#♥ i'd live and die for moments that we stole • john henry & mazie

[lcfthaunted]

She doesn’t care why the townspeople step out of her way immediately. She is still too prone to tears to risk going out without her veil in place, though considerably shorter than full-length for ease of travel. It was no small feat, after all, to travel from Glenwood Springs to Purgatory as an unaccompanied woman. Safely arrived at the small town, though, she had a mission to complete. A devil to find.

“Mrs. Clootie,” she calls when she finds the sheriff’s wife.

The woman turns, almost starts when she sees Mazie. “For a moment, I thought you were one of my sister wives,” she says dryly. “What do you need?”

Mazie struggles to find her voice again, already on the brink of tears. “—Kate told me,” she manages finally. “About John Henry. Please.” Her voice cracks. “Where is my husband?”

“Oh,” Constance croons. “You’re the lady wife. Rather brave, coming here alone.” She leisurely closes the distance, close enough to see Mazie’s face through her veil. “Your pain is a balm to my own wounds. I am a mother- a mother whose children were slain for no reason. That is pain.”

“John Henry was too ill to do anything,” Maisy begs. “Why have you taken him from me?”

“I took him from Wyatt Earp, in exchange for my boys.”

Mazie lets out a harsh, angry laugh. “Wyatt never paid much mind to his collateral damage.” Her expression fractures again, and she can’t hold her tears back any longer. “Why be like him? Reunite me with my husband. Please.” She pulls her handkerchief from her sleeve, presses it to her mouth.

“He’s safe, alive and well. And will be always, as per our deal. But no matter how you beg, he will never be reunited with Wyatt Earp. He could search for centuries and never come close to finding him.” Constance steps around Mazie.

Constance is only a few steps away when Mazie says, “Wyatt can forget.”

Constance stops, turns back to Mazie.

Mazie’s only half turned toward her in return, wringing her handkerchief. “You know how men like to delude themselves. John Henry was ill. They said their goodbyes. Wyatt can just convince himself John Henry had died, and forget.”

"And what do you suggest," Constance says icily, not quite a question.

Mazie turns her head to look at Constance. “Wyatt feels responsible for me as his best friend’s widow. Extend to me the same deal you gave to my husband. I will search for him for centuries. Let me be a constant reminder to Wyatt of what he did. Of what he’s lost.”

“Or,” Constance offers, “you could leave him behind, like he left you. Consider it my consolation gift: your independence.”

Mazie shakes her head. “I can’t. I love him.” She lifts her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “And I will never forgive Wyatt for what he took from me. For how much of him he took.”

Constance considers her for a moment, then holds out her hand. “Give me your wedding ring.”

Mazie clutches her left hand to her chest.

“I will give it right back. The spell needs metal and stone. And a drop of your blood.”

Mazie hesitantly pulls her glove off her left hand, eases the ring from her finger, and reluctantly sets it in Constance’s waiting palm. She has no intention of replacing her glove until her ring is safely back on her finger.

Constance reaches into her pocket, draws out a small penknife, and offers it to Mazie. “The tip of a finger should do.”

Mazie takes the blade, and after the briefest hesitation, slices open the tip of her index finger. Blood wells in the small wound, and she touches her finger to the ring when Constance instructs. As Constance intones quietly over the ring, Mazie puts her finger in her mouth to soothe it, then presses hard against the wound to stop the bleeding. By the time Constance offers her ring back, Mazie’s finger no longer hurts.

“As long as you wear that ring, you will be as immortal as your husband,” Constance says as Mazie takes her ring, sliding it back into place with a sigh.

She nods as she pulls her glove back into place, and with a murmured, “thank you,” she starts toward the hotel she chose for the night.

“Don’t you want to know about the curse my husband placed on the Earps?” Constance calls after her.

“What do I care what happens to the Earps?” Mazie says in response, steps never faltering.

[lcfthaunted]

“Doesn’t matter how much you want the answer to be something else,” she says irritably. “The information points to the cult. He’s been taking girls her age for years, and no one survives leaving. Either she’s still with him, or she’s been eaten by his shape-shifting wife.”

He snaps his teeth in her face. “Find another way.”

She sighs loudly, unshaken by his antics by now. “Tell me where my husband is.” She crosses her arms. “This is what the information points to. You’ve kept me here for six months. Just because you don’t like the answer, doesn’t mean there’s another one.”

“You’ll get your husband when I get my lead.”

“Then I suggest you go pay Lou a visit.”

He snarls and backhands her.

She goes down with a cry. She wipes at her mouth, unsurprised to find it come away bloody. She looks up at him, furious. “You’d best hope you’re long gone by the time I’m reunited with John Henry,” she spits, “because he will turn you into swiss cheese for that.” She stands and moves to the sink, spitting blood before filling a glass with water to rinse out her mouth.

“I’m not afraid of Doc Holliday.”

She laughs, low and cold. “Bobo. Robert. You’ve never seen him with me.” Ice eyes cut to him, and there is something there that unsettles him.

“Find my Lead. You get your husband. That’s the deal.”

“I could go get her, if you let me go. I’m sure he wouldn’t raise any eyebrows at me showing up.”

“And let you go running off on me?”

“Where would I go? Who would I turn to? I don’t have any allies in this town, let alone friends. And if you’re not lying, you’re the only one who can tell me where my husband is. Why would I leave?”

“I never pretended to understand you women folk.”

She glowers at him. “I understand what Wyatt saw in you. Now, either let me go get your lead, or leave me alone until you decide to accept the information I gave you.”

Another tense moment, and he storms from the trailer, door slamming behind him. It only takes a moment for her guard to shoot the locks again.

[lcfthaunted]

And I'm runnin' with my dress unbuttoned, screaming, "But Daddy, I love him! I'm having his baby!" No I'm not, but you shoulda seen your faces.

[lcfthaunted]

[lcfthaunted]

“He has never done anything less than love me, not since he first laid eyes on me.” “darlin’, i know i ain’t been the best at showing it, but i have loved you every day since i first laid my eyes on you. and i mean that with every inch of my soul.”

[lcfthaunted]

why did i have to make that connection oh no. how many times did mazie and doc have a conversation that mimicked 'best of wives'. the way mazie goes from 'i look into your eyes and the sky's the limit' to 'i relish being your wife' to 'i live another fifty years - it's not enough' to 'i hope that you burn'. just because you didn't see the ashes----

[lcfthaunted]

"because in the end, everyone chooses the lawman." she could have just been his widow. but she chose him and he.... chose the lawman.

[lcfthaunted]

It's a small house, only meant to comfortably hold one or two people. The front porch frames the doorway and two windows; to the left is a swing bench, partially obscuring the window into the kitchen, and to the right are two chairs with a table between them framing the window into the living room. The front door opens directly into the living room, an archway to the kitchen to the left. Straight ahead is the doorway to the bedroom, and through that the door to the bathroom, on the left.

The kitchen is the brightest, warmest, most welcoming of the rooms. A second window is over the sink, with pots of herbs on the sill. A table stands in the middle, with an eclectic collection of chairs surrounding it. There is little counter space and a well-loved kettle sitting on the stove, waiting to be used. A washing machine has been added next to the refrigerator when water pipes were run to the house. She's learned to bake in much smaller batches since her exile from the Earp house, but there is still nearly always some freshly-baked good or another, remnants of her work soaking in the sink.

The bathroom shares a wall and water piping with the kitchen, a shower built around the clawfoot tub that has been there since its building. There is a small, frosted window above the tub. Her things are carefully organized on one side of the sink counter, the other open as if waiting for someone else.

There is a double bed, piled with blankets, in the bedroom. Bedside tables are on either side of the head, small lamps on each. One has a trinket dish, where her daily jewelry goes at the end of the day - her locket, earrings, any bracelets she may have worn. A jewelry box in her wardrobe holds whatever jewelry she doesn't wear, and pieces are switched out every morning when she dresses. The other table holds a white pillar candle, lit three times a year. The ornately carved wardrobe stands against the opposite wall, about two-thirds full with her dresses and shoes. The dresser stands against the far wall next to the window, half the drawers empty. On top is a carefully cultivated shrine with flower vases on either end, frequently changed out for fresh flowers. Tea lights sit in front of three framed photographs; one of a couple on their wedding day in the late 1800s, and two more of the featured groom. The tea lights have been lit multiple times. To the right of the bedroom door is a hat hook, still awaiting its use.

The living room isn't designed for entertaining. Tucked into the corner, in roughly the center of the house, is an old wood stove, meant to heat the house though once used for cooking, piping running up the wall and out to a small chimney in the roof. There is one armchair, meant for comfort, angled to face the north wall. Against the window is a roll-top desk, a laptop sitting on one side, writing implements and paper to the other. The desk also holds many, many years of correspondence with a friend helping her quest. Across the room is an old Singer sewing machine, set into its own desk. The desk and Singer share a chair, frequently found at the desk.

The entirety of the north wall is dedicated to her quest. A world map stretches across the wall, large and detailed, with flags, pins, and other markings covering it. Underneath and around it are newspaper clippings, records of stories, notes, and symbols to correspond each with a mark on the map. So far, every researched avenue has been a dead end.