Yo! Ok, so I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing, but I like writing interactions and whatnot, so…Yeah. Hope you enjoy. This one's a little more serious.

In Other Worlds – The Other Side

Amy had never been so glad for a bath. The water was deliciously warm, and though at first it had felt strange to have Mrs Benson bustling around her as she soaked, and then cleaning her back and hair, she had soon started to relax.

"This like being a the hair-dressers." She noted as Heather washed out her hair, massaging her scalp with skilful hands. It felt wonderful. "only, I'm completely naked and…" She drew off. The stern-faced woman gave her a peculiar look, but did not stop, keeping at her task.

On rail nearby, her tracksuits and hoody had been draped close to a fire and were drying out. The crackle oF the fire and the tinkle of the water was a comforting sound and Amy felt safe and comforted, even as the storm raged on outside.

She wasn't sure what had come over her. She had never used to be afraid of thunder and lightening, but somehow that first clap had transported her back to another cold night, when there had been something else inside of her. The cold girl. The sad girl. Amy shivered, trying to push away the unhappy thoughts.

"Are you still cold, Miss Amy?" Heather asked worried.

"What? Oh, no. I'm fine. Thank you." Amy assured, scrubbing her arms. The water smelt of lavender and had rose petals in it. She felt like she was at some exotic spa, and her skin felt incredibly soft. Grace would be so jealous.

Eventually the bath water started to cool and Amy had to step out of it. She was enveloped in a gigantic, linen towel and scrubbed dry. It was very peculiar being touched by someone else in this way, but Amy allowed it to happen, though she couldn't help bUT feel awkward as Mrs Benson efficiently dried the area around her breasts and backside. She caught the old woman glancing at her pinched expression. "Sorry, I'm not used to…to all of this."

Quietly, and without a word, Mrs Benson passed ownership of the towel over to Amy, letting her take control over it.

"Sorry, I don't mean to offend."

"Lord Zachary is similar." She assured, "Doesn't like to be fussed over. I am quite used to it."

"Thank you." Amy dried her hair, squeezing it of excess water, and Mrs Benson came out with some clothes which Amy eyed warily. She might need some help navigating her way into those.

Tying her hair back up, she was able to pull the chemise on. It felt strange wearing it without a bra, like she was putting on a night-dress. The chemise came down to her knees, and had grand, rather puffy sleeves that made her feel somewhere between ridiculous, and a princess. Next, Heather produced a rather heavy, cream coloured skirt, which rustled. Amy stepped into it, and let the old woman tie it tightly around her waist. It was huge, and again Amy giggled, running her hands down it. She felt like she'd stepped into a period drama, and though she wouldn't want to wear the restrictive clothing forever, she rather enjoyed the experience.

Finally came a sort of outer dress, which split at the skirt. It was a navy blue in colour, with short sleeves which she put her arm through, the chemise puffing out through it. Mrs Benson pulled the corset tight, but unlike the movies, it wasn't an uncomfortable feeling, and she certainly wasn't crushed beneath it.

She ran her hands down along the dress as Heather bade her to sit down, producing lily white stockings with modest frills and a set of plain, black shoes. These were a little big, but Mrs Benson laced them tightly, and Amy was confident they would stay on.

Finally, Mrs Benson took to Amy's hair. She brushed it out carefully, breaking the silence for the firts time. "You have beautiful hair." She noted. "It reminds me of my niece, Katrina. It has been so long since I've done a girls hair, I hope you won't object."

"Not at all." Amy bid, though she suspected this sentimentality was actually just a clever disguise for Mrs Benson wanting to neaten her up. She sat very still, and let the old woman do as she pleased. Her hair was thoroughly brushed and dried, and then plaited and bound up with pins which bit a little at her scalp.

At last the transition seemed complete, and Mrs Benson led her to a mirror to inspect herself. Amy was strangely pleased by the reflection, though a little dazed. There were people, she knew, who looked as if they stepped out of another age. Their features lended themselves to something older, and more mysterious, that made them look like characters from a story. Her mother had been a little like that, and Emilynn too, with her angular build, cheek bones, and her curvaceous hair. Amy had always been a little jealous; Grace looked like a supermodel, and Emilynn like the heroine of some story, whereas Amy had always imagined herself somewhat uninspiring in both departments. Not ugly, but…Well, certainly not someone who would draw much attention.

And yet, stood as she was, in these strange clothes, Amy was struck by how much they suited her. Her hair was bound in a way she had never tried before, pulled at the side, with little intricate plaits curling up and around her head like a crown. The navy brought out her paler, making her seem stark and delicate, and her figure suited the dress, though she could have probably done with a little more hip.

"It suits you well." Mrs Benson noted. "Now come along; let's get some food in you. You look half-perished."

Navigating the stairs in the heavy skirt proved to be difficult, and Amy came to understand why in films people always seemed to take their time coming down them. It did make her feel rather important though, and she smiled quietly to herself as Mrs Benson directed her through a large dining room into an even larger, if somewhat dark library.

There, seated in a high arm-chair by a roaring fire, Zachary was dosing softly. He woke as they came into the room, Mrs Benson giving a soft knock to announce themselves.

"Ah, that looks a little better." He stood, "Sorry, I was on patrol all night am a rather tired."

"You can go to bed, if you like." Amy said, guiltily. "I'll manage."

"No, it's fine. I snatched a few hours this morning, and I'll take a few more later this evening. Come, sit – Heather will fetch you some food." He nodded to Mrs Benson, seemingly losing any formality he had been holding earlier. She was watching in steadily, almost with disapproval, as if she too wanted to hurry him up to bed, but did as she was bid, leaving the room. Amy took a seat, looking up and around the dark shelves that surrounded her.

"Is all this yours?"

"Yes. My grandfather starting accumulating this library about two-hundred and twenty years ago. I have kept it fed, and modernised."

"Two hundred and twenty years?" Amy asked, "How is that possible?"

"He was a Magi, like me. We live a long while."

"Who long is long?"

"Oh, between two-hundred to three."

"Are you kidding me!?" Amy sat forward sharply, "Three-hundred years!?"

"Well, only if you're very lucky. And powerful. I imagine I'll make about two-hundred and fifty." Zachary did not move. He was watching her carefully, the light of the fire flickering across the severe features of his face. He was almost frightening, but Amy found there was something very warm, and amiable in him, somehow. She could trust him.

"How old are you now?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Oh." For some reason, Amy felt herself blush. "I thought…I thought you were younger."

"I'm not old." Zachary's moth twitched, and Amy swallowed. "And you, how old are you? Fifteen, I'd say?"

"Thirteen."

"Ah. You're tall. And wise, for your age."

"I get that a lot." She fiddled with her sleeve, suddenly feeling shy. Mrs Benson came back into the room.

"The food is served."

"Bring it in here," Zachary asked. "There's not point sitting at that stupid table. It's cold in there. Bring a tray."

Mrs Benson disappeared, and returned a moment later, bearing a bowel of something which smelt mouth-watering. She brought it to Amy carefully, on a dainty tray and placed it down. Amy leant in and sniffed it appreciatively. She hadn't realised how hungry she was.

"Thank you." She said eagerly and began to eat. After a few hefty mouthfuls, she remembered Zachary watching her, and continued, a little more demurely. His chuckle was deep and long, like the purr of a large cat.

Outside, the lightening and thunder continued, but Amy noticed that all of the shutters were closed in the library, the forks of light barely visible through the cracks. She noticed the same thing coming through the dinning room; that the windows were all covered and muffled, and wondered vaguely if this was done out of practicality, or whether Zachary had done it for her.

"I'm not afraid of thunder and lightening, you know." She felt the need to say.

"I never said you were." Zachary was staring into the fire, his face quiet and thoughtful.

"I only jumped because it surprised me, earlier."

"I see."

"I'm not afraid." She repeated, scooping another spoonful of the delicious soup into her mouth. It was fragrant and hot and seemed to have been made with love. Amy would have to get the recipe. See if she couldn't cook it for Emilynn and Grace…

Emilynn and Grace…Amy wondered if they were worried about her. She hoped they were alright. Emilynn would sort it out, of that Amy could be sure. Maybe she was with this Rufus character now. Amy hoped he was kind, like Zachary.

"Are you worried about him?" Amy prompted Zachary from his thoughts. His thoughtful expression had hardened, and he was staring at the fire with something close to anger in the set of his mouth.

"Merle?" Zachary asked, "Yes. On an almost constant basis."

"You must be close."

"Not particularly." Zachary sniffed, turning away. "Not anymore."

At Amy's questioning look, his lips quirked up, ever so slightly at the end, but there was nothing happy about his expression.

"Of late the pair of us have found ourselves venturing down different paths…Our loyalties are - how shall we say - divided. But he's still my brother, and in part my responsibility. Besides, he's not been very well recently. He is…tormented, up here." Zachary tapped his forehead. "I'd rather he didn't do anything foolish, when it might have been prevented."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

"He lost somebody, we think. But he won't say." Zachary's voice grew soft, and Amy was able to sense a gathering darkness around her companion. She had never had the level of Emilynn's skill, but after the events which had rocked the little vicarage they now called home in rural Yorkshire, Amy had found her own senses sharpening. She was able to…feel certain energies, though this perceptiveness seemed to come and go quite without her control. In some ways, it alarmed her, opening up a can of worms which she'd rather now remained firmly shut, but in other ways, it was also exciting, and new; like a legacy she was stepping into. At times like this, this newly developed skill allowed her a unique perspective of the people around.

"You've lost someone too." She noted, and Zachary grew very still. His smile was terse when he looked back at her.

"Now what gives you that impression?"

Amy could hardly explain the gathering shadows that clustered around Zachary, clinging to him like heavy shackles, so instead she just shrugged. "Don't know. You seem kind of…sad."

"Alas, it's in the natural curvature of my face." Zachary joked, and Amy sensed that he did that; told jokes to cover a quiet severity. For a second, she suddenly found herself comparing him to Emilynn. The two couldn't be more contrary, Emilynn with her stutter, and Zachary with his smooth tone and quick quips, and yet…They had a similar, shy sort of anger about them. A sort of reservation which boasted something much larger, and darker and deeper than could be permitted to say…Emilynn because she struggled to get the words out, and Zachary because…

Well, whatever reason he decided to make self-deprecating jokes instead of speaking the truth.

"I am untrustworthy, and a notorious brute." He had said, as he covered her head with his cloak, and asked her permission before placing his arm on her shoulder.

"You have ghosts hanging around you." Amy suddenly blurted, before she could stop herself. "And you're afraid to talk about them."

Zachary raised his eyebrows. "Ghosts?" he glanced over each shoulder, comically. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprise, not in this castle. Fortunately for me they seem to be quiet tenants, so I suppose I don't mind them."

Amy pouted irritably and took another, angry spoonful of her meal. Zachary's smile grew, and there seemed to be a genuine mirth to it.

"It's not good you know." She told him. "Keeping it locked in. You may think it protects people, but actually it makes everything worse. It destroys relationships. Families."

It almost got mine killed. She added softly to herself. In an instant Zachary's smile was gone, and he was once more giving her that long, calculated stare. His face seemed to fall, the firelight emphasising the strict lines of his face, and the hollows around his eyes.

"He was my friend." The Magi suddenly said. "A boy. A little younger. The Crown Prince. I was meant to protect him but he died. Assassinated. His name was Sverrin."

The information came out in short, concise bursts, almost clinical. Amy slowly lowered her spoon, eyes wide. Zachary was blank faced, staring at her, waiting for her verdict.

"God, that's terrible..." She said, and he blinked slowly.

"Yes." Zachary agreed, almost too quickly. "But not as terrible as your tragedy, I am sure."

The spin of the conversation made Amy almost feel dizzy.

"You're a child," Zachary said, and Amy was almost offended by the throw-away tone of his voice, "And yet you are clearly educated in the motions of death, and more."

Amy looked down at her food, her appetite faded. She suddenly didn't want to speak, but realised that it was unjust to pry and finger at the stitching of Zachary's psych, with-out also sharing. She swallowed.

"My mother," She said, feeling dumb. Everyone in their home town knew the vicar's wife was dead, and even the kids at her school– such was the consequence of living in a small community – but Amy had never had much cause to talk about it to anyone outside of her direct family. It felt strange to share with an outsider, especially a man she had just met. How did she begin to explain what had happened? Did she go into the details of the tumour? The suicide?

In the end, she stuck with the simple truth. "She died in a car crash."

"I am sorry." Zachary had once more grown soft, and small, his expression doleful. Amy scrapped her spoon across the bottom of the bowl, before realising -

"Sorry. You don't know what a car is." She made to explain, but he held up his hand.

"No. I don't have to." He assured, "I am sorry for…For compelling you to share that. It wasn't fair of me."

"I guess it wasn't fair of me either."

"No, you spoke wisely." Zachary stood again, "Your company is really quite refreshing. Are you done with your food? Good. Then if you'll excuse me, I must be off now. My Master will be waiting for news of my search for Merle, and there is work to be done."

Amy stood, "Can I come with you?" She asked forwardly, "Only…If I'm stuck here…I'd quite like to look around. Plus, I think if I just sat here I might start to lose my mind."

Zachary considered this, "As you wish," he agreed, "But if you do, there is to be no talk of appearing suddenly in the marshes, from a different world, alright? That truth I will share only with a trusted few. If anyone else asks, you are the daughter of a friend of mine, from Corhlam. Can you remember that?"

"Corhlam. Daughter of a friend. Got it."

"Stick to as much of the truth as possible, where you can…If you're unsure, don't answer." Zachary fetched his outer cloak, which he had hung up close to the fire. It was dry and stiff. He shook it out, and pulled it on, before calmly extended his arm. "Shall we then, Miss Amy?" He said, pompously, and she giggled and took the arm, feeling like Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice.

"Indeed," she put on a voice, "my good Lord Zachary, let's."