GALLAGHER, rowan

[rowan gallagher]

rowan mathias gallagher

[/b][/color][/size] A Mr. Rowan Gallagher at the dear age of thirty-one has found himself upon the most curious of situations - entering into London's most tantalizing gossip. "[/i][/color][/font][/size][/ul][/blockquote]

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

W R I T E R .

name: Melinda
RP experience: I was sent to rehab but they kicked us out
how did you find us?: I don't know, but I showed up on the side bar one day and never left.
age: Old enough
gender: a lady

P O R T R A I T .

eye color: blue
hair color: dark blonde
height: 6'1"
body type: quite muscular, though not bulky, after years of lugging flour across the kitchen of his family's bakery
distinguishing features:
fashion style:

M A N N E R S .

profession: baker

adoration for:

[/i] - repetitve tasks so he can be alone with his thoughts - white flowers [/ul]
distaste for:

dreams:

fears:

secrets:

main:

[/i] It was a future that would provide both security and financial stability, and one that he looked forward to. Rowan never thought to question the path his father had laid out for him and embraced it wholeheartedly. His childhood was spent at his father’s side, learning to feel the subtle differences in the dough as he kneaded it to compliance or how to sense when the loves were baked to perfection. His father would often tell him that baking was the purest of arts, and Rowan often fancied himself to be an artist. Hours were spent carefully weaving strips of dough into complicated patterns or creating delicate designs on cakes – both of which have now become trademarks of the small bakery.

Despite his limited time in school, Rowan is incredibly bright. He was the top of his class, excelling in both sciences and languages. His father had never seen much merit in a formal education, agreeing to send Rowan to school only so that the young boy could learn how to write correspondence and balance the books, and by the time Rowan was twelve, his father withdrew him so that Rowan could work full-time in their bakery.

School, however, had provided an outlet that Rowan was not keen on losing, and his evenings were spent curled before the fireplace reading whatever he could get his hands on. His mother would often shake her head and call him her cinder-fella, remaking in passing to her husband that perhaps it would be to their advantage to enrol Rowan in school once more. But Rowan never attended another formal class again, and reading before the fire was as rebellious as he ever got. That is until he met his wife, Clara. From the moment his eyes found her at the party, Rowan’s life no longer followed the expected path.

Rowan was never one for clichés until he met Clara and became one. He had fully intended to marry the daughter of a family friend whose familial connections would bode well for his family business. The minute he saw her nothing else mattered except discovering who she was and finding some way to win her heart. Over the course of their courtship he remained equally enamoured, ignoring the opinions of his friends and family. For once he was following his own dream, and he embraced the freedom that presented him wholeheartedly. It was a love that has never lessened despite the adversity the young couple now faces. Despite Clara’s inability to remember who he is or the life they shared, Rowan refuses to give up on her. He believes that she is still there, waiting to be found once more. Yet as the days her memory is gone grow in number he finds himself questioning if he has not lost his mind alongside her. [/ul]

P A S T .

family:

[/i]

oliver gallagher - father - 62 - baker
moira gallager - mother - 54
robert gallagher - brother - 29 - baker
lenora gallagher - sister-in-law - 25 - lady's maid
hannah o'brian - sister - 27
caleb o'brian - brother-in-law - 30 - doctor

eloise canvier, mother-in-law, 57, unemployed
anson canvier, father-in-law, 61, doctor
sebastian canvier, brother-in-law, 32, lawyer
garnet adams, sister-in-law, 25, unemployed
edgar adams, brother-in-law (garnet's husband), 29, wealthy landowner
agatha adams, niece (garnet's daughter), 9 months[/ul]
main:

[/i] Rowan sighed as he leaned against the door, shutting out the sound of his mother’s voice as the latch clicked into place. The conversation he was leaving behind was nothing new. He had heard it all before: too much time had passed; there was an excellent sanatorium where he could send Clara; no one would think him weak for walking away. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Even as the pamphlets and advice piled around him, or she would stare at him with accusation in her eyes, Rowan could not bring himself to give up on his wife. His gaze drifted to the familiar form slumbering on the bed they had once shared.

She was the picture of beauty. Soft tendrils of hair curled between her slender fingers, creating a downy pillow for her to rest her cheek upon. Her rosebud lips parted in a soft sigh as Clara moved slightly, curling tighter around the pillow she held. Rowan moved silently toward the chair in the corner, repressing the urge to kiss her. Unlike the fairytales his kiss would not cause the princess to return. Consciousness meant that the woman he loved was no longer with him, leaving behind a shell of the person who had stolen his heart a lifetime ago. He reached beneath his chair and retrieved a small pillow, fluffing it as he brought it up to his head. This was where he slept now: on a chair in the corner where he could watch over Clara. He knew how his actions appeared to his family and friends but he had made a promise to her years ago and could not bring himself to break it.

- - - - -

If there was one thing Rowan Gallagher detested, it was his forced attendance at the weddings his family’s bakery provided cakes and pastries for. His father believed their presence would help secure future business, and that Rowan would be a far more desirable guest than a pudgy, balding old man. So Rowan begrudgingly attended the events, attempting to blend into the shadows. There was never any distinction, each event and its guests interchangeable with the next. That was, of course, until he attended the Jones’ wedding.

He hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going, focused more on avoiding another dance with lead-footed Mary Harrod. She had deluded herself into believing that she and Rowan would one day marry, and he took every opportunity to avoid her. Weddings were her preferred hunting ground, and the romantic atmosphere only seemed to fuel her bridal-lust. At most events, Rowan would disappear with Sarah, a childhood friend whom he was certain he would one day call his wife. He was fond of her and believed that was more desirable than all of the nonsense that accompanied fanciful notions like love. Sarah, however, was not invited to this particular wedding, and Rowan was rapidly running out of corners to hide from Mary in. As he glanced over his shoulder to see where Mary was, his future collided with him.

Crimson stained her cheeks as she peered up at him from the floor. Her lips were slightly parted in unspoken apology. For a moment Rowan could say or think of nothing more than the way the light sparked in her jade eyes. Eyes he was certain he would never grow tired of gazing into. Her lashes lowered, breaking the spell she had cast over him and Rowan quickly recovered himself, offering his hand to assist her. As her gloved fingers brushed against the palm of his hand he knew that this girl was who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Murmured apologies quickly gave way to easy conversation. He had never felt so connected to another person; despite having just met, Rowan felt as though Clara had known him forever, and him, her. All too soon, Clara dismissed herself, returning to her family once more. “My name is Clara Canvier. Find me.”

- - - - -

It all seemed like a dream. Their initial meeting and subsequent courtship drifted with an ethereal quality across his consciousness. Rowan often found himself wondering if his memories misled him to believe that things were more perfect than they had been. Perhaps his naïve bliss had changed the truth of what had transpired, but it was all he was left with now. Despite all of his doubts, Rowan knew he and Clara had loved each other, and it was that knowledge that sustained him now.

He slowly eased his neck to the left, attempting to alleviate the kink that had formed there. How quickly the illusion he had Clara had built for themselves had been shattered. All around them lay the glittering shards of what they had once shared, small fragments of glass that he was forever cautious not to step on in case he inadvertently cut both of them. He could still hear Clara’s screams for their dead daughter, her hands reaching blindly for their child even after her niece, Agatha, had been retrieved from her arms. It was his fault. He had been the one to suggest that Clara meet her niece thinking that holding the slumbering infant would help her move on. The reverse had held true and the remaining threads of who Clara was had given way. He had watched, helpless, as Clara crumbled to the floor like a rag doll, tears still streaming from her closed eyes.

A weighted silence closed over the room as Rowan rushed to her side. “Clara? Love?” he murmured softly as he collected her in his arms.

“She is not well, Rowan. She needs help –”

“She needs rest!” he snapped, interrupting his father-in-law.

It was an argument that continued still – husband against father; the life Clara remembered versus the life she had forgotten. Even now he doubted the decisions he had made. How well did he actually know her? Was he being selfish in keeping her here? It had been months since she had slipped from him and Clara still looked at him with trepidation and doubt. The terror was gone, though. She no longer cowered when he entered a room and acted as though he were holding her hostage. Rowan could still hear her screams from that first morning – “Get away from me! Who are you? Who are you!?” – the sound had settled in his spirit, turning his blood to ice in his veins.

This was all a nightmare – it had to be. Somewhere, trapped beneath her sorrow, was the beautiful, vibrant woman who had stolen his heart. He couldn’t give up on her, he would find her just like he had promised to a lifetime ago at a wedding he hadn’t wanted to attend.

“Your name is Clara Gallagher,” he whispered to the sleeping form across the room. “You are my wife, and I love you. Come back to me.” [/ul]

E T C .

play-by: aaron bruckner
password: conceal your raven
rp sample:
"This is where sheep come to die" [/blockquote][/size]

[THE QUEEN]