Tales from another broken heart

( Times Square )

Rea woke up, buried under a pile of blankets.  She reached one thorny arm out from under and switched on the camping heater.  A few minutes later there was an upheaval as she arose and put on some more layers, ready to face another day.

Outside the banked forge gave some heat to the workshop.  She saw to her horse carefully and, one might even say, lovingly, a whispered conversation between them not reaching the ears of anyone else. 

A flutter at the windowpane.  Rea removed the cardboard that blocked te small hole in the cold weather and let in a small robin, who hopped in and evaluated everything, as always, before condescending to sit on Rea's finer and eat some seeds and shortbread.

When noon came, and Richard, her apprentice, failed to turn up, Rea finally remembered why.  She raised one solid shoulder in an uncomprehending but accepting shrug, and carried on beating the steel she was working on.

Later, myriads of tiny glass figures formed from the long tubes she'd learned to shape throughout the dark hours of the past two Scottish winters.  She set them carefuly on a table near the forge, and watched as the firelight and dying sunlight played in them.

As dark fell, rather than waste precious electricity lighting the big, open space that was the workshop, she toasted a bacon buttie over the fire, and then banked it.  She washed her hands in the small cubicle that served as bathroom, ran some water over her face, wiped the grease and metal dust mostly off, then retreated to the caravan, where she heated up the interior with the Calor heater before climbing into bed with a dram or four of good whiskey and turning out the lamp.

Tomorrow was another day, after all, just like this one.

She was surprisingly touched to receive a human heart.

She'd never been an 'it's the thought that counts' person; the phrase had always been used to defend people who hadn't put any thought, time, or money into the 'thoughtful' gift, which was always awful. She'd rather not receive any at all - which, this year, she had, until now.

But today, in a restaurant, she was given the heart of an enemy.

It wasn't even an enemy she felt vengeful toward, really. The only one of those she had at the minute was sitting across from her with a decidedly sulky expression as he blocked the sight of the gift from the other people nearby. But it was an enemy, and it was a gift.

It was almost enough to make a girl forgive, really.

But not quite.

Neve put the heart away, steeling herself against weakness once again. She gave a cool smile and indicated the parcel in front of him. "Your turn."

He went through the same movements.

Every thought seared through his mind just like it had before. Every star in his vision blinded him just like before.

Every muscle burned, every bone ached, every heart beat thumped in his ears, every drop of sweat seemed to run the same course.

He held his head in his hands to stop the world spinning and this time there was no audience to watch him do so.

After a while he started laughing quietly to himself as he held his head in his hands.

Everyone was inside. Just like last time. Just like before. Only this time there were more. Only this time...

Stitches stood up and and drove the axe into the wooden block with all the attention that a child might give a broken toy. He made sure the barn was locked up tightly before glancing over at the the wooden plaque in the flowerbed...that wasn't there...

He blinked. Time moved slowly as reality faded into view...and he slowly breathed out in the darkened bedroom. The bathroom light blinded him for a moment as the light flickered on and he stared at himself in the mirror.

Hobkiller, Lobotomiser, Squire, Oathbreaker.

Only one of those meant anything to him, the others he pushed to one side and splashed cold water on his face. He hoped that only one of the titles meant something else to some else. That the rest of them where just words.

He pulled a clean shirt on over his head and headed downstairs to the Party. To the Battle. To part of the War. Stitches squared his shoulders, put a smile on his face ad headed into the melee. He ignored the disparaging or hateful looks that he was given as he gave Rose a kiss on the cheek. Christmas was a time for forgiving.

If others wouldn't forgive, more fool them...

It was at times like these he wished he had never bothered coming back into the fold. All the pain, all the misery, all the god damn stupid rules that unfortunately couldn't be broken lest something come back to bite you in the arse. Neverland was never like this, it was a much simpler existence. In Neverland you get yourself into trouble just as easily as out of it. Here, here it was very easy to get into it. Less so to get out of it. It was one reason he had stayed away for so long.

How had he gotten himself into this mess?

Exactly the same way he did every other time, he got drunk, had an idea, and followed it through. The fact there was a pretty face involved helped matters greatly along with the distinct chance of getting his leg over.

He remembered the pretty face, the drinking, the smiling, the laughing, the crying, the idea, the Dragon, the drinking, the flowers, the dancing, the drinking, the arguement, the Dragon, the realisation, the other pretty face, the second realisation, the pain, the words, the fucking, the rescue, the second fucking, and then the warm, soft embrace of one of his favourite Ladies. The one who normally solved all ills, for a while at least. He already knew when he woke up he'd be further up the brown river watching the paddle go over the waterfall before him.

He closed his eyes, the words tumbling out of his mouth as he curled up into a ball on the damp, dank earthen floor, and let himself fall into her embrace.

Now, he had definitely planned to get screwed this christmas, but this was taking the biscuit.

How in gods name had he ended up engaged?

Amsterdam's court was small but active; Charlotte was aware of many conversations happening, important and formative conversations. But she didn't register them on a conscious level. Barely anything registered beyond what she needed to respond to. Her blood pounded in her ears, and she could feel her cheeks flush. It took all her willpower to maintain an even keel.

Hugh was here.

When she thought about him at all, Charlotte was always surprised she could remember Hugh. She supposed it was one of those memories that tied too many other memories and could be unravelled too easily. Memories like that made her nervous; she knew how tightly controlled all her thoughts and memories were, and she didn't want to lose that control by pulling the wrong thread.

Her gaze drifted back to Hugh. How politely he spoke with the women at his table. What a gentleman he was. This was not how she remembered him. This conflicted with her memory. Normally that didn't bother her, but it bothered her this time. His calm smile clashed with the blood-soaked snarl that was her last memory of him.

Still, she could feel his Bond pull at her. She leaned closer to Markus, hoping his proximity would make his pull at her more. She liked him more, loved him more even, but...she couldn't stop looking at Hugh.

Later, Hugh introduced himself to her. She looked in his eyes, looking for recognition, for hatred or love, for anything. But it wasn't there.

He felt nothing for her.

She couldn't say the same thing about him.