complaininginthedark:

(AAHHHHH MY BABIES)

She was beautiful. Dark chestnut hair, wide brown eyes so full of curiosity and innocence, cheeks like roses… Abigail was a beautiful child. Miranda took to her immediately, her yearning for children abating as she showed the young girl how to play a simple tune on her harpsichord. Thomas watched his wife and the girl play, felt his own want for children, and barely paid attention to what Peter was saying.

Abigail asked him about his waistcoat. How did they get the patters on the fabric? Could a lady wear them too?

He let her borrow one and laughed as she twirled, joy filling him at the marvel of youth.

It was over a decade later when they met again. Abigail was a woman. She was tall, demure, but still held the same innocence even if it had been fractured. When she saw him her eyes widened, became wet, her face crumbled into despair as she sobbed and threw herself into his arms. It was one of Thomas’ better days; he held her, cried his own tears, and gently soothed her pain as she stuttered her story.

Later, when night fell and they were alone, she tended to some of the bruises on his back. She didn’t mention the scars, didn’t flinch or cower, simply wiped dirt and blood from his skin and hushed him when he cried out.

“You’ve been alone,” she said, “but you aren’t now. You cared for me when I was young and vulnerable. Now I can do the same for you.”

For the next ten months she was his carer, his safety net, the wind in his sails. He called her daughter. She called him father.