Disclaimer: I own nothing associated with any of the fandoms here represented.
Mary Bennett stared fixedly down at her hands as the carriage clattered and jostled over the uneven cobblestones. She focused on her pale, smooth skin, the slender fingers, the immaculately trimmed nails – the hands of a lady. Her stomach churned nervously, as full of twists and turns as a Bach invention. So far from Longbourne and yet not far enough.
In the days leading up to her departure, she had wondered where this sudden good fortune had come from. When the letter arrived, it seemed an answer to prayer. To live even a day longer with her mother's pricking and prodding, forever under the shadow of her sisters' success was simply unbearable. Lydia had just borne her third child to that despicable villain Wickham, and Kitty had recently married a wealthy gentleman of the Pemberly set. Jane and Elizabeth were, as ever, blissfully happy with their rich, handsome husbands.
Mary tried not to begrudge her sisters their good fortune, but it hurt. For years, she had done her best to improve her mind, to develop her talents, to become wise and patient and be a truly good Christian. And in the end, it had gotten her nowhere. Her four sisters were all married, she a spinster. To make matters worse, the one man she had ever . . .
Unclasping her hands, Mary reached into her small floral reticule for a handkerchief. Just in case. Certain reflections tended to lead to undignified tears and a very red nose. That would not do, not today, but somehow she could not keep away from the path of well-trod thought.
Mr. Collins. The one man she had ever loved. How silly it must have been, her foolish, hopeless crush on a clergyman who was intent on proposing to Elizabeth. Of course, Lizzie had refused him. She was too stubborn and idealistic and proud to appreciate Mr. Collins' worth. Spurned, he offered his hand to Charlotte Lucas, Lizzie's best friend, instead. It made perfect sense. Charlotte had always been courteous to him, and, Mary admitted grudgingly, she was handsome in her own way. And of course Mr. Collins would never have looked again to any of the younger Bennett daughters after having been rejected by Elizabeth. It would have been intolerable.
Her love was doomed from the start, and Mary knew it well. But that did not make the pain any less bitter. Which was why she had accepted Mr. Grey's offer and was now on her way to his school, despite her fear of the unknown. Mary replaced her handkerchief and sank back against the barouche's upholstery. No tears this time. She could do this. She would go to this school, and the pain would go away, and maybe she might one day rid herself of the title of spinster.
Some of the tension leaving her body, Mary closed her eyes and gradually fell asleep. She woke an hour later when the carriage left the bumpy cobblestones for an even bumpier dirt road through the woods. Clutching the sides of the carriage, Mary braced herself for the duration of the hellish fifteen-minute ride. Suddenly the ground beneath her became smooth again. Mary peered out the window to see an imposing, gray slate building looming up ahead of them. Neither a mansion nor a castle, but something in between, it was surrounded by a lawn of emerald green grass. Crisp, lacy white curtains fluttered at the score or more of large windows.
"Oh . . ." Mary breathed, heart pounding, head reeling. This was actually happening. She patted her hair with nervous, trembling fingers and straightened her dress. Inhale. Exhale. Courage. She would be brave and bold like Lizzie and not let anyone know she was shaking inside. Shoulders back, chin up, perfect posture. She was free. Free of her mother's sniping comments, her father's quiet disappointment, and her sisters' insufferable pity. Free to change, free to grow, free to improve, free to become. And finally, finally free to stop hurting.
Gimli son of Gloin had never been a fan of horses. For Legolas and Aragorn's sakes, he put up with the beasts. Frankly, however, now with Aragorn millennia dead and Legolas finally married, the dwarf could relax and properly enjoy the marvels of modern transportation. Trains and subways were quite decent, but airplanes were miraculous. As a young dwarf, Gimli had been captivated by his father's tale of being rescued by eagles. Ever since then, he had harbored a secret desire to fly. Now, with his blossoming diamond business in a college town infamous for eloping couples, he could afford to fly whenever he wanted to.
Admittedly, this was no pleasure trip. Legolas's new wife had pressured him into it, saying that a friend of hers had attended the school and come out very well, indeed. Since Elrond was in charge, the school would of course be excellent. Like all good wives, she was doing her best to improve her husband and his friends, convinced that her changes were for the better. Gimli didn't mind. Miriel made his old friend truly happy, and she meant well. Besides, Galadriel and Celeborn's anniversary was coming up next week, and the atmosphere of love and peace around them was sickening.
"More coffee, sir?"
The flight attendant's pleasant voice recalled him from his dismal thoughts. "Er, yes, please. Thank you.'
"And you, sir?" the stewardess glanced at the man seated next to Gimli, a tall, dark-haired fellow with a strange mask covering half of his face. You got all sorts flying Delta.
Looking up from a pile of yellowed paper covered in inky scribbles and music notes, the man frowned and shook his head.
"Afraid of a spill?" Gimli attempted to make conversation.
His neighbor's frown deepened. "I am trying to rewrite an opera, and the harmonies are all wrong. If you will excuse me . . .?"
Able to take a hint, Gimli turned away and began studying the passengers in the row across from them. There was the token middle-aged woman off to pay a visit to her adult children somewhere across the country, slightly overweight with a dye job that didn't quite reach her roots. To her right, by the window sat a sulking teenage boy: dark skin, dark eyes, dark scowl. Whenever the motherly woman attempted to make conversation, he growled at her and returned to his iPod. Not a very good seatmate, Gimli decided.
Speaking of seatmates . . . the masked man next to him had begun humming something sinister under his breath. This flight was quickly becoming most uncomfortable. Gimli checked his watch. Only thirty minutes until landing. Elrond's secretary had said that a car would be waiting at the airport to transport Gimli and a few other students to the school. Gimli was fine with that. After the strange people on this airplane, the other students were bound to be positively charming.
Tinkerbell zoomed around the clearing, her wings a translucent green blur. She flitted from tree to tree, never approaching the one beneath which the Lost Boys were settling down for sleep with Peter and the new Wendy.
Wendy! Oh, how Tink hated that name. She hated all Wendy's, with their bedtime stories and thimbles and compulsive need to change things. They changed the routines, changed the way things were, changed Peter until he forgot who he was – until he forgot her.
Fuming, the tiny fairy landed on a rock, her hands clenched into tight fists. She had rebelled once, gone to Hook in a fit of sheer pique that backfired, and it had taken ages to regain Peter's trust, even after that Wendy left. And now here they were, five Wendy's down the line, and nothing had changed. Tink couldn't take this anymore.
She opened her wings and shot into the sky. The second star to the right could get you to Neverland, and it could take you back again. Tink did not remember the last time she had made this trip without Peter. She might come back, when Wendy left, when Peter noticed her absence and found her and begged her to return. Maybe.
Tink flipped around to stare at the tree one last time. "Goodbye," she whispered. Whirling away, she flew and flew and flew, until her chest pounded and her wings ached and she had run out of tears. But she never looked back.
"Easy, Caesar. Easy, boy."
Commodore James Norrington slowed his chestnut gelding to a walk, confused by the thick grey mist obscuring the path before them. Caesar snorted nervously.
"Easy, boy," James repeated, stroking the hunter's neck in an effort to soothe him. What was the wording of that letter? He sat back in the saddle and took the neatly folded piece of paper wrapped tightly in oilskin from his coat pocket. There it was, about ten lines down.
We are including a map. Stay on the path and press forward, regardless of what obstacles you meet. The journey should take no longer than two hours on horseback.
James flipped the letter over to look at the map for what felt like the hundredth time. "All right," he sighed, tucking it away inside his blue naval jacket. He had worn the full Commodore uniform. James felt naked without the wig and hat, the perfectly polished black boots, and the deadly sword at his side.
"Go on, Caesar." Squeezing gently with his calves, the Commodore coaxed his hunter forwards into the mist. It felt cool and wet on his exposed hands and face. Caesar trembled slightly beneath him but kept moving. One hand grasping the reins, the other clutching the hilt of his sword, James remained wary and alert. With every step the gelding took, his rider counted silently in his head. One, two, three, four . . .
It was on fifteen that Caesar stepped off the path of loosely packed Caribbean sand onto something much firmer. James noticed at once. He calmed the uneasy horse. "Good boy. Good boy."
But Caesar refused to take another step. Resisting the urge to swear, James swung down from the saddle. The ground did feel strange. Hard, like cobblestones, but much smoother beneath his boots. A river of stone, perhaps? How bizarre. Step by step, he tugged and pleaded and led the horse onwards. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . .
James was almost to fifty when the mist suddenly cleared. They had indeed been traveling on a river of stone. A wood of trees surrounded them. He recognized their shapes from his childhood in England, and the names soon followed: elm, oak, and beech.
"Yoohoo!" A woman in riotous shades of skintight pink clothing was standing on the stone river about ten feet ahead of him. "Mr. Norrington, is it?" She trotted over to him, baring entirely too much leg. It was rather indecent.
"Commodore Norrington," James replied frigidly.
Her smile fell slightly, but she hoisted it back into place with a valiant effort. "I beg your pardon, Commodore. If you and your steed will come with me, the school is just up here." The woman spun on her heel and began walking back up the path, her ridiculously tall, slender heels clicking on the road.
Realizing belatedly that he ought to have asked for her name, James followed after, a very perplexed Caesar bringing up the rear.
Severus Snape firmly believed that misery was an integral part of life. He had been miserable since he was a small child. Nothing had ever changed that. Nothing except Lily. She had been the one ray of warm sunlight in a cold, gloomy world – a ray that lasted only a few short years before being brutally extinguished. Indeed, Snape was well acquainted with misery. Over the last seventeen years, he had raised brooding to an art form. In the most rational, analytical part of his brain, the potions professor understood why Dumbledore had decided to finally take steps.
Dumbledore cares, Severus reminded himself bitterly, tightening the last strap on his sleek black leather traveling case. He says I have been moping for too long – as if I could choose to change that.
Everything packed, Snape swept from his office, locking the door with a nonverbal spell. He moved quickly; Dumbledore would already be waiting near the gates with his traveling companion. Ducking down a side passage to avoid a gaggle of giggling Gryffindors, the professor pulled a face. Ghosts were fine, but Myrtle? If he was broody, sullen, and miserable, she was infinitely worse. At least he tried, was actively working towards atonement, even when he knew atonement was impossible. She just moped and whined. And over what? The insufferable Harry Potter who had taken to flirting with Cho Chang. Apparently Potter had visited her (Myrtle, not the Chang girl) in the second floor girls' loo for some strange reason a few years before, and now she fancied him. It was utterly ridiculous and slightly disturbing. What had the twelve-year-old Potter been doing in a girls' bathroom?
Turning his thoughts to more pleasant matters, Severus again wondered at Voldemort's acceptance of his explanation about being unavailable for a month. Professional education, Dumbledore's direct order, escorting a problematic ghost to receive emotional counseling . . . It all sounded very silly and Muggle-ish. The Dark Lord had laughed – and so had Bellatrix – but Lucius helped convince them. Unsurprising, really. Luscious was in favor at present and as for Narcissa . . . Snape smiled wryly. Narcissa had always suspected some misfortune of the heart concealed deep in his past. Let her speculate. Just so long as she never actually discovered the truth.
He had almost reached the gates now, and there was Dumbledore in a dark purple traveling cloak, the silvery outline of Moaning Myrtle flickering in the weak winter sunlight beside him. This was going to be a miserable few weeks, but as Severus Snape had known since the age of three, misery was life.
"What the h-ll are we doing?"
Spike glanced over at his navigator. The rebellious Slayer had begun their journey with her feet on the dashboard, singing along loudly to whatever came on the radio. Now she sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, brown eyes dark and hooded as she stared out the heavily tinted windows – vampires and sunlight, they don't mix.
"What do you mean?"
"Why are we doing this, Spike? It won't change anything."
They had been down this road a hundred times before – ten times at least just that morning. The vampire sighed. "Because you love Angel, and I love Buffy, and they don't love us. Can't keep going back like a dog begging to be kicked." His words were for his own sake as much as hers.
"So they expect us to go and share all our problems? We don't need that – I don't need that." Faith's voice was defiant. She didn't need help. She could fix this. Her problem wasn't actually that bad. Sure, it sucked to fall for the best friend you'd ever had, the one person who had never given up on you or asked you to commit murder. Angel, the vampire with a soul. Fangs notwithstanding, Faith reckoned his soul was in far better condition than her own.
So yeah, her life sucked some days, but she saw Angel every other month or so when he dropped by to check in on her. No Buffy, of course. Things were still messy where B was concerned. Those nights with Angel were wonderful and awful all at once. Angel would come, and they would talk all night or go hunting in some old cemetery. The entire time she was with him, Faith's skin screamed for contact, for feeling, to touch him and know she was not alone. She needed to know that he was there for her, that they were still walking the long, hard path to redemption together. The toughest part was when he left. Angel always took off an hour before dawn, leaving her with a hug that drove all the pain away – until he stepped back and it came crashing down again. But it was cool. Faith could handle this. She was five by five.
"I'm fine," she said more loudly, sensing that Spike didn't buy it. "Let's just turn around and not go."
The thought was tempting. They could go back and pretend everything was fine – only that was total bull. Things were far from fine. There were good nights when they played video games or watched crap telly with a pack of cigarettes and a couple of beers, but those were a minority. More often, one of them would be hurting, bad, and the other would drag them out of the flat to get their minds off things. Three nights a week, they ended up in some shady club or bar, dancing up against a stranger or occasionally each other. Anything to feel, to be touched. If it wasn't the club, they prowled through the worst parts of the city, looking for a fight. Granted, they only ever tangled with vampires and demons – the bad guys – staying at least nominally on the side of good and right.
And every night, the nightmares. He would hear Faith sobbing through the wall or dream about Buffy dying, and they would end up in bed together. Not that they ever did anything – they each had rules about that – but he found the idea of sleeping alone unbearable, and Faith had yet to turf him out.
"We have to go," he replied at last. The words scratched his throat on their way out. The vampire reached for the silver flask sitting between them. A little bit of whisky would go a long way right now. "We can't keep doing this, Faith. You can't spend the rest of your life yearnin' for Cap'n Forehead."
"Shut up," Faith growled. "It isn't as if you don't wake me up calling for Buffy in your sleep."
The vampire smiled crookedly. "Right you have it, pet. Which is why it has to end."
The Slayer didn't answer, just reached over to the radio and turned the music up. The flat mates, usual allies, and occasional friends let the Stones lull them back into morose reflection as Spike sped along the highway, his speedometer pushing ninety.
I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie
I have my freedom, but I don't have much time
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried
Let's do some living after love dies
Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them some day.
Author's Note: My deepest apologies for taking so long to update. This semester is rather challenging, and for a while I haven't been able to do much besides schoolwork. However, I am back! I just thought I'd introduce our students a little more thoroughly before their arrival at school. As always, reviews are very much appreciated - constructive criticism most of all!
Until next time,
AiH