#I’ve never drawn Herbert before go easy on me

[dreadful-luck]

drew this in class today!

Thought I’d add this text exchange too.

[ursula-van-wilder]

The Wraith: An Undeadwood Tale

Howdy, y’all. This is a short fic I wrote in honor of the one-shot Undeadwood series that Critical Role put out awhile back. Clayton Sharpe was my favorite character, and he inspired this story. This is supposed to take place before the events of the Undeadwood series, but it still takes place in Deadwood. 

I put up trigger/content warnings, but if there’s anything else I should add, please let me know! I haven’t posted a fanfic in a lonnnng time, haha.  Summary: Clayton Sharpe takes up an unlikely partnership with Deadwood school teacher Katherine Killsin. What they find in the woods outside of town rivals any campfire ghost story. 

Trigger Warning/Content Warning: Blood, gore, mention of spousal abuse. 

Part I: Miss Killsin 

As much as Clayton Sharpe liked to sit in the saloon all day, staring at nothing, thinking a little less than that, and keeping an ear out for trouble, such activities did cost money. Within his first few weeks at Deadwood, he went looking for a job. Such a task was easy enough; there was plenty that needed doing in town. But he didn’t want to paint fences all day for fifty cents. 

He stood at the bulletin, the sun beating down on his back. This was his second time drifting by, and now he committed to staring the advertisements full in the face. There were wanted posters for lawbreakers and crudely written advertisements for handymen. As good as the money was, he didn’t want to risk a bounty job with his history, not so soon after his arrival to Deadwood. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something--someone--coming his way. Without discernibly turning his head, he glanced over and saw a woman, dressed smartly in a dark calico dress. She had her hair pinned up beneath a hat that was starting to go a little ragged at the brim. Her hair--what was so familiar about it? As blond as it was, it might’ve looked white as a ghost in full sunlight. 

The woman came close, stopped a respectable distance, and said, “Mr. Sharpe.” 

He turned towards her. It seemed to most that life had given her sweet face a flinty edge; hard eyes, a sternly held mouth, and a brow that always seemed to have a weight on it. Sharpe just figured the sun was too bright. 

“Ma’am,” he said. 

“You are looking for a job, I take it,” she said, glancing at the bulletin. “I may have one for you, as I understand, too, that you advertise yourself as hired security.” 

“I do,” he said. He had seen her somewhere, he knew it. Vaguely, he recalled seeing her riding up on a ridge near town--at least, that might’ve been her. He remembered the horse more; a little chestnut pony. 

“Then I am in need of your services,” she said. 

At last, he asked, “Who’s asking, ma’am?” 

“Katherine Killsin.” She glanced to the side and nodded her head down the thoroughfare. “From the school.” 

Now he remembered. One evening, he had been walking in the dark through town. He had glanced into the schoolhouse and seen her there, teaching the men and women of Deadwood who wanted to read but had to wait until nightfall to learn. There might’ve been some mutterings about her in the saloon, too, from a few men who had tried to be fresh with her but had gotten a cold rebuttal and a firm dismissal from her class. Miss Killsin ran a strict school, and that much was known by all in town. She was one of many resident hardasses. 

“What do you need?” Sharpe asked. 

“I’d like some help with that bounty,” she said, nodding her head towards a wanted poster behind him. Sharpe glanced over and saw the name Herbert Jackson, and the grand bounty prize of $150, dead or alive. Jackson was wanted for petty theft, raiding a stagecoach, and killing a man. Sharpe’s eyebrow twitched. 

“I don’t do bounty hunting,” he said, with a hard tinge of regret in his voice. He sure as hell wished he did for that much. 

“You would not be doing the hunting, so much,” Miss Killsin said. “I would be.” 

“Then do it yourself.” 

“I am aware that going alone in the wilderness in pursuit of a deadly man is never advisable,” she said. “Trust me, I am loathed to ask for help. But you are a man of few words, which is chiefly what I need, and I will split the reward with you down the middle.” 

Seventy-five would settle him up for quite some time. But he didn’t think a teacher would have much luck in bounty hunting. “Have you ever done a bounty before, ma’am?” 

“No.” 

“Ever shot someone?” 

“Yes.” 

“To kill?” 

“Yes.” 

“And did you do it? Manage to kill, I mean.” 

She blinked as if it were a silly question to ask. “Well…” 

She glanced around them, but most people in Deadwood seemed to know to give the silent Mr. Sharpe and the stern Miss Killsin a wide berth and a good helping of privacy. That didn’t save them from curious glances. 

She met his gaze again and nodded. Sharpe couldn’t say he was surprised. Everyone who came to or through Deadwood came with some kind of bloodstained backstory. He nodded towards the Gem Saloon behind them and started walking there, with her following. 

Once inside, he gestured to the barkeep and sat down at the corner table, his back to the wall. Once the barkeep had delivered a bit of whiskey to the table, he stopped, one thumb nervously hooking to the ties of his apron. 

“For you, miss?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” Killsin replied. “Thank you.” 

Sharpe sipped his whiskey. “Do you even know where Jackson is?” 

“I do, approximately,” she said. “As it happens, he seems to be in my backyard. I have a small cottage on the outskirts of town as part of my payment. I’ve seen smoke coming from the forest, a few miles beyond. But more than that, Mr. Sharpe, I’ve seen him. He came around the cottage some two nights ago, and I saw his face quite clearly in the moonlight.” 

“What’d he come around for?” 

“Who knows,” she said, shrugging. “I managed to scare him off. But apparently my aim is much better by daylight.” 

Sharpe grunted and finished his whiskey. “What do you propose?” 

“I propose that we go in, stake out his camp, and we could have him by dawn,” she answered, at once. “I have reason to believe he is alone--though if he does have companions, I can’t imagine he would have more than one or two. If we go in quietly, find the camp, and wait him or them out, then we have a presumably safe extraction.” 

“Now,” she went on, “you said you do not do bounty hunting, and I will respect that. I suspect you would like to avoid dealing with any other bounty hunters. I say we kill Jackson, as the reward stands the same, and I’ll bring the corpse in myself. That is, if such an arrangement makes you comfortable, Mr. Sharpe.” 

In fact, it did. She had been thinking of this for awhile. Sharpe wasn’t the type of man to ask questions, but he couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “What does a school teacher need seventy-five dollars for?” 

She clicked her tongue and smiled. “Anyone could use seventy-five dollars. But if it puts you at ease, I plan to leave Deadwood as soon as possible, but haven’t the appropriate funds to do so.” 

He nodded slightly. “Well, then, Miss Killsin, I believe we have a deal.” 

He held a hand out to her and she took it, grasping it firmly and shaking it once, quickly, before pulling away. 

“Be at the cottage before sundown,” she said before she got up and left. 

--------------

Sharpe secured a horse and rode on up to the cottage outside of Deadwood. The cottage couldn’t have held more than a woodstove and a cot--maybe a small couch to boot. Long before he rode up, the smell of roses radiated from the cottage. The closer he got, the stronger the scent became, until Sharpe’s nose twitched and wrinkled from it. The cottage was covered in them, red as blood, the leaves dark green, with not a blemish in sight. 

Katherine Killsin was at the side of the cottage, saddling up her own little pony. She had changed into a more practical riding outfit, older and more worn than the dress she had met him in. She wore a man’s hat, similar to Sharpe’s, and her hair was in a frizzy braid looped once and pinned to the back of her head. She looked up when she heard his approach and nodded to him as she finished adjusting a strap. 

Sharpe glanced again at the cabin. At first, he thought the windows were dirty, but then he realized that whatever curtains Killsin had on the inside must’ve been black. They were drawn tight, letting no light pierce the interior of the cabin. 

“I have some rations, in case we’re kept too long,” Killsin said, patting the pony’s neck as she stepped towards Sharpe on his horse. She wrung her hands. “I’ve got some coffee on the stove inside.”  

“We’ll reach the forest just before dark, if we go now,” Sharpe said. 

She splayed her fingers and shoved her fingers down between each other, as if to fix the fit of her riding gloves. She pulled her hands apart and flexed the fingers. “Yes.” 

“Ma’am, it’s your time,” Sharpe said evenly. “Are you backing out?” 

“I am not,” she snapped. Without another word, she stomped onto the porch and went inside. Sharpe eyed the horizon, the sun hovering above it and the forest. He certainly didn’t like Killsin’s change in attitude. Earlier that day, she had been steady as a rock. He had a sudden premonition of her, gun in hand (if she had one), unsteady and shaking up a storm, accidentally taking aim at his head. 

Killsin came out moments later, a sack in one hand and a hunting rifle slung over one shoulder. 

“What’s the sack?” Sharpe asked. 

Killsin did not look up at him as she went back to her pony. “Salt.” 

Sharpe arched an eyebrow. As she settled on her horse, she smiled at him, as if they were about to go on a pleasant ride through the countryside. 

“Mr. Sharpe, I understand you are a Texan,” she said. “We should be evenly matched in our equestrian skills, then. Shall we?” 

Sharpe nodded and they went on their way, to the forest. He wondered where she might be from, as she didn’t sound as though she were from Texas, not unless she had abandoned the accent. 

As if she had read his mind, she said, “I am from Kentucky, you see.” 

He nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. Sharpe himself felt fine, but he felt a tension in the air he didn’t like. He wasn’t sure if it was centered on Killsin or not, but she certainly didn’t help it. She sat rigidly, her jaw clenched, with her eyes fastened on the forest, as if something or someone was about to come running out of it, guns a-blazing. 

He knew next to nothing about Katherine Killsin from Kentucky. But he was starting to think there was something about this job with Herbert Jackson that she needed to tell him. 

“You want to tell me why you’re nervous, while there’s still time to turn back?” he asked. 

For a few moments, she said nothing--almost long enough for Sharpe to turn his horse around. Fuck it all, he thought, and let her make take the job on her own. He had no time to get dragged into some kind of jackpot. He’d get seventy-five dollars some other way. 

“I know him,” she said. “At least, I think I do. If I’m right…” 

Her shoulders slumped and she lowered her head, the brim of her hat obscuring her face. “If I’m right, then we must kill Jackson, on sight, Mr. Sharpe. I cannot stress that enough.” 

“Well, it’ll be done,” Sharpe said, “if you can keep steady.” 

“I can.” At that, she did seem to compose herself completely, as she had been when they met. 

They got to the forest by dark, the interior of the wood darker still. It swallowed them, horses and all. 

Part II: The Evil Against Them

Finding Jackson was easy. He had a good-sized fire going, just as Killsin predicted. He sat close to it, his arms resting on his knees, the brim of his hat hiding his face. He had his saddle propped up behind him, and his holster rested there.  Jackson didn’t seem asleep, but rather inebriated. Sharpe could see brown bottles glittering dimly, spilling out of a rucksack thrown at the side of the small camp. A gunpowder grey horse stood nearby, its head lowered in rest. Jackson raised his head once, tipping it back to wipe sweat from his brow. Sharpe could plainly see the man at the fire was Herbert Jackson, from the ill-maintained mustache, the straggles of hair sticking to his forehead, and the crooked nose. 

When Jackson raised his head, Sharpe saw Killsin tense at the corner of her eye. She drew in a breath, soft and quick, as if she thought she would’ve seen something else when Jackson looked up. 

Jackson crawled over to the rucksack and pulled a bottle out. He took a long drink from it before crawling back to the beat-up saddle. He belched and groaned, closing his eyes. 

It appeared that Jackson was sick, Sharpe thought. He figured Killsin saw it, too. 

As they stepped back quietly through the woods, back to their camp shrouded in darkness, Sharpe whispered, 

“We could drop him now. He looks half dead.” 

Killsin whispered back, “I suppose so. Is that advisable, Mr. Sharpe?” 

“If we’re killing him, then it doesn’t matter what time of day we do it.” He drew his pistol. “Don’t aim for the head.” 

She drew in a breath as if to steady herself, and he saw her nod. Drawing their weapons, they started back with Sharpe leading. He glanced back once and saw Killsin’s eyes shining, her eyes peeled and fastened on the unsteady path before them. They tread without sound, with even their breathing lost to silence. 

They had gotten back to where they had been when they first saw Jackson, when Jackson threw his head back and hollered, 

“Rose, is that you?” 

He got up, unsteady on his own feet. He sniffed the air. “Yeah, that’s you. Get on out here, woman, else I’ll come for you.” 

He was delusional, Sharpe thought. Behind him, Killsin was completely silent, as if she were holding her breath. Sharpe didn’t see any firearm on Jackson, couldn’t tell if the holster on the saddle was empty or not. Sharpe started to move off to the side, moving so that he could shoot Jackson cleanly in the chest. 

Jackson sniffed the air again. “You got a man with you.” 

Sharpe frowned. He blinked once, and in that sliver of a moment, Jackson had darted into the woods, right towards where Killsin stood. 

She discharged her weapon once. Jackson’s horse whinnied in surprise, jerked from its sleep. If Killsin made a sound, it was drowned out by Jackson’s roar of pain and delight, which seemed impossibly loud. 

“Fuck!” Sharpe hissed and tore through the trees back to Killsin. The campfire light cut through the trees, lighting up chunks and pieces of what lay before him. He saw Jackson and Killsin grappling with each other. Jackson’s shoulder was bloodied and torn open, but he fought like a healthy man. Sharpe came close just in time to see Jackson’s hand clamp on Killsin’s neck and start to squeeze, vice-like. Killsin’s eyes bulged, and she slapped the side of her rifle against him, panic dragging her down. Jackson leaned into her. 

“Oh, my Rosie, you missed your shot!” He laughed. Sharpe thought his ears must be fooling him; Jackson’s voice didn’t seem to be coming just from within him but without him, as if the voice surrounded him. 

Sharpe brought the butt of his pistol down onto the back of Jackson’s head. Jackson didn’t even jerk. Killsin’s eyes rolled in her sockets and now she scratched at the hand that held her, her rifle gone, dropped onto the forest floor. Sharpe hit Jackson again, hard enough to split Jackson’s head open, a fine mist of blood hitting Sharpe’s face. 

Jackson let go of Killsin, who fell to the ground with great whooping coughs. He turned to face Sharpe, and it was then that Sharpe noticed the stench radiating off of Jackson. The only thing Sharpe could think of was the smell of death and rot, but this stink was warm and alive. Jackson’s lips peeled back, revealing grey teeth, grey like tombstones. 

As Sharpe went to shove him back, Jackson caught his wrist in a grip that might’ve broken bones. Sharpe grunted, balled his other hand into a fist and hit Jackson square in the face. He felt Jackson’s nose crack beneath his knuckles, and the hand that held him faltered, but Jackson did not let go. 

Sharpe punched him again, his eyes widened now with disbelief and frustration at Jackson’s apparent immunity to pain. Jackson’s face was twisted with fury now, blood running down his chin. He punched Sharpe in the gut, and Sharpe’s breath left him in a great, painful gust. He bent slightly but managed not to completely double over. 

He couldn’t blow Jackson’s head off. They needed it for identification purposes, otherwise it would seem as though Killsin and Sharpe had gone into the woods just to kill some stranger. Still, as a reaction, Sharpe brought his pistol up and fired. For a brief moment, by the firelight he saw that he had blown Jackson’s ear off. 

Jackson whooped, a shriek that sounded like wind running through trees, swooping over plains. He pulled himself away from Sharpe and darted through the trees, not towards Killsin but to his horse. He jumped onto its back and started down a scraggly path, into the dark. 

Part III: Red Sky at Morning

Sharpe helped Killsin to her feet. She wheezed and held onto his arm, moving towards the dying fire, despite the risk of doing so. In his escape, Jackson had taken the holster off the saddle, but left the latter in the dust. 

“Alright,” Sharpe said steadily, his tone hard as granite, “I think there are some pieces missing here that I’d like to know. He got some kind of grudge against you?”

Killsin looked over the fire at him, eyes rimmed red, making the blue irises seem all the bluer, still recovering her breath. Each pull in of air sounded like parchment rubbing together. 

Sharpe asked, “Who’s Rose?” 

She gulped. “I am.” 

“Is this some kind of…” Sharpe shrugged. “Is this your way of saying your relationship’s off?” 

“Jackson does not know me that way,” Killsin said. “But the man possessing him now does...did.” 

She bowed her head and took three deep breaths, slowing herself down. 

“I didn’t say so before, because it should not be possible,” Killsin croaked. She rubbed her eyes, and it was then that Sharpe realized how tired she looked. She might’ve been keeping late nights for some time. 

She took her hands away. “I was married once, Mr. Sharpe, long ago. I married young and badly. His name was John Barr. We were married a year before he started hitting me.” 

It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone, as if all men, regardless of their original character, would start to beat their wives after a year of marriage. For Killsin, the years had numbed her to the pain. Rose might as well have been another woman, just one Killsin knew in passing. 

She stared into the fire, which was burning itself to death, glowing soft reds and oranges. She glanced over at the rifle beside her. “I killed him with this rifle. Since John was well-to-do and well-known, I had to leave Lexington the night I killed him. So, I did.” 

She looked up into Sharpe’s eyes, and he saw the face of someone desperate, someone who had seen a ghost. It was the look of someone on the run, a look he knew well. He had seen it a dozen times when he woke in the middle of the night, and saw his face in the hotel mirror, half in darkness, half in dim light. It was a childish look as well as an animal one. 

“But I know I killed him, Mr. Sharpe,” Killsin said. “I have never made a steadier shot. I aimed for his head--and I didn’t miss.”  

She rubbed her brow, looking back into the fire. “That night I mentioned, where Jackson, or John, came to the cottage. He hadn’t just looked into the window. He came to the window and he said my name, my true name. He told me he was John Barr and that he came to collect me, to take me back to hell with him. I hadn’t heard my name in years…” 

“I was too scared to do much, other than crack the window open and fire at him. He moved out of the way so easily. I would’ve gone after him by myself, but I was frightened. That’s the truth of it.” 

Killsin didn’t look just scared--she looked haunted, looked damned. Sharpe didn’t know what to say. Killsin had to be crazy, and Jackson was probably just as insane for being able to take all those blows without flinching. She was covering up something, perhaps the shame of being tied to an outlaw. But the conviction in her tone was starting to make Sharpe believe her, he realized. 

“I don’t believe in hell,” Killsin rasped. “I don’t believe in heaven or any god--I abandoned those things a long time ago. I believe in a great nothingness that will take me when I die. I don’t fear that.” 

She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I didn’t fear death, until that man--that thing--came to my cottage.” 

Sharpe watched her, still unsure of what to say. Sure, he had heard strange stories, and Deadwood certainly wasn’t free of its legends. It should’ve been that Killsin was married to Jackson--the real Herbert Jackson. But why would she lie about that? It would be easier for her to tell the truth. It wasn’t as if Sharpe would care either way. 

Why was Sharpe so ready to believe her? He knew crazy people could talk sense, but the difference between the mad and the sane was that the sane could still hold reality and truth. 

Maybe, Sharpe thought, he wasn’t as steady-minded as he wanted to believe he was. Not anymore. 

“You’re not saying anything,” she said softly. “That’s alright. I don’t need anyone to believe me. I just need it dead. I only need fifty dollars to get me to San Francisco--you can have the rest of the reward money. An extra twenty-five for you. I promise that.” 

Sharpe wasn’t one to give pity lightly. Though he’d never show it to Killsin, he felt a pang of pity now. Maybe he felt a little bit of pity for every creature that ran scared at night, even if it was the way of things. One could harden to the reality of it, but it did not mean you numbed completely. 

“You’re right, I don’t need to believe you,” he said at last. “All I care about is getting what I’m owed. Which, coincidentally, means killing that man.” 

She looked up at him in surprise, which softened to a smile. “There is some good in this situation after all.” 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, in his version of a laugh. “I wouldn’t say that--not yet.” 

She pursed her lips. By now, dawn was making the forest blue. There was a slight chill in the air, but both knew that by midday, it would be boiling, even in the shade of the forest. 

“How far do you think he went?” Killsin whispered. 

“Well…” Sharpe got to his feet, dusting himself off. “If he’s fixed on you, he hasn’t gone far. But you got him good. He was already hanging on by a thread when we got to him--I don’t care how strong he was, that was a dying man if I ever saw one. I suspect he won’t put up too much of a fight now.” 

She got to her feet, clearing her throat once more. For a bare moment, Sharpe thought he might say something, some encouraging or reassuring message. But there was nothing that would put her at ease, he knew. The one thing that would put her at ease was at the end of that trail, bleeding out, slowly but surely, and waiting with rotting teeth.

The sky was red with a new day. Sharpe heard Killsin sniffle, and when he glanced down at her as they started down the path, he saw a tear draw down her cheek. She tutted as if to scold herself and wiped her cheeks with her shoulders. Sharpe looked forward again, his grip on his gun tightening. Maybe Killsin didn’t believe in hell, but Sharpe hoped there was one for men like Herbert Jackson--or John Barr, whoever he was. 

Maybe he’d see him there one day, but Sharpe would be happy to confirm Barr’s eternal residency. 

The path stretched long. Ahead, in the dark, a shriek pierced the air, a horse’s scream, and then the sound of gunfire. Before Sharpe made the gesture, Killsin was already moving into the woods, to the left, skirting around the pathway. Sharpe went to the right. Second time’s the charm. 

Sharpe smelled blood in the air. Then, he heard slurping and gulping, as if Jackson/Barr were drinking from a trough or puddle. Through the trees, Sharpe saw him bent over the body of his horse. The blood bubbling up from the horse’s hide, made not from the gunshot but by a cut, looked black as ink. Barr drank it up like spring water. Sharpe saw bits of flesh and bone, saw a glimpse of the poor horse’s skull, blown open wide. Jackson’s pistol was beside the horse, abandoned. 

Suddenly, Jackson/Barr was on his feet, swaying drunkenly. Sharpe saw the wound at his shoulder where Killsin had shot him. There was blood a-plenty still flowing, but that didn’t seem to bother him much. The entire lower half of his face was bloodstained, and his eyes now were reddish and half-lidded as if he were soon going to sleep. He sniffed the air before he grinned, wiped his cheek. 

“I was thirsty, baby,” he called out. “Care to give me a drink, Rosie?” When there was no response, he continued. “I’d never forget your smell. I bet you still wash with Dr. Hammond’s, don’t you? Still use that lavender powder, I know it.” 

Beyond the small clearing where Barr stood, Sharpe saw Killsin’s pale face among the trees. Barr’s back was to her. Sharpe saw Killsin’s eyes, unblinking, trained on that unspeakable thing that was and, simultaneously not, her husband. She pulled the hammer back on the rifle, slowly, silently. 

The blast from her shot cracked open the morning. As Barr’s chest burst open from the impact, golden sunlight pierced the clearing. Blood as brilliant as rubies flew through the air. Jackson/Barr arched, dropped to his knees, but he was back up again, he teeth bared, eyes flashing like embers. He swung around and stumbled towards Killsin as she stepped into the clearing. Her face looked as though it were carved out of marble, as if some artist wanted to capture the look of doom, fear, and resolution all at once. 

Sharpe fired, hitting Jackson/Barr in his unwounded shoulder. He fired again, blowing out one of Jackson/Barr’s knees. Suddenly, a new voice, the voice of a man, shrill with pain, came tearing out of the walking dead man. 

“Please, God!” it screamed. “God! Just kill me!” 

Again, Killsin and Sharpe fired. Jackson/Barr dropped to both knees, both legs now shot out. Killsin had gotten him again in the torso, now in the stomach. Jackson/Barr was red all over, and now he fell onto his front. 

Gunsmoke filled the air. Killsin paused before she stepped quickly, lightly, over to the body. It still wheezed, but it was fading. She took the bag of salt from her belt and started to pour it onto the body. Sharpe came over, not certain of what he was looking at, but feeling some kind of ending here, in the clearing. It was an ending written out in salt with rose petals mixed in. 

Herbert Jackson’s head rested on its side, so that one brown eye could look up at his killers. A fat tear rolled out from the corner, over his broken nose. 

“Thank you,” he gurgled, just before he died. 

The wind picked up then. It came in such a mighty rush that Sharpe almost didn’t move fast enough to clamp his hand over his hat. Killsin stood stiffly in the wind, let her hat fly from her head. She stared down at Herbert Jackson’s body, that bent-up corpse that the trees bowed towards, as the wind blew and blew until it howled--until it was gone, just as suddenly as it had come. 

Sharpe looked down at Jackson’s corpse, too. He did not relish the idea of dragging this body back to Deadwood, only because he wasn’t sure it would make it there in one piece. 

As if she were thinking the same thing, Killsin said aloud, “All that matters is the head.” 

Sharpe nodded. He watched her a moment, as she continued to look down at the body. She seemed calm, almost relieved. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, before she turned her gaze over to Jackson’s horse. She tutted. 

“Poor thing.”

Part IV: Give My Love to Rose

It had been three days since Killsin brought the bullet riddled body of Herbert Jackson to the local law enforcement. When the sheriff, pale-faced with surprise, asked why Jackson was so mangled, Killsin shrugged and said, 

“He put up a fight.” 

She had gotten the payment and gave Sharpe $100. Then, she hurried back to her cottage to prepare for her departure. 

For Sharpe, he was back at the Gem Saloon. The night was late, so late that the saloon was quiet. Sharpe sat in his normal spot, his back to the corner. He had spent three days wondering what the hell he had seen in the forest, if it was a ghost that had possessed Herbert Jackson, something worse, or if he had foolishly believed in something that was impossible. All he knew for certain was that he wanted to forget it, and do so quickly. 

The saloon doors swung open softly, and Killsin stepped in hesitantly. When she saw Sharpe, she came into the saloon fully, clutching her shawl closed with one hand. 

“Mr. Sharpe,” she said as she came to the table. He touched the brim of his hat to her, and when she asked if she may sit, he nodded. 

“No school tomorrow?” he asked wryly. 

She smirked, but it faded. She raised a hand to the barkeep and when he came over, she asked, “Could I have a bourbon, please? Just one.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” the barkeep said. He looked to Sharpe. “Another, sir?” 

Sharpe nodded, and the barkeep went on his way. Sharpe and Killsin basked in their silence as one might swim pensively in the sea, thinking of depths and the unseen within the waters. Neither one spoke until Killsin had finished off her bourbon, perhaps a little faster than advisable. 

She put her glass on the table and rasped, “A tonic for the stomach and sleep, indeed.” 

Sharpe’s grunt almost sounded like a laugh. Killsin folded her hands beneath her chin and watched the little flames in the lanterns for a while. 

Without looking at him, she said, “Today would have been our twentieth anniversary.” 

Sharpe himself had never been to a wedding, but he could easily see Killsin, younger, dressed in some fine wedding gown, glowing with the prospect of wifedom. What a shame it was. He watched her eyes grow pink, but she did not shed a tear. Instead, she let her eyes glisten with the pain of longing to weep. She stared at the lanterns with eyes that were alert but hollow; stone eyes of a cemetery angel. 

“I hate it here,” she whispered. “I miss Kentucky. But I can’t go back, still.” 

She glanced over at him. “I suppose you’re staying here.” 

He nodded, faintly. 

A million thoughts and words could have been shared then, were it two other people. But instead, as they had before, they shared silence--and now, the grief of passing: life passing, death and misfortune tagging along with it. 

Why was the only viable option to be alone? He wondered and peered into the depths of his whiskey. Why was that the only way? Never once in his life had there been an opportunity of companionship of any kind that had lasted. Always, there was death, or there was the slower death of drifting away. Everybody leaves, and it was always every man for himself. In letting her guard down, Killsin was reminding Sharpe of everything he tried hard to forget. In the end, there was one.  In the end, that was safer, as both of them knew there were some blows you never recovered from. Some blows kill you long before you die. 

Killsin stood, pulling her shawl tightly around her once more. “It’s late.” 

Sharpe stood with her this time. “Walk you home, Miss Killsin?” 

She paused before she nodded. They went out into the dark together, quiet as ghosts aside from their shoes padding in the dirt. 

Though he knew it was irrational, part of Sharpe kept an eye out for Jackson/Barr, or rather, for his ghost. There were many things Sharpe wasn’t sure of when it came to the supernatural. Long ago, so long that it seemed to belong to a different life, Sharpe’s mother told the story of how she had seen a specter at the foot of her bed. It came as the image of death, and the next day, one of her brothers died, mangled by farm equipment. But the vision had not come for Sharpe’s mother, as Jackson/Barr had come for Killsin. If anything, the spector only came as a warning to Sharpe’s mother. Or it had simply been a coincidence. Perhaps his mother had been sick that night, just as Jackson had been sick. 

But whatever it was that had been wrong with Jackson couldn’t be explained away by some fever-addled brain. Whatever it was, be it ghost or curse, Sharpe hoped Killsin was free of it. 

They followed the smell of roses to her cottage. She stepped onto the porch and turned to look at him, her expression lost in the absence of moonlight. 

“I never properly thanked you,” she said. “Thank you.” 

He stepped back, touched the brim of his hat to her. “Safe travels, Miss Killsin.” 

She thanked him again and bid him goodnight. He heard the cottage door open softly and close just so, and with that, he turned away. 

--------------

Deadwood baked in the mid-morning heat. Sharpe stood on the porch of the Gem Saloon, rooted there, waiting. He squinted out from under his hat, his eyes sometimes flickering towards the area of the cottage, which could not be seen where he stood. 

Killsin walked into town, stepping briskly in her usual fashion, a carpetbag in hand. She slowed to a stop when she saw Sharpe on the porch. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said. 

He stood up from where he had been leaning against the wall. He came down onto one step, wondering why he had waited at all. She wore a high-collared shirtwaist to hide the marks Jackson/Barr had left on her neck. She had a rose pinned over her heart. 

Sharpe was struck dumb for a moment before he reached into his pocket and took out twenty-five dollars. He held it out to her. 

“Even,” he said. 

For the first time, he saw her smile in a way that warmed her eyes. It wasn’t a big smile by any means, but it was pretty in its understanding, in its ease. She took the money. 

“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe.” She tucked the bills into her bag. She glanced up at him. “If you ever find yourself in San Francisco…” 

He nodded. 

“I haven’t had a friend in twenty years,” she said. “I knew when I saw you that I’d chosen rightly. I knew…” Then, she smiled ruefully. “Well. You’ve had enough of my crazy talk, I’m sure.” 

She started to go, but stopped. She turned to him again and unpinned the rose from her shirtwaist and held it out to him. 

So solemnly, she said, “For protection.” 

Sharpe took the rose and they nodded to each other. He touched his brim to her one last time. She walked down the thoroughfare, disappearing into the crowd, into the dust, towards the train station. 

Once she had disappeared, Sharpe tucked the rose into the breast pocket of his jacket. Though it was hot and his throat burned for a drink, he decided to go for a walk. 

He found the cottage blank as a clean slate. The windows were now uncovered, and he could see the shadow of a wood stove inside, of a white mattress on a narrow cot. The roses bloomed still, but their perfume seemed dulled despite the heat. A few of the waxy leaves were turning brown. 

As he reached for the doorknob, he wondered if animals felt this way when they searched abandoned homes, cabins lost in the forest. The doorknob gave easily, and the door whispered open at his touch. The inside of the cottage smelled cleanly of soap and lavender powder. Sharpe saw that Killsin had cleaned out the woodstove before she left. 

The one-room cottage was bare of her, but as he turned to leave, Sharpe caught something glittering on a shelf. He stepped over and saw a daguerreotype lying on its back in a gilded frame. As he picked it up, he saw immediately that it was a young Katherine Killsin, before she was Katherine Killsin. Serious even in her youth, she had looked directly into the camera, unwaveringly. The photographer had given her a delicate blush, and even dropped a bit of liquid gold onto her finger to color the ring she wore. 

Sharpe started to put it back on the shelf but his hand hovered a moment. Sighing, he tucked the photograph into his jacket, where it now rested beneath the rose. 

He stepped out of the cottage and looked once more to the roses. Already, they were beginning to whither. 

[plintern]

Week 4

Monday, July 2 to Friday, July 7

Monday: Here we go again!

Man, is it a Monday. Tough to wake up this morning, but this was the Monday to wake me up--two programs to attend and a lunch with my mentor and her boss. I started off the day at the newest of my library’s branches to perform for children during a Music Lab. Our library’s summer theme is music, and all three branches are hosting Music Labs on the same weekday every week for the rest of July to introduce children 5 and under to music. There are some easy crafts (like coloring pages and bookmarks), a guitar (with only three strings…) and electric piano for the kids to play around on, and laptops to explore types of music. A part of my job this summer is attending nearly every Music Lab in July, and today was my very first one. I’m not quite sure yet what my Labs may look like at other branches, but today I set up shop in the corner of the storytime room where these Labs take place. I played a variety of pieces on my cello that were already in my repertoire--mostly movements from the Bach solo cello suites. I was amazed to see the smiling and wondrous faces of the kids as they heard the music through the doorway and meandered in. It was inspiring. In essence, I provided a backdrop of music to the walk-in climate of the Music Lab, for both parents and their little ones. It was adorable!

Afterwards, I drove across the city back to my office to meet up with my mentor and her boss (the executive director from the branch I visited last Friday--remember him?). It was a wonderful lunch that helped us break the ice further than our conversation on Friday. We talked just about everything, from the World Cup to superheroes to poetry! The taco-filled lunch was splendid.

I returned to my office, stomach full, to get some quick work in before heading to yet another branch for a Kid Zone program. At this program, subtitled “You Can Hear Music On That?” I assisted an Early Literacy librarian with showing young kids (aged 6-8) how music has progressed throughout the years in terms of how it is listened to. From phonographs to Amazon’s Echo, displays were set up around the room for children to look at (and hear) the transformation of music. She introduced the program by showing them some music boxes and explaining how to be careful with each of the devices available. The children were also given half-sheets of blue paper and a music pencil to complete a matching game, where they connected each musical device to the date in which it was invented. Kids mostly exercised self-autonomy as they traveled from game to game. Initially, most were drawn to the Amazon Echo--they loved asking Alexa to play different Kidz Bop songs for them. At some point I attempted to meme it up by saying “this is so sad alexa play despacito,” but I garnered not even a mere chuckle, not even from the 15 year old volunteer that was also with us. Alas, I am left to meme in solitude.

Following Alexa, the kids were very drawn to the Code-A-Pillar, a caterpillar with detachable segments with different tasks that when assembled caused the technological critter to advance in a form dictated by the ‘codes.’ I myself observed the children converse with Alexa and giggle with the insect, but seeing as they were autonomous, I ventured around the room to the sole children who were exploring some older gadgets, to see what, perhaps, they may need. Eventually, I ended up at the station with the record player, and my attention for the next several minutes was completely enraptured with these vinyls. Most of the devices used to share music with these children came from the EL Librarian’s own haul, and she found most of these vinyls at a local thrift store. I popped several into the record player, and particularly found myself drawn to one that featured Victor Herbert, my favorite composer.

After perusing the records, I helped the kiddos build a music box together, make music necklaces and bracelets, take care of snacks, and then clean up at the conclusion of the event, all while playing my cello intermittently. While cleaning, I commented to the librarian how much I enjoyed her records, and to my surprise, she said I could keep all nine of the records in the collection that housed the Herbert. Astounded and grateful, I took home two physical momentos: the set of nine records and a music bracelet I added to my cello case. More than that, though, was what I learned: it takes very little to make a kid’s day.

Tuesday: Driving is my job.

Much like yesterday, where I began work at one branch, traveled to the office, and then to another branch, today consisted of much travel. I began the day at the same branch I did yesterday. Here, I had an intimate Every Child Ready to Read training alongside a new Library Assistant with the same EL Librarian who led the Kid Zone yesterday. I came to the astute observation that I adore this librarian. Her teaching methods are subtle, yet precise, and she kept both I and the assistant engaged throughout the training. The presentation consisted of an explanation of the importance of children reading and the importance of the five practices: talking, singing, reading, writing, and playing. Here are some of the activities she had us do to try and understand how children think at their pre-reading age. Try them out and let me know how well you do!

Activity 1: Decipher this code:    [   *<:    }><#. Using the following alphabet:

A< B/ C* D# E> F+ G\ H** I[ J= K) L] M~ N: O]] P{ Q++ R} S// T^ U! V[[ W(( X>> Y\\ Z|

This forces us to associate figures with letters, much as children learn to read pictures before they learn to read letters and words. To them, letters are just pictures.

Activity 2: Write your name on a piece of paper with your non-dominant hand (if you’re ambidextrous… no fair).

This activity forces us to use a different part of our brain: rather than writing our name, we are drawing it. This is much like a child who is learning to use a new part of their brain, and is drawing the image of their name.

In addition to these activities, she also had us learn about different puppets and activities she utilizes during storytimes to engage kids by talking (Heggity Peggity Hen). singing (nursery rhymes), reading (Ten Little Fingers & Ten Little Toes), writing (drawing name), and playing. This last one is the one I learned the most about. She taught us that children’s play is their work, as it is them figuring out the world around them. There are three types of play--single, parallel, and group--that happen in stages as children develop and discover themselves. She also provided us with resources to use and give to children. Afterwards I took my time to explore the branch and become comfortable with the spaces. I was already pretty familiar with this branch, as it was the location in which I studied for my SAT and ACT exams, but then again I only stayed in the study sections and fiction shelves in those dark times. So, I revisited the storytime room I played in yesterday, and the rest of the small area. This is our smallest branch, so there wasn’t much to see, but it gave me a better understanding and sense of home to spend some time on my own in the area. When finished, I went off to a personal appointment, and then traveled to another branch across town.

Here, I took part in my second-ever Music Lab. This branch had a much different environment--yesterday’s lab was full of kids coming in and out, playing with excitement, but this branch had a much more laid back environment. Only four kids that weren’t volunteers ever came in the room, and none of them at the same time. Much of the activities that we had were the same, like having bookmarks and coloring pages, but this branch did not have a guitar nor a piano. Instead, there was an out-of-tune ukulele, some percussion instruments, and an interactive floor piano that kids could play with their feet. I played my cello upon request here, and it was wonderful to see when kids were interested in hearing the instrument. One mother in particular adored the cello, and we had a wonderful conversation about Yo-Yo Ma after I played for her. Apart from playing, I put some stickers that were lying about upon my cello case, and I conversed with the kids and volunteers there. These volunteers were some of the friendliest kids I’d met--much more approachable than the volunteers at the branch I visited yesterday. One of the volunteers even drew and colored a cello for me, and his face lit up when I said I was coming back every Tuesday--that is the sort of interaction that keeps me motivated and reminds me how lucky I am to have this job.

Thursday: Office? I’ve never heard of her.

Much like Tuesday, I spent most of today at another branch. I had a branch training at our largest and oldest library, where I met with the site manager, had a tour, and discussed my project proposals. This is the library that I am most unfamiliar with, so I believe I learned more today about the libraries in my community than I have at the other sites. The manager is the newest leadership member of the library, having held her post for about a year. I knew her before coming to this training, however--she is the mom of one of my high school friends. This was both refreshing and comforting for me, as the environment was already jovial and understanding. There was essentially very little ice to break. We started by discussing the history of the branch, where I learned how much remodeling and complications the library has endured since its creation in the early twentieth century. Then we discussed how much had changed since this manager had come on board, specifically with staff turnover and reforming some outdated processes. The mornings at this branch are dedicated more towards early literacy, for the ‘trouble times’ of 12 to 5 exist in the afternoon where librarians must deal with infractions to the library code of conduct. However, these issues are not such a problem now, since the trouble seems to be more seasonal, occurring in the winter. I learned of the four stages of a team--forming, storming, norming, and performing--and how outreach groups in the city interact with the library. She also shared the importance of having more staff-to-patron interaction than posters, and having libraries be evolving and relevant to the demands of the public. We spoke much of the difficulties the library faces, but also remained hopeful towards what she is working on for the future. Then, we took a tour of the building, where she specifically showed me two areas that she is hoping to revamp in the coming years to be more relevant and helpful to the public. During this walk, we spoke much about the microbusinesses of a library, how space is allocated and utilized, and about the upcoming cycle of a master plan where she will work with other library leadership and a consultant to create a vision and goals for the upcoming years. Microbusinesses in a library include tasks such as inventory, and it was eye-opening for me to understand the depth of the services that the library provides, specifically at this branch. After our tour, we returned to her office and discussed my project proposals. Much like my discussion with the manager of the branch that I met with last week, she was incredibly helpful in her feedback. While last week, the manager kept me realistic and helped me understand my parameters, this manager helped me see what my projects could become if I did in fact hit all the roadblocks that lay ahead, so I could be prepared to reform my ideas if need be. I left my meeting with her feeling hopeful and wise.

I rushed back to my office for a quick lunch before returning to the same branch for my last Music Lab of the week. Again, every Music Lab is different, and this one was no exception. Like my Tuesday lab, very few children came into the room; my guess is about 5 or 6 kids total over the length of the program. I was quite excited to be there, though--it was led by the Early Literacy librarian that I raved about earlier, and apparently one of the volunteers knew me and was excited to have me there. Also, my high school friend that I haven’t seen all summer came to visit! It was a wonderful time, where I played cello for the majority of the time for our small audiences. We had a whiteboard with musical notes and staves for the children to learn, an iPad connected to a projector, several percussion instruments (much more than on Tuesday), an out-of-tune guitar, and again several coloring pages and crafts. I tuned the guitar for the parents of some of the kids and briefly interacted with the volunteers, but most of the time I spent sharing my music with those in attendance. The intermittent applause made me so happy--I know these Music Labs will be a consolation and safe, happy place every week.

Friday: Work, work, work, work.

How anybody can expect a man to work on a day of the world cup quarterfinals is beyond me, but alas, I did. While Uruguay lost to France, and Brazil subsequently fell to Belgium, my little Latino heart was crushed--all I could do was check every time I met one of my short-term goals, and then cry a little bit inside. Of course, this all happened during one of the most focused days I’ve had in awhile. I spent the day in my office, and the majority of which I spent editing my proposal drafts. I cross-analyzed the feedback I received from both branch managers I met with as well as my meeting last week with my mentor, and I worked through the holes, weak points, and challenges of each proposal. I did so through going through my extensive notes, annotating my previous drafts, and then changing my drafts to modify my current visions. The meeting where I will present my finished drafts is next Thursday, so I need to have my drafts as revisited and polished as possible for that date. I’m proud of the work I did. I worked efficiently and heavily in preparation to show these re-drafts to my boss during our check-in meeting this afternoon, but alas, she rescheduled last minute to next Monday. This gave me some time to prepare for my Music Labs next week as well as organize myself for other upcoming programs. I also realized I’ll be working next week right after the world cup final--will I be able to survive? Anyways, during my Music Labs this week I mostly played music from my own repertoire--Bach movements, some romantic pieces, etc. I think children will enjoy my playing more if I am playing pieces more relevant to them, so I tried to find pieces they might recognize, like an arrangement of the Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings theme songs. I soon realized, however, that the age range of music lab kids (under 5 or 6) means that they probably wouldn’t recognize these tunes. So, instead, I looked for some recognizable classical tunes--like the Can Can or the Waltz from Sleeping Beauty--instead, alongside songs everyone knows, like Wheels on the Bus and the ABCs. I found a large cache of music and I feel prepared to practice it and have a more personal concert series next week.

What Did I Learn?

I learned the most about programming and library history this week through my interactions with staff, kids, and parents. It was busy and immersive, and I also learned about my own limits, and what I can handle as far as loading myself with programs.

Links: 

My city’s library history: https://history.fcgov.com/visit/library-history 

[holidaysat221b]

2017′s Halloween at 221b - A Sherlolly Celebration Master List

Complete with where they’re archived, mult-chapter or not, complete or not, and rating.  In progress fics are marked in bold as a reminder for a mod to periodically check for updates.  As always, the complete Master List for all years can be found here.

A Halloween Costume for Rosie - Written by @katfevre BBC Sherlock Trick-or-Treat Halloween Gift Exchange

Prompt:  John, Sherlock, Molly, and Mrs.Hudson are all trying to come up with a Halloween costume idea for little Rosamund Watson. It starts out as just brainstorming, but quickly becomes competitive. What does Baby (or toddler? or kid?) Watson end up dressed as? and who had the final say? (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

All Hallow’s Eve 1896 - Written by @simplyshelbs16xoxo Sherlock Holmes begrudgingly attends John and Mary’s annual Halloween party for the first time, but he is immediately enchanted by Mary’s cousin, Miss Margaret Hooper.  (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

Alone -  Created by @cumbercougars   (On Tumblr, Complete)

Bite Me - Written by @willsherjohnkhan Sherlock is prepared to do anything to help Molly with her current predicament…This is my contribution to Sherlolly Halloween at 221B 2017 Challenge. (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

Blood Born - Written by @mizjoely “Vampires that couldn’t control their bloodlust are to blame,” Molly argued. “They’re the ones who didn’t care if they killed the humans they fed from or not. They’re the ones who didn’t notice when those humans didn’t stay dead. They’re the ones who killed so many people in such a short period of time that the contamination spread too quickly to contain.”  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, Complete in 3 Parts, Rated T)

Deep Down Below - Written by @hobbitsdoitbetter In the aftermath of The Sherrinford Incident, Sherlock Holmes has slowly put himself back together; he has his friends, his family and his Molly, with whom he’s expecting a new arrival.

But the past is not so easily left behind, and happiness not so easy to justify. The nearer Molly’s due date comes, the more Sherlock starts to feel as if something dark is dogging his path…

Post Season 4  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, In Progress, Rated T)

Don’t Be Scared, I’ve Got Your Back -  Created by @eastwindiscomming  (On Tumblr, Complete)

Foggy Night in London - Written by @simplyshelbs16xoxo Sherlock and Molly spend Halloween night together at 221B…what could possibly go wrong? Post-TFP.   (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, Complete in 3 Parts, Rated T)

From Her to Eternity - Written by @thehiddenlawyer Molly Hooper has been feeling strange lately, and when she’s plagued by visions of dark figures watching her through the shadows, she wonders whether she’s losing her mind, or if something sinister is haunting her.  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, Complete in 13 Parts, Rated E)

From Thy Own Lip - Written by @forthegenuine In the autumn of 1808, Sherlock Holmes–known to many as the world’s only consulting detective–caused a stir when he announced that he had taken up the profession of a magician. Regency AU. Written for Halloween at 221B.  (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

A Halloween Edit -  Created by @eastwindiscomming  (On Tumblr, Complete)

A Halloween Party Edit -  Created by @simplyshelbs16xoxo  (On Tumblr, Complete)

History Repeats Until Stopped - Written by afteriwake (@penaltywaltz) When Merlin tells Sherlock and Molly that another one of his descendants is living in a village under a curse and could be in danger, Sherlock and Molly go to the shore to try and break the curse and change history from here forward.  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, In Progress, Rated T)

How the Ghosts Stole Halloween -  Written by @sundance201 Sherlock and Molly go searching for a serial killer on Halloween. Or go ghost hunting. It depends on who you ask.  (On Ao3, Complete, Rated M)

In the Blood - Written by @darnedchild Some secrets are better left buried. Especially in the Holmes family.  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, In Progress, Rated M)

Magic in the Moonlight - Written by afteriwake (@penaltywaltz) Every year since they began uni, Sherlock and Molly have gone to the university’s Monster Ball and competed in the couples costume contest, as friends. But this year it’s different. Molly has a boyfriend and Sherlock is jealous.

Still…there might be a little magic in the moonlight at the Monster Ball for Sherlock and Molly, if they’re lucky.  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, Complete in 4 Parts, Rated G)

Missed Connections - Written by @katerbees Three years of Halloweens following Sherlock and Molly throughout the series.  (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

Molly Hooper - (Assistant) Reanimator - Written by @darnedchild Sherlock Holmes learns the shocking secrets of Molly Hooper’s past.  *Cue dramatic music and an evil laugh*   With apologies to H.P. Lovecraft - A modern retelling of Herbert West - Reanimator.  Written for the 2017 Sherlolly Halloween fest.  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, In Progress, Rated T)

Mummy Troubles -  Written by @katerbees Sherlock enlists his favorite pathologist for a case in Egypt. What could possibly await them!!?  (On Ao3 Multi-chapter, In Progress, Rated M)

Perish the Thought- Written by osmia_avosetta (Tumblr unknown) Amidst pathologist Molly Hooper’s grief over the tragic and untimely death of her friend Sherlock Holmes, she accidentally finds out that his “tragic and untimely death” had been the result of a curse laid upon his family thousands of years prior. On the advice of the individual who told her so, Molly sets out on a journey through multiple lifetimes and multiple loopholes in the Holmes curse to reverse her friend’s death.

Will she manage to royally screw up Time itself to save her friend? Will the author go four paragraphs without referencing a Broadway musical? And why does this all seem a lot like a combination of things -  necromancy and quantum mechanics - that the author has never studied?  (Removed By Author)

Pumpkin Carvings and the Wolf  - Written by @ladysolitaire Sherlock carves something on a pumpkin that shocks and worries Molly. In which Molly is a werewolf, and Sherlock doesn’t know about it… yet. (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

Pumpkin Faces -  Created by @eastwindiscomming  (On Tumblr, Complete)

The Only Lovers - Written by phoebe_snow (@greenfleeze Molly realises just how deeply Sherlock loves her. (Includes a link to cover art created by @simplyshelbs16xoxo)  (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

Rapture -  Created by @cumbercougars  (On Tumblr, Complete)

Revenge Is a Dish Best Served (Magically) Cold - Written by afteriwake (@penaltywaltz) For some time now Sherlock has suspected Molly of sleepwalking. But when Lestrade calls him with a case that involves a vampire victim one evening when Molly appears to have been out, he starts to wonder if her sleepwalking may be having homicidal effects. But there is more to the whole story than it seems…  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, In Progress, Rated T)

The Scary Haunted House (But It Turned Out To Be Really Nice) - Written by ‘P’ (and posted by @lilsherlockian1975) For those of you who don’t know, my youngest son likes to write Sherlolly stories. This is his contribution to the Halloween celebration.  (On Ao3, Complete, Rated G)

An illustration for The Scary Haunted House (But It Turned Out To Be Really Nice) - The artwork was commissioned by @mizjoely, drawn by @o0katiekins0o, and submitted by @lilsherlockian1975 to be included in Halloween at 221b. (On Tumblr, Complete)

Sherlock and Molly Halloween -  Created by @rebka18  (On Tumblr, Complete)

Sherlollyween Treats - Created by @mel-loves-all A collection of Sherlolly Halloween Photoshop edits for the 13 days of Sherlolly Halloween.  I’ll post an edit every day for the duration of the 13 days. Hope you enjoy them!  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, Complete in 13 Parts, Rated T)

Silence Pressing in - Written by afteriwake (@penaltywaltz) The night is too quiet tonight. Molly needs…something…to soothe her tonight. But not sex. Something else.   (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

Something in 221b - Written by @escaily A 221b ghost story, complete with a photo edit.  (On Tumblr, Complete)

Spellbound- Written by @simplyshelbs16xoxo Sherlock’s a werewolf detective who falls for the enchanting Molly Hooper, a beautiful young witch. She is a pathologist who momentarily brings corpses back to life to find out their cause of death.  (On Ao3, Mulit-chapter, Complete in 10 Parts, Rated T)

A companion edit for “Spellbound” - Created by @mrsfrankensteinwinchester  (On Tumblr, Complete)

Tragedy at Hand -  Created by @simplyshelbs16xoxo A Sherlolly fanvid featuring “Sally’s Song” from “The Nightmare Before Christmas”.  (Link leads to the video on Youtube, the initial Tumblr post is here.)   (On Tumblr/Youtube, Complete)

The Vanishing Hitchhiker - Written by @escaily A ghost story, complete with a photo edit.  (On Tumblr, Complete)

The Vampire’s Votary - Written by @lilsherlockian1975 Votary: a devoted follower or admirer

It’s been a year since Sherlock confessed that his desire for Molly was about much more than her blood. She asked him to sire her; he asked her to wait for six months. Then… he made her wait six more! Much has happened in those 365 days but on their anniversary, Molly makes a request that he simply can no longer refuse.

My followup to “The Vampire’s Vice”  (On Ao3, Multi-chapter, Complete in 3 Parts, Rated E)

Your Remedy  - Written by @ladysolitaire When Sherlock gets stabbed while dismantling Moriarty’s network, Mycroft and Anthea bring him to Molly for medical treatment. She is forced to use her magical skills to save him from certain death. What happens when Sherlock finds out exactly how she healed him?  (On Ao3, Complete, Rated T)

[liliesofpur-i-ty]

It measures, I guess, 80 cm x 200 cm. More or less the size of what you sleep on if you take a railway couchette. Not made of oak, but probably of pearwood which has a warmer color. On it is a table lamp, also in wood, of a vaguely Bauhaus design, perhaps dating from the twenties, when the family first moved into the apartment. A modest, functional lamp looking almost hand-made, but insistent in its promise of modernity, a promise which she never for a moment believed in.      The table is in the room where she worked and slept when she was at home. In her vagrant life she must have spent more time reading and writing at the table than any other.      I’ve never met anybody who knew her. I’ve looked at many photographs. I drew a portrait of her from a photograph. Perhaps this is why I have the strange impression that a long time ago I set eyes on her. I can recall the mixed feeling she inspired in me: a physical antipathy, a sense of my own inadequacy, a certain exhilaration at the opportunity she appeared to offer of loving. A love, as in Plato’s Timée, whose mother is Poverty.       I saw the table in Paris last week. Behind it are some bookshelves and on them are some of the books she read. The room is long and narrow like the table. When she sat behind it, the door was on her left. The door gives on to a corridor: opposite was her father’s consulting room. When she walked down the corridor towards the front door she would have passed the waiting room on her left. The sick, or those who feared they were sick, were immediately outside her door. She could have heard her father saying goodbye to each patient and then greeting the next one:      Bonjour Madame, sit down and tell me how you are.      On the right of her table is the window. A large one facing north. The apartment is on the sixth floor and the Rue Auguste Comte is on a slight hill, so there is a view over Paris, from the Luxembourg Gardens, just below, to beyond the Sacré Coeur. You stand at the window, you open it, you lean against the railing of the balcony on which no more than four pigeons could land, and you fly in imagination over the roofs and history. It’s the exact height for flights of the imagination: the height of birds flying to the far edge of the city, to the walls, where the present ends and another epoch begins. In no other city in the world are such flights so elegant. She loved the view from the window, and she was deeply suspicious of its privilege.       ‘There is a natural alliance between truth and affliction, because both of them are mute supplicants, eternally condemned to stand speechless in our presence.’      She began writing on the table when she was at the Lycée Henri IV, preparing to enter the École normale. She had by then already begun the third notebook of the journal she was going to keep all her life.      She died in August 1943 in a sanatorium in Ashford, Kent. The coroner’s report gave the cause of death as ‘cardial failure due to myocardial degeneration of the heart muscles due to starvation and pulmonary tuberculosis’. She was thirty-four years old. The verdict was suicide, because she stopped eating.      What is special about her handwriting? It is patient, conscientious -- like a student’s -- but each letter -- whether Roman or Greek -- has been formed (almost drawn) like an Egyptian hieroglyph, so much did she want each letter of each word to have a body.      She travelled to many places and she wrote wherever she was lodged, yet everything she wrote might have been written here. Whenever she had a pen in her hand, she returned in her mind to this table in order to begin thinking. Then she forgot the table.      If you ask me how I know this, I have no answer.      I sat at the table and read a poem which had marked a turning point in her life. In her hieroglyphic handwriting she had copied out the poem in English and learnt it by heart. At moments when she was overcome by despair or the pain of a migraine behind her eyes, she used to recite it out loud, like a prayer.      One one such occasion, while reading it, she felt the physical presence of Christ and was astonished. Visions, like the miracles of the New Testament, put her off; she found them too easy. ‘...in this sudden hold that Christ had on me, neither my imagination nor my senses played any part; I simply felt, across the pain, the presence of love, similar to that which one can read in a smile on a loved face.’      Fifty years later, as I read the sonnet by George Herbert, the poem became a place, a dwelling. There was nobody in it. Inside it was shaped like a stone beehive. There are tombs and shelters like this in the Sahara. I have read many poems in my life but I had never before visited one. The words were the stones of a habitation which surrounded me.

In the street below, above the entrance to the apartment block (today you need to tap a code to get in), there is a plaque which reads: ‘Simone Weil, philosopher, lived here between 1926 and 1942.’

John Berger, “A Girl Like Antigone”, in Photocopies

the George Herbert sonnet, “Love III”:

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,      Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack      From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning      If I lack'd anything. 'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'     Love said, 'You shall be he.' 'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,      I cannot look on Thee.' Love took my hand and smiling did reply,      'Who made the eyes but I?' 'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame      Go where it doth deserve.' 'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'      'My dear, then I will serve.' 'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'      So I did sit and eat.

[petri808]

Hawaiian Souvenir

‘Levy, would you watch Nashi & Happy for us?’

‘Sure, Natsu.  What’s the occasion?’

‘Since we never got to do it, and our anniversary is coming up… I was thinking of taking Lucy on a real honeymoon.’

‘Really!  That’s a great idea Natsu, of course I’ll watch Nashi for you.’

‘Thanks Levy…’

~~~~~

Natsu watches from the door with a smile as his wife tucks their sleeping daughter into bed.  “She’s so adorable…”  He whispers as he wraps his arms around his wife and kisses her cheek.  “I’m such a lucky guy to have two beautiful women in my life.”  Their daughter was the spitting image of her mother but with his pink hair and green colored eyes.

“Alright, what do you want Natsu?”  Lucy teases

Feigning shock, “I already have what I want…” he leads her out to the living room and sits her on the couch.  “But do you?  Are you happy with how things turned out Luce?”

“Of course, I am, Natsu, why wouldn’t I be?”

He puts his arm around her shoulder, “We had Nashi so young, and the wedding was kinda just thrown together…  I just worried that there were other things you maybe thought you were missing out on…”

“Well…” she leans against him.  “Having Nashi at eighteen wasn’t easy and rushing the wedding before she was born…  sigh, but I don’t have any regrets.  Natsu I loved you and that’s all that mattered to me.”

“But still, I wish I could have, I don’t know, given you more.”  

“Like what?”

“For starters, I couldn’t take you on a honeymoon.”

She laughs, “That wouldn’t have been much fun being 8 months pregnant.”

“I know, but now that Nashi is seven and we’re more stable financially…” he pulls out the two tickets he had hidden behind a pillow…  “…I thought for our anniversary this year…” … holding them up in front of her…  “I could make that up to you.”  

Her eyes widen, “Are you serious!!” she grabs the tickets from his hand.  “Hawaii!!”

“I’ve already arranged with Levy to babysit Nashi and Happy, spoke to your job and mine,” grinning that cheeky smile, “all you need to do is pack.”

Lucy squeals and throws herself against her husband almost tipping over the loveseat they were in, “God I love you Natsu!”

“I love you too babe.”  He grins and pulls her tight to him.  “I can’t wait to see in your bikini…”

She slaps him in the arm, “Goof!”

“You married this goof!  What does that make you?”

Giggling, “Touche.”

~~~~~

“Hawaiian Airlines flight 332 to Hilo International Airport will be landing shortly at gate number 5, baggage claim 2.  Please fasten your seatbelts and bring your seat backs and trays to their upright and locked positions.  The local time is 10:16am and the weather today is a balmy 78 degrees, mostly sunny with a few scattered showers later in the evening.  On behalf of the crew, we’d like to say Aloha and Mahalo for choosing Hawaiian Airlines.”

“Natsu…” Lucy pushes on his shoulder.  “Natsu, wake up, were going to land soon.”

“Ughh…” he groans and holds his stomach as he presses his face into her shoulder.  “I can’t wait to get on solid ground…”  Lucy chuckles at her husband but smiles; she knows that his motion sickness makes travelling difficult for him.  Medication helps for short stretches, driving to and from work or around their hometown, but being in a plane is far out of his comfort zone.  The fact that he is willing to suffer so much to make her happy just reminds her how much he still loves her.  

She reads through their itinerary again while gently stroking his hand.  The first week they’ll be staying on the east side of the island at the Hilo Hawaiian Hotel and the second week they’ll be on the west side at the Hilton Waikoloa.  Originally, they were going to vacation on Oahu but after doing some research on the Aloha state, she decided the Big Island seemed much more relaxing and ultimately that’s what she wanted.  Of course, with Hawaii being such a tourist friendly state, it was easy enough to find, book, and plan-out things for them to do during their vacation.  “Lucy?”

“Yes, Natsu?” she looks up from her papers to see him pointing out the window.  “You’re missing the view.”

Turning her head to see what he’s pointing at, Lucy’s eyes expand as she struggles to grab her phone from her purse.  “Wow…”  Snapping pictures as the plane slowly passes the largest mountain on the island, “…Look Natsu, it’s Mauna Kea, it’s more beautiful than the pictures!  You can see the observatories!” squealing, “Wait is that snow?!”

“Snow?  In Hawaii?” he mumbles.  “I picked this place cause it’s supposed to be warm year-round.”

“I read that during the winter months they sometimes get snow on their mountain.”  She squeals, “and we’re lucky we get to see that!”  

Natsu rolls his eyes, “I’m more interested in the beach.”

“I know,” she pokes him, “You don’t like the cold…  Oooh!”

“What?”

“A waterfall!!” pointing again.  “Look, look!”

He leans over her to see for himself.  “That’s cool.”

“The landscape is really beautiful…  Sigh, I’m so glad you brought me here.”

“Only the best for my wife.” He squeezes her hand.

~~~~~

“So, the front desk clerk told me we might be able to see lava in the crater, I guess the volcano’s been more active than usual.”

“Oh yeah…” Natsu turns to see his wife flipping through brochures in the passenger seat before staring back at the road.  “What else you wanna do at the park?”  

“Hmm… I’d like to check out the museum next to the crater, maybe even try out some of the short trails.”

“Sounds fine, though I’m surprised you want to go walking.” Lucy slaps him.  “What!” he grins at her.

“Are you insinuating that I need to lose weight or something?”

“No!  Your body is just as smoking hot as the day I met you!  But exercising wouldn’t hurt ya know, it’s healthier, plus it sets a good example for Nashi.”

“So, you’re saying I’m not being a good mother for Nashi?”

“What!  Hey, I didn’t say that!  You’re the best mother I’d ever want for my child.”

“Keep digging Natsu, you’re still in the hole.”

He reaches over and grabs her hand from her lap.  “I loooove you baby…” he coos to her

“It’s not working…”

He pouts and gives her the best puppy dog expression he can muster.  “Come on Luce…”

Sigh, “Damn it, I can’t win against that smile of yours!”

Laughing, “I know…”  She rolls her eyes but smiles back.  Yup, that stupid, shit eating grin is what melted her the first time they met and it still works even all these years later.

Once inside the museum, the pair separate and wander around to the different exhibits.  No surprise that Natsu becomes fascinated with anything showing fire and stands gawking at a running video showing actual footage of recent lava flow activity.  There was a time, all be it brief, that he had considered going to school for volcanology, but when Lucy became pregnant their senior year of high school he knew that was a dream that would never become reality…      

Lucy is immediately drawn to the paintings of the Fire goddess Pele.  She knows that the depictions of this woman are just fanciful but it’s the essence of the woman that pulls at her.  One painting in particular, it shows Pele from the neck up, her body becomes the land and her hair is a river of lava.  ‘Pelehonuamea…’ she reads the sign next to it, ‘…Pele, goddess of volcanoes…  Ancient traditions about her reveal an impetuous, lusty nature… at times gentle and loving, but always jealous and unpredictable, capable of fury, and great violence. -Herbert K. Kane’  

Looking over to his wife staring so entranced at Pele’s painting, he walks over and puts his arms around her waist.  While leaning on her shoulder, “Locals say she is sometimes seen around the island when the volcano is erupting as a sign or warning, either in the guise of an old woman in white or a young woman in red, sometimes as a white dog…”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I believe all the stories, but it’s kinda cool.  Her lava builds new land, or destroys it,” he motions to the painting.  “Did you know that volcanic soil is very fertile?”  Lucy shakes her head.  “So even after she destroys the land with lava, once that lava turns to dirt, it gives back again by nurturing the plant growth.”

“So, she’s almost like mother nature?”

He chuckles, “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.  In the Hawaiian culture, there is another goddess with such a title but I don’t remember the name, I was only interested in Pele because of the whole fire thing.”  Unwrapping himself he grabs her hand and pulls her towards the doors.  “Let’s go see the crater, suns starting to set so we’ll be able to see the lava better.”

Lucy takes one last look at the picture… ‘The expression the artist used…’ she shivers, ‘Like she’s staring into your soul…’

“You can feel the heat even from way up here.”  Lucy holds out her hands towards the crater.  “It’s amazing that the scientists go down there sometimes.”

“Well they use special heat resistant suits, but they also don’t go in if it’s too dangerous.”  He sighs.  “It’s fascinating how much they’ve been able to learn from studying this volcano.  Kilauea has the longest continuous running eruption in history, over 30 years now.”

She hears the sorrow in her husband’s voice and it tugs at her.  “Natsu…” Lucy hugs him, “I’m sorry, if I hadn’t gotten pregnant you could have followed your dreams to study…”  

“Lucy don’t…” he cuts her off.  “That wasn’t your fault, I had a hand in that too ya know.  But I don’t regret a damn thing.”  Grabbing her cheeks gently.  “You gave me something even greater than that dream...” Tears pool in her eyes.  “…a family that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.”

“Natsu I…” her eyes widen.  “Natsu… there’s a lady down there…”

“What are you talking about?” he turns to see what she’s looking at.

“She’s…  She was right there!” she points at the floor of the crater.  “I swear I saw someone down there!”

“I don’t see anyone Luce, maybe it was the heat distortion.”

“M-maybe…  Yeah, you’re right, it must have been a mirage or something….”  

It’s the last day before the couple plans to head over to the west side of the island so they spend the morning doing some last-minute shopping.  After dropping off some treats they found at Big Island Candies, and other places at their hotel room, they head back out for lunch.  Unbeknownst to Lucy, Natsu has a surprise planned for his wife.  

The car pulls into the Imiloa Astronomy Center, “What are we doing here?”  Lucy asks.  “I thought this place was closed because of system issues.”

“It was, but I called this morning and they said it’s all working now.” Her face is brightening as he pulls into a stall and parks.  “The planetarium show starts in about an hour so we can eat lunch at the restaurant before it starts.”

“You’re such an awesome husband!” She shrieks as she gets out of the car and hurries over to him.  With barely a chance to close his own door, Lucy jumps into his arms kissing him.

He grins, “This smile…” he lifts her chin, “…makes this all worth it.”  

The lights dim in the large circular auditorium and Lucy squeezes Natsu’s hand, excited for the show to begin.  She’d found a short video on YouTube of one of the star shows and it was, in her opinion the most spectacular thing she’s ever seen and now she’s was going to see it in person!  Lucy grins again at Natsu who squeezes her hand back.  He wishes he could see her eyes which are probably sparkling right now, but they are stuck behind the Visual goggles; he grins anyway.    

Billions of stars, planets, and other celestial bodies flash in front of their eyes mesmerizing Lucy.  “Oh, Natsu…” she whispers.  “It’s all so beautiful…”

“I see my favorite star.” He whispers back.

“Where?”

“Right next to me.”  Even in the darkened room he knows there’s a blush on her cheeks…

~~~~~

Hilton Waikoloa Village…  A beautiful resort along the Kohala coast was designed as both a luxury getaway or a family adventure with beautiful beaches, pools and waterslides, spas, trails and walking paths, even a dolphin experience.  So expansive is the property, a tram or boat can be taken to get from one end of the resort to the other.  

Within an hour after checking into the hotel, the pair are down at the beach relaxing.  Natsu tries to coax Lucy into paddle boarding but all she wants to do is lay out and soak up the sun.  That’s fine with him, so once he’s sure she’s settled he heads out into the water.  She watches him for a short time, laughing when he falls off a couple times, but eventually closes her eyes to relax.

“Hey baby…” a male voice stirs her from her respite.

“Not interested.” She retorts without opening her eyes

“Aww.  Don’t be like that Lulu…”

‘Lulu?!’  Her eyes pop open.  “Dan?  What the hell do you want?”  He’s standing above her.

“Is that anyway to talk to your old flame?”  

“You’re not an old flame, now please go away before my husband sees you.”  She closes her eyes again trying to ignore the man.

“Who, Natsu?  Don’t tell me you’re still with that loser.”

“Loser!” she pops up shouting.  “Don’t fucking call him…”

“Is there a problem here?”

“Natsu,” Lucy hides behind him as he glares at Dan.

Still staring the man down with his fists clenched, “I asked you a question Dan, why the hell are you bothering my wife?!”  

“I’m not, just came to say hi to my old girlfriend.”

“I was never!”  Lucy starts to scream back when Natsu stops her.

“I know you weren’t babe, he’s always been delusional.” Putting his arm around her.  “Had enough of this jerk?”

“Hell yes!”

“Then let’s go.”  Natsu grabs her belongings, “Stay the fuck away from her Dan or I’ll call security.”

“Pussy!  The old Natsu would have swung by now.”

“This Natsu grew up… Unlike you.  Go find another piece of tail to harass, but this woman, is off limits.”  He guides Lucy towards to the ferry without a second glance.

“Ugh, I can’t believe, all the way in Hawaii and we run in to that asshole.”

“He didn’t try to touch you or anything did he?”

“No, I would have hit him myself if he tried.”

Natsu chuckles, “I believe that, your kicks are pretty painful.”

That night after a romantic dinner at Kamuela Provision Company, they return to their room to unwind from the day.  Stripping down to something more comfortable, Natsu’s in his boxers waiting for Lucy to get out of the shower.  When she comes out in just a towel he pulls her onto the bed before she can get dressed.  “You know I gotta say, babe, you looked stunning in that bikini earlier.”    

“Liked that huh, Mr. Dragneel…” she purrs.  

He nods, “You shoulda seen all the guys just staring at you…” Grinning, “But I knew I was the one you’d be coming home with.”  

“Does that turn you on…” she shifts her body allowing the towel to loosen, “Other guys looking at me?”

“You always turn me on my Queen.”  A slight growl in his voice as he runs his hand under her towel.  “that smokin’ hot body of yours keeps me wrapped around your finger and yes because it makes me feel proud that I’m the one you picked.”

Sigh, “You only love me for my body…” she turns her head as a tease

Trailing his hand lightly along her thigh, “I don’t hear you complaining either…” and over to her pleasure zone.  “…when I worship your body.”  Lucy lets out a wispy exhale as he slides his fingers over a sensitive button.  Leaning over her, whispering in her ear, “Someone… is very… very… wet…” his voice husky in tone.

“And…” she nibbles his ear, “…what are you gonna do…” her response is reduced to a groan when he slips a finger inside her moisture laden cave.

He grins, “Baby, I hope you’re ready for a long night ahead…”

The rest of the week is filled with evenings reserved for steamier Hawaiian trysts…  and days of sightseeing and shopping up and down the Kohala to Kailua Kona coast.  With lots of local confections from cookies to chocolates, coffee to wine for friends and family as well as several souvenirs for Nashi, their suitcases were so full they had to purchase a third to bring everything home.  

But on the final day, they had gone back to Kona for a few more trinkets and a to pick up a gold Hawaiian bracelet and a Koa one they had found for Nashi that was being engraved.  It was already late, about 9pm as Natsu drove them back to the hotel along Highway 19.  There were still a few vehicles on the road in both directions but other than that it was a quiet, still evening.

“Natsu slow down, that looks like a woman hitchhiking up ahead.”

“You wanna pick up a hitchhiker?”  he looks at her like she’s crazy.

“It’s a woman, Natsu, it’s more dangerous she’s out here alone.”

“Ugh, okay… Just hope she’s not a crazy person or something.”  Signaling he pulls over.  Lucy rolls down her window and waves at the woman.  

“Hi ma’am, would you like a ride?  We’re only going to the hotels but we can could take you a little more further.”  The woman walks slowly up to the car, is she being hesitant in her movements, cautious, or just walking slow Lucy couldn’t tell, but as she got closer the couple could see that she was older, maybe 50’s or 60’s with long white hair that was almost to her knees, a white flowy dress, and no shoes on her feet.  ‘How odd…’  

“Oh, bless you child, for stopping to help an old woman…” she thanks the couple as she gets into the back seat.

“Sorry it’s a little full back there with shopping bags…” Lucy apologizes, “It’s our last day in Hawaii and we went overboard with the souvenirs.

“No worries, my dear…”  The woman sits back to where Lucy cannot make out her facial features but a sense of déjà vu creeps over her like she’s seen the woman before.

Midway between Kona and Waikoloa Beach Drive, the strange woman who had been silent up till now starts to talk again and says something the couple will never forget…

“Congratulations, you’ll have that son you had been hoping one day for…”

“Excuse me?”  Lucy asks a little surprised.  “Did you say…”

“The child you carry will be a boy, and he’ll be a strong one, I can tell, feisty like his father.”

Lucy stammers, “But I’m not p-pregnant.”

“Keahi, name the boy Keahi...”

“Okay, lady I’m sorry but you’re starting to freak my wife out….”  No response so Natsu looks in the rearview mirror.  “Hey, I’m talk…”  He sees the woman disappear.  “What the hell!”  He stomps on the gas and races the few more miles to the hotel with Lucy panicking in the chair next to him.

“Did you see that, she just faded away!”  Lucy blurts out.

“Uh-Huh.” He keeps his eyes focused on the road.  

Finally, they reach the hotel and pull straight up to the lobby, both jumping out as soon as the car is in park.  There is an older valet working who comes over to the panicked looking young couple.  “Are you two okay?”

“N-No!”  Lucy is freaking out.

“My wife made me pick up a hitchhiker and then she just disappeared on the way here.  What the hell was that?!”

“Older, long white hair?”

“That’s her!  Does she live around here or something?”

“You just met Pele.”  Natsu and Lucy’s jaws drop.        

“Not possible!” Lucy starts crying and Natsu holds her tight, “She’s not real…”

But the older man stays calm, “It’s strange that she appeared to non-locals…  Did she say anything to you?”

“S-She said I was pregnant with a son and to name him Keahi.  What does that mean?”

“Keahi is the Hawaiian word for ‘fire’.  Miss, you shouldn’t be afraid, Madam Pele must have taken a liking to you for some reason and whether you wish to believe it or not, in the Hawaiian culture it is tradition for a child to be given their name.  The fact that Pele herself gave you the name, means that boy will be special.”

“Really?”  Lucy sniffles

“Oh yes,” the man smiles at her.  “Here,” he grabs a porter cart, “Let me help you unload your car so you can get some rest,” and helps to offload their bags.

Natsu sniffs one of the bags as he pulls it from the back seat, “I smell something burnt,” and pulls out the jewelry inside.  On the Koa wood bracelet, there appears to be a brand.  “Hey, we didn’t ask for…”

“What is it?”  Lucy grabs the bracelet out of his hands, “It looks like…”  She faints but luckily the valet catches her before she hit the ground.  

“Lucy!” Natsu rushes to her side, cradling her as the valet takes the bracelet clutched in her hand.

“Wow, Pele really must have like you two…”  Next to Nashi’s name is a what appears to be a volcanic cone and a Liko Lehua blossom, Pele’s favorite flower freshly branded onto the bracelet.

~~~~~

Five months later, Lucy returns home from her monthly doctor’s visit and finds Natsu playing with Nashi in the living room.  “Um, babe there’s something I need to tell you…”

He looks up to see his pale faced wife.  “Are you okay Luce?  Is there something wrong with the baby?” Natsu scrambles to his feet and guides her over to the couch.  “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

One month after returning from Hawaii, Lucy and Natsu found out that she was in fact pregnant, almost certainly having conceived during the vacation.  While they were thrilled at the prospect of expanding their family, and for what he had nicknamed their ultimate Hawaiian souvenir, it still played in the back of their minds, the old woman’s prediction…

“Natsu…  It’s a boy!”

*Note I’ll be editing this or posting a link to AO3 with an altered, longer, smut/lemon version of this story hopefully in a day or two.