#whishts

[clochanamarch]

another irish colloquial phrase that i'm about to use is "they can't hold the steam of their own piss" and it just refers to someone who can't hold on to a secret or like, any bit of information at all! for example, at christmas time, my mam would say "blue you can't even hold the steam of your own piss" because i'd be trying to give her the christmas present months before christmas day. so it sounds ??? but it's. it's a thing we say in my county at least--

[lilac-den]

can we have a little ✨spíce✨ with maverick doting mc while they're placed on his knees? and he just can't help but tease them since mc is all shy and gentle? (I reckon I'll miss all TSR ROs, but nah, I'm all weak for cool guy🤣🤣🤣

A little snippet of Maverick x Shy!MC

I can't stop my heart from beating so much.

It started yesterday, when Sylphina and I decided to visit the Whisht estate after receiving an invitation. It started raining quite late in the evening, so Sylphina and I ended up sleeping over for the night. After waking up and having breakfast, one of the servants quietly asked me if I could see their master, Maverick, for 'something of utmost importance'.

I had expected Maverick wanting to discuss about the Princess. Or Sylphina. Or even advise me about my etiquette training that I had been doing so slowly on.

But none of what I imagine came as I feel my cheeks heat up at the hand that rests on my lower back.

"Are you alright, Wanderer?"

The question was asked in such a casual tone, it almost baffles me on how this stone-faced prick had the gall to ask me such.

How? How can I be alright when I'm sitting on your lap, you dummy?!

"I'm...fine." I barely muster out the second word, hoping I didn't sound too breathy. The hum that escapes Maverick sends a tremor along my body. That tremor grows even more after Maverick grips the hand on my lower back onto one of my hips, pulling me close to his body.

I bit my lower lip and feel fire lick within my belly. Fuck.

"Do let me know if you feel too much discomfort," he says, his quill waving about in movement of his handwriting.

I barely give a nod, my toes curling and uncurling in an attempt to settle down the glee within me for being this close to him. To feel him hold me.

I mentally smack myself. Stop it. He's not holding me. This is...just...

What was it that Maverick needed me for?

When the servant told me Maverick needed me for something important, I rushed my way over here without running (harder than it looked but the servants either didn't notice or ignored it). I only got the question "What's the matter?" out of my mouth before Maverick gestures me to come closer.

And before I knew it, here I am - sitting on Maverick's lap very intimately.

I glance over to his face and take note of the features. Glacial blue eyes focus on his work, white bangs barely reaching above his eyes. His lips are a line, serious and straight. Even his glasses are perfectly perched on the bridge of his nose, settled and fitting to his diligent appearance.

Then I see his eyes widen and they turn to me. It took me a hot second for me to realize my hand is on one of his cheeks, something I retract quickly as if I touched fire itself.

"S-Sorry!" I swallow, the touch of his skin still embedded against my fingers. "You just...you..." The attempt to bring up a reason dies on my tongue.

But Maverick, with a curious gleam in his eyes that I'm far too familiar with, tells me, "you are welcome to reciprocate."

A skip occurs inside me. "What?"

Maverick puts his quill down and leans back against his chair, providing me more room. "You are welcome to touch me."

I was so ready to laugh it off, to take this as him making a joke. But two factors stop me.

One: Maverick doesn't joke easily. Sure, he has his quips and jabs with the occasional sass, but he wouldn't joke about intimacy, consent or anything of that order.

And two...I have fought too long to not tell when there's an opening. And right now, sitting on his lap, Maverick has his guard down almost entirely. A part of me begins to itch and after so many years, I give in.

"Please excuse me."

My words barely come out in a whisper to my ears, but Maverick nods with understanding. I reach up for one of his cheeks, hesitating when my fingertips are just centimetres away. My heartbeats are loud and pumping with vigor, forcing me to hear and feel just how nervous I am.

I touch his porcelain skin. Then I cup his cheek.

His face is warm under my touch. I watch him close his eyes and sigh, something in the mix of relief and ease. I move my other hand to cup his other cheek, examining him up close.

His eyes, while shut, display a bit of dark circles underneath as signs of having less sleep than one should. His snow white hair shines under the soft sunlight behind him through the window. His lips are parted, full and a soft pink shade.

I brush my thumb gently along his cheek. Reacting, he leans into the palm of my hand and relishes in my touch. Something lodges in my throat in that moment.

When was it?

When was the last time I saw Maverick like this?

He opens his eyes and my eyes sting.

They're vibrant and blue, sparked with intelligence and watching me with its gaze.

Something I prayed so hard for, the last time I saw those beautiful eyes close. When I only had them in my dreams and hallucinations in my previous life since the incident.

"Wanderer?"

And in that word, cold water splashes onto my trance.

I let him go and scramble to leave his lap. "I'm sorry, my lord. I..." I brush down my clothes and perform a bow/curtsy "Sylphina is calling."

Maverick frowns and moves to stand. "But Wanderer-"

It was a poor excuse. Even just hearing Maverick's 'but' is enough of an indication that he doesn't believe my lie. But I have to get out of here and build a bit of distance before I do something foolish.

So I run. I run out of the office, down the hall and let my blood pump with adrenaline.

But my heart continues to rattle and beat against my chest, even as tears fill my eyes.

They fall the moment I allow myself to imagine, just a little bit, that his eyes called my name with the familiarity of the past.

Something that is no longer there.

[blackjackkent]

OK, with Gale in tow, we're off to talk to the bookseller downstairs:

"(Literature department. Can I help you?)" the tome-seller at the rear of Sundries stage-whispers as Rakha approaches.

"Why are you whispering?" asks Rakha at a completely normal volume, having never been in a library or, frankly, been much concerned about delicacy.

"(Whisht! These books are sensitive!)" the woman hisses. "(They prefer an environment of quiet reverence.)"

(A/N: One of the options here is to then immediately shout at the top of your lungs, "IS THAT TRUE, BOOKS? ARE YOU SENSITIVE?" At this point, you're kicked out of the conversation, Gale disapproves -1, and both nearby stacks of books explode in a fireball. XD And then the bookseller won't talk to you again until you pay 400 gold to cover the damages.

Tempting, but Rakha isn't really interested in causing trouble; as usual, she just wants answers and wants them now.)

"(I'm trying to find out about a particular Netherese crown)" Rakha says, agreeably lowering her voice; with her particular mannerisms, the effect is a sort of rumbly murmur, like an earth elemental with a head cold. "(Have you anything on that subject?)"

The woman's eyebrows shoot up, startled. "(Bold!)" she whispers. "(You might've heard that our library has a collection other shops would lack the skill to curate. Between us, even Master Lorroakan was reluctant to house them in his tower. The pen is mightier than the magic wand, apparently.)" She snickers briefly before returning to a serious attitude. "(They're locked away for their and our customers' safety. Our finest reserve includes the 'Tharchiate Codex,' 'The Annals of Karsus: A Netherese Folly', 'Sights of the Seelie,' and 'The Curriculum of Strategy.' Do any of those interest you?)"

All of them interest Rakha, in fact. If these are tomes of magic knowledge, then she wants all of them and every bit of information they can provide her. But there isn't time, not now, to be distracted from the main point. The Annals of Karsus is certainly what she wants - information on Netherese magic.

Something, however, gives her a moment's pause - something she hasn't thought about in some time.

Nestled deep in her pack, untouched for months now and almost forgotten in her haze of other problems, is a book. The Necromancy of Thay, found in the basement of the blighted village near the place where the nautiloid crashed. A book full of magic which, even in those early days, she was able to subdue with her own natural power - but which, nevertheless, holds secrets she was not able to unlock.

It belonged, Gale explained to her, to a Red Wizard of a far-off country called Thay. And he used the word Tharchiate as an adjective to describe some of the magic from that place.

"(The Tharchiate Codex)" she hears herself say before she's realized she's going to ask.

The bookseller gives her a careful, narrow look. "(Interesting choice)" she says slowly. "(If I didn't know better, I'd think you might have 'The Necromancy of Thay' in your position. I'd advise tremendous care with the Tharchiate Codex. The cost of unlocking its mysteries is onerous.)"

Interesting. This is not an answer, and the woman seems to know it perfectly well - but also quite clearly has no further interest in giving more information. "(The Annals of Karsus)" Rakha says, somewhat irritably. Her voice starts to lift a little in volume and one of the nearby books emits a threatening belch of sparks.

The shopkeep raises an eyebrow. "(It is said to be written by Lord Karsus himself)" she intones dramatically. "(The Netherese arcanist who attempted to replace the goddess Mystra, failed, and was banished for the attempt. Great magical knowledge lies within those pages, but not many can withstand it.)"

"(That's it! That's what I need!)" Gale hisses eagerly from behind Rakha.

Narrator: The Annals of Karsus would no doubt have much to say about the crown's true nature, if only you could read them...

"(Sounds perfect. How much to buy it from you?)" Rakha asks briskly, ignoring the little voice in her head intimating that this isn't possible.

"(Buy?!)" Rakha can hear the effort in the woman's voice not to break her own rule and shout. "(Books as temperamental as these are not on sale!)" she hisses. "(They are secured in our vault, where none can harm them, nor can they do any harm. Consider yourself lucky to have learned of such a book's existence - and then forget about it. The Annals of Karsus are best left unread.)"

Rakha releases a heavy breath between her teeth. No doubt this woman knows what she is talking about, but the truth is it doesn't matter. Gale has said this book is important if they are to stop the Chosen and the Elder Brain. And, perhaps more importantly - these are books full of answers and this woman is trying to keep them from her.

She leans forward, drawing her lips back a little from her teeth. [INTIMIDATION] "(Unless you want a very nasty paper cut)" she rumbles, "(you're going to tell me how to get into that vault.)"

A little of the blood seems to drain out of the woman's face - but to her credit, she stands her ground and holds Rakha's eye contact. "(Customers like you are why I prefer the company of books)" she growls. "(The only way to gain access to the vault is through my office. And before you ask - no, you are not allowed in there either.)"

Ah. There it is. "(Thank you)" Rakha says curtly, turning away. "(I've learned more than enough.)"

"(You certainly have!)" the bookseller hisses irritably at her retreating back. "(Even simple knowledge of these tomes is enough to stimulate most.)"

-----

"Well. What a lovely woman," Gale says as they move out of earshot of the bookseller - and the books. "A proper respect for the power which can be contained in a volume of knowledge. Truly admirable in all respects."

Wyll gives him a sidelong look. "Are you intending to suggest we give up the search?" he asks, his lips twitching.

"Oh, most certainly not," Gale says cheerfully. "This is a case far too important for petty, quibbling regulations - and with Lorroakan out of the picture, we have full run of the place and I see no reason why we shouldn't take advantage of it. Still - always nice to see someone taking their work seriously." He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. "Those Annals are definitely precisely what I need. Somewhere in that vault are pages with all the answers about how that brain is being controlled."

"And the Tharchiate Codex," Rakha mutters distractedly. "Answers about the Necromancy of Thay." Absently she puts a hand on her pack where the heavy outline of the ancient book still sits.

"Yes, yes," Gale agrees brightly. "Much to be gleaned in that regard as well - if you feel your mental stamina is up to the challenge."

"Oh, good," Jaheira quips sardonically. "In my experience it is always a good sign when a book comes with a warning label."

[thedreadvampy]

Ok so I started a big long post about my general question "if Scots is a language why isn't Geordie?" and I think I've satisfied myself that Geordie, despite having syntax and language that is substantively different from standard English, is a dialect in a way Scots isn't.

having said which. a dialect of what though? cause if we understand Scots as a separate language, I would say Geordie takes as much in common with Scots as with English (from "wee" to "fair" and "ower" and "bairn")

like the problem fundamentally is a) I'm not a linguist and b) everyone I've brought this up with seems to think I'm talking about peppering in "ha'way man wey aye pet" and not sentences like "How man but yon gadgey's a canny blatherskite like, he divvn't knaa ha to whisht"

now is that its own language? no. but there's a good chunk that's more to do with Scots than English (blatherskite; whisht; gadge is common in both Southern Scotland and North East England although that's cause it's from Romani; the opening and closing of sentences with "like", "but", "how", "aye" for intensification. "Canny" is a false friend though cause it means "clever/careful" in Scots and while it also means that in Geordie it's largely "very") and that's just a wee example of the commonalities. A lot of points where Geordie differs from standard English are commonalities with Scots (I'm thinking "corbie", "bairn", "lough", "gan", "fash", "mind", as well as a lot of the less-English sentence construction.)

idk like I can on reflection agree that Geordie isn't a language the way Scots is, but I think a lot of the kneejerk dismissal of the question has to do with the fact that people I'm talking to don't actually know Geordie as a dialect.

and I don't think it's a uniquely complex dialect to be clear, it's just the one I grew up around (although I don't speak it owerwell cause I'm posh and I say baath instead of bath and people laugh at me if I say as much as nowt or ha'way) so I know it better than like. Cockney or whatever. but I think it would have been easier for me to understand the difference between a language like Scots and a dialect like Geordie if fewer of the people I talked to thought of a dialect like Geordie as basically an accent with a few unusual words tacked on.

but I think it's taken me a really long

[gravitasmalfunction]

'You will not mind a little risk, will you, Lucius?' 'Me sword's at your service, Deb!' 'Oh no! It has nothing to do with swords -- at least I do hope it has not! I just want you to kidnap Ravenscar for me.' He burst out laughing. 'Is that all? Whisht, it's a mere nothing! And what will I be doing with him when I've kidnapped him?' 'I want you to put him in the cellar,' said Miss Grantham remorselessly. 'What cellar?' enquired Kennet. 'This one, of course. It has a very stout lock on the door, and it is not at all damp -- not that that signifies, and in any event he will be tied up.'

Faro's Daughter, Georgette Heyer

[monstrousproductions]

Im trying to design a cross stitch pattern of the monstrous agonies logo and it is going terribly and difficultly and I'm suffering because of all the shapes thus I've decided your boyfriend Matthew is now my mortal enemy

hahaha he is a terrible and dreadful bastard, it's true. this is the real reason i always tell people not to ask him to make a logo lol

also, this is a correction for myself rather than you - i have a dreadful engrained habit of calling him Matthew publicly but he actually prefers Matt 😅 not your fault at all, absolutely mine, but if in the future you see me calling him Matthew in public please spritz me with water and tell me to whisht

[loveofdetail]

wuu2?

Tagged by @jotarowan!

last song: "Whisht, The Wild Workings Of The Mind" by Lisa O'Neill

currently watching: Revolutionary Girl Utena

currently reading: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, A Trans Man Walks Into a Gay Bar

current obsession: hm. i guess i'm between obsessions? I was having a lot of fun with the synth emulator vcvrack but i haven't gone back to it since my hard drive crash... v_v I've been doing more gardening than usual this summer though!

tagging: @bonewhiteglory @yufiit @illmetkismet

[thesquireinvictus]

"Whisht! Sure, I like that little chip in his tooth. It lends a roguish charm."

[lilac-den]

Can we have a little more details on the Countess's personality? And, how much of siblings does the TSR ROs have in their new life? And what's their family background and the personality of their new parents and siblings?

Hrm...In regards with Sylphina: She's charming and knows how to speak appropriately. But if she is to be honest, she prefers the commonfolk over the nobles. She also has a small sense of mischief but due to her trying her best to be a proper lady, she doesn't get to see much (imagine chaotic!MC being a bad influence! The horror!)

Just for the record: There are same-sex parents and there is the option to adopt or use magic to conceive a child for them. The one who carries the baby throughout the pregnancy is known as 'the carrier' while the one who sired is known as 'the sire'.

TSR ROs' family are like so:

Maverick: Only child, mom and dad still alive and the same as his past life.

Rydigan: He has an older and younger sister, as well as two moms.

Ittania: She has two older siblings (1 sis and 1 bro) and a younger fraternal twin brother (by two minutes). She has two dads.

Enid: She has three older brothers (ALL VERY PROTECTIVE OF THEIR BABY SISTER - HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA >:D) and a dad. Her mom died after giving birth to Enid.

As for their family backgrounds:

Maverick: His parents (A man and woman) are...a real piece of work. 💀 For one, they're the reason why MC never got to hold a proper funeral for Maverick in the past life.

(He wrote in his will to have his funeral handled by MC and co. if he meets his untimely demise and his parents wanted to gain sympathy and attention from relatives and powerful 'allies'. So, his parents not only disregard their son's will but they even bribe the legal system to deny MC any possibility of taking Maverick's funeral rights back. In a dystopian world, MC is completely lost and had to proceed with the funeral without Maverick's corpse. His parents, after the funeral, proceed to either burn the body and dump the ashes in a garbage bag to throw away somewhere or just throw it into the ocean to save money.)

They also cheat. A lot. The mom is known to attempt gaslighting and lies to get her way and has rumours that she may or may not have flirted with a married man or two. It is unsure if they are true or not.

The dad is a prideful, boastful guy and isn't afraid to flaunt his wealth and fame. He's the main reason why the Whisht family name has somewhat lost its original glory. He is insanely jealous of his son for being a prodigy and isn't afraid to yell and scream at him. But in truth, he is afraid of his son and Maverick makes it clear to his father that no matter how many assassins or attempts he puts on his life, he will pay it back tenfold. His father had once attempted to cripple his son to teach him a lesson by hiring a thug to do so. Instead, the head of the thug was served to him on a silver platter during dinner time when it's just him and Maverick. Maverick's father doesn't make another attempt since. He also walks with a cane due to one of his legs being limp during a previous war.

Maverick is smart, even at a young age, and already knew his parents aren't normal (especially after he meets Rydigan, Ittania and Enid in the new life). He has lost any hope of familial love and couldn't care less for his parents. The only reason he would be working hard as a Duke is to succeed his father and be a better one than him, despite how much of a shackle the noble lineage is for him.

Rydigan: His carrier mom is the head of the royal king's army and has made sure to instil good moral codes in her children and teach them defensive swordsmanship. She is known to be quite stone-faced but her wife manages to read her expression and thoughts well.

Rydigan's sire mom is the head of the household and the one born with the Soleil name. She was once known as the belle of her era, the most exotic woman during her debutante. In her youth, she used to attract many admirers but she never reciprocated or lead any of them (which, ironically, make them want her more). It's only when she met her now-wife that her admirers back off.

Ittania: Her carrier dad is a warrior and the one who was born with the del Toro name. He has a pretty boisterous personality and isn't afraid to speak his mind (much to his husband's chagrin at times). He's also the one who trained all of his children in the way of the swords and is always worried for Ittania due to her reckless nature at times. He believes Ittania is more like him than his husband.

The sire dad is a tailor who married into the family. He is a quiet man and wears round-rimmed glasses. He thought all of the kids would take up swords instead of the simple life of a tailor until Ittania's twin brother found the outfits amazing and showed him his first sketch. Since then, Ittania's twin has become his apprentice, much to the sire dad's surprise and delight.

Enid: Her mother died upon Enid's birth and since then, Enid's father and her brothers have loved and cherished her. She loves them but holy moly do they get overprotective.

Enid's father is...well, the closest description I can give is that he's a snake, which fits the Caespes's coat of arms. He can be your wittiest ally or your most dangerous assailant. As far as anyone knows, he is a polite gentleman with the friendliest of smiles. Enid's father values family above all and isn't afraid to use any means to protect them.

I have yet to understand or look into the siblings, but I imagine you'll encounter them in future chapters. Hope this suffices your curiosity!

[autisticbillpotts]

whisht lads haad yer gobs I'll tell yous all an aaful story, whisht lads haad yer gobs I'll tell yous boot tha WERM

[alchemisland]

NOTIDLE

Try not using your mouth, dental procedure Hold your tongue, whisht don’t be an eejit Careful what you wish for, see Words seeds sprout to cedars Leak you sprung might end up litres, puddle to a seething sea Coward not a leader; for all to see, like leaked emails.

[spooksmckitcatagain]

Masterpost for this blog:

So gonna create a list of tags you can mute or follow that are specific to this account.

Note that I follow, unfollow and block pretty liberally and don't really care if you do the same. It's nothing personal to me, I'm mainly here to see art, follow friends and post some of my own creative work.

Specific Tags:

#Spook's OCs is the tag for my OCs in particular (I can imagine there's more than likely another Spooks using that tag too lol. Hardly an original tag, but for now it will work)

Will use that in conjuction with a #Spook's art tag

#art by others is the tag to art from other people I like

#Spook's whisht is the tag for any personal talking posts lol

#Spook's writes is the tag I will use for any sort of writing

#dev is the tag I use about any sort of dev talk

I'll add more the more I use this account

General tags:

These have less to do with my own creativity and more to do with general stuff

#femslash tag is where I will try to reblog any queer lady artwork under

Because my lesbian self needs all of that goodness in one place

#art tutorials for art tutotials

#encouragement tag for positivity

I'll add more as I think of them

Warning tags:

#nsft not safe for tunglr, just what it says on the tin

#suggestive tag for suggestive work

#horror tag for anything horror related

#gore a warning tag for gore

#body horror a warning tag for body horror

General Housekeeping

I don't gaf what you ship. You do you. Treat each other with kindess in fandom.

I don't gaf what you identify as. I respect your journey is your own and anyone trying to fish for policing bs from me will get blocked.

Bad faith discourse about identities? Blocked

Bad faith discourse about fiction? Blocked

Bad faith discourse about fandom? Blocked

[tsukihotaru]

"won't you stay with me, my darling, when this house don't feel like home?" by orphan_account

"Demon City" by esqers(not finished, but it's amazing)

"Whisht's Attempt at Kinktober 2020" by miikamiela

"Reaching For The Final Exit (Suicidal Nightmare fic)" by KhorouxClue

THANKS!!

[sunflowers-and-sweetviolets]

kutner i love you but whisht

[7r0773r]

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

When he walked back round to the main entrance, past the open gates and on up the driveway, the yews and evergreens were pretty as a picture, just as people had said, with berries on the holly bushes. There was but one set of footprints in the snow, heading faintly in the opposite direction, and he reached and easily passed the front door without meeting anyone. When he got to the gable and went round to the coal-house door, the need to open it left him, queerly, before it just as soon came back, and then he slid the bolt across and called her name and gave his own. He'd imagined, while he was in the barber's, that the door might now be locked or that she, blessedly, might not be within or that he might have had to carry her for part of the way and wondered how he'd manage, if he did, or what he'd do, or if he'd do anything at all, or if he'd even come here - but everything was just as he'd feared although the girl, this time, took his coat and seemed gladly to lean on him as he led her out.

'You'll come home with me now, Sarah.' 

Easily enough he helped her along the front drive and down the hill, past the fancy houses and on towards the bridge. Crossing the river, his eyes again fell on the stout-black water flowing darkly along — and a part of him envied the Barrow's knowledge of her course, how easily the water followed its incorrigible way, so freely to the open sea. The air was sharper now, without his coat, and he felt his self-preservation and courage battling against each other and thought, once more, of taking the girl to the priest's house — but several times, already, his mind had gone on ahead, and met him there, and had concluded that the priests already knew. Sure hadn't Mrs Kehoe as much as told him so?

They're all the one.

As they walked on, Furlong met people he had known and dealt with for the greater part of his life, most of whom gladly stopped to speak until, looking down, they saw the bare, black feet and realised the girl with him was not one of his own. Some then gave them a wide berth or talked awkwardly or politely wished him a Happy Christmas and went on. One elderly woman out walking a terrier on a long strap confronted him, asking who the girl was, and was she not one of those wans from the laundry? At another point, a little boy looked at Sarah's feet and laughed and called her dirty before his father gave his hand a rough tug and told him to whisht. Miss Kenny, wearing old clothes he'd never before seen her in and with drink on her breath, stopped and asked what he was doing with a child out in the snow with no shoes on, assuming Sarah was one of his own, and marched off. Not one person they met addressed Sarah or asked where he was taking her. Feeling little or no obligation to say very much or to explain, Furlong smoothed things over as best he could and carried on along with the excitement in his heart matched by the fear of what he could not yet see but knew he would encounter.

As they were nearing the centre of town and the Christmas lights, a part of him considered backing off and taking the long way home but he braved it out and carried on, following the path he ordinarily would have taken. A change, it seemed, was coming over the girl and soon she had to stop, and vomited on the street.

'Good girl,’ Furlong encouraged her. ‘Get it all up. Get that much out of you.'

In the Square, she paused to rest at the lighted manger and stood in a type of trance, looking in. Furlong looked in, too; at Joseph's bright robes, the kneeling Virgin, the sheep. Someone, since last he'd seen it, had placed the figures of the wise men and the Baby Jesus there but it was the donkey that held the girl's attention, and she reached out to stroke and push the snow off his ear.

'Isn't he lovely,' she said.

"We've not far to go now,’ Furlong assured. ‘We're almost home.'

As they carried on along and met more people Furlong did and did not know, he found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping one another? Was it possible to carry on along through all the years, the decades, through an entire life, without once being brave enough to go against what was there and yet call yourself a Christian, and face yourself in the mirror?

How light and tall he almost felt walking along with this girl at his side and some fresh, new, unrecognisable joy in his heart. Was it possible that the best bit of him was shining forth, and surfacing? Some part of him, whatever it could be called — was there any name for it? — was going wild, he knew. The fact was that he would pay for it but never once in his whole and unremarkable life had he known a happiness akin to this, not even when his infant girls were first placed in his arms and he had heard their healthy, obstinate cries.

He thought of Mrs Wilson, of her daily kindnesses, of how she had corrected and encouraged him, of the small things she had said and done and had refused to do and say and what she must have known, the things which, when added up, amounted to a life. Had it not been for her, his mother might very well have wound up in that place. In an earlier time, it could have been his own mother he was saving — if saving was what this could be called. And only God knew what would have happened to him, where he might have ended up.

The worst was yet to come, he knew. Already he could feel a world of trouble waiting for him behind the next door, but the worst that could have happened was also already behind him; the thing not done, which could have been — which he would have had to live with for the rest of his life. Whatever suffering he was now to meet was a long way from what the girl at his side had already endured, and might yet surpass. Climbing the street towards his own front door with the barefooted girl and the box of shoes, his fear more than outweighed every other feeling but in his foolish heart he not only hoped but legitimately believed that they would manage. (pp. 109-114)

[chainsawworld]

Incredibly rude the way I was just woken up there