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seancerpg:

THE SUCCESSOR

Name: Henry Owen Whittock Age: 27 Pronouns: he / him FC: Douglas Booth

Trigger warnings: death, murder, suicide / suicidal ideation, anxiety

#bio #about #self #tw death #tw suicide #tw suicidal ideation #tw murder #tw anxiety #rebageling to reorganize some things on my page

prudcnce

H. WHITTOCK

Henry licked his lips and looked down at the fruit stand. “I do know,” he answered softly. He knew so much about her–or at least who she once was. How much of it still held true? Had she changed as much as he had during their time apart? He hoped that if she had, she had found herself, become more grounded, not become the untethered ship cast out on a rolling ocean that he had become. A part of him wanted to say that, though he knew she lost herself in her rehearsal habits, that did not mean he did not worry, did not care for her, did not hope she looked after herself. He wanted to say all that, but it was no longer his place. Perhaps it never had been.

“I was buying myself the apples as it was. The pears hardly hurt.” It was the least he could do for her really. She may not hurt for money the way he knew some did, but it was what he had to offer the world. His funds had become the best way to show others he cared. Squirrel away funds to Eleanore for herself and John. Purchase a new jacket from Polly. Tithe just over his 10%. Money carried little weight to him as it did to so many. And he didn’t know how else to help others. He pressed a smile onto his lips which only looked tense and uncomfortable. “Consider it my contribution to the arts for the day before you find yourself something a bit more substantial.”

Her question stopped him, earning only pursed lips. He ought to be at work, pouring over the never-ending stream of papers and receipts and distributions. It was where his father would expect him to be. If he was caught out of the office mid-day, he was likely to earn a tongue lashing. “Merely taking a lunch break. If I am to continue with my work, I do need some proper sustenance to maintain my attention. You are not the only one whose stomach has been grumbling,” he tried to say it as a tease, but wasn’t quite sure it had come out well.

“Yes…yes the weather is good,” he said, only repeating his earlier sentiment as he looked up at the skies. He looked back at her for a moment and felt a rush of everything he had seen the first time he ever looked at her. Her beauty had never faded to him, grown if anything, but it was like a poisoned berry to him now. Beautiful to see. Far too dangerous to touch. “So then if you are only now getting away for a meal, I assume you have been busy with rehearsals. What is the next grand show that will grace London?”

That was the problem with Henry, he did know. While their relationship may have done a hundred and eighty degree spin, the fundamentals of Prudence’s existence still remained. Much had changed, but she was still that same teenager he’d met so many years ago, deep down. Despite her willingness, her begging, her prayers, to change such a thing. To eliminate those years, to reinvent herself as a new character in her story, they still remained. ❛❛Yeah, I guess you do.❜❜ Her voice was barely a whisper; she hated how there was a vulnerability to her whenever he was around. A vulnerability that came with nobody else.

❛❛You never know. Your finances aren’t something that are at the forefront of my mind.❜❜ Perhaps it was a little spiteful of a statement from her, but there was power in this conversation that Prudence had lost, and she was desperate to regain it. To prove to the both of them, admittedly more so her than him, that she did not need him and she was fine without him. Wasn’t she? ❛❛Well the arts thank you for your contribution, Mr. Whittock. I’ll be sure to put it in our newsletter.❜❜ She gave him a small curtsey, the stone wall of awkwardness and discomfort tumbling slightly. Despite it all, even at twenty-eight she still held onto the elements of youth, the cheekiness of the formative years, the joy of being a child. Her humour, however slight, generated from those parts of her.

He teased her and, mentally, the woman slapped her forehead. Of course. It was the perfect time for one to engage in a respite and take a break from hard work. She was a fool to assume he would abscond from working for the day. ❛❛Of course. I hope you’ll be dining on something heartier than just some fruit, Henry. How else can you expect to keep the cogs turning?❜❜ If she must maintain her strength, then so must he. Was that their life now? Worrying about one another from afar? Ensuring that the other was safe and healthy and fine through a series of vague questions and spontaneous meetings?

❛❛Yes. Especially for spring. Hopefully we’ll have a great summer.❜❜ This was ridiculous, she scolded herself internally. Years spent together, and now their only conversations to be had were on the weather and fruit. It was absurd. Yet there was nothing that Prudence would do to change it. Not now. Absurdity aside, it certainly was safe. No feelings had to be uncovered, no history had to be discussed. These were safe topics, and safety was fine. ❛❛We’re about to start rehearsals for Giselle tomorrow. It’s a romantic ghost story, if you can find romance in such a thing.❜❜ She offered a small laugh, in order to mask the fact that the story of Giselle felt as though it could have been written herself. ❛❛I think we’re premiering in May. You should come to the show.❜❜ Please don’t, she silently begged. If you do, I think you’ll know everything I never said. The ordeal of being known is simply mortifying.

#the dancer #prudence #food tw

prudcnce:

This was not supposed to happen. Henry was not supposed to be her stranger blocked by sunlight. Not today, not tomorrow or any other day for the rest of her existence. As soon as his lips had parted, Prudence had known it was him. Her previous embarrassed disposition had melted into one of anxiety, knowing that this interaction was truly going to happen, and that she no longer had a person to pour over every miniscule detail with. Now her stomach’s rumble seemed to be fate-like. Unseen spirits were attempting to push them together, trap them back into a cycle of only knowing one another. Two years ago, Prudence would have leapt at the chance. Now? Now there was only an aching in the empty chasm of youth.

❛❛I did try, ❜❜ she murmured; she knew that he certainly would not approve of her lack of regard for her own wellbeing as of late. That the mouldy apple in her icebox was now one of shame, and not one of neglect. ❛❛These things escape me sometimes. You know that.❜❜ Did he still know that? Did he still know her the way that a fish knows to swim, a bird knows to fly, a sparrow knows to sing? Was she now just a shame-fuelled stranger to him? Prudence wondered whether she still knew him. Neither of them were the same that they once were, but maybe some things remained. Or, maybe now, he was simply an unfamiliar man in the mould of the one she once knew.

❛❛You needn’t pay for me Henry. I can afford myself a pear.❜❜ She could afford five hundred pears, should she desire them, but noting that felt like a cheap shot. See, you don’t know me anymore. We truly are strangers. Neither needed reminding of how things should have been by now. Of who they might have been, had the tragic series of events that lead to their downfall had occurred at all differently. ❛❛To begin with?❜❜ she questioned, before promptly realising how naive she sounded. This was not a substantial meal, but her appetite had vanished the moment her heart had dropped into her stomach, and all thoughts of food felt repugnent.

❛❛People are probably working,❜❜ At that, Prudence reminded herself that he was supposed to be working right now. Instead, for whatever reason, he was here. With her. A secret meeting between the fruits and vegetables, a slight odour of fish faint in the background. ❛❛People like you. Why aren’t you at work?❜❜ Had he given it all up? Abandoned his responsibilities, opted to live in his youth once more? If he had, it was far from her business, but her curiosity had been piqued. ❛❛Most people probably came in the morning. The weather is… fine.❜❜ Talking about the weather? They truly were strangers now.

Henry licked his lips and looked down at the fruit stand. “I do know,” he answered softly. He knew so much about her--or at least who she once was. How much of it still held true? Had she changed as much as he had during their time apart? He hoped that if she had, she had found herself, become more grounded, not become the untethered ship cast out on a rolling ocean that he had become. A part of him wanted to say that, though he knew she lost herself in her rehearsal habits, that did not mean he did not worry, did not care for her, did not hope she looked after herself. He wanted to say all that, but it was no longer his place. Perhaps it never had been.

“Yes...yes the weather is good,” he said, only repeating his earlier sentiment as he looked up at the skies. He looked back at her for a moment and felt a rush of everything he had seen the first time he ever looked at her. Her beauty had never faded to him, grown if anything, but it was like a poisoned berry to him now. Beautiful to see. Far too dangerous to touch. “So then if you are only now getting away for a meal, I assume you have been busy with rehearsals. What is the next grand show that will grace London?”

#prudence #the dancer #tw religion mention

eleanorewhittock:

To see Henry was to be reminded of everything she had lost. There was no denying it, and more often than not, it was easily looked past in favour of how dear her brother was to her. But now, as she saw his figure approach, standing on street where most people knew her only as Ellie White, she felt a sudden rush of grief for the life she had once had. If she had been allowed her old comforts, her old life, it wouldn’t have taken her this long to see her brother in his time of need. She would have been able to be there for him, give him his time to grieve whilst she handled everything else. She would have been allowed at the bloody funeral.

Grief was something they both understood well, a constant companion to her in the way she was sure it was to Henry. They had lost Thomas, and then Jason, and then, to most of the world, he had lost her. She was certain he had grieved her, in a way, if only to make it so at least one Whittock had cared about her absence. And now, he had lost another, a friendship she had seen so rarely in person, but one she had heard endless talk of. The woman had been a mother to Henry in ways Emmeline simply never had been.

So, as he embraced her, she held him back even tighter, face pressed into his chest due to the height difference. “I’m so sorry,” she breathed, not wanting to leave the hug just yet. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry.” There isn’t much to say in times of grief - the right words do not exist. Everything can be twisted, turned, feel hollow or cruel when thought of in the wrong way. And sometimes, even when picked as carefully as a bouquet, with all the knowledge of flower language in the world, misinterpretation comes easily. “You deserve better, and so did she. I wish I could have been there for you more before now.”

Henry wrapped his arms tightly around his sister. His fingers bunched up the fabric of her dress, gripping until his nails still bit into his palms through the fabric. He had already felt so close to some unspoken edge before Priscilla’s death. It had been years since the loss of his brother and all of the Lee boys, years since his sister had left leaving an empty hole in their once shared home. Years had passed, he had reconnected with his sister, grown to love little John, and still the ache of loss echoed through his mind. He had never been able to shake the grief that he had never taken the time to face. And now again, the rollercoaster was lurching down another hill at breakneck speed.

“She knew this was going to happen Ellie. She told me. Time and again she warned me.” His throat grew thick at the thought of it. Could he speak allowed of their conversation of specters and spirits? The strange way that she and her brother had died left no question in Henry’s mind as to what had happened. Still, he knew how mad he would sound if he said anything out loud. And if it was the truth? If, for all her knowing and planning and attempts to keep the ghouls at bay, had still failed, what did that mean now? “I just wish I could have done something.”

He stepped back from the hug, only to wrap his arms around himself. It was almost strange to him to find comfort in someone else now. “I know. I know you wish you could have been there. And I know that you couldn’t be.” It is the same barrier that keeps Henry away from his sister more often than he would care for. There is always the too watchful eyes of their parents, not to say anything of the wagging tongue of society gossip. “It’s- I should be used to this by now,” he said in a way that’s nearly chiding himself, “it should not still affect me so to lose someone. I should be past all this...”

#eleanore #the runaway

dayanitas:

“It’s an idea, at that,” Daya concedes with a nod of approval. Pearl had a nanny for emergencies, this much was true, but the amount of childcare duties she actually performs is minimal, limited only to when Daya is unable to be there herself. Her daughter is the most precious thing in her life, and she relishes in the opportunity to spend every moment she can with her. “Perhaps if I am not too tired, I can return alone later.” She knows that she won’t. She will go home, and put Pearl to bed, and spend her evening wallowing in her sorrows, but Henry is trying, his solution practical, and she does not have it in her to shoot it down.

He offers an important lesson, too, one Daya has long since forgotten: gratitude and humility. It is easy for somebody like Daya, with her fortune and riches and resources, able to afford the best of everything for her child, to forget that not everybody finds themself in her position in life. “Oh, you must think I am an awful snob,” she lets out a rueful chuckle. “And I think that is a wonderful idea. Thank you for suggesting it, Henry.” Pearl enjoys drawing, and painting, and Daya herself has an artistic streak that does not often see the light of day. It sounds like a joyous way to pass an afternoon. “You will make a wonderful father to your own children one day. I can tell.” There’s no dishonesty in her words - Daya does think Henry would be a good parent. Better than Daya, at least, though there are times when this doesn’t seem a hard hurdle to clear.

Daya nods, accepting the refusal graciously, and bends to push Pearl down the hill. The little girl squeals in delight, her excited shouts audible even when she reaches the bottom, skidding slowly and safely to a halt in the snow. “Then lets fetch her, and I will buy you a drink for coming to our rescue? I want to get out of this blasted cold, anyway.”

Henry offers her a gentle smile. He wishes he were able to spend more time at the fair. But it is a childish thing and his father has made it clear more than once that he is meant to have done away with childish things. At least others were able to enjoy it; it was something. “Perhaps even return with your husband. It could be nice to have some time for the two of you.” He’s not certain Daya particularly cares for her husband, and of course there are marriages of benefit rather than love at their station, but still, it could be nice for the pair of them. He imagines that even if he were in a marriage where love was not at the forefront, that it would be good to spend time with ones partner.

“No, of course, I don’t think you a snob at all. It is easy to...lose oneself to your typical expectations.” A few years ago, Henry likely would have turned up his nose the same way Daya did. Seeing he life his sister and her friends lived in had changed how he saw the world, what the important things were and what mattered most. Had his sister stayed in the wealth and comfort of the Whittock home, he would be much different. He would not have expanded himself quite the way he had. He absence has left him with more responsibility on his shoulders, but it had made him a better man in some ways.

He pauses at the compliment. He had once enjoyed the idea of children. He had always enjoyed children and though, perhaps, they were not a priority in his life before, he had been excited that one day he would become a father. Now it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t right to fasten the weights he had to a child. His parents pressed him to wed and have the next heir, but the thought only made him sad now. “Well thank you,” he says softly. “I hope that if I have children I am able to be a good father to them. That is all anyone could want with their children.”

He laughs softly and offers her an arm as they make their way back down the hill. “It is rather cold, perhaps a warm drink would do well. And if you and Pearl have finished with the fair for the day, I could accompany you home if you would like.”

#daya #the heiress #i'll take Henry doesn't understand Daya's relationship for $500

pollysheedy:

“Then I’ll make you the jacket,” they agree with a firm nod. They turn around, walking backwards now to survey him properly, head tilted appraisingly to the side. “How do you feel about emerald green? Not too bright, mind you, that would look ridiculous, but a nice, dark, jewel green. It would look smart, but you’d still stand out. Oh! And I have these buttons. They look a different colour, depending on the light you look at them in. It’s like magic, only not, because they’re buttons. They would look just lovely,” they chatter on, so rapidly that it requires a certain amount of focus just to keep up. “I think it would look fantastic on you. A green jacket, with black lapels, and pretty, shiny, buttons.”

A hand rests on their arm, and it is enough to bring their babbling to a halt. When they look at Henry again, there is something subdued, almost melancholic about his expression. Polly frets, worrying that they have said the wrong thing, but if they have, his words don’t betray it. “I can’t wait to tell her I met you properly,” they reply, because they don’t know what to say. “Or maybe neither of us tell her, and one day, we can surprise her with an outing. I think she’d like that. Maybe we can all go to another ballet?” they offer, brows raising expectantly.

A smile tugs at his lips seeing Polly’s excitement over the garment. Henry has found it hard to tug the joy and excitement from life the last few years, he steals it away in moments like this, drinking in others when he can find it. It is refreshing, a drink of cool water on a sweltering summer day. “Green sounds wonderful. And more than suitable for the season. I should think I would feel rather festive in a green jacket with magical buttons.” He gives a small laugh and returns their smile. He can almost picture the garment from her description and he must admit, he does like the image of it. He preferred interesting fashion where it could be allowed and it seemed tasteful enough to be considered simply leaning into the holiday, but not enough to be garish. It sound perfect really.

Another soft chuckles leaves him. “I am not certain a surprise would be the best way with Feriha. Though another night at the theater could be interesting. Have you seen any of the plays they put on? They’re just as good as the ballets.” He wasn’t sure he could manage another ballet so soon. He loved them, they were beautiful, but it was hard to focus on the dancing and the art when his eyes only watched one figure who only made his heart ache. “Or, if there is a telegraph operator near your home, perhaps we could send her a message. We used to exchange them all the time.” His face lights up a bit at the memory and of all the ridiculous nicknames they once used for one another. “She’s always good fun with telegrams.”

#polly #the waif #yes I know I owe daya #but you see my brain won't let me write that one #so it will be done tomorrow (hopefully)

prudcnce

Opposite: Anybody & everybody! Location: Spitalfields Market Date: March twenty-eighth, eighteen eighty-nine.

One and two and three and four and… Mentally, Prudence counted off the rounds of her pirouette, each 360 turn became stronger and stronger. Practice, that was all she needed. It was all she had ever needed. Just a touch more practice and she would reach perfection. To most, perfection had already been obtained by the twenty-eight year old; she had already grasped the art of ballet, shattered the ceiling which her mother had desperately craved to keep her contained by. Yet, it was her mother’s voice in her head that screamed each minor blemish of the girl’s performance. A voice that no amount of noise could ever drown out. Silence was a luxury that Prudence longed for, a luxury she had long lost. Her leg lowered, prepared to repeat the action, when a new sound entered the room. Grumbling, low, almost inaudible, and accompanied by a dulled pain in her abdomen. Food, the woman thought. Noon was almost upon her, and her stomach was empty, save for the splash of gin that had served as an impromptu breakfast. The sun, now high over the city, bathed her surroundings in a bright glow, and highlighted each speck of dust within the room. Cleaning was something that she had little time and patience for; a maid would be a suitable investment, but she struggled to even consider opening her home to a stranger.

Spitalfields was the only valid option, given that the icebox in her abode contained nothing bar a mouldy apple, which she seemed incapable of throwing out. An additional sound came from her stomach, as though in agreeance with her unspoken thought of the venture. Her shirtwaist was tucked tightly into the navy skirt which covered Prudence’s lower half, the matching jacket somewhere beneath a mound of clothes in her room, she had no doubt. Instead, she reached for the cape she favoured of late; the colour was only slightly off from her skirt, thus serving as a formidable choice for her morning outing. The fashion faux pas was not the only reason that the young woman hoped she would not be greeted with any familiar face at the market, but she was able to at least attempt to kid herself that it was.

God appeared to have decided to take pity upon the Londoner that morning, as she was greeted by few faces at Spitalfields. The vendors, all of whom attempted to hide their disappointment at the poor turn out for the hour, busied themselves wantonly, though each made eye contact as she passed their wares. Prudence stopped in front of an array of bright fruits, unfortunately beside one of the only other patrons of the hour. Her eyes scanned the bushels, silently waiting for an inclination from her physical form of what it was she craved. It took less than four seconds before she came across something which seemed formidable. A more audible sound emitted from her stomach, forcing a light pink blush to grow across her face in embarrassment.

❛❛I haven’t eaten breakfast yet,❜❜ there was no way that her fellow customer had not heard the noise, and in a split second Prudence decided that acknowledging it would be better for the both of them. ❛❛Do you think the pears are good today?❜❜ A change of subject, that should sort it. ❛❛They look…❜❜ She paused. ❛❛Well, they look like pears.❜❜ A deeper shade of crimson washed over her this time, her voice and body both having betrayed her within such little time.

henry-whittock

Afternoon had come for London and for Henry, that meant being able to steal a few moments away. He had been working diligently on balancing the books of rents due and rents owned for the properties his family owned--a more simplistic respite from the more complicated workings of the factory, though it did come with heavier consequences more often than not. He could have taken a meal at his desk and continue his work, the way his father so often did and expected of him. But the lunch hour was a chance to get away from his responsibilities for a brief moment, be among the people.

There were plenty of places he could go for the lunch hour. Perhaps he should have gone some place that would serve a full meal or something of the sort. Instead, he found himself drawn to the Spitalfields Market. Perhaps he would find some fruits or freshly made foods of of some sort. He made his way through the stalls, finally stopping at one to look at the array of fruits, his eyes wondering over the apples on display to decide which, if any of them, looked appetizing to him today out in the sun of the day.

He wasn’t sure if Prudence had known it was him when she spoke, but Henry would know her voice anywhere. It had once been the voice that whispered in his happiest dreams, though now it was relegated only to long past memories. He looked over at her and felt his breath catch in his throat for a moment. It always did that, as though taken aback by the beauty held in her features. Even after all these years of knowing her--even after all the years apart--he couldn’t help but stare for just a few seconds.

“I remember telling you that you ought to have breakfast before you go to your rehearsals of the day. You’ll need the energy,” he offered a small smile. It didn’t spread easily across his face nor alight his eyes the way it once had. Though that wasn’t entirely Prudence’s fault. He looked over the pears, before finding a few that seemed ripe. He picked them up, along with a few apples, handing the necessary coin over to the vendor before placing the green fruit in Prudence’s hand. “A pear sound a good choice. At least to begin with.”

It feels awkward and he can hear it in his voice. Being near her doesn’t hold the same ease it once did. “The weather is fine today. I am surprised the markets are so bear with such bright sun in the sky.”

#the dancer #prudence

billxbarker:

Henry responds like a petulant child, trying his best to mind his manners. That, in turn, will bring a sly smirk to Bill’s face later, knowing he had so effortlessly crawled under his skin and caused discord there. For now, though, he keeps that smugness hidden, a polite smile the only expression gracing his features, seemingly unreactive to the barely-veiled hostility that is radiating from Henry. It is one of his favourite games to play in parliament - letting his opponent tie themself in knots, while he remains as cool and collected as ever, above reproach and leaving them thinking it was they in the wrong.

Henry is both like and unlike Ellie. There is more of a bite to him, but perhaps that simply came from being a young man. Bill can almost admire that, if it had not been threaded with an undercurrent of uncertainty, as though he is second-guessing every word. Without meaning to, Henry displays his vulnerabilities clearly for Bill, and for men like Bill. He would have to fix that should he ever hope to achieve anything great.

Perhaps Bill would do him a favour in the long term. For now, he is content to watch him, assess his reactions and determine if this man will ever be of use to him.

Henry denies issue, and Bill raises his arms in a casual, nonchalant shrug. “The past doesn’t matter, and the world is changing.” No matter how much those in power willed in, the common man outnumbered them, dozens to one. “Laws can be amended, are being so as we speak.” There is no threat to his words. It is on this principle that Bill has built his empire, by having the foresight to recognise the way the wind was blowing. He shares that foresight with Henry now, and what he does with that wisdom is on his own shoulders.

“We do,” Bill confirms. “Your sister.” And there is his ace card. He does not elaborate, does not explain just how involved he is in Ellie’s world, but the insinuation is there, and he lets Henry fill in the gaps for himself. “It could be,” he concedes. “But that does not mean I am not obligated to look into the claims. Would you not expect the same of me if you were making such allegations yourself, regardless of any personal stake in the manner.” He pauses, waiting expectantly for an answer. “I’ve warned you as a favour. Nothing more. If you’d prefer, We can keep all future inspections a surprise. It makes no difference to me.”

“Change, though they may, they have not yet.” It is a simple statement of fact. More people were pushing for reform within factories and other workplaces--and for what it was worth, Henry hoped the activists got their way. Until then, nothing would change for those concerned more with profit than wellbeing, his father included. And like it or not the factory was still within its legal rights without any new laws being officially enacted.

Henry takes a deep breath as he considers how to handle things. An inspection would only be an unwelcome inconvenience his father would be all the more less tolerant of if he knew Henry had had the chance to prevent it and failed to do so. His father would likely grease palms in order to make the situation go away, but Henry could not imagine that would work out favorably. There was no affection between himself and the politician and Bill had made his stance on labor reform perfectly clear. A bribe would, at best, bring more hostility and curiosity, and at worst, be all but an admission of guilt.

“Were you to look into it, I am certain you would find that the allegations are entirely unfounded, and we have continued to perform just as well as we have previously.” He paused just a moment, before straightening his spine a bit more and continuing. “I would only hate to see you waste the city’s resources--and of course your own time--with such things.”

Henry freezes. No one really spoke of Eleanore any more, not to him. As far as his parents were concerned, they had buried two children. How could Bill even know about her? And they had become friends? How? Could she really trust a man like this? “Apologies,” he says, his blood still running cold, his heart beating all too strongly. “I think I may have misheard you there. I could have sworn you said my sister.” It wasn’t enough to admit that he still spoke to her. That there was no one so dear to him in all the world. Wasn’t even enough to admit that she was even still alive. “I am not certain how you could owe her a favor, much less one to be paid forward to me.”

#bill #The Politician

aetunion:

“i should have written,” he laments, his smile half-melancholic and half-hopeful when his gaze flickers back to the other man. “you would have appreciated it, i think. maybe in the future, i shall correct that mistake.”

this is to say: thomas did appreciate, too. but for all intents and purposes, the man hadn’t been one to find fulfillment on paper. he was a man made for the reality of life, for the burdens of duty and the joys of leading and that was always fine for link whose own thirst for belonging could never be quenched in places that kept him in someone else’s shadow. henry had been the first friend he’d made after crossing the ocean who understood at least a portion of this: shining your light was difficult when that of the people around you was simply brighter.

but that didn’t mean it invited resentment. link’s decision to step away and to go other places hadn’t been born out of spite, but rather a desire for personal fulfilment. and where his father hadn’t approved, he’d seen the beaming faces of henry and thomas and heard their encouragement spoken and it was enough to convince him to follow that path and see where it would lead him. those were snippets of the day he’d left which he still carried close to his heart till this day.

“you’re right,” he nods his head in agreement, lips tugged downwards into a gentle frown. “it’s a bit suffocating. i sometimes think i have forgotten what it is like to see so many people all at once. it is perhaps the strangest thing out of them all.” link looked as if he wanted to say more, then thought the better of it. maybe it was his own distractibility or henry’s sudden, rather passionate declaration that stunned him into silence. it wasn’t something he’d anticipated but the words nevertheless managed to speak to him on some level he’d thought closed off from the world at this point.

“when you’re far away from home, you long for it more than you’d realize.” it’s the first time he’s spoken that realization aloud, despite the fact it’s one he’s had several years ago. the further he’d been drawn away from his loved ones, the more dearly he’d missed them. absence truly did make the heart grow fonder although it wasn’t enough to ward off any unfortunate circumstances. even so, his grin firmly stayed locked in place. “if you ever do want to give travel a chance, i recommend cyprus during summer. it is simply marvelous.”

There was something that tugged inside Henry for a moment. Though he would never wish anyone else brought into his own misery, he did not relish in the idea of his old friend leaving to go back to the sea. If it was what Link wanted, what would bring him happiness, Henry would see him to port and waive him goodbye and wish him well on his travels. He would not be happy to see him go though, even if there had been time and distance left in the relationship that had once been so close.

“Should you leave again, I would very much enjoy letters. You can tell me of everything you see, what wonders the world holds out there. Or perhaps the most ridiculous post card you can find at each port.” The idea tugs up his lips. If Link did leave again, at least if he wrote Henry would be able to capture little pieces of the world he would not get to see as he had once hoped. It would not be the same as seeing them himself, it would not be enough, but he would take what he was able.

“All I seem to see is people,” it comes out as some sort of exasperated lament. In the company of an old friend, he feels the ability to complain and air grievances without fear his words would make their way back to his father or any other ears that would think poorly of him for having spoken them. “You should see the way the factory looks now. Father has managed to cram in even more people. Says he is offering a service to a growing city by expanding employment but...”

He doesn't fully complete that thought, instead shaking his head as though that is completion enough. Though he is free to voice some things, there are others he cannot say. He cannot speak of how the conditions he walks through during the week turn his stomach. Cannot mention that the workers seem exhausted and starved and there are accidents with horrifying consequences. The mill runs in a certain way and he feels powerless to change it, even if he wishes he were not.

A faint smile hints on his lips. “Cyprus,” he says back the country's name slowly, savoring it on his tongue. It is not that his desire to travel has waned, only that opportunity has long since passed. “I will have to remember that.” He turns to his friend. “What of Greece? Were you able to visit? Or Rome? We always talked of going. Did you get to see either? Were they wonderful?”

#link #the sailor #i figure they used to talk about traveling together #and like had a bucket list of places #let me know if you want me to change that

ruthleveen:

Ruth fondly rolls her eyes, casting a sarcastic look in Henry’s direction as he defends his childhood innocence. Sometimes she wonders what she would do if she did not have friends like this man. Yes they don’t know everything there is to know about one another, and yes that devilish monster called embarrassment might convince her every once in a while that he would be ashamed if anyone else were to discover their friendship, but that does not stop her from feeling grateful for the moments that they do have together. Truth be told, she doesn’t exactly go around boasting about their time together either.

She is quite sure that if her father were to get wind of her friendship with a man of Henry’s class, there would be no end to his hounding. Every conversation would eventually become a demand for her to somehow get….something from him, money, status, etc. But Ruth does not want that from him, she does not want that from anyone. She just wants a companion whom she can be herself around.

“Oh, well…” she starts, “it’s just the late nights, I suppose.” Ruth lets the silence stretch between her and Henry for a moment, biting at the inside of her cheek. “And with all the nonsense that has been going on lately…I guess I am just a bit more on edge. Sometimes it feels like I am not alone out here…but not in a good way. Sometimes I expect something nasty to jump out from around the corner at any second.” Her sentence finishes with a nervous chuckle, and she rubs her gloved hands together anxiously. “But…late nights will do that to a person.” At surface level, it might seem that her statements are referring to the Ripper, but that is not the case. For some godforsaken reason, that dreadful figure does not really instill much fear in her, but rather it is anger that they bring forth. No, it is not the Ripper she is afraid of, it is her vile little specter.

Henry understood the dread of evenings and the night time. It was why he was out here now, roaming the streets in the dark cold, rather than tucked safely inside his comfortable bed in his warm home. The creature that follows him does not leave him in the day time, but it doesn’t not hound him in the same way. The shadows it casts are not so strong, the whispers not so loud, the likelihood of it jumping out at him less. It seems to have a bit less power during the day time for reasons he does not understand. So he does his best to pretend the nighttime hours are still part of the night to keep the beast at bay, best he can.

“I can understand why you would be anxious to be on these streets at night alone. The city has not been a welcoming place in the evening hours of late.” He carries the little ladder to another lamppost, setting it out and holding out a hand that she might hold onto as she climbs. “I worry for my sister, though I knows that she does not go out often at night.” There is a pause, a small one, before he decides to say more. He decides to look at her as he continues. “I worry for you too.”

He can feel his heart beat a bit harder and he tries to push it all away. They are friends a nothing more. Even were they not to be, he knows that it could not end well. He take a breath and pushes the thoughts from his mind as he tears his eyes away. “I know you have done this for some time. I am sure you know how to go about it safely. But it is some peace of mind that at least tonight you will not be alone. Night can bring out all sorts of monsters. Have us seeing things that can’t possibly be there. I understand the worry.”

#ruth #the lamplighter #reel it in henry; reel it in

pollysheedy:

“I don’t know much about that sort of thing,” Polly admits, raising shoulders in half of a shrug. “I’ve never been in a relationship like that.” There had been men in Polly’s life, but only ever for small amounts of time, never anything more significant than a summer romance. When they had asked them to change, it came with a different meaning, that familiar sting of not being good enough, or accepted for who they are. Their most significant relationships came from their friends and family, and that was more than enough for them. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Polly chews their lip. They want to say yes, but they still can’t shake the feeling that they’re coming in between something. “As long as Ellie says it’s okay? I can ask her if you want me to. I don’t want to step on any toes, conflict of interest or no.” They respect and like her far too much for that. “But if she says yes, then yeah. I can make you something for the dinner.” A faraway look appears in their eyes, their mind already cycling through ideas for the coat. There’s some mother-of-pearl buttons they’ve been dying to use that would look perfect.

Polly alights though, and is brought back to earth, when Henry mentions Feriha. “I don’t think it’s too much,” they shake their head determinedly, unwilling to speak ill of her. “She’s my best friend. Or one of them, anyway. It’s way more fun when she’s around. I get to pretend there’s nothing bad in the world, for a little while. And she gave me a cat.”

Henry waives a hand, brushing away their concern. “Eleanore won’t mind at all. If anything, she would appreciate it. It will give her more time to focus on her own business and time to spend with John as well. You would be doing us both a favor really.” He gives them a gentle smile as he looks back at Polly. His smile warms a bit as he can see something turning behind their eyes. “Have you any good ideas for the look? It would be nice to have something more interesting than the standard fare.”

There is a small sting Henry can’t quite deny. There was a time Henry too would have touted Feriha as one of his best friends. They had been so close for so long. But could he still say that? Or had too much come between them, had he changed too much, molded into the man his father wished to see rather than the one who used to laugh and drink and be merry with his old friends? As with so many things, he wasn’t quite sure where he stood when it came to those like Feriha or Link.

“No insult was meant, I assure you,” he said, resting a hand over their arm. “Her energy is often a welcome presence. She is a good friend and it good to hear the two of you have found each other as well. Feriha is...” he looks up at the darkening sky as he finds words that would be suitable for the girl he once frequently telegraphed to join him for evenings of raucous behavior. “She is the life of any room she is in.”

#polly #the waif

theundertakcr:

THE PALPABLE WORRY in Henry’s voice and the obvious shift in his disposition tells Rahat that they may have stepped a toe out of line with their speculations somewhere along the way. It’s clear to them that something they’ve said hit close to home with the young man, perhaps a little too close for someone merely reacting to what could be pure conjecture at this point. It’s possible he’s been going through something odd and unnatural too; it’s possible he’s had suspicions of his own, or has been having suspicions of his own for a time now, but hasn’t thought to fully address them yet. Rahat doesn’t know, really. They’re making assumptions based on body language, observing maybe a tad too closely now for comfort.

Rahat is silent for a moment, thinking about how best to phrase it. There’s something there, on the tip of Henry’s tongue, waiting to be said. With the number of friends and associates Rahat’s brushed shoulders with in Muiris Doyle’s seances, it won’t surprise them to discover that ( if they are correct, of course ) Henry’s been having his own spot of bother with the supernatural too — very close encounters with the other kind. Something foul is afoot within London, prowling the streets, yes, plastered all over the papers, yes; but there’s much and more beyond that, Rahat believes now. They don’t understand it themself, but they see, and they hear, and they know it to be true.

“Tell me, Henry,” Rahat says, adjusting in place, not at all bothering to answer Henry’s questions. They think he might already have some hypothetical responses of his own. It’s all a matter of confirming their own suppositions. “Has anything particularly unexplainable happened to you recently?” They tilt their head and watch him, waiting for shifts in his expression. “Something you think surpasses all manner of logic or reason?”

Henry doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want to say any of it out loud any more than he wished to the first or second time he spoke of it. Only two people know about the specter following Henry around with its dripping, violent teeth and its cruel words that seem to sink directly into his skin. He’d thought both Priscilla and Muiris would think he was mad when he confessed it. Instead both had horrifyingly similar responses--that his fears were real and his ought to be scared.

He swallows thickly, staring down at Thomas’s grave. What would he do if facing the same situation Henry was? He would find his own way to handle things, take it on the chin and deal with it, they way he had everything life had sent his way. But then Thomas had always been stronger than he was. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for from the precious few he had told--reassurance that it was real or a sooth that it was all imagination. Neither answer seemed a good one.

There’s another long breath as Henry still gazes at his brother’s name carved in marble, but he nods softly. “I have,” the words are almost a whisper, a difficult admission to make. “I thought it was only in my mind. Or perhaps figments of a madness of sorts.” He pauses for a moment, trying to decide just how much he wishes to share. “But it seems too real. There have been other conversations I have had...” he shakes his head. Finally he manages to life his eyes to meet Rahat’s. “Have you...have you had such encounters? Or heard of them?” This time he knows what answer he’s hoping to hear. He wants to know that he is not alone.

#Rahat #The Undertaker #congrats!#henry's old secret keeper is ded #so rahat is the new one

eleanorewhittock

WHO: @henry-whittock WHERE: An arranged meeting point.

It had been a few days since the news had reached Ellie, and it had killed her that she hadn’t been able to visit Henry sooner. He was, she assumed, completely busy with work, and she had been too. The shop had had a sudden influx of orders, and as the only staff member, it had left her with very little time to do anything else. It did, however, make her feel like a terrible older sister.

She had sent him a letter in advance of their meeting, not daring to go to the house she had grown up in, even in the circumstances. There were other avenues she could have taken, certainly, but her lack of time had meant she hadn’t seen anybody who wasn’t a customer or John in many days. In the aftermath of the news, perhaps it was her fear, perhaps it was her son’s, but the spirit that visited them had made itself even more at home, and so the day’s work was being done on a ridiculously little amount of sleep.

But now, John was being looked after, and Ellie finally had time to see her brother after so long apart. She waited on the corner between two shops, hands clasped before her as she watched down the street, looking for a familiar figure.

henry-whittock

Henry had been devastated when he received the news. To outsiders, his friendship with Priscilla Palmer likely looked strange. She was a woman near double his age who largely kept to herself in her home of endless twists and turns, wealth and grief seemed the only things they held in common on the surface. A deep friendship had formed between the two of them though. It was founded years back when Henry was first starting to feel so helplessly lost, looking it too out at a society party where the dame was in attendance. She had reminded him of the governess who had raised he and his siblings far more than their parents.

She was a comfort. She understood what it meant to lose the most important parts of your family. She knew what it was to have a presence with you that you could not shake. She was the only one, save the medium at the frost fair, that Henry had ever told about the specter that followed him. She hadn’t told him he was mad or ought to go to an asylum. She had told him he was right to be afraid, that spirits could do just as much harm as the living. And now she was dead.

His mind swum as the dark familiarity of grief sought to pull him back under. He had let himself believe for a time, too long perhaps, that the wave of loss from Thomas and Jason and the other Lee boys and Eleanore had finally passed. He should have known better. New fears creeping in along with it this time though--if whatever had sought out she and her brother had taken their lives, could his spirit to the same? It had never done more than hiss maliciousness into his ears, but what if it would not be content to stop there? In the haze of his mourning, he had responded to his sister's letter--sent it through a family servant, during daylight hours, a stupid choice really and not one he would have made in clearer consciousness--asking her to meet him.

As he made his way down the alleyways, his nails had been chewed to the quick. His hair, usually so carefully arranged and styled, laid mussed around his head. He hadn’t bothered with a hat, nor gloves, his look, though perhaps passable for some, far out of character for Henry.

“Ellie,” he said, his voice breaking as he saw his sister and rushed to scoop her into his arms. His breath shook as he hugged her fiercely. “Els...” he was at a loss as he stared at his sister, trying to find some words that could make sense of it all. “When is it going to stop? I thought we were done with this. I thought...I thought there had been enough loss.” He swallows, confusion and hurt settling across his face. “She did everything she could to protect herself and still it wasn’t enough.”

#eleanore #the runaway #tw death #tw grief #tw violence #this got very away from me #don't feel the need to match length

ferihas:

“I am terrifying, I know,” Feriha returns with a cheshire cat grin. She doesn’t expect things to be the same—perhaps it’s her that’s stuck while everyone moves forward, spurred on by obligation or ambition, while she runs endlessly towards nowhere—but it’s nice to see hints of the old Henry peeking through his stiff facade. “I will, thank you very much.” Her response is still colored by her typical blithe nonchalance, but her smile is sincere.

She rolls her eyes, waving a hand. “Well, one knows what I think of one’s father and what he thinks. I’d say ignore it, he’s not worth your time—but I know you can’t.” If casting off the weight of expectation was an easy feat, Henry would’ve done it already. “I still think he’s too hard on you, though. And too rigid. Times are changing, can’t he see that? You’re the one bringing fresh ideas to the table, and that’s worth far more than staying in the past.” But what does she know about business? Enough to know change means progress.

“I think so, too,” she says in agreement. “I hope she’s doing well.” She means it; Eleanore deserves nothing but the best, and though Feriha doesn’t know her as well as Henry, she knows his sister has weathered the challenges thrown at her admirably. It’s not fair, not any of it, and she can’t help but think it should’ve been easier. A child isn’t something to be ashamed of; love isn’t something that should be hidden. Yet she says nothing more on the matter, moving swiftly on as Henry so clearly wishes to. Clearly, most of the other guests don’t agree, and she knows to how to better hold her tongue than she did at sixteen, even if it’s not by much. And if Henry doesn’t want to talk about it, then she won’t. Simple as that.

“Me too!” she chirps, as if it’s just a joke. Oh, but what’d she’d give for a dreamless sleep, free of the screaming woman. What’d she give to escape the presence at her back, looming over her as she walks through the empty hallways of her home. I will protect you, she whispers, but how does Feriha know that’s true?

“But I don’t know. I guess Kazandibi. It’s a kind of milk pudding. I’ve never really managed to make it on my own—I’m horrid at baking—and it’s been so long since I’ve had it.” Taste holds so much memory; in the caramelized flavor of kazandibi lies her childhood and a country she has not seen in years.

“Oh, that’s two things, isn’t it?” Her eyes twinkle, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Look, the first doesn’t count, I was just agreeing with you.”

Henry can’t keep his eyes from wondering across the floor of the party to land on his father. His father is stood with his back toward them, his mother’s hand resting gently on the inside of his arm, as they talk to some other well dressed gentleman. How would things be if he could heed Feriha’s advice and pay them no mind? Would it release the tension in his shoulders to be able to do as he pleased again or would he still be racked with guilt? He would never know. He couldn’t leave his parents with no one and he couldn’t take the best possibility of a future away from John. No, he had to stay with this, at least long enough to assure John would be well provided for in the absence of his father.

Instead, Henry shakes his head. “The world is changing. The power is shifting into the hands of those who can employ many. If we have the power, then why not use it to benefit ourselves more? That is all he is concerned with. Benefit the business. Benefit the company. Pay not mind to those that become collateral,” he admitted, frustration seeping into his voice. “And it’s no easier for our workers to walk away than it would be for me. So everyone winds up trapped.”

Henry’s eyes glance over toward Feriha for a moment. They were friends once, close once. He isn’t sure what they are now--to people playing at friends? Pretending bonds have not been worn down? But regardless, there is an air of trust between them. He hesitates for a moment before the champagne seems to bubble the words right out of him. “She is well. Better than would have been expected. Thought worse than could be hoped.” The words are soft and rushed, but enough to lend support to the idea that his sister may not be as absent from his life as most would believe.

“You can wish for two things. That hardly seems selfish of you.” He smiled softly and shook his head at her. “Well...write to your mother. I am certain she would be able to send a recipe to you. Then find a baker here to make it for you. There is sure to be one that would accept your coin to make you a treat. And that is much easier to procure than a good night’s sleep is it not? So that is one wish granted at least.” He sighs and takes another drink from his glass. “In which case, what else do you wish for?”

#feriha #the ward

aetunion:

“you know you can tell me anything that’s on your mind, if you want,” he tells henry, trying to keep his tone from being too much of anything, really. it’s a difficult bridge to cross; there’s a delicate line separating fondness for an old friendship and the detachment from one individual to another but deep down, he’d like to think that there were no feelings of caution or shame between them.

“i think so,” he says softly. his ears are ringing and he feels an unease settling in his stomach but maybe it’s more important to take care of henry than his own feelings right now — and he would, if he knew how to. but their lives are no longer intertwined and he fears that digging deeper will do more harm than good. “don’t worry. forget i asked anything.“

sometimes things are buried so deep, if you want to unearth them you have to dig up all the earth. so you have to make more of a mess and put more soil and stones everywhere if you try to take it out than if you leave it lie.

the question has him lapsing back into silence as his brows pinch while he tries to come up with an acceptable answer. “it isn’t so much that i dislike working at the docks. i’d much prefer to be at sea, is all. there’s no substitute for it. it’s… a lot harder to get used to life on land.”

which is true enough; he yearns for the sound of the waves crashing against the ship or the distance it would put between him and all that has him feeling so lousy. but some things, especially those that are spoken into existence, have a way of haunting him relentlessly. even this — what was once his biggest accomplishment, has been tainted by something he can’t find the words to explain. his shoulders slump slightly while he offers henry a mournful smile.

his words have a much bigger impact than link thought possible.

“london would beg to disagree, i think,” he counters dryly, though the sarcasm isn’t directed at henry; more so at the general circumstances that seem to have befallen the city. he feels a strange warmth blossom inside him as he ponders the question, his expression morphing into something more boyish and joyful. “the world truly is colorful, well beyond anything we could have ever imagined. but for what it’s worth, sometimes it felt as though the people were all the same. what’s that saying? the more things change, the more they stay the same? i found that to be very true, strangely enough.”

Henry presses his lips together. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Link. It is that he does not trust anyone with this secret. Not even Eleanore knows of the spirit that haunts him from dark corners, laughing at him, mocking him, whittling him down to nothing. Everyone would think him mad, were he to share such things. No, this would be his own weight to carry the brunt of and try to move past. “No no. Only that. Just vivid dreams is all,” he says, pressing on a smile best he could as he shakes his head.

He nods for a moment at Link’s words. He can’t fully understand what it means to miss the call of the ocean, but he understands wanting to be anywhere other than the place your feet have been cemented to. He wishes to run far away from the life that has become a gilded cage who walls seem to close in further with each passing year. The idea of time spent out at sea, with nothing but the wind and the waves to answer to seems like a dream to Henry, even if it isn’t a life he has experienced.

“It must be difficult to go from the vast openness of the sea to here. Everything feels...a bit more closed in than it once did,” Henry says looking up at the building around them. All of London seemed to live on top of itself and it only seemed to get worse as the city grew larger. “I can’t imagine how much different it must feel from the ocean.”

Henry bites out a snort. “Well then London, respectfully, can stuff it. Damn the rest of the city, I at least am glad you are here.” It is more bold and crass language than he is used to using in recent months (years really) and it almost feels strange on the tongue. It feels right walking stride for stride beside Link though. A small piece of himself wrenched from between the cobblestones for at least as long as their walk will last.

The quick dash of Lincoln’s joy is enough to warm Henry. The want to travel he had long since quashed, flickering inside of him. He wished he were able to see the world instead of just this one city for the rest of his life. “I wish that I could see it,” his tone fills with a longing he won’t fully voice. “Strange that they would all seem so similar. Even here in London, it seems people are so vastly divided. Perhaps the perspective of the world changes it all. It must have been wonderful getting to travel and see it all.”

#the sailor #link

pollysheedy:

Polly pauses, face screwing up in thought at Henrys words. They could not deny the validity of them, and it reminds them of their own recent growth, made possible by their love for Zoya and Rahat. They open their mouth to agree, but stop, four little words suddenly recalled. Just as you are. They smile, and shake their head. “No.” They say. “People who love you will support you when you grow, but not ask for it. They’ll care about you as you are, no matter you are. Change has to come because it’s what you need for yourself.” They have known another sort of love, one where they were required to be more than they are capable of. They wouldn’t fall into that trap again.

“Both, but I’m better at dresses. I made my friend a coat though, and that was nice.” They have very few male customers, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t or were unwilling to - it was simply lack of opportunity thus far. “I’d offer to make you something, but I suppose you don’t need me. You have Ellie,” they speak her name warmly, their fondness for her evident.

“Well I appreciate it all the same.” Polly refutes his claim that it isn’t any bother - the world is cruel place, and they know that only too well. Where kindness blooms, they wanted to make sure it did not go unmarked. “We have to look after the people who look after us, don’t we?” They let the statement hang for a moment before nodding. “Zoya and I went to the opening ceremony to look at the elephants, and Andy and I went to the fair, and Feriha and I went to the market. I’ve never seen London like this.”

Henry thinks on their words for a moment. It seemed a jarring idea when put against the expectations of his parents, that their love seemed conditional on his achievements and acts of propriety. It even feels a bit disjointed in his relationship with the dancer. He had wanted to be more, to be better for her. But then look where that had led him. “Perhaps you are right. Though I do think that perhaps a relationship can be the reason you wish to change and better yourself. Even if your partner does not make you feel so, sometime you only desire to be more for them, to be able to offer them more. I think that may be enough for some people to want to change.”

“A coat? Well that does sound wonderful,” he smiles to himself. He pauses before answering, the weight of though filling the gap between. “Eleanore would never allow me to pay her for anything. And it would be far to much to expect her work for free. I wouldn’t wish to be a burden to her. I’m sure she’s capable, but there is a bit of a conflict of interest I think.” He looked over at Polly, trying to be casual. “I have been invited to attend a dinner on Christmas Eve though. It would be nice to have something new for the occasion.

Henry nodded his agreement. “We do indeed.” It was difficult for him at time, to find ways to protect those he cared for. Seeing Eleanore or Ruth meant sneaking away from his parents in the evening; things with Lincoln and Feriha had grown strained as he changed into someone new over the years. He wished he could do more, but he supposed he would accept what he was able. “Oh, you’ve attended with Feriha? Well that seems as though it must have been a good time. She always brings some energy everywhere she goes. Some time a bit too much energy,” he said, though fondness still filled his tone.

#polly #the waif

theundertakcr:

THOUGH THEY’VE NEVER ( and clearly will never ) know how it is to have a sibling, Rahat is very keenly aware of how it is to worry about someone as though it were their obligation to do so. Had life not dropped Polly Sheedy, cold and shivering outside their doorstep one dark and stormy evening, then perhaps they’d have remained blissfully unaware. They understand how it feels, to wonder where someone is and what they could be doing, in the hopes that they’re out there keeping themselves safe and away from harm. They understand how it feels to think that it’s wholly in their place to watch over another, despite never having had a blood relative to feel that way towards, and to Henry’s words, they give a solemn nod and a quiet word: “Indeed.”

They offer an expression of thanks, too, when Henry goes on to speak admirably of them and the position they hold in their society. He’s right, in a way. It seems like a good thing, that there are people out there who willingly take on jobs like this, jobs not very many would want to accept. For that, they smile and simply say, “Those are kind words, Henry. Much obliged.” But the conversation moves away from that, of course, due in part to Rahat’s assessment that something else could be afoot. The surprise and fear in Henry’s reaction is palpable, especially as he searches for reassurance. Just a few bad years for the country, he’s hoping, and Rahat wishes they could agree.

“One could say that too, I suppose, but… I can’t help feeling like something bigger is behind all this,” they say, voice low and soft, as though they wouldn’t want anyone else to hear. They don’t look conspiratorial, though, or all too wary; they’re simply… considering something. Very deeply and very carefully. “I wouldn’t wager to say all these misfortunes are connected, but I cannot seem to shake the idea either.” They don’t mean to scare Henry, certainly not in the way they do mean to scare some of their other friends and acquaintances; this is genuine contemplation. Would that they could have gone with something more hopeful. “Just my thoughts, of course.”

There is something to Rahat’s words that sets Henry’s whole body on edge. A deep discomfort settles into every of his body. If he had the strength to look it in the eyes, Henry may even be able to acknowledge it--it was the feeling of knowing something was right when you would give anything for it to be otherwise. He had felt it once before, when a servant had come to tell Henry that his sister had stolen away in the night with her child, that no one knew where the two had gone, and it would be best not to bring up the matter with his parents. It was a visceral reaction of tightened shoulders, tension loaded like a spring, wanting, almost needing, to get away.

The idea that it could all be something bigger, that the haunting creature that followed him could have some tie to the beast murdering women, it churned his stomach. “Connected?” it seemed hard to press the word from his throat. He shook himself out, trying to shake some of the discomfort from his body. Perhaps his mind was running away with him and Rahat meant nothing by their words. “What kind of connection could there be?”

As soon as the question is out of his mouth, he stops, wondering. All they had been discussing were the killings, had they not? But it would only be natural for them to be connected. What else could Rahat mean? It wasn’t as though they were aware of the specter haunting Henry. “And what are you speaking of? What...other things do you think may be connected to the killings? re there...other things that need to be concerned about?” He tried to ask as casually as he could, but the damp feel of his ghost’s voice slid into his ear. Oh you foolish boy. There is so much more to be concerned about. Am I not proof enough?

#rahat #The Undertaker

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