Beta: natural-blues

Chapter 1

Appraise The Valour And Fearless Tell

The last night sky of the August lush

Rescinding songs of summer's turn

The capering leaves begin to blush

All errant hours for nightfall yearn

A-comes the windfall's silent hush

An ending shudder to discern

John Smith poised his pen on the next line, frowning when he couldn't think of what to write next. Cursing to himself in a way that would have his Catholic, god-fearing mother turning in her grave, he raised his head from the parchment and looked through the small circular window. He didn't have much of a view in his tiny house and simultaneous clock store. The shop was divided into three areas — the very front was the store, the surrounding rooms were his bedroom and his kitchen and in the corner was the backroom, where he resided most of the time, scribbling poetry at his work desk or on the couch in front of the fireplace. The front of the shop overlooked nothing but the London street and the blacksmith's shop across, but the backroom looked upon a small stretch of field with a faraway mountain in the background and a single, lone, crooked tree in the very centre. John stared hard at the tree in what little light the setting sun and his dripping candle gave him, and tried hard to gather inspiration from it. He dipped his dried pen into his inkwell and began scribbling again.

Within the veil of foliage shade

The chattering fauna lie to rest

Within the flaming dried brocade

Prepares the full for winter's test

A-fore the fluttering icy braid

That fogg'd the skyline north to west

John set down his pen with a heavy sigh, only half-satisfied. As proud as he was of the last two verses, it still felt horridly incomplete. He flicked his eyes between the window and one of the many elegant, wood-carved ticking clocks on the walls, mantles and shelves. It was only half after seven, although as the sun was already setting and the autumn solstice was approaching there was a distinct nip in the air, so John blew out his candle, grabbed his raggedy blue overcoat from the chair near the display shelves and strode out of his shop. Upon strolling onto the street, he spotted Mr. Copper sitting on his front porch tending to his azaleas; John gave a curt nod that wasn't returned with anything but a frown. He remained unperturbed, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets and striding through the alley towards the countryside. The only time Mr. Copper had ever been in a good enough mood to so much as glance in John's direction without any condescendence in his gaze was Christmas day twelve years ago, when it had snowed for the first time in ages.

It wasn't just Mr. Copper either— John knew for a fact the man was a usually good-natured, borderline ecstatic gentleman. Ever since he was a child back in Scotland, he'd seen that look in his direction. He couldn't exactly blame them. John was the type of person who seemed stoic, almost cold at first glance, which was usually the first thing that put people off about him— up until they discovered his peculiar tendency to belt out snippets of his poetry in conversation, his affinity for taking long walks at all hours, in all weather, and his unfortunate habit of getting overly excited whenever he spotted something muse-worthy. It'd been this way, all the way back when he was a lad in school in the colony of Lungbarrow. He was known as that unusual child in the front of the class who seemingly had no emotions at first, up until he saw a bird perched on the windowsill and started scribbling excitedly to the point where he slopped ink all over himself.

He grimaced as he strolled without direction down a rubble path next to a mountain and a stretch of forest, remembering the time where he once tried to woo his longstanding child-love Romana with a stretch of poetry. It wasn't even a bad poem — as good as a child of eight could have conjured — but Romana, being concerned with naught but finding a wealthy husband in the future and increasing her social status, not only turned him down with a condescending look, she did so before all of their classmates. Even now, at five and fifty years old, it still made his ears and cheeks burn. It was the first of many follies with women, until he began to outright avoid them entirely— far too much of a nuisance. Besides, he was content being in solitude with only his thoughts and poetry for company. And his clocks.

John paused for a moment to toss back his head and breathe in the scent of the air. Each season had a meticulous scent, but his particular favourites were autumn and winter. Winter always had a crisp, fresh scent that he enjoyed despite hating the cold with a passion, but autumn had the sweet perfume of leaves and earth, especially after the sun set. He paused, tearing a folded parchment covered with notes and a charcoal pencil and scribbling down his previous thoughts, already thinking gleefully of how to turn that into a poem.

A rustling noise in the field beside him made him jump so violently he made a long charcoal line through all of his notes. Stuffing his parchment and his pencil back into his pocket, John whirled around and faced the tall grass, feeling slightly apprehensive.

"Hello?" he called out tentatively, not approaching the grass as he realised that it was a perfect hiding place for things that wanted to maul people to death.

More rustling was his only reply, and it seemed to be getting nearer. He'd never been a particularly jumpy person but he took a step back nonetheless, readying himself to fight or flee depending on what came out.

Apparently neither was required, since the only thing that stumbled out was a haggard and dazed-looking woman. Her dress was in tatters, as was her travelling cloak, and her skin was caked with dirt. John's stomach lurched when he spotted, underneath a slightly tangled curtain of pale blonde hair, a gigantic gash covered over with dried blood.

He gasped, hurrying forward when she started to fall and catching her quickly. He ignored his built-in urge to run from any and every attractive woman (and this woman went beyond the mere word attractive) and lowered her to the ground, propping her up against his chest. "Madame? Are you all right?"

"Fine," she mumbled. "Just a bit dizzy."

"You hit your head," he explained, straining to keep her upright.

"I did?"

He nodded, but her eyes were closed so he said, "Yes. Do you remember what happened?"

She paused, brows furrowing together. "Don't remember anythin'."

"What's your name?" he asked.

Her frowned deepened. "Don't remember."

John emulated her frown and opened his mouth to question her further, but suddenly she slumped all of her weight onto him and he had to scramble so she didn't collapse. He curved his arms underneath her and picked her up, wincing — she wasn't heavy, but he wasn't exactly youthful — and he started down the path. It was harder to manoeuvre down the path now, since it was dark and he was carrying an unconscious woman, but somehow he managed to get off of the untamed stone path and onto the lamp-lit street. John entertained the notion of taking her to the physician, but her head wound looked urgent and the physician was all the way across the city, so he readjusted his grip on her and headed towards home. He hoped nobody spotted him— the last thing he need atop the already towering pile of rumours about him was another one stating that he'd bludgeoned and abducted a young woman.

Keeping his back to Mr. Copper's house in case the man was peering through his curtains at him, John pushed open the door with his knee and made a beeline for his chesterfield in the backroom, swearing as quietly as he could when he bashed his knee on the edge of a display case. He laid her down on it, pulling off her travelling cloak and draping it over whatever was nearest. John fumbled in his pockets for his spare box of matches and lit a couple of candles and the fire in the grate, bathing the tiny room in an orange glow. Tossing the matches onto the mantle, John propped the woman's head up with a pillow before hurrying into his cellar, fetching a bucket and pumping water into it. Grabbing a spare cloth, John hurried back into the backroom, dipped the cloth into the water and cleaned away the blood slowly. She whimpered at the cold against her wound but didn't wake, and he wished he had time to boil the water to make it warmer for her— if not for her wound, then for a bath later on. He'd do that later, he decided, and continued to clean the wound.

John, upon his parents' wishes before they died, had studied to become a doctor for a while before deciding he'd rather spend his life doing something he wanted rather than what everyone else wanted him to do. He still remembered most of his training, which is why, when all the blood was cleared away, the head wound struck him as odd. It didn't look like she'd hit it— it looked more like a clean gash made by a knife. It wasn't too deep and wouldn't require any stitching, but it still looked suspicious. John immediately checked all of her pockets, which were all empty save for nigh useless things like a handkerchief, a hair ribbon and a small scrap of paper, confirming his theory— she'd probably been mugged. She must have rolled down the hill afterwards, which would account for the dirt. Frowning, John dipped the cloth back into the now slightly pink water and folded it, placing it on her forehead.

He stood with the notion in mind to fetch more water and boil it so she could bathe later, but she stirred at once and opened her eyes, zeroing in on him. She bolted forward at once with a terrified gasp, the cloth collapsing into her lap, and she winced in pain almost immediately, clutching at her head.

"Lay back down, you're going to hurt yourself," he almost snapped, making her flinch. He tried to tamp down the tension in him and said, in a gentler voice, "You need to rest. You were attacked not far from here and fell down the hill."

"Who are you?" she demanded, voice cracking.

"John Smith," he said, trying hard not to blush when he realised it was the first time a woman, let alone one this beautiful even while caked in dirt, had been in his house beyond the clock shop. "Who are you?"

"I… I don't remember." Her face blanched, pale even in the orange glow from the candles and the fireplace. "I don't know who I am, I don't—"

"Calm yourself, Madame," he said, taking care not to snap at her.

"But why can't I remember who I am?!" she all but wailed, wringing her hands.

"It's called amnesia," he explained gently. "It's not unknown. Perhaps in time you'll get your memories back."

"But I don't even know my own name," she whispered, sounding so vulnerable it made him pity her.

"Perhaps there's a clue as to what your name is somewhere," he suggested.

She seemed to relax a little bit, plunging her hands immediately into her pockets and pulling out the handkerchief, the hair ribbon and the paper that John had found earlier. She held up the handkerchief first, and her face sparked with hope. "It says 'Rose'."

"An embroidered handkerchief," John said, taking it from her and holding it up to the light. He frowned at how expensive it was, in comparison to her ratty peasant gown— come to think of it, her travelling cloak was very upper class as well.

As he inspected the handkerchief, she looked at the paper and frowned at it. "It's blank," she said, a little regretfully.

"Well, at least we know your name is Rose," supplied John, before taking the wet cloth from her lap. "I'll draw you a bath, if you wish. Rest for now."

Rose nodded, giving him a warm smile that he'd never seen from a woman before— at least, not pointed in his direction. "Thank you, John Smith," she said gratefully, settling down obediently.

He felt his whole face burn crimson, as though he were a fumbling adolescent instead of a fully grown man, and he grumbled out something that might have passed for a 'you're welcome' and fled the room at once to start on her bath. While he pumped water into a giant bucket to hang over the fire later, he slopped half of it onto his front, cursing at himself and the Lord for steering this woman in his direction. Not only would he later have to scour the city for anybody who might know her, but she was also going to be naked soon. In his house. That was definitely going to be another first. And, he mused with another gigantic blush, he'd have to offer her his bed. So in the same night he was going to have a naked woman in his house, and said woman in his bed.

When he hauled the bucket upstairs, he steadfastly avoided looking at the chesterfield while he hung the bucket over the fireplace. Curiosity got the better of him for the briefest of moments and he glanced over to her, only to feel slightly relieved when he saw she was asleep again. As he prepared her bath, hauling bucket after bucket of water upstairs to boil and then pouring into his metal bathtub, he tried hard not to make too much noise so as not to rouse her. When the tub was full and he'd set aside some towels for her, he swallowed down his old awkward habits and approached her, hesitating before placing his hand on her shoulder and gently rousing her. Her eyes fluttered open, lashes seeming to stroke the air, the light from the fireplace making her eyes twinkle.

With blossoming light from fires brash

The shadowed branches a-rise from ash

Long fingers reach to caress and steal

A rosebud blooms in nightly appeal

"Hmm?" Rose mumbled, sitting up and frowning at him as John practically threw himself over to his workbench, tearing out his charcoal pencil and scribbling furiously. "What is it?"

"What?" he almost snapped, looking up from his paper for the briefest second as though he'd forgotten she existed. "Er, right— your bath is ready."

"Thank you," she said gratefully, sitting up properly again. Then her face blushed orange in the firelight, prompting yet another snippet of poetry to unfurl in his mind. As he turned back to his paper and began scribbling at once, she said with a voice laced with embarrassment, "What shall I wear after?"

He couldn't help but emulate her blush, nearly dropping his pencil— he hadn't thought of that. "Er…" Damn, what could she wear? "I suppose you can, er, wear something of mine until morn," he said, steadily avoiding looking at her since he was certain he'd catch fire. So now he was going to have a naked woman in his house and in his bed, and she'd be wearing his clothing. Wonderful.

She didn't seem perturbed, more relieved by the look on her face. After thanking him yet again, she stepped into the other room — his bedroom — where the tub was waiting for her. After setting aside some of his clothing on the bed for her, feeling like he was signing away his life and sanity, he stayed hidden in the backroom, pretending to write despite there being nobody to fool. How the hell had he gotten himself into this situation? Now he was going to have to close the shop and help her search for her family later. He was not a good companion to anybody — let alone to a beautiful woman — and he was certainly not a good host.

The ticking of the multiple clocks started to lull him to sleep, nearly nodding off on his papers. The sounds of ticking had always relaxed him, made it easier to work or write poems. John rubbed his face, gathering up his notes and parchment and putting them in a drawer before regretfully standing up and slinking over to the couch. Although the couch was stiff, the fire was warm against his face and the scent of autumn and sugary brook water clung to the cushions, probably from Rose— despite himself he buried his nose in it, inhaling deeply and letting the scent and the clocks lull him to sleep.

He had dreams of lying in a field underneath a shivering tree, fiery leaves dislodging from the branches and fluttering around his face. When he woke up, the late morning sun was shining right in his face and the house was bitter cold. He shivered, sitting up and straightening his rumpled clothing before standing up and heading towards the fireplace. The fire had long gone out, but the embers were still smouldering, so John placed a couple of logs and old parchment to get it going again before standing up and stretching. He'd have to go out before she woke up and get her some clothes; his face burned again when he pictured her in his clothing, curled up in his sheets and making his pillows smell like sweet leaves again.

John crept over to the bathtub so as not to wake her, picking up her filthy gown from the ground, grabbing his jacket again, scribbling a note for her in case she woke early and heading out the door. He gave yet another nod to a disapproving Mr. Copper and headed straight for the local tailor, presenting the dress and asking him for a few more in the same size along with (he nearly died when he had to ask the tailor for female under things). They were more than a little expensive, but John had never really indulged on anything besides parchment, ink and various pens so he wasn't particularly perturbed. As glad as he was that Rose wouldn't have to walk around in either his clothes or her near destroyed dress, he was immensely uncomfortable walking back with three new dresses on his arm and the bag full of… other garments. Mr. Copper gave him more than just an odd look, and John mentally cursed to himself, remarking how by tomorrow morn the entire city would be spluttering rumours about him.

John set the bags down temporarily on the display cases in the front of the store, wondering what he could make for breakfast for the both of them, since his stomach was growling and he was pretty certain hers would be too. John then set the kettle, deciding on standard, cinnamon-sweetened oatmeal and tea before circling the display.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he entered the backroom and spotted a bleary-looking Rose in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and looking a bit silly with her ruffled hair and male clothing three sizes too big for her. They stared at each other for a full minute, before John flushed crimson and he said stoically, "Er, did you sleep well?" She smiled sleepily, nodding. "Erm, good. Right. These are for you," he added abruptly, thrusting the dresses and the bag in her direction. She looked startled at first, glancing between the gowns and his flaming face. "You can, er, get changed in the other room."

She nodded, still looking a bit stunned as she turned back into his bedroom. While Rose changed, he put the tub back into the closet and tended to the now merrily crackling fire. He nearly choked on his own breath when Rose emerged into the backroom again, looking considerably happier in a simple pale pink lace gown and her hair tied up with the hair ribbon.

"It fits!" she said brightly, twirling a bit.

He snapped his mouth shut with a click and glared at the fire instead of her. "Er, yes, evidently." Clearing his throat and staring at his shoes he said gruffly, "After breakfast we'll head to the physicians to check out your head wound."

"Will he be able to bring back my memories?" she said hopefully, following him into the kitchen.

He busied himself with the kettle as she waited for an answer, desperately wondering what he could possibly say to her. With his knowledge of the human brain (or what he remembered of it, anyway) he was certain he couldn't give her an answer that could spare her feelings, so he said vaguely, "Perhaps," and then immediately felt awful for lying, especially when her face lit up. "Eat your breakfast," he said at once, the words sounding a little bit to sharp to his own ears, but Rose merely beamed at him and accepted the bowl of oatmeal and the cup of tea.

After they ate, he made her put on one of his raggedy old coats to ward off the near-autumn chill, and upon practically drilling her like a sergeant to make absolutely certain she was all right to walk, they exited the house, John offering his arm in a gentlemanly way. Mr. Copper was sitting on his porch again in his rocking chair, and John steadfastly avoided eye contact with him this time, especially since Mr. Copper had glanced towards them and then snapped his head back for another look when he spotted Rose on John's arm.

Mr. Copper wasn't the only one who glanced at them twice. As John led Rose through the throng, past carriages and near-afternoon patrons, he was painfully aware of every eye in the crowd on him. Usually John could ignore the side-glances and whispers, but it was different than normal; it wasn't of contempt or disapproval, it was of astonishment and confusion. Rose was thankfully oblivious to everything, too interested, it seemed, in looking at everything to notice that nearly every person within a thirty metre radius was staring at her.

When he entered the physician's house a few blocks down, he felt the back of his neck heat up when he walked in and immediately spotted Harry Sullivan coming out of the sitting room. Under any other circumstance he would have chuckled, since Harry was holding a half-eaten buttered bread, looking astonished with crumbs covering his face, but his blue-grey eyes swivelled between John and Rose and an interested look appeared on his face.

"This is new, John," said Harry good-naturedly. Harry always the only person who treated John like he wasn't secretly a murderer, and John had always been grateful, but this was one instance when John wished Harry would ignore him and his 'new' friend. As John flushed crimson and pretended to be interested in an anatomical poster on the wall, Harry beamed at Rose and said, "Hello there, dear!"

"Hello," Rose replied with a shy smile, half-hiding behind John.

"Yes, well," John grumbled, flustered. "We're not here to fraternise."

Harry simply smiled at him but said with obedience, "Very well then."

Harry led them into the sitting room, which looked relatively like John's house save for a bag in the corner in the event that he had to bring his business to somebody's abode and physician's tools scattered occasionally on the end table. As Harry led Rose to the couch and began to examine her head, John hurriedly took out his parchment and charcoal and scribbled a quick phrase— 'Scattered tools of silver sleek; Trembling flesh the riggings seek'. Harry ignored him, too focused on the cut on Rose's head, but Rose watched him curiously, and when he stuffed his parchment back into his pocket and noticed Rose's stare on him he flushed, staring hard at the ceiling and wishing she'd stop.

"Well, it isn't serious, dear," Harry said kindly. "You'll just need to rest up for a few days while it heals— you won't need any stitches."

"I know," said John gruffly, colour fading from his face despite Rose's never wavering gaze. "That isn't the problem."

"Then what is?" Harry frowned.

"She can't remember anything," John replied, and Harry gaped at her to the point where it was her turn to blush, looking almost ashamed of herself. "Nothing about her past, her family, not even her name. We only know her first name from an embroidered handkerchief we found in her pocket. I believe she was mugged."

Harry nodded contemplatively, giving Rose's shoulder a comforting pat as he did so. "That would correspond with her injury. A blow to the head coupled with psychological trauma could possibly lead to memory loss."

"Psychological trauma?" Rose asked.

"If you truly believed you were about to die when you were attacked, it might've been enough to make you forget everything about your past," Harry explained. "Although you'll still remember how to do basic things — dress yourself, speak, read, eat and make food, those sorts of things — all of your experiences are blocked."

"Is there any chance they'll come back?" Rose said hopefully.

He looked at her with pity clear in his eyes. "It's impossible to say. They may come back tomorrow, or perhaps in a year, or never at all."

Despite how kindly Harry had tried to say it, John couldn't help but glare at the man when Rose practically deflated on the couch, looking like Harry had just told her she had a month to live. Thanking Harry abruptly, who looked a little ashamed of himself, John pulled Rose up by her shoulders and led her out of the house, keeping one hand on her elbow as he steered her away. They walked in silence for a brief moment, and John felt desperately that he ought to say something, since her head was ducked so her hair was partially hiding her face (Flaxen hair surrounds the yielding; Ashen skin the shutter shielding) but before he could open his mouth — or pause to whip out his parchment to hastily jot down the snippet of poetry her posture had just inspired — she spoke.

"What if my memories never come back?" she whispered, in a voice so tiny and horrified it made John, widely known emotionless pillock, reach over and place both hands on her shoulders, although he hesitated clearly before doing it.

"Harry— er, Dr. Sullivan said there's as much chance of them coming back," John said earnestly, managing to ward off yet another blush as he stared steadily into her eyes. (Almond eyes of endless pasting; Desert eyes of promise lasting). "You oughtn't lose hope. Tomorrow we shall search for your family after you've rested."

She didn't answer beyond nodding but looked slightly cheered up, although John still felt like he was unsuccessful. They walked back to the house in silence, Rose's grip on his arm tight and her head lolling slightly on his shoulder; because of this he spent the entire walk uncomfortable and red-faced, especially when they passed Mr. Copper, who was glancing out the window and, when he spotted them, actually ushered his wife to the window to gawk as well. Thankfully, Rose once again left them unnoticed.

When they crossed the threshold, John suggested that she rest again. He whipped up a quick cuppa for her and a plate of biscuits to tide her over until dinnertime before sending her to her bedroom with the food. Once he was properly alone he sighed, casting a pitying glance at the doorway where Rose had disappeared. It was rare that he felt bad for anybody, but he truly could not imagine knowing naught about his past, forgetting his parents and being completely alone save for being shacked up with an asocial, grumpy old man.

John spent the majority of the afternoon tending to the only slightly tempered fire in the grate, taking Rose's old dress and washing it in the washbasin — which in itself took a good three hours to get all the caked mud and twigs off of it — and mending it with some fabric left in his mother's old sewing kit. The near-autumn sun set early, and as the store darkened John set a few candles before making a cuppa for himself, sitting on his workbench and taking out his parchment before carefully copying the snippets of poetry he'd gathered onto a cleaner, less rumpled piece of parchment and filing it away for later. Then he pulled out the poem he'd been working on before finding Rose and set it down next to his candle.

The last night sky of the August lush

Rescinding songs of summer's turn

The capering leaves begin to blush

All errant hours for nightfall yearn

A-comes the windfall's silent hush

An ending shudder to discern

Within the veil of foliage shade

The chattering fauna lie to rest

Within the flaming dried brocade

Prepares the full for winter's test

A-fore the fluttering icy braid

That fogg'd the skyline north to west

John dipped his pen into the inkwell and poised it underneath the last line, closing his eyes and trying to think back to the dream he'd had that morning of lazing beneath a shuddering autumn tree, the ground covered in near-winter frost. He inhaled deeply through his nose, so caught up in his own mind he didn't hear Rose enter the backroom until she placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke.

"What are you doing?"

He nearly jumped out of his shoes, whirling around so quickly he almost knocked his candle onto his parchment. Blushing faint orange, he grumbled vaguely, "Er, writing." Before she could ask any further he said hurriedly, "Are you hungry? It's near time for dinner."

She shook her head and said, clearly undeterred, "You were doing that at the physician's, and yesterday. What are you writing?"

"Poetry," he said, once again abundantly vague.

Rose took it upon herself to sit down next to him on the bench, craning her neck to see his parchment, head slightly touching his shoulder. He felt slightly uncomfortable— not just because she was practically snuggled into his side, but because whenever he'd share his poetry with people they'd always reject him in some form. Rose, however, simply smiled and said, "S'lovely."

"It isn't finished," he supplied modestly, feeling more than a little thrilled— did she really like it?

"S'about autumn changing into winter, yeah?" When he nodded, she suggested, "What about frost? Y'know, like at the end of autumn when the ground's sort of powdered?" She paused, not noticing his shocked expression. "Wonder how I remembered that."

"But that's brilliant," he gasped.

She beamed. "Yeah?"

He nodded again, already scribbling fervently; Rose continued to read as he wrote.

A crystal dusting of diamond rain

A spider's web spun upon the field

The Snow Queen's steps and trailing train

And leaves behind the autumn yield

A-rises the bitter scaffold stain

And blooms the solid adamant shield

He finished with a flourish and a satisfied hum, turning to her and positively beaming, which Rose mirrored at once. "Excellent! Thank you, Rose!"

"You're welcome," she grinned, tongue peeking out at the corner of her mouth.

Ducking her head a bit at his never wavering smile — and the fact that he'd used her name for the first time since they discovered it — she stood from the bench and murmured a shy goodnight before returning to the bedroom. He watched her leave with a decidedly silly grin, eventually turning back to his paper and rereading it, more than happy with the outcome. He never would have expected that his amnesia-ridden houseguest would have inspired anything beyond discomfort and annoyingly common blushes. Blowing gently on the parchment so the ink dried before placing it with care in a drawer full of completed poems, John stood from the workbench and snuffed out his candle, no longer dreading tomorrow's plans of searching for her family.

A/N: I apologise for how horribly late this is, but I had so much trouble writing Twelve :/ I know I said he was going to be a Reverend, but I changed it just because I couldn't seem to connect with the idea :/ I might write it in the future. Then I changed it to a futuristic AU, but I couldn't connect with that either ^^' So here's Twelve's (third) story! I did my best with Twelve's character, since we know legit nothing about him yet. This story will have three chapters :) All poetry in here is written by me; hope it's not too abhorrent :3 The chapter title is from a snippet I wrote years ago; I had to take it down because I submitted the poem in a contest and they wouldn't let me keep it up, for copyright reasons. I put it back since the contest is over :)

This is the last independent story in the Forever and More series. Next in the series is an Ageless, Timeless sequel (for all you naughty people out there who wanted the smut scene ;D) and a sequel to Five Days (more smut!) Stay tuned ^^