#mendacious visage

[eghostsofdeadchildren]

Mendacious Visage.

[telvess]

Record of Ragnarok, Hades x Persephone!Reader

Sorry for delay, but my writer's block came back.

*SWF*

— Mother, are you sure it’s wise for me to accompany you? — you looked at yourself in the mirror. Your mother chose a modest toga for you that completely covered your shoulders and neckline and was long enough that nobody could even see your toes — I can wait for you here. Your eyes met your mother's in the reflection of the mirror. Her grim visage was present - cold, distant, severe, just like winter. So different from the mendacious one that’s she usually portrayed. — You’re safest by my side — her voice reminded you of the sound of a branch breaking. Demeter wore a simple black robe, her brown hair was braided. She got walked up to you, stood right behind you and watched your reflection in the mirror with cold eyes. The cold she emanated sent an unpleasant shiver down your spine. — Stay within my arm's reach, or at worst within my sight — she instructed — Come now, child — she took your hand and led you towards the doors.

You just needed to pass the bifröst and your mother would never find you again. The only way to achieve this was to make your disappearance seem like an accident. That would take away any suspicions and give just enough time to escape. After Gigantomachy, the Greek gods had much to celebrate and much more to discuss. Even if your mother didn’t take part in the war, she still was excepted at this huge event. Such an opportunity for you may never come again. But before, you had to pretend to be an obedient daughter who was brainwashed by your mother to the point where you couldn’t imagine life without her. So you did what she said - you stayed by her side throughout the entire event, you didn't participate in any conversations, you didn't pay attention to anything - and you looked as uncomfortable as you could in the presence of strangers. On the last day of the event, Demeter seemed contented, even in her grumpy mood. That’s why when Hera asked for her, she didn't look at you once. — Stay here — she commanded. You watched her approach Hera surrounded by nymphs. They exchanged greetings and then your mother checked you out for the first time. Shortly thereafter, it happened a second time. She lasted over a minute without paranoia taking over. You sat still like a sculpture. Only your heart was betraying you, but Demeter couldn’t hear it. She checked you out a third time, and then fourth almost immediately after. Now, you ordered yourself and with wildly beating heart, you joined the passing group. You tried to move as fast as you could, but your long toga prevented you from doing so. You lifted up your dress, hearing in mind your mother sucking air through his teeth at that shameless act. You were passing other gods and goddesses, nymphs and elves. With a few exceptions, you didn’t recognize anyone. You gritted your teeth, feeling anger rising in your chest. You were so old yet you didn’t even know people in your on pantheon. That conclusion gave you even more motivation to speed up. The others gave you looks of surprise or annoyance, but you were too focused on finding a way out to care. Once you were outside, the fresh air cooled you down. You took a deep breath and smiled. The prospect of freedom together with a thrill provided emotions you had never experienced before. The dark sky was full of stars. Everyone was inside at that moment, so the path to the carriage was clear, but just in case, you walked hidden in the shadows so that no one could see you from the balconies. Each carriage was specially marked, every god had different preferences. Once you spotted the right one, you sneaked right under the coachman's nose and hid in the storage, where they kept luggage case. It was big enough for you to fit, full of someone’s clothes. Now it was time for the hardest part: waiting. Your mother was probably looking for you and pulling her hair out at this point. You knew how cunning she was - you took after her - and you couldn’t help but let your worries grow. What if you never actually outwitted her? What if she knew about your little plan all along? What if she suspected something and just let you have a this luttle illusion of freedom, just to rip this apart a few minutes later?

You didn't know how long you had been hiding at that point. It felt like it lasted for about an hour as your numb body slowly began to ache from lying in the uncomfortable position. You heard voices from time to time, and they grew louder over time as more and more gods began to leave the event for their palaces. Did your mother keep your disappearance a secret? You expected much bigger fuss, and hoped that her uncontrollable rage would get her into trouble… The sigh escaped your lips as the carriage shook and moved. Was this really happening? You didn’t want to jinx it, but the fire of happiness lit in your chest. Please, don’t stop, please, don’t stop… They listened.

You peeked through the crack in your chest from time to time. It was stupid of you, but you couldn't help but see Valhalla getting smaller and smaller by every second. Leaving it behind was one of the biggest steps you had ever taken and it felt great. But the carriage was moving in such slow pace that you had to fight with yourself to not jump out of your hiding place. First you had to pass the bifröst and enter the Underworld in the carriage, then… worry about what to do with your freedom and how not to die on the first day of your life - you repeated to yourself.

The Underworld wasn’t as dark as you expected. At least not where you came from. The sky was grey and brought gloomy atmosphere, that was only enhanced by the landscape of bare rock mountains, but it was less scary and depressing than in your mother’s stories. And you haven't heard or seen any demons yet. The carriage was travelling on a bumpy road, causing chest with you inside to constantly shake. You tried your best to ignore it, but as the minutes passed, your patience slowly wore thin. One time - when the carriage ran over something exceptionally big - and you hit your head on the cover of the chest, you decided that you had had enough and you opened chest with too much force. The lifted hinged lid hit the back of the carriage too hard, the rumble seeming especially loud in the quiet place you were in. You cursed your stupidity and held your breath, hoping the sound remained unnoticed. — Stop the carriage! — you heard a stern voice. You groaned. What should you do now?! For lack of a better option, you decided to hide in the box again. With your heart beating madly, you listened from the inside. You heard the door open, then barely audible footsteps and… silence. You bit your lip, feeling building sensation in your stomach. You didn’t see or hear anything, but your mind told you that someone was right next to your hideout. — You’re waiting for me to leave, aren’t you? — you said loudly. — Yes. That was short and brutal for some reason. Suddenly all your excitement and thrill of unknown disappeared, replaced by embarrassment. At that moment you felt so small, hidden in someone’s chest like a common thief. You bit your lip and stood up, without looking up. But your numb body didn’t exactly listen to you, so you lost your balance and fell with the massive chest you were hidden in. You landed on the ground, among the rocks and dirt.

— Ouch… Speaking of embarrassment… Your head was right on someone’s shoes. To your surprise it wasn’t sandals that Greek gods usually wear, but a pair of leather shoes filled with square patterns. Quite extravagant in your mother’s opinion. You raised your head and saw a very formal outfit; long white jeans, a blazer with patches decorated on the left and right side and a collar that spans all the way to his upper chest. Above were cold, almost indifferent purple eyes assessing you. You had never seen Hades before and had no particular idea of him, but you had to admit: he was a very handsome man, with his noble features, grey hair and a leaf-like pattern tattooed above his left eye. Not to mention his strong aura that floated around and took your breath away. — Oh, hi… — you mumbled with a soft smile, trying to remain nonchalant. Hades didn’t flinch. — Hi — he replied, a note of moderate interest in his tone — You know, if you needed a ride, you could’ve just asked. You smiled and slowly stood up. You couldn’t stand his spiral eyes, so you focused on your toga instead. The fabric was no longer white, and brushing off the dirt didn't make much of a difference. — Thank you, but I wanted to keep a low-profile. When you looked at him again, this time, face to face, you noticed in his eyes sparks of understanding. Your face remained the same, but inside you were trying to fight the feeling of anxiety. He recognized you. — You’re the one that was missing… — said Hades — The girl. You shrugged. — So my mother made a mess after all… — She thinks something happened to you — Hades’ words didn’t match his tone. He seemed intrigued, his eyes looking at you curiously. — I had to make it look like an accident, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to escape — even if he didn’t asked, you still felt obligated to explain yourself — You probably won’t keep silent if I ask you to, right? — I'll probably only mention you if someone asks first. — Oh, I like that! It was probably just your imagination, but Hades’ lips twitched slightly. You smiled yourself. He showed no signs of wanting to betray you, which made the anxious flew away and now it was time to get a better look around. And so you did. The world around you was as ugly as through crack in the chest. The sky as grey and landscape as unfriendly. You could look around, no matter what direction and still see everything, without somebody panting into your neck felt. It was just amazing. You took a very deep breath and winced at the smell of sulphur. — Helheim isn’t friendly place for a lady, especially this young — you heard. You looked over your shoulder at Hades, who was still standing in his previous spot.

— I can take care of myself — you answered, confidently. — I have no doubts — he said, but you were sure it was out of politeness. You knew he found you naive for thinking you had a chance against the demons, but you didn't care. You could be as dangerous as dust to these creatures, and yet you refused to turn back. — May I ask why? You met Hades’ eyes again. — Why what? — Why Helheim? — No one would have expected such a choice. Especially not my mother. At least that’s what you were hoping for. — Demons aren’t friendly and this place is full of them — Hades tried to reason with you again, but it gave opposite effect. You frowned. — Anywhere is better than my mother's prison — you said upset — At least I’ll die seeing the sky. For the first time, Hades' face showed signs of surprise. Only for a moment, but apparently he didn't expect to awaken your anger. He smiled at you as if he was contented with the answer, then turned to the carriage doors. — To the carriage — he said, firmly, stopping right in front of it. Maybe you were very naive after all because you so quickly assumed that he was good? — I’m not going back there — you crossed your arms. — You aren’t going on your own either — you were informed with calmness that made something snapped inside you. — Said who? You were ready to fight if necessary, even against someone as powerful as Hades. — Me, the king of the Underworld — Hades looked at you with such confidence that you realized very quickly how slim your chances were against him. After all he was the one who stopped Titans all by himself… You didn’t move a bit, you just watched him carefully and waited. Hades sighed. — Such a troublesome young lady — he mumbled, more to himself than to you — We’re heading to my palace. You can stay there for a while until you figure out what to do next. You blinked few times a little surprised. Oh? — Why do you care? I’m not your problem. Hades smiled again. — You remind me of someone. — Who? — Get in the carriage — he ordered again, but the sight of your still sceptical expression irritated him greatly — Or I swear, make me repeat myself one more time and I’ll use methods that your mother would kill me for. You burst into laughter, but Hades didn’t share your joy, so you fell silent. You felt like he wasn't joking and he actually wanted to use his strength, but for some reason, part of you, wanted him to do so… how strange that was… — Fine… — you gave up and finally moved. Hades opened the door for you. The inside of the carriage was definitely much nicer than the inside of the chest. You sat down in the soft, red seat on the driver’s side. Hades gave his servant some instructions and joined you soon after. You two saw in silence and just stared at each other. Once the carriage moved, you couldn’t take it anymore and shouted: — Why are you helping me? You must know my mother! Despite your outburst, Hades remained calm. He reached for the glass of wine on the small windowsill and drank some before answering.

— I do know Demeter. You rolled your eyes. — Then why? — you kept demanding. — Because I like the sound of your confidence. You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The confusion must have shown on your face because Hades chuckled over his glass. There was something about him that was just… very cute. You felt annoying warmth rising to your cheeks. How embarrassing… You looked away, pretending to suddenly be interested in the mountainous landscape outside the window. — You’re strange man — you muttered. — How so? — If you really know my mother, you know what she is capable of. Hades didn’t seem worried. In fact, he made himself more comfortable in his seat and crossed his legs. — Your dark-robed mother was a friend of my grandmother, who declared war to us not so long ago. I do know her more than you think. Besides, her own daughter chose death in Helheim over her company. That alone speaks for itself. — Hard to argue — you admitted — You know… — a gentleman would offer me a glass… — you pointed to the open wine. Hades smiled at you and granted your wish without a word. — Have you been drinking before? — he asked, observing how you smelt wine and took a small sip. You frowned at the strange taste and shook your head, which made Hades laugh. He raised his glass to make a toast — For the many first times then. You smiled back and drank it all in one go.

[bittenfms]

───  𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 ! welcome  to  forks, rosie !  we  look  forward  to  seeing  you  around  town, and  do  hope  nothing  bad  happens  to  bree tanner, maria +  felix . please  go  through  the  checklist  and  send  in  your  account  within  twenty-four  hours  or  your role  will  be  reopened !    

⟨  –  taylor russell, cis woman, she/her.  ⟩ it seems like bree tanner has been seen around town, humming cherry coloured funk by cocteau twins under their breath. apparently they are a 23 year old human. townsfolk whisper about them being seraphic and assiduous, but also fickle and mendacious. the motel housekeeper / bowling alley clerk has been in town for just under a month, and gives off the vibes of an ache somewhere deep in your belly for something unknown / when charles bukowski wrote ‘and when nobody wakes you up in the morning, when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want what do you call it, freedom or loneliness?’, thorn-marred knees sinking ever so slowly into the glacial embrace of a placid lake / lost recollections of how you’ve come to the water but oh isn’t the call of the wet soil and sunken dead branches so divine?, nightmares from a past life that awaken your body in a violent and sudden heave / names said like a hushed prayer to comfort a mind all turbulent thoughts and bloody memories. ( penned by rosie, twenty5, she/her, cst. )

⟨  –  lizeth selene, demi woman, she/they.  ⟩ it seems like maria has been seen around town, humming nocturne no. 21 in c minor by chopin under their breath. apparently they are a 24 / 319 year old vampire. townsfolk whisper about them being sybilline and astute, but also parlous and unscrupulous. they’re a member of the mexican coven, and they give off the vibes of the tar-thick feeling of the air as a thunderstorm approaches and everywhere you look is dark and filled with a sort of unrelenting fury like an omen given by some wrathful old testament god to the faithless, rotten girlhood as antecedent to monsterhood and teetering along the cusp of sanity / when margaret atwood wrote “there’s something off about that girl. borderline. any little shock could push her right over the edge”, the loneliness of a cruel winter night and how hollow the body feels as december claws itself inside the carcass of a life mourned, a life forgotten. ( penned by rosie, twenty5, she/her, cst. )

⟨  –  park seojoon, cis man, he/him.  ⟩ it seems like felix has been seen around town, humming valse sentimentale op. 51 no. 6 by tchaikovsky under their breath. apparently they are a 34 / unknown year old vampire. townsfolk whisper about them being sycophantic and debonair, but also mephistophelian and tenebrific. they’re a member of the volturi, and they give off the vibes of blood as it runs down a cracked porcelain visage and that painfully lovely smile... oh how beautiful it looks accompanied by fresh crimson stains and tribulations of slaughter and debauchery, how the moon rises at dusk and paints the sky a great abyss / how the chastity of twilight is mutilated and warped (metamorphosis that promises the grotesque from something once beautiful and pure like monsterhood, like boyhood), a rage so glacial and hollow and ugly — and isn’t it mine, still? good god, isn’t it mine? oh, how this cruelty has clawed itself so deep within raw flesh and made more monster than man, more venom and ruination and bedlam. ( penned by rosie, twenty5, she/her, cst. )

[enterfurore]

*          𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃          :        welcome     to     l'academiae     furorum     ,    AZAR     SAEI     ,     SHIH     HANSEOK     &      RIVER     MALIKOVA     .     please     submit     your     account     within     twenty     -     four     hours     .      golshifteh    farahani     ,         kim     taehyung     &     irina     shayk     are     now     taken       !

◜          *          :          golshifteh    farahani     .     cis    woman     &     she/her     .     the     swan     by     camille     saint     -     saëns     .          ━━          the     legend     surrounding     london’s     l’academiae     furorum     would     not     be     complete     without     AZAR     ROSHAN     SAEI     .     the     academy's     THIRTY     SIX     year     old     RESIDENT     CHOREOGRAPHER     has     been     with     furore     for     NINETEEN     YEARS     ,     oft     described     as     SERAPHIC     ,     FICKLE     ,     MENDACIOUS     ,     AMORAL         &          has     proved     utterly     indispensable     to     the     company     .     in     passing     ,     they’ve     come     to     be     associated     with     WOOD     WHERE     IT     ROTS     IN     THE     HOLLOW     CARCASS     OF     A     HOME     LONG     SINCE     ABANDONED          &          nightmares     from     a     past     life     that     awaken     your     body     in     a     violent     and     sudden     heave     /     names     said     like     a     hushed     prayer     to     comfort     a     mind     all     turbulent     thoughts     and     bloody     memories     ,     pomegranate     juice     sticky     where     it     runs     from     a     fist     clenched     too     tight     and     falling     to     the     floor     to     mix     with     blood     pooling     around     bare     soles     ,     staring     at     the     different     eyes     that     look     back     to     you     from     a     broken     mirror     (     all     begging     to     move     ,     to     say     something     unknown     to     you     ―     their     screams     build     and     mount     but     never     come     )     .     whether     this     will     be     their     final     curtain     call     is     anyone's     guess          &          the     company’s     worst     nightmare     .          (          as     portrayed     by     rosie     ,     twenty4     ,     she/her     ,          &          cst     .          )

◜          *          :          kim     taehyung     .     cis     man     &     he/him     .     valse     sentimentale     op.     51     no.     6     by     tchaikovsky     .          ━━          the     legend     surrounding     london’s     l’academiae     furorum     would     not     be     complete     without     SHIN     HANSEOK     .     the     academy's     TWENTY     EIGHT     year     old     PRIVATE     DONOR     has     been     with     furore     for     THREE     YEARS     ,     oft     described     as     DEBONAIR     ,     SYCOPHANTIC     ,     TENEBRIFIC     ,     MEPHISTOPHELIAN          &          has     proved     utterly     indispensable     to     the     company     .     in     passing     ,     they’ve     come     to     be     associated     with     THE     SATURATED     EARTH     AS     IT     SWALLOWS     AN     UNFORGIVING     RAINSTORM          &          blood     as     it     runs     down     a     cracked     porcelain     visage     and     that     painfully     lovely     smile     …     oh     how     beautiful     it     looks     accompanied     by     fresh     crimson     stains     and     tribulations     of     slaughter     and     debauchery     ,     how     the     moon     rises     at     dusk     and     paints     the     sky     a     great     abyss     /     how     the     chastity     of     twilight     is     mutilated     and     warped     (     metamorphosis     that     promises     the     grotesque     from     something     once     beautiful     and     pure     like     monsterhood     ,     like     boyhood     )     ,     a     rage     so     glacial     and     hollow     and     ugly     —-     and     isn’t     it     mine,     still     ?     good     god     ,     isn’t     it     mine     ?     oh     ,     how     this     cruelty     has     clawed     itself     so     deep     within     raw     flesh     and     made     more     monster     than     man     ,     more     venom     and     ruination     and     bedlam     .     whether     this     will     be     their     final     curtain     call     is     anyone's     guess          &          the     company’s     worst     nightmare     .          (          as     portrayed     by     rosie     ,     twenty4     ,     she/her     ,          &          cst     .          )

◜     *     :     irina     shayk     .     cis     woman     &     she/her     .     nocturne     in     b-flat     minor,     op.     9,     no.     1     by     frédéric     chopin     .     ━━     the     legend     surrounding     london’s     l’academiae     furorum     would     not     be     complete     without     RIVER     NUREYEVA     MALIKOVA     .     the     academy's     THIRTY-EIGHT     year     old     BALLET     MASTER     has     been     with     furore     for     TWENTY-TWO     YEARS     ,     oft     described     as     ELUSIVE     ,     BENEVOLENT     ,     ASTUTE     &     ARTFUL     has     proved     utterly     indispensable     to     the     company.     in     passing     ,     they’ve     come     to     be     associated     with     JAZZ     CLUB     BY     MAISON     MARGIELA     &     white     faux     fur     ,     a     single     set     of     footsteps     cutting     through     the     silence     ,     stretching     out     on     a     modernist     chaise-longue     ,     scent     of     cigarettes     clinging     to     crisply     ironed     suits     ,     framed     news     articles     and     gilded     medals     hanging     on     a     wall     .     whether     this     will     be     their     final     curtain     call     is     anyone's     guess     &     the     company’s     worst     nightmare     .     (     as     portrayed     by     e     ,     23     ,     she/her     ,     &     cest     .     none     .     )     

and     LEV     BELMAN     ‘s     wc.

[geekmama]

Uncertain Terms

With thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for looking over the first draft of this, here is a Regency A/U based on a prompt from holidaysat221b:: ‘AU: Molly runs away from home when her parents try to arrange a marriage for her. She wants to pursue a life that involves science and marry for love if she ever gets married at all. She meets Sherlock, who is being pressured by his family to marry a nice girl they found for him who loves science as much as he does. It will be interesting when they figure it out.  -  @shadowyqueenbeard’

Hopefully this will more or less fit the bill...

“My name is Margaret Stamford, and I would like a room for the night, if you please.” 

Overhearing these words, Sherlock Holmes looked up, over the edge of the newspaper he had been perusing while he awaited the dinner the innkeeper’s wife had blithely (and erroneously) promised to set on the table before him “in the twinkling of a bedpost”. He had been growing quite impatient, in fact, for he’d only broken his journey because he’d skipped breakfast in favor of making an early start on the remaining seventy miles to his destination and he had grown unusually peckish by mid-day as a result. Now, however, he was quite glad that the woman had grossly underestimated the time it would take to prepare the Roasted Partridge with Asparagus, Mushrooms, and New Potatoes she’d suggested, let alone the Chocolate Soufflé with Crème Anglaise for which the Royal George was reputedly famous. 

Miss Margaret Stamford. 

A very interesting name. 

It might be mere coincidence, of course. Yet the female for whom he’d undertaken this onerous quest into the wilds of the north was one Miss Molly Hooper -- Molly being a pet name derived from Margaret, and this according to none other than Miss Hooper’s uncle, Dr. Michael Stamford of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, London. 

So, coincidence? As Mycroft was wont to say, the universe is rarely so lazy. 

And running his eyes swiftly over the female in question, Sherlock had to admit that once again his brother might very well be proven correct. 

He recalled Dr. Stamford’s description of the girl… 

… rather slight, but fairly pretty, and she’s a taking little thing when you get to know her. But there’s no nonsense about her. She’d quite understand your desire to… ah… favorably resolve your situation. 

… said situation having become a topic of discussion in the tavern-based aftermath of a Bow Street murder investigation, due solely to Dr. John Watson’s cursed inability to hold his tongue after a couple of glasses. 

Said situation was both highly annoying and inconvenient. Sherlock’s great aunt, Wilhelmina Scott, had left her fortune to “her favorite nephew”, an event that had been anticipated by the entire family. However, when the will had been read out after Aunt’s death, two months ago, it was found that the bequest was not without strings attached. 

The inheritance shall be held in trust until such time as Sherlock marries and sets up his nursery, thus fulfilling his clear duty to the family and providing my dearest sister with the grandchildren for which her heart has longed these many years. 

Sherlock had been stunned, then filled with chagrin (he could still see Mycroft’s smirk in his mind’s eye), then furious. He was all too well aware that his mother’s heart longed, having been regularly reminded of it by the lady herself since he’d come of age seven years before, and he considered the addition of this codicil such a blatant attempt to manipulate him that he was strongly tempted to wash his hands of the whole business. 

Tempted… but, in the end, he did not. Aunt’s Wilhelmina’s fortune was nothing to sneeze at, including as it did, considerable principal as well as a townhouse in London and a neat little estate in Suffolk, worth some three thousand a year in revenues (and perfect for apiculture, too). Even so unmercenary a soul as Sherlock’s could not help but be swayed -- and, of course, he had been living off the expectation to some extent for years. So, ultimately, he’d set aside his anger and his wounded pride and began, for the first time in his life, to seriously consider entering into the married state. 

He had never been “in the petticoat line”, as various of his contemporaries so vulgarly put it, but he had no doubt that he would be able to meet his marital obligations. He certainly did not look or wish for romance, however. The case called for an old fashioned marriage of convenience, one in which the bride understood quite clearly the part she would play, i.e., well-heeled young matron, capable and responsible in taking charge of domestic affairs, organizing those social engagements that were deemed unavoidable, and producing and subsequently nurturing any progeny that happened to make an appearance in the natural course of events. 

Dr. Stamford had purported that his niece, Miss Molly Hooper of Primrose Cottage, a modest seat located some five miles from York, might be a parti that would meet and even exceed expectations. She’s only twenty, not quite on the shelf, and a pleasant, good-natured girl -- and you’ll like this: she’s become quite the bluestocking, has a love of science and a grasp of its intricacies that really is little short of astonishing in a female. I believe you’d suit extremely. 

If this was Molly Hooper, this young woman who was in the process of delivering to the obviously disapproving innkeeper a mendacious explanation of the circumstances that had led to her traveling through England unchaperoned and carrying only a chipboard bandbox by way of luggage, Sherlock wasn’t certain he would have described her as taking. Physically she was of less than average height, with a figure on the spare side. She was dressed neatly, but very plainly in an olive pelisse over a gown of the same colour, not a ruffle or frill to be seen, and her headgear was of a style that had gone out of fashion some time before – prior to Waterloo, if memory served. 

Much of her countenance was hidden from him, of course, due to that hat and to his position at table in the coffee room. However, when the innkeeper’s wife (who should, by rights, have been seeing to Sherlock’s unconscionably delayed meal) joined the innkeeper in rejecting the young lady’s request for a room and added that she had no notion of young persons jauntering about the countryside and there’s always The Pig and Whistle down the road if a room is needed for the night, Sherlock decided it might be time to intervene and was thereby afforded a closer look at ‘Miss Stamford’. As he approached he observed that she had a good complexion, and a firm chin. That chin tilted a bit as she perceived that her advent at the Royal George was viewed in a less than favorable light, and her very upright posture seemed to reiterate her determined nature (and possibly extensive use of the backboard in her girlhood). 

And then, seeing the innkeeper’s attention claimed by Sherlock’s approach, ‘Miss Stamford’, too, turned to him, and he became aware that a pair of large brown eyes lent a certain undeniable appeal to that  heart-shaped visage, and that the rosy colour that stained her cheeks was really most becoming. 

Sherlock found it surprisingly easy to assume a friendly demeanor as he said to the lady, “Miss Stamford? Can I be of assistance? I believe I may be acquainted with a relation of yours, Dr. Michael Stamford of London?” 

She looked immediately startled and flushed a deeper pink. “He is my uncle, sir. But--” 

“I thought as much,” Sherlock went on, blithely. “There is just the hint of a family resemblance. Dr. Stamford and I have been friends for a number of years and it would give me great pleasure to be able to tell him I was able to come to the aid of one of his young relations. I collect you wish to procure a room at this excellent inn? Surely The Pig and Whistle would be entirely inappropriate for a young woman of good family and gentle upbringing.” And here Sherlock shifted his gaze to the innkeeper and his wife, raising a brow. 

The innkeeper rolled an eye toward his spouse, who threw up her hands and said, “Oh, very well, I shall have the Blue Chamber prepared.” 

Sherlock nodded, but added pointedly, “And while it is being prepared, Miss Stamford will join me for dinner, if she so desires. I trust it will be on the table shortly, but in the meantime we would be most obliged to you for some refreshment -- say a glass of claret for me and ratafia for the lady?” 

The innkeeper said with a bow, “Right away, Mr. Holmes,” and gave his wife another admonitory glance before bustling off. 

The innkeeper’s wife also made her exit, grumbling, and Sherlock turned once more to ‘Miss Stamford’. “I do apologize for intruding in such a brazen manner but I could hardly reconcile it with my conscience to do otherwise.” 

Where she had been pink-cheeked before, the girl had now become quite pale, staring at him, taking in his features, and even letting her eyes rove over his whole person. Then, suddenly, she became aware of what she was doing and blushed more hotly than ever. 

“Forgive me! But… are are you indeed Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Yes, I am,” he said, a little amused. He took a small gold case from his pocket, removed a card from it and handed it to her. 

Her colour faded again as she read it. “I see,” she said, and raised her eyes again, warily. 

A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Yes. And I see, as well.” 

“You… what do you see?” she asked in a small voice. 

“That having had news of my coming you elected to depart from your home, rather than entertain what amounts to another in a long line of unwanted suitors. That you are Dr. Stamford’s niece, Margaret Elizabeth Stamford Hooper, called by those with whom you have close ties, Molly.” 

She paled further, but said in an even tone, “You are… astoundingly prescient. And your guess about my name is accurate.” 

“It was not a guess, but a deduction, Miss Hooper. The latter is something of a speciality of mine. But come into the coffee room and sit down,” he said, gesturing toward his table in the coffee room. “A glass of wine will set you to rights, and, thus fortified, you will perhaps tell me in what ways, if any, I can further serve you.”  

 *

 The claret and ratafia had been delivered to the table shortly after they were seated, but Mr. Holmes did not immediately press Molly, a forbearance for which she could not but be grateful. She sipped her wine, and occasionally glanced at him, wondering at his apparent intelligence, his evident effrontery, and his quite astonishingly handsome person, set off by clothing that was both elegant and understated. 

And he seemed kind, too. Since her father’s death three years before, experience had not led her to anticipate much consideration for her needs or, indeed, regard for her person, so his intervention in her difficulties and the attentions he had thus far bestowed upon her seemed exceptional -- particularly in view of her attempted deception. He had relieved her of her bandbox, pelisse, and hat, untying the ribbons of the latter himself, and requested that the innkeeper not only set their wine on the table, but fetch some bread and butter to tide them over until dinner should be served, just as though he knew she was famished (which she was, having skipped breakfast in her effort to escape Primrose Cottage before even the servants had stirred from bed). 

“Small sips, now,” he had murmured as the innkeeper had hustled away. “Until we have something substantial to accompany our libations, an enervation of the senses is almost a given should we imbibe too freely.” 

She had murmured thanks, patting ineffectually at her slightly mussed hair and tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, even as she took her first sip and tried to calm herself. This task was certainly easier said than done. 

She was nearly of age, and, in concept, traveling to London to visit her uncle and his family was unexceptionable. But she knew very well that undertaking the journey in such a scrambling manner was not the behavior of a well-bred woman. The reaction of the innkeeper and his wife had reminded her of this fact most acutely. And of course she didn’t look like a woman -- or, to tell the truth, feel like one! 

There was no use in bemoaning the fact that one’s appearance was that of a girl just out of the school room, rather than a woman on the cusp of her majority, but once again she could not help thinking it most unfair that much of the time this circumstance resulted in a lack of respect toward her that bordered on intolerable. With her father gone, her stepmother had let this tendency burgeon to monstrous proportions, exacerbating her scorn of Molly’s determination to remain unmarried if she could not marry for love. 

“Marry for love!,” Albinia Hooper had scoffed the one time that Molly had been goaded into protesting the intrusion of still another unacceptable suitor into her otherwise well-ordered life. “There never was such a low-bred, nonsensical notion. What, pray, has love to do with the keeping of a house or raising children? You’ve windmills in your head, girl. It’s time you grew up and faced some hard facts.” 

Molly had not argued the point. There was no use in trying to explain what she meant by love. Not romance, for Heaven’s sake. Contrary to her stepmother’s opinion, Molly was as practical as her father had been, and as devoted to seeking truth wherever the facts led. But she was not willing to settle for less, as he had been, in spite of the fact that an unmarried female was at a much greater disadvantage in society than any male would be in a similar case. 

Her father had understood her views, and to facilitate her long and perhaps fruitless quest he had left her what was politely termed an independence. It was a fairly generous one, too, considering that the remainder of his estate was, by law, left in trust to Molly’s stepbrother, Gerald, who had been born when Molly was ten years old. There were also twin step daughters from Albinia’s first marriage, Cassandra and Lavinia, and Molly did not grudge the girls a single penny of the dowries with which they’d been provided. She loved her step-siblings, as they did her, and it was care of them that had brightened her days after Father’s death. Albinia, once again widowed and, in her own words, distracted with grief, had welcomed Molly’s help with the children, and with the house, for several years. Time, however, had altered matters. Gerald was now away at school, and Cassie and Lavinia were old enough to make their come-out. Molly’s position in the household was fast becoming superfluous, and though she made great efforts to be of help and, simultaneously, stay out of the way, Albinia had been relentless in her promotion of marriage as the only reasonable course, and relentless, too, in the introduction of potential suitors. 

And then Aunt Stamford had written that fatal letter. 

My Dearest Molly, 

I am writing to you today because a most surprising opportunity has arisen, quite out of the blue. You know that I have been very much in sympathy with your desire to focus upon your chosen avocation of natural philosophy, eschewing the paths of courtship and marriage that are more traditional for a young women to tread. However, I must own that I doubted your decision would ultimately conduce to your happiness, content as I am and always have been to be a loving wife to your dear uncle and mother to the six darling children who are your cousins. Therefore, I dare to write to you on behalf of one of your uncle’s associates, one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, presenting him to you as a possible candidate for your hand. 

Mr. Holmes is a gentleman, the scion of an old, distinguished, and affluent family, and, on his marriage, will become a man of property in his own right. Moreover, he is a man of science himself, and his knowledge and skill in deduction have allowed him to lend his assistance to various agencies of jurisprudence here in London. In this way he came to your uncle’s notice, for you will recall that your uncle oversees the mortuary at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and is often called upon to collaborate in criminal investigations. 

Your uncle and I have had the pleasure of Mr. Holmes’ company for dinner several times over the last few years and, after coming to know him, I cannot help but agree with your uncle when he suggests that the gentleman may be the one man in all of England who might prove acceptable to you as a mate. Since the requirements of a recent bequest have inspired him to look about for a wife, your uncle suggested you as a possible candidate. Coincidentally, Mr. Holmes had it in mind to travel north at the beginning of April, visiting friends in the vicinity of Harrogate. He determined that he would pay a call upon you and your stepmother at Primrose Cottage if your uncle and I would write to you by way of introduction. 

My dear, I do beg of you to receive Mr. Holmes kindly and without prejudice. He is a little eccentric in his manner, but underneath it he is a very good sort of man, and most handsome, too, as you will soon see for yourself. Though the latter is not a vital quality in a mate, it does make the idea of looking across the breakfast table at the same countenance for the rest of one’s life far easier to bear. 

And on that frivolous note, I am, as ever, your loving aunt, 

Emily Stamford  

 Molly’s disappointment on receiving this missive was palpable. Either this Mr. Holmes was a most unusual man indeed, or her uncle had finally persuaded Aunt Emily that their niece would be better served accepting an offer than persisting in the ways of an incorrigible bluestocking as he’d once put it. 

That memory still rankled. Had she been born a man, her predilection for science and natural philosophy would have been not only indulged, but praised! 

“Have some of this excellent bread, Miss Hooper,” Mr. Holmes said, breaking into her thoughts. The innkeeper had delivered a basket of fresh-baked rolls to the table, and Mr. Holmes was now holding out a steaming half, butter spread liberally over it and rapidly melting. 

“Thank you,” she said, and as she took it, her stomach gave an audible growl of lust at the mere scent. Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment -- and indeed, Mr. Holmes was looking amused as he bit into his own half roll -- but she took a small bite of the bread and tried to compose herself. She decided that honesty would be the best policy with Mr. Holmes, and accordingly said, after another sip of wine, “I know I owe you an explanation.” 

“As you will, Miss Hooper. I understand what a shock it must have been to run across the very person you were hoping to avoid in leaving your home in such a precipitate manner, but I assure you I am no ogre and do not mean to press you to do anything you would not like. To tell you the truth, I was hesitant to visit you in the first place, and can sympathize entirely with your reluctance to enter into the married state.” 

Molly stared at him, and then said, “What an odd man you are, Mr. Holmes!” 

“Well… yes!” he said. “I was under the impression that… er… oddity was what you were searching for in a mate.” 

She laughed a little. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but perhaps my uncle would.” 

“How would you put it, then?” 

She said, slowly, considering her words, “You may think it strange of me, but I believe I would value respect more than the fleeting infatuation that passes for love in these modern times. I… I have studied natural philosophy for a number of years now, and have only scratched the surface of what I wish to learn. I am not opposed to marriage, per se. But I cannot conceive of allying myself with any gentleman who might prove an impediment to my chosen avocation.” She felt herself colouring as she added, “I daresay that sounds monstrously selfish. I fear that’s the sort of person I am, however.” And she dared to look straight into those piercing, pale blue eyes… or were they pale green? She was aware of a strange internal frisson under their steady gaze. 

“I see,” Mr. Holmes replied, thoughtfully. “But you do say avocation, I note. Can it be inferred that you are not averse to taking up the day to day duties required of a wife and mother, provided you are allowed sufficient leeway in the pursuit of your studies?” 

“I would say so, yes. In fact, I would like, someday, to be able to have the running of my own house. And of course, nurses are all very well but children also need the care only a loving mother can give.” 

Mr. Holmes smiled slightly. “Do you like children?” 

And for the first time, Molly smiled, too. “Indeed, yes! I have helped raise my stepmother’s children, and one of my greatest joys is to stay with my aunt and uncle in London and help with my cousins. 

Mr. Holmes smile grew sardonic. “Dr. Stamford does have quite the brood. Six, I believe.” 

“Yes, and all of them such dear creatures, too.” 

“I daresay.” He sat back and studied Molly for a moment, and she lifted a brow and returned the favor, which again brought a sincere smile to his lips. And then he said, “Ah! Finally!” as it was seen that the innkeeper’s wife had emerged from the kitchen and was now approaching, followed by two underlings with laden trays. “Shall we postpone further discussion of this particular topic until after dinner? I feel there is hope that we may come to an understanding, but hunger… intrudes.” 

Molly chuckled and said, “I am entirely of your way of thinking, Mr. Holmes.” 

“On all points?” 

A little of her humor faded, but she replied thoughtfully, “Perhaps.”

 *

 Dinner was a resounding success. Miss Hooper had forgone breakfast just as he had done himself, and Sherlock was pleased to observe that she set to with a will, exclaiming at intervals over the excellence of the repast and then gasping in sheer delight when the chocolate soufflé was brought to the table. Their conversation throughout was desultory but edifying, Sherlock encouraging her to enlarge upon her “avocation”, and contributing his own mite by describing the details of one or two criminal investigations with which he had been involved. He was quite pleased with her reaction to the latter -- at first glance she might have struck him as a mere milk-and-water miss, but that’s where it ended. Those expressive eyes were alight with intelligence, her questions were gratifyingly cogent, and her curiosity and lack of squeamishness both did her great credit. 

They were finishing up with a glass of Port for him, raspberry cordial for her, and a dish of sweetmeats and nuts between them, when a noisy arrival at the inn that included the sound of a strident female voice caused Miss Hooper to look up in alarm, the pretty colour in her cheeks fading abruptly. 

“Oh! Oh, no! It’s my stepmother!” she uttered, and pushed back her chair, scrambling to her feet so hastily that her glass of cordial tipped over, spilling its contents across the white tablecloth. “Oh, Heavens!” she cried, horrified at the mishap, and then froze at the sound of the inn’s door opening and a male voice shouting, “House! House, I say!” 

Sherlock rose swiftly, too, but not swiftly enough. With a last despairing glance at him, Miss Hooper bolted, rushing straight across the room toward the kitchen door. Sherlock swore in annoyance as she disappeared. He quickly gathered up her abandoned pelisse, hat, and bandbox, and, with a last glance at the occupants of the foyer -- a plump matron in a purple gown had now joined the demanding, grim-faced gentleman who looked to be a parson of some sort -- he took his leave, following Miss Hooper through the kitchen. 

The only occupant of the kitchen was a mildly interested lad sitting on a stool by the open hearth, slowly turning a spit with a turkey upon it. Seeing Sherlock, the boy jerked his head toward the far door, which appeared to lead to the stable yard. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and made his exit. 

It was approaching dusk, and for a moment it seemed that Miss Hooper had vanished. However, after a few moments of looking about in the waning light, Sherlock spied her, hovering near the back corner of the inn, her hands gripped together in patent indecision. He strode toward her, with a glance around to locate anyone who might see them, but the stable boys were apparently at the front of the inn, tending to the coach in which Miss Hooper’s pursuers had arrived. 

The girl watched him as he approached, and allowed him to hustle her into the shadows before speaking. She said, “It is the vicar, the Reverend Mr. Blackstone who has come with Albinia, to… to fetch me back, I suppose. Oh, what am I to do? What a dreadful scene must occur. I’m so very sorry Mr. Holmes!” 

“Miss Hooper, do put your pelisse and hat on against the chill,” he told her, calmly. “You have only to tell me what you wish to do.” 

She did as he’d bade, visibly striving for control, but as she tied on her hat while he helped her button up the pelisse she said to him, “I had planned to travel to London, to stay with my aunt and uncle -- and to ask them why they supported your suit, though of course I now understand why they did so. My stepmother, unfortunately, insisted on reading the letter from my aunt. When I expressed the desire to avoid you, and instead travel to London, she refused to entertain the notion. So I arranged a clandestine escape with a friend of mine, Barnaby Whitlaw -- the son of a local farmer. He took me up just before dawn, on his way to the market at Greenlea, some three miles from here. I walked the rest of the way, hoping to catch the afternoon Mail Coach, but I was too late. There is another that departs from here at seven in the morning, however, and that is why I needed a room for the night.” 

“I see,” he said, then, “Let me fix this,” and set to work to straighten the hat’s ribbons which she’d tied in a perfectly abominable bow. 

She stood quite still while he corrected the fault, her mouth set, but her eyes were beginning to glisten. He was almost finished with his task when she finally spoke again, her voice tremulous. “I suppose you will say I am fairly caught and it is time to have done with such nonsense.” 

He lifted his brows in surprise. “Why would I tell you any such thing? Your wish to avoid your step-mother and that parson seems quite reasonable to me. If you indeed wish to go to London, to London you shall go. There! Your bow is as fine as my skill can make it.  You are dressed warmly, and have your bandbox. Do you think you can retrace your steps toward Greenlea? Night is coming on, but I shouldn’t be above an hour.” 

“Yes. Yes, of course I can, but--” 

“I will pay the shot here and get some fresh horses put to my curricle, then travel toward Greenlea and take you up when we meet. If we stay off the main roads we will be a little delayed, but I believe we should be able to avoid pursuit and perhaps make it as far as Doncaster before we are obliged to put up for the night, thanks to this fine weather and a full moon.” 

“But what will you tell everyone? The innkeeper and his wife will surely question my departure since a room was being prepared for me.” 

“Very true. However, a word in the right ear, a guinea in the right pocket, and the thing is done.” 

She flushed. “I… it appears that I will owe you a great deal before this adventure is complete, Mr. Holmes. I am not entirely sure--” 

“Come, come, Miss Hooper!” he said, with a pretense of impatience. “You are possessed of an independence, are you not? At least I was given to understand that you are not penniless. You can very well reimburse any expenditure I may make on your behalf. Or are you concerned with the proprieties? I’m afraid that bird has flown, since your stepmother saw fit to share the story with the local parson.” 

“Oh, dear. That is very true. They say women are dreadful gossips, but Reverend Blackburn has them all beat to flinders. He is the most odious man. I never could see why Albinia cultivated his friendship.” 

“There is certainly no accounting for taste,” Sherlock said, and a crooked smile touched his lips as he considered his newly acquired taste for the company of one Molly Elizabeth Hooper. 

And indeed, she gave an answering smile, and there was a gleam in her eye as she said, “Very well. I will put my fate into your hands, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Miss Hooper, I will do my utmost to fulfill your faith in me,” he replied, and, to both her surprise and his own, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her slender fingers.

[thatoneshadyshop]

3rd of Last Seed, 2E 581

One has, begrudgingly, come to the conclusion that secluding oneself in a shell of frustration, righteous anger and justified indignation may not be the best manner in which to spend the entirety of this accursed journey south. No matter quite how satisfying it is.

Not that one has forgiven Qau-dar, to be sure. One remains persistently aggrieved by him and his decision to abandon one’s children to the care of Lirim alone. To say naught of the indignation of having been deceived by such low cunning. A mistake one shall not be repeating again.

Still. One is not so petty as to allow one’s grievances to infect the wound. Over the last few days one has resumed conversing with the Khajiit in idle moments, and one has taken to joining him and the Argonian bodyguard he is familiar with of an evening, joining them in their huqqa smoking. So too has one resumed teaching Ma’Riahni, inviting her to ride with one upon one’s mount as one tells her grand stories of ancient heroes, quizzes her over histories and magical theory, and demonstrates exercises designed to teach her control and subtlety in her magic use.

To be frank, tis a welcome distraction from the other travellers one finds oneself forced into close proximity with. Having entered the Pale Pass towards the border, there is decidedly less space in which one can resist the urge to strangle a Dunmer. Strangling being the most kindly thing one would inflict upon them.

Yes, tis true that the chief hack of a bard himself has apparently stopped drugging himself with whatever it was he was taking, something one has to admit did take one by surprise. One had thought he lacked the sufficient mental strength and testicular fortitude to do so. Regardless. His new found abstinence from that one particular vice has enabled one to attempt some sport, aware as one is that one must pace oneself. There are far too many days ahead on the road for one to exhaust one’s supply of ammunition too readily.

One has scarce seen a less appropriate mother hen figure, however, yet that seems to be the role the fool Dunmer has taken upon himself. When he is not fussing over Ma’Riahni and querying if she is comfortable or too cold, he is asking Qau’dar for the fifteenth time that morning if he had enough to eat, if he needed another blanket, if he is comfortable riding in the wagon or would prefer to take a turn on one of the guar. Nauseating. 

As for the servants, well, the less said about them the better. One is so mendacious that it would seem to one far easier and kinder to kill her now and salt the remains for rations. The other is simply insufferable, a jumped up footman who fawns on the greasy hack of a back like a Breton over a cheese wheel. The mere tone of his voice grates, toadying and cloying, not to mention his misplaced sense of superiority. A sense of superiority that seemingly disappears in favour of a cowardly visage peeking out from underneath a blanket, one notes, once his turn on the night watch arrives.

Pah. The sooner we are through the Pass and into the open forests of Cyrodil, the better. The more space one has to put between oneself and the Dunmer horde, the better for all concerned.