So, I've been trying (emphasis on trying) to write the next chapter for 'Unforgettable' (for those of you who don't know, it's a Death Note fic of mine – nothing to be proud of to be honest), and I realized that I was writing with very, very classic-style type of writing (courtesy of all the Classics I've been reading recently). And then when I reread the first chapter I wrote, I realized it wouldn't work very well considering the description I gave Samantha.
So, since my mind is very well still gushing about the amazing-ness of Frances Hodgson Burnett, I hereby spawned this thing right here (which is the only productive non-academic thing I've done all week). I hope I don't offense anyone by my bad writing skills… *weeps*
I WAS BORN DECADES AFTER THE BOOK WAS PUBLISHED, SO…
XXX
The sky was dark and grey as winter loomed in the horizon. A sort of stillness had encompassed the entire land for miles and miles on end; not a sound was to be heard but the cold, bitter winds' mournful whistles and the gentle rustling of the wild, untrimmed grass.
Two figures clad in black stood motionless side-by-side, backs straight and shoulders taut. Gloved hands were held tightly between them, fingers intertwined and palms pressed up against each other as if they were afraid that the other would just up and leave them too if they didn't hold on tight enough.
They were girl and boy, barely old enough to be in their teens. Both were tall and thin, with an air of elegance and ease around them that suggests a wealthy upbringing. From afar, to a stranger, they could've been sister and brother, as they stood with their shoulders almost touching, wearing identical clothing and demeanor.
The girl, her back rigid as a board and with her head tilted forwards to hide her red-rimmed eyes, wore a fine black knee-length dress 'filled with lace', as she would say in brighter days, and a pair of Alice shoes of which her small, dainty feet fit perfectly into. A simple black sunhat, devoid of any extra decorations, sat on top of her healthy sun-colored locks.
The boy's clothing was far simpler, consisting of a standard suit and tie, completed with dress pants and shoes. His head of awry jet-black hair was once brushed to perfection, but now tousled and windswept as the result of his running his hand through it every few minutes. His stormy grey eyes shone with unshed tears, making it appear even bigger than it already is.
They were the last present, the others having left hours earlier. They had done nothing but paying their respects, keeping their heads down and not saying a word. They weren't worried about the time – they both knew that a chauffeur would be waiting for them without questions later on, and the only people for miles around the area were themselves and their servants, who were either too loyal or afraid to try anything.
Only when something wet and freezing cold had landed on his head did the boy blink the grief-stricken stupor out of his eyes, and like a switch had been flicked, everything moved into motion once more.
The soft, formerly unnoticed pitter-patter of raindrops turned into an even drizzle before morphing into a full rainfall, soaking through the children's expensive-looking clothes. The girl's stiff, narrow shoulders sagged as if belonging to a puppet with its strings cut, and the boy's shook with the effort to not let the tears fall. If the pair made any noise, it was drowned out in the shushing of the rain and the howling of the wind, now unrestrained as if the muffling dome that had held it back was now shattered into a million little pieces.
Eventually, the two's silent weeping and mourning settled down almost in time with the storm, as if they had run out of tears as the sky had run out of raindrops to pelt them down with. The girl stared vacantly at the air before her eyes, not bothering to wipe away or hide the drying tears trailing down her cheeks as the boy rubbed vigorously at his flushed face and bloodshot eyes, his mouth open in a painful grimace.
"Colin?" The girl's cracked, wavering voice broke through the quiet stillness, uncertain and heavy.
Colin hummed tiredly, quietly urging her on.
"Do you still remember that story Martha told us one night? About the – About Heaven and Angels and things like that?"
Colin nodded timidly, afraid to speak in case his voice was to crack and break altogether.
"Do you – Do you think he's up there now? Watching us?"
They both were silent for quite a while, Colin thinking of what Mary said and Mary not really expecting an answer. So when Colin's too-quiet voice wafted through the air to her ears, she almost jumped in alarm.
"I-I believe so," he said, face twisting up as if remembering something long, long ago. "That's… That's the Magic, isn't it? The right kind of Magic… We have to – we have to believe."
Her only response was to hum and nod and squeeze his gloved hand gently with her own. With every familiar word, Mary's thin lips stretch wider and wider across her pale face, though not enough to be an actual smile.
They stood there for a while more in companionable silence, until finally, they became unbearably aware of the cool moor winds, now back to its gentle 'wutherin' ', whipping their thoroughly-soaked clothing around their already freezing bodies.
"Co-Colin?" Mary was unable to keep her chattering teeth steady enough. "Do you – Can we… –"
She was interrupted when a sneeze suddenly forced its way out of Colin, prompting her to crack a small, fond smile.
"Yep," Colin wrinkled his nose, wiping it on the back of his hand. "Let's go Mary."
The two children turned on their heels and re-linked their arms, sharp, thin elbows knocking together. They paused once before walking away, Mary looking at Colin with sisterly concern in her eyes, and Colin looking back over his shoulder at the gravestone standing there proudly, imbedded in the soft, recently upturned soil.
Archibald Craven
1887 – 1936
A lost soul redirected and reunited
That last part made his lips twitch upwards a bit. Colin thought of the quote himself, with a bit of help from Mary and pitching in from those whose opinions he cared about, and he was personally quite proud of it.
A lost soul…
Oh, old 'Mester Craven' had certainly been lost. Colin can still remember when his father would leave the manor for months on end, wandering around the world without aim or reason, only coming home when necessary for him to, and even then, he did it with a heavy bulk weighing on his chest.
…redirected…
Of course, that was before his father found the Magic that transformed Mary and Ben Weatherstaff and himself with the help of the animal-charmer Dickon. That was before Mary came barging to his world, one day silent as a ghost and wonderful as a dream, and the next stomping her feet and shouting even louder than he. That was before he learnt that he was not going to die, he was not ill, and he was not weak. That was before he started loving, and being loved in return.
…and reunited.
This had been Colin's favorite part. He was no naïve child. He knew what dying was. It meant that it was time for your mind and soul to part with your body. He knew that the body – the corpse – would just be an empty shell after, of what his father once had been, but he also knew, or at least guessed, what happened to your mind and soul after that.
He wondered, as he felt a little bit of warmth returned to his left hand where Mary was holding to it like a lifeline, if his father was finally – truly – happy, now that he was with his beloved Lilias once more.
XXX
So… Um…
How'd I do? Eh-heh… Eep! *dodges flying projectiles*
I know, I know guys – *ducks under desk* – I'm sorry! I just like trying out different things, okay? You can't tie me down! *runs*
Eh! So, since most of you probably don't look at those pale, faint writings anymore under our summaries, this story is NOT COMPLETE, which means that it's not a one-shot, and that I'll be adding more to it… I don't know when, actually. It could be next week, it could be next year…
So, um… Review if you have the time and, well – I won't blame you if you flame me…