To my groupies, I took your advice. I went away. I came back. I was erractic. I was weak. I oppressed some women while I was at it. I then thought about it and took a long, hard look at myself.
This is for you.
For the Darkling haters that want no Darkling luv.
But most of all, for Mallory.
From the Darkling's concubine, to you, with love.
Enjoy it BITCHES
Author's Note: (Upcoming) videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my YouTube channel via the link on my profile.
A Touch From Your Real Love
Ketterdam
Satine tugged absentmindedly at the red silk ribbon tied around her neck, fingers fiddling with the faded fabric. She wore it to honour her dead, but to the rest of the world it was just a thing of frivolity. Carefully picking a path through the mud, her boots falling victim regardless, she battled her way through the throng. In some ways it was as if she had never fled Francia, her surroundings still the same, with the loud calls of the street-vendors hawking their wares, and the swell of strangers who swept back and forth like the tide. Yet sometimes the similarities threatened to drag her under, the currents of the past too painful to navigate.
Biting her lip, Satine clutched the handle of her wicker basket that little bit tighter to the point of discomfort, using it to ground herself. It carried nothing of worth: a boutonniere of wilted red hyacinths, a couple of soiled bottle-green sateen off-cuts and some lace trimming. If she could scrounge a barely serviceable gown out of it, she would count herself fortunate. But it didn't do to dwell upon defeat, not when she had wielded her needle against greater odds, for her apparel was an important investment in her future. She had a little money left from the purloined necklace she had pawned, Satine considering the jewellery as compensation for her suffering. But such riches, little as they were, wouldn't last forever, and she couldn't make her next move looking like a dowd.
As once governess to the ill-behaved offspring of a prosperous flower merchant, she'd had her hands full as it was, without trying to avoid the amorous overtures of the wife as well. After tactfully trying to explain she didn't toy with the affections of those affianced to another, her admirer had made a grab at her, resulting in an indecorous struggle that Satine had won by slapping the other woman very hard across the face. She had then fled the house before the law brought its wrath down upon her, taking along her belongings and what didn't belong to her for the wild flight out of Jaasch.
She had ended up in Ketterdam, setting up home in a small canal house not far from the famous Bloemenmarkt. The sprawling Ketterdam suited Satine, being large enough to get lost in without losing her way. Regardless though, she didn't let her guard down, careful to keep herself to herself. The most she did was nod to her neighbours, and that was all. She masqueraded as a respectable young woman of limited means, living in idyllically, if impoverished, genteel poverty. But soon she would move onto pastures anew, not caring to let her face become too familiar.
Becoming lost in thought, Satine wandered in the direction of the brazier on the street corner, lured on by the tempting aroma of roasting chestnuts. Distracted, she didn't see the man until the last moment, until he was nearly on top of her, nearly knocking her over. Startled, Satine staggered back, catching a brief glimpse of a narrow-featured face beneath the brim of a black hat. As the man apologized, further distracting her with his words, his black leather gloved hand was slipping under the basket lid, Satine seeing it at the last second. Without thinking, she grabbed his wrist, her slim fingers encircling it like shackles, accidentally releasing a flash of anbaric that struck the gap of exposed skin between sleeve and glove.
The man jerked, his face instantly a mask of rictus horror, pale eyes bright with pain. But Satine strangely sensed it was her touch, not the spark, that was responsible for his revulsion. Shocked, she abruptly let go, before backing away from him, still holding his gaze as she did. For a long moment, they stared at each other, and then he suddenly turned and limped away, leaning heavily on his crow-headed cane, the tails of his long black overcoat whirling at his heels like wind.
My rose garden dreams
Set on fire by fiends…