More Fit to Live|Joan, Dahlia;;

[dahlia]

Dahlia's willowy, black figure stood now in front of large gravestone, off to the right of the cemetery, a place that was concealed by a hill in the front and a wall of trees in the back. It was a secret place, and though it was decently populated, it was clear and quiet, especially in the winter time. The gravestone she stood in front of was short and long, with an angel weeping over it; on the front of the stone, in shiny black letters, were three names:

Abigail Leverne
Celia Leverne
Isabel Leverne

There weren't any years and there weren't any parting words- just those names. But Dahlia knew what they meant. Her strange Force had pulled her to the final resting site of three infants; triplets, to be exact... like her. All stillborn- every. Single. One of them. The mother was currently in a mental institution, and had been since the unsuccessful births four years ago. Who knew where the father was.

It was funny the way her reading worked- primarily, she dealt with the future of other people. Most deaths that weren't off the actual person were the deaths floating around them; relatives, friends... people whose deaths would effect this person's future. She felt like her realm was future, but she couldn't explain it. She only caught little snippets of the past... but future expanded before her like an empty plane, but she couldn't change any of it. It was all up to the person.

Dahlia sighed a bit, not hearing as someone approached her. It was so different, dwelling in the past. She felt like a Christian in a Synagogue- like she didn't belong, but somehow was supposed to fit somewhere with it.

Poor things, she thought, laying one spidery hand on the head of the weeping angel; Poor, pathetic... desperate things.

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Joan pulled her coat tighter around her hunched shoulders as she walked through the cemetery. A chill breeze blew, rattling the branches, and she shivered, shoving her hands further into her pockets. Her Voices had told her to come here. They’d insisted upon it, but refused to tell her why, saying she’d know in time. So here she was, wandering around a graveyard. Bending down, she read the names on the stones, running her finger over the words and sounding out the letters in her head.


Her lessons with Pony were paying off. As she studied the tombs, she whispered prayers for the souls of the dead, hoping they were all at peace. The cemetery was quiet and still, with only the breeze rustling the leaves. Jehanne gazed around, resting her hand on a stone. Why had her Counsel told her to come here? She did not know any of the people resting beneath her feet. And the cemetery was deserted…Jehanne whipped her head up at the sound of footsteps that drifted to her.


Narrowing her eyes, she looked around, searching for the owner of the feet. At last she saw her. A young woman dressed entirely in black, stood near a small gravestone. No one else stood by. Joan frowned. Was this woman the reason her Voices had ordered her here?


“Go to her, Maiden,” Saint Catherine whispered in her ear.


Joan approached the young woman warily. If she was in mourning, she wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Peering over her shoulder, Joan read the names on the tombstone. Three of them, with no ages or dates. Children, she wondered, looking up at the angel statue. Perhaps they were the woman’s? Joan’s heart went out to the girl and she placed a hand on her shoulder. “Were they yours? I am sorry if they were.”

[dahlia]

Normally, Dahlia would have started if an unknown hand had touched her- perhaps even recoiled- but for some reason, she felt as though it was the Hand of God on her shoulder. All that weight and yet none at all.

Her head simply turned and then tilted, giving her room to sweep the veil out of her face. Her heavily-lidded eyes looked back at Joan knowingly, as if they held all the secrets somewhere. Joan, she could tell, was not a wealthy person- at least not in material and money. However, Dahlia could tell she possessed a fantastic mind, though it was riddled with hallucinations and false perceptions.

Flames licked at Dahlia's feet, the white scrubs singeing- the windows were all barred, and then beams had collapsed over the door. A million voices buzzed in her ears as she slowly suffocated.

Suddenly, the black-draped woman's eyes became more aware- she shifted under her mourning garb and took out her notepad, beginning to answer Joan's question:

They are yours too.

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Joan stared up at the young woman in black, her mouth open slightly in shock. Up close, the other’s clothes appeared even more out of place—especially the heavy veil that shrouded her face. Joan watched, frowning, as the woman’s eyes turned glassy. Almost as if—as if she were having a vision. Joan’s frown deepened. ‘Does she hear what I hear?’ she wondered.

The woman’s gaze cleared abruptly and she pulled out a small book. Writing in it, she passed the book to Joan, who took it slowly. Running her finger underneath the words, Joan read them, sounding out each one. “Mine?” she repeated. “No, these are not mine. I do not have children.” Joan stared at the woman, trying to puzzle out her meaning. “They are hers…and mine too….” Her voice trailed off and she smiled slowly. “You mean they are everyone’s children?”