âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Robert Plant •

This was requested by the lovely @shahdg. I wasn't expecting a request so soon, so thank you very much!

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Despite February having filtered seamlessly into March, each night that drew in seemed to be colder than the last. Cuddled inside beneath the blanket you hadn't bothered to put away after Christmas, it never really bothered you though. And you'd been spending a lot of your time inside since the New Year.

Rains had been ferociously attacking the city for over two weeks, and the chunks of concrete you'd seen flowing down the road the last time you'd braved the storm were enough to drive you inside until it was over. With the quiet hum of your electric heating, the low tunes of your record player and the warmth of your blanket, staying inside wasn't such a bad option anyway.

You'd lived in London for almost ten years, a migrant from an unknown town far up North whose mother had pulled you from the family home one eerily quiet night when your father was passed out babbling on the kitchen floor.

London quickly became a paradise to you as a teenager. In your hometown, each road had collided together and eventually brought you home. But in London, the capital, the big smoke, you could walk down fresh concrete every day and still have no idea where you had ended up, whether you were in heaven or hell. There were new things round every never ending corner, and new people that seemed to have been plucked from completely different galaxies just waiting to meet your wonderstruck eyes.

Even ten years down the line, with your past firmly behind you, your own single-storey pre-fab, a steady job in publishing and a stream of steadfast friends, you still found yourself entranced by the twists and turns of the city.

The twists and turns of the city could entrance someone else for a while, though. You preferred to walk the streets, not swim them.

On that particular night, you were working on your embroidery. Although you'd shunned everything your mother had tried to teach you growing up as a matter of principle, the embroidery skills she'd managed to instill in you were a blessing of relaxation. Not to mention style. Whether you were customising your clothes, crafting decorations for your home, or creating gifts for your friends, embroidery was your way of tuning out the world. Maybe it was an old-fashioned practice in '69, but that wouldn't stop you.

Beneath the sounds of Bob Dylan singing about his lover's Egyptian ring, you could hear the rain beating restlessly against the window pane. It still wasn't showing any signs of stopping; you were certain that it was still the same rainstorm that had engulfed London over two weeks ago.

To your ears, it seemed to merge into the music, creating a relaxing rhythm that worked to meld humanity and nature together if only for the minute that the song had left. A kind of mesmerising beat that pounded the ears and the heart of those who weren't even paying attention. If only those forces could pair up permanently.

Although the darkening sky outside looked troubled, rain seemed to be the worst it could give that night. There had been storms recently, and cases of terrible flash floods, but you were lucky enough to have avoided the brunt of them tucked away in your small home.

Your cul-de-sac was a collection of similar pre-fabricated houses, all slightly raised from the ground and painted a blinding white. The paint was beginning to fade now, but you thanked God for the legs that held it above the ground when flooding was so probable.