Leave Out All The Rest [Holly - casual]

[chase]

Some people made a routine out of it, visiting their lost ones on the anniversary of their deaths or their birthdays or anniversaries and so on. Chase had intended to do the same. He had planned to stop by with flowers once every month, then every couple of months, then as long as it took for the flowers to need refreshing. And he did, for a long time; actually, he had visited Lenore's grave more often than he should have. But since December... that had become less the case.

He trembled slightly as he walked through the cemetery, his feet taking him where he needed to go without the active thought of his mind. He did not believe in ghosts and spirits - or he had not, not before the raven. There had to be something... They said he'd had a psychotic break, the doctors at the hospital Jane and Harry had taken him to afterwards, but Chase was not so sure. It had felt so real.... Did psychotic breaks feel that real? He'd never had one before. He'd always thought himself a bit crazy, in the common sense, but legitimately insane...?

Lenore was watching him, he was certain. Was she angry with him? He couldn't tell, but if he had been killed by someone, he would have been mad, too. He would not have blamed her. He hadn't meant it, but... it had happened, all the same. And he couldn't take it back. No amount of flowers would rectify the mistakes he had made with Lenore. He was here and she was gone.

He stopped before her grave. The flowers he had left last time looked better than he had expected. Someone had tended them, or replaced them, he realized, probably someone from her family or among her school friends, someone who had a right to miss her. He knelt before her tombstone, read her name and the inscription. It was plain, only her birth and death dates and designs with swirls and doves. Or ravens....

"I'm sorry, Lenore." He let a sigh leave him, his body collapsing into a slouch. "I know now. I guess you know I know. I'm... not making any sense." He put the flowers down. God, he was such a dumbass. "I miss you. Which is stupid, because you're gone because of me. I didn't mean it to happen that way. I swear."

He was crying softly before he realized it, his shrunken frame wracked by silent sobs. Ducking his face into his hands, he dropped to his knees before the tombstone, not caring who saw him as his mind faintly registered the sound of footsteps nearby. They would pass... this would pass.

[HOLLY UROR]

Having time to herself was a luxury for Holly these days. Her father had increased the number of rehearsals the church choir had, as he claimed it was never too early to start on their Christmas repertoire, and Holly's mother had decided it would be a good idea to try and teach Holly French (although she herself was no expert).

Needless to say, when Holly did find some spare time, she did not want to spend it in the confines of her house. When it happened that her father needed to visit the cemetery to discuss matters of an upcoming funeral, his daughter jumped at the chance to accompany him. True, a cemetery wasn't exactly the playground, but Holly didn't mind. She planned to use her time there for inspiration for some new pictures.

Having been inspired by Jane Eyre's art class in the summer, Holly had tried to draw at least once a week. And so it came to be that Holly was sat on a bench in the graveyard, a spiral notebook on her knees (for lack of a proper sketchbook), attempting to draw a bird she saw perched on a nearby headstone. She hummed softly to herself as she worked - the tune of 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring'- and in this vein was soon finished her picture.

She was quite pleased with it; Miss Eyre had taught her well. Holly removed the page from the book, intending to stick it on her wall if her parents allowed. However, she hadn't taken the weather into account and was therefore quite alarmed when her paper was wrenched from her hand by a gust of wind.

With a gasp Holly leapt to her feet and hurried after the drawing. Unfortunately, it didn't simply land on the grass, but near to a young man by a graveside, sobbing uncontrollably. Holly hung back, not wanting to approach yet not wanting to leave. Not only did she want to retrieve her picture but it was clear this man was in need of comfort. Whether he would want it from Holly was another matter entirely.

[chase]

There was someone standing behind him, Chase could tell. Someone was watching, waiting. Who was it? In truth, Chase did not care. He did not want to be bothered by anyone. It was bad enough he was crying like a baby in public; he didn't want to know who it was he was making a fool of himself in front of. But...

...what if he were imagining things? What if... this were no person, but the ghost of Lenore finally come to confront him? The spirit who had been haunting him for so long, looking for revenge or forgiveness or closure... if it were her, he wanted to get it over with, take his punishment now and end his suffering. Perhaps he would even die.... That would be a blessing.

He looked up, raised his face out of his hands, before he realized he head decided to look up. Blinking, he took in the sight of a little girl standing not too far from him. Definitely not Lenore. Ah, well. Maybe a little girl would not think anything of a weird adult crying. Or maybe she would run off and play somewhere. But she was looking at him pretty intently.

Looking down now, Chase noticed a sheet of paper next to him. It hadn't been there before, or at least he didn't think it had been. After wiping his palms on his pants, he picked up the paper carefully and looked at it. It was a drawing of one of the tombstones, and a bird perched atop it. Maybe that was what the girl wanted. Holding the paper out to her, he said, "Here," but his voice broke and he had to clear his throat. He could be nicer than that. "Um, is this yours?" he asked the girl, still holding out the drawing to her. "It's really good. The sketch, I mean. It's really vivid. Realistic... I mean, you did a great job. If it's yours."

He placed his free hand on his forehead. God, he was such a loser.

[HOLLY UROR]

When the man lifted his head out of his hands, Holly did not move away. She simply continued to watch him as he wiped his hands on his trousers and picked up the drawing, looking at it intently. It was only as he did so that Holly realized she was holding her breath, not just in fear for having disturbed the man at this time but, subconsciously, for his verdict on her drawing. She knew it was ridiculous to think the man would have any interest in the picture, his current condition considered, but Holly found herself anxious to hear what he had to say all the same.

"Here,"

Holly said nothing, nor did she move.

"Um, is this yours? It's really good. The sketch, I mean. It's really vivid. Realistic... I mean, you did a great job. If it's yours."

The ten year old beamed inwardly but outwardly remained timid.

"Th-thank you; the drawing is mine." she stammered at last, unused to such praise. Although her mother had allowed her to attend Jane Eyre's art class, in all actuality her parents weren't all that fond of art - Mary Uror was too practical to see the sense in it, and Mark only appreciated it with religious connotations.

She approached the man to retrieve her picture and, as she did so, her small hand brushed against his. The flashes to the man's past were almost simultaneous; a woman was dead, she had been killed, a gravestone, a raven...

"Nevermore," Holly murmured. It was only after she said this that she broke free of the vision. She clutched the drawing closer to her, as though grounding herself in reality, but she said nothing more, instead moving backwards a pace. Nevermore...