A/N: I wrote this without the book beside me, so I hope I got the dates right! :) I always thought that Mr. Fowlson and Sahirah Foster (aka Miss McCleethy) deserved more attention than what they got.
This is set during The Sweet Far Thing.
Enjoy!
Echos of Yesterday
January, 1896
The wind howls, but the two lovers take no notice. They whisper to each other, safe in the warm room, away from his masters, her duties, their rivalries. They can forget that she is a threat to his brotherhood; they can forget that she should hate him and all he stands for. They can forget all worries, and they can forget the rest of the world, if only for a few hours.
He strokes her hair, sighing as he weaves his fingers through the strands. He can just look at her, without fear of discovery, without thinking about those men who would love to kill her on the spot. He can admire the shape of her mouth, the curve of her cheeks, the way her eyes flutter when he caresses her.
She lets her hand rest on his arm, the other around his neck, pulling him closer. She can let him kiss her. She watches her arms wrap themselves about him. She can allow herself to feel, right now, without fear.
They did not always have to hide. Before all this, no one would care what they did, but ever since she had to find the girl, and bend her to her will, and he had to watch the initiate, they never saw each other.
But now, safe from the world, neither really cares.
February, 1896
His voice is a comfort to her, even when he is gone, even when she knows of the horrors that await him at his brothers' hands.
She hates them. She hates what they have done, and what they have turned him into. Because she can still remember the small innocent boy she'd meet so many years ago, and she can still picture his chubby cheeks and trusting eyes.
She can still hear his young voice, trying out her name for the first time. The way he squeaked, and how he blushed, the pink growing on those childlike features. Even now, it is a comfort, however bittersweet.
That voice that later whispered his love in her ear, that swore reckless promises, and spoke tenderly only to her.
"For your ears alone, my sweet."
It is his voice, above all, that fortifies her strength, that gives her courage. He idolizes her, but she knows the truth—that she would be nothing without him. She knows that in her very core, all she can ever be is an old woman whose life has been meaningless. She knows she will never amount to anything.
He believes she can change the world.
March, 1896
She can still feel his lips on her neck, and she knows there will be marks tomorrow that she will have to hide from Lillian when she returns. It is inevitable, the returning—he may beg, he may shout, but they both have strong loyalties to others—and she wonders when those loyalties will be questioned. When will she have to choose between him and the Order? Just like returning, it must happen. The only question is when.
"Please," she hears her voice begging, "please, dear—"
The common name of affection takes her off guard. When has anyone ever been "dear" to her? Not her mother, and not her brothers, and not even the Sisters of the Order that demand her trust and loyalty.
So why, here and now, does she feel this tightening of her heart, and why can't she breathe?
She'd known for a long time she'd loved him. But the words were just that—words. Words devoid of real love, though full of feeling. Just not love.
It was a new thought, one that she'd have to explore.
I love him.
April, 1896
She is in the dreadful school again. He could never understand why she liked it there, how she could feel at home in a ghastly place like Spence Academy. He will never understand her kinship to its mistress, the aging Mrs. Nightwing. He will never see how the place changes his lover, transforms her from a world-weary woman to a playful young girl overnight. He can never peer into her deepest mysteries; he can never unravel her secrets, or bare them to the light.
He will also never understand why he loves her.
He has seen all there is to see of her. He can watch as she smiles in joy and happiness, content in the knowledge of his love. He has seen her in her fiercest rage; he has seen her take lives, her actions sharp and crisp, as if it were all business.
But he has also seen her in her tender moments, when she comforts her elderly mentor, Lady Anne, after the death of a child.
He has looked on as blood spills, washing her hands with its red ink. He has seen her face, twisted in hate and marred by disgust.
He has seen the fear in her eyes.
And he is the only person alive who has seen her cry.
May, 1896
There is darkness. There is nothingness.
There is pain.
Everywhere, his skin burns; his heart freezes with every thought.
He thinks of her last words to him—"I'll be back"—and he thinks of her hair, and the way it moves—moved—in the breeze, or even through his fingers. He thinks of her eyes, watching him, twinkling, even in death—
No. No, no, no.
It is too much. Too many words, too many emotions. Too—much—feeling!
He aches for her, in every way imaginable. His body screams for her touch, his heart cries with the absence of her voice.
There is darkness. There is nothingness.
There is pain.
And there is a man, alone, who cries for a lost one in the darkness.
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