Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
Of thine own tragedies! Do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
-

5th August, 1943
Finchley, England

Dear Bonnie,
What the fuck is wrong with schools!? And damn England!
Oh, I'm sorry if you're reading this out loud where your parents or brother are. And yes, I know this isn't the 'appropriate' letter f̶o̶r̶n̶ format, but I'm far too annoyed to be bothered with that.

We were supposed to be going back to school the first week of September, which is a WHOLE MONTH LATER, but now all schools are to reopen from the middle of August? Which is in less than TWO WEEKS. This isn't fair, we were supposed to have a l̶o̶n̶g̶e̶r̶ much longer summer vacation! The school owns us for most of the year, anyway, why do they need us for l̶o̶n̶g̶e̶r̶ even more time?

I've been having such a pleasing time during these hols, and especially during the last few days- and f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ stupid school wants to take it away again? H̶o̶w̶ a̶m̶ I̶ s̶u̶p̶p̶o̶s̶e̶d̶ t̶o̶ s̶p̶e̶n̶d̶ t̶i̶m̶e̶ w̶i̶t̶h̶ a̶n̶d̶ h̶a̶v̶e̶ s̶e̶x̶ w̶i̶t̶h̶ E̶d̶m̶u̶n̶d̶ i̶f̶ h̶e̶'s̶ l̶o̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ a̶w̶a̶y̶ i̶n̶ a̶n̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ s̶c̶h̶o̶o̶l̶!? D̶o̶ y̶o̶u̶ k̶n̶o̶w̶ h̶o̶w̶ g̶l̶o̶r̶i̶o̶u̶s̶ i̶t̶'s̶ b̶e̶e̶n̶? A̶n̶d̶ n̶o̶w̶ i̶t̶'s̶ a̶l̶l̶ g̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ t̶o̶ b̶e̶ g̶o̶n̶e̶! Ed and I are going to be separated again- I won't have swings to play on- won't have my own room- and I'll have to be around those AWFUL people at school again.

Well, except for you. You're the only part of this w̶h̶i̶l̶e̶ whole irritating matter I don't mind. And no, before you say anything- I'm not turning 'mushy', that'll never happen, I'm just telling the truth.

Ugh. I hate this so much. Why can't life be p̶e̶r̶e̶n̶n̶i̶a̶l̶ constant vacation? Why is school even necessary? How does learning how many atoms there are in a molecule help with survival!?

You know, I was c̶o̶n̶ complaining to my grandmother all day when we got the news and she said, verbatim, 'would you stop talking, you're irritating me- why don't you go use your mouth to s̶o̶g̶ snog that boy instead?'

I swear, I went as red as l̶i̶t̶c̶h̶e̶e̶s̶ l̶i̶t̶c̶h̶i̶s̶ l̶e̶e̶c̶h̶e̶s̶ l̶i̶t̶c̶h̶e̶̶s̶ litchis- but, at least it's a good thing she's aware of s̶o̶m̶e̶ o̶f̶ the things we do.

Anyway.

How are you doing? How's your parents? You mentioned your dad had a check-up in your last letter- was it just a n̶o̶r̶m̶a̶l̶ regular thing, or something serious? And your lung condition- I hope it's alright, and it hasn't- oh, what was the word?
Manifested? Yes, manifested, that's what you said. It hasn't manifested est externally, right?

And your little brother? I think c̶h̶i̶l̶d̶r̶e̶n̶'s̶ day schools still open in September (LIKE ALL THE SCHOOLS ARE SUPPOSED TO), so he's lucky on that front, he gets to have a longer holiday. It was so much better to be y̶o̶u̶n̶g̶ a child. Tell your brother not to grow up. Tell him everything goes to shit after age t̶e̶n̶ t̶h̶i̶r̶t̶e̶e̶n̶ s̶i̶x̶t̶e̶e̶n̶ n̶i̶n̶e̶ twelve.

Your birthday's in exactly a week, if I'm remembering right- the twelfth, yes? Just before we go back to school on the fifteenth (ruining our Sunday)- lucky, that you get your birthday over with while at home. Sorry I won't be there, though.

By the way, what WAS that drawing you attached to the last letter? I couldn't understand if it was a flower or the portrait of someone with pink skin. But, maybe that was intentional? Your type of art is more- abstract, right? Like- you mentioned him- Kadinkis? Koinkidi?

Even though I didn't understand it, it looks really pretty beautiful. I took out a painting that's been in the R̶a̶i̶n̶f̶o̶r̶d̶ Rainsford frame, and I put that painting in. Your painting is currently hanging on my wall, while the old painting is gathering dust in a box somewhere.

I think I need to end the letter now- I can already see your smirk, Bonnie, and NO, it's not because Edmund has come over, it's because M̶a̶u̶d̶e̶ Grandmother is taking me out- somewhere, I h̶a̶v̶e̶ n̶o̶ don't know- and I was supposed to be ready for said outing about half an hour ago.
I don't want to go at all- at the last s̶o̶y̶ soiree (I think that's what the hostess called it) one of Grandmother's friends gave me a book of Arabic poems.
I don't like poems, but I decided to give this one a fair try- mainly because I thought w̶r̶i̶t̶t̶e̶n̶ A̶r̶a̶b̶i̶c̶ i̶s̶ s̶i̶m̶i̶l̶a̶r̶ t̶o̶ m̶y̶ m̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶-t̶o̶n̶g̶u̶e̶ I'd forgotten Arabic- but I've yet to find a single poem that I like. I mainly just agreed to go because we're going by car.

Don't complain about my handwriting being illegible again, I'm t̶r̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ doing my best! And I showed the writing to Edm̶u̶n̶d̶, he says it's readable enough.

Though he did hesitate before answering- and he's generally too partial when i̶t̶'s̶ it comes to me. I should have asked Peter, maybe. But he's very much immersed in worrying about university- I'm sure he's got in to some places, but none of those places are C̶a̶n̶b̶r̶ Cambridge, so he's torn between waiting another year or going to some 'lesser' college. I could ask Susan- she'd tell the truth, and be g̶e̶n̶t̶l̶e̶ kind about it. She was asking about you a few days ago- I don't remember what, I think it was about whether you're continuing to U̶upper sixth? I told her you are, and she smiled a little.

But, coming back to my o̶g̶ original point- if you complain about my handwriting again, I'll buy a typewriter just to hurl it at your head.

From,
Sanya

•

7th August, 1943
Manchester, England

Dear Sanya,
Hello to you, too. What a charming way to begin the letter. And what a pretty letter, with five hundred cuts and strike-throughs in every line.

No, thankfully, I wasn't reading it out to my parents- I'm cautious that way, and they aren't curious enough to know what letters my one friend at school sends me.

To answer your question- a LOT is wrong with schools, but I was actually expecting this to happen. With the war, there's no surety when schools will be shut down for good so the children can return home- so it makes sense that they're calling us early and getting in as much time as possible.
I still bloody hate it.

But at least I get to see you. Did you get the fringe you were saying in one of your letters that you would? Fringes aren't made for everyone, but I think it would actually suit your face.

It's awful you won't be able to spend much time with Ed, but at least you had this past month with him- same for the swings, and your room?
I'm actually glad we didn't meet this summer, I don't fancy being a third wheel to you two soulmates. I have no doubt that you two were stuck to each other's sides and kissed more than you breathed. I mean, there's nothing that can tear you two apart. It must've driven S̶u̶s̶a̶n̶ his siblings and your gran crazy.

IS that possible, though? To kiss more than you breathe? I don't think it is- I mean, you'd die. Wouldn't you?
I mean, I've never kissed anyone (I'm almost eighteen, and I haven't kissed anyone, I know, I know, it's pathetic), so I'm probably not the best person to answer this question...

Yes, you got my birthday right, it's on the twelfth, which is in five days. I don't know how to feel about turning eighteen. Does it matter, truly? I'll still be in school, and living at home, begging my parents to buy me a radio, and unable to think of whether I want to study art or study to be a teacher.
(No, I am not becoming an art teacher. Teaching art is not my forté.)

I'm okay! My lungs are fine, and I'm healthy- doctor said he's hoping I need to get go to l̶e̶s̶s̶ fewer check-ups from now on, so fingers crossed.

Oh, and my parents are fine, as well! It was a routine check-up for Dad, but he hates going to the doctor's, and he usually skives it off- so he moans and groans about it the whole WEEK when he absolutely HAS to go. He can be such a child sometimes.

S̶p̶e̶a̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ Writing of child, yes, my brother is doing well, too. He keeps coming into my room randomly and yelling 'I GET MORE HOLS THAN YOU!', so I'm keeping an army of pillows in my room to throw at him when he shows up. He's annoying, but I love him and throwing pillows is fun.

Did you really put my painting in your room, that's so sweet! I'm honoured, honestly, thank you. And you ARE being mushy- well, as mushy as someone as closed-off as you can be, I mean. Your grandmother must have had a coronary when she saw an heirloom painting being tossed to the side for a painting a random friend of yours drew.
Ha, I'd have loved to see the look on her face- I know I haven't met her, but she sounds like quite a character.

Kadinkis? Koinkidi? Seriously? I just KNOW you're messing with me, Nya.
IT'S KANDINSKY, as you know full well, you twit. And yeah, it's a̶s̶b̶ abstract- I don't see how you saw a flower in it? It was supposed to a portrayal of how vegetables see sunsets.
No, I'm not joking. I was cutting vegetables the other day, and I looked out the window- it was sunset, and I couldn't help thinking whether vegetables can understand sunset.

Don't you call me loony, Sanya Rainsford, I can see that look on your face. You talk to fictional characters out loud, while in front of other people.
Not that there's anything very wrong with that. Fictional people are better than real ones, as any reader knows all too well.

Oh, dear, the soirees do not sound like fun. Is there good food, at least? You like food- wait, you don't like poetry? I thought you did- didn't I see you reading 'The Iliad' at school one day? I'm completely almost somewhat certain that that's a poem.
Cars are enjoyable, so I understand your reason- but to be honest, I prefer walking.

Your handwriting IS illegible. It's just a fact, Nya, believe it. No matter what your so-besotted-with-you-that-he's-blinder-than-you-without-glasses boyfriend says, it is. I can only decipher it because my mother was a nurse and she could decipher doctors' handwriting AND because I've spent so much time with doctors. Can't tell if your handwriting is worse, or a doctor's is.
(Probably yours. We should hold a vote someday.)

Poor Peter. I mean, I don't know the chap well, but I can tell he's worked really hard to get into Cambridge. But Cambridge is- well, Cambridge. It's so difficult to get in. I wish him all the best for whatever he decides to do...

Susan asked about me? Really? I didn't even think she remembered my name.
And- actually- I failed history. I know, I didn't tell you, but I just couldn't- I didn't want to face it myself. I'm not sure whether I'll be allowed up into upper sixth, or I'll have to repeat lower sixth- they were supposed to send a letter about that a few weeks before school starts- but now that school starts practically next week, I don't know what'll happen. I hope I can be w̶i̶t̶h̶ S̶u̶s̶a̶n̶- in upper sixth, but we'll see what happens. I'm trying not to stress about it.

Keep the typewriter- are you BONKERS or just joking, you can't buy a typewriter simply to attack me with it- and have the new issue of Archie my uncle sent me from America. It's the summer issue- and I won't spoil anything for you (yes, I read it already, sorry, but it was unwrapped) but Oscar the dog (I know you love dogs) has a big role in one of the stories. And there's a cute little mouse in another story, too!

Love, Bonnie ♡

•

13th August, 1943
Finchley, England

Dear Bonnie,
You failed history? What!? That's awful, I'm sorry. Teachers are awful- it's literally their job to make students learn and get them to higher class, na? But NO, apparently, withholding marks and making them fail is their preference.

You know, Susan gets tutoring in history, from someone in her tower. S̶h̶e̶'s̶ s̶o̶ s̶m̶a̶r̶t̶ a̶n̶d̶ l̶o̶g̶i̶c̶a̶l̶, b̶u̶t̶ s̶h̶e̶ i̶s̶ n̶o̶t̶ a̶ g̶o̶o̶d̶ s̶t̶u̶d̶e̶n̶t̶, N̶O̶T̶ A̶T̶ A̶L̶L̶. S̶h̶e̶'s̶ e̶v̶e̶n̶ w̶o̶r̶s̶e̶ t̶h̶a̶n̶ I̶ a̶m̶, a̶n̶d̶ I̶'m̶ s̶u̶r̶p̶r̶i̶s̶e̶d̶ s̶h̶e̶ d̶o̶e̶s̶n̶'t̶ h̶a̶v̶e̶ t̶o̶ g̶e̶t̶ t̶u̶t̶o̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ i̶n̶ m̶o̶r̶e̶ s̶u̶b̶j̶e̶c̶t̶s̶. You can ask her if you can join them? It's a better option than having to repeat sixth form OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Anything is better than more school.

Yeah, you're right, it's because of the W̶war. Lucy said something similar, too- but she's HAPPY to go to school. I ADORE L̶ Lucy, but something is wrong with anyone who likes s̶h̶c̶ school.

Peter was saying something about something to do with university being delayed because of it, too- I don't know, I try to not pay too much attention to him. If it means that school gets over quicker, I suppose it's not too bad. Then again, if school gets over before the summer term, it means it'll be too cold to swim.

Eh, whatever. That's a stupid thing to get annoyed about, since I swim in all seasons, anyway, so summer or winter term doesn't matter to me.

Glad your lungs are healthy! And I hope your doctor's right, that you'll need to go for fewer check-ups- I HATE going to h̶e̶a̶l̶ the doctor's, I'd rather die than have to visit them every week.

I always get so breathless after running or walking for long or any sort of strenuous activity, I know how difficult it is to have a not-perfectly-working breathing system. I like walking, too, but that breathless is not a good sort breathless- like how you feel while f̶u̶ kissing.

Which leads me to this- kissing isn't that big a deal. Honestly, I'm not lying to make you feel better, it's true. You aren't missing out on much. I mean, especially if the one you're kissing has a bad tasting mouth- no matter how many times and how long you rinse your own mouth, the smell WILL be there. (I am not talking about Ed here).

Though, I mean, it feels like the glow of a- a starburst if you're kissing your- oh, you called Ed and I soulmates! Thanks for that. I don't know if it's true- I mean, there's something so beautiful yet so lazy about soulmates. The universe just MADE two souls for each other? Isn't working hard for true love, isn't struggling to find the person who makes you happier than anything else- so much more worthwhile?

But, well, I'm lazy, and the concept of soulmates is too romantic for my bookwornm heart to ignore completely.
(Edmund says thanks, too. He's fiddling with my r̶a̶i̶ radio as I'm writing this letter, and I just told him about your 'soulmates' remark. And he says that you're right about fringes- that they're not for everyone, but I'd look fine in them. I didn't get a fringe, though, it seems too much work to m̶a̶n̶ maintain. And he also says-
Wait, I can't repeat that. Sorry.)

And it's not possible. To kiss more than you breathe. I don't think it is, at least. I don't know, it seems more like a scientific question, and- though I am knowledgeable about kissing- I am VERY bad at science. I'm sure you'll find someone to carry out e̶s̶p̶ experiments on this hypothesis someday.

If you ever have sex, though- I advise you to really listen to your partner, what they're both saying with their mouths and their bodies, and just be with them. Everything else will come easy.

Oh, and also to go to the bathroom after you're done. Gets rid of any possible INFECTIONS down there.

Your brother sounds like a lot. A cute little maniac, it seems. R̶e̶m̶i̶n̶d̶s̶ m̶e̶ o̶f̶ I look forward to meeting him someday, and I'll definitely bring pillows along for him to throw at YOU. You have the sanctuary of your room and its arsenal on your side- it's only fair that he gets some aid, too.

That's not loony. I remember wondering once whether w̶o̶l̶v̶e̶s̶ dogs could dream- you wondering about vegetables seeing sunset is in the same vein, more or less. And I've had too many thoughts that were even m̶o̶r̶e̶ c̶r̶a̶z̶y̶ crazier.

The painting looks really nice- it's right next to my bookcase, an obvious position of honour.

It's the thirteenth, so you're eighteen now- that's so y̶o̶ OLD. And here I won't be sixteen for another five months. I wonder what this sixteen will be like...
Damn it, now I am suddenly wondering what I'll do in school next year- and the next- and the next- without you. I mean, only relief is that I'll be able to eat in peace, without worrying about your braids falling into your food. They always do, you know? Mine used to, too- not braids, just regular open hair- which is why I tie my hair before going to eat. At least whenever I remember.

Food at the soirees are good. There was this delicious cake at the last one- Black Forest. IT WAS HEAVEN. I generally don't like chocolate, but that- I joked to Edmund that I'd d̶i̶v̶o̶r̶c̶e̶ break up with him to get together with the cake. He nodded, understanding very well, and said that he felt the exact same way about pure chocolate cake.
So, I suppose that's what's eventually going to tear us apart. Cake. And probably disagreeing about who's a better mystery writer- Agatha Christie or Arthur Conan Doyle.
(Obviously Agatha. My boyfriend is biased for ACD.)

Some people at the party were bothered about the cake, though- apparently it's based off of a dessert from G̶e̶r̶m̶l̶a̶n̶d̶ Germany. They thought it was in bad taste.
And then there was another section at the party debating if it was a gateau (I probably spelt that wrong) or a cake. I'm not even sure what a gateau is.
My only response- not that I spoke out loud, not even once throughout the whole evening- was who cares? It's delicious.

Thanks for the comic! Reading Archie Comics is the only thing keeping me from getting a train to school and burning it down. Well, that, and the fact that I'm too anxious to buy a ticket on my own.

I will not even dignify your comments about my handwriting with a response.

Though, if you think THIS handwriting is bad, you should've seen how it was when I wrote with a quill.

Do not be alarmed when a typewriter comes flying at you- I warned you.

Oh, and I CAN see you as a teacher. History, perhaps?

From,
Sanya
-

"Clarissa's gone." Priscilla announced as she walked in, pulling her case behind her.

Jessie, who'd been fluffing her pillow- May, who was glaring at the torn button of her cardigan- and Sanya, who was lying on her bed, her head hanging off the edge- all looked at her.

Sanya frowned, "She's dead?"

"Don't be daft." Jessie rolled her eyes, before asking Priscilla, "Where's she gone?"

"Scotland." She announced promptly. "Her uncle got a transfer, and moved the entire family."

The 'Indian' was curious, and she asked, "Where's her father?"

"At war."

"Oh." She said, and did not speak out any of her curiosities anymore. She didn't think she'd speak again, at all. She liked not speaking, as much as she disliked school. Her speaking was not necessary. It was- it was evitable speech.
She especially liked not speaking when the others in the conversations involved her horrible dorm-mates.
But, well, they seemed slightly more tolerable this term. Maybe it was because they hadn't even been at school half a day yet. They'd probably go back to their bitchy selves by the end of the week.

"That means we get an extra bed and more space to keep things in the closet?" May asked, cautiously hopeful. Oh, good- she could ask her mother to send more things from home. "I'll miss her, but-"

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched." Jessie said, before the others could start dreaming, too. "I heard there's going to be some young heiress or someone posh joining upper fourth in a month or two."

"And I heard that there's hot springs somewhere behind the forest. Matron and Mamzelle were chatting when I was looking for my health-certificate." May said, and everyone stared at her.
She promptly flushed, feeling almost as embarrassed as when she had chatted to Oscar Waddingham for an entire hour before a practice, and- as the team had begun to file out, he had asked her what her name was. She'd never gone to see another practice again.
"What? Isn't that equally interesting?"

"No." Jessie told her, without softening her tone, and continued, "I thought the heiress would be in some other Tower- but since we have a place free..."

"I still can't believe it. An heiress- at Finbar's?" Priscilla asked, mouth agape. She couldn't imagine it. The school was no downtrodden institution, it was quite reputable and upscale- but it was far from being an Eton for girls. "Why?"

"Tosh if I know. I just heard Terrapin grumbling about it."

"Probably from a family that's gone bankrupt." May said, looking thoughtful. "Why else would someone as rich as that come here?"
Then she looked to Sanya- who, she remembered, was rich. It wasn't her fortune by birth- but it was legally hers.
"Why'd you attend St. Finbar's?"

Sanya shrugged- it was difficult to do, while lying in her current position, but she managed.
"My dead adoptive mother went here for a term. And I'm continuing because Ed's here."

Jessie snorted, "How likely is it that an heiress has familial ties to St. Finbar's?"

"Maybe she has a fellow here." Priscilla suggested. "That's partly why Senyah's here."

Sanya didn't even bother to correct the pronunciation, instead saying, "I doubt any boy at Hendon will run in the same circles as an heiress."
An heiress, as far as she was aware, was practically royalty in this world. The boys at Hendon wouldn't know nobility from a night-watchman.
Except Edmund.
But he'd been- he was royalty, so she supposed he couldn't be grouped in with the rest of the boys.

Edmund was different- he was special- and he was hers.

She could feel herself begin to float into a daydream again- where she was away from here, away from them, and with only Edmund, his arms around her.
Though she had been with him just an hour ago, she already couldn't wait to see him again- and their spot, in the forest. They'd laugh, and talk, and make love- and be together- in perfect, pleasing, peaceful peace.

"Fair point." It was the first time Jessie had ever agreed with Sanya. "We'll have to wait and see- and, anyway, she won't be arriving for a while yet. Yes, Pris-" she went on, as the other girl's eyes widened with hope, "that means we have an extra bed, and more storage space."

"I can keep my books there." Sanya mused out loud. "Bonnie told me a new bookshop's opened up in town-"

Priscilla cut her off, "I was thinking we'd keep food there."

"Are you stupid?" She asked bluntly, wishing she could say something that hurt her as much as she'd been hurt at being called a chakla. "I know next to nothing about food, except when it comes to eating it, but it would spoil rotten if we keep it in a cupboard."

The curly-haired girl glared at her- and then decided it would be better to pretend she wasn't there at all.
Looking to the other two girls, she said, "My aunt owns a bakery- she'd be glad to send stuff to me."

"We could even have a midnight picnic." Jessie said, tapping her chin with an index. "I don't think we've had one since second form..."

Sanya wanted to ask what a midnight picnic was, but it was rather self-explanatory. The only confusing thing was whether the school allowed such a thing. There had to be an explanation for the oddity.

But if they did have one- well, she'd join.

Not for the food- unless it included vanilla sponge or Black Forest cake- but because she was rather sure they would have the picnic somewhere near the swimming pool.

A midnight swim? Paradisiacal.

She'd ask Bonnie- who had been allowed to go into upper sixth, after retaking an exam for history- for particulars on the matter.

"Sounds good. Just wake me up on time." May said, before turning and throwing her pillow at Priscilla, "You best ask her to send some good stuff. None of the nut-bread she sent you on your birthday- chocolate, or nothing."
-

Edmund's arm felt like they were on fire.

Surely, his suitcase hadn't been this heavy, when he'd lugged it through the Finchley station, and then on the train? He was pretty sure it hadn't.

But now, as he walked along the path to Hendon, it seemed to get heavier and heavier- and his arms were about to fall off his shoulders. He didn't understand why. It wasn't a long path- and, in fact, his suitcase was lighter than usual! He wasn't carrying as many novels- he was still carrying a few, of course- and he was carrying less things this year than the last few, since Peter wasn't there with him anymore, and so he didn't have to carry the belongings of his brother that didn't fit in his suitcase.

He wondered what a school year without him would be like. They hadn't been joined at the hip, obviously- but it was still a strange, new environment to be walking in to.

Hendon, without Peter. Boarding school, without Peter. When was the last thing he'd done anything without his big brother?

The time he had gone to Calormen, to bring Susan back? That felt like a lifetime ago- though, in truth, for him, it wasn't even a decade ago.

Fitting his melancholic mood, he wished Lucy was walking with him. It had not been ten minutes since he'd last seen her- but he wished she was here, so she could hug him and push away this sudden despair.

He ought to wish that Sanya with him at the moment, too- but, strangely, he didn't. There was always an underlying want- a need, to be together- but not on the surface, not then.

Because Sanya, too, was melancholic. Even if she tried to cheer him up, she would soon begin to fall to despair.
Or, considering how she'd become, she would stomp away from him and pummel whatever was causing his melancholia.

She did seem to be happier nowadays- something he was devoutly grateful for, because she deserved all the happiness- but he didn't doubt that she would still lose herself in pain, right along with him.

Edmund didn't mind that. The fact that she understood him, was why he'd begun to fall in love with her in the first place.

And she was his wife, his partner, not his cheerleader. Besides, she could distract him very well- whether it was by just being herself, or by being sultry, or both, she certainly could take his mind off whatever hurt it was focusing on.

But, especially now, after everything she had gone through- though she tried hard to hide it, to pretend it wasn't there- the sorrow was an ever-present layer over all of her. Even her lust- even her laughter- even her love.
There was something splintered inside her.
And, sometimes- very few times- he just wanted sunshine, not Moonshine.

It didn't change the fact that he loved her. It was part of him, his love for her- and he didn't want for it to ever go away.

Ugh, he thought suddenly, making a face at himself. What almost-sixteen-year-old boy thought of such matters?

The plain truth was that he loved Sanya, and Sanya loved him, and that was it.

Why continue to analyse something down to its core, to its root- when that something was such a wickedly pleasing thing?

"You look like my mum when she finds out I blew off all my pocket money on comics." Clarke Jaffray said lightly, catching up to the taller boy. "Broke up with Sanya?"

Edmund snorted, as they reached the front gate of Hendon House, "In your dreams."

"Oh, I definitely do see your girl in my dreams." He smirked, and patted at his dark-blond hair, fixing it into a style that wouldn't have him be suspended. "She's Wonder Woman in them."

"Is she strangling you with her rope?"

"It's a lasso." Clarke corrected primly. "Sanya would be very affronted that you don't know that. I correct myself, then- she would break up with you."

Edmund scowled at him- and then the two boys burst into laughter.

The two were not friends, exactly, but they had a bond of laughter- often centred around Sanya, the only other matter in common they had beside their dorm.

As his laughter abated, he said, "Sanya will end up killing you one day because of this shit, you know that."

"She would never harm her number one comics supplier." He shrugged, as the chattering that was forever present in schools reached their ears- they'd reached the entrance hall, and it was absolutely full of boys, laughing and elbowing each other and imitating cricket movements. "And, anyway, the only time I wish you two would break up, is when you snatch her away from our brainstorming sessions."

"How is debating whether Superman can run faster or Flash-"

"The Flash." He corrected once again, even more pointedly. "Tsk, tsk, Ed. However will you keep up?"

"I'll manage." Edmund said dryly.
He would soon reach his dorm- and bed- and he could toss the suitcase away, and rest his arms. He had never expected to be so glad for Clarke's company- but it had taken his mind off his aching limbs.
"Thanks for the image of Sanya in a Wonder Woman get-up, by the way. It was just what I needed to push away the back-to-school blues."

He'd tell her it, when he saw her. He was sure it'd tickle her, and make her laugh. He loved it when she laughed- he still remembered the first time he had heard her laugh, on the quest.

And he remembered what she had told him after that, the reason why she had stopped laughing like she'd used to.
Marriage.

"Anytime, mate." Clarke grinned. "How is she, by the way? I sent her a bunch of letters during the hols, but she only sent me three- one of which was entirely her complaining about school starting early."
He really did care about her. No one else he knew- boy or girl- liked comics, and she was just wholly refreshing. He knew full well that Sanya didn't consider him a friend, or even thought about him as more than a supplier- but he did consider her one.
A friend. Despite his jokes to Edmund, he didn't fancy her in the least- he hardly even saw her as a girl, if he was being honest.

"She's alright. Just as brilliant and baffling." He shrugged back.

'We had sex- we've been having sex for weeks- and it's been as wonderful as it was in our last life,' was on the tip of his tongue, because he wanted to tell someone.

But they'd both promised to keep the fact to themselves. He didn't mind that, either- something so intimate, so sacred, being a secret? It felt right.
"And I think she's finally beginning to feel at home here."

Clarke tilted his head, "In school?"

In Finchley. In England. In my arms, after a thousand years.
In this world.
"Yeah." Edmund nodded, as they both started up the stairs. "In school."

-
-✧･: °*✧*°:･✧-
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Louis Hofmann as Clarke Jaffray

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I love Clarke. He's the geek side of me. And I love his actor, too- watch Dark on Netflix, but you should know it's quite a mind-fuck. The number of times I had to Google the wiki...
I wish he showed up more, but I think he's only in two or three scenes. He's awesome, still.

And Sanya and Bonnie's friendship? I love it????? Sanya deserves a friend, honestly. She's never had one who is not a relative (Lucy) or an animal (Moonlight).

Editing the letters in Wattpad format was a bitch. So much strikethrough...

Also, Sanya's letter to her mother in 'Alliance' was in a different font, I'm aware (now, at least, I had completely forgotten, until rn). However, I do have a reason for the change- different world, different instruments to write with, different material to write on.Her name changed, so it makes sense that her style of writing did, too, slightly.

Also, I think this may be the shortest chapter, idk...

Oh, and
Let me ask you something
Have you noticed anything about the chapter titles? Some pattern, possibly an alternating one? Hm...

Next chapter, whoo boy. I don't know whether to feel upset at it, or glad because YOU all will be upset at it 🌚
Still, things can't go well always, so it has to happen.

And, as always- I humbly and unashamedly ask you to vote on the chapters, and perhaps comment, too :)