Just Another Girl on the Internet

You take a deep breath. In. Out.

Then another. In. Out.

The fresh pine of the forest fills your lungs. Babbling rivers and rushing waterfalls create soothing melodies, paired with rustling leaves and the warm sun on your face.

Elliott brushes lithe fingers through your hair. They move in soothing patterns, scratching at your scalp, comforting you in all the ways he's learned in the two years you've been married. "You look much better like this, my dear," he whispers. "Relaxed. At peace with the world."

You sigh, opening your eyes to peer up at him. He sits with his back against a tree while you sit between his legs, your back to his chest, head on his shoulder. He tilts his head to meet your gaze fully, as auburn hair falls opposite of you. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize to me, my love. Though, you do worry me sometimes..."

"Because I go into the mines?"

He huffs a soft laugh. "Of course, but that's not the main reason. You've been working yourself to the bone these last months. Returning home so late that I find you passed out on the floor mere feet away from our bed come morning."

You frown. You hate those mornings, waking up after he carried your poor, exhausted body to the bed to get even an hour of proper rest. You hate the way he looked at you when you came out to greet him. A full breakfast served with a worried look and asking what kept you out so long. The reasons never seemed good enough to excuse the outcome.

"The worst part is your silence," he admits quietly. His hand resting on your stomach fiddles with your jacket, tracing the shape of a button and the thread holding it in place. "You carry all of your burdens alone. Protecting everyone else from any potential hardship or worry. Even me."

You avert your eyes to watch as you steal his hand from your button and twine your fingers together. He's warm, as always. A callus has formed on the side of his middle finger from holding his quills. There's a fading ink stain on the side of his palm, from accidentally resting his hand on a page that hadn't yet fully dried.

Your hands are callused all over. Where his are soft, yours are rough. Those first weeks, when the wood of your tools formed blisters on your palms that burst and left torn, sensitive skin in their wake. Now your body has taken the effort to protect you from that pain. When he rubs his thumb over the meat of your own, the calluses prevent you from feeling the complete reverence of the touch.

"I've said my vows," he murmurs with an edge of pleading, "and I intend to keep them every day, until death do us part. Please, dear heart, allow me to share your hardships and your victories, your joys and your sorrows. Everything."

"I... feel like I'm going to fail everyone." The admittance is quiet and shaky. Your heart aches, baring your soul to him and waiting for him to strike you at your weakest. You know he would never do such a thing. And yet your body braces for it. For the disappointment. "If I don't ensure everyone is happy and the community is thriving, everyone will hate me."

He combs through your hair, tucking your head under the line of his jaw. "You cannot control how people see you, my dear."

You sigh, frustrated. "I know that. I know it's impossible. I spent so many years trying to be the perfect student, the model employee. And none of it mattered. But I... I don't know how to stop, Elli."

"You can take more breaks."

"I can't-"

"You can. And not ones I have to force you into." He emphasizes his words with a squeeze to your hand. It's true that the only reason you are out here today is because he dragged you along for a picnic in the woods. "You said it yourself: you have been a slave to the expectations and system of your old job, your past life in the city. You can relax here. No one is expecting more of you than you can give, and any that do don't deserve your efforts."

You take a deep breath. You know he's right. This isn't a corporate job where stepping out of line risks your livelihood. You earn good money from the farm. You are self-sufficient in a lot of ways the you from the past could never have dreamed of.

When you let out a long exhale, he knows he's gotten through to you. Your muscles relax. Your hands stop fidgeting. You let yourself have this moment.

"There we go," he praises, kissing your head.

You nose against his pulse, breathing in the familiar cologne he wears. "Do you have burdens and worries you don't tell me about?"

He chuckles softly. "Ah, you wish to turn this around on me now?"

"Mhm. I have to make sure I live up to the vows I made to my husband."

"I've been stuck on a scene in my new novel for a while now," he readily admits. "When my muse is troubled, it becomes difficult to write... Perhaps you'd like to help me find some inspiration?"

Elliott dreads every day of the week leading up to this evening: another damned masquerade. He can already feel the droll conversation and shallow questions digging into his psyche, weighing him down into the soles of his shoes.

"Stand straight," his mother reminds sharply as they approach the door, touching his back. His spine jolts away from it, shoulders square back, chin raises just a little higher. He feels less like a man and more like a dress horse. He can almost taste the iron bit between his teeth...

He lifts the mask to his eyes; fitted porcelain that don't obscure so much as attract attention. He's too recognizable. Long, auburn hair tied in a ribbon the shade of his eyes, a dead giveaway.

He's only allowed a moment alone inside. "Alone" in this context meaning away from his mother, who rushes off to speak with every young lady she spies. He watches as each marks his name on their dance cards.

The despair crests over him like the sun rising over the land. Not sudden and sinking, but slow and inescapable. There is not an ounce of shade for him to hide as the band starts, and the first dance begins...

His first partner is beautiful, he'll give her that. But she doesn't speak. Her eyes dart around him during their dance, seeking out someone specific. He wonders if she was too frightened of Mother to turn down her demands... He wouldn't blame her. When the dance ends, he bows respectfully and thanks her for the company.

The next several dances are much the same. Some are chattier than others, but the conversation only goes as deep as his wealth, title, and aspirations. Not his genuine aspirations - no, of course not. The ones his family have pushed on him since he was a young lad. He paints the picture of a model man: politics and business ventures and pursuits of wealth and luxury.

Two hours tick away to the click of heels on polished tile. In all that time, not once has a smile touched his lips. Nor has light gleamed in his eye. He is all but dead to the world that whirls around him. Suffering the charade, to be hounded by his mother about potential matches and plans for courting.

The song ends. He bows and thanks the lady for her time. The next approaches. They bow to each other, he takes her hand and her waist, and the next song begins.

A soft giggle breaks him from his numbness. "You look very enthused," you tease. It's a delicate little thing. Testing the waters, fearing the worst. His mouth opens, horror dawning on his face at the impression he must be giving, at the scolding he'll receive from his parents, but you quickly add, "I understand completely! I've noticed you've been dancing since you arrived. I've been stuck doing much the same and my feet are growing quite painful in these shoes."

He blinks. He's never quite encountered a situation like this. All of his schooling falters at the back of his head, latching desperately onto familiarity. "Do you need a moment to rest, my lady?"

You smile bashfully under your mask. It's of a completely different quality to his own. Beautiful, certainly, but made from different materials. "Would my lord join me? You need a break, too."

"Ah, um. I-I suppose a small moment would be suitable..."

The song comes to an end. He releases your waist, but you continue holding onto his hand as you guide him away from the ballroom floor. In all the commotion of changing partners, you lead him up the stairs to the floor above. Guests overlook the balcony, sipping from flutes of champagne and laughing charming, practiced laughs at dull jokes.

The whole way, he anxiously looks around for his parents. He fears his mother will come rushing through a body of guests to rip into him through clenched teeth. Or perhaps his father, scruffing him by the collar and shoving him back to the dance floor. Truly, he feels a little guilty for leaving his next poor dance partner all alone. Surely, it will reflect poorly on her. Himself, as well.

You pull him down a corridor, looking around at the immaculate architecture and exquisite paintings lining the walls. Then to a door. You knock lightly, peek inside warily, and finally pull him through.

As soon as you're inside, you release his hand. He strangely finds himself missing the easy connection... He closes the door behind and watches as you bunch up your skirts to tug off your shoes. With a sigh of relief, you toss them beside the door.

"Oh, thank Yoba. I don't think I could have lasted another minute in those things." You smile his way, removing your mask next. "I'm glad you came with me. My grandfather told me about this room, but I admit I was a little too shy to sneak off on my own."

"Your grandfather?" he questions, latching onto the familiarity of family relations. He knows nothing about your connections. He isn't sure if you know about his.

You nod, turning away to walk further into the room. He sees now that it is a study, lined with shelves of books, desks and tables, and several seating arrangements. You walk over to a couch, settling on the edge to reach down and massage your aching feet. "You wouldn't know of him, I'm sure. But he's close friends with the master of the house and the host of the party. It's only for that reason we were invited at all..."

Curiosity gets the better of him. He leaves the door behind, approaching to see you better in the warm candlelight. "What does your grandfather do?"

You look away almost shyly, worried to tell him the truth of it all. Afraid to scare him off, he realizes, after you tell him, "He's a farmer. Just outside of the city. Well, we all are - my parents and I."

His initial thought is one of disgust. Or, perhaps that's not the right word, but his mind recoils from the new information. The thought of you being a farmer.

And then he shuts that train down. It's the idea of his parents' beliefs; not his own.

He clears his throat, shaking them away for good, and settles in a chair adjacent from you. "This must all be very different from the life you're used to," he says. Your eyes find him again, watching as he pulls off his own mask, fully revealing himself to you. Your shoulders relax. He quite likes the soft, relieved smile you share. "Are you enjoying it?"

"Truthfully?"

"Of course."

"No." You laugh. "It was my parents' idea to use this as an opportunity to find a suitor. They don't enjoy the thought of me continuing to work on my grandfather's farm. They were hoping I would find a man to whisk me away into the sunset."

He chuckles softly. "It seems we aren't so different, my lady. My parents hold much the same hopes for me."

"Pardon me for sounding presumptuous, but you seem better suited to this life than me. Do you... not enjoy it?"

"Ah, well..." He draws his long hair over his shoulder, fiddling with and adjusting the ribbon tying it together. "I have my own aspirations for the future, but they seem to conflict with their expectations. I admit to being very grateful for the privileges my status has afforded me, but I could do without a great deal of the pomp and circumstance."

You sit up, giving him your full, undivided attention. "What would you like to do?"

He frowns. "It's not very respectable for a man in my position..."

"No, please, I want to know!" you interrupt before he can skirt out of the topic. "Please, tell me."

You see the war on his face, and the moment one side wins. After all, you've admitted already that you're a farmer, and seemingly wish to stay so despite your parents' desires. It's only natural he should admit his own dreams to you in return... "I wish to become an author. A proper novelist, mind you. Not a publisher for information or self-image, but a storyteller." Hesitantly, he turns his gaze to you. "Does it sound as foolish as my parents think it is?"

You smile. "Not at all. I think it's a wonderful idea."

He smiles wryly in return. "You would be the only one."

"Well, I hope I get the chance to read your works one day," you say. He can feel the truth behind it. You turn your attention to the shelves with a sigh. "I don't get the opportunity to read much, I'm afraid. It's difficult to get books where we live, or find the time to enjoy them."

He hums thoughtfully. Standing, mask abandoned on the arm of the chair, he walks over to the wall of shelves. It's packed to the brim with leather bound literature, ranging from historical accounts to geographical collections, astronomy to seafaring, herbalism to ornithology. It's impressive the range of subjects gathered here. One shelf is completely dedicated to the classics: playwrights and philosophy and famous tales of heroism. Another to the popular novels of the modern day. He slips one from the shelf and considers its handmade cover.

"I don't know your tastes, but this one is quite stirring." He walks back over to the couch, passing it along with a smile. "Pride and Prejudice, written by Jane Austen."

You laugh as you accept it from him, feeling the soft cloth of its binding and tentatively opening it to the first few pages. "Do you suggest I steal it?"

He chuckles good-naturedly. "Not as such, no. However, anyone who can afford an estate like this surely wouldn't be too put-out if someone were to... borrow something so small. Don't you think?"

You beam up at him. It stirs something warm in his chest. He feels alive again. Not a corpse being dragged along by a rope, puppeteered and controlled. He can feel his heart beating, his stomach fluttering, the warmth at his ears.

"Would you care to read it with me?"

For a split second, he forgets all about the world outside. The expectations laid upon him. The weight on his shoulders. For just that second, he thrills at the idea of sitting beside you, so inviting and welcoming and tender, to huddle close and read from the same pages. Perhaps even read them aloud to you, intimate as his breath brushes your ear by complete accident.

But then the second is gone. He feels his elation plummet. His expression becomes dour as he looks away, toward the mask waiting for him. "I would love to, but... I'm afraid a fate worse then death would be welcoming me if I didn't reappear soon."

He risks a glance over. He sees the disappointment that sags your shoulders. The way your thumb carefully closes the novel. The saddened smile that softens your face. "I understand."

You stand as he retrieves his mask, fitting it to his face once more. He's just about to offer help tying your own, but you manage it before he can. It's stiflingly quiet as you tuck the book away in the small handbag you carry, and as he offers a hand in support while you don your uncomfortable shoes once more.

He cracks the door open and peeks out. Nobody is around. The music continues on. You've only missed one or two dances.

Opening the door fully, he holds it open for you to exit first. You turn to him as he closes it behind him. "Thank you for taking a break with me. I'm very glad to have met you, and I wish you all the best."

"As do I."

You begin making your way down the hall. He feels an ache in his chest as he watches you make the effort to fix your posture and try to pretend as though nothing at all happened. He hopes you manage to live the way you wish. To follow the life you choose. Your name living on in his memory as someone he will never-

Wait...

"Wait!"

You turn to face him, surprised. He looks bashful and ashamed all at once as he takes long strides to meet you. "I never got your name..." he admits, embarrassed for forgetting something to trivial yet so fundamental.

You laugh and tell him your name.

He chalks the stutter in his heart to the humiliation. "I'm Elliott."

"I know," you tease, holding up your dance card. You laugh again. "Goodbye, Elliott."

He watches you blend into the bustle and the crowd, content to finally know your name.

-

You turn another page, eyes glued to the words so finely printed on crisp paper. It is your fourth time reading it, and yet you can't seem to grow tired of it.

It's been a month since the ball. A month since you met Elliott. A month without any interest from potential suitors. A month of bemoaning from your mother about your terrible lot in life. A month wondering if he decided to pursue someone. A month hoping he took to writing a novel like he wanted.

Your grandfather seemed to have a knowing gleam in his eye every time he caught you slipping the book from your pocket, trying to sneak in a few words during your chores. He'd noticed your absence from the party and asked you about it the day after, out of earshot of your parents. You'd confessed to sneaking off with one of your dance partners - only to rest your feet, you emphasized. He didn't say anything about the book, but you're sure he knew its origins.

You sigh, dropping the open book to your chest. You stare forlornly at your ceiling. You don't love him, no. You just wish you could have been friends... In another life, maybe. Another time.

Two knocks come at the door.

"Come in," you call, slotting a duck feather between the pages to mark your spot.

Your grandpa opens the door and gives you a wide, eager smile. "Someone's at the door for you!"

"For me?" You sit up, more confused than ever, and leave your book behind as you go to see who your visitor may be.

You don't have many friends, and they know you well enough to come to your window to vie for your time. A potential suitor would surely send a letter of some sort, requesting to meet; and that would be a note for your parents to request their permission, not your own. So who...?

The door is only open a crack. You pull it the rest of the way.

And meet with bright emerald eyes.

They seem to light up at the sight of you. Auburn hair is no longer tamed behind him, but falls in loose, luxurious waves around his shoulders. His suit is well-tailored, but not as form fitting or elegant as the one from the dance.

You can't believe it. Your eyes register Elliott standing right in front of you, but your mind is still in shock. Maybe you're just dreaming. Maybe you fell asleep while reading on your bed and now you're living a fiction, and you'll wake up at any minute.

"Hello," he breathes. He smiles, charming and in awe, a little bit frazzled at his own actions, standing here before you.

You find yourself mirroring it. "Hello."

"I, um, I wanted to tell you," he stumbles over his words as he holds something out to you. You look to him for permission and he nods, watching with rapt focus as you take the item from his hands. "I wrote a novel."

You gasp softly, reading over the cover. In plain print, inlaid in the cloth, "Camellia Station" with his name at the bottom.

"It's the only one printed so far," he admits with a soft chuckle. "But who better to receive a first edition than the one that inspired me to write it?"

"I..." You look up at him, mouth open in wonder. "I inspired you?"

He nods. "Yes. If it weren't for you, I would have given up my dream entirely. Become... what my family wanted of me." He takes a deep breath. "I'm very grateful for you. I don't want to go through life as a mere husk. I want to live it, the way I wish to live it."

You look back down at the novel. It's about the same length as the book he encouraged you to "borrow". You wonder how long it took for him to write it, to finish it within a month.

"Open it."

You turn open the cover, and the blank sheet after. The title is stamped in deep black ink with his name once again. You turn the next page.

Dedicated to my new muse.

Those simple words steal the air from your lungs. You marvel at them. At the weight they carry.

Elliott shifts uncertainly where he stands, wondering if he overstepped, if the decorative title he's given you is too much. But then you look back up at him, smiling, and he feels the fear leave all at once.

"Would you... care to read it with me?" you ask, soft and hopeful.

He's already disappointed his parents simply by finishing the manuscript. There is nothing holding him back now.