December 22, 2005, 930 PM, Asher's childhood home
Dinner was pasta, with chicken, broccoli, asparagus, and alfredo sauce. It was Richie, who insisted on adding the asparagus, and it was Asher who wanted the alfredo sauce. They had bought a bottle of white wine in town, toasting now to the holidays, to love, to childhood dreams. Dinner, itself, was a quiet affair. Richie had found some old, slightly dusty, records in a box in one of the upstairs bedrooms, to which Asher presented a record player (which could have been an antique by the looks of it), and the classical music drifted throughout the house, wafting into human senses, enveloping the mood.
It was only after, when Asher asked to leave the dishes until morning, and the leftovers were refrigerated, did she pour them each another glass of wine, and holding Richie's hand into hers, did she lead him outside. "I learned to swordfight on that hill," she whispered, pointing to the hillcrest on far edge of the back land. "My fencing instructor was this tiny woman, maybe thirty years to her. She did house calls, and was hired to teach my brother, but I loved to watch. One day, I had asked her if I could just hold the sword, she agreed, teaching me a few basic techniques. I asked my parents to learn, after several discussions, they agreed. I have been fencing/sword fighting since."
"When was your favorite time to practice?"
"Sunrise. How the colors always seemed to just touch the hilltop, like a lover's gentle kiss. I pretended to fight the colors, to save my first love, that hill."
Richie sipped at his wine. There was a small cluster of rocks, just to the left of the back door, and it was here they sat, he in a flannel shirt thrown over his tee, and Asher wearing one of his sweaters, the sleeves cuffed to her wrists, held with safety pins. "I am almost envy of you, Asher."
"Envious? Why?"
"Living here, you seemingly had the perfect childhood. Loving parents, roof over your head, brother and sister who adored you, fencing lessons, dance lessons, martial arts lessons, intelligence. And, I was passed to one foster home to the next, always trying to run away to escape. Figured street life had to be than some of those adults were. Spent more time in juvie than anywhere else. Probably the one good thing in my childhood was Angie."
"You've mentioned her before." Asher's voice was quiet, thoughtful.
"Yeah, we met when I was eight, and she was seven. We were in a foster home together. We protected each other, in both the foster homes, and on the streets. She was like my little sister and my best friend all rolled into one. When I was sixteen and she was fourteen, I landed a year in juvie; she found herself a good home. We kind of lost one another. Didn't see one another again until I was already living with Mac and Tessa. Two years, almost three years later. She helped me fight some Asian Immortal's student. Of course, she didn't know about Immortality then. She still doesn't. We dated. For a while. Six, seven months. Not long after Tessa died, she left for college, on a scholarship to NYU to major in Asian studies. We wrote one another for awhile, but when she left to do her graduate work in Japan, she never left a forwarding address."
"You miss her."
"Yeah, I do. For so many years, she was my sanity, you know." Richie shrugged, sipped some more of his wine, and over the rocks, reached out to take Asher's hand. He laced her fingers with hers. "I loved her."
"So, maybe she was your childhood dream."
"Maybe. Hey, Asher?"
"Yeah?"
"Why did you change your name?"
It was several moments before she spoke again, and when she did, Richie heard the uncertainty in her voice. "To protect my father. To protect him from knowing I was alive when my mother was not. To stop his heart from breaking, but in the process, I broke mine."
Gently, he squeezed her hand. With his other hand, he cautiously balanced the wine glass on a jutted rock, and held Asher's chin between his forefinger and thumb, seeing again just how blue her eyes were. His voice was soft. "I love you, Asher Jacobs, Ashley Jacobson. Whoever you are, I love you. Forever."
She smiled, bent her forehead to his. "I love you, Richie Ryan."
It was several more moments before they finally stood to go inside again. Hands still loosely laced together, no words said between them, it was only when snuggling into bed, in the darkness of one of the upstairs bedrooms, did Asher whisper into the darkness: "Asher, my name is Asher."
Dinner was pasta, with chicken, broccoli, asparagus, and alfredo sauce. It was Richie, who insisted on adding the asparagus, and it was Asher who wanted the alfredo sauce. They had bought a bottle of white wine in town, toasting now to the holidays, to love, to childhood dreams. Dinner, itself, was a quiet affair. Richie had found some old, slightly dusty, records in a box in one of the upstairs bedrooms, to which Asher presented a record player (which could have been an antique by the looks of it), and the classical music drifted throughout the house, wafting into human senses, enveloping the mood.
It was only after, when Asher asked to leave the dishes until morning, and the leftovers were refrigerated, did she pour them each another glass of wine, and holding Richie's hand into hers, did she lead him outside. "I learned to swordfight on that hill," she whispered, pointing to the hillcrest on far edge of the back land. "My fencing instructor was this tiny woman, maybe thirty years to her. She did house calls, and was hired to teach my brother, but I loved to watch. One day, I had asked her if I could just hold the sword, she agreed, teaching me a few basic techniques. I asked my parents to learn, after several discussions, they agreed. I have been fencing/sword fighting since."
"When was your favorite time to practice?"
"Sunrise. How the colors always seemed to just touch the hilltop, like a lover's gentle kiss. I pretended to fight the colors, to save my first love, that hill."
Richie sipped at his wine. There was a small cluster of rocks, just to the left of the back door, and it was here they sat, he in a flannel shirt thrown over his tee, and Asher wearing one of his sweaters, the sleeves cuffed to her wrists, held with safety pins. "I am almost envy of you, Asher."
"Envious? Why?"
"Living here, you seemingly had the perfect childhood. Loving parents, roof over your head, brother and sister who adored you, fencing lessons, dance lessons, martial arts lessons, intelligence. And, I was passed to one foster home to the next, always trying to run away to escape. Figured street life had to be than some of those adults were. Spent more time in juvie than anywhere else. Probably the one good thing in my childhood was Angie."
"You've mentioned her before." Asher's voice was quiet, thoughtful.
"Yeah, we met when I was eight, and she was seven. We were in a foster home together. We protected each other, in both the foster homes, and on the streets. She was like my little sister and my best friend all rolled into one. When I was sixteen and she was fourteen, I landed a year in juvie; she found herself a good home. We kind of lost one another. Didn't see one another again until I was already living with Mac and Tessa. Two years, almost three years later. She helped me fight some Asian Immortal's student. Of course, she didn't know about Immortality then. She still doesn't. We dated. For a while. Six, seven months. Not long after Tessa died, she left for college, on a scholarship to NYU to major in Asian studies. We wrote one another for awhile, but when she left to do her graduate work in Japan, she never left a forwarding address."
"You miss her."
"Yeah, I do. For so many years, she was my sanity, you know." Richie shrugged, sipped some more of his wine, and over the rocks, reached out to take Asher's hand. He laced her fingers with hers. "I loved her."
"So, maybe she was your childhood dream."
"Maybe. Hey, Asher?"
"Yeah?"
"Why did you change your name?"
It was several moments before she spoke again, and when she did, Richie heard the uncertainty in her voice. "To protect my father. To protect him from knowing I was alive when my mother was not. To stop his heart from breaking, but in the process, I broke mine."
Gently, he squeezed her hand. With his other hand, he cautiously balanced the wine glass on a jutted rock, and held Asher's chin between his forefinger and thumb, seeing again just how blue her eyes were. His voice was soft. "I love you, Asher Jacobs, Ashley Jacobson. Whoever you are, I love you. Forever."
She smiled, bent her forehead to his. "I love you, Richie Ryan."
It was several more moments before they finally stood to go inside again. Hands still loosely laced together, no words said between them, it was only when snuggling into bed, in the darkness of one of the upstairs bedrooms, did Asher whisper into the darkness: "Asher, my name is Asher."