Once, there was an island.... // MPHFPC one shots, imagines, and misc !

Blood in the Wine { Enoch O'Connor & Jolyne Stoker}

"Dulcinea and I have been exchanging letters for a few months now, dearest," your mother tells you, with her gentle hand falling to your arm. You are taller than her now. She walks slower than she used to, and smiles less, and can no longer kiss the top of your head whenever she wants to, because you are taller than her now. "We both agree that the safest option... the best option... is for you to go with her, to her children's home."

This confuses you. "I'm not a child."

"I know, baby." Your mother rubs your bicep, slow and gentle, and you cannot look at her. "But Dulcinea says there are certain dangers that apply to people like you..."

Dulcinea Swan says, "I can protect you in ways your mother cannot, Mr O'Connor."

You say, "What do I need protection for? Who are these other people like me?"

"I'll explain on the way to your new home."

You look to your mother, and she nods and says, "Go pack a small bag, honey," and because you love your mother, you do.

Dulcinea Swan is not a woman you can see yourself liking.

She holds herself as if she is some kind of God, back straight, head held high, each step of hers equivalent to three of yours. This annoys you, as you are two heads taller than her, and you don't like to walk behind people. Dulcinea Swan keeps her umbrella slung over her shoulder, and she wears a long pale blue dress that seems far too out-of-time for you to trust, and she hikes it up when she walks to show off her calf-height boots, laced with glimmering strings. Her hair is long and ginger and loose, and her face is reminiscent of her surname— angular and thin, her eyes hooded beneath round glasses, her lips thin and painted a sickly shade of vermilion and trapped in a permanent slight smile. She's fantastical. She's peculiar.

And currently, she is telling you what you are.

"You, my darling, are what we like to call a deadriser. A fleshworker. A bonemaker." she says, and you frown, because your mother is not here to tell you not to. "A necromancer."

"A freak," you say, and Dulcinea Swan looks over her shoulder and beams at you, her teeth neat and small and slightly yellow, as is all bones.

"No, my sweet." says Miss Swan. "You are peculiar."

When she looks at you like this, you can see the freckles spotted round her small, paper white face, and the wrinkles 'round her eyes make more sense. You say, "Same difference, ain't it?"

"No, little one, not at all." she turns her back to you and keeps walking, and you trip over your feet to keep up with her. "Being peculiar means you are born with something more. Some great and impossible, something that makes you fundamentally inhuman, and yet more human than those without it."

You say, "Okay. Not human. I've heard weirder."

"Have you?"

"I have three younger brothers and two older sisters. I hear a lot of weird shit."

Dulcinea Swan laughs. Her laugh reminds you of spring— gentle and soft and almost warm, and in her chuckling nature you can almost see her tending to a garden. This fuels your dislike of her. She says, "Of course. How could I be such a fool? You're an adult, you've lived an entire life before this. How silly of me."