LAZARUS (prologue)
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters written about in cannon. For now, I only own Elizabeth Faye Potter and Westley.
A/n- This is my first real fanfiction. (crosses fingers and hopes for the best). Feel free to review and give me some advice on writing, plot,..etc. I definitely have a plot idea for this fic and I have planned a few surprises along the way. Hope you guys enjoy it.
A few quotes:
"Science may have found a cure for most evils; but it has found no remedy for the worst of them all - the apathy of human beings".
Helen Keller (1880 - 1968), My Religion, 1927
"Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look there".
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (121 AD - 180 AD)
Flashes of nuances of red and orange were burned into her mind. She could hear frantic yelling, feel the vibrations of the ground knocking her off her feet. The only thing she could rationalize now was the all consuming feeling of numbness and the unnaturally red, dry moon illuminating the ground with a reddish glaze. Why does the moon look like that, look so evil?! Suddenly, she could see the sharp rubble from a house littering the ground and a flash of red hair along with pale skin among the ruined shingles. Shapes floated in and out of the darkness such as she had never seen before. She moved blindly, struggling from the weight that pinned her down. Instinctively, she knew there was an unknown yet familiar presence near her. It meant her harm. Her heart was nearly beating out of her throat from the fear of that.thing..coming closer, knowing she had no escape, no means of defense. She couldn't stop it, no one could. It reached out through the haze of her terror and grabbed her with a rubbery hand. She knew it was death personified and that it had finally come for her. Elizabeth Potter awoke, drenched in sweat. Trembling and in a daze, she let her feet touch the ground and stumbled toward the window doors. She cracked them open a bit and let warm May air make contact with her skin. It was a relief just to have the moonlight enter the room. She then opened the doors as wide as they could so the room was bathed in a penetrating blue except for a few corners. As far back as she could remember, she had always had a terrible fear of the dark, especially the shadows in the corners of the room. Her eyes played tricks on her during the night, and she had the impression that something was crouched down, waiting.. She sighed, sat down on the cool floor near the doors, and ran a hand wearily through her auburn hair. She paused and glanced down at her left hand. The strange figure that marred her pale skin had turned darker tonight. Does it have some connection to the dream? She never minded this mark; strangely enough, she always was comforted when she traced the mysterious shape's outline with her finger. She just felt at peace, trying to guess what the shape was and what it meant. Most of all, it was unique. The other girls at the orphanage said that mark made her hand "gross" and ugly. She said to herself they were just jealous that they didn't have something unique about them although during the day she made sure her palm was out of their view. No need to go looking for trouble; there was plenty of it already in her current situation. It was actually the other marks on her right arm and side that bothered her and made it necessary for her to wear long-sleeved shirts even in the hot summer. These marks were a morbid black color (the touch); she didn't have to wonder what shape these marks formed. They were shaped like hands. The one on her arm was a very small print like a hand of a child and just barely circled her otherwise pale arm. The other one on her stomach near her thigh was quite large and resembled the limb of a skeleton. She remembered this description from when she was younger, and it tended to reinforce her intense dislike for the dark. That mark was like a wound from a war. It tells a story..I just don't understand..Somehow she felt like she survived something. However, she believed subconsciously that if the mark was spared a glance something might be inspired to try for a second time. Sometimes, if she was very sad, sick or angry, the hand that still grasp her side throbbed and could obtain gasps of alarm from her. She looked out at the scattered lights of the city nearby and thought about the nightmare she had awaken from. The nightmare was not unfamiliar to her; every few months, she would dream it. It continued to entrap her with its frightening reality. It became a part of her. Lately, she had begun to realize that as she got older the dream became more distinct and fierce in its intensity. She gained more awareness of all her senses in her dream state, and she could swear she felt the physical pain of the weight upon her and that touch. She had learnt early on not to cry out in her sleep. The administrator of the Westley Orphanage in Bristol could not be called a "tolerant man". His claimed that his " bleeding ulceror" in his life was her and the constant stream of unnatural events that clung to her. She couldn't explain these events herself. Windows breaking about her suddenly and teacups becoming animate and spewing hot liquid were just a few of the memorable incidents. These things tended to happen when she was upset, and unfortunately, around here, that was a constant state of existence for Elizabeth. She couldn't blame the other orphan girls and Westley for shunning her when such unnatural things took place in her presence. WHY? She closed her eyes and remembered her time at this so-called haven for unwanted children.
She followed the sound of frantic sobbing through the maze of nasty-looking wires and fallen debris. Alice Dunfield got pushed down and cut herself severely on an upturned shaft of metal in the construction site near the orphanage, and she was left there by the others led by Queenie McKnight. Queenie was in fact the one who pushed Alice; she was most likely jealous that Alice was soon to be adopted by a relatively nice family in a few days. Queenie was especially poisonous when she was angry and was not bound by any limits of humanity in these mood swings. Elizabeth suspected Queenie and her group would gain up on Alice away from the watchful, slightly bulging eyes of Westley. So she followed them and discovered Alice Dunfield who had lost a dangerous amount of blood. Elizabeth furrowed her brow. This incident was so strange to her. It was like she was impervious to hysteria, and she needed to put her hands on the place where the blood flowed. She was driven by some sort of instinct..no by a force. She was just..in her role, doing what she was meant to do. She felt light- headed and a warm light within her seemed to spark. She bent over the crying girl; both were shocked when the wound disappeared without leaving a trace. She made eye contact with Alice and held her gaze. It felt so right to help another. Elizabeth felt like she had finally accomplished something. Surely, Alice would be as happy as she was about this miracle that had taken place for the both of them. Surely, this would forge a friendship, a human connection.. Alice Dunfield jumped up and threw a rock that she had been gripping in her distress. Pain shot through her head as Elizabeth stumbled back, shocked. Then, Alice turned and fled towards the orphanage.
Alice left with her new family three days later but told everyone that Elizabeth had pushed her. This confirmed Westley's firm beliefs about that strange Potter girl's dangerous nature. "For the safety of the other girls", he confined Elizabeth to the basement of the old chapel which was pitch black where no light could possibly reach. Of course, he did so because he knew of her paralyzing phoebia. Perhaps, he thought, this will beat her unnaturalness out of her. Thank heavens, her cousin warned me about this..freak.. Yet, she had escaped from confinement and ended up somehow in the bell tower attached to the other side of the building. She failed to explain how she had gotten up there. Maybe I had retreated into my mind in a panic and was able to make my way to the tower. She just remembered a strange sensation running throughout her limbs and a feeling like she was soaring but in slow motion. This was the last straw for the enraged Westley (not the founder of the orphanage but the descendent). He moved all her belongings (the scant few she owned) and placed a small (miniscule) bed in the tower. Towering over her with his massive bulk (but smaller head with an even smaller amount of hair), he snarled at her that she could plan on staying up there for a very long time, that he refused to "tolerate" this madness that seemed to stem from her very being, that she was a menace that he planned to "save" normal people from. It's not so bad up here..for now," she thought. But she dreaded the fall and winter chill that was on the horizon..if Westley keeps me up here forever. Her ten-year- old mind shuddered at the inevitable months of loneliness. Not that I have any friends. All the children kept their distance from her and her "disease" especially after the whole Dunfield fiasco circulated. Each family that came to adopt a child cast her strange glances from her chatter and manner. I tried so hard for them to like me, I must have looked ridiculous. They moved quickly along to the next apparently normal girl with blue eyes and pigtails. Like she had any brains to fill an eggcup. Elizabeth made a promise to herself to never perform for anyone again. She would keep her dignity thank you very much.
Now she glanced at the little bed with sheets that vaguely resembled mold. Yuck.If only I could fly away, escape from this hell. Westley often commented on how she was surely destined for "hell" as he delicately put it because of her "peculiar" presence she gave; her unnatural green eyes were surely an indication of her "mischevious" nature. Sometimes she found herself in the world of her imagination, and this gave her eyes a glazed over look. This defense mechanism provoked Westley who liked to have full attention when he spoke. Sir Westely (he insisted on this title from his wards) would have no doubt made a grand executioner if he had had the nerves to actually execution anyone. His nerves were his weakness; he could not handle the slightest disturbances which calls into question his position as a caretaker of young children. He ruled with a firm hand. He had routinely attempted to horrify the little girls under his charge with grotesque tales of the fires of the brimstone below. Elizabeth Potter was unaffected as she reckoned she already existed in such a place, reeking of the stifling dryness of the white walls and iron barred windows. She would actually prefer the stench of rotten eggs and sulfur than the stuff she had to eat for meals. Pushing such thoughts of the afterlife out of her mind, she recollected a glimpse of a movie she saw years back. She had hidden behind the huge green couch in the activity room (which had a few used dolls and an really ancient tv); she was so petite that she could comfortably fit and escape the cruel whispers and occasional physical abuse. In this fortress, she could also enjoy whatever was on the television that night. The movie was called Bedknobs and Broomsticks. She was fascinated, enthralled until she was discovered and severely punished. Westley must have imagined she would get ideas. Besides, she had gotten dust every which way and his nerves could not handle dust among many other things.
She approached the bed and sat cross-legged near the end. Westley had been right for once. Elizabeth had gotten an idea. She hesitantly put her sweaty hand on the post, feeling somewhat ridiculous. Yet she felt justified and reached toward the unobtainable hope, the impossible idea that she might could just make it happen. She might could just make this poor excuse for a bed fly out the window and become her vehicle for a happier life. Strange things always happen around me so why not now? Besides, no one was watching, and no one would know unless the flaking walls could talk. She looked carefully at the double-bay windows that led to the rickety balcony. Lucky these windows aren't blocked. The posts of the bed could just scrap through. She grabbed the post with her left hand and willed the bed to fly, rise, or at least shake. Nothing.. Strange powers my arse! She felt offended and extremely naïve; moreover, she was overcome with extreme disappointment and helplessness. She was a fool to think she could control her situation or her life. She jumped angrily onto the floor and glared at the well-worn, useless, evil bed. She paced rapidly around the floor in deep thought. She stopped to spare a focused glare at the offending piece of rubbish. She paced some more around the room, carefully staying clear from the shadows in the corner. Then she jumped defiantly onto the bed again, carefully away from the under side of the bed. She wasn't going to sleep anyway (obviously not tonight); the nightmare had already ripped what little chance of sleep she had from her. It was much better to imagine an adventure instead of rotting away of boredom anyhow. She grabbed the post again and thought of the images she had in her head of soaring away. She chased a bird throughout the maze of broken swings. Its shadow flittered throughout the blades of grass. She ran faster in her pursuit in a pure state of unfamiliar bliss. She stopped at the crooked fence and watched it zoom away out of reach... Queenie threw a soccer ball straight at her unguarded stomach, and she bent over, gasping for breath... A brief circle of girls formed around her but she remained down on the ground... They moved away..She sat on one side of the dining hall, facing a sea of distant girls and adults.. She lowered her spoon to her plate and jerked back as a piece of somone's unwanted sandwich landed in her soup., Westley lowered his voice to tell a confused young couple that Elizabeth was not their best choice, that in fact she was one of the more disruptive children. Now Alice here was one of the sweetest children he had ever had the privelge of guiding, just a right ray of sunshinet..Elizabeth opened her eyes as the bed lifted neatly up from the hard floor.
She let out a harsh gasp and the bed came crashing down on the floor. It seemed as if the whole fragile room shook. Elizabeth gazed at the figure on her trembling palm. She had felt that sensation again through her left hand. It was like a bolt of lighting had struck her whole being. It felt like a leg one had sat on for way to long, but it was pleasant as being dipped in a warm bath or discovering some joyful secret that was yours to own and treasure. It was something that she truly owned that no one could ever take. She heard squacking below and heavy footfalls on the wooden stairs. There was a huge an ominous thump on the railing that echoed throughout the stairway. With a thrill of horror, she recognized that thump as any inhabitant of this orphanage would. The thump of the secret whip Westley had in his office, the one that he hid from the men who came to inspect the orphanage. He rarely used it; there was his weak nerves again. He branished it plenty of times though and threatened to do serious damage. He was a sadist about the whip and kept it around his buckle as a reminder; she had inadvertently given him his golden opportunity to use it finally. Perhaps he got that thing when I was put into this orphanage. She desperately reached for the post again and focused all her thoughts, will, and memories on the task at hand. The post grew warm quickly under her touch. It was easier this time. She was again engulfed in the amazing sensation, and for once in her bleak forest of a childhood, she was in control.
Darneby Westley stood in the doorway, stock still. His vastly intolerant mind was stumbling over itself, and he simply could not.would not..believe what he had seen darting with billowing, brown covers and a streak of red though the darkness of the tower. The horror..the audacity of it. It would have been a very comical sight to any newcomer to the scene. The whip slipped through his massive, limp hands and hit the floor with the last threatening thud. He gaped, eyes bulging, at the retreating posts of the bed with strands of long red hair waving over the top (seeming to wave a haughty good-bye.) A few hours later when dawn was starting to filter through the open windows, the cook came up and found him still gaping
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters written about in cannon. For now, I only own Elizabeth Faye Potter and Westley.
A/n- This is my first real fanfiction. (crosses fingers and hopes for the best). Feel free to review and give me some advice on writing, plot,..etc. I definitely have a plot idea for this fic and I have planned a few surprises along the way. Hope you guys enjoy it.
A few quotes:
"Science may have found a cure for most evils; but it has found no remedy for the worst of them all - the apathy of human beings".
Helen Keller (1880 - 1968), My Religion, 1927
"Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look there".
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (121 AD - 180 AD)
Flashes of nuances of red and orange were burned into her mind. She could hear frantic yelling, feel the vibrations of the ground knocking her off her feet. The only thing she could rationalize now was the all consuming feeling of numbness and the unnaturally red, dry moon illuminating the ground with a reddish glaze. Why does the moon look like that, look so evil?! Suddenly, she could see the sharp rubble from a house littering the ground and a flash of red hair along with pale skin among the ruined shingles. Shapes floated in and out of the darkness such as she had never seen before. She moved blindly, struggling from the weight that pinned her down. Instinctively, she knew there was an unknown yet familiar presence near her. It meant her harm. Her heart was nearly beating out of her throat from the fear of that.thing..coming closer, knowing she had no escape, no means of defense. She couldn't stop it, no one could. It reached out through the haze of her terror and grabbed her with a rubbery hand. She knew it was death personified and that it had finally come for her. Elizabeth Potter awoke, drenched in sweat. Trembling and in a daze, she let her feet touch the ground and stumbled toward the window doors. She cracked them open a bit and let warm May air make contact with her skin. It was a relief just to have the moonlight enter the room. She then opened the doors as wide as they could so the room was bathed in a penetrating blue except for a few corners. As far back as she could remember, she had always had a terrible fear of the dark, especially the shadows in the corners of the room. Her eyes played tricks on her during the night, and she had the impression that something was crouched down, waiting.. She sighed, sat down on the cool floor near the doors, and ran a hand wearily through her auburn hair. She paused and glanced down at her left hand. The strange figure that marred her pale skin had turned darker tonight. Does it have some connection to the dream? She never minded this mark; strangely enough, she always was comforted when she traced the mysterious shape's outline with her finger. She just felt at peace, trying to guess what the shape was and what it meant. Most of all, it was unique. The other girls at the orphanage said that mark made her hand "gross" and ugly. She said to herself they were just jealous that they didn't have something unique about them although during the day she made sure her palm was out of their view. No need to go looking for trouble; there was plenty of it already in her current situation. It was actually the other marks on her right arm and side that bothered her and made it necessary for her to wear long-sleeved shirts even in the hot summer. These marks were a morbid black color (the touch); she didn't have to wonder what shape these marks formed. They were shaped like hands. The one on her arm was a very small print like a hand of a child and just barely circled her otherwise pale arm. The other one on her stomach near her thigh was quite large and resembled the limb of a skeleton. She remembered this description from when she was younger, and it tended to reinforce her intense dislike for the dark. That mark was like a wound from a war. It tells a story..I just don't understand..Somehow she felt like she survived something. However, she believed subconsciously that if the mark was spared a glance something might be inspired to try for a second time. Sometimes, if she was very sad, sick or angry, the hand that still grasp her side throbbed and could obtain gasps of alarm from her. She looked out at the scattered lights of the city nearby and thought about the nightmare she had awaken from. The nightmare was not unfamiliar to her; every few months, she would dream it. It continued to entrap her with its frightening reality. It became a part of her. Lately, she had begun to realize that as she got older the dream became more distinct and fierce in its intensity. She gained more awareness of all her senses in her dream state, and she could swear she felt the physical pain of the weight upon her and that touch. She had learnt early on not to cry out in her sleep. The administrator of the Westley Orphanage in Bristol could not be called a "tolerant man". His claimed that his " bleeding ulceror" in his life was her and the constant stream of unnatural events that clung to her. She couldn't explain these events herself. Windows breaking about her suddenly and teacups becoming animate and spewing hot liquid were just a few of the memorable incidents. These things tended to happen when she was upset, and unfortunately, around here, that was a constant state of existence for Elizabeth. She couldn't blame the other orphan girls and Westley for shunning her when such unnatural things took place in her presence. WHY? She closed her eyes and remembered her time at this so-called haven for unwanted children.
She followed the sound of frantic sobbing through the maze of nasty-looking wires and fallen debris. Alice Dunfield got pushed down and cut herself severely on an upturned shaft of metal in the construction site near the orphanage, and she was left there by the others led by Queenie McKnight. Queenie was in fact the one who pushed Alice; she was most likely jealous that Alice was soon to be adopted by a relatively nice family in a few days. Queenie was especially poisonous when she was angry and was not bound by any limits of humanity in these mood swings. Elizabeth suspected Queenie and her group would gain up on Alice away from the watchful, slightly bulging eyes of Westley. So she followed them and discovered Alice Dunfield who had lost a dangerous amount of blood. Elizabeth furrowed her brow. This incident was so strange to her. It was like she was impervious to hysteria, and she needed to put her hands on the place where the blood flowed. She was driven by some sort of instinct..no by a force. She was just..in her role, doing what she was meant to do. She felt light- headed and a warm light within her seemed to spark. She bent over the crying girl; both were shocked when the wound disappeared without leaving a trace. She made eye contact with Alice and held her gaze. It felt so right to help another. Elizabeth felt like she had finally accomplished something. Surely, Alice would be as happy as she was about this miracle that had taken place for the both of them. Surely, this would forge a friendship, a human connection.. Alice Dunfield jumped up and threw a rock that she had been gripping in her distress. Pain shot through her head as Elizabeth stumbled back, shocked. Then, Alice turned and fled towards the orphanage.
Alice left with her new family three days later but told everyone that Elizabeth had pushed her. This confirmed Westley's firm beliefs about that strange Potter girl's dangerous nature. "For the safety of the other girls", he confined Elizabeth to the basement of the old chapel which was pitch black where no light could possibly reach. Of course, he did so because he knew of her paralyzing phoebia. Perhaps, he thought, this will beat her unnaturalness out of her. Thank heavens, her cousin warned me about this..freak.. Yet, she had escaped from confinement and ended up somehow in the bell tower attached to the other side of the building. She failed to explain how she had gotten up there. Maybe I had retreated into my mind in a panic and was able to make my way to the tower. She just remembered a strange sensation running throughout her limbs and a feeling like she was soaring but in slow motion. This was the last straw for the enraged Westley (not the founder of the orphanage but the descendent). He moved all her belongings (the scant few she owned) and placed a small (miniscule) bed in the tower. Towering over her with his massive bulk (but smaller head with an even smaller amount of hair), he snarled at her that she could plan on staying up there for a very long time, that he refused to "tolerate" this madness that seemed to stem from her very being, that she was a menace that he planned to "save" normal people from. It's not so bad up here..for now," she thought. But she dreaded the fall and winter chill that was on the horizon..if Westley keeps me up here forever. Her ten-year- old mind shuddered at the inevitable months of loneliness. Not that I have any friends. All the children kept their distance from her and her "disease" especially after the whole Dunfield fiasco circulated. Each family that came to adopt a child cast her strange glances from her chatter and manner. I tried so hard for them to like me, I must have looked ridiculous. They moved quickly along to the next apparently normal girl with blue eyes and pigtails. Like she had any brains to fill an eggcup. Elizabeth made a promise to herself to never perform for anyone again. She would keep her dignity thank you very much.
Now she glanced at the little bed with sheets that vaguely resembled mold. Yuck.If only I could fly away, escape from this hell. Westley often commented on how she was surely destined for "hell" as he delicately put it because of her "peculiar" presence she gave; her unnatural green eyes were surely an indication of her "mischevious" nature. Sometimes she found herself in the world of her imagination, and this gave her eyes a glazed over look. This defense mechanism provoked Westley who liked to have full attention when he spoke. Sir Westely (he insisted on this title from his wards) would have no doubt made a grand executioner if he had had the nerves to actually execution anyone. His nerves were his weakness; he could not handle the slightest disturbances which calls into question his position as a caretaker of young children. He ruled with a firm hand. He had routinely attempted to horrify the little girls under his charge with grotesque tales of the fires of the brimstone below. Elizabeth Potter was unaffected as she reckoned she already existed in such a place, reeking of the stifling dryness of the white walls and iron barred windows. She would actually prefer the stench of rotten eggs and sulfur than the stuff she had to eat for meals. Pushing such thoughts of the afterlife out of her mind, she recollected a glimpse of a movie she saw years back. She had hidden behind the huge green couch in the activity room (which had a few used dolls and an really ancient tv); she was so petite that she could comfortably fit and escape the cruel whispers and occasional physical abuse. In this fortress, she could also enjoy whatever was on the television that night. The movie was called Bedknobs and Broomsticks. She was fascinated, enthralled until she was discovered and severely punished. Westley must have imagined she would get ideas. Besides, she had gotten dust every which way and his nerves could not handle dust among many other things.
She approached the bed and sat cross-legged near the end. Westley had been right for once. Elizabeth had gotten an idea. She hesitantly put her sweaty hand on the post, feeling somewhat ridiculous. Yet she felt justified and reached toward the unobtainable hope, the impossible idea that she might could just make it happen. She might could just make this poor excuse for a bed fly out the window and become her vehicle for a happier life. Strange things always happen around me so why not now? Besides, no one was watching, and no one would know unless the flaking walls could talk. She looked carefully at the double-bay windows that led to the rickety balcony. Lucky these windows aren't blocked. The posts of the bed could just scrap through. She grabbed the post with her left hand and willed the bed to fly, rise, or at least shake. Nothing.. Strange powers my arse! She felt offended and extremely naïve; moreover, she was overcome with extreme disappointment and helplessness. She was a fool to think she could control her situation or her life. She jumped angrily onto the floor and glared at the well-worn, useless, evil bed. She paced rapidly around the floor in deep thought. She stopped to spare a focused glare at the offending piece of rubbish. She paced some more around the room, carefully staying clear from the shadows in the corner. Then she jumped defiantly onto the bed again, carefully away from the under side of the bed. She wasn't going to sleep anyway (obviously not tonight); the nightmare had already ripped what little chance of sleep she had from her. It was much better to imagine an adventure instead of rotting away of boredom anyhow. She grabbed the post again and thought of the images she had in her head of soaring away. She chased a bird throughout the maze of broken swings. Its shadow flittered throughout the blades of grass. She ran faster in her pursuit in a pure state of unfamiliar bliss. She stopped at the crooked fence and watched it zoom away out of reach... Queenie threw a soccer ball straight at her unguarded stomach, and she bent over, gasping for breath... A brief circle of girls formed around her but she remained down on the ground... They moved away..She sat on one side of the dining hall, facing a sea of distant girls and adults.. She lowered her spoon to her plate and jerked back as a piece of somone's unwanted sandwich landed in her soup., Westley lowered his voice to tell a confused young couple that Elizabeth was not their best choice, that in fact she was one of the more disruptive children. Now Alice here was one of the sweetest children he had ever had the privelge of guiding, just a right ray of sunshinet..Elizabeth opened her eyes as the bed lifted neatly up from the hard floor.
She let out a harsh gasp and the bed came crashing down on the floor. It seemed as if the whole fragile room shook. Elizabeth gazed at the figure on her trembling palm. She had felt that sensation again through her left hand. It was like a bolt of lighting had struck her whole being. It felt like a leg one had sat on for way to long, but it was pleasant as being dipped in a warm bath or discovering some joyful secret that was yours to own and treasure. It was something that she truly owned that no one could ever take. She heard squacking below and heavy footfalls on the wooden stairs. There was a huge an ominous thump on the railing that echoed throughout the stairway. With a thrill of horror, she recognized that thump as any inhabitant of this orphanage would. The thump of the secret whip Westley had in his office, the one that he hid from the men who came to inspect the orphanage. He rarely used it; there was his weak nerves again. He branished it plenty of times though and threatened to do serious damage. He was a sadist about the whip and kept it around his buckle as a reminder; she had inadvertently given him his golden opportunity to use it finally. Perhaps he got that thing when I was put into this orphanage. She desperately reached for the post again and focused all her thoughts, will, and memories on the task at hand. The post grew warm quickly under her touch. It was easier this time. She was again engulfed in the amazing sensation, and for once in her bleak forest of a childhood, she was in control.
Darneby Westley stood in the doorway, stock still. His vastly intolerant mind was stumbling over itself, and he simply could not.would not..believe what he had seen darting with billowing, brown covers and a streak of red though the darkness of the tower. The horror..the audacity of it. It would have been a very comical sight to any newcomer to the scene. The whip slipped through his massive, limp hands and hit the floor with the last threatening thud. He gaped, eyes bulging, at the retreating posts of the bed with strands of long red hair waving over the top (seeming to wave a haughty good-bye.) A few hours later when dawn was starting to filter through the open windows, the cook came up and found him still gaping