Realistic or Modern Sad Eyed Sinatras [ Closed ]

[Svadilfari]

[ A Postwar RP between Svadilfari and Rhaine ]​

 

[Rhaine]

Splendid Bell,

No, I haven't made progress on your scarf. I couldn't knit my way out of a tea cozy. In fact, I loathe it excessively, and you should know that it is only out of great esteem for you that I keep returning to it. I torture myself for you and you alone. Does that please you?

Now that I have proven my devotion, grant me one request, you greedy man:

I want transparency between us, as there was when we were children. I know I am a girl, back home with all the comfort that implies. I can't know what you have seen, can't know the hardships you face, or the loss that must be your constant companion. You may think my constitution is too fragile to bear a man's troubles, but isn't empathy a woman's trait? I would know your worries, and they would feel like my own, and there would be no ill judgement in me save for in regard to your circumstance, which is not at all your fault.

There would be nothing wrong in it. We are friends, aren't we?

There was a time when I held you close to my breast like a baby, and loved you despite your tears. In fact, I remember loving you more keenly than I had ever before.

Mamma often preaches the virtue of brevity, and can barely stomach a single letter I have written. Perhaps you feel the same, and you should know I wouldn't blame you. Perhaps you laugh at my sentimentality. Well, that is all right too. I should like you to laugh, even if it is at my expense.

Do you ever see Danny? Please forgive me if you would rather I not speak of him, but I can't help it. If I don't ask after him I fear I will go mad. If I do not write his name, I will think of nothing else, as I no longer get to say it aloud. It is so long between letters from him. I am half disposed to think that he likes to make me worry, the beast.

Bell, I can see him - grey-faced and soundless, separated from everything that was bright. You create the sun about you. Danny is his own moon. You know how terribly dark his eyes are! How somber even when he laughs! Sometimes I will dream of his face, and not be able to look for too long. I cannot say why it frightens me, or if it is even me I am frightened for. I can't define it either, only that it is the queerest feeling, and I grow so warm I feel as though I will burn right through my bed. I am embarrassed now, and I deserve to be silenced. Please don't tell him I've said this, he may not understand how I meant it.

I dream of you too. I will spare you a pointless, flowery tale. I respect you too much. My dignity has nothing to do with it. It is too far gone to spare a thought over.

Always, I will ache as a poor fool does, and you will laugh so charmingly, and Danny will look on with his quick, dark eyes that frighten me even when he is away, and another day will pass. It feels sometimes as if it has been so since before we were babies.

I know I am ridiculous. It's a plague and I can't help it.

Do you remember that game we used to play on the moorland? The one where I played the witch and you two played the sorry victims under my spell? I can still feel the grass in my hopeless, tufty hair and the dried mud itching over my spotted cheeks. Would that some of that old, silly game stayed true, and I could call your names in a scratchy-false voice and conjure you from the ground up. Poor devils. I miss bossing you about more than you can know.

I am ashamed: nearly a whole page later and I have spoken of nothing at all. I feel as if Mamma knows, and is waiting just outside my door to scold me. If you have wondered, yes, she is doing just fine. Her cough troubles her less this time of the year, and she is hardly ever despondent. Sometimes, when it is late, I will hear her through the walls playing that record my father likes. I could not say if it makes her cry, or laugh, or dance, for whatever she feels in the twilight hours, she tucks away so neatly that you would never know she is missing anyone at all. I am not criticizing her, only I am envious. I can't lie, I can't act, and I couldn't hide a feeling to save my pitiful life. If I seem petulant, it is because I am. I deserve to be chastised at every available opportunity.

Bell, how are you? Remember how I asked for transparency? Remember how nicely I asked? Prettiest pleases with cherries on top, tell me everything and anything. Tell me the things that don't sound nice. Let there be ugly words between us. Don't let them fester.

It's late now, Mamma is playing that record, your name fades a little on the paper, and I have to write over it with fresh ink to maintain my sanity.

Bellamy.

I've read back on what I've written, and I have to clarify something: don't misunderstand, the thought of you doesn't bring me pain. When I am low, I will think of your funny, skewed smile, and the world will return at my door kinder than it was before. Do you believe me, Bell? Would you tell me if you didn't?

Your Partner in All Things Criminal,
Louisa, Depraved Witch of the Moorlands

 

[Svadilfari]

Inspected by: Cadet Kowalski, Hogan ; Some information may be redacted for security purposes​

Hey Louisa,


It's been a while.


I know.


I'm sorry I could not write any sooner. I hope you can read this just fine; my left hand is a terrible writer. Although I am slowly getting used to it, day by day. I hope I did not upset you.

The post got delayed, and I was worried that I would not be hearing from you again. I thought it was a damn shame because your horrid handwriting is growing on me (although it could still use a bit more work, much like your knitting, I suppose (I am still expecting that scarf, if when I return, okay? )).
I look forward to your letters everyday. And I mean it.I apologize if I sound t





I just want to say it. Before I forget.

My thoughts are all over the place tonight, and I'm trying to focus on your letter, above all else. On the black ink scribbled neatly over white paper. On the things you've said, about transparency, and brevity, and Danny. On how you always make it sound so easy; how you can just talk about the little things... and everything will feel alright again. Because it does, and I don't know how you do it. You can write a million words about nothing and it would take me back home in our little town of faded, rundown houses and silent, muddy streets. Only it is more inviting than I used to remember; the colors a little brighter, the streets a bit livelier.A welcoming memory against this frigid, damp place with its sea of hard, strange faces under somber, foreign skies. I wish I know what to say, Louisa. Because I don't. I don't know if I should tell you about the Cold. How it can sometimes burn hotter than fire. How you can wake up one day with your glove forgotten, and your fingers just doesn't seem to work like they always do, leaving you wondering how many mistakes can you make before the frost digs its claws in you with a firm finality. I don't know if I should tell you about the Strand, with waters as blue as your eyes when we first landed, and red like your hair when we left it. I don't know if I should tell you about the Others. How we did not bother knowing names because we know deep in our chest, much like all things stolen, that we are never, ever coming back. I don't know if I should tell you about these things. I don't think I can.


I guess I am greedy, aren't I?

I'm sorry Louisa.

I know I'm terrible. I've been drinking a lot lately, and I know I shouldn't be, but I-



I wish I can tell you that he's alright, but I have not heard from him. He does have a way of getting people to worry about him. But Danny? He always comes around. Remember how he sliced his ankle to that bike pedal? Seven stitches and he was back in class the next day. Like nothing happened. He's better at this than I am. If I have made it this far, then he will. I'm sure of it.

The Sun and the Moon.

Huh.

You sure do have a way with your words, Louisa. I won't tell him. But you should. When he comes back home. Like I said, he always comes around. So don't worry too much, alright?

I wanted to tell you. I'm heading to

Information Redacted

in

Info Redacted

at the

Info Redacted

tomorrow. So if you do not hear from me, that is why. But I will write back to you again, soon as I am able to. I promise.​

And I do remember. How can I forget? You're the Witch of the Moorlands, the greatest of them all. If anything happens, If you need your tired devils back, you can just conjure us again, like old times. That was how the game goes, doesn't it? From the ground. Up.



I'm getting tired.


The moon is still high up. I see what you mean.


I'm glad to hear that your mother is doing alright. Say hello to my father for me. I'm sure he's still the Mayor when I return. He hasn't set the town on fire, has he?


I l miss you Louisa.


I haven't looked back on what I've written. I guess I'm not as brave as you are, but I tried to tell you everything. I look forward to your letters everyday. And I mean it. Have I said that? I just want to say it. Before I forget. Brevity be damned.


Bellamy

 

[Rhaine]

Daniel,

I'm sorry if this letter is finding you unwelcome. It would be all right if you would rather not hear from me - if the reasons as to why were too complicated to define. I would understand, only you would have to say so, or else I fear I will send you so many desperate pages that you will be loathe to read them. How alike all my letters must be! All suffering of the same false ills! Do you see that I know how wearying they must be?

Danny, only send a word, at least then I will know that you live and breathe well enough to put a pen to paper. One word. It doesn’t even have to be a kind one. Or a longing one. Though I can’t seem to write anything without my missing you being in every syllable.

Do you remember when it was Bell and I off scampering in the low fields, and you trailing behind until one day you were matching our strides, and it was as if the duo had always been three? Now, I fear I have taken your place. War swallowed you and Bell up in its great game and it's me that's peaking around the corner, half-hoping to be spotted, half-hoping to remain unseen. Only, I was never shy until you. I wonder if you know that, for I covered it up with laughter, and my face was always red and spotty in those days. It didn't make much difference from the outside.

You and Bell were so different! I think that is why you became so close.

I visited your mother today. She seemed well, in the not-well sort of way she is. You know. She is the same, at least.

I brought her one of those Arthur Miller plays she thinks are funny for reasons I will never be able to identify. They all seem depressing to me. I also brought her some cookies I baked last night. It was a painful process to get them in the shape I wanted, but it was worth it to hear her laugh at all the little malformed salesmen, ready to be eaten in a line. In fact, given the sorry look of their existence, I wager they were begging for the end. You know, Danny, when your mother laughs, I swear there is not a prettier woman alive.

I asked if she had heard from you. You know how I hide nothing, and anyway, even if I was good at seeming placated, she would know none the less. She has that magic in her.

She only took my hand and squeezed, calling me “carrots” like she did when I was a girl, and I nearly wept on the spot.

“Don’t worry, carrots. He said he’d be back.”

She said something else - something about you being “good in a scrap,” but I confess I was hardly listening then, though I should have been. People should pay more attention when Lana speaks. She says all the true things and none of the useless phrases. Me, I was stuck on the simplicity of it. Her confidence. If I believed in you more, would I be at ease?

You are strong enough for it all, but more than that: you are the smartest person I know. You are too discerning to be caught naive. You are like your mother that way. It is the rest of the world I mistrust. It is the rest of the world who are not strong enough.

Writing now, perhaps I do have the same faith she does. When I think of hideous things befalling you, I want to laugh out of disbelief as much as I want to cry.

My silly brother, Georg, wrote to me the other day. I swear I get whiplash when I come from reading a letter from my father to reading a letter from the ponce himself. My father is all crackers - his words are as dry as a bone. My father is serious, my mother is serious - God, where is there room for humor between them? She only laughs when they are together, though I’ve never heard him say anything remotely like a joke. Anyways, Georg wrote me, and if you think I write letters full of nothing, then you would last a mere paragraph of his before crumpling up the whole thing altogether. If I knew him less, I would say that he is covering up his sorrows in order to spare me a worry. I know it is not the case. I have never known Georg to be of the deep, thoughtful sort. If he gets a cut, he will tarry a little in dumb, blind pain, and he will soon forget it. He is like an animal without a conception of his own mortality. I talk ugly, but I love him horribly. It is a burden, if only because it means I have to read his nonsense. His little wife is here now. She is dozing in the sitting room. I think I love Georg more because of her. She is very darling, but you know. You have seen her. Her little, sweet, buck-toothed mouth will be the end of me. She asked after you the other day. I did not know what to say, so I said little. She looked soft in the eye like she knew something I didn’t. Like we were both prisoners in the same cell.

I feel as if I have been meaning to tell you something that i’ve been neglecting to write. For the life of me I can’t say what it is. I get sidetracked so easily.

Stuff all of anything I’ve ever said, the point is: I miss you and I want you to be well. I hope that you are. God, Daniel. Be well.

I've sent a box of those terrible cookies along with this letter. I hope my blue ribbon about the box has stayed tied true. At least they are not burnt, and maybe they will make you laugh.

Love,
Lou

 

[Rhaine]

My Bell,

It has been so long since your last letter. A month, though it felt like an age. When it came in the post, I could breathe again! I ran to my room and cast back all the curtains. The sun was not out, but I could still feel it on my face from behind the clouds. Oh, Bell, I did not even read it, only held it for a while! Like a child who reclaimed a dear, lost, stuffed bear. I realized, after long enough to be ashamed, that I was only sitting at the foot of my bed, hugging a letter to my chest like a daft-minded wretch that murmurs to herself on the street.

I have not stopped reading it. I don't know what it is I'm searching for. What it is I think I'll discover.

You sound so sorry sometimes. I wonder whatever for? Bell, you could never upset me. I mean that so earnestly, my hand is trembling to write it. I'm only ever sick with your absence. I swear you could call me all the cruel, uncivilized words in the world and my passions would not rise. Perhaps that is because I deserve them. Perhaps that is because whatever we're made of, Bell, it's the same sort of material - "cut from the same cloth," like that saying goes. My heart would no sooner grow agitated if I criticized it.

I don't know what I mean. I'm surprised you can ever follow a letter I write. In school, you remember how Mrs. Richter would strike my palms with her fearsome ruler when I wrote my lines wrong, which was all too often. Well, miracle of miracles, for you know how I loathed her, I wish she were here to strike me when I start writing nonsense. Together, the two of us, pals at long last, might be able to compose something worth the page it's written on. I can still feel that phantom sting. How flushed my palms would be after! For hours!

Only I was embarrassed, for you always write so well, Bell, even with your left hand (what is wrong with your right??), and Danny - the confounded ghost - I can't remember him being punished. He did that enough on his own. My memory might be spotty. You will have to fill in the gaps between. I trust nobody else to do it. When I am old, and I truly look like that batty witch on the moors, I will still ask you to tell me our stories back again, just the same. At least I know how you will look in our wiser years. I will see your father, catch that secret spark to his eyes, and I will feel the need to retire to my room. It is like I am looking into one of the forgotten wells in the stories - the ones that show what is to come. I can’t say the same, I’ve no idea what I will look like - all grey and shrunken up. You know, I look not a touch like my mother, and my father is greying somewhere far off, and I’m forgetting if there was red to his hair when he left.

I am such a wicked girl, Bell, only I am grown now, and somehow that makes it worse. I am glad of what you were able to tell me. I told you, anything and everything. When I see you have crossed your words out, I feel the most ardent wanting. I whisper things that I'm embarrassed for after, though that is hardly a foreign feeling. It is the same when that cadet blots out what you have meant to tell me, only harsher, because-

No, no, Bell, I’ve written not a word of what I meant to! I should tear up what I've written, and begin again as a better friend would do, only I can't. I am not embarrassed to be pitiful with you. You never make me feel self-conscious of anything.

When you wake up, Bell, and the cold is burning “hotter than fire”, know I am there in spirit, holding your hands in mine and blowing on them in hot little bursts like we were huddled exiles, cloth-less in the shade. If the cold wants you, it will have to get through me.

Your father has not burned the town to the ground… yet. I kid. Bell, you sound so tired. What is it you can’t tell me?

I’ve made progress on your scarf. Maybe I am not a hopeless case after all. Write as soon as you can, Bell. If you like my letters so much I will write you one every day. I can scarcely help myself otherwise.

It is raining, but the sun is looking out through the clouds.

Thinking of you,
Louisa

 

[Svadilfari]

Inspected by: Cadet Kowalski, Hogan ; Some information may be redacted for security purposes​

Louisa,

I do not know if she ever told you, but my mother said I'd be a heartbreaker when I grow up.

It was mid-December then, and the first of the snow was starting to fall as I was sitting out on the curb, listening to muffled music through the empty streets. My mother came out to hand me a coat (ten sizes too big, and smelled of smoke), because she was cold (although I protested that I wasn't), as how most mothers are. "That was your father's," she told me when she sat down to light her Kents. I remembered the leather smelling exactly like it. She was quiet after that, and I didn't say anything; I just watched the snow fall along with her. She's got that look in her eyes sometimes, where she'd stare off to places I couldn't see, and half the time she doesn't seem to hear me until I've repeated myself. That's usually when she'd talk about Michael and why he left, and how he was like a storm coming down on a sunny day; how he can laugh at one thing and get pissed-off at the next second, just like that. And just then I knew that no matter how hard I pretend to be otherwise, I have both my mother and my father in me- her long silences, and his sudden fits of rage.

I do not remember what exactly I had asked, but she looked at me then and told me that I had a great smile. "You're gonna be a heartbreaker when you grow up, Romeo." I don't know how she came up with it, and I still try not to believe her. She said "You could talk a little more sometimes," and I wanted to say the same.

If you are wondering why I'm telling you this, I just wanted you to know, that I never dreamed of breaking yours.

Not once.

Not ever.

So do not apologize Lou, when it should have been me; the kid that Lana once called Romeo. The one who cannot write letters back because sometimes, it's harder to say things on paper than it is in person. Though I cannot say why exactly. And I apologize for it.



I do remember. How can I forget? I remember the Grove and its oaks; broad and green with spindly fingers reaching for the sky, hiding the fields before it. I can distinctly recall how the three of us became friends, and how it always felt as if it was a part of a plan that was meant to happen. How Bell smiled a lot more when you laughed, how I stayed silent a lot less, and how you danced on the mud and left those footprints on the Town Hall's blood-orange carpet. I bet they hardened like my heart did when we grew up and left. You might have taken my place, but I am glad that you did, Louisa. The great game is terrifying. And I am glad that you're safe.


I suppose so. Although I can see something in him that reminds me of me. I just haven't figured it out yet. You know how somber some sunny days can be? When the sun hides behind the clouds all day, and the winds pick up. Remember how we used to fly kites on the fields? They remind me of Bell for some reason. The sun, the clouds, and those lost kites dangling in the wind.


"Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets." That is one of her favorite quotes. Most of them are depressing, but she loves them all the same. I don't know how she does it.

She wrote to me last month., did she tell you? "Honey, I love you," was all she said, but it was the longest letter I have ever read.

Thank you , Louisa. For checking on her. And for everything. I mean it. I worry about her. Sometimes she moves as if she carries all the secrets of the world on her shoulders. I'm sure she is doing alright, though. For someone so frail, she's stronger than most.

She does have a lovely laugh. Same as yours.
I want to hear them both again, someday.


You flatter me too much, Lou. I might not be as strong as you think I am. But I will try to be. The rest of the world might not be the same, but I don't think it is a fault made all on their own. Sometimes great storms can ruin even the most resilient of places.


That might be so, but you hear from them, at the very least. I hope the letters don't stop coming. You deserve all of them Lou; both the dull, and the bright. Oh, Meredith? Say hello to her for me, will you? I miss her too. Eddie is charming in her own little ways. Sweet. Like the pies she makes.




Do you remember what it was that you wanted to tell me? But no matter. You can save it for me when I get back home.


I got your box of crooked salesmen, by the way. I hope you do not mind that I shared them with everyone. The little Willy Lomans died sugary, meaningful deaths. They were really good too. Now everyone thinks I've got a girl back home. If you were mine, I'd marry you in an instant. I never thought that a box full of malformed pastries will make my day. I jest, of course. Though I did keep the best part. I tied it around my wrist, for good luck. I'm going to be well now, because of it. That's how your magic works, right? Lady Louisa of the Moorlands?


P.S.

Have you heard from Bell lately? He sent me a note a few days ago. He does not sound like himself. But it doesn't matter. I think I will see him on the morrow. If the word is right, his Infantry will be heading to the same camp. I hope he is alright.

Yours,
Daniel

 

[Rhaine]

Daniel,

It is late. Unforgivably late into the night, and I cannot get back to sleep. If I said it was you I was dreaming of, would that shock you? Only, Danny, it was so real. Like I had crossed miles in my nightclothes, and found myself among the smoke and the grey and the fire. I could hear the other men talking in their circles. I swear sometimes you are here with me, only tonight my bed was far off. Danny, if I told you what it was I dreamt, you might hate me, so I won’t say a thing. Forget me. Forgive me. It is late and I am hardly myself. I am some other girl, the one I was in dreaming. She looks like me, Danny, only she must hate me, for she burns and bleeds treacherously. She says things I haven’t dared to think.

You know when you are a child and you can hardly picture how you will be when you are grown? Only they are made of the serious things - the feelings at the pit of your stomach that you can’t name then. Their eyes are harder maybe, their voices deeper, like the sound of your parent’s voice distorted through the walls late at night. That is who I am in dreaming, and she frightens me so terribly. I come back out into the world and she is there at my back, reminding me of hot, sunken dreams with her wandering voice. Daniel, your letter is here under my hand. I was going to reply earlier today when it came, only I couldn’t manage to. Well now, I am half-dreaming and half-waking, so I suppose I still have some of that ill courage. If I don’t sound like myself, or if I sound too much like me, then you will know that she is why.

Danny, don’t worry after my heart. The noblest thing you could do would be to worry after yours. I do. God, Danny, every day. You don’t say much, and when you do, it is the most right, sudden thing I’ve ever heard. Your voice is in your letter. I can hear it as if you were with me. Is that your magic, Danny? You got into me and it was stupid to not foresee this wakelessness, even as I blink against candlelight. I half expect this page to turn to ashes.

I’ve been thinking about that little story in your letter all day. The memory. You in that too-big coat that smelled of smoke. The billows of it seeping out the corners of your mother’s mouth like ghosts. Like she were one of those dragons in the mountains, the ones that could see in the dark. The ones that could see the invisible things. I saw her again today, Danny, and she asked me what I was grieving over. For the life of me, I could think of nothing to say! Only I think I teared a little, and she put her hand on my head like I was twelve again, standing in her kitchen because I scraped my knees up and didn’t want to go home and let my mother see that I had bled on my stockings.

Don’t think that you upset me with your letter. It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I feel so full. It makes me happy just to look at - your pen marks under my hand. You made me smile, Danny, only I’ve been so peculiar afterwards! That is my fault. Perhaps I am just tired, or I had an ill spell today. I would like to think so. My mind frightens me. My worries and heartaches are self-inflicted, and I can’t work out why I do that.

My Daniel, don’t be sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong. You are blameless. I love when you write me. When there are long silences in between, I worry about you and say silly things, but all the while I know. I understand, I do. Ignore my fretting. Pay it no mind.

You remember that! About how I left footprints on the carpet at Town Hall! I’m blushing. I’m abashed. You know my secrets. You could ruin me if you wanted. I don’t think they ever figured out that that was me. I’m living on borrowed time. One of these days they will crack the case, and I will be behind stone walls where I belong. A jailbird. How fitting. When you come back, Daniel, you will find me a wanted woman. I will only be able to reach for you between the bars of my cell. How do you feel about stripes? I hear they are not very flattering, but I will have to make them work.

I know what you mean about Bell. I think I am starting to see it. I heard from him a little while ago, and he sounded so tired. Like Bell, but not like Bell at all. I am so worried, Danny. I can’t hurt Bell. I can’t, but for some reason I feel that no matter what I say, he grows more somber. You know how I fidget when I’m fretting - how I twirl and pull at my hair. All of my silly, tufty strands will soon be pulled out, and I’ll look like those monks who see God in the mountains, only not so at ease. When you see him on the morrow, tell me how he is. Be truthful. Don’t spare me the rod. I couldn’t bear it.

“Honey, I love you,”

She hollows me out, and I wasn’t even the one to receive her letter. That is so like her. All of the true things, remember?

You needn’t thank me for looking after her, Danny, though it is lovely of you to say. She is looking after me just as much.

You know, I don’t remember my mother ever kissing me. I don’t know where the thought came from, but it’s true. I’m thinking back so hard and coming up with nothing. Can you remember anything? Did you ever see - ?

That winter… when I fell through the ice. When I nearly drowned. She was at my bedside after, but I swear she could hardly look at me. I remember thinking: “Is she angry with me? Does she wish I had not come back?”

I don’t believe that. Not really. Not anymore. It’s late. I’m recalling what ought to have remained still.

Was it you who pulled me out of the water?

You flatter me and then tell me I flatter you too much. We are a pair. When you come back home, you will hear me make every sappy sound in the world, and your mother will laugh at me, and I will be glad of it.

I told Meredith hello for you. She smiled sweet and told me to tell you that she is learning new recipes for you. I’m afraid she means to fatten you up when you return. I hope you aren’t too alarmed by this. If it is you she means to put in a pie by the end of it, I will fight her off as best I can. Only, you know how sweet her face is. I may not stand a chance. It will be Danny pie with a side of mashed Lou. Georg will be so pleased.

What was it you were jesting about? Your teases sound just the same as your truths.

How is it you manage to make me blush even when you are not here? I am glad you liked the Willy Lomans. and I don’t mind at all that you shared them. So, everyone thinks you have a girl back home now. Maybe they think your girl back home is a card, and that they were misshapen on purpose. Most likely, they think your girl back home is a poor fool trying her best. They are wrong about less than you might think.

My talisman will protect you, traveler, as long as you wear it. There is powerful magic in the threads. I made sure to bless every one for you.

It’s come morning now. The thick haze is dispersing. The light is thin. My mother is stirring. Only now that I’ve written do I feel as if I could go back to sleep again. As if I’ve cast out whatever was possessing me onto the page, and its left me a sorry shell, but more peaceful than I was before.

Do you sleep well at all?

My eyes are heavy. I can’t read back what I’ve written now. I hope I didn’t say anything untoward.

all my love,
Louisa