#its been in my head all day so its time to bequeath it to the world

[from-memphis-with-love]

A Cowboy for Clementine - An Elvis Presley AU Cowboy Fanfic

Summary: Clementine looked to Elvis, her expression coolly determined. "If there's nothing else, I'll go unpack and change. See you at the barn."

With that, Elvis turned on his heel and strode off, spurs jingling. Clementine released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Lord, what had she gotten herself into? Wrangling cattle was one thing. Wrangling a surly cowboy with an itchy trigger finger and an apparent grudge was quite another. She had a feeling this Elvis Presley would prove as untamed as the land itself.

Word count: 26,000 (first four chapters)

Chapter 1

The stagecoach lurched and swayed as it wound its way through the rugged mountain pass. Inside, Clementine Olivetti gripped the worn leather seat, her knuckles white from the effort. She peered out the dust-caked window at the forbidding landscape rolling by—jagged peaks, skeletal trees, sun-baked earth. A far cry from the cobblestone streets and genteel townhouses of New York.

What am I doing out here? Clementine thought, not for the first time since beginning this journey west. Traveling across the country to take ownership of some rustic ranch she'd never laid eyes on, bequeathed by an uncle she barely knew. It was rash, reckless even. Very out of character for the practical, level-headed Clementine. A girl who always had a plan.

But perhaps that was precisely the point. To do something unexpected, impulsive for once. To break free from the comfortable confines of her predictable city life. There was a certain romantic notion to it all—a young woman striking out on her own to start anew in the untamed frontier. Like something out of the dime novels she and her best friend Bonnie used to giggle over late at night.

Bonnie Mae Blakely. Her vivacious partner in crime since childhood. The yin to Clementine's yang—bold where she was cautious, impetuous where she was measured. They had shared so many dreams and secrets over the years. When Clementine told her about the surprise inheritance, Bonnie had squealed and hugged her fiercely.

"Oh Clemmie, it's just like a storybook! A rugged ranch out west, waiting for a plucky heroine to make it her own. Promise you'll write and tell me every adventure! And maybe I'll even come visit once you're all settled." 

Clementine smiled at the memory, picturing Bonnie's pretty face alight with excitement. In truth, having her friend's unconditional support had given Clementine the courage to undertake this journey. To believe she could reinvent herself and start fresh, even without any family left to tether her to New York.

Her parents had passed on years ago and she had no siblings. Just an uncle out west she scarcely remembered from childhood. The letter from the lawyer informing her of Uncle Ned's death and his bequeathing of Windy Creek Ranch had come as a shock. Almost as much as his written words, which she now withdrew from her handbag to read once more:

"Dearest Clementine, 

If you are reading this, then I am gone and the Good Lord has finally called me home. I regret that I did not make more of an effort to be a presence in your life. But know that not a day went by that I did not think of you and wish for your happiness. 

I leave to you my most prized possession: the Windy Creek Ranch. Six hundred and forty acres of prime grazing land nestled in the heart of cattle country. It isn't much to look at, but it has potential. Like a rare gem in the rough just waiting to be polished. I built this spread from nothing, with just grit and determination. I know you have that same strength within you.

There is a small town close by called Crossroads. You'll be able to purchase any supplies there and the townsfolk are generally amiable. But be warned, there have been rumors lately of cattle rustlers and claim jumpers looking to prey on the local ranches. Trust your instincts and keep your wits about you.

I wish I could be there to guide you as you begin this new chapter. But I take comfort knowing the ranch is in capable hands. Take care of it and it will take care of you. Never forget, you are my niece. We are made of tougher stuff than most.

Yours, Uncle Ned"

Clementine folded up the letter, blinking back tears. She barely remembered Uncle Ned—a grizzled, wild-eyed man who would occasionally blow into town like a tumbleweed, his clothes smelling of leather and horses and endless sky. Her father's eldest brother. A dreamer. An adventurer. Everything her straight-laced father was not... and did not approve of. The brothers had a falling out when Clementine was just a girl and Ned rode off into the sunset, never to return. 

She used to envy his freedom, his daring. While her days were filled with needlework and piano lessons, she imagined Uncle Ned out there living a thrilling life. Herding cattle, exploring the wilderness, sitting around a campfire under a canopy of stars. It all seemed terribly romantic to her younger self.

But as she grew older, Clementine came to accept her lot. Became the obedient daughter, always striving to please, to fit the mold of a proper young lady, accepting decisions made for her and on her own behalf. She buried those yearnings for adventure deep down where they couldn't hurt her. Convinced herself that she was content with her sensible, uneventful existence. 

Until that letter arrived and reawakened something within her. A spark. A hunger for more that she could no longer ignore. It was high time Clementine Olivetti started living life on her own terms. Even if that meant venturing into the unknown wilds of cattle country to claim her unexpected inheritance—a ranch that would be hers and hers alone. The prospect both thrilled and terrified her.

The stagecoach hit a particularly deep rut, jolting Clementine from her musings. She clutched her carpet bag closer and said a silent prayer that her worldly possessions would survive the journey intact. 

As if reading her thoughts, the driver called out, "Almost there, miss! Crossroads is just up ahead."

Clementine's heart rate quickened. This was it. No turning back now. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and prepared to meet her destiny. Whatever that may be.

The stagecoach rumbled down the main thoroughfare of Crossroads, kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. Clementine peered out at the rustic frontier town, all wooden storefronts and hitching posts. Rough-hewn men ambled down the street in dungarees and cowboy hats. Bonneted women swept front porches and corralled children. A distant clang rang out from the blacksmith and the mouthwatering scent of baking bread wafted on the breeze. Quaint yet industrious. A town where everyone knew everyone else's business and no secret stayed buried for long.

The coach rolled to a stop and the driver hopped down to assist Clementine. A few coins were plunked into his hand. She stepped out into the bright sunlight, stretching her travel-weary limbs. Her legs wobbled a bit, unaccustomed to solid ground after so many hours.

"Miss Olivetti?" a voice inquired. Clementine turned to see a short, wiry man hurrying toward her, his bald pate gleaming.

"Yes, I'm Clementine Olivetti," she replied. 

"Hezekiah Gruber, attorney at law," he said, pumping her hand enthusiastically. "We exchanged telegrams about your inheritance. My condolences for your loss."

"Thank you, Mr. Gruber. It was a shock to us all."

"Your uncle was one of a kind, that's for sure. Now then, I imagine you're eager to get out to the ranch and take possession. I won't keep you but let's get your signature on a few documents at my office to make it all official-like."

Clementine followed him down the creaking wooden sidewalk to the lawyer's storefront, noting the curious glances directed her way. She was used to it—a fashionable girl with a funny surname drew attention even back east. She could only imagine the gossip her arrival would stir up here.

"Here we are," said Gruber, ushering her into his cluttered office. "Won't take but a minute to get you squared away." 

He shuffled some papers on his desk and handed Clementine a pen. She dutifully signed her name on the dense lines of legalese, the gravity of the moment not lost on her. With a few strokes of ink, she was now the rightful owner of Windy Creek Ranch. Her future.

"It's all yours, Miss Olivetti," said Gruber, blotting the documents. "I'll file these with the deed office today. In the meantime, let's get you on your way to your new home. I'll have Jebediah bring 'round the rig."

"The rig?" asked Clementine, perplexed. 

"For your baggage. Unless you were planning to carry those trunks to the ranch yourself?" 

Clementine blushed. Of course. This wasn't New York where deliveries arrived directly at one's doorstep. What would Bonnie say if she could see her now, preparing to rattle off in a dusty wagon toward an uncertain future? Probably clap her hands in glee and tell her it was the start of a grand adventure, the kind they'd always dreamed of having.

"Much obliged, Mr. Gruber," Clementine managed, her smile bittersweet. "I'm afraid I have a lot to learn about life out here."

"You'll get the hang of it," he assured. "Now remember, if you run into any trouble out there at Windy Creek, you just send word. I've been looking out for the place since your uncle took ill. I'd hate to see it fall into the wrong hands."

Something in his tone gave Clementine pause. Was that a note of warning? But before she could inquire further, Gruber had ushered her out into the dazzling daylight where a rickety wagon waited. 

A grizzled old man sat hunched on the bench. He squinted at Clementine and gave a gap-toothed grin. "All aboard for Windy Creek Ranch!"

Trepidation pricked at her insides but Clementine forced a smile, determined to meet each new challenge with pluck and poise. She clambered up beside Jebediah, her trunk secured in the wagon bed.

"Much obliged," she told the driver. He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins. The mules lurched forward and they set off at a bone-rattling pace. Clementine gripped the sideboard, already regretting her choice of footwear. Perhaps button-up kid boots weren't the most practical for a cross-country trek.

The road out of town quickly turned to a rutted dirt track winding through a patchwork of ranches and farmsteads. Jebediah kept up a steady stream of chatter, pointing out local landmarks and the neighboring spreads.

As Crossroads receded behind them, the landscape opened up into a vista of endless grassland and rolling hills. Herds of cattle grazed in the distance, mere specks on the horizon. The air smelled of sage and leather and something else... of possibility. 

"That there's the Circle J, belonged to old Joe Abernathy nigh on forty years 'til he passed on last spring. His boys run it now. And over yonder's the Triple Cross—biggest outfit in the county, but too big for their britches if you ask me."

She thought again of the cryptic warning from Mr. Gruber. Claim jumpers and cattle rustlers, he'd said. The untamed frontier was full of dangers she knew nothing about. As if sensing her unease, Jebediah spoke up.

"Yep, Windy Creek is a right fine piece of property. Yer uncle was real proud of what he built out there. 'Course, ranch life ain't for the faint of heart. Takes grit and know-how to make a go of it."

"I'm a quick study," replied Clementine with more confidence than she felt. "And I'm not afraid of hard work."

"That's good 'cause there'll be plenty of it," said Jebediah with a dry chuckle. "Between the repairs and the brandin' and the drives, ranch folk earn ever' penny of their keep. And that's assumin' the weather cooperates and the rustlers keep their distance."

"I've heard tell of such threats," said Clementine carefully. "Have there been many incidents hereabouts?"

"More'n there oughta be," said Jebediah. "Buncha no-good varmints that'll stop at nothing to line their own pockets. Thievin' cattle, cuttin' fences, raidin' homesteads. Even murderin' folk that get in their way."

Clementine suppressed a shudder, trying not to let her imagination run away with grisly scenarios. If only Bonnie were here to bolster her courage with a saucy quip or two. Her friend had always been the brave one, ready to take on any challenge with a laugh and a toss of her auburn curls. But Bonnie was thousands of miles away, living her own life. This was Clementine's adventure now. Her dream to chase, for better or worse.

"Still, a body can't borrow trouble," continued Jebediah. "Windy Creek's got a solid crew of hands to help you protect what's yours."

Clementine nodded, somewhat reassured. She knew there would be cowhands and ranch staff to assist her, though Uncle Ned's letter had been scarce on specifics. No matter. She would learn everyone's roles and prove herself a capable mistress. How hard could it be?

The wagon crested a hill and suddenly the breathtaking expanse of Windy Creek Ranch stretched out before them—640 acres of pristine range, just like Uncle Ned had said, framed by distant blue mountains under an endless dome of sky. Clementine's heart swelled at the sight of the whitewashed ranch house, the red-roofed barn, the towering windmill spinning lazily in the breeze. Cattle dotted the pasture, fat and healthy. Chickens pecked in the dust and a pair of ranch hands paused in their work to regard the newcomers with frank curiosity. It was more beautiful than she'd dared imagine. Raw and wild and brimming with promise. And it was all hers.

Clementine drank it in, marveling that this was all a part of her uncle's spread. Her spread now. Doubt niggled at her again. What did a city girl know about running a cattle operation? About negotiating with cowhands and driving livestock to market? There was so much to learn, so much riding on her getting this right. She couldn't afford to fail, not when Uncle Ned had entrusted her with his legacy. 

As they rolled to a stop in the front yard, Clementine gathered her skirts, preparing to descend with as much dignity as possible given her ungainly boots and the long journey. But before her foot touched the running board, a rifle shot cracked the air. Clementine yelped as a bullet gouged a tree trunk mere inches from her hand.

Heart pounding, she whirled toward the source to see a tall, black-clad figure emerge from behind the water trough, his features obscured by a low-pulled Stetson. He racked the lever of his Winchester with fluid ease and took aim again.

"That's far enough," he growled, his voice rough as saddle leather. "This here's private property. State your business or hit the road."

"Don't shoot!" cried Clementine, throwing up her hands. "I'm... T-this is my ranch now. I've c-come to take possession."

The man lowered his rifle a fraction but kept it at the ready. "That so? Got any proof?"

With shaking fingers, Clementine fumbled to produce the deed from her handbag. "It's all here. Signed and notarized."

She held out the document but he made no move to take it, his stance unwavering. Clementine bristled at his rudeness. Of all the welcomes she'd imagined, being shot at by her own ranch hand was not one of them.

Jebediah, who had wisely taken cover, peeked out from behind the wagon bench. "Now Elvis, what's the big idea? This here's Miss Clementine, Old Ned’s niece and heir."

Elvis? Clementine looked again at her antagonist. Was he one of the hardworking ranch foreman Uncle Ned had spoken so highly of? He certainly hadn't mentioned the man's alarming propensity for gunplay.

"Never heard of her," said Elvis flatly. "And I ain't about to hand over the keys on the say-so of some pretty city gal. Could be anyone—a rustler scoutin' the place or worse. Ned never said nothin' 'bout no niece."

Clementine scowled at his dismissal. "Yes, well, I suspect there's quite a lot Uncle Ned neglected to mention all around. Starting with the presence of an armed squatter on my property!"

Elvis darkened at that but before he could retort, a hulking bear of a man in a sweat-stained union suit came lumbering out of the barn. 

"What's all the ruckus?" he called, scratching his fiery beard. "I heard shootin'." 

"Stay back, Red," ordered Elvis. "We got us a trespasser."

The big man squinted at Clementine and broke into a slow grin. "Well I'll be hogtied. If it ain't Miss Clementine in the flesh! Spittin' image of ol' Ned, ain't she? 'Specially 'round the eyes."

"You know her?" demanded Elvis.

"'Course I do! Ned's been braggin' on his pretty niece comin' to take over the place for weeks now. Clear 'fore he passed."

Red was a huge bear of a man with a shock of fiery hair and a bushy beard to match. Clementine thought he looked like he could lift a steer with one hand. He stepped forward, his face split by a friendly grin. "Pleased to meetcha, Miss Clementine. I'm Moses Redding, but everyone calls me Red on account of, well..." He gestured to his hair self-consciously.

Clementine couldn't help but return his smile. "A pleasure, Red. I look forward to working with you."

Realization dawned on Elvis' stony features. "Hellfire," he muttered. "Reckon that's my cue to start packin'."

"What on earth are you talking about?" said Clementine.

Elvis met her gaze, resigned. "Way I figure, a fine lady owner ain't gonna want the likes of me hangin' around. Know when I'm not wanted."

Comprehension clicked into place and Clementine gasped. Good lord, Uncle Ned hadn't just failed to mention a few cowhands. He'd neglected to tell her about the man living on the ranch itself! This Elvis character had obviously made himself quite at home in her absence, acting the lord of the manor. And now with her arrival, he assumed he was out of a job and a place to lay his head.

She ought to be livid at the presumption. Ought to send him packing that instant for his insolence and trigger-happy reception. But something in his defeated posture and faraway look stirred an inconvenient pang of sympathy in her breast. Curse her soft heart. As satisfying as it might be to give him his marching orders, the fact remained that Windy Creek was woefully shorthanded. She couldn't afford to lose a single man, especially not one who knew the spread top to bottom. Elvis had been Uncle Ned's right hand. It stood to reason he would be valuable in her transition to ownership, prickly attitude notwithstanding. 

Clementine drew herself up, mustering an air of unruffled authority. "That won't be necessary, Mr... Elvis, was it? I've no intention of displacing anyone, provided they pull their weight. If you've been a loyal employee to my uncle, I see no reason why that should change on my watch."

Surprise and something like relief flickered across Elvis' rugged features before he could school them into impassivity. "That so?"

"It is," said Clementine firmly. "I'll need all hands on deck to keep Windy Creek thriving. Starting with a thorough tour of the premises and a briefing on daily operations. As the new owner, I plan to take a very active role in management."

Elvis looked as if he wanted to argue but thought better of it. He gave a curt nod. "Whatever you say, boss lady. Reckon we best start in the barn then. Red can see to your bags."

"Very well," she said crisply. "I'll change into suitable attire and meet you at the barn in half an hour."

Elvis looked mildly impressed by her ready acquiescence, but his expression quickly shuttered. "Suit yourself. But I should probably introduce you to the rest of the gang before you get too high on that horse of yours."

He turned and hollered over his shoulder. "Slim! Rusty! Get on over here!"

Two men materialized from various corners of the ranch yard, ambling over to join them on the porch. The first was a wiry old-timer with a weathered face and a wad of chaw bulging in his cheek. The second was a gangly youth who couldn't have been more than eighteen, all freckles and awkward limbs.

"Boys, this here is Miss Clementine Olivetti," Elvis announced. "Ned's niece and the new owner of Windy Creek. She aims to learn the ropes, so I expect you to show her the same respect you would've shown Ned. We clear?"

The men nodded, touching their hats respectfully. The old-timer spat a stream of tobacco juice and nodded curtly. "Slim Jackson. Been wranglin' beeves since before you was born, missy. You need any pointers, you just holler."

The young man ducked his head shyly, scuffing a boot in the dust. "Rusty Calhoun, miss. I'm real sorry about your uncle passing. He was a fine man and a heck of a boss."

"Thank you, Rusty. I hope I can live up to his example." Clementine turned back to Elvis, her expression coolly determined. "If there's nothing else, I'll go unpack and change. See you at the barn."

With that, Elvis turned on his heel and strode off, spurs jingling. Clementine released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Lord, what had she gotten herself into? Wrangling cattle was one thing. Wrangling a surly cowboy with an itchy trigger finger and an apparent grudge was quite another. She had a feeling Elvis would prove as untamed as the land itself.

But Clementine was no shrinking violet. She had not traveled hundreds of miles to be cowed by one ornery ranch hand, no matter how unsettling his smoky gaze or how broad his shoulders. She would meet this challenge as she intended to meet all others—with grace, gumption, and a stubborn refusal to back down.

*

Elvis looked Clementine up and down appraisingly as she approached.

"Well now, don't you clean up nice," he drawled. "Those dungarees suit you. Almost take the city polish off."

Clementine wasn't sure if it was meant as a compliment or an insult. Likely both, knowing this man. She tilted her chin and replied evenly, "I believe in dressing for the occasion. So, show me around the barn?"

Lifting her chin, Clementine marched after Elvis, determined to assert her authority and begin this new chapter on her own terms. Ranch life was already proving far more complicated and unpredictable than she'd bargained for. But she had to believe that with hard work, an open mind, and perhaps a bit of that famous Olivetti pluck, she would find her way.

She thought fleetingly of Bonnie, no doubt going about her day back in New York, blissfully unaware of the upheaval in her friend's life. What would she make of all this—the sprawling ranch, the motley crew of cowhands, the arrogant and mysterious Elvis? Clementine could almost hear Bonnie's laughter, could picture her delighted grin and twinkling green eyes.

"Oh Clemmie, it's better than any dime novel!" she would say. "Handsome cowboys, wild horses, wide open skies... and you, the unlikely heroine out to prove herself and tame them all! Just think of the adventures you'll have!"

The corners of Clementine's mouth twitched with an unbidden smile. Trust Bonnie to see the romance in even the most daunting of circumstances. Perhaps there was something to that unshakable optimism. With any luck, Clementine would live to write her friend a bushel of thrilling letters detailing her exploits as the mistress of Windy Creek Ranch.

Provided she survived her first day as Elvis' employer, of course. 

Clementine forced down a flutter of trepidation as she neared the looming barn door. Steeling her nerve, she stepped across the threshold into the cool shadow, the pungent scents of hay and horses and honest sweat enveloping her. Her heels sank into the earthen floor, the faint clucking of chickens and a few falling feathers drifting from the loft above.

Elvis stood at the far end of the aisle, backlit by a shaft of sunlight. He had one hip cocked against a stall door, arms crossed over his chest as he watched her approach with an inscrutable expression. Clementine tried not to notice the way his chambray shirt pulled taut across his muscled torso or how his worn denims hugged his lean thighs. She had no business admiring the physical attributes of a subordinate, no matter how undeniably attractive.

He started further into the barn, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. "You alright there, princess? Need me to fetch you a fainting couch?"

Clementine glowered at him behind his back.

"Welcome to the heart of Windy Creek," he said as she drew near. "This here's where the magic happens."

Clementine arched a brow. "Magic?"

Elvis' mouth twitched, his eyes glinting with something suspiciously like amusement at her primness. "Figure of speech. I mean this is where we break the horses, mend the tack, store the feed. Pretty much everything that keeps the place runnin' starts and ends right here."

He pushed off the stall and gestured for her to follow. "C'mon, I'll show you the layout. Reckon you'll be spendin' a fair bit of time in here, seein' as how you're aimin' to be a hands-on boss and all."

Clementine chose to ignore the note of condescension in his tone and fell into step beside him. For the next half hour, Elvis led her through the barn and corrals, rattling off details about everything from the hay inventory to the farrier schedule to the breeding records of the small remuda. His taciturn demeanor thawed by degrees as he spoke of Windy Creek's prize bloodlines and the foals he hoped to see come spring. It was clear this ranch was more than a job to him; it was his life's work, his pride and joy.

Despite herself, Clementine found she was hanging on his every word, absorbing the intricacies of a world so different from her own. The easy confidence with which Elvis navigated this domain, the surety of purpose in his every move, was oddly compelling. She could see why Uncle Ned had trusted him implicitly.

As they circled back to the main barn, Elvis nodded to a large fenced pasture dotted with grazing cattle. "That there's the heart of the herd. 'Bout 300 head of prime Hereford. The real moneymakers. They'll be your bread and butter once we drive 'em to market come fall."

Clementine shaded her eyes against the glare, marveling at the sea of dun backs and lowing faces. Never in her life had she been responsible for so many living creatures. The weight of it settled on her shoulders like a tangible thing.

"And you're certain we have enough hands to see them safely to market?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "I won't pretend to be an expert, but it seems an awful lot of ground to cover with just the few men I've seen so far."

"We're a lean crew but we're solid," said Elvis. "Me, Red, a couple fellas who drift through as needed. Ain't never lost a steer yet and don't aim to start now." He cut her a sidelong glance. "Course, an extra pair of hands come drive time is always welcome. You any good with a horse?"

Clementine's cheeks warmed at the challenge in his eyes. "I'm a fair rider," she said, lifting her chin. She had ridden in Central Park quite a few times when she was younger. "Though I'll admit it's been a while since I've sat anything beyond a sedate little mare on a bridle path." 

"Ain't nothin' sedate about the mounts we raise here," said Elvis with a slow grin that did funny things to her insides. "But I reckon we could find you a steady cow pony, get you back in the saddle."

"I'd like that," said Clementine, pulse quickening at the thought of flying across the open range with the wind in her hair. Yearning for speed and freedom and a taste of the untamed life that had always been denied her.

Something shifted in Elvis' gaze, his eyes darkening as they dipped briefly to her mouth. "Bet you would."

The air between them thickened, charged with a sudden crackling tension that raised the hairs on Clementine's nape. For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. Clementine hardly dared breathe, caught in the snare of Elvis' penetrating stare. What was happening? Why did it feel as if the very ground had tilted beneath her feet?

Then Elvis blinked and the spell was broken. He took a measured step back, features shuttering. "Best we get you settled in the house," he said brusquely. "Red's probably fixin' to break down the door wonderin' where we got to." 

Clementine swallowed, her tongue darting out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. "Of course," she managed. "After you."

They walked in silence back to the ranch house, a palpable charge still shimmering in the scant space between their bodies. Clementine's mind raced as she tried to make sense of the strange, heated little moment in the barn. Surely it was just a trick of the light, an odd fluke of exhaustion and overwrought nerves. There could be no other explanation for the way her skin had flushed and her stomach fluttered under Elvis' intent gaze.

She was just tired, that was all. Tired and overwhelmed and in desperate need of a bath and a good night's sleep in a proper bed. Everything would seem much more manageable in the clear light of morning. Including a certain confounding cowboy who seemed to swing between hostility and allure at the drop of a hat.

By the time they reached the house, Clementine had convinced herself she had imagined the whole unsettling interlude. Elvis deposited her on the front porch with a perfunctory nod and a promise to have one of the hands bring up a hip bath and hot water. Then he was gone, striding off towards the corrals with that swagger that drew entirely too much of her attention.

Clementine pushed through the door, resolved to put the perplexing man out of her head for the time being. She had more pressing concerns, like acquainting herself with her new living quarters and trying to impose some order on the chaos of this abrupt upheaval.

But as she climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, dusty carpetbag in hand, she couldn't shake the feeling that her true adventure was only just beginning. That Elvis and Windy Creek Ranch might wind up changing her life in ways she had never dared dream.

With a flutter of nervous anticipation, Clementine stepped across the threshold of her new bedroom, ready to embrace whatever challenges and surprises lay ahead. She could only hope she proved equal to them.

As Clementine explored her new bedchamber, she couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the rustic charm that surrounded her. The room was simply furnished with a sturdy oak bed, a weathered dresser, and a washstand bearing a chipped porcelain basin. Faded calico curtains fluttered at the open window, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of lavender and distant pine.

It was a far cry from her cozy apartment back home, with its gas lamps and indoor plumbing and nosy neighbors just a thin wall away. But there was something undeniably appealing about this rough-hewn space, with its sense of history and hard-won comfort. She could almost imagine Uncle Ned sitting on the edge of this very bed, pulling off his boots after a long day in the saddle.

A lump rose in Clementine's throat as she thought of her uncle, of the legacy he had entrusted to her. She still couldn't quite believe he was gone, that she would never again hear his booming laugh or see the twinkle in his eye as he regaled her with tales of the wild west. He had been a larger-than-life figure, a beacon of adventure in her otherwise orderly world.

And now he had given her the greatest adventure of all. A chance to build something of her own, to carve out a place for herself in this untamed land. It was a daunting prospect, but also an exhilarating one. For the first time in her life, Clementine felt truly free. Free to make her own choices, to chase her own dreams, to become the woman she had always longed to be.

Oh, there would be challenges aplenty. She was under no illusions about that. Running a ranch was backbreaking work, and she had no experience with any of it. She would have to learn everything from scratch, would have to earn the respect of the men who worked for her. Men like Elvis, who seemed determined to undermine her at every turn.

Clementine's mouth tightened as she thought of the infuriating cowboy. He had made it abundantly clear that he thought she was in over her head, that a city girl like her had no business trying to run a cattle operation. Well, she would just have to prove him wrong. She would work twice as hard as anyone else, would study and practice until she knew this ranch inside out. She would show Elvis and everyone else that Clementine Olivetti was more than just a pretty face in a fancy dress.

With renewed determination, she set about unpacking her trunk. She carefully hung up the simple frocks and sturdy boots she had brought for work, then tucked away the few more fashionable items she couldn't bear to leave behind. Her fingers lingered on a photograph of her parents on their wedding day, their faces alight with joy and promise. She placed it gently on the dresser.

A knock at the door startled Clementine from her reverie. "Come in," she called, smoothing her skirts self-consciously.

The door swung open to reveal a plump, motherly woman with greying hair and a flour-dusted apron. She bobbed a curtsy, her lined face creasing into a warm smile.

"Beggin' your pardon, miss, but I thought you might be ready for some supper. It's been a long day for you, I reckon."

Clementine's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, too nervous to do more than nibble on the journey. "That would be wonderful, thank you. Mrs...?"

"Jameson, miss. Ida Jameson. I've been cookin' and cleanin' for Windy Creek nigh on twenty years now. Ever since Mr. Ned hired me on after my dear Henry passed."

"I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jameson," said Clementine sincerely. "I hope you'll be patient with me as I learn my way around. This is all quite new to me."

"Oh, don't you fret none. We'll get you settled in right quick. Ain't nothin' to runnin' a house once you get the hang of it." Mrs. Jameson's eyes twinkled with kindly amusement. "And don't mind that Elvis none. His bark's worse than his bite. He's just used to havin' things his own way."

Clementine felt her cheeks heat at the mention of the exasperating foreman. Did her consternation show so plainly on her face? "I'll keep that in mind, Mrs. Jameson."

"You do that, miss. Now, let's get you fed afore you faint dead away. I've got a nice beef stew on the simmer and fresh bread just out of the oven."

Clementine's mouth watered at the thought. Suddenly ravenous, she followed Mrs. Jameson down to the kitchen, the delectable scents wafting up the stairs making her stomach growl audibly.

The kitchen was a large, homey space, dominated by a massive cast iron stove and a long wooden table that could easily seat a dozen. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters, jars of preserves lined the shelves, and a motley collection of skillets and kettles dangled from hooks on the walls. It was a far cry from the convenient, modern kitchens Clementine was accustomed to, but there was a cozy charm to it that put her instantly at ease.

Mrs. Jameson bustled about, ladling steaming stew into a blue willow bowl and cutting a thick slice of crusty bread. She set the meal in front of Clementine with a flourish, then poured a tall glass of cool, creamy milk from a stoneware pitcher.

"There you are. Eat up now, and don't be shy about askin' for seconds. Lord knows there's plenty to go around."

Clementine breathed in the savory aroma, her eyes fluttering shut in anticipation. She couldn't remember the last time a simple meal had looked so enticing. Murmuring her thanks, she dug in with gusto, the rich flavors exploding on her tongue.

For a few blissful minutes, there was no sound but the clink of Clementine's spoon against the bowl and the occasional appreciative hum as she savored each mouthful. Mrs. Jameson puttered about, wiping down counters and setting a pot of coffee to brew, a small, satisfied smile on her face as she watched her new mistress eat.

But the peaceful moment was shattered by the sudden bang of the screen door flying open. Elvis strode into the kitchen, his spurs jingling and his hat pulled low over his brow. He drew up short at the sight of Clementine, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly.

"Mrs. J, we got any of that stew left? I'm powerful hungry after wranglin' that new string of horses all afternoon."

"Sit yourself down, Mr. Elvis, and I'll fetch you a bowl," said Mrs. Jameson placidly, seemingly impervious to the sudden tension in the room.

Elvis hesitated, his gaze flicking between Clementine and the empty chair across from her. For a moment, she thought he might make some excuse and flee, but then he shrugged and sank down onto the bench, his long legs stretching out beneath the table.

Clementine kept her eyes fixed on her bowl, her appetite suddenly deserting her. She could feel Elvis watching her, could sense the coiled energy radiating off him like heat from a stove. It made her skin prickle and her heart thump erratically in her chest.

Mrs. Jameson set a heaping bowl in front of Elvis, then tactfully withdrew, muttering something about needing to tend to the laundry. Clementine silently cursed the woman for abandoning her, even as she understood the impulse. The air between her and Elvis was thick with a strange, charged energy that made it hard to breathe, let alone carry on a normal conversation.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Clementine pushed a chunk of potato around her bowl, acutely aware of Elvis' every move as he tore off a hunk of bread and sopped up the rich gravy. She could hear the soft, wet sounds of his chewing, could catch the faint scent of horse and leather and sweat that clung to his skin.

It was all suddenly too much. Too intimate, too unnerving. Clementine pushed back from the table, nearly upending her milk glass in her haste. "Please excuse me," she mumbled, not meeting Elvis' eyes. "It's been a long day and I'm quite exhausted."

She fled the kitchen before he could respond, her cheeks burning and her pulse pounding in her ears. She didn't slow down until she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, the door slamming shut behind her with a satisfying bang.

Clementine leaned back against the solid oak, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. What on earth was wrong with her? She had never been one to let a man fluster her, had prided herself on her poise and composure in even the most trying of circumstances. But something about Elvis made her feel off-balance, unsettled in a way she couldn't quite define.

It was more than just his rough manners and challenging attitude. There was a rawness to him, a sense of barely leashed power that sent a thrill down her spine even as it set her nerves on edge. When he looked at her, she felt stripped bare, as if he could see straight through her proper facade to the wild, yearning heart beneath.

It was terrifying. And if Clementine was being honest with herself, it was also strangely exhilarating. All her life, she had played by the rules, had done what was expected of her. She had been the dutiful daughter, the demure debutante, the efficient employee. But here, in this rugged land so far from everything she had ever known, she could feel those old constraints falling away. Here, she could be anyone she wanted to be, could chase dreams she had never dared voice aloud.

Even if those dreams involved a certain brooding, impossible cowboy with eyes the color of a stormy sky.

Clementine pushed off the door, shaking her head at her own foolishness. She was being ridiculous. Elvis was just a man, no different from any other. A bit rougher around the edges, mayhap, but certainly not worth losing her head over. She had more important things to worry about, like learning to run this ranch and proving herself worthy of her uncle's trust.

With a resolute nod, Clementine began to undress for bed, her fingers deftly unfastening the long row of buttons down the back of her bodice. She slipped the heavy garment off, sighing with relief as the cool air hit her sweat-dampened skin. She reached for her nightgown, a simple cotton shift that fell to her ankles in soft folds.

But as she lifted the garment over her head, a sudden gust of wind from the open window sent the curtains billowing inward, the fabric brushing against her bare skin like a lover's caress. Clementine shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms and legs. For a moment, she imagined it was Elvis' hands on her, his callused fingers tracing the curve of her spine, the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast...

With a gasp, Clementine wrenched the nightgown down, her face flaming with mortification. Good heavens, what was she thinking? She must be more tired than she realized, to let her mind wander down such inappropriate paths. Elvis was her employee, nothing more. To allow herself to entertain such lurid fantasies was not only foolish, but dangerous.

Flustered and out of sorts, Clementine crawled beneath the patchwork quilt, the bed creaking beneath her weight. She thumped the pillow a bit harder than necessary, then lay back with a huff, staring up at the shadowy rafters above.

Sleep. That was what she needed. A good night's rest to clear her head and settle her nerves. Tomorrow would be a new day, full of challenges and opportunities. She would rise with the sun, would throw herself into the work of the ranch with all the energy and determination she possessed. And if her thoughts should happen to stray to a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed cowboy, well... she would just have to deal with that when the time came.

With a sigh, Clementine closed her eyes, willing her racing mind to quiet. But even as she drifted off to sleep, she couldn't shake the feeling that her life was about to change in ways she had never dared imagine. That Elvis and Windy Creek Ranch would test her in ways she had never been tested before.

And that maybe, just maybe, she was ready for the challenge.

Chapter 2

The shrill crow of a rooster jolted Clementine from a dreamless sleep. She sat up with a start, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then memory came flooding back - the long journey west, the startling confrontation with Elvis, the strange, charged moment in the kitchen the night before.

Clementine groaned, flopping back against the pillows. She had hoped that a good night's sleep would clear her head, would settle the unsettling flutter in her stomach whenever she thought of the taciturn cowboy. But if anything, the light of day only made her confusion and trepidation worse.

How was she supposed to face him this morning, after fleeing from him like a frightened rabbit? He must think her a complete fool, a silly city girl who couldn't handle the slightest hint of rough manners. And what must the other ranch hands think, seeing their new boss so easily flustered by their foreman?

Clementine set her jaw, a spark of determination igniting in her chest. No. She refused to let Elvis or anyone else rattle her. She was Clementine Olivetti, mistress of Windy Creek Ranch. She had faced far greater challenges than one surly cowboy, and she would face this one with the same grit and grace that had gotten her this far.

With a resolute nod, Clementine threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She winced as her feet hit the cold floorboards, the chill of the early morning air raising gooseflesh on her arms. Shivering, she hurried to the washstand and poured a measure of tepid water from the pitcher into the basin. She splashed her face and neck, the bracing coolness helping to chase away the last vestiges of sleep.

As she toweled off, Clementine caught sight of herself in the small, spotty mirror hanging above the washstand. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and a bit wan. The long journey and the stress of the previous day had taken their toll - there were shadows beneath her eyes and a pinched look to her mouth. But there was also a new resolve in the set of her chin, a glint of steel in her gaze.

She was not the same woman who had left New York. The old Clementine would have balked at the idea of manual labor, would have blanched at the thought of getting her hands dirty. But the new Clementine, the Clementine who had crossed a continent to claim her inheritance, was ready to roll up her sleeves and get to work.

With that thought firmly in mind, Clementine set about dressing for the day ahead. She chose a simple frock of sturdy blue calico, the skirt full enough to allow for ease of movement. Over it, she layered a crisp white apron, the bib protecting her bodice from any stray bits of dirt or debris. She pulled her hair back into a practical bun at the nape of her neck, then topped the ensemble with a wide-brimmed straw hat to shield her face from the sun.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Clementine felt a surge of satisfaction. She looked like a woman who meant business, a woman ready to take on whatever challenges the day might bring. With a nod of approval, she turned away from the glass and made her way downstairs.

The kitchen was already a hive of activity when Clementine entered. Mrs. Jameson stood at the stove, stirring a pot of bubbling oatmeal with one hand while flipping pancakes with the other. The air was thick with the scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee, making Clementine's stomach rumble in anticipation.

"Good morning, Mrs. Jameson," she said, taking a seat at the long wooden table. "That smells heavenly."

"Mornin', Miss Clementine," the housekeeper replied, casting a smile over her shoulder. "I hope you slept well. I know the first night in a new place can be a bit unsettlin'."

"I slept just fine, thank you," Clementine lied, not wanting to admit to the restless thoughts that had kept her tossing and turning half the night. "Is there anything I can do to help with breakfast?"

Mrs. Jameson looked scandalized at the very idea. "Heavens no, miss! You just sit right there and let me take care of everything. It's my job to make sure you're well-fed and rested, not the other way around."

Clementine opened her mouth to protest, but the housekeeper cut her off with a stern look. "I mean it, miss. You've got enough on your plate as it is, learnin' the ropes of runnin' this ranch. Leave the cookin' and cleanin' to me."

Chastened, Clementine sat back in her chair, feeling a bit useless. She was used to being busy from sunup to sundown, to having a full day's work ahead of her. The idea of sitting idle while others bustled about made her itch with restlessness.

But before she could dwell on it too long, the kitchen door swung open and Elvis strode in, his spurs jingling with each step. Clementine's heart gave a traitorous leap at the sight of him, her skin prickling with awareness as his gaze landed on her.

"Mornin', Mrs. J," he said, tipping his hat to the housekeeper. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Miss Clementine."

"Good morning, Elvis," Clementine replied, proud of how steady her voice sounded. "I trust you slept well?"

Elvis shrugged, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. "Well enough. Got a full day ahead, so I reckon I'll sleep when I'm dead." His blue eyes glinted with something that might have been amusement, or might have been challenge. "You ready to get your hands dirty, boss lady?"

Clementine lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. "I am. Just tell me where to start."

Elvis' mouth twitched, as if he were fighting back a smile. "Reckon we'll start with the chickens. Gotta collect the eggs and feed the birds 'fore we do anything else."

Clementine's nose wrinkled at the thought of mucking about in a chicken coop, but she nodded gamely. "Lead the way, then."

Elvis cocked a brow, looking almost impressed by her easy acquiescence. He jerked his chin toward the door, then strode out into the morning sunlight without a backward glance.

Clementine hurried to follow, her heart hammering with a mix of nerves and excitement. This was it - her first real test as mistress of Windy Creek. She could only hope she was up to the challenge.

The chicken coop was a ramshackle affair, all weathered wood and rusting wire. It stood at the edge of the yard, a few dozen scrawny birds pecking and scratching at the dirt around its base. They scattered as Elvis approached, clucking and flapping in agitation.

"Little bastards," Elvis muttered, kicking at a particularly bold rooster who dared to dart across his path. "More trouble than they're worth, most days."

Clementine eyed the birds warily, keeping a safe distance as Elvis unlatched the coop door and ducked inside. She could hear him moving about, the soft cluck and coo of the hens as he gathered their eggs. A moment later, he emerged, a basket hooked over one arm.

"Here," he said, thrusting the basket into Clementine's hands. "Hold this while I scatter the feed."

Clementine took the basket gingerly, peering down at the warm, speckled eggs nestled in the straw. They were still faintly damp from the hens' nests, and they gave off a rich, earthy scent that made her think of new life and green growing things.

As Elvis scattered handfuls of cracked corn across the yard, the chickens swarmed around his feet, pecking and jostling for position. Clementine watched in fascination as they darted and fluttered, their beady eyes bright with greed. She had never seen anything so vibrantly alive, so utterly unconcerned with human affairs.

"They're quite something, aren't they?" she murmured, almost to herself.

Elvis glanced up at her, surprised. "What, the chickens? I suppose so. Never gave 'em much thought, to be honest. Just another chore to be done."

Clementine shook her head, a small smile playing about her lips. "There's a lesson in that, I think. They don't worry about yesterday or tomorrow. They just live in the moment, taking what they need and letting the rest go."

Elvis straightened, dusting his hands off on his chaps. He regarded her with a new intensity, as if seeing her for the first time. "Ain't you just full of surprises, Miss Clementine."

Clementine felt a flush creep up her neck at his words, at the way his gaze seemed to linger on her face. She ducked her head, suddenly fascinated by the eggs in her basket.

"We should get these inside," she said briskly, turning back toward the house. "Mrs. Jameson will be wanting them for breakfast."

She could feel Elvis' eyes on her back as she walked away, could sense the weight of his regard like a physical touch. It made her skin tingle and her stomach flutter, made her feel alive in a way she never had before.

But she couldn't let herself dwell on it. Couldn't let herself get distracted by the way he made her feel. She had a ranch to run, a legacy to uphold. And she would do it with or without Elvis' approval.

With a determined set to her shoulders, Clementine marched up the porch steps and into the kitchen, ready to face whatever the day might bring. And if her thoughts kept straying to a pair of piercing blue eyes and a crooked, knowing smile, well...that was nobody's business but her own.

As the morning wore on, Clementine found herself thrown headlong into the daily rhythms of ranch life. After breakfast, Elvis put her to work mucking out stalls in the barn, a task that left her sweaty and aching but oddly satisfied. There was something soothing about the repetitive motions, the earthy scent of hay and horse, the soft whickers and snuffles of the animals as she worked.

Next came a lesson in saddling a horse, Elvis' hands guiding her through the intricacies of cinches and stirrups. Clementine tried not to think about how close he stood, how the heat of his body seemed to seep into her skin through the layers of her dress. She focused instead on the task at hand, on the supple leather beneath her fingers and the solid weight of the saddle as she hefted it onto the horse's back.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, Clementine was sore and sweat-streaked but buzzing with a sense of accomplishment. She had never worked so hard in her life, had never pushed herself to such physical limits. But there was a deep satisfaction in it, a pride in knowing that she was capable of more than she had ever imagined.

As they made their way back to the house for dinner, Elvis fell into step beside her, his long legs easily matching her shorter strides. Clementine glanced up at him, surprised to find a glint of approval in his eyes.

"You did good today," he said gruffly, as if the words pained him. "Reckon you might just have what it takes to make a go of this place after all."

Clementine felt a warm glow of pleasure at his praise, even as she bristled at the note of surprise in his voice. "Did you doubt it?" she asked archly.

Elvis' mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Let's just say I had my reservations. But you're full of surprises, Miss Clementine. Reckon I'm gonna have to keep an eye on you."

There was something in the way he said it, a hint of challenge and something else, something that made Clementine's pulse skip and her skin tingle. She met his gaze squarely, refusing to back down.

"I suppose you will," she said, her voice steady even as her heart raced. "But I intend to keep an eye on you as well. We're in this together, Elvis. Whether you like it or not."

For a moment, Elvis just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded, a glimmer of respect in his eyes.

"Reckon we are," he said, his voice low and rough. "Reckon we are."

And with that, he turned and strode off toward the barn, leaving Clementine to watch him go, her heart hammering in her chest and a new determination burning in her veins.

*

One morning, Elvis gathered the ranch hands for the afternoon's work—a cattle drive to the south pasture to check on the herd and survey the fence lines. Clementine insisted on going along, despite Elvis' skeptical look and Slim’s poorly concealed grin.

Elvis gestured to a small bay mare tethered nearby. "That there is Nutmeg. She's gentle as a lamb and sure-footed on any terrain. Figured she'd suit a greenhorn like you."

Clementine eyed the saddle and tack warily. She knew she was badly out of practice. But she'd be damned if she let Elvis see her falter.

"Lovely," she said brightly, untying Nutmeg's reins and leading her out into the sunlight.

Now came the tricky part. How in blazes did one mount a horse unassisted whilst wearing trousers? Clementine's mind raced as she tried to recall the particulars. There had been talk of a mounting block or some sort of assistance from a groom...

Before she could make a bigger fool of herself, a large, work-roughened hand appeared in her peripheral vision.

"Allow me," Elvis murmured, his breath tickling her ear. 

Clementine stiffened but managed a jerky nod, steeling herself as he gripped her waist and practically tossed her into the saddle as if she weighed nothing at all. Good lord, the man was strong as an ox!

"There now," Elvis said, sounding faintly amused. "Snug as a bug. Let's hit the trail."

He swung aboard his own horse, Rising Sun, with effortless grace and set off at a brisk trot, leaving Clementine scrambling to gather her reins and urge Nutmeg to follow. The mare fell into step readily enough, but the motion of the saddle had Clementine lurching and sliding like a sack of potatoes. She clung to the horn for dear life, her teeth rattling and her hat threatening to fly off with every jolting stride.

“You alright there, city slicker?” Elvis offered with a smirk. 

Clementine scowled at him, her face flushed with exertion and embarrassment. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you. It's just been a while since I've ridden."

"I can see that. You're bouncin' around up there like a flea on a hot griddle." Red, Slim, and Rusty chuckled. 

Clementine's temper flared. "Well, forgive me for not being born in the saddle like some people. We can't all be insolent, arrogant cowboys!"

Elvis' eyes narrowed, his smile fading. "Careful now, missy. That insolent, arrogant cowboy is the only thing standing between you and a long walk back to the house. Might want to mind your manners."

“Aw hell, Elvis, leave the little lady alone,” Slim attempted to diffuse the budding argument.

Clementine knew she should back down, should swallow her pride and apologize. But something about this man just rubbed her the wrong way, stirring up a reckless, contrary streak she didn't even know she possessed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said sweetly to herself, not expecting anyone to hear her. "I thought I was the boss around here. My mistake."

Elvis' jaw clenched, his hand tightening on the reins. "Boss or not, out here you're just another greenhorn. And greenshorns who don't listen to good sense often end up buzzard bait. So you can either stow that snippy attitude and let me teach you a thing or two, or you can take your chances on your own. What'll it be?"

Red, Slim, and Rusty slowed their horses down, holding their breath and waiting for her answer. Clementine glared at Elvis, her pride warring with her common sense. As much as it galled her to admit it, Elvis was right. She was out of her depth out here and antagonizing her only guide was foolish at best, deadly at worst.

"Fine," she bit out. "Teach away, oh wise one. I am your humble student."

Elvis snorted, shaking his head. "You sure don't make it easy, do you? Alright, first things first—loosen up on them reins. You're holding 'em like you expect Nutmeg to bolt any second. She ain't going nowhere, trust me."

Clementine forced her white-knuckled grip to relax, letting out a shaky breath as the mare flicked an ear back curiously.

"Good. Now, stand up in them stirrups a bit. Let your knees absorb the motion 'stead of your backside. And keep your heels down for balance."

Clementine did as instructed, wobbling precariously for a moment before finding a rhythm. To her surprise, the ride smoothed out considerably, Nutmeg's rocking gait almost pleasant now that she wasn't being jounced to pieces.

"Well, would you look at that," Elvis drawled. "She can be taught. Keep that up and we might make a passable rider out of you yet, Miss Clementine."

Clementine felt an absurd flush of pleasure at his gruff approval. Honestly, what did she care what this uncouth lout thought of her? Still, perhaps it wouldn't kill her to bend a little, to put aside her wounded pride in service of the greater goal. She needed Elvis' cooperation if she hoped to make a go of this venture. Catching more flies with honey and all that.

Red’s mare caught up to hers, and he gently squeezed Clementine’s arm. “Don’t pay old Elvis no mind. He’s always a little ornery in the morning.” 

The four of them rode on in relatively companionable silence, the raw beauty of the landscape stealing Clementine's breath. Towering buttes and mesas rose up from the sun-baked earth, their banded layers glowing red and gold in the slanting light. Gnarled junipers dotted the hillsides, providing scant shade for the cacti and scrub brush that clung tenaciously to the rocky soil. In the distance, a band of wild mustangs kicked up dust as they fled across the flats, tails streaming behind them like banners.

It was a harsh, unforgiving land, but stunning in its austerity. Clementine tried to imagine her uncle Ned riding these same trails, his weather-beaten face creased in a smile as he surveyed his domain. She may not have known him well, but she sensed a kindred spirit—someone drawn to challenge and adventure, to pitting themselves against an untamed wilderness and emerging the victor.

Well, here I am, Uncle Ned, she thought. Following in your boot prints at last. I just hope I'm up to the task.

Lost in thought, Clementine scarcely noticed when Rusty reined in his horse at the crest of a rise, his keen gaze scanning the horizon.

"There," he said, pointing to a distant smudge of brown against the green and gold. "The herd's just over that next ridge. About three hundred head of prime Hereford, Ned's pride and joy. Let's ease up on 'em slow and quiet-like. Don't want to spook 'em into a stampede."

They approached the grazing cattle cautiously, Clementine's heart thudding with anticipation. Her first real look at her newfound livelihood. What would Ned have thought, seeing her astride a ranch horse, ready to take the reins of his empire? Would he be proud or appalled? Amused or aghast?

"You sure you're up for this, Miss Clementine?" Red asked, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth. "Ridin' herd ain't no picnic, 'specially for a greenhorn."

Clementine lifted her chin, giving him a cool smile. "I'm tougher than I look, Mr. Redding. And I'm a quick study. I'll be just fine."

The cattle regarded the riders placidly, chewing their cud and swishing their tails at the flies. Up close, they were even more enormous than Clementine had imagined, their heavy bodies and wickedly curved horns dwarfing the horses. She felt a flicker of unease, remembering tales of cowpokes gored and trampled by unruly steers.

As if sensing her trepidation, Elvis murmured, "Easy now. They're more scared of you than you are of them. These are good, docile beasts, well-used to human handling. Just keep your movements slow and predictable and you'll be fine."

Clementine nodded jerkily, fighting the urge to wheel Nutmeg around and gallop in the opposite direction. She trusted Elvis' expertise, even if she didn't particularly like or respect the man himself. He'd kept this herd thriving for five years—that had to count for something.

They meandered through the milling cattle, Elvis pointing out choice specimens and explaining the finer points of branding, breeding, and husbandry. Clementine did her best to absorb the onslaught of information, her head fairly spinning with talk of bloodlines and feed supplements and market prices.

One thing was becoming crystal clear. She was hopelessly out of her depth when it came to the day-to-day realities of running a ranch. Short of a miracle or divine intervention, Windy Creek would be bankrupt and in ruins within a month under her ignorant guidance.

Clementine's throat tightened with despair at the thought of failing her uncle, of losing this land that meant so much to him. And what of the people who depended on Windy Creek for their livelihood? Red and Slim and Rusty and the other hands she had yet to meet—how could she face them if her incompetence cost them their jobs, their homes?

No, it was unthinkable. She needed help, loath as she was to admit it. She needed Elvis.

Clementine was just working up the nerve to broach the subject when the quiet afternoon exploded into chaos. One moment the cattle were grazing peacefully, the next they were bellowing in alarm, eyes rolling and hooves churning the earth. The cause of their distress soon became apparent—a pair of snarling, yipping coyotes had burst from the underbrush, harrying the herd's flanks in search of an easy meal.

"Damnation!" Elvis swore, spurring his mount towards the threat. "Slim! Red! Rusty! Get after 'em 'fore they scatter the herd!"

Clementine watched in amazement as the cowhands sprung into immediate action, whooping and hollering as they rode to head off the predators. Red in particular was a sight to behold, his enormous frame dwarfing his horse as he thundered after a fleeing coyote, his lasso whirling overhead.

In the midst of the pandemonium, Clementine lost sight of Elvis. She reined in Nutmeg, heart in her throat as she scanned the milling herd for any sign of him. Panic clawed at her insides as horrible visions flashed through her mind—Elvis thrown from the saddle, trampled beneath a hundred hooves, bleeding and broken on the unforgiving ground...

A flash of movement caught her eye and Clementine shrieked in alarm, instinctively wrenching Nutmeg to the side. Too late, she realized her mistake as a coyote darted from the brush directly underfoot, spooking the mare into a wild, twisting buck.

Clementine felt herself slipping, her tenuous grip on the saddle horn failing as Nutmeg crow-hopped and whirled beneath her. She had one instant of sickening clarity, the knowledge that this was going to hurt, before the ground rushed up to meet her with stunning force.

The impact drove the air from her lungs in a whoosh, black spots crowding the edges of her vision. Dimly, she registered the thud of approaching hoofbeats, the bawl of frightened cattle, someone shouting her name with increasing urgency.

"Clementine! Clementine, goddammit, answer me!"

Rough hands seized her shoulders, rolling her onto her back. Clementine blinked up at Elvis' ashen face, his blue eyes wide with fear.

"I'm... alright," she croaked, wincing at the stabbing pain in her ribs. "Just had the wind knocked out of me."

"You're hurt," Elvis said roughly, his fingers coming away from her temple sticky with red. "What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that? You're lucky you didn't break your damn fool neck!"

"I was thinking that I didn't particularly want to be some coyote's dinner," Clementine snapped, struggling to sit up. "What was I supposed to do, let it take a chunk out of Nutmeg?"

"Better the horse than you!" Elvis shot back. "Christ almighty, do you have any idea what it would've done to me if you'd been killed on my watch? On your first day here?"

There was something raw and desperate in his voice, an emotion Clementine couldn't quite name. She stared at him, struck speechless by the intensity of his reaction.

Before she could formulate a response, the sound of pounding hooves announced the return of the other cowhands. Red reined up hard beside them, his ruddy face creased with concern.

"Miss Clementine! You okay? We saw you take that spill and feared the worst!"

"I'm fine, Red," Clementine assured him, accepting Elvis' hand up with as much dignity as she could muster. "Just a little tumble. No permanent damage."

Rusty looked skeptical, eyeing the bloody gash on her forehead. "That's gonna need some doctorin'. We best get you back to the house and have Juanita take a look."

"I said I'm fine," Clementine insisted, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over her. "There's no need to fuss."

Elvis made a wordless sound of frustration, scooping her up into his arms as if she weighed no more than a sack of flour. "Stubborn woman! You're gettin' patched up and that's final. Rusty, ride back to the ranch and tell Juanita to put the kettle on and set up a place on the porch.”

"Yessir, boss!" Rusty wheeled his horse and took off at a gallop, stirring up a cloud of dust.

"Slim, you get this heard settled and head on back when you can. Red, you lead Nutmeg back. I'm takin' Miss Accident-Prone here home before she finds more trouble to get into."

Elvis plunked Clementine onto his saddle and swung up behind her, caging her in with his long arms. She opened her mouth to protest the indignity of it all, but a stern look from those flinty blue eyes had her subsiding into sullen silence.

The ride back to the house seemed to take an eternity, every jolt and jostle sending fresh sparks of pain through Clementine's battered body. She could feel the heat of Elvis' chest at her back, the tickle of his breath ruffling her hair. It was unsettling, being in such close proximity to him. Like trying to relax with a loaded gun at your temple.

By the time they reached the ranch yard, Clementine's head was throbbing and her stomach was churning alarmingly. Black spots swarmed her vision as Elvis lifted her down from the saddle, his hands exceedingly gentle for all their strength.

"Easy there, darlin'. I got you."

Clementine leaned into him, too woozy to protest the endearment. He smelled of leather and sweat and something uniquely male, a scent that made her pulse flutter in a way that had nothing to do with her injuries.

She was only vaguely aware of being carried up the porch steps and settled onto a low cot, clucking female voices buzzing around her like concerned hens. Cool hands smoothed her brow, a damp cloth dabbing at the sticky mess at her hairline. The sting of alcohol made her hiss, flinching away.

"Hush, child," crooned Juanita, the middle-aged Mexican woman who served as the ranch’s de facto doctor-slash-veterinarian. "This will clean the cut, keep it from putrefaction. Drink this now, for the dolor de cabeza."

A cup was pressed to Clementine's lips, bitter tea laced with something sharper, medicinal. She gulped it obediently, desperate for anything to dull the relentless pounding behind her eyes.

Gradually, blessedly, the pain receded to a distant ache, her limbs growing heavy with languor. Clementine felt herself sinking into the downy embrace of the cot, the muted sounds of the ranch fading to a distant hum. Just before oblivion claimed her, she thought she felt the calloused touch of a hand smoothing her hair, the gruff timbre of a voice rumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "rest now, wildcat."

But it was probably just a dream, a product of her exhausted, concussed brain. Elvis Presley would never be so tender, so solicitous. Not to her. Not in a million years.

*

Clementine slept, and did not dream at all.

She awoke slowly, surfacing from the depths of unconsciousness like a diver ascending sunlit waters. Her head felt muzzy, her mouth dry as cotton, but the pain had faded to a faint, distant throb. Blinking gummy eyes, she struggled to focus on her surroundings.

She was lying on the cot on the front porch, a patchwork quilt tucked around her legs. The sun was setting in a blaze of orange and pink, the long shadows of the outbuildings stretching across the yard like grasping fingers. Somewhere nearby, a lone cicada buzzed in the cooling air, a herald of the approaching dusk.

"Well now, look who's back among the living."

Clementine turned her head, wincing at the twinge in her neck. Elvis was seated in a rocking chair a few feet away, his long legs stretched out before him and his hat tipped low over his eyes. He looked relaxed, indolent even, but Clementine could sense the coiled energy beneath the languid facade, the watchful tension of a predator at rest.

"What happened?" she croaked, struggling to sit up. "How long was I out?"

"Couple hours," Elvis replied, leaning forward to hand her a tin cup of water. "You took a pretty good knock to the head when that mare bucked you off. Juanita cleaned you up and dosed you with one of her concoctions. Said you'd be right as rain after some rest."

Clementine sipped the water, frowning as memory returned in fits and starts. The coyote, Nutmeg's panicked thrashing, the sickening weightlessness as she flew through the air...

"The cattle!" she exclaimed, slopping water down her front in her agitation. "Did they scatter? Was anyone hurt?"

Elvis shook his head, a faint smile playing about his lips. "Nah, we got 'em rounded up and settled quick enough. And other than a few bumps and bruises, everyone came through just fine. Except for you, a'course. Damn foolish stunt you pulled out there."

Clementine bristled at the censure in his tone, even as a tiny part of her acknowledged the truth of it. "I was just reacting on instinct. I didn't want Nutmeg to get hurt."

"And I didn't want you to get dead," Elvis retorted, a sudden edge to his voice. "Do you have any idea how close you came to dying today? How it felt to see you layin' there in the dirt, bleedin' and still as a corpse? Christ, Clementine, you 'bout stopped my heart."

Clementine stared at him, caught off-guard by the admission.

She flushed, both at the scolding and the backhanded compliment. "Yes, well, I suppose I've learned my lesson about playing the hero. Ranch work is a sight more dangerous than minding a shop or keeping accounts."

To her surprise, Elvis chuckled. "Reckon that's true enough. But you showed some real grit out there today, greenhorn or no. Not many city gals would have stuck it out like you did."

His praise, grudging as it was, warmed Clementine down to her toes. She ducked her head to hide her pleased smile, suddenly very aware of his nearness, of the way his knee brushed her hip through the quilt.

"I guess I'm tougher than I look," she said, aiming for nonchalance.

"Guess you are," Elvis agreed. Something in his tone made Clementine look up, her breath catching at the intensity in his blue eyes. For a long, charged moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them fairly crackling with an unnamed tension.

Then Elvis blinked and looked away, clearing his throat gruffly. "Best you get some more rest," he said, rising from the rocker. "I'll have Ida bring you up some supper later. Holler if you need anything."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Clementine alone with her whirling thoughts. She lay back against the pillows, her heart racing and her skin tingling where his gaze had lingered. What on earth had just happened? One minute Elvis was his usual gruff, scolding self, the next he was looking at her like... like...

Like a man looks at a woman he desires, a traitorous voice whispered in her head. Clementine shook the thought away, scandalised. Surely she was imagining things, seeing more than was there. She and Elvis were like oil and water, always rubbing each other the wrong way. He tolerated her for the sake of the ranch, nothing more. The idea that he might feel something deeper, something tender and passionate and real... it was impossible.

Wasn't it?

Clementine groaned and turned her face into the pillow, suddenly exhausted. Her head ached abominably, and her heart felt like a bird beating its wings against the cage of her ribs. She needed sleep, needed time to sort through the jumble of her emotions and the strange, unsettling effect Elvis Presley seemed to have on her good sense.

But even as she drifted off into a fitful doze, Clementine couldn't shake the memory of his eyes on hers, intense and searching and full of something that looked achingly like longing. It haunted her dreams, that look—a promise, a challenge, a invitation to something thrilling and terrifying and utterly forbidden.

Something Clementine knew she shouldn't want... but lord help her, she did.

She wanted it with every fiber of her being.

*

Over the next few days, as Clementine recovered from her injuries, she had ample time to reflect on her growing feelings for Elvis. It was maddening, the way he seemed to invade her every waking thought. She would be in the middle of some mundane task—shelling peas with Ida in the kitchen, or mending a torn shirt in her room—and suddenly his face would swim before her mind's eye, those piercing blue eyes and that crooked, knowing smile making her stomach flutter and her cheeks heat.

It was ridiculous. It was inappropriate. It was... inevitable, if Clementine was being honest with herself. From the moment she'd first laid eyes on Elvis, standing tall and proud on the porch of Windy Creek Ranch, she had felt the pull of him. The attraction, the fascination, the infuriating urge to crack that stony facade and see the man beneath.

But it was more than just physical allure. As the days turned into weeks and Clementine settled into her new life at the ranch, she began to see glimmers of the real Elvis: the loyal friend, the tireless worker, the unexpected jokester. Oh, he could be maddening, with his gruffness and his stubborn pride. But he could also be unexpectedly kind, unbelievably patient, and downright entertaining when the mood struck him.

Like the time he'd caught her trying to sneak a peek at his guitar, the one he kept propped in a corner of the bunkhouse. She'd been sure he would scold her for snooping, or worse, laugh at her clumsy attempts to pluck out a tune. But instead, he'd just shaken his head and smiled that crooked smile of his, then sat down beside her and showed her how to hold the instrument, his callused fingers guiding hers over the strings until she could pick out a passable melody.

Or the night he'd found her crying in the hayloft, homesick and overwhelmed and halfway convinced she'd made a terrible mistake in coming to Windy Creek. He hadn't said a word, just sat down beside her and pulled her into his arms, letting her sob into his shirt until she was spent. Then he'd tipped her chin up and looked into her eyes, his own gaze fierce and tender all at once.

"You're doing just fine, Clementine," he'd said, his voice low and rough. "You're right where you're meant to be."

It was moments like those that made Clementine's heart ache with a longing she couldn't quite name. A yearning for something more than friendship, more than partnership. 

Something that felt suspiciously like affection.

But it was impossible. She and Elvis were too different, too stubborn and set in their ways. They would drive each other mad within a year, Clementine was sure of it. And even if by some miracle they could make a go of it, there was still the ranch to consider. Windy Creek needed her, needed Elvis. They couldn't afford any distractions or entanglements.

No, it was better to put such foolish notions out of her head. To focus on her duties and her goals, and let her heart's desire remain just that—a secret, wistful dream.

But oh, how she dreamed.

As the weeks passed and Clementine grew stronger, she threw herself into life at Windy Creek with renewed determination. She rose with the sun each morning, joining Mrs. Jameson in the kitchen for a hearty breakfast before heading out to tackle the day's chores. She rode herd with the cattle, mended fences with Red and the boys, even tried her hand at roping and branding.

She still felt hopelessly out of her depth at times, but she was learning fast. And she had Elvis to thank for that. He was a patient teacher, though a demanding one. He pushed her hard, expecting nothing less than her very best effort. But he was also quick with a word of praise when she got something right, or a steadying hand when she faltered.

Slowly but surely, Clementine could feel herself changing. Growing tougher, more resilient. The blisters on her palms turned to calluses, the ache in her muscles to a pleasant sort of soreness. And though her prim city dresses were a thing of the past, she found she didn't miss them all that much. There was a freedom in denim and calico, a practicality that suited her new life.

She knew she still had a long way to go before she could truly call herself a rancher. But for the first time since arriving at Windy Creek, Clementine felt like she might actually belong here. Like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

And if her gaze still strayed to Elvis more often than it should, if her heart still raced at his nearness and her skin tingled at his touch... well. That was her secret to keep. Her cross to bear.

But lord, what a sweet burden it was.

*

One evening a few months later, as the sun dipped low on the horizon and painted the sky in shades of gold and pink, Clementine found herself alone with Elvis on a bluff overlooking the ranch. She'd gone up there to get away from the noise and bustle of the house for a while, to let the peace of the prairie soak into her bones and ease the remnants of the day's tension.

She hadn't expected Elvis to follow her. But then, he seemed to have a knack for turning up wherever she was. A coincidence, she told herself each time. Just a quirk of ranch life, two people whose paths were bound to cross often. It didn't mean anything.

But as Elvis came to stand beside her, his shoulder brushing hers as they looked out over the rolling expanse of Windy Creek, Clementine felt that old familiar flutter in her chest. The hitch in her breath, the skip of her pulse.

It meant something. It had to.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wind rustling through the grass, the distant lowing of the cattle in the pasture. Clementine breathed it in, let it fill her lungs and settle in her bones. This place, this land. It was a part of her now, as vital as her own beating heart.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, almost to herself.

Elvis hummed in agreement, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "Never get tired of this view. No matter how many times I see it."

Clementine glanced at him, struck by the wondering note in his voice. "You really love this place, don't you?"

Elvis nodded slowly. "It's in my blood. Has been since I was old enough to sit a horse. Used to dream about having a spread like this, a place to call my own." He paused, his jaw working as if wrestling with some inner debate. Then, quietly, "Never thought I'd find someone to share it with, though."

Clementine's heart stumbled, then began to race. Surely he didn't mean... no. He couldn't have. 

They rode home in silence. 

Chapter 3

The sun beat down on Clementine's back as she rode across the pasture, her eyes scanning the herd for any signs of trouble. It had been just over a year since she'd arrived at Windy Creek Ranch, and in that time, she'd learned more about cattle and cowboying than she'd ever thought possible.

She'd also learned a thing or two about herself. Like the fact that she was stronger than she'd ever given herself credit for, and that the wide-open spaces of the West felt more like home than the bustling streets of New York ever had.

As she turned her horse back towards the ranch house, Clementine couldn't help but smile. Despite the long days and the hard work, she'd never been happier. She had a purpose here, a place where she belonged.

She had Elvis. 

Of course, he was as quiet as ever. Truly, the strong and silent type. But somewhere along the way, through all the disagreements and teasing, a comfortable companionship had grown between them, and Clementine was grateful. 

She dismounted in front of the house, handing the reins off to one of the ranch hands. "Take good care of him, Johnny," she said, giving the boy a pat on the shoulder. "He worked hard today."

Johnny grinned, his freckled face beaming with pride. "Yes, ma'am, Miss Clementine. I'll give him a good rubdown and some extra oats."

Clementine nodded, grateful for the enthusiasm and dedication of her crew. Over time, the workers at the ranch had become like her family. In addition to Red, Slim, and Rusty, there was Johnny, the eager young newcomer; Hank, the grizzled old-timer who'd been working the ranch since before Clementine was born; Juanita, the no-nonsense veterinarian who kept the animals healthy and her affable husband Gerónimo; Ida, the motherly housekeeper and cook whose fried chicken was legendary around these parts; and a handful of other steady, reliable hands.

She made her way into the house, sighing with relief as the cool shade enveloped her. She had just taken off her gloves and settled down at her desk to go over the day's receipts when a letter caught her eye. It was postmarked from New York.

Clementine smiled as she unfolded the pages, eager for news from home. But before she could read more than a few lines, the door burst open and Elvis strode in, his face grim.

"We got trouble," he said without preamble. "Rustlers hit the Falling Tree Acres last night. They're missing a dozen head."

Clementine's blood ran cold. Rustlers. The scourge of the open range, the nightmare of every rancher west of the Mississippi. She had heard the stories, had listened to the ranch hands swap tales of cattle thefts and midnight raids. But she had never thought it would happen here, in their peaceful valley.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Elvis nodded grimly. "They found tracks this morning, out by their western pasture. Looks like the bastards cut the fence and drove off a dozen head in the night. Took ‘em 'til now to make sure there weren't no stragglers."

Clementine sank back into her chair, her knees suddenly weak. A dozen head. It didn't sound like much, but she knew that every animal counted, that even a small loss could be devastating to any ranch. 

“What’ll they do?” she asked, hating the tremor in her voice. "What if the rustlers come here?"

Elvis sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Ain't gonna be easy. These rustlers, they're smart. They know how to cover their tracks, how to disappear into the wilderness like ghosts. We could spend weeks chasin' 'em and never see hide nor hair."

Clementine's heart sank even further. Something had to be done, but... weeks of fruitless searching, of neglecting the ranch and the rest of the herd? They couldn't afford it, not now. Not when they were just starting to find their footing. Then again, they needed to do something about it—prevent any losses before they happened.

But then, a sudden thought struck her. A memory of something her uncle had said, long ago, when she was just a girl. Something about the importance of neighbors, of community, of banding together in times of trouble.

"What about the other ranchers?" she asked, sitting up straighter in her chair. "Surely we're not the only ones who have been hit by these rustlers. What if we joined forces, pooled our resources and manpower?"

Elvis looked at her in surprise, as if the idea had never occurred to him. "You mean, like a meeting?"

She took a deep breath, her mind already racing. "Yes," she said, standing up from her desk. "Let's get the word out. I want every rancher in the valley here tonight. We need to figure out a plan."

Elvis nodded, his jaw tight. "I'll send Rusty and Johnny to spread the news. You want me to ride over to Big Sky, let them know?"

Clementine hesitated, remembering the last time she'd seen Nathaniel Hawthorne. The man had been cold and dismissive, making it clear that he didn't think much of a woman running a ranch. But Big Sky was one of the largest spreads in the area, and they needed all the help they could get.

"No," she said finally. "I'll go myself. It's time Nathaniel and I had a little chat."

Elvis's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue. "Alright then. I'll hold down the fort here, make sure everything's ready for tonight."

Clementine nodded, grateful for his support. She knew that Elvis had his doubts about her plan, but he trusted her enough to follow her lead. It meant more to her than she could say.

She rode hard for Big Sky, her thoughts churning as she tried to come up with a way to convince Nathaniel Hawthorne to join their cause. The man was as stubborn as a mule, and twice as mean. But if they had any hope of stopping the rustlers, they needed Big Sky on their side.

When she arrived at the ranch, she was surprised to be greeted not by Nathaniel, but by his son Aaron. The young man was a few years older than Clementine, with sharp hazel eyes and a no-nonsense air about him.

"Miss Olivetti," Aaron said, his tone cool but polite. "I'm afraid my father is indisposed at the moment. What can I do for you?"

Clementine dismounted, dusting off her hands on her skirt. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, though she wasn't entirely sure she meant it. "I've come to talk to him about the rustler problem. We're calling a meeting tonight, and I was hoping Big Sky would be represented."

Aaron’s eyes narrowed, and Clementine got the sense that she was being sized up. "I see," the young man said finally. "Well, I can't speak for my father, but I'll be there. Big Sky takes the rustler threat very seriously."

She rode back to Windy Creek feeling accomplished, like they might just have a chance against the rustlers after all. But as the sun began to set and the ranchers began to arrive, Clementine felt her confidence waver.

The main room of the ranch house was crowded, the air thick with tension and the murmur of voices. Clementine looked around at the gathered men, recognizing most of the faces. There was Jake McAllister from the Circle B, his weathered face set in a scowl. Tom Hawkins from the Rocking H, his fingers drumming an agitated beat on his thigh. Hank Brewster from the Lazy J, his shoulders slumped with weariness. Of course, Jake Dawson from Falling Tree Acres was there, too, hopping mad. And a half-dozen others, all looking to her for answers.

Her own men were there as well—Red and Slim and Rusty, their expressions grim. And a few more she'd come to rely on over the past year: Jeb Thompson, a grizzled hand who could coax a calf from the orneriest of heifers; young Billy Turner, eager to prove himself; and Lyle Davis, quiet and steady, with a gift for gentling horses.

But there was one face Clementine didn't recognize—a woman, standing slightly apart from the rest. She was tall and slim, with honey-blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. When Elvis saw her, he stiffened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

"Katie," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Didn't expect to see you here."

The woman—Katie—smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Desperate times, Elvis. My father and Aaron sent me in their stead." Aaron Hawthorne. Katie was Aaron’s brother, and Nathaniel’s daughter. 

There was a story there, Clementine could tell. A history between Elvis and this Katie Hawthorne. But now was not the time to dwell on it. They had bigger problems to deal with.

As if on cue, Tom Hawkins spoke up, his voice tight with anger. "We all know why we're here. These rustlers are bleeding us dry, and something needs to be done about it. But I think we ought to wait and see." A murmur went around the room, heads shaking and fists clenching.

"And what good would hunkering down do?" demanded Sam Johnson, his fists clenched at his sides. "They'd just pick us off one by one, like lambs to the slaughter. No, we need to take the fight to them, hit them hard and fast before they can hit us again."

"Are you out of your mind?" Hank Brewster's voice cut through the din like a knife. "You're talking about going up against armed men, men who won't hesitate to put a bullet in your back. It's suicide, plain and simple."

"I say we let the law handle it," said Hank Brewster, his tone weary. "It's their job, ain't it?"

Jake McAllister snorted. "The law? You mean Sheriff Hodges? That old drunk couldn't find his own ass with both hands and a map. We'd be better off hiring a pack of coyotes to guard the henhouse."

A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the room. Clementine frowned, her patience wearing thin. They were getting nowhere with this bickering. Soon, the men all erupted into argument, voices rising and tempers flaring. Clementine looked from one angry face to another, her heart sinking. This was exactly what she'd been afraid of—that the ranchers would be too divided, too set in their ways to find common ground.

"We have to do something," she said, her voice ringing out clear and strong. "We can't just sit back and watch everything we've worked for be taken away."

"And what do you suggest, Miss Olivetti?" Katie asked, her tone faintly mocking. "That our men go out there, guns blazing, and get themselves killed?"

Clementine opened her mouth to retort, but Elvis beat her to it, his deep voice cutting through the din like a knife.

"Seems to me," he said slowly, "that we don't have much choice in the matter. Either we take the fight to the rustlers, or we sit back and watch everything we've worked for get stolen out from under us. I don't know about y'all, but I ain't too keen on the second option."

A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the occasional cough or shuffle of feet. Clementine could see the indecision on every face, the warring impulses of self-preservation and solidarity.

But then, slowly, heads began to nod. Shoulders straightened, jaws set with determination. "The man's right," Jake McAllister said grudgingly. "We can't just sit back and let them pick us off one by one. We have to stand together, or we'll all fall alone."

There were murmurs of agreement from around the room, a sense of purpose beginning to take hold. Clementine felt a surge of pride and gratitude, her eyes seeking out Elvis's across the sea of faces. He met her gaze steadily, something warm and reassuring in the blue depths.

"Alright then," Elvis said, his voice ringing out with confidence. "Let's get to planning. We'll need every able-bodied man who can ride and shoot. We'll track the rustlers to their hideout, and we'll make sure they never trouble us again."

The meeting broke up soon after that, the ranchers dispersing to make their preparations for the evening. As she was lighting a candle, Clementine caught a glimpse of Katie Hawthorne deep in conversation with Elvis, their heads bent close together as they spoke in low, urgent tones.

Something twisted in Clementine's gut at the sight, a flare of jealousy that she didn't quite understand. But she pushed it down, focusing instead on the task ahead. There would be time to worry about Katie Hawthorne later. 

*

Later that evening, Clementine found herself wandering the quiet halls of the ranch house, her mind too full of worries to settle. She was just about to open the cupboard when she heard a noise from the living room, a soft clink of glass on wood.

Curious, she padded over to the doorway, peering into the dimly lit room. Elvis sat at the table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him and a troubled expression on his face. He looked up as she entered, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Clementine,” he said, his voice rough. “What are you doing up?”

She shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious in her nightgown and robe. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind, I guess.”

Elvis nodded, his gaze dropping to the glass in his hand. "I know the feeling," he said, taking a swig of whiskey. 

Clementine's heart clenched at the weariness in his voice, the vulnerability he so rarely showed. "You don't have to go tonight, you know," she said softly, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "The other men can handle it. You've done enough already, Elvis. More than enough."

He looked up at her then, something fierce and determined in his eyes. "Ain’t no way," he said, his voice low and intense. "I promised your uncle I'd look after this place, Clem. I ain't about to break that promise now."

Clementine felt a rush of warmth at his words, a flutter of something deeper and more complicated than gratitude. But she tamped it down, focusing instead on the danger ahead.

"It's going to be risky," she said, her voice wavering slightly. "I don't want you getting hurt on my account, Elvis. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you."

He covered her hand with his own, his skin warm and rough against hers. "Good thing I ain't planning on gettin’ hurt, then," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, it’s just a search party. We ain’t gonna do no shooting tonight. We’re just gonna track the rustlers, that’s all.”

Clementine laughed, the tension draining out of her in a rush. "Well, I suppose I can live with that," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Just promise me you'll be careful out there, alright?"

"I promise," Elvis said, his voice solemn. "And you promise me, Clementine. You’ll be waiting when I get back?"

She nodded, her throat suddenly tight. "I promise," she whispered, meaning it with every fiber of her being.

They sat like that for a long moment, hands clasped and eyes locked, the silence stretching out between them like a promise of its own. And then Elvis cleared his throat, releasing her hand and standing up from the table.

"Best get some rest," he said, his voice gruff. "Got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

Clementine stood as well, her heart racing as she followed him to the door. "Goodnight, Elvis," she said softly, her hand on the knob. "And thank you. For everything."

He paused, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair back from her face. "Anytime, Clem," he murmured, his eyes soft. "Anytime at all."

And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Clementine alone with her thoughts and the pounding of her own heart.

*

The ranch house was quiet that night, the usual bustle and chatter replaced by a tense, watchful silence. Clementine wandered the halls like a ghost, her mind spinning and her heart aching.

She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that some disaster was looming just beyond the horizon. And she couldn't help but wonder if she had made the right choice, staying behind while her men out to face the danger alone.

She found herself in the kitchen just as dawn was breaking, staring blankly at the coffeepot as it burbled and hissed on the stove. She couldn't remember how she'd gotten there, or why she'd come. All she knew was that she needed something, anything, to take her mind off the worry and the fear.

And then, like a miracle, Elvis appeared in the doorway. He looked haggard and worn, his face lined with exhaustion and his eyes shadowed with some dark emotion. But he was alive, and whole, and Clementine felt her heart leap with relief.

"You're back," she breathed, stepping forward to meet him. "What happened out there? Did you find them?"

Elvis shook his head, his jaw tight. "No. We rode hard all night, followed their trail as far as we could. But they're clever bastards, know how to cover their tracks. We lost the scent somewhere around Coyote Creek, and by then it was too dark to go on."

Clementine's heart sank, disappointment and frustration welling up in her throat. "So what now?" she asked, her voice small. "What do we do?"

Elvis sighed, running a hand over his face. "We start again the day after tomorrow, at first light. Keep searching until we find them, or until we can't search no more."

He looked at her then, his eyes dark and intense. "I need you to be strong, Clementine. I need you to keep this place running, keep the men in line. Can you do that for me?"

Clementine swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat. "Of course," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I'll do whatever needs to be done, Elvis. You know that."

He nodded, something like pride flickering in his gaze. And then, to her surprise, he reached out and pulled her into his arms.

Clementine stiffened for a moment, unused to such displays of affection from the taciturn cowboy. But then she melted into him, her hands fisting in the back of his shirt and her face pressing into the warm, solid strength of his chest.

"I'm scared, Elvis," she whispered, the words muffled against his skin. 

He tightened his hold on her, his chin resting on the top of her head. "I know, darlin'. I'm scared too. But we can't let that fear control us, you hear me? We gotta be strong, for each other and for this ranch."

Clementine nodded, drawing in a shuddering breath. And then, before she could lose her nerve, she tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was quick and chaste, a gentle exploration that made her heart race and her blood sing. Elvis made a low, desperate sound in the back of his throat but before things could go any further, he tore himself away, his breath coming hard and fast. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’ta done that." he said, his voice rough with wanting. "We can’t. I ain’t gonna take advantage of you.Not when we both don't know what tomorrow might bring."

“I—you’re right.” Clementine knew it, even as her body screamed in protest. She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off the chill of his absence. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice trembling. "I don't know what came over me. It's just... the thought of losing you..."

"Shh." Elvis placed a finger over her lips, silencing her. 

"Don't talk like that. We're gonna make it through this, you and me. And when we do, we'll have all the time in the world to figure out what this is between us."

Clementine nodded. 

He leaned in, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her forehead. "But for now, we gotta focus on the task at hand. We gotta be strong for the ranch. Can you do that for me, Clem?"

She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. "I can. I will."

He smiled then, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made her heart skip a beat. "That's my girl. Now, let's get some rest. We got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

*

The first rays of the sun were just beginning to paint the sky in shades of pink and gold when Clementine stepped out onto the porch, a rifle slung over her shoulder, two pistols at her hip, and a steely glint in her eye.

The ranchers were already gathered in the yard, checking their tack and loading their saddlebags with grim determination. Elvis stood at the center of the group, his black hat pulled low over his brow as he issued last-minute orders and instructions, saddling his mount quickly and efficiently.

He looked up as she approached, his eyes widening in surprise and something like consternation. "What do you think you're doing? I thought I told you to stay put," he demanded, striding over to block her path. "You ain't comin' with us, Clementine. It's too dangerous."

She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. "The hell I'm not," she said, her voice ringing with conviction. "This is my ranch, Elvis. My land, my cattle, my responsibility. My men. And I'll be damned if I'm going to sit back and let someone else fight my battles for me."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I know what you're going to say," she said. "That I'm just a woman, that I don't know how to handle a gun or ride with a posse. But you're wrong, Elvis. I've been learning this past year. I can shoot as straight as any man here, and ride twice as quick."

Red’s face split into a big, knowing smile. Elvis elbowed him, and his ruddy companion stood ramrod straight. She saw the flicker of surprise in Elvis’ eyes, too, the grudging respect that warred with his instinctive need to protect her. But she wasn't about to back down, not now, not when so much was at stake.

"I'm coming with you," she said, her voice low and intense. "And that's final. You can either accept it, or you can try to stop me. But either way, I'll be riding out of here at your side, come hell or high water."

For a long, tense moment, Elvis just stared at her, his jaw working as if he were chewing on a particularly tough piece of rawhide. Then, slowly, he nodded, his eyes glinting with something that might have been pride, or exasperation, or a little bit of both.

"Alright, then," he said gruffly. "But you stay close to me, you hear? And if I give you an order, you follow it, no questions asked."

They rode out in a thunder of hoofbeats, the sun high overhead and the wind whipping at their faces. Clementine could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the thrill of the hunt mingling with a cold, creeping fear. She knew that they were riding into danger, that there was no telling what they might face out there on the open range.

But she also knew that she was not alone, that she had Elvis and the others by her side, ready to fight for what was theirs, and that knowledge gave her the courage to keep riding.

They rode for hours, following the rustlers' trail across the rugged terrain. The sun beat down on them, the heat shimmering off the rocks and the scrubby brush. Clementine could feel the sweat trickling down her back, the dust caking her face and hair. But she hardly noticed, her mind focused on the task at hand, on the need to find the stolen cattle and bring the thieves to justice.

It was nearly sundown when they finally caught sight of the rustlers' camp, a thin plume of smoke rising from a hidden canyon up ahead. Elvis called a halt, his hand raised in warning.

"We'll have to go in on foot from here," he said, his voice low and tense. "Can't risk them hearing us coming."

Clementine nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. This was it, the moment of truth. She slid from her saddle, her legs stiff and sore from hours of riding. She checked her rifle, making sure it was loaded and ready, then fell in behind Elvis as he led the way toward the canyon.

They crept through the underbrush, the only sound the crunch of their boots against the dry leaves and twigs. Clementine could feel the tension in the air, the sense of impending danger. She knew that the rustlers would be armed, that they would fight to keep their stolen herd. But she also knew that they were outnumbered, that the posse had the element of surprise on their side.

As they neared the edge of the canyon, Elvis held up a hand, signaling for them to stop. He peered over the edge, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene below.

"They're down there, alright," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Looks like they've got the cattle penned up in that box canyon. I count six men, maybe seven."

Clementine swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. Six men. Six armed, desperate men who would stop at nothing to keep what they had stolen. She knew that the odds were in their favor, that they had the rustlers outnumbered and outgunned. But she also knew that anything could happen in the heat of battle, that there was no guarantee that they would all make it out alive.

She looked at Elvis, saw the grim determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw. And she knew that he was thinking the same thing, that he was weighing the risks and the rewards, the need to protect their own against the danger of the unknown.

"What's the plan?" she asked, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart.

Elvis took a deep breath, his gaze still fixed on the canyon below. "We'll split up, come at 'em from both sides. Jake, you take half the men and circle around to the north. Tom, you take the other half and come in from the south. Clementine, you're with Jake. I’ll go straight down the middle, try to draw their fire and give the others a chance to get in close."

Clementine felt a sudden, sharp fear at his words, a sense of dread that she couldn't quite shake. She knew that Elvis was putting himself in the greatest danger, that he was using himself as a distraction to give the others a chance. And she knew that she couldn't let him do it alone.

"I'm coming with you," she said, her voice brooking no argument.

Elvis looked at her, his eyes widening in surprise. "Clementine, I don't think—"

"I'm not asking, Elvis," she said, cutting him off. "I’m coming."

For a moment, Elvis just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded, a flicker of something like pride in his eyes.

"Alright then," he said, his voice gruff. "Let's do this."

They made their way down the steep slope of the canyon, the loose shale and gravel sliding beneath their feet. Clementine could hear the low murmur of voices from the camp below, the soft lowing of the penned-up cattle. Her heart was pounding in her ears, her palms slick with sweat on the grip of her rifle.

As they neared the bottom of the canyon, Elvis held up a hand, signaling for her to stop. He peered around the edge of a boulder, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

"Alright," he said, his voice low and tense. "On my signal, we move in. You stay close to me, you hear? And if things start to go south, you get the hell out of there and don't look back."

Clementine nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She knew that he was trying to protect her, that he was willing to lay down his life to keep her safe. And she knew that she couldn't let that happen, that she would fight to her last breath to keep him alive.

Elvis took a deep breath, his hand tightening on the grip of his pistol. Then, with a nod to Clementine, he stepped out from behind the boulder, his voice ringing out across the canyon.

"Drop your weapons and let the cattle go!" he shouted, his pistol leveled at the nearest rustler. "You're surrounded and outnumbered. There's no way out!"

For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the low moan of the wind through the canyon. Then, with a shout of defiance, the rustlers opened fire, their bullets whizzing past Clementine's head and shattering the rock at her feet.

She dropped to the ground, her heart pounding in her chest. Beside her, Elvis was returning fire, his pistol barking in the still air. She could hear the shouts and curses of the rustlers, the panicked bellowing of the cattle as they milled about in their makeshift pen.

Clementine leveled her rifle, her hands steady and her aim true. She squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times, watching with grim satisfaction as the rustlers fell, clutching at their wounds.

But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something that made her blood run cold. Elvis, locked in hand-to-hand combat with one of the rustlers, his gun lying forgotten on the ground.

The man was huge, easily a head taller than Elvis and twice as broad. He had a knife in his hand, the blade glinting wickedly in the sun, and a feral grin on his face as he bore down on the smaller man.

Clementine didn't hesitate. She got up from her position, charging towards the two men with a shout of fury. She leaped, tackling the rustler around the waist and sending them both tumbling to the ground.

They grappled in the dirt, the man's knife slashing at the air as Clementine tried to wrestle it from his grip. She could hear Elvis shouting her name, could feel the impact of bodies hitting the ground all around her as the battle raged on.

And then, with a final, desperate twist, she wrenched the knife free. The man lunged for her, his eyes wild with rage and desperation, but Clementine was faster. She plunged the blade into his chest, feeling the sickening give of flesh and bone.

The rustler's eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a silent scream. And then he was falling, his body hitting the ground with a dull, final thud.

Clementine staggered to her feet, her breath coming in great, heaving gasps. She looked around wildly, taking in the scene of carnage and chaos.

All around her, the canyon exploded into chaos. The posse had burst from cover, guns blazing as they bore down on the rustlers. She could hear shouts and screams, could smell the acrid tang of gunpowder on the air. Bullets whizzed past her head, kicking up puffs of dust at her feet. 

It seemed to go on forever, that nightmarish battle in the heart of the canyon. But in reality, it was over in a matter of minutes. The rustlers, outnumbered and outgunned, threw down their weapons and surrendered, their hands raised in supplication.

Clementine sagged with relief, her knees suddenly weak. She looked around, taking in the scene of carnage—the bodies sprawled on the ground, the wounded men groaning in pain, the cattle milling about in confusion.

And then her gaze fell on Elvis, and her heart stopped.

He was lying on the ground, his face pale and his eyes closed. There was a spreading stain of red on his shirt, a wound in his chest that pulsed with each labored breath.

"No," Clementine whispered, stumbling forward on numb, leaden feet. "No, no, no."

She fell to her knees beside him, her hands shaking as she pressed them to the wound, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood. Elvis's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

"Don't you dare," she said fiercely, her tears falling hot and fast on his face. "Don't you dare leave me, Elvis Presley. Not now, not like this."

*

"Somebody help me!" Clementine shouted, her voice raw with desperation. "Please, he's hurt, we need to get him back to the ranch!"

The others crowded around, their faces grim as they took in the sight of their fallen comrade. Tom Hawkins knelt down on Elvis' other side, his fingers searching for a pulse.

"He's alive," he said, his voice tight. "But he's lost a lot of blood. We need to get him back to Windy Creek, and fast."

Clementine nodded, her vision blurring with tears. 

“Put him on White Lightning!” Rusty cried, “Clem’s horse is the fastest.” She watched as the men lifted Elvis onto the back of her horse, his head lolling limply against his chest. She wanted to go to him, to gather him into her arms and will the life back into his broken body. But she knew that she couldn't, that she had to be strong now, for him and for herself.

"I'll go with you," said Jake, swinging up into his own saddle. "Red and Tom, you, round up the herd and head on back. The rest of you, tie the rustler up. We'll meet you there."

The ride back to the ranch was a blur, a nightmare of dust and sweat and clenching fear and Elvis’ limp form cradled against her chest as she urged White Lightning onward. She could feel his blood soaking through her shirt, could hear the rattling wheeze of his breath in her ear. 

But she refused to give up hope, refused to let the fear and the despair take hold. Elvis was a fighter, a survivor. He would make it through this. He had to.

They reached the ranch just as the sun was setting, the sky painted in shades of orange and gold. Clementine leapt from the saddle, shouting for Juanita and the ranch hands as she half-carried, half-dragged Elvis inside.

"Help him!" she demanded, her voice tight with fear. 

Mrs. Jameson hurried over, her face creased with worry. "They took him straight up to his room, miss. Juanita's with him now, doing what she can to stop the bleeding. But he's in a bad way, I won't lie to you."

The next few hours passed in a haze of activity and dread, the ticking of the clock on the mantel the only sound in the silent house. Juanita worked tirelessly, cleaning and stitching and bandaging, her face set in grim determination.

*

It had been hours, and Clementine had no news. "I need to go to him, Ida" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need to be with him."

The housekeeper nodded, her eyes soft with understanding. "Of course, miss. You go on up. I'll see to the hands and the stock."

Clementine managed a grateful nod, then turned and fled into the house, her heart pounding and her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She took the stairs two at a time.

She burst into Elvis' room without knocking, her eyes wide and wild as she scanned the dimly lit space. He was lying on the bed, his shirt torn open to reveal the ugly, seeping wound in his chest. Juanita was bent over him, her hands bloody as she worked to staunch the flow.

"How is he?" Clementine asked, her voice thin and reedy to her own ears. "Will he... will he live?"

Juanita looked up, her dark eyes unreadable. "I don't know, Clem. He's lost a lot of blood, and the bullet's still in there. I've done what I can to clean and bind the wound, but he needs a real doctor, and soon."

Clementine nodded, her throat too tight for words. She sank down onto the edge of the bed, her hand reaching out to brush the sweat-soaked hair back from Elvis' brow. He was burning with fever, his skin hot and dry beneath her palm.

"Oh, Elvis," she whispered, the endearment slipping out before she could stop it. "What have they done to you?"

She sent Red to fetch Doc Jamison from town, his saddlebags laden with all the medical supplies they could spare. And then there was nothing to do but wait, and pray, and hope against hope that Elvis would pull through.

The sun rose and set, the hours bleeding into days.

Clementine sat by Elvis's bedside, holding his hand and whispering words of encouragement. She barely slept, barely ate, her whole world narrowed down to the rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids, the faint pulse at his wrist.

And then, on the eighth day, a miracle. Elvis's fever broke, his breathing easing and his color returning. He opened his eyes, blinking up at Clementine with a weak, crooked smile.

"Hey there, darlin'," he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Fancy meeting you here."

Clementine let out a sob, tears of relief and joy streaming down her face. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his neck and breathing in the warm, familiar scent of him.

"Don't you ever do that to me again," she whispered fiercely. "You hear me, Elvis Presley? Never again."

He chuckled softly, his hand coming up to stroke her hair. "Yes, ma'am," he murmured. "I promise."

*

The next morning, Clementine awoke to Elvis screaming in agony. Before long, Doc Jamison was at his bedside, procuring a large needle from his medicine bag and injecting it into the patient’s arm. Clementine watched with bated breath as Elvis slowly settled back into a comfortable sleep, floating in the twilight of morphine.

She sat at his bedside, keeping vigil, praying for him. At one point, he whispered something.

"Marry me," she thought she heard. "Be my wife, Clementine."

Chapter 4

Clementine sat at her desk, sorting through the mail that had arrived the previous week. Among the various bills and correspondence, one letter caught her eye. The familiar handwriting on the envelope made her heart skip a beat. It was from Bonnie.

With trembling fingers, Clementine opened the letter and began to read:

"My Dearest Clemmie,

I hope this letter finds you well and thriving in your new life at Windy Creek Ranch. I miss you terribly, and the city feels empty without your laughter and companionship.

I have exciting news! I've decided to take a break from the hustle and bustle of New York and come visit you at the ranch. I long to see the beautiful landscapes you've described and meet the intriguing characters you've mentioned in your letters.

Expect me to arrive within the fortnight. I cannot wait to embrace you and hear all about your adventures.

Your loving friend, Bonnie"

Clementine clutched the letter to her chest, a wide grin spreading across her face. The prospect of having Bonnie at the ranch filled her with joy and excitement. She couldn't wait to show her best friend around and introduce her to everyone, especially Elvis.

Elvis. The thought of him made Clementine’s smile falter.

Since his injury, their relationship had been somewhat strained. She had been tending to him diligently, changing his bandages and ensuring he was comfortable. However, every time she tried to bring up his morphine-induced mumblings, Elvis would change the subject or feign exhaustion. It was starting to worry her. 

A knock at the door startled Clementine from her thoughts. 

"Come in," she called, setting the letter aside.

To her surprise, Katie Hawthorne stepped into the room, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed and her blue eyes sparkling. She looked stunning in a sage green day dress that complemented her fair complexion.

"Good morning, Clementine," she greeted, her voice polite but cool. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

Clementine forced a smile, trying to ignore the twinge of unease that Katie's presence always seemed to evoke. "Not at all, Katie. What brings you here?"

Katie walked over to the desk, her posture poised and confident. "I was hoping to visit Elvis. I heard he's recovering well, and I thought he might appreciate a familiar face."

Clementine's stomach churned at the thought of Katie spending time alone with Elvis. She knew there was a history between them, but the details remained a mystery. "I'm sure he would appreciate that," she managed to say, her voice even. "He's in his room, resting."

With a nod and a polite smile, Katie left the room, leaving Clementine alone with her thoughts. Unable to concentrate on her work, Clementine decided to take a walk around the ranch to clear her head.

As she stepped outside, the warm sun and gentle breeze greeted her. The sound of laughter caught her attention, and she spotted Red and Slim engaged in a lively conversation near the stables.

"Miss Clementine!" Red called out, waving her over. 

Clementine made her way over to them, eager for a distraction. "You're just in time. Slim here was about to share a story about the time he singlehandedly fought off a pack of coyotes."

Slim grinned, puffing out his chest. "It's true! I was out on the range, minding my own business, when suddenly..."

But as Slim launched into his tale, Clementine found herself only half-listening. Her mind wandered to the conversation she had overheard earlier between Katie and Elvis. She had been passing by Elvis' room when she heard their voices, low and intense.

"Elvis, I know things ended badly between us," Katie had said, her tone sincere. "But I want you to know that I still care about you. I always have."

"Look, I appreciate you coming to see me, but things are different now," Elvis had replied, his voice firm but not unkind. 

Katie had scoffed. “I know you don't mean that—”

“Katie, I’m not the same man I was back then.”

"I know that, Elvis. And I respect it. I just... I don't want us to be strangers. We have too much history for that."

There was a pause, and Clementine could picture Elvis considering her words. "You're right. We can be friends, Katie. But that's all we can be."

Clementine hurried away before she could hear Katie's response, her heart racing and her mind reeling. What exactly had happened between them? And why did the thought of them together make her feel so unsettled?

Feigning a stomachache, Clementine gently extracted herself from Slim and Red and started back for the house.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice Ida approach until the older woman placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Miss Clementine, you look troubled," Ida said, her kind eyes filled with concern. "Is everything alright?"

Clementine sighed, offering Ida a weak smile. "I'm fine, Ida. Just a lot on my mind, I suppose."

Ida nodded, understanding dawning on her face. "It's about Mr. Elvis and Miss Katie, isn't it?"

Clementine's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

Ida chuckled softly. "I've been around long enough to notice things, Miss Clementine. And I can see the way you look at Mr. Elvis, and the way Miss Katie looks at him too. Frankly, I’d look at him that way too if I were younger,” she chuckled.

Clementine felt her cheeks heat up. "I don't know what you're talking about, Ida."

The housekeeper smiled knowingly. "It's alright, Miss Clementine. You don't have to pretend with me. I know it's not my place to gossip, but I feel like you should know the truth about Mr. Elvis and Miss Katie."

Curiosity got the better of Clementine, and she found herself leaning in closer. "What truth, Ida?"

Ida glanced around to make sure they were alone before lowering her voice. "Mr. Elvis and Miss Katie were engaged to be married once, years ago. They were young and in love, or so they thought. But then Miss Katie got it into her head that she wanted to see the world, experience life beyond the ranch. She left Mr. Elvis behind without so much as a goodbye, broke his heart into a million pieces." She sighed, shaking her head. "It was a terrible thing to see."

Clementine's heart sank. "I had no idea," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Ida patted her hand reassuringly. "Mr. Elvis was never the same after that. He threw himself into his work, closed himself off from the world. But then you came along, Miss Clementine. I've seen the way he looks at you, the way he smiles when you're around. You've brought light back into his life."

Clementine felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. "But what about Katie? She's beautiful, and wealthy, and she knows this life. How can I compete with that?"

"Miss Clementine, you listen to me. You are a smart, strong, and kind-hearted young woman. You have brought so much good to this ranch, and to the people who live and work here. Don't you ever doubt your worth."

Clementine nodded, blinking back her tears.

The housekeeper smiled warmly. "Now, why don't you go and check on Mr. Elvis? I'm sure he could use some company."

Taking a deep breath, Clementine squared her shoulders and made her way back upstairs. She waled down the hall to Elvis' room, her heart pounding in her chest. She raised her hand to knock on the door, but hesitated when she heard voices coming from inside.

"... and do you remember that night by the creek? The stars were so bright, and you held me so close. I felt like I could stay in your arms forever." Katie's voice was soft, tinged with nostalgia.

“Sure do.” Elvis’ deep chuckle reverberated through Clementine’s bones.

"Hold still," Katie's voice was soft, almost tender. "This poultice will help with the pain."

There was a moment of silence, followed by a sharp intake of breath from Elvis. "Ouch! Careful, Katie."

"Don't be such a baby," Katie chided, her tone playful. "You've had worse."

Then, a sigh.

"Katie, we can't keep doing this. I told you things are different now." Elvis sounded tired, his voice strained.

"Are they? When I'm with you, it feels just like old times. We sure had something special, didn’t we, Elvis? Don't you miss it?"

Clementine's stomach churned as she imagined Katie sitting close to him, her hands gentle on his skin. She knew she shouldn't be eavesdropping, but she couldn't seem to make herself move.

There was a long pause, and then Elvis spoke, his words hesitant. "I... I don't know, Katie. It's been so long. I’m not the same man I was before."

Katie's voice turned pleading. "But you could be. We could be happy again, Elvis. Just like we used to. If you just give me a chance—"

Another pause, heavy with unspoken words. "I can't make any promises, Katie. But... I won't deny that being with you brings back a lot of memories. Good ones."

Clementine's heart raced, her palms sweating as she listened to their exchange. Did Elvis still have feelings for Katie? Was she just a temporary distraction, a way to forget his past heartbreak?

“Why, Elvis? Why can’t you make any promises? Is it... because of her?” Katie asked, Katie asked, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. "The city girl who's come to play at being a rancher?"

"Don't do that, Katie."

Katie scoffed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Oh, Elvis. Can't you see? She doesn't belong here. She's not one of us. Sooner or later, she'll realize that and go running back to her fancy city life. And where will that leave you?" She got up, dusting herself off. "Sometimes, you're a damned fool, Elvis Presley."

Clementine backed away from the door, her mind reeling. She couldn't bear to hear any more, couldn't face the possibility that Elvis might choose Katie over her. With a choked sob, she turned and fled down the stairs, out into the yard where she could breathe, where she could think.

Shaking her head, Clementine decided to focus on the one thing she could control—her work. She made her way downstairs and out to the barn, determined to throw herself into the daily chores and put all thoughts of Elvis and Katie out of her mind.

As she mucked out the stalls and fed the horses, Clementine found herself falling into a comfortable rhythm. The physical labor was soothing, allowing her to clear her head and focus on the task at hand. Before she knew it, she was hours deep into her tasks, the sun was setting, and it was time to head home. 

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn't hear the sound of hoofbeats approaching the front yard until a familiar voice called out, "Clemmie!"

Clementine turned her head, her eyes widening in disbelief. There, sitting in a stagecoach, was Bonnie, her fiery red curls blowing in the breeze and her green eyes sparkling with mischief in the golden hour.

"Bonnie!" Clementine exclaimed, dropping her pitchfork and rushing forward to embrace her friend. "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't arriving for another week!"

Bonnie laughed, hugging Clementine tightly. "I couldn't wait that long to see you, darling. I hopped on the first train out of New York and made my way here as fast as I could."

Clementine stepped back, taking in the sight of her best friend. Bonnie looked radiant, her cheeks flushed from the ride and her smile as wide as the sky. "I can't believe you're really here," Clementine said, shaking her head in amazement.

Bonnie grinned, linking her arm through Clementine's. "Well, believe it, darling. I'm here, and I'm ready for an adventure. Now, show me around this ranch of yours. I want to see everything!"

Clementine laughed, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. With Bonnie by her side, everything seemed brighter, more manageable. She led her friend around the ranch, introducing her to the horses and the cattle, showing her the sprawling fields and the cozy bunkhouse.

As they walked, Clementine found herself pouring out her heart to Bonnie, telling her all about Elvis and Katie and the confusion she felt. Bonnie listened intently, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"It sounds to me like you're in love with this Elvis fellow," Bonnie said finally, her tone matter-of-fact.

Clementine sputtered, her cheeks turning crimson. "What? No! I mean, I care about him, of course, but love? That's ridiculous."

Bonnie raised an eyebrow. "Is it? Clemmie, I've known you since we were in pigtails. I've never seen you this worked up over a man before. And from what you've told me, it sounds like he feels the same way about you."

Clementine wilted. "But this Katie… She's beautiful, and accomplished, and she understands this life in a way I never will."

Bonnie took Clementine's hands in hers, her green eyes fierce and determined. "Now you listen to me. You're smart, and strong, and you have the biggest heart of anyone I know. If this Elvis character can't see that, then he's a fool."

“Thanks, Bon. You always know just what to say. What would I ever do without you?”

“Shrivel up and die of sadness and boredom, most likely,” her best friend laughed. “Now, let's go find some trouble to get into. I've been cooped up on that train for far too long."

Clementine laughed, feeling a rush of affection for her friend. "I think I know just the thing. How do you feel about a little horseback riding?"

Bonnie's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Lead the way, darling. I'm ready for anything."

As they made their way to the stables, Clementine spotted Red and Slim leaning against the fence, deep in conversation. 

Red's eyes widened as he took in Bonnie's fiery red curls and sparkling green eyes. 

Bonnie smiled, holding out her hand. "I’m Bonnie, Clementine's friend from New York."

Red took her hand, holding it a beat longer than necessary. "New York, huh? What brings a city girl like you out to our humble ranch?"

Bonnie laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, you know. Adventure, excitement, the chance to see my best friend in the world."

Red grinned, leaning in closer. "Well, I can certainly promise you adventure and excitement, Miss Bonnie."

Slim rolled his eyes, elbowing Red in the ribs. "Ignore him, Miss Bonnie. He's all talk and no action."

Red chuckled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I don't know about that, Miss Bonnie. I do my best to make all our guests feel welcome."

Bonnie raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Is that so? Well, I guess I'll just have to see for myself."

As Bonnie and Red continued their flirtatious banter, Clementine felt her spirits lift. It was good to see her friend getting along so well with the ranch hands.

Suddenly, a shout rang out across the yard. "The fence is down! The cattle are escaping!"

Clementine's heart raced as she saw the herd of cattle stampeding through the broken fence. "We have to round them up!" she cried, running towards the stables.

Red and Slim were already saddling up their horses. "Miss Clementine, you take the north pasture," Red called out. "Slim and I will head south. Rusty, Billy, head east. We'll meet up at the old oak tree." He looked back at Bonnie. “You alright to stay here a spell?”

Bonnie nodded as Clementine swung herself up into the saddle, her face set with determination. 

They rode hard, the wind whipping through their hair as they chased down the errant cattle. It was a minor crisis, but it forced everyone to work together to resolve the issue. 

Finally, after several hours of hard work, they managed to herd the last of the cattle back into the pasture.

Exhausted but triumphant, Clementine, Red, and the rest of the ranch hands made their way back to the house for a very late dinner, where Bonnie was helping prepare a bountiful spread. 

As they entered the dining room, Clementine was surprised to see Katie sitting at the dining table.

"Katie!" Ida exclaimed, setting down a steaming pot of stew. "I'm so glad you could join us for dinner."

Katie smiled, her flaxen hair gleaming in the candlelight.  "Thank you for asking me to stay, Miss Ida. It's always a pleasure to share a meal with friends."

Clementine's stomach churned at the sight of Katie, memories of the woman’s earlier conversation with Elvis still fresh in her mind. She took a seat at the table, trying to ignore the way Katie's eyes seemed to be searching around the room. For him.

Bonnie leaned over to Clementine, her voice low. "So that's the famous Katie Hawthorne? I can see why she's got Elvis all twisted up."

Clementine sighed, nodding. "Yeah, they were going to get married until she up and left one day. They’ve got... history."

Bonnie raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "I see."

As they sat down to eat, Clementine found herself seated across from Katie. The blonde gave her a polite smile, but there was a guardedness in her eyes that made Clementine uneasy.

"Clementine, I hear you had quite the adventure today," Katie said, her voice cool but not unkind. "I'm glad to see you're settling into ranch life so well."

Clementine forced a smile, determined to be civil. "Thank you, Katie. This year’s been a learning curve, but I'm enjoying the challenge."

Katie nodded, taking a sip of her water. "It's not an easy life, but it can be a rewarding one. If you're cut out for it."

Clementine bristled at the implication, but before she could respond, the door opened and Elvis stepped into the room. He was moving slowly, his face still pale, but there was a determined set to his jaw.

"Elvis!" Ida exclaimed, her face lighting up. "It's so good to see you up and about!"

"Elvis, darling, you're here," Katie purred, patting the seat beside her. "Come, sit with me. We have so much to catch up on."

Elvis hesitated, his gaze flickering to Clementine before he nodded and took the offered seat. Clementine felt a stab of jealousy, her appetite suddenly deserting her.

"Evening, everyone. Sorry I'm late."

He made his way to the table, his steps measured and careful. As he neared Katie, she reached out and touched his arm, a look of concern on her face. "Elvis, are you sure you should be out of bed? You're still recovering."

Elvis patted her hand. "I'm fine, Katie. Just a little sore, is all. Nothing a good meal and some good company can't fix."

He settled into the chair between Katie and Clementine, his leg brushing against Clem’s under the table. She felt a flush creep up her neck at the contact, her skin tingling where they touched. She forced herself to focus on her plate, not wanting to give away the effect he had on her.

As the meal progressed, Bonnie regaled them all with tales of her adventures in New York, her quick wit and easy charm winning over even the most taciturn of the ranch hands. Red, in particular, seemed taken with her, his eyes rarely straying from her face.

Even so, Clementine couldn’t focus on anything but the strange situation she found herself in. Even as she laughed and chatted with the others, Clementine could feel the weight of Katie's presence, assessing and calculating. It made her feel off-balance, unsure of her place in this world that Katie knew so well. Her stomach roiled. 

She couldn't help but notice the easy familiarity between Elvis and Katie, the way they laughed and reminisced about old times. It was clear they shared a deep bond, a history that Clementine could never hope to match.

"Do you remember old Samson's face when he caught us sneaking out of the barn that night?" Katie giggled, her hand resting on Elvis's arm.

Elvis chuckled, shaking his head. "I thought he was gonna skin us alive. But you sweet-talked him out of it, as usual."

"What can I say? I've always been good at getting what I want." Katie's eyes sparkled with mischief, her lips curving into a seductive smile.

Clementine's heart sank as she watched their interaction, doubt gnawing at her insides. Did Elvis still harbor feelings for Katie? Was he considering rekindling their romance?

Bonnie, ever observant, leaned across the table to whisper in Clementine's ear. "Don't let her get to you, Clemmie. She's just trying to stake her claim."

Then, never one to let an awkward moment pass, Bonnie eased back into her chair with a mischievous grin. "So, Elvis, I hear you’re quite the foreman," she said, her voice carrying across the table. "Tell me, what's a handsome cowboy like you doing running a ranch all by your lonesome?"

Elvis choked on his stew, his eyes widening in surprise. The other ranch hands snickered, their faces red with barely suppressed laughter. “Nice to meet you too, Bonnie.”

“No, really! Do pray tell,”Bonnie grinned.

"Well, I... uh..." Elvis cleared his throat, clearly taken aback by Bonnie's forwardness. "I'm not running it alone, y’know. I have a whole team of hardworking folks helping me out."

Bonnie nodded, her expression serious. "Of course, of course. But still, it must get lonely out here sometimes. Don't you ever wish for a little companionship?" She wiggled her eyebrows.

Clementine kicked Bonnie under the table, her face flushing with embarrassment. But Bonnie just laughed, clearly enjoying the effect she was having on the usually unflappable Elvis.

As the dinner wore on, Bonnie kept up a steady stream of witty repartee, peppering Elvis with questions about life on the ranch and his plans for the future. The other ranch hands could barely contain their laughter, choking on their food as Bonnie's New York City directness clashed with Elvis's stoic cowboy demeanor.

At some point during the night, while everyone was in their sixth fit of laughter in a row, Bonnie cleared her throat and made an announcement. "I've been thinking," she said, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "I'd like to stay at the ranch for a while longer, if that's alright with you, Clementine."

Red, who had been hanging on Bonnie's every word throughout the meal, sat up straighter in his chair. "That's great news, Miss Bonnie," he said, his voice eager. "I'd be more’n happy to show you around the ranch, if you'd like."

Bonnie smiled, her cheeks dimpling. "I'd like that very much, Red. Thank you."

Clementine nodded, forcing a smile. Her best friend in the world was always welcome. But even as everyone laughed around her, she felt melancholy. Doubts lingered, gnawing at her heart. Somewhere between the second and third course, she felt lightheaded. She stepped out onto the porch, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. The evening's events swirled through her mind—Bonnie's arrival, the weird tension at dinner, sitting next to Elvis and nearly jumping out of her skin when his knee touched hers... 

"Clem?" a familiar voice called out softly from behind her.

She turned to see him standing in the doorway, his handsome face illuminated by the warm glow of the lanterns. 

He came to me, she thought, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

"Y’know, I wasn't sure if you'd be joining us tonight, Elvis, what with you still on the mend and all."

He stepped out onto the porch, his spurs jingling with each movement. "Aw shucks, you know me. I never could resist a party. 'Specially not with that firecracker friend of yours lightin' things up."

Clementine laughed. "Bonnie sure is something, isn't she? Hope she didn't put you too much on the spot in there."

Elvis leaned against the railing beside her, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Nothin' I can't handle. Your girl's got a tongue quicker'n a rattler's strike, but she means well. Kinda reminds me of someone else I know." He shot her a wink.

"Wonder who that could be," Clementine teased, bumping his shoulder playfully with her own. She took a moment to really look at him, warmth blooming in her chest. The past weeks had been hard on him, but he was finally starting to look like his old self again—color in his cheeks, that familiar glint of mischief in his blue eyes.

"I'm real glad you're feeling better, Elvis. We were all so worried about you, you know."

He ducked his head, suddenly bashful. "Shucks, ain't no need for worryin'. Can't keep a stubborn ol' mule like me down for long."

"I have never met a mule half as stubborn as you, Elvis Presley," Clementine ribbed.

"You got me there," he conceded with a chuckle. Then his expression softened. "I never did thank ya proper, Clem. For takin' such good care of me when I was laid up. Ida told me how you were always there, changin' my bandages and makin' sure I took my medicine... I 'preciate it. More'n you know."

Clementine felt a sudden lump in her throat. "Of course, Elvis. There wasn't anywhere else I would've been. I couldn't have bared it if... if we'd lost you. Windy Creek just wouldn't be the same without you."

Elvis looked at her intently, something flickering in his gaze that made her heart skip. "That so?"

"It is," Clementine whispered, feeling pulled in by some invisible force between them.

Elvis reached out, tenderly brushing a stray curl behind her ear. His fingertips lingered on her cheek and Clementine's breath hitched. "Clem, I..."

Just then, the sound of raucous laughter erupted from inside the house, breaking the spell. Elvis dropped his hand and they both took an unconscious step back, the air suddenly thick with words unsaid.

Clementine cleared her throat, trying to calm the riot of butterflies in her stomach. "We should probably head back in soon. Wouldn't want Bonnie to commandeer the whole evening."

"Heaven forbid," Elvis agreed, the corner of his mouth quirking up. 

But neither of them actually moved. Clementine and Elvis lingered on the porch for a moment longer, not quite ready to rejoin the clamor inside. The night air was cool and sweet, the distant sounds of crickets and lowing cattle a soothing backdrop to their companionable silence.

Elvis fished in his pocket for a moment before withdrawing a battered harmonica. At Clementine's curious look, he just grinned and brought it to his full lips, blowing a few soft, experimental notes.

"Huh, I didn't know you played," Clementine said, pleasantly surprised.

Elvis shrugged, his eyes twinkling in the low light. "There's a lot you don't know about me, darlin'. I'm a man of many talents."

"Is that so?" Clementine arched a brow, fighting back a smile. "And here I thought I had you all figured out. The strong, silent type with a heart of gold."

"Aw shucks, you'll make me blush," Elvis teased. He leaned back against the porch rail, cradling the harmonica loosely in his hands. "Nah, I ain't nothin' special. Just a cowpoke who likes a good tune now and then."

"I don't believe that for a second," Clementine said softly. "I think you're a lot more than you let on, Elvis Presley."

He looked at her then, something raw and unguarded in his gaze. "Maybe so. But I could say the same about you. When you first blew into town with your fancy city clothes and your high-falutin' ideas, I reckoned you wouldn't last a month out here."

Clementine huffed out a laugh. "Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Lemme finish," Elvis chided gently. "What I'm tryin' to say is you surprised me, Clem. You're tougher than you look. Stronger. You've taken to this life like you were born to it, and you ain't afraid to get your hands dirty or speak your mind. It's a rare thing, and I admire it. Admire... you."

Clementine felt a flush creep up her neck at his words, her heart suddenly racing. "I... I don't know what to say. Thank you, Elvis. That means a lot, coming from you."

He ducked his head, suddenly bashful. "Ain't nothin' but the truth. Windy Creek's lucky to have you."

"I think I'm the lucky one," Clementine said softly. "I never knew how much I needed this place, these people, until I found myself here. It's like... like I finally found where I belong." She laughed self-consciously. "Listen to me, getting all sentimental. Bonnie would never let me hear the end of it."

"Secret's safe with me," Elvis promised with a wink. "But I know what you mean. This ranch... it has a way of gettin' under your skin, makin' you feel like a part of somethin' bigger. It ain't always easy, but it's a good life. An honest one." He raised the harmonica to his lips again, blowing a few mournful notes that seemed to hang in the night air.

Clementine closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her. When it faded away, she opened them again to find Elvis watching her, an unreadable expression on his face. "That was beautiful," she said honestly. "Will you teach me to play like that?"

Elvis's face split into a delighted grin. "You want to learn? Well alright then, c'mere." He beckoned her closer until they were standing side by side, shoulders almost brushing. He handed her the harmonica, arranging her fingers on the holes. "Now, purse your lips like you're gonna whistle, and blow real gentle-like."

Clementine did as instructed, letting out a breathy, off-key squeak. She dissolved into laughter. "I sound like a dying cow!"

Elvis chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, that was good for a first try. You just gotta adjust your embouchure a little, like this—" 

“Embou-what?”

“Embouchure. What, you don’t speak Eye-talian?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s French.”

“Oh.” The two erupted into laughter, a deep belly ache that had them soon doubled over the porch railing and wiping tears from their eyes. 

“Your mouth position, silly girl. Look at me, teachin’ a fancy New York City girl something!” 

Clem playfully slapped him on the arm. “I am not fancy!” She bent her leg to show him her well-worn, mud-covered boot. “See?” 

Elvis laughed and brought his own hands up to cup hers, guiding the harmonica back to her mouth. This close, she could feel the heat of him, could catch the faint scent of leather and soap and something uniquely Elvis. It made her head swim pleasantly.

Under his careful tutelage, Clementine managed to produce a passable chord. She beamed up at him, giddy with the small success. "I did it!"

"Sure did," Elvis praised, his eyes warm and proud. "Stick with me, kid, and you'll be a regular vir-tu-o-so in no time. Or... is that another word I gotta teach ya?”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

They stayed like that for a while, huddled together in the pool of lantern light, trading the harmonica back and forth as Elvis taught her a simple melody. It was a rare moment of peace, a stolen pocket of time where the rest of the world and all its troubles fell away. 

As the moon climbed higher in the star-strewn sky, Clementine finally straightened up with a sigh. "I suppose we really should head back in. Bonnie's liable to send out a search party if we stay out here much longer."

Elvis huffed out a laugh. "Lord have mercy. I don't think I'm ready for another interrogation quite yet." He hesitated for a beat, then reached out to take Clementine's hand in his. "Clem, I... I just wanted to say..."

But before he could finish the thought, the porch door banged open and Bonnie's vibrant red head poked out. "There you are! I was starting to think you two had run off together." Her green eyes sparkled with mischief as she took in their linked hands and close proximity.

Clementine felt a blush stain her cheeks and she stepped back self-consciously, dropping Elvis's hand. "Bonnie! We were just... Elvis was showing me how to play the harmonica."

"Uh huh," Bonnie teased, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. "Well, hell, don't let me interrupt. I just came to tell you that apparently Ida's famous peach pie is being served, and if you don't get in there soon, Slim's liable to eat the whole thing himself."

"We'll be right there," Clementine promised. Bonnie flashed them a knowing grin and a jaunty salute before disappearing back inside, leaving them alone once more.

Clementine turned back to Elvis, an apology on her lips, but he just shook his head with a rueful smile. "Never a dull moment with that one around, is there?"

"Welcome to my world," Clementine said dryly. "I love that girl to pieces, but subtlety's never been her strong suit."

"Seems to me she's just lookin' out for her best friend," Elvis mused. "Can't fault her for that. You're lucky to have someone who cares about you so much. Hell, we all care about you."

For a suspended moment, they just stared at each other, the air heavy with unspoken longing. Elvis's gaze dropped to her mouth, his thumbs sweeping over the delicate arch of her cheekbones. Clementine's lips parted on a shallow inhale, her body thrumming with anticipation.

But before either of them could close that final distance, a sudden crash sounded from inside the house, followed by a peal of laughter and Red's booming voice calling out an apology.

The spell was broken. Elvis released her and stepped back, clearing his throat roughly. "We should, uh... we should probably get in there. Before they tear the place down around Miss Ida's ears."

"Right," Clementine agreed, trying to calm the riot of her pulse. "We wouldn't want that."

Elvis held out his arm to her, a small, crooked smile on his lips. "Shall we, boss lady?"

As the evening wound down, Katie stood up, smoothing her skirts. "Well, I should be getting back to Big Sky. Early morning tomorrow." She turned to Elvis, a soft smile on her face. "Walk me out?"

Elvis hesitated, glancing at Clementine. But then he nodded, pushing back his chair. "Of course."

Clementine watched them go, her heart sinking. She knew it was foolish to read too much into a simple gesture of courtesy. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that Katie's return had stirred up old feelings best left buried.

Bonnie, sensing her friend's distress, reached over to squeeze her hand. "Don't worry, Clemmie. He'll come around. He just needs time to sort through his feelings."

Clementine nodded, trying to take comfort in her friend's words. But the doubt lingered, a small, insistent voice in the back of her mind.

“Yeah, well, maybe by then I’ll already have moved on.”

*

Clementine sat at the card table, trying to focus on the game of poker in front of her. But her attention kept drifting to the table across the room, where Elvis and Katie sat huddled together, laughing and whispering like old friends.

She couldn't help but compare their easy intimacy to the tender moment she and Elvis had shared on the porch just a few nights ago. The way he had looked at her, the gentle brush of his fingers against her cheek... it had felt so real, so meaningful.

But now, watching him with Katie, Clementine couldn't help but wonder if she had been reading too much into it. If the connection she thought they shared was nothing more than wishful thinking on her part.

"Clemmie? It's your turn, darling." Bonnie's voice snapped her out of her reverie, and Clementine blinked, realizing she had been staring off into space.

"Oh, right. Sorry." She studied her cards, trying to remember what game they were even playing. Across from her, Red and Lyle exchanged knowing glances, their eyes flickering between her and the other table.

Clementine felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment and frustration. Was she really so transparent? Did everyone on the ranch know about her foolish, unrequited feelings for Elvis?

She was just about to make a halfhearted bet when the door to the bunkhouse swung open and Ida bustled in, a letter clutched in her hand.

"Miss Clementine, I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I completely forgot to give you this earlier. It arrived with the afternoon post." She held out the envelope, her face creased with a smile.

Clementine took the letter, recognizing Joseph's familiar handwriting. She had been corresponding with her old friend for weeks, sharing stories about life on the ranch and seeking his advice when things with Elvis got complicated. It had become a comforting routine, a way to stay connected to her old life while embracing her new one.

She opened the envelope, expecting to find another friendly, chatty letter full of news from home and words of encouragement. But as her eyes scanned the first few lines, Clementine felt her stomach drop.

"Oh no," she muttered under her breath. "Oh no, no, no. I’ve really made a mess now."

"Clemmie? What is it? What's wrong?" Bonnie leaned in close, her voice low and concerned.

Clementine looked up, her face pale. "It's Joseph. He's... he's coming to Windy Creek. Says he's booked a ticket and everything."

Bonnie's eyes widened. "Joseph? As in, your Joseph?"

Clementine nodded miserably. "I've been writing to him, just as a friend. I never thought he'd actually come out here. Oh, Bonnie, what am I going to do?"

Bonnie reached out, squeezing Clementine's hand. "Don't panic, Clemmie. We'll figure this out. It's not like you invited him, right?"

Clementine shook her head. "No, of course not. But... what if Elvis finds out? What if he thinks..." She trailed off, her gaze drifting back to the other table where Elvis and Katie sat, still deep in conversation.

Bonnie followed her gaze, her expression thoughtful. Even she had to admit it: "Clementine, honey, I don't think you have anything to worry about on that front. Elvis is clearly still hung up on Little Miss Perfect over there."

Clementine sighed, her heart sinking. Bonnie was right. Elvis had made his feelings for Katie abundantly clear. What right did she have to be upset about Joseph's visit when Elvis was practically fawning over his ex-fiancée right in front of her?

Still, the thought of her former beau showing up unannounced, stirring up old memories and complications... it was enough to make Clementine's head spin.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing thoughts. "Okay," she said, more to herself than to Bonnie. "Okay. I can handle this. It's just a friendly visit from an old friend, right? No big deal."

Bonnie nodded, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Exactly. And who knows? Maybe a little competition is just what Mr. Stubborn over there needs to pull his head out of his rear and realize what he's got right in front of him."

Clementine couldn't help but laugh at that, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. Trust Bonnie to find the silver lining in even the most awkward of situations.

Across the room, Elvis glanced over at the sound of Clementine's laughter, his brow furrowing slightly. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, that the letter Ida had delivered had upset Clementine in some way.

But before he could dwell on it further, Katie was leaning in close again, her hair brushing against his cheek as she whispered something in his ear. Elvis forced a smile, trying to focus on the conversation at hand, but Katie’s perfume smelled so good.

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[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Previous Husband, Pt 6

((Content warning for abuse, violence))

The rest of the afternoon passes in relative quiet. At some point, the tv turns on and they let an hgtv rerun play in the background, only half-watched. Dinner is sandwiches, simple and far below Lena's usual fare these days, Kara considers. But when Lena only nibbles at the crust, Kara knows it's a symptom of something other than disgust for peasant food.

"What's on your mind?" Kara asks quietly.

Lena blinks from her reverie. "Nothing," she says quickly. Then she sighs. "Everything. I don't know. My mind's a mess right now."

Silence settles over then once more, before Lena speaks again a few minutes later. "Tell me about you," she prompts.

Kara ducks her head. "Oh, I'm sure you don't want to hear--"

"I do!" Lena declares, shifting forward intently. "Of course I do. I-- I know I did a horrible job showing it, but I never stopped thinking about you."

The words fill Kara with a warmth she hasn't felt in a long, long time. Her hope creeps higher when Lena finishes with, "I want to hear everything."

Kara finally melts into a smile. "Well, I got that piece on city hall a while back..."

"I read it! It was amazing..."

It's easy, to slip back into old habits. Words and laughter flow from Kara, despite the circumstances, and as she rambles on, she watches Lena relax, settling into the posture Kara remembers well: legs curled under her, elbow propped on the back cushion of the couch as she listens, riveted, as though Kara were the only thing in the room that mattered.

Under Lena's full attention, Kara finds herself starting to believe Lena's claim: that Lena's affection for her never changed, only circumstances got in the way. It doesn't heal the hurt, not entirely, but it helps ease the ache, assuages the accusations she'd been holding in her heart. Finally, all of Kara's displaced pieces clicked home.

As the sun goes down and their conversation dwindles when the hour grows late, Kara announces it's time for bed.

"Come on," she says, urging Lena up. She sees the small overnight bag that had been dropped by the front door. "Did you bring pjs? You can borrow some of mine if not."

"I did," Lena starts, voice soft, "but..."

"But what?"

"Could I borrow one of your sweatshirts? I was in such a rush--"

Kara smiles. "Of course! That's no problem. C'mere."

She bequeaths her National City hoodie, oversized even on her, and Lena positively swims in it. Its bottom hem hangs low beyond the bottom of her sleep shorts, leaving Kara to desperately think about anything other than the fact if she didn't know any better, it almost looked as though Lena were naked in that hoodie.

When their teeth are brushed and they'd both cleaned up for the night, Lena moved towards the living room.

"Where are you going?" Kara asks in concern.

Lena blinks at her. She jabs a thumb over her shoulder. "The couch?"

With a scoff, Kara throws a pillow at her face, which Lena manages to intercept before impact. "Don't be ridiculous," she says. "Get over here."

When Lena hesitates, Kara remembers herself.

"Oh, unless you're-- if you're not comfortable with that, I can stay on the couch..."

"No, I-- I guess I'm just surprised you're comfortable with it."

Kara hesitates, then with a huff of decision, she rounds the bed and grasps Lena by the arms.

"Let's just-- pretend the last few months didn't happen, okay? We'll start fresh. So you don't have to tiptoe around me, okay? I'm glad you're here, and I want you to be comfortable with me. And with our friendship."

Lena's eyes shine with sudden tears. She nods. "Okay," she says in a strangled whisper. "I get the left side."

Kara beams. "As always."

They've shared a bed a few times, before. Movie nights gone late had led to the occasional sleepover. But where those nights had led to quietly whispered conversations held nose to nose, tonight saw them curled on opposite sides of the bed, stiff and quiet despite Kara's offer of a clean slate.

The tension is palpable. It keeps Kara up for hours, until eventually her mind and body finally gives up and relaxes into sleep. When she wakes a few hours later, the room is still dark and silent, but is distinctly missing the body she'd fallen asleep next to.

She finds Lena on the couch, her chin turned to rest on the back rest as she gazes out the darkened windows. Her features are pensive, and a pen rests between the fingers of her right hand, which in turn rests on a pad of paper, already filled with hastily scribbled notes.

"Hey," Kara issues softly. Her voice pulls Lena back in, and she turns to gaze at Kara with fathomless eyes. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," comes the automatic response, only to be countered a moment later. "No." Lena sighs. "I couldn't sleep."

Kara sits next to her, giving the pad in Lena's lap a tap with one finger. "What's this?"

Lena shrugs. "I figured if I was going to go crazy picking apart every interaction I had with Tom in the past nine months, I should at least write them down."

"Is it helping?"

"No." Then, "yes. Kind of." Lena swallows thickly. "It's definitely opened my eyes to a lot of what I either ignored or rationalized away. There were so many signs, and-- I just didn't want to see it."

"Boiled frogs, and all that?" Kara says it lightly enough to be a joke, but Lena nods somberly.

"I always thought myself too smart to find myself in situation like this. That I'd see it coming and walk away before it ever came to this point. I just-- I just feel so stupid."

Kara straightens in her seat. "Stop it. You're not stupid."

"But--"

"Fuck the signs. This could happen to anyone, okay? Anyone."

Lena remains pointedly silent. Kara scowls.

"Do you want to know what matters the most?" she asks. She doesn't give Lena a chance to deny her. "When you finally did notice it? You left. You did what you needed to protect yourself, and I'm so proud of you for that."

"I shouldn't have let it--"

"A lot of people shouldn't have done a lot of things. I won't let you speak down on yourself for this. This is not on you, Lena. It's on him. He did everything he could to keep you from making the decision to leave, and you still did. That's amazing."

Lena releases a trembling sigh. "I don't feel very amazing right now."

Kara scootches closer, wrapping an arm around Lena's shoulders and pulling her close. "Then I'll keep telling you until you do."

Leaning against her, Lena is warm and solid. The tension that had slowly bled away during the previous evening is back, making her stiff. But she doesn't say anything else on the matter. In fact, she changes the subject entirely.

"What do you need, Kara?" Lena asks quietly.

Startled by the question, Kara frowns in consternation. "What do you mean?"

"I know you said clean slate. As much as I'd love that, it isn't fair to you. I know I hurt you. You deserved better, especially from a friend. Especially from me."

Kara's heart clenches at the subtle confirmation that Lena isn't just a simple friend-- that their relationship is somehow something more.

"So tell me," Lena continues softly. "What do you need from me?"

Kara doesn't respond immediately. She runs through the list of all the things she's longed for in Lena's absence. An apology-- she's received plenty now, and Lena's lingering guilt is proof enough of the honesty behind them. A reason, too: she's received that in spades, even if she's not certain Lena has realized it yet. Lena isn't the only one to see the signs retroactively-- the way Tom had packed Lena's schedule in those early days leading to their falling out, and the likelihood that such a falling out had only worked in his favor.

Truly, there's only one other thing Kara has ever wanted.

She turns her head to press a kiss to Lena's cheek. "You," she says simply. "I just want you, here."

Lena turns to meet her gaze, then leans her head against Kara's arm. "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

The implication behind her words is clear. Lena made a mistake letting them drift apart, and she has no intention of letting it happen again.

Kara accepts it with small, but genuine smile.

"Then that's enough for me."

[potionpeddlerpatchy]

Hello potion seller! How goes your day?

May I have a potion?

My thoughts are once again turning to Osamu Miya this time of year. That handsome bastard…

My day always fares well, dear Traveler, when I am able to interact with people so kind as yourself. And I always do love the company of those that cannot find it within themselves to admit to those begrudging feelings that surround their hearts.

Ah, I can tell by the way you are now looking at me that you haven’t the faintest idea as to what I am speaking of; or perhaps you are feigning ignorance. Either way, you have before me to hopefully get a potion, am I right?

This Tonic of Perception will be what you need. I suggest having this within either within your favourite tea, or even more so, something that is very sweet. For it is a bitter liquid that can be hard to swallow if taken on its own.

Perhaps you could even have it with a sweet from the bakery down the road?

“Something sweet, huh?” You mumbled to yourself in a begrudging manner as you paced along the cobblestone path that led towards the one place you knew you could find just that.

But truly you were doing anything in your power to avoid entering that littler bakery. It was why, when you feet followed the familiar path, you tried to divert it. To do whatever you could to avoid the alluring smell of fresh bread and cake that always drew you in whenever the days grew shorter and the air colder.

That was why you ended up in that strange peddler’s company. To try and prove to yourself that you meant to finally visit the strange parlour you had been avoiding like it was the plague, and not as a diversion. To not admit to yourself that your feet were falling into old habits, and that your heart follow suit.

But, of course, fate always had something else in mind.

As you wandered about within the peddlers home, your eyes slowly took in all the strange, yet marvelous, vials and trinkets that cluttered the many shelves around you. You read each label, even took a few into your hand out of curiosity, all in pitiful attempt to waste as much time as you could to then allow you excuse of how late it had gotten so you could go home without venturing further down the road.

Yet, despite it all, a vial did catch your eye. You supposed it was the simplicity of it which is why it stood out to you. The bottle, small, but nothing more of note. The liquid was clear, looked just like water. If you did not know better, and truly the thought did cross your mind for a brief moment, you would assume that this peddler just placed water into a vial and was trying to sell it off and a powerful tonic.

“Do you like them?” She asked, when your eyes could not stray from the strange bottle before you.

“Suppose they have my curiosity” You replied with a shrug of your shoulders, finally tearing you eyes away to look upon her – her knowing grin made a frown etch the sides of your lips.

“Not surprised this one called for you,” She mused, “You seemed to be avoiding something.”

“Am I?” You questioned as she plucked the vial from where is stood so proudly before holding it out for you.

“This will help with that, Tonic of Perception is a good brew for those that are adverse to dealing with situations set before them”

“A potion, huh? This looks more like water…” You mumbled, as you examined the vial more closely before a sheepish smile graced your face as you watched the peddler bow her head in slight annoyance.

“I can understand your trepidation” She hummed, a humble smile upon her lips as she gazed at you “But I can assure you I am no fraud hoping for a quick coin from desperate people.”

It was her tone that made you wish to believer her. That and the knowledge that she was more than happy to bequeath the little vial to you free of charge. Truly there was nothing for you to lose should you decide to take her up on her truths and drink it – if it was a dud then you did not waste any money/

But there was something you could lose. If you stepped foot in that shop again you would feel his eyes upon you. You remembered the last time you had a conversation with the baker, Osamu, just before the first rainfall of the spring season. How he teased you over your constant presence in his shop. How your sweet tooth was the only thing keeping him in business. You could not understand why you were so offended, but you were. Perhaps it was the more monotone drawl he used as he teased you that plucked a nerve. All you did know if that if you showed up there again, after the season had changed to autumn, you would be proving him right and yourself a hypocrite.

Not like you wanted to be there all the time. But when the months got colder, the days would be filled more with moonlight that the sun’s rays, you felt the need for a form of comfort; of warmth. And truly the most warm place you had ever felt welcomed was that of your aunt – a confectioner in her own right. But since you had moved away from home, from where you grew up, you had yet to feel that level of warmth again.

Yet when you were in the bakery, that same sense of warmth filled your heart the same way it did when you were but a child. And over the harsh months of winter you found yourself there more and more, just wanting a glimmer of that inner warmth you so craved. You enjoyed his company as well, though eh never said much. But just knowing that his presence was there was enough for you to feel a sense of connection that helped you as you struggled with the day-to-day that life brought.

Perhaps that was why it hurt you so much when he made that jabbing comment?

Whatever it was, it did not matter now. Certainly not at this moment as you stood at the familiar doorstep of the bakery; with a deep inhale, one that you couldn’t not help but have turn into a pleasurable sigh as your lungs filled with the scent of fresh bread, you took another look at the vial you had been clutching tightly since it was given to you.

“Perhaps it will give me courage?” You muttered to yourself uncorked the lid the lid that separated you from it.

The liquid was bitter, almost intolerable, as it brushed your tongue and went down your throat. It caused you to sputter and cough as you did your best to not cause a scene. Though the bitterness soon became the least of your worries as you felt your body lose its strength and your eyes began to roll back until your vision was no more.

Darkness filled you.

But only for a moment. Just as quickly as it cascaded over you light flooded your vision once more. Then, a clear picture of the world around you as your vision grew accustomed to the light. You were in the bakery, surrounded by plenty of bread in all its forms, those cranberry muffins you always loved to eat, and a few tarts that looked mouth watering.

And yet, none of it filled you with that same sense of warmth that you grew so fond of. In fact, where you were was not familiar to you at all. You seemed to be in a kitchen, preparing to bring out all the mouth-watering goods to the display counters.

It was then that it dawned on you, perception, if what she claimed this potion was. If only you remembered that a few moments prior; though you could not further beat yourself over such a mistake given how far your mind had gone. But now, you were in the mind of someone else. Clearly it was Osamu, only he was ever allowed in the kitchens of this place. But that only heighted your confusion. For how could he not feel the same warmth you did when he looked upon his work; you knew him a proud man, one that adored the life he had made for himself.  Yet? It was if something was missing. Something felt incomplete as you continued to be a passenger within his own mind, as you viewed the world from his eyes.

A thud, not loud in nature, but still enough to take your (and his) attention away; to feel the sense of confusion and worry as he made his was from the back of his bakery toward the front entrance. You felt the panic that entered his being as he saw you, laying so helpless upon the ground. You could not help but share in his sense of urgency and consternation as you watched yourself get pulled into the shop.

Then, a tingle was felt through the panic and mayhem. A sense of relief of knowing you were alright, as well as… something else. Almost akin to homeliness as you were privy to him as he watched over you; as you watched his thumb gingerly pet across your cheek.

It was then that you realized that sense of warmth, one that showcased to you within these four walls, did not come him in the form of the bakery as you so thought.

It came from you.

Oh dear, suppose I should have warned you about what would happen should you decide to drink the potion. Though, I was suspecting that you were going to be sitting down and enjoying a treat to go with it; but I digress, a warning still should have been given.

As well, was not the best move to drink the whole vial – again my fault for not providing you the knowledge needed – as merely a few drops would have sufficed. I’m afraid you will be stuck as a passenger for a little while longer, but no more than three hours at most. Once that time has passed you shall wake with no issue.

Though, I do not envy you the headache you will face.

[little-froggie-enclosure]

A Worthy Successor

Fandom: FFXIV

Characters: Deryk, Erenville

Word count: 944

I had a dream about Erenville being one of the Twelve and it took over my brain so now you get this. Enjoy :U

“We did the very same in the days of eld.” Deryk smiled. He let his legs hand over the edge of the cliff and the sea air kiss his fluttering fox brown locks. Green eyes on the Aldenard coast, he thought of a friend lost to time but captured in those brilliant blue eyes, that indomitable spirit and that incredible love for the star. He felt power stirring within him and wondered if the others had felt the same before they’d commended everything they’d been to a mortal.  If Venat had felt the same when seeing those inspiring blue eyes when passing Azem to his dearest friend. “You would die, then.” The viera’s brows furrowed, his expression confused. Erenville stood behind the old god and his hands formed fists. “Besides which- why me? I travel much to be certain, yet… The Warrior of Light, she would be a far more suitable candidate, yes?” Deryk laughed at the gleaner’s assertion. “She would, wouldn’t she?” He smiled. “And yet, she has already been bequeathed a great power of her own. I would not inundate her with more.” Erenville paused at those words. “...Another’s?” Deryk nodded. “Aye, another Traveler, much alike to the both of us. He was Shepard to the Stars, the voice of the people. And a beloved friend.” The viera relaxed his hands. “That still does not explain why you wish to make me Wanderer. Why? I…I am no fighter, no leader.” Deryk gathered  a handful of silken sand from beside him on the clifftop. He raised it hand and let the wind carry it away. “Because you have the heart of a Wanderer, my young friend. You love this star no less fiercely than Meteor or I. You value the natural world and wish for its preservation.” Deryk lowered his hand then turned to glance over his shoulder. Erenville was transfixed by those brilliant green eyes. “I was a fighter. But the next Wanderer need not be if he would not choose thusly.” Erenville stared down at his boots, anything to avoid being caught in that powerful, bottomless gaze. “...And will you vanish as your fellows did? Choose to die because your duty is finished?” Deryk frowned. “Is that what vexes you about this?” “How could a man choose his own death so casually not?” Erenville replied. “There is so much to see on this star that surely…” The viera trailed off.

“I never said that I planned to die, Erenville.” Deryk hummed. Erenville’s long ear twitched. He snapped his gaze up, his nose twitching curiously. Before he could open his mouth to inquire, the god answered. “You see…After our mutual friends placated the Twelve’s desire to deplete our energy in combat, I was encouraged to follow my own heart. To that end, I have chosen to walk this planet as a man rather than a god.” Deryk lifted his legs and pushed up with his arms to get to his feet. He turned around. His travel worn cape fluttered in the breeze. “Not to mention that even our great hero did not manage to spend everything we were given by Hydaelyn. And so we all have chosen promising candidates to take over our seats. To carry our wisdom and continue to guide the star through this time of transition.”

Erenville frowned. “I am no god, Oschon.” “Deryk now, if you please.” The man chuckled. “Neither was I. I was a but man once, one who loved this world like you do. It is not lightly that I offer this seat to you.” The gleaner stared out across the salt. Perhaps somewhere off in the distance, in Tural, his mother prattled on about another adventure. Travel was in his blood. His soul yearned for it. And when he thought of how much the Final Days had rattled him, things suddenly fell into place.

His expression relaxed. “Understand, then, that I do not…” He sighed deeply, shook his head in disbelief. “That I do not accept your offer lightly either.” Deryk smiled. A man with so youthful a face had no place with such a wise expression. He rested a hand on Erenville’s shoulder. The weight was comforting, grounding.

“And you will have the benefit of a mentor who still walks the lands, at least for another good fifty years or so. Perhaps more, if I am so fortunate.” Erenville fixed Deryk with a flat expression but that only served to make the god laugh again. “I am serious! This is no fleeting thing, what you choose. I have the utmost faith in you.” Deryk gently brushed dark waves from Erenville’s forehead and touched his fingers to its center. “Do not fear what you become- but do not underestimate it either. Remain yourself, Erenville,” The sound of Deryk’s voice became distant as aether from another age poured like a raging river into Erenville’s body. The viera could not speak, frozen in place as he felt the energies of a god sear through his veins to kill and revive him anew. “Because the man you are is worthy of being the Wanderer.” Erenville found he could not answer. His last sight before everything went dark was a baby opo-opo clambering up Deryk’s slender form and perching on his shoulder. The god smiled as his divinity ebbed and peace and relief overtook his features. Erenville surrendered to the shadow of unconsciousness, knowing that when he awoke, he would be the Wanderer. That Deryk would be free to live out his remaining years travelling the star secure in the knowledge of a worthy successor chosen. That Erenville would next open his eyes to Etheirys as a god. 

[sylvana-the-tsarina]

This story was just one rabbit trail of What-Ifs after another, all inspired by the tale of Tam Lin. Thanks, Red.

To Become a Lost Soul

Janet had perhaps seven years to her name when she met them.

It was a brief encounter, but a vivid one, such that she was still processing it when they met the second time. That second time was a visit, a visit from the Fey, and Janet had never in her life been so terrified and awestruck.

She’d never seen her father look so frightened either. Graeme was a large man with a solid sturdiness to him that made one think he could shoulder a mountain if he so wished, and though he had a kind soul, it was the type to be hidden from the observer behind a thick beard and stern grey eyes. Needless to say, to see him almost cowering before them was more fear-inspiring to her than the Fey themselves.

How many of them glided into the grand hall of the fort, she did not know, for the Fey leading the procession drew her eyes and the rest blurred into a muddle of sharp smiles and rustic grandeur in a certainly unnatural way. This Fey was their Queen, so her posture and crown proclaimed, and she was ethereal. A tall figure that towered over everyone, long hair that swept the floor, and such narrow beautiful features. The smile would have been friendly if there wasn’t so much teeth to it; clearly she felt at home in their wood & stone manor with its richly woven rugs and tapestries, despite her simple flowing robes and bare feet.

Her eyes swept the room once before landing on Janet’s form hiding behind her father, and the smile grew wider. Smiles should not be so terrifying, is what Janet thought to herself while her father placed a protective hand on her head. Smiles should make a person feel nice. Smiles should say they’re harmless.

The Fey were anything but harmless.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” her father’s voice rumbled. He had solidified again somewhat — likely their interest in his daughter had triggered his paternal instincts.

“My, such a charming young man,” the Fey Queen crooned. Her voice was strange in a way Janet couldn’t place, the tone as though she wasn’t talking to them, but rather about them. “You must be her father. It is only right that such a lovely child would have a lovely father. How befitting indeed.”

The full weight of her gaze was once again resting on Janet’s face, and though her knees threatened to give out beneath her, Janet ordered her expression to morph into a properly friendly smile. No teeth, not from her.

That seemed to satisfy, or perhaps delight, the Fey, whose smile grew to truly unnerving lengths as she said, “Such a sweet-ling! Her presence in my abode to-day was quite the pleasure. She fairly brims with potential. Potential, so much potential indeed… it would be such a shame to see it wasted.”

“Wasted, fair lady?” The man’s tone was cautious.

“Why, indeed. Though she possesses charm in abundance, true grace is that of the fey’s; grace that will take her far in the world, grace that I shall bequeath her.”

“The fair lady is excessively kind in her gifts; my daughter only meant to extend hospitality as she has been taught,” Graeme said, quiet and careful.

At the time Janet couldn’t understand it, couldn’t understand that her father had just saved her from owing the fae a debt whilst giving the Fey Queen a mild push to retract her offer, without outright denying her. She couldn’t imagine the way she would turn that string of words over in her head for years to come, marvelling at the protection it had given her. Just then she only understood that it made the Fey Queen either very angry or very amused; the light that flared in her eyes wouldn’t let Janet know which it was.

The Fey Queen tilted her head and gave a little laugh, the sound like the ones the birds made when scared from the bushes. “Such a family is certainly deserving of gifts periodically. Do you not think it so, Tamlin?”

“Yes, Mother.”

That was when she first saw the boy.

He was definitively Fey; the way he flowed forward from the rest of them to stand next to the Queen when she addressed him, the paleness of everything about him (from his eyes to his hair), and the calm lack of expression on his face were distinctly not human. But while he resembled his mother somewhere in his features, he lacked her eerie otherworldliness, instead projecting a serenity and safety that eased Janet’s death grip on her father’s cloak.

Their eyes met, and though his mask didn’t move (why did she think it was a mask?) she thought she saw some curiosity and… fear in his eyes.

Why was he afraid? He was one of them. What was so scary about Janet in comparison?

This puzzled her enough that she would have missed what was said next if it hadn’t come from the Queen.

“There is much Tamlin can learn from the sweet-ling, I am sure, so I will have him present the gift,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder in a way that would have mirrored Janet’s father if Tamlin hadn’t stiffened ever so slightly when she did. “Be a good boy and give it to her, Tamlin.”

The boy-Fey was motionless for a moment, still looking at Janet without a change in his expression. She got the feeling he was hesitating.

“Mother, perhaps-”

“Yes?” The Queen’s voice had gotten dangerously soft.

“It is nothing. I will give her the gift.”

He glided forward then, stopping a pace or so away from them, and Janet cautiously stepped forward to meet him, her father’s hand sliding off her head without resistance. Perhaps it was Tamlin’s presence that allowed it; perhaps he was the reason she could hope this wasn’t all some menacing trick.

The boy-Fey held his hands out and Janet placed her hands there, marvelling at how niveous he was. She glanced at the Queen, who was smiling eerily once more, then at her father, whose eyes gave her support, before looking at Tamlin again. It was then that she saw the apology in his eyes — and the very real fear.

Why is he afraid? she thought again. What could I possibly do?

And then it slowly occurred to her that perhaps she wasn’t the one he was afraid of.

Before she could do anything, he closed his eyes and began murmuring a strange chant that was taken up by the other Fey in the room; a chant made of sounds she didn’t understand how he could make, one that flowed around Tamlin and herself, and seemed to reach deep inside her heart, looking for something.

She was getting light-headed with the way it was reverberating around the room, ancient and otherworldly and wild. Oddly enough, though Tamlin’s expression was still composed, she could feel his hands shaking too. This did not sit right with her, so she squeezed them with what little energy she could muster, and felt him tighten his hold in response, as if he was asking reassurance and giving some simultaneously.

It found what it was looking for, the chant; found it, and then began to take it, dragging that something away from Janet. Something very important and integral to her, because it hurt and it hurt worse than fire. She would have uttered a cry, or screamed, but the chant had taken her energy without her noticing, and it was so loud, and she could only feel pain, and she couldn’t feel anything, and it was so dark, and she didn’t exist, and it was too bright, and nothing was real besides the fact that Tamlin was still holding her hands and she was holding his.

He was going through whatever she was going through, she knew without a doubt, so she kept holding on to him until she could blearily blink her eyes open and see that they had both collapsed onto the floor, sweet silence permeating the room.

It’s over, she thought with a sigh that felt strange. It’s all over.

Then her eyes closed and darkness overcame her.

------

Later, her father would describe what happened as remarkable. The chant had brought out a light from both Janet and Tamlin, and their lights had flowed through the room, filling it with scents of berries and wild leaves and wet earth and stars, and livening the colours in the air, before it returned to them and everything settled once more. The Fae Queen had smiled down at the sleeping children and swept away without another word, leaving one of her entourage to pry apart their hands and take Tamlin’s unconscious form away.

Graeme had then scooped her up and brought her to her room, where her nurse (and their resident herbalist), Kenna, was summoned. Kenna had checked over her and identified nothing wrong, but the both of them had waited in fretful patience for Janet to wake up, anyway.

This all she heard perhaps a day or so after the incident. As it were, she came to in her bedroom, tucked in snugly under blankets with Kenna asleep on a chair nearby, the fireplace blazing comfortably. She lay still for a moment, a strange heaviness in her limbs, and then slowly sat up, feeling the last traces of strange dreams fade from her memory.

Something was wrong.

Her eyes skimmed the room, wondering what it was, and her uneasiness both lessened and grew when she couldn’t identify anything off. The blankets were slowly eased away, and she lightly pattered on to the floor, avoiding making any noise.

Why did she want to avoid making noise?

Janet stopped, puzzled. She’d never had a problem with being loud before. Graeme and the rest of the adults had nicknamed her a walking fireplace with how she blazed through the house, hopping about and uttering cheery remarks and filling the place with her warmth. Not that she was loud in a boisterous sort of way, she was too well brought up for that, but this sudden desire to be utterly silent was quite new.

It must be because the Fey’s visit was so frightening, and she didn’t want to distress poor Kenna’s nerves. Yes, that must be it. She was worried about Kenna.

This resolved, she glided over to where the windows were and drew the curtains aside to let light spill into the room. It was really too stuffy in here. Not enough air and light. Janet needed air and light; she couldn’t go without them.

She stopped again. Really? Were air and light so necessary? Well, however did she manage to go to sleep at night, then? Her father always closed the windows and curtains at night; it was too cold to do otherwise. Thinking about that now, though, made her feel kind of claustrophobic. What about the stars? The moon? The scent of lilies in the breeze?

Her head was aching, so she put a cold hand to it (why was she so cold?), hoping that would ease the pain. The sense of wrongness was strong — so strong. Why was Janet thinking all these things? What on earth had happened to her?

A little shimmer caught her eye, so she turned to look at what it was. That standing mirror wasn’t new, with its worn gold filigree and carved legs, and the girl it reflected back at her was familiar too…

Except…

Almost in a daze, she gently flowed forward and studied the person in the mirror. That was her figure, to be sure; small round freckled face, tiny button nose, large green eyes, and a head of thick, curly, brown-red hair. Everything she recognised as herself; everything except the expression on a face that was paler than it used to be.

That expression was familiar, though. She had seen it last on a snowy boy-Fey whose hands she’d held until they were taken apart.

Many minutes (or perhaps hours) passed as she stood there, stunned by that revelation; everything seemed suspended and still, her mind blank with disbelief. She was so absorbed that Kenna’s cry of surprise startled her to the point that Janet, the old Janet, would have jumped and uttered a cry herself, but she only gracefully tilted to face her nanny, carefully concealing every bit of dread and fear, though she did not know why.

---------

Everything was wrong.

He knew everything would be wrong. However, it was one thing to know and altogether another thing to experience. Wrongness could not be properly understood without feeling it oneself, and Tamlin would have preferred to go his entire life without understanding it.

The grass was uncomfortable under his cheek, and it took most of his willpower to prevent himself from shifting in discomfort. He had to understand before he did anything — a mindset he was thoroughly relieved to find still with him.

Where was he?

Ah. Right.

Still he kept his eyes closed, but strained to listen and feel everything he could from his surroundings. It was all the same- he recognised- and yet-

So new and unknown and terrifying. Off by a little margin. Dampened and hushed.

He was so scared.

Was that…. water… on his face? Why was there water on his face?

This phenomenon puzzled him enough to distract momentarily from the fear, and he sifted through his knowledge, trying to figure out what was going on. A few blurred moments later, two memories surfaced. One that was familiar, and the other that was new.

Crying. So that’s what it was. He was crying.

How strange. Tamlin had never cried before (or at least, he didn’t remember ever crying). This seemed to him to be a rather mellow kind of crying, if those other memories served him right, one where his tears simply slid down his face. There were other kinds: kinds that stole one’s breath so that it pained one, kinds that were noisy and messy, kinds that came from anger or joy. It was truly fascinating.

Although… he hoped he didn’t do any of those. Mother would…

He’d rather not think about it.

The grass was pricklier than ever, but he stayed still for about ten minutes more before allowing himself to get up, having confirmed that there was no one in the clearing with him. Opening his eyes for the first time since the ritual was a strange experience, and for a moment he panicked at his blurry vision before realising it was because of the tears. Rubbing his eyes and surveying his surroundings once more revealed that his vision was still not as good as it used to be, but it was better than he had expected.

He was too warm, he noticed. The girl, Janet, had been warm, so he supposed it wasn’t surprising, even if it was uncomfortable. Remembering her made a knot form in his chest, whether from guilt or the residual magic he was not sure. Perhaps both.

Magic. His magic.

Panic washed over Tamlin anew when he realised he couldn’t feel it anymore. Of course he couldn’t. He had expected as much, knew it wouldn’t be there. But one of the few things in his entire world that kept him safe had just disappeared, and he was scared. So very very scared.

There was the water, no wait, tears again. He swiped at his eyes again, trying to get it to stop. What would he do? Just what exactly would he do?

Inhale. Exhale. Think.

Something soft and warm bloomed in his heart for a moment before fading almost immediately. It stopped Tamlin’s thoughts altogether. Unlike the rest of the warmth, which still caused him some discomfort, that little spot of light had offered solace while it lasted.

He slowed. Closed his eyes. Breathed for a few minutes.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

And there it was again. Soft and warm, but far more present this time. The breathing continued until he was sure it wouldn’t disappear again, after which he turned his attention to it and studied it with a smudge of fascination.

Fascination that turned into a painful bit of hope once he recognised what it was.

So Janet had had magic. Was she aware of it? Well, considering how faint it was, probably not. In all likelihood, actually, it had only just awakened. With Tamlin, instead of the little redhead, which made that knot of guilt tighten again, but it was contrasted by his shoulders loosening with relief. If the magic had awakened before this, Mother would never have considered Janet at all.

Tamlin studied this new frail magic, trying to understand what it could do. Human magic was so very different from fey magic (if his own magic had been a good indicator of fey magic, that is): less wild and shifty, and more… calm. At home. It remained to be seen whether the relaxed air to him now was caused by the magic’s simple presence or by it, well, casting magic on him.

The peace couldn’t last for long, though.

Leaves rustled off the side and Tamlin tensed before turning to face the elegant, sharp Fey before him. Mother had come for her visit.

“Finally awake, are we, dear?” she said, the intonation on ‘dear’ as mocking as it had always been, her teeth sharpening in her smile. “Well? How do you fare? Happy, I hope?”

Tamlin stood and, for the first time in all his seven years, smiled back at her.

The response surprised him as much as it surprised his mother, sparking a profound relief deep in his heart and a wider smile from the Queen. To think that the friendly little Janet had hid herself behind her cheer, hid herself so well, in fact, that she had fooled even the Queen of the Fey.

Smiling didn’t suit Tamlin (this one made his face hurt because of how… much it felt to him, someone used to the barest ghosts of expressions), but it could protect him, and he was so very glad.

So he continued smiling, even as he said, “Yes, Mother.” Even as it drained his energy, even as the wrongness settled around him like fog in early mornings, he smiled.

Tamlin could protect himself. For just a little longer.

Next Chapter.

[silentmythmaker]

"Team spirit"

Kotallo turned fourteen, but he has already passed many tests. The obstacle course for those preparing to be initiated into warriors was still cruel. Especially to the boy who crossed the threshold when relative childhood was already over, and the youthful time was just coming into its own.

He rubbed his badly bruised shoulder with a blooming purple bruise with displeasure while Umalla, a girl a couple of years older than him, sewed up his shin wound.

"On the one hand, it's lucky that you fell and cut your leg. At least I have practice." Kotallo bared his mouth and slapped her on the shoulder, pursing his lips. "Hey, hey, hey, it's audacious of you to beat the one with the needle in her hands! If you, Kotallo, hadn't decided to climb the Serpentine Path again, then you wouldn't have to endure it now. Now your bruises will heal for a long time, and it's better not to disturb the wound for a few days. Why did you climb up there?"

The young man was silent, sullenly watching the dexterous needle and thread tightening the edges of the wound. Umalla was a good soldier and a clever archer, but for her healing was closer, as if the Ten put knowledge into her blond head. She had a good intuition for treating people.

"Tekotteh spoke with the squad leader. He was surprised that I wasn't the first on the last test. Expressed dissatisfaction. And... And Kivva fell and injured her head. I couldn't leave her." The young man cleared his throat, feeling his voice rise and break at the end." Kotallo's voice was beginning to break, so he tried to speak less often and shorter. Later it will become a habit, from which he will not be able to wean. "That's why I wasn't the first to come. I had to carry her in my arms."

"And that's why you decided it was better to climb the trail for senior recruits? Alone? Tell me, are you one of those demon-possessed people? Or did you take a sip of engine oil by accident?"

Umalla pursed her lips and wrinkled up, the purple paint, a stripe crossing her elegant nose, cracked a little. Kotallo leaned back and sighed, rolling his eyes.

"If I walk this path until I'm sixteen and alone, then I'll be able to please him. He was upset… about my lose." He cleared his throat again, frowning with displeasure.

It's been a lousy year. He grew up sharply and stretched out, becoming absurdly long-legged and thin. In any case, Kotallo thought so, not noticing with what admiration Umalla looked at him.

"Kotallo… You know, it's not very normal. We're worried about you." Umalla cut the thread and put the metal needle with the remnants of the vein in the purse constantly hanging on her belt. "You're asking too much of yourself."

"I can't let down my senior commander and foster father. I have to be the best and I want him to be proud of me."

"Everyone is proud of you, but only Tekotteh demands the impossible from you." Kivva muttered as she entered. "Kotallo, this path is dangerous. It is impossible to pass it alone because of the sharp cliffs and machines that patrol this territory. It's stupid."

Kotallo pressed his lips together and turned away from them until he felt two bodies pressing against him from both sides. It was warm and close, the young man rubbed his cheek against Kivva's cheek and gratefully hugged Umalla.

"We are afraid of losing you. Remember that we are one…"

The rest of the squad came later, indignant at the young man's behavior and gently touching him, trying to support and ease the burden of his worries. Kotallo still wanted to walk this damned path, and Kivva, squinting dangerously at him, said loudly:

"If you go there, then we will go too."

Several pairs of eyes were fixed on him, burning with determination and faith.

"Team spirit, Kotallo. Remember? We are all one squad, as bequeathed by the Ten. And we should be together. This trail is not for one person, Kotallo. So that… Get over it."

And they helped him. They really did it by walking that damned trail with him and destroying three clawstriders and two Glinthawk, becoming the first squad in a long time to be able to traverse the Serpentine Path in the age of fourteen.

They brought the hearts of the machines to their leader.

Kotallo will never forget how they told to Tekotteh, saying that the leadership qualities of the young man and the inspiration he gave them helped them not to turn back.

They were then punished for breaking in there without asking. But at the same time, every Sky clan people in the Bulwark celebrated their victory. So each of them got their first marks.

"Serpentine Path" - A fictional test for senior squads. According to the plan, this trail is traversed by a team of ten people aged from seventeen years.

[praetorsreyna]

eve & the serpent (no time to die) - chapter 1

AO3

Pairing: Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger

Sixteen-year old Tom Riddle is tall, lithe, and disarmingly handsome. His face is a study in angles and bone structure; his hair, perfectly coiffed black waves. She decides that she much prefers the red eyes and the gaunt, bone-white face. Will have the portrait of evil as an enemy any day over this… teenaged Lucifer.

It is September 1, 1942.

In 9 months Myrtle Warren will become Lord Voldemort’s first victim, and the boy standing before her will tear off a portion of his soul and trap it within the confines of parchment and leather.

[In which Good loses and Evil wins, and Hermione Granger sets out on a one woman mission to uproot evil from the bedrock -- with a nifty little plot device called Time Travel]

I. THE GARDEN

“... and to Miss Hermione Granger, I bequeath a time turner. Use it wisely”

Hermione straightens from her position on the couch, wedged between Ron’s lanky frame and Harry’s slouching figure. Her knees knock against theirs with the sudden movement, and they all stare at the Minister with no small amount of surprise.

“But Minister,” she begins slowly, “I thought they were all destroyed during the Ministry break-in. I – we were all there.” She gestures at the three of them, trying not to flush with guilt.

Rufus Scrimgeour gives them a resigned and acrimonious smile. “I’m only the executor of his will, my dear, I don’t confess to knowing any of Dumbledore’s secrets. I’ve tried, but to this day, he remains every bit the enigma to the Ministry.” He sighs. “Rest assured, this turner is fully his to give and I am legally obligated to surrender it to your possession no matter my reservations against the fact.”

Beside her, Harry bristles.

Scrimgeour releases another exhausted exhale. “It was one of the Ministry’s a few decades ago. The first batch of time turners, in fact. But it was taken out of circulation and the remaining  inventory was permanently destroyed after the succeeding fiasco that ensued. And, of course, to prevent any from landing into the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

He shakes his head as if to clear away unpleasant memories.

“In all things, there must be a balance, and Time…” he drifts off at this, eyes glazing over as they wander over to the window, gazing at something only he can see. A few heartbeats later however, as if suddenly remembering where he was, his focus snaps back to the three objects of his visit. “Time,” he continues more firmly, clearing his throat, “is a dangerous, finicky thing. It is the most delicate spectrum of them all; even a single minute, a single element out of place, can disrupt the order of the world as we know it. Humans aren’t made to meddle with the infinite. ”

He stands up then, dusting invisible crumbs from his robes, and hands Hermione a silky black drawstring pouch.

She tugs hesitantly at its strings and upturns the contents onto her palm. With a dainty clink, a glimmering silver necklace slides out, along with a tiny slip of rolled-up parchment.

“Minister,” she calls out, looking up with a question already poised on her tongue.

Halfway through the door, Scrimgeour turns. “Yes, Miss Granger?”

“What was so special about that first batch of time turners? I was allowed access to one in third year you see, and –”

“What was dangerous about them, Miss Granger,” he interrupts, his tone curt,  “was that they could bring any witch or wizard as far back or as far forward as over half a century.”

Hermione blinks in stunned silence.

Once the Minister leaves, she resumes her perusal of her newly-acquired time turner. It’s curiously different from the one she had been entrusted with back in third year, made of silver instead of gold, the pendant itself bigger and heavier. Upon closer inspection, she notices runes peppered all over the hourglass, etched upon its surface so thinly, as if by a needle. The sand is less desert or beach sand than it is pulverized moonstone, luminous in the midday sun.

She slips the time turner back into its pouch and unfurls the slip of parchment. There, in Dumbledore’s neat handwriting, was the imperative:

Five and a half turns counterclockwise. Just in case.

~

Everything is going too fast and this was not supposed to happen, this was not supposed to happen; they were supposed to win; they did everything right —

But Draco was gone; Harry’s body had hit the ground, not stirring, and Ron had dashed forward, hand slipping from her hold. There was a triumphant roar and an electrifying green and it was all over, a chasm had opened up beneath her feet and had swallowed her whole; her throat was burning and her ears were ringing and Neville was shaking her shoulders, yelling at her to go, Hermione, go —

She bolts, stumbling over corpses and debris, vision obstructed with ash and tears. All around her, bodies were dropping like fleas, people she had known for years, people she had laughed with, and still she dared not stop, dared not think, dared not look.

She ducks behind a jagged shard of a wall blackened with soot, pulls out the silver chain concealed beneath her shirt, wills her hands to stop fucking shaking, and turns the hourglass counterclockwise to five and a half revolutions.

The world moves around her in dizzying, lightning-fast streaks of color and muted sound. It was nauseating, vastly different from her two hour jumps back and forth through time at thirteen.

She squeezes her eyes shut and lets herself sag to the ground, feeling her very cells vibrating, rearranging themselves in a futile effort to make sense of her body being hurtled through decade after decade.

Finally, just when she thought she was seconds away from being atomized, her body settles and her eyes fly open.

She gasps, wheezing, her bearings aflutter, senses assaulted by the violent clash of the birdsong and bright sunlight where she found herself amidst, against the screams and smoky horizon from where she had just departed.

She was home.

She was home in a time when the people who had made it so had not yet been born.

~

She wrangles her memories into submission, storing them into tidy little boxes and filing them into the immaculate shelves of her mind as only a natural Occlumens can.

She goes to Dumbledore and surprisingly, the logistics of it all fall neatly into place. However, she knows he is different here; she has read his correspondences with Grindelwald and is privy to their intricately complicated dynamic. She errs on the side of caution and decides on a partial disclosure.

Warm food and fresh robes and a handful of memory charms later, she is reintroduced to Hogwarts.

In the illusory safety of Armando Dippet’s office, the Sorting Hat falls onto her head and calls out Slytherin.

The pang of loss and betrayal is resounding but she refuses to linger, grounds herself to the reality that she will, in fact, have to use every ounce of cunning in her body from this point onwards. After all, she had asked to be put in Slytherin and had requested Dippet to put her in Tom Riddle’s class.

(In the evenings she will let herself grieve, will permit herself to die alongside those whose fates she seeks to prevent. But in the mornings, she will think of the living. She will think of the futures she must protect and will continue to play the long, solitary game.)

The next day, Dippet and Slughorn introduce her to their famed Slytherin prefect.

Hermione feels sick.

Sixteen-year old Tom Riddle is tall, lithe, and disarmingly handsome. His face is a study in angles and bone structure; his hair, perfectly coiffed black waves.

Her stomach churns with a deep sense of wrongness. It shouldn’t be possible that all that blood should spill from this boy who looked like an avenging angel made bone and sinew. Harry has told her about young Riddle of course, but she still finds herself incredibly unnerved.

She decides that she much prefers the red eyes and the gaunt, bone-white face. Will have the portrait of evil as an enemy any day over this… teenaged Lucifer.

“Tom,” he introduces himself, holding his hand out and giving her a courteous smile.

She steels her spine, fights the bile rising in her throat, and takes his outstretched hand. “Hermione,” she returns.

It is September 1, 1942.

In 9 months, Myrtle Warren will become Lord Voldemort’s first victim, and the boy standing before her will tear off a portion of his soul and trap it within the confines of parchment and leather.

Hermione gives him a reciprocal smile, baring a flash of her teeth as their hands clasp.

He won’t know what hit him.

[shanaoh]

"It is unwise to insult your king with failing to engage in the banquet provided..." Caution is offered in the words though beneath an undercurrent of knowing, of observing something that troubles one he has charged with protecting Uruk and he cannot let it stand. For there to be something on her mind splits her attention that she can devote to the defence of the city. And it is his duty to provide for those in his charge.

"What keeps my blade from indulging in the grace of their king?" [ gil do i detect care in your actions? ]

HOW UNSLIGHTLY

"My king."

The motions come as second nature, a dip of the head followed, the lowering of the eyes before given the honor to gaze upon him, to speak. King Gilgamesh's warning is not misplaced, he is king and she his right, his warrior, his BLADE. To insult him by straying from the position bequeathed by the wise king was a grave error and one she would not have dared to risk under normal circumstances.

"This blade does not dispute such claims." Yet there does linger a stray thought it her mind that drives such reckless disregard. One that perhaps her master might know better than her the answer. Yoshitsune's head bows lower still, eyes casted in a deep shadow as honest words spill forward.-

"It is indeed unwise to not heed the call of her king. It is a shameful display that bares no repeating."

And falling silent.

Minamoto no Yoshitsune is no fool. Despite the clear, stark difference between herself and the current era summoned upon that fact remains true. In the past, the first precious days into her tenure had been spent consuming as much as she could upon this land's knowledge, every tablet, every archival, every drill. She grew fat on information, to the point that the blade could call the land her own and defend it thus.

Yet one thing was left accounted for. One thing that did not make sense no matter how much information she poured herself into.

"-I do not understand this."

The look that she cast out is does not bare the same luster that it would in the day. It was within time of quietness that the charade slips, that Ushiwakamaru, Shana oh slips away, the friendly familiarness of her disposition leaving her and revealing something cold in its wake. Minamoto no Yoshitsune is a woman of cunning as she is of ice, a thing barren in her emotional capacity that suited her just fine. It was such that made her so capable as a weapon for Yoritomo.

"Humanity....is such a wretched thing."

This was the BLADE of the king, one that only he and he alone would bear witness.

"I know of gratitude of humanity, it is fickle to the weapons that they forge with their wills." It is ugly, REVILED. Built upon the foundations of the forgotten, destroyed and devoured. There was not a single star that did not exist built upon remains of those before it. Personal experience had made it so that such lessons were carved into her very being. "And I am a blade charged with the preserving of precious lives. Yet they do not regard me as such. It is as if they....do not see the weapon before them."

Rider paused, her expression bleeding into frustrated confusion. For all that she knew of humanity, it was never something she could truly incorporate into her own logic. Humans were cruel, inherently so and that is a FACT, irrefutable and true. And yet, and yet-

"My king, are your people truly of that ilk? Why do they regard this blade as their own?"

[thedragonagelesbian]

WIP - A Lesson in Drowning with Prophet Delilah Dubois

Adelaide knelt down beside the wooden box of tea lights set in small glass bowls arranged in three tiered rows. Only a few of the candles were lit, each a pinprick prayer glinting above a puddle of grey wax. If Madame Tilly was aware of her presence, she didn’t acknowledge it. She kept her head bowed low and her eyes shut as she recited a familiar prayer in a low, hoarse mumble.

“That I may grant my own salvation, I bequeath upon myself a clear mind and a strong heart. That I may shoulder my own burdens, carry my own weight, and discipline the limits of my own desires, such that I never exceed the boundaries of restraint and propriety. That I may survive the oncoming storm, I pray for clarity, fortitude, and tenacity…”

“And in so praying,” Adelaide finished, feeling the words as deep and reluctant as her marrow, “I grant upon myself such virtues as foreseen by our lady prophet.”

For the first time, Madame Tilly paused and lifted her head blinking. Upon seeing who had interrupted her prayer, she smiled, slow and indulgent.

“Little Addie,” she murmured, gums stretched wide. “How are you?”

“Surviving by someone’s grace.” Adelaide didn’t know if it was her own or her father’s or Delilah’s herself. Probably wasn’t her own. “How ’bout yourself?”

“All is as we will it.”

Typical Order of Dubois bullshit response. Adelaide smiled back.

“Well, it looks like dinner’s up, if you’re hungry.”

“Oh, no, I can’t stop praying. There’ll be time to feed myself later, but Harborview needs my prayers now. It is as our lady prophet says.” Madame Tilly tapped her forehead with the second knuckle of her right pointer finger, tracing a loose oval between her brows. “‘In seeing clearly, might all the Earth resolve itself in perfect and accurate order.’ Worship is the only way to a clear mind’s eye, and a clear mind’s eye is the only way to a righteous world.”

Righteousness seemed a terribly inappropriate framework for understanding a natural disaster, but Adelaide had enough lingering self-restraint of her own not to argue with an old woman. Instead, she picked up one of the lit prayer candles and tilted it forward. The melted wax pooled to one side, threatening to drown the pinpoint of light flickering frantically inside the glass. When she narrowed her eyes, the flame expanded, blurring and burning in a thin white line across her vision. Its expansion was an optical illusion, she knew, but if she focused hard enough, she could trick herself into thinking that the glass was heating up, cracking, splintering, shattering…

“We could all use some clarity just about now,” Adelaide remarked as she spun the bowl, watching the silvery wax swirl like wine.

“Don’t I know it… You seeking clarity yourself, little Addie? I haven’t seen you around here in a while.”

“Y’know how it is.” Eyes open, eyes closed, flame thinning and widening and winking like blinding starlight, glass hotter and hotter against the pads of her fingers. “One day, you’re suddenly an adult, and you gotta take some time to figure things out.”

“I’ve been an adult for quite a while, dearie. I did all my figuring out long ago. She,” Madame Tilly gestured at the oil painting of Delilah Dubois, “simplified things a good bit. For whatever it may be worth to you, I’d recommend coming back, giving it all a second chance.”

Adelaide’s grip on the bowl tightened.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

[mediaevalmusereads]

The Seven Year Slip. By Ashley Poston. Berkley, 2023.

Rating: 3.5/5 stars

Genre: contemporary romance

Series: N/A

Summary: Sometimes, the worst day of your life happens, and you have to figure out how to live after it.

So Clementine forms a plan to keep her heart safe: work hard, find someone decent to love, and try to remember to chase the moon. The last one is silly and obviously metaphorical, but her aunt always told her that you needed at least one big dream to keep going. And for the last year, that plan has gone off without a hitch. Mostly. The love part is hard because she doesn’t want to get too close to anyone—she isn’t sure her heart can take it.

And then she finds a strange man standing in the kitchen of her late aunt’s apartment. A man with kind eyes and a Southern drawl and a taste for lemon pies. The kind of man that, before it all, she would’ve fallen head-over-heels for. And she might again.

Except, he exists in the past. Seven years ago, to be exact. And she, quite literally, lives seven years in his future.

Her aunt always said the apartment was a pinch in time, a place where moments blended together like watercolors. And Clementine knows that if she lets her heart fall, she’ll be doomed.

After all, love is never a matter of time—but a matter of timing.

***Full review below.***

CONTENT WARNINGS: suicide, mild sexual content

OVERVIEW: I kept hearing about this book, so out of sheer curiosity, I picked it up. I'm not normally a contemporary romance reader, so this was a little outside my wheelhouse, but I was excited to give it a chance. Overall, I think I'm rating this book 3-3.5 stars for reasons of personal taste. While I loved the time-travel element and atmosphere of the apartment, I also felt like a lot of narrative tension was sucked out of the story. Maybe this book was supposed to be fluffy and light, so I'm perhaps being unfair. But I kept seeing moments when the stakes could have been raised, so that drove my subjective experience.

WRITING: Poston's prose is ok. It's definitely not the worst, but it doesn't feel particularly inspired either. Much of what put me off was the millennial humor and pop culture references. I understand this book is written for a particular audience, but the humor was simply not for me and will, I think, age this book poorly.

I also think Poston repeated herself a bit - some of the same ideas expressed in the same manner (for example: the sensation of pop rocks in one's stomach). It wasn't so obnoxious to be jarring, but it was something I noticed.

PLOT: The non-romance plot of this book follows Clementine West, a book publicist who devoted herself to work following the death of her aunt. The aunt has bequeathed a magical apartment to her niece - one that randomly transports its occupant 7 years backwards or forward in time, and Clementine soon finds herself being catapult into the past too meet a young man who lived in the apartment for a summer 7 years ago.

I was a little mixed on the plot for a number of reasons. On the one hand, I really loved the possibilities that came with the time travel. Because occupants were only separated by 7 years, they're was always the possibility of meeting up yet being changed by time. There was so much room to talk about how people change and timing and so much that Poston takes advantage of several times.

I also liked the focus on grief and the relationship between Clementine and her aunt. Even though the aunt is dead, Clementine has enough flashbacks for her to feel like a real and integral part of her life, and the longing that accompanied her time travel into the past - during a time when the aunt was alive - was palpable.

I also think the atmosphere of the apartment was well done. Poston made it seem magical in all the important ways: not for its time travel, but for the way the light hit it, the way it was decorated, the memories it held. It was a more effective way of making the setting feel enchanting than detailing the exact way it launched someone into the past.

On the other hand, I do think Poston could have leaned heavier into making the plot work for her themes. While I appreciated the way friends were used as support systems, there were scenes that I thought could have been less fluffy and more purposeful.

I also didn't quite feel like the stakes were as high as they could have been. This isn't to say that I think there should have been action or life-or-death scenarios, but Poston didn't exactly make me care about Clementine's job or Iwan's success as a chef. This might be because I felt like I was told too much about why they mattered more than shown, and I really wanted to see the effects of workaholism on grief, for example, more than Clementine wanted to just simply advance her career.

CHARACTERS: Clementine, our heroine, is fine as far as romance heroines go. There were things I liked about her, like her relationship with her aunt, her meditations on grief and repetition and adventure, and the way she comes to terms with the realities of change. I think I would have liked her more without the millenial humor, and if the plot had worked harder to really dig into her psyche, she would have felt more dazzling.

Iwan, our hero, is ok but a bit too "safe" to be interesting. This doesn't mean that he needed to be some kind of bad boy; I mostly mean that he doesn't seem to have character flaws that make him feel three dimensional. His love for cooking was admirable, as was his relationship with his grandfather, but he felt a little too perfect and his arc wasn't necessarily one of growth. He was fairly perfect from the get-go, and though he loses some of that in his vision for his career, I don't think it developed as strongly as it could have.

Supporting characters were fine, though I think they distracted from the plot more than served it. As much as I loved the supportive network of friends around both characters, I ultimately think they didn't work hard enough to create subplots of their own that complimented the main romance. Drew and Fiona, for example, were nice to have as emotional support, but they mostly felt like repositories for millenial humor. The same can be said of Miguel and Isa, who would have been fantastic commentaries on chasing passion over accomplishment and formal recognition.

ROMANCE: There were some aspects of this romance that were really interesting. The time travel was perhaps the main attraction, shoving these two people together and holding them apart at moments to create productive frustration and tension. I liked that the time separation meant that both characters were in different stages of life and thus, finding each other in the present was fraught with difficulties.

I do think, however, that more could have been done to put past and present storyline in conversation with one another. While Poston eventually delves into things like how time changes people, it felt like from the get-go, the time travel was more used for a quirky meet cute. Of course, if this romance is meant to be more light and fluffy, there's nothing wrong with that; personally, however, I wanted the time travel to really work harder for our love story, creating scenarios that couldn't necessarily be solved by just getting over oneself or having a frank heart-to-heart.

TL;DR: The Seven Year Slip is a romance with an interesting premise that is somewhat undercut by its millenial humor. Though it wades into the waters of tackling things like grief and pursuing happiness, it ultimately felt too surface level for my taste.

[libidomechanica]

Of water fair creature chose so favourable strife,

A ballad sequence

          ��    1

They look’d in absence exiles sunshine     and fasted, wept and passion’s passions men might her cradle     sheep. And catacombs, they did each man that sparkled keen     with the stems. Drooping weede to honour is purchased by themselves     and rue, and travelling,

under the river’s wooded cleft,     and, far and for her tender eyes in pity of the voice     should you though, Madam, all the starry; such a task as he     ought not perform nor yet she has caught there my coolest waters     clear, vanish’d, also

she melted and long, delaying     heart from thy remote and raced the snake, that the hollows lights     are here, ’ they broke through, oft will I yield. She had a fourth time     shall be crushed; but sometimes like Carmel, and makes coy excuse     can invade, and still, save

that engenders to thee hence. Here     I go, in perfect rows where’er thou art! Then came a youth     of Corinth talk: over the veil that rage had pass’d by thy     lovelier hue, and fingers he clenched in the rustling noise     of wind and eye. ’ Said Cyril:

Pale one, blushing down to happy,     by common lookers on, like a thing beams. By faith has     many a stain, made rival with moistened. And in his shame     to death of war, and snared the goat leans to prey. The sorrow     toiling Hellespont, guilty

of thy name, and fish would not     wear our rusty god embrace the lark has power too. She     sets her babe for an armoury, where its stainless steel these     tardy plumes are one indeed, almost energetic. With     gazing against a pillow

my chin for another’s hand:     like wet silk stained mouth; before her left the fireside be     cheerful day from night of perilous seas, and pin’d and said,     and kept his rod in it: such as lurks in some fair vermilion-     spotted, golden reign.

Him—could have I not play to find     to linger, though it be quickly me from Cenchreas’ shore; and     haunt of sisters answered, peace! The cataract leaps no more     increas’d the knight forgot am of myself am shent     when in toil; another

face, of the brain to unperplex     bliss from far lands by which he beats down her some fair as the     chapel bells called it in, for now he has nae love in the     drifts and kiss, and dance in use, did after flower of hands.     She takes, where Jove bestow.

And his cheek, whose applause of the     words dissolving on the dust: thou may’st thy budding year all     its influence breeds like poor riches old. In pink and purblinde     charmed touch of change wrought me to paint the silken tree. Not     all: the sophistrie, that, and

coy, care a single continent!     That steal o’er the holly round the yellow sunbeams die. Of     water fair creature chose so favourable strife, she answer’d     must have been elsewhere and then there ran two bubbling a     pillar’d porch, that which wexen

old aboue and drown’d with words, and     down so we can gain is overworn. Take heed, dear youth; nor     dread; thy pangs of the young birds the sudden voice was born. How     fair, poor child; your old-fashion’s spirit’s folded gloom, and he     supplied my wandring mynde.

               2

And simple span of their shores; till     she ran, hear us, O satyr king! Care is best step approach’d;     oft turning fears, still speak of thy lute unstrung; else it     was a woman counts her flowers, that fail to see me weep     so sore, hey ho! As the

loud clapping in the bottom, where     you all, I shall live for your love returning the gateway     bell, and strange of love: for vexing conception to them from     those faire booke doth transfix the flying. Art a maid in madness     flush; the creeds. Coming

madness even as though the spruce     again he caught me many a pearly sank behind her,     being other—since we descend below the voice upon     the waves with plumes let fall before I eager early risen     she herself relief?

               3

Calm as to curl a maiden-headed monsters only     made me there none of what is, and shadow, but this bequeath to a low song of bees,     bloom’d, and presence grace in such a paradise hast found me. A stately music the soul.     Made for a friend and far upward mind till wither’d violets blow. A grief, and grief. Farewell!     Your stave.—And thou that hath time faced the

cold of cups and kissed her. Turn again, she be a     watchful, penetrant, saw this condition. If so he kept her tills his wonted glebe, but     that she said, their summer France. In darkness of his liues course; high nature’s earthly song: peace;     come and flung the incantations meet, the passion. Finer spirits whisper Peace. It is     not wholly hers, all the golden pits:

’twas with thee not, nor though it over and o’er-spread     with honest fame is Love. I sing the hither do stray he knew not wholly dumb in such     things are still all the helmet and they keep thy fingers they grew in through the storm.—All was     damn’d to touch of Nature more so strange do these are knuckles, sharp enough. This day, and buds     and false painting creature chance; and last,

returns the flowers by ghostly haunting no old     power to do it, being humane to horse eases up and good. And I remains to     know that must be with flying, and rubious- argent: of all, while perpetual day so     double bright mists to herself anew beyond her mark, and oftentimes into bowers     be overgrown with knobs and face, you

were the soul’s Rialto hath in the vine, and blossoms.     Were pools that pair became: till slowly from his old grief. Make some pleasant fields do lie     forgotten mind. Of loue new-coin’d to her that would make heart, how frank, how courteous mien turning     went to climb; then, as no where she could such pleasure. The flowers and thou, that Psyche,     ’ I rejoice amid the things progress?

               4

That inspired place where she should     I help it, did not only winke; for the race; yet how much     of charm her nostrils small;

until, impatient level lilies     shine, and the alien corn; fast fading day: the lark     was lost, wherefore, as

harbinger out of the lakes, break     and niche. These argument; so all mazed to see the splendour     seems the grief with showers,

Thereupon her sweet breathed boar:     again saw he this cannot quell its heavy press her very     spirits render’d on

the way to where will remembrance     should restrain her fearing in a river sloped to pluck     thee well. Too frail of pride,

nor his love? Heroic if you     will say: I am Lazarus, come away: the calm’d twilight.     The ignoble use.

               5

Thy passion to us. And seem     only one of the weed- covered tracks. Peeling away my     days and night: o Father, but she smiled to woman, and perfect     rows where fancy is

in love likewise will see the     passionate looks familiar; but aye fu’-han’t is fechtin’ best,     So I began, the sporting soft, cried, you lovely dost exceed     Love, I fill the heaven;

and maids and joyous tears. And     said, so puddled on the babbling so, from such odour streams     adown a fearful the wave in roarings round by all the     physician to manhood

darkly on my shame beneath the     heart to let her at the park putting brain was Protean,     passing, came along, of comfort win; but thrice as quick! Mouth     is most serious did

spring, but to the ground, and see     the fields are lovelorn piteous play. With gods in uncertain,     not even as thought, then leaves; nor for bread, and thus you     list aduised be, at

her foes within the latest little     space, that never man, and bared to Dian? The murmured     the matin songs, which held me well. I have their joyous tears.     My life with her ardent

listless night in, martiall sports I     had died, then be not reach the rest, to pay with favours light     could love, neither essence; till weeps for his own ankle glance,     beholding out a sex.

And fragrant skies in barbarians?     Essay Information short space of hearts; and my     recollections of the brine with sweetest soul that fell within     the Carian’s earthly song

doth pine, one set slow bell will say     ’tis naught—and her Nest. No, no, thou art a wander’d how he     used, and child, with airs deliciously; so wound, and to comfort     in a sea; an

elements; but to flutter down, in     fragrant bosom grew, for this softly lulling of Flora     and thump a league desire, a pleasure. Enchanted loudly,     chanted gazer’s mind.

Dear pig, are yours no more. Heart was     still unshent, and themselves in his native bower and a     crust, is—Love, for I can see, and rave at the pass’d, even     so with one that breast;—’twas

even now foredoom the seems     a separated and disdains to have years with the silver     flow; my eyes? That will again saw her, and baby love’s     beauty; fonder, in such

thinking your exampled wife, and     last the sorrow makes me oft to lead thy thirsts appease? You     though to see, them in a thousand bucklers, all surprise the     Death brag thou wert true? And

tooken, await them. In the mimic     picture. Held debate, a Francis call; singest all I     descend below; and laid the thrushes, thinke no more. Since minds,     but mine of globed

peonies; or if thy morrow, to     smooth his pinion in reverend father’s gain. Broke their grace. The     earth; such as dodge conceptions tutch. Found a path or on to     where it ran warm, tremulous,

devout touch’d their loves, one less     and their chereful cheriping, or hold the other’s, yet     look’d down to these brief break my chain, and this, to be, forsook     the soul. With tilt and pledge

you and till, more than doth she her     force, from the grass, there on lattice on my shady level     peeps its cradle; or to stoop. For ever narrow aisle     no matter: we were one

wall. With shoes, O princess with a     banners? The most true mind thus gratify the Genius. You,     tiresome verse-reciter, Care,—I will not yield each contend     to hear it. From orb

to orb, from soul to keep off thou     wilt; if ever, ever met alone, lycius start and brought     with frost, that whispers, Tis the window-panes, that sin by him;     and guest had felt thy triumph

in your kirtle blue. Harold:     A Drama queen Mary: A Drama the Charge of lips are     beset without a plane of moon on the sin, the murmur     from form that moment too.

               6

Or cool bosom swellings, run their     path we walk’d unto the soul on me sudden frost is thick     myrtle sickening boughs, lies and other harms: strange! Of linger     on hylls, or oracles. And the wall, and self, he took, O     bliss! Silent my knee, and

gazing on a silken bodice     but once, advent: help me put mine own through the blackness increas’d     the pulses, till he saw; he mixt in all those daintiest     lustre was a woman now? Vague words new, spending summer     day this round him not. In

the palate fine; his soul Eolian     tun’d for the fading politics; they might hand straight on from     an orient ivory sphere, set in these sorry pages;     the bones grind, I see our two skeleton shall I my selfe,     and light. More, in saying

from Heaven. Reach out dead hands she     my dear, but satiated at last as rubbish to think to     him, and fear no more soft incense; might blend in one spot alone     of sapless gray, and maiden, steal o’er the world an end.     And other do depart.

Would swell to mellower chanting     clearly, the written many a sandy plain, beside the     room, nor more than a fire, where airy steps below, when her     kiss thee; let us be marriage-knot. Shading imagery     of slight, deep dawn behind,

I would they wept a rain over     east behind her flocked the voices hail it is! ’Er a shell     from pearl. In the dust of gold, that blooms in which once she passed     anguish also flee, yet let us go. These lovers are     exhausted like a hurt

dog at my feet. Whether on the     park putting of hers sweet smells of the lythe Caducean charm.     I would gladly thee; tho’ mix’d with a sound, his head is bow’d,     his coal-black curls about our soul gan to adorn; neither     side, there we mighty palace

and apish merriment.     Deceiving elf. Or art, impossible to say just what is     not that shall be as clusters, what gelid fount of Day is     dash’d swift, mad, fantasy of truth at these arms of leisure     for Use and grow a home

from my poet’s forehead of late,     with merry merry song against the silent night-wandering     breast. ’Er panted for fancies dim: he still weep that through     twenty summer-standing, stay cool’d? ’ Let me good, how is time     for decision hooves his

great pleasures in a lonely sea.     So neighbour groues to Tantals smart, but Thanks, for thee tho’ I     die. A ballad from the room, and then guiding hours with     melancholy; and roared before small mistake? And our love. And     cried, He lieth, for ever.

Whose fair head, elate, helpless, must     tell, for the frame to the lazar, in his head was wreathed,     dissolving on her quick brunette, well-bred men—and your mistress     went down to Camelot; the women like two doves by     to tower’d Camelot.

Creeds. I hold in their birth; let us     entwine hovering ore: ’twas too fair, the lilies shine,     abandoned, almost sad? That fish would answered Go: we have I     lost to have heard not travell’d in a cloudless arrow flew.     Thus doth breed a loathing

but this couriers bright, which spake     and blood, my potent to moments, by silk seats insphered,     high in head, and woods where all to her far, to which wanteth     not my sweet sister where long I will seek him so, as put     the season: never comes.

With that evenings to one note; one     mind no place and branch the fancy; for indeed: we are that     lent mysteries; a Richard, as on this children’s cries, Joy!     Of velvet cheeks, and sought himself licks off my sweet harmony.     Their tawny brushes.

Into itself adorns the coral     to the dull narcotics, numbing cold, all she knew.—I’m     wearied eyes I sleep in love’s force thou art all fair that sweeps     away she cast about, convuls’d and pin’d and briers, over     the downs—to the boughs, and

braided, leaving hawthorn, and, in     the distant hills from what seem’d that it was stung, perverse, with     the blue. In me for days of happy shores by which kept the     fruit was the dark lawn. Is flashing away she concubines,     and is normally the goat

leans to yours, forsook the storm their     ripen’d grain; when I should pile her round we shall be fair, thou’s     broke the fragrant in his shadow fear’d of blessed night: the green     fruit unseen, shalt therein? She winna ease the springs of     loue, in such as had no

dark velvet leave this flowers, before     the more a wither dreams, and clown: perhaps he mixt with     rocks and learned to get and brow, to light-hung leaves, every     pleasure. Hearing the flood of onwards, which held me, lives no     blemish, but pass’d, shut up

and bright have spent. Rich within the     less troubled. The season, owe, and mine: yet less train Leander     rude in love’s despite of Pelop’s should show their pensive     dream thou—and from deep to the ape and tooken, await thy     wisdom never dry; the

brook the though as for themselves were.     And milk are unmating the damsels danced by the mellow     sounds arous’d from his sight from harm at last he bears? And your     land so unsullied was an army with their way. That best     behinde! Forgive what fruits.

               7

The selfsame day to day, half-legend,     half-historic, counts my selfe to grieue me worse faulter     in the wine has devoures, as not the Elysian, how     strange, and know that spot in which a man right as it is place,     the cursed Malayan crease,

and led him to the earth with     evermore. Which, like this countess reasons: you are your Highness     breeds along the gulfs beneath her hands so pure, tho’ follow     like a peacock, and overhead a livelier than to     be loved. But, for scarcely

thoughtfully at Venus’ glass. Cannot     guess how much the tast, each by other service; whether     that sweeps away dyd wype. Rich foole, who keeps learning trimm’d;     but that were blacke face will never may the curse so darkly     join, deep-seated into

the day: she leant thought, mark me,     Peona! That the enchanted love of home—as man’s could praised     the naked to me with face so light, if in my hands so     often swore my picture. He kneeled, but lou’d a long as     the mind, he reach’d the count

the far-off was his embrace lasted     the quaystones and let appear’d, and thence stretches, with     a live damask mouth to slumber on; unconscious thunder-     music, which I know. Of some but being possesse which leans     to press their fountains, and

summer’s as a fever, and truth.     Yellow kind! The Shore devis’d, do those temperate air: then     the swift to her beauty’s veil doth comply with benefits     unknown; human, divine, I must, and milk are under the     telephone for men may

pluck them faintly said, she finds on     misty Acheron, heaved up her hovering bird’s fluttering     weede to honour of each nook and nearer heavenly guide     my foot is only made me wise. I climb thy threshold of     the words and know too old.

               8

And mine now beginning, and the     breast, the cheek, a speaking linnet trill, nor quarry trench’d it     quite: but thou leave traces in the sad look of younger friends     came to death for any male thine, even sacrilege again.     To see him laid under

her face so long walk of limes     I past the print the face; they love, I fill the incessant     waters are arms of sleep, Death’s twin-brothers of globed     peonies; and set. Mien, just what wants me here? Through this the words!     But that sometimes the grass.

               9

Was pass’d him in the mountain tops.     And so on, from stumbling pad, something so wildly. Leaped into     the door: I walk as once we held that o’er the door: I     walk as once more, replete with feverous floods drown it: if     a magic from thy sea-

foamy cradle, lowly bending     doth testify the Genius. As the tract of lucid east     of rising sun; for merit? Thou live alone. And with a     steadfast? Woe, that, howsoe’er I was disrooted, for the open     shone, silvery heads

of a thousand tender palm dissolve     in doubts and obdurate mind bewail’d the wave in roaring     with his own shadow on the least to me as the man,     to bear the tips are but in Vain! We hid from day to death:     but ’twas like Carmel, and

in his head from wealth could never     seems to rest a single murmurous habit soon she wrung,     to change. Esteem than doth all its influence-rich to do,     deceives how tiptoe: for that seems at the wayside to     show what were taught this is

my objects having seed-heads—one     stalk in a dusky colonnade. Its delicate and     braveries some of our close of Troilus and kind, and, as she     spann’d the purple silk, with gods in groves and quiver, and discourse     and she knows his face,

and neither cloud that noble ends.     Peers; the holy perfumed with thee well. They broke our vines with     her hand, she dwelt. To deck the bells against yon breezy sky,     till the green nets blue hare- bells, and streaming in the Cretan     isle; and hour in reverence

dreary woe. That ye stir not     upon sockets of the things. Were out above the walls took.     It is not fearfully,— how the voice which we dare to see     her state, who at a distant gloom a breeze to creep to the     grain by ill thrice as the

swellings, so save poor girl whose youngest     hue about him’—which heauen to my garden, my spouse, with     scale. And gradually up to the midst, in honour, and as     he did breath, the very touch it grieve thy sailor,—while his     hand and sleepe so favourable

strings will returning flies,     leaving mine. All the yews of your many more, are you pause.     Leaped into his Mistress turn’d their sleep, in grass; man’s voice of     my mother. Was drown’d, let darkness must dreams, and spreading to     the dead world unseen string.

               10

And by the moon, trees old and watches guilt and good.     With silence, which heauen to my love: I count up to the stray’d it was beat with many Graces,     while to charity, which joyful

sound, dead into a ball that fly with pity to     read: an endless shalt taste the grasses of shadow fear’d their milky way among the day     will shock on my heavier still affirms

your pardon me I heard the Lycian custom     then to be moving about the coming strange fortune strait is flying fears, forgot his     worth an awful rainbow, with all its

complain, with one blinding wind. We pauses of     silvered used she, with an office; yet now decrease, and must he list? Whose pure in ear’? To     take the procession!—And if she soft

Sh! She dark appear thee still well-beloved     is under cried, O fly, while thought: O he had felt the plantations; let Majesty your     first for thee to the park to practice

an ancient power too. To recovery, et     cetera, et cetera—could not leave us not too harshly jar. If any, this;     but mingled bit, and we wept. Looked up

to God, I stretching eye; but being bold to eye     those huge honey seeping imagination’s spirit rule, for faith that faints into my     great planet chiming cloud, and farthings

there warm’d and smiled: he playful rout of Cupids shun     to do it for Woes selfe forgiue? In Marses livery ye wear, play ye at hide or seemed     to save. Red leaf enrolls the blooms in

May, that’s your inmost tender blossom of heaven     would make my love, repeating on my discouraged, his life increase; days order’d, by flew     a cloudy symbol of hern and fame

to sing, with summer heaven, earth, and ev’ry life     I learn’d to tower’d in, when this music all things. Win the coast. As dying swells, it buds,-—     that is not see, far off appear’d as

into the stately azure vein wander’d—all the     city, out of heaven? No longer did he takes the past; to sit with oaths, fair shrinking.     And strands with touch most delight was pass’d

like the gnawing sloth on the shrilly mellower     change us, nor hill-flowers his separate mind till it hold? But worth while they stood, each     tenderest, milky bosoms on our

memory like the Christmas here in Pluto’s garden     of all those, who want the nuptial mirth? Save what thou find not for love his rod in it, he     said, can he not reaped; beauty snar’d me.

               11

Sometimes the rites in which in good.     To-day they opened to marge shall never read strange? The hearts     of a heaven rending,

and that sin by him; and guided     through oceans new, to Corinth, ask’d her mesh, and say: o heart.     Enlivening; making

all his rapacious he did, but     she that these two division of thy love, and leaves after     lifting in a vale, played

the hill. And so tangled with us     do dwell on doubt, till in us is over wrack, since     we talk’d: the men of myrrh,

and shar’d that Sun and shadows sits     eternal heavenly powers, and part with vncalled him,     cower’d, and she, alas,

he finds they could one hung within,     with a feast behind ourself would rise, her argent sphere in     Pluto’s garden and years

and fitful strange, and now at once     more, but for fear such sights, a feudal tower; who trusted     God was love. My pleasure

on me soon dear as old: but whereof     was to be guess’d; what thou, or any, called. To the twin     spirit pass’d him so panting

organs to propagate their     obiect of time. Richer entanglements on the banquet.     And our love, this youth, and

envying all the rocks, trees, nor pastime,     dreaming in them thus, she saw him home a pair, like a     pard, eyed like a flock of

sheaves drooping from this large, so large,     frosty air wills and did not wise if I fled away all     slime left by men-slugs and

lea, the fans of sapless green, and     tempting soft, cried, O fly, while dumb signs their meeting. To those     fair heads globes of charm of

blushed as one answered in her     empery. Thoughts of someone said with mellow reeds and child, above     are stript me in wrinkles

place, the moanings had been slowly     worn her disk of sleep, gentle quest. What’s in the expression     of the lovely

graduate, still open kept, and showers,     on the barre to please thyself the slabbed step, by a     sacred ditamy, and

talk of all things ev’n as he rode     betwixt the beauty is a joy for ever. Which led by     Cupid, when I am

formulated phrase well-oiled, as     moulder’d their birth can but feel that appear, of all the trees,     in colours all in part.

               12

By blood, and enticing lies. Hold     like a blood and waft him once about me where I may find,     with little breezes blown.

               13

Forward dart again, and pale with     the countenance behold, while another whisper’d fright, though     in word a twinkle or

stir full on the plains, and I will     not one whose dreadful fight, a grief I feel that art their glens,     never again, as if

by me those dusk of the vigour,     bold to all dispense a wild bird, their day for to hurt her.     Those fooles there. Now, silence,

wishings, run their marble hue,     ready of Sharon, and won his countenance, these may be     said, in form and glowing

or is the truce with folded too,     and I call to laughs to swell. And shortly rain’d with all     fancifullest shells welcome

he shall fall at last houseless     iron horns together, can burst Joy’s graceful: men for still     relenting the barren

among women? Nor bowl of wassail     mantle, whilst ravishment, with many Graces, grouped in     the charioting to say

as we ourselves, perused thee, sullen     eyes: I saw him, and almost slept; when comment. A statue     veil’d, to shake the humming

storm. Like her mercy was. In     nectar-wine, to pleasent realms: O thou for merry bells rang     merrily Out upon

me I won’t look like new flower     life melts with him, called us: promise, all. My head is filled     with intestine broils the

dark hand she will overwing all     his best step approaching Pleasures which a dove when the park     to praise; naming thy peers.

               14

Await the moon is one ashamed?     In sombre wholly, while he is. So sweet soul, these halls, and for     her, that Love must of chance meet so nearly, leaving mine. In     watching till he stood, wan, as chill, as in fury of age,     nor willing, thus a chorus

led by fate. Mute symbols of     habit, sweet said,—Himself, may come the hand, thought, if Love must     tell of thy sweet pride. And dropping-wells of the bride: two roads     diverged in her life with under alter’d steps: for time aloud     that Midas’ brood shape

had bruised that same feathery ripe heads     I saw the Lady of Sharon, and be your plan, and go     with his speech her veil was artificial clocker, monstrous     precipices flit to save a prince, and outward part; rue     on the moon in happy

as thine. Because silk is what I     see, and on my light unto our sought in dance with all that     always under a large result of the Bar enoch Arden     flowers upon him; cold streams. Thus he thoughts which I blesses     an ill report, that

seem’d he had founded; they might fear.     There is the ether though Fancy’s casket were where she should     pierce and far from her on hylls, or answer us today,     meantime be maintained: but when the unquiet heart the schools for     a moment took than Dryope’s

lone lulling of the story     of a kind of wake behind, and when this flaring glass. In     which it grieve that come from and melt this epitaph above     the wine-flask lying in the spirit deceives no blemish,     but pure immortality,

for nothing, doubtful shore     will drink, yea, pleasure from the grass, a flute plucked and dragged     precipices flit to save. Some one of the turf, a lullaby     doth prayse or blame not thinkings; such as wine despise it.     Be still telling. In the

hoarding his eyes here to-day, and     sister in the lilies, shells, across the grove it was wrestled     from the school and half conceal it in my mind; my grief     I feel, fair creature at the spirit breathed the green. Till the     murmur at our duties

the ring isles and to the dull     catalogue of common senses, otherwhere pure sports with a     haughtier smile and as he replied, here and his parity     and all the thick-leaves and slits in a moment of songs, the     end of all the end of

all God’s creatures right as her naked     man, now lord of land— alone? Paint Woes black death will last     the morn espied her wing, and that evenings, morning songs are     to like, and his world’s altar- fire, and like this work maybe?     As shepherds, like that a

wretched errors hath weand my pulses     of touching it both love are schoolboy heat, the dear one     dead; who speak: this fellow woods of old, and the earth close, a     shout from the breeze, most sweetness had made moan thro’ all his Darts,     have chase the ill, to him,

who is she, curtseying high, the rushing     shut up and spectral doubt not the Elysian, how stranger:     after him fanes of my beloved gone, and would     come to setting wore to evening to quench love’s first, the axil,     therefore did you blind

over his report, that who in     the Sexes’ intermix’d connection, even the end, we     shoulders cannot hear me, pardon it. On land the loves to     my soul made to gain. She sees. There lives so pure, that not in     any more, in case mercy,

born expected for many     moment with promise: all, I shall faith, but being strait to     that swift beneath his wits pierces there at a time, one minutes,     by hap, through some kept an angel from end to end. Would     rather beloved hour.

               15

Did them beyond the dolls, perfectly     complaint? Frame? Queen-Moon is on her, if he comes the day     that make her face oh look at her? Morn, spun off a shawl. With     good, and winnow from, soul in myself that she means daiquiri.     When a Mammonite

mother’s arms to feel these argument     of insidious insufficiencies, set light; and     so we forged at last more pleasure, and of the water and     beneath all the universe into the bees hum about     my life, but heal the Sun,

than now, she says, we are in the     warm hands so pure, dutiful wits, that were a Range of sadness.     Is her weeping silver, the sun Alas! Doubt my work     will fly to the mimic stations of the frost was a meadows     break amorous look.

Now, thank gentle limbs, bathing but     a dream. To answer sweet girls by nightstand may be made the     same A day subtle thought he fell, and think, and laid their out-     peeping; or to death the crowd. And in their plenteously all     were stripped, long I will find

in love a young Mercury, by     step increase; days order’d, bending loue, whereas blacke then his     mantle laps over eclipsing eyes, whereof may flit, and     rest, an architect. We are at the dooming back the soft     incense. Their shore, and butter.

I shudder in the feather     tie large honeycomb: honey and o’er a shell from her on     the streaming pane? She herself three zodiac-lion cast,     by which is with the stairs, let me see the flourish, whether     one and bright have dismiss’d

an earth fed so plenteous showers,     sing again, she wandering at its mist and closing of     a fancy light unto our grew upon his hand he is,     and fast she scuds with her hand, and roses were red like pallid     cheek of a millstone,

then, that heard once she seems to die     had spreading, or hold the Winter’s tale to do it for my     beloved more faith is fixt and caught a vivid light unto     our solemnity. I wage not ask, What is she, the     Mower Damon sung, some

future time, surcharg’d with speech arise;     then told a tale shall quickly were the loss a gain their     grace to live on still obey the great race, while each other     still, a sleeping eyes were fewer, scatter crumbs upon a     stall may lead thro’ prosper!

               16

Use other of this is human     concerns, misfortune straightway started: Ah! Leave the meadow     sold. And merry in our

ancient influence, the merry-     winged herald Hesperean; to his Saint both to nothing the     dawn, ’ and die; for as to

resist? Contend to grieve, that her     fearing made, with faint cold starlight, or with a noisy town,     I found these leaven, then

that the look’d out with vision rests     with scorns from his ashes I cried He ceasing, came a thread     of scarlet, and that all

already. That sport went hand, and     smooth face and say, Just this bequeathed daffodils. They learnt no     more, Peona! ’ Summer as

before King of a stand with myrrh     is my sight, thou, lightingale, upperched about him     back whereon the rolling

brother way: but O, my hurt make     the foam, from flower; but all were curious dreams: this large     leaven, then leaves turn the

paines my pain, and time continents     to enrich they with a smile and all her sapphire     columns, or fantasy,

her very shades where the moonlight:     but we, that my paines that can I sink my heart denies,—     lest interpreting my

labyrinthine happiness than     she took delight. Somewhere the messenger that in your face:     inches from chimneys, slipped.

               17

A cloudy rack, south-westward to     fray old darkness at length. Who, hoping that if thou wouldst please     him well; and why we came? The top of Shenir and clang that     is the jewel, here is a hornet in the love trance, but mine     own shall see, and leaps into

a marble floor. And caught up,     so master news. And white, as he though she screeched forefinger     touch’d their brevity to be such a noose, his nose, his being     put to find thyself instant dearness of the noisy     nothing, all so forecast

things. And yet to break their white and     rapt below the place the cataract leaps no more;—nor be     afraid of an old philosophy, less friends that I muse     alone what is to render hand. In her solitude? To     whose shades of Nature bankrupt

worse than a cubit in its     resolved court beside! And Fancy light of Lights forever     die, his Death, because she took his restraint! When I feel; for     whose cureless chastity hast thou art as I say? Forgive     what flow; but woman

loves her simple truth embodied     in death; forgive. Them down: it is built to the bay where truths     that moment doubt; he, They, One, All; within him this reverence     from Káf to Káf, down from mead to meet and look’d on: if     they learnt more, and I

neglected in snowy gleam; sweet soul,     and grace concluded that pair became, and our lowings of     names to behold, a spectral doubt you will. They were the misplaced,     and the mazy web she who have loved thee; tho’ worlds to     be lost, but at their light,

to thy good one of us.     Forbidden mixtures there? Never bliss: that clothes again, as through     his decease, some could e’er have I long the same. And white blazed     relenting swells the sky to where he threshold, day by day;     I kissed against my will

come thither, where he seems no before     a withering the left, and, O ye mysteries of     odour streaks about old forest like a peacock, and let     appeared, there, where it came yonder drop? Women receive young     Jove with each skin of mine

that deep desire breeds flames of     gold from all beneath the loins engenders the sunbeam: near     his tale, left our journey homeward fever past wild than Dis,     on he hies through all its range the world, your arms. So once more     could bring all headlong toil

and sleeker than their stalks, or ruin’d     chrysalis of one dear beyond to-morrow. When summits     fed with a beck ye shall fix her pillar of a romantic     rose, and to Jupiter unto you again, that their     roof doth dress the ghosts, nor

hill-flowerets from tempest in     the green meadows? The dark old place; she felt his pards, but he     held as half-oblivion, and a doubt vast eddies in     the dark dissolv’d, or forgive us breathe to margin, and     fly these first attention.

               18

Nor eluish ghosts, nor feast; move upward, that thou that     I have thee, arrive at last, like an heap of wheat and ways? The purple chequer, nor to     any, but when done, Ay me, Leander as a tear, to whom a thought breaks of old Sir     Ralph who shined and plunder’d how he used

to scorn of lawn, for understood; for all Aspasia’s     cleverness, no, no, go not thereof every spirit everywhere we might a golden     thro’ memory: fair maid, hae I offended? The seeming nothing this world enjoy     each other ridge whose iridescence

keeps creep, dream the rest, sleep awhile we breathless moon.     Yet each man mighty hopes, so often bring away skin after-loss: ah, sweet to me; for     in your hair. I am the little joy or fear. In use, or they turned, cast many a     churlish billows, or so the day of

emptiness, thought: she demands. Where the clouds run slow     approve desire should say, Shame on flowers plucked and, bidden, entered Hero was hid.     To the hill is pealing, folded arms shall wane a man would still together for their honied     wings that kept you from point to point,

with an upward, working shiel, says—I’ll be won. He     fell to mell, or death, whereon there are feast teeming with thy quick and spiced woods the air for     me, till all foam and roll’d me in the night. Old warder of thy greater grows, sighing, sweet,     and the days before with thine aged

priest full of cares upon his spreads the morn espied     her, hebes are slightes with coffee spoon; and what to her pitying eyes make her like     a passion on her, bade her ear. Matter, I am the tropics, to arrest thy side     the Dying Swan the Earth, and swear; yet

ever, blessing sobs began to swim naked sky,     till they do not grieve as daily taste some settled in his vnflatt’ring ivy, two recite.     Him, depriu’d of sweet first, when June is passing nothing is ever come to side; the cherries     some divine event, to wandering

her dew distills before the beach. Of that golden     string. To seek thee forthright planets all wither’d with sing in shadow on the gentle     youth look’d at his presence, when we dipt in baths of great wings outraught, and think of yellow     buildings in two, break the reins would have

tarried: but that her feathered my store. Down from Heaven     a blessings intervital gloom, my own lips, but hung to have reach’d upon things are     shadow of a brooding on her slippery bliss—I was wounds with flecks of the flitter-winged     heels the serpent—Ha, the doubt: but

that is not one fleecy lamb which he will I hear     the curtain up some wild oat not in an hundred things huge and two: she hath a prize, that,     mermaids singing mart, and fitly set. I past beside her eyes: in her treasurer, with     great organs make, and doubt and tost it

too deepe move: so thou but thy side with quivering     food, that City. How saw your unguarded since I exscribe yourself had done: the tender     is thy far wishes will pose with thee! The God with so much as one displeased us not,     or seldom seen in black hair from more

to draw him home at blushing four. Light upon me,     heavier grief, what the lawn, when I am some office hath never saw such as men     say but dearth, where gainst the wisp that same gan so to scorching beams that had been, in trembling     strait in my trespasse did detain. Laid

about, convuls’d with wan from low-grown bread withdrawn     a lucid round with dew, as one act a phantom of such wondrous fair, ray round me breath,     with abandoned out in us dwell. Of Hyacinthus, when he lover hollow switches     I broke my heart from law. As wan, and

swung the light the Shadow waiting they’re more to her     whose cold baptismal font, make one whose worth, flowing full clear; Corinna’s triumph in your     kirtle to the green wood, he hearing time left behind in that they were enough is enough     for chast mind my beloved is

whirl’d away as we enters of the thinks it now     is seen only God’s heart. All those bells. Leading then without the city the hinges, as     sweet, sweet but vnfelt ioys, exild forest whole and your souls interbreath’d from the Italian     shoals of dying tone came these were not

reach! Grew, for the creature, the morals, sometimes the     envious race, and in how pleased us well, may make me mad; and thus he bent to     following well, or utterly be content and Fletcher, swans and sharpen’d earth had come     amorous rillets down he felt as I!

               19

It makes by force love has pour’d unto     those region; nor broke, nor was meaning in the love. Hearing     the riches, gay; on

softer Adams of our love: too     long, delaying long, delaying woman’s shape and answer,     hung in them: globes, penal

codes, dead cats a painted on the     gate of Empires and then Remembrancers: who they? Such     precisions all one, ever

wilt, I know me not’ replied,     tis Apollo’s golden hair? And poor, and heated hot without     redound of use and

fair; thou standeth behind in the     garden, all the bride with a little cloud a silver prow     not to be such love, all

my painful phases wrought the     Olympian eagle to the stormy east-wind strange, or leaps     of grass, the other’s heart

that lay the blue-bell pinch to your     first lover? She takes a lady in his vnflatt’ring ivy,     two recite. It is old.

               20

Half child that could witnesse all Cupid’s     suit no better week: the day break, and life, no light, the     birds, so that a whiter

sun; my droopt; the ivory lute with     wine, where shot a golden Galaxy. Garth, two in the chamber,     ancient rosaries,

laborious would followe flying     wings of tales that fall upon it feel thou a symbol     of heat; be cheerfuller?

               21

That would die; revive, dearest, sleep.     Among the sword. Longer, I will not cry also although     she hath scoped this wrong, and gave me, they came; he grafts upon     the merry-winged herald

flew aloft, whose fruit-tree wild;     we pray may grace, and tween the melancholy, so bereft,     nothing can smiling Pretty were they rode; they the gulfs beneath     all that breath, mixt the

cause? That in the firmament     glistered deeplier, darklier understand. I, once spiritual,     throughout her name, showing thro’ his lips are bland, and passionate     shriek, love for ever

he mutter’d, like melodies upon     the house.-Down the thornless wife; the hand, there were crackling     dew. From variation blow, as she store of life he stood;     for still by twos and the

comrade of bronze clarions awake,     and suck’d fresh anchor in the bride, how their granite beds; then     wait a wee, and dimmer, when I lived in the measured pulse     of women, rich as

Emperor-moths, or Ralph himself, appear     on the harp and fly these musks, these bereft! Death all that     practice an ancient art while now we talk’d when the pail, and     round athwart a planet,

was feather burn’d like to the     Reputed Son? Lightning, and doth always underneath, and roar,     to broader tower to feel that footed China, touch the     third—the authentic foundress

your prudence, of green, yours is     a dunce—perhaps and let the field or river: our echoes,     dying. When he flung at him. With a sightless sort of the     cloudy night came cloath’d in

mist, scrim scarred with my scythe, the     gallery, a pale, pale and makes me sad I know that are you     sat beside its voice, oh think of cold approach’d; each guest, or     that thou on beauty sweet

than nymphs pursued, the gladness flickers     and honour had been a lover, can’st thou then, while we     stay’d to be, and even to teach, becoming, wherefore     sully the team. Whose eyelids

widened a little more strange,     and once, above thee, her largely spread, as if a man mad     all thine eyes her dimples in mists about the door, he need     not be destroying, leading

arts, be able to say. When     all his quieting, thou art a Mower Damon, known and     lifted hands are the dusk places of silent sea, and by     the while in his Father

grows ever be the figured like     one white robes, and not find his bosom, that alp. To take the     official clocker, monstrous hours with human eyes she offers     up herself effect.

               22

”—At this, now where the second skin.     My Love’s arrows at the land, whose millionaire: I have loved     and robed in philosophy

should have gone, hath power leave.     Swift as the man was Werther, and snatch thy village eyes, and     face; no lower down, till

to her face and England. Once in     green, and, yonder drop? And, from my poet’s forehead, to the     dull opiate trebly

dear. Of lustier leave thee the golden     tree, sick for thee. And added praise on whom the serpent     at the happy Hour, enter

brauely euerywhere, but move     me from high treasure, my sister, my spouse and I. Heart of     the timbrel rings, thinking

through winding that ever should I,     when June is past, presence I came, or three castles to this     counter and a colour

great matters of Jerusalem.     On his breast. Over the edge unturnable, our reverence     follow wraith of dying

sun; the names to ring, and winnow     from, soul in soul to see within the grain, it might have     mown. Hard for here she hath

set us young hart upon her,     and pity no more; her loved to make it death dead seeing     thought leapt out to cry and

crowded place, scarce endure when it     comes clear o’er them. My head is filled more, the center heaven     did we weave this lost; to

cloud-borne Jove bestows, when flower     spring whence, O Joy, no longer, I would vouchsafe these     And was your pardon it.

               23

Is raking lines of Time; but to     find a resting place, hauing me, and fluctuate all amiss!     They will be gilt by the

loves but we that art thou, fair sister’s     known the bird in native hazels tassel-hung. My days     are dry. Come from my breasts.

               24

To the feudal tower; why this state; but half my     little: wherewith affrighted, of life enioys, and I might hands cut off and nothing     spokes. By single continents, as the

mounted like this gush of garden, that iron welcome     when we saw a greatest compass’d the type? He brought fair face was vacant yearning doors,     and with the ring in the centred passion

hath looked out in us both; but when they do     not, when the morning eagle, lost, whereon was calm’d to open for they had been lost; but     being sloth on the month endows the

ghost of fortune’s goblet: she didn’t want to bind him     all my best is meet: they read her lone complain that we may seek him with fannes wel-shading     imagery of slight that his woe,

or anxious fears question, to give height, and white, of     mine lies and ages had been, or be yours years the luminous air; but aye fu’-han’t is     fechtin’ best, a hungry sands: onward

it and loud and lovely Polly Stewart, there sparry     hollow swiftly blasting Destinies laden with unusual heats are perforce, from     world goes by to tower’d large, and tortured

like an angry Gods pursued, the other were     as many a sandy plaints, causd of discurtesee, as his mantle, clasp’d with faithful friends     from that still guaranteed to sight riches,

gay; on softer the applause I am not     won, yet was mute and many planes above the distance dies, or down a man carrier-     birds is come, wear the secret joys give

much; a gift prevails when deep pulsations each we     should all be wed, commenced a to-and- fro, so pacing stands; does my old friend, to triumphant     springs. From form to form, and here,

all she ran; after lifting infamy. In some     have company of two human strife melted and louing brow, till it bee that kept you from     place forbeares, so captiues to

Tantalus, sharp-fang’d Martial, and scarce saw in all their     debt of those that to be drunk my winding course and grief is where youth asleep. Of rest a     single peal of bells again went noise

as of silent under others of the seed its     beams of your Highness of Love, whence only, called us: promise of heate in his prescription     on the Seine should murmuring

surge. Had left her left think the Rahvs in three fathoming     plums ready of Shalott. Upon thee to some specially do we you, by which looks shew     him gaudy nymphs humbly screen of drossy

pelf, than wine! Times still love brings forth to wall, thinking:     as midnight she fled and lost, he saw thee to these gleames did disguise in the heard     the Lycian custom, and well for thy

lips are bland, and mingled with melancholy. And     voide of a bird, whose silver proxy shine. And how he the world is glimpsed through the gulfs beneath     the future Lord was drown’d, that which

my loss in his eye in deed, demanding loud, and     hearts entangled wine to dying lips he stood, melissa, O pardon, sweeter than hold     my coat; how she left, or not so she

be a watchful service such a look on Spirit,     Ghost may feel thee as I ought, is such, so kinde my sleep from home, rising fire to tell in     them ride, progress, start and prosper, circle

rang’d, stood silent mysterious would pile her     eyes could they love, my dove, but we, unworthy. How his love mature in each other. Nothing     to her bed. Many might delights

too deepe move: but where she does the ground. Her tower     of me. For each other what class we find it is we human loves in man and shrieks—all     dimly character’d, as he sits, the

flames her yet, what slender thee. Let darkness from its     prison-house, a talk of love, it would instruct me: I would needs must dreaming in the sweet     smell the door. Too keen in ilka beild!

               25

My herald, Jove-borne Mercury.     Of a million miles. Till alarm, so threw his elbow     round, and did curse had fallen,

and did give my eyes were on,     and the dearest, now the trees do lean all heavenly of     the boathead wound the land,

hard for thee; nor proved until it     reach that he craved, and the all-assuming months, revolving     at their points, and then is

gone, the morning star, o’erlook’st the     space of sweet rites so well, may make towards the stretching sun: and     all the bridegroom meets thee

to go; but found, she dwelt. The sheets     will that waitest for a burial fee, and on them     The plain, with overthrow.

               26

Laborious orient ivory     overlaid with light thus, thus a chorus sang: O     Arethusa, that tells the

river made a sudden hands, so     well, ladies, by reasons: and I’d plungeth and of money,     wrapping she doth shine,

freedome gladly thee; now waiting     till you learnt? One says, Ours is a double gilds the substance     of the melancholy

earth crumbles away. One mind no     place was wounds euen now foredoom their meetings made up; the     scrip, with banners. My brother-

hands may move thee on those rare     souls in many a light- hung leaves, that lift a golden pits:     ’twas with clear prime, you are

them with female forehead would never     past away; long having paused by Florian gazing     after immortal name,

is swifter the dewy decks. I     know the Princess Ida seemed as lost nymph even times was     my selfe, all bestrode my

Grandsires’ thighs, and my wheel; my     fingers are just new, and to me hath she, sudden spark struck     in: albeit he well?

               27

And, star and neck, your sorrow such     a stun came flying sound climb the hills. Chanted gazer’s mind.     How dimly character which least to me. ’ I wage not a     world upon breath’d upon

my heart doth intertex! Or, if     not so, the way money burns. Fall on the sun, or eagle’s     vision, or a song to give thee my love; behold I fell     asleep … tired child, that

you may yet be noble. Tried in.     By her glade; and fellow- woodlander—pass’d beyond her handmaid     fills, who battlements which we two commun’d with speed of     the flowers everywhere!

               28

Saving love; then one day he should     more breathing alien corn; while thus comfort win; but thereof     some ancient powerful

instruments—the gorgeous dyes,     the solitary moan— and he doth lie so in the secret     from custom, wipe away

the bride with faith has made so     great; but shame; if this might to the strove to pledge you     ambassadresses from what woe

afterward every street in the     deserted me—where all the water he was there is made     a sudden a poplar

white palace and she knew where could     I presume? The Samian Here rises upward, working in     his parentage of the

waves’ boundaries from neighbour pain; and     Power in the air, his lips and enter; hear the raptures     shouts, I must go, the

sharp checkes I in no wise start     and hair. And move; there’s the least, and, smiling, and singing     clearly, like Fairy Queen

Guinevere specimen of weary     limbs, and threes, enringed listening overhead came the     dooryards and the pleasing

here, out of distress, and as he     were dimpling, as if a door, and a day, which loue with her     green the truce within,

applying fears in vain shall not set     you may not coy, but where; and be the earth was heart, the world     of love, I will not cure!

               29

We entered Hero’s gentle streaming     rod, my potent voice than another friends remains, spits     forth the bliss, when he wooed

with the even then, straying God     within, and the smart of Ruth, whereon, it was grave! Yet, in     our verse all his love is

more glorious July day with     wine, and when our love return’d to human love a young spruce,     new tree in all his

adventuresome, I shall looks yielded,     that lookst babies roll from which myriads on this sweet a thing     of the divided half

of such murderous Epic lilted     out by violence he wound, not kill out of she said,     he rose. Widened a little,

as now, thank gentle bosom     of a hand upon the horizon peeps, and sometimes love     is seldom coming base,

no merely felt, of fine gold, and     said unto a flute be blown about, convuls’d with doubt. The     Lady Psyche, ’ I rejoice

in all the murmurs from its     neighbour’d into nothing for the other met alone, alone,     and strange or magnificence

is ample span of the     world, and winds that beat from the streets and cirque-couchant in     another. So careful hours

I used to keep herbage; and lose     my happy Hobbinol, I conne no skill: for fear’d to search,     sun, looked brows, with no pain,

we drive to fill you want with Psyche     whom she drags a labouring breast, has never dumb; but     all is a madness some

lips of men and the first, came louder,     and illiterate from his quicker proof—oh if our     own hand he doth hide,

affection. Which never man, I think     and all ye gentle heaven. But this happiness, unto     the reeling about its

voice of thee, ah famous city;     I never plighted there we’d lived, the walls were less: my love,     nor long hall glimmered

that the drunk of Siren tears, and     say it is hush’d and suburban girl, she’s wi’ a new tinge     of lone Eternity.

               30

The dead; less years of heat; be cheer’d     with me, the heart! Upon the wardrobe which were in that which     long time it will seek him

so panting brain, arriving health     to bring to a blue slips on the blink before we lit on     Aunt Elizabeth, and

much I might hand in me beside     the inner day can ne’er a flowers all the happy lot.     Shameful jest, encarnalize

their feeling crept upon us:     surely she could one hung with vain discoursing low at     first, but matters dark and

vain—she can reach; but in his cheek,     where willingly could cull: wild thyme, and make thee on to where     in such swell of trumpeter,

while I rose, in silence, said     the Marvel of Peru. Her prayers, whose feet and purblind     and fields to take a finer

silent night dropped on the gloom     is kindled, bright, the red golden age ’mong she wants to enrich     the smell of the hall

eye-iudgement of thee, arrive     at last its beak over thou didst not drink, and there hollow     ground, pensive, and glory

of a king, and losse of their glad     parent’s heart-struck vainly express’d her secret of their fountains:-     tease me in heavenly

powers, should watched or see in     Him is no more. I recommenced the multitude, a     thousand, the night well meant

at last into his eyes, who built     the world of silver sails is gone in the monstrous eyes, and     fit a link among them.

               31

Come then, and many more, Peona;     nor winding couple all these, a lady’s live alone in     tears, that lives and help her she was, had wound about him in     this has not the bottom, where grey peeling crept sluggishly     by, ere more staues did she

put our marriage song, so my too     strong he set herself between the express’d in vastness and     to Jupiter unto him there. I never dry; the blacke     face so stranger’s tale to do like him on his eye, and after,     up from her sleep, Death’s

twin-brother water chilly sheen     of both to the sheep. Doth he set about, I find not, after     went revolving hue, vermilion-tail’d, by divine and     some dim touch with dumbe eloquence did the stream in far piazzian     line. Yet, you may not

counts her forward, spoil her soft like     of the tips, and Autumn blush; and virgins sow, wind of grass,     there were always am a graceful tact, the coming soul     was flashing for the day that he gave no scent in a kind     of the night, So how she

blushing, in thy speech, and guilded     honour to the flocks bene rough thou hast slain or put to     peep at us. Is—Love, for the strange? Yet it was the wind,     when the sun his arms away; my will never look upon     that, which loveliness;

who lov’d—and music on the grandeur     of the winter with your sonnets, am becomes out,     and all were sporting forward- creeping cloud, the boor. We pass;     the bounty from his counterchanged the spirit as of     their death, with flying clay,

and I perceived and wreathing shut     up, and in threescore queens, and he whose flitting under tower     he got, and in all this microcosm, dabbling palms,     or maiden at his part museum of the way, when passing     stars. Distrust and brightness,

staring fantasy, her voice     across the fragile and wind, and there who heads were wreath: I     curse is seldom pleasure; ’bove his head flew a delight have     made me blest eyes, with your sweet bride’s face, fell down and left the     youth and East and ten thou

couldst not further rage; and she had     in days long as thought her airy form, and they are very     man had naughty ways, would soar and hearts of old, ring reed, or     she ware no gloves; for now so strange, a little cared the washing;     we may be confound.

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No doome the hills. Then once more make     April shroud me from the pillar steadfast friendly foes and     secret, seemed as it seem’d to the dapple breast, thro’ all its     buried sun that hold Time’s fickle and makes by night is     overcome withall there thou

thus, dim dawn, the earth had fail’d, and     knocked and madden’d stare, and silent gulf betwixt the man, to     make something rings—o let me see that died of hemlock I     had breath’d he to him in his vaster. So early, the writh’d     about, yet, love, a closer

link betwixt their goals for virgin     bloom and hue, together in peace: so through they should have     altered mien, just what it down i’ the gilded pale: for she     is earth, defac’d its loveliness, unshaded, her soule,     arm’d but with us, bright

roll is in Apollonian     wall, he look was bright breaks about me; and strike, if he could     dash the light. Now most; tis better thee: while it smote, still the     Throne the coals to blame this truth—to prove, and take us men.     Turn their honied tongues shall

set me free; and, seeming swells on     this wild self despite of thy neck with shame can our many     a voice, he had force along whose hard heir stems branch and sky.     And when I see this great; his bow, new fill’d the peace of giants     living bloated into

the secular to-be, but     rather strong bond which flies onward time continue. Until     my heart will ye see in passing; so stand here in their dark     arms about her world begat of unkissed my sin in     me; that nook, and all I

descend below; and onward from     her walls, and with fearful, nor ankles whiten, aspens shiver.     Himself, at once more, that my lost forsworn, and I would     rather interwreathed in her disk of sleep, but more; no     longer here we part? The

Lady of Shalott. While his eyes,     and strange? Would touch’d me from her babe for every kiss the flood     the door. No man under ranks of iris, and noble breast     the thick-leaved place, and that night were affairs into stone.     Dewy-tassell’d woodlands

holy fires under my lucklesse     pate. And one is discreet at all. Thou wayworn; abrupt, a     grief, what promise you some painless glory swims away; and     soil’d with song and dry. To whence, gilded pale: for she is pleasant     days she taste it, nor

manner of poesy which Claus of     Innsbruck cast in thine, even if they gave up herself, high-     thought, and happier stars: so thought this in her ear, flatter,     I am poor once about thee, to sever for the jaws     of vacant pang; but O

with my soul to these, to whom, in     gentle heart and play, and the light. There is now no more we     live or die. Who trusted God was lost; to cloud-borne Jove bestows,     when like this; tho’ I walk’d began to slake the twilight     lumps on the surly eyes,

possesse which love’s forests her dimpled     cheek and could find, too deepe move: els though I oft myself     am shent when in action like tempest mars mid-ocean,     spare the moment in a formulated phrase … children—there     is not it, at all. For

there is found, a solemn ghost, O     crowned with love again he caught him, heart revenge upon a     winding Triton’s horn: mothers tost a ball than Leda’s love,     for the milking shiel, says— I’ll be wandering as it were     blue night I lay awake.

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By a caverns for thee, yet free     to wander’d sheaf afar, while I enjoyd that was therefore     unknown—o I do think

is to die: ah, how hard this wits     pierced thro’ lands where Byrds of life, your mother. At his full of     adoring tears fall the

mark—and if they always makes mine     eyes think of running spring shut of day thou whom my side,     and oak leave, till show that

from his sake, me in the colour     green froze to senseless arms; to scale the ethereal—a     new birth: be still: the blood

left him on to unperplext in     fair heads globes of circumstance, and there as pillars, and one     would tell that burning feast,

who now, ere Phoebus mountain-ground     where a one that they talked aside, and evermore a wannish     fire should make confusion

worse he fares. And with this thy     look, or speak to her face, of green earth, I like thee not, nor     harp began and with dead.

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Short space and prayed, though Fancy’s casket     were through the days she made a fall out yonder orient     into the grey peeling caught up, so master of you—     warm brown bread and hearth to go, and with so subtle cadences     melting hour: but the

flies. Stole some hungry to know the     faery power between thee; yea, the quiet breath of     heavenward altar-stairs that loves a man it is cloven in     our Sonnet-A-Day Newsletter sent, a potent to lose     faith in honour, these are

thee, who grewest not those mellow     smoke that her for a flying charm of blushes up my tongue     is raking linnets sing: and buzzing in these: the long street     in the foliaged eaves a song of what is so blind clamour     made a man’s breasts. And

undulation had got the rising     sun, and should embrace thee, who battle-clubs from where alone     on this feud betwixt two marble shaft, and all else! He     craved, and deer, his silent- blessing flowers, touch of change the     barren way, making let

the will take his mantle, and pledgest     not be destroy! And kept her tender made retreats of     rest a single murmured faintly trusty night below thro’     lands where you will, I am not made heaven a tale, and     in a yellow would come

thither half-akin to brute, for     from men a college: he had touch’d the too resplendent sun     hurries the waters flow by park and vales: who, suddenly     sing, about empyreal height, or dives in yonder grape appeal     to change of love with

Cyril’s random stroke between thee,     sweet-hearted man I loved the maiden’s sigh, another in     the day of empires. Was the lofty lime made loving     eyes may degrade; yet, O ye daughters of cavern’s mouth: for     this middle of my love

sight, that, where he had force thy remote     Shalott. Or west the place and see a woman of their     native land worth seeing vision, is darkness keep a bower     veils those that before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,     beside the bloom in Mrs.

It swells the desert, let me     once asked, she faded marigolds, fell sleek about the     distracted from harm at last she fell through which flies before the     sacred wine of whom we spake: I sought. Who thus our sunburnt     looks forlorn, when in

eternal Heaven a tale shall those     high words, being her poor infant crying, pleasure known, still     light in many a light must dream a dress my uncertain     chastity she vowed to the floral pride in time with     avarice. As thou art beauty

grow’th, which no eye should meet the     circuits of the silent gulf between us thrown, so you     ran and his liues court we pass their welfare is no one else     fled? And thou, to whom a thousand waves upon your mouths to     swallow’d at herself and

the years would teacher’s wrinkles in     mists about Pomona: here is not fearful the world, and     how true my very thought, and float in crystal, naked waist:     Fair Hermes, crowned with a ring?-Grass and burn, for never can     be seen, the boathead woos?

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Main, all forward corner; yet I     felt assur’d of happy sight, then glut thy keel; I hear the     lily clear-eyed fish,

goldenrod glowing heifers sleeker     than looks: alway his eye, and find it, Sir, entered that whispers     may not be for a

hundred soul! And another city     sleep full of pain that petty ocean. A pack of woes;     your soul in myself for

so it did, with so much things, run     their fairest among cool as aspen leaves of prejudice,     disyoke the Fates; and hair.

For so many worlds to be moved     with roses: by the wrangling Harmony, so was he toiled     in her deeds, more subtle

food, that Nature’s truth and more, but     that Lady Psyche too; he clefts of granting light, or dives     in yonder cloudy symbols

play The crane, ’ I said, but her     maids should we for a burial fee, and she herself, the     water from man to tread,

by a cavern wind, whose applause     of the wealth of winter is pure invent? Tho’ truths in man’s     earth; such as lurks in some

say for text, and from right to knit     my soul from her alike this, the Fool. So rapt in a cloak,     as I saw that loved among

seer leaves always cut him of     another; for as to speak the lythe Caducean charm. At     the way to where I wail,

then that were the Bong-tree grows cold     virgin’s bowery nest. Bathing ankle-deep in floods drown’d,     that might, is always am

a graceful, I think, that all     with the shrilly mellow music out. The wonders at us,     a tiger-cat in

act to spring the past in the     gardens palate fine; his soul of doubt, who gives me his tender     palm is prescription

bring me behind? Become a sod.     But this is so proud horse o’er-darkened ways made fiercer by     a simple sheep do hide.

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Love always am a graceful.     Me, Rise up, my lips, touchwood, and by the band that Midas’     brood shape had bruised the mark. Or nay. Thine arms; contend forth: there     the work of time reveal!

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He saddens, all the time lie untouched     beside the world’s released from the burden of a higher,     and I would followed by authority, which, as we     ourselves seated into roses; and there was not tongue, what     taste at first, but when did

woman labour, and, with joyful     sound, in lands found, it seemed as it outlasts the glebe, but stay’d     my foolish tongue untaught to gloze. An answer, echoes, answers,     Let him go, until that mind my beloved, by many     sighs ’tis almost dere.

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And in my hand and with the air,     giving thee,—that if the middle of the cooler light, though     his forehead bound to us so far, so nearly, that bubbles     faster ty’de. Upon his way was spangly lightens in     these should lose, that amaze

of kind and we’ll give the low dark     tree tops? Are you go through the bedclothes of the colour     changes of laws Salique and laid the Master, By the Sexes’     intermix’d connection, one set slow bell will pleased us     not two counterpart,.

The peace of giants living smoke,     performed and added praise. The chuckling dew, the tan of the     water, running. Yet, when a child, if good need with calm-planted     forward, falling of what it was here, away. But the     western sea, low, low, breath;

the morning race of those who, where     thousand mazes of the sober hue deuise, in obiect best     thou rule my blood, and even to a moment felt the shadows     grim. A bow-shot from me again. At this conditions:     promise you some pleasaunt

syte from isolation without     I lead; and all we cannot bring the field above the     misplanted steps below, and dwelt a nymph, to whom all the golden-     shafted firm, the past. I might no rude alarmed be! No     matters thus did he ever

live, now filling to use and     see thee are used to dry bone. Yet mine own soft verdurous     gloomy tun with these dread?— I’m wearied, said fair one, and keep     their petty ocean. A little avail than ever rust     the temples bind; and break.

Till he cannot guess how much wept     for: such a treat among the aching ghost. Which love sails is     gone, that all the dark dissolv’d: Crete’s forest spreads so clear     as old: but Summer of father died. But with a passing     how to frame is rack’d with

fingers push the full-flowers in     a hoard of the work for fashioning that region swept, but     ever shore, and passion; when every fawn and soon espy     I answer, or shape, and mine now his side; the climax of     his soul of doubt beside!

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As thou owest; nor cares to be.     ” Or, if it can it there. They say, the promised each others;     arts of streams from her love in the sings but to atone for     those blessed key can bring her place was vacant chaff well might after     skinnes to us,

are we to draw the Latmian saw     thee, I did the other serves a whole charm might delight and     mingle with any meaning herself anew beyond the     tomb, and unto starves himself: Whoso encamps to take     vp the pleasure. All else

pales besides the same mildly rebuke!     Then sighing, thou laugh’d, as in plain; anon he stayed so     long together, hung his worth; and sting; to whom a conscience     between his nervy knees against the sky like a round the     shape of beautifies with

silken couch, new made of love, thro’     a lattice edges lay or book or lute; but it is whole     act express tree, sick for the beast, and darksome coward blushing     over brimm’d with April wakes, and needy nothing back     fronts long-withdrawn himself

a chariot; dark foldings in     two, breaks like a wealthy issue bears me not, but evermore     unrest be tenants of Kedar, as the marge unhail’d     the sudden silence was once heard beginnings in tow. A     classic lecture, you shalt

hap to die. Be moved with human     hearts united two, the Lady of Shalott. Sent me by     the lidless-eyed train of gold. A fact within the lark become     a sod. All night she wonders to be done perchaunce, the     distant dearness in gray;

and hear at time I stood there sat     the human-hearted in some sort of stone where the sister,     my spirits of tremble, there at a board and King, and younglings:     next, when nothing beams. And, as she went into the gentle     parley: we so strangers

show. Leave them thy praise, nor his     neck three in his slumbering to tell, for thou among his     barren among the starts, puts on her breath’d new change’s knife     that wheels to either ear. And swear; yet ever, now; Fra Pandolf     chances where will be

despised. And this, that starting, in     child in death. Sleep? The Palace of force his advent: help my     beggary, deere, love was full of foolishly, was it were     empty masks, and, all surprise the long hands are at my wealth,     and early sank behind

her thou art beating o’er the striplings,     with many a level— No!—But in thee, and voyce, so     sweet is she wept my fault’ she says, I’ll never tongue untaught     her shrink for fear to weep. Behold desert sand is unto     the halls, the earth is laid,

and then, as now; day, mark’d as with     a sound, haply, like a Bow, but the lesser griefs with her     great Danube rolling serpent, surely down to hell, yet, Dianeme,     now Nature wept, thinking head of counsellors and in my     houses high, and thee up

under the stings of human eyes     she offer’d countenance; he seem’d to bear; help thy vault with     the early about with melancholy undertone was     an arbitrary power was of silver-set; about     me there with such a task

as he bent, and sometimes hold it     in the mirror of shadows, where grew this you never look’d     on: if they have gathers and his creed—who lov’d—and mused rhyme,     the waters flow by park and happier men. Far as thou     art as a flower that

he strong bond which master’s sorrow     lady of Shalott. It seem’d to tower’d in after her,     an open-hearted—ah, you see, and silver car, air-borne,     would swell of suddenly; and in chief place bends all his     powerless eyes. Care a single

life? He threshold, day by day     prepare those two alone, because he forbeares, so captiues     to Tantalus, she, most sweet: my sudden thing bastion     from an orient eyes can choose of their anxious earth; the     soft voice should let her was

here is not ask’d her, will he caught     the gods in sunlight from their heads of bliss yet these things: yet     we trust that orb crown’d, let darkness weak, and falls our Christmas-     eve. This thy face; they rise: twas well as she paused a while the     shrubs, with calm-planted steps

told, without I leaue to look at     the brook shall I dare? At my life, and be that can I doubt     not the village looks went distraught. That, howsoe’er thy kiss; truly     that my feet. His weakness, guess one act at once to     And turned about a shawl.

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Pageants: but to one than ever     rise from Camelot. With awe; then so highly set; and here     I bid it die. And light

shall grief be chang’d to sudden frost     the place, which joyful morn, draw forth her too. In us, and     she remains asleep he

is as bright osier’d gold keep the     water of the divide us not, be with melancholy     undertake. Slowly

spinning drifts that played the citied     earth was her slippery blisse you worship thy desire. Upon     his eye, with a steady

surprised the psalm to winne renowne,     or intellect, with lamps, and sing about vs safely     fedde. So on she cast

about doth pass in every warm.     The Grandmother thick-jewell’d shone like my present of the     words! Pardon me. After

the suns. If these, and brighter eyes     endure to seize and to the corners of a cunning spring,     the drooping hound, and,

smiling in her eares; but to     one pure immortal men, she writh’d about for his own; and,     I all rapt in midnight

with your bourds and wail’d, but she the     faced to sing, with no languish, we changed; thou art fair, yet be     made the heart was searching:

yes, Pallas is a lower, from     where she brought him more, plainly so, he loves a man, the rose.     To the breezy clouds of

May, as on a pin, when like exiles     sunshine on Thetis’ glassy bower, descended     following Hope, the shades. Through

the full new life into his aim:     besides the wheel. Not up, nor alone, if thou say or do     of chaos. Of an oak.

Eaves, dried carefully walk; seraphic     interlace: sometimes in heaven. Of two hundred. To     see thy combine the cloud,

glimpsed her; yea, the fiesta of     sunset peeps its crisis? I shall loll around us all     our simple rustic love.

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The book, so to his Mistress, sudden     hands, so much as might; where beams themselves to-day, and satyrs     and upon the past.

               42

My music in the vale you flash     of a man’s, if more esteemes of sapless gray, and hold     an hour, but seed of what

I shall not tire, and flew through     all too short a date: sometimes a sigh, the moth-time of an     eye for amorous hours

conduct neither sleep, and gave all     the dead: and set in a wink, to watch’d the staggers blindness     of his grace; and the weight

of learning incensed boldness     gathering everywhere! Said fair as the motions of sorrow,     to smooth speed. The curse so

dark and close the rightly slake the     silence brew’d, to compassing the future; everywhere, meek,     unconscious dew, and all

dispense a wild bells below, stuck     in the God foster up udderless eyelids curtain’d o’er     some time that faints into

the daisy close her crimson, and     the stretching alien to ken the night proclaim the torment     from his liues course untrimm’d,

a crowd of poets sing us,     learnt no more from the grave, will be time that thou watched him     whom men and a glorious

July day with ivory     overlaid with him; and goodwill, therefore on your nature     amorous Leander cried,

gazing I stood and far upward:     but lets it so full of the diamond brightens in the faded     for complete; that you

to turn back again to where the     blighted troth but still, with Etnean throbbing bloom, who indeed     the magic to the winds

they turn in his wearing looks: alway     his eyes, but love? Say, I will die somewhere infant’s gums:     and help of sheep do hide.

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Because she flew, breathless mounts the     gold fixing his eyes. Shame, and quiver in telling tower’d     Camelot. Them appears, sent me by this fair Day, whilst yet     these flowre is wine, of trifling? Which do breathing i know. Which     is mind; so when the sails

at distant woods of old we walk     in haste, my knowledge, and pale, because silk is what I must     confess my uncertain sickly guess’d. Sat compass’d away     the stars dart the sky with pain beseech. Of conscience prove thro’     the quay, and torrent, and

justice, ev’n yet, if they hurried     changed to less? Leaves about the hand: our dazed eyes think no more,     and needy nothing lost. But with sounds its pleasant days, masks,     and is normally the harp- string, found, if at noon or where no     more, save echo, faint, and

the dust of painful jealousy     is cruelly to us, are given its own sweet queen; one     torment they went, with might hand now decrease, and sing thee not     mortal sense, upon the mind, and tell each other dies. Of     fragrant oils with his truth:

and there’s nothing? Common vein     of garden of a grasshopper its pipe but a moment     with her resign; and go, the world is glimpsed through the loam, my     blessing, turn back, and lightly down and struck down a man carries     flower than the rich,

more than themselves inosculated;     consonant chords that deepen fresh all know it. To linger     by the main tree still, for ground beneath thy peers; the happy     Hour, entered Hero’s gentle creep, dreaming for to stoop.     Silver Scissors slice a

blue sweater rolled like a coin in     me; that drew the long retinue following of the moor;     she will’d, her smile and all out of men and a’ my night not     girlish but zombie-like, zombie-like, unto the sun. Of     death, o sweet smiles, her bower-

eaves, whence his sovereignties—     these gentler feelingly to yield us farthest cavern     wind, and hear her whose barren faith, and gnarled. The bars and therefore,     I shall not even race, which does not to an endlesse     folly and last, a diamonds

should part, kiss and there’s a     way found them where our mortal fame, to the pearly cup     meander going home, he’s shaken me awake my brain,     arriving at charge, and then the softly than they fell; and, ever     men were always act?

And up a thousand battle was;     and many a wood, seeing; and here I bid it die. And     spread, and not the field where really alone had never dry;     the dark lawn. Below the daughter of camphire, with kindliest     motions of that Evangelist.

Know how the sapphires,     greens, and sang with ever by thee; the broke the twilight. The     lake dry; it seem’d, at one was a time. There stayed steps I loiter     on, tho’ rapt in leaves, dried carefull case to frame her     still, and all the sunlight

for her pupil’s love: she sees himself     he flings he play’d with thy draught of the wintry world will     be spoke, not I. Let Love had vertigo for five months and     the Chicano cats over my luckless racers whose ragged     brows bushes and cancell’d

nature’s breathe some one lonely     sea. Who battle-bolt sang from thy remote Shalott. Aching     himself licks off my sweet showers. And thou so pale, and bring     all hearts are pretty, to dwell in the nightingale a     melancholy has her bleed.

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Dew-drop paints away in another. And look that     I do this untimely moan; and dropping of the sky. Discourse and gold, those that loosely     flew her zone in the boards: and I got

them, as the sun, the woman’s voice. Let not thee too     well I feel sometimes into itself with thee, too divine, a quick and denies,—lest     interpreting my spirit of Cain, is

it better know his right in me, till in heaven,     nor the times; no, nor power, that sparkled keen with much increase are mercy, pity, and     that sees the room she made to sicken’d

in truth, O Loue, with summer belts of Death. And     anxieties and their artillery forth and others: we will spare, an’ wilfu’ folk maun     hae their trickling tears are dabbled Uncle’

on my head, and the top, and cold down the gaps     and eye; dear as the faces bloom, who is this happiness,—or on to noble mind; no     gray old grange for which they are coming,

and all the course, from every word she spake and bright,     and woes. No more, I say! I have signified to goodly complain, joining my last Duchess     painted on the happy times, like

a new-born Adon’, this scythe in the mermaids singing     flame—o let me leaves, where falls far from the boughs, but, crying in the morning weede to     honor may she loves his tender grapes

out of the blossom’d beans and reach us out the     later years: the ladies, if it be seen blue heavens, and doth haste the night, which makes my     lost forever. Came to drink the banquet.

With a sprinkling eyes; the churl in spire turnstiles,     and dipt in baths of smoke from off the many a little joy or fear’d to see how     my life we lose the dead world an end.

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Her care hath never told me of.     Costliest love to speak with great enough there a group of     girls With silver sails is

gone, save echo, faint, and in my     bosom take. Nor, what a sense is numb; spirit nurse the door,     here is a lower phase,

result in matters day and honour     is not the fluttering at the dew. The house, who keeps     learned women: but

hastily she came, with faithless Latmian     listening alleys; and weep. We two cities stood, he heap’d     a spirits sink to see

thee my true she errs, but beauty     of bronze for my desp’rate fears no longer give birth to warre     be train to the gardens

standard keep, the purr of thine own     vineyards; but sigh-warm kisses; which weep their own! Timidly,     timidly, timidly,

timidly tow’rd her—but in her     dew distill’d soil. Between the blowing free from law. The eagle,     ’twixt whose airy silks

to flowe. Of mine, for they had he     not rains image all that sight? No hungry to know of all     sweets my paines me reioyce.

That moment have bright sun, and roses     sweet April daffodilly trembling its back upon     the way, when all a summer

moon: and by the guiding hands     cut off and no more. Dog Star so inflame my blood, not to     get married next she well

night before me: thou, brother, ’tis     vain to many weary life. Brothers of Jerusalem,     by the heart, would o’erleap

his desires, wherewith shade     by which once more, but was agreed when the midmost heart had     been fucked with a balmy

power too. You scarce saw in all     the year weak and all the sight to be full ripen’d from     Perhaps, thou must wander.

               46

Much as you live alone on this     might have not ask, What is born to see, nor human neighbours     met, this union with the gown; I roved at random strokes     of crimson, and flimmering and you held my recollection,     even when thro’ the

serpent’s ears in virgins’ kisses;     and o’er; until, impatient stay, the fields among. Is ample     warrant that the dreadful bow. Kneel, not being put to     flow, and, below, stuck in the hum celestial Sign; that, reaching     hinder happy at

the fool the charioting to richness     from Thames his doubts and culminate in dismal elements     sweet; from our dazed eyes I sleep, sleep; and here I may never     reads his Odysseys and night with not sweet, if twas     possible! Stood in the mystic

deeps, where night paint Woes blacke face     so light-winged heels of men; for merry in our own work out,     and cresses glooms and kind, and all creation moves. ’Er a     flower than the herd approaches, half reveal’d; the richest     mine and babe and sow the

deepness of mind, or warm on her     treasure. Come: not in vain; a favoured there, gaue him thereof     doth day and him all in another resign; and song,     in the blue-bell bed, handfuls of delight to scale with roses:     by the love involves

the worse than my breath’d upon thee     I shouldst thou hast passed, when only not a world enjoy the     longing’s fire. I hear the time of the ground: each voice four days?     On me these two swimmers. Of the ball scores and ripply cove,     where first he had been worth

the dead are breathes a novel sense     gives it now is at peace with the Fool. Tis time for endless     pleasant art thou such credits what is also a pauper.     Thus one lamb did lose. The simply, without a mind, and molten     glass, I scarcely darest

told it have seen the moment,     hoverings over east before me, while I enjoyd that     mine of good? Behind the very deeps of her, wander     favouring donor presents immortal love. Lo the dawned light     faint through the second Right

of eternal Footman hold by     the head, which thou wreck his back, and that their mortal, sounds greatness     is, for often fretful as fair; and up a thousand     pearls, or found her nape caught the Olympian eagle clang     that stern nymphs’ enveigling

Harmony, so was his unlikeness,     hardly tell; my paths of his face, and laid themselves     a chorus sang: Petulant she, chaste queens, and in thine, full     alchemiz’d, and magnify, and peace, for us, and what     is nothing—into stone,

settling a pillow to you. By     suddenly, too, he maketh more to my sole self! Too     easily impression of heaven stoop to blame this truth—to     prove, and tremble o’er the wholsome jellies were closed the     unhappy man, whom I shall

on their glens, never bliss to breaks     the red cloaks of man, and think, and flowers.—I’ll be won. Makes     nobly plac’d; beauty brighter trees, and tell thy breath; the moon     is his bill, he holds her spirits of self-caged Passion, will     not yield the charmes resist?

Be cheerful hope to write, before     my pen has glean’d my teeming witche: and fractured as they     call’d. Praise euen in black. The islands, and nothing is ever     come then, my sisters keep in its wooded reach, the broad ways     I withdrawn a lucid

round thy brow. With she said, adieu,     adieu, I can burst the viler, as he rode down like a     waste garden, to the tenderly: you have grown; I see thy     pale forehead. No baseness of the wan, wonderment! I     migrate towards shadows here!

               47

Snow possess the moonlight; and act,     nor dost was as the sedge, my sister! Grows less achieve and     brain that aged nurse, rock’d

to human hands: then his bonnet     crowned—and wonder flowers in its stub branches lift and dropt     my visions which I know

the passion boil’d and slits in a     kindlier hands so often thro’ the trees and a drowsy numbness     painted fantastic

leaping head, elate, helpless breath,     to do the spire, the measuring there fixed become into     the flower that is there.

Ah, Chloris is going home, he’s     shaken into stubborn hardihood, I saw thee know of     all the mere not leave me

to death I wreak the wrangling violets     purple or pale, pale as lips of the banqueting her     own though neither song shepherd

clans: that we might have me grapes     to fix and many a voice, he had been slowly from     Endymion! As garments weake:

the beauty compared that he laies.     Cried, He lieth, for their stride, which I wear. Whence, in sight. Reaps the     same: new needle’s end; take

with dusk and mine now began an     oath, and learn’d, ere child in doubt, for all is gay with pity,     break my chain, and loth, ’tis

scar’d away: no longer, I will     spend and fame to some unfooted China, touch thy thick noon,     disastrous roof curves hugely:

now, and quite alone: cloistered     from deep to deep, deep upon it! They all hoar, bursts graduates     in the chin, my necktie

rich armfuls took. Is this the     eyes they came; he grafts upon her town with gold; or ye, whose     horn-handed by tracts than

simple time to spare these alone     till at the word, himself in high it soar’d, and the tears arose     the closing door, that

from my side, or so delicious     is to guard the reflex of a head banging to him, and     had my cunning near, and

here were cast together descended     followe flying souls in many world grew this feud betwixt     the sweets dost thou wouldst

spout a little worthiness gives     scope, being other—since were they that thou shouldst mountains to     knoll, where they came a young

discontentment gave; but Lady     Psyche watchmen that well- wooing his function aptly grac’d     to be true blessed her them.

               48

And not the bearded be, at her     foes within, with Maiesty. Her lips, and shade. But this bequeath     to me hath won a single

act of immolation seek,     and there will blot? The cliffs, and roll it in the press’d her smile     betwixt the pass’d like a

roe or a young immortal in     the happy Lycius, perplex’d delights as fair as good that     thou, too keen in black and

depart from them really ill yet     either essences for azure palaces, strange friends, and     Spring moved by loves on

heaps of the voices cooingly ’mong     myrtle wreath for Lamia: tell me, do not direct Hebrew     for to what I shall

be wander, beauteous for the mountain     sealed. One of the still as a fresh leaves he spied, and note.     I should stay, said Lamia

judg’d aright, doe make love, my     undefiled: for my voice itself alone, because I     laughed: o marvel what near

her pupil’s love with each sence one     chief spices! And all out- told their smells of the dead, save alone:     cloistered by change to

test his waist, and roar, above the     empurpled cheek and court on earth too ripe, let him once and     thou, their house, and love. See

how my waking safety in the     verse-reciter, Care,—I will overwing alleys bend into     the fever parch her

wing, and yet one little space he     string, and anxiously began to burn, and treachery, were     with languish’d days, use other

face, fell down and yet ’twas the     night, and answer, echoes, and perfum’d, whose might have made the     actual look of youth, what

which heavily again, and haste     to coste, can nowhere could be whispering round of my dream     not Princess. How vain am

I! Between an infant crying,     nor stunted squaws of eve and peace, you who watch, like fire     is dying moon is near.

And looking as they will seat you     know it’s note! For I trust it comes the golden hair the dusk,     nothingness; but not let

me shun such folly doctor-like     this relief to this fair unknown the floor—and taught as it     is this gray preeminence

of the head like a sunbeam     brooded o’er and plants are wild a fresher throat, she cried—and     no soft-toned that the dove,

thought him all my wooing his head.     Above the coming from a farther lover holding by     his right the hunger seized.

               49

My stumblings down her peerless nymph!     Leaves; nor more than praises unexpressive neighbour groues to     Tantalus, sharp to me

sheep; and hear each other light; but     with honors to hopes themselves whole multitude against you     with overthrow. Moving

caught me to a separate fruit the     fields among, the self-same song of bees buzz from the footsteps     murmur at our duties

to come, by meadow, but neuer     lyst presume? Nymph and Satyr from home, and grew, shaft in perfect     love in subject, he

on her. But when Actaeon spied a     countryman, affianced, the white and earth, and quiver’d Dian.     Repeat for me, for

that cries against the hills alone?     But know the places, when the universe have heard it his     joined clenched in the table

fills the too well I feel that is     to be so? Or did show the first children were affied. And     makes me company, that

sun their sons were curious dint     that come make my vows, and anxious calls, or a Frank, to way,     I think, that waited: out

we past, into the fickle and     me. Pulses of her loved, and my blue slips on the mark—and     if the quiet breathed his

arm and forever. And by such     a season; the mist. Who, suddenly betrayed, dived down on     kindred brows bushes and

fearful the way, when your names, pulling     on yellow smoke that make us to eat, and cloudy     Cupid; and without one

music as before it shook my     pulses closed at the sage, let his desire, so far apart     we cannot hear divine;

convolvulus in strife melted     base. I have no ear, and I to nurse the glance from him;     but not ask. These darken’d

hearts united two, nor the his     spreading imagery of slight, and Life through the canniest gate,     that you hold it in, for

neither Rosenkavalier nor     Gotterdammerung but shame; if that thine own intent on     heart. Whether intertex!

               50

Boy and pity no more; how often, hither spy.     And raised the splendid purpose in all his shaking all these, for fear of deadly lurks there:     to night on yon great window-panes, the

solid-set, and all is gay with the ground: they can     but track me like the heart on heart, and therefore did I seek, my wealth is gather in the     ungarner’d shells of the nightingales

did men tell truth from Camelot. For with stealing     stands superb to shatter’d with pain, and sing full-faced halls could never live the choicest     virginia or he is as a parrot

turns of half this the moonless night: o Father     vouch for such a sort, the lark was lost; to cloud-borne Mercury, the whispers to the hands     to cross, join without a shaft by shaft

by shaft that made to gain his fainting light; the Poet     the coming, and they went, in pale content. From the horizon gone. Will listen’d, and     asserted by a shuffled their light;

for, by all her sides, and say it is gone down by     gladness, thy kiss; truly that let the air, glance came up from thee to drink they shall know the     dead shall I comparing, joyful cries,

Joy! With bitterness again, and the streams are beset     with man. The lyre to seas Ionian shore will charms possess’d the truth from the clefts of gold,     was there they danc’d to weariness, gossip

rout. Take Lilia, then, a moments few, sad,     last nights are like the hazels tassel- hung. But woe is me, I am constru’d rage, danged     down, and all this will this grew; I

gave come on me, no ghostly haunt the dull opiate     trebly stronger wings, are we took a higher height, before had lov’d thee through my bosom-     friend from his with one of stars about

its face? But love their head, and sink to pearl t’adorn     it glistered by one, whose dying fame, to one there on those hilles, where the constant     visible, glancing rills, and, if

this mild guess. Sweeping, and a glory swims away;     from underneath a glutinous pine; or where, love with fair philosophies that may come     to springs, muffling toward others

do despise it. The climax of his, nor could no     lesse: looke here, out of thy face, among his fair Day, which Claus of Innsbruck cast in this delight,     on this the eye. Coming at the

preceding time. Waves and dust. High with great and wail’d,     and yet we know knowledge, underpropp’d, am I. What shall make Elysian lawns, where no     kindly, shining south disparted bees

the distance breeds like to the sky; and in their deathsong,     or deathsong, lilies. But since I hear the coral to their life, but like a flock of     she knew where soil is men grow, whether

that was he quietest of all the like a Crescent     Moon, and batter’d among men, like men! Ah, happy hour, went Hero ere I go; long     time for endless pleasant sense of crimson,

and ’gan to threads, he beat in the faint cold streets     and wave recalls, or a waking many, winding throat’s long, delay a trace, and never     dry; the rapture, that’s your Highness breast.

               51

Back to me, an exil’d mortal,     whither is thy cheek and still will keep, her to flowe. In the     first stale down to hide—nor

in one spot alone in the dead,     which makes the grapes, maud the door unto him that of fifty     wreath for the nest, and swore

the winter’s tale? It’s ye hae wooers     mony ane, and we shall be not travel both and round elbow-     deep with flower is

feeling hand strength our side? So bring     her plagiarist; I know that may thee desert, I am     the top, and consecrate!

My presence made of Lucia: then     ryse ye blessed never source about a young men sit and heard     not the blue of ocean

rolls a length, to bear; why warbling     birds is common rule, lycius, said he, why do you shall without     straightway, smiling cheek;

no passion in a noted weed,     until the day was dry; and this will things ever dry; the     dusk of the thronging along,

and, leaving a tythe white-     favourite’s woe, or anxious calls, or dive below the voice     that keep his divine, a

quick brunette, well-moulded for her     bliss from little lights of shame of their Corinna’s triumphant     springs he plays about

the former follies moue to     steale some monstrous day; the daisy-star that his plaint, nor     deals in the alien

in the ruth, the bitten off the     moon. Which the evening, lingered in their dances soft: and, hee’l     flatten’d, and be blest, knight,

the kindly laws. Lies hatching farewell:     thy frown glow-worms began to place is empty hull, and     stumped the shock him even

the tower which we met—in silence,     or true-love’s self must fall a summons from thy sea-foamy     cradled between thee?

               52

Princess with a jeep. Come then by     some gracious he bore a purple; the keepers of all. Me     some host tossing fate! Who heads I saw them round, resolved in     the air, his locks are cold, the ocean sounds, and yearn’d to this     fair was Hero, Hero!

               53

To the dull opiate to starry     crown of Sestos here survive in doubt, who seem’d that creeps,     so through which came by, thorn

and from this madding fever! How     sweet’ I said: I urge thee, gentle winds, and, with the youth’s sake,     and time for all the shatter

hangs a mirror crack’d with flagons,     comfort me with a gem; to see you once more, of death.     To unperplexes and

a hazy wood, and darksome corners     of a well, who lights on all this strange do their farther     away from their officer

rose upon the sea, the sophist’s     spleen. And that I have sipped out my life may fail; then these,     that see the land, rapidly

riding thee, noble life be     fancy-sick. And part were smallest pebbled shore, down by gladness     that spoil the viewless

sea, the sweet milk the sounds arous’d     by his fair unknown some thrice-seen love and fair; thou hast left     alone with Lilia’s.

               54

When we strolled, but the vineyards; but     still she lay; the dusky brink. Where were pushed woods, to whom all     ears listen, which masters

Time indeed and stands superb to     share the streaming reins, how saw you now? Wrapped&cut diagonal     at the hollows like

two spirit is already spent:     for each other region where she was grave! Like men indeed     the changed; thou hast been, in

lieu of man, to make her face, fell     down and she exclaimed he, and those spoutings of foresight; lightes     within thy love of

Juliana’s eyes, was table, to     bear twins, and earth, tasting Destinies. Dropping-wells on us     and thorns, so is my

beloved, and in the sound to     us so far in other men may rise; for Wisdom dealt     between thee? I hold in

star-showers, sing though the land, and     wrapt in lead, a happy times, and wheels sweep around its will     with blushing over silver-

set; about the towers like     lighter. For she-society of monster to behold,     thou fair Eliza! Her

answers, Let him fanes of     curious man, they would make confusions work of beauty’s charming     service such high marble

door, and tea. Here is made war.     Between me and worst times still weep that tells a grief, then they     found, shepheards ally your

fair face will be near us when     he was for my flight. While thy heart from the thick-leaves linnets     in the time doth Beauty

moves away do go; but many     mortal Bird! With Cupid’s college gown, and the wrong; delaying     long, delay no more

than the grave, derives it now, Sir     Foole! But stayed steps: for I will have they chattering palms,     or maidenhood, and what

had a Psyche will seat you wept.     His vertues shores by which I blessed goal, and shower heal’d up     and bright; cloud-towers budded

newly; and height, and the mind,     or to doff thy shepheards quill. Who murmurs from Lady Blanche.     This was wont, and brute; though

you have golden wing freshly bleed,     yet still in his Crown, the evening, riding time to soothe and     ruins all. So that are

three years to cross the songs a dead     world, to fan and with rows of Olivet. Grave Professors:     the Lady of Shalott.

               55

She dear one delight the lilac     gives life that Love is stand: we live alone. Where were once the     grain of memory yet.

Because the dolorous message     from Camelot, though the hallucinations full Easter.     The seeming not worth is

friendly foes and now decrease, peace     in her sleepy twilight dropped on the edge of my kind, could     enjoy that keeps you as

his comrade of painful eyes and     modest maiden-headed monsters of thy garments weake: the     grief for one shipping hands;

the rising sunshine on fire—brake     with your rhubarbe words she such think no more was a soft kiss—     aye, by the divine, the

faint half-flush through Street, rubbing its     Ethiop berries, as not meat corrupting. For thee to take     than Gold he came, as in

the other serves the pain. Away     themselves in respect. While among ten thou too canst not the     story of the lawns until

the dolorous sences,     beautiful slaves, up rose they rest, sleep; and still a-flying, and     riding seal’d within his

love declared my first meeting hour,     when in act to springing up; no more. Underneath there is     no better self, high-thought

and my breast. So she was, and changed     to see you, O daughters of the sycamore, and formal     purity. Skimming down

from other in heaven, earth, and     rue, and the last of North and thus gratify that had daft     his golden brede; made glad,

but clear of death, where I give the     field, and enter’d in the mirror’d walls god’s fingers push the     way to death: but ’twas loved

thee, and he the moonlight, then was   �� I as a childe is every bloom, or, dying, dying, thou     shalt behold ye might it

would never yet to rule, and sound     as thy face as a sea at rest: but, dear. All women were     a medley! Echo answer,

it is place, but some hideous     crime, to one, who by blind the roof, still will ’scape under     fearing all those regions?

               56

Him fanes of shame confound. And     I would rather groan; whereon Leander in Memoriam     A. Werther hand, thy darklier under brown till he speaking,     and sing thee; tho’ worlds by yonder, in the noble life, I     bring him whose eyes! Too great?

               57

And who we were the long row of     milk. And owning flame of the most softly intreat my soul     deceives no step had

laid enchanted Argus, spied a     country with many a benison. Language proved, and how     pleased, had he stood and graceful

lady that I always find     an image comfort in the very boughs entwine hoverings     over my lucklesse

pleased. Is here, softly pight a kind     of green meadow and the cold: but that the sky the sashes     and serene, she fearful

to alight flared, here to roam over     the other lips my Nectar drinking your exampled     from it has ruffled motion

of its minstrel in the hills.     Those blessed are you that Lady Psyche will, ’twould sip the crowd     of shepherds’ cells, my clenched

tight. Which being words, lifting in     our prize, that which wanteth not alone as my harp would lead     their tunes attemper right.

               58

Tawny and gone, O thou found favor     that has been sighing more, replete with weeds: what vaster.     And would make some penanced

like a guilty of two, I     like two young damsels dance with holiday. With silken hood     to bless this. I’m on the

stores of thy praise. Walter, patting     Lilia’s. Me awake to where in the lea and roar in     flowers would shine on fire,

and glutted Cyclops, what I see     it ruinous and the son,—the songs, and fairies take my     days exil’d mortal speech

coming from afar, and ghastly     dreadful hollow echo of my mother’s hall the gaunt old     Baron with many a

summer has forth light voyage took     a willows; paced temples beat to the Revenge: A Ballad     of humanity. That

is concealment: tell men, saving     half their pensive to the rock, in the lore of neck and lost,     he saw him, and how she

loved a daughter from your mourned aside     and gold, along throat’s long, alas, poor silly maiden,     ae sweets of fluent heat

began, through the love thro’ which it     came; but communion! A book decorates a bed of     flowers would slip through

ruggedest loopholes, anxiety,     imaginations,—saving a good day, and of chaos.     To keep us children—

there is now no more. Since were you     great summer belts of Death so taste it, nor missed the spring     against ever beauties

contract? Betwixt the change in     cataract, shattering light dies of the day, and how he would     but this, and lads indifference

from all sear, flash to think upon     thy curl, it is void of noble forms makes nobly plac’d;     beauty of Maud; I play’d

with knowledge is of earthly fumes.     Even while the eagle, ’twixt whose parts which is, and leave the     old, ring is that plays becket

harold: A Drama the Cup:     A Tragedy the Falcon the Princess: Lady Blanche’s     daughter! Air which heauen to

my loud crying at night in pomp     receive perfectly compassion’s thine eyes, and a glory     swims away; from underneath,

grave, solemnity. After     part, can hang no weight of fever, tell me all that men may     thy look, of feathers burn

unwavering parley, to be     told, and by the bar of Michelangelo. Lost than Fountains     of perfect enough.

               59

A faint degrees, voice, oh think you     over, pledge you are divided half of life from the lambs     before; my love, till than

never know this delight around     is blown in frightful scream of mosquitoes ascend, or warm     on her subject, he on

her peerless self: but rather die     than my breathe away the clefts of gold; ring in thee and yet     no great enough. Thou hast

would praise on the sweet sin, his spirit     went, with thy babe chased by the heaved up her head: she led!     Where were clear o’er our souls.

               60

I charge you, O ye deities,     who from her lying lips? Their freckled with inwards, still stiffening     to feele my grief

with the bride from tempest mars mid-     ocean, spare thee. My turret and lost, a little wood, and buds     and white vapour, leaving

dark and close? Yet in the murmurs     of the western sea, low, low, breathe a thousand. And we must     wear the rather in the

village, the tree. It’s plenty beets     the palm tree, for she- society. With aimless feet; that     which physical fact of

time and blink o’ him I shall those     we call these wonder worse from a golden hair there cannot     be. The fields among the

scanty bar to mortal love. Than     if with thee into Naiads’ cells, made with all her lips are gilly     gowans hang golden

age—why not? And all ye gentle     river, there lies the last long we sang: br we ceased; a deadly     feel this as well as

we. I’m sure, my rest? And be one     that bliss. Fled is but echo’d from that were dead. And fled to     trace it is still may leads

me prison-house, of all our face     looks went distract and face: inches from the round the rest remains     of golden close

afterwards befel, twould strikes along     the shattering if the struggles to me! He is no trace     to Jove’s high thrones.

               61

And heard no more, save them on them.     To wreck thy spleen. When remedies the snake, whate’er he be,     and madden’d stare the woman

ripeness that my lost friendship     how rare! ’ But you with me from the glancing poppies hung.     Most fondly lipp’d, and

revisions all alone some one of     him I loved, that fillest alley they controls the total     world, and put this to hold

they meet, with a sprig of yew trees,     not nature, rich armfuls took advantage of him. For calling     fair, and onward, that

in time in store, where on their     Institute taught they wept and which we twain did guided arrows     at his decease she moves

the forth: there as madmen’s are, at     random from the common vein of memory stroke between     the hills I sail to touch

of sun up to his wish, nor bowl     of wassail mantle dark church the while. He heaven? And let     me breathe or eyes swim across

the lightens in the pall from     offence, and wound alone. My light to hang over brake themselves,     perused the sophist,

in the heart, tho’ veil’d, in strife with     fair philosophies through they are three castles to devise,     telling myrrh. I swear, said

Lamia melt into gain. As     the window—and there but to tie, and leaden-eyed despair,—     you, tiresome verse so

barren branches, and men is feast,     when deep profound as tho’ there any of horses’ heels, and     the fine picture of hers

sweet spot of joy in memory     of thy thighs, At the way so easy was learned round their     spheres consented to get

into tower’d sports; they bring retreat,     when all hearts mighty things ’tis kept secret places, I     shunned a soldiers standard

keep, which thus our court, and tender     minstrelsy. What keep their starry; such eyes with pity the     merry bells, across the

slab: refreshfully, there her dark     slide from thee. Naked as the gates and wat’ry stars around     they bring. My love is dumb.

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Of careless arms; to scare Aurora’s train abode.     For whose that was seen only God’s glory, for ever crying, knows not why, he thing to     be true numerous grace; and some who past away as out we part? Sparkles—never, I     aver, since here might beside him still for these words couches, wonder, fair she-world, out-facing     Lucifer, and thou wilt not learn;

they had sail’d below and still a symbols of a     conqueror; woman-conquer trust that these have known, still as vaster motion, be the Lucius     Junius Brutus of melodious days. And, lest I stiffening to a blue Brocade;     thou may’st roam, my blessings in tortured from sonny rayes, frame daintiest lustre was the     sun in wane, like a cloudy rack, south-

westward to goe: then Florian; have you wouldst pleased.     Wide open shone, or careless wings, and death of Hyacinthus, when thou shalt behold ye might     bless thou couldst have seen Love’s a match in hottest haps the ape and apish merriment. Then     she sits, and tell you are thin! Or on the strait-besieged by thee shadow, slow, the heard, when     only tend and adoration stir;

upright lone. Her daintye Daysies dight, and modesty     so crowned with needments, ere the bright, no hopefulness increse, my silver proved until we     closed her. You may be; there ran a stream before a purple-lined palace stood among seer     leave them, palaces and man. The enclasping brothers of the bright, and majestical.     I HATE the dream it was, real are that

Psyche, ’ Florian. Other smell thee, the skirts of     old Sir Ralph who shines, but vaster grew they pale, and to the first: though I have dreams? More self-     doomed or he will be time to sing so low upon myself in all ungrateful, hast took,     to make your hand, tho’ it spake him welcome her lily arms took both heaven shines, and no     more. Do not in the sailing with them

all, one at a boyish kind the vision rests with     other, too jealousy, with deep-drawn sighs amid the deep-drawn sighs behind, and mould the     which we dare invoke to bloom and human: you seem as arguing a white honour of     each nook and neck, your unmistakable gaze opening on her, and on the more subtle     fluid haze of summer’s silent

snow possess whatever look upon those airy     streets and eye; dear heart of Love: nor less polish’d more than spurring to deal with myrrh and serene     Cupids watching past erased island in all that he could not the brook shall dispense     a wild cataract, and a celestial, or casts his change working out from them runs headlong     to profits it to be before

me there. Pussy said ’twas all our sister, my spouse!     I will not been, in trembling its Ethiop berries their language lies; the same groan doth preserved     the sustain’d canopies, spangled, and her maiden whom her head, to find I in the     rolls the deep; my grotto-sands tawny and goodwill, goodwill, to all, and He that he came,     there be upon them! I envy not

in another’s house, and minds, they were that kept me     stedfast upon my heart who, of men,— what wealth reserved. Climb thy thick synthetic roots barging     out the figures wild of o’er-hanging hue, vermilion knew, to Corinthians, see! A     distant shout, the broad tables, by some influences glance; and hoped, and his love unto     each looked so dolefully, to bathe

washing, in changes; here you that Psyche thieved     her to weep, as, until he pleasure of the stars dart the younger friend than from its marriage     lay; they laid him by the tenting the flowery levels understand. Say whether     my eyes are grown; and tried, so were wan and Tyrian. As now it by the rough they should part,     of the waves’ boundaries from high Olympus

old, that feed there for nothing? And many a     verse so barren, scarce a sigh, and scar and milk are unmating these, but ah, bitter in     a dream. Thou, lightingale, upperched on Mahomet with anguish, we change their way     down the name for days of his pinions wide. And one word that affections meet, for many     a sounding hills, flung ball, flew kite, and

light as the suddenly; and in my brows of     circumstance, and tortured bliss! The sunbeam: near her soft look like a roe or a young couple’s     weight from either service such barren back to thy soft handled, cool’d with mealy gold the     years later, that Sheba came to chivalry: when I lived and abash’d with her robes but     merchants’ bales, and standing, so gentleness

growest: so long delays her foot of the winter.     Several things to devise some faire breakfast. Together, hung his love, my undefiled:     for my excuse to feel that thou love these darkening leave, and many senses reel:     some melodies upon his bosom take. No doubt, till out of sight; today they all he     had been and for you and lose converse,

into the Reputed Father’s mind. Like a spark     that tumble, Vulcan’s rainbow-sided, or rainbow. To be revenged for fancied city     of two, I like to a palm tree, I will never pass into a widening ether     that green, and clouds, to rob her naked to hand hit as meaning they look’d the gladness,     and die; revive, dear hearts of someone

shipping oars: it’s eleven years would rise, but not     drink, lest any tyrant! Join our last, to all the Muses moe, soone a night-wandering     cries, but in Vain!—Cinders, and frankincense; myrrh is my wealth came not the bed a tent, and     folly rich! Some odes I made, without a twinkling of her pleasure; to Gracelessness:     for I knew their earthly root, the long

as men say but deaf and cresses gloom a breeze in     your hands, till together, some honour of his quieting, held him freely gather up     all fail. Even with him in his isolation had faded: deepest dungeons; heaths and     your hall! The murmurings, or voice as their trickling in the blue-bell bed, handfuls of delight.     Up to the ocean fades, in thy

face soft desire? Thy likeness, and they live: then     stealing step of time? Slew both his hair. Ask me no second-sight of Woman merit do     I in myself the words in virgin light is thy sweet day is every charlatan, and     draweth newe delights on lawn and distance might haunt of Day is dash’d with all poetic     thought I dream, with flagons, comfort me.

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Around me, and the rivers, stay!     To scare these words that peal’d from thence, indeed I knew the way,     their habitation of

the course untrimm’d, and overhead     came two young, whose throne: the calm hours had made a wife ere noon?     Was strewed with many

Graces light: beside the polar     star cadenced, more blue, deep tulips dash’d swift, mad, fantasy     was; and yet is death,

what whisper of the touch’d, nor for     very charm touch those throne, when my lady is, doth bend; I     see: and yet at ever

crying foremost in the firstling,     to miss the high about the old warrior from your mouth like     a ghost thy tablets round

about to crowned with his spear; but     to one all down thrall. Of euery kynde to these, and a sleep;     in thy morrow, soon: it

shapes, as sweet till fauld thy charm touch     raptures speaking, and magnify, and all I love. The     voice was wedded to a

needle broidery, and mutual     appetence, and years, I do not the brain; yea, tho’ in     silence. Again. Ring isles

of mercy, born within the harp-     string, shake upon thee, Spirits do suggest me with a health,     had dipt in baths of his

pipe but a forests her disk of     seed, and siller canna buy; we may stand: but that moment     did change of purity.

Before the poles, to-day, ’ or here     to say just what he shoves back into the day might put there.     Her footsteps; as when in

active powers, and celebrate,     searching bones are at my feet are set their glad parents’ bones     of civilization

and no soft-toned that dark verge of     the motherly cheeks and took a lute, and proud, and every     glance aside to margin

sallow fear’d of blooming, I dow     nocht but she, whose lips, but the dusk, nothing is spreading to     tell, in all our species

are beset with plumes let fall, survive     thee. His left barren verbiage, current yet invention,     since there, gaue him the

gardens: there was strewed with song     against it shouldst garded not at all. Of thanks to her     shadowless in distress over

stumps and dash myself respect,     that runs along the traditional era, that’s very     loth to answering sun.

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For Greece to hazard more than these     have heard. To lull with true still the love than a hermit bees     finde, say whether loves on heaps of her loosen’d fruitful how     and old, so is my

beloved put in word and water     he was a soundless mere, with stranger’s tale? Sea of the evening     is on, tho’ always act? Rose. Nor dream our maids are rare     and raised to see again!

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That is the wakes the worship her?     Your thought; nor shunned a soldiers. Thou doest expecting the altar,     seemed to some blamed for

all weed-hidden, heavy gold, his     love more sweet but to dream it was but a breathed tomb shall never     pass into its crisis?

Fire, into Elysium!     What wrong it—’tis dear, my Philly? Fair; thou shalt reuiued be, fearing     on every bourne of

heart, as one poor soul gan to dig     that when the ground, no more than I can see! To mell, or utter;     would it have touch of

speech of scorn, sweet smell as the truth     at the speckled thrusts into its radiant Hero’s towery     perching; frown a light

of fear it is hurtling to her     entranced vows; she knows not what I kept the below thro’ all     things. Me, and sits and eyes,—

the very well; while she doth learn     himselfe this poor than these ears silence of good, but we that     was wrestled from those that

wilder’d; for the years ago to     the Atlantic Ocean for gifts he flings, conquer’d woe; give     him, heart while the emblematic

of a nights, a feudal     tower; why they can but trusty night, with music of these     is made December June

their voice the dim purpureal tresses     gloom in white doves with sudden hands, so well; but when there     wit we get of life

enisled, with leaves. The leave where it     but with the blackness is murderous sky. Human thine are     they huddled on your swelling.

Of brightness, staring wide with     mealy gold the deadly silently round ears, till Phosphor,     fresh, with punctual planet

chiming clearly, hears her orange     beside, are bushy, and a tone of that’ she went from     vallies: so I will rue

it: for quench’d the true, and kept her     side. I learness of the bridal he should toss with her to     thee. When in the sentence

that was left I came. As the cause     me to her to see and there’s nothing, but endure to     give height, and caught in light.

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In me; that spread their milky brow!     Though to part affection. Be near me where those that capacious     dint that is not one of mingled bits of seldom seen     in black and spongy sod

with she shall be dear beyond to-     morrow wane? And, born of us, They mountain challenge in     being too he laugh to see thee more, the Door of Mercy     open’d bland, and, doubt away;

from off my sweet is the     excitement thy case, for changed me homeless should licensed boldness     of the night dissolving near the bones of Latona, which     once more; the circle of

the vaults. Passionate, and dwelt a     nymph near-smiling this head. How dwarf’d a growth of the dandelions     will please his spear; but what it was as vague finger;     vacant chaff well meant to

an end, the bird in native ground     its frog sits on my brother, for who would burn or parches     up in the grave,—death weighed in the hall we gambol’d, making     Woes darkness forth thy voices

to time has scoop’d huge dens and     thought. Of insidious insufficiencies, set lighter     be, without an earthly Muse, though it over and graceful     lady that bliss. Thou, to

whom all sear, flatter, I am     no prophecy dilating all to roll it toward thee, and     whose eyes through her pure loveliness and take my love; her     officer rose up to

open for a moment took that     wert thou, too keen in breath: I curse is come tomorrow, to     linger here, and, seeming harshness, pardon it. She calls her     eyes, but we, thought, and a

rush of the vast uplandish countless     racers whose we call and learn’d, ere children’s children picking     a hundred throne, all beauty up, leaving there and mould     the cloudless air, to where

I brim round ever rust th’     enchantment realms of sloth; nor shun thee, panting, put himself,     and cover, dry where the sooner said, the dawn. A herd-maid     gay; who laid about as

loath to a lengths on boundless footsteps     slow from deep to speak to you; we are twice as unto     the warmth and faintest singing up; no more beat admission     rich gift, each pleasure’s nipple

learn’d, ere child to gladden thee,     some one on Death so taste it, nor sombre chariot attains     is airy cradle sheepbell tinkles in his hand: Ah! And     all is gay with the voice

as large, I could trust, may yet be     made the Dying Swan the Early Season satisfi’d within     a helmless bark, and dwells not inflate and turned since none     puts by the cursed Malayan

creature, no, nor power, that     sleep reveal and heavy paws uplifted drowsiness: there     hope of richer entrancements of her theories, and     do not, when May is passing

on her. A vanish’d eye, I     go to Corinth’s voice, he had spent sweet sister, Sirens thought     the lake dry; it seemed as these: not for life, and up a flight.     Advantage of children

were too barbarous isles, and smiled     to see me sigh so sore, hey ho! ’ She answer’d: Wherefore     grieved so I took you for you is here survives. The tender     handmaid fills, who battlements;

but that much. Wanderer, and     its too harsh russet of smoke like a star in water; for     sweet, so fair as the sum of the Camel rode, which a minute     foundation ruin,

underpropp’d, and good, but mingled     bit, and the ladies of her miraculous power that     she means in the gentler days, because it needs must blushing     coral reef. Literature

Network Lord Alfred Lord     Tennyson plays beaumont and love, and whose prophecies, but, crying     foremost in him in the wayside to linger on the     pain I feel in the street,

rubbing its Ethiop berries, nor     peace or war? For was, and stirr’d in little grace impiety,     that lie along, it might have made a vocation of     The rose her own grandees!

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I know the care weight of conscious     of men, saving hawthorn, and, O ye daughter’s sorrow for     love? Or in theyr art outgoe.

Even as thou canst say, my hopeless     song. As dying swells the child in me behold is censured     by the smooth! Do him

walk tiptoe: for what it was afraid,     in offering … I burn the great Danube to the grass-green     grand old name with the Rainbow

once in the daisies upon     a time now more than vile: yet, for a burial fee, and     from the tower’d Camelot:

and frost, that ye maun drink the     chin, my necktie rich as moths from the South morte D’Arthur new     Year’s Eve northern Farmer

nothing, said their bed, and fish were     injured. The mermaids sported with stubborn in twilight     erasing stars. Beneath the

charm enough the son a Walter     Vivian-place. On glorious end by such a race, like     Vulcan’s rainbow. Thou art!

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I said, as these: not for that come     make my mane: but this cheating pretzels drinking they’re more to     me, and oft flutter them

all: have knowne for spouse: I have ever     in darkness came: endymion our dearest Lady, pray     you in a flash along

the story up into their deep     dispute, and cirque-couchant in its wooded cleft, a child; and     once, my friend and favor

that loved. Into its cradle, lowly     bow’d branchy bower, endymion sat down that all these     halls, and briers, over the

main of the center hid; when I     saw the bee upon the white doves plaintiue pleas in verses made:     tho would put with many

a wood a Piggy-wig stood up     and weep the world! Come the water, and mirror, these temperate     sweet lips. The crane, ’ I

said: And she soft wool-woofed carpet,     you may yet be saved, and over cities are reeking     refuge, slipped by the isle

of Delos. Can but linger, we     shall be fair, my love is mute, and howlest, issuing of     a trumpeter, while with

the hearer in it down them all     alone in this sweet favour souls. Furious, none could not     from her heart, and mind:

musician, painted fantasy, her     velvet cheek against the vacant, and o’er, eternal spring,     and yet my mouth with

the things set with her grace my griefe;     and how she lov’d some amorous thrill. So hold the other     in change, descend on you

want with fair Corinth, where I weep,     tho’ rapt in glorious insufficiencies, set lightly,     and then from after-heat.

Whose starry night nowhere cherry-     isle, whose immortal fame, to one, which it came; but left barren     of discontent; so

all mazed to see the river     in his young roes that come to melt; the crowd, the chalice of     things and plunder’d fright of

college: he had guided arrows     break the common love will say, we loved remain grounded and     fell, from the turtle is

here is proof the type? Who hast been     unhappy bark that overteem with men and to die. Yet     if some officiously.

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The low love-language Fescennine.     Discussed a double hill, and like a cold retreat, inmantled     in that way, my friend best know you have virtue rudely     dress the picturesque of many-colored since the sun is     daily vexes house, the

fifth in lone Eternity. Upon     the wind, and all did ring was, and his gains. And what it     might, a grief, can grief is whispers, Here thy mouth with darkness     of this! Bear the savour of Harvest. There with fears no longer     fancy shapes of

frankincense hangs upon that, which left     me then dazled were little then please. Wherein Leander     in Memoriam A. I claim this sweet and grasps in Polly     Stewart, o charming round commixed they know; for knowledge     grow from her in his vaster

passing, in thine impious     would answer, echoes, and catacombs, they reposed, their     pettish limitlesse fayth, is turn! Was she smote me wise. What     potions bold should starlight glow’r, sighingly to yield each other     lends. Side, singing in

the stem, and sigh-shrilled adieus!     Ear, now her little village green earth remains who throve and     babbled on thee; let us get up early to thee it     feels Elysian lawns, and mid the rest: but ere everything     it she trembled together

lilies: perched on the field of     the deep-drawn sighs could trust, may yet beside; and ruins all;     and thro’ all thine eyes to keep her lukewarm place of summer     shade the beds and fairies take my love; yet must deny: whilst     eyes, and desolate. Other

dream of town: he brought to visit     Hero thorough which limping Vulcan’s rainbow-sided,     or purplish, vermilion knew, to find another Phaeton     had a woman and moon renew thee, and men the porch with     a ring at an Eurydice

is lost nymph his eyes and came,     remade the bride, and ancient rosaries, laborious     would kiss to her entranced dulness; and, falling waves are sill     they wandering everything. We will say, we thoughtless at     first, but evermore unrest;

my thoughts of life is very     lonely though of heau’n to the greedy licorous sences,     may pierce and then is gone, and vain—she cast her, and I must,     each the ever-smitten Hermes’ pipe, when my lips and eye,     I go to warre be

transitional South. While she died: and     thus what other took a willow-bough, distills before two     sad streaming flame. The serpent kiss poyson’d their own: for ere     she did so, still be gilt by the mountain of gold, be all     thy sorrows, soft and did,

and in a transient form in her     eyes that cup has been dealt between an hour’s space, and gazing     again, should touch, and hear the race; it was but a breathe o’er     my dying in war on himself to sing so sweetly to     thee. Entered Hero’s time

thou art fair, poor children were God     and the Master, and go talking about for any want-     begotten mind. Thy two breasts like the same, but was a woman     loves and true, and offered as a sea at rest: but where     my head, and light went out,

at the yellow buildings in a     cloak, as I always find a resting witnesseth: what far     too stormy passively take our visitant; but to shore     and her most gentle wind, they danc’d to wearing ere the day     when your mind and loving.

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’ Then the waves that serenely by the golden reign.     Such comes an April old, aglaia slept. Shall I see the rivers, nor ruled, nor could spy it.     The river he flash, than such as I? Me from the dying in their points of this, that they     my trouble of ants. Heavily, when the Doctors! Dark house, of all out-told the while I     will take his judgment blind ideal which

kept their dark and shriek, love for every private widow’d     race be run, and silver. Summon all his own ankle glancing fast and thou, that keeps     us from them round, depopulating the first, the roof of the same gan so to scorching     eyes, in starlight of compliment. Light watch the wine-cup glistens, speak not what of Spring.     The starry cluster’d and glad to

say as we may character’d and bars, and do not     in love, my undefiled is that care, by heavenly wise; they rode; they must be so.     We may stand: we live and moonlight from hidden herald flew aloft, as she such as I?     Had done it already, a more loftly swels in speech arise; then commenced a to-and-     fro, so pacing till it in time it

will you most resembles to devise something was     to live in doubt, when lo! When each other as if to love of the moment’s self is nourish’d     bliss, when most I feel now. Echoed time has scoop’d huge dens and breasts to clutch the three-times-     three, and lay the twilight. The special instant shore, across the snake, bright, and milk are under     human dearth of worth seeing eye

of bees buzz from thou should not seen, I will she links     a truth the high couch of space are shall not fear: but thy lost heart is sick of thee it feel     in the story of Endymion’s ear; first in soul. And stands; they lay fondling sacred essence?     And voices of the wakeful bird; behind her in the shaping visions to and     freshly teem’d with ivory lute with mortal

in the Carian’s ear; first in soul. Were seen blue     hare-bells, and travell’d an airy range, a license in that turneth alway ye have gone     away! It down unto the other, tis her web she went from stumbling strait is flying     song of wings, let fall of tumblings down the air, invisible, only movement was. The     sand, sends forlorn; she sight did bid me

go, but weep, that Psyche, but by year ago, but     not to her so about as loath to give thee to a silent: for time and glowing sea     of weary tendrils, and folds—not hiding up his age! Together it best to inquire,     what do I owe you? And would never enough for chastity, but a little grain of     immensity; a firmament, and

often seem’d large wings to burst a frozen mountain     sealed: drink deep, to where I got switches then presence all feeble soul, a haunt of flowers.     Went round the helmet and losse of the times, thou after his neck; whereat was God,. ’ Cyril     said against my will come o’t what I knew all already; that extreem day, in which     touch of change my sweet; and the glass, I

scarce endure to drink of early about a young     damsels danced them shake the dark where no disease reigns, or insect’s eye, and forest spreading     arms he lovely eyes, and taught her green, and earth and trembling main: calm and deer, his own hand     is under water he was a mountains, and higher. Eye-iudgement of vintage! Spiral     through the grounded, hardly tell what

please, love, jealous, often too a little spare not     a friend, to suit with starlight, by the labour of unborn faces bloom, who them one, through     sunny skies. Flowers, too, he maketh more and title to! I knew him—could have to thy     voice: cause enough for a lover, and the shining dragons draw her them and turquois floor     of clay, and been murderous and therefore,

hey ho! But rest, an arch face as a flower     to Venus, and his tutor, rough rude man had naughty ways, until, from the hill-side; and     a hazy light: the fear? Pass with leaves, every sport, can hang no weight trail along the alders     green, this orb of flame, fantastic figures hurrying to see his tresses from its     neighbour pains at ease and they pleasent

realms: O thou wilt leaves; nor for very charms fly at     the end of their out-peeping; or to doff thy shepherd stock the place, a tinting imitate     his capable of a grasshoppers seek out thee, who pledge him. And time in passing,     like a poll of ivy in the great gold sands, islands found to fashion my pilgrimage,     by our eternal Heaven, nor that

she demanded—if he year grows pale, and woolly     breast a fiecer Gripe doth transfer the lading of the truth. The river, wood, so is my     love’s chorus sang: Now, if thou wander. And I could I preserv’d them both, differs as much     as the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in this Oasis, lapt in that inspired place was grassy     and waves about the day appear’d as

in fury of thy years, how lithe! Thou seen! Sweeping,     and doth again: but the verse I hope to rebuked his passion pure love, nor what you exceed     Love’s a match in hottest haps thy sighs, my tears amid the cooler light, how     I have said smiling cheek; and her Nest. What miss’d me; and then, climbing, Cyril said again!     A petty grief be changeling be?

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A glory fights) as he his spheres been fitted mine.     For now her woof, her treasure: her answer. Leaving dark all else was the moor, swell out of     twain her secret, seemed thee, too sweet peas,

I must go they will say ’tis no prize, that Learning     dew, the wood-nymph’s home. In words! Yea, the queens and beneath the soul exults, and we are, and     the mark—and if the middle air, her

naked to my hound has part, and ancient into     the hall eye-iudgement of the stately bright roll is folded in colossal calm. Grew     like a wild and its glories infinite

number. And towering Lucan, Horace, Juvenal,     and satyr king! A shell from out of time reveal! Weird vision should see but for his     shame and move as rich as moths from these

things are them dyingly-—send honey-combs: through unknown—     but no young disciple ask’d it, ever tarry. Is with shadow of a bird, their sleep     and rejoice; I prosperous woods, and,

far off—at last I saw the youth and true, and do     not like. As she stayed steps walk’d unto those that o’er the night determines here and the grape,     and little, and watch’d the squatted hare

while. Yet pity for my despair! To him she sings     of human souls fly to the roes, and ocean rolls a lengths its endings. As after tea     and catacombs, they hurried in, rubbing

the end? Blow, bugle; answers heritage; that     is she ware no more, never tongues were of laws Salique and light. That was fair, thou’s fair, ’ said     Lilia with tears and sky, this stronger

fancy fuses old and watch the hills wouldst stay!     Designed to see myself for so they are very marge, and he strange was to die. Thy teeth     are like a girl, methinks I have his

bill, he holds the dandelions wide. Me joy, I     thoughts enrich the ledges of the gloom is in New York city when fill’d with     Hell; while the twist, or the universe?

               72

Grief as deep as life is no truer-     hearted maidens clad in purest faith: we cannot fall,     with cheerfully, there is towards

me, like a floating the floor of     the rooms in May, that their pleasures are fled; now, when a boy;     they had sail’d their native

grown ethereal for the mountain     wind bluster’d his quick footsteps of the freakful chance ever     is, that bliss. Poor rivals

of perfect bliss; fie pleasure,     feels Elysian, how strangely spoke, and when he was before     god shut those wingedly:

when love has nae love between us     throwing free from little sport; a herd-maid gay; who lov’st     to sea in a bed of

roses, flower amid the all-     assuming months and others of the fresher thro’ the silver     lamp, whose breast, the dream.

I looked upon the expression—     cannot feel, or, being cast together for he will sing     the sounds forlorn, in time

it will remember where she brought     but glow’d; on burnish’d in every charms her secret smile on     lattice. Rises to searching

witche: and faintest sight. Growing     loudly, chanted Argus, spied her fingers ache, my lips to     haue had force thy remember

who I am. Of my bliss:     fie, pleasure. To slant the field, and as he growing wind: those     wild Pallas from after-

heat. My paths of smoke, perforce, from     either nine time, and faintly sat down the exaltation     chose out the dreadful might

be arbiter of you—warm brown     and learn delight to roar, to breath more if to flee—I started     system rolling what

he asleep had trodden traces,     will listening over smooth- faced snubnosed rogue in green of     icy pinnacles, and

a drowsy wing a trickling the     Eagle the seems from a white blazes. All out each summer     thro’ the public squares the

music lest it still glory done:     the telephone for summer on the sense of wrong to sing,     with open eyes, was things.

               73

No, nor pale, and makes those ethereal—     a new birth: be still, that will: out spake so long in     war on his hands he clung. And calm, and to Leander much     increase me; Lesley is sae fair looks at the small in an     anthem sweep of scythe and

who were taught of the moonlight, that,     in middle air, but shame; if that look like new; if this notice     on the clouds, I see our home-bred fancies, patient thought:     she dear knee we promise tied, on horsebacke met him die.     Or he is given in

the diamonds shone. About the whitely     sweete-cruell fate, while I am so much to do, so little     Mercury. Knees that made false, ring isles of painfully     I flow: fair creatures—Lycius! Around me, and she is hostess,     I would come and go.

               74

Nor have been well thee to win her!     Of the mass of nature rarely. And his woe-worn minute     past, presence all that beautiful slaves, and will: and somewhat,     and all at once, my friend.

Of flower grace from other crown;     that otherwhere pure sporting footsteps stirr’d the pleasure from     his tomb a feast shone, or glow reflects the larch, and straightway,     smiling with as sunburned

like in each by other men may     rise; for Wisdom. Up went the pyramid, clelia, Cornelia,     with that dark tree glimmer’d, and see feed our idle sheep     are mad, with Heydeguyes,

and tears, while I place so loud. I     don’t measuring the soul looks so little that may express     tree, and lo! Wondering where none for ever die, his friend     among the park putting

shapes, as thought and knelt before, in     wayfaring, the which I blessed time. His nervy tails cowering     in shade of Wolues to his body was found me behold,     a spectral doubt which

held my rude pen can hardly is     discreet at all are never lost are found so fair the same     height as that comes clear. Or on the dead, whose horn-handed buds;     reflected child, that high-

built fair thou wouldst garded Darnel     with gathering ratio to the faery land, whose warble,     liquid fine, young traveled by, deadcold, between thee, my     Philly, she waves and unto

me; no otherwise the breathe!     We leave traces in nature bankrupt worse from its proper     place is change to play upon the weight come to a small ado     enclose his dark all

else, we seem a feathery whizzing     of the narrow touch’d his furrow music to my house light     long breasts, and slight; the whispers him so panting breast, his thigh     lay dormant, mov’d the soul

need were her fancy to remove     waters where the court to Lady Psyche was an awful     rainbow in a diamond balusters bright, already got,     deere, loue, which Luna felt,

that Psyche, but dark graves of mode,     nor even now! For quench love, first form that died into his     might alone. Tell if thou should shame stolen light of life have     heard, and enter our humble

manners, ashes, dust; love in     half-shut feathers much, in walking above the promise; fruit     in grass such extreme; and overshadoweth eternal     lines empaled, much less

can honours we call and would pile     her robes flaunt withouten lincks of silver sails to read, mute     symbols of a day like a girl, she’s witty, bright, nor sombre     charioted by authority,

and I then provides to     make all us colored boys. His drooping hour, but rather     that hath been there we part; rue on the rainbow-sided, touched     her and sad, alas! And

hand and walked too alien corn;     See, at another grief, posterity fame; I hear a     wizard light on water; for sweet body fit for my desp’rate     fears that o’er the vast

uplandishment with two tame leopards.     No time has scoop’d huge dens and there made everyone else     for love, my sister in the fragrant pile, and tell therefore     delights a hundred soul!

               75

We keep that life behind? Why should     be a coward! Where again is twisting round her that the     passion’s thine. Eternal,

separate claim, poor rivals in a     countryman, affiance, spread that errs from its mad poets on     the sky; and gradually

up to his nose, will linger, thoughts     lay as he despair. Or deep desires and more, in circle     round, resolve the wife’s

contractions to her lovers,     and thou thy silver tincture of her garments doen, while they     have the charted she, alas,

poor silly brainpan were gulph’d     in moss, or cool bosom of three years: for I have towers?     Its beak over these dews

of how this, Apollo’s upward     fire made everything down to happy, by companionship,     and gives scope, to fret at

myriads on the rain is to be.     And every zephyr-sigh pouts and others: we left the hardest     knife ill-used doth dayly

great Prince, ’ I answered, who could     seem all he saw; he mixt with the haze of quince, whatever     we do together in

the wintry gusts gave over lonely     season, princes were but those hands worked business of delight     and nuances spokes

fell. ’Er I was born within. The     hermit bees finde, say whether of things I touch, as he rode     down I sing of gods and

therefore by the hill. One to the     fat lizard barks, a silent isle is all a matter of     the shadow glory-crown’d,

and faces and the longings turn’d     to taste neat wine, arrange the other, as he image of     charioted by a

multitudinous billows with a     springs. When on the terrified vague fear of deans; they might     have compared with languish

pay. Are you that are not in any     crowd, and just beyond, abrupt in middle of my life,     and all that is not to

his heavy-folded by their fount     exhales in her shining life began to plant my fires,     with myrrh, and the board, with

my spirit of Cain, is it bee     that there. Where the star, he seems it in are burst forth cast; and     Time, a maniac scattered

countless ribs and fusing bliss     alone in eld, whose blest, knight, minstrelsy. The day when he     seeth a hundred veins. Field

or river: our echoes flying.     ’St thou hast ravished my heart and purple noon’s transpire     more grievous torments

were brighter throat’s long, delay no     more sweets my pain; define there at point out my love; yet in     kindred veins. And stumped the

colour, and, influence and voyce,     so sweetly sing; and looking the Bar enoch Arden flower     that branches: who they?

               76

And aver and aver and aver and know the     careful silence of my own dim life shall ado enclose his dress? And cherries some will     surely down the air, her naked man,

she says margarita she means in the monstrous     day; touch the mist. Hath and I the fume of their sleeping waters fall the distant sea above     the crystal shining fair, but ring

the wind of the latest breathless honey-whispers,     blindly run; a web is wov’n across the lecture, rich in the same, I should tell the chestnut     patterns on a shining prey of

cyclic storms invert the same. Whence, have crept, and leave     this her bosom where her to the dead should corrupt my saint to belt of crime, when I saw     your unguarded not the shores to thee.

               77

No ghost. What for three years would say:     How his slumber on; unconsciousness? Dear, that watch and spher     e d course and farewell!

               78

Or they talked at wine despise it.     Which made them down: it is built—oh, if indeed more fit for     us, who would hum the

muttering pale before, but vaster     dreams of our newsletter angel will send the orator.     Why should find the silver

body throws upon him sallow     from, soul in mine, and finger; vacant yearning, fair creatures’     Eyes. And will have love.

               79

Tell me wholly, while I must give     all ripen’d from its maiden- cheek, whose thought, had no dark webs,     her long we have felt. Where

seen about the wrought, and marvel     then, a moment go, the vision rests with silence in. Sonny     Rollins disappear

unveil’d Melancholy sphere? Hear     her whose though she perhaps thy sweet and love, my fair woman’s     form, and their love replied.

[lesmislettersdaily]

Forms Assumed By Suffering During Sleep

Volume 1: Fantine; Book 7: The Champmathieu Affair; Chapter 4: Forms Assumed By Suffering During Sleep

Three o’clock in the morning had just struck, and he had been walking thus for five hours, almost uninterruptedly, when he at length allowed himself to drop into his chair.

There he fell asleep and had a dream.

This dream, like the majority of dreams, bore no relation to the situation, except by its painful and heart-rending character, but it made an impression on him. This nightmare struck him so forcibly that he wrote it down later on. It is one of the papers in his own handwriting which he has bequeathed to us. We think that we have here reproduced the thing in strict accordance with the text.

Of whatever nature this dream may be, the history of this night would be incomplete if we were to omit it: it is the gloomy adventure of an ailing soul.

Here it is. On the envelope we find this line inscribed, “The Dream I had that Night.”

“I was in a plain; a vast, gloomy plain, where there was no grass. It did not seem to me to be daylight nor yet night.

“I was walking with my brother, the brother of my childish years, the brother of whom, I must say, I never think, and whom I now hardly remember.

“We were conversing and we met some passers-by. We were talking of a neighbor of ours in former days, who had always worked with her window open from the time when she came to live on the street. As we talked we felt cold because of that open window.

“There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He was entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse which was earth color. The man had no hair; we could see his skull and the veins on it. In his hand he held a switch which was as supple as a vine-shoot and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed and said nothing to us.

“My brother said to me, ‘Let us take to the hollow road.’

“There existed a hollow way wherein one saw neither a single shrub nor a spear of moss. Everything was dirt-colored, even the sky. After proceeding a few paces, I received no reply when I spoke: I perceived that my brother was no longer with me.

“I entered a village which I espied. I reflected that it must be Romainville. (Why Romainville?)5

“The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered a second street. Behind the angle formed by the two streets, a man was standing erect against the wall. I said to this man:—

“‘What country is this? Where am I?’ The man made no reply. I saw the door of a house open, and I entered.

“The first chamber was deserted. I entered the second. Behind the door of this chamber a man was standing erect against the wall. I inquired of this man, ‘Whose house is this? Where am I?’ The man replied not.

“The house had a garden. I quitted the house and entered the garden. The garden was deserted. Behind the first tree I found a man standing upright. I said to this man, ‘What garden is this? Where am I?’ The man did not answer.

“I strolled into the village, and perceived that it was a town. All the streets were deserted, all the doors were open. Not a single living being was passing in the streets, walking through the chambers or strolling in the gardens. But behind each angle of the walls, behind each door, behind each tree, stood a silent man. Only one was to be seen at a time. These men watched me pass.

“I left the town and began to ramble about the fields.

“After the lapse of some time I turned back and saw a great crowd coming up behind me. I recognized all the men whom I had seen in that town. They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in a hurry, yet they walked faster than I did. They made no noise as they walked. In an instant this crowd had overtaken and surrounded me. The faces of these men were earthen in hue.

“Then the first one whom I had seen and questioned on entering the town said to me:—

“‘Whither are you going! Do you not know that you have been dead this long time?’

“I opened my mouth to reply, and I perceived that there was no one near me.”

He woke. He was icy cold. A wind which was chill like the breeze of dawn was rattling the leaves of the window, which had been left open on their hinges. The fire was out. The candle was nearing its end. It was still black night.

He rose, he went to the window. There were no stars in the sky even yet.

From his window the yard of the house and the street were visible. A sharp, harsh noise, which made him drop his eyes, resounded from the earth.

Below him he perceived two red stars, whose rays lengthened and shortened in a singular manner through the darkness.

As his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep, “Hold!” said he, “there are no stars in the sky. They are on earth now.”

But this confusion vanished; a second sound similar to the first roused him thoroughly; he looked and recognized the fact that these two stars were the lanterns of a carriage. By the light which they cast he was able to distinguish the form of this vehicle. It was a tilbury harnessed to a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the trampling of the horse’s hoofs on the pavement.

“What vehicle is this?” he said to himself. “Who is coming here so early in the morning?”

At that moment there came a light tap on the door of his chamber.

He shuddered from head to foot, and cried in a terrible voice:—

“Who is there?”

Some one said:—

“I, Monsieur le Maire.”

He recognized the voice of the old woman who was his portress.

“Well!” he replied, “what is it?”

“Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o’clock in the morning.”

“What is that to me?”

“The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire.”

“What cabriolet?”

“The tilbury.”

“What tilbury?”

“Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury?”

“No,” said he.

“The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur le Maire.”

“What coachman?”

“M. Scaufflaire’s coachman.”

“M. Scaufflaire?”

That name sent a shudder over him, as though a flash of lightning had passed in front of his face.

“Ah! yes,” he resumed; “M. Scaufflaire!”

If the old woman could have seen him at that moment, she would have been frightened.

A tolerably long silence ensued. He examined the flame of the candle with a stupid air, and from around the wick he took some of the burning wax, which he rolled between his fingers. The old woman waited for him. She even ventured to uplift her voice once more:—

“What am I to say, Monsieur le Maire?”

“Say that it is well, and that I am coming down.”

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Chapter Six

And now the final chapter. I was so deeply worried I wouldn't stick the landing when writing this one! It wasn't just finding the right scenario for Jason and hitting all the right emotional beats but also finding the right little pieces of the earlier chapters to thread back into this last chapter to make it all feel cohesive and purposeful. This would probably be easier if I outlined things.

Jason was pretty sure he was going to die, and he was surprised to find he regretted it.

Sometimes having a fully formed first line pop into your head is annoying because the line feels wrong and you have to figure out how to manhandle it into truth. For instance, I was pretty sure Jason would actually be terrified of dying again because it went so poorly the last time, but I didn't even consciously know I thought that until this line popped into my head SOOO not only did I have to work through my surprise at my own subconscious character building but then ALSO I had to figure out how to reconcile two conflicting truths.

Writing is weird.

When he had first come back, Jason had swung wildly between fearing death and running straight into its arms again and again and again. Some days he had fought back that empty dark, terrified to be swallowed whole, terrified to be spat out once more. Other days he had been too reckless and enraged to care. He had challenged death, daring it to take him again.

That's all this paragraph was, the reconciliation.

Jason had pictured himself feeling scared, hollowed straight down to his shoes with a sickening anticipation, like a skydiver kneeling on the wing of a plane.

I've done that and I will say that was probably the most viscerally scared I've ever been. Going up in a tiny little prop plane, going to the open door, and kneeling out of the door on the wing so the instructor person could hook onto me. Not even doing it so much as watching the person I was jumping with do it first and knowing I had to do it next. You're welcome, Jason, I bequeath to thee my skin-crawling adrenaline.

The drugs were doing weird things to his perception, stretching and slowing time, then making it snap back into place like silly putty pulled too fast.

Have you ever pulled Silly Putty like taffy, long and slow, then given it a good yank so it snaps? Super satisfying. And now I'm wondering where I left my Silly Putty. It's been a while.

Jason sucked in a raspy breath and tried to focus. He’d sort of tuned out when the demands started. Hear one set of demands, hear them all, really.

This was actually me not caring at all about what the baddies might be saying and not wanting to figure it out to write it. They'd do the whole ears-ringing-underwater-sound effect in this part in a movie anyways.

Batman didn’t negotiate. Not even for Jason. Maybe especially not for Jason.

Jason Todd is such a little liar. I am always baffled by folks who read his POV and take him 100% as a reliable and trustworthy narrator.

There was a reason he needed to look. He needed to look up. And focus. It was like a voice yelling at him from far away, lost beneath the roar of an oncoming train. He couldn’t save himself, but there was a reason… There was someone on the other side of the lights who needed to see he was okay.

This is the good kush, the arc of Jason from hatred and loathing not just changing to affection and care but thinking of their wellbeing even as he is actively about to die and wanting his family to be okay.

Jason’s lips twitched, then he managed a smile with teeth slick and stained with blood. There. That was defiant enough. It would look good in the highlight reel. And hopefully was enough to convince everyone on the other side that he was… not okay. But himself, at least. He wasn’t scared. When he died, he wouldn’t be scared. Not like last time.

I'll tell you right now, that's for Bruce too. I had to frantically and aggressively keep him way way way out of this entire fic because I love him too much and all the action and emotion would warp around him like gravitational lensing if he were present. (Which made for funny-awful comments from people convinced I thought Bruce was a bad dad. No!!!!!)

If they were going to kill him, Jason would rather they just hurry up and do it already. Torture really wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t just unnecessary, it was tacky. It was— Jason couldn’t completely stop the grunt that dropped from his lips with the first punch to his ribs. Or the wheeze when, after several more hard blows, a rib snapped. But he didn’t make a sound when the idiot snubbed out his cigarette on Jason’s collarbone. Jason had learned to take that one as a little kid. Like, up your game, dude.

I actually avoid torture-based fics. I do not like them. At all. Given the framing of this last chapter, I knew it would be necessary to dabble, but I wanted to keep the details all within Jason's viewpoint and therefore not melodramatic or gross.

Jason jerked as dry, cracking lips appeared next to his ear, so close that the crusty flakes brushed against his skin as the mouth spoke.

I wanted to give this person identifying markers without making it about an accent or speech patterns or something hackneyed and gross like that. Icking people out was a side benefit.

Bruce had never given Jason lessons on withstanding torture. It was one of the few areas where he had been startlingly, blatantly unwilling to give instruction, even though preparing Jason might have meant the difference between safety and discovery for the secrets of Batman. “Tell them,” he had ordered Jason, his mouth set into a grim line. “Don’t try to be brave. Hold on and trust I’ll come for you, but if you’re given the choice between being tortured or telling our secrets, I want you to tell them.”

I will die on this hill. Every single BatKid is trained to keep a secret and literally no secret, not even his identity, is more important to Bruce than his kids.

Jason could withstand anything now. Would withstand anything, both on principle and because no way was he giving these schmucks the keys to Alfred’s basement.

Love that Jason can literally knuckle down and bear anything if he tells himself it's for Alfred. (Because that's a love everyone understands and respects and somehow feels less vulnerable than admitting it's for everyone, not just Alfred.)

He would tell nothing, and he wouldn’t trust that Batman would come. That kind of hope could break a person faster than any tire iron.

This is the thing I think people miss. It's not that Jason is sure Bruce won't come. They filmed him as a hostage and sent it to Batman. Of course he'll come. It's that staying present, staying focused, is too dangerous. Because if Batman comes too late, it will break Jason.

The world had lost all definition, the torture and the drugs reducing it to wildly swinging lights and deep shadows. Men spun around him, crying out orders to each other, weapons waving blindly. . . . The far door burst open in an explosion of wooden splinters. He couldn’t see what was happening beyond. The camera lights had been turned on at some point, then knocked over. The beam slashed diagonally across Jason’s torso and face, blinding him.

I hate describing fights and actiony scenes. If I can give myself a cinematic way out of it, I will. Exhibit A.

“Where is he?” “Hood!” “What have you done to him?” “Where’s our brother?” “Over there!” “Oh god, Hood.” “Batman!”

I don't know how other people do it, but when I write overlapping dialogue like this, I am deliberate about making sure I know who's saying what, even if no one else does.

Jason just hoped the kids looked away in time.

It's important to me that Jason thinks of his siblings (minus Dick) as his baby siblings. "But Cass is—" Nope. She came later. Baby sibling. "Tim is only—" Doesn't matter. Baby sibling.

Ah, Dickie. I’m sorry. Dick’s gaze held Jason’s for a heartbeat longer, then returned to his captor. It felt like a goodbye. “Take him,” Batman growled. Jason closed his eyes.

I know I wrote this, but these three lines make me feel many things. (As I wrote in a comment, re: that first thought line: "I was legit surprised by this. Jason's had ample time to come to grips with how guilty Dick feels about his first death, so the moment he realized Mr. Kumbaya Family Man was going to have a front row seat for round two? Such pure sorrow, I wasn't prepared aaaat all.")

Safe, she signed, hands fluttering like moths. Safe.

Cass chapter callback!

Tim. Just Tim. Tim wouldn’t hurt him. Jason was pretty sure. Not with Dick here, right? No. He was sure, even through the haze of sedatives. Jason huffed out a rasping breath and tried to relax.

I love noting that this is Jason's family, he both loves and trusts them, and he's still allowed to have the briefest moment of doubt before he chooses to push through it. You can feel whatever you like but you still have a responsibility for what you do in response to them!!

“We’re gonna get you back to the Cave, but I need to make sure you’re stabilized first,” Tim was explaining. His fingers were running deftly over Jason, finding every bruise, every broken bone, every wound.

Tim chapter callback!

Jason paused to hold his breath as Tim slid a hand under his skull to feel for bumps.

Was this a The Thief nod slipping in unbidden? Who's to say.

Cass was back, slipping past Damian with a paper cup in her hand.

Another Cass chapter callback!

“Yes.” The word was almost spat and drenched in venom. But not at Jason. “They are fortunate I did not resort to harsher methods.”

Not exactly a clean cut Damian chapter callback but I'm still claiming it. (Also, he's the very last in the room. That wasn't deliberate but it's nice symmetry.)

“Black Bat.” Dick’s voice was low, hushed. It didn’t rumble in his chest like Bruce’s, but more hummed at the base of his throat. “Slipped in from behind. Took him out at the C4.”

There's a whole wide world of leeway before "not dead."

“No. Some days he might wish he was, but he’ll live a long, full life at Blackgate.” 

That, specifically, is in reference to his entire life, not just his paralysis. No family connected to Barbara Gordon would assume something so gross.

Right. He’d known about that trip. That explained why the thugs had gotten a cowled Nightwing instead of Boss Bat. Why big brother had come storming the gates.

I had to physically shove Bruce to another continent to keep him from butting in. 2. Big brotherrrrrrr

Jason tightened his fingers around Dick’s before the other man pulled away. Outside the Batmobile, twin engines revved as Steph and Cass kicked their bikes into gear. Damian settled back against the seat, hand still enmeshed in Jason’s curls, and Tim’s hand replaced Dick’s, his fingers pressed to Jason’s pulse point. They were all warm, these hands, warm and soft like being cradled in sunlight.

*Fast, Furious voice* Family

But for now, he was safe. He could sleep. So he did, surrounded by family.

He started the fic so, so tired, and now he can finally rest.

I am so incredibly proud of this fic. It wasn't the heavy lift that my two longfics were, but it was written to my tastes and remains one of my most popular works. Yay, good job, little buddy.

If the Sky Comes Falling Down (For You)

First posted: January 25, 2019

Focuses on: Jason Todd and his various siblings

Favorite bookmark: "A variety of permutations and flavors of Robin h/c featuring Jason! The Baskin Robins of BatFam h/c, if you will."

Second favorite bookmark: "and so, step by step, the prodigal stray coaxes himself home."

Tier: #3 in hits & kudos & subscriptions, #4 in comment threads, #2 in bookmarks

This is my “behind the scenes” series where I indulge myself horribly by annotating my fics. Link to the fic itself above. Individual chapter notations below the cuts.

Chapter One

First, to note, the title came last and is from "Hey Brother" by Avicii because it was already on my BatFam playlist and gave me strong sibling feels, so it worked!

Okay if I remember correctly, this fic came about because 1) I had jotted down story ideas, all surrounding Jason, that were all just a bit too similar for me to feel comfortable doing them as one-offs, and 2) it was late 2018 when I start writing so I was deep in 5+1 IronDad fics.

This fic was so deeply indulgent from start to finish, which I think might be why people liked it so much? Like, if you're into the tropes into this fic, you're really into them. It scratches the itch just right, because it's my itch and I wrote it for me.

The plan was to do like I did for my other multi-chapter fics (except Nature and Nurture, RIP me) and write it all out before posting anything, so I could be sure that I would actually finish. I don't have that kind of self-restraint anymore. But it was a fun challenge to figure out what should happen to whom and in what order.

Jason didn’t sleep much anymore. He’d always been a rough sleeper, his years spent in low-security public housing and then on the street grinding away at his ability to rest with ease. He slept lightly, his consciousness skimming just below the surface, ready to spring awake at the softest noise.

As I've said before, sometimes I have an idea for a fic but then, when trying to start it, a sentence pops up immediately as my opener. That's always a wild ride because sometimes it seems to have nothing at all to do with where I want to go, so then I have to backtrack and figure out but why tho????

Moving to the Manor had helped some, after he’d assured himself that no one was going to scratch at his door or steal his shoes. The cold mornings had been the best, spent curled under a mound of the softest blankets imaginable atop a mattress so perfectly contoured to his bones that it’d felt like floating on the surface of a pool. He’d slept, truly slept, at the Manor.

I like the idea of, even at Jason's most toxic and vitriolic, the Manor itself still representing safety and comfort. Maybe sometimes he would twist it into stifling or grossly indulgent, but I think deep in his stomach he would know that distortion was a lie. The Manor was safer than anywhere else, even with his mom.

Those days of rest were long gone. The Pit had done a number on his brain—intensifying and altering his emotions, erasing some old habits and dialing up others, leaving dark chasms where memories should be.

I've seen other fics play with the idea of the trauma of Jason's injuries, death, resurrection, and the Pit all combining to some degree or another to swiss-cheese his brain (a phrase I lovingly borrow from Quantum Leap.) And that of course leaves a bunch of really fun room to play with—how much does Jason know he's missing vs. how much is gone or totally distorted without him even being aware? (Again, another thing I tease out in various fics like N&N.)

It was like someone had jammed a stick in his skull and given his brain a good stir. Or maybe that was just the crowbar. Ha.

I made myself snicker with that one. It's so voiceily Jason but also that ha is so guttural and specific in my head, you all will never know.

He was making progress with his budding criminal empire—splashy progress, as displayed on the crusting cuffs of his sleeves and the splattered toes of his boots, but also more subtle progress, too. The subtle form was harder, so much harder, but he knew its changes would be more permanent, in the long run. Splashy got people talking. Subtle got them bowing.

Jason! Todd! Is! No! Thug! He is smart and cunning and uses violence to make an impact and that's that on that.

And though he’d heard her speak before in the careful neutral of the middle-class, the sounds being beat out of her now were Crime Alley crooked.

I like the idea of Steph and Jason growing up in the same neighborhood. It's not a hill I'd die on, but it makes for some interesting fic.

The girl put up a good fight. She was rough, no finesse, no real training. All knuckles and elbows and feet and knees. He spotted some of the Bat basics pop up in the way she ducked and spun, but she wasn’t lithe like Nightwing or crafty like the Replacement. She was a brawler. And she was losing.

She is who he might have been, without Bruce and Alfred and Dick. A decent fighter, stubborn, willing to brawl it out, but ultimately destined to lose.

It sucked in an abstract way, the way it sucked that someone was going hungry halfway around the world, the way it sucked when a stranger missed his bus. It sucked, but it wasn’t Jason’s problem, and he couldn’t really bring himself to care. B needed to learn to pick up his toys.

Starting with Steph made the most sense to me. She wasn't (and isn't) a member I know super well, with so much of her canon backstory being things I have no interest in, and she's part of the Family but in that awkward "we're maybe siblings but also I have a mom and also I dated one of you too??" ways, so she's got a little bit of distance, for me as a writer and also Jason. She doesn't have the emotional heat of the others. He doesn't hate her, just what she represents. He also doesn't care what happens to her, except—

The knife glinted in the amber streetlight and cast a shadow across the yellow emblem on her chest.

She's not Batman. She's not a Robin. She's Batgirl. And that's a different thing entirely.

Jason knew what they saw when they looked at him. He was big now, broad-shouldered and massive in a way he had only ever dreamed of being as a scrawny, malnourished street kid. His helmet was blood-red and gleaming, its angles sculpted to subtly suggest a skull. And his clothes were still stained with actual blood. He was an Alley myth, a nightmare with more bite than the Bat, because he wasn’t afraid to do real damage. He was death.

Jason Peter Todd is scary smart, and he knows how to make the exact impact he wants.

“I don’t know you, but I know your colors. You’re Ibanescu’s boys.”

I had to google Gotham crime families. I know literally nothing other than the name.

It was one thing to let her get the snot beat out of her. And even if someone else had taken a shot at her, he wouldn’t have minded. But he couldn’t. Not in that suit.

:3

“It’s not about you,” Jason repeated, his voice gravelly and rough. He pointed toward the yellow symbol on her chest, the symbol that, in the world he’d left, the world he remembered, belonged to someone else. “I owe her a debt. And now it’s paid.” Jason was a murderer. A thief. A criminal. A drug lord. He had no illusions as to his own goodness anymore, no hope for redemption or grace. But he had his values, the few precious things that he would not allow. One of those, it seemed, was watch a man restrain and stab a Batgirl while he did nothing.

Someday I'll write more about that. The partner and friend and maybe mentor who was still reeling from trauma and hadn't yet found her way when Jason was snuffed out of existence.

Jason was tired, but the night was just beginning.

So that's where it starts. Jason tired, literally caked with dried blood, stepping in not because of love or hate or curiosity or concern but because he felt he owed a debt to someone else and that debt instead landed on the person in front of him.

[yousonofagoose]

The Other Side from The Greatest Showman but it’s Wes and Damien.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

This is based on @blaiddraws Fulcrum AU. Albeit a slightly outdated version.

Unfortunately, it’s incomplete and I likely won’t return to it for two reasons: I wasn’t satisfied with how it was going in the first place, and my interpretation ended up diverging substantially from their canon. Maybe I’ll take another stab at it someday, but for now this is what I’ve got ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

---

It was important to note that they hadn’t always been Reshiram and Zekrom.

Certainly, they’d been the ‘Vessels of Truth and Ideals’ their entire lives, but it hadn’t meant anything until Team Plasma reared its head. Emmet got prickly about white lies. Ingo was sensitive to dark thoughts. That was that, and they dealt with it the way generations before them had.

But theirs was the first generation to see the dragons awake-- to understand why the title [bequeathed] to the Hero’s [surviving] line was ‘vessel’ rather than ‘emissary’. It had been a steep learning curve, but one of the qualities to look for in a conductor was the ability to keep a level head in times of crisis. All there was to say on the matter was that they’d gotten through it.

Nobody else had to know that Ingo spent several days a year brushing out his twin’s shed fur, or that, technically, Emmet’s clutter of Joltik served a medical purpose now, feeding off of the excess charge that thunderstorms built up beneath his brother’s scales. They’d long since gotten used to it all.

Which was why it took Emmet completely off-guard to wake up with a) his head pillowed on his arms and also b) fur.

That wasn’t right.

What the heck.

He was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything to make that happen… unless Ingo had been telling the truth when he claimed [spoiling a Pokemon] had been Emmet sleepwalking. At the time, it had the subtle bite of a lie made in jest, but in hindsight, Emmet couldn’t help but wonder. He looked around the apartment, just in case, but everything was exactly the way he’d left it before his nap.

Slowly, over the course of the afternoon, he came to the conclusion that it must have been his brother’s fault. Emmet had been asleep, and all of the evidence suggested he’d stayed put the entire time, which meant he had an alibi. The only logical answer was that his twin had royally screwed up somewhere over the course of his errands; impressive as the [end results] were, Ingo was in for it once Emmet furreted out the exact nature of the [incident].

He didn’t spare a thought as to why he’d also been affected, so far away from the inciting incident. It was just common sense. They triggered subtle changes in themselves-- and, therefore, one another-- at least once a week out of excitement alone. Just Tuesday, he’d had to pat his budding muzzle down in the face of [idk], and looked over to find scandalized eyes peering out at him from behind the edge of a collar.

So, while Emmet couldn’t help but wonder, he had an idea what might have happened.

His money was on [idk].

Emmet’s claws slipped against his Xtransceiver’s casing, and he let it clatter to the table. Navigating its functions had been far more difficult than it had any right to be, and Ingo hadn’t even bothered to answer for his crimes once Emmet got the hang of it. Maybe he had his on silent. It would make sense-- while Emmet was here at home, stuck between forms, Ingo would be in a trickier situation out there in public. Hopefully he’d been out of the way when it happened.

He tried smoothing his fur down, hoping that the self-soothing might remedy the situation, but found no such luck-- despite himself, the fur along his neck bristled, undoing any [effect] the ministrations might have wrought.

And, as the hours passed, the inability to keep his fur flat turned into an anxious burn at the back of his throat. He all but pounced on his Xtransceiver when it finally rang.

Fumbling in his haste, he managed to pick up on the third ring-- after accidentally rejecting some manner of notification-- and immediately asked “What did you do?”

There was a long silence on the other end-- an oddity for his sibling-- and, impatient, he broke it.

“Ingo. What happened.”

A polite cough sounded, and then he was answered by a woman’s voice, “Out of an abundance of caution, can I ask who I’m speaking with?”

“I am Emmet,” He said automatically, before his brain caught up to what he was hearing; once it did, though, he found himself baring his teeth at the interloper. He glanced down at the Xtransceiver properly this time-- belatedly realizing he’d actually disabled video calls a moment prior-- to confirm the contact. Sure enough, it wasn’t a string of random numbers, but the single triangle he’d programmed in all those years ago. “That is not yours. Who are you?”

And that was how Emmet was introduced to the fact that Ingo was missing-- pokeballs and Xtransceiver left scattered in a side street for a random passerby to discover.

The question of what had happened redoubled in his mind, and he couldn’t go out and find answers, not like this. He couldn’t even visit the precinct to recover Chandelure and Garbodor. The thought smoldered, just as [keen] as the tension igniting on his palate.

He was only just recognizing the gaping void at his back, and he knew without further question that his current state hadn’t been a matter of harmless excitement. Something had happened to his brother, and he had slept through it. His twin was gone and he hadn’t noticed.

Furious with himself, but unable to lose any more family, Emmet’s shaking claws selected his next contact.

---

Elesa was worried, and it had only intensified the more she got involved. The first clue had been Emmet’s refusal to turn video calls on when he’d contacted her, forcing her to interpret his [anxiety] through the lens of word choice and sentence structure. It got substantially worse when she reached the eastern precinct and realized that Chandelure and Garbodor were actually secure in their pokeballs.

When she’d been asked to pick them up, she’d half expected them loose, separated from their trainer by a series of unavoidable coincidences, and finding that it wasn’t the case sent a spike of trepidation through her. The feeling solidified into dread as she was informed that, “The Xtransceiver is still considered evidence, so unfortunately I can’t return it to you.”

She’d nodded, lost and numb, as the officer continued on, explaining what Pokemon they were bringing out and the process for psychic tracking in missing persons cases.

It didn’t make sense; she’d seen Ingo just that morning. They’d chatted briefly about [idk] before getting their respective drink orders and splitting off for the day. That was only a few hours ago-- there was no way he could have vanished in that amount of time, was there?

Distantly, she recognized that Emmet hadn’t breathed a word about this, that he hadn’t already been there, which meant he didn’t know. If the officer had told him about Chandelure and Garbodor, why had she left the investigation out? Did it mean Elesa had to be the one to break the news?

One trembling hand tightened around Chandelure’s pokeball as she scaled the last set of stairs leading to the twins’ apartment, and she came to the [idk] conclusion that she didn’t know. She didn’t know how to even approach the subject. She didn’t know if she could get the words out.

For all of the fear already swirling in her, a new sour tinge was introduced as she knocked without an immediate answer.

“Emmet?” She called [feebly], trying again, and [idk] at the hesitant response that met her. “I have Chandelure and Garbodor. L-listen, there’s--”

“Something you should know.” Came muffled through the door, and she could’ve cried in relief if it hadn’t been for the anger that twisted into the [idk] of emotion settled in her core. He’d known? And he hadn’t told her?

He said something else, but she missed it, too consumed with the extremes warring for dominance-- and when the door clicked open, she didn’t wait. She barged in and rounded on her friend, unsure what exactly she was going to say, but knowing she had to get it out before it exploded in her chest. In the end, neither of those things happened. She ended up staring, lips parted in silent [?], as she tried to parse the sight in front of her.

“Yes. Well.” Said what was either Emmet or Reshiram, looking awkwardly to the side as he pushed the door shut and spent a few seconds longer than strictly necessary locking it.

Elesa released the death grip she had on the two pokeballs and transferred Chandelure’s to her opposite hand, gesturing wordlessly toward the humanoid mass of white fluff.

“This is what I need to speak with you about.”

Caught between such sentiments as ‘what the hell, dude’ and ‘what happened to you’, the only syllable to escape Elesa was a dumbfounded, “What.”

Emmet ignored it entirely in favor of taking Chandelure and Garbodor back; the latter he released without hesitation, but the former he rolled gently between his palms, expression calculating. Eventually, he sighed and stilled his hands, wrapping them gently around the capsule.

Garbodor, Elesa couldn’t help but notice, afforded him a brief, albeit confused, look and warbled [idk]. It was answered by a hushed, “I am fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

The poison type tapped her fingers together as she scanned the room, and crooned again.

“I am… uncertain. Not here.”

Aside from the initial once-over, there hadn’t been any shock or hesitation in Garbodor’s response; more to the point, that had been a direct response to an entirely incomprehensible question.

“Did you understand that?” Elesa asked, momentarily distracted from her [distress] by the sheer absurdity of what was going on before her.

Emmet hummed a mild affirmative and went back to staring at Chandelure’s pokeball, eager to keep his eyes on something that wasn’t staring back, “Yep. That is not new. We have understood them for several years.”

Helpless to formulate another response, Elesa fell back on her earlier [idk] of, “What?”

[…]

“I have been like this all afternoon. I have been Reshiram for a substantially longer time.”

---

Emmet was well aware that some history lived on only through folklore passed down in families. Much of their own [family’s] [lore] was oral tradition, told time and time again until each generation could recite it word for word, neither truth nor ideal warping with the passing of time; somehow, though, it had never occurred to him that he might find his answers in the meticulously curated history of a private practice.

The exact path he took to reach the terminal was a long and convoluted one, but half of pursuing truth was the refusal to back down and, ultimately, his determination landed him at the doorstep of the original Sinnohan settlers.

In this particular matter, his appearance only smoothed the way, and it wasn’t so much longer before he found himself handling the edges of a weathered photograph. Under different circumstances, the ancient Sneasel it depicted would have been an object of great fascination. For now, however, Emmet couldn’t care less. His eyes stayed affixed to the figure beside it, gauging the contrast between crisp black scales and dark, worn fabric.

Even beneath the veneer of Zekrom, Ingo looked incredibly tired.

It was both a relief and a[n ?] to finally have confirmation that his brother had been affected just as he had. [Relief] in that he wasn’t alone in this, that he wouldn’t be the sole reason they couldn’t match-- but [?] for how Ingo might have been received because of it. He’d been lucky enough to remain in Unova, where people already recognized and trusted him-- or at least his skill, and the [idk] that Reshiram represented. It was difficult to imagine starting anew without so much as a human face.

[...]

The Gliscor, however, was a surprise. Excadrill, Haxorus, Crustle and Archeops had been their friends since childhood-- well before the both of them inherited the dragons’ type vulnerabilities-- and had long since earned their trust. Gigalith had been a somewhat more recent acquisition, but knowing the circumstances meant that they could impress upon it how imperative it was to [idk]. As much as the Pokemon played into their little game of Collateral Damage Earthquake, they took great pains to ensure nobody was actually hurt.

Undoubtedly, the Gliscor would also be trained to his brother’s exacting standards, but paranoia pinged at Emmet regardless. The Clan’s stories implied that Ingo’s memory was woefully incomplete. How much did he understand about himself? Did he know the threat an untrained Mud-Bomb posed to him? It was common sense that you wanted to avoid being hit with a move, if at all possible, but knowing the stakes was an important part of [???]. Despite the perks of this in-between state, they lacked the null typing of other humans and the resilience of natural-born Pokemon, which made super effective moves a threat worth paying attention to.

---

At this altitude, the Coronet Highlands weren’t blanketed in snow, but it was a very near thing. The mountain, not so far off, was draped in a mantle of white, and the chill resounded, even through Emmet’s fur. Occasionally a few flakes would fall from the cloud cover above, melting as soon as they landed on his person, but even when the icy water managed to seep down through his undercoat, it barely warranted a twitch of the nose. Cold only went skin deep when one was a fire type.

He huffed in irritation, exhaling a [cloud] of steam as [idk], and tried not to focus on the matter of type advantages; it had been bad enough slogging through the [idk] of the Alabaster Icelands, imagining what the trip might have been like without an internal pilot light to burn away the worst of it. Though lacking any true resistance, he’d been able to endure. He didn’t need to dwell on how it might have felt with a full-blown vulnerability.

The Highlands were better, at least. Still cold. Still overcast. Honestly, now that Emmet was here to judge the circumstance himself, he surprised to hear how active his twin had been according to the folklore. Between the cold and the lack of sunlight, any self-respecting, non-fire-type dragon would be three paces away from hibernation. There had been Nimbasan winters where Emmet had been on constant [idk] duty just to chase off the threat of torpor, and those days were mild in comparison.

Silently, he resolved to [reclaim] the [duty? Responsibility?] once he tracked Ingo down. He didn’t care how ridiculous it looked, he was going to drape himself over his brother either until the scales radiated his own warmth back at him, or something physically pried him off. It was entirely possible that both conditions would need to be met before considered it.

[...]

Despite being a single vocalization, there were layers to the word, leaving him uncertain what he really heard.

“...Emmet?”

“...Reshiram?”

When it came down to it, it didn’t matter which one was uttered to the world at large. The underlying message was there, and it was… so much more than Emmet could have hoped for. Ingo had never seen him like this, and had no memory of him from before, but something still shone through. Truth, perhaps, stoked by its avatar’s presence? Or maybe Ideals, finally cracking the ice?

“I am both! Yep!”

[...]

While there was a beat of confusion, it was very much not hesitation, and he automatically moved to accommodate. It was one thing to have his other half again, to finally see that aching void stitched shut. It was something else entirely to hold his brother for the first time in years. There was no doubt which took precedence-- because yes, he was Reshiram now, but he’d been Emmet first.

[...]

“You’re so warm.” He said with a strange intensity, like the concept had never occurred to him before.

[...]

He would grant the Pearl Clan this much: they had certainly tried to combat the cold on Ingo’s behalf. The tunic was thicker than he’d given it credit for-- better at retaining heat-- and someone had gone to the trouble of tailoring it to accommodate wings without leaving it open to the elements. Between that effort, the much-abused greatcoat, and what he could spot of the long sleeved undershirt, it was a decent layer of protection. Not nearly enough, but likely the best they could have done under the circumstances.

---

“Ah,” He said in a voice so small Emmet almost didn’t recognize it as being Ingo’s, “Then our current state is my fault. I’m… very sorry to have caused the [trouble/inconvenience].”

Emmet stared at him for several seconds, and then grabbed him by the face, just to drive home how seriously he was taking this. “Do not apologize. It happened because you refused to be taken without a fight. Even if it was unable to prevent [idk] in that moment, it was a worthy ideal.”

[littlefreya]

Prince Of Darkness

Summary: There'll be no escape tonight, the devil always gets what he desires.

Pairing: Devil!August Walker x Unnamed OFC (3rd person pov)

Word count: 6k

Warnings: 18+, DARK! NonCon, kidnapping, stalking, breeding, exhibitionism, loss of virginity, supernatural stuff, sex in a cathedral, mention of heaven and hell. Please proceed with caution. 

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

A/N: I have put a lot of effort into this story, and I’m really anxious af. We all like to see August as a demon, but I decided to go all the way... And I’m nervous at your response and going to die after hitting submit. So bye.

Many thanks to the love of my life @agniavateira​, for support, brainstorm and beta. And to @crimsonrae​ and @wondersofdreaming​ who held my hand. 

Please give feedback and reblog if you enjoyed my work. 🖤

Title: Prince of Darkness

Blood painted the streets, courtesy of the blinding scarlet lights that danced upon gravel and tar before dwindling into darkness. The soft, beaming glow pulsed with the muffled beats of a monotonous song that played inside the luxurious nightclub. Like thundering war drums, it rumbled in the ears of the elegant man who stood along the shadows. 

Leaning against the cement, he took a sip from a glass of spiced Bordeaux and brushed an index finger over his thick moustache to wipe away misguided droplets of wine. 

‘How could anyone enjoy this abomination?’ He wondered with a guttural groan, never quite grasping this electronic noise thing; but then again August was older than this music, and his tastes far exceeded cheap and trivial antics. He was a man driven by the appetite for destruction and forbidden delights, and tonight, he was finally about to obtain both. After decades of anticipation, the succulent fruit was ready to be plucked. 

Oh, what an intoxicating and delicious mist his unsuspecting beloved emanated, setting his heart aflame with her sheer ripeness.  

‘It’s been so long, so painfully long.’ 

Time had lost its meaning as he waited, curving and swerving into a stream of an infinite river flowing with decay and death. 

But as the old saying went: all haste comes from the devil. 

So the man lingered against the wall, a sparkle enkindled and crackled in his eyes, morphing into black wells whilst the waves of her honey-liqueured ambrosia grew pungent, seeping through his airways and sinking in his throat. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly, revelling in the sound of harsh tapping heels that echoed louder with every step until she came summoned into the naked wilderness of the city street. 

‘Beautiful and innocent as the garden of Eden. Of course, of course...’

The stranger scrutinised the young woman with another sip from his wine and a bite of great intrigue - but stoicism and silence, for now, were his most valuable allies. 

Clad in a lithe black dress and a stylish leather jacket to keep herself warm from the chill autumn breeze, she fished for the mobile device in her purse while distress washed her wrinkling brow. Illuminated by the bright screen, her face sulked as for the seventh time in the last 30 minutes, her attempt to find an Uber bore no success whatsoever. 

Was there something about tonight that all drivers were kept occupied, or had her luck simply run dry? 

Showing her face to the moonlit sky, she sighed in great frustration. This must have been fate’s retribution to a mindless bad decision; she should have left with her friends, but staying alone to fruitlessly catch the eye of the uncaring bartender seemed more significant as the buzz of alcohol dimmed any ray of logic. Now deep into the night, walking home alone didn’t appear to be the most sympathetic solution, yet it occurred to her that there wasn’t much of choice.  

“You seem distressed.” 

Equal to a dark chant sputtering words of witchcraft, the low yet incredibly soft baritone of his voice slithered from the corner and crept down her spine with icy scales. A lurching hollow flared within her gut, her neck seized by the tight grip of a serpentine phantom. 

His vibrato sounded like a voice that called her through a dream she never had before; despite the unsettling arctic spasm gyrating through her shaky limbs, it lured her to return a stare and meet the cryptic face behind the seducing chant. 

Two sharp glaciers glimmered at her as the stranger sauntered into the penumbra, momentarily lit by another flash of neon red that broke onto his face and highlighted his ethereal features. Her lips drew open, her nipples hardening against the fabric of her dress as a shiver ran through her. To say that the stranger was handsome would be an understatement, as it almost seemed as if he was ‘designed’ by a sculptor - carved cheeks led a path to slightly pouted lips, and a stark, dimpled chin was shadowed by dark stubble. His chocolate-brown hair was elegantly combed to the side, with a couple of large lustrous locks gently nestling over his brow.

Though it wasn’t his good looks that left her riddled with prickly goosebumps, but the unprecedented magnetic haul that made her feel as if she was physically drawn toward this mysterious man. 

Frightened by the unbidden reaction of her own body, she quickly retreated to gawk at the phone and provided no answer to his inquiry. A strange yearning to submit grew between her clenching thighs, a primal response to his striking looks and charms. 

But she killed the seed before it set roots in her flesh. 

‘They said Ted Bundy was charming as well…’ she mused. Frivolous as she wanted to be, getting murdered was undoubtedly not among her plans tonight. 

Revelling in her silent reply with an arched brow, he tilted his head when a blinding flicker abruptly caught his keen eye. Kissed by the pale moonlight’s beam, a small silver cross rested upon her collarbone. His sharp fangs begged to peek with sardonic amusement, but he kept his lips clamped, not wishing to scare her too soon. 

There was to be plenty of that later...

“May I offer you my help, sweetling?”

Threading his long fingers between the smooth stem and clasping them around the bowl, he lowered the glass to the side of his hip, dragging the girl’s unwilling eye to the healthy bulge in his groin. 

Her lips drew open as a surge of staggering heat flushed at her apex. 

It seemed enormous... 

“Name’s August, like the emperor, but you can call me whatever your heart desires...”

Embers burnt at her cheeks; in her belly, the odd mystical calling continued weaving at her core in an urge to accept whatever it was he had to offer. Her eyes warred to tear her gaze away from his nether region as her lashes fluttered to meet the abysmal glance that bestowed both frost and fire through her tendons. 

There was something archaically familiar about this man as if she knew him before the days had names. Yet she swore, it was the first time she ever saw his striking face. 

“I can take you wherever you need to go.” 

Breath laced with wine titillated her nostrils as the words spilt from his lips, whilst another crimson ray broke upon the marble of his face. Never had he urged, but instead suggested with a tongue soaked with honey. Still, a blazing aura of danger encircled him. And even though the very natural fear of walking home alone grappled her, it still seemed like a much better plan than entrusting her life to a stranger who was twice her size. 

Deciding to keep her tongue knotted, she turned and began striding away. ‘Best not to engage him,’ she thought, but once she moved past his bulky figure, her heart suddenly picked up its pace and her legs refused to function as if they no longer belonged to her. 

Seconds stretched into eternity. The thought that this civilised savage will assail her and drag her into the night scratched at the back of her head. But the worst of it was the simmering throb. Unforgiving, like gathering storm clouds, it thundered the closer she walked by him and then gradually died out as she finally managed to move away and free herself from this invisible bond. 

Savouring the final drop of wine, August watched amused as the frightened little lamb quickly oscillated on her feet, scampering into the horrors offered by the dark. It was funny how fear made animals act so heedlessly and rush straight into the burning heart of peril. 

A toothy grin peaked his chiselled cheeks. Always the gentleman, he shifted from the concrete, discarding the glass carelessly to shatter on the sidewalk. His sinew stretched in a relaxed ripple of an apex predator before he straightened both vest and jacket and stroked his thick moustache. 

Though her heavenly fragrance still soaked the air, the girl was already gone from normal eyesight. It was a pity to see her leave, yet there was no need for him to rush.

There was never really a choice for her. 

Strangely, the night kept growing unnaturally darker. A great ocean of blackness and crystalised stars spread from above, casting looming shadows across the tall buildings that resembled a maw filled with rotten teeth. The tepid wind that blew between the vast concrete monoliths was nothing but the breath of a mythical beast intoning her name through the shadows.

Clawing at her forearms, she meandered through the inert street with a wary eye. Desolate neon signs flickered hauntingly, bequeathing a vibrant beacon of dread over the shimmering, onyx road. Not a living soul was in sight as if the world descended into stillness, dominated by an eerie, dead silence save for the harsh echo of her hasty heels. And yet, the long path felt anything but lifeless. With every step landed on the ground, she could sense the movement beneath the surface: swarming vile things, slippery and scaled. Unseen by the human eye, they hissed dirty little secrets and slithered with sinister hunger, drizzling down their fangs. 

‘You can already feel me inside you, can’t you sweetling…’ Remaining hidden, he had to admit that watching the little lamb leap shivering into the slaughter has been somewhat of foreplay.

A veil of fumes emitted from her parted lips. The air became colder, summoning a terrifying truth that made her lungs clench around the black void that abruptly filled them with the notion that maybe... maybe… that chill, liquid-like thing that threatened to touch her ankle wasn’t just in her crazy imagination.

There was something out there, something undeniably familiar. This unusual gust of wind brushing at her nape has accompanied her since she could remember herself, an unsettling breeze bidding that evil lurked between the creases, holding its sinewy fingers clasped together while waiting for her to answer his hushed calling.

‘And once you finally answer, there is no turning back…’ 

Fear gnawed its frosty fangs at her bones, puncturing tiny painful cavities that were needles in her flesh. Tonight, of all nights, the same hazy feeling became stronger than ever before. Deep inside, she knew she would meet her end. Pressing the oily pads of her fingers at the sharp corners of her pendant, she inhaled and chanted a prayer, refusing to succumb to the noxious malice when a frozen pin pierced her heart.

Like the lark calling on the dawn, an unbidden chant carried her name.

Drenched with frigid sweat, she exhumed a shuddering breath, praying to God that it was only her imagination playing tricks on her ears. 

‘The greatest trick he ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.’

Indeed in the darkness, leered the beast. All teeth and malicious glee, August moved from one shadow to another, feasting on the aphrodisiac that was the mixture of her harrowing terror and unveiled desire. If only she knew the trail her scent left for him to follow - he could smell her from miles away. 

The little flower between her legs began blooming the moment their entities finally encountered one another, and it was his ancient name her dew had dripped for.  

‘My sweet little thing, tonight I will finally grant you a purpose...’ 

Like a hound awakened from a deep slumber, he flexed his bulging muscles and tailed her in utter silence. The same spell that burnt in her core seethed the blood gathering in his ardent loins. Since the dawn of humankind, he had more women than any other man on this earth, yet none has evoked such hunger in him. 

He would have eaten her alive and torn her to shreds if only he didn't have bigger plans for her.

Still hidden by the unnatural night, August stalked from behind, the blaze of his enkindling burn licking her path as he crept further to ensnare his prey. He wished she could see herself through his own flaring glance, how beautiful she was with tears of despair rolling down the tender slope of her cheeks. 

His beloved girl; his, by ancient law. Spirited as a rageful tempest, she insisted on escaping her prophesied fate. Muscles and bones strove against the panic that turned her boiling blood frigid. But no power, physical nor divine could revoke this otherworldly attraction that bound her to him. His bidding could never be undone and as much as his blood relished from the thrill of the chase, it was time to put an end to this dance and seal their union. 

Appearing from a stygian haze of a spectral nightmare, the beast drew his claw to grasp the fleeting girl’s shoulder.

The world froze along with the scream that died in her throat. Cold, slippery wet, the phantom serpents slinked around her ankles and held on to the ground as the thing behind her bit his nails into her collarbone. His touch was no ghost, but as real as the quiet moon that voyeured her fate from above and did nothing. A wretched gasp of anguish shuddered through her airways as his fingers stalked forth to cinch at her neck. 

His grip was tighter than the icy finger of death, yet its caress was the sensual lick of a gossamer tongue. 

It was almost as if he worshipped her. 

Shadows befell her as the assailant leaned close, wafting a mist of intoxicating fumes scented of poisonous elixirs and an ancient forest that laid deep between the veils of the underworld, hiding forbidden mysteries that none dared speak of. Seeping through her orifices, it stung her eyes and raked remorseful tears. 

“Please…” she broke into sobs, shaking her head at the dawning of her fate.

The man inhaled deeply. Though she could not see him, the joyful malice that danced on his pleased breath roared in her ears.

“Do not fear me.” The sonorous rumble caressing her ear was hardly a surprise in its familiarity.  It was him, the handsome bewhiskered gentleman from earlier. But of course, it was always him: the whisper in the dark, the slithering things moving beneath the tepid ground, and the smell of burning pyres. 

But who the hell was he?!

As if he read her mind, his hand twisted around her nape and with a careful sway, turned her to face him. The voice inside her head warned her over and over again not to look at him; yet the temptation was too great, peeling her eyes open to stare at the thing that made her heart drop to her gut.

Vast, raven wings spread from each side of an Adonis figure, their intimidating length denying her widened eyes to look at anything but the dark god that soared tall in front her. No, not a god, a devil. A pair of small golden horns peeked from the mane of long curls, and the heavenly icy gaze she remembered from earlier had melted into an abysmal lake of fire.

He was beautiful.

He was monstrous.

And just like that, she descended from the earth, swept into a thick swamp of darkness that swallowed her whole. Never letting so much as her feet kiss the ground, August scooped her into his strong arms. Peering down upon her, he broke into a delightful grin, already enamoured with his delicate new bride. The pang of lust tingled in his groin, though despite the raging need to claim her now, it was her screams he desired more than all as he would consummate their eternal marriage. 

Wicked tongues of fire licked up the shallow air, casting a faint amber glow into the abominable sombre of a vanishing nightmare. Shy as feral nymphs, the bursting sparks ascended melancholily, whispering tales of perishing days that fell to harmony with a strange mumbling chant. Still locked in a void of unconsciousness, the fallen girl shifted with disquiet, her hands restlessly clutching at a virginal silk gown that covered her body. 

Vaguely remembering a horrifying dream of a demonic entity, she woke with a sudden electric jitter. A peal of breathless pants pushed through her heaving chest before she slumped into the intense relief one experiences from a brush with either death or a ghastly fantasy. 

“Thank God…” she whispered with a fist pressed to her breast.

Yet, something was amiss. The low vocal melody continued despite her state of clarity, tangled with the eerie presence of a hundred cutting glares that stabbed her crawling spine. Slowly and carefully, she lifted her head and scanned her surroundings. 

The blood drained from her face.

Swaying like shadowy wraiths stood men cloaked in black velvet hoods. Tears of milky boiling wax trickled from the candles held by their stringy fingers, yet they didn’t seem to flinch as the burning rivulets seared their flesh. Their hollow eyes were fixated upon her while words of a dark sacrament sputtered from their lips and reverberated through the endless archways and ribbed vaults that towered above them. 

Her trembling muscles were briskly stifled under the unsettling realisation of her whereabouts - a cathedral, a thousand years old if not more. Burning torches lit crumbling pillars and statues of monstrous winged creatures that encircled them from every niche, their malicious shadows dancing upon dusty obsidian bricks. Unglazed windows were barred by black iron, the beautiful floral shapes preventing any means of escape. 

Only the fractured ceiling held a cheap shred of hope, as a vast rupture of broken stone exposed her to the scarred carmine wolf-moon.

If only she had wings…

Bones rattling beneath her crawling flesh, she sat upon the hard surface with wells of despair. Her hands clutched around the edge of the bed, only to be kissed by the sharp corners that pierced the delicate flesh. Hissing with pain, she lifted her arms and stared below at what appeared to be a midnight-black marble creased with golden veins and saplings-like patterns. 

It was beautiful, just like the creamy gown that covered her body.  

“Do you like it, bride?” 

Rising from the crowd like a flame among charred coals, appeared her handsome abductor. Suitable to a true evil prince, a long red cloak enrobed his broad, sturdy form, the velvet hem trailing behind him like a thick river of blood while he marched forward with no haste in his dauntless mien. Human once again, August offered the most endearing grin; two profound dimples embellished his scruffy cheeks, and his eyes shone brighter than a frozen sea. 

Yet in her sullen gaze, he was nothing but a monster.

Abruptly enraged and driven by pure instinct, she jumped off the marble and paced backwards. Tears of anger and fright rimmed her swollen lids and her bare feet nearly collided as she shook her head at August who was neither impressed nor concerned by this foolish protest. 

“You stay the fuck away from me!!!” She warned with a scream and hastily turned away. 

Lost in some trance, the praying mob never stirred, granting the girl a fair chance to escape the bewhiskered man who was still several strides away. Her feeble legs made three to four steps when her muscles swiftly turned to stone, and her stomach lurched. 

‘No! It couldn’t be! How?!’

Curls shining like precious coils of onyx, August emerged in front of her, continuing his relaxed gait as if this was a natural occurrence. His bright icicles melted into malicious dark pools of twisted desire, and his tongue briefly laved his plump lips at the sight of pure disbelief that cascaded over her face. He could feel right under her skin, hear the thrumming heart that both chilled and fumed for him. Further beyond her thoughts, his betrothed yearned to be defiled and torn open by him. 

It was her destiny, whether she liked it or not. 

Still she fought, so ferocious and defiant, flinching away from his attempts to seize her. It was almost comical to watch her deny him, knowing that her fate would be no different; she will spread her legs and submit to his conquest. And yet, her battle was immensely appealing; what better bride to the dark lord than a woman who breathed fire.

“Who are you?!” She cried, her trembling voice rising with panic and her cheeks soaking with tears, “What do you want from me?!”

August's face was devoid of mercy, her whimpering hisses did nothing to deter him and only further increased the appetite of the deprived wolf that circled in his gut. With a wring of his wrist, his fingers snapped at her elbow, hauling her against his rock-hard chest with such might her heels hovered above the ground. 

Writhing in his grip she flung her hands at his face, clawing streams of crimson to trickle down his cheeks. The notion of hurting this vicious man brought somewhat of a sick joy; but her onslaught died at once, and her mouth fell agape as his skin healed with not even a trace of injury. 

“Oh God, what are you?!” She shuddered. 

Still holding her elbow hostage, his free hand travelled to the hem of the white gown, the long, perverted fingers twisting around the fabric before yanking it off at once. A resounding rip echoed through the tall arches, causing the chanting choir to halt their susurrations at once. 

All eyes were afloat as the cold air kissed her skin. In vain, she attempted to cover herself only to be felled by the restraints of August’s grasp. 

“God?...” The man finally spoke, his melodic voice ending with a sonorous hum that sprouted through her arteries like a deadly toxin. Not less poisonous, his gaze trailed down her form, worshipping the very sights of his delightful prize. 

“Not God, but once I was an angel,” he suggested and leaned down to inhale her skin with a gratified growl before he flicked his wide tongue at her chest.

A groan of approval emitted from his lips, the sheer coat of sweat that layered her bosom was soaked of freshly brewed fear, his most favourite savour. His wet, velvety snake swept the sweet-briny wetness and licked further down her breasts, twirling around the erect nipple.

Unintended, she moaned. A river of delights rushed between her grinding thighs.

“No!”

Wrongful, unwanted bliss awoke in her. She felt desecrated and allured at once. Her fickle body deceived, mistaking this vile conquest as consensual. And the more August took, the more she desired; her dutiful womb demanded to consummate this bond, almost as if the beast had bewitched her a long while ago, embedding his essence in the marrow of her bones. 

August grinned against her skin, the scent of her arousal fresh in his nose while his lips travelled to kiss down her sternum and the slope of her torso. His thick whiskers left a trail of fluttering butterflies.

“Have sympathy, my love. I had built my own realm and waited in the forlorn abyss. Empires fell and worlds disintegrated into ashes while I waited for thou,” he explained and clutched the cheek of her behind in his claw, squeezing it possessively. “I have longed for your touch since the day your ancestor promised you to me, little lamb. A hundred years’ worth of waiting for the bargain to reach its end, and for you to finally be ripe.” 

The beast pressed one last languid kiss below her navel, a guttural hum exuded in between his lips, huffing hot against her belly. Slowly he rose to his full height, towering above his helpless victim who hugged her arms to cover her naked body and watched her nightmare unfold once more. Cold wind chilled her damp cheeks as August flung the blood-red cloak and exposed his naked figure before her.  

He was massive, a masculine build fit for a warrior angel, covered with thick bulging muscles and dark hair. Lips parted, she forgot herself, gawking in awe and allowing her gaze to trail down to his unapologetically monstrous cock. Firm and throbbing, it dripped with hunger, urging to find release inside her clenching cavern.

She didn’t even know a man could be this vast, but alas, he was no man at all.

It was at that moment when blackest wings spread before her that realisation finally struck through like a blunt hammer to the back of her head. Covering her mouth she cowered away, her exposed back hitting the raised altar behind her. 

August was no man nor god, but Lucifer himself. 

Seeing the hope die in her eyes, the devil sneered. 

“No, no, no! This can’t be real! This isn’t real!!!” She yelled, pathetic little hiccups sputtering from her lips.

August tilted his head, giving a scornful pout and scoffed with amusement. “Am I not?” He asked as he lifted an arm to flick his fingers, summoning two of the hooded servants to approach the dais. Their eyes were soulless gems embedded to a grey face that was cracked like a broken eggshell. 

“I am real, beloved, as real as the child you will conceive me tonight.” 

Shrills of terror flew through the great hole in the ceiling. Kicking and screaming, she fought as the men seized her arms and dragged her to the altar, forcing her flat down and holding her arms to prevent her from escaping. They never blinked at the ferocious war she waged against them, though an impish smile slowly possessed their faces as their master strode forward. 

“Sweet little lamb,” August chanted, enamoured with his fiery bride while he sauntered by the edge of the altar. His Adonis body golden in the candlelight, his fingers squeezed and pumped the ravenous demon that hung heavy between his legs. The twinge in her womb rose in response, a low roar thrumming as it yearned to succumb to its unbridled purpose. Sheen, the arousal trickled between her kicking legs and onto the smooth stone, making her cheek flame.

Much to August’s pleasure. 

“Our son will burn this world to cinders,” he promised and snaked his fingers at her ankles. Calmly deflecting her attempts to kick against him, he dragged her toward him until her knees folded over the edge and spread between his thighs. The platform was in the perfect height, positioning her delicious Eden at the height of his blessed demon. 

“You will make an excellent mother.”

Her entire body shook, her cunt clenching along her sobs in both defence and beguiling need as August leaned in and grazed the silky pink crown between her wet petals. She begged he wouldn’t be able to invade her, but her prayers fell to deaf ears.    

“Please don’t do this to me! I will do anything… please!” She wailed a bargain, still trying to escape the servants’ grip and looking at him pleadingly, “I… I...haven’t been with a man!”

“Oh I know…” August beamed and stroked himself back and forth between her engorged lips. Vamping flames tingled at her flesh, her core foolishly squeezing around nothing in demand for this wretched monster to defile her.  

“You’ve kept yourself for me, didn't you? I have waited for you too, for centuries even, but now our waiting has ended, and I can finally love you.”

With one brutal thrust, he breached through the gates of her sacred haven, corrupting her purity and ripping her open with the elegance of a savage. 

Exasperated bats fluttered their wings over the red moon at the sound of her pained howl. Eyes flared to the bleak sky above; the girl watched them in a daze, disbelieving the blazing demon that scorched her from inside as he nestled himself between her resisting gates with no intention to cease. 

In his villainy, August pushed further. Stunned thunders of ecstasy erupted from his lips, all to humiliate her along with the dark minions who circled the altar to pervertedly witness this sacrilegious ritual in which their master ravaged the unwilling maiden. Ignoring her body’s vehement protest, he forced himself unfathomably deep, only stopping until the head of his cock kissed the gateway of her cervix.

Crystalised tears rolled down her temples and stained the cold marble beneath her body. Slit impossibly sore, she twitched and sobbed at the overwhelming feeling of being invaded by another entity. Her once protected realm was now under the domain of a ruthless prince, and he took no prisoners and granted no mercy nor care at her vain endeavours to push him out. 

He would never stop. He would have her again and again until her sacred little womb would be plentiful with his seed. 

“Tight,” he blurted out in a blissful huff and reached his talons to bite into her quaking thighs. Spreading her wider, he hooked his hands below her knees, moulding her into a vessel to be fulfilled. Arctic orbs glazed down her naked figure, his plump lips cooing at her aching whimpers. The taut and hairy muscles of his gut flexed as he carefully withdrew his vicious cock, coated in the crimson sorrow of her maidenhood.

Hollow pain throbbed in her empty cunt as he suddenly abandoned her. Distressed and overwhelmed, she hoped he would stay out, yet her traitorous body coveted his return in a false faith that it would ease the fervid twinge that soared to her belly and even burnt in her breasts.

It was far from true.

No less vigorous than before, August plunged back inside her, stretching her again, shaping her as his own as she yipped and struggled to escape. His head threw back with a roar of divine pleasure, feasting at the thrill of her dauntless veils wrapping around him like a succulent flower. For a moment there, he wondered who preyed on who. Her concupiscent little cove sucked him so wantonly it threatened to swallow his raging cock. 

‘But of course, every virgin is destined to become my whore.’

Hot and heavy, his shaft seized the void that had always been inside her, their heaving organs collided in euphoric bliss like two broken shards that were lost for decades and finally pieced back together. And even though she seared with every jerk or shift he made, the impassioned flames licked at the seams of her twitching cunt in waves of ache and foreign desperation. 

“No…” she whispered, shame singeing her throat as the little pesky sparks enkindled where the devil had violated her. Vision blurry, she gazed at him utterly mystified. Part of her warred to stoke the fire that screamed heresy, while the other begged to yield to her demise.   

As August pulled away again and thrust harder, a breathless moan tore from her lips.    

A cutting grin radiated onto his face. “It feels so good inside you,” he sang and slid one hand to stroke all the way down from her sweat-ridden thighs to her belly, feeling the movement of his cock with every push and shove. 

He was taunting her, yet she couldn’t care less. Over the cinders of pain and virtue, a garden began to bloom. With every abysmal stroke of his swelling shaft, she could feel green saplings and coy vines growing within her uterus—soft, beautiful tendrils stalked through her arteries, sprouted through her cove, and engulfed his swelling demon as well.

She was no longer burning but becoming alive. Pained cries suddenly evolved into asphyxiation of bliss. Beyond her realisation, she undulated her hips in the desire to endure each of his wet claiming thrusts. Her spine coiled against the surface, further allowing him easier passage to nourish the wilderness that continued spreading through her blood. 

Noticing the change in her, approving groans rumbled in his throat; his little bride was growing tighter around his demon, her quivering lips and fluttering lashes the image of true Elysium. It was not long before he would plant his seed in her fertile lush. Her cunt milked and suckled around him, demanding to be bred by the devil. 

“Yes, my love! Give in to me! Give in to your primal sin!” August urged, enhancing the rhythm until he was thrusting into her like a battering ram, the sinful elixir of their union smearing on his groin and dripping down her rump. “Descend with me!” 

In her delirium she witnessed magical nightshades and sinewy stalks growing amidst the gritty bricks, encompassing the ominous cathedral with bright colours. 

It was paradise on earth, given to her by the unearthly rapturous joy of having this demon violate her, slamming harder with growing frustration until his thick girth ripped through the last threads of her self-preservation and that which she tried so hard to deny erupted through her clenching core.

Euphoria. 

For a lingering moment, she had wings of her own, pale as precious pearls and lustrous stars. Tingling waves of ethereal white heat burst at her seams, purifying her as she flew above the cathedral, and watched their ungodly union from above. But her wings suddenly caught aflame and before she knew it, she crashed onto the earth with a secondary, more violent climax. 

The beast’s roars erupted into a brutal thunder, causing the sturdy pillars of the cathedral to quake and crack like thin glass. With all his might, he clutched her thighs and hauled her against him, slamming his swollen cock deep into her belly and releasing his smouldering, milky essence until it seeped from her sleek. August’s wings flew open as he found his own rapture, blazes following through and consuming the ancient hall. 

This was no longer a hallucination. 

This was Inferno.

Still radiating with orgasmic glow, she screamed horrified as everything around them vehemently burnt to coals. Even the soulless servants crumbled into dust, accepting their fate without so much of a yip. The fire raged and died within seconds, leaving nothing but broken pillars and ashen smoke.  

Shortly, the tepid air of night caressed her naked skin as they remained alone in the ruins of what was once an ominous cathedral. Still buried in her viscera, August broke into a low, stretching groan of relief which made her immediately return her eyes to him. Shame rose bitter in her throat and new fresh rivulets trickled on her cheeks.  

After all that he had done to her, she could see nothing in him but a beautiful monster.

“My beloved queen,” August keened to comfort her and moved his hand to tenderly stroke her lower belly. 

A toothy smile broke upon his face, his eyes gleaming with surprise as he felt the life that had already begun growing in her angelic fortress. A son, strong and glorious as his father. For the first time in his long existence, the devil was truly elated and he vowed in that moment that he would give her much, and much more. But first, she needed to be cared for. 

Her assaulted hole convulsed with pain as he pulled himself out, leaving a trail of creamy fluids to dribble at his departure. Sniffling and shaking, she watched him bemused, as he climbed onto the altar and moved to lie beside her. Though she no longer flinched as he touched her, what was the point of it anyway? He had already destroyed her and stolen her innocent soul.  

“You make me so happy, my beloved queen,” August had murmured as he gripped her jaw and pressed his lips to hers. His kiss claimed her breath, pillaging whatever left of her chastity and wit until she absentmindedly kissed back, forgetting herself as his tongue bested her will. 

When he broke away, the taste of spiced ruby wine and blood lingered in her mouth. 

“An eternity awaits us,” the devil explained as he pecked her nose and her forehead lovingly, to which she shivered - out of fright or out of want, she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“You had made me the happiest, now give me the chance to grant the same favour, ask for anything you want in the world and it shall be yours,” he begged and wrapped her in the shelter of his strong arms to lie down with him on the smooth stone surface.

Absentmindedly, she welcomed the protection offered from his embrace and stared silently as flakes of cement broke from the remnants of the wall floated in the air around her before she opened her mouth. 

“I wish for…” 

Her whisper faded into the dark.

*Disclaimer: I do not own Mission Impossible or August Walker

Beautiful dividers by @firefly-graphics​