#spiritsplit

edward cullen is, perhaps, one of the strangest people bella swan has met in her short, short life. first, he was rude. then, he was nice. then, he saved her life. she would have died if edward didn't step in, and now he was acting like they had never met before. and now, this? just trying to be nice? thank god it was work time in biology class, because she truly doesn't know if she would have been able to tone down her reaction.

“ that's what you call nice? ” she whispers, but it's quite loud for a whisper. he'd gone from ignoring her to talking to her to saving her life to ignoring her again. she felt like she was going crazy. “ being nice wouldn't be ignoring me for weeks after you — ” bella pauses, looking around to make sure no one is listening. mike is paying more attention to her than she'd like, but she'd grown used to it at this point. mike pays attention to her, jessica gets jealous, bella assures her she has no interest in mike. and so the cycle repeats itself. “ after i watched you stop a car with your hand. ” she whispers again, though this time it's a real whisper. “ being nice to me would include actually speaking to me, you know. not pretending like i'm some annoying pest you want to go away. ”

for a moment artemis could believe it was like old times. the same team, young and full of boundless optimism, yet again celebrating the start of a new year. unaware of the horrors each turn of the earth brings. unaware of all the ways a person could truly suffer. to look closer you would see the differences in the children they once where to the adults they became. there are new lines on their faces, new scars on their bodies, new identifies tattooed onto their very souls, all hidden by the smiles as glasses are raised. toasts to the ones they lost, and the one who returned. eyes turn to wally, a hero once again home. lips turn upwards, her hand squeezing his, perhaps there is hope for this new year.

an automated voice starts a countdown. 10, 9, 8 . . . artemis is caught in his gaze. body drifting towards him, chin tilted upwards. 7, 6, 5 . . . she remembers those two kids from all those years ago, sharing their first kiss on this same night. what would they think to the people they've become? 4, 3, 2 . . . eyelids flutter to a close, toes lifting slightly to close the gap between them. lips touching as celebrations ring in the air. happy new year! the fireworks might be real, they might be in her head. arms snaking up over his biceps to curl over his shoulders. deeper artemis falls into wally's embrace, never wanting to be parted again. but they must. breath catching as her forehead presses against his.

teeth are sucked. ❝ tcccch. what's even 'da point, 'den? ❞ she hangs her head all melodramatic like; gives it a few seconds for dramatic effect before revealing the usual sight of her toothy smile. ❝ hah! 'm fuckin' wit'chu'. guess y'll do jus' fine, too ... ❞ eyes roll to emphasis her continued dramatization - like her mouth isn't watering at the mere thought of digging into some fresh, greasy, cheesy .. disgusting .. yummy .. delicious .. pizza .....

rats are just as excited; both by casey's very presence, and the overwhelming scent of pizza in their twitching lil' noses. some are scrabbling at his legs, others have already begun scaling them to try getting a first bite. their greed is sickening. mother caused that, for sure. oopsie.

the bacchanal was ruined. fucking bunny. all the preparation, all the studying, all the meditation, ruined by someone who didn't care in the first place. it was a joke to him the whole time. so much so, that it seemed to seep from his pores and all it did was infuriate him.

something had to be done. and it would.

he passes notes with charles to start talking about it. though, henry had the inkling that his friend didn't understand the depth of his devotion to this. he smiled, and laughed, but he didn't know. and how could he? he didn't expect him to. him, or camilla, or francis. especially not richard. richard, who hangs outside the room, perhaps trying to be sneaky. charles doesn't say anything as henry invites richard papen inside, and in fact, he keeps his gaze on the notes, which he neatly folds into squares and tucks into his pocket.

“ you did. but it doesn't matter. ” he says rather matter of factly, and finally looks at him over the frames of his glasses. “ do you need something, richard? julian left two hours ago. ”

         ❛❛  no body has ever said a thing like that.  ❜❜         to her, of course, or otherwise.    heIaena does not meet his eyes, and the gentled tone of her voice might likely be in favour of the many-legged creature taking turns and turns and turns around her hand  —  fondness for the beast, not for the boy standing over her, saying impossible things.

in the garden, there blows a warm summer wind.    the last for some time yet.    soon, it will be cold and unforgiving all over ;    ice in the stonehewn castle-cage and in the shutters of closing mouths all around her.    the music of a voice, speaking only to her, and saying words with meaning, can not be hoarded.    helaena wouldn’t want to keep it captive, even if she could.    it will run through her fingers like sand, anyway.    soon, people will turn their backs in every room she enters, and whisper words they’ll think she could not bear.    but heIaena knows more than they assume.    she knows, for example, that aidyn marteIl will save her yet, but not in any way that matters.

"c'mon man" she banters, letting out a snort, her hands reaching into her pockets. she always wears a turtleneck and high-waisted pants. she’s not sure what’s so different about this turtleneck or these particular pants. maybe it’s her hair. maybe it’s the lighting. (still, he thinks she looks nice) but — warmth rushes to her face, and she has to look away from him for a few seconds [an unplanned response to his statement].

She cannot stop thinking of him, both in lust and dejection. His words from two nights ago continue to echo throughout the housemaid's mind more than she would like to admit. BE MY MISTRESS. There was something inherently haunting about those three words. On one hand, they were a solemn reminder of her destiny. [An illegitimate daughter to Lord Penwood who could never amount to anything more than a common peasant.] Wanting to be anything more than a mistress would be impossible, and frankly, dangerous for her. There was something Sophie found more troubling, though: the lack of regard for her reputation. For all the kindness and clemency shown by Benedict throughout their brief tenure of knowing each other, Sophie thought he had more respect for her than that. His request had proven otherwise. If discovery of their romance was ever made, it would be the end of her time in the Ton once again. A position of work in the country wouldn't even be possible. She would have to start anew, if that was even possible. Sophie wasn't sure if it was, and wasn't keen on having to find out. His request had lifted the veil to something else, too: whereas she was still rooted in reality and hadn't allowed her imagination to get the better of her, Benedict was still caught up in the fantasy of a woman who didn't even exist. THE LADY IN SILVER.