#lornflukes

[bishopofstdiesis]

The Roof Below, circa 1899 (the second) [Part 2]

...obviously, it gets weirder the more you go to the Roof Below.

[iamthepulta]

That moment when you start to write and you're getting the vague shape of the tone and you put pen to paper and realize you don't have enough maps and genealogies to attempt anything and it's back to square one.

[scornfluke-archive]

FUCKING JILLYFLEURS AAAAAA

[thepulta]

Home, Part 1?/?

Set sometime between the Birthday fic and Westlie’s Departure. In which the word ‘Fuck’ is used just as many times as the words ‘Westlie’ ‘Morgan’ and ‘The’. Officially labeled as sub-canon by me because I don't want it to affect game-play even though I'm positive it happened; angst just seems to happen with these two.

.

Only one person kicked open the door to Fairweather Merchandise in that particular way. A smile teased the edges of Westlie’s mouth as she looked up from the Navigator’s Handbook.

“Madam!” Morgan ripped off a brown traveler’s cap and bowed deeply, carpetbag bulging in her other hand. She was covered from head to toe with a thin film of coal dust. “I have urgent request of several pounds of coffee, two crates of hours, and-” she swept up to the counter and leaned one elbow on it, plowing into Westlie’s personal space. “-a secret so intense it’d make a lornfluke weep. Madam, can you provide?”

Westlie snapped her book shut and leaned in closer to Morgan’s fiercely playful gaze. “My lady, you wish for a secret to make lornflukes weep? Those are rare to come by. The price will be exorbant.”

“Ah, you do not know me!” Morgan waved a hand exuberantly. “I am the engimatic Faire! And I am fair in looks and fair to thee. If a cost there may be, charge it to my family three.”

Westlie threw back her head and laughed.

Morgan grinned and pulled off the cap to hide her face below the eyes. Her brown eyes peered at Westlie. “Madam, I but gave you my name. This order, I must have it urgently. Many lives depend on its delivery.”

The world was brighter when Morgan was home.

“My lady, we can provide goods throughout the wilderness. Wherebouts do you require this odd, strange, order?”

Morgan plopped the cap back on her head, took a leap and perched on the counter, forcing Westlie to take a step back. “Across the Reach! To the winters of Lustrome!”

“My lady,” Westlie reached up and yanked the cap over Morgan’s eyes. “It shall be done!”

Morgan forgot she was sitting and leaning across the counter on one arm, grinning cheekily while she reached to fix the cap. She promptly lost her balance and yelped.

“Morgan-!”

She slipped head-first over the counter with a crash, dragging down three jars of peppermint candy with her. Morgan groaned and raised her head a little, looking to reach across and flick off half a dozen candies on her chest. “Ow.”

“No! Don’t move. The glass-” Westlie grabbed for the broom instinctively and gingerly swept around her. “Are you hurt?”

Morgan giggled and the peppermints slid around. “No, I’m good.”

“Fuck, you’re lucky.” Westlie looked down - really looked down at her idiot of a sister lying in glass and peppermints - and stopped sweeping to laugh. “What were you thinking?”

“That was so funny.” Morgan somewhat gingerly laid her head back on the ground and grinned. “Don’t lie, I saw your mouth twitch.”

Westlie smiled and rolled her eyes, moving to sweep the peppermints off her. “Well, welcome home. How long was this trip? Three months?”

“Longest yet! A hundred-and-two whole entire days.” Morgan sat up once she was mostly clean and brushed a few pieces of glass out of her hair, shimmying a little as she popped to her feet to get any further shards off her coat. They fell to the ground with little shatter sounds. “Sorry about the jars.”

“Oh that’s all right. Nobody buys peppermints anyway.” Westlie reached down and scooped up one to toss to her sister. “Here, have one for free, Miss Enigmatic Faire. …Stars, I hope you don’t use that line anywhere else.”

Morgan popped the mint into her mouth and wandered around the counter to pick up her carpetbag. “I won’t tell you to let you get your sleep at night.”

“Morgan.”

“Oh, I know. I’m not only the most enigmatic Faire, but the most compassionate.” The playful cheeky grin was back and Morgan blew her a kiss. “When do you close up?”

Westlie glanced at the clock on the far wall. “Well- actually. It’s been a slow day.”

“Aha, I knew it.” Morgan snatched the Navigator’s Handbook sitting on the counter. “This only comes out when you have more than fifteen minutes to sit still.”

“Thirty,” Westlie corrected her.

“Well that’s worse, because then you have time to fuck off and do something more interesting, but I understand the sentiment.” Morgan grinned.

Westlie scowled and swept up the last of the glass. “Anyway, I was going to say, because it’s been a slow day, I don’t think anyone would notice if we closed a bit early.”

“Yes!”

Westlie placed the broom back against the wall and stepped back to the counter, shuffling a bit of paperwork and trading it under the counter for her coat. “I can be surprising sometimes. I’m not going to sit here doing that much of nothing.”

Morgan leaned up a little on her toes as Westlie came around the corner and she placed her elbow on her shoulder, grinning. “Westlie, you are still so boring.” Westlie right-hooked her in the side and Morgan wheezed, nearly dropping the carpetbag. “Fuu-”

“Spontaneous.” Westlie reached the front and flipped the sign on the shop door to Closed. She grinned as they walked - and limped - outside where she locked the front. “Maybe I should be the Enigmatic Faire.”

“You don’t do anything enigmatic!”

Westlie laughed. It felt good to laugh again. Morgan rolled her eyes.

A chilly wind nipped their coats as they walked down the street. The weather rarely changed in London, but the wind had decided to blow a swift, cold breeze from the east for the past week and it was cold enough for hats and scarves. Westlie could feel her nose starting to brush red; when she glanced over at her sister’s face her cheeks and nose had turned a healthy pink beneath the coal dust film. They probably looked a sight, Morgan dusty with her travel cap and plain skirt with Westlie prim - or she felt prim anyway - in her good black coat.

The walk got too quiet after a few minutes. Morgan swung her carpetbag at her side, people-watching. Westlie could feel herself starting to slip into the habit of reviewing the books in her head like she always did on her walk home, making a list of letters she needed to write later in the evening and a to-do for the next day. Which wasn’t fair to Morgan, obviously; just her returns felt more and more jarring as her trips grew longer and longer. Westlie was out of the habit of their banter, even though it came back naturally within a few hours.

“So,” Westlie gently poked her sister. “Tell me a story.”

“Mmm, what about?”

Westlie had to think. Where had their last letter exchange been from? Leadbeater? “Someone from Leadbeater; someone you liked.”

“Oh you couldn’t ask for someone I hated.” Morgan popped another mint in her mouth; she’d apparently scooped it up earlier. “That’s so much easier.”

“I like seeing you squirm.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “So kind, so thoughtful.”

Westlie bumped her shoulder, pushing aside the sudden mental note she had to write a credit letter to Threadworn since their cargo was now unrecoverable. “We have ten minutes, just pick someone.”

“Alright, alright. So there was this woman,” Morgan swung the carpetbag a bit into the breeze. “I only saw her twice. Once in the hotel lobby, once in one of the bars.” They crossed the street, weaving through throngs of people in their own cloaks and coats and top hats. “She was kind of a petite thing, shorter than both of us, actually, with this up-do fluffy dark hair. She looked like a skyfarer, although she probably wasn’t now I think about it; nobody wears a cloak that nice while flying. Anyway-” they turned into a side alley. “-I was just lounging around the lobby when she walks in and I see her pull out a notebook and she starts writing down everything in the lobby. Or I assume she was taking notes on them.”

“Eventually a manager asks her what the hell she’s doing and she starts taking notes on him; his clothes, his figure. She was circling him like a well. I doubt it was to comment on his hygiene but it might as well have been; he got pushy after a few minutes of that and she just kind of stood there disgruntled, and then she opened up her coat and she had two little ratti boys just tucked away inside! I don’t think they bit him but oh, he squealed.” Morgan rolled her eyes. “Ran all over his shoulders until he flung himself away and that was that. She just walked out!”

The surroundings of London changed a bit as they moved away from the docks and shops, shifting into townhomes of varying size, shape, and quality. They were all painted the same bland grey with red-grey brick walls around their gardens; unique, but eerily, annoying similar. The cloud of smoke and steam above London mixed with the red-glow of Albion’s wilderness just turned everything red and grey. They both blended in quite nicely, Westlie realized, with their red hair, Morgan being soot-covered as she was, and her with her black coat. Perfect little well-to-do Londoners. The thought irked her, even though she couldn’t pin down why. Something to do with Arthur, something to do with a banker. She had to renew their contract within a few days and she wasn’t going to have time tomorrow.

“…Wes, are you listening?”

Shit. “Yeah.”

Morgan scowled. “Lair. What did you hear last?”

“The rats. The rats popped out of her coat and scared him off. Sorry, I just- got distracted. ”

“Got distracted by what? There’s nothing here.” Morgan spun around, gesturing around them at the bland red-grey of London. “I should go paint a house. That’s what this place really needs. Can’t fucking do it in one night unless I hire someone else to go with me.” She scowled at the line of houses. “Might be worth it to give you something better to stare at. Distracted my ass.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Look, finish the story. We have two blocks left.”

Morgan huffed and sulked for a second, shoving her free hand in her pocket. “Well as I was saying. I didn’t see her around Leadbeater at all, but a few nights later I saw her in one of the pubs just drinking, but still with her notebook out. She was watching everyone so I had to lay low and slip around a little. After a while she stood up and went to the bartender, did the whole ‘can I speak to your manager’ bit, which did bring out the manager. She then proceeded to lay into him about clocks. Something about them being off, bad management; I don’t know. I was across the room so I couldn’t hear. I think the manager got pissy with her though, rightfully so. But then, she opens up this little box - couldn’t have been larger than a man’s fist - and the whole place goes blinding white. Totally white! Couldn’t see a thing. When it stopped like five seconds later they were both gone.”

“Both gone?!”

“Mmhm, vanished.” Morgan was still sulking, Westlie could feel it, but her mouth had a wry upward twist. “Now you have a secret to make loreflukes weep.”

“I’ll sell it only to the appropriate bidder.”

“You better,” Morgan swung her carpetbag from side to side and around herself with an salty, absentminded air, forcing Westlie to dodge a lightpost and walk in the street. “I can use that if it doesn’t scurry around the Reach too quickly.”

Westlie couldn’t think of anything else to say, and Morgan, salty, didn’t volunteer a topic, so they walked in silence and she made a brief to-do list until they reached their street. Her mood was not improved knowing Threadworn was going to be a pain in the ass now due to that cargo loss. Captain Scottson was a bitter man. She shook her head a little as they got closer, trying to clear it.

London was not the place for artful, imaginative housing. Their townhome was tall and equally grey as all the others on their street; it had a few artful wooden columns in the front, trim, and a hexagonal tower design on the front with a few gables to the north. The only real difference beside being slightly larger, was the advantage at being the last house on the street; trapped in the corner of St. Mark and St Andrew, so their garden wrapped around to the south of the house, extending the view from both Morgan and Westlie’s windows. It was a dull garden though with an extensive rock base, two mushroom beds, a few trees, and rosebushes intended to add color to the dull exterior. Relia had placed red lace curtains in the windows (always drawn) to help with that, but it wasn’t much.

“You’d think after twenty years, they would have done something extravagant to make it stand out,” Morgan mumbled. “It’s not like either of them.”

Westlie realized after a second they’d just been standing at the gate, looking at it. It was not a particularly beautiful house, and Westlie didn’t have any particular attachment to what was inside it either. It was a house. “Can’t have everything, I guess.” She unlatched the gate and they both stepped inside, still eyeing the house in a somewhat reserved way.

Whenever her sister returned in a fairly proper manner Westlie had a deja-vu realization that Morgan’s aura was bright, airy, and full of life, exactly the opposite of the houses around them - especially this house, in particular. The whole street loomed quiet and imposing and dead. There was no reason for her to want to come home. She’d never blamed her for staying away, but it was a good reminder. How had Morgan even lived here for 18 years in the first place without ending up equally quiet and dull anyway?

Westlie sighed, unlocking the front door and holding it open for her sister. I’m just as dead inside or I’d probably be off somewhere too. She felt her heart cling just a little tighter to Morgan and her light. “Do you want to clean up first?”

“Yeah, I’ll shake these off, just give me a minute. I’ll invade your room when I’m done.”

“Like always.” Westlie smiled, hoping it gave off the feeling she didn’t mind at all. “Where were you thinking tonight?”

“Mmm, maybe Porters?” Morgan slapped her cap against the silvery fleur-de-lis wallpaper, leaving soot stains, and very obviously not giving a shit about it. “No, that’s too nice. Let’s do O’Malley’s this time. I need a whiskey.”

“The Enigmatic’s drink of choice.” Westlie rolled her eyes, giving her a little smile. “I’ll be down in a minute, I just want to change coats-”

“Westlie!” A thump and the roar came from upstairs.

Shit. Oh, fuck.

Westlie could feel her brain turning. He’d heard the door shut and their voices. She hadn’t closed the shop that early. It was paperwork. It had to be paperwork. What did she miss? Fuck, what did she miss? A precious second ticked by. Westlie and Morgan looked at each other instinctively at the sound of footsteps with the same calculation in their heads. Three months away and a night off early; Arthur couldn’t ruin this. Morgan’s face paled but her lips and eyebrows were drawn in a firm, set line. She grabbed Westlie’s hand and yanked her down the hallway as heavy footsteps sounded up above. “Westlie!”

Morgan pulled her into the kitchen and into the open pantry. It smelled like onions and mushrooms. She dragged away a basket of potatoes to reveal the faint outlines of a cellar, and Morgan grabbed the ring, yanking up on it with all her might. It heaved with a cloud of dust and they both coughed. “Quick, get in there.”

“Westlie!!”

He was on the landing now.

Westlie disliked dark holes, especially in the ground clouded with dust, but Arthur’s request could take anywhere from ten minutes to ten days. It wasn’t worth the gamble. … She could still imagine spiders crawling on her skin just looking at the black cellar. “Is that safe?”

“Are you fucking asking this now? Get in there. You owe me one.”

Westlie held her breath and took several steps down. It was black, pitch black; the kind of black you couldn’t see the outline of your hand if you waved it in front of your face. “Morgan…?”

“Just stay quiet.” Morgan shut the door on top of her and Westlie felt rather than heard the potatoes slide back over the opening. Her heart raced and she opened her mouth to take a breath, trying to stay calm. The cellar smelled overwhelmingly like fungi and decay. It smelled like death, only in a more earthy, inhuman way. Her breathing quickened. Don’t panic, Westlie. Stay quiet.

There were footsteps above. Arthur’s. He came into the kitchen; paused. Westlie felt herself staring at the trapdoor above her in the dark, straining her eyes for some glimpse of light.

“You could at least say hello.” Morgan was somewhere by the stove. Westlie vaguely remembered something on the counter near there when she walked in. Maybe pastries. Morgan knew how to use props.

She could imagine Arthur’s curled lip in disdain. “I thought you were gone.”

“Unfortunately I’ve returned.”

“Where’s Westlie?”

There was a half-beat silence and Westlie knew the non-committal shrug of Morgan’s shoulders. “I don’t know. Just got back. Wanted something to eat before I cleaned up.”

Arthur had a low tolerance for conversation with Morgan and they both knew it. There was an audible growl in his voice. “I heard her with you in the hallway.”

Morgan’s tone was scathing. “And I left. And now I’m here.” There were Morgan’s footsteps, but not her usual light, happy ones. There was a dry, somehow coy pause. “… I’m not her keeper, Father dear.”

She could imagine Arthur’s scorching look of distaste and Westlie was briefly distracted from her horror at the cold and the dark with a wave of protectiveness. She reached up a hand to the floor and almost pressed against the slats before realizing the potatoes were on top of her, and besides that, if she opened it- Her hand hesitated. If she opened it, she would have to face Arthur when they were supposed to be going out on an early evening and- and- Westlie dropped her hand and guilt settled in her stomach. 

At some point a few years ago she’d thought of mailing Morgan a monthly stipend; let her stay the fuck away from all of this. It’d be easily excused as giving herself a raise, and her gut twisted whenever Morgan and Arthur had to be in a room together. Fuck, it was just so wrong. She hadn’t thought it was necessary back then so she didn’t do it. It was definitely necessary, she was definitely going to do it.

Arthur snorted, and his feet shifted on the boards like he was looking around for any disturbance. “… If you see her I need to speak with her.”

Morgan, don’t say anything. Let him leave.

“Oh, I gathered that from all the screaming. The choir could use you, you know.”

… Morgan.

“I should have put you in choir. Prop open your mouth with a stick when I need a songbird. Teach you respect.”

Morgan’s voice tightened. “Last time I checked I can’t carry a “Westlie” down the stairs at full volume.”

“You never needed anything useful out of her.”

“Well, I prefer to ask in a standard tone of voice like a regular human.”

“Ah, regular humans.” Arthur paused for his customary sneer. “Good thing she’s less normal and more useful than you. I didn’t realize the second one would be such a gooddamn parasite.” 

Westlie’s stomach churned like she’d eaten something foul. She could imagine Arthur’s savage disdain and somehow her gut hurt worse. She could take it; she expected the disdain at this point since it was just his reaction to someone he didn’t need to please. Morgan on the other hand, once said two whole words to him in a year. It was “Good Morning”, and the withering scowl Arthur gave her at those words shut her up for a day and a half. … Morgan wasn’t fourteen anymore, but still. Fuck, he couldn’t be civil for one interaction could he. Parasite. Her stomach flopped again and Westlie took a breath to steady it.

There was a long, quiet thirty seconds. Arthur’s footsteps moved from the hallway; heavy stomps up the stairs; there was creaking down the wing to his study she could barely make out. Westlie was too nervous to reach out for a wall she couldn’t see in the dark, so she just stood there on the bottom step, eyes closed, sick. The stench of active fungi pressed in harder and curled down her throat. Morgan, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you stop.

Softer footsteps eventually walked across the kitchen, into the pantry, and the potatoes scraped against the floor. The trapdoor creaked and a dusty grey light broke into the cellar. It’d be like seeing heaven if Morgan’s pale, pointedly neutral face weren’t Westlie’s personal hell. She knew that look; she pretended too, and it was far harder for Morgan to hide under a mask of neutrality. She always tried to say Arthur’s slurs didn’t bite at her, but they did. They definitely did. Fuck, when did everything smell like mushrooms? Westlie covered her mouth as her stomach heaved. “S-sorry.”

She stumbled up the stairs, shoved past Morgan, and made a beeline for the sink, barely reaching it before the reek of mushrooms overcame her and she hurled her lunch. Pork loin tasted decidedly worse the second time. Westlie caught her breath as her stomach twisted again and the rest of breakfast came up too.

“Westlie-?”

“I’m- I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Westlie had to resist the urge to snap; acid just tasted so bad. “I’m fine.” Don’t fucking worry about me. She leaned back against the counter with an elbow, panting. Pull yourself together, Westlie. “I just- I wanted one evening off. … He was the last thing I wanted to deal with.” Fuck, Morgan, you didn’t deserve that interaction.

“We’re still going.”

Westlie couldn’t answer, she just faced the kitchen and leaned back against the counter, eyes closed trying to breathe and get the stench of acid off her tongue. When was the last time she even threw up? When she was fifteen? sixteen? Got too careless with too much rum, but she never made that mistake again.

“We’re still going, right, Wes?” She could hear the hesitant, accusatory tone in Morgan’s voice without looking at her narrowed eyes like she’d throw up to get out of the pub.

“Yeah- Yeah. I need a fucking drink. And I owe you one of whatever the fuck you want from the surface.” Westlie waved her hand a bit non-committally, eyes still tightly shut. “Go change or whatever you were thinking. I’ll just stay down here. I’ll go like this. I’m fine.”

Morgan straighted, suspicious in an entirely new way. She was trying to eliminate possibilities; Westlie groaned inside her head. “I will, but… Westlie, you’re not fine.”

“I am fine.”

“You can’t be. When was the last time you threw up? You’re not that scared of the dark.”

Westlie grunted, opening one eye. “I hate imagining spiders under my skirt too.”

“There are no spiders under your skirt.” Morgan scowled. “Why are you deflecting?”

“’m not. I’m trying to catch my breath.”

“Westlie-”

“Just- stop.”

“Are you okay?!”

“I said I am!”

“But you never throw up!”

“I know! Goddamn it. Stop fucking worrying about me!” It came out before Westlie could stop it and she opened her eyes to Morgan recoiling like she’d been slapped. Her eyes narrowed.

“Well that wasn’t suspicious at all.”

“I told you I’d go to the pub. Now go get dressed.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Westlie scowled. “I’m not telling you shit. Go clean up!”

They were both equally, infuriatingly stubborn. Morgan glared at her. “No.”

Westlie growled and threw up her hands. “It was fucking dark, I hate mushrooms, and it felt like spiders were crawling on my spine.”

“We snuck into a museum through an air duct together!”

“Yeah, well, that was then! Stop fucking asking!” Westlie’s voice raised and she checked herself, lowing it into an angry hiss.

“I just want to know!”

“And you don’t need to. Keep your damn nose out of my business.”

“Oh you are an ungrateful bitch. I should have let Arthur hang your ass to dry.”

“Morgan-”

“No, you-” Morgan adjusted her own tone into a hissed whisper, clearly wondering how far their voices would carry. “You listen to me. You’re a fucking idiot and I’m the only one with some goddamn sense in this family and I will beat it into you if I have to. You are not fine now. You’ve never been fucking fine. Are you blind, or stupid, or just being an asshole right now?”

Westlie glared. “Alright, fine. I’m being an asshole. I’m the asshole. Sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix shit. I come home after three months and you’re distracted half the time and it makes you an asshole the other half.” Oh, so she was still pissed about earlier too.

Westlie’s tone turned bitter. “I said I’m sorry. What more do you want?”

“Don’t fucking pretend you’re fine when you just threw up in the sink. Don’t fucking ask me for a story if you don’t give a shit about it - especially not a good one. Don’t lie to me you busy bitch.”

“Fine.” Westlie glared at her. “Fine. I just won’t ask about your travels. Didn’t realize asking who you fucking met on your haphazard, three-month, expensive-as-shit tour of the Reach I gave you the money for was so important I have to drop everything to pay attention to Morgan-only-Morgan.”

Morgan narrowed her eyes, wrapping her ire around herself like a shield, the same as Westlie did for her anger. That hurt. Westlie’s stomach twisted again and she ignored it. “I’ve been gone three months and I’m the selfish one for asking for five minutes?”

“I didn’t say you were selfish-”

“Morgan-only-Morgan,” She mocked in a hissed sing-song tone. “Well ‘Morgan-only-Morgan’ wants to know why you’re throwing up all over the goddamn sink to prove I’m not as fucking inconsiderate as you think.” She edged closer, eyes furious. “Any answers?”

“I don’t like the dark.” Westlie growled back.

“Don’t fucking lie to me or I will call Arthur right back in here.”

Westlie felt her breath catch just enough she noticed and if she noticed Morgan undoubtedly saw it too. Alright, fine. “I don’t like the dark … and-” Morgan’s eyes narrowed further. “-I haven’t had a free night in three weeks.”

Morgan straightened up a little, brown eyes still furiously pinning Westlie in place. “Now that sounds like the truth and I ought to murder you for an entirely different reason.”

Westlie scowled. “I don’t decide that.”

“You decided right now five minutes ago when you let me shove you in the cellar, you fucking idiot, and you would be fine if you just stopped being so goddamn perfect trying to keep a shitty business running.”

“I’m not perfect, I have a job to do, Morgan. I’m not going to fuck off without reason.”

“This is a reason! You throwing up is a reason! You’re stressed! What is wrong with you?!”

Westlie felt her anger peak and her own eyes flash. “You don’t get it. Every employer in all of goddamn Albion is the same fucking person. You find an asshole to work for, Morgan, you work for them, and then you die. You fucking die, and you can’t do shit about it. So I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit your three month schedule, but that’s life.”

“That’s not true.”

“Fucking cry me a river. ‘Not True.’ When did you get experience with employers in London?”

“I’m just saying you’re not fine.” Morgan hissed, because she knew she was beat there. “When was the last time you threw up? My Westlie can’t fucking hold her liquor but she doesn’t vomit it all over the goddamn floor either. Don’t defend that asshole.”

“What asshole? Arthur? Like fuck I’m defending him.”

“Want to say that lie to my face until I believe it?”

Westlie made a lunge for her and Morgan leaped back. They circled each other like hissing tomcats, voices still hushed with furious eyes.

“Don’t you dare accuse me of defending him,” Westlie hissed.

“Oh, I’ll dare,” a wicked smile appeared, giving a glimpse of Morgan’s darker counterpart. “I’ll tell you everything you don’t want to hear. All the bits of truth I watch you run away from.”

“You wouldn’t know truth if it smacked you upside the head.”

“I’ll smack you upside the head; you playing the part of this clever monolith holding shit together.”

“I do my duty,” Westlie snarled.

“You hide!” Morgan’s eyes flashed and she took a step forward with her lip curled, gaining ground. “You hide in plain sight like a fucking chameleon in these shitty old houses with the fucking grey trim and you work for your father who drags you like a puppet on strings and you stay unhappy because you don’t. fucking. change. anything. ever.” She leaned in closer, snarling into Westlie face. “You keep your hair up in that neat little knot and you wear that fucking black jacket with the little gold trim to feel like less of an imposter in a sea of filthy top hats because I know you, Westlie.” Morgan shoved a finger up and Westlie had to take a step back, choking on her own tongue.

“So fucking afraid to do anything you just bite your nails and if something comes up it’s ‘oh faaather, what do I doo’, ‘father, help mee’. Like a little whiny bitch who pretends she has balls to everyone else except where it matters because it’s all a farce.” Morgan’s voice went squeaky-high. “‘Oh I’m so refined’ ‘Oh I’m so elegant’, ‘Oh I’m so smart’.” It dropped back into a savage growl. “You’re smart all right. Have everyone else fooled while you sit in your shitty little room and write letters he won’t bother to write himself because you’re too afraid or stupid or uptight to tell him no, that you want a goddamn night off. And you- you are a coward. That’s what you are.” Morgan hissed. “You’re a fucking coward.”

Something snapped. Westlie wound up her arm to throw a right hook but she just- she couldn’t- Her jaw clenched and she wound up again but she didn’t throw it. She couldn’t throw it. Morgan took a sudden step back at her movement like she was snapping out of a trance, almost like she was surprised at what came out of her mouth. Her eyes weren’t regretful though. She was not sorry. Five seconds later a brief flash of horror washed over her face. “Fuck, Westlie-”

“… leave, Morgan.”

Morgan searched her face, hesitated, then turned around and headed for the door without another word.

Fuck.

The door shut. Westlie let her arm drop and she drooped against the counter, leaning back and sliding all the way to bury her head in her knees. Half of her wanted to give an incredulous scoff and the other half felt ripped to pieces. Holy fuck, Morgan. Westlie laughed softly in the stunned, quiet silence. I didn’t know you were that cruel.

No, no that was wrong. She knew Morgan could be that cruel. It was rare, but not unheard of. She didn’t know she could be that cruel to her. I just wanted to help, Westlie’s heart ached and she shut it down immediately, took a deep breath, steadied herself. I wanted to help and I couldn’t do anything.

No, not ‘couldn’t’, ‘didn’t’. Fuck her sister. A choked sound escaped her. That was the worst part, she was right. Fuck she was right. She did all those things - she was all those things. A frightened imposter puppet coward. She choked and let out a breath. She wasn’t going to break; could not break over this. Fuck, it hurt.

She searched for something to keep her hands busy and helplessly undid her hair, taking minutes longer than necessary and consciously pulling out the hairpins and setting them down on the floor beside her. She took the time to line them up exactly and face them in a neat little row, stomping quietly on all her other thoughts as she did it. She pulled her hair over her shoulder and carded her fingers through it, breathing, letting the words rip her up inside in a way she could handle. She could take it; she’d managed pain before. This was the same thing.

Westlie let out a deep breath. What did she want to do? Well, not stay here. If she snuck out of the kitchen she could find her logs, maybe. Logs would be a comfort. There was the absurd irony of using work to help her escape this new grotesque hell. However, she’d have to risk her potential night off avoiding Arthur. He’d still be looking for her somewhere; he put down his pen about seven and it definitely wasn’t seven.

She groaned and leaned back against the cupboard, still carding her hair. Fuck, it hurt. Parasite. Coward.

The c-word had lurked in the back of her mind for a long time, suspiciously accurate enough to stay but it didn’t fit enough to take up room. Morgan had finally given it space in her head large enough to take hold and it was like lichenweed, a tangled mess of parasitic fungi that quickly crawled over everything and suffocated it. Coward. Westlie shivered and shoved it down, quickly braiding her hair to give her fingers something to do. … Coward.

I am not. Westlie hissed to herself, grabbing the braid and fiercely wrapping it on the back of her head. I am not a coward. I do my work, I excel at my work, and I’ve fucking worked all these years to be the best at what I do. I am not a coward.

… Coward.

Westlie hissed in anger and stood up, glancing around the kitchen for something to occupy her time. How the fuck was she supposed to get out of here anyway. She had to make it to her room? Was Morgan even coming back? Probably not. Westlie scoffed and grabbed an apple and bit into it hard enough to make her jaw ache. She chewed; considered hurling it across the room and the satisfactory splat on the wall.

Damn Morgan. Damn how she always made her lose control. She knew all the buttons to push, every word, every action. She knew Westlie felt guilty because she dragged herself back to this hellhole. It wasn’t like she asked or she made her, but Morgan came back all the same. When Morgan spread her wings in the beginning, it was small trips; two weeks, three weeks, a month scattered throughout the year. Then it turned into a few more weeks begged away, then a month at a time, then two months. She was cocky, sure of herself, just like she’d always been but moreso now. The past two years she was gone three months twice in the same year. How long had she been home? A month at most? Who knew where she even spent her time. … And she still dragged herself back.

You’re a bad sister. The thought came unbidden, and Westlie hated its presence; hated that it sank in her stomach and stayed there, replacing breakfast and lunch with guilt.

… I know.

You’re the parasite. You drag her down, you keep her here for Arthur to infect.

… I know.

There was a brief acidic burn in her throat as her stomach twisted again and Westlie breathed through it. She pushed the feeling down, leaned on the table in the center of the kitchen, and focused on the wood grain.

A few more minutes passed but it was an excruciatingly long time. Westlie listened to all the creaks in the house, hating each one with the annoyed awareness if she didn’t distract herself she’d be sitting over the sink again because she was such a piss-poor stressed ball of bitch she let insults get under her skin. She jumped and froze in place when she heard light footsteps in the hallway. Morgan or Mary? There was a hesitation before the door and Westlie felt her body tense. Morgan. 

The door opened and she slipped inside in her usual loose blouse and walking skirt. Her face and her hands were clean but her hair still had specks of coal in it. She didn’t look angry, just tired. There was a brief, painful silence after she shut the door and Westlie just waited for her to open her mouth and for it to hurt worse.

“I’m- I’m sorry.”

… Westlie watched her in distrust.

Morgan looked down at the ground and she seemed smaller. “… I’m sorry. I- I went too far.”

Damn right. Westlie didn’t know what to say so she just stayed quiet. Her stomach ached.

Morgan opened her mouth, hesitated, stood there. A minute passed. She looked lost. “Say something, Westlie,” she whispered.

That was unforgiveable. Was the first thing that came to her head, but Westlie couldn’t force it out of her mouth. She tore her gaze from Morgan’s and stared at her hands, leaning on the center table.

Morgan’s voice got smaller. “… Westlie?”

Westlie still couldn’t say anything and they just stood there in a horrible sinking quiet. They had fights sometimes, but they never formed chasms this big. She was supposed to bridge it, Westlie knew. She was the older, responsible one. She was the peacekeeper, somehow, even with her temper, because her love for Morgan always, always overrode whatever anger she had. There was still love there, maybe, but the ground had been pulled out from under her and it just felt… it just felt so empty now.

Such a coward. Something in her head whispered and Westlie’s brow furrowed. She grit her teeth.

Morgan took a step closer toward the table, hesitant. Westlie didn’t look up to see the fear in her eyes. “Wes, It’s not true. I didn’t mean it.”

Westlie’s head snapped up and she opened her mouth to spit something out, but it died at the look of fear on Morgan’s face. She rephrased and went for a glare. “Oh, you fucking meant all of it.” Nice bridge you built there, Westlie.

“I was… I was-”

“I don’t even care, Morgan.” Westlie straightened up and sighed, finally meeting her eyes. “… It hurt.”

The words came out in a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“… Sorry doesn’t fix shit.”

Westlie could feel their dynamic falter as they stared. She was never in control; Morgan was the one to pick their spots, Morgan was the one to make things work, to choose new ideas, challenge whatever they’d done before. But now Morgan was at a loss and Westlie who hadn’t lost her temper who hadn’t insulted the cruelest part of Morgan’s self stood above her like a god casting judgement. And Westlie could feel her waiting for the hammer to drop … only she couldn’t think of anything else to say. What punishment was good enough?

“What do you want, Westlie?” Morgan finally whispered, breaking the silence.

… I want you to say I’m not a coward. I’m not a coward. Fucking say it.

… I want you to go to the bar by yourself and drink yourself into a goddamn stupor.

… I want you to stay out of my fucking business. Don’t fucking ask about Arthur or the shop or anything else.

… I want you to learn how the books work so you could be me, just this once.

… I want you to fuck off. And that would be the cruelest one. That would be- The bitter side of Westlie wanted to spit it just to see Morgan crack and shatter and fall to pieces in front of her because that revenge would be sweet after Westlie felt herself crack and shatter and fall. But there would be no fixing it once said. That was something that could never be undone. This could still be mended. Westlie let out the softest sigh and her pride folded - because she was a coward.

Morgan’s look was tortured; a quiet plea.

“… I want…” Westlie hesitated at how rough her whispered voice sounded. “… I want you to be safe.”

Morgan had been holding her breath and it burst out of her in a quiet half-smile half-sob. “W-What?”

“I want you to be safe.”

She took a step forward, resting her hand on the edge of the table. “Westlie, what does that even mean?”

Westlie’s face twisted in annoyance. “… what does it sound like it means?”

Morgan threw up her hands, sniffing. “Gods fucking save me. I- I don’t know what you mean. Do you not want me to throw you in a cellar? Do you not want me to go to the pub at 3am? Do you not want me to leave London again? What does that mean?”

“Don’t-” Westlie snorted, her throat still rough. “Don’t barb Arthur. You knew how it was going to turn out. You know he’s cruel. Morgan you know him. I know you hate being here. I know it, you know it.” Westlie choked and just waved a hand around the kitchen. “Just- you don’t have to fight it.”

Morgan let out a somewhat incredulous laugh and turned to the side to rub at her eyes before focusing on Westlie again. “That’s what this is all about?”

“N-no, not all of it, but-” If I told you I wanted to knock your face in for that rant, it doesn’t have the same ring to it. Westlie couldn’t think of anything to add and finally shrugged, turning her face away. “… just take it.”

She flinched a little when Morgan grabbed her sleeve. “What-?” Her sister tugged her around the table and wrapped her arms around her waist, squeezing so tight she could barely breathe.”Morgan-”

“… you’re not a coward,” Morgan mumbled almost unintelligibly. “ You- you do a lot. I’m sorry.”

Westlie did not want to hug her. It hurt. She took a quiet breath and wrapped her arms around her sister, swallowing as she let her fingers slip in the base of Morgan’s hair. “… I will end you if you do that again.”

Morgan nodded without hesitation and Westlie had to sigh, waiting a long thirty seconds before she could get the words out. “… I’m a coward, but I want you safe. … I don’t understand what goes through your head. You should have just… let him go.”

“I don’t care what he thinks of me,” Morgan mumbled. “He can suck it.”

“I care.”

There was a tiny laugh and Westlie forgot, for a second, the circumstances. “You care about everything, Wes.”

“That’s my job,” Westlie murmured.

“Can you suck at it more?”

“No.”

Morgan laughed softly again.

Westlie curled around her, fitting her chin a little on top of Morgan’s bright hair. “I’m… sorry I didn’t pay attention.”

“I was being an ass; I know I need to pull you out slowly. It was a really long day.”

“I was an ass too. … We both made asses of ourselves.”

She felt Morgan smile and Westlie resisted the urge to hold her closer. When she focused, she realized that the initial pain was less. It ached and she was bitter, but in the way of something she could bury, maybe, after a while, although she was not going to forget those words easily.  Should she even forget them? Maybe after several drinks and several stories, and several days of Morgan being Morgan. … Morgan still clinging to her regretfully was a start. Westlie frowned and decided not to think about it. It was tomorrow-Westlie’s problem.

She sighed and straightened, gently peeling herself away from her younger sister. Morgan settled herself and leaned back on the center table, hiding her face by looking at the far wall. Her eyes were probably red; Westlie politely ignored it. “What time is it?”

There was a shrug. “I don’t know. Five? Six?”

“… Early enough. I can still go to bed at a sane time and I need possibly the stiffest drink they have.”

Morgan glanced at her. “I… figured you’d want to go to bed.”

“Oh I am definitely going to bed in four hours.” Westlie glanced around the kitchen for something quick to eat and grabbed one of the pastries. She bit into it. “I’m not fucking sitting in my room and spending my night off reading the same wind speed chart over and over though. And I’m definitely not spending any part of those four hours finding a new drinking partner.”

Morgan stayed suspiciously quiet and Westlie got to savor the knowledge she’d rendered Morgan mute twice in the same day. The pastry tasted even better.

After a second Morgan straightened and did the annoyingly familiar stabilizing breath. She gave Westlie a weak smile. “Well, O’Malleys got their shipment from the Surface in yesterday.”

“O’Malleys it is then.” Westlie bowed low, but it couldn’t be taken seriously with the fucking pastry half-eaten and the faint smile on Morgan’s face grew ever so slightly more genuine. “Lead the way, Faire.”

[bishopofstdiesis]

The Roof Below, circa 1899 (the second) [Part 1]

So, I’m not sure if anyone reading this has done a cave tour? Like Carlsbad Caverns, Þríhnúkagígur volcano, Grotte di Frasassi, or Jenolan Caves. Or smaller ones like The Caverns in Tennessee, Fingal's Cave in Scotland, or even just a lava tube in Hawaii. But when you go to these places, they aim to make an impression from the outset.

These were my first tries at it & it feels like what you’d see on the first visit to the Roof Below. Some of these had blue water, some honey-coloured, and others it’s almost red. Some I almost disregarded until I remembered there is blue amber and the colours we’re more familiar with. I mean there is even “purple” & green. So I just rolled with it.

Plus, underground further than normal? Weirder mushrooms.