Late Nights, Bright Lights

[Jameson Abshire]

Jameson had been to Obsidian Harbour twice since moving to Wellington, spending his first visit seeing shops and drinking in The Shadow Tavern down Bleak Street, and his second at The Leaky Cauldron conning a half drunk group of wizards out of fifty galleons in a card game. But today he had spent time in a few of the shops purchasing books and food, enjoying the air and the atmosphere of the Harbour. Before he knew it the night was fast approaching and the sun had begun to dip down below the horizon, casting a glow over the streets as the streetlamps began to light up. Caught up in his own thoughts he walked down the main street, his hands twitching inside the pockets of his robe, and his mouth humming an old tune he learned from a Muggle shepherd as a child. Though no words came from his mouth, in his mind the words were vivid and rolled forth creating a picturesque image that was pleasant to behold.

Abroad as I was walking,
Down by the river side,
I gazed all around me,
An Irish girl I spied;
So red and rosy were her cheeks,
And yellow was her hair,
And costly were the robes of gold
My Irish girl did wear.​

An old Irish folk song from the 18th century it was, handed down from generation to generation, or so the shepherd had claimed. He often said things of that nature. He made grandiose statements, such as he was related to the Lords in the Northern country, or that his great-great grandfather was a counselor to the American generals in their civil war. The validity of his claims were never discovered and truth be told, Jameson saw no need to pursue the truth. The image of the rough shepherd, descended from nobility into a poor man proud of his heritage, was both a sad and amusing one, and Jameson found that to change that image would be to change part of his childhood. It was as he thought this that he suddenly walked straight into a stranger heading in the opposite direction.

 

[Annabelle Gimlish]

Another round of insomnia the previous night had left Annabelle in a dream-like state that had lasted most of the day and was just beginning to wear off by early evening when she stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron and into the main street; a few shots of firewhiskey had probably helped with that, too. She wasn't drunk by any means, but a slight buzz had begun to manifest itself and make her feel...looser. It felt like the dark cloud over her head was significantly lightening.

God, this is better than I've felt in a long time, she thought with a bit of relief to her internal tone. Maybe it was the drink talking, but it was true. For the once in the longest time it felt like getting up out of bed was a good idea and wouldn't lead to some type of psychological turmoil.

The collision with the stranger had really been her fault; too caught up in her own internal ramblings, she hadn't noticed the man walking in the opposite direction. He was quite a bit taller - and heavier for that matter - causing Annabelle to hit the pavement like a broken marionette doll cut from its strings. "Oh..." She said, more surprised than anything that suddenly she was on the ground and the feeling of euphoria was gone. "poop."

 

[Jameson Abshire]

The stranger was a woman. In the brief moment between their collision and her body crashing into the ground, Jameson saw she was small and slight, much shorter than him and likely half his weight. Her hair and her skin were pale and seemingly luminescent in his eyes, a gentle glow in the pale light of the moon and the street lamps. He attempted to pull his hands out from his robes but before they were fully extended she had fallen with a soft thump onto the cobblestone street. A dozen quick thoughts raced through his head, fluttering in and out of the corners of his mind.

Help her up you idiot!

Give her an apology and walk off.

Quick, apparate out of here and forget about it!

Stop thinking and do something, you look like a fool standing there.

There was a brief and silent moment in which he looked at her and she muttered a few words to herself, before he extended his right hand down towards her and said, "Here, let me help you up. I'm sorry about that, I was thinking of something and I guess I seem to have lost track of where I was going."

 

[Annabelle Gimlish]

The hand extended down to her was rough and calloused, and for a split second Annabelle thought about her late husband - Don't you dare start crying just because you're thinking about him, don't you dare. - before coming to and looking up at the man leaning over her offering her his hand. He was quite a big fellow, about 6' tall with a reddish-brown beard that reminded her of - Stop that right now, he'll think you're absolutely daft if you start bawling now. - someone that she used to know. Annabelle realized that she had been blankly staring at his offered hand and hadn't made a move to take it, so if he did think her daft it'd be understandable.

"No, it's my fault really. Um, got caught up in my own little world there for a sec," she explained sheepishly. "Didn't see you coming the other way. My fault." She didn't think it'd be wise to mention the firewhiskey or else he'd think of her as daft and a drunk. Which, now that she thought about it, maybe she was becoming a bit of both. Annabelle finally got a grip on herself and reached up to take his hand, almost laughing out loud at the comical size difference between the two appendages. "I uh...thanks. I'm Annabelle."

 

[Jameson Abshire]

A few seconds passed as Jameson held out his hand, the woman seemingly staring at it. And he wondered whether she was debating whether to take it or not, in the same manner that he had debated extending it. When she finally grasped his hand, he felt hers to be cold and smooth and much smaller than his own. As he pulled her up she apologized for the collision and introduced herself as Annabelle.

"Don't worry about it, I figure it was both our faults. Maybe it was a little bit more of mine, I've been in and out of The Shadow Tavern tonight. I'm Jameson, by the way. Good to meet you."

Now that she stood he looked more closely at her, noting bright eyes that faded to brown and were hidden within dark circles. She's probably had more than one late night this week, he thought to himself. Her arms were long, her hands and fingers similarly so, and the way she stood gave her a strange look. Her face was well defined and angular, much of it pointed. A fair enough woman, though her eyes betrayed her tiredness and her fatigue, or so he guessed.

"It's a little late to be out and about in the Harbour, don't you think? I haven't seen anyone else since I left the Tavern."

 

[Annabelle Gimlish]

Annabelle was pulled up to her feet swiftly by Jameson, maybe even a bit too swiftly seeing as how she stumbled a bit before finding her footing on the uneven cobblestones. Okay, maybe I'm a little bit drunk after all, she thought. As long as she didn't take another spill into the street, she figured she'd be okay for the rest of the night. Standing in front of the larger man their size difference was now even more blatant; if she had wanted to look him in the eyes, she'd need a footstool to do so.

"Is it now? I suppose I haven't even noticed" she answered nonchalantly even though she was well aware of the lateness of the hour. She needed sleep, she knew she did, but she'd rather risk another night of insomnia and drinking rather than another night plagued by horrible nightmares that left her waking up covered in a cold sweat and shivering. "Although, I suppose I could ask you the same. Not to mention you don't look like the normal lot who come out of the Tavern late at night." Her tone was a bit harsher than she had intended it to be - Jameson hadn't done or said anything to upset her, quite the opposite actually, but she didn't exactly appreciate how he was insinuating that she shouldn't be out so late. That, added to sleep deprivation, had left her words with a fair amount of sting behind them.

 

[Jameson Abshire]

Jameson felt that he should feel flattered by the suggestion, but if she knew half the bars and pubs he had been a patron of in London she wouldn't have said what she did. Her voice sounded different than when she had introduced herself. What is it? He thought to himself. Anger? Annoyance? At any rate he didn't know but intended to find out for himself, though he wasn't quite sure how he might go about doing so. In any case he found himself beginning to speak again, this time with a friendlier tone, in the hopes that she might ease herself for he thought she seemed suddenly tense.

"I suppose it is for most folks, but not me. I like a late night with the cold air and a little whiskey before I go to bed. And I guess I should say thank you, but the Tavern isn't so bad if you know how to watch your own back and don't go hopping around looking for trouble. But I suppose that's what half the fools who go down Bleak Street do. I haven't had a problem there yet."

He gave a quick smile but retracted it immediately, feeling unnatural with a grin on his face. He likely wouldn't have done so if it was early in the morning, but with half a bottle of whiskey in his body he felt looser and felt kinder than his usual self. Well, Jameson, his conscious spoke to him, Make up your mind. Either have a bloody conversation or go home, because you're certainly not staying here in this blasted Harbour alone. You'll go back to the Tavern and drink yourself into a stupor and wind up robbed in the gutter. Go on! Make up your mind!

"If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing out so late? I know it's not my business, but a man can't help but be curious when he finds a stranger walking the same path as himself so late."

 

[Annabelle Gimlish]

Annabelle leaned up against the closest wall as Jameson talked, half-listening while trying to sum up her new companion, if you could call someone who knocked you down on the street a 'companion' instead of an ass. But if what he said was true about spending most of his night at The Shadow Tavern, then maybe it was better suited to blame the alcohol than to blame him.

It wasn't that she didn't like him, but the beginning sense of drunk euphoria gained when she had begun the night was beginning to diminish as soon as he had knocked her down; Jameson was just at the wrong place at the wrong time of the night. That and the fact that he reminded her so much of - Will you knock that off already? Christ, give it a rest! - someone that she used to know had just made their meeting begin to go into a downwards tailspin. If the time and her frame of mind was different, Annabelle was sure that she and Jameson might actually be able of having a pleasant conversation.

"Well..." Annabelle sighed and looked away from Jameson to the ocean. "I suppose I'm not so sure." She answered honestly. What was the point of lying about it when half the village already knew her as 'that weird lady who walks around at midnight'? "I don't sleep well, haven't slept at all as of lately, actually. I uh, like to take walks around the village instead. It's a nice night and all, too."

 

[Jameson Abshire]

It seemed to Jameson that Annabelle was distant, away in a world of her own. He was quite sure that her mind was trying to get back to where it had been before he knocked her down, as was his own, searching the crevices of his skull for old thoughts that now eluded him. As she looked out at the sea, sighing and beginning to speak again, he thought for a brief moment that she was recalling some far away memory, as if the lapping of the waves on the shore called home thoughts that echoed through her body and reverberated within her soul. Or maybe, she's just looking at the damn ocean. Everything has to be so damned poetic with you, doesn't it? His own inner monologue amused him, as a brief smile once again crossed his face, though left before Annabelle could glimpse it or wonder why such a random occurrence had happened. He wondered too, while listening to her, how long she had been this way? Was it just this past week that she had been plagued with insomnia? A month? A year? Or maybe longer, he didn't know. But he thought it to be more than a week. Having dealt with insomnia himself, he knew too well the wandering eye and the dark lids that told a story of long nights without sleep for months on end, at the very least.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that Annabelle. I've been there myself. Years ago it seems. I suppose it was almost five years ago, but I've dealt with the same. It's always good to find something to pass the time with, if you can. I started carving wood when I couldn't sleep. You walk the village. Same difference. Although I suppose a good walk in the moonlight with the ocean air blowing is better than carving any day," he laughed at his own words, hoping he might illicit a response but continued, "It is a nice night though. I'm sorry to have bothered you and interrupted your thoughts. But like I said, a man wonders. If it's not too personal, and believe me I understand if it is, how long have been like this? Not sleeping and wandering the village I mean." He sincerely wished to know. By now his curiosity had been piqued and he was somewhat eager to learn about this fellow wanderer.

 

[Annabelle Gimlish]

Annabelle shrugged halfheartedly while looking at her shoes for a moment and smiling at the ground instead of meeting his gaze. It was a bad habit of hers, not looking people in the eyes when she smiled - she suppose it came from the fear of looking too much at someone and then being caught staring, then having to explain why it was she was gawking at the back of their head. The alcohol in her system hadn't replaced that fear, although her concerns of running into strange men in dark alleys had seemed to disappear completely.

"I'm not so sure about that, carving something seems far more productive than wandering around the harbor late at night and bumping into strangers," she mused with a bit of humor that had faded as soon as he had asked exactly how long she had been like this. Merlin, how long had she been like this? "I guess I was always fairly restless to start with, but if you mean roaming around then I'm not sure." Annabelle supposed it had to start at the very beginning, maybe about a week or after her husband's passing that she had just woken up one night plagued by nightmares and had never quite fallen back asleep again the way she used to. "It would probably be worthy to mention I have these ah, nightmarish things whenever I try to sleep. I suppose that largely plays into it, if you must know."

 

[Jameson Abshire]

The woman, Annabelle, seemed to not mind talking, at least for the moment, but stared down at her feet as she spoke. At first Jameson felt a little surprise at it, but as the conversation went on he got the feeling she wasn't the most social of witches. Or maybe it's me? He thought. I can't imagine I give off the best impression, let alone this late. The more he thought about it as she spoke the more he came to realize that he looked like the exact type of person you wouldn't want to run into late at night; stocky, gruff, bearded, with a fierce look in his eyes, he wasn't the most approachable man. But he liked to laugh and to speak with people, on occasion, and such an occasion was this.

Rather suddenly though, or so it appeared to him, a shadow seemed to pass over her face. He had asked her how long she had been this restless, and for a brief moment it looked to him that her face darkened and a light flickered in her eyes, and then was gone and she looked the same as before. "Well, I don't have to know, but I am curious. Shame to hear about that though, really. I imagine everybody gets a good run of nightmares every now and then, but I imagine you've been at this run for awhile from the sounds of your voice. Have you ever thought about visiting an apothecary and getting some potions to help with that? I can't say I've ever had a long string of nightmares that kept me up, but if ever I did have some I always kept a potion or two handy near my bedside. Just a thought though, take it or leave it.

He tried to smile warmly to show a genuine interest and concern, before thinking back to something she had said just before and chuckling to himself he said, "As for carving, it depends entirely on what you carve and how good you are at it. I've still got a box full of bears and dogs that looked like a four year old took a chisel to a chunk of wood and barely got an animal right!"

 

[Annabelle Gimlish]

She snickered at that last statement; something about self-depreciating humor had always had a special place in her heart. "I'll take you're word for it, but I'm sure you're better at it then I'd ever be." Annabelle was never really good at being crafty without the use of a wand of a spell of some sort; hell, she could barely cook a decent meal without using magic, so she wasn't just saying that to make him feel any better about his supposedly poor carving skills. His hands had the look of someone who'd worked before, so she imagined things such as carving came easier to him compared to...well, her.

"I've actually tried a few potions," she said in regards to his previous statement. "But for the most part they're only temporary, unfortunately. Haven't really found one that'll put me out for a while and, uh, not be permanent." Annabelle smiled at her own little quip and then stopped due to suddenly realizing how dark it had probably sounded. "Ah, never mind that last bit." She awkwardly jammed her hands into the pockets of her pants and cleared her throat, looking away further down the street to avoid Jameson's eyes while trying to think of anything that could move the conversation into a more positive light and away from her own personal issues. Not being much of a talker to begin with, Annabelle found this quite a difficult task. "So then, are you going to be hitting up any other pubs tonight, or is this is for you?"

 

[Jameson Abshire]

It was a strange but welcome occurrence to Jameson, her laugh at his little joke. Whether she truly found him funny or not he didn't know, but it was a welcome change in the conversation as her slight snickering was light and amusing, bringing a small smile to his face. He enjoyed amusing others when he could though he thought himself a rather amateur comedian. But for this woman who seemed sad in some way, a laugh seemed almost...not unnatural, nor unwelcome, but perhaps not a common occurrence. Maybe it was the hour or the nature of the conversation, but that was what he thought at the very least. He saw her glance down at his hands and found himself self-consciously clenching them, his knuckles turning white, and drawing them behind his legs. It was somewhat normal for people to give him strange looks when they saw his calloused and rough hands. One witch had even remarked once in Diagon Alley, "Why, boy, why are your hands so rough?" And when he had explained his woodworking and his chopping and his climbing, she seemed so confounded at the very idea of a wizard not using magic to accomplish his means. Perhaps it's nothing, he thought. I don't get the impression that she's a very judgmental witch, but you never know.

Strange, that no potions will work for her. I wonder if she needs stronger doses, but that can be dangerous so I can see why she might not try that, he thought. Ah, don't worry yourself. That sort of humor might not be appreciated by most, but it's worth a laugh from me. Hell, if we can't joke about things like that, what can we joke about? Ha! As for whether or not I'm still pub-hopping, I was thinking about heading the the Leaky Cauldron to grab another ale or two, seeing as the common room has likely quieted down and most of the rambling fools have either gone home or gone to bed. You're more than welcome to join me, even if you don't feel like having a drink. But I feel a chill coming into my bones and I'd rather be indoors than out, as my pa'd say."

 

[Annabelle Gimlish]

He made a good point and seemed to have a bit of that dry, witty humor in him that Annabelle had come to appreciate from her fellow Ravenclaws back when she was at school. Briefly she wondered if Jameson himself was a Ravenclaw; there were certain people that she could pinpoint to a certain house, but her companion wasn't one of them. When he began to clench his knuckles and then drew them behind him she took it as a signal that he didn't want her looking too closely at them. Perhaps he had a scar or such? If that was the case it was understandable, Annabelle had many scars of her own that she preferred to keep private as well. Maybe she would find out after a few drinks with Jameson - people seemed to be more...chatty once they were slightly inebriated.

"I'm actually staying over at the Three Broomsticks if you'd care to pop over for a drink or two. It's quiet around this time of night, not too many people if you're looking for that, and they've got a pretty nice selection of brews and such. nothing fancy, mind you, but the basic pub-fare. But ah, if you don't mind, I would like to join you wherever it is you're going - a drink would be nice right about now."