damnbutcher

[damnbutcher]

moxperidot:

which member of your otp says “no” right after the other takes a deep breath

[damnbutcher]

“I’m not afraid to bleed.” our black sails au tho B))

         Amusement tinted the edges of Charles’ expression, though he actively repressed the smile which wanted to spread wide across his lips.  Looking down, he eyed the boy - the scrappiest kid he’d crossed paths with since… well, since he was a child himself.  It might appear strange to the rest of Nassau’s populace that the Butcher had a small, thin weed of a tag-along, but Charles knew under his eye, this kid would make something of himself.  They’d sail soon, once they had hold of information on a potential prize and this time, the kid was coming with him.  He’d get his first, real taste of battle should chaos ensue, but Charles was betting he’d see that same wild kid fighting off three grown men in an alley rather than a scared brat who wasn’t worth his weight.

         He’d taught him well.  There was still more to learn, but the kid was going places.

         “Good.”  He said in his rough, low voice, glancing away to peer out at the sand and streets, toward the bay where the ships were anchored.  “You’re going to be doing a lot of it.”

[damnbutcher]

“Aye, we’ll bloody kill one another some day, mate.”

         He grinned wide - the smile a panther might have to show teeth before it descended on its prey - but there was actual mirth in those blue eyes of his.  He lifted his hand-rolled cigarette to his lips and took a long, contemplative drag of the tobacco before releasing it in a plume of hazy, semi-transparent smoke.  “I don���t doubt that,” Charles admitted to one of the few captains he could consider a friend, tasting the remnants of sweet, smoky pepper from his cigarette.

         “Although,” he started, leaning forward to tap the cigarette against the table, allowing the ash to fall, discarded, scattering on the floor.  “Make sure it’s for a good reason.”  A grin adorned his mouth again, though this time it was twisted in smug amusement, matching the light in his eyes.  “I’d hate to have to kill you over something trivial.”

[damnbutcher]

“Tell me how you want me.” (Hi hello it’s trash o’clock)

         The words, warm breath from her lips, pulled an easy, smug smile over Charles’ mouth.  His eyes seemed to darken, yet it was his pupils dilating, the black nearly eating the blue, trapped and entranced on her figure.  One long arm stretched between them, placing his palm on the table beside which she stood.  The other mirrored it, laying flat on the other side and effectively trapping her between his arms and before his lean, tall, muscled body.

         “I could tell you,” he murmured in a low, growl-like voice, gone lower by his passion, “but I’d rather show you.”  He’d leaned in and his face hovered, down-turned, near hers - so close just a lean in would reward them both with a kiss - but Charles remained where he stood, just out of reach.  His eyes held hers captive, drawing out the moment, amplifying her need and his, the closeness almost enough to drive him near mad.

         He lowered, then, and let his lips fall to her jaw, leaving slow, warm kisses along her jawline, down her neck - where he suckled a sensitive, hollow dip, and scraped his teeth against the skin, taunting as if he’d gather it up and give her a sharp, surprising bite.  His mouth traveled upward so he could catch her lips at last, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and pushing his body closer to her, breath hissing from his nostrils as he turned his head and kissed her fully - not separating until it was an absolute necessity for them both.  He drug in a gust of air, his lungs so desperately needed it, and smiled before lowering to leave kisses on her skin again.

         This time his hands did not stay to themselves on the table.  They moved, pinched the dip of her waist, ran over the curve of her sides and traveled back, gripping the fat of her ass.  He lifted her upward, settling her on the table, never once having left his duty to kiss her while his hands worked.  His fingers brushed over her pants, stroking her thigh, the inside, and moving unashamedly between her legs.  If he pressed right (and he did), he could feel her lips beneath the cloth, and he ran two thick fingers down and up suggestively between her legs, searching for just the right spot to press a little harder and drive her a little more wild.  He wanted her to squirm against his touch.  He wanted to drive her absolutely wild.

         Then she’d know exactly how much he wanted her.

[damnbutcher]

“I can’t even make this right.”

         Silence permeated the air, heavy and thick.  Charles eyes were on his hands - his fingers bent, running over the hard wood of the table.  With his thick brows pinched inward and his lips pressed in an even thinner line than normal, it was clear he was caught somewhere deep, deep in thought.  Yet the lines of his face were held by a harder edge than normal.  Something tense and tight, coiled in his muscles, making every inch of his body taut with readiness.

         To fight.  It was the only thing Charles was.  It encompassed his very being; was the essence of his soul.  He pushed to the bitter end when it came to what he wanted.  He fought until his knuckles were bruised and broken to make certain he never had to face what he feared.

         What he feared now was losing Eleanor.  She was slipping away from him, caught on a breeze he couldn’t think fast enough to still.  He could see her - see the exhaustion on her face, the heartbreak - and he couldn’t think how to stop it.  Why couldn’t they be enough, the two of them?  Why was a life of freedom, never answering to another soul, such a strange and unpromising future?  For a moment, Charles glimpsed what they could have together if he and Eleanor were side-by-side, her father was never much on Nassau, leaving Eleanor to run the shipment and doll out information on potential prizes.  If Eleanor was to run Nassau on the sand, why could she not trust Charles to run it on the sea?  They’d be unstoppable, the pair of them.

         “There’s no ‘making this right’.“ Charles said, standing abruptly from where he’d sat and looking at her, blue eyes savage and hard, looking at all he wanted in this world.  His long legs ate the distance between them and his callused, sun-tanned hands lifted hers.  He looked into her eyes, refusing to let her look away from his.  “It’s right to begin with.”  He urged, hoping she’d forget whatever nonsense was building in her head, telling her their relationship was nothing more than a mistake.  Charles couldn’t accept that end, not when he didn’t think so of their togetherness.  “We are right.”  His fingers squeezed hers.  “Together.  Eleanor, there’s nothing we couldn’t do.”

[damnbutcher]

all from the Malevolence album. some slightly NSFW.  

“I’ve done worse than kill and steal.”

“I can’t even make this right.” 

“I can’t be honest, even with myself.”

“Breaking is the only way I don’t fall apart.” 

“I’m damaged goods and that’s the way it is.”

“Try to understand, that I hate the way I am.”

“My vengeance is a curse.” 

“I want to watch you bleed.” 

“It’s kill or be killed.” 

“No other choice then blood’s gonna spill.”

“Don’t be ashamed of all the monsters in your head.”

“My sanity slid far from me.”

“Revoked by rage it’s driven me insane.”

“You bring out the devil in me.” 

“I can’t help that I made you weak.”

“I’m about to break you.” 

“I look distressed, but I’m pretending to care.”

“You’ll hate me in time.”

“Play with me, get ripped apart.” 

“It’s insane that I can’t you out of my head.” 

“Use my body for sin.” 

“Tell me how you want me.”

“I can make your dreams come true.”

“If you want me on your knees, just beg me pretty please.”

“I can make you scream so loud.”

“You’re under my spell.”

“Something must be wrong with me.” 

“You make me question who I am.”

“We can never make this right.”

“If I see you now it won’t be pretty.”

“How could you do this?”

“Don’t say another word, or someone’s getting hurt.”

“Tear me down, it won’t build you up.”

“Gimme everything you got.” 

“You’d have to kill me to defeat me.”

“You won’t tear me down.”

“I’m a hostage inside my mind.”

“Some fault’s you can’t correct.”

“To save myself from me.”

“To worship is to bleed.”

“There’s Hell in your eyes.”

“We’ll kill each other some day.”

“The kind of hurt we both need.”

“It’s not real unless it hurts.”

“True love is a curse.”

“I’d suffer for you, would you suffer for me?”

“It’s the kind of pain that you’ve been missing.”

“I’m the dealer of your darkest secret.”

“I’m not afraid to bleed.”

“Don’t you go and make a scene.”

“Nothing is what it seems.”

“Now your choking on your words.”

“Go ahead and hate me I don’t care.”

[damnbutcher]

pssst guess what guys I'm in bed with @hangtherules rn I know ur all totes jelly 😉😉😉

[damnbutcher]

I just realized I’ve almost had this blog for three years and I’ve still never gotten a thread/verse where charles vane suddenly pops up in modern day and has to learn to readjust to everything lmao I WANT CHARLES VANE LEARNING HOW TO USE A TOASTER.  I WANT CHARLES VANE YELLING AT A CAR.

[damnbutcher]

:) my external drive is corrupted and won’t open :) I lost everything :) all my icons :) e v e r y t h i n g

[damnbutcher]

it’s still munday right? so here’s a BIG kiss for you all because you’re all fantastic and I love each and every one of you so much <3333

[damnbutcher]

trickstercaptain

friendly reminder that I literally adore @damnbutcher though???

LOL “u just appear of of the mist with beautiful words” this makes me sound so magical and mystical i love it so much when i die someone carve this into my grave: here lies glitzy, who appears out of the mist with beautiful words

[damnbutcher]

     three years. good grief. when I first started this blog in 2014, I hadn’t even started university, let alone graduated from it, potc5 hadn’t even begun production, let alone been released in cinemas ( and I’m still not convinced that it wasn’t some weird fever dream ). I certainly never imagined that I would still be here, writing a character that I first fell in love with in 2006 and who still hasn’t given me my heart back eleven years later, and still just as passionate about him as I was when I first started ( and even before, back when I used to write him rather terribly in fanfic lmfao ). so I’d just like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you who has written with or talked to me on this blog over the past three years. I would not still be here if it wasn’t for my writing partners, or so many people’s beautiful messages of encouragement – and here’s to the next three years, eh?

the first mates

     aka The Ride or Die Squad. each of you listed here has made a difference in my time writing here, whether it’s through putting up with my feels trips and attempts at humour, both on the dash or on skype, writing and plotting beautiful things with me, or being dear friends of mine that I wouldn’t trade for the world. you are all amazing writers & have such a beautiful understanding of your muses, and it’s honestly a privilege to have the chance to talk and write with you all <3

       @hangtherules & @thecodekeeper & @donapirata & @lordiism & @talktoten   @piraticblood & @dxdger & @piraticalwit & @twisted-but-pretty & @damnbutcher @saliberte & @ofthebravc & @hclliday & @mutinouscaptain & @thepromiseofredemption               @ircnbcrn & @amidalc & @nucleicity / @fatalayi & @invictusmanet                                    @lifeowed / @dvelja & @kaleiidoscopehearts

the crew

       aka the people I adore seeing on the dash and writing with. some of you I write with, others I’m just chinhands at on the dash, but all of you are absolutely amazing <3

@royalsadist & @starshielded & @padshiy & @zokliitsos & @damefine & @periculo & @readysetstab & @scarredhound & @foreignaccent & @thesellsword & @nivallis & @shootsfezzes & @killthebxy & @imperises & @sihnons & @starkmatriarch & @fiaclasiorc & @mybigfatcock & @vodked & @conquistadoradelmar & @sacredjustice & @butscrewmefirst & @defiedorder & @aithreachas & @darkdwelled & @crimeblogger & @showmaxter & @brokenragdoll & @seasdevil & @lionwept & @stormward & @thomashamiltcn & @twiicetheheart & @mohiican & @rosereigned & @tyricnlannistcr & @janebeckett & @wineinthewidow & @moonymarauding & @honorwinning & @ringwinning & @seaprofound & @malleableking & @astormcrow & @arcusignis & @zaldrizotala & @hiddensteel & @retributor & @drxdlocks & @ofcongress & @myrddinwyllt & @astudyinholmes & @servinglies & @talkstotwigs & @murroyilodel & @undauntedloyalty & @toodamnloyal & @madeofwildfire & @unseenmockingjay & @veraviirtus & @lightperfected & @rightandproperbastard & @friedgcld

the brethren

       and last but not least, the personal blogs that have been there through it all and either brighten up my dash or who I adore talking to out of character.

@bybyeblackbird & @johnnyderpp & @silverfunposts & @feministjacksparrow & @sparrabeth & @colorblindly & @hearti 

[damnbutcher]

so god damn fragile

[damnbutcher]

‘ You think what you want to think of me. I certainly have all kinds of opinions about you. ’

         The grin was a flash over his mouth.  Charles did not suppress the roll of his eyes, but when they held Flint again there was no play lingering on the edges of his expression.  Rather, Charles did nothing to hide the irritation and disgust he felt at the sight of the man in front of him.  “I don’t care what opinions you have about me,” he growled, his voice low but enough to be heard.  “We both know what you are these days.”

         A cocky smile replaced the look of a predator which had flickered there momentarily.  It spread a little wider, his blue eyes bright with amusement.  James Flint was weak, so the stories went; hadn’t pulled in a decent, profitable haul in months.  “Your time on Nassau is numbered.”  Charles promised him, still grinning.

[damnbutcher]

nanna;

“They have voices of their own, minds of their own.” She sighed at the sight of his grin. There was no denying his nature, his fire, his unbridled passion for a good fight. He was practically immortal now - at least in the eyes of men. He had power and the ability to make a grand difference, but he also had the ability to stick his neck out too far and reveal too much. 

“What these people need is an ear. They are deaf. If they are deaf, how are they supposed to know when to speak up for themselves?” Nanna leant against the wall beside him, arms crossed as she surveyed his features. She knew him so well. This man. Charles Vane. She loved him with an unmistakable love. With an openness and a freedom that was without limits. “If you wish to be their eyes, their ears, and their mouths, then you become them. Are you prepared to do that? If you are, I will be your hands. I will help you see it through. If not - I will remind you that these people will still endure. You do not have to leap into battle for a war that is not yours.” 

         “I’ll always leap into a battle when the opportunity arises.”  He spoke with absolute honesty and without hesitation.  He knew her worries were with good reason, but Charles knew he’d never been the sort to play a political ally.  He was a man built to lead, made to risk himself and rally those who’d fight for their freedom to their death.  Even his time spent in Nassau, as distant as such a time was, had been tailored closer to where he could answer with fists, swords, or guns rather than words.  He may have a plethora of knowledge no man could gain in a single lifetime (for Charles Vane had lived many lifetimes by now), but he could only teach what he could put to practice.

         “I know they’ll endure,” he said after a moment’s pause, tilting his head to look openly at her.  “But the thought of not being there to show them how to win their battles, how to be the greatest aggressor to earn a voice and the respect of those who would otherwise repress them…”  a frown worked its way over his expression, “I cannot think of greater torture.  My place will always be beside the people.”

[damnbutcher]

rosseau;

          where he saw determination, others most certainly would have seen stupidity. it took a great deal of boldness to come to a captain of his stature and make the claims she’d made. it had paid off this time, but jacqueline wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the fact that she had pressed her luck in doing so. it was likely nothing short of a miracle that she had managed to leave this situation in better standing than she’d entered it.

          the redhead flashed a grin to match his own, giving an enthusiastic, determined nod. ❛ aye, i plan on doing just that, captain. ❜ she’d prove more than that, when the time came for it. jacqueline knew better than most, the odds she was up against. being a woman in nassau was difficult enough, but to then attempt to make a career of piracy and gain a position that was largely held only by men? that was nothing short of fanciful. but she’d prove them wrong, all of them.

          ❛ anything you need from me at the moment, then? ❜

         “We’re aiming to set sail soon.”  He said, casting a glance around them as if expecting to see a certain tall, spindly figure coming forward to tell him of the news he’d managed to gain.  The moment they had a heading, any tip of a merchant vessel they could intercept and relieve of their merchandise, The Ranger and crew would be underway.  Charles and his men were itching to face the open sea again, and the promise of a battle and pay was all too enticing.  The more commerce he brought to Nassau, the more he proved he was the rightful future of the island.  With Flint’s current failure in bringing in decent prizes, Charles was having little difficulty in gloating as the best captain the island could boast for the time being.

         “Mind yourself around the crew,” he said, and it was the only time he was going to warn her of such a thing.  “They’re loyal men in a fight, but Anne’s had her fair share of putting them in their place.”  In a way, Charles thought it would help her understand how to handle them – the creatures she was likely to encounter.  In another way, he had a feeling she’d likely already come up against the sort as they weren’t few or far in-between.

         “Stick close.  When the time comes for us to sail, we’ll shout for the crew.  The tavern, the brothel and the camps will be where we look, mainly.”

[damnbutcher]

mary & emily;

They’d swarmed so fast. In the middle of the night, their rotting fingers pressed between the boards of the windows, knowing what meaty prize sat inside the bookstore’s belly. They’d gotten in, shuffling through the rows of books until they came upon the three of them, sleeping together for safety. They’d been too tired. Too comfortable. Lucky Claire had screamed John awake and knew how to use a gun. Lucky John was strong enough to physically pry Mary from the decaying hands of the dead. It tore her sweater. Her favorite one, and it was left in a puddle of blood as they dashed out the door, leaving everything they had behind.

Only a few days left. Charles was coming. Charles was going to drive down that road with Eli waving from the passenger seat window, and she wouldn’t be there to see them. She wouldn’t be there to run up to the most unlikely of lovers. She wasn’t ever going to wrap her arms around his neck. She would never litter him with kisses and tell him every little thing she did while he was away. She could never even show him the boots she’d managed to snag him on a quiet and successful scavenge run in town. She’d never see the pride on his face as she told him she was useful now. She’d never even look into those blue, blue eyes ever again. The following nine months were hard. Harder than anything Mary had ever known. Worse than the compound and what fates might’ve been hers. Worse than being alone in her old house without knowing how to use a gun.

The nausea was just the start. She vomited one to three times a day for two months. Mary might’ve cried as she suffered the constant urge to empty her stomach had the pain of missing Charles not been worse. But it was. Far worse. At night, she curled up into herself and wailed.

She wept and wept until Claire wrapped her in her arms and rocked her like Margaret used to. During the day, she sat there, numb and miserable. There was no golden glow that expecting mothers seemed to get. Instead, Mary was pale. What little food they got was spent entirely on the baby growing inside her. She lost weight when she ought to gain it, growing sickly thin except for around the middle where she swelled up like a balloon. A little balloon, but one none the less. And they never had to talk about it. What was there to say that they already know? Of course Eli wasn’t the father.; it was Charles’ name she woke up crying. But it was John who eventually pet her hair and told her it was going to be okay. It was Claire who kissed her sweaty forehead and tucked her back into bed. It was John and Claire who did everything for Mary. Both Mary and Emily owed them their lives.

Emily. Mary’s favorite name. One that Charles knew. One he would’ve let her pick. If it’d been a boy, he would’ve been Charles. Mary had been happy when Claire told her it was a little girl.

After nine hours of excruciating pain and begging to be put down like a cancer-ridden dog (for what little pain medication they found did nothing for the pain of giving birth); after nine hours of holding onto John’s hand and telling him she couldn’t do it, wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t strong enough; after nine hours of white-hot torture…

She smiled at a tiny, quiet, baby girl. A baby girl that was half her and half Charles Vane. It was a blessing how well-behaved Emily was. Though, Mary had also been a very quiet baby. Sickly too. Despite the fact that Emily often ran fevers so high that Mary sat awake praying by her daughter’s side, Emily’s natural disposition kept them from being too noticed by the walkers. And when Emily did cry, it was brief and quickly remedied.

Mary cried less. She spent her energy on Emily Vane (John had suggested Montgomery was a far better surname than Vane, but was quickly shut down). It’d be a hard life for Mary, and for Claire and John, yet not as hard as it could’ve been. The world was changing. They found people. Good people, mostly, who’d organized communications with other communities. Society was forming. Sections of small towns were being cleaned up. Farms sprouted. Clean water was protected. Great walls kept them safe for another few years, and then those too came down, for the dead walked no more. All gone. Cure finally found for those who managed to survive. No more gore. No more blood. There was possibility for a future again. A real one.

And Charles would never get to see it, at least with her. Mary liked to imagine him alive. She liked to think of him conquering the chaos. She liked to think of him looking for her. She liked to think he was out there, able to enjoy his second chance at being a real decent member of society. He didn’t get that chance the first time, but now… now he could be the man Mary knew he was. Only, John discouraged that kind of thinking. As gently as he could, with a kiss to her head, he reminded her to stay in the moment. Reality was the best place to spend time, he said, where thoughts could be made into real progress. Dreaming only made the heart ache more. John might’ve been right, but Mary still dreamed. The world was normal. The era of survivors had come, and useless girls like Mary weren’t so useless anymore.

She worked at a small cafe where the owners allowed Emily (five years old and half a foot shorter than the other girls her age, though sadly there weren’t many) to run around and simply be a little girl. Of course, that meant Mary had two jobs at once. Being a mother and running the cafe. Mary was taking an order for a woman her own age when Emily wandered out of the shop toward a man with long hair and a beard. Emily was too friendly for her own good. She was curious, too. By the time Mary handed over a small coffee and muffin to the customer, Emily was tugging on the man’s sleeve.

“Shit- Sorry, excuse me one second!” Mary dashed toward the glass windows and was about to exit the glass door when the w o r l d turned on its head. Tears came to her eyes. Shock. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be him. Despite her dreaming, did she ever expect them to be true?

Her heart fluttered. Her hands shook as they lifted toward the glass. “Charles…” she whispered, still not quite believing what it was - who it was - she was looking at. “How…” And then she remembered. Emily. The little girl with light brown hair and bright blue eyes was talking to him as if they were old friends. “Yeah, I like blue. And purple. Your hair is long. I like it.” Children’s talk. About nothing and everything.  And she had no idea that the man she made her little confessions to was the man that brought her into the world. Tears ran down her cheeks and she pushed the glass door open. She stumbled outside in her cafe uniform, five years older than when she last said goodbye. Her hair was a little different, but she was otherwise the same young woman. The same that had loved him and never stopped.

“Charles,” she pushed out, “Charles, she’s yours.” As if he might disappear before ever knowing, Mary told him. Emily was suddenly distraught. Her mother was crying and she was closing the six feet or so of distance until her arms flung around the stranger’s neck and held tight. A wail, long and strangled muffled against his neck. Mary cried and cried. She kept pulling away just to hold his face and shake her head. She was looking at the man she never got to welcome home. Her lips crashed against his, fingers almost too tight on his stubbled cheeks. But Emily’s cries drove the kiss apart and Mary sank slow to grab up her girl and cry into her hair too. She was dizzy. She was going to faint. At the commotion, a crowd gathered. The patrons from the shop emptied out onto the sidewalk to watch. Mary saw none of them. There was only Charles and Emily.

         “The location seems alright,” Charles grumbled into the phone, squinting as he peered around the street he’d parked on.  It had become force of habit, even all this time later, to constantly scan and survey his surroundings as if expecting something horribly wretched to come crawling from the shadows.  The disease had been purged, the survivors cleansed, the rotted flesh burned… but an unease still settled deep in Charles’ gut.  “We’ll get fair enough business, I think.  Probably a few –” interrupted in midsentence, Charles felt a little tug on his jacket sleeve.  He glanced down, surprised to see a little girl beside him.

         “I’ll… call you back.”  He said in a distracted tone, pulling the phone from his ear and clicking to hang up without looking at it.  “Where are your parents?”  He asked the little girl, not noticing how the blue of their eyes matched so perfectly well.  Charles glanced up, but not behind them, not toward the café.  He’d looked instead down the street as if expecting to see a couple rushing up with apologies.  In the past he might have figured a little child had no business being near him – and maybe now, after he’d committed a few more sins to survive, she shouldn’t be close to him either.

         But the little girl was unperturbed about her rough-looking company, holding to the innocence only a child could have.  Charles quirked his brow as she talked, again looking down the street and again surprised to see no one was rushing to grab her up.  He’d knelt down in front of her so he wouldn’t be so tall and he smiled in spite of himself when the little girl talked about his long hair.  He reached and grabbed a few locks, waving it a bit between them.  “Yeah?”  He hadn’t really bothered to cut it since everything went down – nor had he gotten rid of the thick beard which had grown over his jaw, chin, and upper lip.  He’d only trimmed it down because he was on business, making it less wild than it’d been days before.  “I’m partial to blue too.”  He said, deciding he’d pick the girl up in a minute and go around looking for her parents.  They couldn’t have gotten far.

         Charles.

         That voice.  He froze.

         Charles, she’s yours.

         His eyes moved away from the little girl quickly, but it could have been as if they’d taken forever with how slow the world suddenly seemed to go around them.  Everything was sluggish, too simple a pace to catch up to what was actually happening.  His heartbeat was a roar in his chest.  He’d lost her.  Mary was gone.  He’d clutched his fingers tight around that sweater and it was the only thing he had of her.  He’d said goodbye to her memory, but never lost her in his heart.

         And there she was.  Coming toward him.  Charles didn’t believe in happy endings and couldn’t get his mind to catch up to what exactly was happening.  Surely this was some… strange dream?  Surely the moment they touched, her skin would rot away and the peaceful little town around them would crumble and he’d be caught in yet another nightmare he’d awaken from with sweat-sticky skin and a panicked ache in his chest.

         But her arms came around him and, automatically, his arms wrapped fiercely tight around her.  He closed his eyes against the tears which came unashamedly, streaking down his cheeks and into the thick, course hair of his beard.  He shuddered, this great, big, mountain of a man.  He trembled as he held her.  He couldn’t find the words, for the ache burning in his chest crawled like fire in his lungs, up his throat and held them prisoner.  Charles only cried as she did, holding to her as if he never wanted to let her go.  Holding to her as he would have if he would have found her as he was supposed to.

         Mary pulled away and he looked at her, eyes red-rimmed and watery, caught between a smile and an expression of disbelief, and sank into her kiss as she pressed her mouth against his.  The world was still spinning a little too fast and it only slowed as their lips met, as Mary was pressed against him again and he tasted a mixture of her and the salt from their tears.  He couldn’t be ashamed of his open heartache, even as people began to gather.  Charles couldn’t think of anything but Mary…

         And then the little girl’s cries were heard and Mary broke away from him so she could pick her up.  Charles inhaled a sharp, burning breath and looked from Mary to the girl.

         She’s yours.

         His eyes widened as it clicked.  The shock of Mary being alive was triumphed by the shock of learning he was a father.  Guilt would come to him later to be sure, realizing all which Mary had to face alone being pregnant during the fall of the world, but in this moment of purity he could think of nothing but being blessed.

         “She’s ours?”  His voice croaked, hoarse with emotion.  Stripped was the hard expression he wore which scared most from even approaching him.  Charles was filled with awe and with love, looking at this little girl as his heart stammered its beat in his chest and he barely caught his breath, realizing what he was looking at – Mary holding their little girl – was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen and likely would.  “Mary,” he barely exhaled, looking from her to the girl, the world still spinning beneath him.  “She’s beautiful,” he said, his voice catching as a fresh wave of tears pricked hot at his eyes.

         “I’m so sorry,” he said and came near, putting one large hand as tenderly as he could against Mary’s cheek and looking down at her.  His thumb brushed gently over her skin.  “I should have never stopped looking for you.  I should have known you weren’t gone…”  The guilt reached with a black, skeletal hand into the light and glee which was this moment, staining it with the first touch of inky black.