We salute you, Emily Brontë.
Cast: Emily Brontë, Victor Hugo
Rating: Basically PG, except for scattered language.
Time: Saturday 7 April, the late dinner hour.
Summary: Leaving a perfectly normal seeming date at the Holy Grail, Emily and Victor meet someone who is much more familiar to one than the other. This is the very last appearance of our Emily, who has spent nearly two years in Negability. And because she is Emily, she cannot go quietly. Or happily. That is all the warning I can give.

How long have Emily and Victor been together? It's hard to say, but they might be at the six month mark, or thereabouts, so a date at the Holy Grail almost doesn't deserve any particular mention except insofar as how they've kept their visits to it infrequent— the Holy Grail is when they're strapped for cash, as the first time they went there was a month before Halloween. And they remember what happened that night all too well. But the atmosphere is mostly relaxed, content, as they're finishing up their meal tonight. "God, it's only about six weeks to graduation," remarks Victor, eagerly adding, "What are your summer plans? Do you know yet?"

Emily fiddles with her coffee spoon. "The usual, I suppose. Tutoring a piano student or two, three nights a week at Raven 13, and a great deal of sleeping in at last." She feels like a loser. No university for her, so no last wild flings. Just the rest of her life in front of her with no real plans. Some of this is reflected in her expression.

Sorry to kill the mood, Victor reaches tenderly across the table and takes the hand that's not playing with spoons, saying, "Well, if I'm going to Brahman, there's no sense in me getting an apartment in the area, unless I can get something for about three months. I think I'll have to be back in DC for a lot of the summer. But I'll still have my car. I can visit plenty. Then when autumn rolls around, I think we'd both do okay with about an hour's distance between us, don't you? We won't see each other every day, but we don't see each other every day now, either." He's talking fast, probably trying to cover a very simple emotion— he'll miss her, no matter what they do.

She looks at their hands. He is so dear to her, but he doesn't know how long an hour is when she wants to see him all the time. "Oh. I didn't realize...I thought you'd be here for the summer." Don't be soppy, E, he doesn't owe you constant devotion. "I know we don't see each other every day, but at least you're here. I mean, if I needed to talk to you...or...or just have dinner. Like this." Oh fucking hell, she's getting teary.

A number of thoughts fly through his head, rapid fire, as Victor backtracks; he would be adamant about this, but since he doesn't actually want to be back down in the capital city all summer long, he realizes, "Oh— well, truth be told, if we can work something different out, I'd like to, that's just what seemed realistic to me. I could at least try to find an apartment here for a few months. My mom has learned I'm self-reliant, and now I'm eighteen anyway." Or they could live together for a short while; he doesn't want to be forward in suggesting that, but it's an option.

She looks up at him, unshed tears making her eyes bright. "Really? It's not a fixed thing?" Suddenly she can breathe more easily. He won't be so far from her. She needs him so much. Suddenly, she feels she needs to make sure he knows that. "That's fantastic, Victor, because I think I might die without you." She grips his hand tightly. "Not literally. No, well, perhaps literally. I mean, I think I might actually pine away for you if you were gone three whole months." She's trying to laugh and now the tears are spilling, one on each cheek.

Seeing her caught in a pull of such different emotions, Victor thinks he finds her more beautiful than ever, and gives her a smile. "I know what you mean. It would be too much like when you were gone, before. I feel like it's good for us to be together, to keep an eye on each other, if you know what I mean."

She does laugh. "Yes, exactly. We can't really manage as well without each other, can we? Victor, you are my heart and soul. You understand me better than anyone ever has. Thank you." She pulls his hand to her and kisses it tenderly.

Victor checks the restaurant's wall clock, and even though his eyes brightly appear to register what she's told him, he asks, "Want to hit the road?" His car is just outside, and they paid when they got their food. It looks like a gorgeous night has set in, albeit one that's a bit damp and cold.

"Oh yes. And let's drive the long way round. I want to go fast tonight!" she replies. Relief, happiness, a sense of possibility are rushing through her, going to her head like champagne.

Giddy as well, very glad that he came back from spring break a few days early, he keeps his grip on her hand and pulls them both up from their seats, breaking their contact just long enough to shrug his coat on. Then he leads the way to the door, and kisses her warmly, pausing there just before they go out.

Emily is practically melting as he kisses her. She wants nothing more than to be with him the rest of her life. She breathes in his scent, memorizing the feel of his body against hers, storing it up. "For what?" she wonders briefly, even as she slides her palm along his back under his coat.

As their lips part, Victor gazes at her features pensively, but eagerly. So he said he was eighteen— he's still a boy. "It's still break, I bet they won't even have monitors in the dorms tonight. Want to curl up and watch a movie, at my place?" He adds, quietly, holding the door open for both of them, "I love you so much, by the way. I can't stress it enough."

Emily is ecstatic. "You mean the world to me." She ducks her head a little, leaning into his shoulder. "It's like a dream sometimes. And I am over dramatic, and this is a public place, so yes, we should go watch a movie at yours." She feels high from the emotion. "Come on, let's go. All the hearts and flowers will kill the other diners' appetites," she jokes. They step outside, arms wound around each other...and stop dead in disbelief.

Not two seconds earlier they were able to see out the windows of the restaurant that the air was clear, and now fog has set in, almost shockingly thick though still enough that they can see Victor's car down the block— barely. But this is not the part that makes both of them go stone cold, utterly chilled. It's the lamps again. They have seen them like this, shorter and older, black wrought iron with real flames glowing in them, their light like floating spirits in the mist. Fairies, trapped in jars. "Oh, shit," is all Victor can think to say at first, his arm moving protectively around Emily. Finally he adds, "Well, it can't be dangerous. Right? Just incredibly strange, like last time."

Emily is unable to speak. Terror creeps into her, a slow deadening sense of being caught in a dream. "Victor," she says, teeth chattering, "Victor..." But that's all she can say.

"Come on," Victor says quickly, with obviously false bravado, but at least he's making an effort. "Let's just get to the car and drive. Some good twentieth century technology ought to fight this pretty well."

Emily is both terrified and angry. "Why the hell is this happening now?" she says, her voice high and sharp. "Those lamps...this fog...oh why can't anything ever be normal around here?" She holds tightly to Victor.

He makes them walk fast, but to his own increasing alarm, the car looks much farther away than they actually parked it, and as he squints in the glare of the lamplight bouncing off the cloudy fog, he realizes that slowly, the car is actually fading from view. On instinct, he looks down at the both of them, just to see what they're wearing, and while they aren't clearly in what he saw during Halloween, his vision is just... blurry, obscured, as far as this is concerned. "It'll go away," he whispers anxiously, putting his arms around Emily even though this means she'll be able to hear how hard his heart is pounding. "If we close our eyes and wait, it'll go away."

"Oh, Victor, that's insane," she says, but she closes her eyes anyway. Just for a moment, just to pretend this isn't happening, because if it is happening she's afraid they'll end up back in that weird place where they left Blake.

Also closing his eyes, Victor tries to breathe, but even though they've gone through worse than this— that damned owl could fly by, for all he knows— and even though this should be temporary, he can't shake the feeling that something is even more off kilter than before, and he can't shake the extra jolt of terror that this sends through him. Maybe it's the fog, or maybe it's his own sweat, but his brow is damp. And then he hears footsteps. "Someone's coming." His eyes fly open and while he doesn't let go of Emily, he looks away from her to see who could be approaching, though it's not immediately clear.

"Is it..." Emily can't even guess. She is so cold. Breathing is hard. The fog is heavy with something nasty that makes her cough.

"Miss Brontë?" a reedy, self-important voice says. "Is it indeed the Miss Emily Brontë?" And a slight figure dressed in black clothes emerges from the fog. As he does, he takes off his top hat and bows slightly. Emily is stricken mute. It is the man they saw last year—and he knows her!

Instinctively, Victor knows that this man means nothing good, but he can't see any direct reason why, unless it is maybe seeing Emily's reaction. "You know her? Us?" he asks cautiously, swallowing and feeling just how dry his throat is.

The gentleman replaces his hat and comes closer. "Do you deny being Emily Jane Brontë?" he says, and suddenly he seems much less friendly. Emily shakes her head, struggling to find her voice, but only coughing. He looks at Victor and an insincere smile creeps onto his face. "Young man, you must excuse us. Your friend and I have something private to discuss." He steps forward.

"NO!" Emily finally shouts, voice ragged from the coughing. "Get away from me, you freak!" She backs away, placing Victor between her and the horrible black-clad man.

Gaze steely, Victor folds his arms, still intuitively filled with both fear and loathing of this man. "Who are you?" he practically spits. "And anything you say to Emily, you can also say to me. What the hell is this?"

The man draws himself up straight. "I have information for Miss Brontë, sir, and I take leave to say your belligerence is both ill-mannered and unwelcome. Be so good as to stand back. I have no business with you."

The fog is yellowish and very thick, smelling of tar and sewage. It makes the two students' eyes water, but seems not to affect the top-hatted man in the least. He glares at Victor as though ready to do him harm.

Emily wants to run away, but she's afraid to leave Victor. "I don't know you. You couldn't possibly have information for me. This is some sort of horrible mistake. You should just leave. We don't want to talk to you!"

"She says that she doesn't want to talk to you," says Victor firmly. "So unless you can give us both a very good reason to listen, we're going to stay right here, until you leave." He takes Emily's hand in his, but he also appears ready to engage physically with this stranger, if the need should present itself.

"Very pretty," the man says with a sneer. "I fear you are incorrect, however. You may stay right there, but Miss Brontë and I must take our leave of you. A very important gentleman requires her presence. Cannot, in fact, do without her, he said. Therefore, sir, I say again: stand back."

Emily gasps. Could he mean Branwell? But why would Branwell send someone instead of coming for her himself?

Such a thought doesn't even occur to Victor— there's just been too much of this and in a sudden, blind rage, he reaches out to strike the man's shoulder with the palm of his hand, shove him backwards, away from them, but just before his palm meets the black fabric of the man's coat, something stops him. Not his will— something external, and he actually gasps as momentarily a very real pain goes up his arm, forcing him to retract it even though as soon as he does so, the pain fades.

"Victor, what happened?" Emily says, panicking. "What did you do to him, you horrible man!" She steps from behind Victor to see what's happened to his arm.

The fog rolls around them, thicker than ever. The man in black laughs, and Emily hates him passionately for it.

"How dare you!" she says. "You're such a coward you can't even fight fair! You sniveling, despicable worm. Get out of here! You couldn't possibly be sent by a gentleman! You wouldn't know one if he kicked your bony arse!" She is furious now, pink-cheeked and ready to deck him herself.

His arm feels perfectly fine, but as he reaches out again, Victor quickly learns that he simply can't touch this man. There's something about him that doesn't even look or feel real, although Emily appears to be treating him as such. In obvious humiliation, Victor is forced to snarl as well, "Just. Go. Away," trying to ignore the fact that his hair's all but standing on end and he's suddenly fearful that if Emily goes with him... that's it.

Carelessly, ready to hurt anyone who hurt her beloved Victor, she steps towards the thin man in the top hat. "Just fuck off, Mr. Whoever You Are." And like that, he has her arm. She screams, but he's got a vicious grip belied by his slender physique.

"Emily!" Victor cries, feeling her torn from his grasp, and feeling it with shocking slowness and stillness, as though he can feel every molecule of her sliding out of contact with him, one at a time. Then suddenly they're separated by a few inches of foggy, foul air that clogs his lungs, and when he reaches to get her back, the pain stabs again. "Fuck." His teeth are gritted, his pulse out of control, his eyes enormous and locked on Emily's.

"Victor! Help, Christ, he's hurting me!" she screams while she struggles with her captor. "Get OFF me, you wanker, let me go!" She rakes the side of his face with her free hand, the one that is no longer holding onto Victor.

The man feels his face and looks at the blood wonderingly, but he doesn't let go. "Bloody hell," he yells, "how dare you hurt me! I'm here to take you to the most important man in town, and you are acting like a two-shilling whore! Calm yourself, or I'll...!"

"VICTOR!" Emily screams, unable to get free. His face is fading. He's getting lost in the fog, only two feet from her. "DON'T LEAVE ME!" She bursts into violent tears, sobbing and wailing like a demented thing.

He's not frozen in place; he can run after them if he chooses, which he certainly does choose, but try as Victor might, every attempt to lay a finger on the stranger, and now even on Emily herself, is stopped. The pain itself is also getting worse, lingering, and her wails are what send him over the edge quite abruptly— furious, revolted, but also shaken to the core, Victor feels a sob rack him as well. When he's bitten all of that back for just a moment, he manages to ask the man, "Who are you?"

The man shakes Emily. "Stop it, I said! These dramatics are unladylike! You can't go see Mr. Heathcliff looking like a wildcat dragged you in over the doorstep." He looks over at Victor. He seems to swell with his own ego. "You may call me Lockwood, for that is my name. It is no pleasure to meet you, however. What manners young people have these days. Ow!" Emily has stepped as hard as she can on his foot.

She runs towards Victor, but the fog acts as a barrier between them. Lockwood is hopping around, truly pained by the damage Emily's Doc Marten wrought.

"Victor, no! Don't leave! Help me! He thinks he's taking me to Heathcliff! Do you understand? He is a character from my prime's novel!" She is wild-haired, tear-streaked, and fading. More than ever, she resembles a hawk.

Not in a state to think about all of this very coherently, amazed that she can, Victor has no way to respond to this revelation, he can only tell her, desperately, "I'm not leaving, it's just— the fog's so thick— oh, god, keep fighting, Emily, just a minute—" Something, some kind of weapon, anything, maybe something from his car could work, but as Victor whirls about, he is overwhelmed by the fumes and the clouds. Dropping onto his knees, he tries just to feel the pavement for anything. A rock. Something. "I'm here, Emily, I'm here!"

Emily coughs again, violently, gagging from the oily fog. She turns to Lockwood and scratches the other side of his face. He howls and backs up. "You rancid piece of sheep dung! You're nothing but a made-up character in a book, Lockwood! How is this possible? I'm not going anywhere with you!"

Lockwood stands out of reach. He looks sullen and pale except for the raw scrapes on his face. "'Tis none of my doing, you hellspawned babe. It's Mr. Heathcliff you want to speak with about this. I was given the task of fetching you, and happy I was, too. Do you know what a vile world we must live in, thanks to you? We're tired of it. Over and over again, Miss Earnshaw leaves Mr. Heathcliff for that puling wreck Linton. Over and over again, the tragedy plays out. Well, we're tired of it! We want a different ending!"

Ignoring this monologue, barely understanding it at present, Victor speaks to Emily without even thinking about the words, they just spill out of him as he searches meaninglessly on the invisible ground. "I'll be right there, Emily, I promise— hang on—" It doesn't occur to him that the effort might be futile until he looks up and sees just how faint she is. "EMILY." He says her name in horror.

She is crying now, hard, desperately reaching towards Victor, but their hands do not meet. "Victor, I love you," she says in a broken voice, "God, I love you so much, this is so insanely unfair—" She coughs and coughs again. "Victor, don't forget me! Remember my name, please don't let me become a ghost. Make sure," she coughs again, "Charlotte—tell Charlotte. I love her. I don't think I can get through this fog. I think I'm in the novel now."

She touches her shoulder where the tattoo is. "Always, forever, Victor," she calls from inside the fog, barely visible. "Remember me!" There is the sound of scuffling and Lockwood cursing at Emily. Then horses neighing. Wheels grinding over gravel in the fog, the sound of a door opening. Emily shrieks like a lost soul. The door closes, the hooves are heard galloping away, and then silence descends.

Softly, Victor tells her, "I love you," but he knows with every nerve, every muscle, that she isn't there to hear it. The fog's already clearing as though he were maybe about to awaken from a nightmare, leaving him crouched just outside the Holy Grail on a perfectly normal Icaria street. He's able to stand up, but then for a few minutes he remains stiff, waiting for the horrific conversation to end, whatever it's about. If it's like Halloween, she'll be back in no time at all.

The minutes lengthen into an hour; the hour lengthens into multiple hours. It's freezing outside, after a certain point, but Victor can't make himself even get in his car, feeling like he needs to remain at this exact location, to get her when she returns. But Easter's dawn finds him still alone, staring ahead in a kind of catatonia, just before the worker showing up to open the Holy Grail for breakfast gets to witness Victor sink down in a shuddering, weeping heap on the sidewalk, clutching at his shoulder where the twin tattoo was done. Man may know few things with certainty, but there are times when he knows a truth with perfect clarity, no matter how awful that truth may be. In this fashion, Victor knows beyond all doubt that Emily's time finally came.