

He feels stupid, and is going to apologise to Moist for putting him on the spot so.

That's not what he signed up for, after all.-

Urquhart lights only one brazier, then sits on his divan, still very quiet.

This is what I feel an oriental room like Urq's looks like, only with less guns and hookahs, and with turquoise tiles, intricate sandstone arches and latticework, and low pools on the other side of the room. Oh, and the divan is larger as well...



Limited amounts of gratitude to the 'Home Sweet Home' tumblr, where I did find the picture; however, they made me jump through so many hoops to grab the pic which they themselves reblogged from somebody else, I can't say I actually thank them.

[[from here]]

The next morning, Urquhart awakes to fine bed-linen and the unique shade of cool bright light that promises a sunny, snowy day outside.

He lifts his head, pulling his long blond hair free from the pillow where it had remained as it was, tangled from last night, while he'd been sleeping.