Searching Requires a Journey

[Jack Spinner]

(Okay, so D and I wanted to start this thing up, but you all can join if you want )
A journey requires searching.
Inversely, therefore, one can also say searching requires a journey. If one must journey, logically one has something for which to search. Thus, if one must search, one must also journey.
Jim had never had to search before. He'd always been able to barely slide by; scraping off just enough to survive. His stepmother certainly was of no assistance whatsoever; the same could be said for his step-brother and step-sister. Jim was on his own, but still he had never had to search for something. Until now.
His father was dying. He knew that. His stepmother knew it too; it was why she always had rich not-yet-suitors come calling and made sure Jim was out of sight. Jim didn't know if anything could be done about his father. He didn't know if he wanted to find out or not.
He woke up as he usually did, before everyone else, dusted the ash and grime off his face and went down to stoke the fire. He didn't know why he continued serving his step-family; there had never been a need to stop. The work wasn't so bad, he thought. The food they gave him wasn't so horrible. He made himself think his station in life was respectable. It made life easier; it omitted the need to search.
The fire needed another log. He added it, poking the cinders about with a stick, trying to get the flames to catch. They did, the fire was visibly brighter, hot enough to make breakfast. Jim filled the iron kettle with water for tea, placing it on the little hook in the fireplace. He fetched the heavy stewpot, poured in a meager amount of ground grain and water, and set it on the main bar over the fire. The result would be mundane porridge, as his step-family was not rich enough to afford sugar. At least, not yet.
He tried not to think about that. He didn't know what would happen, after all. Perhaps his father would have a miraculous recovery. Perhaps his step-mother's affairs would turn sour and she'd be forced to abandon them. The future was uncertain, he always told himself, so what was the point in worrying? Right now, he had breakfast to make, animals to feed, fruit trees to harvest. That was more than enough to occupy his mind, wasn't it? More than enough to keep him from worrying.
He dusted his hands off at the basin and set three wooden bowls on the table. That would do until his step-family woke up, he thought. He gave the porridge a quick stir, so it wouldn't thicken too much and burn, before heading outside for the rest of the morning chores.
It was chilly, winter was not far off, and that was why Jim needed to be more diligently active than ever, to make sure his step-family had enough for the cold season. He saw the apple tree, apples still ripe for picking, and his father's two pigs and the cow. The cow would need to be milked, Jim thought, the pigs would need to be fed. The apples would need to be picked. Jim would need to be busy.
The sun was just now peeking over the treeline, his step-family would not be up for another hour or two. Jim picked up the metal bucket, it was cold and stuck painfully to his skin, before coaxing the cow to give up some milk.
Half a bucket. Not too bad, he thought to himself, not bad at all. He skimmed the cream from the top, putting that in a small pan. His step-family would appreciate cream for their porridge, wouldn't they?
He shook some grain into the cow's feed trough, just a little, the grass was not all dead yet. The pigs would be content with the fallen apples, the ones too bruised to be eaten by his step-family. Jim kicked a few into the pen, just enough for the pigs' breakfast.
The sun was rapidly rising, the yard was bathed in morning light. It was pretty, Jim thought, who could wish for more than this? He carried the milk and cream back into the house. The cream he set in a small bowl, the milk he poured into two wooden cups. His step-mother would want tea, not milk. He made sure there was a a teacup and saucer on the table.
He gave the porridge another stir and waited for his step-family.

[Daeiel]

((Love it!! Jim is cute. And it's exactly the kind of tone I wanted for this story! You're a genius ))

It is a terrible thing, to be able, and yet not needed.

Gina sat on her stool by the fireplace, watching Cook gather materials for what was proving to be a sumptuous breakfast, and yet all she was allowed to do was kick her heels. It was frustrating, but she was there to serve, not to bother.

Cook went to add another log to the fire.

"I can do that!" piped Gina, ecstatic to be able to do something, "Don't you move a muscle, I can do it!"

"No thank you," snapped Cook, "No thank you. I can stoke my own fire, if you please."

Gina stopped mid-hop and solemnly stared at Cook. "Yes ma'am," she barely whispered.

Cook gave her a stern glare and went on preparing breakfast.

This was how it always was. Gina was able, but not needed. What was she to do? As a brownie, her role in life was to help with the housework. What good was it to be a kitchen fairy if no one allowed you to be in the kitchen? Sitting on the stool by the fire was the closest she'd been so far to serving.

But perhaps she should not complain. It could be worse. She could have been turned out at the door, she reminded herself; she could have been abandoned, or homeless. She had a home, her own wooden cup, her own little stool by the fireplace. All she needed now was a person to serve, a meal to cook, a room to clean. But she had best count her blessings, Gina thought, while she had blessings to count.

Cook had scalded the meat and the eggs; Gina could smell it. It smelled foul and acrid to a brownie; to a human it would only tingle a bit, but it would certainly taste bad. Cook didn't seem to have noticed. What should Gina do? Should she tell Cook that the Master and Mistress definitely would not want to eat that breakfast? Should she tell Cook that she could fix it?

Gina bit her lip, wiggling on her stool, wanting to dart over and fix the ruined meal. Cook moved to the oven, checking on the bread.

The bread would be fine, Gina could tell. The tea would be splendid. The breakfast would be perfect, except for the meat and the eggs.

Quick as a brownie could, Gina darted over and tapped the skillet. Fixed. Satisfied, she smiled, then darted back to her stool.

"What are you doing over there?" barked Cook, turning from the oven, her normally red face redder with the oven fire.

"Nothing, ma'am," answered Gina, "Nothing."

It is a terrible thing, indeed, to be able and not needed.

[Jack Spinner]

(PERFECT. Absolutely wonderful. Seriously! It fits right in )
His step-family was awake.
Jim sat by the fire, watching his step-siblings and step-mother eat the breakfast he made. He stuck his finger in the ash and twirled it around, making designs; swirls, circles, the like. It was something he enjoyed, but something he rarely did. There wasn't time for it, he told himself, there wasn't time for him to be selfish. There was work to be done.
His step-family had finished eating. It was time to clean the dishes they had used. Jim stood up, brushed the soot off of his pants, and went to the table.
"Jim," said his step-mother.
"Yes, ma'am," answered Jim.
His step-mother wiped her mouth with a bit of cloth and sighed. "Breakfast was disgusting at best, Jim."
Jim nodded. He knew that. But they didn't have anything else!
Stupid Jim, he told himself silently, You should have found something.
"Let us hope," continued his step-mother, "That lunch will prove otherwise."
"Yes ma'am," replied Jim.
His step-family rose as one unit and meandered to other areas of their very small house.
Jim could have kicked himself. How could he have thought that simple, bland porridge would be good enough? He should have added some syrup or something, juice from the apples, something to give it some flavor. Oh, well. The damage was done, and now it was up to him to fix the situation.
Why did he serve them? Why did his mood reflect what they thought of his service? It was comfortable, Jim told himself, he had a roof over his head and clothes on his back. He should be thankful, not critical.
But sometimes he wondered for what, exactly, was he thankful?

[Daeiel]

((Last sentence, SO POIGNANT!!! Lovely Truly lovely.))

Gina sat on the ground beside the fireplace. Cook had taken her stool after she and the other servants found out she had fixed the breakfast.

It wasn't something she should be ashamed of, she thought. The Master and Mistress had commented how especially delightful the breakfast had tasted. The serving maid noticed that they had been served the exact same breakfast for nigh on fifteen years and never said anything beyond "Thank you, Elisa." The serving maid relayed this information to Cook, and Cook and the serving maid both stared at Gina.

"Did you magic the breakfast?" Cook had queried.

Gina had looked down.

"She did," said the serving maid, "She did, you can see it in her face, she charmed that breakfast."

"Didn't I tell you," Cook had continued, "Not to touch anything in my kitchen?"

"Yes ma'am," answered Gina. She felt herself go red in the face.

"Then why," asked Cook, looking particularly bitter and angry, "did you magic the breakfast?"

Gina had thought Cook wanted her to be honest. Gina had supposed Cook would appreciate the help.

"Was it to make me look bad?" Cook had practically spat. Cook's face had been a frightening shade of purple.

"Not at all, ma'am," Gina had immediately responded, "The meat and eggs were burnt, so I fixed them."

Cook did not thank Gina for her honesty. Cook did not thank Gina for her help. Cook instead went into a long shouting spree about respect for human employees, regard for good, honest work uninfluenced by magic, how humans know how to behave properly around their elders. Gina had never felt so ashamed in her entire life.

So now she had no stool. Neither did she have a bowl of honey or a cup of milk. Cook had only given her a teasthingful of honey, and mixed cinders in it to boot. Gina sighed. She was there to serve, wasn't she?

But supposing service was met with harsh punishments and shame? Was it worth it, even then?

[Elli]

((Ooo... this sounds interesting, but I am unsure how I could ever join >_< I shall just read. Though I cannot wait for more!))

[Jack Spinner]

(It's all good And D, tremendously awesome. We're going to have to stop complementing each other or nothing will get done )
It was noon.
Jim was outside, picking apples. Lunch would be brown bread with sliced apples and their last remnants of cheese. It would suffice, he thought, it was downright respectable.
At least, he hoped it was.
He would hate to have the breakfast debacle repeated. The shame he felt still lingered, their stares still imprinted in his mind.
"Breakfast was disgusting at best, Jim." That phrase echoed over in his ears. Disgusting at best. He couldn't get by with 'disgusting at best'. Jim knew he needed to serve and serve well. It would negate the need to search.
He had not yet been up to see his father. He knew he should, but there was so much work to do for his step-family! He didn't know if he would have time to go visit.
He stopped where he was, perched on their rickety old ladder, picking apple after apple for his step-mother. And he called himself a son? His own father was sick upstairs, and here he was doing menial work for people to whom he wasn't even related. What quality of life was that?
Jim did something he hoped he wouldn't regret. Lunch was practically finished, anyhow, she couldn't be disappointed at that, and the apples had at least another week before they started going bad. Jim knew he should do it, and knew he was going to.
He set his teeth, hooked the bucket on a rung of the old wooden ladder, and slid down the sides.
He landed roughly, staggered a bit to catch his balance, and then trotted towards the house. His face was determined, undaunted, as he passed his step-mother, sitting by the fire, embroidering. She didn't glance upwards at his approach. She barely even noticed him.
Suddenly his defiance didn't seem quite so monumental. She hadn't seen that he'd abandoned his chores. She hadn't even looked at him. Perhaps that was a good thing, Jim thought, perhaps it wouldn't mean trouble.
However, suppose she looked up just as he went upstairs? Suppose she came looking for him? He would certainly be in trouble, and definitely regret his actions.
He was half-way up the stairs. Half-way towards his ailing father, and half-way towards his step-mother. What should he do? If he abandoned his chores, and she noticed, he would certainly be in trouble. But he needed to see his father! What kind of son would he be if he put daily chores and service in front of his own parent?
But the shame from breakfast still remained. 'Disgusting at best'. He hoped his behavior would not be classified as 'disgusting at best'. He would hate to disappoint twice in the same four hours.
And yet, it had to be done. Jim risked disappointment. He risked shame. He turned, deliberately, and began walking up the remaining stairs.

[Daeiel]

((LOVE IT!!! And typically our stuff is dialogue heavy! This is a refreshing break, but impeccable narration!!!!

.......And yes, we will have to stop complementing each other, or nothing will get done.))

Gina was ecstatic.

Cook had banished her from the kitchen. Gina did not know why she should be happy about this. She should be destitue. After all, she was a kitchen fairy.

But, as fate and fortune often have it, Elisa, the serving maid, was feeling poorly, and offered to let Gina take over her chores. Gina had been more than happy to do it.

"Oh, lore," tittered the other serving maids, "Look at the little creature! She likes to serve!" And they laughed at her behind feather dusters and cloth rags.

Gina felt perhaps she should be upset, she should certainly feel so after being banished from her regular perch, but all she felt was the energetic joy of serving someone. She couldn't really hear the laughter of the other servants; she knew she would not be punished for doing what she did best. It was refreshing, she thought, like a blast of cool autumn air after summer's heat.

She hummed to herself, on her hands and knees, wiping the expensive tiled floor with a bucket of suds and a sponge. The floor practically gleamed and sparkled in the afternoon light.

She got the other sponges to cooperate, to make room for more cleaning. Moving independently, the sponges swirled in great, curling loops around the floor, wiping off all wear and tear. It looked astonishingly new, and Gina was particularly pleased.

The sponges lifted themselves up and wrung themselves out over Gina's bucket, then flew off to their regular cabinet. About six or seven towels lined up, at Gina's command, and began drying the entire main floor.

Gina watched the towels work, pleased that the floor was looking so especially lovely and pristine, and then turned her attentions to the enormous chandelier. It needed to be dusted, it needed to be served. Gina clapped her hands and hopped up to it.

Brownies are astonishingly good hoppers, making them able to reach even the most difficult places to clean. Gina was up to the chandelier's height in one hop, pulling out a soft cloth, and set to polishing.

Such was the sight that greeted Elisa once her headache had disappeared. A half dozen towels moving, without anyone touching them, over an impossibly clean floor, and a brownie perched on the chandelier, without any ladder or teetering pile of furniture. She screamed.

[Jack Spinner]

(Wow. Love it! And our stuff really is mostly dialogue, and boo-yah! One line of dialogue a piece. Excellent. Although I thought the 'Brownies are astonishingly good hoppers' to be kind of like a random side note. But it's not that big a deal.)
Jim had reached the top of the stairs.
He had heard no sound from below; his step-mother was still unaware of his one act of rebellion. Not that it was truly rebellious, but it was the first time Jim had truly abandoned something to search out his father.
He inhaled slowly, tentatively reaching towards his father's door. His knuckles barely brazed the wood; it was far too faint a knock to be heard by anyone, and certainly not by a man on the verge of death. But anything louder would surely arouse his step-mother's curiosity, and Jim definitely did not want to do that.
He took a quick peek around the corner of the stairs. His step-mother was still embroidering. Jim gave a small smile, turned back towards the door, and opened it.
The hinges squeaked.
Jim bit his lip and squeezed through the door, pressing out all thoughts of his step-mother.
His father lay on his bed, looking as he always did; cheeks ashen, mouth open, shallow breathing. It was a sobering sight. He did not look like he was awake.
"Da?" whispered Jim.
His father's eyes cracked open, wet and bleary, and his lolling mouth immediately creased into a small smile. "Jim..." sighed his father. He reached a weak hand out to his son.
Jim smiled, tiptoeing closer. He took his father's hand. It felt cold. "Hello, Da."
"Your face, Jim," croaked his father, "Your face is gray."
"Yes, Da," answered Jim, "From the cinders."
His father's smile turned into a frown. "Cinders, Jim?"
Disappoitment flooded through both parties. The air silently curdled; the father's eyes lowered, the son's cheeks turned red through the grime. Their hands released as Jim stood up. It was time to go. He'd disappointed too many people.
"Jim," moaned his father, "Search, Jim. Search."
Jim backed away, feeling for the door handle. Why would he search? He had what he needed in order to survive. What need was there to search?
It's the sickness talking, thought Jim, He's just tired.
But perhaps his father was the one in his right mind. What did that make Jim?

[Daeiel]

((Yeah, I see what you mean. And you broke our no-dialogue streak!! Oh, well, I broke it first On a side note, I really like your.....verbs.... in this one. That sounds weird. Whatever, I really do!))

"She charmed your breakfast, Mistress," complained Cook, "And gave poor Elisa a real fright. And that's what she is, Mistress. A fright."

Gina tried her very best not to cry. Elisa had screamed when she saw her dusting the chandelier, but it needed to be cleaned! She hid her face and her desire to speak out against the accusations.

"I see," crooned the Mistress. Her voice was light, easy, like her very existence. "Gina..."

Gina looked up at her employer.

"Did you mean to frighten your coworkers?" asked the Mistress. She pitched her voice and tilted her head, as if she was talking to a child.

"What are you asking her for?" snapped Cook, "Of course she meant to! She did it on purpose!"

"Ma'am," whispered Gina. It came out as a small squeak. Swallowing nervously, Gina tried to continue. "Ma'am," she began once more, "I didn't mean to bother anyone." She felt one enormous tear drop spill down her cheek and onto her lap. She hastily wiped at the wet trail, hoping neither woman had seen it. "I just wanted to help."

"Help! Ha!" scoffed Cook, "She wanted to make us look bad, more like."

The Mistress coolly surveyed the room Gina had just cleaned. It shone, captivating every sunbeam, accentuating every aspect. The curtains seemed crisper, brighter; the chandelier practically gleamed.

"If that's what she wanted to do," started the Mistress, using an icier tone towards Cook, "Then she has definitely succeeded."

Gina blanched. Cook's face went redder than a fiery autumn sunset. Neither of them wanted to hear that.

"I'm so sorry," spurted Gina, before Cook could erupt.

"Why are you sorry, my dear?" inquired the Mistress. "You have done a much better job than..."

"Mistress!" interrupted Cook, "If you are unsatisfied with our service, we can certainly do better!"

The Mistress clasped her hands in front of her. "My dear Cook," she soothed, "It has nothing to do with my unsatisfaction."

"Ma'am," piped Gina, her normally ruddy face turning sickly and pale, "Ma'am, Cook and Elisa and Chivery and Regis and all of them do absolutely amazing service, ma'am."

"Stop it," hissed Cook, "We don't need your sympathy."

"Well," added the Mistress, "It seems you do need her assistance."

Cook and Gina both stiffened.

"Gina," cooed the Mistress, "The room looks better than it ever has. The breakfast was far more wonderful than it has ever been. You serve us perfectly."

Gina liked the compliment. The warm feeling it created ran through her arms to her chest, where it glowed like a dying ember. But it was not given in a good place nor time. Cook was shooting daggers at her. Gina knew she would likely not have another opportunity to serve, and more than likely no supper tonight.

"Cook," continued the Mistress, "The Master and I are having a few acquaintances over this afternoon for a small party."

"Yes, Mistress," said Cook, regaining her composure. The anger faded from her face as she continued. "I have been planning it for some time now."

"I want Gina to make it."

Cook looked as though she might vomit from sheer rage.

"Also," added the Mistress, that she might add insult to injury, "I would much rather Gina prepare the household than the regular maids."

Cook was seething. Gina was trying to squelch the sudden ecstasy. Euphoria would not be appreciated by Cook. Neither would Gina's existence.

"Now that that's settled," said the Mistress, fussing with invisible lint on her skirt, "Gina, if you would be so kind as to prepare for the luncheon."

"Yes ma'am," murmured Gina. Cook was visibly shaking with fury.

"And Cook," added the Mistress.

Cook riveted her full attention to her employer, looking for some sign of appreciation or need.

"Make sure you stay out of Gina's way."

And the Mistress was off, her heels clicking across the impossibly clean floor, unaware of the insurmountable havoc she had wreaked.

[Jack Spinner]

(Well, whatever I just wrote you blew out of the water. Good God.)
"Cinders, Jim?"
"Disgusting at best."
"Cinders, Jim?"
Jim shook his head. He didn't want to hear them. Those phrases repeated themselves over and over and over again, battling inside his skull.
"Disgusting at best."
"Cinders, Jim?"
Why did he care? Why was the disappointment so apparent in his father's face, so obvious in his step-mother's voice? Why was it plaguing him? Why had his father pressed the message?
"Search, Jim. Search."
Search for what? He had what he needed. He had convinced himself of his own happiness. Nothing his step-mother or step-siblings could ever do would make himself doubt his own personal joy.
But what truly delighted him? Was it really living up to their expectations and demands?
Jim stood stock-still on the stairway, his breathing rapid, his hands clenching and unclenching. He was confused. In a single morning, he had been able to disappoint his step-mother, abandon his chores, and disappoint his father. He should be ashamed of himself. Worse than ashamed, he should be outright disgusted at his own behavior.
Like the breakfast.
Like the cinders.
Jim ran his filthy fingers through his hair. It stood up on end, dirtier than before, as he sighed.
"Jim," rang the voice of his step-sister, "Jim!"
He jumped, catching himself with the panels of the upper hallway.
"Jim!" called his step-mother, far more urgent than her daughter.
"Hey!" yelped his step-brother.
Lunch. He had forgotten lunch. In his own selfish desire to see his father, to rebel against his step-mother, he had neglected to do the one thing that secured his happiness, that annulled the need to search. He jumped down the stairs, whipped the dishes out as fast as he could, and set out the prepared food, enduring their stares and scrutiny.
"About time," commented his step-sister.
His step-mother took one look at the food and then a long look at Jim. "Adequate, Jim," she said, addressing the first item, "But disgusting otherwise."
He knew it. He agreed with it. But why this sudden ember of discontent?
He had never felt it before this point. But there it was, glowing deep inside him, as if something had suddenly sparked it. Yet he could not place his finger on the spontaneous cause.
"Search, Jim. Search."

[Daeiel]

((Wow. That's all. Wow))

No one would help Gina.

She wouldn't need them to, she knew this, but even so; not a single servant would assist her. They turned their noses up at her, brushed past her roughly in the passageways, stared daggers at her if the hallway was too dark to ignore her. Gina felt ashamed.

She didn't want the credit for the party to be given solely to her. And yet, she seemed to be the only recipient. She had asked if they wouldn't mind helping her, in case they felt snubbed in their work, but Gina had forgotten something. It is not in the domestic's nature to serve; it is in the domestic's nature to rebel and better itself.

Thus, Gina presented them with a chance of doing no work, getting some pay, and having a common enemy. It was ideal for someone such as Cook, though Cook would never forget their conversation with the Mistress.

Gina was in the kitchen now, standing on a stool as she brazed the various vegetables to be served with the meat. Cook was watching her every move, not budging if Gina needed to know where a certain utensil or spice was, not deviating her penetrating stare. Gina knew she should feel uncomfortable or frustrated, but, truly, she was just happy to be serving.

The kitchen was smelling delightful, heavenly, almost; the house was nearly in perfect order. Only the table had to be set. Gina, trying to refrain from whistling in sheer euphoria, gathered the dishes up and set off down the hall.

They were balanced precariously on her head, her arms clutching the silverware. She'd have to make a second trip to get the wine glasses.

That was, until the weight on her head vanished, there was a great crashing and shattering, and two serving maids laughed, openly, at her, one still clutching a broomstick.

The dishes were destroyed, laying about in pieces all over the hallway. Gina gazed at them, mournfully, knowing she would surely get in trouble.

"There you are, you little fright," chimed the maid holding the broomstick.

"'Spose the position as favorite will be open now, won't it?" tittered the second.

"Surely it will be, surely it will!" cackled the first.

They both erupted in cacophonous laughter.

Gina was embarrassed. Not because of the broken crockery, that would soon be mended, but that she had been careless. She should have seen them in the hallway, waiting with the broomstick out, ready to mercilessly ravage their employer's evening.

"I'm sorry," Gina mumbled, stooping down over the remains of the dishes.

"Sorry? D'you hear that, the little creature says she's sorry!"

"Sorry for what? For being perfect? What a martyr, this thing is, what a saint!"

Gina stretched her hands out over the shattered dishes, shut her eyes, and concentrated.

Slowly, very slowly, the little bits and chunks of gilded porcelain gathered themselves together, rapidly becoming whole plates again, leaving no sharp shards in the hallway in the bargain.

The two maids stopped laughing and stared. The broomstick clattered to the floor.

"Witchcraft," one murmured.

"The little creature's a witch."

They ran from Gina then, leaving their broomstick in the hall, the only evidence of their crime.

[Jack Spinner]

"Jim."
Jim stood before his step-mother, cringing. His hands were clenched at his sides, his head lowered. He was completely ashamed.
"Jim," repeated the step-mother, "Jim, meet my eyes when I speak to you."
Jim did so. Her eyes were steely, angry; his own were on the verge of tears.
"That's better," cooed the step-mother. She inhaled deeply, through her nose, showing she was agitated. "Jim, is something the matter?"
Jim could not trust himself to respond verbally. He simply shook his head. What could possibly be the matter?
His breakfast had been called disgusting.
His father was dying and disappointed.
A sudden and vehement distaste for his step-family was kindling inside him.
He shook his head again, looking down as he did so.
"Look at me," repeated the step-mother, coolly, without any of the maternal comfort she pretended to have. "Are you certain nothing's the matter?"
Jim nodded, visibly shaking. He could feel the tears coming, yet boys his age did not cry. Especially those who had disappointed everyone around them so thoroughly; the selfish luxury of expressing emotion was something to which he had no claim.
"I see," hummed the step-mother. "Well," she picked up her knitting and sighed once more. "I certainly hope so, Jim. I certainly hope so."
He was dismissed. He blinked several times, blocking the tears yearning to trickle down his cinder-grey cheeks, before turning on his heel and exiting their small shack.
The ladder was still propped up beside the apple-tree, where he'd left it during his one, intensely conceited moment, dashing off only to disappoint both his father and his step-mother. He took three slow breaths, climing hand-over-hand up the ladder, gazing at the brightly colored apples still yet to be picked.
"Search, Jim," echoed the voice of his father.
"Jim, is something the matter?" purred his step-mother, inside his mind.
Jim gripped the ladder as hard as he could; his knuckles turned white. His teeth were clenched tight, his brow furrowed, when the answer struck him as brilliantly as a bolt of lightning.
Yes, something was the matter. His own father was sickened unto death, his step-mother already preparing to marry again, his step-siblings doing nothing to help him maintain his father's health or home, and here he was, Jim, a young boy, a disappointing son, doing it all for them. His father, his house. Why had he permitted this to happen for so long?
Because it omitted the need to search, he realized. He was too afraid to search for what he wanted, so he had complied.
"Cinders, Jim?"
The simple question expressed his father's disappointment in Jim's failure to search. The cinders smeared across his cheeks symoblized his humiliating servitude, while simultaneously representing his own reluctance to search, to journey. What had his step-family done to him? More importantly, what had he done to himself?
"No longer," whispered Jim, whizzing down the ladder faster than before, trotting inside.
"Jim!" exclaimed the step-mother, "Jim, what are you doing?"
Jim did not answer her. He grabbed a loaf of bread, their last, since he had not made more, and what few coins his father had hidden in the seams by the cabinet. His step-mother's mouth was open in a shocked 'O', her eyes ready to ignite his small form. Jim looked at her, shaking not from embarrassment, but from anger.
"Jim," hissed the step-mother, "Jim, put those things down. Put them down or you'll forever regret it."
Jim let himself smile, something he had not done for quite some time. "No," he finally said. "No, I won't!"
The step-mother's face incarnated fury; she slammed her knitting down and moved towards him. Jim did not let her catch him. He turned and ran out the door, ran from his step-mother, ran from his servitude, from his disappointed father, and towards his own journey.
Jim was laughing.

[Daeiel]

((Well. That was amazing.))

Gina couldn't bear it.

The luncheon was incredibly glorious, exponentially more so than if the human help had done it. Gina knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help but feel a little accomplished. If only just a little.

However, despite whatever pride she held for the success of that afternoon, the dread of the future had overcome her. Who would let her serve now?

Certainly the Master and Mistress would, she knew that. They might want her to serve more than ever. But that would be so terribly unfair to the human staff; to Cook, to Elisa, to Chivery, to Regis, to any of them!

After all, it was a terrible thing to be able, and yet not needed. Gina herself had experienced this sentiment. More than likely, most of them would be let go by the Master and Mistress, and that guilt would lie curled up in Gina's heart for the rest of her brownie life. How could she stand it?

She could, she thought, she'd just have to come up with some sort of way where both the human staff and she were equally needed. Perhaps the Master could get a bigger house?

Ah, but that wouldn't solve anything. The size of a house mattered not to a brownie, and it would make the situation between Gina and the other domestics more angry than it already was. Besides, a bigger house would only stress the human servants more, while having no effect on Gina. That would never solve anything between them; any disagreement they might have had now would seem inconsequential.

Gina had hidden herself behind the tapestries in the drawing room, trying to think. What should she do? The desperation and anger of the other, senior members of the staff was even now too much for her. The Mistress would almost certainly go into raptures about her party, and request Gina to do even more, which would be heaven for the brownie, but otherwise make her life, ironically, hell.

She couldn't have that. The Master and Mistress were delightfully suited with the help they had now. Who was she to try and disrupt that, even if her interruption was well-received by her employers?

She was no one, she told herself. She needed to serve someone who would really appreciate her, not someone who would be delighted by her and then snub everyone else. She needed to...leave.

No, she corrected herself. Leaving was not what brownies did. They were loyal to their employers! They only left at the employer's discretion, or only in the direst of circumstances.

Who did she think she was, wanting to leave? Who would want her to serve them then?

No one, she thought, no one at all. And then her existence would seem even more worthless and frustrating than it was now.

[Jack Spinner]

(Jeepers Creepers. We're having too much fun with this.)
It was morning.
Jim woke as he always had, early, nearly before the sun rose. He was cold, using a patch of moss over a rock for a pillow. It had been far more comfortable than the pile of rags he'd had at his father's house; however, he still had a crick in his neck. He yawned, stretched, and then got up to do, what?
He smiled, a real, true smile. There was nothing to do! No one to serve! He could run around naked for all anyone cared, there was no one around, and all the time in the world to search. He jumped up and down and crowed in excitement, turned a cartwheel, and then stood erect, waiting for the reprimand that would never come again.
He cheered, throwing his hands up in the air and running in an enormous circle, before he decided to do something that would permanently erase all the years under his step-mother.
He stripped, dipped his feet in the icy stream that trickled nearby, and scoured all of the incriminating cinders away.
The water was bitterly cold, but watching the cloudy grey water slip away from him almost made up for it. His face was now cinder-free, his hair no longer coated in ash, his hands and feet completely liberated from smuts.
Jim was a new person, and now he had every reason to search, every reason to journey.

[Daeiel]

((There is no such thing as too much fun. And we need to watch that movie again. After all, it's only 10 days until Halloween!))

They had found her. The domestics had found poor Gina, cowering behind the tapestry.

The guests of the luncheon had admired the striking cleanliness of the rooms, the exquisitely delectable meal, the overall sheen of astounding glory that surrounded the place. They had asked if the Master and Mistress had gotten a new staff.

This was a disastrous question to ask, and although the Master and Mistress answered truthfully ("No new staff, my friend," the Master had said, "Only a brownie just recently come under our employ."), any hope of reconciliation was now lost with the household staff.

They had found her and made her move, to go and accept the high praise and gratitude of her employers. But Gina did not want to! She could not live with herself if she accepted these awards while simultaneously injuring others. And yes, this would mean future glorious moments of service, but would strip the other, senior servants, of their work, their living space, and potentially their joy.

Gina was naive in this matter, as most brownies are. She truly liked serving, and could not understand how anyone could feel otherwise.

Gina would not reap the reward if it meant depriving others of that same glory. But, as she had not quite come to terms with, no one but her wanted it.

Or deserved it.

[Jack Spinner]

(Yeah, over Skype or something? Because I can't drive to Newport News and I know you can't drive to Harrisonburg. I don't think we have many options here. Oh, and nice filler scene, filler scene!)
It was lovely, in the cool morning air.
Jim was enjoying himself. It was something he had not done for quite some time, same as leaping about like a child, or washing away those shameful cinders. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
He had see a doe with her older fawns, their spots not yet faded. He had sketched them in the dirt with a bit of stick, before brushing it away quickly afterwards, as if his step-mother has seen.
He had partioned off his bits of bread and bartered with another farmer, work for milk and cheese. His breakfast was far more satisfying than what he'd had at his step-mother's house. It was the most delicious thing he'd had in a long while.
Jim felt he could get used to this.
His feet made sodden prints in the dew-laden grass and mud on the forest floor. He'd have to get some shoes and better, warmer clothes before winter came. He should have thought about that beforehand.
He made a move to kick himself, mentally, as he had done so often, but he stopped. He didn't need to do that anymore. There was no one to serve, and this was his journey, his search. Who was there to disappoint?

[Daeiel]

((Yeah, you caught me. I didn't think it was time for Gina to leave just then. And I loved your post! Jim is so cute...))

"Well," began the Master.

Gina stood before them both, trying desperately to not look so ashamed.

"This afternoon was fantastic!" exclaimed the Mistress before the Master could continue.

"Indeed it was," concurred her husband, "Indeed it was."

"Th-thank you," stuttered Gina, "It was nothing."

"Nothing!" repeated the Mistress, "My dear, if that was your 'nothing', I'm not sure there are words to describe your 'something'!"

"Yes, yes," added the Master, for absolutely no effect whatsoever.

"Well, I-" Gina stopped herself. She wasn't sure how to phrase her next comment, the one which would be ingenious enough to absolve her in the household's eyes, as well as receive the compliments she knew were coming. "I thank you," she started, as that was the best way she knew how.

"Capital," said the Master.

"But, but it really w-wouldn't have been possible if the other servants hadn't helped!" rushed Gina.

Clearly, no one was expecting this. Gina heard the sudden gasps of the serving maids eavesdropping, as well as the Mistress' sharp inhale in surprise.

"So, if you please, ma'am, sir," continued Gina, "I'd like them to hear this too."

She walked over to where the domestics were hiding, drew back the curtain, and pointed to three specific people: Cook, and the two serving maids who'd shattered the dishes earlier in the evening.

"These three, ma'am," she said, as it had never done much good to address the Master, "These three helped me the most."

"Well, I - " stammered the Mistress.

Cook was seething; the two serving-girls looked as frightened as they could be.

"What game are you playing now?" snapped Cook, "Mistress, I will speak for myself in this matter; I did not lift a finger to help this creature, nor will I ever!"

Gina bit her lip. She had almost figured on Cook saying something along those lines. She only hoped that Cook realized what she'd said before the Mistress acted on it.

"Well, if that's how you feel," began the Mistress, in that cold, calculating tone, "I'm afraid I will have to let you go."

"Yes, ma'am!" piped Gina quickly, before Cook could really snap, "You will have to let me go!"

There was another sudden gasp of shock; Gina hated it.

"I see I've caused nothing but trouble," she went on, the opportunity now gleaming before her, "I see I've messed up a household that was already working fine."

"Now she starts talking sense!" said Cook, snidely.

"Take your witchcraft somewhere else!" piped the maids, who had just now summoned the courage to say something.

"But, my dear Gina," soothed the Mistress, "We could not possibly let you go!"

"Let her go?" asked the Master, "Why on earth would we do that?"

"As I said," the Mistress continued, "It's impossible, my dear! We like you far too much!"

"But they don't," countered Gina, pointing backwards towards the domestics. "They don't, ma'am, and it wouldn't be a proper household unless they were allowed to serve."

Cook was silent, but Gina could feel her staring daggers.

"It's awful, it is, ma'am, to be able but not needed." Gina was feeling courageous now; she started speaking faster. "I know this, ma'am, because I was here for two weeks without one chance of serving."

Cook looked almost a little affronted.

"And now, in one day, I've managed to bypass all of them, Cook, Elisa, Regis, Chivery, all of them, ma'am. And I don't see how that could possibly be fair. I've caused so much trouble, you see, ma'am, I've caused old, faithful employees to shatter your china. I've caused them to faint straightaway. I've made them too furious to think clearly. And for that, I think I'm the one who should go."

Gina sighed; it was the longest speech she had ever given in her entire brownie history, and certainly the most forceful. The incredibly awkward silence afterwards affirmed it.

"So," she continued, after drawing herself up and collecting her nerves, "I think I shall. It's been wonderful serving you, and working with you. So long."

And she left.

[Jack Spinner]

(Wow. I just now realized that we both have Dwight quotes as signatures. Craziness)
Jim was beginning to wonder whether starting his journey now was such a brilliant and revolutionary idea as he had thought.
Perhaps it was a bit ill-timed, running off on the cusp of winter, with neither (a great store of) food nor shelter. Perhaps his timing could have been a bit better.
No, he corrected, No. Look what he was doing! Breaking away from the numb servitude he had been in, simply to chastise himself upon doing so! Living for years without truly needing to search, and now, when his journey was open before him, he was saying 'perhaps it could have been timed better'!
There is no such thing as timing a true search. There is no proper beginning to a physical, spiritual, porphyrogenic journey. There simply is not. So how could he criticize himself for something that doesn't exist?
No, his journey was meant, designed higher up, to begin here. He would simply have to search quickly to avoid the harsher elements of the season change. He had done nothing wrong; there was no need to punish himself.
He decided that he was going to have to, somehow, secure more money. Besides food, he would need shoes, and perhaps a good thick cloak to shield against the bitter winds. Perhaps a tinder-box, or some other method of lighting fires, would be useful. Yes, Jim told himself, he would have to work a bit in order to get these elements of survival.
At least his journey would be well-prepared.
(I created a filler scene just to use porphyrogenic. Hell yeah.)

[Daeiel]

((You are an incredible loser, my friend. It's okay, though, I am too. {I used it in the title of my speech last night....}))

The city was louder than Gina had ever imagined.

There were all kinds of people, bustling to and fro, knocking aside anyone who was a stranger to the constant flow of energy. Gina was smaller than most, but she was still knocked about a good deal.

They weren't concerned with that, though. They were concerned with keeping their flow consistent and smooth.

Gina dashed to the side of the nearest building and clung to it as if her life depended on it. It was like a flash-flood, almost; people of all shapes and sizes, always moving in the same direction, pushing anything in their way to the side, exactly as a torrent of water does.

Gina realized she would have to get to the other side of the street, if she had any chance of survival.

Taking a deep breath, she darted into the current.

It was terrifying for a brownie who'd only tended country homes before her last employment. She definitely was not used to so many people! She ducked and dodged, crouched and creeped, and finally made her way to the opposite side, where people were flowing away from this city.

It was no safer there, but at least they were all going in the same direction. Gina pressed herself in amongst the other travelers and tried to keep pace.

Eventually, the flood of humans gently trickled down to a few groups here and there, then to a single-file line, and then finally oozing past the city gates with only a few stragglers to convince anyone that it had ever been there. Gina walked slowly, enjoying the sudden quiet, before she realized she had no where to go.

She could have thought about this sooner, she realized. She could have tried to find another situation before giving her enormous speech. She should have secured a position before abandoning her post, one where she would be both able and needed. And yet, she had not done any such thing.

"Foolish!" she whispered, "Foolish, that's what it was!"

It was no good turning right around again, facing the torrents of people, just to go back to the Master and Mistress, whom she'd willingly left. There was no point in that at all.

She'd simply have to find another house, somewhere in the quiet, where she could be of service.

"Yes," she agreed with herself, "Yes, that's what I'll do."

And that's what she did.

[Jack Spinner]

(Ha! Nice.)
The city was on his horizon.
He wasn't prepared to go into it just yet; he had to have money first.
He supposed it was a little bit ironic, having to have money in order to journey for his fortune. But, one must always be well-prepared, if the moment presents itself in an opportune fashion, whenever one must search.
He had scrapped a few coins off of a farmer, in return for good work, of course; he was used to such work. He was looking for another farm in need of work; what farm wasn't, he asked himself. It was nearing winter, and so much needed to be done.
The coins he had earned thus far were clutched to his chest, their chill metallic glint lighting the candle of hope now gleaming inside him. It cast the same brilliance as the ember of hate, but he was not ashamed to let this one shine.