By: Professor Wolfgang Abronsius
In dedication to my little one. Through my dedication may you see the beauty within logic, the divine in truth and the truth within reason. I pray that this works reminds you dear one that everything can be logically explained and resolved, even your nightmares that started me on this journey. As for now, sleep well little one and remember…logic, logic, logic!
Evermore, your devoted Papa
Konigsberg 18-something or other
It was snowing the day it happened; beautiful white snow drifting like the promise of his career at the university, fresh, clean, each path he could take his young bright-pupils on differing from the next. Very, very promising. He had new and inventive ideas unlike the other professors in his field with their methods so ancient and close to witchcraft that it was comical—there was no logic in it!
Wolfgang let the crispness of the night fill his nostrils with a heightened since of life as the street lamp sputtered a warm orange hue over the street and steps of the university. Some of his students and other learned men clasped him on the shoulder with praise as they filed out into the cold, homeward bound towards wives, and firesides and other nonsensical things. Lectures had run late that night.
He scoffed at them; he had a muffler, a good room at a boarding house and a small collection of books written by some of the worlds finest minds. Who could want more? Having a wife seemed to squander such simple joys, constantly gabbing about non-important matters when trying to undertake the simple pleasure of reading, never having rational expectations, and limiting freedom. Why, not nine months ago did some of these lads partake in having a healthy draft with him to discuss Plato and other matters after lectures…all married now alas, shackled?
Not that Wolfgang Abronsius didn't have many offers; he was young, with thick dark and wavy hair, a cleft chin and of impeccable build….as he often noted of himself in the mirror. Oh yes, many girls wanted him. Why, not nine months ago he wooed a rather tasty bar wench to prove to his collogues that intellect was more seductive then bulk. The encounter as delightful as it was, was purely scientific….and proved to be successful.
Professor Abronsius went to his lofty boarding house with hat atop his head, cane working against the cobblestone street, tilting the brim slightly to by-passers before he reached his stoop, digging in his coat pockets for a key.
At the slightest shift of his foot, there was something solid at his toe. A covered wicker basket? An eyebrow raised….it was wine and cheese from his neighbor! Yes, it had to be! He had asked his neighbor to procure him some…it was only logical.
With a shrug at base logic, he took the basket and bundle inside, the note atop it drifting away carelessly in the wind.
He disregarded the basket carelessly on the table, and went to light a candle to shed some light on the room. Much to his great surprise, setting by his usual candle was a fine bottle of wine and cheese with a note from his neighbor Gunther, regarding the sum he owed.
This was odd… why would he need two bottles of wine and two cheeses? And why not leave them both in the house if you were going to go to the trouble of breaking and entering…and my God why was that basket making such noise?
Then it occurred to him….baskets didn't make noise. The only creature that emulated such a noise, such a piercing shriek was…Oh no! with slow deliberate steps he made his way over to the whining basket, the blue coverlet swaying like waves upon the ocean; it was the first time that he; Wolfgang Abronsius, a man of logic believed in demonic forces…or at least, hoped that he did…
With a heart thundering like….well, thunder he stripped the basket of its cover, the fleshy legs and arms of the thing wiggled with abandon a moment making the young professor jump back a foot. The yowling got louder at the unveil filling every inch, every corner of the wood paneled room. He covered his ears.
"A baby!" he exclaimed as if the findings were something new. He came to his senses a moment later as the crying had died down at the sound of his voice. He inched closer again and repeated, somewhat in awe this time. "A baby?!"
Even as he said it he couldn't believe it; but there it was before him. A perfect human specimen, ten digits, ten toes, spine, skull and quite the pear of lungs. Pink, chubby and very real.
The young man scooped the child up into his arms and the crying started again, he spun full circle in a tizzy, unsure of why he had picked it up in the first place. It was a wonder that it didn't freeze to death.
"What do I do? What do I do?" he panicked. He couldn't think with all this crying. "Please stop! Please stop! Be logical!" he tried to reason with the child, which only resulted in more screaming, from both parties….
"I don't know what you want! I don't know—" another full circle of panic and bewilderment, even if he could figure out what it needed—like food—how could he feed it? He was a learned man, infants were women's business. This wasn't in his training, this wasn't even in the plan…. He didn't even know where this babe was from!
He begun to pick up random things in the room and offer them to the child to get it to be quiet just so he could think, to no avail.
A sudden bash of wet parchment against the window made him jump and he went to see, it was the discarded note that had been resting on the bundle when he picked it up, come back like a slap of fate. He was able to read vaguely through the pane a vivid recount of a night he spent with a barmaid not but nine months ago…that was one mystery solved. The yowling, screaming thing in his arms was a product of himself.
But that didn't mean he had to keep it! There were foundlings every day at the orphanage, this could just be another and he could go back to his logical life, as it was, right? That was logical after all right?
He grabbed the blanket to wrap the child back up, but fatally made the mistake of looking down into its face for the first time. A perfect human specimen, ten digits, ten toes, spine, skull…but looking more closely, it was so much more than that… the baby had big cornflower blue eyes that met his, a little drawn bow shaped mouth, tuffs of dark hair just like his, cheeks to rival any woodland chipmunk, and above all a little soft-as-rose-peddle hand that his finger fit perfectly into, a small squeeze, it had quieted now, drifting to sleep.
He withdrew from the door and made himself sit down, babe in arms. This child, his child wasn't going anywhere.
After the child had been settled, with a proper bottle from the upstairs neighbor, Professor Abronsius could look at the situation more logically. How grand it was to have an heir! What an opportunity this! a clean slate, a mind that he could fully and wholly mold from scratch, another brilliant mind to be! And he could start early!
He begun dreaming of the noble prizes that his son and heir was going to win, all the philosophical discussions to be had between him and the next Abronsius ignited him! The boy would need a fine name to accompany his distinguished last!
When Wolfgang was sure he had it narrowed down between "Aristotle" or "Ludwig" the child alerted him that it was time for a change. Wolfgang went to the task with glee with all his future schemes in mind.
But there was another shock to come. He did a double take, and even went as far as to pick the child up and look for the missing parts as if they had fallen off like the cogs on a disjointed clock somehow. And the missing genitals indicated that this child would not be a "Ludwig" or an "Aristotle" in any case.
He groaned slightly. "You are not even a son! Now what am I going to name you?" all name ideas, like his high hopes for the son he obviously didn't have went out the window.
He cradled the babe in both his hands and she looked at him with those eyes, such pretty eyes that already had a suggestion that they were destined to turn a lovely shade of green. She was going to be warm and affectionate, he could tell. With each passing moment he looked at her, it bothered him less and less that she was a girl after all. She was already so gentle and sweet…he could still mold her mind to love logic as much as he after all.
But, what to name her?... he felt bad, he could not now think of a name.
Perhaps to name her after a queen wasn't too presumptuous. After all she was the daughter of a learned man.
"Brunhilda Abronsius!" he tried aloud, and as misfortune would have it….liked it and gave it no further thought.
That was her name… Brunhilda Abronsius.
18-something 6 years later
Things didn't seem to get much easier for the child from her christening. With such a 'stout' name came with it no traits to redeem herself at first glance. She had no mother to see to that fact, only a learned father who saw pretty, long hair as a frivolity to which it was much more sensible to have short, boyish hair to avoid unnecessary tangles and self absorption in grooming. Sensible skirts with blouses that were a size to big, hanging from her slight shoulders revealing a dark disconcerting wart on the back of the right one. In her mouth, one unruly adult tooth growing over a stubborn baby canine that wouldn't fall. Skinny, long-limbs, so pale that sometimes in the moonlight her skin seemed to have a slightly odd tint of green to it. Poor child, but you would swear a sweeter, purer soul never lived.
One fine afternoon at the university Professor Abronsius was lecturing on the theory of Dark Matter, his mind on the crisp green apple resting on the corner of his desk, hunger brewing within. He had not eaten all morning, getting Brunhilda off to school had been a chore of chores. She would have rather been at the university with her father for many reasons.
*CRUNCH* and by the sound arising from under his desk and the now absent piece of fruit, and the shocked faces of his students at the sight of the little hand that had snatched the fruit, that was exactly where she had ended up.
The professor paused, pulled back his chair slightly and glance down into the cave like place under his desk and the green eyes that looked up at him from there. Little scraped up knees drawn up to a little flat chest. The other children had been tormenting her again, he couldn't really scorn her for running away. "Brunhilda." He managed calmly, stretching out his hand. "May I have my apple back please?"
"Yes Papa." The girl relented, handing him the fruit. This was a normal occurrence and he was slowly learning to just let it be. If he had succeeded in one thing it was that his girl had a love of knowledge, and was quite smart, if not imaginative, she helped him grade papers sometimes in the evenings, catching things he might have missed. The students always knew which papers were graded by her hand because of the art that decorated the corner, in which she was quite skilled.
and if she had taught him anything it was that knowledge and logic were to separate entities.
After the lesson, he had called his daughter to his knee and asked her why she was neglecting her duties to the schoolmaster and other students her own age.
"The schoolmaster does not teach me anything that you have not taught me Papa." She said simply, adoringly. "Here, at the university I learn new things. And the other little girls at the school call me ugly and get their brothers to throw rocks at me. Am I ugly Papa? Truly?"
He swore he saw the entirety of her soul reflected in her eyes at that moment; the girl who had never had a harsh word pass her lips, the girl who loved to sing loudly with her whole heart, the girl who read the worlds best books and would offer her last crumb to any hungry creature. The pleasant disruption to his quiet life.
He ran his hand against the prickly hair and jetting cheek bone, and there was a sense of pain that he had done wrong by her…maybe if her hair was longer…
In one swift motion he had stood and balanced the girl on his hip to carry her out into the street and to the tavern for lunch, the weight of her head lolling slowly to his shoulder. "What you need to understand Brunhilda is that beauty is simply a concept that each individual defines on their own standards, its irrelevant."
"But am I beautiful to you Papa?" she pressed.
"Very beautiful, my little one."
"And you are very beautiful to me Papa! And I am satisfied." She admitted, and he hugged her close.
As they walked on they passed a horse drawn cart carrying things recently won in an auction for various buildings in the square. At the sight of one of the merchandise her little head shot from its resting place like a curious animal and much to her father's annoyance and fear of dropping her, wiggled from his embrace and started toward the golden framed portrait with a look in her eyes he had never seen before..
Wolfgang pushed into the crowd where his daughter had so abruptly and rudely disappeared to. shoulder, to shoulder with strangers, he was looking at the back of her, staring up at a portrait of a blonde nobleman of some sort, 13th century perhaps, reproduction, nothing to leap out of his arms for certainly.
He went to take her hand.
"Oh Papa!" she gawked dreamily. "Papa who is he? He is so handsome!" she was breathless.
"I don't know."
She turned to him a moment pouting, disappointed. "I thought you knew everything Papa!" she half demanded, resulting in chuckles from onlookers. Wolfgang rubbed the back of his neck with a flush. "Erm…come away from that Brunhilda."
"That, is the Graf Agustine Von Krolock. Count of Austria." The driver of the cart answered, chewing on some straw.
Her eyes beamed. "Count Agustine!" she repeated before taking her father's hand in a daze. "Its like…its like he's smiling at me Papa."
"Yes the brush strokes are very nice dear." He said hoping this would spur her away from such ridiculous behavior. On the contrary, she stepped forward to address the cart driver. "Pardon me but where is this portrait going?"
He pointed across the street. "In the library, you can see it whenever you want miss."
"Thank you!" she replied with a new resolve of just where she would be spending her time from now on.
And so it began… a sudden, new interest in everything, girlish whims and desires to expand their scientific collection to include poetry and love stories. Fantastical fantasies and endless speculations about the Count who's picture she made sure to go see every day. His name somehow made it into every single conversation without fail…or logical reason.
At night Wolfgang could hear his daughter through the bedroom walls introduce herself to know one as "The Gräfin Von Krolock" and when looking inside saw her curtsey before the mirror in her nightgown with the biggest, sweetest smile he had ever seen
… One of the funniest incidents was when he dared to call the man "Agustine" and she looked at him with all seriousness and offense and said half scolding "Oh no Papa! Only I can call him Agustine, he is Graf Von Krolock to you." He did not contend to argue.
He was going to tell her… explain to her logically that the man in the portrait, the man in her dreams had died many, many years ago. That the blonde nobleman was not at any time going to ride into their small town in Konigsberg on a white horse and carry her off into the sunset. He was going to tell her…logic…logic, but when he looked down at the sleeping form, one leg hanging from the covers, bruised knee, a book of sonnets written by The Count himself sprawled across her chest.
He thought of the look in her eyes when he would tell her. the girl had so little in her life to be joyous about, he couldn't take this bit of happiness away from her too, even if it was only fantasy. So carefully he went out in to the garden, picked a single, splendid white rose and left it in the book on her bedside table, blew out her candle, tucked away the wayward leg back under the coverlet, kissed her brow and let her dream.
"Goodnight, sweet Countess." He whispered in her ear, and she smiled in her sleep.
Sometimes…love knew no logic.
four years later
"Okay Alfred." The girl started, taking a bracing stance. "Punch me in the mouth as hard as you can. I'm ready!"
The lad across from her wrinkled his face at the idea and tried to protest at this scheme, anticipating that it would end like the last two in failure or getting caught. But he had to admire her bold ideas and blunt relay of them, more importantly at the girl's tenacity to get that stubborn extra tooth out of her mouth.
She didn't even flinch at the idea of physical pain to accomplish this goal of hers, she just stood there hands on hips, surer and braver then most boys their age, let alone girls.
Alfred faltered. "Are you sure this will work Hildie? I don't want to hurt you." The boy lowered his red velvet covered arm and met the girl's green eyes.
Brunhilda dropped her chin gently. "Of course I'm sure Alfred." She assured putting an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "I did all the calculations last night in my room and I made an herbal concoction to take away the pain for after, just there on the table. Look, last week I saw Ron punch Howard in the jaw in the square and his tooth came out, and they weren't even trying... We are!" she said more confident and calm as ever, whispering somehow over the other voices in the library.
"But, I'm not supposed to hit girls!"
"Then don't think of me as a girl for the time being."
The boy with golden curls and sunny blue eyes nodded, picked up his arm again and wrenched it back, tongue perched in the corner of his mouth in concentration as the girls heavy, dark lashes fell gracefully back down over the emerald orbs in preparation for the blow. "Okay, one…two…three…"
Luckily, both parents; Frau Swarts the Liberian and The Professor had caught drifts of the twos conversation and was able to interfere before the knuckles could make contact with the jaw, unfortunately for the Professor that interference was at the expense of the lad's fist hitting him square in the groin, making him fall to his knees.
Brunhilda was mortified and took his arm. "Are you alright Papa?"
He managed to look up at her and sigh, and with what little voice he had gasped out, shaking his head. "You're the reason my hair is starting to turn gray." He let her help him back up to his feet as he coughed. "Sorry Papa."
The portly Frau Swarts avidly scolding her son for such an attempt, despite him crying because in the act of punching he had bitten the tip of his tongue. The girl quickly retrieved the herbal concoction she had meant for herself passing it off to the boy. "Here Alfred, drink this it will help!"
Frau Swarts swatted it out of the girls hand. "Away, away with your witch's brew Brunhilda Abronsius. Its your witchcraft that makes my son behave this way, stay away from my son!" and with that Frau Swarts dragged her slender son away.
The girl knelt down using her apron to mop up the spilled drink, her father looked at her concernedly eyebrow arched. "Don't worry, this isn't the first time she's warned him against me." she explained evenly. "He will see me again, I'm sure of it."
A look of sternness crossed her father's face. "Brunhilda, what were you trying to accomplish?" he pressed.
"I'm trying to get this tooth out so the other one can drop down." She said still scrubbing.
"You know the midwife said it would come out in good time."
"Well I think the midwife is wrong—"
"We did research to back it up—"
"Then I think we're wrong!" she snapped suddenly.
Her father was taken aback, she dropped her eyes suddenly in shame and something else.
First, an attempt to make rouge from plants, then trying to get her hair to grow faster now this. Wolfgang knelt beside his girl and tried to meet her gaze that was fixated on the floor. "What is it dear one?" he coaxed. "You have been acting so strangely, you are normally so sensible in these matters."
At that moment two young people passed by the window conversing about the village festival that was going to take place that night, arm in arm, male and female. Then drawing his attention away was a small almost inaudible sob. "Its nothing Papa, really." She managed.
"If its about the dance…you can go with Alfred!" he tried. In hopes that the liberian's son who she had made friends with some years ago after her many visits to stare at the portrait of the handsome graf would be of some comfort. Her only friend.
"His mother won't let him go."
"Then I'll go with you!" he announced. "We will make a study of prepubescent interactions together, and then for fun write a full report on our findings!" surely, this would cheer her up.
"Oh Papa." She sighed, shaking her head. "No. just no, I want to go and dance, and you hate dancing." She started sobbing again. "Oh why can't I be even the least bit beautiful?"
"You are beautiful!"
Her eyes met his with all earnestness, tears lingering on her cheeks. "You are the only one that thinks so Papa, you always have been." She whispered, reaching for his hand to help coax him into realization. "I am not beautiful."
This truly made him angry. "Now you see here!" he started wrenching her up by the arm. "My daughter does not feel sorry for herself! MY DAUGHTER is a brilliant mind and a beauty to boot and don't you dare forget it again!" in his anger a blind illogical thought passed his lips. "What do you think the Count would say? You think a man like him leaves roses for just any girl especially one who is not a beauty! Phewy on you!"
He stopped himself, he had been swept up in the fantasy of leaving her roses as the Count Von Krolock for so many years as she slept that somehow it had just become a part of his life and distantly real, the joy it had brought her had been real enough.
Brunhilda paused and looked up at the painting and sighed; even if more recently she had stopped believing in such miracles, had caught on to the game, the fact that her father was willing to keep up the façade for sake of her love and happiness, was enough to spur a faint smile to her face. "I suppose Agustine would be disappointed in the way I've been acting." She sighed.
"Highly." Her father agreed.
She closed her eyes and thought of both men that she had loved in her life real and pretend, they merged into one and she could almost feel a palpable touch upon her hand from the latter; her Agustine who kissed her in dreams, but the former had made her love the latter even more, and vice versa, The Count was their connection beyond logic. She opened her pale orbs again and found the picture still smiling at her, then turned to her father. "What a wonderful man he is." She sighed with a secret meaning and gratitude to her father…whose hair did look slightly greyer somehow.
"Let's go home Papa." She took his hand and let herself be led away, all was peace again. Or so they thought.
Then the nightmares came…..
It had happened the night of the festival. Brunhilda had stayed in the library with a new book making notes for herself on new herbal mixtures, her newest fascination, against the moonlight and against the moonlit window only her skin had the palest tint of green hardly noticeable like a green stained glass lamp on porcelain, it had been that way sense she was a baby every full moon and the wart on her right shoulder always had a dull sort of ache to it several days before. It was nothing surely. Because her father told her so.
But oh she always felt so energized by the light of the moon or a vast body of water, it ignited her, released her. made her want to dance and sing; but all girls wanted to do that, right? And with the music drifting in she couldn't help but spring to the violin music in an airy step, feeling like she could fly. Despite her appearance she was very graceful when she moved, and if she sung even lowly, in a hum as she was now you had to stop and listen. Her voice was haunting, enchanting even…
The moon had taken the melancholy from her heart.
Suddenly the door bust open with tremendous force, making her jump and hide behind a book case peering out. A group of burly men with clubs and wooden stakes hanging from their belts filed in thinking the place had been abandon for the night.
"Lock the door!" said the leader carrying a sack… from her vantage point it looked like the sack was moving, like there was an animal inside. Brunhilda sank to her knees, watching. Without opening the sack the man put it on one of the tables and after a moments hesitation withdrew the club from his belt and delivered several hard blows to the bag that made an awful sound. Brunhilda covered her ears and jolted her head away with tears of pity, there was an animal inside.
"Is it dead?" one asked.
"What a stupid question!" the little girl thought regaining herself and crawling back to the edge of the book shelves where she had been spying. She remembered that aside from her father the men of Konigsberg weren't particularly known for their brains. Of course it was dead, it had to be.
"Open the sack." Said another, and it was done. She couldn't believe her eyes. it was a bat! It was alive and it was a bat! And…it looked at her? directly at her for help, but discreetly like a human would…. That was…impossible. It continued to look at her. Another few hard blows that the creature managed to dodge but still made her flinch. After a moment they had pinned its wings with hunting knifes, now it really shrieked.
The men then begun to pour over blood curdling tales about blood-sucking monsters, and werewolves and witches that frightened her to the very core. These men were hunters of such things.
Even so the bat looked harmless in her eyes. " if only I had something to throw." Brunhilda thought, and just like that one of the books, from the highest shelves fell with a loud clatter drawing everyone's attention, including hers away. She covered her mouth in surprise. One of the men went to investigate.
"Again…" she thought ardently. "Do it again."
Another book fell closer to the man's head.
The whole library was quaking now with entire books not only falling but flying at their targets. Brunhilda was awe struck. How was this happening? Eventually the men had unpinned the bat and begged for mercy before running away.
She thought to do the same, afraid of many things now she bolted towards the steps jumping over messes of books in her wake. The bat suddenly called to her and she turned with a gasped…now it looked like it was ringing its hands and shrugging its shoulders in coy thanks, making cooing noises….Okay, it was official! she had to get out more!
She tilted her head and met its gaze. It opened its mouth and showed two giant fangs and sent her running again
After that there were no more sweet dreams about the Count or anything else for that matter only terrors, night terrors that gave her cold sweats and made her scream. Her father ever the logic told her to write it off as logically a bunch of dumb drunkards who had taken to beating a poor dumb animal for sport and superstition, that left her in shook.
but she couldn't try as she might she couldn't her hands shook whenever she thought of the books. And that it felt like her doing.
After a few weeks of sleepless nights the Professor had struck up a deal with his daughter to write a book of all facts on bats to disprove any fantasies and set her mind at rest…he blamed himself partly for her vivid imagination.
Thus, after months of research, the book "The Bat" was written and published.
The Professor's next literary endeavor was to disprove the theory of witches. This was not so much for Brunhilda as it was for the fact that he had liked writing a book on untapped matters, and undoubtedly being right about them.
This task was bringing him to the highlands the height of all superstition as far as witches went. Brunhilda had begged to come with him, still a little too shaken to want to stay in the village alone, even being fourteen now and having Alfred as a constant companion. She was allowed to go.
The fog rolled onto the moors as the mist fell in upon the docks when they came into port, the girl clutched her wrap tighter around herself as she stood on the docks alone waiting for her beloved father to collect the luggage. This was a bad idea… her shoulder and wart were throbbing because of it. There was something in the air here, something like she had felt that night… she had never thought to want to return to Konigsberg so strongly.
She looked up and saw the glimpses of the incoming handlebar mustache that her father had recently been growing out at the stern of the ship and felt a slight ease wash over her…as soon as she was with him everything would be fine like it always was.
"Spare a wee trifle for a hungry old woman dearie?" the voice came out of the fog, low and raspy right next to her, Brunhilda turned and looked down at the shriveled old woman with her out stretched hand and her black cat.
The young girl was not unnerved by the woman's haggard appearance, bad teeth or thick accent but strangely moved with a sort of familiarity that she had never felt before. She reached carefully into the folds of her dress and withdrew all her coins, her hair now long enough to sway in the wind and brush against her cheek.
"Its Russian, I'm not sure how much good it will do you here, but you can have it all the same." Brunhilda said kindly passing the currency from her hand to the hags and feeling something like an electric shock upon contact. The hag's eyes brightened.
"What be your name lass?" the hag asked pointing her long nose upward to examine the girl's green eyes.
Her lips parted softly. "Brunhilda of Konigsberg." She answered half dazed as the woman continued to hold her hand.
The hag shook her head. "Too harsh for such a pretty face on such a bonnie lass. Yer name should be McKenna or Rose; because yer gonna be a right pretty one, ye kin? I can tell."
She blinked. "A pretty what?"
"Dinna ye know what you are lass? A right bloomin one at that I could sense ye from miles away on the horizon."
"You have a wart like mine." Brunhilda noted suddenly, with a finger out stretched to touch the wart on the hag's right cheek unbeknownst to her, she was fully entranced now.
"Aye, many of us do. Dinna your mammie ever tell you about the ladies with the warts?"
"No…I-I never knew my mother."
The hag beamed holding out her long, talon hand again, her eyes like the moon. "...Would ye like to?"
Professor Wolfgang Abronsius dispatched the ship, finally; already jaunting down notes about the backdrop of his next novel. Ready to join his daughter. "Sorry to leave you waiting dear one, I… " when he looked up there was no one there. Nothing but a discarded wrap of a young woman and the wind.
"Brunhilda?!" he called searching desperately. "Brunhilda!' he clutched her wrap to him.
She was gone.
Many people back in Konigsberg told him to write it off logically, that his young teenaged daughter had run away never to be-seen or heard from again. But he knew, he knew her love would not permit her to run away from him on her own free will. In his grief the Professor's hair did turn a stark white and became wild. They said he had gone mad in his morning except for little Alfred…discrediting all things he had works so hard in his career for. Logic.
But the Professor was sure that he had seen a silhouette of a woman on a broom against the moonlight that night carrying his beloved child away from him, cackling. He saw it with his own eyes.
Witches were real…
Werewolves were real…
Vampires were real…
Everything that his darling Brunhilda had said was real…
And he would prove it! By God, he would prove it for her sake even if it killed him!
Logic. Logic. Logic…
this might be a one shot but if I do, do more it would pick up post musical