#charles and camilla fanfic

[urfavoritedcwhore]

hi lovely! I come bearing a henry winter request

So maybe they are all in Francis’ house (reader and henry are dating) and henry gets one of his headaches and idk reader takes care of him (as he reluctantly lets her)

Im sorry that is all i came up with for now😭 thank you <333

uhm i literally love that idea so yes of course.

just let me help you//henry winter x reader

doing this in the way i wrote my last henry winter fanfic, instead of using “you” I write “i” and so forth. (don’t worry tho cause there will be plenty of “y/n”’s thrown in here:)

warnings: mention of alcohol, mention of migraines, swearing, drinking

(not proof read)

sitting in the hammock Reading my book at the country house is probably my all-time favorite thing to do. the fall air, the sounds of the twins bickering with Bunny as they all play croquet, Francis and Richard out on the boat, and my lovely Henry reading on the porch with a glass of scotch. However, this day is severely different. As my friends and I drive to the lake house, Henry is growing increasingly snappy. Bunny begins to go off on a rant about how “religion is a ploy to get all of the dumbasses who believe in that shit’s money.”. I listen to his rant, shaking my head slightly as the twins let their mouths hang open in disgust. “Bun, it’s not as if you could truly know that. No one knows if there’s a God or not. It’s all based on personal belief," I explain from the front seat. Being a devoted Catholic, it takes all my willpower to not wear the same face of horror that Camilla and Charles hold, but I know that’s precisely what Bunny wants. “Your joking right, y/n?” I watch him in the rearview mirror nudge Richard. “Old man, can you believe the bullshit she’s spewing?" Bunny says in his nasally voice with a chuckle. I see Richard simply shrug and continue to look out the window. “Bunny, please just change the topic; no one likes bickering about religion with you," I say a bit sharper than before as I continue to watch him from the rearview mirror. “Old gals on her period," he says as if it’s a fact. I turn my head to Henry as he drives, my expression angry and my gaze saying, “Your seriously going to let him speak to me like that?”. Henry glances over at me briefly before returning his gaze to the road silently. I let out a small scoff and voiced my thoughts aloud to him. “You’re going to let him speak about me like that?" I asked, irritated. Bunny chuckles behind me, which only angers me further. Henry only takes a deep breath and remains quiet. “Your attack dog is not barking for you, y/n?” Bunny asks amused. “Both of you, shut up," Henry says sharply and suddenly as he continues to face the road. My eyes grow wide, and I scoff in disbelief before looking out the window and shifting my knees towards the door away from him. Bunny remains chuckling in the back seat. I remain quiet for the rest of the drive, my face undeniably red with anger and embarrassment, both from Bunny speaking to me like he did and Henry not defending me. As we pull into the driveway of the country house, I practically swing open the door as soon as the car stops. I slam it shut, just so Henry can know how frustrated I am. Everyone piles out of the car stretching, except for Henry, who swiftly makes his way towards the front door. I follow behind him as he swings it open and walks up the stairs without a word to me, not even bothering to get his bag out of the car before going to his room. I stand at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, watching him in udder disbelief. Everyone piles in behind us, chatting loudly and heading for the kitchen. I walk away from the stairs, following the group to the kitchen. “Asshole," I mutter under my breath as I walk to the cabinets to get a bottle of wine out. “He’s more...irritable than usual," Charles says behind me as I grab the wine bottle and turn around to get a glass. “Yes, maybe he’s upset about us arriving so late," Camilla replies back as she scrunches her face the way Charles is—something that they always do when they’re thinking. I shake my head and nudge Bunny out of the way of the glasses, grabbing one and setting it on the counter. “He’s just in a pissy mood; he has been since this morning," I say, annoyed as I cork the wine and pour some into the glass. Francis looks up from the piece of mail he’s been studying since we walked in. “Did you see him as he got out of the car? He looked as if he was going to pass out," he says, running a hand through his hair. Camilla shrugs, “Perhaps he’s tired," to which Charles immediately nods, “Yes, perhaps he is.”. I scoff slightly and take a sip of my wine. “Tired? My god, I’ve never once seen him tired. He’s just being a supercilious jerk.”.

Richard shakes his head. "He looks ill," he says in an emotionless voice. slightly irritated that no one’s agreeing with me, I turn around and walk out of the kitchen with my wine in my hand. I find myself back in front of the stairs, staring up at them as I sip my wine. I place my foot on the first stair, and before I know it, I'm marching up the rest of them on a mission. I get to the top of the stairs and look down the left hallway, marching to the room Henry always stays in and slamming open the door. “How are you feeling, darling? Hopefully like a real lousy boyfriend," I say sharply as I see him sitting on the end of his bed with his face in his hands. “Out," he says without looking at me, his voice audibly shaking. My face softens slightly as I continue to study him and the state of his room, curtains closed, no lights on, his jacket off, and his tie loosened. I walk towards him slowly, setting my wine in the dresser as I do so. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask, placing my hand on his shoulder. He looks up at me; he's sweating and extremely pale. Any ounce of anger I have left in me immediately disappears. As I study his face, my own face drops. How could I have been so stupid? “Migraine," I whisper as he looks up at me. He flinches at my quiet word in pain, “Please, please just leave y/n.”. It absolutely breaks my heart whenever I see him like this. Henry is always so put together and independent, but when he has his migraines He becomes almost small-looking, desperate. I rub his shoulder gently and whisper, “Where’s your medication?” I ask softly. “Car," he says as he flinch’s from the pain of hearing his own word. I immediately turn around and jog out of his room, downstairs, out the front door, and to the car. I grab his bag from the trunk and jog all the way back into the house and up the stairs. When I get back into Henry’s room, I'm panting and trying my hardest to catch my breath quietly. After about ten seconds of standing like an idiot, breathing heavily in front of him, I place the bag on the floor, following it down, and sitting on my knees in front of it. I hear him let out a quiet gasp of pain as he hears me unzip the bag. I riffle through it, trying to be as quiet as possible, until I find the small orange bottle of his pills. I unscrew the lid as I stand back up and pour one out into my hand. I grab my wine off the dresser and walk to him, holding the pill and wine out to him. “Please, darling, I can take care of myself," he says quietly and desperately, his voice betraying his words. I move my hands towards him more as a way to say, “Just take it." He slowly reaches out and takes the small pill from my hand, putting it into his mouth before taking the wine from me and using it to wash down the pill. He still looks ghostly white; his eyes close instantly. I gently take off his glasses and lay him flat on the bed, climbing beside him as I cover his eyes with my hand gently to make the room darker for him. He lets out a soft sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t trouble yourself with this," he whispers. I shake my head as I continue to hold my hand gently over his eyes and lay on him. “I’ll do this all night if I need to," I whisper back, my thumb gently tracing his scar in a soothing manner. “Please, y/n, stop treating me like a child. I can take care of myself," he says unconvincingly. I shake my head again and whisper back, “Just sleep, hen.”. He finally falls asleep about five minutes later as I lay beside him for at least three hours, my hand never leaving his eyes. I watch his chest move up and down, his breathing as he sleeps much more even and natural compared to his breaths when he’s awake. I don’t notice at first when he wakes up. “How long has it been?” he asks in a raspy, mumbling voice. I take my hand off his eyes, and he turns on his side to look at me. “Just a few hours, are you still feeling ill?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair.

“You didn’t have to do that; I’m more than capable of taking care of myself," he replies, wrapping an arm around my waist as we lay on our sides facing each other. I nod. “Just let me take care of you from time to time, okay?” I say, moving my hand out for his hair and placing it under my cheek. He closes his eyes and nods slightly as he pulls me closer to him. “Sorry," he mumbles into my neck. I chuckle softly; he’s acting like a child right now, clingy and sleepy. “It’s okay, just get some more rest," I say back as I put my chin on top of his head. "I love you," he mutters into my neck. I kiss the top of his head gently. "I love you too, Hen.”.

A/N: hope this is what you were looking for:)) thank you for the request, i loved writing this!!

[sweetestgirlintown111]

Henry Winter x reader

chapter i

A/N here's the first chapter i have many more in my drafts i also would say that the next chapters are better. Enjoy and of course give me your thoughts and criticism on it.

Hampden was magnificent this time of the semester, the dorm's window overlooking the vast greenery- now in shades of reds and oranges below, the weather cold and dry, the grounds yet to be muddied by the fall of rain, allowing me to take the path over the fallen leaves. The walk to class was full of anticipation and excitement, on the way there I came across Bunny who- being his outgoing self - approached and linked his arm with mine leading us slower than I would've marched had I not been interrupted

as he held me he glanced in the direction that I came from, "hey"

"Hi"

“your dorms there?” he looked back at my building

I nodded “Uh yeah”, he turned to me,

“My girl stays there, second floor- Marion, quite the lady, she is studying to become a teacher loves children ’n’ all, very demure if you ask me, suitable for a respectable woman.” the last comment made me frown, something that'll become synonymous with bunny discussing women and any other subjects really.

I hum in response not knowing what else to say but that didn't stop him, he went on “You seem very ladylike y’know, quiet” he took a look at my attire, a cream pleated skirt that fell just below my knees, and a dusty pink cashmere sweater “and quite well dressed as well-”

“we're here” I cut him off before he can continue, pointing my fingers towards the building thankful to see its old bricks, a couple of feet away the fiery red of Francis’ hair approaches us, he greets us, and all three of us head toward the office.

Going up the stairs - me in front and both of the men behind me- approaching the white office door I knock before going in, my eyes first land on Henry his dark suit and relaxed figure -back leaned against the back of the couch, legs spread wide holding a book in his hand- demanding the attention, his eyes raked over me then behind me onto bunny, I turn to Julian and in a soft, almost weak voice sound a good morning to both him and henry, after id turned around I was pulled down by bunny, who was sat on one end of the couch, and now had me squished between him and henry on the other end. After ten minutes of Bunny leaning over me to talk to Henry, while I was chatting with Francis about his coat, the twins finally arrived along with Richard and Julian started with the class, starting with Plato as we had been previously informed he would.

“let us end with Plato's virtues as discussed in his book The Republic. For Plato virtue comes from the form of the good. Only in knowing the good, which is an independent self-subsisting entity, can one be virtuous. Virtue is only thought of as a characteristic of the person insomuch as come to know, the good.” he looked up at us “Do you agree with his definition?"

“I think this definition is quite unfair”

Henry turns to me and scoffs “Are you really saying that Plato's wrong?”

“I didn't say that he's wrong I just said that I don't agree entirely with his definition, and even if I was saying that he's wrong, it's not a crime” I try to stay calm to match his coldness but its proving to be very hard.

“it is a crime. He's Plato!”

“he's not a god!” our voices were now rising.

and Julian had to step in, “Henry please let her continue, go on please” he nodded to me and Henry leaned back in his seat clearly not happy.

“I was saying that, in defining virtue as something you only know is unfair, I'd say that it is more of a learning curve”

“So you think that an honest man and a man who’s a liar but is trying to become truthful are equal?” Henry arose again'

"I think, that someone who acknowledges their vices and is actively trying to better them is perhaps even better than someone who’s only known virtue because it is against their nature to be virtuous thus they master the virtue of wisdom and temperance, don't you think Henry?” I address him with a slight smirk barely noticeable, but I know he saw it from the way he clenches his jaw.

”very well, let's leave it here today, and next time we'll discuss vice and virtue more in depth”

after collecting our things we all leave the room and huddle at the bottom of the stairs. Standing there with Charles and Francis, we were talking about the best materials for winter days, Francis having quite an expertise regarding the matter, but that subject is cut short by Bunny -dragging along Richard, Camilla, and Henry.

“What do you all say we go grab a bite? There's a place in town they have the best pancakes, the one down the street from your house Henry.”

“I'd eat just about anything right now, to be honest” Francis chimed in looking At me,

“I am quite hungry, plus I need to go get some ink from the town square,” I said looking in my bag at the empty bottle of ink.

“Great so we'll go, Henry would you drive us” Bunny looks at Henry not asking but rather stating.

“Sure but my car only fits 5 people 6 if we push it, so I can't drive us all”, he stated staring me in the eyes, challenging, just for a second just intended for me to see. I open my bag reaching for a cigarette and lighting it, using the time to try and think of something clever to shoot back, but I didn't have the chance as Francis beat me to it, turns out he caught the look Henry shot me, taking my hand in his, pulling out car keys from his pocket looking at henry, “it's fine henry, we'll take mine, I want to get some ink too, we'll meet you at the restaurant after”

and with that he dragged me along with him, as we headed towards his car, my biggest relief was getting a break of bunny's blabbering, and Henry's- well Henry's everything, happy that from the looks of it, I'd already made a friend of Francis. As soon as we're out of earshot I turn to him a big sigh escaping me, “he's just unbelievable, you saw how annoyed he looked with me from the second he saw me? I don't get why he's this aggressive, and why only with me!”

we get to the car and he gets in before answering “Oh trust me everyone saw that, he never gets this agitated with anyone really, not even when Bunny's acting stupid”

“I didn't do anything to warrant such attitude from him, also you see his friend- bunny, while coming to class today randomly started talking about his girlfriend and how she is a proper ‘respectable’ woman because she likes kids and some shit, really weirded me out”

“I can't say that I'm surprised he just says stuff like that sometimes, which store do you get your ink from?”

“It's just to the left of the dry cleaners, he really doesn't seem like the kind of guy you'd expect to be studying classics y’know, I wonder how he and that old grump became friends”

“They've been friends for years and Bunny was Henry's only friend, before college, met at some all-boys boarding school in Europe and have been friends ever since for a good chunk of time you would never see Henry without Bunny. Is it this store?”

“Yes the one with the yellow sign, I wouldn't expect he'd have many friends with that attitude of his.” we both get out of the car and into the stationary shop, we greet the lady working there and get our ink mine brown and red, Francis's black, after that, we wander to the notebook section, ultimately getting distracted by all the pretty covers and different paper for about 20 minutes, chatting the brunch completely forgotten.

That's until Richard comes in looking for us, he stops by, “Where have you two been, we've been waiting for thirty minutes, bunny is getting really hangry” his hand wanders about the notebooks, looking at the different covers,

“Just a moment Richard we're almost done”.With that we grab our ink and notebooks we definitely don't need but were too pretty to leave on the shelf and I also grab a notebook that Richard was eying, as a gift and check out, heading towards the restaurant.

Not much occurs there, except for Bunny annoying Henry and Charles, i mainly just eat my food and chat with Francis, Richard, Charles, and Camilla, making a point of not participating when Henry is involved in the discussion until it all comes crumbling down when bunny, thought he was bored from torturing Charles, turned to me “say you-he pointed to me across the round table- are you religious?”

the question completely unexpected “I uhh…It's complicated” I answer trying to avoid getting into a discussion with him, but that didn't work of course

“Complicated how?”

“I mean I was raised catholic but that wasn't something I felt I belonged to, so as a teenager, I became very interested in paganism, and now it's harder to decide”

“And why do you not endorse Catholicism?” He pushed, all of them now staring at me with intensity and curiosity

“From my experience with the church, it seemed that most of those who belong to it and claim they are the men of god are morally corrupt money thirsty predatory assholes,” I say it so casually and only the looks on everyone's faces -except for bunny, who wore a smug expression- made me realize that maybe I had gone too far,

and Henry obviously wasn't gonna let it slide, he chuckles leaning over the table in my direction “My, my, little miss know it all feels she's way above religion now, how surprising” he mocked, voice high pitched not entirely believing what he said.

“I didn't say that Henry,” he isn't stupid and he knows what I meant but he just wants to get a reaction out of me

“Really? Then what did you say, because to all of us that's how it sounded.”

“You know what, fine. Interpret it as you want, I'm not going to justify my own beliefs to you.”

“Because you can't, can you?”

“No Henry trust me I'm more than capable but you don't deserve wasting my breath on you” I shoot back, and I could feel my ears becoming red, just as I was about to lose it,

Richard chimed in, “That's enough Henry don't you think. Let's just have the food and leave.”, and with everyone having already been done with their food we sat for five more minutes paying before we went back to college the same as we came.

Maybe that first class was what had drawn the outlines of my relationship with Henry, rivals always looking for something to jump down the other's throat about, and while it was mostly Henry who started with a scoff or chuckle or some offhanded comment, I never let it slide and more often than not I'd be the one escalating the situation. Our egos were far too big to admit that what we came to was childish.

[what-if-queen-camilla]

Like grandfather, like grandson - Chapter 4 - Sandringham House

Sandringham House, Norfolk, Monday, 11th December 1972

Camilla was still in a bit of a shock, firstly about Charles’ somehow not-so unexpected proposal about two weeks ago, and secondly, actually just recently, about his grandmother’s invitation to Sandringham House, which she, even if she had wanted to, hardly could have turned down. It was the week of both, the King’s accession day and his birthday, which was going to end with the third Sunday of Advent, and moreover the last day before Charles would leave for the Navy. It was not the first time she was invited to stay with the Royal Family, God knew how often she, her parents and siblings had joined them for hunting weekends at Balmoral back when they had all been children - but Sandringham House was something different, and this time, she was not just the daughter of a much appreciated World-War-II veteran and granddaughter of darling Mrs Greville's ever so adored goddaughter, but the more or less official girlfriend of Prince Charles of Edinburgh!

“It’s a very small group, darling, and it will be a cosy atmosphere!”, he had promised her when he had brought her his grandmother’s invitation. “It’ll be only my grandparents, Aunt Margo, Uncle Peter, the cousins and us!”, he had explained and at least the absence of his parents had somehow calmed her down a bit, yet, it was still frightening enough. A driver had picked her up early on this Monday morning to ensure she'd arrive in time for luncheon. There'd be a small reception to mark the 35th anniversary of His Majesty's accession later in the afternoon, certainly an especially bittersweet one this year, Camilla thought, considering the Duke of Windsor's death last May. Despite everything, The King had insisted that his brother should have a State Funeral in everything but name, and Charles, alongside his mother's cousins the Duke of Kent, Prince William of Gloucester (who had so tragically died only a couple of weeks later which had been a huge heartbreak for the whole family), and his own eldest cousin George, Viscount Linley, first born son of Princess Margaret and her husband Captain Peter Townsend, the Earl and Countess of Snowdon, had stood vigil during the lying-in-state of the former monarch. It had caused some controversy, but also underlined once more just how important family and forgiveness was to King George VI, and as far as Camilla was concerned, she had been deeply impressed and touched by his generous gesture, as was her entire family and most people she knew. For the occasion, Camilla had got herself a simple, but elegant, knee-length black silk and lace dress of which she hoped that it wouldn't draw the attention away from Charles’ grandmother. She very much preferred to stay as invisible as possible and, of course, would never want to “outshine” The Queen! Though it was probably impossible to outshine Her Majesty with her fancy style anyway, but still.

“Here we are, Ma'am, Sandringham House.”, the driver announced and Camilla's heart stopped for a moment as she, indeed, caught sight of the famous, red bricked, Jacobethan styled country house right next to her out of the car window, and much to her relief, her Prince right in front of the building, happily smiling and waving at her. “Darling!”, he greeted her affectionately, as soon as she got out of the window, tenderly kissing both her cheeks. “I'm so glad you're here, I've missed you terribly! Have you had a comfortable journey?” “Yes, darling, everything went well.”, she confirmed, with a grateful nod towards the driver, who was meanwhile unloading her luggage, that would later be carried into the house by another servant. “Come on, my love, let's go inside.”, Charles said, tenderly wrapped her arm around her and guided her through the main entrance. “Where are the others?”, Camilla asked, a bit frightened. So far, nobody was in sight, but she didn't want to experience any kind of surprises, so wanted to be sure. “Grandpa is working in his office, Granny and Aunt Margo have gone on a ride, Uncle Peter and the boys have gone fishing and Sarah…” “... has been waiting for you all morning!!!”, the Prince's seven-year-old cousin, who had suddenly appeared as if by magic, excitedly declared and almost jumped onto Camilla’s arms. “Hello young lady!”, Camilla greeted her affectionately and Sarah's eyes widened in excitement. They had met a few short times before and somehow, Sarah was almost as much in love with her cousin's girlfriend as she himself. “Charles says you're drawing, is that true?”, the little girl asked and Camilla nodded. “I do, but I'm not very good…” “That's not true!”, Charles immediately protested. “You're absolutely brilliant, darling!” “And you like horses, right?”, Sarah happily babbled away. “Can I show you that stables later?” “For the moment, sweetheart, please hold your horses and let Camilla arrive first!”, Charles giggled, but Camilla gave him an approving glance, confirming that she didn't mind the little girl's behaviour at all. She had two younger siblings herself and she loved children, so everything was fine. “Well, in that case, Sarah, you might like to show Camilla her room?”, he asked and Sarah nodded excitingly. “I helped Mary preparing it yesterday!”, she explained and took Camilla's hand. “It's next to mine, we girls have an entire corridor of our own!” Camilla looked at Charles and he nodded. Of course - only married couples were allowed to share a room in this circle… Trying to conceal her slight disappointment, Camilla followed Sarah up the stairs and to the room that was going to be hers for the rest of the week. “I'll come and pick you up for lunch in about half an hour!”, he promised and blew a kiss, before the ladies rushed around the corner and were out of sight.

[secret-history-hyperfixation]

These are some of the notes/comments I’ve made while writing the tsh fic i’ve been working on for the past year.

(sorry that some are blurry lol)

[beauty-is-terrror]

send your requests for Henry Marchbanks Winter fanfics and i will try my best to write something

[axieta]

Hungry eyes

Henry Winter x reader

Warnings: suggested auto-aggression, abuse and medicine abuse, thoughts of violence, breakdown (dni if you fell like any of the warnings mentioned, even described in a very roundabout way, may impact you negatively, please and thank you)

Chapter 9

Two points of view

Chapter 9

Hours passed. Days. Weeks. The snow fell, perched on my shoulders, on top of my head, in my hands, like a particularly annoying case of dandruff. Years, decades. I was sure that the white powder that made my skin turn pale and then red, that chased shivers all around my body should have already been gone after such a long time. Or maybe it was not snow, truly, but dandruff indeed. After all I had been standing there, in the dodgy parking lot outside of the Cherry flavour, that it might have been as well. Centuries. Lifetimes. All that I had witnessed on that evening and all of it before, the calm before the storm and its sorrowful, unnerving resolution, it all had flashed before me, in my mind’s eye. It all came and went so suddenly, so abruptly, that the screaming memories of the past appeared almost violent to me. Like a crazed stranger running your way along the pavement, screaming, tearing at his hair, tossing, and stumbling, zigzagging along his path, and then passing you and disappearing in the crowd, somewhere behind you, as you shiver once, push your eyelids together in the ultimate expression of horror and disgust.

God, please don’t let him touch me; you think. God don’t let him see me; you pray.

And then the stranger passes, his torn, dirty clothes, a marksman of a homeless bum, disappear from your field of vision, and the only thing that stays with you, the testament to his sorry existence, is that sweetly nauseating smell he leaves behind.

Millennia. Eons. It all passed me in a blink of an eye, or they had not passed at all, and I had just been imagining things. But my body hurt, my arms felt taunt, packed with an unmeasurable tension and my gums swirled with restless swarms of worms. An unwanted, painful reminder of what had been and what turned into ashes in matters of mere seconds.

Standing there, a few meters behind Henry it donned on me how terribly cold it was outside. Only garbed in the delicate, summer shirt I used to wear only at the inaugurations of school year, I started to shake uncontrollably. A full-body convulsion overtook me and a chirp chatter of my teeth, ones hitting the others, filled my ears. My body submitted to the rising wind and the falling temperatures, but I could not feel the cold at all. To the contrary, the pain that shook me so, was birthed directly by the iron-hot waves of heat washing all over my intestines, my skin, pulling over my brows in pearly droplets of sweat.

Henry’s cigarette hit the ground, then the heel of his impeccable, shiny Oxford smothered the last glimpse of flame still flickering with orange hope at the very end of the butt. Merciless stomp, half wet splash in the melting snow on the pavement. And that was it. His hands were shaking, but his face stilled in a terrifying grip of ever frost.

A few weeks later and nothing changed. Not really. We all acted normal, or at least appeared to act normal. Bunny was his usual cheery self, Camilla and Charles kept on with their Sunday dinners, of which we had two before the winter break came tearing us apart and throwing all around the world and Henry maintained his stoic, cold disposition. Nothing shook him no more. He froze in one moment and his face kept that taunt, expressionless grimace I saw right before the bar. His eyes turned sharp, strangely calm. He seemed both very aware of his surroundings and completely detached from them at the same time. In the matter of days, he regressed into the Henry I knew from my first encounter with him – chill, full of distaste and afloat, above all the filth of this world. Even Francis seemed unbothered, or worse, completely oblivious to what has happened in the Cherry flavour. To my deepest surprise, even she herself, wasn’t overly bothered. She talked, she smiled, even joked around. Some of her jokes landed punches against Bunny, but there was nothing aggressive in them, just her characteristically sarcastic remarks mixed with her usual witty climaxes. It was truly, as if nothing had happened. As if I, myself had thought out this elaborate drama in one of my drunken fantastic apparitions and convinced myself of its authenticity. But there was something more to this frozen normalcy of our group. Not only had they brushed the incident, like it was nothing, they had reset themselves to a state of complete neutrality, the one in which I had met them. All the characteristics of the group I came to know and adjusted myself to suddenly vanished leaving behind a bunch of empty, hollowed vessels, of which I knew nothing and whose lives had once again become a complete mystery to me. They changed the sitting places in Julian’s class once again. No longer was Henry besides her. What’s more, I don’t think I saw him anywhere near her since the night at the bar. Long forgotten were the brushes of hands, the solemn and longing stares thrown across tables. No one raced in the gathering snow anymore, nor did anyone read Argonautica Orphica, crammed into some dark corner of the library. No one mused in hushed tones to some other twin soul the passages of Greek dramas.

With time, even her jokes and laughs simmered down to an untaxing hum, and one day, I could not say which, but the paste of the change seemed so alarming I had to note that in my memory, they stopped all together.

I asked Francis about the bar once, mostly because after Henry’s silent resignation from his previous seat, the ginger boy seemed to be the closest to her.

‘Say,’ I had asked him one day, when we were all leaving class, and her coat had long vanished from my field of vision ‘What are you going to do with the whole Bunny situation?’

He threw me a look, a dumbfounded, confused look, one would expect from a pupil being called to the board and not a grown man asked a simple question, such as himself.

‘Whatever do you mean, Richard?’

I shrugged my shoulders forward and wagged my head from side to side with disappointment. Resigned, I had never asked him about that again.

It was as if the past few weeks had not happened at all. Well, I guess there was no more need for all that, because she herself seemed to be more and more absent from our private, antic world. She became quite unresponsive during the lessons, although she kept her marks up and if only asked, she responded with the same vigour and fervour as usual, there was a special air of vacancy around her, whenever her lips sealed into that thin, pensive line I adored so. Her interactions with us became more and more scarce and suddenly, right before the break had begun, I realised that for a few days now she had been coming into class, nodding in greeting, and then staying silent for as long as she possibly could. That one nod, sometimes two, if she remembered to draft it before leaving class, was the only remnant of her usual sunny and loud greetings. I could not remember how did her voice sound before, but I knew that slight rasp and a gravel undertone weren’t always there. But now, whenever she spoke those qualities seemed ubiquitous and synonymous with her. A dark smudge on the crystal timbre of her vocal cords.

I noticed that she had not decided on changing her shoes. The dark-shining vices gripped her feet at all times, mercilessly and gave her steps a slight rhythm akin to that of a lame. I could not understand why was she still insisting on torturing herself with this terrible choice of footwear, but seeing as she would not talk to anyone, not even Henry, I did not feel especially invited to starting a conversation with her about that. Especially when all I could focus on was the dubious existence of that fateful evening I witnessed. If I could not trust myself with remembering a night such as this correctly, what else must’ve my mind gotten wrong?

The pages of my sketchbook suddenly filled with frantic notes of recollection and quick, messy drafts of those boots. From side, front, back, upside, dark, atmospheric, and linear. Shiny noses, black shoelaces, bits of mud on the soles and slight blemishes of salt on the delicate leather. I saw them every day, and every day I committed them to paper, slowly perfecting the ovoid shape. And all the while my pen hit the yellowed, stylized pages, all my ears registered was the unrhythmic clack of her heels on the frozen pavement. I tried to remember every clack and every click. Every broken shade and glimmer of artificial light that reflected off that polished leather as they laid beneath the table in Cherry flavour. And the longer I thought of them, those two black holes consuming my every waking thought, the longer that sick obsession with the shoes’ glimmering noses unravelled into a twisted spiral over the pages of my notebook and transformed them into some sort of mythical regalia of martyrdom, the more I started to think that I might’ve been in fact overexaggerating a bit. After all, it was not the first time I would completely submerge myself into an obsession that would ultimately prove pointless and redundant.

Only, no! I had eyes, I could see, I was not a blind man, nor was I marginally stupid. It did not take a genius to mark the pain in her stride, to see, how her laugh and her smile did not bear any water, how they died on her cheeks, never reaching her eyes. How, when she finally stopped the charade and alongside it, stopped talking altogether, those shine-less eyes, those once magnificent pools of sheer starlight became empty and dark. How she shrivelled and thinned in the matter of weeks – days! – and how her hair matted over with a thin layer of patina. Like a beautiful, bronze statue, knocked down into the murky waters of a lake it once guarded, her whole being overgrew with pondweeds and widgeon grass. Something dimmed her, a duckweed casted deep shadows on the crystal-clear surface of her face, and yet I could not comprehend what could it be. Bunny choked her, that I got. But that… that silence, that burnout… it all seemed far too much. And then Henry. So cold, so angry… and then completely uninterested. It was all, at the same time too much and too little for what I had gathered from a few glances at them. I wasn’t close with neither of them, except for her. I could’ve asked her then, at the bar, but that ship has had already sailed by the time doubts gripped at my throat. I was just so sure that Henry was going to take care of things, weed the pond water, that I didn’t even think of doing anything myself. Even though I knew, I swear to gods, old and new, I knew she needed… something. Someone. And I knew they knew that as well.

But they kept quiet. Cheery even, submerged into the deep waters of the Red Sea, running alongside the mystical warriors, sons of gods, storming the beaches of Troy, focused solely on the past, they stayed blind to the unsteady march of their friend. Henry, most of them, seemed to be shockingly cut off from all that surrounded him. Once again, I saw him reading the Iliad, alone. Once again, I had heard his snarky comments cutting the air like knives swishing at warm butter. I glanced at his hasty, unnecessary translations of old books into even older languages. And in all of that he remained solitarily unified with what has been. He had not even so much as spared a glance towards her way since that night. Not even a discrete, throw-away look, or a passing stare. His eyes remained polarised, sharp, and empty, investigating the dark swirls of letters on the old papers. Amongst all the shine of the glory that once was he surrounded himself with, he appeared somehow ghostly. Pale skin turned almost grey, and as time went on, violet swirls of broken capillaries dusted it with random cracks, here and there. Deep shadows marked his face from the waterlines of his eyes, right to his immensely sharp cheekbones, as if he had not been getting enough sleep. And his hands, they shook. Constantly and perpetually, small temblors shook his palmar nerves, forcing him to close and open his fists. Pain painted on his face the most magnificent landscapes, even more frequently when she fell silent. Still, he kept on with his studies, unbothered, pinning his button, shark-like eyes onto the inanimate objects of his admiration.

Once, I even saw him picking Bunny up from some restaurant, dragging a bummed-out boy behind him. I knew the precedence. I recognised the apologetic scowl on his face, when he drove off with the boy crammed up in the passenger seat of his car and I wonder how such a heartless, blind person could ever be let behind a wheel. As his car glided over the dangerously slippery street, the glimmer of Bunny’s blonde head, turned in half-chirp caught my eyes. I gagged. I simply could not watch this flock surrounding Tiresias with a straight face. I might have not understood the situation at hand, might have even assessed it wrong, but what got me the worst was the collective dismissal of the state my Diogenes found herself in. the turning of a blind eye, the dismissal, it made my blood boil.

Getting more and more angry with the silence surrounding something I was absolutely sure of witnessing, I decided to go back to the bar. Looking for something, anything, even now I would not be able to describe what for exactly, I decided to snoop around there. And I would, I really would. If it wasn’t for the stomped-out butt that greeted me on the pavement right before the entrance. Pathetic and soaked it had already dissolved under the immense pressure of humidity and dirty water that had washed over it during the days of my absence. It was there, it was real. And it had red letters – Lucky Strikes – engraved on the white band dividing the ashy end from the orange body. It stared at me from the distance of approximately six feet. The same ciggy Henry had stomped out.

My knees popped when I squatted over that piece of evidence. I stared intently, with bated breath and hands covering my mouth, just not to somehow contaminate that butt. Like a careful investigator I examined the unexpected piece of evidence with utmost unction I looked and watched and glanced at it, considered all the ways it had creased, soaked in the dirty water. I wanted to notice something, somehow connect the dots, tie it all up with one swift revelation. Maybe notice a certain shape or conjure a poetic, dramatic metaphor that could somehow describe it, take that mystery to a higher plane on which I could finally achieve enlightenment and deeper understanding of the situation. I thought that staring at it would help me capture at least a bit of Henry’s essence, that clasping my hands at the phantom thread tied to his mind at the moment of him smoking it would allow me access to his mindset, explain what was going on inside of him, when he mulled over the Latin phrase. Desperately searching for the slightest trace of reason in it, or some kind of symbolism, like a pair of grey, ashy bunny ears or a cute, fluff tail poking out of the mangled cotton end of the ciggy which’s visual allegory would bring me any closer to an explanation. But nothing appeared. The butt was just a butt. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sudden anger gripped me by the throat, poked at my eyeballs from the inside of my pained skull and coloured the whole world before me in vivid splashes of red. For the simple fact of my ingenuousness, the unreasonable investigation that refused to bear any fruit at its infant stages, the way the others did not seemed to be bothered by the whole Cherry flavour situation, savage frenzy sprouted in me, took root in my brain, slithered around my muscles, and took all inhibition from the body that once had belonged to me. For a split moment I was not human. For a short second, in which I jumped to my feet and with a brutish yap escaping my mouth, felt my muscles convulse with unpredictable movement, I was not even an animal. The accumulated rage was not me, not my own, but a whole other entity, alive, smart, hungry, vicious. Akin to Ophiocordyceps unilateralis it wrapped its way round me and guided my whole body into a fit of purely obscure seizure. My brain, my mind, it was there, although set still and useless, as if numbed and enslaved by that foreign rage in a sort of gilded cage it revelled in. Oh, the golden splendour of my inhibition, the sudden servitude to my own emotions, it all left a deliciously sweet taste on my tongue. My foot, one I had not realised had been risen, hit the ground with a terrible wet splash, perfectly pinning the dreaded butt beneath itself. The scream that followed the spontaneous motion echoed uncomfortably against each and every building that surrounded me. Tearing my leg up once again I struck anew, well the fungal rage reigning my body did, with both viciousness and force doubled. After three more dealt kicks like that I was sure the butt was not only stomped out, but completely obliterated, and yet I could not stop myself. I could not stop the stabbing motion of my leg, nor could I muffle the thick, grating bays coming out of my throat at every hit I/it had dealt. Dirty thawed snow splashed miserably all around me and landed on my trousers, on the cars parked in the parking lot and the poles dividing pavement from the road.

It was not far. No fair at all.

Splash!

How were they treating her!

Smack!

How she looked!

Splat!

What Henry had said! What he promised! What he didn’t do!

Plop!

Henry, that bastard! Bastard-Henry! Henry-Bastard! Blind fool! King of fools!

Slam!

He and that insufferable brat Bunny! Bunny, Bunny, Bunny! Idiot! Moron!

Nothing coherent crossed my mind in that moment. Nothing of higher importance or sense. But I knew that what had, was the purest form of frustration, the truest vent for every single one of my doubts and problems that had snowballed during that year in Hampden. I knew that those frantic kicks, those incoherent bellows of mine, they were not just empty swings at an already burnt-out cigarette. No, each strike was a protest, a manifestation and a drub against the nature of every single person entangled in the pattern of neglect and disinterest surrounding my Diogenes. Angry stomps surrounded me whole and muffled all the other sounds with their hateful nosegay.

In my fevered state the butt became Henry’s head, his chest, his hands, and the dark hair sprouting above his white, aristocratic forehead morphed into the sunlit grains of Bunny’s coiffure. Images, imprints really, of his pastel, nauseating outfits inflamed my nostrils with a smoke-stained dragon breath. They sharpened my teeth, turned me further and equipped me with diamond-sharp claws, armoured me with thick scales. I was a mystical dragon of pure, liquid fury and I was ready to melt down mountains. What’s worse is that I always knew what I had felt towards Bunny. It was nothing new. Detestation, slight indifference, unease sneaking its way beneath my skin with terrible itch whenever he appeared somewhere near me – the purest form of unknowing discomfort. But the unadulterated, all-consuming hatred I felt towards Henry was. In all honesty I was willing to admit my distaste regarding the blonde quarterback, and yet to this day, I quiver before the thoughts that ghosted and rattled over my mind when the acrid taste of venomous loathing filled my mouth when I saw the dark eyes, the jet-black hair and the cynical grin of Henry Winter being stomped out by my own foot. Yet I did not falter in that moment, not one step back. I did not quelched my thirst for blood, stomping my foot around I did not stomp out the desire to melt those two until there was nothing left of them, and then further scorch them until even the memory of them, the last trace of it has been completely purified and forged anew. I was a monster willing to turn them into a breed of creatures of my sort. For a moment a violent fantasy, of me stepping up, cornering them, and tearing them apart in two-to-one combat, clouded my vision. Oh, what I could have given in that moment to possess any kind of skill in martial arts. Of even owning a knife with which I could threaten them with. A kidney, or a lung, or even a heart would not be equal to the bargain I was willing to make in order to suddenly become apt, athletic and strong. A whole world would not be a sacrifice big enough for my willingness to hurt nor was it enough to bring me the levels of courage and skill I needed to face and best those two. After all, I was but a boy. Not a dragon, not an investigator, and not an infection-ridden insect. Just an angry little scrawny boy, scared and confused stomping in the molten snow like a capricious brat. More than anything I was a pathetic child. My knees buckled beneath the weight of that realisation, and I collapsed into the disgusting greyish-brownish pulp. Wet matter soaked into my pants and despite the moderately mild weather I swear, I had never felt such seeping cold.

Once again time stopped and galloped around me with no rhyme or reason. I could not tell how long I was kneeling there, pinned to the ground by the sheer gravity of that tiny, obliterated butt. And I think I would stay there for far longer, until darkened sky came in the marvellous shade of indigo and frost coated the perimeter with spiky-white fur, until I’d had lost feeling in my toes and the overwhelming cold of the night steadily slowed and slowed my pulse to the point of a dangerously gentle halt if it wasn’t for the shy shadow creeping over my form.

Small and bleak shape of a person sliding carefully on the pavement, mixed with the strange fragrance of a muffled, warm scent, domestic in that slow creep, nice and soft with the cautious steps of its owner. I knew that scent, that shape, that rhythm, swayed slightly to the right, as if the person guiding it avoided putting their whole weight to the left. I knew it and I longed for it for so, so long. My head snapped back, eager, almost wanton, and my gaze was met with a slightly bent figure, big, hollowed eyes gazing right, no, trough, mine and tightly pressed pale lips. Her. The intensity of that sudden stare, despite its murky and diffused, or maybe precisely because of that thinly spread quality, forced goose-skin to come forth on my clothed arms. She was slimmer, so much so, that when her jaw clenched at the shock surfacing on my face, I could see and count the small bones of her skull sliding smoothly beneath her taunt skin. Paler and somehow yellow, like a thin, thin, thin papyrus left for too long on the scorching sun of a desert, the rosy fresh bloom of her skin, just an afterthought left in the broken capillaries of her eyes and the reddish rim of them. The hair that fell over her arm, when she leaned in some more into my private space, as if to sniff me or confirm that I was in fact me, slid over her shoulder with a quiet dry shuffle, akin to the jerk of wheat fields in the middle of July, forgotten or abandoned by their farmer. No more gilded halo, rather bone-dry empty stems. In that dimension she was not so far away from the ghostly grey shape her body casted over me, even more so, she herself seemed like a shadow of her former self. A vessel that would drag behind her a fortnight before. A shape that would break over silvery-white snow caps, hide and split under the influence of light seeping into the campus library. There was this newfound quality about her, an air I had no words to describe then. I just knew that she didn’t quite feel like herself, somehow hollow, unfilled, not really finished, just like she herself was not complete, not whole, like the part of herself that kept her whole being by the seams, suddenly vanished and her frame fell apart, spitting out that lively, sweet part of herself, the cottony filling that gives puppets their shape, and all that was left of her was that skin, those glossy eyes, gleaming like two polished buttons. All I could think of, while desperately trying to bear that bone-chilling stare of hers, was that she had cracked into two halves, and the one – the cold, silent, limping, and tight-lipped creature – was the only half that survived that tragic severance. The worse half.

Now, that I have assisted in an attempt on someone’s life, I know that she looked like what death feels like. Cold and un-personalised ghostly presence that hoovers over you, seeps into you and stays somewhere there, in your body, in the stems of your fingers, forever curved around an already non-existent neck, slots itself right between the globes of your brain, playing the imagine of body muddled in snow over and over again, sits in your ears, echoing the never-ending crack of neck, settles on your skin with sheer dust of dried blood, and holds you hostage in constant state of fear for the rest of your miserable life. Once you’ve tasted death, once you’ve looked into dead man’s eyes, it stays with you, just like that imagine of her stayed with me, imprinted forevermore in my being.

And I had said before, ever since that night in her apartment, when I laid on the couch, half-drunk and dumb with fascination, and she kissed Henry over that one-piece table, three deaths had been prescribed in her lifetime. What I was seeing then, in the dodgy parking lot of Cherry favour was a tell-tale sign of the first one.

‘What’s up, pup?’ Mors dicit. Or was it her? ‘A lovely weather we’re having, huh?’ She croaked my way, as she crouched next to me with a slight hiss.

The weather was nice indeed, not that I had noticed before she so gracefully pointed that out for me. Chilly, yes, and, courtesy of the lingering snow, covered in a thin tint of sepia, but overall nice. But none of that mattered. Not really, when she was there, so close that I could smell her, feel the faint warmth of her body leaving a shallow indentation on my arm.

‘Hey.’ My tongue darted to wet my horrid, chapped lips. She smelled naturally, of herself, like no other fragrance in this world, broken by slight notes of cigarette smoke and fresh coffee carried forth on her breath, although the smell was muffled, weathered and I had to breath unrealistically deeply to get a real sense of it. ‘Wasn’t expecting you here.’

Her brows furrowed, as if she had no idea of what I was talking about, and only when I pointed my finger up, to the neon sign, turned off for the time, had a sharp spark of comprehension light her eyes. For a second, she seemed suspended in time, when she considered and took in the sight of the establishment, and I thought she might break down crying, because her lower lip wobbled and the skin around her eyes tightened dangerously, but no, nothing like that happened. Instead, her white teeth peaked from beneath the pale barrier of her lips and a snarl, something I would take for a laugh if it wasn’t so primal, so angry, fell from between them.

‘Oh, that’s rich, that’s rich.’ She gurgled some more, before turning to me. Something in me, cowardly and slimy, suggested that I much preferred her giggling at the bar, and not looking at me. Truly, something in those washed-out, wandering eyes, did not feel quite… sane. ‘I was… out for a walk. Wanted to go to the post office. Guess I lost my way.’

I nodded, not knowing what else to say. And I wanted to say so many things. Maybe too many for any of them to come forth. Something in her face told me that she understood, and so I didn’t feel as restricted as before. Somehow, that one shift in the muscles on her face convinced me that she, the Diogenes I loved so much, the accomplice I adored with all my might, was still there.

‘What for?’

‘Oh, just… wanted to buy more letter writing paper. I’m writing a lot recently…’

I nodded and promptly decided I had to keep up the good karma of her talking, because with every word she uttered I heard that terrible rasp fading and fading away. I really wanted to hear that crystal-clear laugh of hers once more. Icy and fresh, like the coldest creaks flowing down from the highest of mountain tops. Although before I could ask her another question, she beat me to it, her ever perceptive gaze falling to my wet, dirtied knees. Something like a smile, real heartfelt smile and not a cynical crack of lips, flashed across her face and she cocked her chin towards that bizarre view.

‘You’re kneeling in the snow, Richard Papen, have you noticed?’

I nodded, again, and scoffed a little, noticing how strange that must’ve looked for someone who wasn’t privy to my melt-down, or anyone perfectly sane for that matter. Although, looking at her, I wasn’t sure I could apply the latter category to anything currently concerning her person.

‘Ya. I did. I just read somewhere that winter swims can work wonders for your nervous system. You know, I find it quite refreshing actually, the dirty water getting soaked in by my pants, I mean.’ I stomped my knees a few times, splashing the water around a bit, as if I was trying to paddle in real, deep water.

To my utter surprise, she giggled. And by gods, I’d be damned if I didn’t blush at that sweet, treacly laugh. My lips curved with hers, and widened even more, when she continued with her interrogation. Every second word she managed to utter was interrupted by a new wave of giggles.

‘No, really. Why are you… why are you kneeling like that? Come one, don’t give me that look, don’t look at me like you know something I don’t!’

She pulled me by my arms, her slim, tender fingers digging into my used and shabby overcoat with such surprising force I feared for the stitches that held it together. I grabbed her back, maybe out of that fear, or just simply because I missed the feel of her, her body somewhere near mine, the touch I could squeeze out of our short interactions, how her arms felt in the palms of my hand… I pulled her towards me, with the fullest intent of dragging her to the ground with me, but she was far stronger than I imagined. Now, the prospect of her catching Henry if he’d fall did not seem so abstract, when she somehow managed to maintain her equilibrium and slip from my grasp, jumping a few steps back, still, balancing perfectly of the balls of her feet. She flashed me a toothy grin, and I, the weak man that I was, tried again, just so I could see it again. I reached for her once more, but she was too agile for me, even with her limp, even in that state of suspended half-death, she jumped around me like an eager, young heifer, drafted circles as I wagged and dragged behind her.

‘Quick, Richard, you gotta be quick! Answer me, or you won’t catch me! Come on now, it’s not that hard, just tell me.’

After some more tittering coaxing, that went in a more-or-less similar tune to her first question, I finally gave in. Giddy myself with the marvellous melody of her happiness I could not help but tell her everything she wanted to know. Who was I to refuse her, after all? Before I started though, I waved my hand dismissively in order to lighten the impact of what I was going to say. I didn’t want her to take me for a hopeless case, but I figured that maybe the sheer ridiculousness of my behaviour might help in holding up that magnificent smile a while longer on her lips. I went for so long without seeing it, that now, that I finally got the chance to, I threw myself at it with abandon and hunger of a starving person.

‘I just had an epiphany. A pretty grim one.’ I admitted, pursing my lips, and nodding my head in a very pensive, over-the-top way. Her smile did not widen, but neither did it falter, so I took it for a small success. Her head tilted though, in that feline, interested burst of expression I had seen her making in classes before.

‘Grim? How come?’

Squaring my shoulders, I nodded. To be fair I did not really know if I wanted to tell her all about what just had gone through my head. The violence… the desperate need for it. But I figured that if I ever wanted her to open up to me, to keep on smiling, trusting me like she did a few weeks before, I had to give her something. So, like a coward, I went with the safest option, one that could give me the desired results.

‘Henry.’ I said, and her smile faltered until it faded completely. ‘He… he told me something, and I believed it, and now… well, now I know it not to be true. The epiphany, I guess, was about him.’ A dash of malevolence glimmered in her irises at the mention of his name. She craned her neck backwards, slowly, and very carefully like king cobra lazily hauling her body up and spreading the beige collar in the ultimate warning before dealing the lethal blow. Her hair electrified around her beautiful swan neck, seemingly willed by the sheer force of her ireful mind, and for a second, I thought I caught a glimpse of perilous white fangs, dripping with saliva down onto her tongue.

‘Guess you’re not the first one to be deceived.’ Venomous, was her comment. Stabbing and full of intent to kill. I nodded, half in understanding, half in agreement. ‘What has he said to you?’

I allowed myself a longer pause, just to swallow and gather my thoughts, although I already knew what I was going to say, the second his name left my lips.

‘Henry said he was going to help you. Deal with Bunny.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, he said something like, an eye for an eye. You know, for choking you in the bar. I guess I thought he was going to scare him a bit, take him for a small tumble or…’

A spasm of fear run through my body when her face suddenly twisted and morphed, elongated by the purest iteration of despair. Her lips quivered and curved downwards, brows squeezing and releasing her high forehead in an iron grip of pain. Her eyes screwed up, until her face flooded in stramineous red and then popped back out, capillaries prominent, lashes fluttering, gathering unwanted wetness. She kind of choked, or gurgled, her throat waved and resonated with a snarl of an animal wounded and then a long, desperate whiz. Her hands, pale and thin, shot up, tangling her fingers into the already unruly coiffure. With another panicked exhale she pulled the tightly gripped strands over her face, strained them to their fullest length, and then some more, to the point where I saw the roots of her hair pulling the skin of her head up, and up. Her body convulsed, and then went completely taunt, her chest collapsing over her bent knees. Something in me broke, seeing her like that, something snapped. Not with the fiery, almost-too-cold rage of a mythical beast I felt before. Rather with soft, damp resignation that fills oneself when they find a dead mouse in the trap, they had set themselves the night before. I scooted closer, slowly, announcing my movement to her, so that she would not be scared with my presence, like a good hunter would do with a yet alive prey in need of a final blow. She nodded, still whimpering quietly as I shuffled across the wet pavement. I let my arms snake around her shoulders, tug her head to my chest, so that she would hear the steady beat of my heart, know that it was me, that I was real, and I was indeed there, by her side. She complied, fell forward into my embrace, as if longing for it. Her knees hit the ground, wet splash marked my lap, but none of us cared as I pressed my jaw to the crown of her head, as another wet splash hit my chest. Small, almost unnoticeable droplets slid from her eyes, from the bridge of her nose. The street was empty, just the two of us bundled to the side, shivering, pained and scared together. She could cry as much as she wanted, I shielded her from the rising wind.

‘Shhhhh, hey sweet thing. What’s happened? Come on. It’s all right. It’ll be all right.’ She sobbed into me, and I felt it, not in the physical when the waves of her voice went to crash over my body, but in a much more piercing way. My heart clenched at that. ‘I know, I know. Come one, let’s get up, you’ll catch a cold. See? your pants are already brown from the snow.’

Another froth of waves came crushing my chest, but I managed to haul her up. She nodded frantically over and over, clearly not knowing what to do. Embarrassed, or confused she begun to dry her face with quick, hard stokes, that left long red trails over her cheeks.

‘Yea, yea, you’re right Richard. It’s all so stupid, I’m so stupid, sorry… let me just… just… I’ll be fine in a second. Just. Can you stay a while longer?’ Her voice trembled and fluctuated between a nasal gags and whispery retches. Her head lunched forward and for a second, I thought she was vomiting, but she managed to straighten up. Iron heat rushed to my head, swirled in my stomach. ‘Just stay a bit longer, please. It’s stupid, it’ll pass.’

‘It’s not. You’re not. None of it is. You have every right…’ Red rimmed eyes shot to me, wet with all the things unsaid, undone, longing and hungry. The hunger of her soul reflected in those starry windows overwhelmed me, took my inhibitions, and threw them far, far away. Those were not the eyes of a human, of a mortal. Not with their sharp glints, soft edges, the magnificent colour, knowing glances. Older and wiser than any other eyes I’ve ever seen before. Kind but hardened by life. with the little lines at their corners, that stayed there as a testament to her laugh. But then, when she looked at me, when she mulled over my words and I saw her pupils retract, sag in helplessness and anticipation, to me those were the eyes of an immortal creature, burdened with ancient depth, the eyes of the magnificent daughter of Peneus. Sorrowful, forced to submit, yet unwilling. The eyes of a running Daphne. Then it clicked for me, and venom raised in furious fumes up my throat, bail-chased nausea spined me around, tightened my fists over her elbows, desperate to find a semblance of grounding, as the revelation, slipped the ground from beneath my feet. ‘Hey… you. Come, let’s get you home, how about that?’

One nod for her and I was already dragging her across the pavement, far, far away from the bar. I wanted to take her away, haul her to me and teleport to someplace safe. Salvage her from the dirt and gutter of the streets, from the gaze of people who might cross our way, from the words I, myself spoke. Her feet shuffled on the ground, disoriented and irregular. The shoe, I thought, the damned shoe. The limping leg, scratching the tumbling surface of pavement almost made my ears bleed.

‘I’m going to carry you now,’ I said, surprised at how deep my voice had come out.

Thankfully, she did not object to my statement, I don’t know what I would have done if she did. I took her into my arms, her legs hanging over one of my arms, head snug to my chest. Her arms snuck up and grabbed a hold of my shoulders, seemingly the straw that a drowning man is to clutch. I lunged forward then, my steps long, far apart, almost jumps. The streets passed me in a blur, the people, their wandering, bewildered stares. I did not care for them, for anything other than the slight flutter of her heart, beating slightly under my ribs, other than her warm body pressing into mine. She sobbed into my chest, and that gave me an edge, a mission to complete, a goal. Finally, I had something to do, some means to help. I had never walked as fast, stretched my legs as far apart, as I did when I devoured the steps of the stairwell of her apartment building, fort, sometimes five at a time. All the while I muttered to myself maybe more than to her, words of affirmation, calming phrases. And she was so small, holding onto me. God, so utterly small and shaky, I barely could feel her weight in my arms. I felt like sobbing myself. And my heels clacked along the pavement, and my breath bated, my heart clenched and aching, a steady drum of my steps, as I tore through the darkened bluish veil of night shine. She stayed cooped in my arms, small, sizzling out, yet still breathing. Her leg, the hurt one, marked with carnation-esque blemishes of copper blood, twitched over my bent elbow.

‘Hey, pretty thing, you hang in there, all right?’

I shook her body slightly in my grasp, just to make sure she heard what I said. Glancing down, I noticed that my breath had turned into a puff of grey mist, obscuring her silhouette a bit from me. But it didn’t matter, as long as I could feel the rise and fall of her chest, the small beat of her heart, so, so close to my own. She shrugged. The streets of Hampden appeared to be longer than I remembered. Stretched by a touch of an invisible hand. Darker, than I was used to. More cramped despite there being almost no sole in our field of vision. The unrelenting quiet of the eve, a sound box for my shaky tone. As I walked, the buildings before me appeared to be bending towards me, as if the same malicious hand pushed them with the force of gravity towards me, so that they could close over our heads, burry us in never ending piles of rubble. I would not complain if that was really the case. I would not mutter a word of defiance, only if she would speak to me, answer my question. But the silence between us stretched long and morbid, just like the distance I desperately tried to cover.

‘Are you okay?’

Her sad, big eyes gleamed at me through the canopy of our tangled breaths. Hers – short and shallow – mine – unsteady but deep.

‘No, Richard. I don’t think I am,’ she said, her voice snotty, clogged by the unrelenting stream of tears flooding her face. I had never heard her like that. The rasp, the croaking, all of that it seemed I could take. I could ignore it, or accept it even, purely because those screechy vowels, and high-pitched consonants, those sounds were hers. Formed a part of her, even if it was ugly, deterring. I still could see the beauty in them. Some sort of sardonic fascination, or grotesque appreciation for the abhorrent reality of her. But that mushed sob, she seemingly clawed out of her squeezed windpipes? That wasn’t her own, wasn’t of her making nor intention and so, as it wasn’t purely her, I could not bring myself to muffle the crump tearing my soul in two at the sound of it. I was sure, that if I only tried to respond in some kind of way, opened my mouth, the bone-chilling, banshee scream would fly out of it, scare her so utterly, that I would not be able to hold on to her squirming, scrambling form. And so, I stayed quiet, soaking the prolonged silence of stretched streets.

‘It’s opened,’ she murmured when we finally arrived at her door. By that time, she somehow managed to calm down, and now in her voice rung rather tiredness than the despair from before. ‘I left it open.’ Something in the way she said it, the numb undertone of resignation, when she announced it, chased shivers down my spine. I pushed; the door was indeed left open. Its hinges creaked slightly when they swung, revealing a whole other world to me. The ascetic landscape of her flat took me by surprise and made me stop in my tracks. Nothing, and I mean nothing was where it had been before. No plants, no coffee mugs or glasses, no ashtrays. The one-piece table had been pushed up to the window, while the couch with the glass coffee table stood, crocked and strangely in a line, in the middle of the space. Books, now stacked into neat piles had been gathered around the fireplace. Alarmingly – the Alexander the Great print was nowhere to be seen. Without it, the flat presented itself rather miserably. Like the Mona Lisa without her smile, or the Lady with an Ermine, with her companion scavenging for prey, somewhere outside the frame. I didn’t notice any plants either. Strange how a jungle-like kitchen turns to a complete replica of the Gobi Desert, in matter of mere days.

‘Where do you want me to…’

‘The couch. Please. Thank you.’

I let go of her, letting her body fall and submerge itself into the cushions of the meuble. As she laid back, the soft material of her dress slid over my arms, cold and silky, making me realise how hot, almost feverish, my skin had become. It was her, all her. Splayed in that mangled pose, her knees raised slightly up, hands thrown over the headrest, hair tangling everywhere, she looked most tragically. Most divine. Sudden hunger rumbled in my stomach, resonated along my spine and ribs, and I had to dip my head down, kneel before her in a mock attempt at loosening her shoelaces, in order to mask the scowl, it had produced on my face.

‘We should take off those shoes, you hear me. Matter of fact, we should burn them at once, or throw them into the river. See? How bloody your socks are? Completely soaked. No, you should never wear those again. Why didn’t you return them? They’re clearly too small for you.’

I tried to force every fibre of my body to bend into an apologetic, careful pose, one that would pose no threat to her. Not that I did, I just didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, as I fiddled with the leather at her feet. I tried to be as small, as servile as possible. I wanted her to remember that moment, to rely on it in times of fear. Or then, right in that flat, squatted around the couch, I wanted her to see me as I was, Richard Papen, the most reliable, safe presence in her life. Better than Henry, than Bunny, than Charles or Camilla, or anyone else. Anyway, it did not matter what I did or did not do. She remained unresponsive to my every query. Only when, halfway through unlacing her second shoe, I proposed that I could maybe make some tea for the both of us, seeing as we were drenched in brownish-snowish pulp, head to toe, and our noses, resembled more a ripe set of cranberries in colour than a normal part of a human body, she murmured something, rather unbefitting of a lady, and I decided to take that as a ‘no’.

‘Aye, those are real torture devices, I really can’t understand why you keep wearing them.’

Her legs were daft, almost waxy as I gently slid off the shoes from her feet. It seemed as if I was catering to a giant doll, unable to bend her knees, or change positions. Like finest crockery her skin glistened with a sheer sheet of sweaty glaze, moon-kissed and pale, even at her lowest she rendered such a powerful aura around her, I, the sane and most certainly more empowered out of us two, felt like game. Game to the real hunter – my own desire.

‘Have you ever heard Richard… there is this thing those cool, riotous dads tell their children when they get slightly injured and raise inadequate ruckus. Something like… well, if your finger hurts, then hit your head, then the finger will stop hurting.’

I laughed, dryly, rather focused on the copper smudges soaked into the white cotton of her socks, than her. I knew that if I looked up, faced her beaming, pleading eyes, I would not be able to control myself. I would unravel before her, cry or wail or fall to the ground to roll in my gloom and ineptness, and that was the last thing she needed.

‘I don’t quite know what you mean. If I ever cried, my dad just told me to shut up and soak it up.’

‘That’s tough love for ya,’ Over my scoffing I heard her snort as well, although she had to snarl right afterwards and prevent snot from overflowing her nostrils. ‘But no, the bang your head method actually makes some sense, to me at least. If something hurts, like finger, and it hurts real bad, then maybe hurting your head more will, well not alleviate the pain from the finger, but focus your attention on the splitting headache you get next. A bait and bleed, but for pain.’

‘So, does your finger hurt?’

Her hands moved. One grabbed at the scarf woven around her neck, the other lifted the hem of her skirt, slowly bunching it upwards, cumulating the small creases into her fingers, one after the other. Agile and skilled like a tiny spider gathering its web. As the folds of her clothes compressed further, diminished, as they slid slowly against her body, the more and more of waxy-pale skin I saw. What I saw, at least up there, on her neck, I somehow anticipated. Black and blueish marks forming a faint shape of a hand, big and spread across her larynx, imprinted with conviction and goal – to muffle any sound that it might’ve produced. But down there, where her skit got hiked up to her hip, I could never prepare myself for what I saw there.

‘Finger. Fingers. Thighs. Neck, calves, wrists, ribs, ears, eyes, chest, lungs, stomach.’

Her monotone voice filled my ears with an oceanic roar. Purple stains, red scratches and spotty chafing jigged and bounced a pagan dance across her skin, I saw them and in a sort of semi-empiric sort of way I felt them stomp on my thighs, hurt, and twist my nerves in a hellish grip, dastardly burning through right to my bones like and acrid pools of venom. I could only suspect how much she was suffering. The muscle above my knee twitched and spasmed painfully, bringing me back, polarising on the here and now, as her daft fingers weaved through the silky waves of her skirt. And the bruises I saw there. Burgeoning, at the precipice of her thighs, in a bedlam of rioting, furious reds, nauseous greens and mournful purples. Vulgar motley splayed all the way from her bony knees to, as far as my eyes could reach, the slight peaks of her quadriceps. Brutish handprints grabbing at her with a phantom, everlasting grip, swallowed every paled inch of her skin, and looking at them I felt how they burned on me.

‘Everything hurts, Richard. The shoes though… they’re more physical.’

Then she looked away, into the void above my head, and it seemed she found some familiar comfort in that unfocused blank state.

‘We’ve all got good many things that pain us, I just never thought I would prefer the horrid burn of flesh over my ethereal torments.’

‘Lean back, sweet thing, all right?’ It was hard for me to take the skirts out of her fingers, but I managed to do so, even with the trembling of my stems, I pulled the material in most gentle manor and yet it staggered on her knee and stayed there. She didn’t mind. ‘You need anything else?’

For a second, I saw a shadow of focus march across her face. And then the stare came, the terrifyingly polarising, pulverising gaze that crossed universes and souls, crush them, crush me, the game to the hunter of her eyes. Contagious, like a mood that passes into you, a sound that creeps on the border of your mind a tune you repeat, on and on and on, and with time you begin to dread and hate it, until it loops, and you cannot hear naught, but that single melody. Her will, so strange and strong, shined amongst that onslaught of power stirring in her pupils like the tolling of a bell.

‘The pills. The ones in the cupboard. Right there.’

I followed the path her finger drafted in the air right to the kitchen. Clean, empty, eerily not her. I reached into the cupboard, surprisingly containing no cups, just a messy pile of packets and bottles with different kinds of medicine. Some of them green, others pink or purple or blue. Safe to say the cupboard seemed to be containing all the colour drained from the apartment. In the corner of the shelf, I thought I saw a greyish piece of cloth or canvas, like the one stretched over the hearth with Alexander on it, but I did not let myself linger on that.

‘Which ones do you want?’

I observed the back of her head from where I stood. She wasn’t moving and if she hadn’t responded to my question, I’d thought that the second I walked away, she transcended into the plain of death by the sheer power of her hollow stare.

‘Duragesic.’

‘Forte?’

‘Ye, ye. And water, please.’

‘I can bring you some in my hands, otherwise, I don’t see how.’

‘Oh, yeah, right. Then no water.’

She said that as if the marginal lack of any glasses or cups in her apartment was some cardinal truth, she just so happened to forget.

I brought the whole package to her, although I pondered a while if it would be safer to just squeeze a couple of the pills out and hand them to her like that. But I ultimately thought she wouldn’t like that. So, I just threw the silver leaflet her way, and like a starved animal she nearly tore her way to the pills through the plastic safety-packing. I watched in horror as she downed not one, not two and not three but four white, oval pills. And then she swallowed, without blinking an eye. She must’ve gathered some saliva in her mouth beforehand to help them go down, either way the bulge that painfully dragged down her throat went down uncomfortably slow, and I could see her face contorting at the unsavoury, bitter aftertaste. But then she moved, really moved, and smiled, like nothing I’ve seen her do on that day, or the weeks before. Her body loosened and lost a certain quality of strain as if some magical, invisible rope feel from it, releasing her consciousness into a more senile, easy state. Worry evaporated from me like dew on a hot, summer day, and I smiled back at her.

‘What now?’

‘Now, Richard dearest, I go to sleep. And you, you do what you want. Make it worthwhile. Be happy while you do it. Do not hurt.’

She started to shift clumsily on the sofa and so I came closer to lift her legs and help in making herself comfortable. Her head dragged along the pillows back and forth, heavily, filled with woolly haze of the medicine. Her eyelids fluttered in a drowsy rhythm, shoving away the waves of sleepiness as she stared at me and mouthed something, some kind of advice I could not read. I shuffled closer, bent my neck so that my ear could gather the soft nectar dripping from her lips.

‘Or take some pills, I’ve money for some more. And sleep. Sleep is the best solution for dwelling my dear. In sleep you don’t remember, you do not feel. It is just you and the dark void all around you.’

I jumped back at the slurring onslaught of her words, vicious and sad. In doing so I carelessly stepped on the tale of my coat and crumbled to the floor. Her laugh, deranged and dry followed me in my way down, resonated in my bones as I came into the contact with the cold, hard ground. Wind whistled in that cruel giggle as she quickly switched into a humming tune, mocking my fall. Any humour run away from me at the sound of that maddened croak, like liquids seeping out of a corpse. She was right, the physical pain of my backbone might’ve been grounding, comforting against the cruel tear I felt when she pointed at me and laughed.

‘Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme, ce beau matin d'été si doux: au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme sur un lit semé de Cailloux.’

Pointing an accusatory finger at me, as if I were the aforementioned carcass, she swayed to the rhythm of her words, wild smile stretching her face, pupils dilated and gleaming with a strange glow. Sweat came onto her forehead and her eyes bathed in a strange mist of pure delirium. I plucked my eyes away. It was like hand-picking them out of my skull.

‘Les jambes en l'air, comme une femme lubrique, come on, open your legs Richard, brûlante et suant les poisons, ouvrait d'une façon nonchalante et cynique son ventre plein d'exhalaisons.’

A strange lullaby, and so it was, but so was she. And she chanted like that for a second more, mesmerising me, pulling with the gravity of her flawless French and taunting words down, down the spiral with her, until her wrist limped, her hand slowly lowered, and her eyelids closed. Her breath steadied, deepened and soon I realized she fell asleep mid-sentence. I watched for a while, took a hold of her hand, and counted the pumps of her blood. Then her neck, as I studied the slow ticks on her face. She dreamed, I gathered, instead of sleeping, like she intended, but at least in that state she was left alone. Terrified of leaving her like that, in her solitude, to awake in an empty, cold apartment I stayed there for a while. But my body twitched and squirmed into action. As her breath came in, poisonous rage flowed into me, burning every inactive cell. The dragon-slaying knight in shining armour awakened inside of me once again and without thinking, I stumbled onto my feet, took off my coat to put something around her, so she would freeze, and staggered out of the flat. My gait strayed uneven, but my steps gained in audacity and purpose with every meter devoured. With bitter taste of upcoming glory, I directed myself towards Henry’s layer.

My head was light, soaring miles away from Earth, breaking through the cotton barriers of clouds, shoving stars out of my way, dispersing galaxies, I was hot and cold at the same time, waves of burning strain crashed within my muscles with every stretch and cramp, and the wind cooled my body, now bared to it, rid of the safe layer of a coat. Greatest discomfort resonated all the way from my feet to my knees, as the soles of my shoes slipped every now and again against the wet cobblestone of the streets. Every cant of every stone, every empty space left by a stray foundation of the pavement filled me with utter desperation and an emotion so strong, so indescribable, I nearly threw up. Everything was too tight on my body, too damp and too cold. My hands suddenly appeared to bony and fragile as I balled them into fists at my sides to stop the antsy ticks that dripped over the joint of my fingers. At the back of my skull formed a sort of pressure familiar to some, especially those suffering from strong migraines. I experienced pain like that before, mainly due to alcohol overuse or exhaustion, never like that though. I had never feared for my precious eyeballs so much, never dreaded and anticipated the moment the pressure would become too much, and they’d pop right out of my eye sockets. My cheeks hollowed out, pulled to the inside of my mouth and I nibbled at the soft tissue to distract myself from the growing dizziness radiating straight from my corneas. Iron floated to my tongue, brought out bitter taste of anger even more. Ire and pain fumed in me like twin forces spurring each other on, keeping their flames burning.

I don’t remember much of my journey, how I got to where I had to be, how I managed to not crush into anyone or anything or any particular details of the spaces I run through, just the angry swelling of the darkened sky, as the clouds gathered to bring forth a snowstorm. I prayed, all the way there, that Henry would be home. And if not, I was wholly ready to roam across different apartments, even the campus to find him and shove my fist as far back his throat, so that he could see the stars that currently jumped around my field of vision. Seething, manifesting I arrived at his door, and I don’t know if thanks to my stupid luck, or the power of divine beings listening in on my pleadings, he was. In a matter of seconds, he answered to my brazen knocking, his dark head poked through a crack of an opened door, gold, short chain of a lock resting slightly against his curls. And maybe it was the sheer existence of the chain, maybe the austere face beneath it, but my tongue suddenly stuck to the roof of my mouth, dry and stiff as a log. I had so many things I wanted to say, to do, so many scenarios I planned in my mind, a myriad of quips, of angry yaps and barks, and yet in the face of a real challenge, when he measured me with his cold, distant gaze, I found I had nothing to say to him. I took a breath and stopped. My lungs swelled, pushed my chest out, he stared, not even bothering to unlock the door, as if I was just some peddler, bothering him. I shifted, trying to gaze into the apartment, he moved with me, squaring his shoulders, and obscuring my view completely. Either way I would be able to see anything like that, the light inside was turned off.

‘Richard,’ he said finally, his voice empty and flat. ‘What brings you here?’

I wasn’t able to speak yet, not even force myself to breathe properly. So, through some strange, dreamy influence, I raised my hands to the sides of my head and wagged my fingers back and forth, like when little kids do, if they want to imitate a bunny, which gathered no reaction from him, so I lowered my make-believe ears and wrapped them around my throat. And when his brows soared across his forehead, clearly not understanding what I was trying to communicate, I started to toss my head around, squirm and convulse. Muffled gurgles escaped my throat as my fingers tightened and tightened, squeezing my larynx in a grip I would never suspect myself of being able to pull. This must’ve come as quite a shock to him, to see me choke myself right at his doorstep.

‘What the- Richard, Jesus Christ! What are you doing?’

In one swift motion he tore the chain out of its place and swinging the door open, pulled me in by the collar. The move was so unexpected and at once so strong that I staggered forward, struggling to find any footing and by the end of my tumble I swung in the grasp of his extended hand – the only thing that saved me from smashing my face against the floor. My shirt creaked and I think popped unexpectedly at the seam, right over my left scapula. I whined, baffled, loud enough for the two men sitting inside to turn towards me.

The room I found, or rather forced, myself into was dark. Not dark like the night, that snuck up on me, quiet like a thief, right outside the building. No, rather dark like lack of any light. The curtains were drawn and only the luminescent outer line of windows. The rest of the room got drowned out in a blue-black cold of darkness. The air inside was stuffy and reeked of alcohol mixed with sweaty fumes of tobacco, likely suspended in the small space of what I could only assume was a saloon, for long hours. To the sides, against the walls and between various shapes, most probably pieces of furniture, poked some strange, sharp, and fuzzy or delicate and swaying objects. Plants, I thought to myself as I saw that some of them stood proudly on lean wooden stems, and other chose to bend down and slither right into the murky embrace of dark sliding across the floor. Heavy mist of conspiracy wrapped itself around the whole space, tucked itself into every nook and cranny. What struck me the most about the apartment though, was the utterly perfect silence scattered across it, disturbed only periodically by the cars passing slowly by, down, down, down below. Against the backdrop of obscured rectangles of windows two man sat, lit from behind, their sharp features presented themselves disturbingly alien. Their hair, accumulated around their heads into thick manes of dark matter, lighter only at the ends, when the moon could tear through the sheerest layers and colour them in coronae of copper and gold. Long faces starved and caved in at the edges, bone-showing, dead-eyed, terrifying sculptures tasked me with unison judgment. The smaller, gilded boy nursed a glass against his abdomen, the other, red judge held up a smoking pipe. God, how I wished to be drunk in that moment.

‘Oh, Richard, fancy seeing you here.’

‘Do you really, Francis?’

Once Henry released me, I stumbled a bit forward then regained my balance. Somehow, I discovered it was much easier to regain my previous rebellious disposition when I didn’t have to face him. It was easier to be a dick towards Francis, than Henry. To spit all the venom the bile accumulated throughout the day, days, weeks. It was easier to speak the truth when the person I feared most telling it to wasn’t facing me. The boys in the chairs shuffled uncomfortably, Charles swirled the drink in his glass a couple of times. Dark liquid swirled into a small tornado and then fell back into its given shape. I bit the inside of my cheek.

‘Are you alone? Is it just the three of you?’

An uneven drag sounded somewhere behind me, most likely announcing that Henry chose to change positions or chose his sitting anew.

‘What’s it to you?’ He asked. ‘You come over unannounced, barge in, you don’t even answer our questions, and now you expect us to answer yours?’

Something in his voice, maybe the cold distance or the chilling indifference towards my exemplary rudeness, unnerved me. As if he wasn’t even bothered nor interested by it all, cut off completely from me, from the world, from its actions. Maybe it was his resignation that rendered him so inhuman, stirred him to ask and answer and act like a robot, inquiring on auto pilot, that took me to the hights of my ire.

‘I met her, I was at her apartment, she’s got the bruises still, she’s a mess. I’m here because you’re here. Sitting. Doing nothing, and she withers. I’m here because you don’t even know that, because you don’t even bother to check. So now, are you alone?’

A quick glance exchanged by the boys in the chairs told me they knew. Three steps and I was by them, starring daggers into the beautiful, alien aureoles of their heads. My hands gripped the headrests above them, ruffled them into my fists, successfully closing in on them, creating a circle of my arms so that they could not escape me.

‘She does not have water at her apartment, no lants, no books, nothing. It does not even look like her apartment no more. She lives there alone, sleeps on the couch, leaves the door open, and you won’t even talk to her, you talk to Bunny, miserable traitors.’

‘What traitors, Richard? We’re all friends here, she just focuses on her studies more right now, come on, why so angry?’

‘Oh, don’t give me that shit Francis. There is something terribly wrong going on inside of her, she faced and managed to get away from a terrible fate, we didn’t act in time and now you act like nothing happened?! You cut her off when she needed you, you let her disappear, you-‘

I spun on my heel, not carrying about the yaps of the boys raising from their chairs grabbing at me, when I already stepped away, decided on my new direction. I pointed an accusatory finger into the dark, where a lean dark shadow stood perched, no sign of shame seeded in its body. ‘You let her go you allowed to go away, you changed your school desks, you bastrad. You might as well be the reason for her being like this right now!’

Something hard and overwhelmingly heavy hit my back, settled between my shoulder blades. A sweet smell, floral and light hit my nostrils as I felt a sharp cheek bone digging into my jaw, bony hands sliding across it, trying to grip and close my mouth.

‘Stop screaming, stop fucking screaming, Richard, stop it, now I tell you!’

High-pitched squeals of Charles filled my ears as I dug my elbow into his ribs and shrugged his weight off my shoulders in an unbelievable fit of athletic prowess. Somewhere, in the corners of my eye I noticed that he stumbled a few steps back and knocked into Francis, who apparently was hot on my heels. I took the opportunity and lunged forward, tearing my throat out.

‘You shut up, you shut up, just shut up, and do something! You abandoned her, you-‘

I didn’t not expect the clash. Nor did I expect the arms, the bronze snarls, that wrapped around me, my nape, my head, auspiciously muffling my screams, tugging me into the grey mass that was my opponent. The tumble was unfair, predestined from the second I took my first step, I knew it, when Henry’s surprisingly hot breath fanned my ear. Funny, at this point I thought he would cough and wheezing with icy stilettos, instead he huffed pure fire. Matter of fact, his whole body fumed with ghastly feverish heat waves, unbalancing the air around us. I felt something rumbling in his chest, like a thunder, and then as his fingers comped through the locks at the back of my head and pulled it backwards, painfully far, strikingly ungentle, I saw his face clearly, for what I could gather, first time in weeks.

All fell silent when I met his gaze and the room, the boys, their animalistic pants, the plant, it all disappeared, and all that existed, all that lived, and breathed died and focused inside of those black, soulless shark eyes.

Scrupulously austere, locked into a heavy mask was his physiognomy. And yet, up close I could see the cracks. Harsh and deep in how his brows furrowed, how his lips turned down their corners, how a vein popped regularly on his forehead. His glasses cast no reflection, no shadows over his dark eyes as they filled with such torment, such ache I don’t think I would be ever able to gaze into them if he wasn’t holding me still, craning over me like a gargoyle swinging off a cathedral’s roof, judging the sinners, scaring off the unfaithful. In that bend he looked starved, famished and lonely for something. I though, in a brilliant second of sobriety, that, as I had noticed before, those eyes were a mirror image of hers. He too, surprisingly enough, had not took the severance too well. Maybe the half that she lost, and he so desperately searched for in my face, the filling they both lacked and without which they could not live, was one and the same.

I did not expect to see through his heart’s frosty discipline so easily, so abruptly and so it was not the grip truly, that had settled me into stillness, but that beggar’s stare. For a split moment we stood in silence, locked in a hug so uncomfortable, on both physical and metaphysical plane, I cringed. From the depths of me surged disgust, slimy and languid, and as his eyes flew over my form, I felt it crawling up my throat. Pathetic, I thought, he was pathetic gripping me like that, lazy for expecting me to hand him a dagger of words that could disembowel him. And yet between the irregular crack of his face, amongst the frosty spikes of hoar and rime I saw a soft spark of something strong, still not forged into completion, but nursed and thought over countless times. It was not ire, not anger, not pain. Calculated and mixed into a brew stronger than any combination of those emotions, he, probably yet not aware of the fact, has flung himself into a spiral of vicious madness, unrecognisable to those, who had not experienced misery. So, I spoke, handed him the tanto.

‘Where is your honour, Henry? What are you doing, pushing her away? Do you want to punish her, instead of him?’

With that, his guts spilled, the truth gushed out of his mouth. And his eyes, like the shark’s buttony orbs dilated at the smell of his own blood.

‘I’m not punishing her. I’m protecting her, keeping away from the just punishment I plan to deal.’

His voice sounded husky, gravely in my ear as he seeped venom into it. It burned, the temperature, the words, the slight tremble of his vocal cords as it all splashed against the shell and soaked into the eardrum.

‘I’m going to kill Bunny for what he had done to her, to us, to others, and she’ll have nothing to with this. With me.’

Stunned, I mulled over his words, I let the marinate inside my brain and I nibbled on every syllable like a capricious critic. I took them in, broke the pallet of tastes, analysed. Finally, after swallowing the context, after understanding the bitter flavour he has served me, slowly, I nodded.

‘But I will,’ not a question, a statement. ‘They will as well.’

Two shadows hummed in unison behind me, giving me an almost silent confirmation of what I’ve already figured out. A Cheshire, lucid grin cracked opened on Henry’s lips, as he too let out a pleased sound. His teeth, straight and white gleamed in the dark, two rows of beastly weapons.

‘I don’t think you have a choice, Richard, now you join us, or you join Bunny.’

Fear and trepidation scurried cross me as I realised, I had walked right into a murder council. Worse, elation washed over me with the realisation that the head of the jury, the demented predator, currently holding me in his grip, had no mercy to give to the swine I most desired to see dead.

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

i LOVED your fic for camilla! she is my bbg!!! can you do a purely fluff fic for her? i dunno maybe they’ve both had a really long day of studying and just cuddle!! thank you! :)

Thank you for the request, and I must agree, Camilla is really bbg:)

Warmth

Today was an awful long day.

The night before wasn’t better either, there was a storm all night and my dear Y/N was unable to sleep, and I couldn’t either. So waking up in a mood gave the whole feeling to our day. We topped it with our lectures, some library time with a load of schoolwork that Julian put on us and we went shopping for groceries, given the fact that our fridge was nearly empty. At least we could get quite some chocolate and sweets for ourselves.

Just when we thought we could relax, the owner of the building stopped by, thankfully only for a short amount of time to renew our contract. When he left, both of us just stripped down to our underwear. It was comical when both of us let out a relieved sigh the second we unclasped our bras.

We laid down into our king sized bed and snuggled up. Her skin was warm and soft against mine, and her breathing lulled me to sleep. Sleeping with Y/N was heaven on earth, she would always wait for me to fall asleep so she could caress me into sleep. She stroked my hair, traced her pinky finger on the bridge of my nose gently. Her motherly touch and nature was everything.

I made sure to return the comforting favour of hers. I left soft kisses on her naked skin, letting my lips linger. I also made sure to throw her leg over my waist, the weight of her thigh was comforting and I knew that it was the position that was most comfortable for her.

I woke up to a sweet scent lingering in the air and Y/N nowhere to be seen, minutes later she came in with a tray in her hand. It had tea on it and some strawberry cupcakes that she made.

“I wanted to surprise you, you were absolutely passed out, I checked on you multiple times and you slept like a bear” she giggled along with me as she fed me her masterpiece of a cupcake.

“These are amazing, as always. How lucky I am to have a girl as talented as you all to myself, eh?” I kissed her blushing cheeks.

“I am the lucky one, Milly.”

We stayed like that until the moon came up, when it did, we feel into another slumber. Tangled into eachother.

[charlie-and-milla]

Blended Family

A British Royal Family AU

The year was 1986. After only five years of marriage, Prince Charles and Diana, Princess of Wales had finalized their divorce, for reasons unknown to the public but well known inside their circle.

No compatibility, mutual aggression towards each other, and cheating on both sides—neither party was innocent, but both fully believed they were in the right.

Charles had the upper hand. Diana couldn't badmouth him to the press—she wouldn't dare risk losing her title. Which meant she couldn't spill that his mistress was living with him, among other things.

Charles and Diana had fifty-fifty custody of five-year-old William and two-year-old Harry. To Charles's delight (and to Diana's dismay), they liked their father's partner Camilla quite a lot. After all, she was taking care of them with Charles half the time.

Charles's plan was to slowly and carefully introduce his darling Camilla to the public, while Diana watched bitterly from afar. They couldn't marry, of course, since they were both divorced, but they would be able to be together publicly. It was a good idea, approved by the Queen.

Until the day in early November when that perfect plan was destroyed—and the tables turned suddenly in Diana's favour.

***

I will post the first chapter soon!

[reprimos]

this is pretty much just a word vomit oneshot of the glass scene with camilla but from my interp of milly’s perspective <3 yeah. xoxo.

tw: blood, injuries. this one is very very light in comparison to my new works coming soon.

a/n: this is from over a year ago so my writing isn’t the best, but i still love this work .. so here ^^. originally posted on ig.

⠀ “Camilla, are you dead?” Hurried footsteps across the grass, hushed cries – was it really so bad?

⠀ The voice was so familiar, so close she swore she could almost touch it – but, as panic-stricken as it was, it was muffled, underwater. Or perhaps she was under water. She could see colors, the gold of the sunlight against her eyelids – and she had no doubt that, should she open her hollow eyes, they’d be filled with blues and greens and whites, an uncanny portrait of picturesque beauty; the scenario of saturday sitcom, birds chirping and laughter ringing.

⠀ … She would rather keep them shut.

⠀ It made it easier to bear that way. In the faux darkness, she could conjure a different pallet that distracted her enough to remember how to breathe. Easier, not because the pain bit so deep that she wanted to cry like a lost child, and certainly not because she was dizzy from the blood loss ( though she was certainly disappointed to realize her favorite dress had been stained crimson ) – but most of all, because that wound was a key, unlocking something he’d shoved deep within her marble heart.

⠀ No one knew about the scar that slashed jagged across the sole of her foot. She’d always worn slippers, socks, shoes, something the others chalked up to her “ladylike tendencies”, her “girlish needs” ( particularly Bunny, privy as he was to pointing out every flawed, feminine side of her ). The only one who’d seen the wound was her grandmother; the dear, old crone.

⠀ Camilla had always been addicted to adrenaline, always ached to get on her feet and move. Everyone was familiar with this; they’d all seen how her leg bounced in classes, how a book was a mere prop in her itching hands, only blankly thumbed through its pages until someone suggested they go out to dinner. This was no different as a child. No taller than four-foot-ten, she’d tug on her grandmother’s arms, begging them to let her play in the fields with the wild rabbits and rushing creeks. The lady would often scold her, turning her around and sending her to put on a dress, rather than the deep blue overalls she had found in Charles’s room. A huff of annoyance and she was off, trudging up the stairs and slinking into her room, dejected and still ever so bored. She stayed there, silent and bitter, waiting for the sun to set and the day to end. It was a waste of time. She could have been doing something better, something that would be useful to a growing child’s mind ( she supposed that her free time was meant to be spent however she so desired, after all ). “Rest is important,” adults would say; learning when to take a step back and recover, learning how to just sit and drink some tea, have a warm cookie. But Camilla questioned the validity of such statements, given she had yet to experience a want or need to “take it slow”. It seemed more like a tale told to ease the mind, reduce the stress of “growing up”.

⠀ So when the sun fell askew, stars glittering on a void of ink, Camilla sat up in bed. She had since then changed into a soft nightgown made for little girls, the sleeves long and thick with white cotton. The fabric touched the edges of her toes as she shuffled to a stand, blinking blearily until her eyes adjusted to the dark. The blonde could hear the faint sound of snores down the hall, leaking from her grandparents room. No doubt everyone was dead asleep – it was half past two, and none of them were up later than eleven.

⠀ But Camilla couldn’t just go back to sleep, could she? She hadn’t completed her “one exciting thing a day” ( a silly little rule she had come up with after a summer she’d spent doing nothing but idly waiting around the house – perhaps the worst three months of her life ). Her little hands blindly grasped at the dark mass of her night-table, until they latched on to the candlestick her grandfather had gifted her. It would have been far better to find a flashlight, but the only one in the dusty old home was hidden above the refrigerator. So instead she fumbled with the small matchbox, the flame bright as it spread to the wick and she was off. Shielding the candle with her hand from the biting wind, she stepped out onto the wet grass, relishing the breeze, the scent of fresh rain. She waded through overgrown plants to the little horses stable downwind of the field, watching as the snow-white skirts were stained at the hem.

⠀ She’d always been fond of the horses; particularly her grandma’s older one, Otus, a large black steed. The girl had never seen her grandmother ride it, her old age and deteriorating body a cage ( Camilla vowed to never grow old ). But she had seen the photos, the sleek look of the creature, the ecstasy on the woman’s smiling face. Oftentimes she’d pout, begging her grandma to let her play with the horses.

⠀ And always, she’d reply “no, Camilla. It’s much too dangerous for a girl like you.”

⠀ Now, looking face-to-face up at the horse, it seemed much bigger in person. Not even the stool would get the child up on its back safely. But no matter; she was a clever girl, and within seconds, she had turned the stool on its side and propped it up against the thick metal fence. Wobbling, she toed the pole, balancing on it like it was a gymnast’s beam. The horse, old and patient, only watched her with disinterest as she made her way towards it. Meekly, she offered the horse a “hello”, almost expecting it to speak back like a fairytale.

⠀ Stupid, stupid child.

⠀ And perhaps even more stupid as she reached out to its mane, slowly gripping as she hoisted herself from the fence and onto the animal. She’d never seen anyone actually ride the horses – how was she supposed to know what to do? ⠀

Otus’s grunt of protest rang and Camilla yelped, only barely seated on its hide. Her fingers wound themselves further into the horse’s hair, agitating the poor animal – he cantered for a moment, hooves clopping into the mud, before he heaved –

⠀ And bucked Camilla right off into the metal gate.

⠀ Unlike the fences, the gate was not made with thick, rounded poles – no, it was crafted masterfully with thin bars of metal, clearly for aesthetic purposes. They curled and twisted like storybook vines, something she used to admire. Of course, now, it was not to her liking. The long, skewer-like bits seemed like the open jaws of a shark as she fell, the sole of her foot and thigh colliding with the points. Pain bit and blood flew, and the ice-cold exterior caused by the day's rushing rain certainly was no help. It stung like nothing she’d ever felt ( which was admittedly a low bar; she was, after all, a bit of a sheltered child ), and she knew she’d be in trouble, but she couldn’t help it. She cried out.

⠀ The sound of her wailing was enough to reach the distant house, waking the residents. From the horizon she could see her grandparents’ bedroom light flick on, the silhouette of a woman hurriedly slipping on a dressing gown and tumbling out the door.

⠀ Admittedly, everything else seemed a blur; by the time her grandmother reached her, hair tangled and wrinkled face tight, the wind had died down and her skin had grown numb from the cold. She could faintly remember the hushed, angry tone riling the lady’s voice, how her foot stung and cried tears of red when she stood, bracing herself in her grandmother’s arm. The trek home was a long, impractical wobble-on-one-foot, and she swore the grass was made of tiny blades of glass.

⠀ Camilla didn’t know how she’d gotten inside the dark house, or how she’d sat herself down on the cushioned seats beside the front door. She didn’t know how her Grandmother cleaned her wounds, or what she’d said to scorn Camilla’s shameful behavior. All she did recall was the gentle flickering of that candlelight. It burned, it pulsed, wax dripping and she remembered thinking it looked as if it was weeping.

By the time she’d been set down, she had opened her eyes, surprised for a moment to find her limbs were those of an adult. It was strange how much the day seemed to resemble the night it all happened. The once-sunny skies were blocked by a sudden swirl of clouds, and the air had grown cool to the touch, goosebumps littering her skin. In a way, the little summer home was not unlike her childhood house, too. She studied the pale walls, the chairs and windows, pretty flowers sagging without the warmth of sunlight.

⠀ But her eyes caught on something different. Amongst the flowerbeds of pinks, reds, blues, just above the windowsill and behind the glass, there it was. Something flickered inside, beyond the glass threshold. Flickered, like it was alive, a little dancing light. A singular, tall candlestick, lit amongst the dimmed rooms.

⠀ The familiar scene was a chain wrapped around her neck, violently closing around her and yanking her back into reality. The colors of a darkened sky, golden hues across the clouds as the sun slowly returned, became nothing more than a small flame’s light reflected against pale walls and blood-stained wood. Some magical artifact, a treasure worthy of her only childhood comfort, became wax in her hands; stripped of its value and glory. And Camilla was just a child again, sat in a lovely prison, completely powerless to life’s whims. Her lovely dream and gentle fantasy had come to an end, replaced by a hardened and dull reality. This was her life now, wasn’t it? She hadn’t escaped, at all. She was only covering up the tracks of her mistakes.

⠀ A flinch, and her brother drew back, hissing like a cat. She blinked, and clouds became clouds once more. her body felt heavy, as though her soul had just returned to it and settled in the pit of her stomach. “Well? Go on.”

⠀ “I can’t do it. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

Foolish, foolish Charles. She was already hurt; she had been hurt many times. She was not porcelain, glass ( despite the face she wore – she had to admit that she did encouraged the idea, to an extent ). For a moment she felt pity for her twin as their mirrored eyes met and she saw the sickening worry lurching in his pupils. Poor, foolish Charles.

⠀ So she watched as Henry pushed the blonde to the side, his large build skewing her view for just a moment, the sun blocked out and she relished in the shadow. What was all this worth, if she could not escape?

⠀ And suddenly, it was over as quick as it began. Francis and Henry called her brave for handling the pain without a single tear. How carelessly the word “brave” was thrown about. Camilla had not been “brave”; she’d been nothing but a liar hiding behind walls made of stuffed-toys and her grandmother’s freshly baked cookies.

⠀ “Don’t call me that,” she sighed as her feet hit the ground, slipping from Henry’s grasp as though she did not need the support – a lie, given how she winced as soon as her wound made contact. “If anything, Charles is the brave one for not hurling at the sight of a little blood.” No matter how she teased, though, the edge remained in her voice. She knew he – Charles – felt the same thing she did.

⠀ Remembered the same thing she did.

[urfavoritedcwhore]

Idea for Henry Marchbanks Winter fanfic: He gets extremely jealous. Maybe even a break up? And getting back together … could be wrote in multiple parts!

love this idea

break//henry winter x reader fanfic

a prelude to my “phone sex” fanfic.

warnings: swearing, drinking, slight mention of being sick.

not proof read//reminder that english isn’t my first language, sorry if i mess up<33

lowercase intended

i wrote this at 4am so please bare with me.

henry is almost always jealous. Whether, I am helping Charles cook or helping Bunny with his literature assignments, just little harmless things really. He always has a “stern talk” with me about it afterwards, in which i explain myself and everything goes back to normal. it’s almost comedic how often it happens. let’s talk about what’s happening right now. i’m half drunk, holding henry’s arm as he and bunny bicker drunkenly over….well actually im not sure. all i’ve been doing is giggling and watching henry’s reactions to bunny’s words. we’re all at charles’s and camilla’s apartment as of right now. dinner went well but perusal, everyone has had too much to drink. i think camilla and charles are in the kitchen, i can hear francis and richard behind me on the couch, and of course bunny stands in front of henry and i. i’m watching them and giggling when i feel a hand on my shoulder. i turn around with a chuckle as i half expecting it to be camila coming to watch the quarrel with me. instead i turn to see a drunk richard stumbling on one foot down to the other. he’s smiling boyishly at me, “come dance with me.”, he says nodding to the open space in the living room. faintly from the record player i can hear Valerie Delaney’s, “Six Gnossiennes: Gnossienne No. 1”. i twist my mouth to the side before looking up at henry, who’s still bickering with bunny. i shrug and release my grip on henry’s arm as i turn back to richard, “why not.”, i say before stumbling to the open floor space in the living room. i giggle softly, (something i’m very prone to doing after having a few scotches), and stumble as i look at him. “what kind of dance are you suggesting?”, i ask. he stumbles back a bit and grabs my hands, interlocking his fingers with mine and shrugging as he gives me a drunken smile. he pulls me close as he moves our hands to the sides of us, allowing our bodies to press against eachother. we both stumble for a moment and laugh before we eventually find the rhythm and sway to the music. now listen and understand me, i am in no way attracted to richard papen; hell, i’m pretty sure he’s gay. so in my mind dancing with him, is not different then if i were to dance with francis or even camilla. it’s friendly. when his fingers disconnect from mine and his hands find there way to my hips i simply drape my arms around his neck and continue swaying to the music. not even a full minute later a sharp voice calls out from behind me, “that’s enough y/n. let’s go now.”. i look over my shoulder and see henry standing in the same spot he’s been standing, but now facing richard and me. i’ve always found it a bit eerie how fast he can sober up when it’s time to leave. i chuckle and disconnect my arms from around richard’s shoulders as his hands fall from my hips to his sides. i walk, correction, i stumble towards henry and call over my shoulder back to richard, “that was fun old man, let’s do it again sometime!”. fuck, i need to stop being around bunny so much. i’m beginning to adopt his vocabulary. when i approach henry’s side he drapes his arm around my waist tightly and turns us around. he walks, practically pulling me with him. as we get to the door he calls out his goodbyes and drags me out into the hall before anyone can even reply. i chuckle drunkenly as he walks us down the hall. his grip on my waist doesn’t wavier at all. he keeps his eyes forward as we walk and mutters something to himself. i look up at him, “huh?”, i ask as he continues to pull me along while i stumble. he keeps his eyes forward and his tone steady as he repeats himself, “i said, ‘there are two reasons for evil deeds, one is illness, the other is wickedness.’”. as we get on the elevator my face scrunches slightly as i think. i finally shift my eyes back up to his face as the elevator door closes, “Dante’s inferno. Canto 11, Dante discusses the nature of sin and the motivations behind evil deeds.”, i state realizing what he’s quoting. he keeps his eyes pointed towards the closed elevator doors and nods once.

when the elevator doors open my drunken mind is still confused, “why are you quoting Dante to me?”, i ask as he drags me out the building’s doors and into by the parking lot. he doesn’t answer. instead he continues to walk to his car, not even bothering to open my door for me when we get to it. i narrow my eyebrows before opening my own door and joining him in the car. as i sit and close the door his head snaps to me, his tone is calm but his eyes suggest he’s upset with me. “so which are you y/n? are you ill or simply wicked.”, he asks like he’s asking me the simplest question in the world. i sober up slightly from his words, my body almost flinching from the harshness of them, “excuse me?”, i ask baffled. he looks forward as he starts the car and backs it out of the parking space. he responds as we pull out of the parking lot, his eyes still on the road and his tone still calm, but his fists are clenching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles have gone white; “i’m asking did you dance with richard and embarrass me because there’s something mentally wrong with you, or did you do it just to be wicked?”. my eyes widen as i look at him bewildered, “are you joking?”, i ask greatly offended. he only scoffs and continues to drive. i reply back angrily with my head still turned towards him, “he’s homosexual henry, good God.”, i say shaking my head. “so there is something mentally wrong with you then. you don’t see the way he looks at you all the time? y/n he practically salivates over you.”, he says with the slightest bit of either annoyance or anger in his voice. i furrow my eyebrows and shake my head in disbelief. i turn my head and look back out the windshield. we’re driving towards campus? why are we going to henry’s apartment? i turn my head back to look at him, “why are you driving to campus?”, i ask genuinely confused. his eyes stay focused on the road.

“i’m talking you to your dorm.”, he answers as if it’s obvious. my heart sinks, “why, why aren’t we going to your apartment?”, i ask with my anger wavering and a small feeling of dread in my stomach. to my surprise he sighs. he doesn’t answer until we pull into my dormitory buildings parking lot, “i need to not be around you right now y/n”, he says as he finally looks at me. he’s eyes are hard to read, but i see a flicker of something. anger? disgust? resentment? hurt? “i don’t want to go to my dorm…i want to go back to your apartment with you.”, i say in almost a whisper as my eyes meet him. he closes his eyes and rubs his temples, “i think it best if we spend some time apart. i cannot continue to be constantly worried about you going off with another man.”, he says in a sigh. immediately i feel my cheeks burn red and my eyes grow with tears, “what do you mean by ‘time apart’?”, i say back trying to keep my voice steady. “are you breaking up with me?”, i add on but this time not able to conceal the shakiness in my voice. he opens his eye quickly, “if that’s what you need me to call it than i suppose. though i would rather just call it a break for right now.”, he says in a calculated tone. my eyebrows furrow as i try to process his words. i feel a lump forming in my throat. don’t let him see you cry, don’t let him see you cry. i nod once, quickly wiping a small tear off my cheek that escaped my eye. “fine. if that’s what you want.”, i say trying my best to sound indifferent. he looks back to the front, “it is.”, he says matter-of-factly. i allow myself a momentary pained expression while his eyes aren’t on me, but i quickly wipe it away as i unbuckle my seatbelt. “fine then.”, is all i say before opening the car door, getting out, and slamming it shut. i don’t allow myself to look back at the car once im out, i simply walk forward towards my dorm building. i don’t even realize im full on sobbing until i get into my dorm room and look in my mirror. fuck fuck fuck fuck. i pace around for a moment before i feel utterly sick. does he truly think i would betray him? does he truly think i could ever love someone else? i throw myself on my bed, but i know, i wont be sleeping tonight.

A/N: thank you for the request! if you all want i can write a fic about how the week during the break<33

[sweetestgirlintown111]

henry winter x fem reader

Chapter iii

A/N: some reader x charles in this one

I wake up to my head throbbing, I sit up and I'm overtaken by the urge to throw up, so I run to the bathroom at the end of the hallway, in my nightgown barefoot my hair hanging around my face, in the bathroom I lean over the nearest stool emptying my stomach. a hand grabs my hair from behind, patting me on the back as tears cover my face, I fucking hate throwing up. when my stomach is emptied I turned around and it was Judy Poovey, her dorm was a couple of rooms up from mine, a very sweet wild californian, she clearly was in the midst of applying her makeup before I barged in, one of her eyes was done and the other blank.

“hangover?” she asks hip popped her hand leaning on the other as I'm leaning over the sink washing my face, I give her nod wincing as my head throbs again from the movement, “don't tell me you're gonna go to class like this” she looks me over

“ha imagine, I don't have classes today so no���

“good because you look like shit no offense”

I laugh at her bluntness, “long night, and one too many drinks y’know”

“yeah I know the feeling” she goes back to doing her make up and looks at my reflection in the mirror “there this party at a guys house off campus basically everyone's gonna be there you should come”

“uhh i have some translations to do for greek so i probably won't be there”

“well if you change your mind it's up the street from rick's diner”

The library was quiet and not very busy, most people having classes in the afternoon, i sit by a big window, books littering the table and start with my translation, it goes fairly quick since well I've known greek for so long it's like second nature, latin however I've never had much interest for which is a shame since the greater part of what i needed to get done was the latin translations.

Hours pass and im not nearly done, i leave my work and go outside for a smoke, the cold breeze of what now became night slaps me in the face, my cheeks turning red, i finish a cigarette and then one more before going back inside, as i round the corner i can make out a tall figure towering over the table hand carelessly flipping through the pages, getting closer it appears to be Henry, i curse under my breath and i wonder what cruel good keeps crossing our path, i get to my chair and sit down not even looking at him.

“From the way you act in class one would think you wouldn't make this much mistakes” skimming through my latin

of course i know about the mistakes that's why it was ripped out and thrown to the side, “that is a rough draft obviously”

“if you need a draft then you aren't good”

“so you don't use a draft Henry good for you, should we throw a party?”

he looks at me clearly happy with himself “That wouldn't be necessary, i can for a fact translate it with my eyes closed”

i turn back to my books, collecting my stuff “maybe but you also stalk your classmate in hopes to make yourself feel a bit better about how pathetic and lonely you are, and that's not a trade im willing to make”

“I'm not stalking you”

“really? then what are you doing here henry?”

he hisetates for a second “I'm here to get a book”

“what book” i look at him challenging

“none of your business” he thinks this is amusing,

“well go get your book Henry” i push the chair back grabbing my stuff and leaving,

he walks after me “wait where are you going? Aren't you going to finish the translation, are you giving up?”,

i have to hold back with every fiber if my being to not slap the smirk off of his face, i keep walking not looking at him “none of your business winter”. I know exactly where im going, I'm not going to let him ruin my night.

Staring at my closet it's painfully obvious that i don't really go to parties, trying on different combinations of outfits nothing works out and i realize that maybe i have the style of an old librarian, so i walk up the hallway to Judy’s room, praying to every god that she's still there, and by some miracle she is,

“hey what's up” she looks like she was about to leave surprised to see me,

“erm i wanted to go to that party you told me about, but i kind of don't have anything to wear so i was um wondering if you can lend me a dress or something?”

“oh sure come in I'll put a little more make up on you as well, wait here i have the perfect dress for you”

she digs through the endless clothes she has, and the ‘perfect dress’ she's referring to is a very short dress that looks like something from the sixties, velvet,long sleeves brown in color, pretty but definitely going to make me freeze, i wear it anyway changing in Judy's room while she digs through her makeup looking for glitter, i let her do what she pleases and when she's done we head out of the door, stopping on the way at the cafeteria per my request, we get there and Henry is there with Camilla aswell, i pretend not to see him and pray he doesn't see me, suddenly too aware of my exposed legs and ridiculous makeup, but of course they see me but they don't approach us probably due to a fight they had with judy and one of her friends at a party that she told me all about. What he does do though is give me a deadly stare his jaw clenched and eyes set.

The party was very loud as i had expected, i clung to judy drinking and then going down to dance with a friend of hers, she was an art major, we danced together for good chunk of time bodies swaying and clinging together, hands brushing up and down, many dancing partners change through the night, whenever my legs start throbbing i go for another drink,

at one point i go for a drink and bump into someones chest going back, i look up and it's charles, blond hair hanging around him like a halo, obviously drunk, he grins looking at me “what are you doing here? Don't you like live in book solitude?”

“ Well trying to change that”

“yea?” we just look at one another for a moment, and i suppose that if I wasn't as drunk as i was i would have asked about his sister or if any of the others was here,

“come dance with me” i scream over the music placing a hand on his chest. And so we dance, our bodies swaying and grinding against each other his hands traveling far too low, and our faces way too close, and maybe it's the frustration of the past month or the just the alcohol, but by the end of the song were making out in the middle of the bodies of other partyers, it lasts for a while that way, but then I'm against a wall, and his hands are squeezing me, and our voices get louder and then we're in the back of a cab going to my dorm, and finally we're in bed collapsed, sweaty, tired and drunk and we're lulled to sleep before i can regret it.

[what-if-queen-camilla]

Like grandfather, like grandson - Chapter 1

First of all, I'd like to wish a very happy new year to you all! New year, new story - don't worry about Thea, we'll keep on following her journey as well, but somehow, after re-watching The Crown last week, I was inspired to something else - and I'm curious for your opinions!

What if… King George VI had not died of cancer in 1952, Princess Elizabeth had not ascended the throne only aged 25, and young Prince Charles of Edinburgh had grown up having his grandfather guiding him through the ways of the world…?

Chapter 1

23rd November, 1972

“Hello, my darling boy!”, his elderly grandfather greeted Charles affectionately as the two of them met, as they've always done ever since the young Prince could remember, on this rainy Thursday at 11.30 am at Buckingham Palace. “Hello grandpa!”, Charles replied, kissing both of his grandfather's cheeks before bowing down to him. “How are you doing? How's your cough?” As if on command, the elderly King was stricken by another, rather rough cough attack which immediately caused his caring grandson to rush to his side and help him getting seated in one of the red chairs on the dining table. “Not too bad, not too bad…”, the King tried to play down his health issues as per usual; he didn't want to raise anyone's concerns and thought he was lucky enough to have recovered from the wretched cancer all of those years ago at all. Though he'd never really got back into his old shape, he was still around and felt very humble and grateful for that. Every year - every day actually - he could spend with his family, his beloved wife and daughters and of course his darling grandson Charles, who was all his pride and joy, was a gift to him, a gift he wanted to enjoy to the full, for himself and his loved ones. He didn't want them to worry about him, he was far more interested in hearing everything his loved ones were up to, and especially the lad of course. “Mama has asked me to forward her and Papa’s very best wishes to you!”, Charles began, as per usual, with a little update on his parents. “Thank you!”, Bertie replied. “Where are they off to again this month…?” Travelling had become so different compared to when he and Elizabeth undertook their first joint overseas visits back in the 1930s, before the war, over the last couple of years, and the young people seemed to do everything at once, the whole Commonwealth within 10 days it seemed, and he had long lost count of the places his eldest daughter and son-in-law were visiting. He was just grateful for their sense of duty and dedication and for their popularity across all realms. “Tuvalu, grandpa.”, Charles explained giggling. “Oh, right.”, The King responded. “Is that where they worship your father as a God?”, he chuckled and Charles shook his head in amusement. “No, grandpa, that would be Vanuatu.” “Oh…”, Bertie said, just as a servant entered the room and brought them drinks.

“Anyway, tell me all of your news, my darling boy!”, the King asked after they had both been served a good glass of wine. “I'll be off to the Navy two weeks from now.”, Charles declared proudly, and his grandfather's eyes lit up immediately. Having served in the Navy himself, of course, he was beyond happy to see the son he never had following his footsteps. But somehow, he felt, there was something on the young Prince’s mind that seemed to dampen his joy. “What’s the matter, my dear?”, the sensitive King asked and gave Charles an especially reassuring and understanding glance. Charles blushed and lowered his eyes, well aware that his grandfather knew him better than anyone else and had, of course, noticed his insecurities at once. “Could it be about a certain girl…?”, Bertie asked carefully, smiling at Charles encouragingly. “Well…”, the Prince stuttered awkwardly, much to his grandfather’s amusement. “Maybe… Um, grandpa, listen, I… I wanted to ask you something…” His grandson’s unusually serious inflexion almost caused the elderly monarch to worry but the twinkle in Charles’ eyes let him know that whatever he was up to right now, it had to be something wonderful. “I… um, you might remember… Camilla Shand…”, he finally stuttered and Bertie frowned his forehead. “Shand? You mean, um… the daughter of… Baron Ashcombe?” “Granddaughter.”, Charles gently corrected him. “Oh, yes, right.” The King cleared his throat. He and Elizabeth used to meet with the young Baron back when he was the heir, and his former wife at some glamorous dinner parties hosted by Mrs Greville back in the golden twenties - back when they were still Duke and Duchess of York and though Sonia and Roland sadly divorced shortly after the war, especially Elizabeth had always stayed close with Sonia as well as her daughter Rosalind who, much to her parents’ regret had married way below her station and became Mrs Shand in 1946. Bertie himself had actually admired her for having chosen love above titles and wealth and he quite liked the lad. Bruce, if he recalled correctly, who maybe couldn’t offer what was considered an aristocratic background, had strongly and bravely defended their country during the awful war and even got imprisoned by the Germans…

Times had changed and if Bertie had learnt one thing from his almost 35 years on the throne, it was that love was stronger than convention. So the Shands, along with many other families, had been frequent guests at several fun Balmoral weekends ever since and Bertie remembered Charles and Anne playing with their two little daughters and son who’s name he sadly couldn’t recall for the moment… “Camilla…”, Charles pronounced it as if it was some kind of a prayer. “Her sister Annabel and her brother Mark.” “Oh, yes, I remember.”, Bertie said, taking a huge sip of his red wine. “And… What’s your question now, darling boy?” “Oh grandpa…”, Charles remarked, chuckling in some awkward kind of embarrassment. “You see… Camilla and I’ve been dating for a couple of months now and… I think… No, I don’t think, I know… I love her. She’s the one, grandpa. My soulmate. The one person in this world who truly understands me, who completes me… She’s warm and funny and loving and… oh, grandpa, I… I just feel like I’m flying! I’ve never felt such bliss and happiness before!”, he gushed and the pure joy in his grandson’s eyes sweetly reminded the elderly King of his own crush on the young Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon who had had the very same effect on him. He had known she was the one almost at once, but it took him quite a while to convince her… It had been worth the wait though, they’d be happily married for 50 years next April and surely everybody agreed that she was the best and most devoted Queen Consort the United Kingdom had ever seen.

“Well, if that’s what you want to ask me, my darling boy…”, he began. “Then of course, you can count on my blessings! Let’s hope your Camilla won’t need as long to say ‘yes’ as your grandmother!”, he chuckled, but couldn’t even think of it any further, as his grandson excitedly jumped up and rushed over to him, hugging him affectionately. “Thank you, grandpa!”, he sobbed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” “But, Charles, darling… have you already got a ring for you girl?”, the King asked and Chalres looked at him as if he was a ghost. “A… ring… um…”, he stuttered, and  his grandfather burst into laughter. “I’ve told you, my lad!”, Bertie giggled. “You have to impress the ladies! Let’s have a look at our little treasure chamber together and find something fit for a future Queen…”

[secret-history-hyperfixation]

In the middle of writing a fanfic between Richard, Charles, and Francis on ao3, if anyone wants to check it out.

I’ve written nine chapters so far. :]

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

What if Charles helped Richard realize he's bisexual, instead of the incest scene?

"Though similar to that night with Francis, there was evidently something distinct about being here with Charles that gave me a thrilling, uncharted feeling, as though something important lay beyond this moment, just over the horizon. Like reading an excellent book. Apprehensively anticipating what might be revealed on every turn of the page.

If Francis was the introduction, Charles was the climax."

In other words, a gay reimagining of the ending of TSH.

[mrscorcoran]

One more secret won't hurt / Bunny x reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

___________________________________________________________

Chapter 11: Bunny for Bunny

- “That is like, very cute, but in a really weird way,” Cam says, pointing at the small rabbits on my hand. We had just come out of the pottery class she signed us up for. We were supposed to make a small animal, and I immediately thought of Bunny, so I decided to make an extra little rabbit so I could give one to him.

- “He’s gonna get a kick out of it, so it was worth it,” I reply, brushing off her criticism. “Besides, you made that ugly cat for Charles, so what are you riding my ass for?” I add nonchalantly.

- “True. He likes cats though. I don’t even know if Bunny likes bunnies…” she retorts, carefully looking at my face as we walked towards my room.

- “Is that really it? You’re giving me a hard time cuz of your lack of knowledge on Bunny’s level of appreciation towards rabbits?” I look at her quizzically.

- “No, not really. It’s just that you spend an awful lot of time with him already, and even when he’s not here you still think about him. Just…makes me wonder….” she trails off, walking a bit slower. Her gigantic eyes fixed on mine, analyzing.

- “Look, Cam, just as I said to Judy already a thousand times, there is no crime in loving my best friend and showing it, okay?” I snap back, trying to sound as convincing as possible. Every word I said is true, but it does not really answer what she’s asking me. I half believe the intention behind the words, but if I’m being perfectly honest, the other half has been wondering just like Cam. When multiple people come to the same conclusion, you start to wonder if maybe you’re the one that’s wrong. I try not to entertain the thought, justifying every interaction as normal best friend behavior in my head. Some would call it denial, but it’s just what any rational person would do.

Of course I think he’s handsome, I have eyes. Just like I think Francis is handsome. Doesn’t mean anything, right? And so what if I think about him when he’s not around? I think about Cam all the time too. And if texting someone at inappropriate times means anything, then I must be in love with Henry too, huh? Ridiculous.

Seriously, though, getting so close to people can make the lines get blurry real fast. Getting called ‘babe’ and ‘honey’ constantly by Francis was all fun and games, until it made me miss my ex, and got me wishing Francis was bi instead. Holding Camilla’s hand to walk around campus was sweet and comforting, but it got me missing being held at night. That resulted in an awkward sleepover with Cam, with me being extra clingy. It’s all innocent, sitting on your best friend’s lap when there are not enough chairs at the library, until he absentmindedly places his hand on your lower back while laughing at someone’s joke, and your heart skips a beat.

Out of the whole group, I am closest with Bunny, so of course that line is the most confusing. It’s normal. I just have to push the thoughts away and not let things get weird, or awkward between us. And not let other people’s comments influence me so much.

When we reach my room, Cam opens the door and immediately jumps into my bed, getting comfortable after a long day of pottery. I place one of my bunnies on my trinket shelf, next to the ugly fox. The other bunny goes on the desk, ready to be grabbed on my way out. I had no plans with Bunny for today, but I’m excited about giving him the small rabbit, and I know he’ll be out of class in half an hour.

- “Cam, you mind if I step outside for an hour to go give Bunny his bunny?” I ask nervously, hoping she won’t go back to questioning me.

- “You mind if I nap in your bed while you’re gone?”

- “Not one bit.”

- “Then go right ahead,” she says, climbing into the covers and closing the drapes in one quick motion.

I grab the bunny carefully, and slip out the door.

_______________________________________________________

I look at my watch, careful not to tip the coffee too much, and stand up from the bench. One interesting fact about Bunny is that he’s insanely punctual. I spot him immediately, his dark green sweater I’d recognize anywhere, as he wore it almost like a uniform. When he spots me his entire face brightens up, and he hurries towards me.

- “Hey, you! Were we supposed to hang out today? I’m the worst,” he says, pulling me into a quick hug and resting his chin on the top of my head. His subtle way of calling me short.

- “Hi, Bun! We weren’t, don’t worry,” I say, pulling away from him, and handing him the coffee. “I just came to give you something.”

- “You didn’t have to come all the way here to give me coffee. I could’ve just bought it myself,” he looks at me quizzically, taking a sip.

- “Not the coffee, dumbass. This!” I extend my hand with the small bunny towards him. “I made it for you at that pottery class we took.”

- “No way! You really made it? I don’t believe you. It’s not ugly,” he says incredulously, taking the bunny and bringing it close to his face to inspect it. “For real, it’s very decent looking!”

- “Well, fuck you too! Geez,” I reply, laughing and shaking my head.

- “No, I meant it as a compliment! C’mon, don’t be sensitive. Let’s go sit down so I can take a better look at it,” he said, casually pointing at the big tree we usually sat under. Once we settled down under the tree, he handed me the coffee and I took a sip. He lifted his glasses and brought the bunny close to his eyes, a soft smile on his face. “I love it. You sure I can keep it though? It’s one of your adventure trinkets, I know you like saving them.”

- “I made two. This one’s yours,” I say, smirking, proud that I planned ahead for this exact situation.

- “Oh. In that case, thank you very much. For the rabbit and the coffee…” he carefully placed it inside of his bag, making sure nothing would crush it. He grabbed the coffee again, and scooched a bit closer to me, his shoulder firmly pressed against mine.

- “My pleasure. It’s a bunny cuz you’re Bunny… which, by the way, I’ve wanted to ask for so long, why does everyone call you Bunny?” I ask, turning my head to look at him. He gave me a conspiratorial look, accompanied by a smirk.

- “C’mere,” he says, leaning a bit closer to me. “I’ll tell you but you gotta promise not to tell anyone,” he looks around, as if to check there’s no one eavesdropping. I lean closer to his face, my eyes wide with anticipation. I didn’t know the origin of his nickname was a secret. I just never got around to asking him about it. He doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds, so I tilt my head back to look at him, and realize I’m closer to him than I thought, my nose about an inch away from his. I freeze for a moment, caught off guard by his eyes fixed on mine. He’s so close I can feel his warm breath on my face when he slowly exhales. The smirk slowly fades from his face. His eyes quickly dart down and back up to mine. It’d be so easy to close the gap, let my lips meet his and-

- “Ahem,” he clears his throat, and leans back away from me. I mirror his movement and lean back too, our shoulders pressed together once again, and look down at my hands. “I -uh – was just joking. There’s no real reason. It’s just a silly pet name my older brothers gave me when I was little. I guess cuz I was annoying and always jumping around. Eventually I got used to it,” he chuckles, taking another sip of coffee.

- “Should I call you Edmund instead? Or Eddie?” I tease him to try to break the awkwardness I caused. He lets out a loud laugh, and gives me a playful shove with his elbow.

- “Not even my mom calls me Edmund. Let’s just stick to Bunny, yeah?” he chuckles.

This is exactly what I meant about the blurry lines. There’s really no sense of personal space when I’m with Cam, or when I’m joking with Francis, our faces pressed close together while we gossip. And it’s usually not an issue with Bunny either. But more and more often lately, when we are speaking close together and our eyes lock, I get the sudden urge to kiss him. It’s not an urge I get with the other guys. With Cam, maybe once or twice, but c’mon, who wouldn’t want to kiss that face at least once. Moments like this are what makes me second guess my own feelings. I’d never had such a close friend before. Is it normal to have these intrusive thoughts about them? Is it simply curiosity? Wondering what it’d be like to kiss them, just like you’d wonder the same thing about a celebrity. I clearly made him uncomfortable though, from the way he pulled back. It does no good entertaining any of these thoughts, so the denial strategy continues.

After we say our goodbyes, I head back to my room, replaying the scene over and over in my head. My cheeks burning with embarrassment at what I almost did. Who ruins a good friendship out of curiosity? Geez.

I find Cam already setting everything up to watch our show, popcorn in a bowl and cheap wine waiting on the desk.

Denial. Oh, what sweet relief.

[camillafanfiction]

Love changes everything - Chapter 11

No matter how much Charles had begged Camilla to spend Christmas with him, though he knew it was impossible, she had spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with her parents before she’d travelled back to Bolehyde Manor on Boxing Day when her parents went to see Annabel and her little wholesome family. Camilla, of course, had been invited too, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to cope with the family bliss at Annabel’s house. She was happy for Annabel, of course, but it would be too much to take, especially with Andrew’s birthday coming up the next day. Christmas had been more of a torture anyway and she was glad to escape the baubels, the trees and the herold angeles everywhere. Her house wasn’t decorated for Christmas at all, a harsh contrast to the glitter and gold and the ethereal legions of angels that had been everywhere last year. Though she’d been heavily pregnant and barely able to move at all she’d decorated even the smallest corner of the house last year. Baby’s first Christmas was supposed to be perfect after all. But now the rain pouring heavily outside matched her mood far better. She had tried hard to put on a happy face for her parents and Mark, but it had worn her out. And she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to live through tomorrow. The thought of Andrew’s birthday almost made her sick. Just why was he not allowed to turn 36? Why did he have to play the hero again and be killed? What utterly sick game was the God above playing? It had not always been easy with Andrew, his affairs had silently killed her, but why, just why, did such a horrible thing happen? What had little Tom done to deserve this? What had she done to deserve this? 

She was missing Charles, too, and a part of her had wished they’d be able to spend Christmas together. They’d spoken briefly on the phone on Christmas Eve and she regretted having declined his offer, or more his plea, to be able to see her on Boxing Day. Maybe he would still come like the last time she’d forbidden him to come on Tom’s birthday? But time passed and there was no Charles, so she just played with Tom and wrapped herself in a blanket in the living room once she had put him to bed.

The darkness outside came early and the raindrops on the window looked like ink-spiders. God, this really didn‘t feel like Christmas at all. Over and over she pondered if she should try to ring Charles but then again it was only half past four, though outside it looked like witching hour. Oh well maybe she just shouldn’t be so grand, she decided. With quick steps she walked to the hall where the telephone was standing and dialled the direct line to Charles' room which he had given to her in wise foresight. In nervous anticipation she dialled wrong two times before she was lucky and the call got through.

“Hello?“ asked a young voice that definitely wasn‘t Charles‘. Somehow the voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite recall of whom it reminded her.

“Ummm… hello… I’d like to speak to Cha… umm, the Prince of Wales, please.“

“Sorry, Miss, you missed him. He left quite some time ago… to see his new girlfriend.“ The boy made a retching sound and suddenly it dawned on Camilla who it was.

“Edward?“ she asked, ignoring the clenching of her heart. Was she the new girlfriend? Or did Charles, indeed, have someone new? Deep down her Camilla knew that this wasn't how Charles would handle this, but the years with Andrew had traumatised her and of course she knew that Charles had to date other girls as well. He had to find a wife, someone worthy to bear an heir.

“On the phone, Miss,“ the eleven-year-old replied, clearly not remembering her voice.

“This is Camilla, we used to do two or three go-kart chases a few years ago.“ Camilla smiled, living from that memory. The memory seemed to be from someone else’s life, not her own. A life that was light and carefree and the only trouble in the world was which party she was going to go to the next day.

“Oh right!“ There was a sound of enlightenment in his voice. “I d-” there was a rustling and some voices in the line and suddenly Edward seemed to be eager to hang up the phone. „Merry Christmas, Camilla!“ he said and hung up before Camilla had the slightest chance to reply. 

That had been a lovely surprise, but it hadn’t really helped her find out if she was going to see her prince today or not. Charles would surely have told her about a new girlfriend, so it was almost safe to say he’d be here anytime soon. It was a four hour drive from Sandringham to Bolehyde Manor and probably even longer today with that bloody rain. Why on earth did it not come down as snow? It surely was cold enough outside. With her heart feeling at least a little lighter she made herself a hot chocolate with two shots of rum. It would surely warm her up from the inside as well.

An hour later she heard a car rolling over the gritty grounds and her heart made a jump. This had to be Charles! With her plushy slippers on she made her way to the entrance hall and before Charles could ring the bell Camilla opened the door and it only took Charles a second to get to her and fling her in his arms. What a man he was! Camilla didn’t know quite how he did it, but he always knew exactly what to do (well… mostly…).

“Happy Christmas,” Charles whispered and placed a light kiss on Camilla’s nose.

“Happy Christmas, darling,” Camilla breathed back in return, wrapping her arms around him tightly. It felt so incredibly good to have him in her arms, but after a few moments she pulled away. “Come inside! You must be freezing!” With that she ushered him inside the living room. “Do you want to eat something? Or maybe drink? I’m sorry I didn’t bother to lighten the fireplace,” she bubbled, not quite knowing where it suddenly came from. 

Charles chuckled, she was just so adorable. “Darling, relax,” he told her and flashed a smile at her that turned her knees into jelly. Despite the circumstances Camilla found herself to be head over heels in love with the prince again, a thing that still felt unreal. Being with him made her forget the uneasy feeling she’d had the past few days and she didn’t think about tomorrow, which she dreaded.

“Right!” Camilla exhaled loudly, then laughed and flopped down on the sofa, pushing Charles down with her. “Thank you for coming,” she placed a soft kiss in the middle of his perfect mouth and cuddled against him. 

Charles smiled, happy that his appearance apparently made her very happy. “You didn’t seem surprised, though,” he mused and looked at her with a quizzical expression.

“I simply knew you wouldn’t listen to me.” Camilla gave him a soft poke in the ribs. “And Edward told me about your new girlfriend…” With lightheartedness she told him about her call at Sandringham House and how she’d hoped he’d come. It was wonderful to chatter and cuddle and kiss and make up for the missed days. After a while they exchanged Christmas presents - they hadn’t really talked about it, but both of them had something for the other. Camilla received a lovely light blue silk scarf and a pair of whopping diamond earrings that she’d probably never be able to wear, though they were immensely beautiful and she loved them so very much. She’d gotten Charles a new record and a Barbour jacket, so that he’d finally get rid of his old one. The last time he’d worn it he’d been soaking wet because it had so many patches. Her presents felt a bit lousy compared to Charles’, but she knew he loved them and that was the main thing. This Christmas was very far from perfect, but with Charles in her arms and the laughter they shared, this Boxing Day finally felt like Christmas, no matter what tomorrow would bring.

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

Chapter One

The first proper chapter!

As you could already see, this story plays in a different time, so don’t get upset at what the characters say or do.

Please please please tell me your opinions on it and most importantly, enjoy:)

warnings: mentions of murder, death faking, classic Henry Winter behaviour

summary: Henry is on his way to his new home and he reflects on the last couple of weeks.

word count: 2k

Prologue to this fanfiction

1948

He was a free man now, but at the same time he wasn’t.

At least the restless nights were over, he didn’t have to worry about the police coming any second to bust his door down and arrest him. Even though deep down he knew that his father would shoot anyone who dares to lay a hand on his son. But, the freedom he was always destined to live came with a price. He had to sooner or later, so it didn’t really matter anymore. He had his Hampden years as only his, as a brand new person, but after he should have graduated he was supposed to get back where he really belongs. He didn’t need a diploma, when you’re the son of one of the wealthiest and powerful man in the world, you need anything but a stupid diploma. He went there, purely because he wanted to. He wanted to be someone else for a while, he wanted to study languages and adore literature, art. He was lucky to find the people he called his friends, well, some of them were a burden. Bunny Corcoran made himself a burden and Charles Macaulay was born a burden. But Francis Abernathy and Richard Papen were good men with no bad intentions and he liked having them around. And then there was his little love, Camilla, he believes that he loves her, but then again he has absolutely no clue what love is, but his feelings for Camilla were the closests things to it. However, if he loved her, why did he leave her so easily? Wasn’t it supposed to be a hard choice choosing between her or his powerful freedom? The answer doesn’t even matter anymore, nothing that happened in those years and few months matters anymore. Things happened the way they happened and it is time for new beginnings. He was a brand new man, the one he was always supposed to be and the one he left behind is dead, at least to everyone else.

He stared out the window of his family’s private plane. His cigarette dangling from his lips mirrored his father, who sat in front of him, also with a burning cigarette between his lips. He was his father’s twin, the same pale skin, same big height and the same raven dark hair, but he got his bright eyes from his dear mother.

The stewardess, who was also the family’s maid, came in with a tray, two crystal glasses and a bottle of fine scotch. The silver haired woman poured both of them an inch.

“Laura, dear.” Henry’s father said “the boy had a hard time, don’t shy away with the scotch.”

“Yes, Mr.Sinclair.” She said as she poured a few more inches.

When she left the lounge of the plane, Henry reached forward and downed down his drink in one go, his father immediately went to pour him more. He was a ruthless and powerful man, so was his wife, Mrs.Sinclair. But they adored their only child and son, they did what they did not only to carry on their family’s name and reputation, but to give their son everything he could ever want. However, this life came with sacrifices, he would learn that soon enough.

“Look at me, son.” Mr.Sinclair said in a firm tone, so he did. “I know how hard this must be, I understand. Me and your mother will give you time to heal, but that comes with accepting what you have to do. You are the heir who will keep up the magnificent Sinclair name, you will get into business and you will do your duty with honor, like a good man.”

Henry nods slowly and takes a long drag from his cigarette. “I know, father. I had my fun and now it is time.”

“Very well, my son.” He suddenly snickered to himself. “Two murders, huh? Your heritage cannot be denied. However the ancient sex ritual was a new addition.”

Oh yes, when the events in Hampden heightened Henry went home for a weekend and told his parents everything, every single detail. With a life like theirs, there are not many things that can suprise them. They listened to everything and came up with a solution and a perfect plan that suggests a fake tragedy. It took careful and perfect planning.

He needed someone to snap, his first subject would have been Richard, but then Camilla called him in the middle of the night when Charles had hurt her. This version of the plan was better, he would provoke Charles until he did something stupid, he drove up to Francis’s country house on one weekend and put Francis’s aunts beretta in Charles’s room. He left the door open at the inn’s room and waited for Charles to come. The beretta had 2 bullets and the third would be a fake one that had piglet blood in it. He also gave a bit of drug to everyone without them noticing, he hid a bottle of whisky in Charles’s room with drugs mixed in it. Then the second Richard told him that he is there at the estate and drunk, he knew that the plan was on. He ordered room service and wine, when Camilla went to freshen up, he also put the drugs in her glass of wine. He hoped that Francis and Richard would show up desperate and shaken up, when they did he was pleased that they took big gulps from Camilla’s glass of wine, he needed everyone’s mind fuzzy. He paid attention to their body language that got more slumped by the minute. When Charles busted in the door, it was game time. He was confident, he was a Sinclair for fuck’s sake, he knew self defense like no one and he had reflexes as sharp as a knife, Charles was no competition. The first gunshot to the window and the second to poor Richard’s stomach, he held the gun in his hands now. There were heavy knocks on the door, it was time. He pulled the trigger, he felt the fake bullet hit his temple and explode with the pig blood, he dropped to the floor and tried to stay as still as he could. The others were too shocked and their heads fuzzy. He smiled smugly to himself when he felt the blanket on him, bless Francis. His father’s men came acting like the police and took him out of there, straight to the private plane.

“You will get over it.” His father interrupted his train of thought. “But, you have to know one thing and keep it in your head, always.”

“What is it?” He was desperate for some good advice.

“Henry Winter is dead, it is time for you to be who you really are supposed to be. Henry Sinclair.”

Henry smiled at that, he would never say it out loud but he felt better being Henry Sinclair, his true self.

Henry Winter was someone he used for his Hampden years, Winter was his mother’s maiden name and he put it to good use. He didn’t need anyone recognizing the Sinclair name.However, there was one thing he never planned. Falling in love with a certain twin blonde girl, if this meant falling in love, he wasn’t sure. He felt protective over her, wanted to protect her as long as he could. But how could he lay beside her at night knowing that he was going to leave her? He didn’t mean to hurt her, she was better off without him and Charles, he just hoped he stayed away from her.

His mother joined them in the lounge, as he walked beside her son she caressed his dark hair and she sat beside her husband.

“It will get easier, honey. I know your heart aches for that blonde girl twin, she will get over it too. Just like your friends. What matters is that the plan went perfectly, and now we have you here with us.”

She threw back a few inches of her husband’s scotch and smiled at her family.

“Paris will wash all your troubles away. You will see the wonderful business of our family, get to know some new friends, join us to magnificent balls and parties.” She smirked at him slyly, he knew that smile of hers, he knew what was coming. “And who knows? You might meet a nice sweetheart and hold her close to your heart.”

“Paris does show you true love, son.” His father says and puts his hands on his mother’s, his fingertips touching her wedding band.

“Yeah, sure. I am fine by myself, thank you.” Henry rolled his eyes, the scotch in his head brought out his attitude. His parents shared a knowing look.

There was a heavy silence now, all three of them lost in their own thoughts. Until Laura, their maid, came in and informed them of their schedule.

“The pilot just announced that the plane will land in an hour, a driver will be waiting at the airport and he will be taking you to your apartment.”

“Actually, Laura,” said Mr.Sinclair. “Henry will be taken to his own apartment.” He wrote an address on a piece of paper and gave it to the maid. “Get another driver and give him the address. Thank you, Laura.”

The maid left and Henry gave a peek to his parents who were already looking at him with smug smiles.

“Thank you, father, mother.” He really was grateful, what he needed was his own space, alone with his thoughts. All he wanted was to finally sleep some and then have some good old silence. Which he could never have, his head and brain were always running and thinking. He needed a good book to concentrate on, or maybe if he emptied his mind down to his diary, he could feel relieved. Or perhaps, if only he had Camilla by his side, he could put his stress somewhere else… Whatever, he should just get himself together and flip the page.

“You will feel much better when we arrive.” Mrs.Sinclair stood up and started to leave the lounge. “I will sort the luggages for the landing.” And with that, she left. Leaving father and son, alone.

“There is more to life than books and ancient languages, Henry. Until you settle down, there are always good ways to cope with stress. Like… Beautiful women, eager to please.” Here we go…

“You kn—“ he tried interrupting.

“I know, I know. Not my business, you have your own private life and I know it. But, so you know. The building we own, where you will live in the apartment, has a little section for pleasure. If you want anything or anyone, pick up the phone and you shall have it. So you know.”

“Alright. I will think about it.” He won’t.

Don’t you get him wrong, he liked to have sex. He liked being inside of a woman, feeling her warmth everywhere and holding her close. He liked seeing pleasure consume her body and seeing it on her face. While he was in Hampden he always found a nice girl to fuck, he didn’t use women, he gave them all the pleasure they could want and he put their pleasure in front of his, always. But he was dead to the one woman he felt really hungry for, some whore or anyone for that matter will not do the job. Right now, he just wanted to get to the place he will call his home and rest for a while.

But for now, he can at least close his eyes knowing that Henry Winter is dead, he can now focus on one thing and one thing only.

Being his true self, Henry Sinclair.