I'm not supposed to be writing this because, according to my planned schedule, I should be finishing Moonlit Night instead and then proceed on writing the first chapter of The Looking Glass, but, well, I suppose that's the funny thing about plans. They just don't happen.

Or maybe I'm just horrible and far from being the goal-oriented kind of person I want myself to be.

.oOo.

"Some people hold graves within their beating hearts,

While some try to find life even within a faltering one…"

—The Dreamer

Opening Act: Memories once told.

Track song: Pirate Love Song—Black Heart

Aeternum

"Jack," A sweet angelic voice beckoned him, sounding as smooth and sweet as fresh spring water in a hot summer day, as a strange comforting warmth lathered all over her tone, "Jack," He heard her call again, "Jack…"

Yes, he remembered that voice…

(His heart ached…)

That sweet, sweet voice…

(…yearning for it…)

"Jack, can you hear me?"

Yes, he could. He wanted to say, but found that he couldn't speak no matter how much he struggled and tried to get his vocal chords into work. He couldn't even feel himself much less figure out where his throat was—it was as if he was lost and, possibly, trapped within himself as he floated idly in that never ending abyss. The feeling was something akin to astral traveling—his physical mass was gone and the only thing that remained of him was his…soul floating in the middle of nothingness.

But despite that, he wanted to drift towards the sound of her voice.

And if he was lucky—feel her warmth.

And he tried.

But it was all in vain because he just couldn't.

He panicked, scared and fearful of this newfound weakness and overall not used to it. He's Jackson Overland: except for that one moment in his life, fear had never touched him—not to this extent, at least.

Where is she…?

The question echoed in his thoughts.

Where is she…?

Then he heard her laugh that usual dainty chuckle; the one where she would lift her hand and press them lightly against her baby pink lips and where the corners of her eyes would crinkle with delight, "Silly, Jack." Her voice was teasing but there was still warmth in it and he knew that she was amused, "You should wake up first."

Suddenly, he felt his control rush back to him and he immediately followed her instruction undoubtedly eager to see her again after so many years.

So, so many years…

How many years had passed since then, anyway? Ten…? Eleven years…?

That didn't matter, he was going to see her.

Once he opened his eyes, the first thing that met his gaze was the sight of an antique Renaissance dresser pressed neatly against the pastel floral wall which looked identical to the one they had back in his family's old manor. It displayed one of his mother's most expensive figurines too; a beautiful angel sitting on what looked like an oversized rock with vines crawling at her feet and daisies littered all over the ground. A majestic stag stood beside her and it looked at her as if it was enticed by whatever music she was playing. His eyes then shifted to the right, and then he frowned.

That was strange. Why was his mother's old picture here?

The old vintage picture showed a portrait of his late mother in which she was sitting on one of their old living room chairs and wearing an elaborate dress that certainly flaunted her social standing; her eyes were twinkling with unadulterated delight as a curt smile plastered neatly on her lips. His eyes then slowly traveled south before settling on his mother's stomach, which was bloated and heavily pregnant with him at that time. Her hands were lovingly cupping it in what seemed like a warm and gentle caress and at the bottom of the page, words were encrypted in dainty feminine script: "Words alone could not fully express the love I have for my child. December 17, 1837"

It was a pity how she died giving birth to him. He knew his mother loved him, her diaries told him such—but he could never say that he had felt the same way towards this deceased relative. There were remnants of her, sure, and he certainly know her, but thoughts of having a mother never seemed so real for Jack. He grew up without one and his father had never entertained him with stories about her either. The elusive patriarch of the household was always a busy person and so it was just… she was just a lady who gave birth to him to be honest.

He briefly wondered how it would feel to be actually raised by a mother.

How would he turn out?

Would he be the same as he was now?

Or would he be different?

He kept staring at her picture, glared at it to be more precise, almost expecting to feel any sort of emotion—sadness, grief…regret…anything…

But he felt none.

He smiled, his lips curling up without effort, looking charming yet undeniably hollow with the way his smile hadn't reached his eyes. In fact, he wasn't happy—he was downright bitter and it was almost sad how he didn't feel any ounce of grief over the death of his own mother.

Almost.

But she was basically a stranger to him anyway.

How could he grieve over someone he barely knew?

Well at least he got to know her.

"Elsa," His lips unwittingly breathed her name just in time before a sweet-sounding music assaulted his ears—not that he minded but then, there's something chilling about the familiarity of the way it was played; each string that was strung from what he assumed was a harp held so much raw emotion and soul that every sound and rhythm just seem to overpower him and envelope him in this strange yet warm and comforting aura.

There was something unnervingly familiar about this tune…

…something that distinctively reminded him of home.

Home…?

Then it clicked.

Suddenly, he was physically five years old again, wearing that crisp white dress and short-heeled shoes[1] he frequently wore back in the year 1843.

"Jack," He heard her call, her voice still as sweet and smooth and… sounding so much like 'home' that it made him turn excitedly and run into her for a hug. He heard her chuckle, one gentle hand running through the long brown locks of his hair[2] while the other patted him comfortingly on his back, "What's wrong, little man?" She cooed, making him look up.

Big brown eyes stared brightly up at her with an emotion she could only interpret as relief and… something else. "Nothing," He replied as he shook his head, nearly surprised at the childish sound of his voice but deftly figured that maybe, just maybe, he was really in the present and the things he thought that would happen in the future were all just some silly nightmare he'd rather not remember and most surely want to forget.

"Is that so?" He watched with utmost fascination as her baby pink lips curled up into a beautiful and angelic smile, her icy blue eyes staring at him with, ironically, overwhelming warmth and they were twinkling with something akin to that of gleeful excitement, "I just finished learning something yesterday. Do you want to hear it?" She asked, tongue darting out to lick dry lips.

He nodded.

She gently pushed him away from her so that she could better seat herself and assume proper position, her hands poised accordingly, sandwiching the strings of her harp in between her palms and arms; back straight and elegant as she held her chin high, slightly tipping it to the side and emanating an aura similar to that of royalty.

She let out one deep sigh, idly skimming through the strings to test its tune before finally going through with the song. Her face was both calm and serene as she slightly swayed along with the music, a silent and gentle hum passing through her pressed lips.

And Jack, as pure and as innocent as a child could be, thought she was most beautiful right then.

Sighing in content, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, somehow providing enough time for the tune of the harp to shift and smoothly transition to that of a piano's. His position had changed too. He was no longer standing but was now sitting beside his governess[3], who was playing the same song but on another instrument, and he, to his mild surprise, played along with her, pressing the keys with heartfelt fervor in skilled and professional fingers[4].

Elsa looked older, he realized, and weaker. Her skin, once both fair and soft, now looked pale and delicate…and her lips, they weren't smooth and pink but were now chapped and slightly tinted with the unhealthy shade of blue.

This gave him a nagging feeling of worry because this situation reminded him of autumn back in 1850.

And that was one of the worst autumns in his life.

Speaking of which, what year was it, anyway?

He was snapped out of his reverie by a loud bang and Elsa's torrid coughing. She bent over, one hand clenched and the other covering her mouth. Blood slowly trickled down the skin of her hand and tainted the white keys of the piano. His eyes widened with both panic and worry as recognition dawned upon him at the familiarity of the scene.

Oh no. This was not happening again.

Not again.

No, absolutely never again.

Elsa, seemingly able to feel his panic, swallowed the cough back into her throat and gave him a reassuring look. He knew she wanted to smile but they both knew that once she removes the hand that was covering her lips, he would only see the blood smeared against the inner curve of her cheek and that would do no good as far as comforting him was concerned.

"I'm okay." She said, voice muffled and sounding hoarse and… pained, "Don't worry."

He didn't believe her, "No you're not." He replied, "I'm going to get help." He swiftly got up to run to the door but she stopped him, a hand desperately clutching his Knickerbocker[5] pants. He looked over his shoulder, frustrated and concerned, but she only shook her head. A grunt escaped her throat, wanting to tell him something, most probably something along the lines of 'no' and 'don't' before she experienced another coughing fit, rendering her incapable of speech and affecting her breathing as she lets go of him, body sliding down limply onto the floor.

She continued to cough and the fear that gripped his heart was unmistakable.

He seriously shouldn't let this happen again.

"I'm going to get help."

Despite her situation, she still had the audacity to be stubborn, "Don't leave me." She croaked, her words all mumbled and jumbled and slightly gibberish but still decipherable.

"But I have to get help." He was utterly mortified by the blood that had started to puddle on the otherwise pristine marble floors of his home by now. He knew this scene all too well, "If I watch you like this, you'll die!" The memory was far too deep and too life-changing to be merely forgotten.

She actually had the nerve to chuckle, "I won't die." Another round of violent coughing echoed within their vicinity that Jack swore it was as if her lungs are screaming to pass through her throat and out into the world, "I promise."

Liar…

"Please stop being stubborn!"

She firmly looked up at him, daring him to disobey her orders—it was the kind of look she gave him that would instantly make him plant his feet to the ground. He silently cursed her uncanny ability, apparently, being brought up by someone meant that their words were law.

Her body convulsed again before she finally collapsed, and then the image disintegrated and the next thing he saw was her body lying in a casket.

A hand placed itself firmly on his shoulder, the skin underneath it seemingly burned under its touch. Jack was familiar with this hand, but if there was anything he wanted more right now, then that was to grieve alone and bask in that momentary security the cold body of his once-governess could still provide him. As if mocking his thoughts, the hand that gripped him strengthened and he had to curl his fist to stop himself from slapping it away. He looked down and onto the shiny leather shoes that covered his feet.

He didn't want the sympathy offered by this man. He might have been alive but he was never there.

"Son, I know I've never been much of a father to you." His father spoke in that rich baritone voice Jack knew he used to sweep his fellow businessmen's money submissively out of their pockets, "But allow me this much today."

Jack's eyes shifted back to Elsa's unresponsive face. Her face looks much too serene and alive to be considered dead and he hoped, no matter how foolish he came out to be, that she was just sleeping and this massive funeral was all one big joke. His facial expression stoned. He didn't want to hear whatever it was his father was going to say.

"Women are very weak creatures," Even without facing him, he could vaguely make out the expression his father is wearing while saying that; brows furrowed together in both sympathy and distaste, eyes staring sternly at him with a gaze that seems to penetrate through the depths of his soul, back rigid and stiff like how it usually was, and lips holding a smoking pipe, "They're as fragile as glass and delicate as a flower, Jack, and I know you know what I meant when I said that. But what they lack in strength, they made up with their spirit and grace." He heard him puff and exhale a smoke, "But don't let that deceive you because they would always be breakable. They might appear to be strong, even promising you forever, but in the end—they break." To his relief, his father removed his hand from his shoulder, "Do not be like me who devoted half of my life and gave half of my heart to a woman who promised me forever but left me behind. You're a man, you're better than that."

And then he woke up, relishing the memory where his father had actually been a father and remembering the very reason why, in the first place, he hated women more than anything.

.oOo.

[1] Little Jack is really wearing a dress, like, female dress. A male child, ages 0-6 years old were dressed like girls back in the era for reasons I haven't really searched about, but I don't know, maybe it still has something to do with this era's strict idealism about chastity.

[2]They get their first haircuts when they're six so if you're in the eighteen hundreds and see an utterly beautiful child, you might want to ask the child's mother in order to avoid mistaking the child's gender.

[3] A governess is basically a nanny, I used the former because it sounds better than calling Elsa a 'nanny'. Also, I want to be able to project the harsh life of these individuals and the great impact they possess with regards to child development, but that would be shown in the later chapter if I decided to proceed into continuing this.

[4] I want to portray Jack as a prodigy of some sort for future reasons. But really, being 12 years old and being a professional pianist doesn't seem so farfetched, now, does it?

[5]Knickerbocker pants are pants that are worn by boys in that era. Research says it's heavily inspired by American fashion. If you want to know how it looks like, search it up.

I'm not really sure about continuing this, but the plot had been bothering me for days that the only thing I have to do so that I'd stop being so moody and irritable and frustrated in real life is to write this down and finally have my moment of peace. I'm not sure if I liked how this turned out, though. The events happened way better in my head and my narration is kind of bland and eugh. There's just no oomph in it or something. I'd sleep reading this and I don't mean that as a good kind. Le sigh… I think this is going to be one of those poorly executed plot. Oh my poor baby.

So as you can see, the timeline is during the Victorian Era, more precisely happening around the time the Queen married the soon-to-be Prince Albert. I chose that era for its rather hypocritical disposition in which it values chastity in general and the male libido among all and how it both heralds and bans prostitution—its double standards to be simply put but the entire plot is borrowed from the old Greek Literature, Pygmalion and Galatea. The Greek story is about a misogynist sculpture who detested women more than anything and inevitably falling in love with an inanimate object he, himself, created. It's kind of stupid, really, but satirical and lesson-worthy. I don't think I've come across a Jelsa fic that's been inspired by Greek Literature yet.

Well, maybe there's Pyramus and Thisbe whose story is quite the same as Romeo and Juliet but with lesser idiocy and with a more logical flow compared to the latter's hormone-induced, three-day tryst fiasco. I love Shakespeare's creativity, but really? Three-days and they call it love?! But then again, who doesn't like to read a good book about forbidden love? Heh. That makes me wonder how they did the play. I mean, they're all men. How did they execute the sex scene? Was it awkward?

And I'm rambling again.

Anyway, as I said, I don't know if I'll be continuing this, perhaps I'll just let it sit in around here or something and write whenever inspiration and motivation lets me… or something…

I'm a writer willing to improve so critiques and ideas are welcome. If you're a history geek and found something off and wrong in the story itself or in the footnotes, let me know and I'll promptly accommodate you as soon as I can.

Rose