#lyresung

In New York City, the Boyd family lived on a street with large, ostentatious houses. Despite many of these being used for billeting soldiers, the Boyds had been spared of this inconvenience due to their close ties with the British generals and Governor Tryon, himself.

Jedediah, a successful attorney, lived with his wife, Laura, and their three young daughters, Charlotte, Clara and Catherine. The eldest and youngest were both well-poised and charming, but the middle daughter – well…she’d nearly brought the Boyds to great shame, seeing how she’d already succumbed to “premarital carnalities” that were best to be kept hidden. After paying off the young man who’d stolen Clara’s virtue, the problem had more or less disappeared… Though Clara’s outrageous behavior most certainly had not.

Presently, the Boyds were hosting a party for every man and woman worthy of note – loyalists and British soldiers only, of course – and Clara stood along the outskirts with her sister, Catherine, trying not to roll her eyes with each cloying attempt at flirtation. After the latest sod walked off, Clara's head dropped back in disgust. “Fie, this is so boring!” she complained. “There isn't a single gentleman under 30 within reaching distance, and all that drab, melancholic stringed music is making me want to pack my own ears with sand.”

Catherine winced. “It's not that bad...”

“What isn't? The music or the tragic lack of young, interesting, not to mention handsome men?”

Catherine rose on tiptoe, attempting to peer around the milling guests. Finally, she grinned and inclined her blonde head toward a nearby victim. “What about him?”

Clara turned along with the gesture, frowning. “Oh, that's just Jonathan Smythe,” she said dismissively. “I don't count him since he sprays when he talks. Handsome he may be, but hygienic he is not.”

Catherine sighed. “Okay, then what about him? The blonde with the drink?”

“Him? Hmm...” Clara peered at the newcomer, tonguing the corner of her mouth. “I've never seen him before.” Suddenly, her eyes lit up. “Ooh, let's play our ‘married or not’ game! I say not.”

Catherine wrinkled her nose. “Why? He's attractive and polite-looking.”

Clara snorted. “But look how uncomfortable he is! A man secure in his life wouldn't be gazing about like that, all helpless and adrift, so he is definitely not married.”

“I don’t know...”

The redhead grinned, then tapped her sister on the nose. “Don’t you worry, I'll be sure to find out.”

Catherine gasped. “Clara, don't!”

There was no way to know how long she’d been sitting there with her knees folded, breathing the dry smoke that invaded her chambers through the windows and disturbed her eyes. Hearing the sound of clashing swords and moans of dying men, Helen was taken by a peculiar sense of calmness. Soon enough someone would stomp into the room - she’d left the door open, understanding the inevitable, and though there were endless possibilities as to whose face she would see next, from the depths of her core she could sense the answer.

Deiphobus lay dead on their marital bed, paying the proper price for assuming the role of Paris’ successor - bleeding vigorously over the white linen sheets, his lifeless eyes still wide open, lips slightly parted, forming a semblance of shock. Helen’s hands, drenched to the wrist with his blood, clutched the sharp side of the dagger that killed him. 

Distant footsteps gradually became louder and echoed inside her ears until they reigned over every other sound - making her hold her breath for just one second - and when he entered, sword in hand, she graciously lifted her chin to face him with her most dignified expression. There he was: her original husband. Weathered by war, ten years older than the last time she had seen his face, delightfully ignorant of what would come next. “So, what will it be then?”, she asked, the very image of self-possession, making a tight fist around the blade. “I hope you know that I love you, but if I have to defend myself from you, I will”.

        ❝  they’ll  heal,  ❞   she  says  as  she  inspects  the   cuts  and  calluses  on  each  of  her  hands,  looking  up  at  him  after  a  moment.   she  may  not  have  been  down  in  hadestown  for  long,  but  the  work  she  did  there  certainly  left  its  mark;  eurydice  could  only  imagine  how  the  hands  of  those  who’ve  been  there  much  longer  looked.   ❝  it’ll  be  fine,  orpheus  ---  i’ve  handled  worse  things.  ❞

@lyresung​ said: “ enjoy my hypocrisy . ” percy / lyresung

“ i’m just saying— “

{ @lyresung​ asked: a kiss on the shoulder. ( hector/lyresung @ melitta ) }

The moon was full that night, illuminating the Nash estate like a glowing beacon. It was cold for summer – unseasonably cold – and Elizabeth Morrow trekked swiftly along the grounds, tightening her fingers around the cape at her throat. She intended to read for a bit in the barn. Despite it not being safe, there was a restless, unsettled pull in her stomach that compelled her to sit with the horses. Animals, no matter the type, tended to warm her far more than human companionship, and on this night she was in dire need of company.

Upon entering the barn, she set down the lantern she’d been carrying and moved over to Gunpowder, her favorite of the well-bred steeds. His white hair practically glowed within the candlelight, and she smiled while moving over to stroke his flank. “Hello, there,” Elizabeth whispered. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a bit?”

He nickered in response and she grinned, rubbing his nose. Taking that to mean “yes,” she happily sank down onto the dirty floor by his stall and curled her knees toward her chest. Beneath her cloak, she unearthed the worn, dog-eared letter she’d read and re-read by Dr. Jacob Nash. She hadn’t heard from him in three whole months… Though not unusual for correspondence to be spotty during war, Elizabeth dreaded any potential news that he might have been killed or struck ill.

Opening the letter with shaking fingers, Elizabeth once more read through Jacob’s stilted, elegant scroll, only to snag over the words: My morale swings each day like a pendulum, and only correspondence with home is lifting my spirits. Unbidden, her heart sank. What if her letters hadn’t reached him? She’d sent two now, if only to make sure he was all right…

Crack.

Elizabeth jerked upright, startled. Brow creasing, she listened in alarm, tilting her head toward the sound of the noise. Despite it being a fledgling gift of hers, she could make out a faint glow, almost like the figure of a man outlined by candle flame. Without being in the same room, Elizabeth could discern how many people were close by – unfortunately for her, someone was roaming the estate. In this time and age, it was quite common for thieves to pillage, so she could easily imagine what this stranger wanted.

Determined, Elizabeth rose from off the ground in search of the musket Dr. Desmond Nash, the patriarch of the estate, kept hanging on the far barn wall. With shaking hands, she drew the weapon downward, then checked the flash pan to see if it was loaded with gunpowder. It wasn’t.

Cursing under her breath, Elizabeth rummaged through a neighboring basket, then withdrew a paper cartridge before ripping it open with her teeth. From her peripheral, she could sense the figure briskly approaching.

After loading the gunpowder into the flash pan, Elizabeth took the metal rod off the musket and jerked it in and out of the barrel, all the while creeping toward the closed barn doors. The man was nearly upon her now…

With the musket fully loaded, Elizabeth took a breath, then ripped open the right barn door. In a flash, she jerked the musket upright and pointed it toward the shadowed figure, her hands shaking as she seethed, “Not another step! Don’t come any closer!”

          sitting at another meeting in the big house, rachel sighed as she listened to clarisse and one of the other cabin leaders arguing about who was supposed to take up her latest quest. really, rachel wasn’t sure why she had to be there –– normally, she’d love to be included, but with this being her first day from art school over break, all she wanted to do was fall into her bed and snore, snore, snore the day away. maybe with percy next to her. 

she snuck a glance at him then. sitting beside her in a dark orange camp half-blood hoodie, she couldn’t help the little upwards twist of her lips as their eyes met. she went to go whisper something into his ear, but was caught off guard when his hand first fell onto her thigh. his fingers, she gathered quickly were searching for something.

once they fit into hers, though, they stilled. he’d found her hand and was now holding it. his thumb was doing this thing –– this thing that drove her crazy and he knew it. rubbing it in circles where it sat, it made rachel want to get into his lap right there and then. suddenly, she wasn’t tired anymore.