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rebelsandtherest · 2 years

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Prodigal: Chapter 2/?

Summary: Two decades on, a reclusive Alfred Jones continues to process the civil war amidst the desolate ranchlands of the Dakotas. A fortuitous turn of fate has landed him a new job with an eccentric but magnetic man.

Warnings: allusion to PTSD Word count: 1766

Tumblr: Chapter 1

Also read on: Ao3 | FF.net (Yes I’m still posting on FF.net don’t @ me I don’t want to hear it, I know I’m old)

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Dear Mattie,

Your wishes for my continued literacy are fulfilled, for even amongst the cattle your dear brother has not gone as completely feral as sources may lead you to believe. I must apologize anyway since my penmanship remains quite terrible even as my fingers heal. They never actually fell off, I'll have you know, but I've been unable to shake the tremor in my writing hand. I do not notice it until I'm trying to press pen to paper. Last time I wrote, I could scarcely sign my own name. I credit your generous gift of the bearskin gloves with warming them back into writing shape.

Truly, I do not know how to thank you enough. I know from looking at them that it must've cost you either a small fortune or substantial personal effort, and in likelihood, both. You are indeed a decent brother, and beyond that perhaps the best brother a man could ask for. Your generosity was witnessed by the innkeeper in town, who collects the local mail and insisted upon seeing the contents of the package. If you ever get it in your head to visit me here, I'm not entirely sure she won't try and trap you in a frontier marriage. I told her you worked for Victoria, and she thought you must be a knight. I've told you this only to cheer you up, and I hope it does not go to your head.

As for the east, my answer remains much the same as last time we spoke in person. I feel neither despair nor great hurt when I now look eastward, but there remains a bone-deep discomfort that I cannot overcome. It itches and burns, like poison ivy or mosquitos, and the city noise—for the entire coast now seems to be one long city, by God!—keeps me up at night. Besides all of this, there is the more practical matter of my government, whom I fear may want to lock me up again as soon as they have their hands on me. It's an awkward enterprise, re-approaching your own people after a whole generation.

I met some truly inspiring people in New York, last I was there, Edison included. However, the prospect of unexpectedly meeting officials who might know my face from the many secret "wanted" memos—I find it insulting they think I don't know about those—that have circulated Washington in the last few decades makes even the streets of New York feel like an open noose.

I apologize for not communicating about my visit so we might see each other. The trip itself was an impulsive idea when news of Edison's plans reached us here on the eve of the actual event. While on the train, I concocted a plan to travel on to visit Ottawa so that I might surprise you, but after just two days in New York my latent discomfort became so intense I found myself in a horrible panic—the sort of illness left in the mind after a war, or so I've been told—and found myself so desperate to escape I gave up my plans. You know me well enough it should not surprise you that I was too embarrassed to tell you at the time. Three years later, I regret my own cowardice because I miss you dearly. I want very much to hug you and also to see if the insidious rumor that you have grown taller than me bears any semblance to reality. I say you've been wearing tall shoes, and using my absence to spread falsehoods while I am unable to prove you wrong!

One day, I will go back east, to you and yes, to my own government. However I do not know when my heart will allow it. I know this is a dissatisfying answer for you. In the meantime, I shall remain here in the Dakotas, and I hope you shan't worry yourself too much on my account.

To reassure you of my well-being, I should share the goings-on of my life of late. I don't believe I've told you how our fish-out-of-water Marquis fired me last year. Suffice to say he is a rich man who cares more about capital than the well-being of his staff. I defended a young boy from the Marquis' ire after a costly accident with one of the bulls, and employed some language for which I'm sure you would scold me in public and compliment me in private. He told me to leave and never to return, and so I have been quite poor overwinter.

I wish you to know, for it should tell you all you need to know about this man, that he and his family evacuate the continent when winter comes.

However, my luck has recently changed, and I've found employment with a man so much the opposite of the Marquis it seems almost a divine joke! He is one of mine by way of New York, and has apparently abandoned his upper class city life and a career in municipal politics to become a rancher. Perhaps this sounds like an American version of the Marquis' own story, but indulge my gossip a little longer. This man—Roosevelt is his name—is unlike any New Yorker I've ever met!

When I first met him, he was on horseback and out in the fields, so I thought he was one of the ranch hands. I approached him asking if he knew where I might find the landowner, and if he was looking for a cowboy to look after his stock. Upon my inquiry, he smiled and laughed, and introduced himself as the landowner himself. Afterward, I was embarrassed I hadn't deduced as much, for he dresses in over-embellished, caricatured versions of what we wear out on the ranges, and does not hold himself atop his mount with a great deal of confidence. (In my defense my expectations of landowners has been tinted by the Marquis and his frilly European sensibilities). Apparently, Roosevelt has only recently learned to ride, and was until just last year, unfamiliar to the style of saddles used here. And yet there he was, out by himself on his land as though he himself were preparing to drive cattle to market, notwithstanding that he would be months too early. The Marquis of the Badlands would never!

He also wears lenses, and is apparently quite blind without them. I mentioned that I benefit from lenses as well, but had lost my only pair some years ago. Well now I've learned he wrote to his man in New York to make me a new pair. I insisted on paying for it myself, but he's bullied me into only paying half.

"Every man alive should be able to see nature in all its detail," is what he told me. "When one can see the details around oneself, it inspires the pursuit of exploration, and the improvement of oneself through new disciplines and exercise. And that is a kind of manliness I think everyone should aspire to. Besides," and after such casual philosophizing, it took me a moment after this to realize he was jesting when he said, "I should like you to be able to see the cattle as you work them. To lose cattle for want of spectacles seems to me the sort of misfortune we ought to leave to children's stories."

He does have children, I've learned—or rather one child. Alice is her name, and she is only just a year and a half old. I did not press him on the matter of abandoning his family for the Badlands, and I'm glad I didn't. I've since learned from the other hands that this poor man gained a daughter but lost his wife as well as his mother all in the span of two days. His sojourn westward seems to be the endeavor of both a vigorous outdoorsman and heartbroken man. Perhaps it is my own recent history that drives me to sympathize with his choice to grieve out here, where solitude and nature abound.

He's hired a few more cowboys after myself, and has so far treated us all fairly. There is little shelter for either him or us at the moment, and we rely on tents and lean-tos, and he awaits the completion of a cabin on the property. To his credit, he stays in a tent rather than at the inn, although I'm confident he could buy every room if he desired. I tell you Mattie, in the last century I'm not sure I've ever met someone so unfamiliar with frontier life and yet so enthused by the very hardships that send the Marquis packing for France each year. He lives each day as though existence itself is some kind of grand challenge to experience as many things as he can before time can get the better of him. It is impossible for any person to be so many things in a single lifetime—even for you and I! But I daresay Roosevelt is going to try anyway, if for no other reason than to keep God on his toes.

I was afraid a few weeks ago I would be driven east out of necessity, unable to maintain anonymity in the broad rumor mill of ranchlands, and perhaps that would have forced me back into the world to which you've asked me to return. Even so, if my news of remaining west disappoints you, I hope you may take solace in the fact I've acquired a tireless philosopher of an employer who may yet badger me toward self-betterment even more doggedly than you.

Perhaps your eyes are crossing by now from the disorganized novella I've just penned you—and in horrible handwriting no less, many apologies should you need to adjust your lenses on my account. My hand is beginning to shake again, so I must end my letter abruptly before all words become illegible. I hope that spring will find you quickly and well, and that you might begin your annual thaw sooner rather than later. You'd mentioned a while ago that Arthur had intentions to send you to New Zealand to escape the cold, and if that indeed came to pass I hope you and our young sister fared well. I dearly hope to see her again her one day. As for this sibling, I cannot rectify my shortcomings in the present, but ask you to hold out hope for me a while longer.

God keep you, with warmest affection (I mean this in the literative as well as the figurative sense),

Alfred

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1. The term “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder” or PTSD was not yet coined, but we all know our boy Alfred has been wrestling with it for a while at this point.

2. Here is where I must confess I am largely inventing the personality of the Marquis to suit his narrative purpose of a foil to Roosevelt, but it is 100% true that he and is family went back to France each winter! In an area of the continent where both your hardiness and your dedication to the land and the town is measured by how many winters you’ve survived, this was, I’m sure, sneered at quite a bit.

3. Teddy Roosevelt, for all his obsession with “manly” pursuits and rugged outdoorsmanship, was actually quite a sickly child. He suffered profound myopia (nearsightedness) at an early age, and the acquisition of corrective lenses affected so much that throughout his life, he was invested in the support of disabled children, as he understood how much difference corrective or assistive aids could change a life. Additionally, Roosevelt was also quite asthmatic, and was bullied mercilessly as a child for his physical/medical challenges. I believe his asthma was more acute in childhood and adolescence, but persisted throughout his life. Lacking the treatments we rely on today, Teddy decided the best way to treat asthma was through exposure therapy, spite, and sheer willpower. Hey, it may not be medically sound advice, but it seems to have worked out well for him.

4. In February 1884, Roosevelt’s first wife, Alice Hathaway Lee, gave birth to their daughter, also named Alice. Unfortunately, the medical symptoms of pregnancy had masked the fact that she was suffering from kidney failure, and she died two days after her daughters birth. In completely unrelated medical circumstances but in the same house, his mother died of typhoid fever less than a day before his wife passed. This date in Roosevelt’s diary is a simple entry: “The light has gone out of my life.”

5. Roosevelt at this time was obsessed with the idea of becoming a cowboy, and while he certainly didn’t impress with his skills and had to be taught nearly everything from how to ride in a western saddle to how to throw a lasso, he nevertheless earned the respect of actual cowboys because he was eager to learn and apply himself to even the more unpleasant rigors of the lifestyle.

#hetalia #historical hetalia #aph america #hws america #aph canada #hws canada #historical figures #my fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction

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hinamoria · 3 years

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Hitsuhina Week 2021 : Day 1

Hitsuhina Week 2021 : Day 1- Nickname / Hot and cold

Rating: K

Synopsis: Momo remembers the origin of her nickname: Bed wetter Momo

Word Count: 1801 words

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! My first participation at the Hitsuhina week is here. I hope you like it! I had fun writing it \(^.^)/

English isn’t my first language so excuse myself for any typos <3

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“Shiro-chan!” Hinamori greeted cheerfully as she walked through the doors of the Tenth Division office. “We're going to eat yakitoris with Matsumoto-san and other lieutenants. Are you joining us? "

Hitsugaya, sitting at his desk, frowned at the famous nickname his childhood friend refused to forget, and declined the invitation.

"I have a lot of work to finish," he complained, putting an extra sheet of paper on the already tall pile of his desk. "Maybe next time," he added, afraid to upset his friend. "And Hinamori, for the umpteenth time, it's captain Hitsugaya."

"But Hitsugaya-kun, that nickname is perfect for you!" she replied, keeping her smile.

A perfect nickname from Hinamori's point of view. In harmony with the white and shiny hair like snow of her friend.

"Do you hear me calling you by your childhood nickname yet?” Sighed the captain.

Momo laughed lightly as she thought about it. "Bed Wetter Momo" was much less flattering than “Shiro chan”. Especially since it was referring to a single accident and therefore absolutely no more relevant today.

And yet, even though she wouldn’t like to be called that way again today, she still had a certain melancholy as she remembered the event where it’s from. Somehow, that night, Shiro-chan had for the first time given her a kind gesture.

It happened soon after arriving in Rukongai, when she was eight years old.

She still remembered the hustle and bustle, the lost people trying to get information about what was happening to them, and her in the middle desperately looking for her mom or her plush that she must have dropped something. It must be here. She remembered holding it during her last moments of life. So it couldn't be very far.

It was the end of her old life on Earth. Nowadays, it was just a vague memory. The faces of her biological family had gradually faded. She remembered that her mother had brown hair, often tied up in a bun. Momo may have subconsciously imitated her while growing up. But had she hazel eyes like her or were they a different color? She could no longer remember it.

A cholera epidemic had hit the country, killing thousands of people. Antibiotics did not exist at the time, so the chances of escaping it, especially for a child, were almost nil. Momo didn't end up in pain for long.

At the entrance to Rukongai, men and women dressed in black kimonos, whom she later knew as shinigamis, gave instructions to people around her. They were divided into groups. She was going to go to district number one, "Junrinan". She didn't know this place, but thought she heard the term "lucky" from a shinigami.

Looking back 100 years after, she understood how true it was. Especially after hearing Abarai-kun's stories.

Each person was taken to a different dwelling. Very little explanation was given. Sometimes locals sighed when they saw a new arrival, but others greeted them with a big smile. Her journey ended in front of a wooden house with a small earthen courtyard in front and two imposing shoji-style doors at the entrance.

A lady with gray hair tied in a bun opened the door and smiled at Momo.

"Is that the little new one?" She asked in a voice marked by time.

The shinigami nodded and left the area without another word. His behaviour may have seemed rude, but the little lady ignored it. Momo watched him go with slight fear, but returned her attention to the stranger who began to speak to him.

"Welcome my dear. What's your name? "

"Momo…" the child replied after a brief hesitation.

“Very well Momo. From today you will live here. Come home, I'll explain everything to you"

The lady held out her hand, which Momo took, and together they entered the girl's new home.

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To say that the first few days in her new home were easy would have been a lie. Momo was missing her family. And she kept looking through the portal to see if her mother was going to cross the threshold and come to get her.

Her new grandmother was a sweet and warm woman. She gave Momo time to acclimatize without rushing her. She even offered her a small dog-shaped plush toy to replace her previous one. Momo appreciated the little attention and hugged the plush tightly against her at night.

However, living with Toshiro was more difficult. The little boy already had a strong character and did not seem delighted by the arrival of a new child in his home. He often spoke harshly to her, when he just wasn't ignoring her. Momo, luckily, didn't seem to take offense and came back to meet him all the more, determined to make him her new friend.

He didn't looked to be appreciated by the other children, who seemed afraid of his particular hair. Momo, on the other hand, was fascinated by their color and had repeatedly tried to touch them - usually receiving insults and yelling in return - which didn't stop her from doing it again a few days later. He reminded him of the old cat that resided in her neighbourhood on Earth. He had hissed on her each time she approached. But after a few months, he had accepted her affection. Toshiro would be the same, she could tell.

One night, about two weeks after her arrival, Momo had a terrible nightmare. The pain of her last moments on Earth came back to her. She heard her mom cry and pray, but she couldn't see her. She was terribly thirsty and hungry, but the nausea tugged at her so much that she couldn't take anything. It was the end. She felt death coming to seek her. When a new wave of pain pierced her body, Momo woke up abruptly, breathing heavy.

The pain was gone. But she still couldn't see anything. After a few seconds, a growl to her left signaled the presence of the white haired boy and reminded her where she was. Her grandmother must have been somewhere to her right. They used to stick their futons together and sleep three side by side.

She was safe, everything was fine.

Catching her breath, however, she noticed a new unusual detail. Her clothes looked wet.

She straightened up and inspected her bed with the palm of her hand. A stain of moisture permeated the futon, a small part of the blanket and the entire bottom of her kimono. She was taken aback for a few moments, then realized with dread that she had wet the bed!

It hadn't happened since she was three, how could she have done that now? She wondered ashamed.

Discreetly, she got out of the futon, holding her breath as she saw Toshiro move around in the futon right next to her. Luckily, he didn't seem to wake up.

Would Grandma be mad if she saw this? Was she going to be kicked out of the house? Who would want a messy child?

Trying to swallow back tears, Momo took the blanket and left the room discreetly.

With any luck, she would manage to hide her mistake and they would let her stay here.

First she needed clean clothes, then she would go and wash it all in the basin outside. As a final step, she would take care of the futon in the same way. And when asked tomorrow, she could pretend she spilled a glass of milk on the bed. If no one saw the stain, her excuse would be plausible.

After grabbing some new clothes, Momo went down the stairs of the house to go outside.

Luckily, the moon lit up the courtyard a little and allowed herself to orient without too much trouble. Momo found the basin and put the blanket in it. The cold water made the child shiver, who could now feel the tears running down her cheeks.

Looking back 100 years later, she realized how dumb she could have been to feel so bad for a trivial accident like this, but at this moment, the world was falling apart for her.

She changed, taking a little water to clean herself, then tossed the soiled clothes in the water as well. As she began to rub the whole thing vigorously, a voice startled her.

"What are you doing?” Toshiro surprised her from the doorway.

She turned in his direction, speechless. He kept his arms crossed against his chest, obviously waiting for an answer that took a particularly long time to arrive.

"I ..." stammered the little brunette. “I spilled a glass of milk?"

Her voice had risen in high pitch with a sobbing hiccup, making her assertion closer to questioning. Toshiro certainly wouldn't be fooled by the situation. He was young in appearance, but he was significantly older than her in age. And she realized her excuse was completely incoherent when said out loud.

But strangely, she heard neither reproach nor mockery from the boy who was looking at her seriously. On the contrary, his answer surprised her.

"I'm going to get your futon to have it cleaned too…" He said with a sigh.

And he disappeared for a good minute.

On his return, ditto, he remained silent. He helped her clean up and spread the ling. And when they returned to bed afterwards, he even gave her a bit of room in his own futon for Momo. The rest of the night ended without further accident.

The next day, she said with more confidence her story to her grandmother, who absolutely did not believe a word of it, but who accepted it nonetheless, afraid to embarrass her. When she went out to do some shopping, Momo turned to Toshiro who was finishing lunch.

"Thank you Hitsugaya-kun," Hinamori said in a small voice. "For keeping my secret."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied with his mouth full.

Then as he swallowed, he looked at the girl and let go with a smirk, "Bed Wetter Momo".

Momo froze in her seat upon hearing the new nickname.

"How did you call me?” She asked scandalized.

"You called me Shiro-chan a few days ago, remember? From today you will be "Bed wetter Momo" if you keep using that nickname ". He treated her, pretending to be interested in his bowl of rice. But the smirk he kept showing indicated the pride he felt right now in torturing her.

It was the start of a new friendship.

And he kept his word: he used that nickname for many years, and she kept on calling him Shiro-chan. It almost became a game between them.

And if today she was no longer "Bed wetter Momo", she treasured the memory of the first step Toshiro had taken towards her.

#hitsuhina week 2021 #hitsuhina #toshiro hitsugaya #momo hinamori #bleach fanfiction

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austenmarriage · 4 years

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New Post has been published on Austen Marriage

New Post has been published on http://austenmarriage.com/giving-thanks-with-austen-2/

Giving Thanks with Austen

This blog originally appeared last year. With my blog now scheduled on the fourth Thursday of each month—Thanksgiving in the U.S.—I decided to reprise it.

Thanksgiving makes me wonder whether there was any formal giving of thanks in Jane Austen’s work. The November U.S. holiday has spread to most of the Americas. The English have a more general harvest-related tradition of providing bread and other food to the poor, often through the church. That tradition was extant in the Regency and continues now.

Though today’s American celebration is secular in nature, the practice has spiritual roots. It was religious settlers in Virginia and Massachusetts who began the celebration. Most Americans know the tradition of the Pilgrims inviting the native tribes to join in. It was the Indians who provided the food that enabled most of the early colonies to survive the first desperate years.

President George Washington created the first official Thanksgiving in 1789 “as a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favours of Almighty God.” President Abraham Lincoln memorialized the date as the fourth Thursday in November, beginning in 1863, when, in the middle of the Civil War, he proclaimed a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens.”

Austen’s family was religious, of course. Her father and two brothers were clergymen. Her works contain strong, though not didactic, moral strains. I wondered: Did any of her characters ever directly express thanks—to God, to Providence, to the universe? Did anyone express gratitude in a way that recognized any higher power?

I could not find any direct use of “giving” or “offering” thanks in any of Austen’s six novels. Most of her novels contain fifty or sixty ordinary thanks each. Persuasion is the least thankful with only eighteen, but it includes the most fervent. Most of the thanks are a polite reflex to ordinary behavior or a specific response to a good deed performed by another.

“Thank God!” occurs once or twice per book. The sense is usually general. Sometimes the phrase is a positive and sometimes a negative. In Persuasion, Mrs. Croft thanks God that as a naval wife she is blessed with excellent health and was seldom seasick on the ocean. Perversely, William Elliot writes “Thank God!” that he can stop using the name “Walter”—the name of Anne’s father—as a middle name. Anne Elliot stiffens upon learning the insult to her family.

“Thank God!” is a remark that is canceled out in Northanger Abbey. Catherine Morland’s brother James writes her to say “Thank God!” that he is done with Isabella Thorpe, who is now pursuing Captain Tilney. The next post brings a letter from Isabella, telling Catherine “Thank God” that she’s leaving the “vile” city of Bath. By now dumped by the Captain, she doesn’t know that Catherine knows what’s up. Isabella pleads “some misunderstanding” with James and asks Catherine to help: “Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it.” Catherine doesn’t.

The only real “Thank God!”, as an appeal to the Deity, comes in Persuasion after Captain Wentworth’s inattention contributes to Louisa’s fall and concussion: “The tone, the look, with which ‘Thank God!’ was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.”

Everyone’s prayers are answered. Louisa mends and becomes engaged to Captain Benwick. Wentworth is free to marry Anne.

A deeply thankful attitude does exist with two of Austen’s characters. Readers who pause to think can probably guess the two. Beyond the village poor in the background, which characters are most in distress and most likely to be thankful for any relief?

We might think first of Mrs. Smith from Persuasion, who had the “two strong claims” on Anne “of past kindness and present suffering.” Her physical and financial straits are dire, yet “neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits.” Mrs. Smith, however, is more shrewd than thankful, using Anne’s marriage to help end her own suffering.

What character, living on the margins, has a level of energy that often sets into motion her active tongue? We find her in Emma:

“Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest.”

When Mr. Knightley sends her a sack of apples and the Woodhouse family sends her a full hindquarter of tender Hartfield pork, Miss Bates responds with the sunniest appreciation: “Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us.” She might be auditioning for a role in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

In contrast, the social-climbing new vicar’s wife, Mrs. Elton, feels thankful in a prerogative way. “I always say a woman cannot have too many resources—and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of society.”

If anyone has the right to feel a lack of thanks in life, it is Fanny Price of Mansfield Park. When she is not being forgotten, it is to provide some service for someone else. When she is not being ignored, it is to be abused by her aunt, Mrs. Norris. Just about every word that can convey melancholy, sadness, or anguish serves to repeatedly describe her.

She feels misery at least eight times; some variety of pain at least ten times; wretchedness half a dozen times. The best she normally manages is to feel both pain and pleasure, four times. She is oppressed three times and suffers stupefaction once. Her circumstances and personality leave her in a “creep mouse” state of mind. She trembles a dozen times; she cries a dozen times and sobs at least four other. The stress is so great that she comes close to fainting at least three times and is ready to sink once; she suffers fright or is frightened six times; she reacts with horror or to something horrible five times.

Yet for all her misery, and though she lacks a sunny disposition, she manages to look on the sunny side of life.

Fanny feels gratitude at least fifteen times, for things small and large. Gratitude for her cousin Edmund tending to her when she first comes to live with her wealthy relatives. For his providing her a horse to ride. For her uncle once letting her use the carriage to go to dinner. Even gratitude once “to be spared from aunt Norris’s interminable reproaches.”

Kindness comes up about 125 times in the book. The most common use again relates to Edmund: his kindness to her throughout, and his encouragement of others to be kind to her. Fanny can even feel grateful toward Henry Crawford, despite his character flaws, for his kindness to her brother and, a couple of times, for his kindness to her.

It seems to be a fundamental aspect of human nature that those with the least to appreciate in life treasure what they have the most. Austen’s treatment of Miss Bates and Fanny does not, I think, reflect a conscious attempt at moral teaching. Their attitudes flow directly from the women’s character. Fanny and Miss Bates are gentle souls with big hearts. They give thanks naturally for the joy of existence.

So should we all.

—

The Marriage of Miss Jane Austen, which traces love from a charming courtship through the richness and complexity of marriage and concludes with a test of the heroine’s courage and moral convictions, is now complete and available from Amazon and Jane Austen Books.

#Fanny Price #Jane Austen #Mansfield Park #Miss Bates #Regency era #Thanksgiving #The Marriage of Miss Jane Austen

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themanwhowasthursdaytrailer · 6 years

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To celebrate the 1-year anniversary of this project’s debut, I was hoping to share the first draft of a proposed first episode. Sadly, I did not finish it, but I’ve shared what I do have beneath the cut.

FADE IN: EXT. SKY - SUNSET The sunset is flaming and gorgeous, heavy with clouds like the downy wings of flaming seraphim. PAN DOWN TO EXT. SAFFRON PARK - CONTINUOUS The sounds of CONVERSATION and LAUGHTER come up from the disjointed and oddly-constructed little London suburb of SAFFRON PARK. In a garden alight with Chinese paper lanterns, a group of people are standing about, enjoying their garden party. EXT. GARDEN PARTY - CONTINUOUS Somebody says something and there is another burst of LAUGHTER: the speaker has scored a point. CUT TO: GABRIEL SYME, an average-sized man in his late twenties with a blond goatee and an impeccable light blue suit, is standing with a glass of something or other in his hand, mid-debate. SYME: There you go again! What, I ask, is poetical about revolt? You might as well say that vomiting is poetical! The people around him, fashionably silly characters all shapes and sizes, TITTER at the improper imagery. Syme doesn't notice. SYME: Throwing up may be the right thing in certain desperate circumstances, and so is revolt, but I'll be hanged if they're poetical. ROSAMOND GREGORY, a pretty girl with deep red curls, looks a little uncomfortable. Syme doesn't notice. SYME: (Continued) Why, you might as well say that indigestion is poetical! It is things going right, like our digestions, that is poetical! That is the foundation of poetry! Syme's opponent, LUCIAN GREGORY, Syme's age with his sister's hair and a not-nearly-as-pretty face, scoffs as Syme continues. SYME: Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the stars or the flowers or the ocean... the most poetical thing is not having diar- LUCIAN: (Cutting him off) Really! Gabriel, the examples you choose- SYME: (a short mock bow) I beg your pardon. I had forgotten that we had abolished all conventions. Another TITTER from the group and Lucian frowns. LUCIAN: Well you don't expect me to revolutionize all of society here on this lawn? SYME: (Sweetly) No, I don't. But I suppose if you were serious about your anarchy, that is exactly what you would do. Lucian bristles. His voice is dangerously angry. LUCIAN: Don't you think that I am serious about my anarchy? SYME: I beg your pardon? LUCIAN: Am I not serious about my anarchism? SYME: (pleasantly) My dear Lucian! He strolls away and the group returns their attention to Lucian. Rosamond follows Syme, who turns towards her pleasantly surprised. ROSAMOND: Mr. Syme, you and my brother, do you mean what you say? SYME: Mean what we say? Well, there are many kinds of sincerity and insincerity. ROSAMOND: Really? SYME: (proffering an elbow) Miss Gregory, when you say "thank you for the salt," do you mean what you say? No. You say it, but you don't mean it. When you say "the earth is round," it is true, but you don't mean it. Now, when a man like Mr. Gregory finds something that he really does mean, even if it is only a half, quarter, or tenth of a truth he says more than he means from sheer force of meaning it. ROSAMOND: So he is really an anarchist? SYME: In that sense that I speak of, yes. Or rather, that nonsense. ROSAMOND: But he wouldn't throw bombs would he? SYME: (With a hearty laugh) Heavens, no! That sort of thing would have to be done anonymously! Rosamond laughs with him, and they wander off to a nearby bench, still talking. MONTAGE - Time passes The sunset fades, people come and go, one by one the lanterns are extinguished as Rosamond and Syme continue talking on the bench. EXT. GARDEN PARTY - NIGHT Syme looks up and sees how late it's gotten. He jumps to his feet. SYME: I'm so sorry, I completely lost track... I really have to get going, Miss Gregory, thank you for a most pleasant... Fumbling, he picks up a walking stick, puts on an overcoat and top hat, and leaves Rosamond alone in the garden. EXT. SAFFRON PARK - NIGHT Walking down the suburban street, Syme slows as he sees something. Standing between a lamppost and a tree, an arresting figure stands, head bowed, walking stick in one hand, face thrown into deep shadow by the brim of his top hat. As Syme approaches, the figure lifts his head dramatically, and the lamplight reveals Lucian's face. Syme walks to an appropriate conversational distance. Lucian gives a sort of sword-salute with his stick. Syme does the same, more confidently. LUCIAN: I was waiting for you. (a beat) Might I have a moment's conversation? SYME: Certainly. About what? LUCIAN: (striking the lamp and tree with his stick in turn) About this and this! About order and anarchy! Your precious order, that lean, barren, ugly iron lamp, and that tree, anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself, splendid in green and gold. SYME: Nonetheless, just as present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when we can see the lamp by the light of the tree. But did you wait out here just so we could resume our little argument? LUCIAN: No! Not to resume it, but to end it forever. (another beat) Mr. Syme, you have succeeded in doing something that no other man born of woman has succeeded in doing before. SYME: Oh? LUCIAN: (reflectively) Now I remember. There was one other man who succeeded. The captain of a penny-steamer, at Southend, if I recall correctly. You have irritated me. SYME: I am very sorry. LUCIAN: (a dismissive hand wave) I am afraid your insult and my fury are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology, or duel, or even death. No, there is only one way by which that insult can be erased. I am, at possible risk of my life and honor, to prove you wrong in what you said. SYME: In what I said? LUCIAN: You said I was not serious about being an anarchist. SYME: There are degrees of seriousness. I have never once doubted that you are sincere in that you thought what you said well worth saying, that a paradox might make men wake up to a neglected truth- LUCIAN: (striking the ground with his stick) And in no other sense you thought me serious? You thought me a flaneur who lets fall occasional truths? You do not think that in a deeper, more deadly sense, I am serious? SYME: Serious? Good heavens, is the whole caboodle serious? We come here and talk a load of bosh, but I should think very little of a man if he did not keep something more serious than all this talking in the back of his life. LUCIAN: Very well. I shall show you something more serious. (He pauses for a moment, regaining his composure) But first, I must ask you, by whatever gods or saints or powers your religion might involve, by the universe itself, even, I must ask you to make me an oath. SYME: An oath? LUCIAN: Yes. A vow you should never make, a knowledge you should never dream about, you must swear to me that you will not reveal what I am about to show to you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police. If you make that oath I will promise you in return... He trails off and Syme, intrigued, prompts him. SYME: You will promise me in return...? LUCIAN: A very entertaining evening. SYME: (strikes his stick on the ground) My good man, your offer is far too insane to refuse. I accept. Permit me to swear before God, as a Christian, a man, and a good comrade and a fellow artist, that, whatever it may be, no matter the consequence, for better or for worse, I will not reveal your secret to the police. And now, in the name of bedlam, what is it? LUCIAN: I think we shall call a cab. He does: a hansom cab. They get in. FADE TO: INT. DINGY LITTLE RESTAURANT Syme and Lucian are seated at a round, worn table in a smoky atmosphere. Syme is enjoying the last of his meal while Lucian watches indulgently. SYME: I hope you don't mind my enjoying myself rather obviously. I don't often have the luck to have a dream like this. I am quite used to lobster leading to a nightmare, but this is the first time I have experienced it the other way. LUCIAN: I assure you that you are not asleep. On the contrary, you are close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. (a pause) If the table begins to turn round a little, do not concern yourself. SYME: Of course not. LUCIAN: (apologetically) You must not mind the, shall we say, unassuming? exterior of this little restaurant. I must admit it is not in accord with the excellent potables of the establishment, but then that is just our modesty. As he speaks, the table begins to rotate. Slowly at first, then faster. Neither Lucian nor Syme react in the slightest. SYME: 'Our' modesty? LUCIAN: Yes: the modesty of the serious anarchists, the ones you do not think exist. The ones you are about to meet. The table drops straight down, like a broken elevator. It slams to a stop at the bottom of a dimly lit shaft. The unflappable Syme dabs at his mustache politely with a napkin as Lucian stands up and elegantly gestures down a hallway. They walk down it in silence. Lucian approaches the door, heavily armored, at the end of the hallway. He knocks six times, in a one-two rhythm. Gears grind and clockwork ticks. A small speaker is revealed and Lucian speaks into it. LUCIAN: Mister Joseph Chamberlain. It is an acceptable code. The machinery whirs and clicks and the door creaks open. Lucian gestures for Syme to go ahead of him. LUCIAN: (CONT'D) Do excuse all of the formalities. We have to be rather strict. SYME: Oh, don't apologize. I know your passion for law and order. The door closes on its own, and the same hidden machinery locks it behind them. The interior is an auditorium-type room, stairs leading down past several rows of seats to an open area at the bottom, at which are some chairs and a couple of tables. The walls glint against the lights that flicker on upon Lucian and Syme's entry. They are packed solid with rows on rows of guns, bombs, grenades, all style of (era appropriate) weapons. Syme takes the room in as he follows behind Lucian, who almost skips down the stairs to the bottom of the room. Pulling out a chair for himself and one for his guest, Lucian sits down and leans back with an expansive air. He grins at Syme like the cat who swallowed the canary. Syme sits down with an unchanged air of polite interest. LUCIAN: And now, my dear Mr. Syme, now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. I can give you no conception of why I brought you hear-–it was quite an arbitrary emotion, like jumping off of a cliff or falling into love. It is enough to say that you were, and in all fairness still are, an inexpressibly irritating fellow. Syme inclines his head at the compliment. LUCIAN: (CONT'D) That way you have would make a priest break the seal of confession, just for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. Well, you said that I was not a serious anarchist. Allow me to ask, does this place strike you as serious? SYME: It does seem to have a moral beneath all its gaiety. He leans forward in a friendly, conversational manner. SYME: But may I ask you two questions? You may remember that you exacted a vow of secrecy from me, which I intend to keep, so you need not fear to answer.I ask only for the satisfaction of my own curiosity. Lucian nods his permission and waves a gracious hand. SYME: (CONT'D) First of all, what is it all about? What is your goal? You want to abolish government? LUCIAN: To abolish God! We do not merely wish to upset a few despots and police regulations-–that type of anarchism does exist, but we, we dig deeper and blow you higher. We deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honor and treachery, which the mere rebels use, that silly talk of the Rights of Man. We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs, and we have abolished Right and Wrong! SYME: (eagerly) And Right and Left, may we abolish those too? They are much more troublesome to me. LUCIAN: Your second question? SYME: Of course. The general atmosphere of this place, if you will permit me to say it, is rather more impressive than homelike. You barricade yourself beneath the bowels of a public house, you line your walls with weapons, you submit yourself to the indignity of calling yourself "Mr. Chamberlain,"... why, then after all this, do you go about parading your secret to all the silly people in Saffron Park? LUCIAN: (grins) The answer to that is quite simple. I told you I was a serious anarchist. You did not believe me. Nor do they believe me. Unless I brought them into this very room, they would not believe me. The history of the thing might amuse you. FADE TO: INT. FANCY DRAWING-ROOM - DAY Lucian is disguised as a Church of England bishop, entering the room full of respectable wealthy and/or religious people. LUCIAN: (V.O.) When first I became one of the New Anarchists, I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop.

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matrixaffiliate · 5 years

Text

A Twist of Fate

Co-written with @hufflepuffmarlenemckinnon

FFN and AO3

Chapter 7

Marlene chuckled at the shocked look on Sirius' face as his father disappeared.

"You think this funny?" He turned to glare at her. His eyes were grey, just like Dionysus, and his hair almost as black as hers.

"Yes, actually," Marlene laughed, "your dad is known for being funny and all…"

Moira smiled sympathetically at Sirius, "Your father means well, good Sirius. You and my daughter are to work together in this endeavor."

"Wait," Marlene turned with wide eyes. "I thought he was just riding to Athens."

"His destiny lies upon the same path as yours, my dear." Moira chuckled at her daughter.

"Looks like my parent isn't the only one with a sense of humor." Sirius chuckled as he climbed into the chariot.

"Marlene," her mother brought her arms around her.

"Please, please tell me this is all going to be ok." Marlene pleaded one last time.

"You will see me again." Moira squeezed her tightly.

"I love you," Marlene felt a tear escape down her cheek.

"I love you," her mother gently wiped the tear from her face, "Now go."

Marlene took one last look at her mother before turning and climbing into Helios' chariot.

Sirius turned to her as Helios gave her and her mother a cautious glance before taking flight.

Marlene beat him to his questions, "Yes we were speaking, no, it wasn't aloud, and I've only known about this task since yesterday." Her tone was bored.

Sirius stared at her, "And you can read minds as well?"

Marlene laughed incredulously at him. "No, don't you know anything?" She rolled her eyes. "I'm Fate's daughter! I can see a few moments into the future on more occasions than not."

Sirius groaned, "Great, not only do I get unceremoniously sent off to kill some man-eating beast, I'm saddled with a woman who's not quite Fate."

"And I'm saddled with a man who's just as insolent as the God of Wine." Marlene shook her head; two could play at this game.

"I'd like to think I have some of my father's better qualities. No mortal grows grapes and makes wine as well as I do." He smirked at her, "I can also shapeshift into a dog."

"Dionysus shapeshifts into a dog? This is news to me." Marlene stared Sirius down.

"Well no…" Sirius stammered, "But he could if he wanted to…"

"I was under the impression that he took the form of something rather more," Marlene smirked, "impressive."

"I see," Sirius grunted. "You wanted to do this mission alone, so you're trying to run me off by insulting me. That's fair, I could do the same. You have no idea what I may have inherited from my mother. I will tell you that it's nothing so merry as turning into a dog."

Marlene laughed loudly, "You flatter yourself. I could care less that you're coming along. And I know your mother is a mortal. I heard your father say so."

"A rightly vicious one too," Sirius bit back. "Scarier than Father, though perhaps less likely to send me off to a rather disappointing fate…"

"Are you suggesting that my powers disappoint in comparison to your… sometimes being susceptible to fleas?" Marlene stared at him in disbelief.

He smirked, "I don't think I suggested anything at all."

"Careful, I'm enough of Fate to curse you." She gave him a sly smile. "Would you like to vomit every time you smelled wine? That ought to be a right laugh for one of the sons of Dionysus to not be able to stomach the grapes he so desperately clings to."

Sirius' grey eyes were calculating, but Marlene was taken aback that he showed no sign of fear. He was, annoyed… But he was not afraid of her. There were lesser gods that feared her. But this demigod was simply bothered by her presence. Marlene felt like her world had been flipped upside down.

"As ridiculous as that would make me, I'm going to suggest you not do that. I don't know how far ahead you can see, but if I'm the God of Wine's son, I'm probably going to need to be able to prove that. Drinking mortals under the table is one of my many party tricks." He smirked at her and Marlene stared at how attractive the look was on his tan face.

"My curses only last till the sun goes down." She answered absently.

Sirius smiled then, and Marlene could finally see his heritage shine through, and it gave him a pull he hadn't had before. It made sense; Dionysus even smiled around her mother. Nothing dampened that god's enthusiasm. Sirius wasn't identical, but he'd put any human optimist to shame, she was sure.

He let out a breath as he looked off into the distance. He seemed like his mind was far away for just a moment. "I guess that wouldn't be so bad. Until today, since I found my father, it's been one long party. I could do with a break." He chuckled.

Marlene laughed in spite of herself. "You're as ridiculous as your father."

"Oh, so you're a friend of his?" Sirius lounged idly on the bench and gave her a knowing smirk. "How intimately do you know him?"

Marlene laughed at the absurdity of his suggestion. "Today is the first time I've seen your father, but I live in Zeus' palace and word gets around."

Marlene pushed her cloak back off her shoulders and smiled as she watched Sirius' eyes scan her shoulders twice. It was a strange feeling, to be with someone who did not fear her and was not her father or mother. Though one couldn't exactly say that he was friendly or pleasant company for her, she couldn't help but find him refreshing. He seemed fairly nonplussed by her? He was neither all that impressed nor terrified. That was… Different? Bizarre? Nice? She wasn't entirely sure yet.

"Ah, poor Father, his reputation precedes him." Sirius laughed.

Marlene watched as Sirius looked out over the land below them.

"We're almost there," she answered as he opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to lie, that's annoying." He frowned at her.

"Imagine living with it," Marlene shrugged.

"Can't you control it?" He waved a hand dramatically in the air and Marlene chuckled. The more she watched him, the more she could see the subtle signs of his father.

"So far, no, but I won't have to worry about it much longer. I'm going to find my destiny here and then I'm going to give this all up. My father has promised my hand in marriage to a lovely mortal man, and I plan to be mortal myself by the time we wed. I'm doing this for my mother, one last thing to help with the populous' feelings towards her." She sighed.

Sirius tilted his head at her, "I don't think I could do that. I've only known who my father was for the last few weeks, but I've always known that I had more sway with vines and whatnot. I don't much care to leave that behind."

Marlene was about to reply when Helios brought the chariot into a dive, setting them down just outside of Athens.

"We need to find lodging for tonight." Marlene started towards the city and its docks after they'd thanked Helios.

"When does our ride get here?" Sirius stepped next to her.

"Tomorrow at sunrise. Then it leaves sunrise the next day. It's a two-day journey before we make it to Crete. They send us down to the Minotaur whenever they're ready after that. Sometimes it's a week, sometimes it's that day."

"But you'll know beforehand?" Sirius was playing with the vine around his neck, making it grow and shrink as they walked.

Marlene sighed, "That is undetermined."

"I'm just going to go ahead and hope we get lucky." Sirius chuckled. "I really don't want this to be our doom."

Marlene nodded, "Me either."

It was quiet for a moment when Sirius groaned,

"This is so slow."

"Do you have a faster way?" Marlene rolled her eyes.

"Actually," he smirked at her before shimmering into a dog. The dog barked and then took off at a run.

Marlene shook her head, "Jackass."

She took her time after that to walk to the ocean's edge, stopping to lunch with a blind woman who invited her into her home. It was late in the day when she did arrive and found Sirius laying on the beach napping.

"Your father didn't give you any money did he?" She chuckled as he bolted awake.

Sirius yawned and stretched and looked mildly... adorable? "No, Father doesn't think very far ahead. Are you going to punish me for leaving you in the dust further by making me sleep outside and starve?"

Marlene sighed, "It's tempting, but as we're traveling together I suppose I'll relent and be the adult."

"Does that imply that I'm the child?" Sirius looked on incredulously.

"You're one of Dionysus's offspring, that's all the implication you need." Marlene rolled her eyes.

"Really? Just because I enjoy a good party? Or a good party enjoys me, more accurately. Either way, I'd think you'd be able to see more than that." He kicked sand at her.

"Come on, my charge," she kicked the sand back at him. "Let's get a room and a meal."

"How about a meal, then a room?" Sirius stepped up next to her and Marlene noticed how he towered over her. "I haven't had anything to drink since before the sun came up this morning."

Marlene shook her head, "Don't be a baby, we have Zeus for that."

"Zeus has been the source of numerous babies. Some of them he birthed himself, I hear!"

"You are causing me a headache comparable to the terrible pain that Zeus felt the moment before Athena emerged from his skull, a fully grown goddess in a suit of armor."

Sirius stared at her, "I'm waiting for you to be struck by lightning."

Marlene rolled her eyes, "Zeus knows better than to cross my mother. Now come on, the sooner we find a room the sooner you get that drink."

"Mine tastes better," he set his goblet down on the table. They had found an inn near the wharf and rented a room with two cots. "They didn't let the grapes ripen long enough."

"Riveting," Marlene shook her head and finished her last bite of food. "I'm going to our room. The ship normally arrives at sunrise so don't be late."

"You assume I'm going to find a party?" Sirius chuckled.

Marlene shrugged, "Isn't that what you do?"

"Amazingly enough," Sirius leaned back in his chair, "I do have more substance than all of that."

"Sure," Marlene rolled her eyes.

"You need the party more than I do, Miss Fate." He grinned at his play on words.

"We're both misfits," Marlene sighed, "in case you've forgotten who your father is already."

He laughed, "Alright, go be old and timeless and boring and sit in our room. I'm going to check in on Father's followers and be back later."

Marlene huffed but chose not to respond as she headed towards the stairs.

Sirius returned to the room a few hours later and was up before the sun with her. They stood on the dock as the black ship came into view.

"You didn't mention the ship was all black," Sirius commented as they watched it approach, eyeing the black sails.

"I'm not overly fond of it," she shrugged.

The ship finally docked and when the captain climbed down the gangplank, Marlene stepped in front of him.

"You will only collect 12 Athenians this trip," she stated calmly, bracing herself for his anger and then terror.

"I'll throw you in for fifteen if you're not careful, girl." He pushed past her.

Marlene grabbed his arm and held him in place. Being half divine had its perks. "Fate declares that two of your fourteen will be the Daughter of Moira and the Son if Dionysus. If you choose to disobey Fate, you will not see your home again. If you give me any more insult," she glared at him, "you will not see till the sun sets this day."

The fear in his eyes came quickly and Marlene steeled herself as he looked at her like she was the Minotaur. "Forgive me, Dreadful Daughter of Fate."

Marlene released him, "We will see you tomorrow at sunrise." And before she could lose her calm and stern exterior, she turned and walked away from the dock.

She was vaguely aware of Sirius following her.

"Be honest with me," he stepped next to her. "What would you do if I called you 'Dreadful Daughter'?"

Marlene sighed, "Feed you to the Minotaur?"

"I'm wounded!" Sirius threw his hands over his heart.

"You're ridiculous," she grumbled. She hated having to stand in for Fate that way. She hated having people look at her like she might bite them in two.

"So we have the day then?" He asked.

"Yes, we board the ship tomorrow." Marlene suppressed a shudder. "It's two day's journey to Crete. Then we're at the mercy of King Minos as to when we go to the maze. He might delay in an attempt to stop us."

Sirius groaned, "Then I'm going to enjoy some freedom today. I suggest you do the same. Sounds like this might be our last taste of it." He shimmered into a dog again and went running off, most likely to his father' cult.

As much as she didn't want to admit it, Sirius was probably right. And so Marlene did what she loved doing more than anything else, she went around blessing people. Children were her favorite, and it didn't take long until she was surrounded by little faces as she told stories and bought treats and caused Fortune to smile upon them all throughout the day. She wasn't sure how she was going to cope with losing this. She told herself that having her own children would fill the gap, but part of her knew it wouldn't.

The captain was the soul of courtesy as she and Sirius boarded the next morning, though he insisted on calling her 'Dreadful Daughter' which Sirius found hilarious.

She walked to the side of the boat and looked out at Athens as they sailed away. Her thoughts pulled back to a life without her powers, a life as a mortal when all of this was done. She felt that familiar isolation as Athens faded out of sight.

It was a little thing, but Sirius came to stand by her and for the briefest of moments, Marlene didn't feel completely alone.

#blackinnon #blackinnon fanfiction #sirius x marlene #sirius black x marlene mckinnon #sirius black #marlene mckinnon #harry potter fanfiction #hp #GreekMythologyAU #GreekAU #laughingatZeus'expense #pining #forced together by fate #Fate

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house-of-crows · 3 years

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He was only invited because they worked together. I was only invited because he was my father and it would have been rude to exclude me.

It was going to be a very long night indeed.

I woke to the Dreaming already in discomfort. I was sitting silently on my knees, hands placed appropriately, watching the youngest daughter of my father’s colleague open our gift. Her smooth brown hands reached into the box, already delicate and graceful, learning from her mother and imitating her fluidity of movement.

She withdrew a true silk and gold scarf in a glorious purple-red, the perfect complement to shining black hair and, I noticed as she turned her face towards her mother, seated directly behind her on her knees, clear hazel eyes. Her mother wrapped an arm around her waist, fingers disappearing into the many folds and furrows of her clothing. She said something, expectant, and I felt my tongue obey before I even consciously had the words.

“She is young, and every young person is royalty on their birthday. The color was chosen to reflect that, as well as complement such remarkable eyes. It was thought that it would suit her current and her potential coloring well into adulthood. A delicate compliment to the gift of being able to watch her grow in grace and beauty, and a reminder that we consider your family dear friends.”

I felt rather than saw her husband smile, seated on the couch away from his wife and daughters with the grandparents from both sides. There was a touch of anger that they; and my own parents and siblings; would not kneel. But I was here to be the sacrifice of a sort, and the Speaker it would seem. More weight put on me than I cared to acknowledge with my body already feeling like it would disintegrate around me.

The children were like ranks around the mother; by right it should be my own kneeling here in my place; the birthday girl directly in front, the further youngest to eldest to either side in a single-file rank of three. Luckily for them, their ages corresponded to height so the eldest could see easily over their younger sisters’ shoulders. I made no move to wrap the scarf around her head or shoulders, nor to lay it across her lap; any of which could be seen as condescending [I have given you your crown (power)] or compassionate [I offer you protection and care against the sun (outer world)] depending how they took my explanation of its origin. I could not dare to do either; whether for professional status when my father was his superior, nor because of the color of our skin vs theirs. I could not risk the offense for the very little gain the compassion could offer.

Instead, I merely bent forward, forehead hovering over my forearms, and rose, lifting my hands in the sun sign, blessing the child from afar. The role a less intimate acquaintance would take, a minor noble to a prince, the stream to the ocean. That was well received, it seemed, for her mother smiled bright and clasped my hand. The coolness of her jewelry brushing my skin like water in the desert.

“We thank you,” and my name on her tongue was static. I rose enough to move to my assigned seat, to the side of the proceedings against the wall, furthest from the couches. I could see the door to the living room, the three steps up to the right, leading away to bedrooms. The stair over the foyer to the front and left of me... leading to the upper floors. I understood, then. We were a courtesy invite, no more. Were this a family only occasion it would have occurred in a more intimate place. Were it work only, it would have taken place in a setting outside the house completely. But here we were... in the home but not of it. An awkward situation indeed. I only hoped I had navigated it with grace enough to not cause more strife..... even if I was an insult as neither my father’s wife nor her eldest daughter. It seemed I was the only one who cared enough to learn. An insult in potentate.....

I held my tongue and kept my silence. Waiting for our out. Three came and went before my father rose to his feet and moved to take the keys from his pocket. I rose, and immediately had to stifle a cry of pain. My body, not used to the position I had been kept in for hours as I waited for him to remove us politely... had gone stiff and numb. I managed a tight smile, and moved to follow the family. Instead, my father followed their grandmother into the kitchen. I could have screamed in rage.

That was not a place for men, and it was not a place for anyone not of the family to go. If he persisted- and there it was. His colleague tightly inviting him and his to stay for dinner... the dinner that they would have made larger just in case, but also the polite thing to do would be to refuse. Outright, and politely, insist that our own was waiting at home. But my father.... prideful, arrogant, assumptive... agreed.

Whatever pained color filled my face drained. I could not maintain for the further hours it would take to endure this. And I could not in good conscience stay silent at this point.... but neither could I leave. He had bound us to attend with his idiocy. And so I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came. No insight, no wisdom, no grace. Lost.

I stumbled along; literally and voicelessly; after my family. I knew we were intruding, I knew this was offensive, but I had no power to leave. I sent the mother an apologetic look and bowed my head silently. I could not refuse to eat or drink either, as that would be rude. Refusal of hospitality in a situation like this being tantamount to a threat. It ached, to be so bound. Were I free... but I was not.

I left the building after dinner was completed. The women were drinking coffee and teas, while the men smoked or were otherwise engaged with alcohols. The way down from the balcony was a difficult and long one, the staircase touched the beach, rocky shore and white sands in the dying light. I walked slowly, trying to disengage the tension in my back, but nothing helped. My shoulders were drawing out of alignment, my hips burned. In the end, I ascended the stair and returned, first washing my feet before I re-entered. I returned to kneel in my place, keeping to that small protocol even though it seemed all others had been cast aside.

My own mother had tried to enter with my father and been rebuffed, and she was more than miffed about it. She kept making cutting remarks about not being included.... when I knew it was to give each party a break from the others. To talk about work or children or even merely topics that would be no interest to the other. A chance to drop the social mask. But she.... was the proverbial bull in a china shop with none of its actual care.

I rose at that point, and lifted my glass, silently honoring the mother who had done everything right... and still had a foreigner intrude despite every polite urging to go that had gone unheeded. I smiled wryly and drained the cup, placing it upside down on the saucer.

“A blessing on your hospitality and my thanks for the peace you have offered freely with both hands. My sincerest apologies, Madam, for the uproar we have brought, and a blessing for your child on the anniversary of her first breath. May [god] grant you many gifts for your forbearance, and bless you richly for your spirit.” I bowed, removed myself three paces backwards, and immediately walked for the door. Looking neither right not left for any reason to stay, or to be forestalled in my leaving.

My entire body was on fire by now, and I wished uselessly for my cane. Not even for my harpyform, or my cloak, but the cane. The same I bore in the Waking, made and measured to my aching body. Instead, what I got was the enraged reddened face of my father shoving through the front door after me, tearing down the drive. I didn’t listen to any of the invective he hurled. Just raised my head and stared.

I waited, until he was finished, and then I unleashed hell.

“I was waiting on my KNEES for SIX HOURS while you dithered and fluttered like a sad pigeon seeking handouts from tourists! I have missed my medications, I have missed my own home, I have been waiting for you to take a hint, when all they have done is be pleasant and kind hosts. YOU however have taken every opportunity to TAKE instead of knowing when was enough. We were invited as courtesy, and only that, and you took it for more, and demanded more. Gluttonous, desperate, reaching, grasping PIG that you are! Rooting for yet more among the scraps taken away from the table for the dog. YOU would take your glut from the mouths of DOGS in their kennel, and the cat in the alley, and the birds that roost on the wires. Greedy is not yet the half of it!

You sat with the grandparents, who have given their fill and freely with both hands provided, you have taken their honors and sat in their midst as though you were deserving though you brought nothing into the house but a single gift for the queen of the day. When you SHOULD have brought wine, and a wreath of flowers to lay at her mother’s feet in gratitude for another beauty walking the earth. When you SHOULD have brought cakes for the elders, and gold for the father, magnanimous, generous, yielding of your own for engaging with what is his.

But you did none of this, and you did not even seat your own children among theirs, elevated them above your HOSTS as though you were the god-kings of old. And you did not honor them as you should with your WIFE offering gifts with HER own hands, instead delegating to one who is neither son nor daughter. God-touched and an insult in one. And I am ACHING with it! I am BURNING with it!

I have taken the pain for seven, and I am done. You should have sent me home when the giving was complete, such as you offered, and yet... I have been SAT HERE for SIX HOURS, while you gorged on their hospitality and begged more like an honorless beast. I am done. I am done. I am DONE, and I have been done with you for years. I do not know why I am constantly being dragged backwards into the mire of your shitpens to do the work you are meant to have done yourself, but I am not yours. I am not some creature wallowing at your heels for you to command.

I am not for you, nor your wife, I am not your child and I have not been in over twelve years you doddering, grasping, greedy, FOOL of a manchild. Do for YOURSELF, do not seek me again. You will be met with fire and wrath if you do, my tongue and my grace are not for YOU or yours. My Aegis is not for you to shield under. I am going.”

I woke to the Waking in more pain, arms and back and more, but I at least feel less burdened.

#Dreaming #other people's shit #Fuck the Clan #Fuck the Church #The Manor #Foreign Gods #Queen Of The Day

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offbrand-valk · 7 years

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Day 6: Jealous, Dealing with notoriety, Aristocratic rivalry.

(It’s a fantasy AU, because I have 0 self control, don’t judge me)

Read on AO3

“This is absurd! You’re just going to sell me off like some prize pumpkin?” It took everything in me to control my anger and not take a swing at my aging father… With my axe.

“No Lara it’s politics. You are helping avoid civil war.” And the more he spoke, the harder it became to resist that urge.

My mom took my hands in her own and spoke in a calming voice. “Lara sweetie, I’m sorry that you end up being the one having to clean up our mess, but this is the way it has to be. Our feud with house Nishimura has lasted for too many years, and if we don’t end it ourselves soon, the sun queen is going to end it for us, and she is going to end it with blood.”

This was the only way to solve things without bloodshed, it was true, I knew it was true, and as much as it annoyed me, I was going to agree to marrying a Nishimura and combine our houses.

Why did it have to be a Nishimura?

I had assumed the most degrading part of this ordeal would be having to swear my undying love to a Nishimura. This rather foolish assumption was of course based on the fact that I had gone my whole life thinking I would be allowed to marry for love and had therefore never bothered to read up on the intricacies of noble courtship.

The proper procedure too wooing another noble started with having to travel alone to their land and presenting yourself to the family. It was decided that I would be the one doing the wooing, since we could not expect a Nishimura to travel to Avalon, for fear that they might muddy their boots.

Neither my bow nor my axe were brought along as fashioned statements, because as anyone except my dear parents could see, this was also an excellent opportunity for an ambush.

house Nishimura was the house from which more than half of the sun queens, including both the first and current ones hailed from, and it showed in their land.

As much as it pained me to say, Yamatai was impressive, with all it’s sleek interwoven spires that could be seen from miles away, and streets lit by magical black flames.

I had always thought Croft Manor to be a bit excessive, but Yamatai made it look like child’s treehouse. No scratch that, the school of mirrors alone made it seem like child’s tree house.

Entering Nishimura manor, I took petty pleasure in dragging as much mud in with me as I could, before learning that the floors were enchanted to be self-cleaning, because of course they were. Moments later I was beset by a horde of servants, both human and magical, who pretty much dragged me by the braid to meet the assembled house of Nishimura.

The grand hall was covered from top to the bottom in the onyx and silver colors of the Nishimura family, with every flat surface that could support it, sporting their coat of arms. Gathered around a long mahogany table sat about 20 of my in-laws. By the end of the table sat my wife to be, flanked on one side by her father the Nishimura patriarch, and on the other her mother the headmistress of the school of mirrors.

A small stage had been placed for me to stand and present on, the implication that I was comparable to a jester was not lost on me. As such I resolutely stood next to it, and gave Hisao Nishimura a warriors salute, both to emphasize this was not a surrender it was a compromise, and to remind him which house was ultimately responsible for defeating the order of Trinity.

“To what do I owe the honor, Lara Amelia of house Croft?” He asked smugly as if he hadn’t known about my visit weeks in advance.

“I have come to seek the hand of your daughter Samantha of house Nishimura’s hand in marriage.” I had practiced that line to the point where I was going to be repeating it in my sleep for weeks to come, those snakes would not find anything to disagree with in my performance of the courtship rites.

“Then tell me what you might offer to such a union that my house may justly consider it.” the Nishimura patriarch spoke straight from the pages of manners at court, good to know we were both working off the same playbook to avoid any incidents.

I took a moment to compose myself, disguised as finding a good place to rest my bow. I had to make sure to get the order absolutely right. The most important things according to tradition should come first and last (meaning heritage and inheritance in either order), with the rest somewhere in between and no mention of personal accomplishments outside of skills.

“I am the daughter of Lord Richard Croft and Lady Amelia once de Mornay now Croft, the twin scourges of the order of Trinity. I am accomplished in all forms of warfare as well as druidic magic.” A man halfway down the left side of the table scoffed, and was immediately glared down by the lady Nishimura.

If I wanted to, I could have caused a scene right then and there, maybe used this insult as a spring board to negotiate a dowry of some sort to prove that they really did respect my house, but honestly I just wanted it over and done with. So, I continued as if nothing had happened. “I am next in line as the warden of Avalon, and the sole heir to the house of Croft.”

As was customary the Nishimura family then proceeded to grill me about every topic between heaven and earth, and as was customary I lied and told them I was virginal and untouched as midwinter snow.

I was then lead out by Samantha, who had so far remained silent, as her family discussed my proposition. “Croft.” Her voice was politely neutral. “Nishimura.” I replied, matching her tone exactly.

“They’re going to be at it for a long at least until midnight, so what do Croft’s usually do for fun?” Right how could I forget, while the family was evaluating a suitor, it was bad luck to the point of faux pair for the brides to leave each other’s side.

“I don’t suppose you have a library somewhere I might busy myself with?” This completely reasonable suggestion, for some reason so grossly offended Samantha, that she looked about ready to call off the entire wedding.

“Seriously, you’re in the greatest city in the Queendom and all you want to do is read?” She said that like it was a bad thing, like there was some great adventure just waiting around the corner for me to discover it.

“Well Samantha, what else would you have us do? You are the local after all.”

“First of all, it’s Sam to everyone except the sun queen and that’s only because she’s my great grandma, secondly how about literally anything than isn’t going to the library?”

“What’s wrong with the library?”

“Nothing I just had enough of it 3 times over during my time at the school of mirrors. Speaking of which, why don’t I show you our magical arena, so that you can show me some of that druidic magic you were so proud of.”

“Fine, but only if you show me some of your mirror sorceries too.”

I told myself I only agreed as a gesture of goodwill, that I would much rather just wait out the discussion in the company of a good book and a mug of tea.

This was however a lie. Sam had this contagious energy about her, that was almost too easy to get caught up in, and I desperately wanted more.

We had barely sat foot inside the arena before Sam stripped down to her undergarments. “What? Wouldn’t want to harm the expensive silks.” She said, and I just nodded dumbstruck in agreement.

“Though with the color your face is turning, I wonder how you’re going to respond to this.” She said with a mischievous grin and wiped her hand in front of her face. Suddenly there were three of her, and a moment later five.

“Pretty cool huh?” All five Sam’s said in unison and gestured to each other.

I reached out to feel the magic around me. As a druid, my magic was very reliant on my familiarity with the land, and you would be hard pressed to find a land I was less familiar with than the big city.

Still, I found a thread of familiar magic and started pulling. “I guess. Not as cool as this though.” I said with a big smile before throwing a ball of fire skywards and making it explode into cinder-butterflies that gently flew all around us.

All except one Sam disappeared. The one remaining giggled slightly and reached out to touch one of the butterfly. Then she stopped herself and turned to me with a challenging look. “So that’s how we’re going to play this?”

The whole room moved in every direction at once, as Sam began a complex series of dance-like movements. Piece by piece a shape started forming in front of her. First, I thought it was just a construct of reflective glass, then I realized that the room wasn’t mirrored or for that matter connected inside the structure. Sam had recreated the room on a small scale and bend it into the shape of a rose.

“For you sweetie.” She said and gently waved it towards me. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I reached out to touch it, only for it to pass right through my hand. “Yeah sorry for getting your hopes up, I’m good, but I’m not that good.” Sam said and shrugged apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it. Instead worry about how you’re going to upstage this.” I said, the challenge clear in my voice.

I gathered myself, reaching out for every magical thread I could reach and started wrapping them around me. For a moment Sam looked unimpressed as I glowed softly at her… Then the floor opened beneath me.

Vines and rocks sprouted from the ground and began to envelop me. Becoming part of me as I grew in size to the point where I couldn’t stand upright without hitting the roof. Over my body of stone and tree, a coat of mold and flowers quickly grew.

Having officially thrown subtlety to the wind, and being not quite done flabbergasting Sam. I reached one of my hands down in front of her, and let a rose spring from my palm with petals of 2 different colors: half of them in Nishimura silver, half in Croft umber. “This one you can actually pick up.”

After she did, with the most beautiful expression I had ever seen on anyone’s face, I returned to my human form and the enchantments on the arena repaired the damage my transformation had caused.

Ever so carefully Sam laid down the rose on top of her bodice.

“For the record, I can do that too.” She said, and with a quick wave of her hand, she had taken the shape of an earth elemental of the same shape and size as I had just been.

Or had she really? “Well can your magic do this!” I said, and without giving her time to react, leapt at the spot she had just been standing.

There was a sound like glass shattering as her illusion was dispelled. Half a moment later I collided with Sam, and we fell giggling in a pile on the floor.

“You know Sam, you’re a pretty decent woman all things considered.” I said as I was lying on top of her, our faces a hand’s width apart.

“Decent enough to get a kiss?” She asked with a smile, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely.”

#ss endurance week #saveoursam #sam nishimura #lara croft #fanfic #my writing #s.s. endurance #salara

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my-dark-words · 7 years

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My Mistake...

The roads were dangerous. Storm water coated the asphalt, deep puddles that obscured the lane markings and rose in a spray under my car tyres. Heavy raindrops on the windscreen conspired with fog from my own breath to obscure my vision. The time was so late that it was practically early, so there were blessed few other cars on the road. This was a bad night to be driving. This was the sort of night where mistakes would be made and people would die. I arrived home in one piece, so to speak. Work had been both physically and mentally exhausting, and the drive home had used up the last of my concentration. I waited in the car for a moment, hoping in vain that the storm would let up briefly enough for my sprint to my front door, thoughts of the day crowding my exhausted brain. Faces of patients and their frightened or grieving families drifted though my mind. Crying, screaming or sometimes completely blank. The worst ones were the faces full of desperate hope, hope that my team and I might find a solution that I knew just didn’t exist. The storm refused to relent, and I resigned myself to getting wet. Gathering my belongings I dashed out of the car, but only ran a few steps before running out of energy and walking the rest of the path. I was already soaked, the extra few seconds would make little difference. The yard was a mess. I hadn’t weeded in months and badly needed to get someone to mow the tiny lawn, but it was not my priority at the time. The dead heads of the roses shed brown petals under the raindrops, and thorny branches scraped the windows. My home was cold. I hadn’t bothered to leave the heater on that morning, it seemed a waste to heat the whole place when nobody was in it. I didn’t bother to turn it on now either, knowing I’d be in bed soon. There was precious little time for me to sleep before tomorrow’s shift at the hospital. I found my way carefully to the kitchen, switching on the solitary light I needed to find my way around. Dinner was destined to be a frozen microwave meal for one. It wasn’t fancy, truthfully they didn’t taste very good, but they claimed to be healthy and it was one less thing my busy mind needed to think about. They tasted a little better if heated in the oven, but I had neither the patience nor the motivation for that. The hum of the microwave did little to warm my thoughts. There was always so much I needed to do, and so much I never quite managed to get done. All those tasks would have to wait though, I just needed to eat, sleep, and go back to work tomorrow. Life was always that way. The electronic ding jolted me from my thoughts. The plastic tray of the so-called honey soy chicken was hot to touch. Steam drifted upwards from the open packet. I opened a kitchen drawer to gather cutlery, a single knife and fork. All my others were waiting patiently in the sink to be cleaned. Sudden movement from the couch demanded my attention. Nothing should be moving in my house except me. “Good evening,” said a man in a suit, sitting far too casually on my couch. My shoulders tensed, and my fists clenched. “I highly doubt that,” I grumbled. A dozen questions raced through my mind, but it didn’t occur to me to be frightened.

I was only angry, insulted even, that someone had the nerve to bother me here, especially after the day I’d had. “How did you get in here?” I demanded. He stood up, rolling his shoulders and fixing his tie before walking towards me in the kitchen. I didn’t know how long he’d been waiting, only that his suit was completely dry, while I was still soaked from my sprint through the storm. “Is that really your most important question?” he mused, head tilting to one side as he advanced. I racked my brain, trying to recall if he was someone I recognised. It was no use, I’d seen so many people today, so many people every day, that I could barely keep track of who was who. I didn’t know what I must have done to anger someone so much that they break into my home. He must have come in the back door. I hadn’t seen any signs of an intruder at the front. “No, I suppose not,” I conceded, eyes fixed upon him, “The more important question is: How do I make you leave?” He paused and smiled. This was not reassuring in any way. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, but in my home, at this time of night, I couldn’t shake a profound sense of wrongness. But I was still not afraid. “Now, where’s the fun in answering that?” He practically purred. The voice was deep, and oddly familiar, even though I couldn’t quite place it. “Do you always answer every question with a question?” I snapped. I had no patience, or time, for a game of cat and mouse in my own house tonight. His reply was brief. “No.” He smiled menacingly, gesturing to the space between us as he advanced. “Since we’re here, I thought we’d take the opportunity to understand each other. Get to know each other.” I tensed, flush with rage, but didn’t move from beside the kitchen bench. “What do you want, exactly?” I demanded curtly. He feigned innocence. “Just to talk.” “There’s a telephone,” I said. I reached slowly into the kitchen drawer, taking care to keep my eyes fixed on his. He never blinked. He laughed, a deep, insincere chuckle that echoed through my house, and head. “That would be… Inadequate. We need to do more than talk. We need to… Understand each other. I want to help you, all you need to do is invite me in.” He stroked his tie absent mindedly. “Why would I do that? You found your way in here without an invitation.” Lightning flashed in the window, revealing the rest of the room for the briefest moment. In that flash, his smile flickered to a scowl. A creeping, nagging pain settled around my head like a band. I badly needed to rest. The last thing I needed was… whatever this was. He paused in his advance. Pale hands gestured around my home, cold and empty as it was. I was suddenly embarrassed by my own disorganisation. There were dishes in the sink, mostly cutlery to be fair, that had been waiting for days. A pile on unopened and unattended mail lay on my little dining table. Drying racks half full of laundry filled the open space of the lounge, lately I hadn’t been bothering to put my clothes away, I just washed what I needed and wore it straight off the rack. “You’ve been drowning in life, my dear,” he said, gesturing to one housekeeping failure after another. “You were better than this. You are better than this. I understand life can get difficult, but I can made everything easy again.” I silently scolded myself for letting my home get into such a state. He was at least partially right, I had let this state continue far too long. My home was in no condition to host a guest. Not a guest, I reminded myself, an intruder. “Work gets us all down at times,” he continued, “but you bear those burdens more than most. They don’t leave you, do they? You give so much of yourself that you don’t have anything left to be yourself. Always on the edge, always thinking. Decisions, decisions with the stakes so high. And so much simply unnecessary uncertainty.” He stopped scrutinising the room and slowly stepped towards me again, his back straight and arms open. “I can make everything so very easy. No fear. No worries. No doubts. No… difficult decisions.” He smiled in such a way that he probably thought was warmly, but to me with my aching head only served to make me feel uneasy. “Just certainty,” he offered. I sneered despite myself. “There’s exactly one certainty in life,” I said. He scowled, dropping the act for a moment. “And that is?” he said with a jerk of his head to one side. “Not you.” The smile returned. Collected. Calm. Predatory. He was only one step away now. I tensed, but did not move. “How curious,” he mused, his dark eyes searching my face, for what though I’m not sure. “You do seem to lack a certain…” He hesitated, hands drifting through the small space between us as though literally clutching at words, “A certain self preservation instinct.” “And why is that so curious?” His smile widened, baring more teeth than he probably intended to. “Because everyone else is wise enough to be afraid by now.” I smiled this time. Not the warm, understanding smile I wore most of the day at work, but the cold, angry smile I grew when I’d run out of patience. “Oh I’m so sorry,” I mocked, “but it’s rather difficult to be afraid of you, when you’re standing here is such a well fitting suit, and I’m standing here with a very sturdy kitchen knife and the knowledge about where every single vein runs in your body.” He raised one eyebrow in response. “Now, I believe you were leaving?” I continued. His expression went blank and he straightened his shoulders. “No,” he said softly, the corners of his lips twitching upwards in the faintest hint of a grin, “I’m not leaving, and I doubt very much that you could shed a single drop of my blood, even if you had the will to do so, good doctor.” He chuckled to himself, bringing one hand to his lips to conceal a smirk. “Besides, your trusty blade appears to be inaccessible at present.” I frowned and stole a glance down at my hand. The knife under my palm was visible, but looked like three different versions of itself, all overlaid one on top of the other. They were all the same knife, but all wrong somehow. Too blue, too red, or devoid of colour at all. And my hand passed through all of them. Now I was worried. “Give it back,” I said. He shook his head. “Not yet,” he practically purred. The man turned away from me and stepped towards my little dining table. It was really only big enough for two, but cluttered with assorted mail and documents that I just hadn’t gotten around to dealing with. With one casual gesture the clutter glided off the table and thumped to the floor, and a chair slid out for me. “Come. You mustn’t let your dinner get cold on my behalf,” he said, standing behind the other chair. I stepped out of the kitchen, but hesitated before approaching the table. “I’m not really hungry,” I said softly. That was true, my headache was getting much worse and I swore I could hear a high pitched ringing. He chuckled again, the sound cutting through the ringing in my ears. “Of course not, your current dinner is quite pathetic. You deserve something much better than that.” He stroked his chin in contemplation. “Perhaps you would allow me to tempt you with something more worthy?” He gestured across the empty dining table like a magician. As I blinked a meal appeared, welcoming and extravagant. A pair of steaming hot steaks surrounded by vegetables, two glasses and a bottle of red wine. No, not quite red wine. The colour was off. It was grey, I realised, I’d only mistaken it for red. All the food was greyer than it should have been, as was the man himself now I bothered to notice. It was like looking through a migraine aura where all the colours of the world were different in one eye, and I couldn’t match them up. “Sit,” he said, opening the bottle of wine and pouring two glasses. I’d often wondered if demons were real, in an abstract or metaphorical sense. Medicine tended to expose you to the murky depths of human nature, and I had encountered more than my fair share of people I would have described as having broken souls. Many patients had their own demons, some knew them better than others. I’d often wondered idly about what it was that would tempt someone to fall, to lose their resolve. I used to wonder what would tempt me. It certainly wasn’t going to be dinner. “I’m vegetarian,” I quipped. Both wine glasses now full, he replaced the bottle on the table. “Sure you are, my dear, that’s why it’s chicken in that pathetic microwave meal beside you,” he sneered. He stared up at me, intense eyes shadowed by a lock of black hair. “Your attempt is adorable, but ill advised. Don’t lie to me, and I wont lie to you,” he warned. He stood up straight again, rolling his shoulders. For such a well fitting suit, it didn’t seem to be very comfortable. “I promise,” he added. “I don’t believe you,” I replied. The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Your belief is irrelevant.” He gestured again to the waiting chair. He was easy on the eyes now, in a quite literal sense. His features were smoother, almost stylised, but still greyer than they should have been, even with the dim light from the kitchen. “What are you?” I wondered. “What do you hope I am?” he crooned through a charming smile. “Are you going to answer every question with a question again?” I quipped. My headache was getting difficult to bear. Could I risk turning my back to take some pain killers? Was there anything I could do to worsen the danger I was probably in? “No,” he said simply. I stayed silent. I didn’t know what game was going on, but doing what this guest, intruder, wanted me to do was unlikely to be for my advantage. After a few moments he rapped his fingers against the back of his chair and gestured again to mine. I still declined to sit. The room, previously so chilly, felt warmer now, the air heavy with humidity. The storm still raged outside, and my head pounded distractedly, but I refused to move. I didn’t know how to play his game, but I suspected if I played at all, then I would lose. Besides, I was really in no mood to even entertain the concept. I had work tomorrow. I needed to sleep. A growl escaped from the man in the suit. For a moment I thought I was seeing double, two echoes of the man stood in the same place, one calm and collected, the other roaring with rage. It lasted only a few seconds, enough to make me question my own sanity again. “Is this really what you want?” he snarled, turning to gesture around the room. “Is this the life you really want to have? Alone, overworked and under appreciated?” He stepped towards me, glowering at everything. He seemed bigger, and once again I thought I could see two, or maybe three, versions of the same man in the same place, but not quite identical. It was hard to focus on, like my kitchen knife had been. “You could be so much more!” he roared, pointing at me with one accusatory finger. “You’re wasting, withering away here in the shadows. You, the good doctor, are capable of much greater things. You deserve greater things.” He calmed a little, the three visions of him coalescing back into one, still tremoring with rage. “You could achieve so much more, be so much more, if you’d only dare to ask,” he continued, stepping towards me again. “I can help you get it, to have anything you desire.” Lightning flashed through the window, exaggerating his features for the briefest of moments. I suddenly felt like having a table between us was a wise idea. I stepped towards the waiting chair, and immediately his posture changed. He no longer loomed in the room, instead of gesturing around he calmly clasped his hands behind his back. He waited with new patience as I sat warily in the chair. I hesitated, but he didn’t move. He only stared, the calm facade betraying nothing. I pulled in my chair, and placed my hands on the table. “That’s a pretty strange offer from a home invader,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I looked. Why was it so hard to concentrate? He sat down gracefully in the other chair, smiling smugly. “I would prefer the term ‘surprise guest’ if you don’t mind,” he practically purred. He folded his hands in front of himself, resting his elbows on the table. The room felt abruptly cold again, I was unsure how it had ever felt warm. “What do you want?” I asked. Whatever game he was playing, I was so sick and tired of it. I was so unbelievably tired, yet underneath it all still angry that this person had dared come into my house. “You already asked me that,” he replied, one eyebrow lifting. His smug smile was getting irritating. “And you lied,” I said. “I did not,” he insisted, leaning back in his chair and drawing a cross over his heart with one finger. “I promise.” Unsure what to say, I managed only an angry glare. The wind howled outside and the rain never ceased, a real killer storm. The offered meal of steak had vanished from the table. He sighed, reaching across the table for my hand. “I want to help you, to know you.” I drew back quickly. I didn’t know what would happen if he touched me, I wasn’t even sure whether he could, like I had been unable to touch my kitchen knife. “I want you to leave so I can sleep,” I said, keeping my hands out of reach. His face flickered, scowling as my hands had been pulled away. The scowl was suddenly replaced by another smile, a new smile. This one was different, softer. For a moment I almost mistook it for kindness, before recognising it. It was a smile of pity. “It’s unlikely you’re going to get any sleep tonight, my dear,” he said. “Look around. Be a realist.” he placed one hand flat against the table in front of him again, and gestured around my home with the other. “Life is overrunning you, and you simply haven’t been able to keep up. There’s just so much to do, too much to think about. Trust me, I understand.” He made an attempt at a warm smile and offered a hand, palm up. I stared at it. There was not a single thing about this situation that I could trust. “I can fix this,” he continued, “I can help you get back on your feet, if that’s what you want.” “What’s the catch?” I asked coldly, making no move for the outstretched hand and refusing to break eye contact. “The catch?” he asked innocently, tilting his head to one side. “If I’m being offered a deal by the devil,” I explained tiredly, though I didn’t think I should have needed to, “I need to know what’s the catch.” The offered hand closed into a fist and withdrew. “Is that what you think I am?” he asked smoothly, straightening his suit jacket once again. “Am I right?” I asked. “Would it excite you if you are?” he said softly, leaning back with a smirk to comb his fingers through his black hair. “Are we seriously back on the endless cycle of questions again?” I snapped. He paused, sitting up straight once more. “No.” I waited. I really had nothing more to say in this situation and simply feeling too drained to come up with anything clever. If he was setting some kind of trap, then I figured the least he could do was throw me some bait. “Very well,” he said at last. “No catch. Just stay, talk. Simply get to know each other, come to understand each other.” The hairs on the back of my neck rose. I began to really wish I’d turned on more lights when I’d come home. “Why would you want to get to know me?” The smile shifted from pity to interest. His focus was intense and disconcerting. “That’s not the most important question,” he smirked, “The better question is what can you learn from me? If I am what you think I am.” They say curiosity is a more powerful motivator than fear. They’re not wrong. “Honestly?” I wondered. “Always,” he said, nodding slowly. Part of me had to admit, the smile was charming. Another part of me knew from experience that everyone could be charming when they wanted something. “You’ll answer every question with the truth?” I asked again. “Yes,” he replied, excitement rising in his voice, “Everything you’ve ever wondered, and my dear I know you’ve wondered.” He began to list things on his fingers. “Life. Death. Souls. Anything you’ve ever wondered about, I will answer with the truth.” This, at last, was tempting. I had wondered too often about factors beyond my control. Were souls real? What happened after death? Could we find peace after it? Is there justice in the afterlife? So much I wanted to know, for the sake of my patients past and present. Yet I hesitated still. I knew from experience that knowledge brought power, and while I wouldn’t give away all the knowledge I’d spent years studying to acquire, but it also changed your view of the world. It tainted you. Knowledge was truly a double edged sword. And this offer, this was knowledge that no human was supposed to have. Not this side of death, in any case. But it was so tempting. “I…” I stammered, “I’m afraid I must decline.” I knew, in my heart, that I couldn’t allow forbidden knowledge to change the way I practised medicine. I might get to know what happens after we die, but none of my patients were keen to find out for themselves if I could help it. He froze in place, almost. His visage flickered, but I could only catch a glimpse of the other emotions he struggled to keep under control. They weren’t good. “What?” he snarled. “I have to decline,” I said again, quickly this time. “I mustn’t learn these things.” I waited for a reaction, a knot forming in my stomach and expecting the worst. He said only one word. “Why?” I took a deep breath and chose my words carefully. “I can’t ethically allow your answers to change my actions. It’s still my job to save lives, no matter what may or may not be waiting for those souls if I fail. I have to go to work tomorrow and try just as hard as I did today. Now I need to sleep. Perhaps we can talk some other time.” He slammed his hands down onto the table. I jumped to my feet. My chair tumbled behind me. “There is no other time,” he hissed at the table, “This is a one time offer.” He glared up at me, not moving. “Ask anything,” he urged. “Ask everything.” “But everything is so big,” I whispered, my mouth dry. “I’m not supposed to know those answers. I’m going to work tomorrow and I’m going to try to save lives, and there’s nothing you can tell me that can, or should, change that.” “Always with the work in the morning,” he grumbled, staring down at the table.”But what if you don’t have a morning to wake up to?” I thought of the storm, rain still pelting down outside. I knew it was a dangerous night to be driving. I knew there’d be terrible accidents on the road tonight. Was I already dead? I took a deep, slow breath. I could feel my panicked heart beating in my chest. I didn’t think I was deceased, but it struck me as unwise to ask. “I can give you everything you need,” he said, looking up at me, eyes as dark at the storm outside. “I can make all your struggles easy. Care and comfort. Removing all life’s tiresome details and difficult decisions.” He stood up, stepping rapidly around the little table. “Even knowledge beyond mortal comprehension isn’t enough to tempt the good doctor, it seems.” Slow, deliberate steps brought him closer to me, but there was nothing deliberate about his shape. Shimmering, twitching, slightly different versions all occupying the same space as he advanced, all but one screaming with rage, reaching for me. “I was going to make your life easy,” he said, the deep voice emanating from the version of himself not currently screaming, the one that seemed to be barely in control, “but I assure you my dear I can also make it very… difficult.” I stepped backwards, unwilling to tear my gaze away. My mind raced for any idea of escape, of defense, but it was too slow even in panic. I jumped as I backed into the wall behind me. He was so close, and I had nowhere to run. He reached towards me, one hand either side of my head, fingers extending like claws. His face was close enough to feel his breath, as hot as I’d imagined hell would be. His expression flickered, jolting between different versions of himself a mere breath away from me. I dared not move. I couldn’t actually move, only stared in wide eyed fear. His eyes were dark like the space between stars. They didn’t look like eyes at all, more like pits of nothingness as they drew me in.

He blinked.

He withdrew.

I dared to breathe again. “My mistake,” he murmured, taking a step back, fixing his suit. “Mistake?” I wondered out loud before thinking. The storm still roared outside, but I noticed my headache was suddenly gone. “Yes, I must apologise,” he said stiffly, as though the words were foreign to him. “It appears your soul is not here.” He combed his fingers through his ruffled hair, his visage converging into a single version of himself, once more looking human. “I will take my leave.” He gave a small nod and turned away, walking towards my front door. I slumped back against the wall as he left I was relieved, but unsure what had happened. Or rather, what had nearly happened. A sudden, burning concern gripped me as I heard the front door open. I raced to the entrance. “Wait!” I called out to the man in the dark. He hesitated by the garden gate. “You said my soul isn’t here. Where is it?” He straightened, a darker silhouette in the gloomy night and pelting rain. He said something, but the sound was drowned in the roar of the storm. “Come back inside!” I shouted, switching on the light. The man, or whatever he was, turned and walked back down the garden path towards me. He raised one had to his ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” “Then come back inside,” I shouted again as the wind picked up pace. “Tell me where my soul is.” He smiled on the threshold of my home. It was not a kind smile. I noticed, far too late, that he was still completely dry. A broad grin crept across his lips, and my stomach twisted with dread as he stepped back into my home. “I accept your… invitation.”

The Mistake Series

#fiction #darkiplier #horror #devil #4600 words #demon #deal with the devil

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austenmarriage · 5 years

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Giving Thanks with Austen

With my regularly scheduled blog appearing this year on Thanksgiving, I wondered whether there was any formal giving of thanks in Jane Austen’s work. The November U.S. holiday has spread to most of the Americas. The English have a more general harvest-related tradition of providing bread and other food to the poor, often through the church. That tradition was extant in the Regency and continues now.

Though today’s American celebration is secular in nature, the practice has spiritual roots. It was religious settlers in Massachusetts and Virginia who began the celebration. Most Americans know the tradition of the Pilgrims inviting the native tribes to join in. It was the Indians who provided the food that enabled most of the early colonies to survive the first desperate years.

President George Washington created the first official Thanksgiving in 1789 “as a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favours of Almighty God.” President Abraham Lincoln made it an annual event beginning in 1863, when, in the middle of the Civil War, he proclaimed a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens.”

Admiral Croft and Anne Elliot are thankful that Captain Wentworth is coming to Bath–unengaged.

Everyone’s prayers are answered. Louisa mends and becomes engaged to Captain Benwick. Wentworth is free to marry Anne.

We might consider Mrs. Smith from Persuasion, who had the “two strong claims” on Anne “of past kindness and present suffering.” Her physical and financial straits are dire, yet “neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits.” Mrs. Smith, however, is more shrewd than thankful, using Anne’s marriage to help end her own suffering.

What character, living on the margins, has a level of energy that often sets into motion her active tongue? We find her in Emma:

“Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest.”

She feels misery at least eight times; some variety of pain at least ten times; wretchedness half a dozen times. She is oppressed three times and suffers stupefaction once. The best she normally manages is to feel both pain and pleasure, four times. Her circumstances and personality leave her in a “creep mouse” state of mind. She trembles a dozen times; she cries a dozen times and sobs at least four other. The stress is so great that she comes close to fainting at least three times and is ready to sink once; she suffers fright or is frightened six times; she reacts with horror or to something horrible five times.

Yet for all her unhappiness, she manages to look on the sunny side of life.

Fanny feels gratitude at least fifteen times, for things small and large. Especially toward her cousin Edmund, played by Johnny Lee Miller in the photo by the headline. Gratitude for Edmund tending to her when she first comes to live with her wealthy relatives. For his providing her a horse to ride. For her uncle once letting her use the carriage to go to dinner. Even gratitude once “to be spared from aunt Norris’s interminable reproaches.” Kindness comes up more than 125 times in the book. The most common use again relates to Edmund: his kindness to her throughout, and his encouragement of others to be kind to her. Fanny can even feel grateful toward Henry Crawford, despite his character flaws, for his kindness to her brother and, a couple of times, for his kindness to her.

So should we all.

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#Fanny Price #Jane Austen #Mansfield Park #Miss Bates #Regency era #Thanksgiving #The Marriage of Miss Jane Austen

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