Italics indicate flashback scenes
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James Songbird: Thank you so much for reviewing and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well! ^.^
BBFan: AHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REVEWING! *hearts* I LOVED IT SO MUCH! I'm so happy you enjoyed the chapter ;A; Oh! I'm in college (and now I have the wonderful delight of attending summer school :D the unpopular opinion is that I'm happy to be taking it haha) i''m stoked you caught all those movie and TV references, you're clever XDDD I LOVE The Water Horse *A* Thank you for recommending the song 'rewrite the stars' for Ciel and Elsie! It's so sweet that you thought of them for it ;;A;; It really, REALLY DOES fit them perfectly and after listening to the song (more than a dozen times) I finally watched the film and everything about it was spectacular! Thank you for telling me! I'm glad you're enjoying the drama ;) (there is going to be plenty more too hehe) and the flashbacks with Rowan and Arawn! The plague was based off hanahaki and it is explained more in this chapter too :3 Thank you again for reviewing and your support means the world to me! I hope you like this chapter too XD
Chapter 12: Ringing of the Bells
Excerpt from the Fae Folk Book of Common Law
V
The line of succession remains within the Fae Folk that descended from the Tuatha De Danaan blood line. For an heir to lay claim to the crown, their predecessors must die, or abdicate. Only one queen has abdicated her blood right to rule and that was Queen Adelliah. The Queen of Roses. The Mistress of Rosula. And the Mother of the plague.
Elsie never liked parties. Especially when she was the center attention of them. People starring, whispering, talking behind her back, debating whether Elsie captured authentic pictures of fairies or if she was making it all up for fame or attention. They believed her in one moment just as much as they doubted her in the very next. Elsie preferred to blend into the crowd or better yet hide behind the curtains she was slowly inching herself towards. A butler, whose presence caught her by surprise (and caught her from retreating into the curtain), offered her a silver tray of o'devours. Elsie didn't know that high socialites enjoyed eating creamed chicken liver on crackers or thinly sliced bovine tongues skewered upon layers of cucumbers and sardines. Not to mention there was caviar that looked more like fisheyes rather than fish eggs. Elsie suppressed the urge to gag by quickly diverting her gaze away from the appetizers, which were not at all appetizing. She smiled meekly and politely rejected the butler and his menacing appetizers.
The butler simply nodded, made no objection for her to take at least one sliver of creamed chicken liver, and went onto the next socialite who was very eager to eat the world's worst culinary creations that should have remained lost in history. The socialite gulped down the caviar like it was champagne and hurriedly grabbed another morsel just as the butler turned to the next guest.
Elsie hoped dinner would arrive soon, maybe then she would fill her belly with food that wasn't created by a mad scientist. Then she wouldn't have to awkwardly stand by herself as people watched her with lingering gazes. For a while, Elsie just stood there, back against the wall, examining the pot of flowers that suddenly took an interest to her more than ever before when men and women walked past her. Her eyes examined the details of the pot, the gold ridges and hues of sunshine painted by delicate brushstrokes. If she looked closely, she could see the marks left by the brush's bristles—or maybe she was just imagining that she did. She wished her flowerpot examinations would speed up dinner's arrival. She looked up and her gaze caught that of an old woman's with a shawl of a fox (head, tail, and all) wrapped around her neck. The woman smiled, her lips a thin line, then quickly turned her head towards another guest who was talking to Edward Gardner no less. The old woman looked like she wanted to escape the conversation, but her companions did not receive her pleas since they abandoned her and Edward moments prior. The gestures were subtle, but the old woman looked like she wanted to be here just as little as Elsie did. Although, Elsie commended the woman of high society for not retreating into the curtains like Elsie wanted to do but instead interacting with the guests of the party. Women of her stature honed the skill of pretending to be intrigued by conversations governed by men with very little wit. Elsie suddenly felt the need to apologize to the woman whom she barely knew. She wanted to apologize to everyone at the party. The only reason people gathered her tonight was because of her and the fairies.
She took those pictures of her handcrafted fairies for Frances, and only Frances. Those pictures were never supposed to leave the home or printed in numerous copies and handed out like flyers to any person in England who has two hands to grab them. Elsie wiped her palms against the sides of her dress, hoping her clammy hands wouldn't leave an imprint of how anxious she was feeling. She couldn't let her nervousness show. She couldn't let people see her waver over the authenticity of her photographs. If they saw her panic, then it would be over. Not only would her name be sullied but so would her entire family, Elsie couldn't bare the shame that would fall onto them because of her. Oh! Why did her mother have to show those pictures to Edward Gardner, leader of the Theosophical Society? Elsie did have (very little) respect for the man despite the fact that he was a complete ninny. It took guts of steel to promote her 'genuine' photographs of fairies and argue against every photography expert to assert their authenticity. Gardner believed himself to be right. Elsie knew he couldn't have been more wrong. Literally, her very first photo was taken with the Cottingley beck in the background, the water was moving at a brisk and rapid pace and thus became a blur upon the glass-plate negatives while the fairies in the foreground, whose wings were drawn as if in flight, were brisk and clean cut on the negatives. That should have been a dead giveaway that her photographs were anything but genuine. Even her father, knowing how artistic and mischievous his daughter is, claimed the fairies were made of cardboard and thought nothing of it more than a prank. But Elsie, oh how Elsie now regretted the feeling of wanting to prove her father wrong and continue the game at home, she took another photograph and then another just to show him so.
'Fairies are certainly real. I see them in the beck all the time, splashing in the water and climbing in the trees. Children are very keen to fairies. Father, didn't you ever see them when you were little?' She'd say.
"Me a child? No, my dear. I did not see them when I was little because I was obviously born as a middle-aged man." He'd reply back, scratching his head and narrowing his eyes at the photographs. Wondering what part of it was a fake. Wondering how Elsie pulled it off.
Elsie never once squealed her secret to her family and watched happily as Frances reveled in the joy of magic. The smile upon her little sister's face prompted Elsie to venture back to the beck and continue the charade again and again. That loon, Edward Gardner, did everything in his power to make it known to everyone that the supernatural was here in England (the only supernatural thing about the world was him for believing the antics of a sixteen year old girl).
There were always moments when Elsie wanted to let it all out. 'The photos aren't real! They're fakes!' But every time she worked up the nerve to say something, she'd soon lose the will to even try. This was one of those moments. The party Elsie wished she was not attending was hosted by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The man, who was once a struggling ophthalmologist, is now widely known for his novels but is infamously renowned for creating the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes who lives on 221B Baker Street. The people adored Sherlock so much they created a museum in his honor. The Queen adored Arthur so much she knighted him. Elsie was intimidated by the author so much she couldn't refuse an invitation to his party in her honor (When Elsie first read Baker Street, she's embarrassed to say that she instinctively thought of Sherlock stuffing his face with muffins. Another secret she is reluctant to reveal.)
Just as Arthur was known for creating the greatest detective that has ever lived on pages, he is also known for being a devout spiritualist. Believing in ghosts, apparitions, demons, and of course fairies. People always wondered why the man turned to spiritualism. Some say it was because of losing his son and brother and many loved ones in the war, that he wanted to grasp onto the belief that his loved ones existed in an afterlife. An afterlife that was waiting for him too. Some say, he started to take an interest in spiritualism after he arrived home (in a panic) from a dinner party that got too out of hand that was held by some Earl at some manor in some part of the countryside. Arthur never talked about it much, only that the experience changed him. Well, many people didn't believe that one outlandish dinner party could momentously change a person's beliefs, so they gravitated towards the notion that it was the loss of his loved ones that affected him. Just as so many others sympathized in his losses.
A bell rung.
Dinner was finally, and thankfully, served. Everyone took their seats at the table. The table was garnished with porcelain plates and saucers, glasses that sparkled as if stars were melted into them. There were three forks to the left of her plate and there even more to her right. Along with many spoons and knives. Elsie inconspicuously peered over to the guest sitting next to her (who happened to be the old woman with the shawl of a fox around her neck) and mimicked which spoon she picked up when salad was served. Ah, through the process of elimination Elsie could deduce that one starts from the outside and then works towards the plate. She was her very own detective. Though, she would have made a silly one. If Frances were here, both girls would be balancing their salad spoons on their noses. Sadly, Frances did not have the energy to come to the party. Frances asked Elsie to bring her back a piece of cake and Elsie said she would try her best.
Arthur was a tall man with a very thick mustache above his lips. If Frances were here, Elsie would have joked to her sister that anyone who touches his mustache would receive ten years of good luck and even greater hair. Sadly, Elsie did not think the old woman sitting beside her would appreciate her humor, so she remained quiet in the matter entirely. He clinked his glass with a spoon and gathered everyone's attention in the process. Everyone turned to him, including Elsie and the old woman with the shawl of a fox around her neck. Chatter among the guests stopped as they waited for him to speak.
Arthur gave his toasts to his guests and thanked them for joining him on this very special night. But most of all, he thanked Elsie, the guest of honor. Arthur once stopped believing in the miraculous ever since his son Kinsley died, but for Elsie to show that there is goodness and light in this dark world—well that was a miracle in its own right. The guests cheered and Elsie had no choice but to smile and nod and fake it.
Soup was served. A butler placed the bowl of a light vegetable broth in front of Elsie. She saw her reflection warped in the green, clear liquid. Her face twisted and turned among the carrots and potatoes and lentils that floated among the stew. Evermoving with the motion of her spoon. All she saw was a girl that was being rewarded for lying. Her stomach churned where her anxiety continued to grow. How could Elsie, a country girl, denounce the intellectual Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who supported her—believed in her charade time and time again? She couldn't bear to look at herself, not even in a simple bowl of soup.
"Well, this is perfect timing. I came here to talk about our engagement anyway. I want to call it off." Elizabeth said as she stood before both her ex-fiancé and Elsie.
Elsie, infuriated, pushed herself off Ciel and marched straight towards Bardroy while hurriedly curtsying at Elizabeth. Elizabeth was a noble woman, and Elsie knew she was only a simple county girl. No doubt Elizabeth wanted to sear Elsie over a bonfire for approaching Ciel. Then again, maybe it was Ciel whom Elizabeth was going to roast for two timing the both of them. Regardless, Elsie's mind was preoccupied with more important things. Tommy. "Take me to my friend." She said to Bardroy.
Bardroy nodded. He swung the hammer over his shoulder as the toothpick in his mouth bobbed up and down. "Right this way."
The chef with the bloody apron led Elsie to the cellar where Tommy was hopefully still alive and not beaten to a pulp. Elsie hoped that the red stains on Bardroy's apron wasn't Tommy's blood. She hurriedly prayed—screamed—inside herself to God Tommy was safe.
Sebastian poured the tea and left the cups on the table, despite knowing they would remain untouched. Soon, he left Ciel and Elizabeth alone in the room and waited outside, just in case his master would need him. Or stop Elizabeth from breaking everyone bone in his body.
Ciel huffed as he picked up the white sheets on the floor and tossed them on the bed. Elizabeth scuffed her heals against the wooden panels as she walked towards Ciel. Every scuff reverberated across the room.
Ciel spoke, "You have every right to call off the engagement—"
She slapped him across the face. The pain rung through his cheek, stinging him. Ciel kept his lips shut. He truly deserved that strike. "I deserved that—"
Elizabeth struck on his cheek again. Ciel could have sworn he heard Sebastian snickering in the hallway.
"You deserve that and more." Elizabeth removed her glove and no faster did Ciel move at least five feet away from her. He was behind the settee now. For defense. Not that he needed it.
"Elizabeth, let's be cordial." Ciel said, standing behind the settee. For protection.
"You want to be cordial? When did you think it was a good time to start being cordial with me? After you proposed to another behind my back?" Elizabeth swarmed behind the settee and Ciel flew across the room.
"I'm sorry for your distress. Truly, I never meant to hurt you."
"You're not sorry for me. You're sorry that I found out!" Elizabeth dashed across the room; a side table knocked over as she bustled by. A picture frame fell onto the carpet. Luckily, it didn't break, however the same could not be said about Ciel.
Sebastian heard another crash then two and checked the time on his pocket watch. It was half past two. It was taking them longer to make up than he anticipated. Mey-rin walked by with a broom and dustpan and wondered if it was necessary for her to clean up the mess.
A cat yowled in the room. Sebastian had no idea were that came from. He advised Mey-rin that now was not the best of times to interrupt the two ex-fiancés. They were clearly consumed in a heated debate that possessed all of their beings. Elizabeth's wanted to smack Ciel's into another country, which was very obvious. Just before Mey-rin left, Sebastian instructed her to leave the broom and dustpan with him. He would be needing it later.
Ciel spoke. "No, that is not the case. I should have taken responsibly and talked to you since I began to have doubts about our engagement."
"How long were you having doubts!?"
"I don't know, let me think. Maybe it was when your mother forced my signature to our engagement contract when I was 10 years old!"
"Because you were so reluctant to sign! If my mother didn't give you a push, you would have never signed."
"I was 10. Pardon me that I more interested in managing my companies and rebuilding my manor than I was in marriage. And I am not the only the one to blame. While I was finalizing trading deals in India this past winter, you were getting very close to the Prince of Portugal in Barcelona. I was wondering where you went when housewives began pulling me aside during Sunday mass releveling in the gossip they were driveling over my fiancé with a prince of all people, feigning concern over my failing marriage that has yet to begin. Their acting was very believable, for a moment I could have sworn they cared." Men who only knew Ciel by name would come up to him and mock him for failing to keep his fiancé in bed. Women would walk up to Elizabeth and chastise her for failing to keep her groom in her grasp. Strangers they never knew began gossiping about them, and even to their faces. It was shame, that Elizabeth and Ciel's private lives did not belong solely to themselves anymore.
Elizabeth gasped. "My relationship with the Príncipe Real de Portugal e dos Algarves," Elizabeth accentuated the title. "Is strictly platonic."
"That's not what the housewives were saying in church." Ciel let out a laugh of disdain. "Vous avez partagé des macarons avec vos lèvres."
Elizabeth fumed. Anger simmered inside of her soul. She barked back at him in French. "Ce n'est pas comme si tu allais les partager avec moi. Vous les hogez tous pour vous-même."
Ciel couldn't help, but nod. She was right.
"I never knew you were one to listen to gossip—to take it seriously." Elizabeth sneered. "That's very lowly of you. You should believe me. I am your fiancé—was your fiancé. I am your first cousin." Elizabeth corrected herself.
Ciel mumbled, "and that is precisely the reason we shouldn't be married in the first place."
"Then blame our parents who groomed us to believe marriage between cousins was a suitable arrangement." The practice of marrying in the family was becoming old among the masses. People were beginning to see that it wasn't the best of ideas.
"Well, mine are dead. Who should I telephone beyond the grave for questioning?"
Elizabeth sighed. "Ciel, I didn't mean to offend you."
"Oh, you have not offended me. Not at all," Ciel said, picking up the picture frame that fell on the floor. It was a photograph of his mother, sitting up straight and holding a bouquet of flowers picked from the garden. Wisterias. Ciel looked outside the window and saw them in the gardens. After all this time, they stayed. Persisting through destruction and hell fire to remain where they are. It was just like the memory of his mother. The years may continue to fly by, but she is always there in his memory. Over the years, he has thought of her less, of their tragedy, someday he hoped to forget the pain entirely. Not yet, it seemed. Ciel placed the photograph back on the side table and thought nothing more about wisterias.
Elizabeth breathed as she reexamined the room. Realizing the mess she has created in her wake. The fabric of her gown ruffled, and her heels quickly scuffed against the floor as she pushed the fallen side table upright again. Ciel helped her midway. Then in a moment of silence, an unspoken command prompted them to clean up the room.
Elizabeth picked up a pillow and placed it back on the settee. "I think I was more in love with idea of being a bride than caring about the groom I was going to marry." She laughed, softly.
"Then buy yourself a wedding gown and wear it whenever you please, there's no rule that one must be in the process of marrying to buy a gown."
Elizabeth laughed. "It's a shame that such beautiful gowns are only worn once in a woman's lifetime. I wouldn't do that; I'd end up wearing mine every day."
"It would suit a beautiful woman such as yourself."
After they cleaned the room back to its former and cleaner state, the two of them sat on the settee and this time talked. Without slapping the other on the face.
Ciel folded his arms and spoke freely. "Your mother didn't push me—"
Elizabeth gave him a look.
"—that much—to give my signature for the contract. My father wanted this marriage to happen, I was honoring his will. And you honored your mother and father as well."
Elizabeth placed her feet on top of the coffee table, which was very un-lady like, but Ciel did the same. They can be un-lady like together. "My parents wanted what's best for me. Which means to find me a well to do—and handsomely rich—suitor and marry me off to produce sons. Little boys are told they are can anything they want when they grow up, while I was trained to become a wife ever since I was a little girl. To be the wife of the Queen's watchdog. To be the wife of some man. To be a wife. That was my only job in life. For me and for so many little girls. Being a wife is a job now apparently."
"If I was a girl, I'd feel miserable too if that was my only career option in life. It all seems so bleak." Ciel deadpanned.
"Oh, but women have the potential to be the wives of so many men with different occupations. Wife of a barber, wife of a banker, wife of tailor, wife of a fishmonger—"
"I would advise any little girl, when given the opportunity, to not be the wife of a fishmonger if they detest fish for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Especially ones caught in the River Thames."
Elizabeth snorted. The River Thames was not the cleanest of rivers, and the horrendous stench could even be smelled all throughout parliament. Parliament regularly closed meetings when the stench was unbearable. Newspapers had the ingenious idea of calling it The Great Stink. No one disagreed against the name.
Ciel spoke, "Elsie was right. Maybe becoming a nun is the best thing for girls."
"At least we wouldn't have to be stuck with men we didn't love for the rest of our lives. No offense."
"None taken."
"Ciel. In truth, I must apologize for arriving at your manor unannounced and for slapping you across the face—twice."
"Quite alright. I can't even feel the right side of my face anymore."
"I already had doubts, just like you, but my grandmother came to me in tears this morning. She apparently withheld the news of seeing you and Miss Elsie intimately together in public, at the Opera, and she wanted to spare my feelings. However, while sparring my feelings she told everyone within her social circle and then came to me to discuss my marriage saying how it was 'ruined by some lowly tramp' and then she proceeded to blame me for not being a proper woman and losing you. I'm ashamed to say that it boiled my blood hearing her speak to me that way."
Ciel gave a sour face. "How dare she say that to you. You have more class than any of those women who tell you otherwise." He ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I should have told you sooner to spare you from your grandmother's tyranny."
"Nanny calmed down after I told her I'm very close with the prince of France. You should have seen the grin on her face. She's overjoyed that I'm 'climbing my way up the social ladder,' I neglected to tell her that the prince is only interested in the intimate company of men, but that is a tale for another time her. But I will say Ciel, that I am infuriated in you for not telling me sooner. You could have spared me the tedious task of visiting wedding venues for three months." Elizabeth was trying to stall the wedding just as much as Ciel was.
"I'm sorry, but I did enjoy sampling wedding cakes."
She tossed a pillow at his head. He caught it before it smacked him on his cheek.
"Cousin, I do care for you, but I am beyond ecstatic to confess that I don't have to marry you." Elizabeth smiled, radiantly.
Any man upon hearing this would be gravely insulted, sulk for the entire day, and would cry in secret only in the company of his mother. Ciel, on the other hand, couldn't have been more thrilled. "I'm glad I don't have to marry you either."
"I don't love you!"
"Neither do I!"
Together, they celebrated in the joyous news that both are free to marry and not marry whomever they choose. Elizabeth then went on to explain how traveling has become her new love. Portugal was simply the first of her adventures around Europe. She would love to travel to Asia and ride elephants again in India. Prince Soma was gracious to let her ride his elephant around his summer estate in England. She will bring him curry buns when she visits him in his home country. After chatting she brushed off her dress and made her way to the door, with Sebastian on the other side, who may or may not have been eavesdropping the entire time. Elizabeth wished to finally meet the young lady who stole her cousin's heart. But even more so, if not today, warn Elsie of the perils she faced if she were to one day become the wife of the Queen's Watchdog. Elizabeth knew the perils. She endured countless years of training for that sole purpose. What an empty purpose that turned out to be.
Elizabeth walked down the halls, heels clicking against the marble floors. Her steps felt light, as if she were weightless, unbound to the earth. She was free, and now she will soar.
The corridor was dark and damp.
It chilled Elsie right down to her bones.
Bardroy, the chef (who looked more like he delved into dungeon torture), guided Elsie to the wine cellar—where Tommy was being held. Apparently, it was for his own good and for everyone's safety within the manor. Tommy did try to assassinate the Earl of Phantomhive. Elsie couldn't believe that Tommy—her Tommy—would do that. It wasn't like him. She knew he would never hold a gun let alone shoot someone. Considering he was afraid of guns. Someone must have put him up to it. That was the only explanation Elsie would accept. Someone who wanted Ciel dead.
They stopped at a large, wooden door. It was locked. Bardroy fished for a pair of keys from his pockets, which revealed a metal bracelet jingling with dozens of rusted keys, large and small alike. Rattling in his hands as he tried one by one to jingle them into the keyhole. Sometimes Bardroy forgot which key belonged to which door. Why were there so many keys yet so few doors in the manor which he used? Half of the keys on the bracelet belonged to Finny, who manages the garage, stables, and many sheds spread across the manor that require many keys.
Elsie was convinced she would have better luck opening the door herself with her bare hands.
Bardroy let out a whistle of triumph when the lock finally clicked.
Bardroy held the door for Elsie, "ladies first."
She ran in.
He closed the door behind her.
And locked it.
Elsie looked back at him.
"Door must be locked at all times. Master's orders." Bardroy said, justifying his actions.
Elsie saw him—and ran. Tommy was lying down in a bed, stationed in front of racks of aged red and white wine. Clumps of cobwebs cluing in the corners of the ceiling, spiders building web upon web. There were bandages around his leg where the bullet hit him, and he was handcuffed to the post beside the bed. Tommy was well taken care of, but he was still chained down like a prisoner.
Tommy's eyes lit up with tenderness, "Elsie!" Without thinking he attempted to jump out of bed, but his chains rattled and pulled his arm and he was reminded once more that he was bound to his bed.
She rushed into his arms and embraced him. Feeling all her troubles vanishing in his arms. Her Tommy, her gentle Tommy, was still alive. That was all that mattered to her. In the moment, she pressed her lips upon his own and called his name, sweetly like a nightingale. How stupid she has been, for being swayed by her feelings when Tommy has always been beside her. In that moment, Tommy flushed and shamelessly thought he should be in danger more often.
When Tommy was holding her, finally in the company of a friend he could trust, he felt as if he could breathe again. Elsie had that effect on him. He cupped her face, worry stricken. "Are you alright, Elsie? Did he do anything to you?" His concern over his own situation lacked in comparison to hers. His love for her, blindsided his own pain.
Elsie shook her head, choking down tears. "No no, I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about. First, you're shot and now you're chained like a dog in someone's wine cellar. What happened, Tommy? I know this isn't you. Please tell me," Elsie whispered. "Is someone blackmailing you? I know for certain you would never take up a gun at anyone. Whoever it is, the yard will put them behind bars."
Tommy held her hands within his own. She made him feel safe. "Elsie, I don't know what's going on. Honest. I was working in my bank, it was night, and all I remember is a strange man coming in—he wore an emerald ring—he was talking in a Scottish brogue, my employer meant missing, and then I'm here. Elsie—" Tommy's voice wobbled, more than he would have liked it too. "I don't remember how I got here, I was in London one moment and in the next I was holding a gun and was about to—" he didn't want to finish that sentence. His voice was weak, breaking. "Is there something wrong with me? Have I gone mad? Oh Lord, have mercy on me—"
Elsie cupped her hands around his cheeks. She wiped away a tear with her thumb that rolled down his cheek. She spoke calmly. Confidently. "You are not mad. You are gentle and kind and sharp as a whip." Something clicked inside her mind. "You said you spoke to a strange man? He wore an emerald ring and spoke with a Scottish brogue."
Tommy nodded, "Yes, he said his name was—"
"Rowan." They both said in unison and stared at each other in astonishment that they both encountered the same man in the past few weeks. Anger simmered inside of Elsie—but also fear, Rowan not only went after her, but he found her dear friend and coerced him into killing Ciel. Why? What would he gain from Ciel's death? Rowan proposed to Elsie. He said he wanted to marry her. Did he force Tommy to kill Ciel out of jealousy? Elsie wasn't sure what to make of the situation, all she knew is that she and Tommy had to get out of this manor as soon as possible.
"I'm going to get you out of here." Elsie said.
"You can't do that." From the dark corners of the cellar, Bardroy approached with a knife stained red. Dripping. Elsie saw a bucket, not too far away from her reach, she was ready to chuck it at him. She was through with fanatical men.
Bardroy panicked when she picked up the bucket and assumed a fighting stance. He backed away when he saw that the bucket was aimed strategically at his head, point blank. He bent down and picked up a silver platter, which revealed a very red rhubarb pie. He grinned, "Before you leave, have a slice of my rhubarb pie. Just made it this morning. Your friend Tommy already had some."
"And it was delicious," Tommy said, gleefully. From the moment of his stay, the staff treated him with nothing but hospitality, despite being confined to the cellar. But they made it very comfortable.
Elsie looked at the pie then to the red stained apron then back at the pie again. Oh, so the red stains weren't blood! And Bardroy stated that the hammer was used to fix one of the legs on the bed, since it was wobbling unevenly. Elsie placed the bucket back on the stone, cold floor and realized that it was infinitely rude to assault a man who was offering you (delicious) pie with a bucket. Elsie thought she understood men decently well, but through this whole ordeal, she knew she did not understand them at all. They were a complete mystery she did not want to delve into understanding, ever.
Bardroy seated himself down on a chair, backwards. He's seen many bullet wounds before in the war and tended to Tommy's sufficiently. He said the boy was lucky that the wound wasn't fatal. He even said Tommy must have caught Master Ciel in a good mood, if that was the case!
Elsie and Tommy weren't laughing.
Bardroy gulped and then instructed Tommy to change the bandages with clean ones and wash the wound at least once a day. Bardroy has seen more soldiers die from disease and infections rather than fighting on the battlefield itself. The horrors performed by doctors on injured soldiers—holding down screaming soldiers as their limbs were amputated, reusing sullied bandages between soldiers that quickly spread infection and turned healthy boys sickly, transferring puss from open wounds to a healthy soldier's because it was believed to have 'healing' properties. Thank God for the work of Florence Nightingale, the lady with the lamp, a woman that saved more lives in war than any politician behind the safety of a podium could ever do.
Someone knocked at the door.
Bardroy went to open it and there stood a young woman with blond hair that coiled like grape veins. The possessed the grace of a queen, and the beauty of a goddess. She whimsically smiled, as if spun from threads of glittering gold. She passed the chef and made a direst beeline towards Elsie. The clicking of her heels reverberated against the stone walls, becoming louder and louder as she approached Elsie (suddenly Elsie thought she needed the same bucket she wanted to chuck at Bardroy, but now there was only a slice of pie in her lap. And pie wasn't threatening. Pie was sweet and savory and was destined to be enjoyed in the company of good friends, it wasn't meant for assaulting foes or the woman who's fiancé you cheated on. Compared to all weapons in the face of dire dilemmas; pie was a joke.)
As soon as Elsie was finished pondering the laughability of pie as a means to defend herself, Elizabeth was standing right in front of her. Elizabeth Midford, the fiancé of the man she had the regrettable misfortune of falling in love with, did the last thing she thought was possible.
Elizabeth smiled at her with a sweet tenderness that Elsie never in her wildest dreams expected, "thank you."
The Phantomhive manor was still and quiet at night. It would have been quiet enough to hear the hush whispers of spirits that haunt the halls during the witching hours, but the stroke of pen, the scraping of a metal nib upon paper, and the clink of the nib against a well of ink silenced any whispering ghosts and their idle chatter. The tapping of fain against the windows silenced all restless spirits. Ciel was soon mesmerized by the rain as a far off memory soon began to sweep through his mind. Like water slowly filling up a pale. It was coming back to him slowly. How could he forget. When he was six, no, seven. His mother and him went out to the gardens and built a fairy house. It was made of paper and flowers and Ciel drew the loveliest pictures of flowers on the inside of the home. He even placed cookies and nuts on the doll house's kitchen table and a small tea pot with two cups, in case the fairies wanted to invite over guests, that were small enough for little fairy hands. His mother strung bells on the rooftop, and they jingled a lovely tune. They left the little house outside in the garden, but the rain heavily came down that night. Pouring and bitter cold. By morning, the house was washed away, of course Ciel was no longer sad about it (nor did he care), but the memory made him think of his mother. And that did make him sad. Only a little.
The door creaked open.
Ciel turned his head towards the door upon the intruder. He didn't say anything, other than hum a low note—in annoyance. The intruder to enter his study was no one of importance. It was Sebastian Michaelis. Known as a butler by many but known as dog by Ciel only.
Sebastian surveyed the dark room, noting the lack of light. There were only a few candles lit. Small yellow flames that flickered their shadows over Ciel's desk, over his paperwork. Ciel dipped his pen in a well of ink and continued his work again. Recently, England has been starstruck by the advantages of electricity that can be utilized inside the home. In order to keep up with the times, the manor installed electronic circuits and light bulbs throughout every room. Now work may be conducted at later hours without the use of candles and matches—or fear of catching any of the furniture on fire by accident. Despite these wonderful innovations, Ciel was still using candles.
"Master, allow me to turn on the lights. You're going to strain your vision." Sebastian made a motion to do so, but Ciel was caught in thought and spoke in a low husky voice while his eyes remained glued on his work.
"There is no need." Ciel dipped his quill pen again. The nib clinked against the well's ridge. "Those electronic lights are too bright for me. The candles are fine."
"Very well."
"While you're here, pour me coffee."
Sebastian was a perfect servant; he knew his master's needs before his master even had to ask. A pot of coffee was already there on the table. Along with a container of cream and sugar.
"Don't forget the cream." Ciel leaned back in his chair, exhausted. He was very, very tired especially after today.
"You won't be able to sleep if you down another cup."
"I don't wish to sleep. I wish to finish my work that had the misfortune of piling up while I was attending to other matters."
Sebastian raised his eyebrow, barely, and stopped pouring the cream. "By other matters, you are referring to your canceled engagement with Elizabeth?"
Ciel peered over at Sebastian and eyed the cup of coffee. He said, softly. "More."
More cream was poured into the cup, which was then placed into Ciel's hands. Which then made its way to his lips then down his throat. Usually people became agreeable after they drank their coffee. Sadly, Ciel was the type of person who remained his wretched self even after drinking coffee. Ciel called anyone who proclaimed coffee as a cure for grumpiness a humbug. As if one cup would turn him into a pleasant person and make him a saint. Although it did awaken his senses and, in his opinion, made him a better charlatan.
Sebastian folded a napkin and placed it on Ciel's desk. "Elizabeth seemed to take the news very well."
"She slapped me across the face. Twice."
"Considering the circumstances she could have done far worse."
Ciel could have sworn that his cheek was still sore. He sipped his coffee, nodding silently in agreement. "Next time I see her, I'll thank her for her gracious mercy."
"Indeed, Lady Elizabeth possesses the gifts of both compassion and generosity."
"Yes, she could have broken everyone bone in my body. But didn't. Although, I am safe to assume the same cannot be said about her mother." Ciel lifted his head up briefly, thinking. "Send Aunt Midford a telegram expressing my sincere condolences. I'll see her once her rage has simmered down—if it does."
Sebastian took a mental note of that. "Should I send another to Miss Elsie as well?"
For a moment, Ciel's eyes both widened to the size of saucers and then he slumped his head down on his desk and groaned miserably over his paperwork. Sebastian moved the ink well, so it wouldn't accidentally be knocked over. Elizabeth met with Elsie after they officially ended their engagement. Ciel didn't hear much of the conservation between the two ladies, Elsie took Tommy home a short while later, only that they mentioned Ciel's name more than once, and that they were laughing. He didn't wish to know what they were speaking of, only that it caused him to not be able to sleep tonight.
"I presume that is a no."
"No—Yes—eh, no," Ciel wiped his hands down his face, once. "Do you think Elsie is as compassionate and generous as Elizabeth?"
"My Lord, the human body possesses 206 bones. That's how many of yours will be broken."
Ciel's head made a loud thud against the desk. Sebastian took the ink well off the desk this time. "That's what I thought."
Sebastian placed the ink well beside the tray and immediately slammed his gloved hand against the desk. Ciel jerked his head up, shocked.
"Yes, out with it then." Ciel barked.
"My Lord, forgive my intrusion on your personal life, but I help you govern your personal life and without me it would be more of a mess than what it already is. You told Elsie you fell in love with her, took her out in public on numerous occasions—to the theatre, 'fairy hunting' at her residence in Cottingley which was nothing more than a plight to unveil her fraudulence."
Ciel sipped his coffee as he hid behind it.
Sebastian went on, there was a lot to discuss, "to the zoo, danced and proclaimed your love and sweet delights to her under a willow tree—"
"H-how did you know that part?" Ciel flushed. Ciel did not tell Sebastian that part of the story.
"It is no importance how I found out," Sebastian countered. "You did all these things while you were previously engaged to Elizabeth. The engagement may be officially broken, but you are a fool."
"What did you expect me to do?" Ciel countered. "When I was with Elsie, under the willow tree, which was a private affair," Ciel accentuated. "I told her I would cut off my engagement with Elizabeth and I did. I kept my word."
Sebastian combed his hand through his jet black hair, if Ciel wasn't his master he would have slapped him. "Yes, I know, and it was right after you told her you were already betrothed to your fiancé which was planned for years," Sebastian accentuated. "This may not have been a crucial detail in your mind, but usually gentlemen do not court ladies while they are already betrothed to be married. Your feeling for Elsie may be true, but you showed your lack of respect for Elizabeth for withholding the truth. Thank the God which I do not worship, that the feelings were mutual and you two ended on good terms. However, did I neglect to teach you this crucial lesson? Though I would think it is common etiquette at this point."
"Taught me anything? You're a demon, what do you possibly know about courting. Let alone love! When I order you to find criminals, you find them. When I order you dig up corpses, you dig them up. When I order you to serve me, you serve me without question."
"Well, My Lord, I do all of those things. Magnificently, if I do say so myself. And to serve you means to help as is expected of a Phantomhive butler which means calling you out on your inexcusable behavior. Honesty is the foundation in any relationship. I have existed for more than a millennium and though the world and the people within it have changed, it is a universal truth that no one enjoys having their hearts broken by someone they deeply love. Including Miss Elsie."
The candle lights flickered a pale yellow. Silence swelled the room until Ciel spoke in a somber whisper. Not even the ghosts hiding in the family portraits could hear. He spoke a truth he deeply regretted. "I broke her heart."
"Yes, you did. Of all the ways to insult ladies, you take first place. You fool." Sebastian vigorously pulled out a napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it beside the coffee cup.
"Every time when I was with Elsie…I forgot about everything. I only thought of her and her company, no one else. She made me…happy." Ciel wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. He caught his reflection staring back at him. One blue eye and the other which reflected the contract that would lead him to his undoing. How many more years did he have left until the contract was completed? One, five, ten? Ciel didn't harp on it.
Sebastian lifted his hands off the desk and adjusted his cufflinks. "This is the happiest you have been in all my years of serving you."
"Shocking, isn't it. It's very unlike me." Ciel's thumb traced the edge of the cup. His thoughts began to wander down a stream of consciousness that left his heart feeling warm, as they usually did when he thought of Elsie. "If the rays of the sun chose to walk among the earth in one person, then that would be Elsie. She is light incarnate; at times I wonder if it is alright that I may walk amongst her side. If she walks among the clouds, she does so with grace, even the stars would know her name. Know her kindness, her beauty, her stubbornness." He smiled and then his mouth slowly formed the words before his mind could process them. "I love her."
Sebastian stared at Ciel, silently. Love. It was a special kind of stupidity, one that demons had the fortune of never feeling. "You should be telling her all of this."
Ciel leaned back against his chair. "It will not make any difference now. She has no reason to forgive me." He swirled his chair towards the window. He saw the pitch black world that laid beyond the glass. Wondering what Elsie was doing at this hour, probably sleeping away her heartache or cursing his name. Ciel had no reason to forgive himself either. There was no excuse for him to toy with her heart. He lost the love of his life. He deserved it.
And yet he wanted her back. All of her to himself.
Sebastian was the definition of a perfect servant. He knew his master's desires before his master told him himself. He removed his white glove, revealing his bare hand that bore the mark of the contract between him and his master. Sebastian is bound by the contract to fulfill his master's wishes—whatever they may be. Sebastian reached out his hand towards the candles and the weak, yellow flames soon changed their hue to a dark and somber blue. Ciel was unfazed as shadows took over the room, withering and growing. Enigmas that lurked only in the night festered in his private study. "My Lord, if you truly wish for the girl to be yours then all you need to do is ask—"
With a snap of his fingers, shadows took form and there on the settee laid Elsie whose hair was unbound and sprawled across her shoulders and down her back, covering her bare breasts. Her hair ascended over her voluptuous curves, leaving strands that covered some areas and others that revealed everything entirely. Pink and supple. Her complexion somehow sparkled as if the moonshine blessed her itself. Elsie breathed. Her chest rising and falling. Her lips were soft just the same as Ciel has seen them on his beloved and even in his dreams. Every fiber in Ciel wanted him to press his lips on top of hers. To embrace her warmth. To hold her in his arms. To touch her skin. All of her. He wanted all of her.
"Ask and you will receive." Sebastian purred.
Her legs slowly moved, withering in pleasure, yet her knees remained shut together. She emitted a laugh—that sung like the ringing of silver bells. 'Come to bed with me. Keep me warm.'
The shadowy figure's eyes were faint and glassy. Ciel, without a second more, picked up his pen and held in air and waited for Sebastian to bring the ink well back to him so he could dip his quill again. Ciel resumed his work again, annoyed this time. "Enough of your games and leave me alone to my work."
"As you wish." Sebastian bowed and the shadowy figure of Elsie vanished like smoke in thin air. The room returned to its previous state of order without any bare ladies to distract any young lords.
Just as Sebastian was about to leave, Ciel stopped him. "I told you when we first met. Illusions mean nothing to me. Elsie is more complicated than one of your shadow puppets. Either she accepts me or she does not, and I respect her decision. I do not respect her decision by mucking around with a copy of her."
Sebastian turned towards his master. His smile radiated mockery, but also sincere truth. "I have lived for more than a millennium and have seen the world and the people change within it. Even though time has passed, people still cling to anything that can offer solace. To have something close to real, even if it is only an illusion, nothing more than shadows and glamor, offers more happiness than they could find anywhere else."
"And are they happy? Truly happy with just an illusion?"
"None of whom I crafted the illusions for have told me otherwise."
"Well, I care not for it. That is not where my happiness lies."
"Wise decision."
"First you call me a fool and then you call me wise. Make up your mind, demon."
"My opinion of you is everchanging, but I will keep that in mind."
Ciel mumbled, sarcastically. "That is what every employer wants to hear from their servants."
Before Sebastian left, Ciel told him to fetch him another pot of coffee. Ciel had a long night ahead him. When Ciel was left alone with his thoughts he truly thought of an unfortunate thing. Sebastian was really the only one he could confess everything to inside of the manor. It might have been an exaggeration to say that Sebastian was Ciel's only friend that stayed by his side, always loyal and faithful to him and only him. Never betraying him in any way. Always protecting him from the dangers beyond the hills of the manor all the way to English court. It was a pity really that this friendship had to be bought, albeit with his soul. Ciel pondered if that was truly the price for unbreakable loyalty. In marriage, partners give all of themselves away to their partners. Ciel lamented that he could never forfeit all of himself to Elsie. That he has nothing of true importance, not even his soul, to give.
The plague made its way inside the castle.
It first took the servants, then members of court, and finally the king—the very heart of the kingdom. Disease is equal in all those it infects. It does not discriminate between status nor class. It had no qualms against infecting the Queen, thorns of death gripped her throat and slowly consumed her. Withering her away.
The plague was given a name by the survivors who watched their loved ones perish from the disease: Rosula. Named after the roses that bloom from the corpses after taking a Fae's life. First the victims cough up rose petals, red as blood. Then the plague is cruel and plays an awful trick on its victims. The petals subside, and the victim's strength returns, but only before the stems and thorns break through the skin. Agonizingly bleeding the victim from the inside out. The final stage of the plague is when the crimson roses bloom. Death quickly follows and the roses consume the corpse in feverish carnage.
The same fate awaits all roses, they bud, bloom, and die. The Fae were not accustomed to this awful fate—nor did that ever want to be.
Where there are roses, there is death. Where there is a Queen lying on her death bed, there is her son kneeling beside her. Holding her hand.
Arawn held his mother's hand in his own. Tears streaming down his cheeks. He was not a man; he was only a child mourning the loss of his father and now his mother. The final phase of the plague was not contagious, as far as the doctors were able to deduce. There was no harm in Arawn, first born son and heir to the throne, saying his final goodbye to the queen.
Tears warped his vision. The world blurred around him. He saw his mother and held tightly onto her hand as if that was enough to keep her away from death. He held onto that notion and wouldn't let her go. He couldn't let her go. Thorns that broke through the Queen's skin struck through Arawn's hand. His own blood dripped with his mother's. So be it. The pain of a single thorn did not compare to the pain of losing a mother.
Rowan was there in the Queen's chambers as well, further way from the queen and Arawn. Pain ached his heart, but it was not for the Queen. His heartache only stemmed from Arawn's sadness. His older brother was in pain and he could do nothing about it. Arawn may have been his brother, but the Queen was not his mother. She never treated him like a son. It was only through Arawn that Rowan was adopted into the royal family. The queen could never accept an impure Fae as her child, but she did tolerate Rowan—for Arawn's sake. Rowan was still insignificant in the Queen's eyes, even in her final moments amongst the living. So Rowan stood silently in the back of the chambers as he watched the queen's body and Arawn's heart bleed.
Arawn's hair glistened like moonshine just like his mother's. Strands of pure silver and fallen snow. Both of their sapphire eyes were blessed by the same shooting stars. The queen sucked in a breath; it was becoming harder for her to breathe.
Arawn's voice wobbled as he cried on her bedsheets. "Don't leave me, mother. Please don't leave me."
The Queen's breathing was shallow, and her eyes were beginning to fade. Those blue orbs of sapphire were becoming dull. Her magic was fading. The Queen sighed and used the last of her strength to speak to her beloved child. She had the gift of seeing the future and she told her son just so. "My precious starlight, you will have a beautiful day tomorrow."
Arawn shook his head, gravely. "Only if you are there with me."
The Queen smiled. Her lips quivered. Tears welled in her eyes. She wished that were true. "That is," She breathed, pausing to catch her breath. "A wonderful dream. Tell me about it."
Arawn's voice was weak and his crying didn't stop. He told his mother that they will walk in the gardens tomorrow, they will run through the maze, Arawn would forget which way he turned and inevitably become lost. Then he would call out for his mother and magically she would find him. She will always come help him when he is in need. She will always come find him when he calls out to her. He never thought of the day when she would stop coming. He wasn't prepared for that day. He wasn't ready to let her go. Not now.
This was his final moment with his mother, but he talked of their future. He talked about her reprimanding him for sneaking away apple tarts from the kitchen chefs before dinner. He talked of her flying with him over Fellia's Peak and the Sea of Crusoe. She will fly beyond the clouds with her magnificent wings and he would follow. He talked of her telling him stories that only she could tell within the whole kingdom. He talked of their future, which was long and happy. A future that lasted hundreds of years. It was not a future that would end now. Because he was still holding her hand and she was still here with him.
For a moment, the Queen's gaze drifted away from Arawn and to Rowan, which caught Rowan off guard. His stomach twisted into a knot. He didn't know what to say. The queen didn't say nothing to him but gazed into his emerald green eyes. Whether she liked it or not, Rowan was all Arawn had left to call family. Rowan realized that truth within the Queen's eyes. He wouldn't let her down.
"Arawn," the Queen whispered, turning her attention back to her true child. A tear rolled down her cheek. In all of her years of living, she was never told a more beautiful tomorrow than this. She never wanted anything more than to attain that tomorrow. An unattainable dream.
The stems were growing. The roses were blooming. Her time was coming.
The queen ushered her son to lean in closer to tell him one last thing. Arawn leaned towards his mother, her mouth pressed against his ear as she spoke softly to him, Rowan couldn't hear what she said.
Arawn leaned back slowly. His face was still and emotionless. The last of his tears fell upon the roses that bloomed from his mother's corpse. His tears upon her cheeks. "The queen is dead."
The moment the Queen died, Arawn was surrounded by members of court proclaiming, 'long live the king! Long live the king!' Maybe they hoped to earn favor with the young prince. But Arawn ignored them all. He could barely look them in the eyes as they mourned over his parent's death to quickly celebrating his ascendance to the throne. Looking at these fae folk made him sick to his stomach. He did not want their to hear their sympathy or their pity, so he locked himself in his room and put a spell on the door. Anyone who would touch the nob would experience the wraith of fire upon their blistery skin. Arawn wanted to be left alone, and the castle let him.
Arawn was still too young to be crowned king. He would have a reagent in his place and when he was of age, then he would take the throne as the rightful heir.
Arawn laid on his side as he wallowed in bed. He held a book within his hands. The one his mother would read to him at night when he begged her to do, putting aside her duties as Queen for him. He didn't open it. He didn't even have the energy to read. It laid in his hand, unopen and unread. It only gave him comfort and that was enough for him. He only silently stared at the scars on his hands—on his palms—left by the thorns from his holding his mother's hand—her corpse. He only stared and stared at the only reminder he has left of her on his skin.
Arawn did not have the strength to close the window or the breeze created by his little brother who was currently flying on the other side of it. Rowan landed into the room; wind upswept the curtains and furniture. Rowan would have used the door, but his prefers his hands not scorching red with burning fire.
Rowan brought snacks for his brother, since Arawn hasn't eaten in days. But the boy on the bed simply groaned and turned on his side, ignoring the basket of apples and cheese and canteens of water. Rowan plopped onto the bed and began to cut an apple regardless of his older brother's moping.
"You need food." Rowan asserted.
"Get out." Arawn mumbled. There was nothing left in his voice. It was hollow and empty.
"Not until you finish this entire apple."
Arawn groaned.
Rowan groaned back. He cut an apple slice and traveled over Arawn's body to reach his other side to stuff the apple in his mouth. He placed the apple slice on his brother's lips and waited until a bite was taken.
It took a while, but Arawn bit the tip of the apple slice before the sun set. He couldn't finish the whole apple, but he did have a few bites mainly due to Rowan's protesting.
They laid down beside each other in solitude. Nigh was soon approaching. Suddenly, Arawn didn't feel as lonely as he did before. He even began to speak more than just a gurgle of incoherent groans. "This wasn't how I was supposed to become king."
"You'll make a great king. The kindest king the world has ever known."
"What if I'm not ready."
"You are."
"How do you know?"
"I do."
"How?"
"I just do."
Arawn remained quiet as he listened to the bell toll outside in the courtyard. It is a ritual of mourning to pay respects to the king and queen that perished from the plague. His parents may have died from the plague, but the plague is still rampant throughout the kingdom. A monster that will not rest, battling its next victim after every life it takes. Fae folk were still dying, parents were still losing children, and children were still losing parents. There was no cure to end this minion of darkness.
"Rowan, you're all I have left." Arawn whispered. "Promise me that you'll never leave my side."
"I promise." Rowan yawned, as restlessness consumed his body. His stretched his legs and pulled the covers over him.
Arawn held onto Rowan's hand and nudged him awake before sleep could take him. "Rowan, please. Promise me that you'll never leave me." His heart ached when he said those words, but it was the truth. Deep down in his heart, Arawn knew he couldn't survive another goodbye. It would surely end him.
The bells continued to toll. Ringing their sad melody throughout the midnight sky and solemn kingdom. Rowan closed his eyes, opened them, and yawned. Staring into his brother's eyes that reminded him of an ocean that belongs to a land in a far off realm—a hazy memory of a life that he used to live. But Rowan was tired, and it was night. He couldn't remember that realm he thought he knew. The only home to him was here—with Arawn. The bells ring for all of them. For the ones that have fallen yesterday, today, and for the ones that will fall tomorrow. Rowan clenched his brother's hand, kindly. "Never."
They fell asleep to the ringing of the bells. Hands interwoven. Spirits unbreakable.
A/N: Thank you guys for reading! Did you enjoy the chapter? What did you think and what were your favorite parts? Let me know what you thought pretty please XD
So, I'm sorry (once again) for not updating in a while U_U , but long chapters make up for lack of updates (Eh, maybe? XD) SO! Tommy is fine (ehhh, he's healing XD) and Ciel and Elizabeth finally ended their engagement, but the relationship between Elsie and Ciel still needs to be mended U_U I hoped you guys enjoyed the first scene, a flashback with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (who supported Elsie irl) and Elsie's inner turnoil and guilt over her lie but even more so when the lie became too big to admit the truth. And the last scene when Arawn's mother (the queen) died due to Rosula, the plague. Please review *hearts* If I try my best and work around my schedule, I think I can get the next chapter out by July! (maybe dfgdf) Thank you to those who came to the story blog (Aroseforelsie) and left lovely asks, I love you all so much!
I really hoped you guys enjoyed this chapter, and thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, favs, and follows the story! I love you! See you guys next time ;)