The year is 1899. You are 29 year old (Y/N) Luck, wife to William Luck - an heir to his fathers fortune who resides in Rhodes. You had no other choice but to marry William Luck, ignoring the fact you have no love for him. It's been 2 years since you...
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It is late into the night. Far too late, if you must be honest, to be drinking your sorrows away. Alone, might I add.
Beneath the inconsequent polite conversation being held between John and Charles by the fire, you were pouring yourself another drink at the table, struggling to keep your mind on one trail of thought.
Whiskey is the amber that brings resolve to your soul. But that's the problem with drinking, you thought to yourself as you watched the liquid amber fill the cup. If something bad happens, you drink in attempt to forget; if something good happens, you drink in order to celebrate; if nothing happens, you drink to make something happen.
This was one of those "let's forget" kind of drinks.
Drinking now, after the loss of a loved one, feels like the greatest luxury this world has to offer. The way your fingers slid against the condensation before you regain your grip was like music, though some may disagree, many didn't - Karen for one. You feel the chill run down your throat and your head makes an involuntary shake.
"How're you holding up, darling?" Came from Hosea as he sits across from you at the table.
"I'm alive." You mutter as you take a sip from the cup.
"We're all alive, (Y/N)." He says and watches as you take the sip. "How're you feeling?"
"I'm feeling like ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack," you respond. "I feel like I ain't doing no one a bit of good by being here."
Hosea extends his hand towards the middle of the table, expecting you to reach for it. "And why's that?"
You reach for his hand and twine your fingers with his own, "I only been here a few weeks and look at me," you grumble and take a gulp of the whiskey, ignoring the burning sensation in your esophagus. "I got my husband killed, and I robbed him," you had to take another drink just at the thought of it. "Now I'm back to being the camp drunk."
"At least you can still hold your liquor," he teases.
"Yeah, there's always that." You chuckle, suppressing a sigh.
Hosea tightens his grip and caresses the back of your hand with his thumb, "Until you heal your wounds, you're going to bleed." He utters quietly, keeping his voice purposely timid in order to not make you uncomfortable. "You can bandage it with alcohol, but eventually it'll all ooze through and stain your life, (Y/N)."
You let go of the glass and stare at Hosea's thumb while it continues to run your hand supportively. "But I-" you didn't want to start the sentence that way, it didn't feel right to make Williams death out to be about you. "He deserved better, Hosea. He fought for my love more than you know- more than I even know."
Hosea nods, "Sure, but you was fighting for something different. And you thought about that first, such as the world. That ain't your fault, my dear."
