La Longue Carabine

Some Iron Druid fanfic below the cut:) It’s a work in progress, but I’m kind of liking where this idea’s going.

I lifted my whiskey glass and took a long pull, feeling the smooth liquid burn my throat all the way down. I sighed appreciatively. There was nothing quite like a cold sip of Tullamore Dew to smooth out the tension of a long hard day and let the bitterness in to stay. I brushed my dark hair out of my eyes and looked around the pub. At this late hour, the dancefloor was fairly empty, but most of the tables still served their patrons faithfully, holding up drunken elbows and heads.

"Need a refill on that, Aylish?" Mac, the bartender, slid the bottle down the bar towards me, and I flashed him a smile by way of thanks. As I poured the golden liquid into my glass, I saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. Looking up, I met the eyes of a burly young man with a mop of sandy hair and a face full of freckles. He held a book in one hand, and was gazing intently at my right arm.

"Can I help you?" I asked him warily, setting the bottle back down on the bar.

"I'm sorry to bother you," the boy said, his face flushing as he met my eyes. "I uh, I just couldn't help but noticing your tattoos."

"Uh huh?" I said. I pulled a packet of cigarettes out of my pocket. I knew I wasn't supposed to smoke in the bar, but the clear social signals that I was about to light up usually let people know that the conversation was over.

"Well, I just wondered, like, are you a druid?"

That froze my blood. I hadn't heard that accusation in the gods knew how long. "Why the hell would you say a thing like that?" I asked.

The boy went from flush to pale faster than I could blink. "I, uh…well I just thought, you know, your tattoos…"he trailed off as my face darkened in anger. Before I really even had the chance to think about what I was doing, I was out of my seat and had the boy backed into the wall, my hand closed tight around the collar of his shirt.

"Who put you up to this?" I hissed in his face.

Stammering, stumbling over his words, he thrust a book into my face, "I-I j-j-just -just this…" I looked at the cover of the book. Hounded was its title and, on the front cover of the book was a red-headed man. His tattoos, looping around his biceps and down his forearm, were identical to mine.

"Where did you get this?" I demanded, looking back up to the frightened boy.

"Ch-ch-chapters?" he croaked.

I let him go, and he stumbled away from me and out the door, casting fearful glances over his shoulder as he went.

"Everything okay?" Mac asked as I came back over to the bar.

"Yeah, just some punk kid trying to make a pass," I said casually. I drained the glass of whiskey.

Mac shook his head, looking mournful, "Damn, they just get more and more brazen these days, don't they?"

"They sure do," I agreed, pulling my leather jacket on over my black t-shirt and picking up my keys. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Mac," I called.

"You take care of yourself out there, Aylish!" he responded as I walked out.

The streets of the city were damp from the recent rain, and I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. My head was awhirl, and I felt like I had been punched in the chest. All this time, all of this…pain, and there were others? I shook my head, trying to clear the sudden fog that had come over it.

I'm sure, looking back, that I jostled several people on my way, but I didn't care. I hardly even saw them. I stopped in front of the big store window of Chapters. The book, several copies of it, was on display, next to a large poster shouting that the author, a Kevin Hearne, was coming to the store to sign copies. As if I was walking through a dream, I entered the store and pulled a copy off the shelf. I saw, as I turned the pages, that my hands were shaking.

A druid. A real, living, breathing servant of Gaia. And he was living in Arizona.

I felt my chest tighten, and I clenched my teeth hard to try to stop myself from weeping. All these years wandering the world, believing I was alone, and there had been another.

I took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself, force my brain to think rationally about the situation. I had to keep my reactions under lock and key until I had the leisure and safety to let them out. Once my breath had evened out and my vision returned to normal, I kept the book in my hand and moved towards the fantasy aisle to check if there were any more. There were seven, in fact. Quite the busy man, our druid. I chose trade paperback copies of all seven books and took them to the front counter.

The young lady in the black vest behind it lit up as she saw the books I laid in front of her. "Oh my gosh, these are my favorites!" she gushed, "You're just going to love them. They're so witty!"

I smiled tightly, "I'm glad," I said, trying to keep my voice casual. "I wouldn't want to invest in shitty books."

"Oh, I know, that's the absolute worst, right? When you buy a book on spec, thinking it will be amazing, and then it turns out to be a downer…" I let her chatter on, concentrating on my heart rate as she rang the books through the till and took my plastic Canadian rainbow money. She placed the books in a red and white plastic bag and tucked my receipt inside with them.

"Have a great night!" said cheerfully, "Hope you like them!"

"Thanks, I will," I murmured. I tucked the books under my arm and walked out.

As soon as I was safe in my apartment, I locked the door behind me and slid down to sit on the floor, my head in my hands. My breath came in short gasps, and I felt tears rolling down my cheeks as memories flooded over me.

I saw fire and blood. Heard screams. Felt Milos's hands tight around my arms, shaking me. I heard his voice telling me that the Romans had come, they had found us, and this was the only way. I couldn't run, they would track my magic and hunt me down, trapping me and piercing me with their many spears. This was the only way.

I smelled the acrid stench of burning flesh and felt the sharp, white hot pain as he pressed the red iron against my heel, my ankle, my calf. Felt the gut-wrenching agony as my connection to the earth snapped. Heard Milos's voice as he held me, promising, swearing that we would find a way to renew the connection. If we could only survive, these Romans would pass from the world like leaves in autumn, and we would find a way.

A soft tickle on my arm snapped me back to reality. Vili, my cat, was licking my arm. I was still sitting on the floor in my apartment. In Canada, not in Slovakia. I let out a deep sigh and scratched Vili behind the ears.

"Thank you, cara" I whispered hoarsely. She rubbed her sinewy gray body against my leg, purring loudly.

Milos had been right, I thought with a rueful kind of satisfaction. After nearly fifteen hundred years, I had found a way. Only he was not here to see it with me. I sighed shakily, feeling suddenly very tired. Vili mewed softly, looking up at me with her deep orange eyes. "Alright," I said with a small laugh, "Let's get you fed."

I lifted myself from the floor and dropped the books on my futon. Opened the cupboard, pulled out Vili's food. Found her bowl, filled it. The familiar motions calmed me somewhat, anchored me to the present. When she was settled at her dish beside the futon, I pulled off my jacket and sat down, opening the first book and bending the pages back hard to break the spine.

And then I read. I read quickly, skipping past the narration and humour, though both were excellent. I wanted content, information. Siodhachan O'Sullivan, ancient druid, was alive and well and living in Arizona. He had slain Bres and Oengus Og, which I considered to be no great loss to anyone. He had many friends, I noted, many ways in which he could be reached, but the best bet seemed to be the firm of Magnusson and Hauk, though I learned that Magnusson was now dead and Hauk was the alpha of the Tempe pack. The Morrigan was dead. Brigit was still first among the fae, but at great cost. O'Sullivan seemed a pretentious sort, though I felt my gut twist as I read that he had trained an apprentice and bound her to the earth, and found his old arch druid and brought him back to the world. When I read of the small grove he had formed, though they numbered only three, I was unable to stop the tears from flowing down my face.

It was three in the morning. Vili had curled herself up in my lap as I stared at the wall. I had to find this man.  I suspected that the names in the novel were aliases, but I needed to start somewhere. There was no way in seven hells that, after waiting for so long and giving up all hope, that I could let go of this small ray of hope that had dropped into my life.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed Mac's number. "Aylish?" I heard his sleepy voice down the line, "Whassa matter? What time is it?"

"Sorry Mac, it's late. I just needed to let you know that I have to quit the bar."

"You what?" he sounded fully awake now.

"I need to quit. There's been a family emergency, I need to get to the states as soon as possible. I don't know when I'll be back." It was mostly the truth, I thought. I didn't know when I'd be back.

"Um, okay," Mac sounded unconvinced, "Is everything okay? You need help with anything?"

"I didn't want to ask, but could you come pike Vili up tomorrow and let her stay at your house for a bit?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure. Listen, Aylish, you sure you're alright? You sound…I don't know, weird."

"Come on, Mac, you know I've always been weird," I said with a light tone I didn't feel.

"Yeah, you're right." I could hear the smile in his voice, "I'll stop by tomorrow and take Vili on vacation. You take care of yourself, alright?"

"Alright."

"And when you get back to town, let me know, I'll need my bartender back."

"Thanks Mac, that's awful sweet of you."

"Bye."

So I wrote this in 20 minutes for an 11 year old so we could work on problem-based narrative. Be wary, there are bad jokes. But there are also badass lady vampires, so I think it evens out:) 

The wind howled and moaned through the sharp crags of the mountain peaks. It

whipped giant, wet snowflakes through the iron grey sky, and turned the air into a biting, freezing whirl. Cassandra shivered. As a vampire, she didn’t normally feel cold. Or heat. Or much of anything at all, really. But she did feel fear and, rightnow, she was very frightened indeed.

Vampires are generally quite difficult to kill. Stakes through the heart weren’t as effective as people thought they were, and the whole business with the crucifixes and garlic was, quite frankly, utter crap, but there were a few things that could do the trick. Fire. Being crushed to dust. Getting chopped into pieces wasn’t the most effective method, but if your enemy sent the pieces to the four corners of the world, or buried them somewhere they could never be found, like the top of a mountain…well, it wasn’t going to be good.

Unfortunately for her, she was standing on the top of a mountain in a very nasty blizzard, and the one person in Europe who knew all the very best ways to kill a vampire was, at this very moment, struggling up to the top of this mountain to Duchess Serafina Murdock. What an awful woman. Cassandra had never met anyone in her very long life who had as much capacity for cruelty, treachery, and every sort of evil as that woman did. The Duchess had torched whole villages, slaughtered innocents by the thousands, and tortured people just for the fun of hearing them scream. And now, for some inexplicable reason, she had decided that putting Cassandra to a slow and painful death would be an excellent pastime. Oh great, she said sarcastically to herself as the cold wind whipped her dark hair into her eyes, just what I had been hoping for all these years. She had tried to run. Se had tried to hide. But the Duchess had always caught up with her. At last, in a final attempt to shake the horrible woman from her trail, she had fled to the heights of the unforgiving Carpathian Mountains, hoping that the Duchess wouldn’t be so set on seeing her end that she would follow her up here to this blasted corner of the earth. Clearly, she had underestimated the Duchess’s resolve.

Just then, she heard the loud barking of several well-bred sled dogs drifting towards her through the ceaseless howl of the blizzard. The Duchess was coming. Please, she thought desperately, please just let me survive this blizzard, and I’ll never cross paths with evil people again as long as I live.

And, suddenly, as though a light had been flicked on in her head, she had a plan.

Yes…a delightful plan. Quickly, as the barking dogs grew louder, she patted the pockets of her jeans and her jacket, looking for something, anything that would help. There were no weapons, no survival books, or vials of poison. Just a handful of loose change and a Canadian five dollar bill, all crinkled up at the very bottom of her back pocket. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

Suddenly, she could see the outline of the Duchess’s dog sled looming out of the blinding snow in front of her.

“I’ve got you now, Cassandra Clay!” she heard her exclaim over the sound of the wind, “There is no escape for you now!” 

She sighed dramatically as the sled approached. She shrugged her shoulders.

“You’re right, I guess you got me,” she said, pretending to be merely disappointed, instead of terrified.

The Duchess gave a triumphant laugh.

“Such a great and terrifying creature!” she cried, “completely at my mercy!”

Cassandra nodded. “I suppose I am at your mercy,” she agreed, “But isn’t that kind of disappointing?”

“What?” asked the Duchess, a confused expression on her face.

“Well, you know,” Cassandra continued, “it’s been a daring chase this whole time! I ran, you pursued me, all over the world from Albania to Antarctica, only to catch up to me here, where I can’t escape. Isn’t it kind of…anticlimactic?”

The Duchess Serafina Murdock considered her words carefully.

“Yes…”she said slowly “I suppose it kind of is a little disappointing, after all of this...”

With a flourish, Cassandra drew the loose change and the five dollar bill out of her jeans pocket and spread them across the palm of her hand to display them to the Duchess. 

“Care for a bet?” she asked, a wide grin splitting her face, “Just to add a bit of excitement to our final confrontation?”

The Duchess’s face lit up with pleasure.

“A splendid idea!” she exclaimed, “What kind of bet do you propose?”

“I bet,” Cassandra responded confidently, “that you can’t possibly solve my riddle. If I win, then you let me walk off of this mountain alive and agree to stop hunting me. If you win, then you can do what you will with me, and I promise that I won’t even try to fight back.”

“You promise?” the Duchess asked, suddenly suspicious.

Cassandra put her hand over her heart and looked as honest as she could.

“I promise,” she said.

“Very well, I accept the bet!” the Duchess said, “Tell me your riddle.”

“I need to whisper it to you,” Cassandra said, walking towards the edge of the mountain, “Come close to me.” She beckoned with her hand.

The Duchess trudged over to her through the deep snow, still looking a little suspicious. Cassandra waited until she was standing very close to her, right by the edge of the cliff. Then she put her face very close to the Duchess’s ear and whispered. 

“What starts with a shove and ends with a scream?”

The Duchess looked confused for a long moment. She pondered. She puzzled. She bit her lip in concentration. Finally, she let out a scream of frustration. 

“I give up!” she cried, “What’s the answer?”

Cassandra gave her a wicked grin. “I’ll show you,” she said. 

Then she used all of her incredible vampire strength and gave the Duchess a hard shove.

Duchess Serafina Murdock tripped, stumbled, and then she tumbled over the edge of a cliff with a blood-curdling scream.

Cassandra giggled. “Told you you’d never guess,” she said to the empty air.

So, here's a Christmas story I wrote for my dad after listening to Barton Hollow, by the Civil Wars. I couldn't help but think of werewolves in the deep south, so here we are. I thought it was pretty self contained, but apparently he thinks it should be a longer story in its own right...we'll see how that goes:/

1. A houseplant is dying. Tell it why it needs to live. 

The full moon was high in the autumn sky, and a cold wind rattled the branches of the poplar trees overhead. The stars shone clear and bright, marking the path they were to follow. At this point in in its course, the North Saskatchewan River flowed deep and wide, straight northeast to the fort. The Orion, the Aurora, and the Redtail rode high in the water under full sail, laden only with their crew and their weapons. The Aurora, the newest addition to their small fleet, had been a godsend. Small and trim, commandeered fresh from the last batch of yorkboats out of Fort Edmonton, she ran smooth as silk over the fast flowing water, and she handled like a dream.  In the prow of the Redtail, the wind streaming through her short cropped sandy hair, sat Alison John Henry-Scott, known to her crew as Captain Scott, and to the rest of Rupert’s Land and Lower Canada as the Hawk, notorious river pirate and raider. 

It was their last river raid of the season, and it was going to be a good one, at least the Captain hoped it would be. A fleet of  york boats were due to leave the fort as soon as it was light, bearing their cargo of furs upriver to York Factory on Hudson’s Bay. If all went as planned, at least two of the boats would never make their destination. She grinned. That should put a dent the profits of the big banks, she thought with malicious delight, not to mention the stock of grain, salt pork, seed, and supplies that she and her crew would…liberate from the Hudson’s Bay Company at Fort Saskatchewan, Battleford, and Prince Albert before the left for their winter camp. 

As the black of night began to give way to the pale grey of dawn, she saw the lights of the fort glimmering up ahead. 

"Ease her over to port, Manet," she called, her voice carrying easily over the still air. 

The lanky Frenchman in the stern nodded, pulling the rudder gently over to his left, bending the prow slowly towards the north bank. Scott did not have to look back to know that the other boats, captained by her two lieutenants, had swung over to follow them. 

"Oars!" she called, as the fort loomed closer. She could see the four small figures of the york boats push off from the shore of the river, the lights in their sterns bobbing against the black surface of the water. The poor bastards hadn’t a hope in hell. Not only did she hold the considerable advantages of wind, strength, and surprise, but her boats were built considerably lighter than the york boats the HBC used to traffic their goods, and so considerably faster. Once they were out of the protection of the fort’s soldiers, they would be completely at her mercy. Just how she liked it. 

As her crew began to pull on their oars, the boats picked up speed, gaining rapidly on the four company boats ahead of them. As they rushed past the high stake walls of the fort, Scoot stood in the prow and drew her sword, raising it over her head. 

"Colours!" she called, a wild grin on her face. 

The jolly roger flapped in the wind atop their small masts as they bore down on the four yorkboats, whose crews were beginning to show some signs of agitation. 

"Rack oars!" she called, and heard her command echoed in the Orion and the Aurora, "Muskets!" 

She could feel her heart begin to race as they approached their prey. The frightened shouts of the york crews, the hurried preparations to defend themselves, the shouts and jeers of her own crew, all the noise and clamour faded, replaced by the steady hammering of her heart in her ears. It was always this way, before a battle. Strange, she thought distantly, that no matter how many raids she sailed into, the adrenaline rush was the same each time. 

"Fire!"

With a crash, the prow of the Redtail slammed into the side of the nearest york boat along with their volley of musket fire, and time suddenly seemed to speed up again, the harsh sounds of battle returning to her ears in a chaotic rush. She leapt over the prow and into the other boat, her saber a bright flash in the early dawn light. She buried it hilt deep in the chest of a tall, burly man that tried to pull a pistol on her. His blood splashed over her as she withdrew it again, pushing his body over into the frigid waters of the river. 

She turned to regard the other six men in the boat, and she grinned, extending the saber’s bloody tip towards them. “Look at it this way,” she said, “You can swim now, or I can kill you first and you’ll swim after. The choice is yours.” 

There was a surreal pause as the men considered her options. Then, to a man, the leapt overboard. She laughed and sheathed her saber, then gave a high, piercing whistle. Quick as a flash, three of her crew leapt into the boat with her, and together they loaded the Redtail high with the cargo that had been intended for York Factory. She looked over to see that the crews of the Orion and the Aurora were doing the same. She scanned the tree lined shore and saw the gleam of torches flowing out from the fort’s gates. 

"Ah, the cavalry comes to the rescue," she said sardonically as they loaded the last of the great fur parcels aboard their boat. 

"Best if we were away, Captain," Manet called from the stern, confirming her suspicioius. 

"Right, you heard the man," she called to her crew, muskets down, loose oars and row!" 

She drew her pistol from her belt and shot once into the air above her head, the signal for the other two boats to follow suit. Then she tapped the shoulder of the solidly built woman next to her, “Go on, strap down, Catherine,” she said, “I’ll take the oar.” 

"Aye, Captain!" 

They heaved on the oars, and Manet pushed their prow ouut back to the centre of the river. As they gained speed, Scott looked back and the shore, and seeing a cluster of red coated mounties angrily helping the york men out of the freazing water, she laughed aloud. 

"See you next year, gentlemen!" she called, waving her sash over her head. 

"Three cheers for the Captain!" Manet called from the stern.

"Hip hip!"

"Huzzah!" the crews from the Orion and the Aurora joined in the chorus. 

"Hip hip!" 

"Huzzah!" 

"I said, hip hip!" 

"HUZZAH!" 

A grin nearly splitting her face, Scott gave the oar back to Catherine. She stepped back up into the prow and raised her fist over her head letting out a rebel yell, to the raucous cheers of her crew. 

The soft dappled light of the morning sun streamed in through her window, tracing its delicate patterns on the room. The window seat, the wool of her socks. It was good contemplation light. She hugged her arms close about her shoulders, hoping that by snuggling the heavy cotton blanket closer around her shoulders she could keep out the storm of feelings that threatened to take her head by storm. If she was being honest with herself, it wasn't really helping, but it was better than all the other options. 

She saw him come out of the bedroom. She kept her eyes resolutely on the street below. Snow had fallen thick and soft last night, and now it lay in heavy, sparkling mounds on every surface, turning the street into a field of diamonds. The street was quiet, its stillness providing a poignant counterpoint to her heart. 

He sat down on the window seat across from her, a cup of that bitter coffee in his hands. She couldn't quite fathom why he liked it so much. 

They were quiet. She could feel him watching her. It made her uncomfortable to meet the intensity of the gaze that was perusing the contours of her face. So she didn't. A chickadee landed on a branch of the maple tree in the street. She stared at it, trying to memorize every detail of its feathery structure, as she knew she was being memorized and studied in all her exquisite detail. 

The silence became too much. It began to press down on her. 

"You're up early, love," she heard him say at last. 

She nodded, not trusting her traitorous voice to conceal her feelings. 

He reached out and took her hand in his. The touch of his smooth palm sent a jolt up her arm. As gently as she could, she pulled her hand away, burrowing it into the blanket, clutching it close like a child in swaddling clothes, but without the manger. Or the eternal salvation. 

"Do you want some tea? I put the kettle on for you." 

"Sure." 

He looked at her for another infinity, then got up, leaving his coffee on the windowsill. She heard him bustling in the kitchen. Clinking cups. Rustling bags. He could never do anything quietly. The noise assaulted her, seeming to split her skull with every unwelcome vibration. 

She tried to muster her courage. It skulked in the corner and refused to be beckoned. 

He came back to her, the steaming mug of tea in his hands. He held it out to her, and she took it, careful not to let her hands touch his. 

"I need to be back in GP by dinnertime." 

"Mmhm." 

"I should probably get an early start." 

"Yeah." 

He took a sip of his coffee. She clutched her tea like a dying woman. It was now or never. Never was an awfully long time. 

"I don't think you should come back here." 

There. She had said it. And it hung in the air like a dead man. She could feel his pain and shock rolling out from him in waves. But it was too late to darn up the hole the words had made. Even if she could have taken them back, she didn't want to. 

"Why not?"

Because my heart is too big, too full. You are soft, sweet, and warm. You believe in the power of free will and logical reason. Your tempest can be contained in a teacup. You are light, you are chivalry, you are devotion, you are romance, you are love. I am hard, bitter and cold. I believe in the resilience that lies dormant in human suffering, and the grace of God. My storm rages wild and untamed. I am the soft velvety darkness, I am honor, I am sacrifice, I am pledge, I am promise. I am the captain of my own ship, I chart my own destiny, and to touch the helm of my vessel would overwhelm you utterly. 

"I just don't think I'm ready for a relationship right now. I'm not feeling this going anywhere." 

"Oh. Okay." 

The silence stretches on. He drains his coffee in three long gulps, the liquid sloshing all the way down to his stomach. 

"I'll just grab my bag and head out then." 

"Okay."

He's packed. She rises from her seat, the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, to see him out the door. He is wounded. His smile is crooked, askew. But he smiles nonetheless. He takes her in his arms. She does not resist, looping her arms loosely around his hips. He buries his face in the soft skin of her neck. He breathes in her scent. 

She pulls away, the tension rising in her shoulders, in her throat. He runs a distracted hand through his soft, soft hair as he picks his duffel bag up from the floor and slings it over his shoulder. 

"Hey. I, uh...thanks for being honest with me, Kris." 

She looks him in the eye. Those dark eyes. 

"You're welcome." 

He reaches out one hesitant hand, touching her cheek lightly. She struggles not to pull away. 

"I'm sorry that you're not a very hopeful person, love. Take care of yourself." 

"Me too. I will. You too. Drive safe." 

The door closes behind him with a deafening click. She leans her back gratefully against it, sliding down to sit on the lino, the blanket wrapped tightly about her as the tears finally begin to flow unchecked down her cheeks. The emotions are released in a torrential storm and her shoulders shake with deep, wracking sobs that jar the core of her being. Oh, it hurts. It hurts so much to hurt him. To hurt them all. 

Again, prompt for this piece from this site: http://stiobhard.tripod.com/html/javascript/words/writing_prompt_generator.html

Protagonist: A Teacher

Antagonist: The Entire Third Grade Class

Setting: An Island

Goal: To Find Peace

Important Event: A Rainstorm

Important Object: A Pen

So, I got my prompt for this piece from this website: http://stiobhard.tripod.com/html/javascript/words/writing_prompt_generator.html

This is what I came up with for the following prompts: Main character: sculptor Setting: an antiques store Antagonist: a shipwreck Goal: to get to another planet Important object: an old brick

"Careful with that, you're liable to spill it all over my lovely countertop!" the barman said, his squeaky voice rasping in righteous ire.

"It's definitely the countertop, but calling it lovely is a bit of a stretch," was the acerbic reply.

"Just because you've had to go and get yourself sloshingly drunk doesn't give you the right to spit on the little people," the barman responded. He sniffed, wiping at the small spill at his guest's elbow. "Not like you got the right anyhow."

" I didn't spit, I snapped. If, however, you would care to see a demonstration, you need only ask."

"Go easy on the poor man, Kit," said the other guest at the bar. He was a tall man in dark clothing, his auburn hair pulled back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck with a black silk ribbon. He put a hand on the shoulder of his companion, an expression of detached amusement on his face, "There's not a wit in the city to compare with yours when you're on the way to a hangover."

"I'm hardly headed for a hangover Will," his friend replied, "I've hardly had a drop at all."

"You've nearly drained that bottle entirely, Kit," the man pointed out patiently, "don't you think it's time you called it an evening?"

"Like I said," Kit responded, gazing at him with a level expression that made the man shiver slightly, "Hardly a drop."

"Look, I know it's been a bad few weeks for you, Kit," the man began in a brisk tone, but his friend stopped him, laying a light hand over his.

"Just forget it, Will," she said, patting his hand slightly, "It was none of your business to start with anyway."

"Kit, that is a hell of a thing to say," the man said sharply, jerking his hand away from her touch.

"God's own truth, Will," she responded, her voice suddenly cool and distant, "and nothing else." She drained the bottle and stood, brushing her dark curls out of her face with one gloved hand as she tossed two silver coins on the counter. "That should cover the wine," she said to the barman,who just nodded. She  walked steadily to the door, her black cape swishing elegantly from her left shoulder.

Will followed her, face and hands tightened in anger.

"You can't just do that!" he yelled after her as they stepped out into the cool night air.

She stopped.

Will stood in the street, his cheeks flushed, his breath fogging in the lamplight. "You can't just turn yourself off, pretend that nothing happened! You can't shut everyone out like that!"

She turned, looking at him over her shoulder, "Can't I, by God?" she said, her voice soft. She took three calm steps back towards him, "What gives you, or anyone, else the idea that any of my affairs should be your business?" she said quietly.

"I'm your friend!" Will said hotly, her calm tone putting him over the edge.

She smiled, enraging him even further.

"You're a good man, Will," she said softly, "and your company pleases me. I value your time and your companionship, and it would grieve me to lose either. But do not," here she took a step closer to him, and he could smell the faint traces of the red wine on her breath, "presume to dictate to me the state of my own affairs, for believe me when I say they are none of yours, and you have no understanding of them."

Her tone was so sharp, so aggressive, that he took a step back, his expression slightly crumpled. "I'm only trying to help you, Kit," he said. "If you'd just explain, maybe I could help...?"

In a moment, the anger was gone from her face, replaced by her customary expression of easy authority as his meekness sapped the strength from her outrage. "It's my cross , Will. They all are. And they're no one else's to bear except mine. You cannot fix me, you cannot save me. Please, for the sake of our friendship, do not try."

He looked crestfallen. "Then what can I do? Kit, I can see that it bothers you, you always stare off into space like you need to talk about something, you mope, you snap at barmen, you're just so out of sorts! How can I help you?" he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She flinched slightly, and took his hand off her shoulder, holding it gently. "Please just know that having someone to drink with is all that I need. My problems are ones of character and they are my own. Please trust that I will solve them in my own way on my own time. As my friend, I ask only that you try to bear with my eccentricities in this matter."

He opened his mouth to reply, but she just looked at him. "If I need your help I'll ask for it, Will," she said, letting go of his hand, "but until then, look to your own business, and leave me be."

She left him then, walking away down the muddy street, the cape swishing along at her side.  A shadow fluttered down from the rooftop and settled on her shoulder.

"Trouble?" it croaked in her ear.

"No, not as such," she said softly, stroking its feathered head with gentle fingers.

"Looked pushy," the bird said darkly, shifting its wings in agitation.

"It was fine, Caraway," Kit said gently, "I just had to explain things."

"Tch," the bird scoffed, "Explain what?"

"That I don't need him."

"He thought you did?" the bird cawed, "What utter twaddle!"

"Go easy, Caraway," Kit said, "It's a reasonable expectation."

"Pah!" said the bird, "I'd never say such a thing, not in a century!"

"You're a bird, it's different."

"A mightly clever one!"

"Agreed. Still not a human. And definitely not a human that's used to having people depend on them. Let's face up, my friend," she said, "you really only stick around so you can have someone to argue with."

"It's a reasonable requirement," Caraway said huffily. There was a moment of silence.

"It doesn't bother you, does it?" Caraway asked, nuzzling her ear slightly.

"What, that whole thing?" Kit was pensive for a moment. "No," she said finally, "it doesn't. I don't need them either."

"I wasn't thinking of need," Caraway burbled, shuffling his weight on her shoulder.

Kit shrugged, "I chart my own course, Caraway," she said, "Those that want to come along are welcome, I've never been one to exclude."

The bird coughed politely.

"That was a particular exception," Kit said.

"And this one?" the bird asked, cocking its head.

"The tide waits for no man."

"Or woman either," the bird chuckled.

This is all wobblycompetencies's fault. She thought up the original concept. Then my brain went crazy. Comments are always welcome!

Recommended listening for this piece:

Scarborough Fair- Blackmore's Night

Recommended listening for this piece:

Adagio- Tomaso Albinoni

James raised his head from his work as he heard a soft but deliberate knock on the door to his study. "Come in," he said, looking back down at the paper. The custodian, for whatever strange reason, preferred that James not watch him or talk to him while he was doing his job. It has always struck James as rather particular, even a mite strange, but the man did a good job, so he left him to his business, only sneaking the occasional guilty glance at his mysterious caretaker.

After the door creaked open slightly, however, James was forced once more to look up from his work to address the long stretch of silence that would have habitually been broken by the custodian's unobtrusive bustling about his office.

To his only mild surprise, it was not the face of the custodian that looked at him through the barely open door, but a young lady, perhaps of an age with his younger brother. Her long blonde hair, tending toward the darker shades of the color, was swept back off of her face and secured with a sparing number of pins so that it cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. Her eyes, James noticed, were worried and weary, though they were a rather arresting shade of blue-grey.

"May I help you madam?" he asked, his brain not still adjusted to the idea that this was not, in fact, the custodian.

The young lady looked at the floor briefly but, when her eyes rose to meet his again, her gaze was calm and steady. "I hope so, Father Scarlett," she said, her voice quiet and melodious, "I've come for your advice."

"Then please," Jame said, remembering his manners and abruptly rising from his desk chair, "do come in and sit down."

He pulled the door open and ushered her to the plain but comfortable chair that sat across the desk from his own.

"May I get you something to drink?" he asked, "Tea, coffee, water, wine, something...more medicinal?"

"Thank you, no," the lady responded, folding her hands on her lap, "I am quite correct."

James recognized that tone. He poured two cups of the fresh tea on his sideboard for himself and the lady, setting them both in the middle of the table. On a hunch, he added a pinch of lemon to hers.

"Now," he said, settling in with his cup and saucer, "upon what matter do you seek my advice?"

The lady sighed a little, appearing to marshal her thoughts.

"This...this is not an subject I find easy to talk about," she said quietly.

James was quiet, just listening.

"And I must be able to depend upon your discretion," she said.

"I assure you, madam," James said, his voice soothing, "that nothing we discuss this afternoon will ever leave this room."

"I...thank you," she responded. She was quiet for a moment, and James just watched her, sipping at his tea.

"My name is Elizabeth Finisterre," she said after the silence had stretched on for several minutes, "and I am here...I am here to ask you about your brother."

"Yes?" James said, secretly wondering what Jack had gotten himself into this time.

"I don't know if you remember, Father," Ms. Finisterre continued, "but I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance at the parish tea several weeks ago. It is that event that I wish to speak of in particular."

James remembered the day well enough.  Several of Jack's friends and acquaintances had been there, and he had been introduced to almost all of them. After a moment of careful consideration, however, Elizabeth Finisterre's quiet demeanor and understated pride hit  him like a ton of bricks. "Ah yes," he said, "I do recall the afternoon."

Ms Finisterre smiled dryly. "I rather thought you might," she said softly. "If I recall correctly, a certain lady of your acquaintance was there that afternoon as well?"

Ah yes. Alison Carlisle. James had been doing his best to forget about that business.  He simply nodded, inviting the lady to continue.

"It was a pleasant afternoon," she said. This was, mostly, quite true. The thing James recalled most vividly about that afternoon, however, was how congenial his brother had been. Jack was always in his element with the ladies, and there had been several of them about that day. As such, he had been the perfect gentleman all day...only he completely ignored one lady.

"I was...confused," Ms. Finisterre continued. "Your brother and I have stepped out occasionally over the past year, and he has always been very kind to me. We have been to several teas together, but...well we have also been to several teas with that particular group of friends and acquaintances."

James nodded. He could see where this was headed.

"I...I am not prepared to press the point with Mr. Kempton," she continued, "but...well, I must confess that I am at a loss to explain his aloofness towards me in such circumstances. Our conversations are so..." she flushed slightly, and paused.

"I understand," James said softly.

"I don't," Elizabeth Finisterre said flatly, "would you care to enlighten me?"

"It would be my pleasure," James said, fitting several conversations in their proper order in his head. Things were starting to come together.

"My brother," he began, stirring a little cream into his tea, " is not a social animal by nature." He ignored the lady's scoff. "Anything to do with large groups of people, or small ones for that matter, terrify him utterly. We...have not had easy lives my brother an I, as is the case with many of God's creatures and, as a result, Jack is very wary about those to whom he gives his confidence. Emotions and...connections are not something he forms easily. Does this make sense to you?"

The lady nodded, though James wasn't sure she was entirely on board with him. He carried on.

"The way that he, and I, to a certain extent, cope with caring in general is that we don't. It is easy to be polite to people when you don't care about them. It's when they get inside your heart that they start making a wreak of things."

Ms. Finisterre's eyes widened slightly.

"In short, madam, I would cut my brother some slack on the politeness front, were I you. Emotions feel so raw and...real that he cannot believe that others do not see them too.  He is terrified that, should he so much as look at you in the company of others, they will see just how much he cares for you. And, having gained that knowledge, will use it to hurt both of you.  Not to mention the fact that you might see how much power you have over him."

"Power?" the lady inquired, "I don't understand."

James chuckled a little, "Jack is a paradoxical creature if ever I saw one," he said, "One the one hand, he is incredibly proud. Yet, on the other, incredibly vulnerable. He cannot quite believe that you care for him as much as he cares for you, and will not by any means support being the recipient of either your pity or your cruelty. In short, if he doesn't let you in on his secret, then there is no way for you to betray it. He is safe from his own disappointment."

The lady snorted. "That," she said, "is incredibly convoluted and entirely ridiculous. How am I to know his feelings, or even hope to reciprocate them if he doesn't tell me what they are?!"

James smiled, "I do not pretend for a moment that he is logical about it," he said, "I endevour only to help you understand that he is afraid."

He sighed, "I rather think that...well I am old fashioned in that way," he said.

Ms. Finisterre raised an eyebrow.

"I believe that a gentleman ought to make his intentions known to a lady," he said, by way of clarification, "however, I also recognize that there are...certain factors in Jack's psyche that strongly discourage him from doing so."

  The lady was quiet for a few moments. "Thank you, Father Scarlett," she said finally. "You have been...most helpful."

"It was my pleasure, madam, I assure you," James said, rising from his seat to collect her empty teacup.

"I...I rather suspect that we are both being...somewhat illogical and childish," she said softly.

"It would not surprise me in the least," James said as he arranged the tea things on the sideboard, smiling a little at the indignant expression that he knew had flitted across her face. "It appears to me that it is in the nature of human beings to be childish and illogical, priests and politicians first among the perpetrators."

She rose from her seat, dipping into a slight curtsy, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I do...well, that is silly," she said, shaking her head.

"You do what?" James asked softly, taking her hands gently.

"I do wish that he trusted me," she said softly.

"I think he does," James said, his voice gentle. "Trusts you more than he is comfortable admitting. And that is what terrifies him."

She looked sad for a moment. "Thank you, Father Scarlett," she said at last. "I will...need to consider what you have told me."

"I would very much appreciate it," James added, as she headed towards the door, "if Jack were not to know of our conversation. He...dislikes my meddling in his personal affairs."

"As well he should," replied Lady Elizabeth Finisterre. And then she was gone.

James smiled, pouring himsef a glass of something...medicinal as he sat down to finish his notes on this weeks sermon.

This one never got finished...i might come back to it someday, who knows. 

"You alright, Jackie?"

Jack looked up at the feel of a hand on his shoulder. He saw his brother standing over him, his dark grey eyes worried, his priestly collar out of place in the dingy establishment.

"I'm far from alright," he responded with a sigh, turning back to lean his elbows on the bar.

James sat down beside him, signalling to the barman, who brought him a shot of whiskey.

"How did you know I was here?" Jack asked. James smiled.

"Men shot dead in the streets, everyone talking about a red-headed demon...I knew where to look," he said, downing the shot.

Jack looked ruefully at the bar, quiet.

"Care to chat about it, or shall we go beat someone at cards?" James asked, signalling the barman for another.

Jack sighed, "I'm not sure I'll be much good at the card table tonight," he said, finishing his drink and standing. "You available for a walk?"

"For you?": James said, tossing back his second whiskey, "I'm always available, Jackie."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," Jack said as they left the dark bar behind them and stepped out into the cool night air.

"Aye, and I wish you wouldn't call me Jaimie, so we're square, I think," James responded.

They walked in silence for several blocks, the sounds of the city burbling around them in the cool breeze.

"Remember that time when MacArthur's boy died?" Jack asked finally, "And we had that talk about...life?"

James nodded, "Aye, I do."

"Remember, when you told me it was like confession?"

"Yes."

"I...I've been thinking lately, about what you said."

"And?"

"You were mostly right, I am a confessor and it is my own fault."

"My being right makes you challenge random men to duels just to have the pleasure of killing them?"

"No, of course not. I'm worried that I might have started doing that to other people."

James looked at his brother quizzically. "You've lost me there," he said.

"You know that I've never confessed to anyone but you."

"You found another priest?"

"No...someone else."

"Aaaah, I see. Is she pretty?"

"Not exceptionally, I don't suppose. But she's...fascinating. But she's quiet. Hardly says a word. And, of course, very polite."

"Too polite to tell you to shut your mouth when you've started talking too much?"

"Exactly."

"So what's got you on your toes? You're not a very chatty person yourself, if I may dare to judge."

Jack sighed, running a hand through his shock of red hair. "Well, not with her, apparently. I've...well I've told her all sorts of things that aren't generally public knowledge."

"And...?"

"It just frustrates me!" Jack exclaimed, kicking savagely at a stray pebble. "I should know when to keep my mouth shut. I've been an idiot before. I know not to share that information with people. But I just...she just listens so well..."

"That's what a good confessor does," James said softly.

"I don't want to do that to someone, James," Jack said earnestly, looking over at his brother as the walked. "I've seen what it does to you, I've seen what it does to me...it's not good."

"You forgot the last part of the conversation, then," James said, his calm voice cutting through Jack's agitation.

"Do edify me, then."

James chuckled. "You're right," he said, "one way confession can be very damaging. But it's not the only kind of relationship there is. I said that night, and I'll say again, that part of the reason you've had so much difficulty is that you don't let yourself confess to anyone other than me. Other people are perfectly willing to open up to you, but you don't trust them enough to do the same."

"With good reason," Jack muttered.

"I can't comment on that," James said smoothly, "but regardless, that is the state of things as I have seen it. Perhaps the first step to having a more...equal relationship is finding someone to whom you feel comfortable confessing. Maybe, if you're honest with her, she will trust you in return."

"I doubt it," Jack said, his voice a little sad.

"You could always stop seeing her if it makes you uncomfortable," James suggested.

"It...I think that would be disrespectful," Jack said softly.

"I do as well, but it is an option."

"I...she does not strike me as the trustful type."

"Then you need to wait. She will trust you or she will not, and that is not your choice to make. In the meantime, perhaps you can try to speak less of yourself. Would it make you more comfortable?"

Jack sighed, "I...don't know. I will try."

The had reached the arching spires of the church and they stopped. Jack embraced his brother. "Thank you for your advice," he said, "It...helps to talk to you, as always."

"I am glad, to help you, brother, as always," James replied.

"How...did things go with the Bishop?" Jack asked quietly, seeing James look up at the church, a strange look in his eyes.

"I do not know. He was not in his office on Monday, and I am still the priest for this parish." He shrugged, "I can make no assumptions, but I cannot say I am displeased with the current state of affairs."

"And the sermon he gave you?"

"Are you alright, Jamie?" 

James did not look around from his window seat. He stared out at the blackness beyond his window, feeling the cold of his whiskey seeping into the palm of his hand. 

"Not in the slightest," he said hoarsely. The words tried to catch in his throat. 

"Do you mind if I come in?" Jack said quietly from the door, his face just one large mask of worry.

There was a long silence. 

"I didn't expect if to hurt this much," James said quietly. He spoke carefully, every word feeling like it was tearing a little bit out of him. 

Jack didn't know what to say. He hated moments like this. He never knew what to say. So he said nothing. He sat down beside his brother and poured them both another glass of whiskey. 

There was a knock at the door.

"Father Scarlett?" said a very small voice.

James looked around, his whiskey and his pain forgotten. A very small figure was standing in his doorway, her very small gloved hands clutching a very small bag.

"Goodness, Lisa Mallone, it's half past eleven, what are you doing out at this time of night," James said, his brows wrinkled in concern as he walked over and knelt down in front of the child. "Is everything alright at home, is your mother alright?"

The little girl nodded, and she just held up the bag, her eyes brimming with tears. "This is for you, Father," she said, her lip wobbling precariously. "Mama said you were leaving tomorrow, and, and...." the child couldn't stop the tears, "we didn't want you to...forget us," she finished, punctuating her sentence with sniffs. 

James pulled the little girl close to him, laying her head on his shoulder as she cried. "It's alright, Lisa," he said, rocking her gently back and forth, "I couldn't possibly forget you, not if I went to the other side of the world." 

"It's time to go now, Lisa."

In his distress at seeing the young girl in his office, James and neglected to notice her mother standing in the doorway, dabbing a kerchief at the corners of her eyes.

"You come on now, dear, and let Father Scarlett get on with his work. He's a busy man, you know that." The woman's voice trembled.

The little girl let got of James and walked back towards her mother, still sniffing. "You go on outside and wait with your brother," Mrs. Mallone said, her voice gentle. 

When the child was gone, she turned angry eyes towards James. "I just want you to know, Father Scarlett," she said, her voice shaking, "that the people of these parish don't believe these allegations for a moment. Not for a moment."

James took a deep breath, steadying his emotions. He took the lady's hands gently in his. "Thank you, Mrs. Mallone," he said, his voice soft, but steady. "Your faith in me at this time means more to me than I could possibly tell you."

"It's just not right," she said, shaking her head as she let go of his hand. "Just not right." She looked into his eyes. "God bless you, Father Scarlett, for everything you've done for us. And if he doesn't, he's no God of mine."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked out.

Very slowly, James looked down at the little bag in his hand. He opened it carefully, his heart in his throat. Inside was a little rosary. It had clearly been homemade but, somehow, that made it even more heart rending.  On every little wooden bead, one of the children of the parish had signed there name. Inside was a little note. All it said was "Thank you."

When Jack took the breakfast tray upstairs around eleven, he found his brother propped up on every pillow he could find, still pale, but surprisingly alert.

"How are you feeling this morning, dear brother?" Jack asked, laying the tray on the side table.

"Oh, I've never been better," James said, sounding tired and worn, "Another remarkable sewing job, I must say."

"I would never consider anything else as sufficient," Jack responded, laying out two soft boiled eggs, a cup of coffe, a piece of toast and marmalade, and a spoon. He passed the tray to his brother.

"So, it would seem that your evening's entertainment was a bit more overzealous than is your general practice," he said, sitting back with his own third cup of coffee.

James nodded, as he began to eat. He moved arms slowly and his injury clearly pained him, but Jack new beter than to offer him any laudanum. He was stubborn that way. "It did indeed get a bit out of hand," he admitted.

Jack sighed, putting down his coffee and looking at his brother, "Why do you insist upon this sort of behaviour, Jaimie?" he asked, "You know my reputation doesn't need any solidifying."

James just looked at him, one eyebrow slightly raised, "You didn't hear the things they said about you, Jack,"  he responded, "You would have done the same in my position, I dare to hope."

"Try me," Jack said dryly.

James did.

Jack took a slow breath. "Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my judgement of the situation," he said, his voice cold and hard.

James shrugged, "I did not see any other option. Lieutenant Kennedy was good enough to assist me, in your absence." He looked up from the egg, "You seem a bit on edge," he remarked, "is something wrong?"

Jack passed him the second letter that Lt. Kennedy had delivered from Cpt. Fitzwilliam a few minutes earlier.

"Oh, Christ's blood," James swore softly, "That's just excessive."

"I thought so," Jack said softly, taking the letter back. He folded it and put in in the pocket of his vest. "With pistols at ten paces, I should think he means to kill me." Then he chuckled. "I do feel for the young lieutenant," he said.

"Oh?"

"He was in quite a state when he brought me the letter. I do believe he finds his officer's conduct...rather churlish."

James snorted, "Clever lad," he said. "I'll have to second for you, you know," he said, cleaning up the last of the toast and coffee.

"You absolutely will not," Jack said firmly. "You're going to lay there until I give you permission to get your truant body out of bed." He adjusted his cuffs, "I don't believe I shall require a second at all, thank you."

James looked at him, "Oh really?"

"Really," Jack said, "I'm quite certain this Fitzwilliam fellow is not all the good shot he'd like to be. Besides, he's angry."

"And you're not?" James asked.

"Not the same way he is," Jack said evenly. He stood, gathering the breakfast things and passing James a book, "Don't fret, I'll tell you all about it this evening when I get home."

"Just make sure you get home," James said darkly, opening the book. "Who else would fix me such delicious food?"