As promised, here’s part 2. Again, posting this on my 18+ blog, slutty-yorick due the mature content. warning: INCEST within [c’mon, folks, that’s CANON], and more violence. 

@8@     Do Us Part  {A Crimson Peak Fanfic}       @8@    

By SincereJester

Part 2

It was always a joy to awaken to the relative calm of the
house when Mother was away. Lucille didn’t hesitate to get out of bed the next
morning, even though the air was humid and clouds were drifting over the hills
outside.  Wrapping a plaid shawl around her
nightgown, she swiftly moved to stoke the embers in the iron stove, adding
another log to feed the flames into a warm glow. It was always drafty in the
nursery now, the wind seeping through the cracks in the window frames and
whistling up in the rafters even in August. Cracks were beginning to form in
the plaster, lathing showing through the holes like bones in the house’s
crumbling façade. A veil of decay and rot hung over the whole attic, but today
she didn’t care; she and Thomas needn’t be confined to their drafty chambers.

“Thomas,” she whispered, moving over to his bed. She kissed
his forehead. “I’m going down to light the oven and fetch us some
breakfast.  Join me, won’t you? I’ll make
it special, just for us. We don’t have to dress, just come along. Mother’s away
and no-one’s here..”  Cocooned in
blankets, Thomas nodded his tousled dark curls, yawning. Lucille practically
skipped down the stairs, not feeling the need to use the rattling cage-like
lift when she was in such good spirits.

Lucille was quick about her tasks, and by the time Thomas
appeared, sleepy-eyed and hair still uncombed, a worn tartan draped over his
nightshirt, the kitchen hearth was warm and inviting. Lucille smiled as she set
out his breakfast on the well-worn work table.

“You’ve made me eggs!” Thomas exclaimed in astonishment.

“And toast,” Lucille added proudly. “That was the last of
them, so I thought I’d make you a treat. I know they’re your favorite.”

“I couldn’t eat them both,” Thomas protested. “We can share
them; you have one.”

“I’d be far more content with watching you enjoy them. I
made them for you,” Lucille replied. “Go on, now, before they get cold.”
Lucille took up the heel of bread on the board and spread a bit of jam on it.
She had used the last of the butter for the eggs and toast, but even the bread
and jam were a welcome change from the porridge they usually had. The kettle
hissed and clattered, and she moved it from the fire. With a saucy look, she
brought out Mother’s fancy tea set, the one used for company, and set it on the
table.

Thomas grinned at her; he knew this was naughty, and just
like Lucille to do when Mother was away. “I’ll get the tea,” he proclaimed,
jumping up to gather the tin.  

“Oh, no, Thomas, not that one,” Lucille said, handing back
the faded red tin. “We mustn’t ever use that one. That was Father’s tea.”

“I thought maybe we’d use it for special occasions,” Thomas
remarked.

“But that’s the one I made just for him, when he took ill. I
don’t want to use it anymore; the leaves are probably musty now. Let’s use the
other, in the blue tin. And we can add sugar, too.” Lucille wished there was
cream or at least milk, but just doing something so forbidden was more than
enough to satisfy her. Deftly she opened the blue tin Thomas had handed her and
spooned the fragrant leaves into the teapot, adding the water.  After allowing it to steep, she strained the
tea into the two cups and added lumps of sugar—one for her, two for Thomas,
stirring them with a teaspoon. “We should have a proper tea party,” she said.

“We haven’t any cakes or biscuits,” Thomas reminded her.

“We might have an oatcake left, or maybe a raisin bun. Oh!”
she suddenly exclaimed. “There’s a biscuit tin in the parlour; certainly
there’s some shortbread left in there!” She took up the tea tray, urging Thomas
to follow her.

This was very daring! With the throw around him held with
one hand and the remains of his toast in the other, he trailed after Lucille
into the main hall. The vast room that housed the piano on one side of it and
the two-storied library on the other echoed with their footsteps and the
clattering of the tea set as Lucille set it down. She pried open the biscuit
tin, triumphantly holding aloft the discovered shortbread. “There! Now we can
have a pleasant time in the parlour and Mother will be none the wiser! I’ll put
up a soup with the peas and the last of the ham for supper, and we can have a
bit of bread and cheese later. But for now,” she proclaimed, handing Thomas one
of the tea cups and a biscuit, “We shall have a proper tea!”

Grinning, Thomas took the offering and sat on the sofa,
knowing there was nothing proper about them being in that room, or any room
other than the nursery. Lucille had far more freedom to move about Allerdale
Hall than he, because the task of housekeeping fell to her now, but this room
was especially forbidden. Mother seemed to enjoy denying Lucille access to the
few refined things she enjoyed: the books, the piano—Lucille was an
accomplished reader and player, but there wasn’t any time for her to indulge in
such luxuries now. She cooked, cleaned and tended to Mother, who had come to
rely on her as her lady’s maid in assisting her to dress and bathe when she was
at home. It just seemed so unfair that Lucille had become such a drudge, a
Cinderella in her own home! Thomas tried to ease her burden as much as he
could, gathering the fuel, filling the pots and kettles, scrubbing the
woodwork, whatever he could, and when she would wave him away back to the
attic, he would make little toys and baubles for her, wanting only to see a
smile on her tired face. Someday, when he was grown, he would reverse their bad
fortune, and his sister would never have to even lift a finger for herself. He
would clothe her in the finest fashions and they would have grand parties here,
with interesting conversation and music. He nibbled absently at the biscuit as
he daydreamed.

Lucille set down her empty tea cup with a satisfied sigh.
“Well,” she said, “How shall we spend our holiday?” She moved to the massive
fireplace central to the room. She was skilled at lighting fires, and quickly
started a merry blaze on the hearth. The clouds had gathered and rain began to
patter against the glass windows.

“Mother will be angry that you used all the wood,” Thomas
commented softly, although the light was welcome.

“I don’t care a fig if she is,” Lucille sniffed. “We’ve
still coal left for the kitchen and our fires, and Finlay can fetch more wood.
It’s not as though we get visitors. I certainly hope Mother has ordered more
provisions. We’re likely to starve out in this desolate place, otherwise.”  

“We won’t; you’re too clever to let that happen,” Thomas
replied. “I’m going to take some books. Will you join me?”

“Not just yet; I want to play the piano. It’s too quiet in this
place; the house wants music.” Lucille pranced over to the piano bench and
within moments music soared around them. Thomas scaled one of the staircases to
the upper floor of the library shelves, happily scanning the titles for a book
he hadn’t yet read. The Sharpes had been very proud of their book collection,
having obtained rare copies from all over the world and on all sorts of
subjects. While the children had been given a fair amount of their own volumes
in addition to the primers the tutor provided, it was a treat to be allowed a
book from here. He still felt ill at ease in the big room, much preferring the
familiar confines of the nursery, but the allure of pilfering the library
outweighed any hesitation on his part.

Lucille ended with a flourish. She so enjoyed playing the
piano! Her fingers would flit across the keys like moths, sometimes light as
feathers, sometimes striking down with a passionate force, and she would rock
in time to the music, possessed by the notes. She rose and joined Thomas by the
books, fingers tracing the spines. Father had collected most of the books on
the upper level; they had once been caught there and she had taken a solid
whipping for it, acting as a decoy while Thomas scuttled away, unseen, back to
the attic and safety. Now she paraded along by the shelves, unafraid. She was
glad their father was dead, the brute. “Thomas, come look at this one,” she
called slyly, pulling a volume from the upper shelf.

Thomas’ eyes widened as she opened the book of illustrations
and leafed through the lurid pages. He had some idea of what the pictures
depicted, but the contortions of the figures and the expressions of lustful
pleasure were more graphic than he could have ever imagined. His face burned
bright red. “Lucille, that is utterly indecent!”

“Of course it is, it was Father’s,” Lucille murmured. “It’s
from India. It’s a book about how to make love.”

Thomas shuddered. He couldn’t comprehend the idea that his
father would have ever even known about love or how to make it; he couldn’t
imagine him possessing any kind of tender sentiment at all. Yet the book and
its contents fascinated him.

“You like it?” Lucille queried. She had found the book
several years ago, but hadn’t dared secret it away. Instead she had studied it,
page by page, whenever she had been able to sneak a moment. She had learned to
explore her own changing body from it, to touch and give herself pleasure, and
how she had known that Thomas was beginning to feel the same.

Thomas nodded, the pictures drawing him in to unimagined
possibilities. He felt suddenly very exposed in the vast library, almost as if
he and his sister were being watched. In addition, he was beginning to feel the
way he had in the stables, the way he felt with Lucille.  “Could we take it back to the nursery?” he
asked.

Lucille smiled and nodded. She closed the book and took his
hand, and together they went back up to their rooms. The rain continued, the
sky dark and stormy, broken occasionally with flashes of lighting and rumbles
of thunder. The house groaned and sighed, the fire flaring as the wind hissed
through the chimneys.

Back in the nursery, Thomas and Lucille sat on the couch,
wrapped in their blankets, examining the exotic colored panels, all but
oblivious to the weather outside even as the rain stopped, the thunder growing
distant.

Lucille shifted under her covers. “Thomas…” Her voice was
low, breathless. He understood what she was feeling; he was aroused himself.
She set aside the book. “I want you to touch me,” she continued. “I need to be
touched. I need to be loved.”

“I’ll love you,” Thomas whispered, “I’ll always love you,
Lucille.”

Lucille sighed, an eager, happy sound. She let the quilts
pool around her hips, lifting her shift over her head. Thomas watched,
enthralled. All of their explorations had been in the dark, groping in the
shadows; they had never seen each other naked in daylight, even daylight this
muted. The long ropes of her hair draped over her shoulders, her skin so very
pale, eyes so bright with desire and longing. Her breast were small but rounded
and firm, the curve of her waist just beginning to form. His eyes fell lower as
Lucille knelt on the cushions and she stroked her long fingers to the cleft
between her legs. “Let me see you, Thomas,” she moaned.

He was shaking at the sight of her, at the sound of her
voice. Slowly he did as she had done, casting away his covers and removing his
nightshirt. His arousal was hard and twitching, and he had a moment’s impulse
to mount her like the stallion had tried to with the mare. He grasped himself,
as if to prevent such sudden violence, the contact making him groan. “Lucille…”

“Now we see each other, brother,” she answered, her face
flushed as she watched him. “This is who we are. You are so lovely, so
perfect…I would never let anyone hurt you. I love you, Thomas; I have always
loved you.”

“I adore you, Lucille,” Thomas moaned in reply. “You are the
only one who loves me. You are beautiful, the most beautiful creature in the
entire world.” He wanted to reach out to her, be cradled in her embrace. He
wanted to draw her hand from her own secret depths to stroke his aching flesh
as they both gasped and sighed. He wanted to make love to her as she would to
him.

An outraged scream of fury crashed like a thunderclap behind
them, echoing through the chamber. They froze, terrified, and turned to see the
enraged form of their mother descending on them like an avenging angel. They
scattered, the book falling to the floor as they grabbed at their nightclothes
and blankets, shrieking, all of their arousal gone. Lady Beatrice continued her
wordless onslaught, chasing them around the room with her walking stick
brandished above her head like a sword.

“No, no!” Lucille cried as Thomas felt Mother’s walking
stick fall squarely across his shoulders. He gasped in pain as the blows
continued to rain down over his naked back. “Leave him alone! Stop it! Mother,
stop!”  Lucille fell across him,
shielding him.

“Lucille, no,” he cried, even as she threw his shirt over
him and shoved him toward their bedroom alcove.

Lady Beatrice found her voice in the midst of her screaming.
“You wicked children! How dare you! How dare you!” she roared, continuing to
beat on them as they scrabbled away. “You commit such ugly perversion in my
house, you evil creatures! Shame on you, how dare you! I curse the day you were
born, the both of you!”

“Get in your bed, or under it if you can manage it,” Lucille
whispered in Thomas’ ear, pushing him through the doorway. Standing up, she turned
to face their mother.

“Lucille!” he wailed as he saw Lucille confronted their still-raging
mother, watched as Mother’s hand flashed out, striking Lucille’s head and
raking down her face. With a hoarse cry, Lucille fell to her knees, wailing in
pain as Mother grabbed her by the hair and dragged her from the room toward the
lift, and then he could see nothing more. He scrabbled under his bed as she had
ordered, squeezing his eyes shut, choking back his tears.  

The house moaned in sympathy, shuddering, and
the muddy earth beneath it heaved and sighed…

csr=JQL

Due the nature of the canon, I’ve posted this fic on my blog for more mature readers. All trigger warnings are implied: INCEST, CHILD ABUSE AND NEGLECT, VIOLENCE, ETC. 

@8@     Do Us Part  {A Crimson Peak Fanfic}       @8@    

By SincereJester

Part 1

The imposing estate of Allerdale Hall perched on Crimson
Peak was rarely silent. It had a language of its own, with its creaking,
moaning, whispering, groaning, sighing; even breathing. The sprawling edifice
had housed several generations of the Sharpe family. The land it was built on —
that was old, very old; it held memories far back before even the family that had
laid claim to it, who had built a legacy on the very blood and bone of the
mountain. These industrial invaders ransacked the undisturbed wilderness,
tearing down trees and plowing through thick, heavy clay beneath the fields too
dense for crops. They delved into the tunnels and secret caves once sacred to
their ancient predecessors. Kilns festered over the surface like blistering
boils, blood-red dust flaking off of the stacks of bricks into the air. The
house grew, constructed from the red clay of the earth’s heart, the trees of
the vanishing woods, decorated with the lurid, violent designs that paid homage
to a past that the inhabitants idolized but didn’t truly understand.  Crimson Peak watched, and waited, as the
house aged as all manufactured things do, far more quickly than its monumental
foundation. Slowly the fay darkness began its cancerous occupation of this
unnatural human hubris. It breathed; it crept into the shadows of the house and
into the dreams of those living within.

“Was it a nightmare, Thomas?” Lucille sat on the edge of his
bed, her long hair plaited in a single thick cord down her back. It was a large
room, with their beds on either side of the coal stove, but Lucille could sense
every movement her little brother made even without seeing him.  She had heard the furtive muffled noises of
his distress and come to his side as she often did.

The dark shock of hair peeking up through the covers shook.
“I’m not crying,” Thomas insisted, even though his voice said otherwise. “I’m
not a baby, you know.  I wouldn’t cry
over a silly nightmare anyway.”

“So you did have a dream.” Lucille replied, insistent.  “Tell it to me. Was it the same one as before?”

Thomas frowned in the dim moonlight and nodded. It was a
warm August night, but he held the blankets around him protectively. “I could
hear their wings flapping again, Lucille; the angels and the moths…and they
were choking me, stealing my breath away…I was caught in the trees and they
were trying to fly away with me, only we weren’t flying up, we were flying down
into the mines, into the clay pits…”

“Shhh, shh,” Lucille hushed him, rocking him in her arms.
“It was only a dream, sweetest. The moths would never hurt you. The angels live
here, remember? They took the boys out of the mines, and the moths brought
their souls to live with us, and they became our angel friends.  They wouldn’t hurt us, Thomas. They’re kind
and gentle.”

“Then it was Father, not the angels.”

Lucille groaned inside. Thomas had only recently regained
his memory of their father, one which she hoped he would never remember.
“Father can’t hurt you ever again, Thomas, because he’s dead and gone now. I
assure you he has not become an angel.”

Thomas’ eyes were wide and shiny with fright. “Is he a ghost
now? Sometimes…sometimes I think I feel him coming through the hallways or
lurking in the shadows, waiting to grab me—to ch-choke m-me…”

Lucille cupped her brother’s face in her hands firmly.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Thomas Sharpe; that’s just superstitious old
nonsense. Father is dead and has been for two years; dead and buried. It’s bad
enough that he was so awful when he was alive; why would you believe he could
be so to us now?”

“I don’t think he can rest in peace, Lucille,” Thomas
countered, taking her hands away.

“Well, he shouldn’t rest in peace; he doesn’t deserve it,”
she insisted. “He nearly killed you, dearest. He was a cruel brute of a man who
broke Mother’s leg and beat her, who caned us whenever he could, who squandered
away our family fortune and went mad before he mercifully died.”

Thomas stared hard at her, his pale face pensive. “Did
Father commit suicide, Lucille?” he asked quietly.

“Where on Earth did you get that idea?” Lucille asked
incredulously.

“At the funeral,” he replied. “Some of the people there said
that he had; I heard them. They said it wasn’t an accident.”

Lucille brushed back the covers from around her little
brother and gripped his shoulders. “Listen to me, Thomas Sharpe: our father was
thrown from a horse and broke his neck. You know that.” She slumped back,
letting him go. “He had been ill, too ill to be inspecting the mines and
certainly too ill to have been out riding. You remember how stubborn he was,
though, don’t you?  He probably got ill
from breathing all those fumes from the mines, going down there and bullying
the workers all the time. Anyway, I doubt his horse threw him because he wanted
it to, and you can’t accuse a stallion of murder, can you?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, of course not. But he was ill a
long time, Lucille, and none of the miners got sick.”

“Sometimes they do,” Lucille argued,” But commoners have far
more rude health than people like us. Not that it matters much now. Ever since
that last collapse, we haven’t any new work for them, and we couldnt afford to
pay for it if we had.” Lucille gave a tired shrug.

“I’m sorry, Lucille.
I didn’t mean to wake you; I know you’ve been working so hard for us. It isn’t
fair that a lady should have to do all the housekeeping and the cooking and
everything.” Thomas crawled out from the quilts and hugged her. “Someday I’ll
make a machine that will dig the clay for us, day and night, and we won’t have
to have any workers in danger. We’ll have our fortunes again; I’ll fix up
Allerdale Hall and hire good, kind servants to care for us and our home, and
you won’t have to work at all, like a princess.”

“Now that’s a far better dream, isn’t it, my little prince?”
Lucille kissed Thomas’ forehead, smoothing back his unruly hair. “The both of
us, living happily ever after in our castle together! I shall have a pony
again, and you’ll have to learn to ride a tall white steed.”

“No, I won’t,” Thomas argued. “I don’t like riding.”

“How will you manage, then, little prince?” Lucille teased.

“I’ll have a carriage and footmen drive us about.”

“A true gentleman should know how to ride,” Lucille
countered. When she had been a young girl She had once possessed a pony, although
her mother had disapproved. She would want to go riding constantly, relishing
the attention and freedom her lessons brought to her. Mother felt she should
remain indoors, in the attic nursery out of sight of everyone. Locked up in an
ivory tower like Rapunzel, she thought bitterly, although she felt more like
Cinderella now.

“I’ll invent a mechanical horse, then,” Thomas said with a
grin. “It won’t stink like real horses and it will never throw me or kick or
bite or stomp on my boots.”

Lucille smiled back. “Going to animate the rocking horse,
brother?”

“I just might!”

The siblings had learned very early on that they had only each
other for any warmth or love. Their parents hated each other, and they had never
hid their disappointment in their offspring. As their animosity toward each other
had grown, they had focused their cruelty on the children. Their father, Sir
James, had long been disgusted that his firstborn had been a girl, and was even
more furious when she grew into a headstrong, intelligent and in his mind
disobedient child. Thomas had been even more of a disappointment to him: his
long-awaited heir was a meek, effeminate creature that cringed in his presence.
Sir James blamed his wife for bearing him such disagreeable offspring, and
heaped abuse on them all whenever he was present. Fortunately it was rare that
he stayed at Allerdale Hall, and even when he was home, the children learned to
make themselves scarce, hiding in the nursery and retreating into a world of
their own creation.  

Lucille had been only two years old when Teresa had arrived
in the nursery carrying the little bundled baby that was Thomas. He looked like
a doll, so perfect and serene, rosy cheeked, dark lashes surrounding his
curious, bright blue eyes; certainly he was a new plaything for her to dress up
and sing to. They had no other attendant, and Teresa’s focus was on her new
charge, so soon Lucille became as interested in Thomas as an infant instead of
a toy, even obsessed with him. She would watch Teresa bathe and diaper and
clothe the wriggling, burbling baby, and was fascinated at how eagerly Thomas
nursed, Teresa uttering a happy sigh as he latched on to her swollen breasts.
Lucille missed that kind of tender nurturing, but she was a big girl now: she could
drink from a cup, and Thomas needed to suckle. Once when Teresa had been out of
the nursery fetching something from the kitchen, Thomas had been squalling and
Lucille, barely three years old, had lifted her little brother from his crib,
sat down on the sofa and unbuttoned her dress front, pressing him to her chest.
Little Thomas had frantically rooted around for sustenance, still whimpering,
and Teresa scolded her when she found them, but Lucille dreamed of the day she
would have full breasts like Teresa. It seemed so lovely!

Despite the shelter of the nursery and the allure of her
brother and the wet nurse, Lucille still craved adventure. Storybooks and
simple handicrafts would only occupy her for so long, even though she had
learned to read very early and she was quite clever with her hands. She always
looked forward to strolls around the garden and would often sneak away to roam
the house and the grounds, much to Teresa’s dismay.  Lucille took every opportunity to escape to
the stables or the kitchen, getting underfoot and pestering the staff to the
point of distraction. The maids and footmen detested these invasions; the cook
and stable hands were more indulgent. Finlay the groundskeeper was the most
accommodating, often showing Lucille unusual leaves or feathers or even insects
from the garden, or pointing out animal tracks in the red muddy clay, before
sending her back in. Teresa was relieved when she was old enough to have
lessons; she was tutored in many topics and took to piano and riding with a
particular relish. She was still under strict orders to stay in the nursery
outside of her lessons, however. She was not to associate with the servants
other than her nanny and tutors, and there were no other children at Allerdale
Hall. From the moment Thomas could toddle after her, her brother became her
sole companion. Once he was weaned, Teresa became a fussy, nervous caretaker
for the both of them, forever begging them to behave and sit still, and Lucille
was secretly pleased to linger at the stables or the gardens or the kitchen,
knowing the poor woman would be wringing her hands in despair until she
returned.  Thomas was bookish and quiet,
rarely getting into trouble of his own accord, although he was incredibly
curious and as he grew older he would throw tantrums when left behind. They
were inseparable for the most part, happily playing in a world of their own, so
long as they were left to their own devices.

Once Lucille had taken advantage of her time for riding
lessons and had lingered in the stables, one of the rare times she was away
from her brother’s company. She had crawled up into the hayloft, promptly
falling asleep. She had missed tea by the time she awoke and was marched up to
the sitting room with her hair still full of hay and her clothing all rumpled.
Teresa was in tears, and Thomas was shaking, his face tear-streaked and pale.
Mother was present in the nursery for the first time they could remember, and
she was furious. Lucille didn’t even get to say a proper good-bye to Teresa;
Mother simply dismissed her on the spot. “You are old enough to occupy
yourselves now,” Mother had insisted. “You will stay here where you are
supposed to, learn your lessons and obey the rules, or I’ll cane you both. And
you, young miss, will have no more riding lessons or your pony.”

Lucille felt the world collapse around her at this
declaration. This sudden intrusion of Mother into their safe haven, only to
have Teresa dismissed for her carelessness, was a punishment beyond what she
deserved, and it was unfair to Thomas, who thought of Teresa as a mother they
never had. It was then that Lucille began to understand the world outside the
nursery walls a bit more; an abrupt and bitter knowledge of the vicious nature
of their parents and their hatred towards their own kin.

At first she and Thomas had welcomed the more frequent
absences of Sir James from Crimson Peak, since this allowed them to sneak
around the many halls of the house without restraint. Mother would often stay
in bed for long hours at a time, rising late, retiring early, and so she, too,
was easily avoided. The servants had long been a peril if the two of them were
caught out; they seemed to be at war with them and took every opportunity to
report to Mother of their infractions—Lucille even believed that they lied to
Mother sometimes, made up stories to get them in trouble; the result of which
was always a hard caning and sometimes deprivation of meals. Lucille secretly
welcomed it as one by one the servants were dismissed, until she learned it was
because there was less and less to pay them. There were more arguments between
her parents, more long days locked away from the outside air, the tension felt
even up in their retreat. The house itself seemed to sag and groan in misery.

Father had bellowed for Thomas to accompany him during one
of those times, and had gone off hunting with his frightened son. Only eight
years old but tall for his age, Thomas had shuffled along behind his father,
glancing back with pleading eyes toward his sister as they left. Lucille felt a
twisting dread in the pit of her stomach watching them leave; her fears
confirmed when Sir James returned hours later, alone, after dark. ‘He’s killed
him,’ she had thought. ‘He’s murdered my brother, the fiend!’

A search party had rushed out in search of him, but of
course she couldn’t accompany them. She nearly fainted in relief when Finlay
returned carrying a limp Thomas bundled his rough overcoat, the boy injured and
ill but alive.

She wouldn’t leave his side as they tended to him and put
him in bed.  Mottled bruises circled his
thin neck, marring the porcelain perfection of his skin, and his breath gasped
and rattled as he fought to pull air into his lungs through his damaged throat.
Mother had provided medication to soothe his pain and lull him to sleep, but
Lucille stood guard over him. ‘Don’t you die, little brother,’ she pleaded.
‘You’re all I have in the world to love.’

Thomas slept so long and so deeply! Lucille had drifted off
herself a few times, waking up in a panic only to find him unchanged. She was
hardly aware of others coming and going to see to him, only hoping Thomas would
wake up again. She would sing to him, nursery rhymes and lullabies, until he
finally did open his eyes and drew a thin breath. “Am I dead? He said I was
dead…” he had murmured to her, his voice so thin and raspy, before asking for
water and falling back asleep into a healing slumber.

Father had disappeared for several days after that, before
returning, still drunk, to bellow out his defense: An accident, he had claimed;
Thomas lost in the woods as they were hunting grouse, his scarf tangling in the
low branches as the boy rushed away in a panic. Thomas claimed to remember
nothing of it when he was fully recovered, but the nightmares had haunted him
since then, the flapping of the wings, the choking sensation…All memories
that were slowly returning in his dreams, haunting him even after Lucille had
taken action on her own. Sir James was off and away again before Thomas had
fully recovered, and Lucille had thought of going to Mother and begging her to
take them away from here, that Sir James would only get worse, but she knew her
mother would never create such a scandal. ‘He’s cowed us all, the brute,’ she
thought. Lucille took Thomas into her arms and they hid in a corner of the
attic when Sir James again returned several months later. The sound of their
argument could be heard throughout the whole house, as well as the sounds of
the blows and the screams from Mother as he abused her. After that, Mother was
confined to bed, her leg shattered, and Sir James kept away. The money was
gone, and there was no trust or caring left between them. Lucille cared for
Mother and Thomas—and made certain Father wouldn’t hurt them ever again.

Lucille shook herself free of her reverie, her thoughts
returning to the horses. She drew Thomas into her arms, resting him against
her. “There are things you enjoyed about real horses, Thomas,” she whispered.
“Or have you forgotten?”

A blush spread over Thomas’ face. No, he hadn’t
forgotten.  It had been almost a year
since they had sold off the horses and closed the stables. Her pony was long
gone, but she still liked to slip away to visit the horses. This time Thomas
was convinced to go with her despite his dislike of the huge beasts, since they
would be gone soon. The midsummer heat had awakened the horses to rut, and he
and Lucille had witnessed a stallion mount a mare with a savage passion.
Lucille had watched in rapt fascination as the mare had thrown the stud off
several times, providing them with a clear view of the stallion’s eager
erection as the horses whinnied and raced around the paddock.  His own member had responded in an awkwardly
new way, much to his embarrassment when Lucille noticed. She had said nothing, waiting
until the sensation lessened off and he was able to regain his composure. It
had been that night that they began to explore the changes their bodies were
undergoing.

Lucille had grown taller, curves recently forming on her
body. That night in the shadows of their nursery room, she had taken his hand
and led him to the sofa. She had kissed him and he had kissed her back, soft
and tender and gentle, and they fell into an embrace, breathless from this new
excitement. Lucille had placed his hand on her breast, encouraging him to touch
her, saying proudly, “I’m becoming a woman now, Thomas. I will protect you and
care for you and love you forever.” His own body had again responded in a way
that left him breathless and warm. Soon they were doing these things in secret
whenever they could, hidden in the shadows, spurred on by growing lust and each
other’s’ encouragement .

“Shall I sing to you, Thomas?” She offered, aware of his
arousal. He nodded, and she began to hum. Still cradling him against her, Lucille
loosened her nightgown and cupped a breast, urging him to suckle her. When he
did so, eagerly sucking the ripe dark nipple, she gave a pleasurable sigh
before singing softly to him. She reached beneath his nightshirt, stroking and
petting his swollen flesh. With a groan Thomas writhed against her, sucking
harder. Lucille’s hand moved faster, tracing over the quivering stiffness as
Thomas began to pant.    

With a half-strangled cry, he bucked in her embrace, and she
bent over him, capturing his mouth with her own. Moments later Thomas relaxed
and she again rocked him like an infant, hushing him. “Sh, sh, there now,” she
crooned. “Go to sleep, Thomas. Everything will be right in the morning.”

Gently she laid him back on the pillows, withdrawing her
hand.  Standing up, she tucked the quilts
around him with one hand, her nightgown still askew.  Looking tenderly at him as he drifted off
into sleep, she wiped her wet hand over her neck down to her breast as she
walked back to her bed. Thomas was so lovely, so eager to explore this strange,
unknown metamorphosis that was wrapping its way around them both, changing
their shapes and hearts and thoughts. Climbing back into the bed, she burrowed
beneath the covers, grasping and stroking her own body to a warm height of
pleasure before sinking back into a dreamless sleep.