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mon
if ever just the same
They told her not to pursue it. Such a career will only lead to her downfall.
"You're not a man, honey. Leave this to the men."
"Why don't you become a florist instead? You like plants right?"
Surely they've meant well. They were older, wiser; they were her parents.
She should've listened.
But Adele had always been a stubborn woman with too much will for her own good. Rejecting their counsel, she had left home to pursue a higher calling. She wanted to help people. She wanted to study medicine. Such a thing was frowned upon and even she knew that only men of the church were accepted as medical practitioners. The stigma of all else being a hoax did not prevent her from trying, nor did it stop the people in the quaint town she settled in from accepting her aid.
When the accusations began, Adele knew well enough on how superstitions wove witch hunts and despite the few still seeking her help, she makes herself scarce. The fear paralyzes her from continuing her work as threatening words begin to reach her ears. With a good head on her shoulder, she starts planning for her survival.
But first, Adele Marther must "die".
Fiery but accursed ginger locks are dyed the shade of raven. It takes her many attempts to succeed in reaching a shade and by the time she achieves it, her hands are stained purple with blackcurrent skins and ink. With silver scissors, she snips the years away from her head until she bears semblance of what her mother wanted her to be: a son. Her chest is then bound tightly with bandages, just enough til her breasts lay flat against the loose tunic she dones, but not enough that it cuts off her air supply. With one last glance at the mirror, Adele Marther is dead and gone.
Her identity is just cast away when the violent pounding on her locked door startles her into action.
It's time, she realizes grimly as she pulls the hood of the cloak over her head, her heart pounding in rapid apprehension. The loss, the anger, it doesn't hit her yet. That'll come after the overwhelming wave of fear.
If she had known they'd come for her this soon, she would've packed her belongings up sooner. Unfortunately, with little to no time, Adele snatches a small pouch containing her valuables and shoves it into one of the inner pockets of her cloak before quickly scrambling to the back of the house towards the back door. The loud thudding of wood was a telling sign that they were already trying to break the door down.
With frantic scrambling, Adele makes a beeline for the backdoor only to hear footsteps as she nears it as well. Cursing beneath her breath, she uses her bedroom window as a last resort and clambers out, falling ungracefully into the ramble below. The rustling alerts the men in the back and she could see the pale glint of pitchforks and shovels underneath the flame-lit torch.
How original.
Without another moment's thought, she bolts into the forest. For once, she is grateful that her humble cottage is far from town, nearing the outskirts, just borderline of the valley's forest where she has easier access to the garden of herbs she's been carefully growing. Soon those herbs would be nothing but a plot of ash and death. The life she had so lovingly cared for would be choked by the merciless flames as the villagers ransack her place upon kicking down her door.
She doesn't look back.
Her lungs are on fire and still she runs, panting as cold sweat drips down her cheek, until the evening mist rolls over her ankles and the sound of chasing footsteps become fainter and fainter.
Those voices don't go away. She knows they're still after her. She curses them beneath her breath.
How could they?
After all she's done for them.
The sweat burns into her eyes and mixes in with the salted tears. She chokes back a breath as she trips and falls, the mist now at her knees. The ground is different. The grass here is more dry, more... dead. A sharp pebble had cut her cheek and she sits up shakily.
She knows they aren't far. She could see the shifting shadows and hear their jeering shouts, but for some reason, there is no movement near her except one.
"You're not a man, honey. Leave this to the men."
"Why don't you become a florist instead? You like plants right?"
Surely they've meant well. They were older, wiser; they were her parents.
She should've listened.
But Adele had always been a stubborn woman with too much will for her own good. Rejecting their counsel, she had left home to pursue a higher calling. She wanted to help people. She wanted to study medicine. Such a thing was frowned upon and even she knew that only men of the church were accepted as medical practitioners. The stigma of all else being a hoax did not prevent her from trying, nor did it stop the people in the quaint town she settled in from accepting her aid.
When the accusations began, Adele knew well enough on how superstitions wove witch hunts and despite the few still seeking her help, she makes herself scarce. The fear paralyzes her from continuing her work as threatening words begin to reach her ears. With a good head on her shoulder, she starts planning for her survival.
But first, Adele Marther must "die".
Fiery but accursed ginger locks are dyed the shade of raven. It takes her many attempts to succeed in reaching a shade and by the time she achieves it, her hands are stained purple with blackcurrent skins and ink. With silver scissors, she snips the years away from her head until she bears semblance of what her mother wanted her to be: a son. Her chest is then bound tightly with bandages, just enough til her breasts lay flat against the loose tunic she dones, but not enough that it cuts off her air supply. With one last glance at the mirror, Adele Marther is dead and gone.
Her identity is just cast away when the violent pounding on her locked door startles her into action.
It's time, she realizes grimly as she pulls the hood of the cloak over her head, her heart pounding in rapid apprehension. The loss, the anger, it doesn't hit her yet. That'll come after the overwhelming wave of fear.
If she had known they'd come for her this soon, she would've packed her belongings up sooner. Unfortunately, with little to no time, Adele snatches a small pouch containing her valuables and shoves it into one of the inner pockets of her cloak before quickly scrambling to the back of the house towards the back door. The loud thudding of wood was a telling sign that they were already trying to break the door down.
With frantic scrambling, Adele makes a beeline for the backdoor only to hear footsteps as she nears it as well. Cursing beneath her breath, she uses her bedroom window as a last resort and clambers out, falling ungracefully into the ramble below. The rustling alerts the men in the back and she could see the pale glint of pitchforks and shovels underneath the flame-lit torch.
How original.
Without another moment's thought, she bolts into the forest. For once, she is grateful that her humble cottage is far from town, nearing the outskirts, just borderline of the valley's forest where she has easier access to the garden of herbs she's been carefully growing. Soon those herbs would be nothing but a plot of ash and death. The life she had so lovingly cared for would be choked by the merciless flames as the villagers ransack her place upon kicking down her door.
She doesn't look back.
Her lungs are on fire and still she runs, panting as cold sweat drips down her cheek, until the evening mist rolls over her ankles and the sound of chasing footsteps become fainter and fainter.
Those voices don't go away. She knows they're still after her. She curses them beneath her breath.
How could they?
After all she's done for them.
The sweat burns into her eyes and mixes in with the salted tears. She chokes back a breath as she trips and falls, the mist now at her knees. The ground is different. The grass here is more dry, more... dead. A sharp pebble had cut her cheek and she sits up shakily.
She knows they aren't far. She could see the shifting shadows and hear their jeering shouts, but for some reason, there is no movement near her except one.
bad wolf
do you love my insides? the parts you canβt see?
Poor Paul. Poor sad Paul. Poor sad dead old Paul.
Passed out cold after a drunken spell, face down in muddy water. No one to love 'em. No one to attend his funeral and mourn 'em. He'd just himself and an empty bottle. Grimacing slightly at the hole he'd dug Morgan thought, Now he'd just himself and the bed I made him. Dropping the shovel into the dirt at the bottom, he judged the depth. If he dug it too shallow, the critters would get to him. If he dug it too deep, Hell would need only reach up and grab his feet to pull him the rest of the way down. Why not make it difficult for both and find some middle ground? That hard patch of dirt just right for interring the dead into.
Bury him nice. Bury him right. Let this poor sad old man finally get a bit of rest before eternal damnation.
Gritting his teeth, he spit at the ground. At the very thought of what might await Paul. Swooping to grab his shovel, Morgan jumped down into the hole to find that spot, tearing at the hard soil to get at it. One shovel after the other, till his back ached and arms could barely move. Sweat dripped from his brow like a fountain but his breath came out even, long practiced and under control. Finishing the shape of Paul's grave, Morgan stood up slow and growled threateningly at the pain in his lower back. Throwing the shovel out, he braced both arms against the walls and hoisted himself out.
Rolling sideways out of the grave, he lay lengthwise next to Paul's corpse. The wind blew and a bitter chill had him wishing he were wrapped in blankets, too. Tied at the joints. Tucked in nice for a long sleep. Looking over at Paul, he mulled over the idea. Really contemplated the decency of it and thought better. He ought not to. It'd be inappropriate and disrespectful. And besides, who'd tie the last knot? Who'd seal the deal and make sure to bury him at that perfect spot in the ground?
With a long sigh, he sat up, swinging one leg back down into the grave. At night, you could see nothing. The trees grew close and full and dark evergreen. The further you went into them, the more lost you became. There were no stars to guide you by and no light but that which you made yourself. At the head of Paul's grave was a lantern and it supplied Morgan all the light he needed. Yellow and flickering, it threw a dim glow about the piles of dirt around him. They turned color and became gold. He'd the riches of the world around him, more than any lord could offer him.
Removing the rag he kept tied over his face, Morgan wiped at his brow and stood. He bent down to inspect the knots he'd made while wrapping Paul's corpse and went to pull his feet into the gave when he heard shouting in the distance. He stopped. He didn't search. He just went still. The commotion didn't stop for anything. Not even the dead. It only drew nearer.
This poor dead sad old man can't catch a break.
"Sorry, Paul. I'll be back for you." Giving the corpse's feet a gentle pat, Morgan lunged for the lantern before turning to face the noise. Walking forward with the light in front of him, he laid eyes on a boy collapsed into the dirt. He swallowed and stared. He looked out into the trees and back to the boy. "Bit late for a stroll, don't you think?" He asked.
Passed out cold after a drunken spell, face down in muddy water. No one to love 'em. No one to attend his funeral and mourn 'em. He'd just himself and an empty bottle. Grimacing slightly at the hole he'd dug Morgan thought, Now he'd just himself and the bed I made him. Dropping the shovel into the dirt at the bottom, he judged the depth. If he dug it too shallow, the critters would get to him. If he dug it too deep, Hell would need only reach up and grab his feet to pull him the rest of the way down. Why not make it difficult for both and find some middle ground? That hard patch of dirt just right for interring the dead into.
Bury him nice. Bury him right. Let this poor sad old man finally get a bit of rest before eternal damnation.
Gritting his teeth, he spit at the ground. At the very thought of what might await Paul. Swooping to grab his shovel, Morgan jumped down into the hole to find that spot, tearing at the hard soil to get at it. One shovel after the other, till his back ached and arms could barely move. Sweat dripped from his brow like a fountain but his breath came out even, long practiced and under control. Finishing the shape of Paul's grave, Morgan stood up slow and growled threateningly at the pain in his lower back. Throwing the shovel out, he braced both arms against the walls and hoisted himself out.
Rolling sideways out of the grave, he lay lengthwise next to Paul's corpse. The wind blew and a bitter chill had him wishing he were wrapped in blankets, too. Tied at the joints. Tucked in nice for a long sleep. Looking over at Paul, he mulled over the idea. Really contemplated the decency of it and thought better. He ought not to. It'd be inappropriate and disrespectful. And besides, who'd tie the last knot? Who'd seal the deal and make sure to bury him at that perfect spot in the ground?
With a long sigh, he sat up, swinging one leg back down into the grave. At night, you could see nothing. The trees grew close and full and dark evergreen. The further you went into them, the more lost you became. There were no stars to guide you by and no light but that which you made yourself. At the head of Paul's grave was a lantern and it supplied Morgan all the light he needed. Yellow and flickering, it threw a dim glow about the piles of dirt around him. They turned color and became gold. He'd the riches of the world around him, more than any lord could offer him.
Removing the rag he kept tied over his face, Morgan wiped at his brow and stood. He bent down to inspect the knots he'd made while wrapping Paul's corpse and went to pull his feet into the gave when he heard shouting in the distance. He stopped. He didn't search. He just went still. The commotion didn't stop for anything. Not even the dead. It only drew nearer.
This poor dead sad old man can't catch a break.
"Sorry, Paul. I'll be back for you." Giving the corpse's feet a gentle pat, Morgan lunged for the lantern before turning to face the noise. Walking forward with the light in front of him, he laid eyes on a boy collapsed into the dirt. He swallowed and stared. He looked out into the trees and back to the boy. "Bit late for a stroll, don't you think?" He asked.
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mon
if ever just the same
Sepia met the dark.
Dark, dark eyes which looms over her head, staring down with her in a dry sort of mockery. Perhaps it was a trick of light. It was rather dark after all, save for the dim glow of the lantern the man was holding.
Oh gods, they found her. Was he going to kill her here?
Paralyzed with fear, she could only will herself to stare with an expression of one facing death head-on. If Adele knew things would come to this, she would've armed herself with a weapon and not the random trinkets which serve as the Marther family's heirlooms. It was her only tie to her past before she threw it all away in the pursuit of passion. She should've been smarter. Those things won't save her and besides, Adele Marther was supposed to be dead.
The realization hit her a bit late. It finally clicked within her as she noticed the lack of disgust and putrid abhorrence in the stranger's eyes.
Th..that's right. She wasn't Adele right now. There's still a chance for her!
"Pl.. please help me. The villagers, they're going to kill me." Her voice quivered in a truly pathetic tone. When was the last time she had begged? Fortunately her natural voice was low. She does not need to do much to fake a pubescent boy's tone despite being far older than that. "Let me hide out here. I-i'll be gone by dawn. You won't even know I'm here!" she tells him hushedly as she struggles to stand up.
A sharp pain shoots up her right leg and she curses under her breath. Really? Out of all the times she could've sprained her ankle, it just had to be now?
Where was she any....
Her eyes fell on the many carved stones in the nearby distance. The mist is heavier here despite the air still feeling cold and dry. The adrenaline must've messed up her senses. Some stones were perfectly shaped, others crooked. Some had names carved on them, others contained just a number.
Her face paled as she felt bile rise up her throat.
Oh gods.
Her hand clamped over her mouth as a strangled sound left her throat. Her eyes raised from the tombstones littered around to the man before her.
She's heard of him before by the villagers when they were still affable. The words told about him were none the pleasant.
"Grave digger."
"Strange man."
"Stay clear of him."
"An oddity."
Briefly those words flash through her mind but as the angry voices grow louder, Adele noticed with heavy irony, that she was in no position to judge.
"God, help me," she whispers to no one in particular.
Dark, dark eyes which looms over her head, staring down with her in a dry sort of mockery. Perhaps it was a trick of light. It was rather dark after all, save for the dim glow of the lantern the man was holding.
Oh gods, they found her. Was he going to kill her here?
Paralyzed with fear, she could only will herself to stare with an expression of one facing death head-on. If Adele knew things would come to this, she would've armed herself with a weapon and not the random trinkets which serve as the Marther family's heirlooms. It was her only tie to her past before she threw it all away in the pursuit of passion. She should've been smarter. Those things won't save her and besides, Adele Marther was supposed to be dead.
The realization hit her a bit late. It finally clicked within her as she noticed the lack of disgust and putrid abhorrence in the stranger's eyes.
Th..that's right. She wasn't Adele right now. There's still a chance for her!
"Pl.. please help me. The villagers, they're going to kill me." Her voice quivered in a truly pathetic tone. When was the last time she had begged? Fortunately her natural voice was low. She does not need to do much to fake a pubescent boy's tone despite being far older than that. "Let me hide out here. I-i'll be gone by dawn. You won't even know I'm here!" she tells him hushedly as she struggles to stand up.
A sharp pain shoots up her right leg and she curses under her breath. Really? Out of all the times she could've sprained her ankle, it just had to be now?
Where was she any....
Her eyes fell on the many carved stones in the nearby distance. The mist is heavier here despite the air still feeling cold and dry. The adrenaline must've messed up her senses. Some stones were perfectly shaped, others crooked. Some had names carved on them, others contained just a number.
Her face paled as she felt bile rise up her throat.
Oh gods.
Her hand clamped over her mouth as a strangled sound left her throat. Her eyes raised from the tombstones littered around to the man before her.
She's heard of him before by the villagers when they were still affable. The words told about him were none the pleasant.
"Grave digger."
"Strange man."
"Stay clear of him."
"An oddity."
Briefly those words flash through her mind but as the angry voices grow louder, Adele noticed with heavy irony, that she was in no position to judge.
"God, help me," she whispers to no one in particular.
bad wolf
do you love my insides? the parts you canβt see?
The boy looked frightened, the way a fawn does when a lynx happens by it. The fawn can't do anything but sit still as stone and pray. This one stared up at him with round eyes, in full knowledge that its prayers wouldn't help. Morgan had already spotted it. They both knew what was to follow.
But that expression quickly melted away as he brought the light closer. Morgan no longer felt the part of a predator as a desperate glint caught the boy's eyes. As the stranger spoke, he stared back into the trees again. The shouting was distant but certainly advancing. He couldn't see their torches yet but knew they'd pass between those trees soon enough. A group, large by the sounds of it, angry at a boy.
Morgan narrowed his gaze and tightened his jaw, drawn between numerous possibilities, none of them any good. This boy could be a murderer. He was young but Morgan had dug plenty of graves to know that age had nothing to do with the sins of the world.
Endless, numerous, terrible possibilities.
As the boy tried and failed to stand on his own, Morgan nearly stooped down to help him. Catching himself before he did, he only straightened his posture and drew back. It'd be best for him to stay out of this. To let things fall as they should, naturally and without interference. He looked after the dead and steered clear of the living. This was beyond him. The boy would have to save himself.
He grunted softly, as if making the decision final. Paul was his only ward tonight. In death, he became the champion and the guest of honor. No one else could outshine him. Not here. Not this hour.
As the shouts grew louder, though, something in his chest hitched. If the boy was right, he'd have another body to bury if he did nothing. The poor sad young soul would be his to ferry, perhaps before the sun even rose. Paul's body lay sideways next to his grave and he imagined the poor sad dead old man sitting up to talk. Wrapped in his sheets, he'd whisper through the cloth: "I was a lonesome man in life. No kids. No wife. Bury me with a little company, won't you, boyo?"
The boy's words cut in. "God, help me."
He looked at Paul and he looked at the boy and, without much thought to it really, he bent down to grab the boy's arm. Yanking him to his feet, he pulled him towards Paul's grave. Standing on the edge, the grave looked as though it had no bottom to it. It stretched on infinitely, swallowing whole whatever fell in. Setting the lantern down, Morgan offered the boy both his hands. "I'll help you in but you have to lay still. You don't say anything, you hear?"
But that expression quickly melted away as he brought the light closer. Morgan no longer felt the part of a predator as a desperate glint caught the boy's eyes. As the stranger spoke, he stared back into the trees again. The shouting was distant but certainly advancing. He couldn't see their torches yet but knew they'd pass between those trees soon enough. A group, large by the sounds of it, angry at a boy.
Morgan narrowed his gaze and tightened his jaw, drawn between numerous possibilities, none of them any good. This boy could be a murderer. He was young but Morgan had dug plenty of graves to know that age had nothing to do with the sins of the world.
Endless, numerous, terrible possibilities.
As the boy tried and failed to stand on his own, Morgan nearly stooped down to help him. Catching himself before he did, he only straightened his posture and drew back. It'd be best for him to stay out of this. To let things fall as they should, naturally and without interference. He looked after the dead and steered clear of the living. This was beyond him. The boy would have to save himself.
He grunted softly, as if making the decision final. Paul was his only ward tonight. In death, he became the champion and the guest of honor. No one else could outshine him. Not here. Not this hour.
As the shouts grew louder, though, something in his chest hitched. If the boy was right, he'd have another body to bury if he did nothing. The poor sad young soul would be his to ferry, perhaps before the sun even rose. Paul's body lay sideways next to his grave and he imagined the poor sad dead old man sitting up to talk. Wrapped in his sheets, he'd whisper through the cloth: "I was a lonesome man in life. No kids. No wife. Bury me with a little company, won't you, boyo?"
The boy's words cut in. "God, help me."
He looked at Paul and he looked at the boy and, without much thought to it really, he bent down to grab the boy's arm. Yanking him to his feet, he pulled him towards Paul's grave. Standing on the edge, the grave looked as though it had no bottom to it. It stretched on infinitely, swallowing whole whatever fell in. Setting the lantern down, Morgan offered the boy both his hands. "I'll help you in but you have to lay still. You don't say anything, you hear?"
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mon
if ever just the same
Have you ever wondered what it was like to lay in a grave?
Such a thought was something Adele never considered, nor was it a feeling she thought she'd ever known. How she's came to this position, laying alone in an empty grave, was beyond her. As she laid there still surrounded by walls of earth, her eyes closed despite knowing it was wiser to keep them open. Considering her situation and where she was, she honestly ought to be cut some slack. She was petrified of course. Death wasn't something she liked seeing. That's why she's a physician. That's why her job was to bring life to those who are dying... not accompany the cold and dead like this.
Funny how it was the only way she could keep living.
Laying with the dead.
Dying as Adele Marther.
Lying there, the voices grew louder above her, and her mind replayed what had happened moments before she agreed to lay down in the grave beneath her.
There was horror, of course, written on her face as she stared at the man who'd dare to make such a preposterous suggestion. But then, seeing how serious he was---the unspoken and unexpected earnesty, Adele, left with no other choice, chose to trust him.
"Y-you won't... bury me in, will you?" she had whispered as a foot dips into the grave. In her mind, she prays forgiveness for occupying a space that wasn't supposed to be hers.
Such a thought was something Adele never considered, nor was it a feeling she thought she'd ever known. How she's came to this position, laying alone in an empty grave, was beyond her. As she laid there still surrounded by walls of earth, her eyes closed despite knowing it was wiser to keep them open. Considering her situation and where she was, she honestly ought to be cut some slack. She was petrified of course. Death wasn't something she liked seeing. That's why she's a physician. That's why her job was to bring life to those who are dying... not accompany the cold and dead like this.
Funny how it was the only way she could keep living.
Laying with the dead.
Dying as Adele Marther.
Lying there, the voices grew louder above her, and her mind replayed what had happened moments before she agreed to lay down in the grave beneath her.
There was horror, of course, written on her face as she stared at the man who'd dare to make such a preposterous suggestion. But then, seeing how serious he was---the unspoken and unexpected earnesty, Adele, left with no other choice, chose to trust him.
"Y-you won't... bury me in, will you?" she had whispered as a foot dips into the grave. In her mind, she prays forgiveness for occupying a space that wasn't supposed to be hers.
bad wolf
do you love my insides? the parts you canβt see?
Morgan looked at him and almost laughed. He couldn't quite understand why but the temptation was there, ready to burst out nervously and unwanted. Bury him in. Bury him in? "Of course not," he responded reassuringly, letting go of the boy's hands as soon as he touched the ground below. Stepping back from the grave, he set his jaw and thought deeply about his next step.
Paul's figure still sat upright in his mind's eye. "What will they think, hm? Looking in and finding out you've dug a grave for two?"
Their shouting was close. He could see their torches through the trees. Casting his gaze down into the dark, he winced. "I won't bury you in," he promised again. "Cover your face." Snapping up his shovel, he started throwing dirt over the grave as quickly as he could. He pushed through the dull ache in his back and the shaking in his arms and tried his best to shovel as much as he could into the bed below. Too close. They'd spot him any second now. Stopping, he shut his eyes and tried breathing calmly. He was shaking too much to get a good shovelful. His hands were too clammy. His heart was beating too fast.
Paul laid back down and did not move.
He could feel the guilt already creeping down his back and over his arms, phantom fingers causing more sweat to form and hairs to stand on end. As a new and more excited frenzy of shouts sounded from behind him, Morgan snapped back to his senses. Sitting at the end of the grave, he lowered himself into it slowly, careful not to step on the stranger. Once on the ground, he reached back up and pulled first at Paul's feet. "Not a word," he reminded the boy. Tugging the lower half of Paul's body into the grave, Morgan laid the corpse over the living body underneath. Hoisting himself back out, nearly falling as he did, he went about pushing the soil around the grave over the two bodies inside.
Finally standing, he fetched his shovel and turned toward the treeline as the first villager walked through.
"Bit-" He paused as his hurried breath became too much. He tried again. "Bit late for a stroll, isn't it?" The villager at the head of the steadily emerging group stared him down with all the fury of a man looking to do some wrong. Morgan might have never seen someone so angry in his life--outside of his pa, that was.
The man surged past him and into the graveyard, a torch firmly gripped in his right hand. He turned and he glowered. Sauntering back towards Morgan, he grabbed his collar and threw him forward into the clearing. "What are you doing out here?"
Steadying himself, Morgan stood straight, bending at the back to ease its burning ache. "Paul Brown's in need of a bed," he answered.
The man looked confused before casting the torch's light over the field around him, hills of dirt and gravemarkers just visible at the light's edge. Turning to look back at Morgan, the man's eyes narrowed. "You're Hughes." It was more of a statement than a question. "You seen a girl pass by here?"
Morgan shook his head slowly, his lips pressed firmly in thought. "Can't say I have. It's just been me and the dead here all night." His voice was sweet, the tone almost a song. Morgan smiled kindly as a drop of sweat rolled into his eye. Grabbing his rag out of his pocket, he swiped at his forehead. His shovel swung at his side as he walked forward and, keeping it on the villager's side, the man thought twice about grabbing him again, apparently not having seen it before. Walking toward's his lantern, he listened as the group moved. Lights passed through the trees, ran over the graveyard and into the distance, but others staid to follow Morgan.
"You're out here digging a grave at this ungodly hour?" The man asked.
"'Fraid so." Morgan barked at him.
"Why's that?"
"Can't sleep." He spoke the truth. His nights were long and the days even longer. He slept without sleeping and woke still feeling tired. What other way had he to pass the time but dig holes? "Why're you after this girl?" Morgan asked, sticking his shovel into the ground. He used the rag to wipe at his arms and toyed with his rolled sleeves some, trying to appear uninterested as he composed himself.
The man spat at the ground. "She cursed my wife," he growled. Lowering the torch over the grave, the man peered inside before standing straight again. He stared hard at the grave, his eyes slightly brimming as he rolled his jaw. "You'll have another grave here to dig."
Morgan looked up at him, not saying a word.
"The bitch killed my son."
Morgan swallowed. He tucked the rag back into his pocket. "Well... I hope you find her." Watching a majority of the group's torches disappear into the trees, Morgan shuffled his feet in the dirt. "If you need anything in finding her, I've a few pales of oil at the cabin. It'll keep your torches going. Though... I'd recommend continuing this hunt in the morning. Forest's none too kind in the dark. You're liable to lose someone."
The man sneered some but suddenly seemed to think better of it. He nodded his thanks and hurried toward the remaining few lights. Morgan watched him go, his hands in his pockets. Once they were into the trees, he turned toward the grave. Kneeling, he pressed a hand into the dirt and took his seat at the grave's edge, swinging his feet into the dark. "Don't suppose that's you they're talking about," he called down.
Paul's figure still sat upright in his mind's eye. "What will they think, hm? Looking in and finding out you've dug a grave for two?"
Their shouting was close. He could see their torches through the trees. Casting his gaze down into the dark, he winced. "I won't bury you in," he promised again. "Cover your face." Snapping up his shovel, he started throwing dirt over the grave as quickly as he could. He pushed through the dull ache in his back and the shaking in his arms and tried his best to shovel as much as he could into the bed below. Too close. They'd spot him any second now. Stopping, he shut his eyes and tried breathing calmly. He was shaking too much to get a good shovelful. His hands were too clammy. His heart was beating too fast.
Paul laid back down and did not move.
He could feel the guilt already creeping down his back and over his arms, phantom fingers causing more sweat to form and hairs to stand on end. As a new and more excited frenzy of shouts sounded from behind him, Morgan snapped back to his senses. Sitting at the end of the grave, he lowered himself into it slowly, careful not to step on the stranger. Once on the ground, he reached back up and pulled first at Paul's feet. "Not a word," he reminded the boy. Tugging the lower half of Paul's body into the grave, Morgan laid the corpse over the living body underneath. Hoisting himself back out, nearly falling as he did, he went about pushing the soil around the grave over the two bodies inside.
Finally standing, he fetched his shovel and turned toward the treeline as the first villager walked through.
"Bit-" He paused as his hurried breath became too much. He tried again. "Bit late for a stroll, isn't it?" The villager at the head of the steadily emerging group stared him down with all the fury of a man looking to do some wrong. Morgan might have never seen someone so angry in his life--outside of his pa, that was.
The man surged past him and into the graveyard, a torch firmly gripped in his right hand. He turned and he glowered. Sauntering back towards Morgan, he grabbed his collar and threw him forward into the clearing. "What are you doing out here?"
Steadying himself, Morgan stood straight, bending at the back to ease its burning ache. "Paul Brown's in need of a bed," he answered.
The man looked confused before casting the torch's light over the field around him, hills of dirt and gravemarkers just visible at the light's edge. Turning to look back at Morgan, the man's eyes narrowed. "You're Hughes." It was more of a statement than a question. "You seen a girl pass by here?"
Morgan shook his head slowly, his lips pressed firmly in thought. "Can't say I have. It's just been me and the dead here all night." His voice was sweet, the tone almost a song. Morgan smiled kindly as a drop of sweat rolled into his eye. Grabbing his rag out of his pocket, he swiped at his forehead. His shovel swung at his side as he walked forward and, keeping it on the villager's side, the man thought twice about grabbing him again, apparently not having seen it before. Walking toward's his lantern, he listened as the group moved. Lights passed through the trees, ran over the graveyard and into the distance, but others staid to follow Morgan.
"You're out here digging a grave at this ungodly hour?" The man asked.
"'Fraid so." Morgan barked at him.
"Why's that?"
"Can't sleep." He spoke the truth. His nights were long and the days even longer. He slept without sleeping and woke still feeling tired. What other way had he to pass the time but dig holes? "Why're you after this girl?" Morgan asked, sticking his shovel into the ground. He used the rag to wipe at his arms and toyed with his rolled sleeves some, trying to appear uninterested as he composed himself.
The man spat at the ground. "She cursed my wife," he growled. Lowering the torch over the grave, the man peered inside before standing straight again. He stared hard at the grave, his eyes slightly brimming as he rolled his jaw. "You'll have another grave here to dig."
Morgan looked up at him, not saying a word.
"The bitch killed my son."
Morgan swallowed. He tucked the rag back into his pocket. "Well... I hope you find her." Watching a majority of the group's torches disappear into the trees, Morgan shuffled his feet in the dirt. "If you need anything in finding her, I've a few pales of oil at the cabin. It'll keep your torches going. Though... I'd recommend continuing this hunt in the morning. Forest's none too kind in the dark. You're liable to lose someone."
The man sneered some but suddenly seemed to think better of it. He nodded his thanks and hurried toward the remaining few lights. Morgan watched him go, his hands in his pockets. Once they were into the trees, he turned toward the grave. Kneeling, he pressed a hand into the dirt and took his seat at the grave's edge, swinging his feet into the dark. "Don't suppose that's you they're talking about," he called down.
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mon
if ever just the same
Adele does as the stranger says, though his command confuses her. Fortunately, with her cloak and hood on, covering her face is rather easy. Lifting part of her cloak up, she covered the parts of her face which her hood couldn't and the steady rise of dread pooling in her gut was swallowed down with a gulp as the dirt fell dangerously near her head.
"Fuck," she cursed under her breath. The dirt around her felt suffocating. What happened to his promise not to bury her in?
Before she could even ask, his warning for silence came steady and another weight fell upon her. If the earth hadn't already pressed most of the wind out of her, this unidentified weight definitely would've. What the hell did he throw upon her? A rock?
Too bad her face was covered by the coarse fabric of her cloak. She couldn't see anything even if she did look beyond her two closed eyelids.
Then the smell came.
Oh gods, the stench.
Though Adele has seen death before (rare and few in-between. She's a physician, not a miracle doctor.) never had she come up close and personal to the foul odor of a rotting body. Her face paled further and something burned in the back of her throat.
A corpse.
The fucker dumped a corpse on top of her and from the steady sounds above her, it sounded like he shoveled in some dirt as well.
"I won't bury you in."
"My fucking ass," Adele thought crudely, never realizing she could feel this claustrophobic til now. (She thought she was over this. The palpitating fear made her unnecessarily antsy and aggressive.) Just wait til she gets her hands on him.
Down below, in the company of a dead man with the body odor worse than a wet skunk, Adele could hear muffled voices up above, which gave her some comfort that perhaps she wasn't as deep into the earth as she thought she was. If she concentrated hard enough, she could just make out their words.
"Bitch killed my son."
"I did no such thing! I helped your wife through her labor! I gave her the medication she fucking needed to survive," Adele roared back silently in response, her only audience was the black surrounding her.
The conversation continued and the unfairness of it all, the injustice that's been done to her, lights a match to the rage that laid dormant under fear. Instead of an explosive anger, Adele's ire was steady and deadly. As angry as she felt, she knew she was outnumber. She knew she could not fight them and she only had herself to blame for trusting in the fools she chose to help. Humanity... was pitifully depraved.
When the voices finally ceased, Adele too absorbed in her own thoughts to realize, snapped out of her silent dialogue to respond to the question above. Her inner turmoil had momentarily ceased the unease of being buried beneath another body, but now that the villagers were gone, she was anxious to leave this grave. Last thing she wanted was Hades to open up beneath her and accept the extra, unwilling offering.
"Do I look like a girl to you?" she replies back huffily, already scrambling to move to loose earth around her. The cloak makes things easier and while she struggles, her mind quickly works to weave a story in her favor.
"The so-called witch they're hunting was my employer. I was her assistant... and I didn't want to stay to see if they'd kill me in place of her," Adele lies as her insides fluttered with discomfort. What if he finds out she's a female? No, that's impossible. Her disguise was flawless. She should be fine.
"Are you going to help me out of here or not?" she snaps without meaning to.
"Fuck," she cursed under her breath. The dirt around her felt suffocating. What happened to his promise not to bury her in?
Before she could even ask, his warning for silence came steady and another weight fell upon her. If the earth hadn't already pressed most of the wind out of her, this unidentified weight definitely would've. What the hell did he throw upon her? A rock?
Too bad her face was covered by the coarse fabric of her cloak. She couldn't see anything even if she did look beyond her two closed eyelids.
Then the smell came.
Oh gods, the stench.
Though Adele has seen death before (rare and few in-between. She's a physician, not a miracle doctor.) never had she come up close and personal to the foul odor of a rotting body. Her face paled further and something burned in the back of her throat.
A corpse.
The fucker dumped a corpse on top of her and from the steady sounds above her, it sounded like he shoveled in some dirt as well.
"I won't bury you in."
"My fucking ass," Adele thought crudely, never realizing she could feel this claustrophobic til now. (She thought she was over this. The palpitating fear made her unnecessarily antsy and aggressive.) Just wait til she gets her hands on him.
Down below, in the company of a dead man with the body odor worse than a wet skunk, Adele could hear muffled voices up above, which gave her some comfort that perhaps she wasn't as deep into the earth as she thought she was. If she concentrated hard enough, she could just make out their words.
"Bitch killed my son."
"I did no such thing! I helped your wife through her labor! I gave her the medication she fucking needed to survive," Adele roared back silently in response, her only audience was the black surrounding her.
The conversation continued and the unfairness of it all, the injustice that's been done to her, lights a match to the rage that laid dormant under fear. Instead of an explosive anger, Adele's ire was steady and deadly. As angry as she felt, she knew she was outnumber. She knew she could not fight them and she only had herself to blame for trusting in the fools she chose to help. Humanity... was pitifully depraved.
When the voices finally ceased, Adele too absorbed in her own thoughts to realize, snapped out of her silent dialogue to respond to the question above. Her inner turmoil had momentarily ceased the unease of being buried beneath another body, but now that the villagers were gone, she was anxious to leave this grave. Last thing she wanted was Hades to open up beneath her and accept the extra, unwilling offering.
"Do I look like a girl to you?" she replies back huffily, already scrambling to move to loose earth around her. The cloak makes things easier and while she struggles, her mind quickly works to weave a story in her favor.
"The so-called witch they're hunting was my employer. I was her assistant... and I didn't want to stay to see if they'd kill me in place of her," Adele lies as her insides fluttered with discomfort. What if he finds out she's a female? No, that's impossible. Her disguise was flawless. She should be fine.
"Are you going to help me out of here or not?" she snaps without meaning to.
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bad wolf
do you love my insides? the parts you canβt see?
"Do I look like a girl to you?"
Morgan huffed and clasped his hands together in his lap, leaning forward in a hard slouch. "It's a bit dark to tell," he mumbled half to himself. Sat down, he'd no desire to move. If the stranger in Paul's grave would allow it, he'd lay back now and shut his eyes. Try and sleep a while as they waited for the villagers to finish their hunt. But as he scrambled in the grave below, Morgan bit back a yawn and focused.
He wasn't sure what to make of the story. The boy was an assistant to a witch? Wouldn't that make them both culpable if he even believed in such a thing? When did witches find themselves in need of employing people? Was there some trade no one told him about, an industry of witches justly hiring folk instead of bewitching them somehow? Why did this boy fancy working with them anyhow? At that inquiry, Morgan squinted into the dark, his suspicion of the stranger yet to be put at ease.
Perhaps his most pressing concern yet was the notion that he'd somehow helped someone who'd killed a child. His skin crawled and nostrils flared slightly. He felt his shoulders tense as the realization struck him and, as the stranger asked for further assistance, Morgan stared at him darkly. With the lantern's light on his back, he stood. However, instead of hopping down into the grave, he staid where he was.
The boy no longer looked feeble and scared. He'd found his anger in that grave and rose--or tried to anyway--with a vengeance. "Best you stay where you are," Morgan called down again. "Lest the villagers come back and see you crawling from poor Paul's grave. If they've half the mind, they'll turn back now and return to the village... They might come by here again." Crouching, Morgan fixed the grave with a dangerous look. "You've till that time to explain to me why I shouldn't turn you in."
If the boy really was just a witch's assistant, that didn't prove any innocence. Especially if the villagers were blaming this on a curse. A child still died and Morgan had yet to hear of its cause. He'd no idea what was truly going on. Isolating himself out here in the woods, away from the village for more days than he could rightly count... The whole place could have torn itself apart and started anew and he'd have been oblivious to it all. His only recent connection to the folk living there was the body that stranger sat under, poor old Paul Brown.
Morgan huffed and clasped his hands together in his lap, leaning forward in a hard slouch. "It's a bit dark to tell," he mumbled half to himself. Sat down, he'd no desire to move. If the stranger in Paul's grave would allow it, he'd lay back now and shut his eyes. Try and sleep a while as they waited for the villagers to finish their hunt. But as he scrambled in the grave below, Morgan bit back a yawn and focused.
He wasn't sure what to make of the story. The boy was an assistant to a witch? Wouldn't that make them both culpable if he even believed in such a thing? When did witches find themselves in need of employing people? Was there some trade no one told him about, an industry of witches justly hiring folk instead of bewitching them somehow? Why did this boy fancy working with them anyhow? At that inquiry, Morgan squinted into the dark, his suspicion of the stranger yet to be put at ease.
Perhaps his most pressing concern yet was the notion that he'd somehow helped someone who'd killed a child. His skin crawled and nostrils flared slightly. He felt his shoulders tense as the realization struck him and, as the stranger asked for further assistance, Morgan stared at him darkly. With the lantern's light on his back, he stood. However, instead of hopping down into the grave, he staid where he was.
The boy no longer looked feeble and scared. He'd found his anger in that grave and rose--or tried to anyway--with a vengeance. "Best you stay where you are," Morgan called down again. "Lest the villagers come back and see you crawling from poor Paul's grave. If they've half the mind, they'll turn back now and return to the village... They might come by here again." Crouching, Morgan fixed the grave with a dangerous look. "You've till that time to explain to me why I shouldn't turn you in."
If the boy really was just a witch's assistant, that didn't prove any innocence. Especially if the villagers were blaming this on a curse. A child still died and Morgan had yet to hear of its cause. He'd no idea what was truly going on. Isolating himself out here in the woods, away from the village for more days than he could rightly count... The whole place could have torn itself apart and started anew and he'd have been oblivious to it all. His only recent connection to the folk living there was the body that stranger sat under, poor old Paul Brown.
mon
if ever just the same
Adele fights back a gulp at the gravedigger's words. The villagers are still out there looking for her? She had foolishly assumed that they had given up on their hunt at this point and returned back to the safety of their homes. Didn't they know that it was dangerous there, especially at this time?
She bit back a grimace as she sat up with much difficulty, half of her body still buried beneath the earth. The wrapped corpse on top of her is shoved ungracefully onto it's side and if the situation had been different, Adele would've felt sympathetic.
Despite hating the villagers for pushing her to such a state, for turning mindless rumors into knives which took form to stab her in the back, she still worried for them. The thought of them going further into the forest was concerning, especially with the strange things that's been happening in the town. Unexplained deaths, unexplained sicknesses. The doctor in her was too good of a person to keep alive.
"They're still out there? Why didn't they go back? It's dangerous out in the forest," she mutters, more to herself as worry flashes briefly in her eyes. It's stupid, she tells herself, to be worried about those fools. They don't deserve her concern,but she feels for them regardless.
His threat doesn't go unnoticed. It strikes back enough apprehension to quell her ire and she buries the trembling in her fists behind her.
"Do you really believe I--she could kill a child?" Adele asks quietly, correcting herself too quickly to be noticed. "The rumored witch they're hunting was the village's only physician and just because she's a woman, just because she was an outcast, they've labeled her a witch," Adele explains, her voice strained and controlled. Her anger causes the faintest tremors which could be easily be mistaken as fear. "They have no proof. It all started from a rumor. A blasted, stupid rumor all because of another woman's miscarriage. That physician--that witch had helped her deliver her dead baby! If it wasn't for her, both mother and child would've died."
Then, softer still, words laced with pity, "The baby was already dead within her. There's no such thing as curses, only unfortunate miscarriages." She remembered taking the dead out from the living. There was blood, too much blood. The midwife had been screaming at her and the small, small baby in her hands was cold and unmoving. She had knew it was dead months ago when the wife reported discomfort in her pregnant belly, but a part of her had hoped for a miracle. Being too kind for her own good, Adele had volunteered her assistance to help with the delivery with the midwife. When the dead baby was taken out, she cried in solace. Her hands were bloodied, the tiny body still unmoving, laying in her two palms. While the people around her howled in grief, Adele hid her face in guilt.
Her eyes lower from the gravedigger's face. It's too dark to tell what his expression was. The light behind him casts long shadows on his face, outlining only the silhouette of his most prominent features.
"They're fools. All of them," Adele says to break the momentary silence. Her voice is bitter this time as she clenches a fistful of dirt. "To kill a woman because of another woman's grief. The physician was innocent." I was innocent.
"They had no proof. Only baseless rumors which a bunch of fools chose to listen to." Her smile turns bitter as she looks back up at the gravedigger. "Is that enough of an explanation or are you like them too mister gravedigger?"
Her eyes bore into his.
Are you a fool like the rest of them?
She bit back a grimace as she sat up with much difficulty, half of her body still buried beneath the earth. The wrapped corpse on top of her is shoved ungracefully onto it's side and if the situation had been different, Adele would've felt sympathetic.
Despite hating the villagers for pushing her to such a state, for turning mindless rumors into knives which took form to stab her in the back, she still worried for them. The thought of them going further into the forest was concerning, especially with the strange things that's been happening in the town. Unexplained deaths, unexplained sicknesses. The doctor in her was too good of a person to keep alive.
"They're still out there? Why didn't they go back? It's dangerous out in the forest," she mutters, more to herself as worry flashes briefly in her eyes. It's stupid, she tells herself, to be worried about those fools. They don't deserve her concern,
His threat doesn't go unnoticed. It strikes back enough apprehension to quell her ire and she buries the trembling in her fists behind her.
"Do you really believe I--she could kill a child?" Adele asks quietly, correcting herself too quickly to be noticed. "The rumored witch they're hunting was the village's only physician and just because she's a woman, just because she was an outcast, they've labeled her a witch," Adele explains, her voice strained and controlled. Her anger causes the faintest tremors which could be easily be mistaken as fear. "They have no proof. It all started from a rumor. A blasted, stupid rumor all because of another woman's miscarriage. That physician--that witch had helped her deliver her dead baby! If it wasn't for her, both mother and child would've died."
Then, softer still, words laced with pity, "The baby was already dead within her. There's no such thing as curses, only unfortunate miscarriages." She remembered taking the dead out from the living. There was blood, too much blood. The midwife had been screaming at her and the small, small baby in her hands was cold and unmoving. She had knew it was dead months ago when the wife reported discomfort in her pregnant belly, but a part of her had hoped for a miracle. Being too kind for her own good, Adele had volunteered her assistance to help with the delivery with the midwife. When the dead baby was taken out, she cried in solace. Her hands were bloodied, the tiny body still unmoving, laying in her two palms. While the people around her howled in grief, Adele hid her face in guilt.
Her eyes lower from the gravedigger's face. It's too dark to tell what his expression was. The light behind him casts long shadows on his face, outlining only the silhouette of his most prominent features.
"They're fools. All of them," Adele says to break the momentary silence. Her voice is bitter this time as she clenches a fistful of dirt. "To kill a woman because of another woman's grief. The physician was innocent." I was innocent.
"They had no proof. Only baseless rumors which a bunch of fools chose to listen to." Her smile turns bitter as she looks back up at the gravedigger. "Is that enough of an explanation or are you like them too mister gravedigger?"
Her eyes bore into his.
Are you a fool like the rest of them?
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