Forever or Never

Forever or Never: 01

As much as she would like to avoid admitting it, Mercy Forrester found herself constantly coming and going down this dim, dark and dingy street.

Rather respectable looking men and women were seen gracing the same street as poor penniless children, who ran about in their own little world. A world where they seemed joyous despite of their circumstances.

Mercy actually quite admired them. How no matter how hard life seemed; they always seemed to counter it with grubby faces and wide smiles. They were harmless, despite the sneers that got cast at them by those of seemingly higher positions in the city.

The simple stalls which were scattered about the street, and their owners didn't pay mind to the children. They saw them enough times to probably know each, and everyone of them by name. Once the stalls were walked away from and in the background, all that remained was a dark cobbled street with houses and other buildings almost falling in on themselves.

Honestly, here was one of many places in the city where living conditions weren't at there best. Unlike Mercy's own rather upstanding living quarters – with courtesy of her parents – these were in poor contrast.

Half the windows of the buildings she passed were either boarded up, or smashed panes of glass looked out at the darkened street. The windows themselves were, much like the whole street and people it occupied apparently, caked in grime.

So why was Mercy here?

She was here to make sure that a certain someone was still alive. No one else seemed to really give much thought, but she had a conscience which liked to niggle at her. Oh Lord did she hate her conscience at times. Even more so when it involved having to lie to get out of the house to come here. To a place where she was more than likely to get attacked and Lord only knows what else.

Reaching under her cloak, she tugged at a chain around her neck. The golden thin chain was hidden underneath her forest green dress. Though the neckline framed her collarbones, thus making the chain visible, all anyone would see would it being tied firmly underneath her corset.

Therefore, it took quite a bit of tugging to get at. Once she had freed it from her clothes, she turned the bronze key over in her hands before pushing it into the lock.

With a quiet creak the door swung open, what greeted her was an empty space and dust particles. Swatting her hand in front of her face she moved into the quiet large room. Shutting the door behind herself, she swung the key and chain around her finger whilst moving onwards.

Walking up the stairs which led to the main room – she would class it as a living room, if it looked remotely like one – ducking her head around one door and then walking to the other side of the room and doing the same, she sighed. She seemed to be alone.

Rolling her eyes and looking downwards she walked forwards. Stomping a foot on the trapdoor she waited and listened. Nothing, not a sound of shuffling footsteps, paper rustling, or even things being dropped in surprise of a visitor; nothing.

With another sigh she removed her cloak while walking to one of the armchairs. She threw her cloak over the back and sat down. Looking to the stack of books on the floor by her side she reached down and picked the first one up.

Pushing a loose curl of copper hair behind her ear, she commenced reading. She was here for the long haul. There was no way she was leaving, not without a reason to.

It just so happened that luckily enough she didn't actually have to wait for long before company arrived. Or rather: the owner of this house – if it could be called that – to arrive back.

It also just so happened that apparently the owner of this house was not alone.

Peering over the top of the book, Mercy's blue eyes narrowed slowly. So far her presence had not been noticed, not that that was a big shocker. She didn't exactly expect to be instantly noticed. To be honest, it was rather good that she wasn't. It gave her the opportunity to sit and asses the two males down the other end of the room.