cryptsleeper | With matercula

With matercula

Continued from here!

[The way back to the castle brought no surprises. No mobs. Nothing. There was only the road and there was only silence. For most of, Alucard slept, stirring only when there was a change in terrain or something felt off. His sleep wasn't deep. It was just enough to take the reins from his mother if he absolutely had to.

That never came to pass, and in the foothills of the Carpathians, familiar spires rose above the treeline. For any other travelers, the word to describe the spires would be loom. Alucard considered them welcoming. They were home, the horrors far, far behind them and any church hounds were equally distant.

Alucard sleeps for a solid week, having not bothered to eat before collapsing on his bed and only taking a cursory five minutes to try and remove all the blood from his person. (The tattered remains of his shirt and trousers were exchanged for sleep clothes, at least.) It's longer than he expected, the expanse of energy hadn't felt that intense at the time. But it was, and his body decided that those same abilities that had propelled Alucard ever forward needed that much time to reset.

When he wakes, there's an uncertainty that everything before wasn't a dream. It's only when he walks over to the mirror to look at himself, enough blood still there (his hair's a matted mess, it's not a good look) to remind him: yes. Everything transpired as you remember it.

The next part is routine. Cleaning all the blood off. Finding clean clothes. Changing the sheets on his bed not because of the few spots of dried blood, but because the stink of it is alarming at best. It helps keep his mind away from the next wave of emotion that he knows has to hit sooner or later. The emotional one, the one that's going to take more time to get through. Guilt, grief, anger, relief, all of it, a churning mess that will interact with two others and make those same feelings flare like wildfires. He ought to eat first.

But he doesn't. Alucard walks the halls of the castle instead. His parents should know he's awake.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[They had made light, on the way home, of the inevitable storms set to rock the house when Vlad Dracula Ţepeş eventually caught wind of what had transpired while he traveled, but the reality proves to be no joking matter.

Lisa has never liked fighting with her husband, despite knowing that she is perhaps the one being on the entirety of the earth — including their own son — who can raise her voice against him with impunity. Even in his most furious moments, Vlad never directs his ire toward her, only the circumstances that surround their disagreement. Their wedding rings never leave their fingers, no matter how terrible the clash. And even when they separate to calm down and process through the verbal blows exchanged, sooner or later they always gravitate back to each other again.

That is, after all, what love is. Not the absence of disagreement, but the ability to work through such conflicts together.

Still, this does prove to be perhaps the worst fight they have in her recent memory, if not the worst they've had in the whole of their time together. Vlad rages with fire and fury from his outrage, but also from his guilt and his pain at having failed to protect her from what had transpired. The people of Târgoviște make for an easy outlet for his anger, and if he is able to vent his rage upon them, then he doesn't have to turn it inward toward himself. It is, after all, far easier to condemn someone for the mote in their eye than to deal with the branch in one's own.

He rails upon her when she defends their right to live, accusing her of protecting the guilty. He finds it incomprehensible that she would stand up for a people who had come so close to executing her out of baseless hatred and superstitious fear, and it only reminds her that any affection Vlad may hold for humanity is a mere refraction of his singular love for her. He is not altruistic by nature. He has no compassion for compassion's sake. What progress he's made toward tolerating humanity endures solely because she lives, and she shudders to think how that all might come undone if she really were to die.

It's been a week, now, of ongoing marathon fighting, interspersed in the middle with surreal little pauses of tenderness and gentle concern. They fight for hours, separate, and then quietly come back together again to curl up together near the fire for a short spell before bed. Come the morning, they fight over breakfast, storm away, and before mid-afternoon Vlad is back with some book he's unearthed for her that will better than replace one she'd lost. They fight and they rage and before long they're drawn back to each other again, both too stubborn to allow Târgoviște to remain as a wedge between their happiness for long, and sometimes when she weeps he holds her and doesn't suggest making the town's rivers run with the blood of its inhabitants, because he's preoccupied with reminding her that she's safe in the cradle of his arms.

It's still not decided, the fate of Târgoviște. The battle continues on, in bits and pieces. But it's one of the quiet lulls now, and she and Vlad are in his parlor, her head on his shoulder as she reads and his pencil scratching against a yellowed page as he sketches a replacement portrait for her from memory.

They both hear the footsteps in the hall, and know who it must be. Lucky, perhaps, that she's got most of her weight propped against her husband at this point, because it removes the possibility that he might get up and go confront his son alone, while she rests here.]

We're in the parlor, Adrian.

[It's significant, that she uses the word we. It'll warn him, perhaps, that he'll be faced with the both of them when he enters. But it'll also let him know in advance that his parents are still defining themselves as a unit, still together, no matter the arguments that had unfolded while he'd slept.]

[When Alucard walks into the parlor, it's the final reminder that he's home. Not because he has seen so many variations of his parents curled up together like this before, but because of the expressions on their faces. They've been fighting, they're tired, this ordeal's toll is clear as any bell ringing in the first rays of light. He's probably missed what, at best, are the fight's opening. There's a rabbit warren of additional things that will come up, and had his mother been alone, he'd ask what transpired already. With his father there, it isn't going to happen. It might just provoke the next round of arguments, and after all of this, Alucard is not going to be responsible for yet another fight.

Not until tomorrow at least, when it's his turn to be the object of debate, and he'll yell back too and the new pattern of argument will be established. If this is how it's going to end every night though, then the fights are already worth it.

He walks in quietly, hair still wet from the bath, smell of blood washed away in full. There's no question about where to go to either. He sits down on the sofa and proceeds to rest his head against his mother's side, one arm very lazily wrapping around her middle while the other very gently brushes against his father's back. It's really the only good angle for that arm anyway, this entire sofa is just a mess of limbs now.

He doesn't say anything for a time. No where have we moved to? because the snowy mountain tops are the answer. No what day is it? because that doesn't matter in the slightest. No how are you both? because that answer is obvious.

Besides. Words would spoil this thing that he just went up against an entire city for. Went up against an entire city and won, come to think of it.]

[It's telling how worn out all of them are by this ordeal, that even after Alucard comes to join them, nothing is said for quite some time. There's a hint of initial tension that radiates off of Vlad (which probably owes to the fact that the moment is being intruded upon by anyone, even their own son), but it's also one that quickly passes when Alucard settles in and Lisa instinctively accommodates him. Like so many thing when it comes to dealing with other people, it seems, Vlad draws instinctive cues from the way that she behaves, becoming more permissive where he sees her permit and allowing himself to be more of a man because she implicitly expects him to be.

And for Lisa, it's a relief to have the three of them together. It's a rare moment of peace that almost makes all the fighting worthwhile; it's certainly one that renders her grateful for the chance to experience it again at all.

His hair is wet and his clothes are clean, so that ticks off a few of the necessary questions already. The next obvious one is to ask if he's eaten, but after a moment she thinks better of it, conscious of Vlad's presence at her side and not really wanting to create a chain association from eating to blood to the blood of humans to, yet again, the ruin he wants to visit upon Târgoviște.

So instead, she chooses something safer, albeit slightly more banal because of it.]

You look as though the rest helped. Did you sleep well?

[There will be a point in time where the matter of food is seen to if only because Alucard's stomach happens to have some very strong, very loud opinions on the matter. That's yet to happen though, if only because it takes a while for all the lingering effects of sleep to fully be shrugged off. For all that he's acting right now, he might yet fall asleep, this time not out of requirement but because of the sense of warmth and safety around him.

Better not to add any blankets to the mix for the time being. Alucard shifts a little, feet no longer dangling off of the sofa.]

Well enough and then some.

[He's unsure what topics are safe right now, so there's nothing else added. Nothing else asked about either, because there's zero doubt that there have already been nightmares from this horrifying scenario. He'll have them starting tonight, and maybe he can go for a while without settling too long into dreams.]

A whole week.

[Which answers one of his unspoken questions from earlier, how long, and also lends some insight into why, perhaps, the current calm between his parents is so fragile and so precious. They've had it out so many times by now that to some degree they're both weary of it, and yet they're nowhere near close to arriving at a resolution.

But eventually, it's Vlad who brings the moment tapering to a soft conclusion, turning his head to kiss his wife and reaching to rest his hand for a moment or two atop his son's head, as though he is still just a child and not a man. It's bittersweet, but not altogether surprising when he rises and politely excuses himself; she could tell that the longer they all stayed together, the more and more difficult it became for Vlad to hold his tongue back from demanding answers from his son.

So he'd left, it seems, because even in his formidable temper, he'd been loath to rekindle the fighting, himself.

Thus Vlad leaves them alone, excusing himself on some pretense, and removes himself from the parlor to go fume or brood or preoccupy himself until he can stand to maintain his calm again. And then it's just the two of them, now with more room on the couch and a little less heat between them to share.]

[A week is not ideal. Embarrassing, almost childish that he was that out of it for so long. But maybe it's better that way, having been left alone, allowing his body to heal for as long as it needed. There's n underlying sense of shame though, which is more than how he feels about so many other parts of last week's actions.

There's disappointment that his father doesn't linger longer, but the reason why is obvious. This fragile peace isn't worth breaking yet, but temptation is strong. It's self control, and that in and of itself is a strength that is foreign to his father in so many ways.

There's no relief in his father's departure, and Alucard the only part of him that moves at all is the one hand that was at his father's back. It's on the cushions now, resting on the other side of his mother.]

Have you managed restful sleep at all?

[Not how bad has the fighting been, he already has that answer.]

Mm. After he moved the castle, I did.

[To whatever degree her sleep could be expected to be restful, at least. But the castle's movement had set aside two of her more significant anxieties — the thought that any pursuers might have a chance to catch up, and the fear that they wouldn't even make it to arguing before Vlad simply decided to shower his rage upon the town. But now, both concerns are hundreds of miles away, and they are nestled in the security that comes with secrecy. They won't be found here, so at last there's a certain peace to be had.]

...There's something I've been meaning to ask you. All I expect is the truth, not excuses.

[A significant clarification. An inquiry rooted in curiosity, then, as opposed to suspicion or interrogation.]

How closely to your plan did our escape follow, that night?

[It's a less accusatory way of asking just how many human casualties he'd accepted as necessary, when he'd planned it. But that's largely where her concern lies.]

Good.

[The relief at her response doesn't make his mother's next question any easier to respond to. Alucard knows he should look his mother in the eye when he responds to this. But it would mean too much moving, too much shifting of limbs, too much disturbance. This is the only place he wants to be for the next few days, as childish as it all sounds.

He wants to delay. Ask how much she really, really wants to hear any of this, but she's asking. She wants the knowledge, even if it will disappoint her.

There's no weariness in his response, but it is distant, a faint patina of guilt painted over every single word. His mother raised him so much better than this.]

There were fewer causalities than I anticipated, and I was not originally going to go through the market. I think doing so impacted that number. [He knows it did.] Other than that, it wasn't far off the mark. But I had enough time to plan.

[He wants to clarify one thing though, because those deaths did have a logic to them. At least, dumb Ţepeş man logic.]

I thought that with fewer survivors, it would be harder for any of the lies said to stick. I...have had the opposite effect, no doubt.

You thought that if you killed more people, they would see me as less of a witch?

[What absolutely incomprehensible Ţepeş man logic. Though that's not entirely true, there's a certain amount of sense to it, if one looks at it sideways enough. It's something she occasionally has to remind herself of, when dealing similarly with Vlad — that sometimes when sorting out his rationales, one has to mentally replace "humans" with something more equivalent to the vampire experience, like "cabbages".

Still, whatever disapproval she may have, she's able to keep it carefully suspended. She'd promised him that he wouldn't have to defend himself to her, after all, so it would be a certain betrayal of that promise to make him endure her scrutiny now. Besides, there are still holes in her understanding of what had transpired that night, and if anything, perhaps having the chance to review it with someone who won't judge will be good practice for when Vlad inevitably demands the same information.]

Or was it that you thought you would be reducing the number of my accusers, so that the ones leftover would be the ones indifferent to the charges?

...Closer to no one to level them at all.

[No one ever said Ţepeş man logic made sense to literally anyone else. It's just an explanation for extremely bad decision making. And there were some very, very poor choices that night, even if the result is exactly what was intended.]

Mother I...[He should think more about the words that come next, but this is processing everything for the first time. Everything is messy, and there's no eyes to meet. Not yet.]

I'm not sorry for what I did, even though you've raised me better than to behave as I did. But at the time, there were no other apparent options, and between what I did versus what father might have done...

[It's a weak excuse, just as it's a true statement. Alucard's head burrows just a little bit harder into his mother's side.]

[It's hard to hear, with her soft and caring heart, that these were the choices he made for her sake. That he'd looked at the situation at hand and determined that the best way to ensure her safety was to make certain there were no voices left to accuse her. And she remembers, less vividly now that the events are a week behind her but still with understandable clarity, the occasional moments in saving her when his control had slipped. The guards torn apart when he'd merely knocked others unconscious. The way the man's back had assuredly shattered when he'd been kicked into the wall.

He'd wanted to hurt them. He can couch it in reason when he explains it to her like this, can offer apologies born of guilt and shame with every breath he draws, but deep down she knows that his calculations had only gone so far that night. Not every death had been reasoned. Some had been simply the product of anger and hurt and the outrage of a son faced with his mother's suffering.

And yet here, now, he's contrite. He's ashamed to admit his actions to her, because he knows it's not what she would have wanted. You've raised me better, he says. At least I did better than my father would have, he pleads.

And for a second, she finds herself thinking of her husband, and his deficiencies in understanding what it means to be a man. How many cabbages must be forfeit before he is satisfied that justice has been done. Vlad, who struggles so much with compassion when she isn't there to model it for him.

Yet here sits her Adrian, with compassion knitted into his nature in a way that it isn't for his father. Adrian, left to struggle with being the product of the same two competing viewpoints that fight for days upon days over the same questions that he's expected to answer himself, and left to make his selections between the two when every choice he makes must feel like a betrayal of one parent or another.

She's always hated it when people called him Alucard. She never wanted him to define himself by his father.

What he's telling her now is that he made a choice, his own choice. Whether it agrees with what she would have done or not is irrelevant; what matters is that it was his alone to make. After all, he should no more define himself by her choices and opinions than he should by his father's; she'd hate it just as much to hear him called Asil as she would to dub him Alucard.]

I raised you to think for yourself.

[Her voice is quiet, and while her own pain may rest inside her, she won't let it get in the way of her pride, or her point.]

You know I don't agree with what you did. But you can't live your life only doing the things I agree with. That's no life at all.

[She holds him a little tighter.]

Your life will never be an easy one, my love. I've known that since the day you were born. All I've ever hoped for is that when the time came for you to make a choice, you would see more than one path open to you, and that you would choose from your heart and your mind. Not from what you thought would make us happy.

In any other situation, it would have been easier to do exactly that.

[Because this had been an extraordinary situation. Nothing any of them had thought to prepare for, because the happiness had seemed endless. A bubble, now utterly destroyed. There were only open wounds now, still bleeding. It would take more time for any kind of healing, and that was a sick irony considering his mother's profession.

Alucard closes his eyes, aware that his actions were a pendulum swung between both his natures in a way that simply had never happened before. The anger, that's inherited, as is the desire to minimize harm. In defending himself, the second one was always easier, but then again, the sense of danger had never felt that life threatening. A week ago? Those were the highest stakes of all both for his family and for the whole country. There was no good way to gauge how destroyed Wallachia would be if the execution was allowed to take place.

The only thing he can do is own what happened and to never be put in that situation again. There's a terrible reminder here too, that his mother will die before himself or his father, as humans do, and they will need some way to navigate the grief. He'll go after that, barring disaster, and then his father will be alone again with no restraints.
Not the best thoughts to have in all of this. Alucard forces them aside as quickly as he's able, and lets out a soft sigh.]

...I get angry with them too, sometimes. The more I learn, the more impossible it becomes to understand how they can be content to stay so close-minded.

[She turns her head, pressing her lips against his damp hair and lingering there a minute in quiet affection.]

It was more tolerable, somehow, before I first came to the castle. I suppose it was because back then, I knew there was much more to learn, but I didn't know how much I didn't know. Now...I look at everything we're surrounded by here, and all I can see is how much better their lives could be if they would only embrace it. And to think that they reject it on something so shortsighted as superstition...

[It's a rare thing to admit to, perhaps. But she suspects it's somehow more important than ever, that she let him see that she's not without her own failings. Not a statue on a pedestal, but a human being, herself.]

I wanted to shout at them, with their witch-tests and their fallacies. But they just...

[She sighs.]

Sometimes we can only take the world as it is. Not the way we wish it would be.

[They're words that Alucard needs to hear. Because he knows, knows now more than ever before, how deep the capacity for anger is within him. Not only that, but how that inner bubbling of fury can be put into action, and exactly how satisfying the damage can be. Those moments were scary when they were happening, but he didn't have time to acknowledge the feeling. Not when he had to get to his mother and make sure that nothing else happened to her.

They've always sat like this after something's happened, haven't they? The pattern is so well worn and familiar, embedded in his memories even stronger now. As if that'd ever be possible.]

...Other men are ambitious too.

[The bishop. He means the bishop, because there had been no small talk about that in the gossip he overheard during the day. That it might put the man on the path to cardinal-hood faster, among other stupid, petty things. It was just more fuel for rage at the time.

Now, now it's just a cold fact of the world, easier to sit and talk about at a very far distance.

Finally, Alucard shifts so that he can look up at his mother. In his face there's still weariness, but of the emotional sort this time. And this question is worth meeting her eyes for.]

How do you manage all that anger?

I ask myself what good it does, to take my anger out on them.

[That's a little self-righteous herself, maybe, or at least it would be if she weren't so resignedly matter-of-fact about it. He looks so strange when he turns to look at her, somehow very young and yet ages old all in the same expression.]

I won't convince them I'm right by shouting at them. No stupid person has ever been called stupid and thought, "Why, you're right, I am stupid!". I can't solve that problem with anger. So, I turn the anger to solving problems — like banging on a strange devil-man's door to ask that he teach me to be a doctor.

[The humor of it, in retrospect, actually manages to bring a sheepish sort of smile to the corner of her mouth. She'd been so angry, so frustrated back then. But she'd taken it and put it toward action, and look what had resulted.]

...Like raiding a city alone to rescue a loved one from peril.

But when that method fails?

[The problem has been solved, at least in the short term. The long term is still very much in the air. Moreover, the response is so very much his mother that there can't help but be a little bit more warmth in his expression than there was a moment ago. Had she not chosen to be a doctor, then art of chemistry would be a fine fit. The art of transmutation (technically alchemy, but not chemistry, but close enough) is a talent of hers that manifests in these moments.

This is far better than any other path of talking about what's happened, because it allows room for the guidance to get through whatever comes next. Not the arguments but where the castle goes next. Where they go next, what humans they interact with next. The bitterness and distrust will come so much more easily when the scenery changes, as will that deeper sense of protectiveness. From all three of them, because if there will be any lasting impact from this, it will be a far more defensive circle than ever before.]

All emotions need an outlet. Part of managing them is finding the right outlet, or at least the right time to let them out.

[Now, the smile that she turns to him transitions from sheepish to soft, in a way that makes her expression truly radiant.]

Sometimes that means solving a problem. Sometimes that means dedicating your efforts to ensuring that the same problem never arises again. Sometimes that means trying to put back into the world a measure of good equal to the evil that made you so angry. And sometimes it's as simple as weeping from the acceptance that there's nothing else that can be done for it.

[She pauses, reaching up to smooth his damp hair back behind one ear.]

It's not that I don't want your father to hate humans. Or — well. It is, but that's too simplistic a way of looking at it. It's that the only outlet he knows is to repay hurt with hurt in kind, when I want him to see that there are other ways of coping, too.

[When that hand moves to tuck hair behind Alcucard's ears, the arm not still wrapped around her waist moves to gently reorient where her hand is. Where it might stay, on his cheek rather than fussing with hair that's not dry yet.

His mother's words make sense. And maybe there's yet an outlet to be had for all the anger that has resulted from this situation. What that might be for Alucard hasn't manifested yet though, and that's perhaps the source of his immediate personal worry.

But then again so many things have not been decided. The right thing might manifest at the right time, and everything else is waiting]

Ones that haven't been explored in a long while for him. [The words are said softly, more to himself than to his mother. Alucard is content with that though, that options take a while to find. To settle into and make sure that they're used rather than default to the old ways.

So much about this has been on the topic of old ways.]

We don't know what we're doing next, do we?

[He'd been so afraid for her, that night. All things considered, she's been bearing up...almost unsettlingly well, with only a few scattered moments of vulnerability, and she half-wonders if that isn't a sign that she's not processing things all that well in her own right, whatever opinions she might have on the subject on an objective level.

In some ways, it never quite seems real unless she sees the magnitude of it reflected in her son's expression. It happened; she was taken and tried and insulted and beaten, but it's as though there's a chasm between the horror of it and the place where she's sitting now, bridged only when she's able to see how it had affected the ones she loves around her. They were going to kill her, but with no real frame of reference for what that means on an individual level, it's a set of emotions only accessed through the grief reflected back in others. She could have died, and didn't, and someday she suspects a dam is going to burst and drown her in weeping and screaming from it, but as yet it simply...hasn't come.

But it's not the same, when it's her boy. Her boy, who was so afraid; her boy, who had to listen to creatures beneath him degrading and deriding his mother. Her boy, grown and yet in some things still such a child, a man whose hands have taken life yet still guide his mother's fingers to rest against his cheek.]

We've gone from "go back and put the whole town on spikes" to "go back and burn the whole church to ashes". It's not much of an improvement.

[And yet it is an improvement. Particularly when all things considered, there's really no way anyone could stop Dracula from doing whatever he pleases, except that he still cares to listen to her opinion.]

What do you want to do? Truthfully. What you want, however petty or noble or anything in between.

To my ears that sounds like a very big improvement. [He's just saying. The family's dynamic is not exactly hard to understand, especially in this situation. Localized destruction down to a single building almost feels like the best compromise, because it really is on the institution of the church for creating this fear anyway.

But what he wants. What Alucard truly wants has already happened, and to be further involved is to be beyond selfish. He's already taken lives for this selfish desire to just keep his family whole. He shouldn't be given any more. Nor should the response that rests at the tip of his tongue escape. Let me think about it. That way lies vengeance. There's a flash of bitterness in his voice, although not with the same depth as his father likely has.]

...And a way to make it look as if there's a disapproval of such actions from their God, rather than any other interpretation.

[But that sparks a particular thought, a slight one that had lingered in the back of Alucard's mind all throughout the day that he planned his mother's escape. How many other families had endured this horrible farce? And how many of them had lacked the ability to do anything about it?

The thought seizes him again, and Alucard sits up a little bit more as his mind starts to analyze the thought.]

Maybe that's the better way to approach this. Treat it as preventative work, not a response to something else. This isn't the first nonsense case of so-called witchcraft. It won't be the last. Not everyone has the luxuries we do.

...Preventative work.

[There's something in her that initially rebels at the thought of retaliation at all, however it may be framed, but as Alucard starts to tease out his notions into fully-formed thoughts, she starts to see where his ideas are leading, and the foundations upon which they're resting. Still vengeance, yes, but with an angle to it that comes from a place of wanting to do good.

Not everyone has the luxuries we do, he says. Because not everyone has a moving castle to flee to and the denizens of darkness at their beck and call. Women before her have surely been dragged out as witches, and had no supernaturally-gifted sons to come running to free them. So what happens to the families they leave behind? The only route open to them is weeping, and standing by in their horror.

Her son. He doesn't want to just save her; he wants to save every other condemned so-called witch after her, too.]

To do that, you won't be able to stop at just one church. It would have to be every one of them. None left untouched, and no room for dissent.

We both know that something will be destroyed in all of this. Better to put that to good use, and strive for a time where there will be fewer people in the buildings.

[It's a cold observation, but it's also a true one. This is directing rage and the desire to do harm into a productive end that still satisfies the need for vengence. It's easy to see exactly how the escape plan was formulated if this was how Alucard thought about it. An all too cool head and a clarity of foresight that is most certaintly unhuman.]

As for the rest, I don't know yet. [It was only a single thought, the rest will fall into place with time.] The universities elsewhere on the continent are only just starting to catch up, and none of their scholars have come this far east. They'd have a better chance of penetrating through older thoughts, same with the new printing presses.

[Wait.]

...Those can be brought down the rivers though. Far easier to float it down the Danube and then pick the thing up in Brăila.

[It's really a wonder to listen to him, as ideas collect traction and snowball into thoughts and plans, and she almost doesn't want to stop him by interjecting because there's something magical about simply sitting back and listening to him. How easily his notions shift from the plight of one woman to the plight of all women like her, to the state of all people on the whole of the continent, just like that.

He's dreaming of changing the world. He wants to use the power at his disposal to shape the course of the world to come, and if there were ever a synthesis to be had of his father and herself, this truly must be it.]

You'd replace the churches with schools. Fill the vacuum the church leaves behind with places for learning, instead.

[It might prove to be too lofty a goal to hope for, in the long run. And yet, how would any change ever take effect, if not for radical thinking and reckless attempts to make it a reality?]

That might be too much to soon. [This requires more realism, but now that his mother has said it, the idea is good. Because it's admittedly easy to look at all of this and say that it's mostly because of the church that is the source of so many the problems.] Introducing the presses might be it's own struggle, and it isn't like I can involve my own face for a lifetime.

[Someone might remember him, after all. Then everything falls apart again, but this is a solid foundation.

There's an important sidebar here though.]

...None of this exactly stops the amount of trouble I'm in, does it?

Oh, no, you're still in trouble. But now you'll have something to ponder over while you're serving out your punishment.

[She turns her hand over, brushing her knuckles lightly against the curve of his cheek.]

And I can tell you the first question your father is going to ask you, as soon as he manages to get you alone. If you'd like to know what it is in advance, to ponder over in the meantime.

With matercula

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject