#<-- brave words coming from the Keeper of Wips

[blvrrykat]

i dont think you were even aware of all the memories i kept of you.

[aplaceforstellasscribbles]

WIP Introduction- Walk Against the Wind

Officially announcing my WIP novel Walk Against the Wind!

For those of you that have been around since 2018 (or earlier) this is actually the same story I've been working on since then. However, it has undergone extensive changes since I last posted about it. Hence, a new introduction post.

Setting

Time Period: Late 1800s, mid-Industrial Revolution. Most scenes in the "Present Day" take place in the late 1870s or early 1880s, but there are some "Past" scenes in the 1860s or earlier.

World: A secondary world very similar to Earth. I'm in the process of drawing a world map, which I may eventually post here. This is a realistic setting with no magic and mostly real-world period-appropriate technology.

Place: The majority of the story takes place in a city called Remmord, set in a valley which controls access to the Silvercape Peninsula on the west coast of the country. Two steep mountain ranges meet at the base of the peninsula, making it difficult to get to from the east. Remmord is one of the major cities of the kingdom of Themidis, a large country known mostly for its unfriendliness towards its neighbors and its large standing military.

Miscellaneous

Remmord and its surrounding region used to be a separate country (called Dalatras) from Themidis, which is a fact completely unknown to the majority of the populations of both Remmord and Themidis

Remmord's government is a dictatorship imposed on them by the Themidian king that was responsible for the absorption of Remmord. Succession of this position must happen through single unarmed fatal combat, by order of the king

Characters

Gilsen Sheridan: Main character, primary POV. He's in his mid-twenties, returning to his hometown after retiring early from his career in the Royal Guard (a blend of police and military). His family is one of the oldest families in Remmord, part of a group of people called the History Keepers that secretly record accurate history and folklore. When Gilsen was a child, he was separated from his family, and he's wanted nothing more than to return to them and help them continue their work of preserving Remmord's history. His name comes from an old Germanic word for "pledge." He's observant, intelligent, compassionate, tenacious, creative, and kind. He has a strong sense of justice and always tries to do the right thing. Like many people of Remmord, he's pale, has curly brown hair and brown eyes, and is tall (by America's standards-he's on the taller end of average for Remmord). He's aromantic and asexual, which will be a significant part of his story (in the lack of a romantic subplot, and also in the importance of his platonic relationships).

Amalia Glenfield: The other main character with a POV. I'm aiming for giving her a roughly equal amount of screentime with Gilsen, but she may end up getting a little less, depending on how things work out. She's the daughter of the Consul of Remmord, which resulted in a sheltered and lonely childhood. Growing up wealthy also gave her certain worldviews that she spends her early adulthood trying to unlearn. She and Gilsen have been friends since early childhood. In the process of trying to expand her understanding of the world, she comes to realize that many things about Remmord are deeply flawed, and she decides to try to change them, mostly through a "tear it all down and rebuild a better version" mindset, fueled by resentment of her father. She blames him directly for most of Remmord's problems, and is convinced that removing him from power is the only way to fix anything. Her name means "unceasing, vigorous, brave." She's impulsive, strong-willed, dedicated, and loyal. She feels intense righteous anger over the state of her city. She also struggles to see the forest for the trees, getting a little lost in the small things. She's pale, with brown hair and green eyes, and is on the shorter end of average height. She's also aromantic and asexual, which will also be a significant part of her story.

Ryan Glenfield: The Consul of Remmord, a position he gained as a teenager when his (also teenage) brother abandoned it. He begins his rule with the best of intentions, but naivete, ignorance, and years of bad advice mean that his actions aren't always good for all of Remmord. His people largely see him as someone who's better than his predecessor, but who does make plenty of bad decisions they disagree with. He's too separated from his people to really realize the full effect of his policies on their daily lives, so he thinks he's doing a great job. He wants to do the right thing, but often doesn't know what that would be. He tried to be a good parent to Amalia, and doesn't really understand why she's so distant as an adult. He's stubborn and thinks he always knows best, but he's also willing to learn if someone shows him he's wrong. I haven't settled on an appearance for him just yet.

Henry Glenfield: Ryan's older brother. He couldn't handle the responsibility of being Consul when he earned the position as a teenager, so he abandoned his post to travel the country. He returns to Remmord after several years to find out that Ryan has taken his post and doesn't really want to give it back. By the time the story begins, he's spent years regretting his choice, believing that Ryan isn't the ruler that the city needs. Outwardly, he's supportive of his brother, but he wishes there was a way for him to make things better without opposing Ryan. He takes in Gilsen when he's separated from his parents, believing it to be his fault that Gilsen's parents are gone. When Amalia and Gilsen come to him with concrete ideas for how to help Remmord in a way that doesn't pit him against Ryan, he's all ears and eager to help. I haven't settled on an appearance for him either.

Plot

When Gilsen is a child, Remmord's most culturally significant holiday is outlawed, leading to protests that result in the arrest of Gilsen's parents. He comes back to his family as an adult ready to hear their plans for how they're going to restore the holiday now that so many years have passed, only to be told that the family has no such plans. He decides that he'll just have to try without them, and begins strategizing for that. Meanwhile, Amalia is also seeking ways to undo many of her father's decisions, so the two scheme together. Amalia attempts to convince Gilsen to challenge her father, but he refuses. She then attempts to convince Henry, but he won't kill his brother. Gilsen thinks that there's another way to achieve their goals: by simply educating Ryan and appealing to his need to do the right thing. With Henry's encouragement, Gilsen exposes the lies Ryan has been taught. When he sees the truth, Ryan is distraught, and agrees that many of his laws should be overturned and that the dictatorship should be abolished. The four of them work with each other and their people to set up a democratic government. Henry is elected as the new leader. He and his council decide that one of the first things they should do is bring back the banned holiday. There's still a lot of work left to do, but it's a good beginning, and for the first time in years the four are hopeful for their future.

[writefightandflightclub]

Shadow of a doubt:

Fem!Reader x the Moon Knight System🌙 (Marc Spector 😍, Steven Grant 🥰, Jake Lockley 😘.)

Summary:

Marc was first.

Steven was second.

Khonshu’s never going to love you.

…And you’re wondering if Jake will ever get there at all.

Author’s note: not sure about posting this (bc excuses + caveats) but doing it anyway! 🤡 This is me playing around whilst not working on my main WIPs 🙄 So, please have my questionable headcanons! And my first attempt at Jake!

Author’s note 2: Marc Spector 🥰

Genre: An angsty, meandering relationship retrospective (how reader came to be involved with each of: Marc, Steven, Jake, and how their relationship with each alter differs / developed). Vague character study of sorts (and Jake characterisation is based on less than nothing). Some fluff. Some hurt / comfort. Some smut but it’s not a smut piece and it’s not hugely explicit.

Rating: 18+ ONLY. Adult themes. Minors DNI.

Warnings: angst I guess? Fear of abandonment / rejection themes (and you don’t even need to squint for that one). Canon typical allusions to trauma (not explicit, not a major theme). Sexual themes but largely not explicit and not the core focus. Questionable headcanons. Out of character everyone, maybe? Typos. Unrequited love(?). Alcohol mentions. Food mentions. Some shitty comments about Marc by reader’s friend which are immediately and directly refuted in the text and by reader (and me!); however warning as their ignorance can be taken as ableist (upfront and not a key theme).

GIF from this glorious set by @nowritingonthewall

Marc was first.

First to notice you. First to fall in love. First to be all in.

Your friends told you plainly that they didn’t like him at first. Warned you off him, in fact, with all manner of ignorant assumptions. They said he was closed off. Unreliable. “Shifty”; the guy with the dark past, never looking anyone in the eye for too long. “Rude”, because he didn’t make small talk at parties.

They even said, upon their first occassion meeting him, that he “sucked all the air out of the room”.

You didn’t have a damn clue what they were talking about, however.

When you had first seen Marc, you had felt like you could finally breathe.

Eventually, you got rid of those friends in favour of much better ones; but you kept him.

Marc was a keeper.

You had come to know him. To understand that whilst he may have a closed off face, he has the most open of hearts. That whilst he might not look everyone in the eye, when he looks at you his eyes are full of love. That although he might not always talk small, he says all the big things when he’s alone with you.

All the right things. All the things that matter.

There was that time Marc had turned to you on your mates’ doorstep, and had whispered in a thick Chicagoan accent that he wished Khonshu’s armour could protect him from parties. You had simply kissed him on the cheek and told him - without a second thought - that you would protect him.

“Always. From everything. Fuck that Sesame Street reject, Marc. I’m the only bird you need on your arm tonight.”

He had turned then, with a lopsided smile to twin with yours, and he had told you the biggest thing of all.

“I love you.”

You had waited patiently for his words. You had waited to hear aloud what you had already learned to be true through the language of his hands and his lips and his body. Through his gestures and actions.

It was worth the wait.

He was worth the wait.

You had learned so much about him already.

The big things.

That he was scared, and that he was brave.

His fears and doubts, and the things he still had faith in.

The things he couldn’t trust yet, but wanted to.

And, the small things which seemed huge too.

The way he liked to bury his head in the crook of your neck before he slept, his eyelashes kissing your skin. 

The way he knew the Latin name for almost every flower in Kew Gardens.

The way he became over invested in finding the perfect jacket, doing an excited little bounce when he finally walked out of the changing room in one that felt good - then bought two.

How feeling smoothness beneath his touch - of leaves or a polished stone or your silk nightdress could make the tension melt from his body.

The way he’d looked like you’d just given him the world when you’d surprised him with a bunch of slightly sorry supermarket flowers you hadn’t been able to resist.

The way he had cried, curled around your lap and face buried in your thighs, because he didn’t know - until Steven - and didn’t truly believe - until you - that love could be gentle.

“What is it?” you had asked him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he had replied as his tears fell. “For the first time that I remember. Nothing.”

You had learned all of this about Marc.

And now, you had learned that he was yours.

And so, when he had wordlessly gripped your hand in his - as you stood too agape to say it back - you decided then that you never wanted to let him go.

***

Steven came second.

Came to you more slowly.

Marc’s hands had arrived at you first, before his words had. Before he could trust you to speak his truths to you, and his words had followed later.

There was plenty to talk about.

Marc had told you about Steven.

Had spoken about him like a brother.

Had asked if you wanted to meet him.

You did - of course.

It had gone well.

Steven was as easy to love as Marc was.

“Wow, bloody hell. Marc is a blooming idiot. Why on Earth would he give me the body when he’s here with someone so beautiful? Oh God. Sorry, yeah? I didn’t mean to be creepy or anything. Let’s start again, shall we? Hiya! I’m Steven. Lovely to meet you, finally. Heard a lot about you. From Marc. Obviously.”

By the time you had spoken your first words to him, you had already been smiling, and only partly in relief.

Steven’s words were there from the beginning, yes. Treasures - not hidden in tombs like Marc’s, requiring excavation; but on display for you on plinths and in glass cabinets.

Steven had nothing to hide from you.

Was nothing if not honest.

Steven had little to hide from anyone.

His hands came later - and his lips - but first; his words were abundant.

Steven talked and you listened.

You loved to listen.

You loved to listen when he spoke to the topics he was most knowledgable about. When you asked an offhand question about one of his books or documentaries and he would pause for 15 minutes to give you every detail, his face lit with passion. You loved how intelligent and enthusiastic he was.

You had learned so much from him, and along the way you learned about him too.

You’d learned about his moral code, and how his courage was unwavering in standing up for himself and others.

You’d learned that he liked to keep his hands busy.

That he wore his emotions on his sleeve.

You’d learned how he was lonely, like you.

How he had been for a long time.

It had not been long at all before you had begun to think about it - about kissing Steven too.

“Look. Shortcake. I already know you want to kiss him,” Marc had told you one evening as you had prepared dinner together. His face had been taut, and tension had made your body rigid too as you realised he was wise to your desires.

“A-Are you angry?”

He had smoothed his hand lovingly along your arm. Sometimes it was hard to tell what he was thinking or feeling, when his expression didn’t give much away. “No. I’m not mad, I just… I don’t think he knows. You might have to be a little more obvious.”

After that, you had talked about the possibility with Marc - of having something with Steven. Whether it could work. Whether he might grow jealous. That it wouldn’t mean you loved him any less. How you could never love him less; only more and more.

“Does he… want to do that too? To kiss me?” You hadn’t been sure why your voice was faltering.

“Uh. I’ll take a wild stab that: yeah.” A smile had radiated from the corner’s of Marc’s eyes. “He won’t shut up about you.”

You couldn’t even try to hide the fact that made you feel giddy. A swallow had trailed down your throat. Your hands had grown clammy where they rested against Marc’s forearms. “Is… is Steven here? Now?”

Marc had cast a sidelong glance, looking at his own abstract reflection in the shined saucepan he’d just stacked back on the shelf.

“Oh, buddy, don’t worry,” Marc had reassured his reflection. “You’re getting the body. Just let me do one thing first, huh?”

Marc had crossed to you ever so slowly, deliberately, the softest, most delicate smile gracing his features. He had cupped your face in his warm, sure hands, and had planted the tenderest goodnight kiss on your mouth. Then, he had shuffled forward, his breath against the shell of your ear as he whispered a secret to you. “Suck him off and he’ll lose his shit. Fella’s asked a lotta questions about the mouth stuff.” He had dipped back to your mouth - just in time to kiss the curl of your smile as you had succumbed to a gentle, surprised laugh.

“Alright,” you had smirked. “That could work.”

“Do a good job with it, honey,” Marc had teased.

“Why? Because you’ll be watching?“

He had slipped his tongue hungrily into your mouth. “No. This is all for him. But I want to hear about it later.”

You had rested your palms against his chest, a bedding heat sinking through you, but a less pleasant weight settling on your chest at the thought of Marc no longer fronting. “Come back to me. Okay?”

His smile was as soft and warm as melting butter. “Copy that.”

He had delved to kiss you again, and this time you felt a change. You felt his lips stop moving against yours, his hands dropping limply to his sides. Instead of Marc’s eager tongue, you felt a humming noise tickling your lips - alongside the press of a far more chaste kiss.

“Mmm. Hi, Steven,” you had said, stealing the breath from his mouth.

You had felt his warm lips make the shape of the words against your own. “Hmm. Hiya,” he had said, almost drunkenly.

You had dipped back from him then to find him slightly slack-jawed, his eyes fluttered closed and those long lashes fanned dreamily towards his cheeks. A flushed colour creeping from his neck to his face like blooming roses climbing up and up a trellis.

“You okay, Steven?”

Flowers settled on his cheeks, he had wrapped his arms around your waist, his hands fisting securely into your soft cardigan, idly massaging the textures. “Bloody hell, I think I’m going to keel over or sumfink.” He had opened his eyes, a slow, dazed blink like waking from a good dream. “Sorry about him, yeah? Marc. The mouth stuff, I mean. Obviously… he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, yeah? Just ignore him.”

“He doesn’t?”

Steven’s droopy, happy gaze lingered on your mouth. “Not usually.”

You had grazed your fingers along Steven’s lapel. Actually pouted as your fingers trailed over his chest and stomach, and down to the belt at his waist. “Shall we stop then, Steven? No more mouth stuff?”

“Stop? Oh god, no!” There was a beat. Then, Steven had waved his hands in the air n surrender. “I mean, unless you want to stop, yeah? Coz then obviously we’d stop. I’m not trying to be creepy or-“

You had kissed him again.

Deeper.

He kissed you back, a small moan blooming in the cave of your mouth - flowers in the dark.

When you had pulled away he was all flushed; but still, his words were there, reliable as ever “You’re so perfect. Completely lovely. Proper stunning, you, aren’t you? Feels so nice to kiss you.”

“So are you. So handsome. So… delicious.”

You had sunk to your knees, doe eyes sparking with promise, and Steven’s hands gripping the edge of the counter you now had him backed-up against.

“Bloody nora! You’re gonna have to stop, love, or I’m going to get excited.”

“Steven. That’s the idea.”

You had already known how he would taste when you took him into your mouth, but it still felt like a first time.

He’d looked good like that - his trousers bunched around his ankles and his chin tipped towards the eaves. His tee-shirt half covering his bare bum cheeks - he had Marc to thank for the squats, you had supposed.

And, as Steven enjoyed you and encouraged you, you finally found a way to make him speechless.

Later, after more pepperings of kisses you had merged your bodies once more between the sheets. After, you had curled in bed, bodies curved like crescents against one another’s - slices of the moon.

That’s when his tears had come.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Your brows had knitted together like one of his soft sweaters. You had spun and your palm had found his cheek, a lone tear sluicing over the ridges of your fingers.

“This is perfect and I… I don’t want to give you back.” When Steven’s voice had broken, it had broken you. “I don’t want to leave you, love.”

“Aww, baby. Ssshhh.” You had soothed him, searching Steven’s eyes, even as his gaze was disappeared into your hairline. “What the hell do you mean ‘give me back’?” His eyes had met yours briefly then, brimming with liquid moonlight. “I’m yours too, Steven,” you had said freely, and you had meant it with your whole being. “I’m yours too.”

You were his too.

There was a moment, then, as you watched this reveal bed down into Steven’s features, giving them a rare weight. He wore it heavy, like a mask.

Then, a peace had gradually settled over him as he worked through his thoughts. He had shaken his head softly. Expelled a puff of air as though in disbelief, even if his words came out entirely certain. “I love you.”

He said those words with his whole heart.

Unapologetic; just like he was with everything else.

Steven was a man who knew what he wanted - what felt right - and he stood up for it. Said it out loud.

There had been no doubt in your mind either when you had replied. “I love you too.”

Steven’s eyebrows had jumped back up towards his hairline in shock, like he hadn’t even contemplated you might say it back. “Sacré bleu!”

You had already been smiling, but your nose had crinkled in surprise then.

“It’s French,” he explained.

“I know,” you had purred. “I’ll show you something else French, if you like.” A nervous swallow had trailed down his neck as your hand began to smooth over his chest - bare aside from the glinting Magen David nestled in between his pecs.

His gaze had dropped to your mouth. “Oh you will, will you? Poetry or something, is it?”

You had dipped forward, writing a poem as your tongue dipped into his mouth to lick against his. “Oh! Yep. That’s French,” Steven had mumbled against your lips. His hands had reached for you. “Keep it coming. Mmmph.”

You had wound your arms around him in return and tongued his smile.

You had decided then, that you always wanted to hold on. Always wanted to be reaching for him.

***

Khonshu was never going to love you.

You didn’t really care for the bird, nor he for you. “Think you’re all menacing, do you? I’ve seen episodes of Pingu that are scarier than you, you big monstrosity.”

“I’d rather crawl back into my ushabti that be stuck here talking to you, little worm.”

“Don’t worry,” Steven had reassured, once Khonshu had finished with his tantrum, blinking out of the room. He had settled a few soft pats on to your shoulder. “You’ll like the hippo a lot better. Tawaret’s lovely.”

Your head had whipped towards him. “There’s a hippo?”

Clearly, there was a little more you had to catch-up on.

***

Jake came to you last of all.

You were never sure if he planned to stay.

You’d experienced him first only in the aftermath of him fronting.

Marc, left with one of Jake’s hangovers. The taste of cheap whiskey on his mouth.

Steven, clicking his tongue as he shaved off Jake’s three-day moustache, the alters locked in a constant battle around presentation of facial hair.

One day, you had finally met him in person, and there was no doubt he was a stranger to you as he walked the body into the house.

You had used your key. Had been expecting Marc.

Jake had not been expecting you, it seemed.

His eyes had skimmed over you, his face impassive. “Eres la chica.” You’re the girl.

He had looked at you with something you couldn’t place, and were quite sure you didn’t want to.

He didn’t enter. One foot inside and one foot out of the door.

He had stood there, pensive and still. Had lifted his thumb to skim it along his lower lip, and it was then you had noted the smear of red on the ridges of his knuckles.

You had looked him up and down in return, consciously resisting folding your arms around yourself. “And you’re… Jake.” You hadn’t liked the way he made you feel so nervous. “Nice to meet you.”

With a slight downward sneer of his mouth, Jake had turned on his booted heel and walked right out again.

After that, you didn’t see him for a while. Even Marc and Steven told you he was lying low.

To your surprise, they had also told you that Jake wanted to see you again.

“Hi,” you had greeted cautiously when he had next walked in. He was wearing his trademark flat cap, and carrying a scuffed brown cardboard box against his torso.

This time, you had been expecting him.

“Hola, bizcocho.”

Like last time, Jake had looked you up and down, lips pursing as he sucked on a red lollipop - which you would later learn he loved to do all day while he rode his cab around, the clear, crinkled wrappers and used sticks accumulating in his jacket pockets. His upper lip had drawn back into a curled, gummy smile as he crossed to the desk. “Mira. Kitten. Very cute,” he had explained as he waved you over.

You had heard a bright, tiny mew from inside the box then, as though on cue as Jake had carefully placed it down on the table.

“We foster kittens now.” You had simply stood there and blinked, getting accustomed to his pronounced accent, as you had with Steven. To the way his lips moved and shaped themselves differently to either Steven’s or Marc’s around his words.

Imagining the way he must taste of strawberries.

Getting used to all of it.

Adjusting to Jake and who he was.

Unlike Steven or Marc, Jake’s eye contact was intense and unwavering, and you felt a nervous sweat prickle at the back of your neck.

“Um.” You had gathered yourself. “We do?”

“Not ‘we’ like ‘you and me’.” He had laughed. “We like us.” Jake had gestured towards the nearest shiny surface then, followed by abruptly crunching the lollipop between his teeth.

You had crossed to the box and peered inside, smiling involuntarily as you heard a bright peep, and spotted the tiny little furball.

Mew.

You were too nervous -or possibly captivated by Jake, you would theorise later- for the cuteness of this kitten to dissolve your tension completely; and so, you had turned your attention right back to Jake. “Right. There is no ‘you and me’ us.”

Jake had slanted his body towards to you.

His clothes were different. Tight pinstripe trousers which strained against his ample thighs and hips. A fitted white shirt and waistcoat. His voice was different. His mannerisms. Expressions. Motivations.

Most glaringly of all, he looked at you -technically- with the same eyes as Marc and Steven did, but they were different. You did not see the familiar gloss of love coating them when Jake looked at you. You tried hard not to be alarmed by its sudden absence. To understand it.

Then, Jake had scooped the furball up in his broad hand and had nestled her against his chest. He had extended his other hand out to you with a broad grin. The hand that had - last time - been covered in blood. He held it out almost like it was a peace offering before he’d ever wronged you. “Nice to meet you.”

On autopilot, you had reciprocated, reaching out and feeling the warm slide of his broad hand against your own cool skin as he shook it.

This was a hand that had touched you, held you, and been buried in you; but in a way you’d never felt it before. A hand that you’d touched a thousand times but that, now, sent a heat skittering down your spine like it was the thrill of a stranger’s touch.

Maybe you were warming to each other, you’d thought. Or perhaps that was just you. You had certainly felt like he could have grilled you on his hands with the way his touch made your skin sizzle.

“I have heard a lot about you,” Jake mused. You knew the only two likely culprits. “Watched you sometimes as well.”

When he had said that, you had snatched your hand and your eyes away from him, a heat crawling up your neck.

“You… watch me?”

When you had snatched your hand away from him - as if frightened - Jake had become visibly flustered. He had replaced the kitten efficiently to the box, his grin falling away and his thick brows drawing down over his eyes like shutters. He had crossed to the fridge - to give himself some time to think, perhaps. He had opened the door and unceremoniously pulled out two slabs of meat, slapping them on the chopping board and beginning to season them.

As if compelled, you had followed, though you had refrained from pushing him anywhere he didn’t want to go.

Instead, you had pointed at the meat with your forefinger, a niggle in your brow. “I hope that’s kosher.”

Jake had laughed then, a vibrant, gummy thing. You had drank it in, trying to catalogue the details of him, so you could recognise him later. “Muy linda.”

“What’s cute?”

“You know that Steven is already the Steven in my head, don’t you?”

“Right. Touché.” You couldn’t help but laugh too, ekeing out some of your tension.

A smile had curled Jake’s mouth, and you watched as he poured a dram of whiskey into a glass, throwing it down the hatch before gathering up more ingredients.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“No. Just sit. Please,” Jake had insisted, and you had thanked him, planting yourself down as he threw things together in the pan with a flourish and an innate confidence.

And, eventually, in the space you created with your silence, his words had come. “Sometimes… I watch.” The sizzle of the pan was a background to his words, as he tossed ingredients together. “I have to do it, to look after my brothers. I have to keep them safe.”

His expression was somber and closed off, but his eyes had darted briefly over to you then. His eyes were hooded with a suspicion that felt default; familiar. He looked at you briefly as though you were the threat. As though he was thoroughly used to assessing for danger. A gulp had bobbed down your throat. “Keep them safe from… me?”

“No,” Jake shook his head slowly, jaw writhing as he concentrated on plating up the food. “I thought that, when you first came. But now, no.”

He had slid the plate across the small table to you, and had taken his seat opposite. You had thanked him and looked down to the food, realising that he’d prepared it to your requirements. Thank goodness, because you’d forgotten to ask - he had you all in a tiz.

Tentatively, your eyes fixed on Jake the whole time, you scooped up a haphazard forkful of food. “What changed your mind?”

Jake had looked pensive for a moment as his eyes connected with yours. “Because…,” -his mouth lifted into a smile - “…now I know you care about them as much as I do.”

Despite yourself, Jake’s words had inspired a swell of emotion in your chest, and you had reached out to place your hand on top of his then, where it was planted flat on the table. He had looked down at it, but he had not drawn away from you.

Maybe from here, you could take care of him too, you had considered.

With tears twinkling in your eyes and a soft smile, you had finally been able to say it and truly mean it. For the first time, you had felt relaxed around him. “It’s nice to meet you, Jake.”

***

After that point, you had come to learn Jake too.

You had learned how he liked to drive. How he was always working on fixing up some old banger down at a local rental unit. Sometimes, he had taken you to help him after work, asking you to pass him spanners and such as nothing but his bum and legs poked out from beneath the bonnet.

He liked to shoot pool and drink cheap whiskey.

To tenderly settle his flat cap on your head. He always licked his lips whenever he looked at you wearing it, you had begun to notice.

He cooked like a genius.

You had learned that Jake was the protector. The guy who insists it’s “nice to be nice”, but also that sometimes you have to be “cruel to be kind”. The guy who you’d hate to cross but love to be on the right side of.

You had even begun to feel that he looked out for you. That you looked out for each other.

You’d formed a friendship with him, and you had been more than content with that. Content that there was a fondness if not a love nor desire in his eyes for you.

Still, you had been attracted to him, of course - despite your best efforts. And, if Marc had made you feel like you could finally breathe, Jake routinely made you feel like you were running out of air.

Still, you didn’t think he wanted you like that.

That is, not until one night, when you were locked in a sweaty, coital embrace with Marc.

Marc had paused, briefly slowing his thrusts and tearing his mouth away from you with a snatched breath.

“What is it?”

Marc’s shoulders had heaved as he had pushed up on his muscled arms, his sweat-sheened body settled over you like a canopy. Curls cascading over his forehead, and his necklace swaying in the space between you. “Jake’s here,” he had panted, eyes meeting yours with a flash of concern. “He’s… watching.”

At first, it had thrown you.

“What do you want to do?” Marc had enquired urgently, lips dragging down your neck.

He would have stopped, if you wanted it.

Instead though, your eyes had grown hooded, and your voice had become a deep, dark purr. “Don’t stop, Marc. Let him.”

Marc had paused for only a moment, before he had resumed with increased vigour, his eyes somehow lit with an even deeper hunger. “Hnnng. He says… he says to make you cum so he can, hnnng, see how it looks.”

“Do it then. Do it, Marc,” you had encouraged, opening up for him like a night-blooming flower to its moon. And, this time, when you had come undone on Marc and you had looked deeply into his eyes, you could see hints of Jake peering back at you too.

Afterward, you and Marc had come down, breaths ragged, and had fallen back on to the welcoming pillows, limbs tangling together.

Once you were settled, Marc had lolled his head towards you asked a question you weren’t quite ready to face the answer to. “You into him too?”

You had been silent for a long time before you responded. Long enough that Marc may have even believed that you had fallen asleep. Then, your whisper had cut through the dark like a dart.

“Yes.”

It felt sudden and sharp. Somehow, like you had just jammed the knife into your own back.

You had wondered if Marc might pull away from you, but instead, he had scooped you into his arms.

When he did, you had been unable to explain to him why you were crying. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay.” Marc had smoothed his hands over you. “He’s a good-looking guy.” Marc’s throaty chuckle had dragged a smile out of you too.

“Is he here now?” you had croaked.

“Not right now, baby. It’s just you and me.”

You had buried your face into Marc’s chest and held him tight.

***

The next time you had seen Jake after that, he was no longer watching.

He was staring.

Staring, with an intensity which had rivalled your own when you had first gotten to know Jake. When he had let your fingers trace with trepidation over the ridges and contours and planes of his face.

“Steven’s eyebrows are higher,” you had whispered, the pad of you sweeping over his brow. You had touched the corner of his mouth next. “Marc’s mouth is more drawn down, and Steven’s more pouty here.” You had traced the shape of his Cupid’s bow.

“What about me?” Jake had asked.

You had swept your finger down the length of his nose. “Your nose crinkles more when you smile. And your lip curls right up.”

You had learned him, but you hadn’t ever thought that he had needed to learn you. Weren’t you always the same? Always consistent?

Well… apparently not.

Jake had stepped up close to you, by the window, and, as you froze with shock, he had traced the pad of his thumb along the ridge of your cheekbone, following a curving path up and around your eye, like he was drawing a moon slice through settled dust. You felt shined where he touched you. New.

A weight had settled on his brow though. “You look different,” Jake had mused, fleeting his tongue along his lower lip.

You had tried to recall whether your clothes were out of the ordinary today. Whether you had done something different with your hair. “Do I?”

“The way you look at us,” Jake had gone on to say, something sorrowful buried deep in his eyes. “You look different. When you look at Marc. Or Steven. Or me.”

Your breath had hitched in your throat, as Jake had slowly traced his thumb along your jaw, his head titling to look at you more keenly. “H-how do I look at you?”

You had watched the lilting curve of his lips as they tipped up into a crescent smile. “Like you don’t love me.” His forefinger and thumb had come to grip your chin, and he had tilted your head in the opposite direction to his. “But like you want me.”

Your breath had stuttered from your mouth. “Jake,” you had suspired. You hadn’t known what he was asking you. Whether he had meant for you to start loving him or to stop wanting him. Maybe neither of those things. Maybe something else.

You didn’t know. All you knew was that he was making your head swim, and the only thing that made sense was when his body pressed up close against yours, and his kiss had sunk you.

He didn’t taste of strawberries at all.

He tasted of cherries.

“Do I scare you, cariño?” he had breathed against your cheek as he came up for air. As he felt your body trembling up against his.

“No, Jake. You don’t scare me.”

You had told him that, only so that he would kiss you again. So that he would not stop. You had told him you weren’t scared of him, but it had been a lie.

He did scare you. Not because of his blood-stained hands, or his reckless abandon. Not because of the way, when he kissed you, your middle opened up.

Not because of that.

But you couldn’t tell him why. Could never.

So, instead, you had let Jake fuck you with reckless abandon. Like a wolf at the mercy of its moon.

Afterwards, Jake had bundled you against his chest, his arm casually slung around you as he propped himself up against the headboard. He had reached into the bedside drawer for a lollipop, tearing off the wrapper with his teeth, and his lips settling around it with a pop.

“Jake?” you whispered uncertainly, against his smooth, bare chest.

“Sí?”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“No?” he had asked, dipping his chin to get a better look at you, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.

“I… I don’t want you to disappear.” Your fingers had idly skimmed back and forth, over the same spot on his pec.

With a deep sigh, Jake had shifted his position, so that his fingers could hook beneath your chin, gently guiding your gaze towards him. “Then I’ll stay awake all night.” Your eyes had remained downcast, however, your fingers idly tracing the outline of the Magen David chain which pooled in the dip of his chest. “I’ll stay with you.”

“No. You won’t,” you had protested, fighting back some persistent tears.

“Maybe not. But I’ll try, cariño.” Your tears had spilled over on to your cheeks. You couldn’t hold them back. “Hey, what is it? Tell Jake. He’ll protect you, okay?”

“Not always,” you had croaked nonsensically. “Not from everything.”

“Sí. Sí,” Jake has insisted, smoothing his hands over your hair in the name of comfort; but you had known that his promise was a lie. That it was not so; because there was still one glaring reason that you were scared of him.

You were scared, because you loved him; and because you weren’t sure that he could ever love you back.

You must have been a fool, then; since you weren’t sure what else could have possessed you say it. What else could have driven you to lift your eyes up to meet Jake’s in that moment and to reveal all.

Maybe a part of you had seriously thought you would be able to hide it.

Maybe a part of you even believed he might say it back.

That he might truly be able to protect you, like he had tried to promise; even from himself.

Maybe you could have hidden it; except… Jake had learned you. You didn’t even have to say it out loud in the end - I love you - because you made the simple mistake of looking at him with love in your eyes. Love he had learned and could recognise played out on your face. You had looked at him how you looked at Marc. How you looked at Steven.

Marc had come first, and Steven had followed.

Khonshu would never love you.

And Jake?

You hadn’t known if he would ever get there, but you knew all too suddenly now that he was never coming. You had learned him too. Could read the emotions in his eyes.

He looked at you with fondness.

With apology.

He looked at you like he was scared.

He looked at you like he was the threat, and that there was one thing he could not protect you from.

He looked at you with those all too familiar eyes, no longer backlit with the glow of love.

And, that’s when his eyes had rolled back into his head.

That’s when a fog had cast itself like a murky shroud over his face, making him unreadable. That is, until someone else stepped up to front in his place.

By the time you saw the familiar pattern of animated eyebrows jumping up, the tears were already flowing down your cheeks. By the time you heard a soothing, British-accented voice wash over you, you were sobbing.

“Steven.”

“What is it? What’s wrong, love?” He had held you by the shoulders as you sat upright on the bed, your knees curled up to your chest. He had examined your face and body for clues of harm or injury, but found nothing. And so, he had simply shushed you and stroked you, and told you he loved you. Told you that when your words were ready, he would listen. Steven was perfect, but - even with Steven by your side - for a few moments, you had been inconsolable.

You had been so afraid that Jake wouldn’t feel the same. That your confession would push him away. And now, you supposed that you had been right to worry.

He was gone.

He was quick to take his leave of you.

He’d already had one foot out of the door since he met you, hadn’t he?

“You alright, love? A little bit better, eh?” Steven had finally soothed, when your crying had subsided to the occasional sniffle. “Let’s get you some hot chocolate and some tissues, shall we, sweetheart? Get you all sorted.”

“Mmm.” You had nodded.

Steven had tried his best to be reassuring, but he couldn’t hide the concern in his eyes. He couldn’t hide the way he peered intently into the shined saucepans on the shelf above the sink, face contorting as he listened. His jaw writhing with a rare anger - as though he was hearing something which upset him.

You wondered whether he was getting an earful from Jake or Marc, or both, but something was happening that he didn’t look altogether happy about.

Still, for you, Steven had pulled it together, and for once he made an effort to smooth out his face. To hide from you, only in order to take the edge off of his concern.

He had quietly set down the hot chocolate for you - extra marshmallows sprinkled carefully on the top. You had wished you could paint on a smile for him, but his gesture was so sweet that, if anything, it made you ache even more.

He flattened his hands, and smoothed them up and down your thighs, slow and steady. “Do you… do you want Marc, love?” he had asked softly. “He’ll know what to do. Yeah?”

You couldn’t speak, but Steven had understood your answer all too well when a fresh batch of tears spilled over on to your cheeks.

The next hands to reach for you had been the first.

Marc’s.

Through blurred, teary vision, you held your arms out to him, a pathetic sob cracking in your throat. “Heyyy, honey, c’mere,” he soothed, his voice deep and steady as he dragged you into his lap. “Come on.”

Marc was first.

And Marc was with you until the end.

Marc was all in.

“What’s got you so upset, baby? Jake… he… didn’t say it back?”

He knew then?

“I’m so sorry, Marc.”

“Wh-? Why, honey?”

“Because… because what I’m thinking isn’t fair.”

His brows had knitted together in that familiar way. And, Marc had pulled you back from him, his palm hugging your face like the curl of a crescent moon. You felt the warm glow of him bleed into your skin, and nothing but love shining in his eyes for you. “You can tell me.”

You sucked in a deep breath, your bottom lip and chin wobbling uncontrollably as you wrestled with it.

“I just… I feel like if Jake doesn’t…” your shoulders had heaved -partly in frustration with yourself- as you fought a sob, and Marc shushed and soothed you until your words came. “I… feel like it means there’s a part of you that doesn’t love me. That will always be trying to leave, and…” Your sobs were coming thick and fast, between every few words now, but even so Marc stuck with you. There was pain burning in his eyes because you were hurting, and because all of this hurt him too. “And - if - if Jake leaves?” You sucked in an ugly, wet breath, before blurting your last words out into Marc’s shoulder. “If he leaves, he takes everyone I love with him. He takes you.”

You had clung on to Marc as you sobbed, and you had held him like you never wanted to let him go. Like you wanted him for always. Marc was frozen against you for what seemed like an eternity, until he finally mobilised. And, when he did, he seemed oddly calm. Perfectly certain.

“Baby, come here,” Marc had croaked, and you had felt his own tears wetting your shirt as he buried his head in the crook of your neck. You had felt him warm and sturdy around you, gathering you up in his arms and dragging you to him with his hands. Breathing you in. Caressing you. Bundling you towards his chest. Squeezing you tight. “That’s what this is about? Baby. I got you. Come on.”

Marc took a hold of your hands and he stood, gently but determinedly guiding you over to the window. He had led you to it, and wrapped himself around you from behind, his strong arms enclosing you, and both your faces kissed by gentle moonlight as you gazed out over the expanse of chimney stacks and rooftops, the night sky a gentle backdrop to the hubbub of the nocturnal city.

“Look,” Marc had said, settling his hands on top of yours as his arms wound around your middle. He didn’t direct you, but you had known exactly where to look. To the sliver of moon carved out of the bleak sky like a tear through to another world. Tears continued to sluice down your cheeks, but you managed to subdue them. “The moon splits itself into pieces, right?” you had nodded. “Sometimes, it’s a little sliver you have to seek out. Sometimes, a huge bright face. Sometimes, you can’t see it at all. But when it’s each of those things, it’s never any less than whole. Not once. It just comes down to what you can see.”

It was them, he’d meant. Different faces of the one same moon. Never gone from your sky even when things went dark.

Marc had spun you around in the loop of his arms then, so that you could come to face him, his brows drawn down over his eyes, but a well of pale light shining within them as tears shimmied there. With the pad of his thumb, he had swiped your own from your cheek, a watery smile spreading over his face as he took your face in his hands. “I promise you this, baby. I promise you that I love you with everything I have. I promise I’ll protect you. Always. From everything. Okay?”

Overwhelmed with emotion and love, you had drawn Marc close and had kissed him. Kissed the salt tracks from his cheeks. Had kissed his mouth. His eyebrows. His jaw.

You had held him in your arms and you had swayed there together in the moonlight, dancing to silent music.

For a moment too, you had even believed him. Been convinced that you need not be scared - because Marc’s all in. Because Steven is too.

Indeed, as Marc had bundled you up on the couch, and you had sipped the hot chocolate Steven had lovingly made for you, in many ways, you’d felt like the luckiest person in the world.

But, whilst Marc was all in, you knew deep down that Jake was only ever moments away from walking out of that door.

And, if he ever left, you knew that he would take everything you couldn’t bear to let go of with him.

Everything you had wanted to hold on to.

You had told him you loved him, and he didn’t love you back.

Even with Marc in your arms, there were still so many reasons why that scared you.

Still though. You knew you had to hope.

After all; you were all in.

You loved them with everything you had, and you always will.

[mmtions]

mother (t - 1.1k) 

a lil catradora snippet from a WIP I’m working on. just musings, really, post-canon. 

They’re visiting a nearby village to help with a troublesome pack of bird-type creatures that have been eating the crops, when Catra finds out about it. She’s tracking the leftover talon prints of the creature, crouched down and looking at the dirt, whilst Bow consoles a local about her ruined carrots, and overhears:

“And for it to happen on Mother’s Day!”

Catra frowns. Something in her gut twists.

Bow soothes her, “You can still celebrate! Are your kids doing anything special for you?”

The local sniffs. “They’ve made me a cake,” she confides in him, and Catra can hear the fond smile in her voice. “They think I don’t know.”

“That’s so cute!” Bow sounds overjoyed. Meanwhile, Catra wants to scream.

She stands up, making sure she’s turned away from them. She points into the forest with a ramrod arm. “They went this way.” And she stalks off without waiting for anyone else’s opinion.

For the rest of the day, there’s a gnarl in her stomach that rocks with her steps and punches with her thoughts. Even Bow stops trying to make conversation after an hour. She’s sorely glad that neither Adora nor Glimmer came along on this particular mission.

She finds herself actually disappointed that there’s no animals to fight. Bow comes up with a solution when they discover the borgs’ main food source had been flooded, so her afternoon turns into building a dam. The burn of her muscles is something to focus on, at least, even if her body was never built for strength.

They traipse back to Brightmoon castle sore, with the gratitude of the villagers echoing after them. Before they reach the main doors, Bow tries one more time: “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Catra says, tersely.

He doesn’t even pretend to believe her. “Right,” he says, the scepticism dripping. “Are you going to go find Adora?”

“She’s not my keeper,” snaps Catra. She’s being mean, she knows she is, but how else is she going to get everyone to leave her alone?

“I just-”

Catra lets out a growl, and pivots on one foot. She runs away, because she’s a coward, and she can’t deny her instincts any longer. She sprints, away from Bow’s calls to return, away from Brightmoon. Away from everyone else who celebrates a whole day for mothers.

She gets as far as the mountains before she stops and turns back. That’s the limit, then. It takes a mile for her newly-formed conscience to pipe up. She used to be much better at suppressing it, damn it.

Evening has fallen by the time she walks back. She sneaks into the castle by climbing the walls, not able to face the front doors and the bright lighting of them. The idea of bumping into anyone, friend or foe, makes her want to hit something.

She climbs into their bedroom and she’s silent. Melog is waiting there, and-

Adora watches her enter, moonlight reflected on her skin. Catra’s shoulders droop, and she sits down, right there on the floor.

“I was looking for you.” Adora says, without judgement. Catra wants to both shrink away and curl into the warmth she doesn’t deserve.

She owes Adora to try being honest. To continue to try.

“I have... complicated feelings about Shadow Weaver,” Catra confesses, shortly, each word prised from her lips. Her hands are clasped so tight her knuckles stretch white against the bone, and at least a few of her claws are embedded in her own flesh.

Adora doesn’t say anything, and Catra is too afraid to look up to see her expression. She feels wrong for the confession, foul and fucked up. Then, Adora’s touch, fingertips on Catra’s bleeding, shaking hands. It’s enough to shock Catra into looking up, into meeting those deep grey eyes. “You think I don’t, too?” Adora says, voice gentle and hushed.

Catra’s gaze casts away. “I…” and she can’t bring herself to finish the sentence. The awful truth is that, no, she didn’t. She’s still guilty of casting Adora in shades of black and white, gold and red. Adora is the brave one, the light one – Catra is the muddy and bloody mess. It’s in her darkest times that the mentality returns.

Adora sighs. She crouches down in front of Catra and tugs her hands apart so she can interlink her own fingers in the spaces. “Shadow Weaver raised us. Terribly, and abusively, and for her own gain. But – she still raised us.”

“They said today is called Mother’s Day,” admits Catra. “And I didn’t- I still don’t know if-”

“Me neither,” Adora says. She scoots around so she’s sat next to Catra, pressed up along her side, still holding onto one of her hands. “I freaked out the first time I heard out about it too.”

“You did?”

Catra can see the nod of Adora’s chin in her periphery. “Of course I did. At first, I thought it was because I didn’t have a mother. And then I wondered if Shadow Weaver counted as one, and then I freaked out because I had left her behind. It was – well, it still is – complicated. Definitely. That’s okay, Catra.”

“She saved us,” Catra whispers. She hates admitting it, hates it like blood in her mouth and the sound of her claws scraping into metal. “In the Heart.”

“I know.”

“And – does that mean she cared for us? I always knew she preferred you, but- by coming back, she saved me.” Catra is crying now, voice crackling. “And- maybe I was the one who pushed her away. Made her cruel. Maybe if I had been- well-behaved, or better, or-”

Adora arms are strong around her and Catra folds into the embrace, clutching at Adora’s shoulder blades. Adora pushes her face into the space between Catra’s neck and collarbone, and Catra feels her tears land there. “We were kids,” Adora finally says, muffled against Catra’s skin. “We weren’t perfect; we were never supposed to be. She did one good thing, at the end. And it meant I got to keep you. It meant we could save the planet. But – I don’t- If she was our mother, Catra, I don’t think she was a very good one.”

Something in Catra breaks apart and she hugs Adora impossibly closer. At some point, Adora pulls her into her lap so they’re pressed all up against each other.

“Maybe we don’t have to celebrate today,” Adora eventually says, quietly. Catra finds herself combing her fingers through Adora’s hair, prompting her to continue. “I just mean – maybe today can be for us, and our complicated feelings. Next year, too.”

Catra loves this girl. Impossibly so. She chokes on a laugh and presses her lips against Adora’s. “That sounds a good idea. And awful. A whole day for feelings? Bleh.”

Adora giggles, only a little bit wetly. She squeezes her arms around Catra. “Yeah, yeah. You can’t fool me. You have feelings. You admitted it!”

Catra shakes her head, exclaims, “Never!” and kisses Adora to distract her from the truth.

[likesomekindofcheese]

Songbird of Jamestown Chapter Five

Pairing: Samuel Castell x fem! Reader

Word Count: 6898

Summary: You are among the English maids in 1619-1620 who have agreed to board ship for the new world in Jamestown, with the intention to marry the men there. You have chosen to find a husband and life of your own and pay back the company, than be pre bought and bound to a random stranger. Life is difficult and you and your friends struggle, but there is a certain recorder who’s willing to help. He’s kind-hearted and handsome ...and has already been pledged to another.

A/N: this chapter is shorter than I intended (I have other WIPS and requests that need attending and after debate, the ending to this chapter felt better for the development of the next one), but here we are! A very dramatic chapter that was both fun and painful to write. I hope you like it and please comment or share if you do!

Warnings: swearing, mentions of sex, angst, drama, Jocelyn being Jocelyn, scenes of vomiting, sickness.

Taglist: @bluesfortheredj​ (sempai) @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​ @theworksgaga​ @itscale​ @theoneandonlyeclecticepileptic​ @queenlover05​ @rubystarflight​ @themficsilike​ @namelesslosers​ @itsametaphorgwil​

“Come, all you very merry London Girls,

That are disposed to Travel,

Here is a Voyage now at hand,

Will save your feet from gravel.

If you have shooes, you need not fear

For wearing out the Leather,

For why you shall on shipboard go,

Like Loving Rogues Together, 

Some are already gone before,

The rest must after follow

Then come away and do not stay,

Your guide shall be Apollo!”

      - Lawrence Price, “The Maiden’s of London’s Brave Adventures”, 1623.

“Miss Y/L/N …”

You thought you heard his voice. 

“Oh Y/N, please…wake up, be strong again….”

You wanted to just croak out his name. Your lips parted, and a sound came out. It wasn’t his name. It was only a sound.

“Miss Y/L/N? Can you hear me? Take this!”

You could barely see him but a sudden taste that hit your tongue, full of bitterness. Then a drop of water that was brought to you. But no blots of color formed. No more signs of him. Only darkness.

Sometimes something like a nightmare came across your vision. You thought you saw something, but then it faded before it could devour you. Sometimes there were dreams, sometimes not.

Then another voice came up. It could have been an hour. It could have been a day. It wasn’t his voice, but a voice. A soft, lilting voice.

“Oh, dear Lord, please heal this lady. You know she is a dear, kind woman. No one has ever treated me as nicely here, other than my master and mistress of course. But she is a good friend. Your book even says a friend sticks closer than a brother. So, I must beg you, if it is in your will, to heal her from this dreaded and sudden illness. I would be most saddened if she were to die. You have placed me in her life, and unless You have planned so, please don’t take her away from it. Give her health again and wake her up, Amen.”

The words were flooding outside you when you woke up. You were lying on your bed, Mercy was right next to you. Her pale face and little brown head looked blurry, but you saw her turn her head at once.

She gave a grin and placed a hand over her heart, leaning to you.

“Oh, providence is kind! Miss Y/L/N!” she cried, getting up and then pausing. She knew you were too weak to embrace. She pulled herself back.

Your vision flooded back and you saw you were at home. You felt sticky and sweaty. Your bed was beneath you and you saw you only had your shift on.

“M…Mercy…what…what’s happening?” you croaked.

Your throat felt dry from the lack of use.

“You were found just outside, fainted!” she recalled.

“Did you find me?” you ask.

“Oh, it was the Tavern Keeper’s wife, the red haired woman…she was out walking in the dark to your home to see you, she said, when she heard your cries and came a runnin’. Found you right on the dirt, right out! She dragged you in here, ran, and fetched the doctor quick as she could, stayed up all night with you, she did!” she said, almost excitedly. Her eyes wide as if telling a story.

“Verity…oh, it was Verity! Mercy…am I dying…If I’m dying there’s someone…I need to…I need to speak to…” you said.

You knew the one thing you didn’t want to say had to be said to him if your time was running out.

“You’re only sick. That’s what the doctor says. But you might…I hope you won’t…” she said. Her eyes looked down and she frowned.

You reached out a hand and touched her cheek.

“Oh, mistress Mercy, I heard your prayer…and I’m so lucky to have you,” you comforted.

“I’ve prayed every hour I could…my master was with the doctor when Verity was running, so he and my mistress even prayed with me for you in this room for an hour today. I think all of our prayers worked. It was my Master who even got you to your bed the other night, but he insisted on leaving outside when you got changed to your shift, ‘cause you know, you were asleep but it still wasn’t polite, he said!”

You felt your lip bite and a small laugh escape.

“Why, Miss Y/L/N, colors coming to your cheeks, even! You’re getting healthy, I know it!” she cheered.

“How long was I asleep?” you interrupt, a little embarrassed.

“About a day.”

Your head hurt and you were dizzy. You groaned from the pain and Mercy fetched a cool cloth from a bucket. You nodded as thanks.

“Mercy…what did the doctor say about me? What do I have?” you ask.

Your memory was coming back. And you had a dreaded feeling you knew exactly what happened to you.

But…it couldn’t be, could it?

“He says you’re only sick and that’s that. He did get you to swallow some medicine and he says you need more…which…oh dear! I forgot! Now you’re awake! I have to get him! Excuse me, m’am...”

She gave a curtsy and off she went like a squirrel to a tree. Your dizziness came in and out. You found your arms, while shaky, could pull yourself up. Your stomach felt like it had a stone in it. Even the sight of your food in the corner made it turn and you felt the threat of vomit rise in you.

A little later, a man entered with Mercy trailing behind him. He was of average height, with dark hair that curled yet was brushed back. His face had hints of scruff with a pale, square head and a sunny smile.

“Hello, miss. Doctor Priestly at your service,” he greeted.

He even bobbed his head as if you were a lady. If it weren’t for your weakness, you would have bobbed your head for a curtsy as well.

“See, doctor! My prayers have worked! I did have faith enough!” Mercy cheered excitedly.

She grabbed your hand to help you get up to sitting on your bed upright.

“It seems your faith and my medicine are a powerful team, Mercy. Go find your mistress and let her know at once that Miss Y/L/N is awake. She’ll want to know how her servant is, she’s been very fretful for two days for her.”

Mercy once again scooped her red skirt into her tiny hands and ran out the door. He pulled out a vial from his bag, poured some clear liquid onto a spoon, and fed it to you. It tasted disgusting as overcooked cabbage, but you made yourself swallow it. It was the same bitter aftertaste as the drink you were fed while slightly conscious.

“Here, two days of rest and this medicine and you will be fine,” he assured you.

What happened couldn’t be true, it was too insane to be true. You shouldn’t be in this predicament at all. Or were you? There was one way to find out.

“Doctor Priestly…what’s wrong with me, what am I sick with?”

“I’ve not told a soul about your condition… for Mercy’s sake.”

“Mercy?” you asked. “What’s she have to do with it?”

“I remember when she arrived here. She was an orphan boarded from England sent here to work and make a life for herself. Poor thing had more than one master beat her senseless when she was small. I couldn’t afford her, so Castell took pity on her and placed her under his wing for her protection. He’s almost like her father in an odd way, but he’s still her employer. But that is her life, no family and only drudgery. “

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and blinked a lot, coming back to the present.

“She has a tender heart and it takes very little to vex her. I saw how fond she was of you, so I wanted to rest aside her fears. If I told Castell, he might tell her just to give her an answer. But you and your mistress at least deserve to know the truth.”

He pulled a chair from the table next to you and spoke in a low voice.

“You had the symptoms of poisoning from the belladonna plant.”

“No…but…I…I just can’t…I was poisoned,” you said, finally accepting your dreaded suspicion.

“And I also noticed...I had kept some for medical and research reasons, and the vial was gone. So, whoever took it must have targeted you. They wanted to harm you. You had a water jug that was laced with it. Luckily, you only had a little bit. If you drank a larger dose or didn’t take this medicine in time, you would have been dead.”

“Someone stole your belladonna?” you ask.

Your eyebrows furrow and you look directly at him. Your hands fold neatly at your blanket.

“Oh, I hope you forgive me, Miss Y/L/N…I should have watched it more carefully.” He begged, he turned his head down.

“It’s…alright, Dr. Priestly. I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault it was stolen” you say.

You move your hands in front to tell him to calm down and he smiles in response. He’s not entirely unfortunate looking and you feel yourself smile back.

“Have some water, you’ve been without food or drink for over a day” he suggested, getting a tin cup.

You drank it up greedily. Sighing and wiping off your mouth, you look back at him, softened.

“I would prefer to keep this low. Only your mistress and you. News of poisoning would bring fear, someone innocent might go to jail if accused falsely,” he explained.

You at once felt your stomach turn. The bile was coming back up.

“A…a jug, anything, I’m going to…” you mumbled.

He handed you a clay pot and you felt the disgusting feeling of vomit rise out of you and the repulsive smell of it. You put a hand over your mouth defensively as he put away the pot.

“You are just weak, Miss Y/L/N. Just keeping drinking water and taking the medicine. You will be a little weak, but fine,” he assured.

Not long after there was a knock on the front door and Doctor Priestly sprung up and greeted with the largest smile you had seen on him yet.

You saw the pale blue cloak of Jocelyn walk before you and fold open the hood. Her golden curls were tied back with a ribbon just loosely. Your breathing got shallower and your nostrils flared remembering the day on the ship.

Sure, I can’t let my hair down, but you can. Not a lady anymore, eh? You just proved that, you thought angrily.

“Oh, Doctor Priestly, Oh, I am so glad. Poor girl! How is she?” she asked demurely.

“She’s weak, but after one day of rest and taking this medicine, she’ll be bright and bonny as ever. I have to tell you Jocelyn…” giving a glace at you, he led her just outside the door to speak with her explaining why you were sick.

Waiting for a while, you kept squeezing your own hands. You felt your heart beating in your ears. After a few minute, you saw Jocelyn open the door again, continuing the conversation.

“Doctor Priestly, may I nurse her, myself? I wish to make amends- it was my own jug and I lost watch of it!” she offered warmly.

There was a crinkle beneath the doctor’s eyes as she spoke and he leaned a little closer.

“What a tender heart you have, I’ll leave you with her. Bring me back if there is any sign of trouble. Here is the medicine, I’ll go on and make another, farewell!” he wished, handing her the bottle.

With a slight hop in his step, he left.

Jocelyn took a few minutes to be quiet. As she walked up you pulled yourself back, defensively. She held out the medicine poured out a spoonful, offering it to you.

You hesitated, staring. She could have done something with it too. But you accepted it and led the spoon with your hand to your mouth.

 After a few spoonful’s, the concerned look on her face dropped looking down on you. She looked at the window, checking, and then returned. You tried to glare up with what strength you had.

“Jocelyn. Who poisoned me?” you ask flatly. You folded your arms.

 “You know what you did,” she spat out.

“No, I don’t!”

 “You should have drank all of it.”

 “Jocelyn, why? I have done everything for you! I have cleaned your clothes and room, fixed your gowns, made your breakfasts and even emptied your damned chamber pot! I have asked for nothing but my pay. You forced me to agree to do it in front of Lady Yeardley.  And this is how you repay me? You try to kill me?” you questioned angrily.

She was quiet.

“I’ll report you to the Governor. Right. Now.” you threaten. You swing your legs over and get on the floor.

You only took two steps on weak legs when she put a hand before you, and then caught you before you could fell. But as you were crumpled, she led you back to the bed. She bent down to look you in the eye.

“It would be worthless to speak to him. Look at you and look at me. I’ve dined with him countless times. He’s going to be the groomsman at my wedding. Who is he more likely to believe? A lying, thieving, whoring maid or a lady?”

 She got back up but folded her hands in front of you. Her eyes were low, her round, pale face still, and her pink lips tight.

 “Jocelyn…you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you do it?” you interrogated.

“Because you’re destroying me. And you’re destroying this colony.”

“You’re the one who almost killed me! What on earth did I do?”

“Since you’re a fool, let me tell you. You’re a whore,” she accused. Her face was still but her low voice was biting.

“Do you mean…with…with your fiancée?”

There is fire in her eyes.

“Anytime I was with him, I promise you, nothing happened. He never said or did anything to me.  He’s a gentleman; he keeps his distance. He is doesn’t love me, he loves you. Jocelyn be reasonable! Mercy says you’re the great beauty of the colony. How could he show any interest in anyone else with you as his intended!?” you begged.

“Your flattery means nothing to me” she cursed bitterly.

From her cloak, she pulled out your copy of Ovid’s The Metamorphoses.

“If you have not seduced him, explain this!” she accused.

 “He asked and I just let him borro-“

 She slammed the book into your bed and turned to the very end, where there were a few extra blank pages. Or were. Words were scribbled all over them. You jumped and your legs stung from the force of the book’s weight.

 A pink primrose exactly like the ones on your window was pressed into it.

“Read it” Jocelyn demanded.

You felt your dizziness return and your stomach hurt again. You pushed it away. You were shaking your head. This had to be a dream, this had to be a dream.

“And know this, before you claim it false,” she added.

From her stays, she got out a folded page of paper which listed the business of the Governors meeting last week.

Glancing at what was written in the book and the record, it was exactly the same.

You pulled the book close to you and almost felt your hands and arms shake as you tried to keep it up, pulling to your face. You wanted to be sure every word you saw was real.

It read:

“My darling, my little nightingale, Y/N Y/L/N,

With your consent, I must take a moment to confess to you the feelings I have been suppressing for some time. Please do not be afraid of me.

I love you. I adore you with every inch of my soul. I have never known any woman quite like you. I knew you were different from anyone else from that first day of your arrival, though I wasn’t sure how. Then I knew. You were someone I could talk to. The more I looked at you, the more I couldn’t help myself. You are one of the loveliest maidens I have ever seen. When I think of you in that flower field, how ardently I wanted to kiss you that moment, with the sun shining, the flowers around you, and your sweet smile. I’ve never felt such tenderness and wanting inside me before. I admire every bit of you, my dear friend. You are the kindest, sweetest soul I have ever met. And your courage exceeds that of many men I have known. I still remember the day you spoke with Mr. Sharrow on behalf of Miss Kett and I am still in awe such an action even happened.

I make every excuse just to walk by our colonies walls just to hear you, to see you walk by, just to glance at you. The way you shone when I taught you how to write words, shone with pure joy. Your laughter and singing! Your voice haunts me, haunts my dreams, and my day and I hear it at once with both ecstasy and torment, for I know such tender words, laughter, songs and that joy of your hand’s devotion is a gift, a gift that cannot be for me, but the happiest and most fortunate of gentlemen you choose to wed. How I envy him and hate him, whoever he may be here! I am so ashamed to admit it, but it is truth.

I have given Jocelyn a promise. A promise I must keep, as being the purpose of her journey. Yet each time I think of the day we will be joined, inside I mourn so deeply. This is the reason why I delayed the wedding. I made a pitiful, unmanly excuse about business because you were always in my thoughts. I will never have the privilege of your courtship and time. I must be bound until death to another, upon an agreement of payment I have made long ago. Though I must complete my duty in humility and obedience, know that I wish every morning I awake that it was your beautiful face I saw.

Jocelyn does not deserve to have her heart broken and her future destroyed. Can you have it in your heart to pity me? To pity her, most of all. It is Jocelyn I must marry, no matter what I may feel about you How could I be so cruel to such a good, honest woman who came here for this one sole purpose?

I do not know if you even tolerate me. If you despise the air I breathe, then I swear I will never bother you again. But now, I ask you pray for me, pray for us.

But know that though such affections I possess can never be acted on, that if you are ever in dire need of assistance, I will help you. Even if you cannot have my hand, you have the protection of anything I have and my actions. If you are ever in need, or your husband, most fortunate of men, or your children even, I will find a way to help you.

For I and my heart shall always be dedicated to you. I love you so tenderly and know that you will always be my dearest and saddest love.

Written by him, who is your humblest of servants

SC”

A shaky smile appeared on your face, though your stomach kept dropping throughout reading. A small laugh, stifled, came out of you, defiantly. Disorientation washed over you and it was as if your vision blurred for a moment.

“I must confess, I’m almost impressed. There’s a power between our legs, and at least you’ve learned to use it,” Jocelyn said.

Setting the book down, almost not daring to read it again, you stared into the open for a bit, but you heard Jocelyn continuing.

“You cast a spell over him. And it’s began ever since he kept speaking with you. So, tell me, they call you the Songbird of Jamestown, yes?”

Blinking, you looked back at her, voicing a shaky “wh-what?”

She walked over and grabbed your face, pinching at the mouth. Her face got into yours and you could feel the hot breath come out of her.

“Did those musical little lips suck his cock and is that why he does everything you insist?” she hissed.

“H-H-How d-dare you speak such…such lewd things!” you retorted, jerking away, nearly slapping her hand out.

You nursed the spot on your jaw tenderly. You turned away and saw the book. While Jocelyn was distracted you hid it under your blankets.

“Jocelyn, he’s going to marry you, whatever he may think of me. Don’t you see what it’s really saying? He’s letting me go. You’ve won.” You reasoned.

“You may think so. But now he hardly listens to me. He doesn’t do anything I ask him to. No matter what I try. And it’s began since your little romp in the flowers. If you are here, you are a threat to me and my marriage.” She said.

“What are you asking him to do?” you ask.

You noticed how high your shoulders had gotten to your ears and forced them down.

She paused, folding her hands in front of her.

“You don’t understand, Y/N. I’m going to lead him to greatness, for us. For the colony. Wouldn’t you like things to change? Wouldn’t things be better if Samuel was in charge? Not Farlow or Redwick or Massenger?” she interrogated.

“What’s wrong with Yeardley? And how do you plan on getting it, though? And I…I don’t think you understand, people die playing these games. Do you want to die? Do want Samuel to die?” you ask.

“Oh, Samuel.” She prodded. “Not Master Castell anymore? That’s a little more intimate, aren’t we? Do you love him?”

You froze.

“I know you’re a terrible liar. And I know what they do to liars here when they’re caught.” She added.

She kept her close distance but remained standing. Her eyes stared right into you, though your head dipped down low and you buried your face in your hands.

“Do. You. Love. him?”

Tears stained your eyes. That feeling, burning and bubbling in the depths of you was suddenly coming out. No matter how much you tried to deny it or ignore it for the greater good, for even your own safety, it was still singing, screaming in the back. Now it was getting louder, and louder.

“I…I think I do. I…I wish he…if only he was just a farmer, not the recorder, just so I could be with him!” you confessed.

Breathing in deep, you felt a weight had been freed from you. There was a silence, heavy with what she would say next.

“Then understand you are what is holding him back. That’s what love is. It holds us back. I’m going to bring him to greatness. I’m going to make him have things beyond even his own understanding. He could be a farmer. Or he could change everything and bring those men down and set things right here.” She explained, towering over you.

“By controlling him? Making him do things he doesn’t want to? Dangerous things?” you blurted.

“That’s how men work. And this place is ruled by them. We have to control them if we’re going to survive here as women.”

“But a harmless soul as his? Control Farlow, all you would like, Massanger, or Redwick, but…Samuel? He wants nothing of treachery, why make him treacherous?”

“That’s your weakness. You’re still clinging to love, thinking that’s what’s going to save you. I was like you once. I was proven wrong. Love doesn’t save you. It destroys you. And the sooner you let it go, the better you will be. I hope you’ve figured that out. You’re leaving here.” She scolded.

“To England? The company will send me back. They need to pay back the tobacco pounds on all of us.”

She then reached in her pocket and pulled out some letters.

“You know of the communities right outside here? I’ve written to the men of Charles City. Any women who isn’t immediately bound in marriage must go there. And there are at least three men over there are curious about you to be their wife.”

Not too far for the company but far enough you thought.

You barely glanced over it. It listed names, possessions, their house, and what they planted. One name, only one name. One name that would stand out. One name to stamp out Samuel’s. But none could. None of them had the name of the one you knew you wanted.

And who knew who these men actually were like? If you were lucky, they would be loving.

But at worst, you could be bound to another Henry Sharrow. You fought the urge to vomit again.

“Tomorrow, you will gather your things. Leave this town. Pick one. Marry him. And stay there.” Jocelyn demanded.

“I won’t. I won’t do it,” you voiced.

Jocelyn walked up and hissed at you softly.

“If you don’t, you are dead.”

“You couldn’t do that.”

“I almost succeeded. I have resources, don’t think I couldn’t.”

Your breath left you and you released a small cry of fear, your limbs nearly froze.

With all the bitterness and anger you had forced silent inside your soul for weeks, you looked Jocelyn in the eye and spat out “bitch.”

It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t dignified. It was not even mature. But it felt good.

“Never heard that one before,” she remarked sarcastically.

You turned around and, though still shaking, you got up on your feet. Jocelyn didn’t raise an eyebrow.

“Good day, Miss Y/L/N. And a blessing upon your marriage,” she finished with a smile.

You were determined not to be sent off without the last word. Now you had something. It wasn’t safe to say it, but if you were blessed to never see Jocelyn again, you might as well say it when you had the chance.

Tugging nervously on your shift you said “this isn’t the first time you’ve poisoned someone, Jocelyn.”

She froze and glared back at you, she took a few steps, threatening to charge at you like a predator.

“You little, sneaking slut!”

“And how is being a sneaking slut any better than being a liar and a murderer?” you snapped.

Jocelyn froze in her track, but continued her fiery glare into your eyes.

“Tell me, when a man makes a bet that he can take your virginity among his friends, takes it as they watch, and he wins, how much will you believe in love, then? How can you even trust men’s souls, then?” she croaked, now tears were barely going down her cheeks.

 “It’s not men’s souls, Jocelyn. It’s what they’ve done. You’ve been hurt so you shut yourself off to keep yourself safe. And now that you have refused love, you’ve even refused the love that makes you care for others. All you can do is hurt others.”

You swallowed, got up from your bed, stood up quickly while you had the strength, and interrupted before Jocelyn could interject.

 “You cannot love, you can’t love people or least of all yourself. That’s only because you have been betrayed. You’ve been hurt. But you could have used that pain to help others. Have you talked to Alice about what Henry did to her? Or Verity? You could have helped them. But you have let your pain make you harsh to underserving people. Good people. Samuel. Mercy, even, and she’s a child with nothing!”

You took two steps closer to her.

“But…you cannot help, truly, genuinely help. Only reward people you think you trust. That’s because all you know to do is hurt. For that, you will never know peace or contentment, and you have more than my disgust, you have my pity.”

   She marches up to you and grabs you by the hair, growling into your ear “leave by tomorrow, or you’re dead.”

  She then brushed any dirt or wrinkles off her dress, set her hat back up on her head, and walked out.

  Alone, you collapsed on the bed. You were done with being brave. You were done with being strong. You wanted to be weak. You let yourself sob and sob.

You look barely at the letters of these suitors you have never even heard of, asking you for your soul, body, mind, possessions, and even possible children to be owned by them until death take one of you.

“The time’s gonna come fer yer freedom and maidenhead whether ya ready fer it or not!”

Then you look at Samuel’s letter in your book, you press it to your heart, and let your cries continue and continue, gingerly touching the petals of the pink primrose and even noticing the fresh bunch at your window.

So it…it wasn’t James at all! How could I be so stupid, I’m an idiot…

 Could Jocelyn really kill you? How? The possibilities kept running through your head.

You had no idea how much money she brought with her but maybe she could hire someone to do it.

Or she probably already planted one of her possessions in your home. If someone noticed it, they could accuse you of stealing, go to Jocelyn, who’d give her testimony that you stole, give your truth and let it fall on deaf ears and then you would have to make the fatal walk outside the colony walls to the gallows.

She already fooled you into being poisoned. She could find a way to take and poison your food. Had she even poisoned the food you had when you weren’t looking.

And you didn’t know about how your physical strength could hold up.  Jocelyn was slender and knew nothing of tasks requiring physical extremes. But that didn’t mean if she got possession of a gun or knife she wouldn’t be able to attack you.

Being at the wrong place at the wrong time could put you at risk. Perhaps she would drown you in the river if you went to do your laundry.

If she got that book and letter back, she could bring it to the court, make accusations of adultery, and get you hanged.

Finally, after a while, Christopher returned with Mercy trailing behind him.

“Mercy…how kind you are…and Christopher…”

“I asked my Master if I could make this broth for you, and he agreed. He has a kind heart, he does!” she chatted, handing you a cup.

You swallowed it gratefully, smiling at how for once your stomach did not reject it.

“He…yes, he does,” you answered. “Speaking of which…where…where is he?”

“There’s a large trial and many things he must record. He has a busy workday but sends his prayers to you. Now, take twice the dose, Miss. You will be a little weak today, but you should be fine. I insisted the church forgive your absences these next two days so you could recover. You’ll be strong by the day after tomorrow.” Doctor Priestly said.

He brought another batch of the medicine and handed it to you in a small vial with two spoons.

You swallowed the two spoonful’s and kept it down best you could.

“I saw Mistress Woodbyrg come in after a while. Even when she chided me, I thought it a blessing, the bit time I was there.” Mercy reported, folding her hands in front of her.

You only stared onto your blanket, right down.

Oh, dear Mercy, you don’t know the half of it and for your happiness I hope you never do!

“Oh, you are so lucky to already be working for her. There is never a lovelier lady! Although, she’s been quite troubled lately. Oh, she frowned so when I worked for her and it vexed me so much! But I’ve been praying every hour for her, when I could” Mercy chattered, she even folded her hands together and brought it up to her chin dreamily.

You were quiet for a moment. Mercy worshipped the ground Jocelyn walked on. She was someone perhaps the child wanted to be. But… should she have such a rosy view shattered? Jocelyn seemed to give her meaning and joy in her life. There was a fairy tale princess under her roof, no matter what that princess said or did.

“Mercy…tell Master Castell…thank you, for allowing you to make this broth and…Mercy, may I please have a bit of parchment, please? And something to write with? There’s…a quill and ink on the table.”

“How come, Miss?”

“I’ve…uhm…been practicing writing.”

“My, what a good skill! How lucky you are to be learning it, how clever you must be oh…”

There was a weight that you felt dragging you down, and the child took note.

“Why, what is it, Miss Y/L/N?”

“I…I just need to try to write. I can’t be idle even when sick…”

“Why, why yes indeed! As Psalms and Captain Smith do say, one must wake up and be industrious, it’s how we can praise the Lord himself. But…I am so glad you are well.

Doctor Priestly stood by in the corner, smiling at the sweet words said and observing quietly. Mercy handed you the quill and ink and then knelt by your bedside.

“I really am. I never had many friends. Mere few. And a lot of them died. And my master is gentle but…we can’t be friends. He gives me me earnings and that’s that. So…I’m just so thankful,” she said softly.

“I’m thankful to be your friend too, Mercy.”

She looked up at the smiling doctor, who gestured for her to come, and she left accompanied by him.

You stared at the parchment and backed it against your book. Your brain was brimming with words. Words that would have explained everything. Most of all, why. But your hand only knew how to write a few.

You wanted to see him. You wanted to get out of your bed and crawl through the muddy streets to wherever he was and collapse onto him.

But anger overtook you. It was his own letter that probably confirmed Jocelyn’s suspicions and put you in danger in the first place!

You wanted to even yell at him, to take that mud and throw it to smear his lovely face. To take that stick from that day by the river and beat him with it with all of your strength. All for the trouble this lovely letter put you through. If this was a plot and he was working with Jocelyn, then he had betrayed your trust and put you in great danger.

And if it wasn’t. Jocelyn proved it was his handwriting, after all. Or at least, it was not a forgery. He could have lied through this letter from Jocelyn’s or even someone else’s doing to get you out of your discouragement of him being too deeply involved in the intrigue.

But…you brain interrupted as you lifted the quill, hands shaking…what if it was?

If it wasn’t. If he meant every word of that letter, it meant…it meant that he really did see you. You. Humble little you. With ninety women that had just arrived, and he wanted! If nothing stood in his way, the gentlest, sweetest man in all of the colony, if not, even in all of England’s far kingdom or the world perhaps loved you.

But there was one thing in the way. And it was your life.

You wished desperately it was a letter with false intentions instead.

You dipped the quill into the ink as it sat gently on your bed and scribbled out seven words.

“Goodbye. I will miss you- Y/N Y/L/N.”

Not painless. But quick and to the point. It dried in a few minutes, the dark purple ink turning into the color of violets. The scrap was hidden in the book. You put it next to the pansy.

You barely slept that night and spent it packing or pacing.

Doctor Priestly arrived the next day with new medicine. But the doctor noticed the packed bag resting on the table.

“Are you alright, Y/N? You’ve lost so much of your color, even after the medicine” he asked.

“I’m…I’m just sad. I’m leaving. I haven’t been married yet and the company’s insisting I leave to fix that. I have a few marriages offers from Charles City. I have friends here, though. I will miss everyone,” you said.

You handed him the papers and letter from the men and the doctor nodded in understanding.

It wasn’t a lie, but some details perhaps he could not be trusted with yet.

“I’ve heard good things about you, Miss Y/L/N, our dear songbird. We will all miss you too,” he answered, giving you a last spoonful of medicine.

After he left, Mercy returned with one last cup of broth.

“I always insist a cup after will do good!” she chirruped.

“Mercy…I’m going to leave today.”

“Why?”

“To…to get married, please send this to your master.” You said, holding out the scrap.

“Shouldn’t I fetch ‘im, so you can tell him instead?”

“No! I mean…don’t trouble him when he has so much work. I just wanted to say goodbye to him, for…for helping me and Alice. He greeted me and was kind to me.” you explained quickly, though you felt yourself biting your lip.

Mercy nodded and left quietly, looking at the note with big, confused eyes. You saw a shininess that would bring on tears and she even put her hand over her mouth.

“Oh, Mercy!” you exclaimed, a sudden wave hitting you.

You ran up and hugged her.

“Oh…Miss…Miss!” she cried, letting herself sob too.

You bit back your tears and whispered to her.

“Listen to me, never let anyone treat you poorly. Don’t be like me. I’m a coward. Be brave. Fight back with all your strength and…please promise me you’ll do whatever it takes, be happy and safe…” you instructed.

Mercy blinked, in more confusion, and then hugged back.

“I…I will miss” she blubbered. She let go and gave you a sad smile and then left.

Your bags only had what was essential to travel and then some. Your books, your clothes, and your lace gloves, the only luxury the company promised you. And the only luxury it delivered. You even got bits of food, who knew how long the journey would last, the quicker you would leave, the better.

And even if Jocelyn had poisoned them when you weren’t looking, you decided it didn’t matter anyway.

You dressed plainly. Looking at your reflection in the window, you did look like you lost your color. Your cheeks had hollowed some. Your eyes had darkened underneath. It was as if you were now a ghost of whoever you were when you entered this house.

Walking outside, you took the last of the wilted primroses and put it into your apron pocket.

You walked past the people going about. Past the church, past the tavern, past James beating into a new piece of metal with a loud CLANG, and past the smelly dogs and hogs running through the street freely and housewives adorned in aprons all looking for corn in the market that could be bought today, past the muddy areas you had to hop over, past the nice red doors where men in ruffs and fine cloaks discussed power with soft voices, and towards that opening and the ocean of green before it.

As you neared the entrance, you could make out a cart just near where the graves were marked. It almost seemed as if it planted among the crop of little wooden crosses. It was led by it seemed a brown horse and another man, he was tan, short, stout, and had dark hair and a dark beard with grey streaks. He wore a straw hat and seemed to be chewing on something. He stared out into the open of the green field and the trees just beyond. But he was smiling, and his eyes were beaming like stars.

Though Jocelyn covered your leave, he did not seem the type to be a hired assassin. It was the cart. Breathing in deeply, you took a few steps to get on that cart that would take you to your new life to forget all of this.

“Miss Y/L/N…”

Your breath stopped and you paused. Continuing it, you decided you would not speak to him turned away. You turned your head and looked at him. The one voice you did not want to hear at this time. But you knew you had to. You couldn’t just leave him with just a scrap of paper, as much as you had denied it.

Blinking away any more tears that may have popped up, you turned around to face him. At least one final time before your new life awaited.