querymisterketch - Tumblr blog

[querymisterketch]

Emily woke much earlier than I expected her to. Tequila had never been her friend; thankfully I was present and knew the ideal cure for the hangover I knew was coming. Step 01 - Her favourite coffee. Place it into her delicate hands immediately upon waking. Watch her bemused expression as she begins to register that what is in the mug is coffee. Step 02 - Allow sufficient time for caffeination to occur. Step 03 - A big, greasy breakfast. I'd get her a full Irish breakfast if I could, but the local diner would need to suffice. When she looked up at me, I sensed more than saw her bewildered and also hurt expression. There were a thousand questions I knew she would need answered, but I settled with the first thing that came to mind. "I'd drink that up; you were rather deep in the tequila when I found you." Though my tone was, in my mind, not unkind of accusatory, Emily's expression of remorse was palpable. She drank her coffee in silence with a murmur of thanks. Once the cup was empty, she set it aside and carefully rose to her feet. "How long?" she asked me, a tremour in her voice, "how long - have you been back?"

"Not long - only since Christmas. And my first and best thoughts were to get back here; just as quickly as I could." Those deep green eyes searched me though and then, after what seemed quite a long time, her expression softened. "I believe you," she said at last, and I finally did something I had wished to do from the moment I returned to this mortal plane. I embraced Emily Winchester. An hour later, breakfast had been concluded, and Emily looked decidedly more like herself than at the outset. Back in the hotel room, we gathered our things wordlessly, with the knowledge that check out would be soon. Finally, we agreed to meet back at Bunker... back home. Back in Lebanon. The hours were not kind; being away from her again, however temporarily. Perhaps she had something on her mind that she needed a clear head and perspective to discuss. As we parked in the garage of the Bunker, I noted easily enough Emily bracing herself. "Now," she said, "please; tell me everything." Over the space and half an hour, I did as she had requested. While she too was unsure as to how I had miraculously returned, she also thoughtfully listened. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Emily offered me an envelope. "This is yours, then," she said, and walked away, gear over her shoulder and without another word. I heard no voices as I followed her; clearly her brothers were blessedly absent for the time being. "Emily - I..." "Look; I'm just - I'm very tired, I want a shower, and just want some time to think, okay? We'll speak later." As I opened the envelope as she walked away, I found myself needing a chair. She had bought me an out.

[querymisterketch]

A Note from the Author -  Thank you again for taking the time to read. The picture you see here is of the actual Sassafras Bar. Please do check them out.  A week later, I found myself near the Missouri/Kansas border, safe in the knowledge that no one of significance knew what had become of me. It had been no small feat to find some sort of reliable transport (I am certain I will owe that small biker gang that I met in Johnson City a debt. As it is, I was able to procure a small motorbike; easier to use and faster in some ways, and soon enough I was through with hitchhiking. It still took a few more days to reach Kansas, where I doubted she would be waiting. If, that is, she had survived herself. For those several days, I was able to think of little else. A thousand different scenarios played through a sleep – deprived brain as to what sort of welcome I was likely to receive. Amazingly enough, as I stepped into the bar that evening, still hundreds of miles from Lebanon, I saw her. It appeared as if she had changed her hair, but from the side glance I was able to indulge in, it was undoubtedly, amazingly, Emily. More specifically, Emily Winchester. The youngest of what is likely the most dangerous family of Hunters in America. Dean saw her as something between his little sister and his charge, which only made him twice as dangerous when she was involved. Her other brother, Sam, was built not unlike a strong and powerful beast of burden, but his manner was more genial. He was much more open and forgiving than their eldest sibling. It was not hard to discern that this evening was tequila, straight. That was never good where Emily was concerned; she drank tequila to forgot. To get gloriously, amazingly sloshed.

In my personal experience, she had only ever done this twice. Once, at the end of a Hunt, which fell around the date of her father's birthday. The father she had never known, and had never known her. The second was when she was so very angry, so bitter at the world, she longed for the deepest form of oblivion she could find. Judging, as I leaned in closer, she was already quite deep in her cups. “Fu – oh... hello,” she said, her speech nearly perfect still, “you're pretty.” “Perhaps...” “You – you freakin' look him, you know? Arthur. His name was Arthur. The one man in this whole damn world I wanted.” “Emily – don't you...” “He's dead. He's dead, and it's my damn fault. Family business, right? We gotta look out for family... always.” It became too clear what she was doing. Mourning me. I wish I had arrived just a little earlier; perhaps the tequila would not have been necessary. Gently, with minimal contact, I steadied Emily's hand as she poured herself another drink. “'Was decent of you; thanks.” she said, and downed the shot as if it were nothing. “Whiskey; please,” I said, accepting my drink and joining Emily in her misery. A few minutes later, Emily gestured for another bottle, though her current one was not yet empty. “Sorry, sweetheart – I'm cuttin' you off,” said the bartender firmly, his face serious as she glared back at him. “Please, barkeep,” I said, “I will cover our tab and take the young lady home.” “Oh yeah? And how can I trust you, stranger?” “Because; and this is a rather stranger turn – I am the person she came here tonight to mourn. To forget for a while; I'm afraid the young lady was – misinformed – regarding my state.” For the record; it is very difficult to deceive a good barkeep. Among their array of talents is a very strong measuring stick for truth. And at this point I could only hope; for my sake and what remained of Emily's dignity, that he would believe me and trust I would look after her. With a simple nod of his head, the barkeep accepted his due and a good gratuity, and I carefully guided the woman I had longed to see out of the bar and toward the vehicle I knew was hers; a silver Pontiac GTO. Not nearly as gorgeous as her oldest sibling's Impala, but just as mean and powerful. It wasn't much to procure a small, cheap hotel for Emily to sleep off the alcohol and her grief. On and off during the journey, she spoke of our adventures – things we had done. Things I remembered almost as well as she. “Try to sleep,”I finally told her, guiding her into bed. I removed her shoes, was certain she was on her side, and occupied the other bed, somewhere between sleep and monitoring her for any signs of distress. She would need a big, greasy breakfast and a large coffee in the morning.

[querymisterketch]

[querymisterketch]

A Note from the Author I wanted to take a brief moment to thank each of you, who have been reading the story I am trying to tell. I hope it brings you joy and that you look forward to each installment as much as I look forward to writing it. Reginald Westfall was not exactly what most of the female persuasion would consider above average. With his straight dark hair, somewhat large eyes and nerdy glasses, he was more the picture of Geekdom or Nerds than a capable, smart young man. The third son of the Earl of Snowden, he had been relegated to a guard in the London Chapter House.

Like most of his counterparts, Reginald was, “acquired,” at a young age from their families – the spares most families would not need. And they were sent to Kendricks.

The education could be very much killer.

On a regular patrol in the evening before closing the office for the evening was uneventful, until he crossed over to the annexes. There, he found himself accosted by a slight but not exactly unintimidating figure. Dressed in black, the figure gently poked the point of what felt a rather sharp knife press into his side. Though for the voice, he would have guessed the figure, once he got a look, to be either male or female. “Why don't we take a little walk?” suggested the silky voice attached to the knife. Poke. To his credit, Reginald did not raise an alarm, or feel compelling to do anything heroic in those moments he and the woman came to a dark place between the buildings – just something of an alley in and among the old streets of London. “I've been watching you these last couple days, Mr. Westfall,” said the hooded woman. The leather gear she was dressed in looked well worn with age, and the blade at her hip looked as deadly as the graceful silver bow that was strapped to her back. Her accent was not known to him – clearly not British. An American. Her fingers were long, elegant and graceful; perfect for the archer she clearly was. “Are you planning to kill me?” he asked flatly, ready to draw his weapon and not to go down without a fight. “No; quite the opposite. Meet me down the road at the Kuragen Arms when you're off patrol. I'll be at a back table. Got a proposition for you.” When he met the mystery woman at the named pub that evening, she had removed her hood, but kept the gear jacket and the blade strapped to her hip. She was attractive, with large green eyes and straight ebony hair she kept braided. “All right – so I'm here,” said Reginald as he was seated at the table across from his evening's companion, “what is it you want with -” “You like the London Porter – right?” Blinking in surprise, the woman lifted a slender hand and beckoned with a nod. Mary Jane Pale Ale for her; a London Porter for him. Reginald noticed that, as they were delivered, they were not opened until they reached the table. Studious on her part. “Want a sausage roll? Some chips? Are you hungry?”she asked as she took a drink. With a nod of acceptance at the show of hospitality, the order was made. “As you can probably see; I've been watching the Chapter House for a while, Mr. Westfall – closely.” “What is it you intend, Madame?” “So impatient – relax. We'll have a meal... you'll hear me out... and this will end of two ways.” There was calm directness in her tone, but underneath was laced the veiled threat of violence that Reginald had himself been taught to carry off with ease; admittedly with mixed results. “You can call me Grace Penhallow – would it kill you if I called you Reginald?” “No.” “Good – no longer strangers,” the newly named Ms. Penhallow smiled, dipping her chips into some offered mayonnaise as she ate. “So; I've noticed you have a lot of respect around the British Men of Letters,” she went on, “they like you. Respect you. 'Least the ones you work with on the regular. Which is a lot of folks.” “I fail to see what this could mean – the Elders seem to barely know I exist? What is this; some sort of – test? An examination of my loyalities?” “Nope; I brought you here for quite the opposite. I want to know if you want to overthrow the Elders and take over the British Men of Letters for yourself.” Reginald couldn't prevent the subsequent attempt to gasp and the bit of choking that follow. “Easy; man – easy. You all right?” Ms. Penhallow was saying, “better? Need some water? All right; say, barkeep – a bit of water? My friend here choked a bit... There. Drink. Breathe.” The few minutes of silence afterward allowed the distressing notion to sink into his mind. “First of all – how do you even -know- about the Men of Letters? Who are you -really- Ms. Penhallow? And why would you want to overthrow the Elders?” And then she raised the sleeve of her jacket, causing him to gasp again. The silvery runes like tattoos upon her pale skin were a complete giveaway. “Shadowhunter – Nephilim,” he breathed in wonder. “I spoke with Evelyn Highfall and her people at the London Institute,” explained his companion as she drank her beer between bites of sausage, “she told me that once, the Men of Letters worked -with- my people. Not against them and failing to wipe them out.” “So what is this, then? Some – coup – by the London Shadowhunters to get revenge?” “You got it all wrong, Reginald – Reg. My people are willing to work with you again. We know how to Hunt monsters. You know as much as we do about finding them. But – you and I both know the current power is too bogged down in tradition – in the Code.” “The Code makes us - “ “ - different from the monsters? No; it just makes you different monsters. Monsters with a fake conscience. That's what Michael Davies thought... that's what Arthur Ketch thought. One of them is dead – the other learned a new way. And it's Dr. Hess and her lot that's dead.” This new revelation stunned the young man, who had long since abandoned his meal while his companion had finished hers. “I just – I have to know – how do you know what happened to them... to Mr. Davies. Mr. Ketch...” “Because one was my friend. The other was – well, he's someone I ended up spending a lot of time with.” “You – you know the Winchesters?” “You could say that,” confirmed Grace with a little chuckle, “so now – I want to know – do you have the guts to stand up for what I think you know is right? A new way? A better way? Or are you just ready to act like a huge b*tch and tell me where I can go. Your call; I only ask one thing. That you not tell the Elders, or anybody else, that you spoke with me and let me cover the beers and dinner.” For the rest of the meal, Reginald regarded the American woman across from him with a mixture of bewilderment and the respect she seemed to command. It was not exactly a secret that he had admired Mick Davies and that he was not exactly a, “toe – the – line,” operative. It was also whispered he even had contacts among the Shaodwhunters at the London Institute and had even seen its ghost. He considered his position carefully. “I wouldn't say that the Men of Letters doesn't need a change,” he said at least, “and – I want to help with that change. I think – we need the change. But – I have terms of my own. First and most important – nobody dies needlessly.” “I think I can agree to that. It's not what I want to -purge- the Men of Letters. I want to -reform- it. Make it better. Show you things that you don't know yet. A new way. Maybe what you might find is a better way.” The Thursday of the next week was a meeting of the Elders. They all arrived in the same way. Lord Flitcher. Lord Melgrave. Lady Beldeau. All the rest. Nine in all – Dr. Hess had of course been in position among them, but she had been replaced by Lady Gravener. Reginald's heart pounded as he bowed in greeting to each as they passed him without even as much as a greeting. The doors secured, and fifteen minutes after the meeting began, he heard the challenge. “State your name and your business.” “It's all right,” soothed Reginald, “the young woman is – expected.” “If you say so, sir – pass.” Falling into step with him, Grace eyed the old London house, as if quickly studying the building quickly. “Get yourself to the chambers,” she said softly, “I'll be there in fifteen minutes.” Peeling off to the left, Reingald watched Grace raise her hood and contemplate a point of entry on the far side of the house. The patrols were timed perfectly, and he knew only his part of the plan. Get her in. Reginald counted the minutes in his head as he waited outside the Chamber of Meeting, where the Elders were currently discussing business that was both classified and of no concern to the rank and file. So they had always been told. Fifteen minutes. She would be in position now. Turning to door, he knocked slowly three times. After a long moment he heard the short, “Enter,” which he knew would be the response. “Mister Westfall? Is there some sort of security that needs to be discussed?” inquired Lord Filtcher. Taking a deep breath, Reginald spoke. “As a matter of fact – no, my lord,” he said, “only a question; will you stand and be accountable for the deaths of no less than twenty Shaodwhunters who were no threat to you?” As he spoke, the door opened again, and in strode Grace Penhallow, green eyes alight like bright emeralds, tossing the body of his partner onto the table. “Looks like not everyone's as in line as you think,” she said, “I know each of you. And I know you well. Hypocrites and outdated; every single last one of you.” “Now, wait just one minute, young woman – just who are you? Westfall, remove this woman at once,” ordered one of the Elders as Reginald closed the doors and then bolted them from the inside, standing guard over them. Grace looked angry, and as Lady Beldeau approached with a slender knife in hand, she drew the blade from her hip, whispering, “Nakir,” as she did. The blade lit the room, and with a scream, the woman's knife clattered to the table. “And that was just the -back- of my blade,” warned the other woman, “now that I have your attention, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Emily Winchester, of the House Penhallow. Shadowhunter. Nephilim. A moment passed while the Elders were allowed to absorb this information, varying looks of dread on their faces. “I thought I'd be the one to remind you,” went on the young Winchester as she leveled her blade at them, “it was my brothers and our friends who took down your so – called American operation. So you -really- don't want to try me right now. You currently have two options; accept change, and abdicate. Go home and live in whatever retirement you think is honourable. Or you can die. Choose.” “Now just wait -” As Lord Flitcher was about to speak, screams began to ring through the halls. “Oh – that would be my brothers and sisters from Idris and the London Institute.” “And just what right,” inquired Lord Flintcher, “do you think you have here – you abomination? You're nothing. Nothing.” Emily's laugh was strangely musical with a touch of psychotic flare. “If you knew anything about me and my people, then you know Clave blood will always run true. My mother's name was Deirdre, of the House Penhallow. My father was John Winchester; son of Henry of Winchester – which makes me a Legacy of the American Men of Letters, b*tch.” Another moment while this information was absorbed. “Now – again, you got two choices here. Abdicate, or die. Choose.” Rising on a visibly unsteady frame, Lord Flintcher leveled a gaze filled with contempt at the woman currently hold the entire Council of Elders hostage. “We will die before we bow to your kind.” A quick gaze of the room. “Does this one speak for you all? Last chance.” None of the Elders spoke. “Reg,” said Emily softly, “get under the table; shut your eyes. Don' move or open them 'till I tell you – okay?” Quickly moving under the feet of the now frightened Elders, Reginald did as he was told, clapping hands over his hands, only hearing snippets of the Enochian that Emily began speaking, only understanding one word... Castiel. Blinding lights, screaming in a chorus, and it was over. In was a few moments before he heard more conversation. Smoking eyes and corpses were now all that remained of what she had called the Old Regime. The entire Council wiped out by a single Shadowhunter and an Angel.

“It's safe now, Reg,” murmured Emily calmly, “thank you, Cas.” “A display of power, Emily?” inquired the rough voice of a man in simple suit and trenchcoat. “Yup.” “Do you need me to stay? I can bring you back.” “Not yet, Cas – I gotta stay here a little longer, help Reg here get things sorted... and some personal business. I'll have the High Warlock of London make me a Portal back. You look after yourself.” “And you, Emily.” A flutter of wings, and the Seraph had departed. Perhaps she hadn't mentioned that part of the plan, but it had been spectacular nonetheless. And she had lived up to her part of the bargain; no one had been needlessly slain. “So – who will be leading us now?” asked Reginald, almost like a child as he looked over the corpses and struggled to keep his lunch. “I was actually hoping you might.” The sound of dread he made must have been audible, because Emily laughed and smiled at him. “Look, Reg; you're a good man. You're smart, and you have a good head for strategies. You respect the old, but look to the new as well. I really do think you're the person to lead the British Men of Letters. Get yourself a group of advisors... listen to them, and you'll be a great leader.” “Are you sure?” “I am. Now; let's go – the others will be waiting in the hall with everyone.” A large group of Shadowhunters, all in black gear, had created a perimeter around the remaining members of the British Men of Letters, as if guarding a herd of sheep or cattle. Emily and Reginald went to one end of the hall, standing on the stairs together. “Your Elders are dead,” said Emily flatly, tossing the decapitated head of Lord Flitcher into the midst of the group. A few cried out, some began to wail, but no one seemed to move toward it. “You have the same choice that they did,” went on Emily as she looked over the gathered, “once upon a time, my people and yours worked in consort. But you lost your way – began to think of us as abominations. Worthy of hunting and death. No more. We have much to teach you, and you in turn know much that we can share. Now – most of you know Reginald here. He and his new council will be your leaders now. You may join him... or you may submit yourselves to his judgement.” Stepping down from the stairs into the crowd, Emily looked at each one of them as best she could. “Those of you who wish to join with the Shadowhunters, rebuild the British Men of Letters, and stand for a better way – then step forward now.” For what seemed a long time, no one moved. Until one smaller woman stepped forward, adjusting her glasses. “I jus' wanna know – will we all be treated like equals now? Everyone the same?” Silence. “Yes,” said Reginald, as he too stepped forward to join Emily, “we all know how it was under them... how we kept to the Code... because it made us better. Made us less than monsters. But – Ms. Winchester here – she told me that the Code just made us different monsters. Hiding behind what we thought was right. But – these Americans – they have their own way. And we can learn from them. Just like we can learn from the London Institute.” In small groups, ones and twos and even threes, the operatives began to step forward and be counted in the revolution of doing things. Within three days, Reginald and his new Council, made up of Shadowhunters and trusted operatives, had begun to re-form the British Men of Letters. A new system was designed by which the Shadowhunters would be informed of ne'er – do – wells, and then eliminated or brought to trial; whichever suited the offense. “You've done wonders here, Reg,” said Emily as she packed, “but I'm afraid I must go home now.” “We thank you, Miss Winchester. You have been an invaluable assistant in this – well, new role. But – is there nothing that you desire for yourself?” “As a matter of fact – there is something you could do for me...”

[querymisterketch]

[querymisterketch]

[querymisterketch]

- Credit to kamenuka-  ***A Note from the Author*** This is sort of stand - alone piece in which we see into an event which had been glossed over the New Year’s post.  W -  Fire and Flame.  It was something which had fascinated me as a boy - watching the flames consume and change wood to ash and cinders in the fireplace of the old estate. The smaller home in London. I had found I could gaze at those flames for quite a bit of a time. 

Naturally, that fascination faded once I entered Kendricks and began my training. I like the various other recruits of my class, were laser - focused on our new roles in what was the Men of Letters; London Chapter House.  Dressed in my new clothes; far different from anything I had grown accustomed to wearing, I set out for a patch of wood I had noticed earlier in the day in the darkness. A hand torch provided enough light to act as a guide till I found what I sought.  The small clearing was perfect. A little shovel made light work of the soil... and into the resulting divet went the remnants of what was my last suit. It had been worn down to nothing, threadbare and even beginning to tatter.  Match to the material, and it was soon burning. Before too long, what might be considered the last flash of my old life was completely gone.  It didn’t take long to return to the small motel room where I had briefly taken up residence. Once returned, the shock moved through me.  Well and truly, for the first time in my adult life, I was completely free. No longer was I beholden to an organization which had groomed me to be an ideal assassin. No longer was I in the employ of a Prince of Hell. 

Liberty was both a shock and something which left me vaguely at unease. But it was, nevertheless, liberty. And I was now left with the question of what I should do with that new liberty.  As a boy, being tutored at home before Kendricks, one thing I’d had was a drawing master. He had taught me about light, and shadow, and to appreciate art. It had been something long since repressed, but perhaps something I hadn’t lost. 

As fireworks went off in the distance, the familiar Auld Lang Syne played, and shouts of cheers of well wishes for the New Year went ‘round the motel - I set to work. 

[querymisterketch]

For a week, everything was a blur.

Amid the Christmas colours and celebrations, I felt - invisible. Something which had always been a benefit to me in the past, given my line of work. Being in shadow was something upon which I had been taught to thrive; to use like a cloak, or a friendly ally. Now that I no longer required the shadow, an aching which I thought had been long abandoned began to snake its way into me yet again.

For the week after Christmas, I wandered. Though of course this was not my first time having to wear a perfectly good suit down to nothing, there was something in it which was like the signaling of a change. Something which was forever going to be different.

-She- had seen to that as well. From -her- I had learned there was a different way. Perhaps, even, a better way. And today more than ever, it was brought home to me that never more would there be a better time to remember that.

From what had to be one of the lowest motels I had ever come across, I attempted the contact that had become first in my mind… aside from -her- of course. I would find -her- again… I would have to. But - business before pleasure, and the like.

“Thank you for calling Braithwaite and Associates; may I have a name please?”

“This is Mr. Moore; I believe Mr. Braithwaite might be expecting a call.”

And my solicitor would know. He always had a bit of chuckle when we brought up or used the decided code name. Precaution of the job.

“Why Mr. Moore,” came across the grainy telephone line not long after, “and whatever could I do for you?”

“Double quick; where might I purchase a lottery ticket?”

A succulent explanation to say the least, but my old friend would understand. His family had started in the trusted position of butler to the noble class, and while he was also an ally of my father, he would keep my secrets for the fees I was sure he drafted from the account.

“Very good, sir,” he replied in his best non-committal, easy tone, “that is arranged easily enough. If you drop at the local Tesco, then you’ll be able to get what you need.”

“Right; and, thank you Braithwaite.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Moore… and be well.”

The line went dead.

The conversation had been heavily coded as was the wont. Now it would be a matter of finding the nearest convenience store. The regular amount agreed to for what were classified as, “essentials,” would be waiting.

The nearest I had no idea what to make of; -she- of course had asked to stop at such places for a cheap alcohol run - or perhaps snacks for herself and the others. Exhausted as I was, this would be essential.

Presenting all of the fabricated information, the clerk was good enough to process the wire transfer. By this time tomorrow, I would be in somewhat better shape.

Fresh money in hand, a good breakfast, and cleaned up as best I could be, I found transport to what was the nearest reasonable shopping establishment. A few hours, clean clothes, a new travelling bag and some other things helped me to rather look and feel like - well - me, again.

And yet; not. Something felt - wrong. Incorrect, something altered. As I looked myself over, as clean and presentable as I was likely to be, I attempted to discern what had so changed. The hardness was gone… the internal steel that had always been the basis of not getting too close to anything or anyone. Where once there had been the hardness of a diamond, there was the gentler resolve of steel. Tempered against fire and flame; strong, yet with no less resolve.

Realization struck me as the clock on the nearby microwave turned 11:00 PM… December 31st.

I recalled the chiming of Big Ben; sneaking out of Kendricks when we were old enough and finding some champagne to toast the year. We never did first-footing of course at the Academy, but as a boy I do recall family coming for just that purpose. It was the one time Father acquiesced to Mother and there was laughter and music… during Christmas and the New Year. That was not to last, of course, but they will be past glimmers of happiness to treasure.

Before setting off again, new bag in hand, the tattered old clothes were reduced to nothing but ash and dust. And I suppose with it, a part of myself as well. Perhaps the worst parts of me, finally reduced to nothing.

-She- was waiting. Somewhere. And I was resolved to find out where.

Vaguely horrified at how low I had somehow managed to sink, I purchased a bus ticket and did not look back. I knew where to begin my search.

***A Note from the Mun***

Thank you again for keeping up with the story! I hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am writing it. Have an awesome New Year!  W- 

[querymisterketch]

Where... am I?  Floating as if in a void... pleasantly numb, as if I had perhaps one too many glasses of -her- so - called Tennessee Moonshine. And apparently, the capital letters were important, somehow.  You have returned... you have another chance at life. I would highly advise you not to mess it up again. If I have learned anything, it’s this; don’t screw up your one life. So many people just get the one.  The return to flesh and form was jolting; the way that I imagine, perhaps, receiving an electric jolt from those machines would feel. Breath quickened lungs that seemed to rapidly recall their function. A heart that had been ripped from a chest, still beating, replaced as if it were nothing. It was not painful - or rather, perhaps, nothing that I was not accustomed to. The magical charm which had preserved my life once before felt nothing like this - it had been angry. Violent, in its execution.  This restoration was - almost soft. Asif merely being jolted from a deep sleep from which one did not wish to awaken.  When sight returned, a shadow hovered for a moment, raised a hand, and then vanished. I was then left alone, contemplating my newly reset existence in what appeared to be an abandoned street in what I imaged was another slice of Americana.  The tinkling of bells in the distance, bright lights not far off, and the glittering trees spoke of one thing. It was Christmas. Or something somehow very close to it. I like to imagine we share a good deal with our American brethren in that respect.  One thought, upon restoration of clarity, entered my mind. I needed to find -her- again. -She- needed to know I had returned... that I was alive yet again.  Drawing the coat which had been secured ‘round me closer, I began to look for the nearest mode of transport.  ***A Message from the Mun (Author)*** Hello, and welcome to Query Mr. Ketch -  “Arthur’s” inbox will be open for questions, feedback - basically whatever you’d like to ask him. I can’t promise how he will answer - just that you will receive some kind of answer, if you choose to send him a question.  There will be story posts between queries and feedback - some stand-alone, and some within the larger storyline of his journey in this restored life. I will try to be sure there is something once or twice weekly, but please do not hold me to that schedule.  I hope you enjoy interacting with this blog. Merry Christmas!  W-