[32 / 8 / 1]
Quoted By:
You are Charlotte Fawkins.
Presently, you're in your own home, though it's more broken-down than you remember it. Though you expect you've gone to hell for the inexplicable, unforgivable crime of murdering your own father, you have so far evaded the endless suffering you deserve. Instead, you've promised to help your imaginary younger self locate some keys, so she can follow said father through secret tunnels under your house. You have a bad feeling about all of this.
Lottie isn't ten steps into the neighboring room before she stops in her tracks, spinning on her heel to face you. "Wait!"
You haven't even reached the doorway. "What?"
"You need a weapon! What if the footsteps are a burglar? What if Daddy..." She doesn't finish. "You're tall enough, right?"
"To—"
"To reach?"
You sigh, duck under the cobwebby doorway, and enter the room. Yes, you know what she means: the neighboring room has a fireplace, and a mantel, and a sword hanging tantalizingly above it. You can reach it now, if you apply your tiptoes, but not then. (And if Aunt Ruby ever caught you moving the furniture, let alone handling something so dangerous, you'd be without breakfast for weeks.)
The Sword is not on your hip, even if it should be, even as you reach for it. It is back above the mantel. You don't like the thought of getting it down again— you don't deserve it. But Lottie's right about the footsteps. You wouldn't mind getting crowbarred by a would-be thief, but she doesn't deserve to die. She hasn't done anything evil yet. Having a weapon could protect her, and maybe you could ironically fall upon it later.
You might as well be carrying a bone, Lottie looks so much like a puppy: all big eyes and trembling anticipation. As you head toward the mantel and reach up, you're surprised she doesn't whimper. You were never allowed pets: your Aunt Ruby would say something about "mouths to feed" and shut down all conversation. As you grasp upon The Sword's hilt and feel a squeeze and glance down to find you're being hugged— again— you're starting to grasp what it might've been like.
"Propriety!" you say automatically, and brush her off you. "Also, I— I'm holding a sword! It's not safe!"
"You're not going to drop it. Since you're so good at it? Right?"
She so desperately wants you to say 'yes.' And the answer isn't 'no.' You're sure you're no master, but you've been trained, somewhere. At some point. You still can't remember. "Um... no matter what, you shouldn't..."
"Can I see it?"
"Only if you're careful." You're holding it above you still. "You're not going to grab it, right? I can't—"
"Who are you?" She folds her arms. "Aunt Ruby? I'm not <span class="mu-i">dumb.</span>"
You're not sure about that, but lower the sword reluctantly. Lottie's face drops at the same time yours does: The Sword is dust-covered and, worse, rust-covered. It's pitted with holes. It looks about as sharp as that prowler's probable crowbar.
(1/2)
Presently, you're in your own home, though it's more broken-down than you remember it. Though you expect you've gone to hell for the inexplicable, unforgivable crime of murdering your own father, you have so far evaded the endless suffering you deserve. Instead, you've promised to help your imaginary younger self locate some keys, so she can follow said father through secret tunnels under your house. You have a bad feeling about all of this.
Lottie isn't ten steps into the neighboring room before she stops in her tracks, spinning on her heel to face you. "Wait!"
You haven't even reached the doorway. "What?"
"You need a weapon! What if the footsteps are a burglar? What if Daddy..." She doesn't finish. "You're tall enough, right?"
"To—"
"To reach?"
You sigh, duck under the cobwebby doorway, and enter the room. Yes, you know what she means: the neighboring room has a fireplace, and a mantel, and a sword hanging tantalizingly above it. You can reach it now, if you apply your tiptoes, but not then. (And if Aunt Ruby ever caught you moving the furniture, let alone handling something so dangerous, you'd be without breakfast for weeks.)
The Sword is not on your hip, even if it should be, even as you reach for it. It is back above the mantel. You don't like the thought of getting it down again— you don't deserve it. But Lottie's right about the footsteps. You wouldn't mind getting crowbarred by a would-be thief, but she doesn't deserve to die. She hasn't done anything evil yet. Having a weapon could protect her, and maybe you could ironically fall upon it later.
You might as well be carrying a bone, Lottie looks so much like a puppy: all big eyes and trembling anticipation. As you head toward the mantel and reach up, you're surprised she doesn't whimper. You were never allowed pets: your Aunt Ruby would say something about "mouths to feed" and shut down all conversation. As you grasp upon The Sword's hilt and feel a squeeze and glance down to find you're being hugged— again— you're starting to grasp what it might've been like.
"Propriety!" you say automatically, and brush her off you. "Also, I— I'm holding a sword! It's not safe!"
"You're not going to drop it. Since you're so good at it? Right?"
She so desperately wants you to say 'yes.' And the answer isn't 'no.' You're sure you're no master, but you've been trained, somewhere. At some point. You still can't remember. "Um... no matter what, you shouldn't..."
"Can I see it?"
"Only if you're careful." You're holding it above you still. "You're not going to grab it, right? I can't—"
"Who are you?" She folds her arms. "Aunt Ruby? I'm not <span class="mu-i">dumb.</span>"
You're not sure about that, but lower the sword reluctantly. Lottie's face drops at the same time yours does: The Sword is dust-covered and, worse, rust-covered. It's pitted with holes. It looks about as sharp as that prowler's probable crowbar.
(1/2)
