I’ll Rewrite the Story (Game 8)

A determined Marinette is a terrifying thing to behold.

At first it was at night–Pierre wouldn’t let her out of his sight, and so she snuck away, like she always had, through the woods, into the dark, back there. She knew where it was now. A basket in hand with food she’d saved from Sophie’s dinner that would store well, some stitched things from Tiphaine–a scarf, so it was androgynous. You thought having a wayward ghost for a servant was a problem?

Up to that shack.

‘We shouldn’t disturb the Master,’ they whispered, terrified, and she soothed them softly with a humming cadence. She wished she could hug them. They were like children now, cowed by an abusive adult who didn’t know how to find his own way, so he took it out on those around him.

She was not a child.

She had grown up, and she would take care of them. She would take care of him. She believed nobody should be left behind, and he was alone–his loneliness was why he was like this, and so she would take his hand, whether he wanted it or not, and she would pull him back, slowly. Today was with bread and cheese and some spiced meats, and a scarf with a badger embroidered on it.


“Tomas, I’m coming in. Don’t make me crawl through your window, because I will.” She threatened, softly, and stood at the door patiently.

Tonight was going to begin a ritual. Tonight was going to be the first step. And every night, until she brought him home.

Tonight, she’d be her father. Looking everywhere for her mother in the woods.

She’d rewrite the story.

They wouldn’t disappear this time. There would be no body, left broken and torn apart by wolves after a stabbing.

They’d come home, safe and sound.

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