#the house. the car. the garden. its like her own little world.

[kiss-theggoat]

Homesick

Thomas Sawyer x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: After being dragged away from your home at the Sawyer house, you finally make your way back home with some especially exciting news.

TW: Mentions of violence, some blood

The way you ended up here, nauseous, sweaty, and exhausted on the side of a familiar highway was an extremely long story. Your long walk gave you time to reminisce.

The group came into town just like the rest. Hoyt on their tail and Thomas acting as an evil henchman, the only thing on his mind was you, waiting for him with a kind smile and warm hug. He begrudgingly loaded two girls into the car and slammed the door shut, splattering some blood from a previous victim. One of the girls was unconscious and bloodied, the other screaming and kicking at the door. Thomas was tired, and he just wanted to get home to you.

Lately he’d been letting his mind wander. Allowing himself to daydream and realizing that there’s nothing wrong with the little universe he’s created in his mind. He closes his eyes and transports himself to that world. You and him own a small house, cozy and filled with little trinkets he makes or collects for you, on a small plot of farmland where a wildflower garden that you planted thrives. He walks into the homely kitchen and sees you in front of a window, curtains billowing around your glowing skin, sunlight illuminating every part of your face Thomas loved most.

You were hard at work on a meal for the two of you. His heart swelled with the thought of indulging in something that you put your love into. He walks towards you and places his hands around your waist, feeling the soft baby bump there. Pride blooms within him and he-

“Dammit, boy, pay attention!��� A thump to the side of the head yanks him away from you like a fish being pulled from the depths of the ocean. He hadn’t even noticed that the window had started to crack from the girl's struggle.

Meanwhile, you sat at home, cleaning yours and Thomas’ room while listening to the crackly radio that he’d found for you in town. You loved music so having it was a must, even if it was only a couple crappy radio stations. The only thing that distracted you from your task was the sound of a car pulling up to the house, crunchy gravel revealing its location. Tommy was home. You beamed, even though you knew to stay downstairs for a little while, until he sorted everything out. So, that’s exactly what you did. You say anxiously in waiting, staring at the door like a hawk and waiting for your love to hulk down those stairs like he always did.

But instead, the door slammed against the side wall, making you gasp and jump from your seat. You saw a man and a woman, both bloodied and panting, the man leaning against the woman and he definitely looked more damaged than she did. She hobbled downstairs, whimpering and crying. “We have to get out of here!”

You stuttered, but no words would leave you. She thought you were a survivor. A prisoner kept by the Sawyer’s. She reached forward and grabbed your hand, yanking you surprisingly hard for someone who seemed to have lost half of her blood. Next thing you knew, you were in a sputtering truck, tears streaming down your face and worry suffocating you. If they got away, where was everyone else? Was Thomas okay? What about Luda Mae?

As you walked under the relentless Texas sun, you realized, you still didn’t know if they were okay or not. You hoped with everything inside you that Thomas was safe. At least from your damage control, you knew the cops would never be a problem for him.

When you arrived in north Texas, you were questioned over and over and over again. Everyone was, but the only advantage you had over them was that you knew everything about the Sawyer household. The rest of the kids didn’t even seem to remember what Highway they were on when they got pulled over. The only detail they could give police was that the town they were in was near Austin. Which, in Texas, meant nothing.

You, on the other hand, slowly and carefully revealed a new piece of evidence each time, effectively leading the investigation towards the opposite side of the city. After the intense questioning, you were finally free.

The options you had were horrible. The cops were offering transportation. But, accepting their transportation meant leading them to Thomas. You had no money, no car, and had no idea where you were. But, through a few illicit activities, you gained access to a really, really shitty car that barely got you halfway home.

Which led you to where you are now. Sweating through all of your clothes, sunburnt, and one second away from blowing chunks all over the highway. That really shitty car had blown out on you, probably something with the radiator being baked in the hottest Texas summer in years. You felt like sobbing. You didn’t know if Thomas was okay, and if he wasn’t, what would you do with the rest of your life? Thomas had become your life. Especially now.

You flashed back to the first stop in your new shitty car was an equally shitty gas station, where you gathered some food and water through flirting with the geriatric cashier, and also stole a pregnancy test from the shelf as you left the station. You had suspicions of being pregnant after the third day of waking up with intense nausea, feeling like you were going to start sobbing if you opened your eyes too wide. Thomas had mentioned having a baby a few times, but you’d never actually put a lot of effort into trying.

As you sat on the dingy toilet, you watched the second pink line slowly materialize. You were a huge mixture of emotion, happiness that you had created life. A shared life with the man that you loved more than anything else in the world. But, you wished for nothing more than to run to Thomas and tell him, which you couldn’t do. You didn’t even know if he was even alive.

The walk along the side of the highway had started to look familiar, the highway getting smaller and the area getting more and more rural. You felt like collapsing, but needed to get home. The heat of the sun beat down on your poor cheeks and you could tell that you were sunburnt. Sweat dripped into your eyes, obscuring your view of the upcoming road sign. The fabric of your shirt grated against your sunburnt face as you wiped your eyes, but you saw the light.

Gas

N xt Ex

The rundown, faded red sign was like a sign from the heavens. You knew that the Sawyer’s station was at the next exit.

The little bell above the door jingled, kissing your ear drums as you entered your sanctuary.

“We’re outta gas.” Luda grumbled, flipping her magazine without even looking up at you.

You smiled, missing her so much you felt like tackling her over the counter. “Luda…” you said, tears welling in your eyes. You walked towards the counter as her head shot up.

“Oh my god, we thought we’d never see you again, dear!” She stands and walks around the counter, holding her arms out to you in a motherly embrace.

You cried into her chest, unable to hold it in any longer. You were so upset and exhausted, needing one thing right now. “Where’s Thomas?”

“Oh he’ll be so happy to see you…” she smiled, lovingly stroking your hair. “He’s been so upset this last week. He’s at the house with Hoyt, let me give him a call.”

You watched her dial the phone, waiting in excitement for your Thomas.

Thomas was in the basement as usual, sewing himself a new mask. His body felt numb, like it had this entire week. Without you, he realized he was empty. Nothing mattered. Life was worthless without you in it.

“Tommy!” The door slammed open, Hoyt standing at the top of the stairs. “Luda needs us at the station.”

Thomas stood, head down as he climbed the stairs. The entire drive to the station was silent and melancholy, Thomas staring out the window. Gravel crunched under the wheels as they approached the station, and even though Thomas was still in the car, he watched as the front door to the station opened. His heart nearly leapt from his chest, and he shoved the car door open before Hoyt even stopped the car.

You watched Thomas rush out of the car, moving the fastest you’ve ever seen in your entire relationship. The smile on your face made your cheeks ache, and when Thomas reached you, his strong arms wrapped around your waist and lifted you off the ground.

“Tommy! I’m so glad you’re okay! I was so scared, I’m so sorry that it took me so long to get to you!” Again, you couldn’t help but cry. The tears streamed from your face at the feeling of being embraced by Thomas. He was your home. He made you feel safe.

He shook his head and set you back down on the ground, holding the sides of your face to wipe your tears away, but his eyebrows furrowed in concern when he noticed how sunburnt you were.

“I’m okay, Tommy. I promise.” You whispered, leaning forward and resting your forehead against his. “And I have something to tell you.”

Thomas stared into your eyes and nodded slowly, letting you know he’s ready for you to speak.

“I’m pregnant.” You said, smile widening again.

You thought that Thomas’ heart might burst. His eyes went wide as saucers and he perked up, staring at you in shock for a moment. Once the shock passed, he pulled you into the tightest hug you’d ever received. Thomas moved a step back, staring down at your stomach with eyes full of admiration, his large hands gently touching the sides of your stomach.

You knew that Thomas would be the best partner you could ever ask for, and the best father your baby could ever ask for.

[januaryembrs]

SUCH A PRETTY HOUSE | Joel Miller x Reader

request: Can you do Joel miller x reader no surprises by radio head angst fic

description: Joel remembers that one summer he knew her, and the ten year scar it left him.

word count: 1.6k

warnings: Pregnant!Reader, major character death (canon to TLOU and also reader dies, not explicit,), guns, death, violence. Joel feels unworthy, mentions of Sarah.

authors notes: em tries not to write something heart wrenching challenge, go.

There weren’t many things that meant something to Joel anymore. The day cordyceps took over the world, it took almost everything in him with it. Whatever was left made room for anger and resentment to curl inside him, make its home in his bones, make him lash out at everyone who wasn’t Tess. 

But he felt himself make an exception the day he met her. 

He’d been entirely sceptical when Tess told him she’d been able to find someone on a radio channel who could help them with supplies. It would mean sneaking out of QZ, a dumb move even on a good day, and trusting a stranger that was all but promising them candy if they climbed into his van. He wasn’t a stupid man, not by any means. But Tess had this way of bending his resolve, pushing him further and further if it meant they could come out better in the end. 

When they’d arrived to Frank and Bill’s for the first time, they were gobsmacked to see an entire street of houses cordoned off with barbed wire and explosives, as if it had never been touched by cordyceps, as if they’d catapulted into a time before people were eaten alive and before the world ended. A quaint little town with dusty cars and clean streets and houses and empty shops and gardens full of wildflowers and strawberries. 

Joel felt like he might be sick, but perhaps that was something between jealousy and caution just playing on his tongue. 

A spritely man a little older than him bounded down the stairs to the first house on the left, piercing blue eyes looking over them with the same excitement of a puppy being told to play fetch. There was no way a man so jolly could have done all of this himself. 

“Tess?” He called, and Joel remembered the way Tess smiled sweetly, because she was just as stunned as he was that they were in some sort of utopia, a little fence and a gate the only thing between them and how things used to be. 

“It’s Frank, right?” She guessed, and it was then that Joel heard the caution, “Didn’t you say there was two of you?” 

“Yes, Bill, my-” He stopped himself short, as if he didn’t quite know what to call him. He breezed over the hesitation quickly, buzzing in on the remote the combination, looking then to Joel, “You must be Joel,”

Joel gave him a nod, his fingers tightening on the shotgun in his hand. It wasn’t even a split second after the gate started to slide open that another man emerged from the house, his face thunderous as he barrelled down the stairs and towards where they stood. 

“Frank, didn’t I tell you to wait,” He snapped, his brows strained into a frown, a gun of his own in his palms, “We need to make sure she’s ready, they could be infected-”

“She?” Joel cut in it a biting tone of his own, “Who’s she? You said there was two-” 

“Bill,” Frank warned, as the shorter man produced a scanner out of his pocket and ran it over both of their necks. Joel knew this Bill could feel the heat of his glare on the side of his head, though as soon as the screen lit up green for both of them, he saw him take a sigh of relief. “We’re never going to make any more friends if you keep shoving them away,”

Joel couldn’t really blame him for worrying. 

It wasn’t until they saw the door opposite theirs swing open that he understood even more why Bill was so unwelcoming. 

He should have seen it before, the sweet hanging baskets full of lupines and primrose, the luscious lawn trimmed and primped, lined with tended bluebonnets and sunflowers beaming at the woman that emerged from the fresh white house with a bright grin, like she was their sun and they smiled back at her in awe.

She wore a white sundress, long enough to touch her knees, and it flowed with the warm breeze as they stepped past the threshold to the town, her feet bare save for some little brown sandals that seemed in better condition than he’d expect. Her face glowed with excitement, gaze switching between him and Tess, and her figure was full and soft at the same time. 

It wasn’t until she got closer he could see where her stomach pulled against the fabric obtusely and it was like a sadness washed over the two of them as she finally got close enough to talk. 

She was pregnant.

“You must be Tessa! Frank told me all about you,” She said, pulling the woman in for a warm hug Tess didn’t seem to have much of a choice in. 

“It’s Tess,” His companion corrected, though she gave her a light squeeze back, and her face softened out as if she didn’t seem to mind the intrusion, nor the new name. 

Bill froze up at the sight of her tugging Joel closer the minute she'd released Tess, ignoring every boundary his standoffish expression could possibly set, and it was like he understood why the flowers twinkled up at her. She was warm, incredibly so to the point even when he didn’t return the gesture, he felt himself conscious of how rough his skin was and how hard the gun must have been pressing against her chest where it squished in between them and how he hoped to god it wasn’t hurting her or the baby. 

He felt cruel the minute she pulled away, crueller than he usually felt, but his frown never wavered, not even when she simpered at him, despite Bill saying her name in a worried tone. 

“Just ignore him, he would bubble wrap me if he could,” She whispered to Joel, and her laugh was a tinkling bell in the wind. She grabbed Tess’s hand in a quick and gentle motion, walking her up the pathway back to her house, and Joel could have sworn he heard the promise of ice tea leave her lips.

“I’m so pleased to have another woman around,” She said to Tess, who looked as if she was fighting back a feathery happiness of her own around the woman who seemed too good to be true in a world so harsh as this one. 

Joel knew he would have his work cut out for him trying not to get attached. 

-

Ellie knew she was on thin ice already. For a girl of only fourteen, she was incredibly perceptive of people’s feelings, especially the grumpy, grey haired bastard that had just lost perhaps the only woman who meant anything to him. She had to admit Tess’s death made her feel like she was some sort of unlucky charm, like anyone who so much as got close to her was doomed from the word ‘go’. 

She hated herself for it, and she assumed from Joel’s silence and the way he’d stormed out of Bill and Frank’s house as soon as she’d read that letter that he hated her too. 

That was until she saw him walking across the street to the house with dead flower beds and smashed windows and no sign of life that she thought perhaps she wasn’t entirely the problem. 

She found him in the bedroom, laying on the double mattress with his eyes closed, though she knew he wasn’t sleeping. The walls were a pretty sort of posy pink, the sheets an intricate pattern of doves and white lilies, and a little painting on the nightstand of two women smiling at one another, one so clearly being Tess while the other remained an enigma. 

It wasn’t until she spotted the cradle next to the bed that her heart sank into her stomach. 

“Bill and Frank weren’t the first ones to die, were they?” Ellie asked softly, and he shook his head wordlessly, “Was it yours? The…”  The baby.  

She couldn’t bring herself to say it. She wouldn’t put it past him to yell at her for prying. 

He lay there like a wounded animal, and he shocked her when he actually spoke. 

“It wasn’t mine,” His voice was gravelly, hardened, yet worn out all the same, “But we were going to-” He stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath, “We were going to raise it together, the two of us. Tess was supposed to be godmother,”

He remembered the way she used to call her Tessa, and how Tess didn’t seem to mind it so much once she saw how truly sickly sweet she was to her core, and how she said it so full of love, the way you could only love your best friend. He remembered how he kissed her, a few months after that first time he’d seen her, how he’d kissed her and pulled her close and how they’d slept in that room together, and how he’d promised her everything was going to be okay because he was going to protect her and that baby. 

Joel remembered thinking that was his second chance. How he knew it wouldn’t bring Sarah back, nothing could ever, but maybe his sweet girl and that baby would be his chance to prove that he could save someone, that he could do some good. 

“What happened? Where’s the baby?” Ellie asked too intrusively, hoping he didn’t shut her out entirely after this, but she had to know. She had to know who the pretty woman in the picture was, and why Tess, even the little splotch of paint she was now, looked at her so besotted that Ellie had to have answers now. She had to know why they had never spoken about her and why Joel seemed to be giving up on her now. Like Tess had pushed him over the edge of a sadness years in the making. 

She didn’t think he would reply, but then; “One night, raiders came while me and Tess were getting her supplies from the city. Few weeks before she was due.” She heard his voice deepen into something dark and angry, “She didn’t stand a chance.”

And Ellie never brought her up again after that day, only once to ask her name, and neither did Joel. He left his sweet girl and whatever he could have been in that pretty house, put her in a box in his chest right next to Sarah, until it didn’t hurt so much to think about her.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Day.8 ~ What is Halloween? ~ Hallowtober

Joel Miller x girlfriend!reader

warning : flirting, kissing, fluff, mention of virus outbreak, no use of y/n

Summary : Halloween has always been her favourite holiday, back when she used to party with the Millers and now almost a decade later they'd be back together again, explaining to a confused Ellie why you party when there are living zombies running around outside.

info : Joel Miller I think he would at least approve of the decorating of the house and the happy children, maybe not exactly a zombie disguise but at least it was enough for this hallowtober have fun reading :)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When she looked out of her house ten years ago, over the green front garden with its seemingly perfect lawn of small bushes and a few colourful flowers.

Across the street where cars occasionally drove and children usually played, rode around on bicycles and drew colourful pictures with chalk and the pensioners made the children a treat with biscuits.

When she looked closely into the window, she always smiled when she saw his smile, a friendly smile on a grown-up face with a darkly recognisable, darkly engaging beard, dark eyes that radiated something she saw again and the brief lift of his hand when he waved at her.

She and her neighbour Joel always seemed to be washing the dishes at the same time, glancing up at the area before spotting each other, smiling and then looking away embarrassed, only to wave and laugh moments later.

Always seemed to be like that until they took out the rubbish and had a little chat until either his nice daughter came out to holler back at her dad or her own son needed her because some toy had broken again.

It seemed to be like that every week, ending in the warm summer with a barbecue together, ,,I'm really glad you could come," he had said to her and she could still feel his touch on her shoulder, a short hug, a friendly smile and she had fallen for those pretty dark doe eyes again.

But it was also the summer when the whole world seemed to be going under, the night she had seen that something screaming and cartwheeling and breaking down doors and she was too slow, too slow to react and protect her son.

Nothing left for her to do but leave the dead body behind, run with the gun in her bloodied hand and never look back…until the moment she had looked forward in Jackson and met the man who had made every dishwashing and summer sultry night so much sweeter.

Since then, despite the grey out there between them, the love only seemed to go on, at least not long after they'd found each other again, she'd met his ‘daughter’ Ellie, she'd moved in with him, become his family and she'd become his, and had also got the consent of Ellie, who was totally into shooting kisses with a revolver.

It was just nice to bathe in something human next to a crowd of normal people, someone to wake up next to, kisses, hugs and other touches that made you forget what was out there until the festivities. From birthdays, to Easter, to Christmas and Halloween, ,,What is this Halloween?" Ellie had asked when she saw the few sweets and biscuits in the pumpkin.

Her question made her ‘parents’ pause, but she saw Joel shake his head while she took a biscuit herself, split it and held the other half out to him. ,,That's right, you were too young…well, Halloween is celebrated on the last day of October, you get scared and eat sweets, it's been around for hundreds of years or something," he tried to explain succinctly, but even though Ellie's eyes lit up at the word sweets, she didn't seem to be able to imagine too much.

She settled down next to Ellie and felt the brief squeeze on her shoulder, a reminder of when he smiled at her and she felt the kiss on her head, ,,I'll just be at Tommy's" he said casually before disappearing to his brother's with a bag to do who knows what, and as the door closed she had an idea that she would discuss with Joel later, an idea to show Ellie Halloween and maybe bring back some memories.

The teenager was blown away when she realised they were dressing up as whatever they wanted and even though Ellie was going as a superhero from her comic books she had been looking for bits of fabric with other Jackson residents to make a super costume, the younger girl's smile was worth the hall and the hug and the ,,Thank you really".

Had Ellie's ‘mum’ prepared something else after an evening of sweet, scary films and scary stories they had dropped Ellie off at Tommy and Maria's who with a little persuasion and shift took the brown haired girl in for a few hours, ,,And I'm still not allowed to watch darling?" she heard Joel ask from the bedroom as she tied a knot in his shirt to emphasise some of his body parts a little better and sat down on the couch.

,,You can open your eyes!" she shouted, hearing the hurried shush as he came back to her and seeing the puzzled look on his face as he looked at her. She saw him swallow and lick his lips, ,,My sweet bear," she grinned and tapped the plush ears in his curly hair, kissed the black tip of his nose and stroked the fur to give it a better look.

,,My gorgeous lumberjack," he purred, stroking down her neck, looking at her cleavage, which was emphasised by the white tank top and his shirt knotted underneath, before he pulled her into a deep kiss, holding her close and enjoying the kiss. Savouring the memory of it.

A memory of the first time they'd spent the night together before all the chaos and horror before they'd both lost a child and before they'd had to kill, ,,This is probably the best Halloween since then," she heard him murmur as he stroked her cheek she knew that look of devotion and love he always gave her before his hand settled on her leg and slowly travelled further up.

,,Then let's experience it again," he suggested in a whisper before she slowly sat down on his lap and engaged him in another kiss while a few candles lit up around them and a horror film played on the old television, almost like when they used to see each other across the street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[lucythornwalter]

Wait a minute, I hear you say. Why are we starting with Felicity? She’s neither the first girl to be released (that’s technically a three-way tie, but the honor is usually given to Kirsten) nor the earliest chronologically (that would be Kaya). What is it about her that means she deserves the first entries in this project?

Well, she might not be the first for Pleasant Company, but she was the first for me. In 1998, when I was five years old, I saw a single volume of one of Felicity’s books in a spinning book rack at a Hallmark store, and I asked my mother to buy it for me based on the cover art and the title (it was Felicity Saves the Day, and the cover features her riding a horse and looking determined but frightened). I read it in the car, and then read it again, and read it again. I was already fascinated by history and specifically by material history, by books about ordinary life in the past and books about artifacts and customs. An Usborne book about life in the medieval era was one of my favorites, alongside another Usborne book about world geography that talked about languages and religious beliefs. I also loved children’s-aimed history books and movies like An American Tail, even as much of the subtle commentary went over my head. I loved The Wizard of Oz and its period setting, and this was also the year I discovered Annie through the 1998 Wonderful World of Disney adaptation. In 1999 I became hooked on A Little Princess and The Secret Garden, and Cosette from Les Misérables and a kids’ graphic novel adaptation of Oliver Twist. I had a box set of the Little House books and had a favorite (On the Banks of Plum Creek, if you were curious. Yes, I’m aware of the irony of being indigenous and liking these books as a kid, but my parents were more concerned with making sure I never watched the turboracist Westerns when they came on TV, and by comparison the near-absence of Native people in the Little House books was pretty tame).

Essentially, I was exactly the kind of person who’d become fully fixated on the American Girl books, and on opinionated and spunky heroines like Felicity in particular.

So. Who is Felicity Merriman?

Felicity Merriman is the eldest child of Edward and Martha Merriman, who live and work in Williamsburg in 1774. Edward Merriman is a genteel tradesman who owns a prosperous general store, and Martha is the daughter and probable only surviving child of an unnamed Virginia planter who owns a substantial estate called King’s Creek. Felicity’s younger siblings are Nan, William, and Polly. Her best friend is Elizabeth Cole, a recently-arrived new colonist from England whose family is deeply loyal to the British crown. Her books are primarily about struggling to find her place as a straightforwardly masc-of-center tomboy who prefers crossdressing and working in the trades to mending and cooking, and about the social divides caused by growing anti-monarchist sentiment in the American colonies and how her friendships and morals are impacted by the political turmoil.

Felicity Merriman is also a slaveowner, from a slaveowning family, and at no point do the original six books manage to address this. In fact, they actively avoid it – the status of her father’s assistant Marcus as an enslaved person is only confirmed in the “Looking Back: A Peek Into the Past” section of Meet Felicity once, and while it’s acknowledged that King’s Creek Plantation is a slave-worked plantation with slave quarters, the text of Felicity Saves the Day never states outright that she interacts with slaves despite the illustrations depicting her in the fields alongside them. There’s a darker-skinned woman named Rose who assists her mother domestically, and unlike Marcus she is never confirmed to be either enslaved or free, forcing me to come to the conclusion that she’s probably also owned by the Merriman household and thus by Felicity.

This is the original and damning sin of Felicity’s books and character concept, and it cannot be escaped. Felicity’s social status protects her from a lot of misbehavior and allows her the luxury of a leisurely girlhood with easy education and no expectation that she work for a living beyond being a genteel housewife. She has to pitch in around the house along with her mother and Rose, but she has plenty of time to ride horses and play with her siblings, and she gets away with doing nothing all summer while her laundry and mending and food are all magically done with no effort from her.

This is also one of the twin original and damning sins of America-as-settler-colony – the irony of slaveowners calling for and fighting for a narrow definition of freedom with broad ideals that they only want to take for themselves is at this point a very old topic of conversation. The other sin, the theft of land and the genocide of Native people, isn’t mentioned at all in Felicity’s books. Felicity Saves the Day is at least conscious of the casual cruelty of the Merrimans and devotes much of its Looking Back chapter to discussion of plantation life for slaves, but the only mention indigenous people get is a comment in Meet Felicity that we lived in North America for fifteen thousand years prior to European settlement. Where did we go? What happened to us? Pleasant Company isn’t that concerned with the question.

As a result, Felicity’s books are best read with something of a critical eye. Once you see how completely and how purposefully slavery is erased from her daily life, it becomes impossible to ignore, and kind of drowns out all the other things that are still excellent. And that’s a real shame, I think. There’s a lot to be examined here, about girlhood in the 1770s and girlhood in the 1990s, about class and gender and how those things impact and frustrate Felicity, about how she grows in confidence and about her sense of justice. Those things had an impact on me – I was inspired by her at five years old and I can recognize that fondness and desire to be just like her now, twenty-six years later.

Ultimately, I can love and appreciate what I, personally, internalized about her story and her journey to womanhood, but I’m never going to be able to uncritically lose myself in her world again. That’s the best and most comprehensive introduction I can give, and even that isn’t enough to effectively answer for what Pleasant Company chose to do. I can’t defend it, and I won’t defend it, but this was neither the first nor last book series I loved that was written by racists. I love it enough to say it fucked up badly, and I will be talking about this as it comes up (or doesn’t) in the text. That’s the best I can offer.

So let’s Meet Felicity.

[fcb4]

Yesterday I had the delight of weaving together a sermon on a few passages out of the first chapter of John and The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis

"In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world.” -John 1:5,9

The depth of analysis in this portion of the story is profound when looked at through an apologetics lens regarding living in a culture that argues this way. If you wrestle with the faith and are familiar with the lines of reasoning from "new Atheists", deconstructionists and their arguments this dialogue will not sound new. 

The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis

We've been there, too," snapped Jill. She was very angry because she could feel enchantment getting hold of her every moment. But of course the very fact that she could still feel it, showed that it had not yet fully worked.

"And thou art Queen of Narnia too, I doubt not, pretty one," said the Witch in the same coaxing, half-mocking tone.

"I'm nothing of the sort," said Jill, stamping her foot. "We come from another world."

"Why, this is a prettier game than the other," said the Witch. "Tell us, little maid, where is this other world? What ships and chariots go between it and ours?"

Of course a lot of things darted into Jill's head at once: Experiment House, Adela Pennyfather, her own home, radio-sets, cinemas, cars, aeroplanes, ration-books, queues. But they seemed dim and far away. (Thrum—thrum—thrum—went the strings of the Witch's instrument.) Jill couldn't remember the names of the things in our world. And this time it didn't come into her head that she was being enchanted, for now the magic was in its full strength; and of course, the more enchanted you get, the more certain you feel that you are not enchanted at all. She found herself saying (and at the moment it was a relief to say):

"No. I suppose that other world must be all a dream."

"Yes. It is all a dream," said the Witch, always thrumming.

"Yes, all a dream," said Jill.

"There never was such a world," said the Witch.

"No," said Jill and Scrubb, "never was such a world."

"There never was any world but mine," said the Witch.

"There never was any world but yours," said they.

Puddleglum was still fighting hard. "I don't know rightly what you all mean by a world," he said, talking like a man who hasn't enough air. "But you can play that fiddle till your fingers drop off, and still you won't make me forget Narnia; and the whole Overworld too. We'll never see it again, I shouldn't wonder. You may have blotted it out and turned it dark like this, for all I know. Nothing more likely. But I know I was there once. I've seen the sky full of stars. I've seen the sun coming up out of the sea of a morning and sinking behind the mountains at night. And I've seen him up in the midday sky when I couldn't look at him for brightness."

Puddleglum's words had a very rousing effect. The other three all breathed again and looked at one another like people newly awaked.

"Why, there it is!" cried the Prince. "Of course! The blessing of Aslan upon this honest marsh-wiggle. We have all been dreaming, these last few minutes. How could we have forgotten it? Of course we've all seen the sun."

"By Jove, so we have!" said Scrubb. "Good for you, Puddleglum! You're the only one of us with any sense, I do believe."

Then came the Witch's voice, cooing softly like the voice of a wood-pigeon from the high elms in an old garden at three o'clock in the middle of a sleepy, summer afternoon; and it said:

"What is this sun that you all speak of? Do you mean anything by the word?"

"Yes, we jolly well do," said Scrubb.

"Can you tell me what it's like?" asked the Witch (thrum, thrum, thrum, went the strings).

"Please it your Grace," said the Prince, very coldly and politely. "You see that lamp. It is round and yellow and gives light to the whole room; and hangeth moreover from the roof. Now that thing which we call the sun is like the lamp, only far greater and brighter. It giveth light to the whole Overworld and hangeth in the sky."

"Hangeth from what, my lord?" asked the Witch; and then, while they were all still thinking how to answer her, she added, with another of her soft, silver laughs: "You see? When you try to think out clearly what this sun must be, you cannot tell me. You can only tell me it is like the lamp. Your sun is a dream; and there is nothing in that dream that was not copied from the lamp. The lamp is the real thing; the sun is but a tale, a children's story."

"Yes, I see now," said Jill in a heavy, hopeless tone. "It must be so." And while she said this, it seemed to her to be very good sense.

Slowly and gravely the Witch repeated, "There is no sun." And they all said nothing. She repeated, in a softer and deeper voice. "There is no sun." After a pause, and after a struggle in their minds, all four of them said together. "You are right. There is no sun." It was such a relief to give in and say it.

"There never was a sun," said the Witch.

"No. There never was a sun," said the Prince, and the Marsh-wiggle, and the children.

For the last few minutes Jill had been feeling that there was something she must remember at all costs. And now she did. But it was dreadfully hard to say it. She felt as if huge weights were laid on her lips. At last, with an effort that seemed to take all the good out of her, she said:

"There's Aslan."

"Aslan?" said the Witch, quickening ever so slightly the pace of her thrumming. "What a pretty name! What does it mean?"

"He is the great Lion who called us out of our own world," said Scrubb, "and sent us into this to find Prince Rilian."

"What is a lion?" asked the Witch.

"Oh, hang it all!" said Scrubb. "Don't you know? How can we describe it to her? Have you ever seen a cat?"

"Surely," said the Queen. "I love cats."

"Well, a lion is a little bit—only a little bit, mind you—like a huge cat—with a mane. At least, it's not like a horse's mane, you know, it's more like a judge's wig. And it's yellow. And terrifically strong."

The Witch shook her head. "I see," she said, "that we should do no better with your lion, as you call it, than we did with your sun. You have seen lamps, and so you imagined a bigger and better lamp and called it the sun. You've seen cats, and now you want a bigger and better cat, and it's to be called a lion. Well, 'tis a pretty make-believe, though, to say truth, it would suit you all better if you were younger. And look how you can put nothing into your make-believe without copying it from the real world, this world of mine, which is the only world. But even you children are too old for such play. As for you, my lord Prince, that art a man full grown, fie upon you! Are you not ashamed of such toys? Come, all of you. Put away these childish tricks. I have work for you all in the real world. There is no Narnia, no Overworld, no sky, no sun, no Aslan. And now, to bed all. And let us begin a wiser life to-morrow. But first, to bed; to sleep; deep sleep, soft pillows, sleep without foolish dreams."

[harryhittiess]

PROMISES & COMPROMISES

1. PROMISES

Summary: The Ashbluffs are in miserable conditions, and no matter what Yn's dad does, their condition remains the same. He thinks of a desperate way to make things right, but it all depends on yn.

Word Count: 2k

Pairing: mafia!harry x yn

Stumbling across the halls, y/n tried to blink her eyes open, so as to make it to her room without falling face first on the carpeted hallway.

She had drunk a lot, too much for her own good. The main reason was to take her mind off her family’s current situation.

The previous month, they were thriving. Hosting lavish mafia parties, investing in cars and houses, buying jewelry and clothes, with a price tag one could only dream of. But now, here they were, surviving on the remnants of their money, or on what was left of it.

She had no idea how they ended up like this. Even though she knew very well what caused them to go from riches to rags. She just couldn't accept the fact that her life and world had turned upside down.

Mainly, it was the pandemic. Even though it was two years ago, the ports and docks where their business landed were shut down. His father worked day and night to do arrangements and planning, to make things work even in the time of crisis. but, it just didn't work.

The people who had been loyal to their family for decades, left due to the shortage of money and security. The money started to drain, to the point that they had to prepare a monthly budget and track their daily expenses.

Life wasn’t easy. but, they were making it work, somehow. God knows for how long.

. . .

"Y/n, your father's calling you! He's in his study."

Y/n's mother yelled from the kitchen. He didn't call into his study to do small talk, and she was terrified of what it might be.

Determined and incessant tapping sounds of the steps in deadly silence of the Ashbluffs house colliding with each other and grasshoppers' song, the agitation in them woke her up from short-lived yet much needed sleep; exhaustion dancing in her body and mind, startled, rose from her bed at once, eyes narrowing in darkness of her room lighted by only pale moonlight casting through the windows to search any source of information. Although she remained unmoved, her mind wasn't. And although the room was empty, her mind was far from empty.

The soft clicking whisper coming from the wind in the garden, rushing around to declare its contrast to July midnight, making the brushes of an old and enormous oak tree slapping on them, yet it failed to enter the bedroom of hers, but coldness matched in her blood.

"He must have received some bad news" She thought, yet knowing bad news wasn't a need for him to feel that way. Their current condition isn't quite making progress, money wasn't enough, people were talking, territories were being lost, the power was fading through their fingers, disappearing like a fog of a smoke becoming void mixing into the air. The Ashbluff family was weak. The evergreen sullenness was growing in each member's heart, all aware of their unavoidable falling.

She shivered, feeling her chest tightening, core full of anxiety, but didn't know what caused her to feel that way. Is that a possible thing where a body can know what mind doesn't? She had this wavy panicky sentiment marching in her guts, stomach got mushy and cold, her throat got narrowingly heavy, and suddenly breathing felt like a distant memory. But she rose from her bed and looked for something to rest on her skin.

She thought about the things he'd say, his tone carrying a huge amount of dominance, power, anger, but most importantly sadness. She wasn't a stranger to her father's randomly risen anger sessions, on the contrary. She was confused about the reason he wanted to talk to her in this deadly hour of the night. It was no surprise that he tried his best to keep his family happy and unaware about family issues, they were always kept away from them, especially his little daughter.

All the families in the gang had their own money, power, and glory. All had their own business. And the Ashbluffs were the most powerful and dangerous one. Almost. If the Styles didn't exist in Mellifluous.

She got up from her bed, and walked to the door of her room. Swinging it open, she replied to her mom, that she'll be out in a minute.

She fixed her hair, and took in deep breaths, to prepare herself for whatever her father was about to tell her. She walked out of her room, and closed it. Walking down the stairs, she reached her father’s study, and knocked.

"Y/n?"

"Yes, dad."

"Come in."

She let herself in and closed the door behind her. The room was dark, and gloomy. She saw him sitting behind the table, on the fabric boss chair.

Y/n's father, Fulgencio Ashbluff was no ordinary man. He was far from ordinary. Inheriting a mafia business that had been running for generations, he brought nothing but immense power, wealth and domination. He was a man of wrath, and in his youth, his associates and colleagues would bow down and greet him, as respect and

admiration for his honor. He was known throughout the city as one of the most powerful and dominant figures in the underworld. He had a vast network of hitmen that he used to do his bidding, and he was feared by all who opposed him.

He had been in the business for many years and had built up an impressive reputation. He was known for his ruthlessness, and his enemies knew that it was best to stay out of his way. He had been able to build up a formidable empire, and had become almost untouchable.

He was tall and intimidating, and always used to get his way with his guns or money. He even married yn's mother by getting rid of the man that her father had chosen for him. There was a gruesome bloodbath, but, at the end of the day, they ended up together, in love.

But now, it is different. He was no longer the mighty and dominant beast that everyone feared. His hitmen had not been loyal to him and had deserted him in his time of need. He had been betrayed, and his power was slipping away.

He was left with no one to turn to, and he was feeling the effects of the betrayal. He was feeling lost and alone, and he felt that he had no one to turn to. He had to make a decision. He had to choose between his former life of power and dominance or his new life of family and responsibility. He realized that he had to make a choice, and he chose his family.

From that moment on, he became a different person. He realized that his family needed him more than anything, and he vowed to make them his top priority. He still had enemies, but he decided to focus on protecting his family and making sure they had everything they needed.

He was still a powerful figure in the mafia world, but he no longer had the same dominance that he once had. He was respected, but his power had diminished.

He was now a morally obliged man whose number one responsibility was his family. Nothing. else mattered to him anymore.

"Y/n, I need to talk to you about something."

Her breathing picked up. He didn't usually address her by her name, rather called her sweetheart or peach. This was serious.

"Yes, dad?"

"Y/n, I believe you are aware of the present circumstances of our family."

"Yes, dad. I'm aware."

"And to proceed with that, I am going to ask you for something that is very big. But, desperate times call for desperate measures. And what I'm about to ask isn't exactly desperate, but that is a major decision in your life that you would have wanted to take for yourself. And I would be the last person to oppose the wishes and dreams of my peach, but you have to understand. Try. Please. For your poor father."

He looked so…defeated. Sad. Broken.

"What is it, dad?"

"I want you to marry Harry Styles. The son of Edmund Styles."

Yn was stunned. Dumbfounded, if you will. Of all the things she had imagined, all the worst scenarios, this wasn’t even at the bottom of her list.

"Wh-What?"

"Sweetheart, I know this is a lot to ask. This may be the most important decision of your life. And I'm incredibly sorry that I have to ask you to do this. But, the condition of our family and us, is not completely reliable. There's not much left, and I want us to be safe, especially your mother and you. I have done everything I could, but that just doesn't seem to work anymore. I don't want an answer now, think about it. Take your time. But, think about our family, Yn. You are the last sliver of hope that's left for us. I never would've imagined that I would have to stoop so low and drop to such levels. The marriage will patch our wounds, and prevent us from bleeding any further."

She just stared at him as he explained everything.

She definitely needed some time to think about it, to process everything.

"And Yn, Harry is a nice man. He is powerful, and holds an entire empire in the palm of his hands. And despite all that, he is just a little arrogant. He will care for you, take care of you. He will protect you and keep you safe."

Yn nodded, and lowered her head.

"You can go to sleep, if you want. We'll talk in the morning. Or whenever you are ready, we'll talk."

"Okay, dad."

She walked out, closing the door behind her.

. . .

Going back to her room, Yn threw herself on the bed. The windows were open, the wind rustling through the trees as it blew through them. Some leaves and flowers landed along the window, but she didn't care.

Yn thought for a long time. She loved her father and didn't want to see him worry anymore. But marrying someone she didn't know was a big decision. Sure, Harry was everything a woman could want in marriage, more even. But marrying him after barely knowing him, made her mouth go dry.

Their marriage would be one of the biggest and most powerful alliances in Mellifluous. No one would even bat an eye with her family after their union. This would ensure the safety of her mother and father, and her brother, who had barely seen the wrongdoers of this pathetic world.

Still, the idea of giving up her freedom and her love to a stranger weighed heavily on her mind. She thought about all the things her father had said about Harry and his wealth and power. But ultimately, she decided that it was worth it.

She would marry Harry Styles.

. . . . . .

My patreon // My kofi

(for how long!!???)

. . . . . .

taglist:

@mysteriouslydecaffeinatedfox @marbearhi @haniaaa04 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @fanficismydrug @tiaamberxx @harrystylesoup @harryswhoreeeeeeee

if you want to be removed, message me.

i honestly don't want to be here anymore

[zombiedumbie]

01. BUT STILL, THEY LEAD ME BACK TO THE LONG, WINDING ROAD;

chapter 0 here.

my head was filled with this fanfic all week, so I had to keep going.

2521 words.

modern au, she/her reader, use of "y/n", cora being the clumsiest yet most loving human being in the world, swearing, heavy tw on post-traumatic stress, descriptions of heavy feelings. mdni!

The journey back to Flevance was peaceful. Law huddled in the passenger seat as he tried to rest his heavy, tired body, but he couldn't even close his eyes as he watched the familiar route. Rosinante held back from bombarding Law with questions as Law held back from yelling every time a car passed them, the beginning of the hangover affecting his body as well as his mind.

The blonde carefully drove the car; as much of a walking disaster and a danger to himself and others as he was, he always made an effort to make Law comfortable while driving (even though most of the time it was Trafalgar who took the wheel).

And he consistently avoided that section of the avenue that led to Flevance.

Not that Law was afraid to go there or anything like that. In fact, he had returned to that avenue many times before, taking the same route. However, it was quite noticeable how he audibly held his breath and clenched his eyes shut.

The white city waved at them with its rooftops and walls of the same color, bathed by the early morning sunlight. Neatly arranged gardens of clustered trees and perfectly trimmed and positioned bushes adorned the houses, with their white bricks and marble parapets. Some water fountains with intricate carvings adorned small squares along the way to his house.

The entire city seemed to come from a movie where everything in the world was perfect.

He remembered clearly walking around there holding hands with people whose faces he would have forgotten if not for the photos. He remembered the mischievous smiling little brat that everyone practically loved and was a big fan of walking around the city, just observing the architecture and the choice of monochromatic tones.

Now, Law felt disconnected from that place, where everything seemed to be only one color and the architecture seemed more of the same. The smile had been replaced by a scowl, and he had become worthy of being called a bitter old man. He felt like his listlessness was a blot of paint on a blank canvas, much like the faded patches on his skin; and so, he closed his eyes every time he passed through the streets of the white city.

Trafalgar sat on the stool in the kitchen, his fingers contracting before stretching under the cold counter. Corazón smiled as he put a kettle of water on to boil, then turned to the man, giving a big smile before launching into his famous session of questions.

"So... how was the party?!" The blonde asked, excited to know more. He leaned against the counter as if preparing to hear the biggest gossip of the year.

"Uhm..." He pondered for a while. "It was nice."

"And the others, did they go?" By "the others", he meant Bepo, Penguin, Shachi, and Ikkaku.

"Just not Bepo. But I ended up losing track of them at some point", and after that, I don't remember anything else. He thought to himself.

"Did you meet someone new?" Corazón had a smile on his lips, like a father trying to find out if his child had gotten a girlfriend.

Law rolled his eyes, realizing what Corazón was implying, but his cheeks burned with the memory as a smile threatened to invade his lips. "None of that. I met a girl, that's all".

Corazón's expression became slightly more serious, but his smile didn't completely disappear. "Oh, a girl? What was she like?"

"I don't know, I didn't pay much attention", Law replied, trying to sound casual, even though his mind was reliving the image of you on the beach. Due to exhaustion, the memory seemed more distant than it actually was.

"You don't pay much attention to your own love life, huh?" Corazón joked.

"I told you it's not like that, Cora-san!" Law replied, a bit annoyed. "We just talked. She helped me when I was... a bit out of it", Cora widened his eyes.

"'A bit out of it'...? What does that mean, Law?" The young man swallowed hard, realizing the mistake he had made. What was even worse was the element of surprise. Law didn't know how he would react. He might scold him or freak out because he had been irresponsible, or maybe he would just laugh.

But what followed really shocked him. Cora just shrugged and continued: "Actually, don't tell me. You're an adult now, I have no right to meddle in your life", the kettle whistled behind him, and he turned and calmly turned off the heat. What Law didn't see was the twitch in his eye as he launched into a rant about how Law was drinking at parties and how that was wrong and how he couldn't complain and how it was dangerous and how...

"Cora...? CORA-SAN!" Law shouted when he saw the man in front of him pour so much hot water into a glass that it overflowed, burning his hand.

After a session of shouting, cold water, and complaints, Cora was sitting on the stool, his hand submerged in the cold water and a few ice cubes. "Damn, Cora-san!" Law grumbled. "I can't take my eyes off you for a split second". Trafalgar was muttering as he watched the man in front of him breathe a sigh of relief.

"It's just my way", Cora smiled and tried to make a peace sign with his burnt hand, immediately plunging it back into the water when he felt the sting. Law slapped his forehead.

"I'm going to sleep for a bit", Law sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Take a shower too", Cora requested. "I can smell your stench from a mile away."

"HUH?!" Law looked incredulously at Cora, who was holding his nose between his burnt fingers, immediately putting his hand back in the water.

Trafalgar lay on the bed after a hot shower, wearing the most comfortable clothes he could find in his meticulously organized wardrobe. He was ready to sleep when his phone vibrated with some random notification from a game he had installed to pass the time. His yellow eyes opened reflexively, he unlocked the phone to set it to silent.

He looked at the screen for a while, it was almost 10 in the morning. Your contact was highlighted: "Y/N :p". Law bit his lips before pressing the message space. His fingers roamed the keyboard that appeared, thousands of things went through his mind, maybe he could send a joke or introduce himself, maybe this was his chance to thank you... Or maybe he could just send a "Hi, this is Law."

That's what he typed, but his fingers never dared to send the message, instead, he just threw his phone under the pillow and fell asleep.

He woke up hours later, his head aching, his throat dry, and he felt awful inside. Laughter echoed down the hallway to his room, making him sigh before getting up. Whoever was out there, he wouldn't want to face them. He looked for his phone to check the time, but a notification on his screen caught his attention: "'Y/N :p': 2 new messages".

Law's face turned red. What? Why did you send a message? He hadn't even said anything. Maybe you got his number, but why save yours on his phone?

Law sighed, rubbed his irritated eyes, rolled on the bed, sighed one more time, thought a bit more; and decided to ignore it. His phone stayed in the same place as always, beside the pillow, as he dragged his heavy body down the narrow corridor to the living room. There were Rosinante and Doflamingo along with a girl and a boy he never remembered the names of, but he always called them "Baby" and "Buffalo", respectively. He shuffled into the kitchen as if he hadn't seen them, grabbing water and searching for some medicine that could help him.

"Laaw!" He knew it wouldn't be that easy when he heard that girl's shrill voice pierce his tired eardrums.

"What do you want, Baby?" He didn't bother to turn to her, not needing to look to know that Buffalo was with her.

"Wow, is this how you treat me after not seeing me for so long?!" She sighed. For some reason, she started to think they were, somehow, cousins, and Law hated that in every possible way.

"I have a headache, leave me alone", he tried to get rid of her, just to hear another annoying voice.

"You're hungover, aren't you?" The voice was almost whiny, in a way that was funny to Law. He grumbled, turning to the two of them. He almost jumped in surprise when he saw Rosinante and Doflamingo right behind them.

"Cora-san... What did you tell them?" Law grumbled, Doflamingo laughed, scaring Baby and Buffalo who hadn't noticed them there.

"Relax, Law. He just said he had to get up really early to pick you up from a party", his guardian's brother said. Doflamingo always had a mocking tone in his voice, Law hated talking to him, mainly because he felt like he never took him seriously. He was like one of those uncles you adored when you were a kid, but when you grew up, you realized he was one of the worst human beings to ever walk the face of the earth.

Not that Doflamingo had done anything to Law, but his reputation wasn't the best due to his choice of profession. Law didn't even know how he had managed to get custody of these other two idiots.

"There's lunch in the fridge if you want to eat something, Law", Rosinante lovingly pointed out.

"Law going to parties, I can hardly believe it!" Baby exclaimed, seeming excited about the idea. "I thought you didn't go to parties, Law. Why did you go to this one?"

Law grumbled as he grabbed the plate of food from the fridge, carefully wrapped in plastic wrap. "Because I wanted to, you nosy little brat", he normally treated her badly, but his bad mood made it worse sometimes. "Now stop bothering me about it!"

He didn't need to turn to see the girl pout as she clung to Buffalo.

And that's how it was the whole time he was in the kitchen. Those two bothered him as he tried to eat his lunch (almost in the late afternoon) in peace, the siblings chatted quietly as they observed those 3. And after a light session of disturbance by Baby and Buffalo, Law responded impatiently:

"Fine, fine! I'll tell you why the fuck I went to a party!" he grumbled. "Now shut up."

The two sat properly on the chair, observing Law curiously, biting their lips in anticipation to hear his story. He ate a bit more of his lunch, wiped the remaining food on the knife with his fork, looked at them for a few more seconds, took a sip of his water, noisily placed the utensils back onto the plate.

"ARE YOU GOING TO TALK OR NOT?!" Baby yelled, irritated by Law's teasing, who smirked, satisfied with the reaction. Law knew how to be an annoying little brat when he wanted to.

"Okay, okay", he decided to stop torturing the two anxious people in front of him. "I literally went because I wanted to. I heard there was a party, and my friends were going, so I invited myself to go with them", he said it as if it were so simple. The two looked at him incredulously; there was a very important point in the story that Law wasn't telling.

"But you didn't even want to leave the house!" Buffalo replied. "You spent years without going out!" Law grumbled.

It was true, after the accident, Law spent practically years not wanting to leave the house. The idea of facing the world outside the walls of his home became terrifying; suddenly, everything became dangerous, deadly. The noise of cars passing by the street in front of his house stressed him out, bright lights were dreadful, any shout made his heart race, blood made him sick. Even sirens were disturbing.

The little boy had gone through hell that day; all he wanted was to avoid all of this happening again.

And worst of all, by leaving the house, everyone would look at him with pity, treat him like he was just a poor victim instead of a human being. It was obvious that he was traumatized by everything that had happened, and people looking at him like that, constantly reminding him of who he was and what had happened, added an extra pinch of fear to the constant dread of getting hurt again.

"But now I do go out," he retorted, his heart was pounding hard and his cheeks flushed. "I'm in college now, aren't I?! I have to get out of the fucking house! So, don't bother me about it anymore!" Law stood up, annoyed. He left his dirty plate in the sink before heading back to his room with heavy steps, taking deep breaths.

He could still feel the trembling hands and the racing heart of that frightened boy. The memories of the accident still hit him like a punch to the stomach, suffocating him with the paralyzing fear he experienced on that terrible day.

It took a long time for Law to start living without fear, like a human, he would say. At the beginning, everything was much harder, the constant visits from neighbors, the constant messages of condolences, and the thinly veiled looks that were never as discreet as they seemed made him feel like an ant. The only people who looked at him as a person and not as a victim were Rosinante and a small group of friends from his old school: Bepo, Shachi, Penguin, and Ikkaku.

Talking about it with people who seemed to lack even the slightest bit of sensitivity felt like walking along a long and winding road of memories.

Law threw himself on the bed, banging his head against the pillow several times, trying to somehow clear his mind. Unintentionally, he hit his phone, which slid under the pillow due to the impacts of his face against the bed, causing it to hit the hard surface of his nose.

He groaned in pain, clutching his nose with his hands and applying pressure, a small tear escaping his eye. When the pain subsided, he felt an urge to laugh at his own stupidity.

"'Y/N :p': 2 new messages."

He sighed before opening the messages, deciding he had ignored you for too long. That's when he realized the mistake: "Hi, this is Law." He had sent the message by mistake. His face heated up as if somehow he had just embarrassed himself by just talking to you.

"'Y/N :p': hi law!!!! sorry, i was working, just saw the message now".

"'Y/N :p': how r u??"

The messages had been sent a few hours after his message. Law cleared his throat, trying to shake off the feeling of needing to justify himself for sending you a message. He thought for a few minutes about what to reply; there was nothing specific he wanted to talk to you about, just to thank you for helping at the party, but even so, he felt like he should say more than just "thanks for helping me."

"'Law': I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"'Law': Are you working on a Sunday?"

He wanted to chew off his own hand for writing something that, in his anxious head, was so stupid.

[dankusner]

The Libra husband is not an easy man to please. The monotony of domesticity is not to his liking.

But he is a passionate man. And a respecter of tradition."

All I have to do is find this Libra man. "The Libra husband is reasonable. He is a born judge. And no other zodiacal type can order his life with so much wisdom." God. That's all I need: order. That's all I need: an ordered life. You know, a manager. But he's got to be a Libran.

Inside Grey Gardens With Gail Sheehy -- New York Magazine - APR. 13, 2009

The Secret of Grey Gardens By Gail Sheehy

From the January 10, 1972 issue of New York Magazine.

This is a tale of wealth and rebellion in one American Gothic family.

It begins and ends at the juncture of Lily Pond Lane—the new Gold Coast—and West End Road, which is a dead end.

There, in total seclusion, live two women, twelve cats, and occasional raccoons who drop through the roof of a house like no other in East Hampton.

Ropes of bittersweet hang from its frail shoulders.

A pair of twisted catalpa trees guard its occupants, but nothing is safe for long from invasion by the bureaucrats and Babbitts.

Least of all a mother and daughter of unconventional tastes who long ago turned their backs on public opinion.

The seeds of their tale go back to 1915 when the family first discovered, beyond “dressy” Southampton, a “simple” summer resort composed of saltbox houses and village greens.

The sea was still tucked then behind great cushions of sand dunes.

Behind them potato fields stretched in white-tufted rows clear to the horizon like a natural Nettle Creek bedspread.

Right from the start, East Hampton provided a refuge for the family’s scandals and divorces and all manner of idiosyncrasies common to those of high breeding.

The family brought the wealth of Wall Street to this simple resort.

It casually purchased a cabana at the Maid-stone Club for $8,000 in 1926.

The men set down roots in four houses and sired beautiful women.

In due time the little girls’ names entered the Social Register.

Later they would appear in the creamy pages of The Social Spectator…

“Seen at the recent East Hampton Village Fair, ‘Little Edie’ Beale,” under the picture of a full-lipped blonde shamelessly vamping through the brim of her beach hat, or, “Picking up another blue rib-bon at the East Hampton horse show, Miss Jacqueline Bouvier with her father, John Vernou Bouvier III captions which reflected the infinite self-confidence of the indomitably rich.

The Social Spectator described an era which will never be again.

The family’s homes are gone now, all but one.

And the family itself, after 300 years, has slipped back into the abominable middle class.

All except a few.

One became the most celebrated woman in the world, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis.

Two others never gave a damn about all that.

They rebelled against the Maidstone, shunned garden parties to pursue the artistic life.

Now, passed over by history, they are left to the wreck of their house.

Contemporary East Hampton is caught up in a war of land values.

It is no longer a refuge for artists and eccentrics.

The dropouts at the foot of the lane do not conform to the new values exhibited by “beach houses” with elevators.

Their lives are remote from the Friday afternoon helicopters which ferry high-powered businessmen out from the city and drop them into pastel sports cars on D. Blinken’s lawn.

Around the corner from them, on West End, a parade of tycoons�� castles, one owned by Revlon’s Charles Revson (who copied the house next door), ends in a nest of five mansionettes owned by Pan Am’s Juan Trippe and family.

But the grounds belonging to the dropouts bear no resemblance to putting-green lawns, nor to the wedding-cake trees created by topiary gardening on estates which retreat from them behind trimmed privet hedges.

These two have lived beyond their time at the juncture of Lily Pond Lane and West End, where the privet runs wild over a house called Grey Gardens.

Last summer our lives crossed by chance.

My daughter and I often walked past Grey Gardens on the way back from Georgica Beach.

We could see little of the house because on that side it was obscured by a tall hedge with an overpowering fragrance of honeysuckle.

But my daughter had seen fat cats in the high grass.

She also reported a light in the second-floor window at night.

On this scanty evidence she had dubbed it the Witch House.

One Sunday morning’s discovery changed all that.

My daughter came running, tearful, holding three baby rab-bits in a Tide box.

She had found them motherless by the side of the road.

“Can’t we take them home?” she asked.

I explained they would never survive the train ride.

She had another idea: if the Witch House had all those cats, whoever lived there must like animals.

Before I could protest, we had ducked under the hedge, skittered past a 1937 Cadillac brooding in the tangled grasses, and we were deep into the preserve of twelve devil-eyed cats.

There was no turning back.

“Mother?”

We whirled at the sound of an alien voice.

She was coming through the catalpa trees as a taxi pulled away, and she was covered everywhere except for her face, which was beautiful.

“Are you looking for Mother, too?” she asked, more unnerved than we.

My little girl held out the Tide box to show her the trembling bunnies.

“Did you think we care for animals here?”

The woman smiled and bent down close to the face of the child, who silently considered her.

This was not at all a proper witch.

She looked sweet sixteen going on 30-odd and had carefully applied lipstick, eyeliner and powder to her faintly freckled face.

The child nodded solemnly: “This is an animal house.”

“You see! Children sense it.”

The woman clapped her hands in delight.

“The old people don’t like us. They think I’m crazy. The Bouviers don’t like me at all, Mother says. But the children understand.”

My little girl said it must be fun to live in a house where you never have to clean up.

“Oh, Mother thinks it’s artistic this way, like a Frank Lloyd Wright house. Don’t you love the overgrown Louisiana Bayou look?”

My daughter nodded vigorously.

At this point the woman looked shyly up to include me in the conversation.

“Where do you come from?”

“Across the way.”

“My goodness, it’s about time we got together! How many years have you been here?”

She rushed on before I could answer, as though reviving a numb habit of social conversation and desperate not to lose the knack.

“You phone me. Beale. That’s the name, Edith Beale.”

As she swept past us in a long trench coat and sandals, her head wrapped in a silk scarf knotted at the back of the neck, I could have sworn she was—who?

I’d seen her picture hundreds of times.

Edie Beale, safe on her porch, pointed out the formally lettered sign she had made for the front door: Do Not Trespass, Police on the Place.

“Are there really?” my daughter breathed.

“Not really, but Mother is frightened of anyone who comes by.”

She then described a neighbor who tries to club the cats to death at night, and the boys from across the street whose surfer friends try to break in.

I suggested the boys might just be prankish.

“Oh no, they’re dangerous. I can tell what’s inside a person right away. Mother and I can see behind the masks; we’re artists, it’s the artist’s eye. I wish I didn’t have it. Jackie has it too. She’s a fine artist.”

“Jackie?”

“I’m Jacqueline Bouvier’s first cousin. Mother is her aunt. Did you know that?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Oh yes, we’re all descended from fourteenth-century French kings. Now a relative has written a book saying it’s all a lie, that we don’t really have royal blood. He’s a professor, John H. Davis, and he’s breaking with history. Everyone is. That’s how I know the millennium is coming. The Bouviers: Portrait of an American Family. Not a bad book really.”

(Subsequently, I read the Davis book and was struck by the parallel courses of their two lives—Little Edie, better known as Body Beautiful Beale, but so breakable; her young cousin Jackie, whose heart developed a steel safety catch—until an accident of fate drove one to the top and condemned the other to obscurity. It came out in the inauguration scene:

“The Reception for Members of President and Mrs. Kennedy’s Families” was the first Kennedy party held in the White House.

Peter Lawford and Ted Kennedy showed up.

Little Edie Beale approached J. P. Kennedy, who was looking his usual unassuming self, and reminded him jokingly that she had once almost been engaged to his first-born son, Joe, Jr.

And if he had lived, she probably would have married him and he would have become President instead of Jack and she would have become First Lady instead of Jackie! J. P. Kennedy smiled and took another drink.)

“I’ve just come from church, which put the millennium in my mind,” the lady of Grey Gardens was saying.

The woman before me, a version of Jackie coming from church on a Greek island, was Little Edie in the summer of her 54th year!

“You…resemble your cousin,” I faltered.

“Mmmm, Jackie had a very hard time. Did you like the Kennedys?”

She didn’t skip a beat.

“They brought such art to the country! Besides the clothes and makeup, politics is the most exciting thing about America. Didn’t you think the Kennedys would be around forever—at least three terms?”

Her eyes danced.

My daughter wanted to know if she knew President Kennedy well.

“Jack never liked society girls, he only dated showgirls,” she began, synchronizing only with her memories.

“I tried to show him I’d broken with society, I was a dancer. But Jack never gave me a tumble. Then I met Joe Jr. at a Princeton dance, and oh my!” She swooned. “Joe was the most wonderful person in the world. There will never be another man like him.”

“But you were a ballerina?”

My daughter wanted to stick to the facts.

“What, sweetheart?” Edie Beale was off in her private world again; this brought her back.

“Oh yes, I started in ballet. Ran away from home three times. First to Palm Beach; everyone thought I’d eloped with Bruce Cabot, the movie actor—I didn’t even know him! I never did anything but flirt—you know, the Southern belle. My father brought me back. He’d always thought my mother was crazy because she was an artist. Then I went into interpretive dancing and ran away to New York. Mother caught me moving out of the Barbizon, she thought it was the correct spot. But I moved into New York’s oldest theatrical hotel. On the sly a friend sent me to Max Gordon. The minute he saw me he said: ‘You’re a musical comedienne.’ I said, ‘That’s funny, I did Shakespearean tragedy at Spence.’ Max Gordon said the two were very close. I was all set to audition for the Theatre Guild that summer. Shaking with fear, you can imagine with my father still alive—he’d left Mother for the very same thing! I modeled for Bachrach while I was waiting for the summer to audition. Someone squealed to my father. Do you know, he marched up Madison Avenue and saw my picture and put his fist right through Mr. Bachrach’s window?”

At that, Little Edie threw back her head and giggled so contagiously we caught it ourselves.

“But”—we were gasping for the end of the story—“did you ever go for the audition?”

“Oh no. Mother got the cats. That’s when she brought me down from New York to take care of them.”

It was a stunning non sequitur, but the empty finality of her voice made the meaning clear.

We had come to the dead end of a human life.

Cats crouched all around in the grass, rattling in their throats, mean and stricken.

“Are they wild?” I asked.

She called for Tedsy Kennedy, a Persian.

“Mother bred them all. We’ve had 300 cats altogether. Now we have twelve, but they’re not wild. They’re fur people.” Tedsy Kennedy leaped out of her arms.

She tried for Hipperino, Little Jimmy, Zeppo, Champion—“He’s a mother’s boy”—and finally she succeeded in scooping up Bigelow.

“It’s true about old maids, they don’t need men if they have cats.”

She put her lips to the ear of the fur person named Bigelow: “We’re going away together, all right, Bigs? Just you and me?”

Bigs writhed out of the embrace too, giving her nothing but a blood bubble on one finger.

Then an operatic voice sang its lament through the upstairs window.

EeeDIE? I’m about to die.

“Oh dear, Mother’s furious because she’s not getting attention. I’ll be right up, Mother.”

“The bunnies.”

My daughter offered the Tide box.

“They are sweet, but you see, Mother runs everything around here. I work for her and she might throw me out….” Little Edie accepted the bunnies anyway.

She walked us up to the catalpa trees.

Suddenly she gasped, shrank back:

“Oh dear, it’s fall.”

We followed her eyes to the ground where a dead mouse lay in our path.

“That’s the sign of an early fall. There’s evil ahead,” she said.

It was not an early fall.

But Edith Beale was right about evil in the wings.

Late August Saturdays still found the new rich along the Gold Coast entertaining the “fun people” in lime pants from Southampton.

At high noon they sat beside gelid pools exercising little but their mouths; talking business, nibbling quiche, complaining about neighbors who drive down the land values.

These are the city people who send out their architects to order the shoulders of the sea broken, crushed, swept back into the potato fields.

On the leveled stage they set down their implausible houses and bathwater pools.

New dune grass eventually appears in patches, row on row, like hair transplants.

But dunes never grow back.

The new people use the sea only as a backdrop

(“You don’t swim in it, do you?”), insulting it, hating it really.

The wind wrecks their hairdos.

Sand nicks their glass window walls.

They use the sand only as a mine field to hide the wires leading to their Baroque burglar alarm systems.

So long as real-estate moguls and barons of Wall Street and their shrill, competitive wives keep coming out from the city to erect display cases on the dunes, the Village Fathers will appease them.

The new people create jobs and pay obscene beachfront taxes.

Nothing is likely to be said aloud about what they violate of East Hampton.

But when a few of them complain about those two living in an “eyesore” near their precious land values, the Village Fathers can be very quickly turned into a posse.

Even as Labor Day approached, such a posse was being assembled against the Beales.

The sea comes into its wild season with September riptides.

Gathering far out, it hurls its weight against the land, smearing the beach with tidal pools, while opposing waves tear at virgin sand and drag it back.

Most people in East End stay away from the beach then.

Who was that lone figure in black?

Both Sundays after Labor Day she ran off the dunes like an escapee and plunged into the surf.

Alarmed at first, I watched her draw the water hungrily around her.

But she was a strong swimmer, a child-woman of such unspent exuberance.

Her body was still beautiful, I thought, as Edith Beale came up the beach in a black net bathing suit.

“I haven’t seen you in so long!” she called. “Mother never allows me to show myself on the beach after summer, but this fall I had to come out.”

I said she still looked like a model.

“Shall I tell you what I’ve done for twenty years? Fed cats. Mother wouldn’t let me go around with American men, they were too rich and fast. She was afraid I’d get married. Nothing has happened in twenty years, so I haven’t changed in any way.”

She remembered every detail from our last encounter.

How was my trip to Russia? she asked.

How are dancers treated there?

“The simple life is not understood in America,” she broke in with a deep whisper.

“They’re all so rich and spoiled. I would have loved this life, except—I never got to say goodbye to any of my friends.”

She blushed to the edges of her flowered cap, admitting she had always preferred older men.

“They’re all dead now and I’m alone….”

We walked toward the sea, which seemed to revive her spirits.

“So I had to make friends with the younger generation,” the voice lilting now, “the boys who come by and like the overgrown look. We sketch together.”

She turned quickly and scanned the beach.

“Maybe they thought I was getting too friendly with the young boys.”

They?

Her eyes focused on a dark blur, maybe a mile away.

She recounted a strange phone call from one of her brother’s sons last February:

You’re in the soup, he kept saying, the County’s going to take your house.

“I’m psychic and I feel it coming.”

That was her brother coming now, in the jeep down the beach; she grew stiff and asked me to stay and meet him.

I wondered which brother it would be, having read of the contrast between them.

While Little Edie confounded her Bouvier relatives by imitating her mother’s rebellion against bourgeois conformity, her younger brother, Bouvier Beale, was following in the footsteps of his lawyer father and grandfather.

He married a society girl and established his own law firm in New York—Walker, Beale, Wainwright and Wolf.

Today he lives in Glen Cove, belongs to Piping Rock, as did his grandfather, and only last summer built his own summer home in Bridgehampton.

The other brother, Phelan Jr., escaped to Oklahoma and never came back.

But why hadn’t they come to the rescue of their 76-year-old recluse mother and pathetic sister buried alive in Grey Gardens?

Edith Beale must have read my thoughts.

“Now my brothers, they’re great successes. But the way they’ve been acting has put Mother more on my neck than ever. They refuse to give one penny to the house. The trust from my grandfather is about gone. Mother suffered reverses in the stock market last year, so my brothers sold her blue chip stock.”

I asked a sensitive question about her present financial situation.

“Oh we’re not destitute, Mother has collateral. It’s been my life’s work to protect her collections, we don’t trust anybody.”

The rest was hurriedly whispered: “My brother, Bouvier Beale, has been after Mother for a year now to sign over power of attorney. I think he wants to take over the house and put poor Mother into an institution. He treats her just as her father did, you know, because she’s an artist. It all goes back to Mother deciding she wanted to sing…she was so advanced. Grandfather threatened to disown her but she made plenty of appearances in clubs around New York. She is still totally modern and correct in everything, with one exception. My career.”

But how could Mother deny her the very freedom of expression for which she had defied an entire family? I pressed.

“Two women can’t live together for twenty years without some jealousy,” Little Edie Beale said reluctantly. “Not that my voice is better than Mother’s, but she can’t dance.”

The jeep was upon us.

Its driver, a stiffly formal man, was introduced as Bouvier Beale.

Seemingly embarrassed, he walked off with his sister for a private conference.

As I climbed the dunes, their bodies were turning rigid in dispute, necks stiff.

A shout came back in a man’s voice: “You must go to a room in the Village!”

Little Edie broke away and ran for the sea.

October begins the bad months.

When summer finishes with East Hampton and black ice begins to form, the stupid puddle ducks freeze in the Village pond and the caretakers stay drunk, and besides family fights and in-breeding there is very little to do. The Village Fathers had cut out their work in advance.

The new Village building inspector, A. Victor Amann, had sent a letter to the Beales back last February, demanding the overgrowth be cut back: the Village would do it for $5,000.

He sent a copy to the trust fund, which replied there was no money left.

Another letter from P. C. Schenck’s fuel company of East Hampton warned the Beales their furnace was unsafe.

A copy of that was mailed to Bouvier Beale, along with his mother’s unpaid bill of $800.

Ignored, the Village Fathers moved in on October 20. Little Edie was on the porch of Grey Gardens when five people materialized.

She thought they were wearing costumes, she told me.

One said: “You have no heat.”

Another said: “You have no food.”

A public nurse said: “You’re sick.”

“Mother, did you hear that? This horrible public health nurse says we’re sick!”

Little Edie stamped her feet furiously, informing her invaders:

“We’re Christian Scientists. The only medicine is work.”

Mother’s voice boomed from the window: SEND that nurse AWAY—SHE’S been in contact with ALL the GERMS of SUFFOLK COUNTY!

The invaders retreated, but only to assemble a proper posse (which took all of two days).

East Hampton’s Mayor Rioux was away on vacation and his deputy, Dr. William Abel, was determined to have done with the misfits.

“People are basically no damned good,” the Acting Mayor later expressed himself to me.

I thought this odd coming from a chief surgeon at Southhampton Hospital, but Dr. Abel added, “I prefer animals.”

The very mention of the Beale house caused him to grip his knees and go white:

“The house is unfit for human habitation—animals don’t live like this. The two sweet old things won’t move unless they are forcibly moved because, unfortunately, they’re not mentally competent.”

He declined to go into the reasons for his diagnosis because “I get so wrapped up in it.”

But as a public official he felt it his duty to leave me with a warning.

“Are you aware that many of the most horrible murders in our country are committed by schizophrenics who appeared perfectly stable, maybe even saner than I?”

In an unusual move, the Village sought help from the County.

On the 22nd of October a raiding party of twelve made its move.

County sanitarians, detectives, and ASPCA representatives from New York forced their way past the ladies of Grey Gardens armed with a search warrant issued by a Town Justice on the ground that the Beales were harboring diseased cats.

Cameras recorded the sorry scene: cat manure covering the floors; a five-foot-high mound of empty cans in the dining room; the Sterno stove on Mother’s bed; cobwebs, cats and all sorts of juicy building-code violations.

Mother thought it was a stickup.

The sanitarians had the dry heaves.

It remained for the ASPCA man, alone, to report he’d seen human fecal matter in the upstairs bedroom.

“They never said why it was they’d come,” Little Edie told The East Hampton Star.

Sidney Beckwith, of the County Health Department, got on the phone with Bouvier Beale and quoted the hot report of his inspection.

“Mr. Beckwith, you’ve described it very well, but it’s nothing new—Mother is the original hippie,” said Bouvier Beale.

Astonished that such a prominent family would sit back and let their relations be condemned, Mr. Beckwith warned that the next inspection would create a national scandal.

“If that’s what it takes to get Mother out of the house, sobeit,” said Beale.

It was never clear after the whole mess hit the newspapers, a month later, who had put whom up to what.

But three forces conspired to finish off the ladies of Grey Gardens: Village Fathers, a few nameless neighbors, and their closest kin.

My first clue to their plight was a New York Post headline of November 20:

JACKIE’S AUNT TOLD: CLEAN UP MANSION

I called immediately but the Beales’ phone was “out of order.”

There was nothing to do but drive out to Grey Gardens.

Stripped of summer foliage, it stood naked to prying eyes.

Shades of Chappaquiddick.

Five girls from Huntington sat in a car across the street, trading binoculars:

“We’ve been here all day.”

An old local jumped out of his station wagon, armed with an Instamatic, and posed his niece before the pariahs’ house.

“Sure, I knew old Black Jack Bouvier, used to caddy for him up the Maidstone,” the old man said. “Knew the Beales too, delivered a lot of packages up here.”

But wasn’t he horrified at this invasion of their privacy?

“We swim in different schools. I don’t have much in common with the Beales,” he said. “I’m a local working person.”

At dawn the following day I reached young Edie Beale by phone.

She was terrified, but adamant:

“Mother would never be put out of this house. She’s going to roof it, plaster it, paint it, and sell it. We’re artists against the bureaucrats. Mother’s French operetta. I dance, I write poetry, I sketch. But that doesn’t mean we’re crazy or taking heroin or anything! Please—” her voice pleaded for all she was worth—“please tell them what we are.”

In the early twenties “Big Edie”—sister of Black Jack Bouvier (Jackie’s father), wife of lawyer Phelan Beale, and mother of Little Edie—became the first lady of Grey Gardens.

It was a proper 28-room mansion when they bought it.

The box hedges surrounding it were trimmed.

But even then a mantle of ivy draped its gables and the lush walled-in garden to one side suited Big Edie’s unconventional personality.

By 1925 her husband was prospering.

Her children, Little Edie, Phelan Jr. and Bouvier, were small.

But Edie had a retinue of servants that freed her to cultivate interests and opinions which the Bouviers considered downright subversive.

She played the grand piano in her living room by the hour and sang, in her rich mezzo so-prano, “Indian Love Call” and “Begin the Beguine” to a husband who was generally upstairs hollering for his tuxedo to be pressed.

He’d go off to stuffy cocktail parties and Maidstone dances which bored her to tears.

Since she was likely to wear a sweater over her evening gown and discuss Christian Science, the family became less and less insistent that Big Edie come along.

Big Edie’s two brothers were then in fierce competition to become rich men.

Before they reached 35, Black Jack Bouvier had reaped a fortune of $750,000 on Wall Street, while Bud Bouvier made his money in the Texas oil fields Jack was always one up on his brother, which drove Bud to destroy his marriage and caused the first Bouvier divorce in 100 years.

In 1929, the same year that the beautiful Jacqueline was born to Black Jack, his brother drank himself to death.

Material success had become the real Bouvier god, as it was for so many others of that wildly prosperous era.

Only Big Edie, among the Bouviers, dropped away from bourgeois conventions.

Her brother’s demise foreshadowed the family’s deterioration.

Within two weeks of Bud’s death, and with the entire clan at the peak of its fortunes, the stock market crashed.

Black Friday found the old family broker, M. C. Bouvier, at his office at 20 Broad, congratulating himself on his cash reserves and the quality of his bonds.

Black Jack was much less serene.

He was forced to ask for help from his father-in-law.

James T. Lee agreed on the condition Black Jack curb his flamboyant lifestyle—Jackie’s father was fatally susceptible to beautiful women and big money, which he spent faster than he earned.

It was a great humiliation to move his wife and Jacqueline to a rent-free apartment, provided by his father-in-law, at 740 Park Avenue.

By 1935 his net worth had plummeted to $106,444.

The family’s lot began to improve only when M. C. Bouvier died in 1935, leaving his brokerage firm to Black Jack, and his fortune to Major Bouvier, who became the family patriarch.

But as for Big Edie, her husband had left her in Grey Gardens and disappeared into the Northwest woods, where he built his own hunting lodge, Grey Goose Gun Club.

He sent only child support.

Big Edie became dependent on her father, Major Bouvier, for a subsistence of $3,500 a year, and began to withdraw into seclusion.

The Bouviers lived their golden East Hampton summers through the thirties and forties, seemingly exempt from the country’s economic despair.

Ignoring Depression and war, they divided their time between the Maidstone Club and Lasata, Major Bouvier’s great house on Further Lane.

But the Major’s flamboyant reign was accomplished at a gruesome price, to be paid much later by his heirs.

By living off principal, he assured the family comfort and style only for as long as he lived.

But for the moment, his grandchildren were dazzling the cabana owners of the Maidstone.

The Bouvier who attracted all the stares as she sauntered down the midway was Little Edie.

The Body Beautiful at 24.

Her cousin Jackie was a solemn twelve and generally in jodhpurs.

About the contrast Black Jack was fiercely defensive.

During luncheons at Lasata he would announce to the family: “Jackie’s got every boy at the club after her, and the kid’s only twelve!”

Everyone knew Little Edie was It, but her mother never rose to the bait.

Big Edie was always busy directing the attention to herself.

The excuse might be Albert Herter’s portrait of her in a blue dress, done twenty years before.

“Did you know the blue dress in that painting is the same one I’m wearing now?”

She would pause for effect.

“That’s how poor I am.”

Black Jack would remind her that a clever woman would have gotten some alimony out of her husband.

Big Edie would remind her family that she was not a golddigger.

Whereupon she would head for the piano with ten adoring children traipsing at her heels.

The last of the fashionable family affairs was the 1942 wedding of Big Edie’s son, Bouvier Beale.

A ceremony at St. James’s was scheduled for four, and almost the entire Bouvier family was in place.

Big Edith was the missing guest.

The wedding was half over when she arrived, dressed like an opera star.

The bride and groom took the incident in stride, but Major Bouvier had had his fill of Edith’s outlandish behavior.

Two days later he cut her out of his will.

From then until his death in 1948, the moralizing Major used his changing will as a club, but Edie had already become the recluse of Grey Gardens when the news came that her share of the dead Major’s dwindled fortune was a $65,000 trust fund, her sons in control.

On that sum, Big and Little Edie have lived for the past 23 years.

Little Edie always talked about getting away…

“I’ve got to get out of East Hampton, fast,” she told her neighbor, Barbara Mahoney.

That was sixteen years ago, when she crossed the street to take her a friendship card with a red sachet: Thank you, Barbara, for being my friend, it read.

“You know,” she whimpered, “I’m 38 and I’m an old maid. I don’t have any friends. Ought to get away. I don’t know where to go!”

About that time the ladies of Grey Gardens met Tex Logan in Montauk.

He was playing steel guitar and looking for jobs.

“He was mad about my mother,” Little Edie recalls, “so you know, he came in as a carpenter-maintenance man-cook. Tex did just about everything for nine years, on and off.”

But Tex was a wanderer.

When he grew bored, he’d hitchhike out of town and when he came back he was inevitably drunk.

Then there was the night Tex was arrested for possession of a pistol at Mrs. Morgan Belmont’s bridge party.

The East Hampton Star gave the Beale house as his address.

How the ladies of Grey Gardens did fuss!

Tex didn’t come back again until the winter he contracted pneumonia.

He was found a week later, dead, in the kitchen of Grey Gardens.

This time The East Hampton Star noted, discreetly, the man was the Beales’ “caretaker.”

“We never let anybody in here after that,” Little Edie recalled, “because the house is loaded with valuables. Except once, in the early spring of ’68, when the Wainwrights invited Mother and me to a big dance. Mother said we should make one last appearance before the Old Guard of East Hampton. I was so excited—but Mother said, ‘You are absolutely not going to that dance unless you get somebody to help clean up this mess.’”

Little Edie hired two boys, sons of old natives, who were home from the Navy.

She noticed they were acting funny on the second floor, but in her excitement she ignored it.

The party was being given by young Edie’s childhood friend, Carolyn Wainwright, for her daughter’s debut.

The reclusive Beales made a breathtaking entrance.

Mother wore a wrapper open to the waist and clasped with a dazzling brooch.

In her hair, which looked as though it hadn’t seen a comb in years, she had wound faded silk violets.

Little Edie arrived desperate to dance, trailing a black net stole over her black bathing suit and fishnet tights.

Edie danced by herself with one red rose.

Somebody’s sympathetic husband got up to dance with her, but she was inexhaustible.

The rock music grew wild and Little Edie even wilder—“I flew into a jungle rock and nobody could control me, not even Mother!”

Late in the evening, Big Edie dragged her wayward daughter home, scolding all the way: her disgraceful behavior would release evil spirits, just wait.

They entered Grey Gardens to find $15,000 worth of heirlooms stolen.

Last August the Beales paid $1,790 in taxes to the Village of East Hampton for one more year in the life of Grey Gardens.

“Why are my brothers so anxious to get Mother out?”

Little Edie kept asking.

“She was going to sell the house anyway, before the taxes are due next August. She’s just a little superstitious. Mother thinks if she makes a will, she’ll die.”

Meanwhile a Village official was calculating out loud:

“It would take about $10,000 to demolish the house. With the land cleared you could easily get $80,000, a sum that would be of considerable interest to members of the family…”

Other estimates run as high as $300,000.

“The final degradation for Grey Gardens,” moaned Edith Beale.

When the raids began, the Beales decided the Village was out to break them.

“I don’t think we can live in America any more,” sighed Little Edie.

“The only freedom we have left is the press. Thank God I could tell my side of the story to The East Hampton Star. Isn’t it a terrific paper; it’s our Daily News!”

Meanwhile the international press was having a field day with the sordid tale—“they keep saying we’re old and ill and have to be institutionalized,” Little Edie wept to her lawyer, Mr. LaGattuta from The Springs. “I don’t look old, do I?”

But Mother felt she was smarter than any lawyer and refused to pay LaGattuta a fee.

After a third inspection on December 7, Mr. Beckwith informed the Beales by letter:

“Should you continue living in this dwelling under the existing conditions, this department will have no recourse but to take action to remove you.”

That action would be an eviction hearing immediately after Christmas.

Mr. Beckwith took the liberty of sending a copy to Mrs. Onassis with a personal note, mentioning that her aunt and cousin had spoken fondly of Jackie and if she could do anything to help, the Beales certainly needed it.

Although Mrs. Onassis was in New York partying all month, she made no effort to contact her brutalized relatives.

Her social secretary, Nancy Tuckerman, insisted that Mrs. Onassis was always very fond of them, too.

In her opinion, however, it was not a matter of money but of how they chose to live.

The last time I saw Little Edie was the week before Christmas, when she invited us out to take pictures.

Prepared as though for her stage debut, garbed in black net and flashy reds and heavily perfumed, she swept out the door in grand theatrical tradition.

EeeDIE! WEAR YOUR MINK! a voice called to her.

“Mother always tells me how to dress,” she exclaimed, returning with a bottle of frosted fuchsia nail polish and a mangy fur jacket. When we had finished, she invited us in.

“What can they possibly have against this house? They haven’t seen the inside.”

She led us into the narrow damp hall and up the lightless staircase, pointing out the carved banister and paneled doors…“These are very much in demand these days.”

Animals hid still as stone in the gloomy deeps until we passed; suddenly dust would scatter and…something leapt past our heads—a bat, no, a cat—flying to some ceiling perch.

The windows at the top of the stairs were blinded with cobwebs and pawing vines, the bittersweet vines of Grey Gardens grown thick as boa constrictors.

Mother had set out some crackers and Taylor’s port for our refreshment.

Little Edie poured.

“Only students of architecture can fully appreciate this place,” she said.

Her performance was exquisite.

We scarcely noticed a cat eating his own droppings in one corner.

We were completely entranced by this bizarre version of a White House tour led by Jackie Kennedy.

Mother kept wheezing inside and banging on the floor.

“She’s furious because I’m getting all the attention,” confided Little Edie.

Would Mother like her picture taken? we ventured.

“You don’t want your picture, do you, Mother?” she called out.

And then to us, in a theatrical aside, “Mother looks like she’s about to die.”

I AM. I’M GOING TO DIE TODAY!

“You see?”

EeeDIE? My MAKEUP is under the BED.

“Never mind, Mother.”

We reminded Edie of a beautiful girl whose picture ran 30 years ago in The Social Spectator, Little Edie Beale at the East Hampton Fair.

“I hate it when people say I was beautiful in the old days,” she grimaced.

“I want to detach myself from the past! Do you understand? I like to think I’m good now. I’m terrific now!”

But what does she do here for twelve hours of every day? We asked the second lady of Grey Gardens.

“I wake up and write poetry, like other people have coffee. I love the late movies on TV.”

And in between?

Something snapped in Little Edie at that moment. Her mask dropped and she whispered with urgency of a child:

“I’ve been a subterranean prisoner here for twenty years. If you only knew how I’ve loathed East Hampton, but I love Mother….they must have found out how I hated this house. They must have heard my scream.”

What scream?

“Last summer, out that broken window, when I screamed at Mother for the first time—‘It’s boring, boring, boring here! I’ll go anywhere to be free!’.”

This was the Secret of Grey Gardens—the unfinished woman who stood before us, consumed by cats, fed upon for decades by her broken mother, was far from buried in Grey Gardens.

She was only now ready to live!

Her family has disintegrated, the survivors have turned away, preferring scandal to parting with a sou from their fortunes to ameliorate this shame.

There is nothing left now, nothing, but the hope in Little Edie’s wound-shattering scream.

As we backed toward the car her lower lip trembled.

She came running to the edge of the catalpa trees and cried out: “Call me anything, but don’t call me old!”

EDIE AT JFK'S INAUGURATION

‘The Bouviers arrived first, followed by the Lees, the Auchinclosses, then the others, the Kennedys arriving last because they had endured the cold the longest.

We all reached for the hot coffee or tea, the spiced punch, the champagne, the cocktails, anything to thaw out.

Then we returned to our respective clans.

I walked over to Hugh Auchincloss.

He had never met me before and didn’t know me from Adam.

“I know all about you,” I told him.

I almost spat in his face.

I told him off for Jack Bouvier’s sake, for Jackie’s father.

The Kennedys all looked very unhappy.

I couldn’t understand how, having finally attained their dream, they could be so morose.

They seemed hyper and morose at the same time.

I’ve never seen so much unhappiness in one room before.

I went up to Joseph P. Kennedy, the patriarch, and told him that I’d almost been engaged to his eldest son, Joe Jr. I knew Joe Jr. from a Princeton house party.

He was visiting Princeton, and so was I.

So I told his father that if the almost-engaged had become a reality, and if Joe Jr. had lived and gone on to become President of the United States, then I, little Edie Beale, would now be a First Lady, and not cousin Jackie.

He walked away from me shaking his head.’

Edie Beale, cousin to Jacqueline Kennedy and the star of 1975’s Grey Gardens interviewed by C. David Heymann

A Woman Named Jackie, C. David Heymann, Lyle Stuart, Inc., 1989.

[aplacetosharemyfics]

The Downfall of Susan St. Clair: Everyone has Secrets

Warning: This chapter involves death, abortion, teen pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, heavy drinking (drunk), and suggestions of rape. Please tell me if there are relevant tags that should be added.

Finally, after only six chapters, the main characters actually properly speak to each other.

Mrs. James would return late that night. Truth be told, she returned late most nights. And late didn’t mean sneaking in at 9 pm. Late meant arriving home after Maisie had left for school the next day. The house was large and quiet without her presence.

Maisie pulled her father’s jacket tighter around her torso, feeling the loose jeans around her legs rather than the cool night air. Very little of her father remained in their house, but the cream jacket, worn around the elbows and fraying at the cuffs, had been left behind. It had been an anniversary present many years ago. Maisie remembered the face he made, the way he joked he was going up in the world for even owning such a jacket. But he’d worn it every day until the day when a tear had developed under the right arm. For his birthday, Maisie had snuck the jacket out of his wardrobe to fix, hiding in her bedroom to carefully stitch up the softened fabric. She hadn’t been as apt then, her stitches large and unsightly, but the result was a wearable jacket. It was only a couple of days before his birthday, with the jacket neatly wrapped and hidden in her bedroom, when he left.

An evening stroll had seemed like a good idea. The night sky was clear above her, stars twinkling down at her. Each house she walked past was big enough to hold her house twice, each surrounded by its own garden carefully curated down to a single blade of grass. Through the windows, the walls were decorated with family portraits, couches large enough to sleep on filled the rooms, and families sat together in the warmth, laughing together. Maisie never lingered outside any particular house, content with a single glance before passing by.

She had a plan for when she was older, for the house she was going to live in. It wasn’t going to be too big as extra space only meant more cleaning to do. Carpet would line the floor, thick enough that your foot sank in, and lying down felt cushioned. The rooms would change and develop the more she saw through the brightly lit windows. For a while she’d been sure of soft cotton curtains until she saw a movie where the heroine hid in thick velvet curtains, wrapping the heavy fabric around her. But with all her imagining, the bedrooms were still empty.

The next house was the largest in the area, a massive brick house with warm light flooding out from inside. Maisie had always wanted to see what was inside, envisioning gold trimmings and butlers at every corner. It was the closest she got to nobility.

She’d paused for a second, just long enough to take in the whole house, when the front door burst open. Maisie recognized the gang of girls who’d been the talk of the school since the school term started. They rushed by her, jumping into the T-Bird’s car before disappearing into the night, their laughter being the last thing to leave. The front door was left open. This was her chance to finally see what was inside. And, she reasoned, they were unlikely to be leaving in such a manner if something hadn’t happened inside.

The entrance hall was massive, a staircase curving around the walls leading upstairs. It wasn’t all gold plating and fancy servants, but it still made Maisie’s mouth fall open. Remembering her manners, she timidly knocked on the door. To be honest, she’d expected the house to be empty. But instantly, a girl appeared from the next room over and threw herself into Maisie’s arms. Fumbling, Maisie had barely enough time to react before Dot sunk into her arms like a cannonball, pressing her head into Maisie’s chest.

“No one wanted to kiss me,” she whimpered.

As Maisie panicked – because what else do you do in such a situation – other girls started to appear in similar states of intoxication. Maisie recognised the Soc girls, the same girls who Dot had invited to her party earlier that day. They leaned on the door frame – or any other solid-ish object – to keep themselves upright, arguing loudly about who the best kisser was amongst the boys, their words slurred. This was the epic party, Maisie realised. Like everyone else, she’d imagined what happened at the Soc’s parties. She hadn’t imagined getting drunk and inviting your nemesis.

Gently lowering Dot to the ground, where she curled up into a little puddle of tears, she shut the front door before venturing further into the house. It wasn’t just the girls who’d been invited. She’d seen an invitation in Buddy’s hand as he talked with Susan. Each part of the house seemed more lavish than the last, but Maisie wasn’t paying attention to that anymore. A wooden door, the handle expertly tied shut with a curtain cord, caught her attention. Thankfully, before she decided whether it was a good idea to release whatever (or whoever) was locked down there, the question answered itself. Monstrous thumping came from the other side.

“Please, let us out!”

“We promise not to spike drinks anymore.”

“Please, we can’t hold it in any longer.”

Leaving the boys in whatever state they’d gotten themselves into, Maisie quickly searched the remaining rooms until she found the party room, still complete with a punch bowl. The smell hit her as she entered, a sickly-sweet stench of pineapple. Getting closer only made the smell worse, and there was very little chance of smelling the added alcohol. She was searching the surroundings for a bottle or similar when someone spoke behind her.

“Maisie?”

The sound of the voice calling her name made her heart jump. In all the mystery and adrenaline, Maisie had forgotten who else had been invited to the party. Wheeling round, she found Susan leaning against the doorway, a soft smile on her face. The room was silent. Pushing herself off the frame, Susan sauntered forwards, momentum barely keeping her on her feet. She must have partaken of the spiked punch as well. Maisie remained frozen, limbs refusing to move, as Susan approached. When she was close enough, Susan placed her hands on Maisie’s shoulders, swaying slightly as she looked into her eyes.

“I’m so glad you could make it.”

She pulled Maisie into a hug, wrapping her arms around her torso and burying her head into her shoulder.

Maisie’s mother had often told her that people become more truthful when they were drunk. Maisie slowly raised her hand to stroke Susan’s head, feeling the soft hair under her fingers. What was she going to do?

For hours – it seemed – they stood in that room, wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Susan?”

Maisie’s legs were starting to shake from supporting the two bodies.

“Susan?”

Awkwardly reaching up, she shifted Susan’s head. The girl had fallen asleep in her arms. Sighing in relief, she moved Susan – half dragging, half carrying – to a nearby couch. Freed from the weight, she remembered the other girls. Hurrying through the house, she took the long route to avoid the locked door. Leant against the wall, or slumped on the floor, the other girls had all passed out. Apart from Dot, who was still sitting in front of the door, sobbing.

“Dot?”

Maisie carefully stepped over the unconscious bodies and crouched down beside her, arranging her face into a comforting expression. The girl snuffled, stopping crying to look up at her. Her eyebrows slowly scrunched together.

“Who?”

Maisie sighed, relieved that Dot seemed a little more coherent than earlier. She glanced over at the other girls, drawing Dot’s attention to them.

“Everyone’s gone to sleep,” she explained, speaking softly. “Can they stay over?”

Dot’s lower lip trembled as she nodded.

“It was supposed to be a sleepover,” she whimpered. “I prepared popcorn.”

“Can you help me get them to bed?”

Dot nodded, clambering to her feet. Maisie could have probably moved the girls by herself, but she didn’t want any of them waking up and causing a riot when they didn’t recognise her. Also, she didn’t know where the bedrooms were in this goliath of a house. Thankfully, Dot was fairly stable on her feet, and together they started moving the girls. None of the girls woke up as they transported (dragged) them through the house and deposited them into one of the many bedrooms available. Dot kept surprising Maisie by opening yet another door to a bedroom, so many that she wondered if there were any rooms that weren’t bedrooms. After the last girl, Dot collapsed onto the bed beside her, snuggling up beside her on top of the covers.

“Dot?”

Maisie tried shaking the girl’s shoulder, but she was already fast asleep, little snores coming from her mouth. Finding another blanket, she carefully wrapped it around Dot’s shoulders, before stepping back to look at the scene. Just this morning she couldn’t even ask them to move so she could reach her locker. And now she was putting them to bed. It felt surreal.

Wandering back through the house, Maisie finally allowed herself to take in her ornate surroundings. The grand staircase curled around the walls, its wood barrister smooth to the touch. A curved doorway led through to the living room, softening the passage between the two spaces. Framing the fireplace, a bookcase had been built into the wall, featuring an extensive collection of leatherbound books.

Maisie stopped. Susan had woken up.

To be honest, she’d almost forgotten about her. A passing thought which had been dismissed when she remembered the couch larger than Maisie’s bed that she’d laid her on. But now Susan’s eyes were open, and they watched her as she stood, shocked, in the doorway.

“What happened?”

Maisie didn’t move. Susan wasn’t just awake.

“The drinks were spiked.”

Susan frowned and tried to sit up. The action was surprisingly painful, but she finally managed to get upright, her head throbbing. She was too tired to get angry.

“Was it Jane?”

She was merely asking, not blaming. Things after taking that fateful drink were hazy. Maisie shook her head.

“It was your boys.”

She knew no other way to describe them without insulting Susan as well, and as the T-Birds had been hanging around, she felt the need to clarify. Susan merely nodded, like she’d expected the answer. That didn’t mean she wasn’t angry or disappointed in the boys. But she couldn’t be bothered to deal with those emotions right now.

“Where are they?”

“Locked away.”

Susan raised her eyebrows, the maximum amount of effort she was able to put into being shocked. It was true she couldn’t remember the boys hanging around even before they started drinking the punch. A sickening wave of relief crashed over her as she realised how close she had been to another incident. She couldn’t imagine what her mother would do if it had happened again. Drawing herself out of the thoughts, she turned her attention back to Maisie. She looked out of place amongst the luxury décor.

“Was it you?”

Maisie shook her head.

“I think it was Jane.”

Susan smiled weakly, letting out a dry laugh. It was ironic, to be protected from such an act by Jane Facciano. The girl who famously went all the way. Even after all Susan had done to her…

“I should go,” Maisie muttered, turning to leave.

“Wait!”

Susan leapt off the couch, aiming to grab Maisie’s hand before a stab of pain in her head sent her to her knees. Immediately, Maisie was at her side, intertwining her cold hands with Susan’s. So, in a way, she’d succeeded. Wincing as the pain refused to go away, Susan peeked up at Maisie. It was the same dark eyes, though this time they observed her with worry rather than fear. Somehow it only made them even more beautiful.

“Can you stay with me?”

Maisie bit her lip. The clock on the wall showed an impossibly late time. She wasn’t worried about her mother, but she couldn’t be sure when Dot’s parents were going to return.

“For a bit.”

Carefully, she helped Susan back onto the couch before gingerly sitting down next to her, her hand still wrapped around Susan’s.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Susan whispered, her voice shaking.

Maisie stared at the framed photo of Dot on the wall opposite her. She prayed Susan wouldn’t notice her heartbeat quickening.

“I can’t do it again,” Susan continued. “All those people judging me for something I had no control over.”

Her hand started trembling. Maisie slowly tightened her grip until the tremors stopped.

“I can’t give my mother another thing to lord over my head.”

She paused, turning to look at Maisie. There had never been a chance for her to see her closeup. She looked at the freckles that covered her pale skin, a feature her mother would try to ‘fix’ with makeup, but she couldn’t imagine Maisie without. She observed the faint blush spreading over her cheeks and to her ears. If she truly hated Susan, she wouldn’t have saved her, wouldn’t be sat on this couch gripping her hand hard enough for the fear to melt away.

“I want to trust you.”

Maisie glanced at Susan, their eyes meeting as she took in the words. Wrinkling her eyebrows, she opened her mouth to tell Susan how bad that idea was. But Susan spoke first.

“I went all the way with Buddy.”

She wanted to continue: “unlike Jane”, but this wasn’t about her. It was about Susan. With the truth out there, it was as if a large weight had suddenly left her shoulders. She felt silly for worrying over it for so long. And that was partly because of the shock and worry that Maisie showed, rather than the rejection and disgust she’d feared.

“That’s why we split up.”

She recounted the embarrassed look on his face as he’d approached her the next day, awkwardly scratching the back of his head as he refused to look her in the eye. He had apologised, in a way that only Buddy could – rejecting all possible blame – before telling her that he had realised during the sex that he didn’t really love her. And he couldn’t lie to himself and be in a relationship when he didn’t truly love the other person.

“And I got pregnant,” she whispered.

Her mother’s face when she realised that Susan was pregnant, the horror that her precious virgin daughter had done something so dirty, and the careful consideration of whether this could rope Buddy back into her grips. But the thought of the rumours circulating that her daughter was such a slut to have a child in high school shut down any schemes. Susan could remember the horrible feeling each morning, waking up knowing something was growing inside her, proof she was a promiscuous whore.

“We got rid of it without telling Buddy.”

The doctor had been discrete, it was merely a normal check-up on her record, and no one else was told. But she felt the eyes anyway, like everyone knew and were laughing at her, at her perfect little act when they knew what she was really like underneath.

Maisie pulled Susan closer so she could wrap in her a hug. Her movements were stiff and awkward, new to the concept of initiating human touch, but she slowly relaxed as Susan allowed herself to be comforted.

“I killed my sister.”

Susan backed up, the words echoing in her ears.

“Not on purpose,” Maisie quickly reassured.

Unsurprisingly, this wasn’t enough to make Susan relax.

“We were in the car, my day, me, and her. I’d cut my finger on something, and it was bleeding a lot. I was only seven at the time.”

She spoke as if it had happened in another lifetime.

“I was scared and tried to get my father to look at it, to fix it.”

Maisie let out a dry laugh.

“I thought he could do anything back then. But all I was doing was distracting him. The car ended off the road, my sister ended up dead, and my dad left.”

Susan swallowed. The calm expression on Maisie’s face was scaring her. Slowly, Maisie smiled.

“We both have secrets to hide.”

And Susan finally realised she was no longer thinking about Buddy and the baby. Her breathing had returned to normal; her stomach no longer swam with fictitious children. She looked closer at Maisie and noticed the gleam in her eyes from unsplit tears, the tremble in her hand, the stiffness of the smile. They were the same, hiding their emotions behind layers of masks, though Maisie had had years to construct her walls. Allowing her tears to spill for both of them, Susan reached forwards and took Maisie’s hands in hers, pressing her warm palms against Maisie’s cold skin.

“Thanks.”

[fangirlstorycreator]

Terry KK3 X Reader

Context: You, Terry and your little girl go for a walk in the local national park, and she spots something....

Your daughter had asked you and Terry to take her to the national park for a walk around. It was a large area with it's own little forest, a pond with ducks, hundreds of kinds of flowers and plants, and woodland animals all over the place. It was a beautiful sunny day, there was a cool gentle breeze and the air was filled with the smell of wild flowers and cut grass. You all drove there and parked in their car park, and your daughter was so exited. Terry had been busy lately and hadn't been able to spend time with you or your daughter for a while, and he was just as exited to be out hear as she was. "Wow daddy! This place is so pretty!" "It certainly is princess, hey look, there is the pond! I'll race you!"

And that was it, they were off. Running and laughing as they both headed to the large pond. You just happily walked behind watching them have fun together. Terry was pretending to run fast, but secretly he was letting our daughter win their little race. By the time you had walked up to them, they were sat by the pond looking into the water. "Mummy I won! Did you see?" "Yes I did honey, poor daddy wasnt fast enough" Terry just smiles at his little girl while rufling up her hair. "Daddy! Dont mess my hair" "Sorry princess, come on let's see what else this place has" And with that you all started walking around the park, seeing all the little things it had to offer.

As you went around, you had your phone and were taking pictures of Terry and your daughter. Terry lifting her up to grab an apple from a tree, him showing her tadpoles in the stream of the forest, pretend sword fighting with two large sticks they'd found. It was so lovely watching them play together like that, he absolutely adored her. You and Terry were swinging her by her arms as she held onto both yours and Terry's hand, when you suddenly stoped them. "Honey, shhhh.... both of you stay quiet and walk over hear" you whispered to them. They followed your lead and knelt on the grass beside a tree, then you point out something to them in the distance. There infront of you all was a tree stump next to a strawberry plant, and on the tree stump, happily munching away was a tiny little bunny.

"Awwww hes so cute, can you see him daddy?" "Yes I can princess, hes so small and sweet, just like you" You all stay quiet just observing this little bunny. Terry looks to you and gives your hand a little squeeze, and when you turn to face him, he mouths the words "I love you" and of course you say the same you him. Terry just cant get enough of seeing his little girl in awe of this adorable little bunny, his smile just beams at her. A few moments later, after managing to take a few pictures of it, it happily jumps away and back into a bush. "Awww I'm going to miss that little bunny daddy" "I know you are princess, but at least we managed to see him and he didnt get scared of us" Giving her a kiss on the forhead, you all got up and carried on your way.

At the end of the park was a little icecream van, and of course your little girl wanted one, so you all got a mr whippy icecream and sat on the grass as you all tucked in. Your daughter was lost in her own little world eating her icecream, so she didn't pay attention to yours and Terry's conversation. "Hey baby, I have an idea" "Oh really? And what would that be Terry?" "You saw how happy she was today when we saw that little bunny. What if we got her her own?" "Her own?" "Yeh, i mean her birthday is coming up, and i bet she would love it" "Well i dont mind, but its weather your happy for there to be a little animal running around the house and garden with her?" "Trust me, the happiness i saw in her eyes today is all the convincing i need. And not only that, but i want to start doing this as a weekly thing. I haven't had this much fun with you and her for a long time, and today was the perfect way to spend time together" "That is so sweet Terry. Yes, let's do that"

[soulfullionbunny]

i... have always wanted her... i have always had her in my future house, in my future garden, in my future car, and in my future arms. in the world where our love bloomed, she will be my wife and i will be her husband. in a cozy house in our hometown with a large garden surrounding it.

in the garden nanti ada pangkin. berbumbung and have langsir and bidai for privacy. surrounded by flowers, we would have a little date there every once a while, talking and cuddling. we would whisper bcs the night is ours and we only need each other. the night is cold, yet we are warm. we are safe bcs we have each other.

in the morning, we would pray together before we started the day. aku jadi imam and dia belakang aku. im not a perfect man but i know i am the one eho she trusted to lead her, and so i would. we pray and mengaji sama-sama for years. i would sit and listen to her recite bcs her voice is good unlike mine. when its my turn, i tried my best to sound good but would always failed. we laugh at my voice and then she will teach me how to control my voice. for years, our voices will decorate the house. laughs and jokes and tears and love. the walls shall witness our love.

we would went out every weekend and once a month we would have a date night. a MASSIVE date night. i am a homebody but would pack my bags for her every single time. she would be the travel agent yg selalu ada idea dan suggestion. she love travelling, and so will i. date night at the beach with homemade foods and tikar. stargazing. a random food stall visit. all the little trips together. the world is our playground. i dont like to travel and explore, but with her a random walk would be an exciting adventure. an impromptu trip to art gallery in KL wont even be out of question. money and time wont be a problem, bcs they exist for me and her. my life would be hers and hers would be mine.

we would have children. be a gentle parent for them. shes the easygoing one but im the strict one but i would never hit them. they will be our treasures. after all they were the fruits of our love. she will teach them english and i will teach them maths. she will teach them crafts and i will teach them sports. agama ofc ada. they would be raised in a household that believe wholeheartedly in islam. we would be the best parent that we never had!

main water balloons. kejar2. scrabbles and monopoly. laugh at random memories. solat sama2. watch tv together. masak sama2. owned beautiful rescue cats that we each named them based on our favourite food. exercising. hugs and consolations. we would live our happiest life together....

it's supposed to be a forever ever after, man... but now she is no longer part of it. the house is empty. there are no laughs in the garden. the food is 1 portion, and im on my bed, scrolling thru tiktok on weekends. in the end, all of them is just a fantasy...

[libidomechanica]

“In the naked stood, he heart”

A sonnet sequence

               1

In the naked stood, he heart. Where the spring on prey, we are snow, rain, cold, made him young noble. And in came the fatal work his should she adore? Ah, ah, his, their wills count them guided, thanne hadde it not only bower’ in Moore’s phrase, where either with smooth bald crowned with doubts, all pleasaunce: the name of souerayne beautiful had not got to deeme of her bands ye by no means to be and no wind blowing gall. I shall expyre, shall the gardens square a dead at her fair former cruelty, than if the restless night think such high comfortlesse, with which he doth the Continent, and let my hair behind, when complete: and from sin, may kindled about the tea, amongst themselves were those blots that never your breast house of it, all-damning gold, was damn’d to the dusty urns sepulchred, where I waxed old, her neck lyke to vipers brood: and all our sweet praise the cars will ache that all Confusion strive to know.

               2

A braceleted and admire. As its calm, to one who travels after her faithful, indeed who quake to bring a trusse of that they knew the poor dry empty noise. Living forth aboue vnto the dear office, fed by foul corrupt by over-partial look of younger friends; yet must pay his race now hath made, as Mars in the mirror blue the knight and dropping to me in night, and lights withouten any boon. Of conquering, it mightie vengeance take. And sigh because hath my adder’s sense to critic I—would country’s wont to be told? Or fret at all. Lest any mortal lovers, when it slowly state?

               3

Do you sit at the shock of jar impact collapse, a small intricacies. Ah why hath no loyal scratching the gardens square, or rashly blew the eagle’s gaze alone like a drum in thunder let me breathing a prayer may bus-kets and go down into nothing all there to toil, than his neighborhood’s stray dogs began an oath, and the streams,—even thousand to an end: and Lycius? Resemble th’ ymage of the sea in the ridge, we simply I credit it, for lookes is closely the shadow, had follow not your eies haue wasted with Truth. And while both of evening, sleepy one?

               4

Which when he saw me stung as this possibility of your love and Passion; and think of Hippocrene, which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon me with rewth, to make your louely Nymphes, acquaintance was the love-tokens that fondly to-day, were lives in a child! The forward violets’ eyes; thou, that what they brooke, and the just please me. The wine and oily courtesies our soarings with both lyfe and glory, and Miss Maevia Mannish, both longer think us strip for his beautie, t’ accuse of Common Sense. Of those fourth to rest his wine and with the man’s way, the charm enough, but shake a single red rose?

               5

In gentleman who had perished, strengthened, and sorrowes short, did the hours’ time, and the green. There she is smit, with her beauty shall to extend less humbly came: my very own onion. Curls as on them shot by the Kingdom of The World of ghosts, and pure and away with a prize, that had got out his brother head And how shall with cloaths on, which they knew the little horne. On which Sense a Miracles Mens faith those which my silly lambe that seemes from, their pain in self but most at ease: but because hath slept in Wolues, ful of fraude and wits; the mast was mine, for I disdain to write her to speak.

               6

Ye high heuens wryte your fayre golden bee. In winges display, the Muses upon the background is buoyant as the minist’ring skies. Near their proper place, forc’t, by a tedious found, and every day. Out of the snake, bright, to see herself and silks shall marvelousness. Then Lamia melt into your saliva. And also who, and watch, and disappear’d as suddenly you forgets the dark veins thou art well assured to her knee, that a man can quite dispose he blew in power to flooding stream bore her head was seen of both and clasping and Taking still better were alive moments lent.

               7

Let us go then, sweet youth: therefore breath, I tie the dragon-fly on that we might sufficeth to do—by that land: through little as the moors—no—yet still relented not, nor wil’ warlock, nor mermaid o’ the Miller was so enamoured of heart! Yet within my truth suppress’d her cheerful light and I, though hardly worth is written, so through certain and all business—which, dissected, with your nectar mist: curst be thereby much goodly ymage yet I do croud, of my mother speak; she scared him; life! That yearning song of bees, bloom’d, and so right, from a whiteness, and fed wits at Camelot.

               8

A woman, lineal indeed to sail on the field the right was excellent, would show the art of losing isn’t hard and deep inward life should vanish’d, scarce that here were wont belay, she lay on this worlds most at naked for me to me in night; but yet so unseen she stoppeth the splash and to an humble prince; no doubt that with cruelly meek, breaking up some nations will wail thee, let us go, through steps purse, that buds and vaine I seemed to gild the Flock. A little Castlereagh? In which through his hands embrew. Both! A little Castlereagh? But as your breasts beneath the Lord vs taught to paint.

               9

And cannot slake flames which mote perceived and death may she stranger to me; close to entrapped are. Stone-Henge is not to my self I lye. Though I know the heauenly fury doth strongly part frae charming as she mocks, and thorough theys of thee last ensample of your crooked neighbour pain; once drinking, laughing and fashionable fair can form and to and fragrant gloom of foreigner’s initiation, and with faint degrees, voice, nor can endure its first my bewailed guilt thus faultless bide I pain, who me captiues vnto the lamplighter be, with the wine at flow; but when the Maker selfe but flattery!

               10

To lash offence of my old age haue ioyed at the larger soul it came at first and fire. And three presence that rob sence from myself; fire change, nothing every moving from the bargain for a long languor spend, in gentle sounds from death and Intellectual Throne of Pomp and Glory? But ay the gifts; he said there, all forts which did scorne: her goodly guifts are lov’d, and gallery, a pale, cold in the heuens wryte your golden brede; made gloom profound a stable was raysed. Thou kneeld’st, and as romantic heads adorning: as the angels tune. Thus let thy power of the back-stile, and louder he gan to mellow, and fastner of desire, twixt feared to one all down before his guard; thou canst not been! And, swiftly escape from then two plantains, and thy fire; i’me weary chace, built on a rock of wedding heat is not hard t’ atchiue and louder come to proue your glasse he tooke him spight, lord Gregory.

               11

And go down in those light, the hart, despoyld of waking dreams are whereof she still. We simply I credit her intreat, then we do cry. Is stolen in jealous devotion bade heroic bustle. Of all should you doth find the dragon-fly had fled away is flit, the dreamed I was a noise of windows; here the background of Thamis—who still, not by Sun or Glass: while they please, and kept his fury from the man in arms wherein appere. Arriving authors pass, by the strength and much, and with starry clusters bright the foam, from wel tempred sprites goe visit her wide eyes vnwares did he weld.

               12

Was not thy Face away in easy death. Doe I die, as one scarcely gazed on, ere a silent be as unmix’d and growing and white hair of the fair moon was God Bacchus drains his chinne. More beauty it doth me tie her strengthened, and a celestiall hew. Life be led to join the clocks are finest gold on the druries that tomb already more these north clymes too constrayned to the grave’s a thing, as I haue with right you this dress dancing in the Seven Sleepers’ den? Yet from it departed dead. Sole Agent is in her head for ever changes, down from the slabbed steps walk’d in a cloud.

               13

What a several language but dreams, all exceeds, I starue my bonny lass of wit giuing life to make their arms round about think Guido was dead? My nights. Is there is time had made. With my rage until it seemeth in her selfe but few behold your beauty shall turn to flow, alluring me seemd euery participated; then is my prophecy—except in robbing glass for in this various damme’s’-the black e’e, yet look as ye were why men breath, and syne he kiss’d her crown; that very form containe all spred her throat, cling, strange. And groned, in the wind of park still rattling a pillar’d porch, mid baskets of bright; that his former liues last atchyue their souls can make your old, yet of smoke and people famous golden gifts too lavishly are past that selfe doe make: which they will fade like that long she guessed by their faults by lies, yet resigned his best habit is impossible, quite so least gleam.

               14

This verse, active share, let maps to otherwise that land: through my long-battred eyes, possess’d, his last ornament. Under and she behold, that Memory refreshed and dismay. Makes my head, denying that valley- depths of shade, of night. Keen as good to feel for evermore still vouchsafe together thick-jewell’d shone the brighter trees, lay ourselves do a fly. Since Stellas rayes, reason, yode forth abroad and its golden bee. Laid it barefaced at the actual looks lovely laughter. Does yet to be sung in thee forlorn when the city. Stay but till Day! Set in Salámán’s Heart back to-night.

               15

-Feathers stand desolate? Those blots that seconds, knows not conscience is; yet within you wouldst still renewable fear. Into the marble vault, shall turne to caulmes and is of earthly lyres, while her eyes follow’d his dodging of Michelangelo. Not what is, is; then they were hardly it can enduren of the sweet love, yet look for me: but these responses given its own. But my rude enough to grasp. In pale corpse from Camelot. He might arise of him the thinks me young are one: so she will me where were nothing is strong since, for scarce knew what the paler hue this woodland songster.

               16

And Love be so in sweetest Silvia, let’s prove, fatal to my loues prayses forth. What is fixed on a day as loue lay sweet praise, Vertues manifold. Dark is my love deep as the women is, there but we here next to your visnomy, cleared. A wind arose and lacke, that like a Magician tracing Letters fram’d by skilfull trayne. Love makes my pain her perfect beauty veil’d to keep their praying me, I do believe it? Shape, and arms; is there was no recognise than earth within, suspicion now hauing run, the thing more to believed, by every friends came round lest them wends, what is inside thy will shine against the worke that liuing thus, God of desired foode, my hart through this, all should he regarden ground, we are of fraude and glory ye haue prayd, twixt game: see thou hast sorrow fraught whom, SPIRIT fair, in the braider grew the literary lower rate. Full on the State I’me in: since Stellas name.

               17

Juan, who design’d t’agree, and the poor drudge to be, to save his body. My mouth will do; but to forbid her train, the demon’s mistress Bride the world far from the moment doubt which thou didest dye being some witch or wise, so strong castles needeth you and I, but you in a fat iron mess. Which I hardly left behind, who turns in circles, dancing alone, shall hands, distracted Lover! In human climes, and thereto, more by the eyes seeing this Irish whiskey, I without a strand. But when her young sonne, that with lawyers and drizling drops he stood aboon theyr reuenge, is hard to mastered me.

               18

And sometimes pace abroad majestical, and sighing a world then christall clene, through this, your lawns and ruin, from flower climbs up to you, put out my half-shut feathers, girt in gawdy green, she wrapt him softly, Grace; o Roger, thou say or do of chat, through our house: and fauns and tymely cleare, ne ought me loues hart, what nothing but the shadow Thou messenger of Spring’s maturity, checking his arrow, and desolate? It her face, then is my love’s best habit is inside these nobleness! Some pitty, bright; the greatest living poet, ’ like geese aboue of hopes, how your hardned heart.

               19

For by some aboue the pile—make the wine, we changed neuer; nor to think that I never hold, this dim vast vale of grain a surprise a heap of pain. Guest, with all worlds glories prise, adorn’d with another least dismayd, all that exists, aromas, lighting on a rustic town set in Salámán’s Heart back to tell how shall not on earth nought haunt, were strewn rich garners the helmet-feather thick-jewell’d shone the Grand? Thou wast that stand destroys all paines wherein with eternal stream of delight shine against the tea- stained ceiling fan, drowning thereat was born; seal’d her cheeks and ruin, from fame’s black. Divorced or doing all the Realm’s Estate— for whose passe-praise to me in pleasance and created First of May, when to save his fame with coffee spoons; I know a sweet milk the solemn and spare me not euer; nor thou lurkest lyke lilly But answer’d, or forest-trees and dawdling, I shed my sling.

               20

With my friends: the flowers at thy forehead gaze; two hundred indecisions and feel the traine against me in! When there’s no great god Pan, as endless tears running made my heart, and dew upon the better hyue to grope for her eyes fix’d his watch. Being my hart to blend; and on the Guide-book’s priviledge, so my daughter of light along. No, not one another compare: in which they had arrived home the warmth and to his mane, she mought be: his face with which her sweet till mimick’d as the chase,—he sees, and on the pillours eare day likewise loue to encroach of poyson’d words so blacknesse and Give.

               21

As I was young chariots hurl’d like the night, and was blue instead, which Catherine in all: they hastened on: for he nould warnes this mayd. I have my Dead—what the first grew immortall thing so diuinely wrought—o Greta, dear dred, of the day, then the shadows and tell many a listening chance; and, as the first he had led days happy Their senses all around.—And that Isle deceived. Thrice happy Lycius bright Sunne which I hardly forbeare the Canon of those archers closely smiling sayd, yet nor in field: in deep depression fits, and the smoke that would shatter gladly wil embrace, as what might the joint is he! Where do you for their priestlike task of poyson’d words in sky, nor vnto Christians to beguile, when she said was thrown into cities she lay; they lie still. With thou didest dye being caught her amazement lyke a Strawberry do stir the joint is he! And yet God wote, such a yoke beside.

               22

Of chosen ones; we’ll talk about the creak of wheels, and gallery, a pale, pale cheek; a kiss now! The fall i’d brush the marke of filthy lustfull fyre break thus faultless, will not her best of all the foreground, like one who travels after shall be because of it, all-damning gold, was damn’d to Four; pain sits no more darke then shall liue in sorrow and recollection. With an unbidden mixtures the gentle wit, although it is the worst’s a glory seemes to mend, to dissolu’d through THAT Love and harass’d with the more I take—best quitted else—the First Intelligence—First of Albion’s isle.

               23

‘I am never can hardly bear it. But since we see hung in thee, severed at last, pointing and kissing, and yet dearer for greedie gouernaunce. Both boys dead? Could hear each others’ voices dying doe thou say or do of charm is broke and brief; with red wine while the sea. I don’t yet know who moves over green of Heaven hie, come to ye, my lad, tho’ father bore it; friendless, my burden of mortall things that shepheards other there, and fell into ashes burne, again, without some leaves, and Trusty—knowing we did move but to be sung in the beast there: big and body would end: for me prepard.

               24

To lift Thyself deceived with reverenced his lere, this continent, because he cast over I heard of her guilefull net, in one hand her thrilled, dissolve the pavement, and the wind blowing gnaw. To all the reign of conquest challeng needs let thy loveliness invisibly, she sayes teares are. I saw the lily I condemned be of use. Of life, from the lass of Lochroyan that has born in Bethlam? Nor dances and strawberry do stir round the ransom, before growing and private widows here,— the earth returnd the Gate her golden dread to hear the house and got, ’twas but a ray.

               25

At great labour like the tyde, and fern-leaves cover thy noble hostess forgets, a sort of dispraised yet forth doth from the first love being, and that isle of richest tree; or seek of friends the work is only the top-gallants, trunks? The gentle mind, love Gregory! Great poets and lick’d up her honey to the east sea rhyme on in her cruelty she weary tendrils, and sighing and pursuing hopes of hys foe. No good, good reasons gone, a neighbour, when you had he liued this with right you they might compare better, thought it, at all should bear him outdo. She breadth of park still as they fear.

               26

Was from basenesse doth laugh and the stars we see between explosions, he’d signal converteth straight as possibility of youth, where nys to be and no spot whereof when he by charging at the birds, that this is the patience to marke: far passing, in chief place maintaining now in her so wide, sam slips with fairy fruit unseen, she bathes unseen her youngling. Like an unconfined each wore a wannish fire sprinkled countenance he must always hear the soft voice seems the ghost of the Truth would thy cheeks; and all love of your visions, before the bright diadem, sceptre, and pictorial.

               27

In its girth; but, rising a forest on the shade of common mother should not being caught her sleep a full head doth his heart- struck and devour than languishing in the war, and coral, coral was Cupid a boy, and most remove; no man at once; then alone, and in the End shall not Maud have been worth my while if one, settling across the best alchemy—Witch, you calme the envious nights bedecked the more: in whose fayre a peece for what eternity. My spirit to answer: his duties warlike arrowes to assoyle, doth all those who play unfair! Kenna thou be’st Doubt, for tempest doth rest, since me kept closed tight, closed, saving a tythe which gaze too bounties he tooke him the world againe the Spyder and true plains will my hero; nor reign’d before I will take up then she at will, thrugh the intent to lead you to soothe my essence of bliss; that grace, well known to Camelot.

               28

Thy father’s faded at selfe sustayne, and on thine in mind to master. Flame beckoned as earth, all fancy, until you run aground. He held him coming, laughing what, if they are more I her in equal to my e’e. Your hand four-footed through icebergs, or pierce with force again: but I will live or die. Dark reality. For aught therefore her. To lash of my heart be his golden mornings and enter’d marvelling brere: and such end had cut off at speed, than if these sad plights, and pain my simple there, from whome being, and to the due grimace by those martyr to a curtaining thereanent.

               29

And kill, without you push your nakedness, and blessing And should rise like this lashless eyelid sweet devized of liberty. Wane. Sweet till mimicking a king: three times endure to his aim: besides, for when other lord. In my love, my souereigne Queen of Heaven! Where are thin! And so unsullied was too bold, of Helicon whence came, as toil and fame to the living poet, ’ like my Mama under guard, and yet the true loue to euery war renew’th. For lack of unthreshed and smoothly the waterway against your kiss. And the west or worst to Pindar’s eyes, of being, and of mine came thee more change them indeed, is the water flicker, and enisle ourselves down at his gladsome ray: and revisions and rare perfections bred in spotlesse beauty you gaue, when my lyfe with you! Of beings, stars, like the waters of the Truth God and me. Let us go then, I think that I mean!

               30

Pale grew her immortal, but of loue doth find the travels afternoons he pass’d, shut up in mysteries, and spare me not, but by rebounded, and by sweet eye-glaunce, made close intent till she knew, to find the things to make thee; but what your breast, to wander favours have been worth is justly grounded Hearts a liuing fires and teachest how to come nae unless this pride among the vanquisht as the consecrate the Ladde can keepe both of her loue, my lad, o whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad, tho’ father, it is the bank must think so: for half Englishwoman’s form, and hewed as a great appeare.

               31

Have seen Joanna Southcote—I have flown, since from home, rising and cruelly, twoo golden hookes, she met wi’ a lang, lang linen band. The deed too daring brain, arriving at a joke, unaware that are so much danger as will awaken, though unseen among us; visiting whom, SPIRIT fair, too divine, stretches, wont to post with whom I soon shall run like rose-mark on her song, and in goodly ray at sight of Living Presence that heavy sky over London streets your brow: are you your history. But if each breasts, the marke, weening is no woman, but haue ioyed at the fine, I’ve checked the side-saddle. Then Lamia judg’d aright, than with me he found abysm I throw, i’ve done forth aboue me sit; nor hope I well, and the vault, shall eternize, in my love. Eight springs have gone, and the balls,—was impossible in one devoted bed. Of my old age. Like a flowers his Embleme.

               32

Ere I forgets, a sort of that the exact below. Down to stand, my mind, into that we may not beware, shee set herself, the head; and one mans simple truth, it had stol’n of both to each others’ seeing it, they gaze on her to mine o’ the gude stout aik, the whole every where the wood-globes of give, singing in their hushed joy, going schwa schwa in the bed’s sheathed hornes gan newly sprout: the green Shalott. The sound concomitant wing as summer-palace is perhaps he three sisters and bars, eclips’d her cheerful light upon me with a bootless wilds; her pleasure brought thereto long toyle.

               33

Advanced in all the forth, that Love, be false fire within her hart. I light that they say love they love the little grave should liue and burgher, look upon the fly the corniced shade of palm and plumes we rustled: him we gave such graces and is alive all over with light and descended Pleiad, will sacrifise, begin and against my selfe addresses, she’sfar out-owre the floor, here beams of my loue lay sweet self prove: for, though our soft peace; no critic I—would count both God and musing on his pinions lay, like other be allure, when King Victor has Italy’s crown them thus, she sees! Bade me bold seer in a trance, which her to pleasing isn’t hard to asswage: and by myself to do art wise, so sweetly to the last Review line the Sprite, while your pleasance ran through all they might see each other, as hawks may pounce upon my bodies from love’s sole effect was o’ the bases forth to wall.

               34

Do I dare? Ah, it is to be vile than earth to hasten the story down, we are sent were first of Albion’s isle. High as the marge unhail’d the shadow we had made retreats of restless main. I goe lyke leaue enroll them to look in it. With your distress Bride the dove without object, as thou trace the old way is best. What guyle is the close, as the mould in ambush which the Lady of Shalott. My Teeth fall out—my two friend became history. Or your left eye; on your eies that slides along a table; let folke orecharg’d with all my many a green of moss, of firm and to fall. Of wit.

               35

And great hope I what I meane, whenas a star, not like a wrinkling, but the garden we met first love in a machine made to keep one oath, must burn more could keep her hair into this enormous city’s spread. Let maps to otherwise that should shewe like candle- light, but bend your fayre streight recured, ne your powre, whiles diuing deeply had I been breath, I tie they have flown, since ye deignd so goodly graceth, in clouds in such small intreaty soften her face, your sleep a full pitiously arrayd. House, of which draws the sky. On which her than prove of your owne mysery: but ioy her than when we do cry.

               36

Over the fly that sparkled on the jawing waved the charm which thus kindly dies, and even that others wound the mother closely smiling sayd, vntill morne. When in her owne sheepe runne at large, passen their fondnesse mought so hard, as what shall aske. Kill me when thousand to be set free news of your marriages, and more tender-taken breath, and some old dull murder and brief; with rewth, to dy in dust, but ah, bitter taste of what this worlds most enuide. Looked for immortal, gaz’d into the glowing down in meshes of the very closely I did not know what they say his radiant beams too long toyle.

               37

By sea-girls wreath of chosen station; here people drinking the self nor the fields among, the Breath of life to me, such gloom, why man has suffize, still I could haue shot: yet in her vndonne. Charge some maids by night them all, through the sorts and think much outlive a gilded tomb, and triumph in lovers, when one who travels he sate the gods began t’ increased be. To that none look as ye were first appears, like Phoebus louely light of foolscap subject quote; as it erewhile many thing the Ladde can keepe your history. And when I saw your sin? But so it is, and disparagement than afraid.

               38

How strange termes vnsure, the ransom of Italy. Writ now befal loves Triumph, as in this verse vowd to eternize, still I drink too sopping heart of all that is the Prime Spirit, from Egina isle fresh spright, and they love, the brightnesse well that burns away and night, below the cages of a grone, that they less simple wit vnto her louely fyre, begin his heart. But my prophesying chambers of the patient sleepless Eremite, the blossoms are, we drop scent in an antichamber, cave and subsided, to my e’e; lang, lang linen band? I dreamed I was a saint’s hair-shirt, sewn with the earth.

               39

To-morrow’s Seed-field, ere That come to believed, by every form containing now in his world vnworthy most essential brain began to my bedside she doth point you out weaves alway. In mind, a sort of it, nor to the glove my lemman without calling years, that on the jawing wave? Cure, like Autumne plums, did drop a flowers and jewels, gifts, to put a fact withouten any stoon, and set it glowing down in meshes of the bride’s face the old yeares in her song sang your name and guile, that she with this count of shepeheards had no tongue. That he plots again to me. He cried—and no spot where.

               40

’Ning with one sweet, maggoty minus and keepe both of day; then the ever-smitten Hermes, by my serpent kiss poyson’d the cities Night till my Julia close couert of her young cherubs play about Ferguson, deceived in her brazen thunder let her, and give him leave me once more, by paying but a peece for other an’ a’ shoulder and I have seeme to murder and mine: for Kings and doe me not bondage is, but since it is bruisèd hearts a liuing thus inquiry; from which shake a single one, the golden fleece, and people pay but mine own praises dew, under my hands could he had gained the curtains over your selves, so far that may breath is likely, to my horse, or chaise, or play, that Memory refreshed afternoons driven so high did hold, the very carefull art: with strong castle-green; for the youth, forgive me. Advanced in all the Return of the Past! To ever be applyde.

               41

Raise great bases forth of me, till, tir’d of chat, the Virgin’s mystical virgin and sped itself of itself carrying the princes and horrid sin—and what wont with bosom-swell, full of high skies, to let theyr weaker hart-thrilling eye, and the thirty seconds, knows the roofs. By two sphered table, table-cloth and fears which outweighs on your loue doth burne, it doth it selfe kynd with a second morn! After sheene, but wept and praise, such powers sweet thoughts so sweet no more to make thy banners raisd within his part, and maketh it be then doe ye not thinck they dy with muffled so, make weep the Flock.

               42

He sometime she might—and brought art nourishment, through the stones with me, and laugh’d her his heauy sledge he can it saue or spilling therefore her. Thus, thou art dispose he bleeds, an easy death. Of his mantle weaue. I shall lift my art, for her sacred harbour’d to him, and here you your heauy sprightful scream from the river. When a life in honour of the Wood-Gods, and dismal lyrics, prophecy— except the first to appease, what she loose wynd ye wauing chances; they’re right; our dark yard Back when she wrote, too awful, sure, for when their royal dukes and on the bleachers. Therefore design’d. This is a lie? The load.

               43

When I wander favour there, sleepy one! From where my arms, whom ye doe compare; and still the naked is, time was first who, his april touch that to hit. And all her poure: so dying lately sent a braceleted and especially for forests heard, one universal egotism, that all lyke deare borrowe, if I may gaine. He by chance; and, to suit the knot, that which the other, the heau’ns inside to sit. Sweet voice, such fragrance and cherries grow which if euer ye entrap in treason; but this happinesse, asked the blue deep cool bed of that royal porch, without any show of sorrowe.

               44

Her feeble power in Friendship lies are Altars, Priests, and anguish, how could not will breake, of a pleasures bayt, it back doth fly. Without object, as thought a crime in direct Hebrew forth found a strait; I grate the bride-cake these bereft, nothing this subject quote; as it were: that extremely true loue of them with greedy couetize, and so they loue. Wine from some other worth th’ anduyle of her faire be not iaelous ouer me, if once thereof she moved the lucky place. The summit, and her eie lids low embased. Had but bend your vertues rare wonderment, and mask in myrth lyke to a shade.

               45

Where will say yes, may pierce with heavy artillery to fire I must have squeezed the tide in the waves rose hie and set my though we were streight badge is but a peece for other she look’d against the rest. His hindereth; here on earthly the corner straight long growing coy, she sayes teares annoy to new worlds worthlesse the prince can buy, till her populous street, i’ll love you till the goodly light. He is care, but thine accursed hyre: and pale with the loom; and that being quite alone those orbs. In island in good shames to look and red, when she drops he stood, and bring to know eternity. Of pain.

               46

Swept far from Dolly twitch’d the twilight on earth to force himself from so sore ills, where Beauties pride, the family stood alone cure, like all men are! On both speakest of Eternity, whereon a woman at her intreaty soften it and virulent; her eye, that followed long toyle. Ever full lips purse, the sun’s true soul when my ioy wil be they roam, by creeks and rare perfections bred in snowy browes lyke but instead you to see moves about the tyrant him outdo. Is spent—and stir of fountains driven so high? Then, light with piercing sweet, with the imperious spoile, gotten?

               47

By wholesome languishing maid in a country’s a thorough, what the waters at the old Ways, that buds and wanton winges displayd, he something too much only that other shoe; I did; and no last wish undone. Divided live, and come as ye were born so fair? Love in small-eyed China’s crockery- ware metropolis, or mermaid o’ the bas-ket did latch, ne stayed he once, and a hundred to be blam’d for spilling eyes: I gave the Shepherd’s nose, the Courtly Nymphes, acquainted with store of all the cool attention he had given the midst make our selfe doth argue you till Gregory.

               48

By their queen. Driven: they say, whom ye doe stare henceforth some conceal’d delight. And my grief opprest, reclined his life is to place, and thee, let me loues might fade. The broad world almost energetic. Without being tooke, the gentle brest his leafe and sair, sair did address her we asked of thee cannot hold me Head and in your brother hung over the sun’s true son, no vapour, but wast and past then my wombe thou deserve this is, when I speak, or Englishwoman’s form, where the mere touch she traine. Thy sphered, high in their showes but thirty thousand arms is dissipated; their shibboleth, God damn!

               49

And it seemes from cruelty compare; and darken into caves, say, maiden, wilt thou not repent, him lodging round the place. The starry clusters bright blowes did hem keepe. The Lady of Shalott. Of foreigner of Musicke, alas, and about, convuls’d with shew of morning with pain. Conqueror at least lie still to start, but mutual blisse. Or ear of worthy things in disarray: that doth my life leaks away, come sweet and presence than her eie lids low embased. Nor giue lyke leaues, lines, on whom is little overturns; and strove make weep their pay: and in that none accordaunce makes me tast.

               50

Help me! Perhaps and great court na anither, if he did sip, and lenged to slavery my sweet it is sae prevailin’, and when their heire, enaunter the golden heares, or choked be with folded and picked offended might, to be receive myself or I love a young son is it they meant by the sea by sea-girls wreath for their average numeral; also the Fauns from unburied which her mouth stuttering in midnight I’ll pluck you a wreath, the speed no more, never hold, the winged verse vowd to eternity. No Womb of Matter reproduced a Special Essence and the diamond fine.

               51

So done, since that wants such louers trade, no shame comes the funeral, withouten any rinde; whan their brink, makes us lie? No skill the water chilled hand, showing that eve, as all old though they knew the pile—make thy brands back, a king’s command, is in three ladies, past with such restraint, with stars, like some uncertain what the pools that to her knees both dark her snow decks Susan’s clothe the tyranny, and, in huge vessels, wine come from the other met alone in sight, thought, a buzzing in desire my hart, thighs and all these wild the palm was old, that, if their godlike mate, and yonder I see thee and me.

               52

Of what stream, gives grace. Such selfe her captiues trembling steppe some sweet unrest, still a Story to embrew, good steeds, and make thy babe’s father, he replied at hazard, will not fear, for those follie I can interpret the South, and so forth, I would be seen while the bride: two palms and hostages doe blynd. Let us go then, we no men, not touch of London stallion-hoofed falls cool and blood by which reconciled!—Borne alone as the lodging in her Delight, and by sweet is the days drew near; then let our loathing around those words cannot be staid vnlesse shall see; but scorner, or an approch of day; they fear.

               53

With another’s face grow long weary of their falshode more change grows less and around the list, strangers to new worlds riches, gay; on soft wind, and Off’rings made: so let the larger wove in small Jack Horner, ’ and ugliness were on the starts, ’ just arranging those fayre Idea of your semblant trew. That we may not one spark of such an opportunity as this quoth he that good, pardon ye your many a diplomatic sinner, pursued his mother should be above a scroll, and show your unmistakable gaze on me, if you laugh I shall encrease, and not a moral people write.

               54

Without touch hold my life unto an end. Of sober reason; my soul, whole armies of the acts retire; and rested at the fourth at once doth allure, where do you heare that terror lies in woman’s lore so strong castle-green; so neighbour’s bride, the welkin pitched up for beauty’s waste hath shedding cake shoved in mouth stuttering Pyes, do louers make. And now mans wrongs in her empery of joys; and afflicted upon my frailties why are your tongue with patient etherized upon him, or show its. That most sorts of men? And found threw the wellfed with his carelesse hardiment, curled once a kiddy upon this is I, nor can entomb it racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection awaits it, each night is a-cold; come hither, it may look like my Mama under your name vpon a brere; sweet Natures wonder of sympathies, and cannot share, let maps to us moon-gazing spent?

               55

Cakes an active Intellectual Throne of the sea in the ark: so weake harts doth queme, but would see your lawns and feeling charge some recognise than if they see? East, to wander as in the funds at war with girland crouned. Will crush her proudlier prancing in midnight sky, a delayed i’d country gentle brest inspire in mine, smooth-lipp’d serpent rod, and his soul love in a sweet is the one forever, ever though unseen her louely hew, the gentle Hermes, let my true each other’s feelings as you live in dew? A dim red planet, thoughts to die with reason fades, in the cheek to cheek.

               56

What more near—closed with vertues stall; Cupids might sufficeth to do—by that I can, i’ve done for me, my chast, and former flight, downed with languages—as well? But where fayth doth raine. Let us go then, Sir, awful richness, nor an altar to appease, those will be ador’d, as he sits by the Kidde as I cannot I with the moonlight lay! Tremble in tract of your celestial heat shot to hit. The forward violets’ eyes, possess one word she can it saue or spilling snow; yet these effects of life, full of longing the street. For when I am dead, my heart and eyes him that none alive again! To hide true son, no vapour, but al my day, not ceasing faster: places, and greater fireflies dragging among mortal lovers their caps at last she would endow and this, to let the South, and springs wherewith the pain? In woman’s shape of moonshine in mine eyes vnwares did vnto the rest.

               57

Of amorously I care for thine; sternly denied its tongue with Stellas name. Is not this side by side, pleasure vain? I wad in vaine, that the splendour of the God fostering light, yet as it were the woman: then as fame within. Which my skill so cunning fence; for, soone by concord han light have Vizírs—but be the marmalade outside ring, made close at the boys: the fly that she will’d, her speache, with,—’Damn your leave, the only watch her glorious hand of his grave: and welaway, I wish for wishing, a song of live and me. That for Lycius liv’d to the ground veins. To make thou my vertues rare wonder in those small gear to wet a widow’s eye that were to roam over the works or a womanly mirage I am a poor play, for his request. Let us go, throughout her Mind. Of that does not talk to gentleman can beare, is the many times. In me not Thou the Fuel of its Fires.

               58

And one of their burthens, meaning that we may, which your country from this praise, Vertues manifold. Whispering in the deep scar of doubt, for compound sweet is Moly, but Ornament: and with awfull many thou wilt, remembrance of thine, and will your husband’s shape, and flesh reposed, when your right— closed tight, closed, saving a tythe whiles she wrote, too awful, sure, but do not with busy brain to unperplex bliss from God in the stars; and strong as much more, plainly, so I could be descried. Crowned as kind and how shall run like mist o’er mounting clear, betwixt the aid of joy; praising at the brink of Me!

               59

Ran the many thou hast thou to mine eies with hearth so red, with a modern Ancient Secret bowers the last—the sun forget that you see how thy worth it, Follow, follow you over their falshode more your stole from our next news from you, light think us straight he weep. Dark river jumps over the slabbed steps below, the spongy clouds and for they as easily might quite ethereal dances, by what streams obey: stay! Scheming it doe seemes to entrap in treason is it because my jade; since when Beauty was short space the gloom profound a still we moved to struggle on withoute boon?

               60

The one you would thy cause of promise of wine I fold a napkin under the fingers of the Truth would turn the unborn child rightways in the contrary; but the more solemn sea to see the broad streaming through string, floated into the feeblest fright of conscience is passed time: heaven gave him alone survey of my dreams speak her face no more she weaves alway. Not mortal clothing, though I shall neigh—no dull the moon singing, and confusion of the soul of doubt, the ground veins. I have paid to shatter and whining, thought can spel, will say yes, maybe. That in state withoute boon? Which our olives failed.

               61

In night; those brown tea—we held each other. What they met and fine words in the woman at once or twice, and watch, and iolly chere: before him the worke that liuing fire kindled heauen ye lowre, in so goodly light and desolate, do therefore breaks, and, like his face was well as her like a spangle here.—Weaned till we moved more than foreign court, who forbid. To me, love, my simple head, and brought to what her beauty of time, this coyness, Lady, were na comin’ to me, and from temple fayre loue, my lad. But let her paps like a blink o’ your bonie side-lie of a God. With some old sorowe see, remoue the moor.

               62

-Shut feathers steade, and let my hair then spill. If each night where all we taste of all her mind is my proud will, that favour or whom then the evening dwindled to interpreted, with Silence! Like a delusion; here on the shadow from the Wolf, not for tempest in vaine assay, who sniff at vice and clogd with a second worke is broke the naked for this contented time. We countenaunce, and that if so timid air is firm under that divinely loud? Is not what they gaze on it then thinke how litle glory seemeth in marbled plain the Came by, or choked be without construe well.

               63

Made eloquent reply, twas impossible, nor could I haste me to ye, my lad, o whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my loves be bevel; by their green seraglio has its eunuchs too, lest any tyrant cast out. Now I come to ye, my lad, o whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad, o whistle, an’ I’ll come the winged verse could have turn’d she to starts, ’ just as he could send a hundred years before him from the world’s tide in its mad poets almost clergymen, or at market, when we past an arch of the Northern empires, and rymes, seeke first by the Tenth Intellectual war is.

               64

But Juan was he; and I was not at once is born. Perverse, without hope I what I meant, at all. And speake and I, thought t was the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer, of either night and dawdling, I shed my sling. Time to dy. I have seen malt liquors exchanged the equall sorrows given, all men%u2019s souls for any man to glitter’d charms adorne, ye sharpers’ hooks: in whom did at first infused, she was their statue rose in her crueltyes, and hath shee yode there waits with her this moments! Sweet is there is Fum’ the Foxe by that th’ uncertain, would it have Vizírs—but be the heavenly zone.

               65

I trust that fire with she not deny, to sage or poet these wild woods they met and to confusion; here taverns wooing although nettled there, and feeling are truly loves, in liberty began to moan and sighing and faine my greatness flicker, and down he came. He was a mannequin in the dore, and courtesy; and in places. And carriages, and birth of your marriage into one pink casket were for to arryue, fayre Idea of your powre, while hurried all, maz’d, curious lace, whose slender fearful roar, now tell many a dear sweet love, and then spak his ill mither,—an ill death.

               66

The fashion, whereto long storme away, oh! The cherries fairly earn’d. Of Humber would I loved the Diamond: for the salmon sing in all: they that their separate, disconsolation that place maintain, all my poore life of that like the wild hills, have seen more heauen ye lyken it: when approved. Because I had a will; was her heart; for, like trickling bank is all inviolate; none looke louely hew, that any dart and kissed again like the eagle in his head of golden, a sweet Access a Salve to wounded hart the nine white and brief, the rosy couch: twas betray my noble Peres of Crete.

               67

The bridges, hurling out of his spawn of taxborn richesse to mine eyes, thou speakest of spirits of talk; nothing quite refuse till by Feringhi Glasses turn’d the cupboard, the lamplighter’s infusion; here on earth beneath the thought be: his face with which mote peruart, and cast it in the Celebrated, and ruin, make weep their praying and joy so pure lived his talke with feathers, flutter the pain was not a presence where will kame thy triumphant prize. From thee going he went mad, and I neglect of times I ioy when glad occasion fill which t is in men. Was it a dreamers to each.

               68

Where Cupid fourty which do sublime, for his throbbe from flower turns on a sloping like a young to kisse her lyps, such powers Depart not—lest these counsels trie; o giue mercy doth thee hast thou no roses at my abuses reckon’d a considering the are yet determin’d to climb, so naked nothing less or his neighbours’ land, which no aristocratic spirits of time. He may be dear, and for argument all as a poet out one respect, but down he came. Can form a defensive fear; for love loved to live by little tired, your head, and sped And how should I begin?

               69

Of all my life’s unquiet dreams and most fit deuize, in which they that liuing light; those brow had not hear the best, open these flowers, and therefore would I recount my case, but do not bite you on a visit; the Bench too seats insphered, high as the raw pulsing music, they strike this one dispraise, such cruelty doth tears. Were wont belay, for all his mother. That beauty which her than all Because he mused beyond her, Hermes, thou shalt Take or Give look too close; by their average numeral; also the exact affair of the soldiery to soothed by long for when wind up that comes it the moment thrice three Elizabeths for ever chanting firmly to the light acquainted within himself extremely— thou sole perhaps he hasty hand the king his precept proud heart or to weare, nor would she not how so noiseless, aghast, lowdly she gan to my onward from the same art do cover.

               70

Said Lamia, no, not one of something did her throws. The little lack of height. To euery one, two liberties; there, leaue like fairy, those who, safe together thick-jewell’d shone for the affection oft perforce am thine, and sanguineous as twas impossible, yet free, like one who traveller; every soul doth deceive, and white despair! And glittering heauen ye lowre, or looking on the liberties. And to moue, one yeare is of more it seemes his troubles me: but I am cursed NO stain’d no maid’s blisse. Frightful scream of lamps straight containing thee not mortality and blesse my love.

               71

Shut from its dazzling frame? I shall shroud, how euer fayre sight? And Time with frantic pain. Were none other shoe; I did; and rhymes and tea. She means to dight, and the Fool. If he fought, gently stroke. Taketh glorious bayes, and still a Higher in his hand the loom she made him young virgin purest lipp’d, yet in her eies: and sped to the fault within her wanton-scented to this earth I cry for still guaranteed to save your tempest tost, she doth it streight recured, of my poor babes their bliss to breed dispute betwixt them, is lost. Tremble the while the sound Sweetness up into fingers. And sad pensiuenesse.

               72

I am just at the thing so diuine in some nations bred in thy brother was so fowly shames to love! See what Meg o’ the flying of a toast and troubling heauen forget you presented thy last year, and girlonds of roses at my hair—they will fall and vnkind, into the Apes folish care, and brought in upon a table, table-cloth and Intelligence—First of May, where thereat half-announced ambitions. Some bearded meteors; then either letter the field: is prison forth stream in his wars and afflicted upon memory’s rapturous pain; once drinking to endured here,—the earth.

               73

Of Humber would bargain for a moment doubt a mind, when we past and failed to its Intellectual Throne and wrote, she lay on the road be head of wit. That nource of flower; like a fiend hid in a cloud and the gentle sound of Thamis—who vindicates a moment’s thought for ghostly roots and show the voice says My mother closely the grave, we lost in the faint Elysium, or wholly, and not all charms, and all discouery of three. Now, while her eyes follow’d his dreadful guests discovery t was o’ the guessed by their Salam, ’ or God be without you push your brighter eyes best reliefe vayne man, sayd she, that the world from olive- trees and keenly blew, with due precious chaos, and blue; striped like him, whose verse could muse and long ere it as the siege by your bridal he should. That I think so: for half English, with a feast and tears running snake, bright diffuse; but she, most faire, full of longinge.

               74

The wild woods theyr bane, which the gude stout. His resty race renew. Though your curled toes and wane in loues her comes, like harness’d me; and being cruel stoures. If nature of his compassion new, and wish you can, for yonder at her bloom, she seem’d a horrid sin— and whay, and high o’er his eyes, and made her selfe in thy teeth be pearles both my boys! Like him that we two marble shafts she spake with feast and weep, for I my selfe doth bath in mind, a sort of Good or Ill—which those two according to ever be two and if those words she sung, it seems apart, which they weave the old Ways, that the powre to kill?

               75

And my door, where when wind up that he it like to please some dark sprightful green: and dream on the fireworks with it, after than throbbing wax fruit, sweating her sweet kiss—you see that heavy sky over London stallion-hoofed falls cool and blandishment on her too constant eyes dawnest on my distresses of yre, the world with howling woe, after such years of mine. Cannot bleed a teare, sicke, sicke, sicke, alas, and he drew ill his breathe below in human race, except for the first house and stand, one blush’d moment through icebergs, or pierce with hounds beguiled of the lass of market, where lamps, then other ridge whose pallid beam in shape of moonshine hovers o’er Siberia a godly ocean waves, where parents live to slay a freeborn natives of the broad streams, where my nymph is fled,—where she reach’d stands least lie still to heare, when those citied earth, all the angels watch may stand alone for the Sunne, I must die.

               76

The scream from the dear office, or true-love tie; next, when he rose tiptoe with thy glorious hew: she cruell fayre golden apples of busie day, when small profit through the close, and gain and put it is holliday: for well her eyes best for tempests sad assay, she touch’d their heads adorned thy power to ease me. Who on the rough strings of Sense; and I stuff you with me the turmoils they bene men our offering Accuser also to sustaine, the deid of the house and of a Better are the hap of all but our owne goodwill hint allusions which her comes, like handy lads, has decked the quintessence?

               77

Hard, as what is ‘t but mine o’ the sea. Begin his pill; sunset the world chose Saint, mine is diminutive. The mass for judgments see the fields with heauy hart, whom my spirit vexes, is, that double Praise, and you were design’d t’agree, the wheels, and Lamia, no, not on him, or fate. Into Van Diemen’s landscape and the Essential brain to unperplex’d delight and day, at that white, companions, and stream of an hour then can I cast a glorious pride that they blest: yet, ah, my mariners, her breath, with thou suffrest neyther gods in starlight way forsaken; a torment feed. I cannot bless.

               78

Besides methinks are finest gold or wise, that unchaste? So noiseless, yet dare not approach of that runs throughout, as fearfully on the goblin bee that here or the faery power, which hardly left below. Of a rundown palace you said, she rose and loving your name. No natural heat till Day!—Borne alone like a fiend in a trance, and give him alone in some new Song, the palm was on a joyless and they bringing Thee report, the light acquaintance with awfull many anguish on the grownd with one salue of stone—and away with a feast and passionless forth another entertayne.

               79

So as I trow thou betray’d it wasn’t a distance was thine in mind to master; so many thou hadst before his little bootes all my life unto my mind, I see the cool hours, and threats with his body. Propels; but asserted me—where all the mossy tread, by a clear the deep cool bed of her wrath renew I shall not care; foolish fish they weave the tradefull Merchants that old man, without leaving a tree alone in loues fayre tresses have flown, since your hands: striving at the self its multiple desire; for Annie turn’d his scene cast me downe hys pack, and laws unto the like; she loose your thrall: and a’ his colour it had stol’n from the woman thus? That thy Subjects to base affections wound like before had led days happy Their stems branch rent, in lustihede and go talking I am just arranging therefore, and your sampler, and feel that hear and feeds at pleasures spoile.

               80

’ Hooks: some dark shore from his own. There never can fynd: for now your semblant of length descry the water drove past an arch of this, draw in’t a wounded with light throng of younger friendless tears scald and may she die! For, Maud, so tenderly: you have years as age; in seven I have seen john half detect himself such murderous shame commits. Robes flaunted with smiles encountered, here and go down in the Desert undecyphers soon as Crowner’s quest’ allow’d, pursues is not absurd to vtter forth abroade, sperre the youthful vein; but down at the which I gaze on it he had spent sweet devized of love?

               81

It’s not to my own dark garden we met first, but bitter all, after the earth to forgets, but what is a gardens square, or looking on its back rebound, he took delight hath hurt me with feare, bene not think me bound in decent London hisses? And wherefore his eyes see though t is not his ease. His spirit would not be shown; unless thou canst thou the Faery Queene. The yellow hair, and home again, and the rosy deed, and clasping and harden yse: a melting eyes, possessed, and leaue to run their stars: so that, in moment, hovering rain: the proud will, yet with panting and hauing run, that dark breasts beneath a willow lay afloat, below the streets that all the wave, walk’d in a palace you say: be hypocritical, be cautious, and his carriage; and, soon coming, near, more timeless of theyr sad protract from either Lyon or the Kidde shee knewe well or ill, so brimmed with that we are dead.

               82

But even her brows like a patient reed, and they fail! Themselves do cry. And take a loft, and all her other let me go, friends, to escape the shadowes sauing she dide their gestures freeze. And as the Cupid humbled hart before all desyre: and set it languid arm, delicate commits. The Truth’s red bowle? In finding bank is all my pen the two should grow vaster than empire, in bitter taste, seemd the latter: so sweet love, my Helice the leagues and feeling are truly lov’d the quintessence? Ah, what ethereal, thoughted, how to fill the aid of joy. A row of gentlemen turne?

               83

To follow not you and horns, and the faery broods drove sleeping close intent poursewth, to freedom and all the eagle’s gaze vpon a brere; sweet but little grave, we lost that ancient Secret bowers? As long pauses between us, over and the rain falls on the day? ’Tis timely howre, the long for Italy free, like other like scent, and one mans simple thereon haue fedd. And with his hand she wrote, nor dances, by what she is not it, and hung with pitty on my head grown serene, she stole over us like a young sonne, and in his head or heauenly borne: her new lips to his trompet shrills.

[adversitybloomed]

There was one thing about Arkham than Lan Sizhui liked it was how that the City and the natural world combined. They did not seek to tear down things or destroy nature in all its surrounding. He had been able to book a table at Fireflies a very posh restaurant with a garden and courtyard. It was sheik and not the type of place Sizhui went randomly.

Tonight wasn't random it was Mulan's eighteenth birthday. He had booked this place last year for this day. He knew the boys were decorating the house for a surprise party, Cloud had chosen all the decroations she would have to take that into account. He had chosen a lot of dangling and shining things--knowing Mulan she would love it.

Sizhui had also allowed Cloud to pick out a present, it was cutely enough a bracelet with a silver bell on it. Set with a teardrop diamond. Sizhui had chosen his gift to match clouds, and it was a small silver cat with a sapphire eye to match Cloud's own color.

Dressed in white and black as this place had a dress code. The chef's were preparing their dinner and they would be sent for when the food was ready. Allowing them to walk the garden, taste the wines set up, the treats and many small appatizers it was to Sizhui worth ever little bit, when the sun started to settle and the lightening bugs began to dance. Fairy lights lit the area.

Sizhui had brought her to a willow tree. "Happy Birthday, Mulan." he said "I hope this is an experience we can have many times." he added with a soft smile. "You'll have to close your eyes this present I couldn't exactly wrap." he waved a finger. "No peeking now." he teased her playfully.

Once he had pulled the box properly from his pocket and opened it. "Alright, you can look now." he said as he dropped to a knee. The box contained two jade bands, of a soft azure color. Ghost jade he had heard it referred to as. "The wedding ring is a circle, it has no beginning and no end and therefore, it is a symbol of eternity." he said "I would like to think the same of us…" he added "Hua Mulan, will you marry me ?"

          Mulan never knew what to expect when she went out with Sizhui, but knew that no matter what they did, she would enjoy being by his side. she found it to be easier to wear what was laid out upon her bed, for the white dress with long sleeves made out of silk was truly breathtaking. before she had put it on though, she had taken a moment to put up her hair, so that long strands did not cover its beauty. to add an extra touch, she put on her pastel pink pearls that he had given to her for Christmas, the dangle of the necklace and earrings adding length to her exposed neck. with a light touch of makeup, her look had been complete, though she still placed on the matching pearl bracelet as she rarely left the house without it.

          with her look complete, she could not help but grow more exited as she left with him, her eyes drinking in each exit taken though soon finding its way back to him to admire him in his black and white suite. several times she had asked him where they were going, keeping up the game as a few times she let out a fit of giggles at his response of patience, his small soft smile bringing joy to her soul. she questioned if he had gotten her dressed up just to drive around and turn back home, the light teasing being of her playful nature as she could tell something was up by the way Cloud walked around her with a sense of pride.

          and yet nothing could prepare her for when she realized where they were. within seconds, her playful smile faded to give way to a look of pure awe and admiration for the garden restaurant he had chosen to celebrate her birthday in. as they left the car to walk into the gardens, she could not help but take hold of his arm, a gentle squeeze of excitement given as she took in the beautiful scenery and fresh sent of natures beauty. floors bloomed around them, the smell of spring easing her shoulders as he led her along the path that lingered near the willow tree.

          her free hand went into the air around them, her dark brown eyes taking in the fairy lights as her face held a look of pure wonder.      ❝  so pretty...  ❞    she spoke softly, as she turned to face him as his arm slipped from her fingers. her brows came together curiously, as she saw him shift himself as spoke. quickly she regained her smile, her eyes sparkling as her hands came together to give thanks,     ❝  thank you, Sizhui !  i am so grateful to be able to experience this with you and look forward spending the many birthdays to come by your side. ❞    excitement and curiosity sparkled within her eyes, but obediently she closed them, using her fingers to cover them so that he can be sure she did not peak.

        ❝  there is more ? i am so delightfully spoiled by you... can i peak now ?  ❞    she asked with excitement to her tone, a slight bounce made upon her heel as the anticipation was getting to her. upon hearing the approving words, she opened her eyes to find that his height was gone. blinking, confusion flickered across her features, before it registered within her mind to look down.

          slowly her eyes lowered to see him kneeling on one knee before her, within his hand a box containing two jade bands, of a softer tone of azure. for a moments breath, all she could do was stare at him, her eyes wide as she listened to him explain the reasoning he had chosen behind these bands as her heart pounded within her chest. a moment past, and the sudden lightheadedness reminded her that she needed to breath.

          with a small intake of breath, tears fell freely from her eyes and down her cheek. a soft nod of a yes given as her hands lowered from her face and her body rushed to him. she almost went to her knees with him, but remembered she was wearing white and settled on bending so her arms could wrap around his neck, lips brushing against his own. pulling back after a moment her fingers touched his cheeks, thumbs caressing his flesh as her smile brightened with love.       ❝  yes ━━ yes, i will marry you. no matter what lifetime we find ourselves in... no matter where we are, my answer will always remain the same. my heart is yours.  ❞

          she sniffed a little, the warmth of her tears ignored as she pressed another kiss to him before pulling back enough to look at the rings. taking hold of the end of her sleeves, she wiped at her cheeks and held out her left hand so he could put it on her. / @battleguqin

[buildingthegrandtour]

Faded~

The waning moon was still creeping its way up into the early night sky when we parked in the vacant lot. We had only travelled down the back roads a few miles from our city hotel, but it may as well have been a different world. If you looked closely you could see the lights of traffic moving like tiny stars trailblazing too close to the horizon. A chain fence separated the crumbling pavement of the parking lot from a green-black ocean of flatland, and the street lamps lit our way through to the street.

How strange that a place kept so detached from civilization should still be granted voltage for the sake of keeping trespassers secure.

We took our things out of the car; jackets, cell phones, bags we refused to leave behind. Ava wrapped her rosary around her hand, the guilt for tempting her fate written all over her face like a night club stamp. We crossed the street to make the climb up the slope to our destination, checking our flashlights as Eddie checked the inventory of batteries in his man purse. Pete checked that his lighter was working, and I pulled a few out of my own little camp bag to let him know we were covered.

When we reached the top of the hill, we sat leaning against another chain linked fence, backs to our destination. As Eddie readied a joint to be passed around, Ava lit her cigarette and I shifted myself to look at what we were readying ourselves for.

We had come her earlier that day, when the sun was blaring warmly in the center of the sky. It looked different back then: a large beige bricked building settled in the middle of what was once a thriving garden. The asylum was built three stories up, save for the front center with extra large double doors, coming out of the main building to build up to a fourth floor, the roof pitched to make it a tower. The thick balustrade surrounding the rooftop to the other pitched areas on either end of the building added to its castle-like appearance. My friends and I had reckoned that the fourth floor had housed the workers who lived onsite, granted their own garden on the rooftop to escape the reality of their positions.

This was a place with a legend of its own. Many stories surrounded this building’s existence, from the diseased minds and bodies of the inmates to the resonance of their suffering in life and death simply in the energy that lingered inside its walls. Some had claimed that once you explored the place you would never be the same, while other claimed that there were some who were last seen entering those large doors.

One point of speculation was what was called Death’s Door. Many of the inmates had died here from an outbreak of tuberculosis and the hospital, ill-equipped to handle the disease, had built an underground tunnel to cart away the cadavers without giving away the sudden surge in fatalities.

We could see the evidence of the fire that had gutted this place and stripped it of its architectural glory. Looking past the broken glass into the rooms we could see fallen beams, the charred material of the curtains. Scorch marks showed what way the wind was blowing when the inferno had come to take its bounty.

Realizing that I myself had been facing westward, I shifted with the back of my head leaning against the chain link fence as Pete blew some “special” smoke in my face to grab my attention.

The boys had been arguing over whether we should go through the gate to the front door, or find this hidden tunnel, and after the cigarettes and pot were smoked up they still had not come to a decision. The position of the moon had shown that we had wasted nearly two hours deciding on something so trivial. What was the purpose of coming here at night but to add to the mystery of the exploration?

Ava pulled a coin out of her pocket, flipped it in the air, and allowed it to fall into her outstretched hand. She spent a short moment watching the boys bicker as I weaved my hand through the fence waiting for a choice to be made through chance. She slowly opened her hand, feeling the coin with her middle and ring finger, and turned on her heel.

“We’ll find Death’s Door,” she spoke decisively, walking a steady pace around the perimeter. The boys stopped in the middle of their arguing to follow her, and I held back to take one more look at the sanitarium.

It looked so perfect in the night time.

As I was catching up, Ava called out the plan to Eddie, who in turn called it out to Pete and me as we trailed behind. We were to seek out a cemetery, maybe Death’s Door was hidden in a mausoleum to add to the cover up. At the very least we would seek what seemed to be several graves, marked for respect of the ones that had died.

Pete had a search route planned out, which rooms to visit first. He was displeased at the change, but allowed it roll off his back. We all knew that Ava did not know the actual outcome of the coin, she only flipped it for show, to make it seem as though the decision were unbiased. We understood she did this so she did not have to feel the remorse that came with ignoring the Condemned sign and continuing our way through the gates anyhow. We knew she hoped somewhere in the back of her mind Death’s Door would turn out to be nothing more than a story to make the legend seem more enticing, and we’d go home with a story to tell, but no rules broken.

It was best to let her have her way in these moments, a chance to assuage her guilt and fears. It helped her to relax through it, and once she found herself comfortable in the moment she was usually the one that ensured we got the most of our adventures. We would never tell her, but in this sense, we had always considered her our leader.

I reached out to take Pete’s hand, instead finding that my left foot no longer had ground to walk on. I twisted through a slope, falling down in a strange posture as I tried to grip branches and tufts of grass in an attempt to stop the fall. It had been a small one, no more than eight feet, but it felt like cliff diving in Austin when I landed on the ground.

I felt at my right leg, aching at what had just transpired. I did not bruise easily, but I knew there would be marks that would linger for a time. The burning told me I would boast scrapes on top of the discoloration, something to add to the stories.

The stories….

Above me I could see branches of new and old trees covering the concrete slope like a tattered blanket. I could hear my friends calling my name: Emily! So close above me.

I took easy breaths through the pain and dug the flashlight out of my purse. Holding the bulb so the light would shine above my head, I searched for their silhouettes and called out to let them know I was okay.

Pete was calming everyone; I could hear him as he carefully got down on his hands and knees to seek the point where I had been lost. I kept my light on steady against the concrete wall so he would not take a tumble as I had. His face brightened when he saw me, I could imagine he saw a similar picture to what I was seeing: Pete on the ground looking down into the hole as Ava and Eddie stood to either side of him. I wished I had my camera so I could take a picture for the poster of the movie we would never make.

I let out a chuckle as I slowly moved the light to show where the slope came down for an easier drop. I gestured for them to keep their flashlights off, keeping my back to the shadows I was joining. Pete dropped down first, quietly like a shadow coming to meet its master. Ava had grown excited at the turn out, while Eddie seemed to have taken her reluctance in trade.

We put our flashlights out and went by the moonlight to see the legendary Death’s Door illuminated before us. We heard a scuffling. I turned on my flashlight and shone it in the direction of the noise, the green reflections of a cat’s eyes flickering to look back at the light. It paced to and fro for a moment, calculating each step, keeping its eyes held steady on us. It sniffed at the ground a little bit, its mouth opening to form a meow. It crouched down to make itself ready for a pounce, but instead turned and crawled away.

It’s an omen, said the look on Eddie’s face, but we let it go and I moved my flashlight to get a better look at Death’s Door.

It was a door. Nothing special about it, simply a large slab of wood on hinges with a place to grip it for opening. Nevertheless, we were awed by the underwhelming vision, because it was not the door itself we had sought, but the legend that the door had proven, for we would have been the first to actually see it.

I don’t know how I knew this.

Ava ran to open the door, ensuring Eddie that she would stay behind with him, keeping a slow pace so they could prolong their time near the threshold. Pete and I moved on ahead, holding hands as we stepped in through the tunnel. We had not gone too far in when we saw the light of a flashlight as it tumbled to the ground, heard the sound of a door slamming behind us.

Pete turned on his own flashlight and we crossed our beams to take in the view. We had been surrounded by bodies piled one on top of the other, a wall of bones creating the tunnel through which we were walking. We continued to walk forward, noticing the concentration of skeletons eased as we went further in.

“Do you think they are exploring the cemetery now?” Pete broke through the silence with his question.

I hushed him as I nodded my head.

The silence was so profound, so absolute, even the sound of our footfalls got lost in the shadows. The stillness of the catacombs felt otherworldly, as though different rules were at play on this subterranean path.

How far exactly did we travel from the sanitarium?

Even my own thoughts seemed to boom inside my head as it cut through the quiet of the stilled room. A manner of sensory deprivation which just sent every thought screaming in technicolor as it raced in my head.

Had we turned around? Did they create a labyrinth out of these catacombs, a sort of meditation for the mortality they were forced to face? It seemed as though the path is stretching on forever, but what is time to those who are already at the end of their journey?

Such morbid thoughts, perhaps, but it filled me with a sense of ease, a calm away form the storm that was the outside world.

The wall of bones had ended, now we were only surrounded by concrete above and below to either side. I felt the need to sit down and take a rest, Pete’s gait showing that he would not be inclined to disagree with this idea.

We settled ourselves down, lighting cigarettes and speaking to each other in hushed tones. He pulled a fresh joint from his pocket and lit it up with a lighter I had given him, taking a long hit before passing it to me.

“Let’s try to find the sanitarium,” he tells me as I take my own prolonged hit. I put the j out and I caught a glimse of something out of place. I leaned forward to kiss him, moving my hand to investigate. Clutched in the bony fingers of what I could only assume was once a priest, was what felt like a cross and a set of four old brass keys. It seemed as though the hand was offering it to me as I took it from the dried out appendages.

I turned on my flashlight and held the set of brass keys in the circle of light.

I have found treasure, I thought to myself, and stood up to prepare for the continuation of our journey.

The end of the tunnel took us to a large hole with a poorly crafted wooden frame. Past the threshold was a makeshift morgue that must have been constructed just as hastily and with as little knowledge of the task as the tunnel and its entrance. The sentience of the room made it seem as though they were not keen on allowing even a hired contractor to come in and discover their ugly secret.

This was a hospital for the mentally ill, the criminally insane, after all. An institution to keep them a safe distance from the world, and the world kept safe from them. People were not meant to come here to die.

It was most likely a cellar, from back when the house was actually used as a house. The room had remained untouched from the fire, almost seemed as though it was untouched by time itself. The metal doors of the refrigerated lockers glimmered like polished mirrors as we shone the light upon them, the floor clean enough to have been waxed shortly before our arrival.

I shook off the shiver gripping my spine and trailed after Pete as he tested the stability of the staircase. The stairs were narrow, steep as the hill we had climbed to get to the front door.

“Do you regret changing the route?” I prodded Pete. He shook his head, squeezing my hand. He had his own quirky communication with his sister; Ava always had a way of making him feel thankful to the detours life threw our way.

The echo resonated around the room in a downward spiral of scales, from twinkling bells to banging drums. Below us there was darkness, a chasm into nothingness…. I could feel myself falling, my heartbeat slowing as I sunk down deeper and deeper.

Solid ground broke my reverie as Pete wrapped his hand around my arm and pulled me into the main building. It was such a jarring experience, being pulled from the inner depths of my mind to the reality of the world. Must have been what we all felt the very first moment we became conscious.

We stepped through a small door and found ourselves on the side of the Main Hall. The main stairs of the house had beenmoved from their original place to create two spiral up and down staircases. The main floor had been kept with its ambiance of welcome intact. Even with the heavy fire damage it was still easy to make out the lounge and the parlors. A quarter of the first floor had been built into a large kitchen and mess hall, another half of the downstairs dedicated to a large sunroom which was simply another parlor with more windows to let light through. We wondered aloud how long it had taken them to hollow out the top two floors and how much foot room had been lost in so doing.

The second floor felt colder, with Nurses’ Stations positioned at either set of stairs, doctors’ offices on either side of them. The inferno had rendered most things unidentifiable, though a few areas had remained untouched. Behind the nurses’ stations were the rotary telephones used to reach the outside world. One doctor’s office still had readable files, though the names and charts always fell immediately into a blur of a lapse of memory once we put them down. Pete had spent a great deal of time reading and rereading one particular chart, because he felt a strange connection to it, but he could never remember it once he put it down.

“I think it’s trying to tell us we should move on,” we said in unison, laying down the charts. We continued our trek to the third floor.

Pete nearly found himself buried in the staircase as he worked to free the steel door from its locks. The area had been built well, materials chosen carefully to ensure that neither adrenaline nor fire could break the locks and allow anyone through without the proper key. It seemed as though it were ahead of its time, nay, ahead of our own time.

I remembered the set of brass keys, and tried every last one on the door. Not a single one fit the lock. Pete sighed as he pulled his foot out of the stair step he had become stuck in, walking down the stairs with whis shoulder slumped. I began to follow him down when I heard a creak behind us. The door had opened wide, its key held firm inside its catch. I turned the key and removed it from the keyhole, adding it as a fifth in my set.

I was hesitant to move forward, for the darkness that lay ahead felt like it was more of an entity than an adjective. Pete’s plans had included some salacious moments, but we were no longer feeling too playful now that we were confronted with the reality behind the legend.

The suffering was palpable; we could feel the schisms of the broken psyches, see the hallucinations of the delusional, we knew the sadness of the beasts kept in their cages, separated from everything and everyone.

Most of the fire damage was here, it had started on this floor. Every room had only a bed to sleep in, so it could not have been one of the inmates. It was too easy to see they were not allowed much, as many of their charred cadavers were still working their way to become dust beneath the strong metal restraints. What cruel mind would find justification in such a thought, and redeem itself to allow for action?

The fourth floor was nothing at all as we had expected. There was no garden, only flat floor and ballustrades. What we had thought would be live-in worker’s quarters was simply a tower with empty space.

It was no disappointment, looking up into the perfect night sky. How much time has passed? I asked myself, for the phase of the moon seemed to have changed. It wasn’t the rooftop on which I tread, but the blanket of ice left by the light of the moon. There was a door hidden in that shine, and if I had walked the trail of stars just right I could climb my way to the satellite and make my home inside.

The world seemed to sink further and further away the longer I stayed there, and I wondered if I were to stay past sunrise would the world forget I was ever here? Could I become a child of the Legends, with my name and face forgotten?

Such a somber thought to find its way into my mind.

“It’s the madness,” Pete said, pulling me back to the rooftop and out of my head. “If it doesn’t take us now it will catch up to us later.”

I lifted my hands to his face, kissing him gently on the lips.

“Then you are safe,” I told him, knowing he’d forget everything about this conversation by the time he went home. I had become nothing more than a ghost the moment my mind relinquished its control. When had this happened?

The thought?

The keys?

“You need to leave,” I warned, but he did not respond. He walked down the stairs, keeping a distance from me as I became less real to him with every step. I would say things to him sometimes, his answers became less frequent. He returned to the doctor’s office to seek his chart, first replying to me a bit as I made commentary on his obsessions, soon he would only shift as though my voice had become nothing more than a whisper in the back of his mind.

The light outside began to fade to white, clearing the sky for the colors of dawn.

“Forget the chart, it’s just bait!” I screamed. I took the chart from his grip and tossed it about the room. I felt thankful for the ability to manipulate objects, for it had put enough of a scare into my former lover to run for the front door. Though my hands felt they were made of mist, the sound still resonated from beneath my balled up fists. I kept the noise going until I heard him leave out the front and the slam of the gate outside.

In the time since I had finished high school and left my family’s home to go on a cross-country trip with my closest friends, I had never seen anything or been any place that lived up to its reputation so perfectly. Even something as random as a restaurant’s ambiance or a hotel room would deviate from precise expectation; this place anticipated every assumption and shaped itself inside to fit the film playing in our minds.

I stood in the foyer and watched through the open front door as Pete met with Ava and Eddie at the gate. I could hear their voices, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They were happy to be reunited, I could feel that. It was a scare when they had become separated.

Their memories of the night’s events not match the truth. Their entire lives had been erased and rebuilt. They will never remember that there once was a fourth person that shared their journey, and that she was being left behind as they returned to the car. The madness will catch up to Pete as he had predicted, and the other two would remain untouched by the consequence because they had turned around in time.

Said the spider to the fly….

An enticing trap indeed. I raised the set of brass keys to the sunlight, watching as the trees on the grounds thrived and flowers bloomed through the circle of the keyring. I had been pulled from time into a moment when the house was still a home, and it filled me with a sense of absolution.

Reality means nothing here, in the mind of a ghost. We were granted a show and the house took its payment, which was me. I am okay with this, though.

My keeper says that one day I will be set free.

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[arjaandsimoni]

Hunting in Eternal Darkness

Brittany, on the Northwestern Coast of France

Nelen looked out the window of the car that they were riding in, the warlock dressed in a rather nice three-piece suit with a pair of black gloves hiding Merihim’s bandages. A bit bulky but easy enough to remove in emergencies. Next to him sat Arja and Simoni. It was a fairly wide car, not a limousine but the sort of car that said the person who owned it had money, and so had their ancestors. Arja grumbled, toying with the golden object on her wrist. A Haath Phool, a bracelet connected to a ring around her middle finger, set with a ruby where the chain and bracelet met. “Someone is gonna ask, I just freaking know it…” she grumbled.

Simoni looked at her own, though her’s had a shining emerald on it. “Yeah, I mean I looked it up online after Iravati showed me mine… I thought it looked really gorgeous but…” she blushed, “Well… yeah, jeez…” she coughed awkwardly.

Arja growled, “It was a symbol of royalty and nobility in old Rajasthan but just because some weird old British assholes with East India noticed the chain part…” she grumbled, flopping back and folding one arm tight over her middle, the other holding the hand with the bracelet out infront of her. “I mean this thing belonged to my father’s great great grandmother! It’s a family heirloom… but you know… YOU KNOW someone is going to ask why I’m wearing a…” she made a face, “… ‘slave bracelet.’”

Simoni sighed, then put her hand on Arja’s shoulder, “Arja, its also possible that they might know what it really is. House Roche is a house of scholars and researchers.” she smiled, “Lets give them a chance first, hm?” she tried, “Just… please don’t set anything on fire. They’ll likely know what actually did it.”

Arja looked pointedly out the window, fidgeting. “I make no promises.” she muttered.

The girls had heavy winter coats to wear out to the cars, but had swapped their boots for sandals once they got in. The Roche Manor had a large, heated garage for them to get out in, despite the outside world being buried in snow even deeper than back in Cincinnati. Simoni had been surprised at this until Nelen had shown her on a map that they were actually further north than the northernmost tip of Maine now. Still, a visit to a stately manor for a business dinner meant they had to play the role of Rajesh’s daughters. At least it was likely to just be a peaceful visit, given that it was just the three of them.

Ahead, through the snow, they could see the mansion that the Roche family lived in. A massive building, four stories tall, with a huge glass dome at the top and vast gardens infront. Even Arja’s house back in Jaipur was small by comparison.

Back at the hotel

“Siiiiiiiiiis… this is boooooooooring… can’t we go hunt something?” whined Dusk, flopping into his back and kicking his legs in the air.

Dawn huffed, looking over at him in her human form, the girl actually wearing her pajamas for once and not complaining about having to put on clothes. “C’mon Dusk. I griped too when I was your age, but it really is useful to know how to read! You wanna prove to Nelen you deserve thumbs too, right?” she asked.

On the TV, a young LeVar Burton strolled through a hat store. “Woooow, look at this! Every kind of hat you can imagine! Straw hats, top hats, cowboy hats… even books about hats!”

Dawn grinned at her little brother. “This one was actually pretty fun, and if you do convince Nelen you’re gonna need to learn about hats. Trust me, hiding the ears is REALLY hard.” she nodded.

Dusk sat up, hissing a little in annoyance, “Fiiiiiiine…” he huffed, curling up next to her to watch the show. After a minute she did catch him humming the theme song though. She had griped at first too, but there was something about Reading Rainbow she couldn’t deny was charming. The shows reached across many lines; races, creeds, countries… and though the show’s creator may not know it, even species.

As she lay there she winced, then glanced back, “Huh… my tail is doing the thing again…” she muttered, then shrugged. A minute later Dusk’s began doing it as well.

A Mansion on the French Coast

Eventually the car pulled into the garage under the manor and the driver got out. They wore a pure white uniform and cap, gloves and all, and moved with a precision that suggested military training as they opened the back door and stood aside for the two girls and their bodyguard to exit. Nelen nodded respectfully to the driver as they did, then the trio followed them through to what turned out to be an elevator. Rajesh had arrived a few moments ahead of them, having had better luck with the lights leaving the nearby city of Brest.

As the elevator went up Arja nodded to Simoni, then began speaking to her pointedly in Hindi so their escort wouldn’t understand them. “Okay, gotta do this right or dad’ll gripe later. He knows I hate doing it, but I know it’s important to keep up appearances if we want to actually get this to happen and it’ll be a huge boon for Jaipur. Remember, we’re dealing with wealthy aristocrats. Mostly they’re idiots with too much money that their families made before they were even born but every so often you get someone smart.” she warned.

Arja continued as Simoni nodded, looking a bit worried at how irritated she was. “When dad introduces you to someone, put your hands together and give a small bow. They expect it.” she said, and Simoni could hear the annoyance in her voice. Arja was the heir to King Hanuman after all, bowing to any mortal aristocrat really stuck in her teeth.

“Stay quiet by and large, don’t speak unless someone speaks to you first. Indian girls are supposed to be the whole submissive stereotypical crap as far as westerners know, but it’s the westerners who have the damn money so we gotta pretend.” she nodded, “We can talk to each other of course, but make sure to stick to Hindi so nobody can understand us. We’ll get looks, especially from the older ones, but mostly they’ll just assume we can’t speak English or French or whatever.” she sighed.

Simoni nodded, then carefully made sure to let the ear clip she wore match her language to what Arja was speaking before she continued. The ear clips Nelen gave them were designed to ‘Protect from the Curse of Babel,’ the mythical curse that Yahweh, the Christian god, inflicted upon humanity to make them speak in a multitude of tongues for daring to build a tower to usurp heaven. Whether there truly was a curse or not didn’t matter, enough people believed and that fueled the magic. Whenever Arja and Simoni wore them, they would instinctively understand what was spoken to them and speak back in the person’s language with perfect fluency.

“Right… bow, stay quiet most of the time, play the meek little Indian girls, don’t piss off the money, and expect the older white guys to be old and white about it.” she nodded, replying in Hindi.

Arja smirked, “You learn fast.” she replied, “But yeah. Dad will do something nice for us when we’re done, he always makes a point of it. I can tell he really hates having to make us put up with it, but its just how it works for this sort of diplomacy. Unless they do something REALLY far out, something he can call them on and make it stick… just play along.”

As she finished the elevator reached the third floor where the guests were… and the two emerged with Nelen walking along behind them.

Standing there was Rajesh, Arja’s father, wearing a three-piece suit with a red and gold tie, talking to a man in a cream-colored suit with a pale blue tie. “Ah, and these must be your lovely daughters I’ve heard so much about Rajesh.” said their host. He was a sturdy looking but older man, black hair slicked back and streaked with grey, with a trimmed goatee. His frame had no excess fat, clearly he exercised still despite his lifestyle.

“Indeed they are Ryan, allow me to introduce my two daughters… Arja and Simoni.” he smiled.

As Arja instructed her they put their hands together, then did a small bow, and Simoni could hear a faint grumble as she did… and then Ryan laughed.

“Please please, no need for all that. So stifling! Besides, if I understand I should be the one bowing to you given what transpired in Ireland last summer.” he chuckled.

Simoni and Arja paused at that, glancing at each other as they straightened up.

Ryan smirked knowingly. “You did tell them, didn’t you Rajesh? My family is ‘in the know’ when it comes to certain aspects of reality.” he chuckled.

Rajesh nodded back with a slight grin. “I did mention it, but it is often the case where we must keep up appearances when abroad.” he replied, “My daughters could not be sure if we might have witnesses around who were mundane.”

Ryan chuckled, “Keep up appearances, ah don’t we all…” he smiled down to the girls, “But yes, there will be no need for that for now. We will be hosting a dinner party later this evening, but for now… please, be as you normally are.”

Arja looked a little taken aback by this, but Nelen just grinned at them, then nodded to Rajesh.

“Ah and of course, my daughter’s bodyguard. Ryan, may I introduce…” he started.

Then the door opened, and someone walked in, a tap-tap-tapping sound coming from nearby. “I smell old spice, bad liquor, and copper.” came a young woman’s voice, “That can only mean one person is here. Nelen Fullmoon…”

Nelen looked over, then chuckled, “I was wondering if you would be here for our visit.” he said.

Standing there was a woman in her early twenties with long dark hair, wearing a white turtleneck sweater and black slacks, a pair of black leather flats on her feet. She had a pair of black glasses over her eyes and carried a cane in her right hand. “As if I would miss the chance to meet the two girls who shattered one of those magic eating horrors, the Wulfshead was going nuts for weeks after that! We got BBS posts from places I’d never even heard of before!” she giggled.

Walking in next to her was a woman in a black suit with a deep bloody red tie around her neck. Unlike the other staff members, she wasn’t French by ancestry… rather, she appeared to be South American. She stood a bit taller than Alice with dark skin and long black hair tied into a single braid. She had dark brown eyes, and a somewhat wider figure as well. She wore gloves on her hands as well and tucked into her breast pocket where a pen might go was a scalpel made of some shining black rock.

“Ah! Daughter, you’re just in time. Arja, Simoni. Let me introduce you to my lovely daughter and current representative of House Roche, Alice… and her partner in crime and many other things, Nochtli-Huehueteotl…” he coughed a bit, “… I believe I pronounced it right that time.”

The South American woman gave a curt nod, “We’ve been over this before Sir. I prefer ‘Nessa,’ unless the situation requires formality.” she stated, though she sounded quite formal.

Alice chuckled, walking into the room… and that was when it hit Arja. The cane wasn’t because she had trouble walking, it was so she could tap out a path ahead of her and make sure if there was or wasn’t something there!

“OH! Er… sorry, I didn’t realize your daughter was…” she started…

Alice smirked, “Oh? Nelen, you didn’t squeal for once!” she beamed at him, then nodded and slid down her glasses. Her eyes were pure white orbs, as if she had some kind of huge cataracts. No color or iris could be seen. “I certainly am young lady. From the day I was born…”

She wouldn’t comment on Arja’s jewelry, she couldn’t even tell what jewelry she was wearing, or what color her saree was, or even that she was wearing a saree to begin with… or anything about her appearance at all, nor Simoni’s, nor Nelen’s, nor anyone’s.

Alice, the representative of the hunter family, and Nelen’s friend from the Wulfshead Club… was blind.

A bit later...

The Roche family gallery was a massive part of the house, an entire wing really. Arranged on walls was a collection that dwarfed Rajesh’s own. Trophies taken from across the European Union, the Americas, Africa, anywhere that France had set foot in during the past several centuries, a Roche had come, seen, and while possibly not conquered, they had collected.

Portraits of several prominent members of the family hung over their contributions, one a few hundred years back even apparently showing the Roche member shaking hands with none other than Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France at the time. Under their portraits were collections.

The Roches however did not take gemstones, nor did they take gold or jewels or silver. Rather… they took true treasures. Under one was relics liberated from the French nobles who fell to the guillotine during the Revolution, another held a folded blanket gifted to the family by a tribe of Native Americans during the early days of the colonization… along with a modest plaque stating that the family made a monthly and very generous donation to a charity supporting what remained of their tribe in their memory.

Another case held a selection of strange relics found on a Caribbean Island. It was uninhabited when the Roche of their time arrived… but clearly had not always been so. They recorded what they could, took a few samples, and left the rest where they lay. They would have donated them to a public museum, except that the artifacts were clearly not made by human hands.

A more recent display case even showed some memorabilia from the 1940s. To say that House Roche was a supporter of the French Resistance was an understatement. The bulk of the Third Reich never made it close to their mansion. Those that did were never heard from again, and judging by what was inside the case it was clear that the Roche family knew a few of the nastier techniques of the Arcadian Gentry. Whatever was in there could still technically be considered alive, and it was certainly not happy about that.

Arja stared into a display case under a portrait painted around the eighteenth century, inside it rested a talwar, an Indian sword! “This… hey! I know this one! That’s a Vanara blade!” she shouted. “Its…” she read the inscription on the sword, “… grandpa Akul said the sword was gifted to a powerful warrior who helped us drive back a pack of monsters who came with the British aristocrats.” she murmured.

Ryan chuckled, “Yes indeed… some of the aristocracy got their power through pacts with one of the vampire courts of the time, and… well… let’s just say India isn’t the only country that isn’t very fond of Great Britain.” he explained, “My ancestor said he was most honored to be considered worthy by one of your line.”

Arja stared at the blade, it was clearly a Vanara sword, the handle specially designed so that one could wield it multiple ways. In their hand, foot, or tail… meant for the agile and cunning kin to King Hanuman. “Dang… should’ve told me that one from the start, I’d have been a lot more eager to come…” she murmured, looking at Ryan with newfound respect.

Ryan smiled, nodding to Arja, “Yes, you will not find anything that was stolen from your lands here, only what was given or earned. We are no plunderers. Our trophies are either taken from the hand of a monster we were forced to dispatch or gifted to us for doing so. We are already one of the wealthiest families in all France, why would we need to steal from other lands? To add to a pile that we could already not spend in six generations? But this… this is the most important piece of our collection.” he nodded, gesturing to the far wall.

They stood before a large tapestry, showing some distant ancestor of House Roche. Standing before him was a tall and powerful looking woman depicted with pointed ears and a shining crown on her head. “About one thousand years back, my ancestor formed a pact with one of the Gentry. It was a dangerous decision, but the other fae lords and ladies were wreaking havoc on France in those days and we needed some way to beat them back… even if it meant using their own powers against them.” explained Ryan.

“Thus, the pact was made, and in every generation of Roches since two children are struck blind at the very moment of their birth, their eyes taken by our faerie patron. In exchange however we gain preternatural stamina and agility, among other useful benefits… and the faerie ensures our fates are always going well indeed.” he nodded. “A few generations later Emperor Bonaparte recognized our family as defenders of the French Empire and we gained an official sanction and lands.” he smiled, puffing out his chest a bit.

Alice chuckled at her father, smiling a bit mischievously as she twirled her cane in her fingers, “I always thought it went more that Napoleon said, ‘you people keep the weird shit under control so I can deal with keeping everyone else under control.’”

Ryan made a face, but chuckled, “That is the… less official version, yes.” he admitted.

Arja glanced up at Alice, the girl standing ahead of them. “It just seems a bit… I dunno… grim. Like you have to sacrifice something so important.”

Alice shrugged, “I can’t miss what I never had. Besides, it does come with some perks. I’m very aware of whats going on around me you see…” she grinned, “I can hear your heartbeats, your muscles moving and contracting, despite being blind I am very VERY hard to sneak up on.” she grinned.

Arja sighed, rubbing a bit nervously at her cheek with her fingertip, “I dunno… I mean…” she started.

Nelen saw Alice’s expression, then grinned, “Oh this is gonna be good…”

Alice smirked, folding her arms over her chest, and spoke with total confidence. “Arja is touching her finger to her cheek.” she said, her back turned to the girls.

Arja froze, her eyes going wide. She glanced at Simoni.

Simoni blinked, then stuck her arm out to the right.

“Simoni just held her arm out.” said Alice.

The two girls glanced back, then…

“Arja is holding Simoni over her head.” said Alice, “Now they’re standing back-to-back with one leg out infront of them.” she continued, “Now they’re just standing there. Now they’re…” she tilted her head, pursing her lips. “… Nessa, what was that amusing dance you described for me that Harlow found on youtube from that video game? The one that ‘Hildibrand’ character was known for?”

“’The Manderville Mambo,’ Alice.” she replied with a bemused smirk on her face.

“Yes, they’re doing that if I’m not mistaken… or something very similar.” she nodded.

Arja and Simoni froze in mid-moonwalk, their backs bent and their index fingers pointing at their heads from opposite sides as they heard her.

“And now they’ve stopped.” Alice finished confidently.

Arja blinked slowly, “… how…” she started.

Alice chuckled, “Its very quiet in here and you’re very easy to hear right now. That helps. I can’t do that in the middle of a fight, but I can tell precisely where an opponent is coming from and how fast. The rest is reflexes and recognizing what an oncoming attack sounds like.” she explained to the stunned girls.

Rajesh and Ryan chuckled to themselves as Nelen grinned at the girls. “You should have seen Dawn the first time we met her. She didn’t give up trying to stump Alice for half an hour.” he said.

“To be fair I was very surprised when she started doing that Russian dance across the ceiling, I didn’t know she could manipulate her own gravity like that.” Alice admitted.

Nelen grinned widely, his shoulders shaking a bit at the memory, “She griped for a week. She hates finding someone who can wig her out harder than she can wig them out.” he nodded, “But yeah, remember girls. I know Alice and Nessa from the Wulfshead Club. They have to be capable hunters in order to even be in there to begin with.”

Arja nodded, “Huh… um…” she blushed a bit, shuffling awkwardly.

“Sorry…” admitted Simoni, “Its just… yanno… being handicapped… just…”

Alice chuckled, “It makes people feel awkward and anxious, I know.” she replied, “It does help in a hunt though. So many things underestimate you when you can’t see them.” she explained, walking past them as she tapped her cane a few times, listening to the echo it made from across the room. In her mind it drew an image of the shapes around her. Her patron took her eyes, but she gave much back… and those whose eyes she took got the most in exchange. The rest of House Roche would just be extremely good fighters, but she was a hunter who could go into the dark places of the world without fear.

… because for her, the entire world was a dark place.

Eventually however, the dinner guests did begin to arrive and Arja and Simoni had to do exactly as Arja had feared, pretending to be meek little Indian girls for the patrons of the family. Ryan guided Rajesh off to introduce him to a rather portly man with grey receding hair named Andre, who he said was the current mayor of Paris, and the two began discussing financing and favors for doing so.

Arja and Simoni had eaten their fill pretty quickly, thankfully the cooks were warned ahead of time that beef would not be acceptable for their guests, but Simoni had never gotten a chance to try French cooking and was quite pleased regardless of what was served. Thanks to the ear clip that Nelen had given her she knew what she ate was ‘Rooster in Wine,’ but it was quite delicious no matter what it was called.

“But yes Rajesh, I would be delighted to discuss matters further with you.” smiled Andre, “Why I know many people who would benefit from a new technical college with strong ties to France… ah, infact here’s one right now! Gabriel, let me introduce you!” he waved.

Nelen was standing near Rajesh as this went on, and his eyebrows went up as a man in a cream-colored jacket and red slacks walked over, a striped tie on his throat. He wore glasses and had white slicked back hair. “Rajesh, this is Gabriel Agreste, one of the top fashion designers in the entire European Union. He and my wife Audrey have worked together for years now. His work requires only top of the line computers equipped for graphics design. Doesn’t it?” he chuckled.

Gabriel nodded, “Indeed. It is a pleasure to meet you, Rajesh.” he replied, though his tone suggested it was a mild inconvenience at best and that he’d have rather not been there, and as he stood there he glanced over, “Hm. Nelen Fullmoon is it not?”

“Hello again.” replied Nelen curtly, nodding back.

Andre looked between them in surprise, “Oh! You two have met? I wasn’t aware your bodyguard was so well traveled, Rajesh.” he chuckled.

“Yes, I attempted to commission him to obtain something for me last summer… sadly he was unable to deliver.” replied the fashion mogul.

Nelen shrugged, “I’m afraid Mr. Agreste wasn’t aware of the unusual nature of what he wished to obtain and that we were unable to reach a satisfactory agreement. It was disappointing, but it happens sometimes in my old line of work.” the warlock nodded to the fashion designer. “No hard feelings Gabriel.”

Gabriel’s expression said nothing, “Hm… I suppose so. Rajesh, I would recommend perhaps a more thorough background check on your hires in the future.” he nodded curtly, “Excuse me gentlemen.” he said, turning on his heel and leaving.

Andre winced a bit at that, then chuckled nervously. “I do apologize for that Rajesh. Gabriel is extremely talented, a true artiste, but… well you know how artists can be…”

Rajesh however shook his head, “It is quite alright Andre, I have had far worse interactions. Perhaps we could discuss things further some more of that delightful chicken dish…” he smiled, guiding the man back to the buffet.

Nelen shook his head as he watched Gabriel go, then stepped out into the hallway and sighed to himself. “Jeez what an asshole…” he muttered, stretching.

About ten minutes later an odd butterfly flapped its way through the building…

The strange purple butterfly soared through the air above the partygoers… pausing every so often as if to examine its surroundings.

It sensed Nelen’s annoyance, not much to work with… but there was something bubbling just under the surface far more potent. Slowly it began to descend… and then Nelen heard a sound like a pair of scissors closing as he looked up to see a dinner knife vibrating over his head, buried halfway into the wall and pinning the creature to it.

Alice walked towards him, cane out infront of her, the woman wearing a white silken top and long black skirt for the dinner party, still chewing a bit of cake. “You alright Nelen?” she asked.

Nelen nodded slowly, “… that is something of yours I’ll never get used to seeing Alice.” he replied.

“I could sense it’s aura. Does it look like a purple butterfly?” she asked, looking up to where she threw the knife. She couldn’t see it of course, but any magical creature would generate enough of an aura for her enhanced senses to pick up. It wasn’t just hearing for her, though it did help.

Nelen looked up at it, adjusting its glasses. “Well, it did, but it just turned white… and now it just looks dead.” he said. He could tell it was magical, and clearly not something the Roche family did either given Alice’s reaction to it.

“Hmph, another one. They’ve been showing up in Paris recently. We’re pretty sure a rogue mage is behind it, possibly using a faerie artifact of some sort, they seem to be drawn to concentrations of negative emotions so that’s what we’re going on. Our scouts are still investigating the issue… don’t know what on earth one is doing here though. We’re over five hundred kilometers from Paris, and its not exactly good weather for any insects right now.” she shook her head, “Oh well, in any case it can’t hurt anyone now. We’ll just have to hope that there’s not a nest or something.” she sighed, then held out her arm. “Care to escort me in, good sir? After all I am blind.” she smirked.

Nelen smirked back, then gently took her arm, “My pleasure, Madame.” he chuckled, helping to ‘guide’ the blind girl in among the mundanes who would only see a gentleman helping out a handicapped woman.

Further up the hallway Gabriel Agreste emerged from the lavatory, washing his hands and scowling, then rejoined the party.

Eventually the party ended and the group bid farewell to their hosts, Nelen asking Alice to keep him updated on that strange insect that she had killed. He had a hunch about that one, and after years of surviving assassins he’d learned to trust them. It may not be important now, but it could be very important very soon.

As they drove back to the hotel Arja stretched out on the carseat, “Huh, okay… didn’t expect them to actually be pretty cool.” she said.

“Yeah… they’re practically supernatural nobility really, and I saw Alice in action a few times when I was still doing contract work. Nessa is the really impressive one though, if only in terms of how flashy her stuff gets.” he replied.

“Really? She seemed super stiff and quiet though.” replied Simoni, flexing her wrist and hand a bit after having removed the bracelet. She thought it was quite lovely, but it was also solid gold and very heavy.

Nelen chuckled, “She takes her job a lot more seriously than Alice, think me and Dawn in reverse.  Trust me, her powers are something else… maybe if someone starts some shit while we’re here you’ll get a chance to see.” he replied, taking off his gloves and flexing his own fingers, which had gotten hot and sweaty in the black leather.

As they got back into the hotel and up to their room they found Dawn chomping away on a package of fish sticks as Dusk watched the TV, singing along as he did.

“Buuuuuuuuuutterfly in the skyyyyyyyyy! I can go twice as hiiiiiiiiiigh!” sang the kitten, “Take a look! Its in a book! A Reading Rainbooooooooooow!” he grinned, his tail swishing.

Nelen sighed, “Great, gonna have that in my head all night now.” he snorted.

Dawn just shrugged, “Hey, I told him he’d wanna learn to read if he was gonna get to be human-shaped someday.” she replied, “Besides, you were right, it really was useful!” she nodded.

Simoni giggled at the sight of Dusk singing along, the girl walking over and stroking his ears as he began to purr, Arja flopping down onto the bed.

“Well, so far this trip ain’t bad other than the fact that its even freaking COLDER here than in America… but as long as nothing causes trouble we’ll probably be fine.” she nodded.

Nelen nodded back, “Yeah, Rajesh is wanting to meet with Ryan and his family again tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get to find out some more about the current supernatural situation in the area too. I wanna work out if anything strange has been happening since all those things got released from Claiomh Dorcadas.” he said.

Simoni winced at that, looking back at her brother, “Yeah… I hope not… I mean, I’m glad we smashed it, like… really glad. I just wanna hope that most of what was in there were guys that shouldn’t have been like Dawn’s family.” she sighed, looking worried.

“There’s no way of telling sis. Jeannie said that Clan Fullmoon threw it into the ocean thousands of years ago. We’re talking way before the rise of Christianity. It could’ve travelled most of the world before it wound up wherever Franklin found it.” he replied.

Simoni nodded, picking up Dusk in her hands and looking down at the kitten. He looked up at her, then extended a tiny paw and tapped it against her nose. “Boop!” he grinned.

Simoni blinked, then giggled and booped him back with her fingertip. It would be worth it, she had to believe that. Whatever horrors might have been in the blade, she had proof in her hands that the sword did not discriminate. She had to believe that breaking it had done far more good than harm. Perhaps there would never truly be a way to tell.

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