thepulta

[thepulta]

Arthur Catharsis

-=-

Keys jangled in the lock.

A lanky guard stepped through the door, caught sight of Arthur Faire behind bars and scoffed. "Six months an' one visitor, eh? The real social type." He looked back at whoever had come visiting. "Six months, six minutes. No funny business now."

There was another, much politer scoff as Arthur's eldest daughter stepped through the door and the guard stepped to the corner.

Westlie looked… well. Arthur hated to admit it.

"Six months one visit?" Arthur's back ached as he straightened up. "Finally come to pay your dues?"

Westlie stepped up to the bars, raising a polite eyebrow. "My dues? My dues are paid. I came to discuss your dues."

"You dare insinuate my dues after you betrayed me-" Arthur grabbed the bars.

Westlie didn't flinch.

"-I am only here because of what you did. How low you would go to bite the hand that feeds you-"

Westlie's eyes flashed. "Maybe you should have considered that before you considered blackmailing your daughter to cover your own ass for your crimes. You're here for those crimes."

"The only thing that matters is money," Arthur snarled, "Because you use money to build your legacy. And if others are too stupid to realize-"

"And what legacy, Arthur?!" Westlie scoffed. She gestured to the cell. "This is your fucking legacy."

"Yet you come here after the Townsend Gala dressed to the nines." Arthur curled his lip. "You're wearing my legacy; you're wearing what I earned-"

"I am wearing the power you abused." Westlie laughed bitterly and leaned in close. She smelled like some kind of Reach-flower, a pleasant perfume, but esoteric enough it didn't have a name. "Let me enlighten you, Father. Nobody likes you. When I told Winchester he could have your head on a platter and I would take your place - granted, with a few concessions - he snapped at the chance."

Arthur felt his face burning, red boiling up his neck until his rage burst out.

Westlie must've noticed too. She took a step back, frown toying on her lips. "What is it you always said-? I'm not you?"

"You aren't good enough," Arthur snarled.

Westlie breathed out and he noticed her fingers were shaking. Good. It was the truth.

She met his eyes anyway, tilting up her chin in some mocking performance of courage. "Good," she said. "I don't want to be you. I hope I'm never you. I hope when I die, I am the opposite of everything you ever told me-"

Arthur felt the rage bubbling over.

"-I hope I have friends when I die. I hope if I ever did something unforgivable and stupid I would learn from my mistakes." Her voice cracked and she stepped away just as Arthur's arm burst through the bars to grab her. It rattled the bars, but he'd tried that hundreds of times and they hadn't gotten any looser. He growled fruitlessly as Westlie stepped away.

The guard stepped forward and Westlie met his eyes. They looked at each other for a long, five seconds. Long enough Arthur's gut twisted with worry. Arthur rattled the bars again.

Westlie finally stepped away, but she didn't leave like he expected; she just stepped against the far wall, arms clasped behind her back like he'd taught her. It looked out of place in a red evening gown.

The guard on the other hand stepped toward him. Arthur retracted his arms behind the bars unwillingly and the guard seemed to laugh despite herself. Before he could process the laughter, the shape of the guard changed, cracked, grew more lithe. A long red-orange braid tumbled from beneath the guard cap, and when he blinked, there were two piercingly green eyes staring back at him.

Arthur staggered backwards onto his bunk. "Y- You- The guard-"

Morgan winced a bit, like it was a prank gone awry. "I suppose the disguise was a bit much, but it was easier to sneak Westlie down here than go through all the paperwork."

"Y- Sh-"

She knelt down and began drawing something with her finger.

"S-Stop that," Arthur managed to choke out. "What are you-"

Westlie was staring at him from the far wall, face impassive, conscious onlooker.

Morgan hummed softly as she straightened up from whatever she'd done and moved to the mid-front of the cell. She started drawing the same sigil again.

"Stop that," Arthur snapped again. "You can't do that. GUARDS," he bellowed around the room. "GUARDS."

Morgan laughed and it felt like nails were suddenly dragged down Arthur's spine. She straightened up, grinning. Grinning with those sick green eyes like a cheshire cat, pinning him in place. She should have never been born. Should have died. Should have been dead. The ghosts of the past tugging at him, dragging him down to his knees. To kneel on the dirt. He was kneeling now. Westlie stood in the corner; she watched.

Morgan grinned. "I learned an ironic little tidbit about Newgate yesterday. Would you like to hear it?"

Arthur no longer had control of his neck. He nodded. His heart screamed. His mouth didn't answer.

She started drawing the sigil again. "In the Neath, Newgate was affixed to the ceiling. I didn't know that. You'd think I'd know that, growing up in London at all, but I didn't."

Arthur remembered that. He'd been young, but he'd grown up in the dark on the docks. The stalagmite with Newgate had loomed in the distance. He remembered.

"Anyway, it's ironic because now, it's- Oh-" she thought for a moment. "A hundred-fifty feet underneath London? Something like that." She finished the sigil and made an unlocking motion with her hand.

Arthur gasped for air and doubled over, panting.

It took him a few seconds to get his breath back and Morgan had started on the other corner of the cell. She was being lazy about it.

Arthur staggered to his feet again. "Y- You aren't human. You're n-not my daughter." He swallowed. "You're a fucking monster g-get the fuck away from me."

Westlie lurched forward at that, but she paused when Morgan glanced her way. Something passed between them unspoken, and that was somehow more infuriating than anything else.

Arthur paced to the side closest to Westlie. "Don't let her tell you what to do! You take orders from her?!"

Morgan snorted. "It's called listening. You should try it sometime." She kept talking before he could scream in rage. "I hoped you'd say that, you know? I remember bits and pieces of- you know- your and Otto's grand plan- and I tasted how scared you were." Morgan leaned in closer so Westlie couldn't see and she licked her lips, slow enough to show off inhumanly white teeth - and he wasn't sure if those were fake or real or he was imagining things or he'd just never seen her smile before or maybe he'd never seen Morgan smile like that. Arthur stumbled back like she'd choked him, gasping.

With a lazy wave of her hand, Morgan finished the last sigil and the air in the room grew taunt.

Arthur couldn't make his mouth form words and the words chattered in his brain. What are you going to do?

She smiled. She heard.

She ignored him.

Morgan drew up her hand in a fist and the earth cracked. The walls of the cell split from the rock around it, and dust fell from the ceiling in front of the bars. Nothing in the cell itself moved, but it had separated from the rock around it.

"I hoped you'd say that," Morgan said again, like they were continuing where she left off. Arthur couldn't rip his eyes away. "I've done a lot of thinking these past six months, because every time you said you shouldn't have had a second child- you should've just had Westlie- it never sat right, and I never understood why until I realized that it wasn't true."

The world squeezed around him. Arthur sank against his cot, but still couldn't rip his eyes away. Westlie still stood in the corner, watching.

Morgan eyed him for a moment. Her voice was surprisingly quiet. "You always used to say Westlie was the angry one, the insolent one. But that's not true. You could've just had Westlie and all this would've still happened. She still would've left because she's better than you and she cares. Despite everything and everyone, she will always care. She didn't get your temper," Morgan swallowed. "She got your stubbornness."

Westlie's eyes widened a little. This speech was new.

Morgan swallowed, fist still raised. "I'm the one that got your wrath." Morgan sucked in a breath and the air snapped. Her voice split into three, and Arthur's ears rung.

I am Morgan Faire, the voices peeled. I am the Garden Queen. I am the Keeper. I am the Builder. I am the Pruner-of-Rot.

Arthur could barely make out Westlie through the dust as she stepped forward. She softly raised her own arm to rest upright against the Queen's fist, no power, but equal judgement. Her face was impassive, but her eyes held pity. Westlie thought he was weak. And despite the instinctive protest, Arthur felt the knowledge rip through him like a sword.

Sir Captain Arthur Faire. You have committed crimes against bond, against blood, against bone. You were graced six months to consider yet view them not as crimes nor as a punishment.

I am Goddess underneath the city of London. I am the Light in the dark. I am the Judgment of all in my domain. I am the Maker of Laws that you have broken. I am the Truth.

The voices scalded the dark and the dust burned bright. Metal ground against his ears and Arthur managed to clap his hands against his head.

Sir Captain Arthur Faire. I sentence you Downward.

#no edits we die like Arthur Faire lolz #liztlie au #not for letty eyes #liztlie au spoilers #not a lot of spoilers because it probably won't be used tho. #just written for catharsis. lolol

[thepulta]

#I could NOT get this line from the liztlie au out of my head. #Arthur Faire #Westlie Faire

[thepulta]

Everyone knew there was coal at the foot of Hawk’s Peak. Waste heaps were strewn across the valley like oversized ant-mounds and ancient cart tracks wore deep ruts back to the Marena lowlands. Drifters liked to set up camps, but they never lasted. Too dry. Too rough. And coal hadn't been valuable anyway until some boy figured out how to make iron harder. Then John Greystone came to Hawk's Peak with his wife and his shotgun and gold from the bank.

Gin Reiner was a drifter with a small pit there and his own mules. John shot Gin Reiner on a spring morning. When Gin's boys approached him after the service- Well, nobody had seen the boys after that. But rumor had it they tailed it back to the lowlands. No use staying where there wasn’t ready money.

But John Greystone stayed, and his wife Ellen. With his loan from the bank, he laid down gleaming steel rails that wound through the narrow gorges back home. Men came on the railroad; some women, but not many, and at the prime age of 28, Ellen Greystone had two boys.

The eldest son had a good head on his shoulders; went back to the lowlands to get a piece of paper for machines, and he married a girl from the hills with coal in her blood. The youngest worked the mine. He was quick with his hands and quicker with his boss’s whistle and by the time John Greystone died, there were over one thousand people in Ellenville covered in coal dust when the day-whistle blew.

Once the eldest brother had his own John – John the III – the brothers knew about the ironstone in the hills just north of Ellenville’s valley and the town bloomed. It all became John III’s empire to run.

John III took a wife from the lowlands, a sweet little thing who loved the hills and wanted to escape the flat planes. However, she found the mountains of Ellenville to be dry, heartless, and her new husband too obsessed with building the Greystone legacy to worry about homemaking, or the homemaker; so Mrs. Martha Greystone found herself with three children and a mostly-empty manor. She named them John the IV, Rachel, and Mira. When they were old enough, John was set to the ironstone shafts. Rachel and Mira were deemed nimbler on the mostly-mechanized coal slopes.

The coal pit had grown like a canker on the south side of town. The first John Greystone had called it the Pothole Mine. They dug down 1000 feet in an open pit until the miners hit 50 feet of useless slatey rock and the coal vein dove deep into the earth. John III planned to dig after it eventually, but growing the pit west and east was easier and much more profitable. They stoped the sides of the pit, steam shovels biting fifty-foot staircases from the rock walls. Stoping was more an upgrade than feature inherent to the mine since men with picks had done the initial work, but it was important to keep the walls of the pit from collapsing. John II had emphasized it before he died. He had planned the stopes the whole length of the valley; fifty-foot steps were enough to keep the walls steady.

But he’d never considered rain, because it didn’t rain much in the Ellenville valley.

It rained three days and four nights until the valley smelled like wet silt and dirt and the water poured off the crusty ground into the Pothole mine. The pumps to keep water out of the mine bottom filled with cobbles and rubbish and had to be cleaned out with half a dozen steam shovels, day and night.

“Too much water,” Mira kept hearing the men say as they struggled into their galoshes for day shift. They hissed through their teeth when they looked out the window.

Usually, Mira and Rachel went with the shovel manager and sat with him for half the day, but Mira found the new steam shovels arriving on the train much more interesting. She stayed with her father, looking at the bright steel workings and checking off the parts on the list.

She remembered feeling the rumble underneath her feet before the bone-aching crack hit her ears. She remembered the boys and men at the shop turning a sickly olive color too – her father included. But John III did not turn green after they checked their shop stability; not when the day shifters returned with hollow faces and a few pieces of the bodies. He didn’t turn green when a boy Mira knew from across the street, her age, was brought up headless. He didn’t even turn green when what was left of Rachel was brought up, crushed against mangled machinery remains.

They buried her that Saturday, sky still weeping and half the town weeping with it. Six feet, no casket, because her body was half-engine.

The rest of them were Rachel’s ghosts, floating about the house with pale faces and red eyes. In her late-night waifish wander, Mira looked in her father’s office and saw his green face looking over the quarterly profits.

So the day of the rockfall was the last time Mira remembered being dressed in color.

#ellenville #mira greystone #black dresses

[thepulta]

Skyfarer Epilogue - Westlie and Elijah

Elijah Fry was the sort of man to always be on time. Westlie Faire, on the other hand, was the sort of woman to mostly be on time. Which was why he was the one sitting in a London restaurant next to a bottle of slowly-warming champagne.

Her last letter, sent two weeks before, had mentioned something about Hour tariffs and Fairweather. Elijah had skimmed over the specifics because she’d prefaced that section with, ‘The new tariffs are awful! I’m headed straight to London after this and you’ll get my full opinions then; but I have some spare time and Andy is absolutely up my ass; I’m writing anyway.’

So now Elijah was at their usual restaurant, watching the champagne sweat and occasionally glancing at his watch.

He occasionally looked out the window too, although the chandeliers shone too brightly for him to see her through the glass. He spotted his reflection instead; still tall, face still angular – maybe even more so now his hair had begun taking on a greyish, middle-aged sheen. He shouldn’t be shocked because he saw himself every morning in the mirror, but he’d been so busy carving out a life in London that it didn’t feel like ten years after the Clockwork Sun had been destroyed. He certainly didn’t feel ten years older; looking like it felt like a subtle betrayal.

He’d been so sure, so many times that he was doomed along with the rest of his crews. But no, he’d lived; most of the Pyrrhus had lived. It was startling being reminded that time continued ticking.

Westlie swept in at a respectably late 9:12, out of breath.

Her silhouette had stayed the same over the years, if wider, even though most Londoners wore pants now regardless of gender; she still preferred simple travel skirts and a vest. She just shrugged whenever Marion questioned her. “Habit,” she said. And to Elijah, with a sly smile- “It feels more official when you’ve killed the Traitor Empress in a skirt. You can’t really go back.”

Westlie reached out her hand with a warm smile when she got close enough; Elijah met it and she squeezed tight.

“Elijah.”

“Westlie.”

Their meetings were always like that – he kicked himself for it, actually, as he pulled her chair out for her – a soft, affectionate squeeze of the hand that lingered just a second too long; moments from being something more.

She started off the usual way too, sinking into the seat and thanking him with that grateful smile.

“Has the menu changed?”

“I don’t think so.” She settled back and picked up her menu. Elijah skimmed the list. “Oh, they added… bouillabaisse.”

“Bouillabaisse… bouillabaisse… Is that French?”

Elijah shrugged.

“… ‘moray, fluke, and megalops in a pungent jillyfleur broth, topped with cinnamon and slices of caramel.’  They use the word pungent like I’m supposed to be enticed.”

“We had jillyfleur at a dinner recently,” Elijah admitted. “It wasn’t bad.”

She eyed him with suspicion. “Was it pungent?”

“A bit sweet, actually.”

They spent a few minutes going back and forth until the waiter came – a prim man in a neatly oiled mustache – who took their order and poured the champagne. Westlie decided on the bouillabaisse and Elijah settled for the veal, which he’d had four times at this point and knew it was a fairly safe option.

Westlie settled into her chair when the interaction finished, taking a deep breath and letting the stiffness drop from her shoulders.

Elijah smiled. “So. Six months.”

“Six months.” She took a sip of champagne. “I did not plan on being six months.”

“Wasn’t it supposed to be a Lustrum hours run?”

“It was! It’s never just a Lustrum hours run!” He loved the way her eyes lit up with indignation, like she couldn’t have just said ‘no’ to Rear Admiral Ainsley and not spent four months flying reconnaissance through the Belt of Midnight. Elijah definitely, definitely did not miss the Belt of Midnight. He wasn’t even sure how Westlie could be excited about it, as she began to break down their arrival in Achlys and the delivery of building materials.

The Dowsers had built a new base for their outlaw insanity- still near Pan, but farther than before, tucked away under a precipice that bulged and distorted gravity. Unsuspecting locomotives were snatched up while navigating the route, and knowledgeable locomotives had to go out of their way to avoid the horde. The Cogsworth had spotted an unfortunate locomotive lurching away from a boarding party and Westlie – ‘Of course,’ he thought, pretending to sip his champagne – dived after it.

“So that took a week,” Westlie said. “And it was another week before we got to the Empyrean.”

There were dicey bits in the Belt of Midnight. She was avoiding them.

“Did you see Mallory?”

“I did!” She brightened more, then her face darkened; she leaned in. “He has a beard.”

“I can’t imagine Mallory in a beard.”

“It’s hideous. He said it’s for Hamlet, and I don’t believe him. I saw a poster from eight months before and it was still on.”

“How long has Hamlet been running? There are only so many times the whole Empyrean can see Hamlet and that facial fuzz.”

“Exactly,” she dropped back in her chair. “You understand.”

It was the kind of motion that insinuated someone else close to her did not. Elijah politely raised an eyebrow.

“Andy and the rest of the Empyrean do not. It’s apparently ‘dignified’, ‘sophisticated’-” Westlie grimaced. “-‘sexy’.”

“Andy’s only twenty-two. Give him a few years.”

“He started trying to grow out his own beard.”

“Westlie, you didn’t-”

She scowled. “Oh, have more faith in me. I thought about it. I thought about telling him I’d shave it off his face myself. But I didn’t.”

Elijah rolled his eyes. “Commendable.”

“Thank you.”

There was a moment of silence as a waiter approached and they sat back. It wasn’t their food. Westlie gave Elijah an awkward grin.

The crow’s feet wrinkles on her right eye deepened, and she smiled deeper, personably, like it was a joke only he could understand. He knew that look, and he did understand the joke because he knew all her mishaps; but Westlie’s smile was still different: less apologetic, wiser, with an assuredness at her own mistakes that she’d never had when she was younger. Once again, he felt nagged by the past- the selves they had been and the selves they were now.

He opened his mouth to say… something, but her eyes were avoiding him now, fleeing her imagined awkwardness. He shut it when the waiter reappeared and they both leaned back so he could uncork the champagne. The waiter raised Westlie’s glass, refilled it, bowed, and left.

Westlie didn’t comment that Elijah’s glass stayed mostly-full; she never had. Throughout the years she must have noticed because she never said anything, but his only hint was the occasional warmth in her eyes after one of his polite sips, and that was just Westlie’s look of friendly affection.

She realized something and refocused on him, leaning forward in her seat.

“Whatever happened to your bid for a seat in the House of Commons?”

He flushed immediately. His fault for not telling her sooner though; he’d been deliberately evasive in his last letter. “I… did win the seat.”

“Congratulations Elijah!”

“But-”

 “But?”

“That kid-”

“Oh god, Elijah, this again-”

“That kid,” he hissed. “Is junior member of the opposition!”

“Elijahh.”

“No, you don’t understand! He is deliberately following me around, getting in my way, trying to strike down all my bills! Westlie, he lives on the same street now.”

She was laughing. His nemesis lived on the same street and she was laughing. “The same street?! You’re telling me you ran for Commons and- was his name Artie? Not only ran for a seat as well, but moved onto the street. All in six months.”

“I saw him walking into a house on the opposite end, twice.”

“Elijah, you barely know him!”

“I know him well enough! He’s a liar and a thief and apparently the ruffians of 9th quarter have adopted him as their little spokesman even though he is unqualified-”

“You saw him walking into a house twice! Maybe he was visiting. People do visit you know.”

“He has to be staying there! Why else would I see him twice?!”

Westlie kept trying to stifle her laughter and it became a series of unladylike half-snorts into her champagne. There were glances from a few other tables and she finally had to bite her tongue.

As much as he hated Artie, he loved she could still laugh. He loved that shoving a cart to the white-hot of the Clockwork Sun and the glassy patches of skin on her arms and the ring of her wrist where the skin was wizened, hour-touched, and patched with forty years of Correspondence had not darkened the joyful glitter in her eyes.

He was still salty though.

“… Otherwise-” Elijah said. “Otherwise, it’s fine, you know. It’s nice to be able to help. … Not Artie though. I hope an aeginae eats him.”

“Oh, Elijah.” She looked like she was about to say something, shook her head with a smile, and traced her silverware.

They didn’t have to think of anything to say after that since the waiter conveniently swept in with their dishes.

Elijah was still impressed by the veal every time he got it; he preferred the umami glaze seared into the meat, but the flank was never too well-done. Westlie’s bouillabaisse on the other hand, came with an extra bowl for shells and smelled like sweetness and nostalgia. The soup itself was a sort of iridescent purple with bits of shellfish bobbing through the film.

Westlie sipped it cautiously once the waiter left and cocked her head. “… I don’t like it. But I don’t know why.”

Elijah’s veal was excellent. He felt superior. “Is it too pungent?”

She sipped again. “No… I think…” Another sip. “… I think it’s just bittersweet. Pungent is how strong the mood hits you.” She thoughtfully trailed her spoon through the soup and sampled the fish. “It’s good. Acquired taste, I guess.”

“Have you had Neathfish before?”

“Once? Once or twice, maybe, but I don’t know where.” She glanced at the soup. “The fish is good. … Oh, I think that bit’s crab.”

They ate in companionate silence with Westlie occasionally gazing out the window. Her hair looked lighter, Elijah realized, as she kept turning. Not grey, but a little more orange? A slightly different texture. He still remembered a deep auburn from when she was 28 and scared shitless to join the crew. But that was… 16 years ago? And she was 44 now. God, they’d both aged.

The thought of time overwhelmed him again and he almost asked her. The words lodged in his throat.

“Oh!” She glanced up from cracking a portion of crab shell. “I forgot about the tariffs!”

Elijah breathed out. “You mentioned them briefly.”

“You could do something about it, actually.” Westlie’s eyes flashed and she settled back in her chair. “But it’s all Lustrum’s fault really. The new governor decided to relax the restrictions on Hour smelting, so there are two new factories in the city. Which is good for refined Hour supply of course, you would think, but they didn’t plan for the influx from Albion.”

“So they increased tariffs.”

“Throughout the Reach,” Westlie huffed. “As if Hours from Lustrum are any different from Hours anywhere else. I could ground the Cogsworth and make more money throwing the shiny things in the boiler.”

Elijah took a sip of his champagne and had to remind himself not to hold it like a teacup. “You’re not in it for the money.”

Westlie attacked a crab leg shell with a fork. “I’m not in it for the money. Thank you, Elijah. Which is what I keep reminding Andy, and then he tells me-” she waved the fork around, mockingly “-‘But Fairweather’s margins, Westlie.’ And I have to go, ‘Fuck margins, Andy, I like flying to Lustrum.’ And he goes, ‘You’re not supposed to be here in the first place.’ And then I tell him I’m going to dock his pay or leave him at the next port.”

“But you don’t.”

“But I don’t.”

Elijah hid a smile behind his champagne. “… Truly generous of you.”

“Oh, don’t be facetious with me, Elijah.” She circled the fork at his face, which would have been more terrifying if she weren’t a pretty, middle-aged woman in a white blouse. “I know when you’re poking fun.”

“I’m not being facetious.”

She went back to attacking the crab leg, grumbling. “This is why I didn’t tell you in a letter.”

“You just don’t like hearing the truth.”

Eating. Unladylike fork waving. “I don’t like having the truth shoved down my throat when it doesn’t matter. So what if we don’t make as much money doing Lustrum runs? It’s still a net profit.”

“True.” The waiter brought them both a cup of tea and Elijah sipped his gratefully. “It’s your ship, Captain.”

“You only call me Captain when you’re making a point,” Westlie grumbled again. She finished the soup and leaned back with her own cup of tea. She sipped it. “I hate it when you do that.”

“You hate when I’m right.”

She eyed him. “I do hate when you’re right.” They were both quiet for a minute until she puffed out a breath in defeat. “Tariffs are still bad for business though.”

“… Your business or ‘business’?”

“’Business’. If it’s too expensive to do Hour runs to Lustrum, the only people who will be able to do it will be people like me- established Captains who can take a profit hit, you know.”

“There are more than enough Hours in Albion and the Reach for research projects and whatever else they’re used for now.”

“That’s the point though. Tariffs will cripple Lustrum and Albion will be the only Hours exporter.”

Elijah vaguely realized that they hadn’t seen each other in years and they were using this opportunity over tea and – Ah, apple fritter – to talk about work; the fact wasn’t disappointing so much as frustrating that if they didn’t talk about work, they would have to talk about feelings. He sipped his tea. “That would be bad.”

“Talk the governor into shutting down one of the new smelters, or raising restrictions; either one really. And try to get them to lower tariffs.”

“I’ve been in office six months you know.”

“You’re persuasive.”

“Not that persuasive.”

“I have faith.”

Well. He couldn’t argue with that.

They sat in silence for another minute. Restaurant patrons had begun to trickle out. Elijah and Westlie were left to their tea and fritter amongst pastel wallpaper and dimmed gas lights – the old crystal kind. The whispered voices of servers seemed louder as they listened, and somewhere in the back of the room, a grandfather clock chimed.

Westlie sipped her tea again and glanced down at it with a little smile. “It doesn’t taste as good as yours, you know.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it. However you and Sebastian made your tea… it’s not the same.”

“Would you like the last bite?”

“Sure.”

They finished the fritter slowly, savoring it. Elijah wasn’t sure if they were savoring taste or time more, neither of them meeting the others’ eyes. He felt the clock in the corner pressing on him as the night drew to a close. His mind so preoccupied he wasn’t even sure if they kept up mindless chatter while finishing tea, he just felt himself drink and pay, declining Westlie’s offer to pick up her end.

He extended his arm as she rose from the table and they walked to the door together. Westlie neatly slipped on a wool coat from the rack by the door. It was one of the modern skyfarer coats, he realized, with woolen leather lining; although usually they cut off at the waist. Westlie’s extended to her knees to accommodate her skirt.

They stood on the sidewalk while she fastened the buttons and belt, and she gave him a little apologetic smile when she was done.

“I like it.”

“Oh, thank you. It’s new.” He knew. “I got it last year in Lustrum.” Her cheeks flushed a little. “The sky nips a bit harder now, you know?”

He knew. It was time, chasing both of them. He couldn’t think of anything to say though.

“Where next?”

“Elutheria again. Khanate business. It might be a while.” She sighed, shoving her hands in her pockets and turning to look over London. The city was still bustling at night – maybe even because it was night. “It’s so quiet here now. I miss it, honestly.”

It was going to be another year and a half before he saw her again and he was going to grow more grey hairs above his ears and Elijah’s heart hammered in his throat. He wasn’t sure if she cared, but he cared. Maybe this dinner was the last time they talked face to face. Maybe next year would never come. And he had to say- had to say something. He closed his eye, let out a breath, and looked at her again.

He’d thought for a long time about words that wouldn’t make her feel obligated to stay; he refused to drag her out of the sky. He’d settled on reassurance, because she’d already stayed with him several times over the years. Mallory, Marion, Morgan- they all knew Elijah’s home in London had an open door. But a reminder was the best way to restart that conversation. Elijah swallowed as the words stuck in his throat. “You… you know you always have a home here in London.”

“I know.” Her eyes searched his face. “London is my home.” Westlie opened her mouth like she was going to say something else, and shut it. She opened it again. “It… still feels strange when I walk into the cab and you aren’t there.”

Elijah swallowed. “I’m sure Andy does an excellent job. As… odd as that is to say.”

She half-smiled. “He does, but it’s not that.”

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated again. She wasn’t good at hiding it. Say it, Elijah realized he was begging. Say what you mean. “Well, you don’t sing opera in the cab, for one.”

Elijah chuckled and he closed his eye while Westlie was distracted. Her port stops were always quick. This would likely be the last time to talk before she left. Too many years. Say it now. Elijah took a deep breath and swallowed, hands in his pockets. “Westlie…”

“Yes?”

Last chance. “Do you still… have feelings for- for me?”

Westlie immediately flushed red and her eyes flickered down. Her hands came out of her pockets to tuck hair behind her ears as she panicked, which made Elijah lean toward ‘no’. His heart clenched. She regained her composure a few seconds later and half-met his eyes, cheeks scarlet. “… I do.”

Relief washed over Elijah. He felt the muscles in the back of his shoulders undo knots he didn’t know existed; he still, somehow, didn’t know what to say. “I’m… glad.”

“I miss you,” Westlie suddenly whispered. He realized that was the thing she’d wanted to say when she hesitated. “I miss your tea and I miss you and every time I come back to London, I remember it’s my home because you’re here.”

Elijah reached out a hand and she took it, fingers wrapping softly around his like their greeting at the beginning of the evening. But this time he felt the fingers linger in his own, something weighty; something more. He blushed as he raised her hand and gently kissed it, half-expecting Westlie to pull away, but she didn’t. She was bright red though. “You know,” he managed. “You could just… stay.”

She closed her eyes and she considered it.

He still knew the furrowed brow of her stare into the future, weighing options. There was a sudden urge to kiss her forehead and he restrained himself.

She opened her eyes and he already knew the answer. “I still want to fly.”

Her hand slipped out of his, and Elijah was surprised how much it stung. He smiled through his disappointment. “… And you have a crew. I’m sorry- for suggesting it.”

“Well, but- I think-” Westlie hesitated again. “I didn’t- I wasn’t sure how you still felt. And Elijah, when I’m done, I’ll stay.”

Her eyes were soft and brown, nose pink from the nip of the winds. She meant every word. Elijah felt his heart melt and he wanted to kiss her hand again, tell her she was a brilliant stupid captain and he would not follow her into the stars again because two glass fingers were enough for him, but he loved her and he loved her smile and he loved that she would come home. So Elijah just… smiled. “I’ll be waiting, Westlie.”

He hesitated for a moment, then turned to fix his cuff and leave her when his sleeves were grabbed – those were wool! – and Westlie turned him roughly back to face her. “Wha-”

She grabbed his collar and kissed him.

She tasted like tea and nostalgia and something sweet he couldn’t place. He felt twenty years younger, and ageless, and he loved her with the fear of loss he tried to hide because it really wasn’t healthy. It ended too soon when they were both out of breath. Westlie’s face was hot with glee when he could finally see it. Elijah managed a lopsided grin. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. “Are you and the Cogsworth staying in London tonight?”

“Elijah! Sixteen years to kiss you and that’s the first thing you say?”

Elijah blushed furiously, half-afraid that was a terrible thing to say since his brain was stuck replaying the kiss. But she smiled and gently straightened his lapel. “We are- I am. Why do you ask?”

“Well- Well, ah-”

Westlie kissed his cheek and Elijah knew he was the most brilliant shade of red anyone could get. Somehow Westlie wrapped her arm through his to start walking and she squeezed it gently. “Where did you want to take me tonight, Elijah?”

That was the thing that knocked some sense into him. Elijah stared down at her with happiness and it was returned with soft affection. He swallowed to get the words out, but it was far easier than before. “Let’s… let’s go home.”

#westlijah #written by e and I

[thepulta]

Sunless-Albion tasted like gunpowder and cinnamon.

If Westlie opened her mouth and breathed deep, she could ever-so-faintly taste hours on her tongue. A muted, earthy tang, like truffles stored in ice.

The sky was a deep pitch.

She hadn't gotten used to it, even after five years; even after near-death blowing up the sun; even after landing the Queen's final blow with her own two hands. None of it felt real.

Elijah's footsteps sounded on the stairwell and she turned as he made the final step. One mug was more carefully balanced than the other, lest it slip on his glass fingers. She took that one. They both settled against the railing.

She sipped. Elijah had made an Achlys blend of tea; dark, earthy, very familiar. She savored it. "... The sky's darker than I remember."

She couldn't see his smile behind the mug, but the skin behind his eyepatch wrinkled. "The Khanate has helped. There have been contributions."

"Contributions from you I hear."

His nose wrinkled. "Family contributions."

"Your contributions."

He ignored that, and Westlie dismissed it for another day.

"... How's Andy?"

"Brilliant." She smiled. "Still rough around the edges, but he learns quickly."

"You have an inordinate amount of patience for the most inexplicable things."

"Thank you," she sipped again. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"He needs it."

"He does."

"What about Arthur? Are you going to visit him?"

Westlie hesitated. "... Probably. At some point. I should."

Elijah hesitated, and Westlie could see the question on his face. She took another sip so she could hide behind her mug.

"Why haven't you come to London for two years?"

'Busy' was true, but it was also a lie. Westlie squinted at the stars like they would hold an answer and Elijah waited.

She admired that about him, as much as she hated it. That deep-sunken silence as she tried to reconcile her actions with words. She let her breath spiral in soft blotted clouds from the chill. "I... I don't know."

Elijah waited.

"Nothing's finished," she whispered. It sounded loud despite the noise of London. "There's so much to do- so many runs to make- we didn't finish."

"There's no sun in the sky. No throne of hours."

"Achlys-" Westlie's voice cracked; for a second she hated herself for sounding half her age. "New Winchester, Port Prosper- They took the brunt of London's invasion so we could have that chance. There isn't enough to repay them-"

She stayed quiet for a moment, hoping he'd read her mind- that she didn't want to sit. She had to do. Had to keep doing. She could help, she could fly, she was free, it was purpose, and whenever she was still there was that itch to keep pushing.

She wasn't Morgan- Gods knew where Marion and Sally and Morgan were off now to kill more Judgements- but she wanted to make things safe in the mess they were leaving. Which words said that?

"I- I just... I want to finish the job; and right now, it's not in London."

"I know." Elijah hesitated. He cleared his throat. "I mean, you have a ho- place here, if you want it. Somewhere to stay that isn't Arthur's."

"O-oh."

"I hoped you weren't staying away because of that." His voice softened a little. "I know you're not done."

"... how?"

"Your letters were happy." They'd finished their tea, so he couldn't hide the way his visible eye softened with understanding and the separation that lingered between them sometimes.

They stood there on the roof of the Fry mansion as gas lights shone through the mist and locomotives steamed to the docks.

"I missed you," Westlie blurted out. "It's not the same."

Elijah's face flushed a violent pink.

Her cheeks burned.

"I- fuck-"

"Yo- you have a home here, whenever you need-" Elijah's words were a little strangled but he managed. "I- I mean that."

oh fucking hell

In the middle of the night Elijah was still wearing his goddamn tie under his waistcoat and Westlie had parked in Wolfstack station and signed 29 pages of paperwork and after two years Elijah was still going to play dignified even though it was very, very attractive- and she dragged him into a kiss.

It was fierce and crushed and hurt, kinda, but she wanted it to hurt because she couldn't stop flying, and there was a hole at her side where he once stood and that hole hurt, and she missed him and that hurt, and they were both gasping and red when she finally let go.

"... Ow."

"I love you." The words choked in her throat. "I love you- I will come home."

"You could have said that."

"I am- did."

"Gentler next time." But he was teasing now in his dry manner with the subtle up-quirk of the lip.

"Fine." Westlie waited for him to collect the mugs and face her again before she grabbed his tie.

She

gently

with

emphasized slowness

-pulled him down into another kiss that she did make softer that time because she was almost crying with relief. She didn't pull away at the end, and he rested his forehead on hers.

"I'm sorry," Westlie whispered, "for making you worry."

"Come home to me, Wes."

"I will."

#sleepy sleepy sleepy #dab dab dab #teabags all over the apartment #westlijah #feral 1am pulta /dab/ /teabag/ look at him saying come home to me that's her line

[thepulta]

#new avatar #will probably experiment with different poses and styles #I want some fusion of victorian historical fashion and geology; I'm not sure if that will look like pants #*pants skirt or what

[thepulta]

Mallory Hargrove - Skyfarer, Scoundrel, Followed-by-Fire

#the crew of the pyrrhus #mallory #sunless skies #I'm not entirely happy with his winking eye; maybe I'll fix it sometime #really I just wanted to draw his cheekbones #trying to get better at shading slowly

[thepulta]

At the Edge of the Reach, there are Diamonds

Summary: Those who die do not die alone. The Waste Waif watches. What happens when a ship loses its crew.  My submission for the @neath-to-reach-zine 

-=-

Organized chaos ruled the skies for who navigated the Reach. Paths between islands looped like a rat’s nest, or Her Majesty’s Palace; shards of ice and deadly pockets of high-gravity could send a locomotive spiraling. An analogous mountain range dotted the sky en route to Lustrum, full of massive, gaping peaks with jagged sides and caverns cut into the rock; echoes of something larger that carved the rock into islands in the first place. If one had enough time, and skill, and strength, the range could likely be the realms’ trickiest jigsaw puzzle. But for now, the mountains floated in silence through the winds and snow and ice that covered them, blessed with a soft smattering of starlight above.

These winds – fickle, aloof – cycled like the tides of the Surface. The patterns were still debated by the realms’ navigators, but there were patterns. Storms clouded the skies, blew islands off course; occasionally great sky beasts quit the islands with such force they crashed into each other. The lands strayed, but the steady winds tugged them back into orbit. Even in death, the Garden King willed Order.

Throughout the mountain range, bioluminescent lichen and fungi fed on the exposed rock. Frosted marble columns twenty feet in diameter drifted through the wilderness like long-forgotten trees. Besides the wind and the occasional spider, it was still.

The hiss of a flare and flash of red against the blues of Lustrum broke the serenity of the Reach. The light glinted off a locomotive floating in the darkness. It was London-built, steel weathered. No steam hissed from its boiler. The vessel rotated slowly in the realm’s bioluminescent glow. Ice had crept over the cab, frosting the widows.

Inside the engine room, in the unnatural tranquility, Eileen Declan huddled in the engineer’s old cot. She made her last trip out six hours earlier to set the flare up. She rigged a timer for it to go at the darkest part of the day – maybe someone would see then. The chances were higher at least. But now it shone and went and still each of her footsteps in the empty ship echoed through the wilderness.

Her toes were frigid after the expedition and the fact her body no longer had enough heat for her to stay outside the engine room where she burned bedlinens and crate frames lingered in her mind. Her cheeks were gaunt, fingers bony. She’d never been a large woman, but her frame was clearly meant to hold more. Her hands weakly tugged the captain’s quilt – gods rest his soul – around her. Eileen could feel the room growing colder, but the strength to find something else to burn was unobtainable. Best to conserve what warmth she had.

She coughed weakly in the frozen air.

Would she last the night? Her body felt too empty to ponder the question and she let resignation settle in her stomach instead. She was a practical sort of woman and this end was unavoidable for a skyfarer, wasn’t it? But she wondered if her sisters were alright. Sad, she thought, that she would die before her mother. Maybe this would be sad for them. Maybe the news would reach them someday.

The emotions gave her heart some weight – made her feel a little less hungry. Years ago she’d had a full belly – months ago, even – and now she could barely remember it. The crew left New Winchester on half-rations since they couldn’t sell parcels of tea for full price. The war-ravaged Winchesters couldn’t afford it, whether or not they wanted any. It was the last of several bad deals the captain had made, even though Eileen had joined for the last two. They left Winchester for Lustrum with a half-hold full of tea, low on fuel. Her friend, the first mate, grumbled bitterly to her, but she kept her voice hopeful. “Lustrum has the money and mining camps always want tea. We’ll manage. We’ll get there.”

The mountains of Lustrum entangled them halfway, burning out their fuel after a vicious storm blew them off-course. The shortcut turned into a long-cut. The regular fuel ran out, then the accessible flammables. Then the crew died, one by one, from frostbite and starvation. The captain held out hope of rescue until he died, writing letter after letter meant for the families of those who died first and letters of recommendation for those who might live. He wasn’t a bad man; maybe a bit of a gambler, maybe not the keenest merchant, but not a bad man. Eileen felt for him. They wrapped him in his bedsheet and gifted him to the wastes.

The first mate died soon after giving up her crackers to Eileen. She was like an elder sister. Maybe brusque sometimes, but with a gentle tenderness. She told her where there was a pistol hidden in the gunnery.

Eileen shot the cook when he came after her with a cleaver.

And then she was alone.

She considered eating the cook – nobody would have judged her. He was a thin man with a broken nose, mealy hair, and teeth that were too straight to be natural. Unpleasant to the eye with a unpleasanter demeanor – but he cooked well. Probably would have cooked her thighs well too, she could imagine. The day before this, she had raised the knife to cut him, but she couldn’t do it. The wilderness was too still. It felt appropriate, in some way, that she leave the dead to an unbroken slumber. That slumber would be the only burial she was gifted.

The locomotive grew colder as the hours ticked by and the twisted linen fabric burned to ashes. Frost crystallized under the doorway and in the corners of the room, dusting it to a milky-grey. The color echoed in Eileen’s mind as her eyelids drooped. It had been a long day working to fire the last flare. She was exhausted and it was cold. The quilt caught what little heat her body produced. The quilt was warm.

Several hours passed. The room pulsed imperceptibly as if responding to the rhythm of Eileen’s breaths, the ice ebbing and flowing as her warmth pressed back against it. Slowly, the ice replaced the space her breaths no longer filled. The warmth of the room grew smaller and smaller, like a candle’s flame shrinking in on itself.

Eileen’s breath shuddered in her sleep and the ashes smoked their last warmth as ice frosted over the remains. White dendrites crept over the floorboard, over the roof, down the walls closer to her cot. The metal walls of the engine crackled; ice tightening its hold on the ship like a crystal leviathan. Eileen’s breath deepened, forming cotton clouds in front of her face. She shivered. Hours passed. Her breathing shallowed; her pale cheeks took on a bluish hue and her lips turned blue. Each breath rasped in the silence of the engine room; her skin stretched taunt over her fingers curled to her chest, blackened and numb.

Her skin darkened over the next hour and each breath rattled more in the silence than the last. Icy tendrils crackled over the metal plating, up the cot supports. Ever so gently the ice coated her toes, silver on black in miniscule hexagonal crystals, inanimate encroaching on the animate. Eileen’s breath shook. Her lips darkened from blue to purple, eyes frosted shut – she was too weak to open them, even if she wasn’t sunk deep in dreamless sleep.

Ice thickened over the room as the minutes passed. It crept slowly up her shins, over her coat: darkening her extremities in black blotches. Her hollow, half-exposed cheek darkened and ice formed in the cavity. Frost dusted her eyelids and nose. She breathed in one last time, lungs laboring against the chill. In the tomb of an engine room with its lingering odor of coal dust and hallowed metal walls, sheets of tin with its polished bronze boiler; the silence of the pipes that no longer hissed, frozen shut weeks past; Frosty icicle ornaments strung along the mezzanine and tools that led to the cab; in this sepulcher of hubris, of man’s audacity and bravery, Eileen gave up the ghost.

Her last breath rattled through her blue lips into the small hands of a child that materialized before her. The waif was blue, coated with ice in the grotesque manner of a death forgotten and unclean. Eileen’s last breath fogged the child’s grasp, crystallizing into a stone – ice? No, diamond – a rough octahedron with jagged edges, flawed in the way humans are flawed; unpolished, unshaped, but shining. The waif’s hands let it hover in the air, soft and free while she opened a bag formed from thousands of the same diamonds, held together by silky invisible thread. Those were the special ones who knew this end and prayed to not be forgotten. They stayed close. The child blew downward and the new diamond clinked softly against a dozen others.

The waif looked at the ice-filled engine room for a while. Hours? Days? Time was immaterial. There were no windows and there was no light. Nothing moved and the stillness stood eternal. The child sensed it and stayed in reverence. After a time, the waif passed up to the cab. Frost crystalized over the engine windows as she approached. The navigator was frozen solid, head on his arms, arms on the paneling. A diamond materialized near his closed, frozen eyes as she walked close and it drew to her like a magnet. She guided it to her bag with the same gentle reverence and passed to the cargo hold. Empty piles of tea lay on the floor, crates pulled apart and burned. A pile of bones lay in the corner. Fragments of moisture gathered from the pile as she stepped close, crystalizing in the air. The waif opened her bag.

Ice crackled under her bare feet in the stairwell. The mess hall held a single large table, a stove, sink, and pantry. All the dishes were put away. The pantry door hung ajar, empty. It was oddly clean except for one wall, where ice sparkled red over a blood splatter. It smeared down to the body of the cook slouched against the wall. His diamond was rough, jagged, but crystal-clear. A convert of the Borrower. Pity there were no hours to give here except his own.

The waif left icy footprints as she traveled to each cabin, slipping through the doorways and collecting the breaths of the dead. The first mate had several books spread out on her desk. Frost had crystallized up the woman’s bedsheets and over her hair, but she looked peaceful. The waif blew a small but shiny stone into her bag.

Eventually she passed through the hull and into the wastes. The only sound around the engine was the wind, whistling softly through the mountains. Snow tinkled quietly against the metal hull, and occasionally the metal of the engine cracked as it tightened. The waif reveled in the quiet; the sanctity of The Garnet painted lovingly on the hull. Space stretched endlessly around the engine; floating mountains, wind, ice, and bioluminescent lichen amassing itself to light the scene.

There was little ‘up’ in the Reach, except on islands large enough to have their own gravitational signatures. The old, dead King had picked those islands out long ago with little rhyme or reason and the Lustrum route was particularly arbitrary once the mountains had been broken apart. The breath of the captain called to her though. It had called to her for the past week, but the waif tended to others, wandering the empty halls of The Garnet until it was truly lost. There was both sadness and possessiveness of the ship once it happened and its void called louder. She found the captain’s body wrapped in a shroud in a snow bank; a cold burial for a good man. His diamond floated to her willingly, cold, even in her frozen palm. The waif added it to her bag and struck out again.

She stretched from empty place to empty place; they were a part of her, and she of them, frosty and beloved. Travel was easiest in the places she inhabited, which was simple around Lustrum: she brushed the edges of the mountains untouched by man or beast; the snow blown into the wastes off the mountaintops. She stepped into a mined-out hours pocket underground, littered with broken picks, cast-off signs, several cans, and a once-beloved lantern. The waif made her way into the true wastes – the edges of the realm where the mountains were no longer coherent mountains but chunks of rock the size of cities floating in the wind. There were diamonds strewn between them. Everything was untouched here and the waif moved freely.

Reverent, she emptied her bag to the wind and let her connection to each death shift inside her, their memories and their names and their lives recorded eternally. When the jagged boulders shifted on the winds they exposed more diamonds; thousands of them. Each one unforgotten, all remembered, all sacred; a hallowed space between the realms for the memories of the lonely dead. Their breaths would stay here suspended forever, untouched by time and surrounding those they had loved within the traversable universe. The waif would protect their memory. The promise was unspoken, but assured. She would protect their legacy and the legacies of the spaces she inhabited: when people loved but lost. Such was her gift.

The waif took a seat on a nearby craig and watched the precious stones float past. Her form was, at best, ethereal to the human eye, although it grew stronger here, where there were no eyes to see her. There was no heat in her existence, no nerves; she embodied dying breath and breath wielded no soul. But despite that, a type of love whistled on the winds around her, buoying the new diamonds through the wastes. It blew on her desire to express her presence and their connection; an unspoken extension of herself. The gods were simple creatures. If a connection was harmed, the winds and ice shifted in swift, angry retribution.

Time passed. The waif flitted through the expanse. It was too cold to snow on the edges of the world; ice crackled where she moved. Time passed. Within the realms, hunger raked its way through a crew. An ache; a sorrow. Someone abandoned a morsel to the wastes. Shared hunger was a kindness. The sacrificed biscuit froze, frosted over, shattered to crumbs in a moment or a minute or an eternity and the winds shifted. Love. Attention. Reciprocation. Time Passed. The wind whistled amongst the diamonds.

#sunless skies #sskies #the waste waif

[thepulta]

“Shroom-cap“ for “I Have a Daughter Now, I Guess” or the Liztlie AU Chapter 14, with Neath-shrooms on the base.

#sunless skies #inaccurate depictions of London after the rise #liztlie au #I'm learning shading #slowly

[thepulta]

First Kiss

They locked eyes for a short eternity. Elijah, five inches taller than Westlie; her head tilted ever so slightly up to meet his gaze. He was tantilizingly close. They were in port and the Pyrrhus was achingly quiet, so quiet she could feel his breathing- the slow rise and fall of his lapel. Westlie’s fingertips stretched forward, pulled by invisible strings. ‘Elijah,’ she wanted to whisper. Her lips formed the sound, but it didn’t escape. His eyes still softened like he heard it, and his head dipped ever so slightly. His pink lips looked soft, and there was the sudden rush of nerves that sent her heart racing, and she could feel the flush run up her cheeks and down her fingertips where their hands suddenly brushed. Her fingers burned and she felt a heat in her stomach like she downed three shots of whiskey but in a good way because she craved more. She instinctively drew her fingertips up his palm, over his angular wrist bones, traced over his tendons. And it felt so natural when she felt his fingertips trace over her arm, just three of his fingers, ever so slightly brushing over her veins, sending jolt after jolt of electricity through her.

The urge to continue tracing her fingers over his arm overwhelmed Newton’s law of inertia and they shifted ever so slightly closer together so her hand was on his elbow. They were so close. She felt his breathing, his blood rushing in the pulse against his wrist. His lips were like a lure. ‘I want you,’ she wanted to say, but it didn’t come out again. ‘Elijah, you’re around me and I can’t breathe.’

They were so painfully close. Westlie felt her eyes unfocus as they slipped closer, even though she tried to keep them open - tried to retain some control of her body. Elijah’s nose ever so slightly brushed against her cheek and a shock ran down Westlie’s spine. He was breathing, he was alive; and he wanted her. Desire formed a whine that stuck in her throat. Westlie felt her fingers tighten on his arm in anticipation and just that small movement pulled their lips together, pulled them from two people to one, and suddenly she was grasping his shirt tighter and he was pressing back.

‘Westlie,’ she could imaging him whispering, like her name was an honorific, a reverent, something tender. No- it wasn’t her imagination. He whispered it; his eyes closed, forehead leaned softly against hers, lips brushing. She couldn’t control herself; she kissed him again. It took everything she had to ignore the greedy lean of her body, her desire to continue kissing him until her lips were raw and sore and they were both out of breath and still if they broke apart, Westlie knew she’d have the same desperate, hungry look for him. She needed his touch now, couldn’t live without it. That hand softly curled about her elbow, fingertips tracing her veins, caressing her like she could break from his grasp any moment. She needed his lips, needed the aristocratic curve of his chin, needed his love.

“I love you.”

The words came out of her easily because the emotion was undeniable, unmistakable, and it felt real. The nights in the cab when he made her tea, and she wondered, or when they sat in silence for hours while her happiness overflowed and she wanted to break the stillness and say it. She’d loved him then. She’d loved him for years then. But this was real. This was in front of her, now, she’d acted- they’d acted, and it felt dangerously, deliciously honest.

Elijah melted and his other hand softly slid down her shoulder, tender. “I love you too.”

They both knew, but it was good to say it. They stood there, foreheads leaned together, noses gently touching the other’s cheek.

#westlijah #needs a buildup but I'm tired and writing tenderness is exhausting because I'm playing it over and over in my head and just absorbing it #like a little fru fru sponge - come here my little dopamine come make me happy westlie #nobody gets a proper ending in my writing dabbles #hashtag: self indulgent

[thepulta]

Millie Ocher - Mystery Mansion RPG

My new character the conspiracy theorist! (The Flake - Monster of the Week)

#getting a little better on proportions #still need to work on shading rip

[thepulta]

More card art.

#for posterity

[thepulta]

Low effort shroom drawing. I got excited with them using old fashion mining lamps. How did Morgan get ahold of those? No idea.

#morgan faire #lizzie twaddle #liztlie au

[thepulta]

Liztlie AU (All Parts)

AO3 MASTER (all chapters)

- My Daughter Now, I Guess. (1) - I Have Codependency Issues (2)  - I Don’t Have Codependency Issues (Yet) (3) - Westlie’s an Idiot (4) - Thanks, Arthur. You Gave Us Codependency Issues (5) - How The Fuck Did You Kill A Starstoat? (6) - Actually The Starstoat Wasn’t A Big Deal (7)

#liztlie au #master #all chapters

[thepulta]

Part 5

The problem wasn’t even the house, it was the chill. The entrance was bright and airy with little cream fleur-de-lis on the walls. Relia had placed a little semi-circle of bronzewood chairs with green upholstery in a semi-circle around the parlor, off the entranceway. There were wood bookshelves on the wall and a fireplace that the maids lit at precisely 6pm. It was bright from the light of the Clockwork Sun and the whole airy place stank like a dead rat rolled in lavender. It was a cesspit of lies and deceit and Stars- just the fucking arrogance of those goddamn lace curtains curling over the fucking windows like little haunting ghosts. Chilly.

Morgan shrank from the parlor and absentmindedly tossed her carpetbag into her other hand. There were light footsteps in the hall. Unfamiliar. Morgan scanned the face of a maid with short white hair who was probably a year older than her. The maid smiled cheerfully, like a little puppy. “Oh! You must be Miss Morgan!” Wow. I hate you. “Captain Faire mentioned you’d be arriving today. I can take your bag, miss. You must be tired.” I’m not tired. “If you pardon me, miss, where’s Miss Westlie?”

“On the trellis outside.” Morgan said, completely serious. 

The maid blinked in confusion. 

Morgan grinned back and winked. It was a predatory grin and a predatory wink. The chill of the house had infected her face. She wasn’t good at hiding her emotions when she didn’t want them hidden and indignation bubbled just under the surface.

The maid laughed nervously. “Right then.” She took her bag and started up the staircase. She shot a look over her shoulder to see if Morgan was following- she was- and then seemed to shrink into herself. She didn’t chatter again.

How long had the maid worked here? She seemed to know Westlie, but Morgan would’ve remembered her ashy hair, so she must have been hired in the past four months. There were little tells too. If you stepped on the fifth or seventh step on the stairs, the painting of Captain Faire tilted ten degrees to the left. Captain Faire always wanted the portraits level. The maid stepped on them both. 

There was a hallway at the top of the stairs. To the right was the master wing. At the top of the stairs was a little sitting room, and then directly to the left of the sitting room was Morgan’s godawful lilac-smelling shithole. The maid opened the door respectively with a little of her initial pep, like Morgan was supposed to enjoy coming home, and stood there while she walked in.

I really need to put some old books under the bed to make it smell better, was Morgan’s first thought, like it always was, and I really need to make the walls more interesting, was the second, like it always was. There were still nails and blemishes in the wallpaper from her and Arthur’s cold war as a teenager. Nothing interesting was allowed to spice it up, although Morgan had managed to drag in several more “acceptable” bookshelves than Westlie’s room and arrange the thicker ones near the door, so the corners of the room were shrouded. This was permissible chaos.

There was a bed with its headboard against the wall. Boring. (Again, Morgan had tried repeatedly to angle it but it always ended up in the same position as before.) Along with a desk in the corner. She had managed to get the desk closer to the bed so her favorite reference materials were in the bookshelf by the window right against it, there was her desk, and then the bed was adjacent in the middle. It made the corner cozier. But that in itself had been an arduous process, inching the bed against the side of the desk so slowly nobody had questioned why it wasn’t in the middle of the room. She had a dresser by the closet.

The whole room was covered in the same fleur-de-lis wallpaper as the rest of the house, although there were several patches in the corners of Morgan’s room that had clearly been sliced and the same wallpaper had been matched against it.

“Thank you.”

The maid bobbed a curtsey and shut the door. And Morgan was left alone.

The loneliness from the house sparked boredom and the boredom hit her like a pound of bricks to the face. It never got any easier. It was an itch that started in her extremities and slowly moved inward until her whole body was screaming that it needed something (the desire was never named) and it needed it now. The boredom, like it always did, brought memories of trying to fix it because there was nothing in the room but the fucking wallpaper to stare at. Morgan hissed and threw open the window, trying to ignore it and inexplicably unable to.

Five years ago, she had been fifteen and adorable and not hellishly jaded. She’d wandered one of the museums and seen a series of cute shelves placed about two feet from the ceiling - about 6ft up, still grabbing distance – wrapping around the whole room supported by well-placed supports nailed into the wall. It was brilliant. A bookshelf you could reach from anywhere.

She scrounged all night for the proper wood at the docks, snuck it into the room in the morning with some definitely-not-stolen tools and got to work bright and early at 6am. She had to give Arthur credit for not caring enough about her he waited 3 full hours to slam the door open. At that point she’d had the supports attached and she was fucking around with the shelf placement, trying to see if she could make them fit without too much sawing. She could still remember his red face and the way he stopped dead in the doorway trying to take in the boards she was sawing in half on top of the footpost and a bookshelf she’d dragged into the center of the room. Morgan couldn’t help the grin on her face. “Good morning.”

“What.” He blustered. “What. Is this.”

“Bookshelves! They’re going to be lovely.” Morgan had stopped sawing and swiveled to look at the supports with pride, hands on her hips. “Look, they wrap all the way around the room. I put a break there for the other bookshelf. It is kinda tall, isn’t it?”

“Get them off. What the fuck are they doing here? You’ve fucking ruined the wallpaper.”

The wallpaper? He was worried about the wallpaper? He’d said more words to her now than all year and it was about the fucking wallpaper? Morgan actually cocked her head to count what he’d said to her in the last two years. 1) He’d caught Westlie embezzling again and he decided to go to the source of the problem. 2) She was a leech and a problem to be endured and she should be grateful. 3) She should be grateful he didn’t ship her off to Leadbeater for good- which was the most recent jab about six months ago when she ran into him in the hall. She didn’t actually bother to retort that one, just raise an eyebrow, walk away, and book her spot to Leadbeater that evening (ironically). She’d left Westlie a short note. And then she’d traveled until Arthur had demanded – through Westlie in an equally commandeering manner – that she come home and Westlie was going to make sure she did it by meeting her in Port Prosper. (Which was rich, Morgan realized, because all she had to do was not show up, and then Westlie would ask where she was twice, and then Westlie would go back to London to get chewed out by Arthur, and Morgan would stay safely away. But that would require Westlie to be chewed out.)

Speaking of Westlie, she deserved to get chewed out right now because Morgan was sitting on the bed staring at this motherfucking godawful cream-ass wallpaper. FUCK.

The itch to move roared back and Morgan flung her carpetbag over to the dresser and scrambled at the window latch. They had to be inside at this point, unless Westlie had gotten too soft in the months she’d been gone. Lizzie seemed more than capable of climbing in. Morgan finally got the window unlocked – it tended to stick, which was why she went and climbed out of Westlie’s more than she should – and she looked at the garden. There was a small indent in the gravel where they’d jumped over the wall and Westlie’s window had been shut. Fine. They were in. Was it seven yet?

Morgan glanced at the clock on the wall – 6:35, fuck – and her eye was drawn back to the wallpaper that was ever so slightly misaligned so you could see where it’d been cut. That had all happened after Arthur confronted her. She refused to take it down. He fumed and left. When she left for the day, it had all been torn down when she got back. At the time Morgan had the energy to be furious and she wanted those shelves. She cut it all out again and put them back up when he was out on a weekend business trip. They got torn down again. Up and down, up and down, until she was red in the face and the docks started putting locks on their fucking wood – which wasn’t a problem really, it was just annoying that they needed to because her fucking father couldn’t fucking stand to have shelves in her room. After a year and a half of trying, Morgan bitterly gave it up. It was futile. The maids were relentless, and they flocked to Arthur’s beck and call. All she could do was sit there, rearrange her bookshelves, and be bitter as the maids rolled out new wallpaper to cover the blemishes of the wood and the nails. A constant reminder of failure.

Twenty minutes.

Morgan snatched up the newspaper and aimlessly flipped through it. It didn’t scratch the itch but it helped.

She slipped into the hallway at exactly 6:59 and cracked open Westlie’s door to see- Oh. Great. Lizzie was crying. Westlie had completely forgotten about dinner. Morgan could already see it. Westlie stood at attention, always; it was her way of being prepared, and she hated stooping because it felt vulnerable. Morgan was generally good at making the facade crumble. She couldn’t always manage it in the house but when they were walking in the street, at the pub, in quiet places, when they were sitting and swinging their feet and Westlie’s shoulders drooped; her eyes got softer and she looked human. When she felt something intensely it shone through too and she would lean, or soften, or some change so she wasn’t ramrod straight.  Lizzie however, had done a great job of getting Westlie to bow the knee even though the woman clearly didn’t know what the everloving fuck she was doing. She was not good at comforting.

Ire burst in Morgan’s stomach. “It’s seven.”

… oh, she’d definitely forgotten. Westlie offered Lizzie her handkerchief and glanced up. “I-”

You can’t make it. I know. Another burst of anger. Morgan bit her tongue that time.

“Morgan… she’s scared.” Yes. She’s extremely frightened by the lilac-smelling shithole you brought her to. “I’m not leaving her like this.”

She hadn’t asked her to leave Lizzie like that, although, Morgan guessed, she had insinuated it- That was unfair, saying that though, because she should be happy her sister had a fucking soul, right? So kind and benevolent for no reason- for no goddamn reason to a stranger. Anger nearly burst out of her mouth and Morgan swallowed hard. The ball of fury settled in her stomach and she tried to speak again. Lizzie was staring at her with wide tearful eyes now; Morgan wasn’t hiding the struggle well.  “Of course.” 

It dripped sarcasm. She didn’t intend for that. She did, but she didn’t.

Westlie caught the undertone and her eyes flashed as her body shifted ever so slightly in front of Lizzie. It was the same predictable physical block she used when Morgan, Arthur, and her were trapped in the same room, but this time Morgan wasn’t the one being protected. “I’ll come out when I’m ready. Where are the blankets?”

I hate you. Morgan’s anger bubbled over. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate your face. I hate that look. I hate how stupid you are. I hate your fucking skirt. I hate your hair. Take your hair down. I hate your shoulders. I hate your eyes. I hate your face. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

But she didn’t, not really, and Morgan hated that most of all.

“Don’t bother. I’m going out.”

“Morgan-”

She spun on her heel and stalked past the two of them to the window. The rope was in a pile on the floor. Morgan flipped open the window and tied it with an expert knot. “Attic. Top shelf. Under the pile of maps. I hope you choke on the mothballs.”

-=-

It took a while for Morgan Faire to get good and properly drunk, so she rarely tried. She was fourteen when she had her first drink of mushroom wine; it was fine. The drink had a nice after-tang. She didn’t realize you were supposed to feel something until a year later when the world of pubs opened to her and three glasses of the stuff had most skyfarers reeling. After a good amount of experimentation, Morgan found she could get buzzed after four glasses of wine, drunk after seven, and fucking sloshed after nine. It varied a bit, especially with whiskey, which was more expensive but worked faster with the high alcohol content.

Which was why she was full bottle of whisky into the evening and starting on the second. The world was starting to spin a bit, and she had to blink at the bartender when he asked for money. The downside of getting drunk was she couldn’t smile at him, wink, and charm him into another glass. She tossed down whatever she had in her pocket after the travel fare. The bartender shoved a few coins back towards her. At least she still looked presentable enough for that.

She poured herself another glass and tossed it back, trying to ignore the room spinning when she slapped the glass back on the counter.

She could still think that was the problem. She never- she never stopped thinking. Even when she was drunk, it quieted, but she could feel the itch of boredom surrounding her, even at the bar. When you looked sulky at a bar people ignored you, and if they ignored her, she couldn’t be distracted, and she was too drunk to go bother them into entertaining her. Morgan picked at the glass indentations on the whiskey bottle. They filled the label in with black paint in thick imprudent letters. Joyce’s Choice. Fuck you, Joyce.

Morgan poured herself another glass. The bartender was eyeing her at this point, probably wondering why she wasn’t fucking dead on the floor yet. If it was John-her-regular-bartender he wouldn’t be wondering, he’d just bring her another glass and drag her into the closet when she passed out and also make her clean in the morning to pay for everything. He was fair. John was great. This guy was less great, but at least he hadn’t kicked her out.

There were other bars, Morgan guessed, but she didn’t feel like walking. Actually, she might not be able to walk at this point. Or hold a conversation? Who knew. She didn’t feel like having one now. She downed another glass and shivered at the burn. She was starting to lose coherency now. Her hands were freezing while the rest of her body tried to process the massive amount of alcohol. The bottles on the shelf looked fuzzy. Everything was floating. Westlie- Westlie- Was she angry at Westlie? Why was she angry at her sister? Westlie was everything good in the world. Westlie- Morgan’s head dropped and she nearly faceplanted on the bar. She shook herself awake. Westlie-

“There you are.”

Westlie. She was too drunk to punch her sister in the face- which didn’t really make any sense but it seemed like the right thing to do. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth; couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. Good. That was the reason she got plastered in the first place. The room swirled and Morgan vomited a little in her mouth.

“You look like shit,” but the words were soft. Morgan yelped as someone slid her – as kindly as possible – off the stool and she drooped against the counter. “Let’s go home.”

“Don- Don’t want-”

Westlie looped one arm around her waist and slid Morgan’s arm over her shoulders. “We’re going home.” It was a command, but it was gentle and even Morgan couldn’t resist. She slumped into it as they made their way out of the pub and slowly down the street. The whole world spun, but it was mostly empty. One person passed; a man with a gold pocket watch and top hat. It was late. How late was late? Was late early? Why was Westlie up? How had she found her?

They stumbled down the streets. Morgan could feel Westlie’s exhaustion the longer they walked together. A little slip of the boot here, a little stagger when the world spun and Morgan had to droop on her. She hated it, a little. She didn’t ask to be dragged home. Westlie never slept at the best of times; now she was out at stars knew when, taking her home when she didn’t need-

Home... Home-?

They made it against the brick wall of the Faire house and Morgan drooped against it. The barrier she usually vaulted over seemed fucking insurmountable. “F-f’king stupid. I can’t climb.”

Westlie’s arms tightened gently around her waist. “We’ll take the stairs this time.”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Please, no. Something inside Morgan screamed and she jerked out of Westlie’s grasp as they made their way up the front walkway. She managed two steps on her own, stumbled, tripped, and staggered into the front porch where she slid to the ground. She shoved her back against the porch steps away from Westlie so she couldn’t drag her up the stairs. “N-no- No. No.”

“Morgan-”

She was too drunk to be angry. The emotions welled up in fat tears that nearly choked her.  “Pl- please. Please, I can’t. Westlie, I can’t. Please-”

“Hey, hey,” Morgan couldn't face her but she knew the look. Westlie kneeled on the ground and Morgan felt her arms wrap around her. How long had it been? How- Why-? The tears came harder.

“Please, Westlie please.”

“I love you.” Westlie smoothed her hair back; she curled around her in a protective embrace and Morgan could feel the sobs come harder. “You’ll feel better after you sleep, I promise.”

“I- I don’t want to sleep- p-please- I’ll stay here. L-leave me here.”

“I can’t leave you here.” The whisper was gentle. “I care about you.”

“You don’t! You d-don’t- you don’t- You don’t c-care about me a-at all.”

“Morgan, that’s not true.” The voice was soft and concerned and Morgan wanted to trust it so hard her stomach ached. She choked on her tears. Westlie.

“You d-don’t care- you don’t- you don’t care I c-ome back,” the sniffles turned into heaving sobs and Morgan could barely get her tongue to work. “I don’t want to- to go home- I don’t- I hate it. I h-hate it, Westlie- You c-can’t replace me- Westlie, please- I need y-you don't replace me, please- Westlie, please-”

She was twenty and drunk on whiskey and still covered in coal dust from travelling; they were in the fucking gravel in the garden, her hair was a haystack, but Westlie dragged her onto her lap without hesitating. Morgan sobbed harder against her. The embrace was temporary. It was always temporary. They were so bad at this. But it felt good anyway. Westlie dug her fingers into her hair and wrapped herself around her like a shield. “I love you,” she whispered back. “I’m here, and I love you. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.”

Maybe it was real, maybe it wasn't. Morgan gave herself up, and she cried.

-=-

When she woke up in her room, it was mid-morning without a hangover, boots off, a glass of water on the nightstand, staring at that motherfucking fleur-de-lis wallpaper.

#liztlie au #I'm not sorry.

[thepulta]

The Dawn Machine~

#I wanted a new background for my phone so I made one #sunless seas #seas #sunless #fl #fallen london #fallen london art #4k #fallen london background #phone backgrounds

[thepulta]

Background (1/3)

Westlie was not a stranger to rage. It enveloped her as she stalked down the hallway. When she focused on the source, traced it back, she could feel the anger burning deep in her chest as it fed off the injustice of the day. The sting ran through her muscles; made her arms tighten and her fists clench. It steeled her. And that was what she needed, because that injustice of the day was why she was here, now, fighting to win on her terms. Westlie took a deep breath, stopping in the middle of the hallway to check her anger and bury it tighter, denser, until she felt rock solid and ready to explode at any moment. This fight was important.

Everything felt a bit new because she usually didn’t fight with her anger; it acted like a shield that insults and cuts bounced off of and got absorbed, making the core burn brighter and harder. Occasionally it got too bright and too hot and she exploded in the wrong way to win battles, but usually she needed it as a shield, and the shield worked.

She could do this. She could stand strong this time.

She wasn’t a stranger to rage; she’d gotten a good taste of Arthur’s rage before she felt it inside herself, and Arthur was often angry. If she searched far back to one of her first memories, he was hovering over her tutor while she tried to scratch out her letters. After some time she got to ‘p’ and after some nerves, wrote it backwards. She just remembered the sharp “Wrong!” barked over her head and the paper ripped out of her grasp. She’d jerked away from the desk, startled. Arthur crumpled it in his giant hands, scowling at her with sullen umber eyes. He had red hair that was slicked back in an unpleasant sign of control and order. “Do it again.”

Westlie remembered the first seeds of real fear planted in her heart as she shakily took another page offered by the tutor (who looked ambivalent; he was paid; he didn’t give a shit) and tried again. (And again, and again, and again, while each time her hands got shakier and the letters got worse.) After the fifth time she burst into tears and Arthur scoffed and walked away. The test was over. She failed. She’d wanted to do well, and she failed.

Westlie forced herself to confront the knowledge that that memory was important because she was still scared. She took a breath and tried to ground herself, pushing down the immediate burn of anger that took fear’s place.

She could remember when she was ten too. (Stars, she’d been such a small, terrified child by that point.) When Arthur instructed his secretary to give her a pair of breeches -or anything other than a skirt. (“I don’t care where you get them. Sew a pair yourself if you have to. Robinson’s doesn’t have goddamn breeches for girls? She won’t set foot in that place without pants.”) The next morning after her birthday, she ended up with a pair of cast-off breeches that reeked of mushrooms and a flap in the front. The secretary took her to the shop after she put them on, nudging open the unfamiliar back door and handing her two fist-thick ledgers off a nearby shelf.

“Millie is out sick and Arthur wants you to do these.” The woman had the self-respect to give her a somewhat pitying look. “You can stay here in the back, or do them out front. The receipts are on the side wall. No- not-” she rolled her eyes. “Look. Side wall. By the crystal lilies. They’re alphabetized by date, but the more important customers come first, so you might have to cross-reference with our yearly sales records. Third down from the top, second to the right.”

Westlie remembered the room to the detail since it hadn’t changed during the next sixteen years. Several small mail-like boxes of miscellaneous materials, crystal lilies near the receipts on the bottom, with some small preserved jars of blemmigans on top with a jar of eyeballs on the top right. The back of the store was an assortment of supplies from mushrooms to coffee, giving the room a deep, heady scent that gave you migraines and nightmares if you stayed for more than 8 hours. To the right of the back entrance was a storage room of engine parts. She learned later there was a fake shelf in the storage room that held several hours in case of unsavory events. Nothing more, nothing less. She wasn’t supposed to touch them, even now – not that Fairweather had ever needed them.

There was a desk against the foremost wall of the back room covered with paperwork. There was a small chime connecting through the wall over the desk, then another door to the right of the desk that opened into the shop front.

Westlie remembered absorbing it all for the first time, struggling under the weight of the ledgers with a horrified soul at the jar of preserved eyeballs floating and staring lucidly at her. She swallowed. “Should- should I organize the receipts by date as I finish…?” There was the click of the door closing and she spun around, a pit in her stomach opening up. She was alone. There was the vague chatter from the front room, but it faded out to a murmur, only picking up as the door opened or closed five minutes later.

Westlie had done practice ledgers once, but Arthur had never allowed her to see the real thing ‘because she wasn’t good enough to touch them’. The weight of her situation – not situation: injustice, because it was an injustice when she’d never done the ledgers before, wasn’t it? – landed on her shoulders and in her stomach and Westlie bit her lip, chest aching. She didn’t have the words for it, but Older-Westlie could feel the ice of fear crackle over her soul in the memory – that Arthur would come and tell her it was wrong, all wrong- that the tutor would drop in and switch her; that she wasn’t alone really, they were lurking and waiting for the mistakes to be hung over her head. There had to be some misunderstanding. They wouldn’t just leave her here, would they? Memory after memory of similar situations with bad endings piled up in her mind and Westlie remembered choking in that moment, horrified in the room with the pair of eyeballs. Because they would. They had. They just did. And it was a grave, grave injustice to her because of it.

Westlie remembered climbing up on the desk stool and shoving the ledgers on the table, her shoulders shaking. It took a few minutes; a few candles flickered in the silence before the pit in her stomach and her throat. She let out a quiet, terrified cry as the tears started to drip down her cheeks. After a few minutes of gasping she buried her face in her arms. The secretaries (only one on staff at a time, but they were frequently fired) were sometimes nice, but this one didn’t care. Nobody cared. Nobody in the world cared.

The heady, unfamiliar scent of darkdrop coffee curled around Westlie, making her cry harder in deep hypoxiating gulps. It might have been ten minutes or two hours later when her tears dried up; she stopped hiccupping and she slowly raised her head, opening the ledgers to their last entry. The pages turned with a thick lethargy. A hasty scrawl said the last captain's entry had sold a load of hours. Westlie slid off the stool and grabbed the pile of receipts, sliding them off the nail they’d been impaled on and laying them slowly out on the table.

Each name had to be read slowly, carefully, and corrected. Westlie bit her lip, concentrating on writing each letter cleanly and checking her sums. After an hour there was a thick heat in her head as question after question went unanswered. Where did this name go? How ‘favorites’ were ‘favorite captains? Whose favorite captains were these? Should she give a sum after each item or only after the whole sale? She flipped back and forth through the thick pages, finding examples and teaching herself. After three painful hours, the ten-year-old was gritting her teeth and grasping a broken quill, stabbing the page with every lesson she had to recall and put to use. After four hours, she was somewhat faster at the sums with a new quill and her face matched her red hair. Her head and heart burned.

Older-Westlie could remember the build of wordless, mindless, unintelligible hatred that built through her mind, slowly feeding on every ounce of fear she had from Arthur, from her tutor, from the ledger; fear of the goddamn eyeballs on the shelf; trying to digest the fact she didn’t matter and they didn’t care – nobody would ever care about her. She had to realize that and make it sink in. She was unwanted.

The rage continued, growing, feeding, and burning like fire until she saw red, ready to cry again but shoving away the tears. She couldn’t cry. She had to do the ledgers; needed to do them. But each sum got harder and harder to do until Westlie finally bit down on her arm and let loose a muffled scream into her sleeve.

Five seconds. Ten seconds.

Everything hurt and she couldn’t breathe. It all hurt so, so much. And she remembered when she couldn’t scream any more and her arm hung limply, she sat at the desk, panting; she was slightly less overcome, but exhausted at the injustice and the cruelty and the pain of the sums. Her sleeve might have shown a few drops of blood, or it might have been ink. There was definitely a bruise. The memory grew fuzzy after that. She couldn’t remember if she smashed the already broken quill against the desk until it splintered or she just doubled down on the notes until the secretary came to fetch her, but the anger her younger counterpart didn’t have a name for yet was there and it burned a hole in her heart. Useless. Unwanted.

Westlie remembered calming down by the next day; it no longer felt like the anger would consume her, but the spark was still there ready to flare up, along with the feeling of power it gave her to still hand over the ledgers at the end of the day. They were neat and finished and Arthur’s approval was a grunt of acknowledgement. (Shock and disappointment fanned the anger. How dare that be all he gave her, she remembered thinking, after all the things she went through: her fear, horror, and aching left arm.) But Westlie also remembered the satisfaction of conquering injustice and swearing she would again. The anger would fuel her.

Older-Westlie knew, after another fifteen years or so of experience, that anger was her best friend. Closer than enigmatic Morgan and more powerful than sadness. With anger, she could wrap reigns around her fear and harness both to do her bidding. She could defend against enemies and wrap it around her like a shield to endure.

And she had endured. But the disappearance of the only competent London employees in the whole damn shop was the last straw.

No more silence, no more pleasing, no more struggling, no more nights in the shop with burned out candles, no more crying to sleep over one of Arthur’s calloused stupid decisions; no more rejection, no more refusals, no more begging to fly, no more begging to get out of the shop, no more sneers, no more pain. Respect would never appear, there would be no approval, no kindness, no reward. It didn’t have to be this way. No more suffering.

If she was useless, she'd be useless somewhere else. If not, she'd find somewhere to be useful- to be wanted.

With a second deep breath, Westlie stepped forward again and narrowed her gaze. She reached the end of the hallway; paperwork in hand, teeth clenched, anger flaming, and threw open the door so hard it bounced against the back wall. She willed her anger to extend beyond her five-foot-five height and fill the room. She willed it, with all her power, to reach and throttle the neck of the man in front of her.

“Why did you do it.”

Arthur Faire looked nonchalantly up from his paperwork over his pince-nez spectacles. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just put a dent in the wall for the fourth time.”

“Fuck your dent! Why the fuck did you do it?”

“Do what?” Arthur folded his hands over his paperwork.

Her rage burrowed at his nonchalance. He liked doing this. He knew it made her burn inside. “The Johnsons. What the fuck did you do to them?”

“Such bold questions. I didn’t know you asked the questions around here.” He shuffled some documents. “They’re fine.”

“I didn’t ask if they were fine. I asked why the fuck you did it you goddamn sack of shit.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“They’re on the street!” Westlie felt her temper explode in pain and inevitability. “She was pregnant. Father, she was pregnant. You fucking fired them, and I want to know why. Just tell me. Give me a reason! You owe me a reason!”

“I don’t owe you shit.” Arthur snapped. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as if the thought of explaining pained him. “Westlie, they were expendable.”

“They were not!” Westlie’s voice screeched. “They were not expendable! They did nothing wrong. They did nothing wrong, you fucking bastard! You coward! You look me in the fucking face and tell me what they did wrong.”

Arthur slammed his fist on the table and stood up in one frighteningly fluid motion, leaning forward over his desk. He was not a small man, and he had not gotten to be Captain of one of the largest shipping businesses in London by being nice. “I will do no such thing! You will do what I say and take my orders!”

“Fuck what you say! And fuck you! You’re wrong, and I refuse!”

Arthur fell back into his chair, sneering at the paperwork she clenched in her fist. “What’s that? A list of Captains who turned you down for your incompetence? You can’t even take orders from me.”

Westlie saw red and hurled the stack at his face. It burst into several pages fluttering unspectacularly throughout the room. The more important pages luckily settled on his desk. “I gave you- three chances. I gave you three chances. If this was fine. If there was a reason. If you weren’t such a cruel, selfish, malicious piece of shit-” Westlie felt the lump in her throat attempt to spill over, her hands shaking. “I knew you wouldn’t fucking tell me- that there was no good reason. You just fired hard-working innocent people. They were kind to me, you fucking-”

Arthur ignored her, snatching up a piece of paper and staring at it. “Resignation? You’re resigning? You can’t resign,” he scoffed. “You’re my daughter.”

Westlie spit at his feet.

Arthur’s face instinctively twitched with distaste and she relished the taste of the blood she’d drawn. She could see something close to loathing boiling under the surface. ‘Hatred at her ungratitude’ he’d probably phrase it. Instead of throwing words at her he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs with the motion of hatred he generally used for Captains he didn’t like – and often her. When he used it in an argument Westlie knew to back down and patch things over with some compromise. But not today. Why compromise? There was no good answer other than the truth. He was cruel. He was malicious. He wanted to see a young couple on the streets with no job and a baby on the way; to cut them out of her life and crush them into the ground like he wanted her crushed and ground. She hated him. Westlie hated him. There were no words to capture her fury, and there would be no goddamn compromises.

She gathered her anger and pulled it tight around her, guarding herself with a snarl.

Arthur’s lip curled. “And what if I don’t sign to release you?”

“I’m leaving anyway. That won’t stop me.”

His fingers tapped the desk. “I know every Captain in the Reach and every shop in London knows your temper. None of them will take you.”

Westlie lip curled up to match his own in a dry, menacing grin. “I’ve already signed with a Captain, Captain.”

“As what?” He scoffed, reaching down into his desk and pulling out a tumbler of whiskey and a crystal glass. She’d really ticked him off now. He poured a single glass and sneered when he saw her glance at it. “Sorry, I don’t give angry children liquor.”

Westlie wanted to take his head off to prove she wasn’t his goddamn child. She bit her tongue and bottled the anger. “I’m a First Mate who only drinks with friends.” Arthur scoffed into his glass in disbelief and it fogged up. “Now sign my resignation.”

His lip was still curled as he swallowed and thumped the now-empty glass down on the desk, muttering something under his breath. He grabbed the nearest pen and jabbed it into the paper, scribbling something vaguely similar to Capt. Faire. He rang the bell next and Westlie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She’d have to escape wouldn’t she. She didn’t quite plan for an escape.

“Mary, please come escort Miss Faire to her room.”

Faster than she’d seen him move before, Arthur rose and stepped around his desk, grabbing Westlie’s arm before she could twist out of his grasp. He yanked her closer, gripping it so tight she felt her muscles quiver. “You will never escape me,” he hissed. The scent of whiskey cracked even her tightly practiced shield of anger and Westlie felt a shiver run down her spine. “And I will make your life a living hell until you come crawling back.”

He shoved her away as a knock sounded at the door. Arthur leaned back on his desk, a sneer on his face, arms crossed, papers scattered over the floor. Westlie took a breath and straightened, forcing herself to look him in the eye. She gathered her anger. “Fuck. You.”

To her credit, Mary didn’t even raise an eyebrow as she entered the room. This definitely looked worse than one of their regular monthly spats. “Miss Faire?”

“Yes, yes- Oh fuck off, I don’t need your escort. I have legs.”

Westlie flipped her father a middle finger behind her back as she left.

-=-

Predictably, Mary locked the door to her bedroom as she left.

Westlie scoffed to herself as she pulled the only cap she owned low over her red curls. They didn’t know her. It was fucking silly thinking a lock trapped her – or Morgan – in their rooms; and Westlie gave a silent prayer of thanks to her sister for being an uncontrollable escape artist, then she stopped for a full moment as fear pierced her heart.

Morgan. She hadn’t told Morgan.

She offered another prayer to her sister to be safe and stay as far away as possible. I’m so sorry, Morgan. So, so sorry. Westlie pulled up the loose floorboard in her closet and rummaged a bit, grabbing a long length of rope. She looped it around the bedpost and tied it off. The motion was easy, practiced. Westlie grabbed her carpetbag – her trunk was already at the dock – and hesitated.

Morgan.

She missed her. In her blind rage she’d forgotten to write, and Westlie hadn’t gotten any letters to remind her. Their last letter exchange a week or so ago had been predictable. Morgan was off in the Reach and Westlie was in London. They’d talked about Westlie’s work, per usual, something about that bloated Captain who kept making trips to sell seeds, and some asshole explorer who’d stocked up supplies and tried to beg off paying every time. She hadn’t written to her about the Johnsons or her solution because it’d happened so fast. One day they were there, the next they’d just disappeared. She was scared, then furious, and Anger took over the controls after Arthur repeatedly refused any involvement when he was so clearly lying. She’d blown through her interviews, packed her trunk the night before, chartered the engine at midnight.

Should her sister know? … it would hurt her.

Westlie closed her eyes, trying to glimpse her sister’s soft face and lively eyes that only sharpened with excitement, not rage. Arthur didn’t care about her because she’d never have anything to do with the shop. Morgan was carefree and it should stay that way. She didn’t know his evils. Our evils, Westlie thought somewhat sullenly. But Morgan. Westlie set down her bag and slipped over to her writing desk, grabbing a sheet of paper and fumbling open the ink.

               Dear Morgan,

                               I’m leaving. In a few minutes I’ll be down to the docks and boarding an engine away from London. I don’t want to tell you what Father did, but he’s cruel and he’s sick and every second I stay here I feel my soul slipping away. I know you’ve told me he doesn’t care, and I knew he didn’t care, but I’m done with it, Morgan. I’m done now, this instant. I’ve secured a position on an engine. (He’ll want to know. I won’t tell you with whom.) But he’s a good man and a good captain. You would be proud.

               I would put off leaving until you’ve returned so I can see you again, but the engine won’t wait.

               Please don’t chase after me. Father’s ire is already riled and he’ll undoubtedly try to track me down on his own. I don’t want him angry at you. Just lay low. Be safe. Take another trip to Leadbeater if you have to so you stay out of his path. I’ll see you someday. I’ll ask for you in the Reach.

                               I love you. I will always love you.

                               Your only and dearest sister,

                                               Wes

Westlie folded it with a deft, practiced move and tapped her foot softly as she waited for the wax to melt. There were footsteps down the hall. Light ones- Mary, and heavier ones- Arthur. They passed her door and the handle jiggled. Westlie’s breath caught in her throat. She made a silent lunge for the rope but it wasn’t necessary. Their footsteps continued down the hall after making sure it was locked and they faded out of hearing range.

Quickly now.

She poured the wax, stamped the letter, and scribbled the address on the back. Something-something express mail. She’d pay the freighter double. No time to think about it.

Westlie shoved it in her carpet bag and grabbed the rope. Sliding down the side of the two-story townhome was simple, especially at dusk. Usually it was with Morgan at the bottom hissing expletives in the dead of night - or climbing back up in the dark after some sort of drunken escapade, which was, obviously, four times harder. Westlie tied a rock to the bottom of the rope and threw it back into the room, resisting the temptation to break a window while she was at it.

They were already close to the docks. She hid as much of her hair under the cap as she could and then struck off at a brisk walk; running would be too obvious. The blood pounded in her ears to her gait, one step of freedom, two steps of freedom. The city pulsed around her, oblivious. There was a brisk scent in the air; several women walking past with tipped hats, murmuring together. A ragged man, looking as if he just got out of prison wandering aimlessly. He looked at her, tipped an invisible hat. Westlie nodded back. Several captains wandered by, examining a map, one holding a bottle of something purple? Something red, perhaps. He laughed uproarously. A fancy blemmigan hopped by. A wistful woman in large, somewhat old-fashioned skirts stood outside a building, handing out pamphlets.

Westlie took a deep breath and kept her eyes on the pavement.

She turned a corner, turned another corner; slipped through an alleyway. Had she always known this was the quickest way to the docks? It seemed familiar, but more light. There was no oppressive scent of mushrooms. Maybe a soft breeze had blown through today. Maybe she was just in a better mood.

Westlie scrutinized the dock as she got closer, looking for any evidence of Arthur Faire - but there was none. Unless he was on the ship itself, she had escaped. She was almost free.

She grit her teeth and pulled her anger around her one last time. One last run. One final step.

Westlie stepped into the open and briskly walked through the busy dock. Most of the people about were skyfarer crew, lounging, drinking on boxes. A few whistled and Westlie curled her lip in distaste. She slipped the letter and two sovereigns into the hand of a cargo ship’s First Mate. That could be me later, she realized, quietly, as hurried off to her ship for passage, the Tundra.

Westlie gave one final look around the docks and the city as she stepped through the hatch. It was soft and dusky. She might miss that, but, she noted, quietly, she wouldn’t miss the city, she would miss her and Morgan in the city. No more rampage of terror, no more bar fights. No thefts, no vandalisms, no secrets. But on board, there was also no angry man, no sullen look of disappointment either. Arthur Faire was not there. He hadn’t found this captain. She hadn’t been traced. Maybe he’d taught her one good thing: always pay a little extra.

The captain stepped down from the cab and tipped his hat. “Miss Faire?”

“Yes. Could I be shown to my quarters?”

“Absolutely. Would you please, Nancy?”

An unremarkable woman stepped forward and offered her hand for the bag. Westlie handed it to her gratefully with her shoulder starting to ache. “When do you plan to depart, Captain? Can I encourage it to be as soon as possible?”

“In a hurry, Miss Faire?” She didn’t like his smile and resisted the urge to scowl. “We depart in ten minutes. Fear not.”

“I have urgent business.” Westlie said, making an attempt to keep the salt out of her voice.

Nancy took a small step into the hallway. “Ready, ma’am?”

“Yes- Yes please.”

They walked down the hallway into the crew’s quarters where a separate bed had been made up. Her trunk was placed at the side: a few books, her shop clothes, an extra travel skirt; some shirts, some underclothes. She really hadn’t left anything had she. Westlie glanced inside the carpet bag. There was a portrait of all of them as a family. Why did she bring that? Morgan was cute, perhaps. She’d have to rip off half the portrait to get her father out; not worth the effort. A pair of silver earrings they’d stolen together. A bag of sovereigns.

That was really it, wasn’t it? There was nothing else she wanted to remember. Nothing other than stolen earrings and the clothes on her back. And Westlie felt free.

#westlie #wanted to rewrite this a bit so I did #backstory #the crew of the pyrrhus #arthur