To anyone still around, forgive my lapse once more. Real life just likes to mess with things! Any feedback would be lovely, as that helps with motivation.
Still marveling at the world that Toby Whithouse created; still in awe of the gift that is the incredibly complex and infuriating Hal. Still pining for more.
Many thanks to Saemay and TJ4ev. So much of what lives in my head and heart wouldn't be translated to the page without them.
Mood music - "Wasting My Young Years" by London Grammar and "Castle of Glass" by Linkin Park
I own nothing. All mistakes are my own.
Ch. 19 Marking Time
1799
Staring stoically, Hal forces his concentration on finding patterns in the texture of the wall ahead. He is afraid to blink; afraid that a lapse in his focus might result in him tearing through that wall, jumping straight down to what he knows lies outside below.
Blood.
Or worse yet, he might tear through the throat of the human in here with him.
Blood.
No! Patterns on the wall. A boat. A stake. A crucifix.
A warm drop of wetness falls on the back of his hand. He stares down at it a moment, desire to wipe it off warring with his caution. Another drop hits his fingers. He twitches them, but makes no further move except to look up. "Why are you weeping?"
Sylvie avoids his gaze, a curtain of hair obscuring her face from him.
"I hate this. You know I hate this. Bitterly."
Blood. "You know it is necessary."
"You would not have hurt him."
Blood. "You stopped me."
Sylvie pauses in tying the strap, flicking her hair back and finally looking at him. The tears streaking down her face only serve to underscore her delicateness, and the beauty of her spirit; they cause his breath to hitch and his heart to ache. Too many tears.
"You would not have hurt him," she retorts, a fierceness through the tears.
How many times would he keep hurting her?
Keeping silent, Hal forces his concentration back to the wall. How sure she is of him; how undeserving he is of her faith. His gaze had started slipping to her neck.
She moves onto the next strap. As the band tightens around his wrist, Hal grips the edge of the armrest, forcing himself to resist making a fist that might create any slack.
"Besides, 'tis not your fault. Your reaction was completely understandable, Hal. Even I could smell the blood. So much of it..."
Blood.
Patterns. Flowers. A skunk. The silhouette of a man with a very large...
"I once trampled upon a skunk den."
Sylvie pauses, looking at him uncertainly. "Did you lose a wager?"
"I came upon it unawares and I had no time to flee before they doused me. It was so horrible I had no option but to remove all articles of clothing, abandon everything on my person, then wander around for hours looking for the nearest village."
Sylvie snorts at him, wiping away the tears as her lips twitch with amusement. "Serves you right, you were probably chasing some poor soul."
"He got away." Hal begrudges.
Sylvie's delicate eyebrows come together apprehensively as she asks, "How did the villagers fare?"
"Do you realize how difficult it is to come upon someone unawares, much less charm them, when you smell worse than sewage? Even with several baths a day, it still took nearly a month for the smell to completely dissipate."
A smile replaces her worry, turning to a chortle. "Hah! So you had to go hungry for a bit, did you? Were you at least able to procure garments, or did you run around freezing your arse and-"
Hal quickly interrupts, "It was no laughing matter," but his tone is perfunctory. Better her laughter than her tears.
Sylvie continues to chuckle and snicker but when she tests the final strap she sobers, sighing as she stands up to leave. She grazes his cheek gently before letting her hand fall at her side. "How long this time?"
He breathes deeply, testing against the bindings before easing himself back into the curved wood of the chair. Blood.
"I... I don't know."
"Hal, thrust harder. Deeper. And be quick about it, I do not have all day."
"Could the groom not have served just as well? I was rather in the middle of something."
"I don't want the groom, I want you. Though I must say I am a bit disappointed at your performance thus far. Thrust into that hole with more force. Put your back into it! Pretend the spade is your cock."
"Enough!"
"You are a delicate flower," she trills up at him from the ground. "Speaking of flowers, these must be planted at once. Make haste."
"I will reiterate what I said before; this little venture is ill advised. Your attempt last year proved ineffective. There are a myriad of other flora that would suit better."
"Despite that helpful advice, I still intend to try my hand at it again. You know this is my favourite; I wish to have it here."
"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."
"Yes I know simply wishing will not make it so. And so, just as you tend your special project, I will tend to mine. Think of how you would be faring had I decided you were a lost cause..."
She turns her attention back down to the lavender bush, patting the dirt around the base. Perhaps starting with mature plants this time she will be successful. By all rights they should grow well in the limestone soil.
Hal begins mumbling as he digs. "My clothes are getting filthy. And all these worms-"
"You're out here daily rearranging that stone puzzle."
"Yes, but I'm not actually digging. Nor dealing with invertebrates. Rocks do not writhe."
"This wee harmless worm?" She grabs a handful of the soil with a writhing specimen as demonstration. "You have dealt with far worse."
"Not by choice. True, there have been times unpleasantness could not be avoided. But in this life, I have the means to avoid that sort of thing." Under his breath he adds, "Or I would, if not for an infuriating woman."
Narrowing her eyes at him, she removes the worm and throws the dirt at him. It hits him squarely on his chest, ricocheting particles up to his face. "Choose your words carefully. If this does not work, I will task you with mixing horse shit into the soil for enrichment."
His look of distaste couldn't have been stronger if she'd actually thrown dung at him. Hal fishes out a handkerchief to wipe himself. "I will finish this task for you, but I draw the line at shoveling manure!"
The vigor with which he attacks the ground has Sylvie chuckling.
Sylvie enters their room exasperated. "Hal, haven't you done enough of those? We are meant to leave right now."
"Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one..."
"Hal, you agreed to this in order to continue living here. We can't have village folk coming with fire and pitchforks. Church service followed by a ball; surely you can manage. The snowfall is light; we can't use weather as an excuse this time."
Pausing on outstretched arms only long enough to say, "You are free to go as you wish," Hal continues his press-ups.
"How am I to explain your absence? Replies were accepted, the servants will be traveling with us, arrangements were made for rooms. Every person from 20 miles around will be there..." She trails off waiting for a reply.
"Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight..."
With a huff, and a swish of her skirts, Sylvie enters the room and, as he hits the bottom of his hundredth press-up, she sits on his back, sending his quavering arms out and smashing his face into the floor. "Oww! Sylive!" he growls out, muffled. Resisting his reaction to buck her off, he turns his head to take a calming breath, exasperation clear in his clipped words. "Will you kindly remove yourself from my person?"
"Only if you stop acting childishly and get ready to leave."
"I am acting childishly? You are the one that just sat on me!"
With a tut she shifts off of him, onto the floor. He immediately lifts up to his knees, rubbing his nose and back, throwing her an accusing look.
She rolls her eyes at him. "Oh please, Hal, you're a vampire. How much damage could I have done?" She continues with a light in her eyes, "This is important to me! A party; we rarely go anywhere. The opportunity to celebrate a new century only comes once in a lifetime, if one is lucky! A whole new beginning for us!"
A part of Hal is loathed to quell her enthusiasm, but the words tumble out icily nonetheless, "This will be my fourth time celebrating a new century." The bitterness is pronounced in his words. "There is no significance to time. There is no new beginning. Every 'New Year' rolls around with the same misery, every 'New Century' underscores the tedium of this existence. So, forgive me if I cannot master the proper enthusiasm for a human ritual that holds neither warmth nor meaning for me."
He drops down on his palms dismissively and begins counting.
"One, two, three, four, five..."
Hal hears the click as she leaves. He hesitates, looking at the closed door, a yearning fluttering against his resolve. Perhaps it could be that simple, to shake the ghosts of his past. To go with her, to be normal. To celebrate and feel like a whole new beginning was possible.
It would probably end in a massacre.
With a huff he muses aloud, "That would be a new beginning, of sorts." A shudder of fear runs down his spine; a shot of anticipation coils in his belly.
Clenching his jaw in resolution Hal roots his hands firmly to the wood of the floor and resumes his counting.
"Six, seven, eight, nine, ten..."
The lamplight throws the letters in dark relief on the page as Hal sits reading in the library. Or at least, attempts to read; this is the fourth book he's begun and discarded. Acutely aware of the time, he needs not look at the clock on the mantle to know it is almost quarter past eleven - long past the hour he should have retired. Knowing sleep would have been fleeting, he had sought solace in a book, but his mind keeps straying.
She will be dancing, twirling from some gentleman to the next, then joining in their toasts as the bells ring at midnight. Words of hope and promises of a 'new beginning' will be exchanged. Pathetic. Most of the lot will never witness anything of remote significance, will never aspire to improve their circumstances. But they persist in their delusions. People tend to value hope over truth.
Envy hits him hard. It is largely an alien feeling; one remembered from his human years when he yearned for a better life. In his more monstrous phases, he takes anything he covets, and wants for nothing. When spending all his energy resisting temptations, envy of anything could lead to a downward spiral...
So he quells his imagining, immersing himself in his reading.
Just after the clock chimes half-past, he hears the distinctive creak of the front door opening. Frowning at the unexpected interruption in the stillness, he marks his place and stands up to investigate.
He makes it halfway across the room before a breathless Sylvie flits in, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, tendrils of hair spilling from it's elegant coiffure as she throws her bonnet on a side-table. The word "what" barely leaves his lips before she grabs his hands in her cold-gloved ones, hurrying him out of the room with a mirth-filled, "Come, I want to show you something." Mystified, he follows, grabbing his overcoat from its peg near the door as she tugs him outside into the moonlit night.
She leads him, practically running, to the side of the house, her steps drowned out by his crunching in the thin layer of snow covering the ground. She takes them to the oak tree and stops at the base only long enough to hike up her skirts. "Sylvie, what are you doing?"
She laughs in answer and in a surprisingly nimble move is up in the tree within seconds, a flurry of snow falling at his face as he watches her progress. As he wipes the snow away, blinking at the flakes sticking to his eyelashes, she calls down to him. "Your turn."
He huffs a laugh. "Sylvie, if you honestly think I will be climbing a tree-"
She cuts him off, entreating, "You must Hal. This is important. I came all this way to show you."
His look of displeasure is lost on her snow-crusted dancing slippers, swinging above him. "Show me what?"
"Just climb up here you bloody man! I've left the party of the century, ridden two hours, and run the last bit to surprise you!"
Hal vaguely notes the sound of the carriage pulling up at the front. No likely rescue from that quarter; the servants always take her side. With a resigned sigh, he slides his coat on and tackles the climb, wincing at the frigid, rough bark digging into his bare hands. Muttering, "A warning to bring my riding gloves would have been welcome," he finally settles next to her unsteadily, studiously ignoring the sound of her giggles as he hooks his feet under the branch below for balance. She has the luxury of the trunk to lean on. "I'm here now. What is it you wished to show me?" The words come out a bit harsh.
Ignoring his tone, she threads her arm through his, capturing his eyes with hers, which shine bright with mirth and moonlight. Her voice coming out in an awed whisper, she instructs him, "Just look around."
Hal opens his mouth to chide her for being so careless about his precarious position, but his words freeze as his irritation dissipates into awe.
The near-full moon overhead bathes the snow-dusted valley in a glittery silver patina; winter-bare trees dot the landscape with their graphite spidery limbs. The river snakes past the base of the hill, flowing sluggishly like a rope of quicksilver, twisting and growing thinner as his eyes follow it to the end of the valley. And there, rising from the edge of the horizon, a glimmer of colour, elusive, ephemeral - wisps of green in the otherwise crisply clear sky.
"You really are a witch. Or a fairy."
"Do those exist then?"
Hal huffs amused. He'd seen this before on the Isle of Grimsay; he'd heard tales of them appearing as far south as France. Aurora Borealis. The utter darkness on Grimsay had been streaked with strong iridescent bands and swirls of green, red and yellow; quite beautiful. But the combination here is even more magical.
Despite his reluctance to break the spell of the moment, he turns his attention down to her, asking, "Why did you come back?"
Her eyes continue to stare at the beauty of night. "I only get one opportunity to experience this auspicious night, and I had to decide what memory I wanted to have. I had to decide what I held most dear." With a mischievous quirk of her lips she meets his gaze. "As tempting as frolicking with the pig-faced sons of the local gentry is, I chose you."
He searches her face; it is free of recriminations for ruining her plans. "I don't deserve this gift."
"I know." Her words are light, teasing.
Hal struggles silently with his emotions, that yearning for something hopeful battling against his walls. This time the yearning claws its way over and words tumble out, "The first time, I spent hiding in a crawlspace from the brothel owner who wanted to sell me to the highest bidder for his special celebration. I was but a child. The third, I spent captured in a cell in Budapest. I do not know how long I'd been there at that point, but by the time I heard the bells tolling the moment, the ground was littered with rat corpses. I had even gone so far as to bite my own wrists in an effort to quench my hunger..." He looks away, drinking in a cleansing breath, letting the beauty around him crowd out the dark memories. Perhaps she will ignore his omission.
She pulls his face back to her. "What happened the second time?" her voice comes out as a whisper.
Of course it was too much to hope for. Pain and shame write themselves in his features and spill out; a tear rolls down his cheek until it is caught by her hand cradling his jaw. This is the hardest confession and his voice wavers as he tells her, "I was a Lord by then, with people at my disposal, and no one to question my whims. And I was a vampire in full force. I will not add those horrors to your collection." His hands grip his thighs tight as he gages her reaction.
He finds compassion, not judgement. "I'm not going to run away screaming, if that's what you are afraid of."
"You should run away."
Mist swirls in the air between them as Sylvie takes a deep shaky breath before confessing her own heart. "Sometimes, when I let myself think about the man you've been, I feel like I should run away. Yet, often when I look at you, I see the glimmers of that child, hiding from the horrors. I've held you, felt you tremble with the desperation of hunger. Hal, that man isn't here. I don't want to run away."
Never in 300 years had he thought that he would be happy perched in a tree out in the middle of nowhere on a freezing night. But a lightness fills his heart; a sense of release. Not quite absolution, but.. hope. A new beginning. How can he believe otherwise, when she is so convincing.
This time the spellbound moment is breached when Sylvie shivers.
"We should get you inside, where it is warm."
One shiver leads to more, yet she protests, "Not yet. Tell me when it is midnight."
Hal shifts awkwardly to put his arm around her shoulders, and pulls out his pocket watch. They sit companionably the last minutes until he informs her, "Midnight."
Despite the fact that her teeth have begun chattering, she smiles up at him, leaning in to capture his lips in a kiss.
"Happy New Century, Hal."
10 years later
A scream coming up from the kitchens pierces the afternoon. With a start, she drops the embroidery she had been enjoying as she sat in a ray of sunlight. All her good mood leaches out of her. What now? Heart hammering in her chest, she runs downstairs. Halfway down she hears Hal yelling, "Get out! Stupid woman, get out now!"
As she reaches the bottom, the cook, holding a bloodstained towel in her hands, comes running out of the kitchens knocking straight into her. The hysterical woman stumbles over her words. "M-m-mistress Sylvie. L-l-lord Yorke, h-h-his eyes."
"Bloody Hell," she lets out a breathy curse before grabbing the older woman's arms, getting her to focus. "Tell me what has happened?" She darts a worried glance toward the doorway as she hears something smash in the kitchen. "Quickly!"
"Lord Yorke. He came in, he was so quiet. He was just suddenly there! Scared me out of my wits and me knife s-s-slipped."
Sylvie looks down at the towel. "How bad is it?"
Unwinding the towel shows a gash along half the woman's palm, not too deep but bleeding profusely. "Before I could grab me towel, he hissed at me. And then I saw h-h-his eyes. They went all black. 'Tis unnatural!"
"Ruth, listen. Remember you've seen this before. His illness?" The woman bobs her head doubtfully just as her daughter comes rushing in. "Beth, take your mother and go fetch William. Take the carriage down to the village. Have this wound tended to and stay there."
Another crash sounds in the kitchens, but he is quiet.
Both servants protest, "There's something too queer about him Lady Sylvie," Ruth's words overpower Beth's softer, "Mistress, we can't leave you here alone-"
"Go! Now! I will tend to Lord Yorke, and then I will come fetch you. But you must stay there until I do. Am I understood?" No time to allay their fears now. They've come to accept his eccentricities, but his manifestations can happen only so many times before they give in to their superstitions.
Ruth starts further protests, but after Sylvie gives Beth a meaningful look, the younger girl sensibly pulls her toward the front door.
Watching as they leave, Sylvie hikes up her skirts to tug from the edge of her stocking the vial of werewolf blood. She still carries it - changing the hiding place daily. It has become a part of her routine, as natural as donning her favourite necklace. Yet she very rarely considers using it, trusting her instincts and using other means to deal with his volatile temperament.
Breathe. She steels herself before stalking into the kitchen. At the doorway she pauses, looking around for him. Fire burning on the hearth. An overturned stool. At the long counter, a pot of water and vegetables in various stages of being cut. A smear of blood.
No knife. No Hal.
With tentative steps she crosses to the doorway leading into the large larder. There, under the thrawl, she sees him huddled on the floor, half hidden by an overturned barrel, apples strewn on the floor. His upturned hands rest on his bent knees and in them he cradles the blade of the chopping knife. The knife that has human blood on it. He stares intently at it, lips moving, the breath leaving them suggesting some soliloquy too low for her human ears to discern.
Breathe.
"Hal?"
No response. No break in his concentration. No break in his chanting. She can see how moist his lips are.
"Hal love? I am here to help you." She braves a step inside.
His eyes do not stray away from the knife, but he breaks off his chanting to call out a warning, "Stay away!"
She tries a distraction as she approaches to kneel down in front of him. "Hal, I can't take you anywhere can I? Look at the state of this place."
He flashes a look at her before giving the blood his attention once more. "I said you need to stay away." His voice cracks on the last syllable.
"No. What I need is to take that knife away. Give it to me Hal."
"I... I can't. The blood..." his brows knit together, "I am so hungry."
The pain in his voice is so primal it takes her aback for a moment and she clenches the vial in her hand harder.
"I know, love. I know it hurts. Hand me the knife and I will make you a nice cup of tea and-"
Hal snarls at her, "I don't want any fucking tea!", a dark look passing in his eyes.
Trying to hide her flinch, her fears, she says dryly, "Well, if you feel that strongly about it..."
The dark look clears as his eyes turn pleading, "I'm sorry."
Sylvie softens her voice. "I'm sorry too. Please, let me take the blood away. It will ease the hurt a bit."
Glancing down at the knife, his trembling lips part, the tip of his tongue flicking over his lower lip as his words come out with an edge of desperation, "It would be so much easier. To give in."
"I know it is so hard to fight the pull of it. I know it seems easier to give in. But you cannot; you will hate yourself for it. Give me the knife Hal. I will take you upstairs. We shall find a way to ease the pain together."
There is no sound but that of her heart hammering in her ears as Hal sits mesmerized, a dozen emotions passing through his face. Finally he tears his eyes away from the blood. "I'm not safe."
Sylvie lets out the breath she'd been holding. Nodding in understanding, she looks around quickly. On the well stocked shelves there are several baskets of miscellaneous utility items. In one she spots coil of rope. She hastily grabs it and kneels back down, placing it in front of her. Then she unstoppers the vial of werewolf blood and smears it on her exposed skin - neck, arms, wrists. She wipes the blood from her hands onto her skirt, but keeps the vial, still containing traces of blood inside, on the floor between them as she grabs the rope and leans forward.
His voice startles her. "If I move, shove that hard into my mouth. There is enough toxic blood in there to do the deed."
Sylvie bites the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay. Must be strong. For both of us.
She winds the rope around his wrists, tightly, twice, then continues to wind it around his knees and ankles, securing it with a knot he had insisted on teaching her. Testing and pulling, when she is finally satisfied she leans back, breathing heavily.
Hal had remained docile, still as stone, staring at her with large eyes.
She reaches for the knife.
His fingers flex, gripping, the knife slicing into his palms. As he hisses in pain, his eyes scorch black and she sees his fangs drop. With a gasp she grabs the hilt, heedless of hurting him further, and pulls. His hiss turns to a roar as she turns her back on him, running out of the larder.
Slamming shut the door she she throws the knife into the pot of water. The door has no lock, so she wedges a chair under the doorknob before scrubbing the blood off the counter. She tries to shut her ears to the insults coming from the other side, but by the time she ascertains no traces of blood remain, she gratefully runs away, unable to bear the ravings...
The path is well worn; even half blinded by tears she arrives at the river without incident. Not stopping at the edge, she runs into the frigid water, dragging against the resistance for a few paces before plunging under. When she surfaces she scrubs at the werewolf blood with frantic determination, overwhelmed with the irrational thought that if left too long it will burn her too. Her sodden dress, bloody, heavy and tight, becomes an unbearable burden. She claws at the buttons down her back, fingers slipping, but finally manages to unbutton or break enough off to slip it down her shoulders. Gasping from her sobs and exertion, she untangles herself from it and thrusts it away. Emotions spent, she stands in just her chemise staring at the dress as it's caught by the deeper current and floats away.
She stares long after it, listlessly. What would it feel like to join it, to let herself float away?
When night falls she enters the house in her damp clothes. All is silent as she goes upstairs to change into her nightgown. As she pulls out a pair of stockings, she sees the extra vials of werewolf blood. Her hands pause as she considers. In the end she pulls one out, stashing it in her bodice before slipping her stockings and slippers on. Then she goes down to confront him.
She finds Hal laying on his side staring at the near-empty vial she had forgotten in her haste. The candlelight reveals that his bindings lay on the floor, useless. She'll have to ask the groom to show her better knots, unfamiliar to Hal.
"I am ready."
She enters cautiously. "For what?"
"For death."
With a huff she answers him, as she stoops down to pick up the vial. "Hal, do not be so dramatic."
He lifts his head, his gaze piercing. "I am serious. You have more werewolf blood. I won't stop you."
"How can I possibly deprive myself of the joy of being called a 'waspish, dizzy-eyed, strumpet' once more? Or a 'mewling, whey-faced, harpy'? Wait, I believe my favourite was 'goatish, flap-mouthed, flax-wench'. A simple 'bitch' has now lost it's flowery charm."
"I'm sorry. So very sorry. For the words; for everything," he says contritely as he sits up.
She puts the empty vial and candle down on a shelf, turns to bring in the bowl of hot water she had prepared. Kneeling in front of him, she grabs his hands and eases them into the water, gently wiping the the dried blood off with a wet towel. The cuts look like they've begun mending; they should be gone by morning. As she dries his hands she says softly, "I know you are. That's why I came back. Now hush, I will make you some tea and then we shall go to bed." She tries to pull him out to the main kitchen, but he is immovable.
"Why not just kill me. Save you the trouble of dealing with this again."
She tugs on him again saying lightly, "It was just a harmless tantrum and it has passed."
He pulls his hands away, incredulously. "Harmless tantrum? You've heard the stories of what I am capable of, yet you persist in believing I have changed. I could have given in, had that woman's blood. That would have led to far worse consequences. Remember what I told you about the second time I saw the dawn of a new century? I was unstoppable, remourseless. An army of vampires and many pitiful peasants at my disposal. Shall I tell you all the bloody details? Shall I tell you how I've had dreams of doing the same to all the villagers a quick ride from here?"
She'd thought her tears had been spent. But there are always more tears. Angry ones this time. "If this is your attempt to rile me, I will not rise to it. I will not give you what you ask! For the very fact that you ask it! You continue to fight, to resist. I can't give up on you, don't you understand that? Besides, if you don't make an appearance at church soon, Ruth will give you exactly what you wish. I am too fucking tired, Hal, to continue having this argument. Stay here, come up to bed, or go eat the village; I really can't be bothered to care one way or another at the moment!"
Taking the candle she walks away, calling back, "And you can make you own bloody tea..."
"Do. Not. Say. It." Sylvie warns with deliberate enunciation as they stand, side by side, surveying her pitiful plot.
Hal answers her indifferently, "I have no intention of saying anything."
Sylvie quirks an eyebrow at him. "But you want to. I can see it in the manner your eyes crinkle and your lips purse. You are practically bouncing on your toes with smugness."
He turns to her frowning. "I do not bounce on my toes. And I have nothing to say."
"That would be a first," Sylvie mutters as she gives her attention back to the patch of dead plants. Another year. Another attempt. Another failure. Sylvie sighs. It rains far too much, Hal insists. Or it falls too cold at night, even in the middle of summer. Or any number of other factors he has expounded on.
Hal turns away, calling over his shoulder, "I hope that now you will stop these fruitless attempts."
She sticks her tongue out at his back. He couldn't resist the jab after all.
"You really are a bloody miserable old git!" She calls after him. "I will continue trying, just to vex you. You'll see, I will succeed!"
Tugging on her thick gloves, she begins yanking out the plants from the sodden soil. She makes quick work of it, sustained by her pique at Hal's attitude. Yet as she nears the end of her task, confidence in her words wanes.
She stops to watch Hal removing debris from his spiral of stones and his words come back to her. 'If I can keep nature from encroaching on them, then I can keep my nature from encroaching on me. It's symbolic.'
Symbolic. That word echoes around in her head, a shadow of doubt that creeps in at unguarded moments. Her garden, his routines - everything in her life is symbolic. Her failures at even mundane tasks are an echo of the failures at her real purpose. She can't help but worry: Is it all a fruitless cause? Have all these years been wasted? She's kept him from killing, but has he truly changed?
As if divining her thoughts, Hal stops and turns, eyebrows raised questioningly. She flashes a reassuring smile, more for herself than for him. His answering tilting smile tugs at her heartstrings - that hint of a lost boy, insecurity mixed with tremulous hope. He needs her.
He has changed. All her work, all her sacrifice is more than just a symbolic gesture. To believe otherwise would be to give in to doubt and despair.
She attacks the last of the dead plants with renewed determination. He's strong; she's stronger.
She would save him, in the end.
"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." is an old Scottish proverb.
The idea of the having the Aurora Borealis with a (near) full moon popped into my head but I wasn't sure if the moonlight made it hard to see the Northern Lights. Lovely bit of research, came across gorgeous photography of just that phenomenon. I'm going to post some on my whimsyfox tumblr acct.
A thrawl, which is a term used in Yorkshire and Derbyshire, and is a stone slab or shelf used to keep food cool in the days before refrigeration was domestically available.