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[stelliscripture]

20. spangled is the earth with her crowns

finally poking at those sappho prompts again! granted, i never officially signed up or anything--they're just for fun. so while i'm cool w/celicalm (they're p cute imo), maelica was tailor-made to pander to me, anise "lucisevluvr69" astrogeny. as i get accustomed to writing mae, i can easily see her getting up there w/severa as one of my fav narrators. in any event, this is set midway through act iii, based on some dialogue celica actually has if you examine the jugs in the desert stronghold. i like the idea of mae and celica having a strong comfort w/one another, even if they don't tell each other absolutely everything ever, if that makes sense? while things get a little tense in act iv, imo it's pretty easy to read mae and celica crushing on each other. i'd like to explore the way they might navigate the lady-retainer -> girlfriends transition, but that's for future fics!

also on ao3!

---

"spangled is the earth with her crowns"

Mae's had a pet theory about Celica for a while now: that she sometimes does mysterious-looking things just to look, well, mysterious.  Is there some kind of code of conduct for being a secret princess?  One where you've got to stare wistfully across the horizon at least once a week, or make a cryptic remark in every conversation that leaves the other person wondering what you're really talking about?

Celica's mysterious act for today seems to be peering into a series of waist-high jugs in the foyer of this desert stronghold.  She goes down the line, lifting the lids to peek at the contents of each, considering whatever she finds with a pensive sort of expression.  Curious, Mae saunters on over to join Celica in her inspection.

"Find anything worth yoinkin'?" she asks.

"What?  I--no," Celica starts, hurriedly jamming the lid of her current jug shut.  "At least, I'm not planning on pilfering anything for myself, even if I could somehow carry one of these off."

Mae wonders aloud, "Would that even be stealing?  Like, if we're taking back stuff that was taken to begin with, does the whole double-theft thing cancel out?  What's the word on that from Mila?"

Celica braces her hands against the jug like a general at a war table, looking way too solemn and poised for the situation.  Mae knows she's genuinely chewing on this choice piece of theological jerky, so the answer's likely to be good, at least.

"The Mother has no set stipulations for such a situation," Celica admits, "Though nor would I say it's in her nature to leave us with no room to make our own judgments.  No one divine mandate can fit every little human circumstance, after all."  

Every little circumstance, sure, but the big ones--those are the ones Mae knows Celica prays for guidance about until her legs fall asleep.

"Then we're good, right?  We can just, uh, 're-appropriate' the stuff we need in order to keep on meting out some sweet holy justice," Mae declares, framing the word "re-appropriate" with a conspiratory wiggle of her fingers.  A smile tweaks at Celica's lips, and sweet Mila's scaly tail is she pretty when it reaches her eyes.

"Honestly, my motive here was pretty selfish--I was wondering if I could sneak a moment to wash my hair with some of the water in one of these jugs.  I don't want to seem fussy about something so trivial in front of the others, but..."  Celica gives some of her curls a dismayed little push to illustrate her point.  Ah, Mae thinks.  Not so mysterious a motive after all (for once).  If she looks closely, she does have to admit that Celica's always-immaculate hair is maybe a smidge less immaculate than usual.  Only a smidge, though.

"Go for it," Mae offers.  "It's not selfish to want to look good!  I mean, you always look good, but, like, gooder than usual.  More good.  Besides," she hurries to add, "If any of Grieth's bozos come back here after we're gone, you can leave some nice sand in their drinking water for 'em."  Not that Mae wouldn't have laughed at the thought anyhow, but Celica laughing with her makes it that much better.  At least, assuming Celica's laughing at the sand in the water thing, rather than the painfully obvious crush thing.  Mae's really banking on the former, here.

Even if Celica's picked up on Mae's interest in her good looks that goes a bit beyond the realm of maidenly friendship, all she asks is, "Would you mind keeping an eye out for any of the men--well, anyone else in general, really?  I'm sure it'd look more than a little weird if someone walked in to see a priestess dunking her head in a jug of water."

"Sure thing!" Mae chirps.  

She savors the giddiness at Celica's trust--what's more intimate than admitting you can do weird things around someone?  The foyer itself isn't exactly intimate, coated with sand as arid walls of wind occasionally blast in from the wide-open entryway.

"Some 'stronghold' this is," Mae remarks a little too loudly.  She whips around to stare real intently at said entryway the second Celica begins to remove neckpiece.  Celica's bare neck and shoulders, Mae thinks, could end wars.

"Hmm?  Oh, the doorway?  There should be a way to close it if need be.  ...At least, I hope so, if we end up having to defend this place ourselves."

Mae stands arms akimbo, shifting her weight from one tapping foot to the other, trying not to listen too closely to the soft chime of Celica's earrings as she (presumably) unhooks them and lays them on the ground beside her neckpiece and headband.  There's a rather unceremonious splash, and Mae realizes that Celica really has gone and just dunked her whole head into the jug.  She peeks over her shoulder just in time to see Celica reemerge, now-wet hair hanging over her face in a rather ghoulish curtain.  

Yet, there's something beautiful about it, even with Celica stooped over and looking like a swamp monster.  Mae's long since stopped even trying to pretend that her feelings towards Celica are envy, rather than attraction, so she indulges in the sight of Celica wringing out her hair.  The water spills at first in staccato lashes across the sandy floor, before slowing to trickles of droplets that spangle the area around where Celica stands.  

Celica catches her gawking (not that Mae's ever been good at hiding it), and the fingers in her hair curl with self-consciousness.

"Mae," she begins.  Her voice is so warm that the desert suddenly feels frigid in comparison.  "Do you...want a go?  Washing your hair, I mean."  In an impressive feat of athleticism Mae hadn't realized any part of herself was capable of, her heart's taken a running leap right up her throat.  Is she kidding herself, thinking that maybe Celica was going to ask her something else for a moment there?  "Uh, not in the jug I just swilled my dirty hair around in, that is."

Mae considers her own hair, flyaway and full of tufts like the fairy floss an indulgent merchant once let her and Boey sample at the greatport.  She'd brought some back for Celica, who'd eaten her portion with evident delight, despite how sticky and shapeless the stuff had become in the summer heat.  Though she knows she hasn't been such a fool for Celica forever, it sure feels like it, sometimes.

"I'm good," Mae says instead.  "D'you want me to go get Boey so he can dry your hair with his wimpy fire magic?  It'd make him feel useful for once, I bet."

Celica can't hide her smile at Boey's expense, for all that she tries to stay impartial in the neverending volley of one-upsmanship--but nor can Mae hide the way her eyes follow the last traces of water that leave faint trails along the skin of Celica's collarbone.  She'll let this be her own mystery for Celica to ponder, she tells herself.

[stelliscripture]

so familiar a gleam

so this is..........a thing. it started out as a benign gag on twitter abt how neat a faye/silque sleeping beauty au would be as a ~metaphor~ for how faye is so hung up on the past and turned into this, which is making a strong case for itself as the most pretentious fic i've ever written. the title even came from the '50s disney movie lmao

mostly i just wanted to play around w/inserting fairytale elements into the canon and also mila's turnwheel shenanigans? expect more faye/silque from me in the future re: reading faye as caught in the throes of compulsory heterosexuality + silque's postgame quandaries of faith/mila's turnwheel-induced timeloops.

also on ao3!

---

act i

Faye begins to disappear on occasion. Sometimes only for a few hours, and once--only once--for days at a time. The woods around Ram Village are empty and quiescent once more, after so much turmoil came crashing through them. Things are (almost) as they should be. There are only subtle reminders that Faye cannot quite ignore, things missing or things now present, that tell her time has indeed passed on without her.

It's this notion that gives her the idea, wild and uninformed. She'd told herself she'd eschew all the magic she'd learned, only for it to build up and fill her like water threatening to burst from a dam. So she puts it to use, making excuses to visit Kliff with his ever-growing library of tomes and treatises that she struggles to even read. Deep in the woods, she picks out the threads of knowledge hastily gleaned from those books and tries, with unsteady hands, to weave a shroud of sorts.

No, she rescinds, a shroud sounds so morbid. A shroud is for the dead, and her intention is not to die--that is too much stagnation, even for her. She only wants to sleep, for a time.

-

Kliff leaves one day, without any real warning or goodbye. His parents fret over the succinct letter he left upon their table, showing it to Faye in their distress. She can't help but find it funny that Kliff can still be so grandiloquent in so few words. His absence is another gaping hole in the patchwork image of Ram Village that Faye clings to, but a part of her is almost glad that he's set off for parts unknown. He most likely knew what she was up to--at the very least, he could have made an educated guess.

Though she hates to stray much further from the village than the shrine where she weaves her magic, Faye does start spending more time with Gray and Tobin in the wake of Kliff's departure. She feels the ravine of years between herself and them, and wonders how she never noticed it growing. There is a twinge of guilt, whenever she forgets herself enough to be happy with them for just a moment. If she pushes forward for once in her life, there will soon be a distance too far to jump, a river too vast to ford.

The spell requires memories, frozen like the molasses she and the boys used to throw out into the snow and eat as candy. So she weaves them into the shroud: Kliff's intent, unwavering gaze, Gray's bombastic witticisms and his quiet empathy, Tobin's earnest, brotherly warmth. Gray stops her at the village gates one time, out of Tobin's earshot, and asks her in that easy way of his if she has a mind to pay Alm a visit anytime soon. She hears herself telling him, no. He believes her no more than she believes herself, but Gray is a good friend when it comes to knowing when to push and when to leave things be. Has he always been so good about that? Faye can't seem to remember, though Gray has been as constant in the white noise of her life as all her other friends. He tells her, I'll let Alm know you say hello, and ruffles her hair.

(Months later, near the end, Faye realizes that both Gray and Tobin think she wants to avoid Celica, when in fact, she finds herself missing that quiet girl with the yellow ribbon who taught her to weave crowns from flowers.)

-

Alm is the centerpiece of it all, the focal point of the magic she only half-understands. Though she still thinks of him as her prince, Faye cannot picture him as a king. To do so would be to throw herself forward into an uncertain future, when she must root herself to the past to make this spell work. She weaves her shroud like a tapestry, a still scene in a village that will never change. Here, ripe oranges that will never fall. There, her parents and her grandmother, who will never teeter over the edge of her old age. At the forefront, Gray, Tobin, Kliff, and Alm, all before the village gates without ever passing through them.

The magic is exhausting, unfamiliar words blistering her lips and tearing through the cool moss and stone of the shrine where she works with heat that edges on unbearable. At one point, she has to stop entirely, the shape of the magic completely lost to her as the ground itself seems to buck and seize before throwing her with a harsh crack into total darkness. When she awakens, Faye feels dried blood at her temple, and forces herself, trembling, not to think about how close she's come to death. Faye notices with a twinge of guilt the way her parents seem to collectively hold their breath whenever she returns, gaunt and drained, only to finally exhale once a healthy flush has returned to her cheeks.

Her parents trot men before her with an increasing lack of subtlety. Faye smiles weakly before each of them, dropping hints about a certain someone who still has her heart, if only to stop the roiling twist in her gut she feels every time a suitor gets too close. She tells herself she only feels such revulsion with a force that takes her by surprise because she can't help but compare them to Alm, always perfect in that he will always be unattainable.

-

When she leaves, she does nothing special. Doing so would be acknowledging that anything in her life is really changing, moving forward--with or without her.

"I'm off," she tells her mother, one morning in spring. The words scratch the insides of her throat and clatter against the backs of her teeth when they leave her mouth, like falling rocks. Her mother blinks in surprise, and it's only then that Faye begins to wonder how long it's been since she last spoke aloud, with all of her friends long since gone from the village.

"Safe journey, dearest," her mother says. Does she know, like Kliff might have? Faye quashes the doubt neatly, folds with perfect creases in a practiced fashion engendered by a lifetime of self-denial. She'll lose what time she's saved, if she starts to explore any of the things she's begun to realize about the people around her, the people she spent so long relegating to the periphery of her awareness.

-

The shrine is quiet as always, and with the thieves long since gone, Faye isn't entirely sure what it ought to be named now. Even the mold has given way to some flowers, especially closest to Mila's old idol. This is where Faye has woven her shroud, at the idol's foot where sunlight dapples the ground. How long had it taken? She struggles to recall months, weeks, days, anything more concrete than a jumble of half-formed memories that don't even feel like they belong to her. It occurs to Faye only briefly that she might die, if she's woven the spell wrong. If nothing else, she has always been a good seamstress.

Faye lies down on the ground, sits back up to adjust her skirt, then stirs yet again to rearrange her hair over her shoulders. Funny, she thinks, how she can't bring herself to do something as easy as sleeping, when she's been so tired. That thought, of straining for something for so long, only to feel nothing upon reaching it, seizes Faye with a thrumming edge of discomfort. Once more (for the last time? she can only hope) Faye tamps it down.

Squinting against the faint sunlight streaming into her eyes, Faye begins casting the spell to draw the shroud over herself.

intermission

Restless, her mother would have called her. A pilgrimage requires a purpose--otherwise, you are simply taking a jaunt. Not for the first time, Silque wonders what her mother would have made of this world without gods. Her mother, who fled first Duma, then the man who sired her child, to end up in Mila's embrace--could she move on a third time? Silque struggles to do so just this once, catching herself still referencing Mila's teachings as if talking about an old lover. The inaction eats at her, when she had wanted so desperately to feel relieved, now returned to the fold at Novis.

"I must go," she tells Nomah before one of the priory's many altars. It looks so empty and alien without Mila's visage. When she speaks her intent aloud, at least it sounds better, more justifiable. "While I doubt the people need me in particular, they do need someone, so by your leave, I mean to go forth and be that someone."

Nomah runs a hand over the ruff of his beard, as he often does in an attempt to look properly sagely and unreadable.

"Far be it from me to stop you," he muses, as if he is asking her a question: does she want to be stopped?

Silque folds her hands over each other and gives a shallow bow. The act is part obeisance, part simple gratitude.

"You have my thanks for your...understanding," Silque says, for lack of a better word. This elicits a chortle from Nomah that he attempts to muffle, though the merry gleam of humor in his eyes always gives him away.

"And you have my blessings--as well as my turnwheel, I presume?"

The device rests in a pack against Silque's hip, the soft thrum both like and utterly unlike the constancy of clockwork. She marvels that the turnwheel has found its way back to her again, when far greater hands have spun it before hers. In the absence of Mila's will, is it, like her, now mere flotsam in the current of time?

"I shall keep it safe," Silque assures him.

"You'd do better to keep yourself safe," Nomah returns, clapping her on the shoulder in a way she supposes is meant to be fatherly. She is always uncertain when it comes to men, though at least Nomah's fondness is something she knows she can trust. "Always the ascetic, eh?" he adds, though not unkindly.

A smile tugs at the corner of Silque's lips.

"Rest assured, this truly is what brings me fulfillment." Fulfillment, yes, but happiness--she is never quite sure.

-

Travel is less hazardous than it has been in the past, a happy set of circumstances that Silque never thinks to attribute to the way her saint's robes make those around her think twice about how to treat her. Fewer hazards do not make for more ease, though, so Silque busies herself at every turn with any manner of healing she can offer. She tells herself the ultimate destination of her pilgrimage is the north, a land of sorrow and mistrust in equal measure. If nothing else, she can scratch the itch that's been tickling her conscience, that she has only embarked on this travel out of selfish wanderlust. To see in peacetime the place her mother once called home--surely that must be her true motive.

And yet, she veers south, bypassing the capitol entirely for thick woodlands where she can go days without seeing another person. What does she even hope to find, she chides herself, when there is nothing, no one left waiting here? At Silque's hip, Mila's Turnwheel ticks on.

act ii

She still visits shrines when she can find them, though this one is so given over to nature that she nearly passes it by. Brambles hug the cave's entrance, their roses just slightly past peak bloom. Inside, there is only the slow drip of water and lush growths of fragrant moss. When she emerges into the shrine's inner chamber, dappled sunlight filling her eyes in a soft welcome, she almost doesn't notice. Silque moves to kneel at the foot of Mila's long-empty idol, only to stop short with the realization that her place is already taken.

A young woman lies on the ground, eyes closed, hands folded over her chest. Edging closer, Silque smells only the flowers and the earth, no sweeter, sicklier odor of decay. Indeed, the young woman appears for all intents and purposes to simply be napping in a particularly odd place. The thrumming sheen of magic over her body, made ever so slightly visible by the rippling sunlight, is the only sign of anything unnatural. Then again, it is also a reasonable guarantee that the woman is indeed alive.

She's lovely in her repose, tawny, flyaway hair tucked into twin braids whose lengths are just slightly uneven. The lightest freckles dust her rosy cheeks, and the curve of her mouth is soft, even if its set, in conjunction with her slightly-furrowed brow, suggests an edge of frustration. Embarrassed by the immediacy of her attraction, Silque diverts her scrutiny from the swell of the woman's chest beneath those dainty, interlaced fingers and examines the spell instead.

It is a magic unlike anything she's ever seen before, though it carries with it the faintest hint of nostalgia that she cannot place. Almost like a blanket or a shroud, it hangs over the sleeping woman. There is even a perceptible perimeter to it, where the grass and flowers abruptly cease to grow around the outline of the woman's body. Almost unconsciously, Silque kneels to examine the scene closer, as Mila's empty idol looms over them both, unseeing. She cannot put a purpose to such a spell, or a reason to why anyone would do such a thing to someone else. It is neither cruel nor kind--the woman is simply there, asleep and untouched.

Silque hesitates, catching herself considering ways to undo what's been done here. She remembers her mother's tales, which she knows to be more than fantasies concocted to keep women in line: witches in the hinterlands, masked women with all the blood drained from their still-moving bodies, vestals who commit themselves to the flames in search of power denied to them by all other means. Could this magic belong to some witch, thought? She searches the woman's face again for some blemish, some hint of the unnatural. Again, she finds nothing but a twinge of fond sadness whose source in her memories she cannot locate. Beseechingly, she turns her gaze to the idol for guidance she does not truly expect to find.

At her hip, Mila's Turnwheel begins to tick more audibly, its tempo accelerating with insistence. Startled by the reentry of sound into the silent chamber, Silque fumbles with the worn leather straps of the turnwheel's pack. Retrieved, it glows gently, but no vision springs forth at her touch. She frowns. She'd hoped against hope for some sign from a goddess long since gone, which makes it all the more foolish of her to feel let down. Still, the next step seems self-evident. Silque gives the wheel a turn, then another, then another, letting it guide her fingers until it is satisfied.

Mila's Turnwheel offers only glimpses of the time being unwound. So much of it is nothing more than the slow growing and dying of plants in reverse. How much time has it been, as the world changes around this unchanging woman? The retrospective is intercut with the faintest impressions of other memories: a man's back, clad in dark blue-green armor. A village square where all the people stand still. Two women's voices, one of which Silque could swear is her own.

The turnwheel locks, unable to go back any further.

Unaware that she has been holding her breath, Silque lets it go in a rush, releasing the turnwheel to strip back the veneer of time. She hopes, plaintively, that she is not making a mistake.

The sleeping woman stirs. Her eyes open with a start, only to flutter closed, before settling into a bleary, half-awake state. She tries to speak, but the words seem to stick to her lips.

"Take your time," Silque says softly, aware of how silly that sounds, given the circumstances.

"Alm," the woman croaks at last. Confused, Silque glances over her packs, then back at the woman.

"I...do indeed have some food and coin to share," she ventures.

"No, not alms, Alm. He's a person."

"Not a person I'm acquainted with, I'm afraid."

Oddly, the woman's sigh sounds relieved. When she struggles to sit up, Silque aids her, awkwardly mindful of where she places her hands. Awake and animated, the woman has a sort of doelike quality to her, looking around with soft brown eyes that carry in them a questioning edge.

"You've been asleep," Silque tells her. She speaks slowly, so as not to shock. The woman nods absently, still searching for something Silque cannot see. At last, she says,

"Funny that you of all people should find me." There is a tentative fondness in her voice.

"Beg pardon? I don't believe we've ever met." And yet, there is a familiarity Silque cannot quite shake. For the first time, the woman seems to have all her wits about her, frowning with confusion.

"No? But, you're--what's your name?"

"I am Silque," she says.

"I'm Faye," the woman replies, her inflection suggesting that this is information Silque should already know.

act iii

Again, the silence yawns between them. Faye struggles to think of something to say, wits addled by magic and sleep. Anything to bridge this one gap, to prove to herself that she can do it right this time. Silque's gaze is patient as ever, with that slight hint of concern that she'll never voice. Faye wonders if she's gone and done all this for naught, and wouldn't that be embarrassing, to explain why she's been here for perhaps a few months at best?

"Who reigns?" Faye asks suddenly, recalling now the first thing she'd said upon awakening.

Silque tells her.

The name means nothing to Faye--this is what you wanted, she tells herself. Fear and triumph wage war in her chest, so riotously that she swears she can feel her ribcage rattle.

"And...this may seem even odder, but what year is it?"

Silque tells her.

Is it more than she'd expected, or less? She wonders what became of the villages, woven into the vestiges of her shroud, along with every person who no longer lives there. It makes Silque's presence all the more a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. Faye's never believed all too ardently in Mila, but perhaps she ought to give thanks now to that long-gone goddess.

"I've been asleep for a long time," she admits.

"Evidently," is Silque's even response.

Faye leans forward, her limbs slowly remembering the fundamental feeling of motion. For the first time, she notices the way Silque's cheeks flush at her proximity. She's noticing all manner of new things, now.

"Would you mind if we went outside?" Faye asks. "There's so much I want to see."

[stelliscripture]

a cairn, stone by stone

after spending half the day talking w/somewhat scandalized, somewhat morbid delight about ephraim/knoll in the context of trying (and failing) to get over lyon, this was the inevitable end result.  rowan introduced me to this ship a while back, but i'd completely forgotten about it until a tangentially-related discussion about ephraim the desperate-for-abasement power bottom lmao  i've been thinking a lot abt fe8 the past few days, and i'd like to try my hand at writing more for it in the future!  potentially more that's less wangsty, though the game really does lend itself to that, what with the necromancy and the borderline downer ending.

also on ao3!

---

"You wished to see these chambers?"

"I did." Ephraim's words are clipped, cut to the quick. "I wished to see them alone."

"I will retire, then," Knoll says. The only thing keeping him from fading back into the shadows without a sound is the understanding that this prince would need a warning. Ephraim exhales hard through his nose, a sigh he had started to repress, only to give up and let it free. The sigh shakes the dust from its resting place, and Knoll thinks, this man would have made a poor mage.

What had he learned in Renais, if he had not been taught to breathe so shallowly, so subtly, that he would almost appear dead, all for the sake of preserving some delicate spell? Even now, Ephraim's eyes do not take easily to the darkness, but nor does it pain him to step into the sunlight, the way it pains Knoll. Perhaps he and the sun are kin, then, harsh and radiant enough to leave permanent spots etched into one's vision, should they stare too long. Knoll tears his faintly-aching eyes from that light, and wishes that Prince Lyon could have done the same. He will not let Ephraim linger everywhere he looks.

Ephraim orders roughly, "Come, then," as he sits on what was once Prince Lyon's bed. He has the look of a man lowering himself into his own grave, and in that respect, he and Knoll are a fitting pair.

Knoll still does not believe in sacrilege. Even something so obscene as this seems more like a mild indulgence, in the face of what he has done (what both of them have done). What he does now is--a stopgap. This is merely the placing of bandages over a still-oozing wound, as if rotting is a mere illness that will run its course. He clutches at the sheets and feels dust cling to his palms, like attracted to like. What Ephraim thinks, Knoll does not guess. He knows the shape of it, if not the words.

Ephraim is loud as always, a crescendoing, winding concerto of moans and oaths, hissed out from between his clenched teeth.

"Lyon," and he grinds it out again and again, like a dull blade across a whetstone.

Out of habit, Knoll makes no noise, save for the occasional, muffled groan. These come only when Ephraim thrusts as though he means to drive the air from Knoll's lungs and out into the dead space hanging between them. One such groan escapes him now, and doubtless, Ephraim does not hear. Subtlety is not this prince's strong suit.

And yet, he remembers--you oughtn't mumble, kind words from a young man whose hands, whose lips so often trembled. You oughtn't mumble. What would I do, were you to pronounce a word wrongly in our spells, only to find yourself turned into ash and bones? I need you too much for that, Knoll.

"Prince Lyon," then, from Knoll's lips into the sheets where his prince (or what lurked inside the shell of his prince) had once lain. Perfectly enunciated, unmistakable.

Ephraim drives on.

There is no closing his eyes and exchanging the body of one prince for the ghost of another. No act of transmutation could turn Ephraim's body and voice, tense and warm and alive, into Prince Lyon's, soft as velvet on a trophy stag's head gone to rot. The bed groans under their combined weight, slight as Knoll's own contribution may be. He thinks of his prince, in between heady surges that leave him feeling not quite a part of himself. Prince Lyon's own body, empty and buried under stone. Knoll fancies himself and Ephraim much the same, here, rutting at one another while passing a dead man's name between their mouths.

They share it, Lyon, Prince Lyon, like it is the last air left in their drowning lungs.

Ephraim finishes with a hoarse, immodest cry--yes, yes, Lyon, give it to me, yes--though he has been given nothing while taking everything he can. Knoll lets him have it, knowing that the grasping moment of pleasure will be as food turning to ash the moment it passes Ephraim's lips.

[stelliscripture]

blue monday

the final free-for-all prompt for day seven of @fefemslashweek! thank you so much to everyone who left kudos/comments on ao3, or liked/reblogged each piece on tumblr! i took a poll on my fe twitter (@shiningbows), and a lot of ppl wanted to see felicia/azura from my vaguely-defined lord!azura fix-it-fic au, so here it is. this is the morning prior to the start of the game, so the only real context is that there's no kamui, but azura is still in hoshido as a glorified hostage, part of nohrian reparations for sumeragi's murder and the short, ugly war that followed. felicia was sent along with her eleven years ago as a maidservant, taken from the rebellious ice tribe b/c garon knew it would hurt kilma more to lose the daughter he favored.

also on ao3!

---

Felicia never has to wake Azura in the mornings. She's thought about it, a prank with a little burst of ice, the way she and Flora used to do. But she touches Azura a lot less these days, and tries not to read too hard into the reasons why. It's not a road she's brave enough to explore yet.

While Felicia sometimes struggles to drag herself into a state that at least looks like awakeness, Azura rises naturally in the blue hours before the warm dawn.

"I enjoy the quiet," she's told Felicia, holding her voice low so that it doesn't press against the confines of their thin walls. They move about their routine, such as it is, in a tiny room that almost seems a world apart from the rest of Hoshido. At least, Felicia thinks, the cool mornings make it much easier to put on her Nohrian maid's outfit, mended and re-mended by Azura's own sure hands as the two of them have grown together. Even cast in Hoshidan fabric, the whole ensemble, with its feathered petticoats and hidden sheathes for daggers, is a sticky chore when the weather turns so humid that Felicia can barely breathe.

"Let me brush your hair," Azura says. Her robe is slipping off her left shoulder, and Felicia debates pointing it out. For one dizzy, improprietous moment, she even considers reaching over, letting her always-cold knuckles brush against the skin over Azura's collarbone, righting the garment for her. It's what a good maid would do without second thought. Granted, Felicia's never considered herself a particularly good maid, but she has been, at least, a good friend, a good bodyguard, a good companion.

The thought passes, if only because she frantically hustles it along.

"But I'll do yours, too, okay?" Felicia offers. It should be the other way around, really. Azura is always her priority, even if she's never anyone else's--that much, they've always had in common.

"A braid today," remarks Azura. Her fingers are so gentle in Felicia's thin hair, working out knots that aren't really there. "I should train with my naginata today--I've neglected it. Princess Hinoka would take me to task if she knew." Princess Hinoka, she calls the woman who's supposed to be her older sister. Then again, if Felicia were somehow to ever go home again (to the Ice Tribe, not to Nohr), would "Lady Flora" trip out from behind her lips, too? She can only guess what Flora looks like now.

"I'll be sure to fetch it for you as soon as the master-at-arms is up and about!"

"You may have to wait until noon, in that case," Azura says, her giggle a melodious chime. She can't freely access her own weapon, given to her by Queen Mikoto herself--but if the Hoshidans don't trust Azura with a weapon, why let Felicia stay by her side? Felicia, who is herself a weapon so that Azura will only ever need to carry one as a formality.

[stelliscripture]

keep it professional

(belated) lucina/severa for the "secrets" prompt, day six of @fefemslashweek. this will be a double-feature to wrap things up, with part seven coming shortly! it's been way too long since i last wrote lucisev, and i wanted to try them out in the future past timeline setting. i like writing lucina as tentative, almost overly-eager to please in her relationships, esp w/severa? i don't want to woobify her, but i think she would privately fret a lot that she's Doing It Right and meeting her partner's needs. the difference is that she'll communicate this right away to severa, which in turn prompts severa to be more forthright. they have such a good dynamic. __(:3_/

also on ao3!

---

Severa stands up to dress, and is hit with vertigo from the abrupt movement.

"Have you left something in the oven?" Lucina asks. From anyone else, it would sound like teasing, but Lucina is, as always, in earnest.

"I can't stay too long--it looks sketchy," Severa mumbles, disentangling her underwear from her leggings, cast off together in her earlier haste. This prompts Lucina to sit up in the bed, fixing her with a look of consternation.

"Why now? You've not been in such a rush before. Have I done something to offend? Please, if I wronged you just now, did something unwanted, tell m--"

Severa cuts her off with an "ugh" that sounds juvenile to her own ears from the first syllable. No, that's not the right way to go about it. She's trying to be better at this.

"No," Severa explains," I just--this would make you look bad, you know? I mean, it'd make me look bad, too, but you're the Exalt, here. 'Captain of the guard caught sneaking out of the Exalt's chambers at gods-awful o'clock'? Not a rumor I want to start."

"Would it put you at ease to make our relationship public?"

Would it? Severa tries to picture herself as Lucina's public lover, then someday as her what?  Her consort? Her wife?

"Wouldn't that be, like, a conflict of interests? I'm supposed to be protecting you, not," with a vague gesture to Lucina's bed, "Not bedding you." Lucina considers this, brow drawn pensively. Then, speaking as though the words are just coming to her mind,

"I should think it a perfect alignment of our interests. As the Exalt, I must protect my people, and so, too, must I protect you, as you've done for me in return. As the Exalt, I love my people, and so, too, do I love you."

At this, Severa arches a brow.

"I certainly hope you don't, uh, 'love' all your people in the same way, unless you're also bedding every smelly farmer or slimy courtier you count amongst your flock." To Severa's surprise, Lucina blushes at this, the expression on her face springing into one of surprise.

"I misspoke, I--I hadn't considered the implications. I meant only that as the Exalt, my reasons to love you are twofold." A mirthful laugh sneaks its way out before Severa can restrain it. Although, on second thought, perhaps it's what Lucina needs to hear. She sits back down on the bed, tunic still open.

"I'm messing with you," she admits. Lucina's abashed little smile makes Severa glad she's seated--it's enough to make her weak at the knees, it always is. She wonders if it's like arrows or wind magic, a new and lasting weakness she's picked up in following wherever Lucina will go.

"I won't ask you to go public if you're uncomfortable," Lucina murmurs. "I only ask that you stay the remainder of the night with me. We will be Exalt and pegasus knight again in the morning."

[stelliscripture]

spaces left unfilled

(belated) eirika/l’arachel for day five of @fefemslashweek, "sunshine". i ended up writing sophelia for day four, and i really wanted to squeeze in some eirika/l'arachel somewhere! i think this is a much, much bigger topic than i can wholly cover in 500 words--i have a big jumble of thoughts wrt the two of them awkwardly navigating a budding relationship in the midst of how much of a downer fe8's ending really is. i really like l'arachel's little moments of frankness, and how well she understands not only eirika, but that she can't insert herself entirely into eirika's old experiences. all they can do is make s/t new together. :') i'm starting to fall behind a bit on these fills, thanks to some unexpected rl circumstances! days 6 and 7 will be coming as a package on day 7, i think.

also on ao3!

---

The day is balmy and serene, an autumn breeze tugging at Renais' razed ground like an insistent, oblivious child at a parent's sleeve. Fado's sepulchre stands empty, and Eirika cannot bring herself to enter it again. This war has erected more empty tombs than it has filled ones, she thinks. And she thinks, too, of another vacant tomb that not even the shell of what Lyon became (what he always was, in his darkest corners?) can ever be interred in.

Beside her, L'Arachel makes a show of a very fake coughing fit, where most would only "ahem" once.

"Such a grim look makes me want to reach for my staves," L'Arachel says in a rush. "Normally, you only look that way when you're injured and insisting you aren't." As is often the case, Eirika is left wondering if L'Arachel stumbles into her roundabout astute statements, or if she merely presents them in an absurd way because she's inclined to do so.

"It would almost be better, more fitting, if I could bring myself to cry. I fear I've wasted all my tears at the wrong times and left nothing for now." The words have the flavor of an apology, cloying as they spill off Eirika's tongue.

"No shame in that!" L'Arachel rallies. "I'm told I bawled quite appallingly at the funeral of my own dear parents."

"I'm told you were an infant at the time of their deaths, so I would expect as much," Eirika returns, a smile ghosting itself across her lips. L'Arachel defers with a little scoff and the wave of a hand, but they both know she's gotten what she came for: a smile from Eirika, a tepid imitation of the winking, dappled sunlight surrounding them.

"I almost wish it had rained today," admits Eirika. "We have a saying, 'Rain falling at a funeral brings the soul rising to heaven.'"

L'Arachel huffs at that, "I should think one's actions in life earn them a place at Saint Latona's side, not whether or not it happens to be raining on any given day."

"Then my father is guaranteed his place," is what Eirika says--what she does not say is that Lyon cannot be in that same place, if either of them are anywhere at all.

"Eirika," L'Arachel starts, hand uncertain on her cheek with the newness of what's bloomed between them at the most inopportune time. "I cannot pretend to share your hurt, but I can shoulder as big a portion of it as you can give me." Eirika wants to be wholly comforted by those words. Having the steadfastness of L'Arachel's faith directed at her is a dizzying experience, to be loved for what she is struggling to become, rather than for what someone else struggles to make of her.

"Perhaps we could go to the gardens instead," Eirika suggests suddenly, her hand over L'Arachel's own. The gardens are trampled and stagnant, but at least they are not empty, at least they can be filled again.

[stelliscripture]

genealogy of the mythological fix-it-fic, part 2 (of 12)

soleil/ophelia for day four of @fefemslashweek, "legend". i couldn't resist the idea of ophelia convincing soleil to do ridiculous larping of her in-universe mythological fix-it fics (soleil has read all 60 chapters of ophelia's micaiah/eirika crossover novel, probably). please note that nothing in this fic reflects my actual opinions on fe4, just that i think the references to older fe games as pop-cultural myths has great humor potential. otoh, things like olivia/donny supports referencing leanne and naesala are a nice little touch, unlike soleil and ophelia larping ophelia's jugdral femslash ships www also, i make no apologies for ophelia's horrible euphemisms, b/c i love horrible euphemisms.

also on ao3!

---

"Wait, go over this scenario for me, one more time?"

Ophelia takes a deep breath.

"Well, I'm Deirdre, the cursed maiden of the Spirit Forest, who caught the eye of Lord Sigurd, and joined his company after he was smitten by her beauty. However," with a dramatic flourish, "Unbeknownst to Sigurd, Deirdre cannot return his love, for her the compass of her heart points her to the enigmatic swordswoman, Ayra--that's you--and so now the two of them are having a midnight rendezvous. Make sense?"

Soleil nods slowly, trying to fix all the dramas and subplots in her mind. She's heard of these myths, but never in the rapt, excited detail with which Ophelia relates them.

"It's kind of sad, though, isn't it?" Soleil remarks. "Do we--I mean, the girls we're pretending to be--do they get to be together in the end?"

"They do in my version, which is the whole reason I've made it up. This saga gives poor Lady Deirdre a rather horrible life, frankly, so I think we could stand for some revisionism. But enough talk," Ophelia says, unlacing the ties at the front of her nightgown to slide it down and expose her bare shoulders. "We're in one of the castles, and I've summoned you to my chambers, unsure if you'll come or not." With that, Ophelia turns her back to gaze forlornly at the (shuttered) window, wrapping one of Soleil's blankets around herself like an improvised shawl. It's the one with rabbits stitched into it, Soleil notes with mild amusement.

"Lady Deirdre?" Soleil asks quietly, feeling a bit silly, calling Ophelia by a different name.

"Put a bit more 'oomph!' into it," Ophelia insists, still facing the window.

"Lady Deirdre!" Soleil cries, going for broke and striking a beseeching pose. "It's me, Ayra--uh, Ayla?"

"Oh, translators will never agree on any of the names. Just use whatever suits you."

"Ayra," continues Soleil, now determined to do this without any more of her own interruptions. "I've come to answer your summons!"

Ophelia whirls around, and Soleil is instantly impressed by how she manages to look so genuinely wanton, so full of tremulous surprise. Cyrkensia's stages are losing their greatest actress to her bedroom, Soleil thinks.

"Oh, Lady Ayra, I wasn't sure if you'd come when I called," declares Ophelia. Somehow, she manages to sound breathless while projecting her voice loud enough for an imagined audience. "I thought you might tire of our dalliances."

"Though our nights together may be sleepless," Soleil says, stepping closer and eliciting a stifled giggle from Ophelia, "I find they never tire me." Ophelia, not missing a beat, gasps,

"Lady Ayra," wrapping her arms tight around Soleil's neck. With a start, Soleil realizes Ophelia isn't wearing a stitch beneath that little nightgown. "Won't you please enter the secret garden of my Spirit Forest and drink of my maiden's ichor?"

She has no idea what that means, but when Ophelia guides her hand up her bared thigh, Soleil follows.

[stelliscripture]

words we have yet to understand

maribelle/lissa + baby brady and owain for (a very last-minute!) day three fill for @fefemslashweek​ and the prompt "family". though today is soleil's birthday, friday is the "sunshine" prompt, and i can never pass up a chance to write mind-numbingly sappy two-mom family content. i guess brady is somewhere between two and three here, while owain is around a year old.

also on ao3!

---

"Do you suppose it's too late in their development to teach them to call me something more sophisticated than 'Ma'?" Maribelle asks. "You know, tell them it was all a little farce, but that it's time now for them to speak like princes should?" Lissa, jogging Owain's chubby little legs around in circles as he lies on his back, vocalizing pure delight, responds,

"Oh, don't be such a fuddy-dud, Maribelle! They're both babies, 'Ma' is just easier for them to say." Maribelle at her desk heaves a world-weary sigh.

"On the contrary, Brady has firmly established himself in the realm of the 'terrible twos', as I'm told they're called," she insists.

Lissa decides not to point out that Brady, sitting tamely on Maribelle's lap as he tries in vain to undo the absurd miniature cravat he's wearing, isn't so terrible. At least, when he's not crying. Then again, he's so often crying, that maybe the point is moot. If it were up to her, poor little Brady wouldn't be parading around in so much poof that he practically waddles, but then again (somewhat ironically), Maribelle is far better-versed in what a royal upbringing should look like than she is. She play-nibbles at Owain's stubby toes, eliciting another gale of laughter. He thumps his arms up and down enthusiastically, babbling a mile a minute in his own obscure baby language. She wonders if Brady can understand his brother, or if he's forgotten baby-speak in favor of his newfound love of proclaiming, "No!" at everything.

Maribelle looks down from her papers and makes a scandalized noise.

"Lissa! Take his feet out from your mouth--who knows where they've been?"

"He's a baby," Lissa replies with a good-natured roll of her eyes, "He can barely even walk! Where are his feet even supposed to go?"

"No!" Brady chimes in, and Lissa takes that as him siding with her on the matter. Abandoning any pretense of work, Maribelle sets her work aside to dandle Brady on her knee.

"Do you suppose he's simply saying that to be contrary?" she asks. The question is probably meant to be rhetorical, but Lissa can't resist.

"Contrary? Your child? You know, there's a saying about apples and trees..."

"Yes, and our sons shall be good apples," Maribelle proclaims, punctuating her statements with doting kisses on Brady's round, flushed cheek. He bears his mother's outburst of highly ignoble affection with surprising patience, without a single tear. Lissa is beginning to suspect that Brady cries out of happiness just as much as he does out of fear, anger, or most any other emotion he has. Not to be ignored, Owain begins to crescendo his babbling, as if he has a host of opinions on the matter. Lissa tickles his tummy, and he's back to laughter.

"Good, respectable apples, who do not call their mama 'Ma' like hooligans," Maribelle insists.

"You're ma," Brady says, like he's just arrived at the most astounding revelation of his tiny life. Maribelle groans in dismay.

[stelliscripture]

and with trepidation, face the dawn

femrobin/sumia for day two of @fefemslashweek, the prompt being "endings". i know everyone and their uncle has probably done s/t pertaining to robin and their spouse on the sacrifice end, but i wanted to see robin actually facing the cessation of her existence. frobin/sumia is Not That Deep, i know, but i think there's a place for being two halves of a greater whole with chrom, and then there's a place for reading trashy novels together and falling in a simple love that's no less valid. esp since it's my personal hc that chrom ending leads to a schism in the future kids that then leads to fef, where the choice for their future is taken from them, i think robin would be more cognizant of that, and choose not to prioritize her life over that future.

also on ao3!

---

"...I can think of no gentle way to tell you: I'm going to die tomorrow."

Sumia does not say anything, does not cry out as her lips part and close in a hopelessly mechanical parody of speech. She looks as though the confines of her body have at once become too tight, like she will burst forth from herself and shatter at a touch.

"Grima," Robin explains, though the one word is hardly an explanation at all. "If I strike it down, we both die."

"Have you told Captain Chrom?" the words stumbling out of Sumia's mouth, and does she worry for anyone but herself because she can't yet process what she's been told? And Robin says,

"Yes." She will not be another Emmeryn to him. He is forewarned, this time, and can begin to adjust himself to the shape of the world without her. Robin owes him that much, the man who made her a friend before he would make her a god. If she owes Chrom the shape of herself, she owes Sumia every minute detail that fills her, every moment that blends together into a dappled assortment of memories she can only recognize as happy.

"Morgan and Cynthia--"

"No," Robin cuts her off. "They would try to stop me, no doubt as absurdly as possible."

"And you don't think I would?" Sumia's eyes narrowing and welling with tears that pool and pool but do not fall, her voice taking on a ragged fierceness.

"I trust that you'll understand more wholly what's at stake," says Robin, still standing there. But no--they know so much better than her, her children she now will never have. She wonders if they knew what ugly pieces of her she'd left them, when they clawed their way back through time to save her. "Perhaps I even should have let Lucina end me long ago." At this, a tiny sob wrenches itself from Sumia.

"Don't, don't say that," she pleads, as if Sumia had not forgiven Chrom's girl her anger, as mistrustful as her father is trusting.

"My life is not worth their future."

Sumia embraces her then, thin arms around Robin's neck, and Robin counts her wife's every shuddering heartbeat. She is exactingly cognizant of all her being, now that it is so suddenly so finite. It feels like something inside her hands is vibrating, like she never really understood that they were part of her living body until just now.

"Can we lay down together?" Sumia asks shakily. Even now, she is still so faithful that if she asks, then Robin will have the right answer. "I'll read to you, whatever you'd like."

This is what she offers, but when they lay down, side by side, the book stays closed under Sumia's hand, under Robin's. They say nothing more, do nothing more, despite the urgent press of awareness that clings like a craving to the walls of Robin's mouth--in hours, she will not exist.

With trepidation, they face the dawn.

[stelliscripture]

tonight, you’re no more than a mirage

a kagerou/orochi fill for day one of @fefemslashweek, “armor”--i went for the loose interpretation of ~emotional armor~, haha.  i’d call this r-15, in that there are allusions to Spicie content, but nothing explicit.  i really wanted to do s/t for this week, no matter how small, so i’m trying to have all my fills hit exactly 500 words.  maybe framing it as a writing challenge instead of an excuse for my lack of time will make me look cooler www

also, an ao3 link!

---

Kagerou has to force herself to make noise when they're in bed together.  She wills Orochi's litany of cries to fill up enough silence for the both of them, loud and shameless and so quick to slip through their thin walls, though subtlety is her instinct.  Or perhaps not--instinct can be taught, or at the very least tucked so deep beneath a child's skin that there's no pulling it out, no matter how deeply you cut or how fervently you worry at the wound.  She makes other concessions, where she can, and Orochi accepts them, more often than not.

There is an artfulness to the way Kagerou's hands are bound above her head, crossed at the wrist with a cheeky bow to finish the knot.  It's something of a performance, where Kagerou pretends she cannot unbind herself, though Orochi's ties are not so easy to escape.  They hold this tender, tenuous illusion in implicit agreement.

Orochi stills, brushes away a splay of fine hairs clinging to Kagerou's jawline.

"You're making the most ridiculous face," Orochi tells her.  Kagerou's countenance smooths into bland imperceptibility almost automatically--almost, until she overrides herself with a smile for Orochi.

"You seem to be of the opinion that I always make ridiculous faces when we do this," she points out.  Orochi clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes.

"Yes, but there's a world of difference between a pleasant funny face and the one you're making right now.  I'm sure I look just as silly, in the thick of it--you're scowling like someone's waving something foul-smelling right beneath your nose!  Come now," and here she slaps Kagerou's thigh playfully, "This isn't an interrogation.  Believe me, if I'd wanted to torture you, I wouldn't have trimmed my fingernails this morning."  The corners of her eyes crinkle up in delight at her own naughty joke, which she's doubtless been hunting for an excuse to use.

"And you torture all your prisoners like this, do you?"  Kagerou retorts softly, though there is the slightest teasing lilt to her voice.  Orochi's smile thins on her full lips, so slightly that it could be nothing more than a trick of the haze in Kagerou's eyes.

"I've dirtied my hands as well."  A finger trails down Kagerou's stomach now; her nails are indeed short crescents that have a polished gleam in the low light.  Kagerou tries to imagine Orochi's deft, playful hands inflicting pain on someone, wonders if she locks her vivaciousness away to do ugly little things in the shadows for the queen whose death left her crying for days.  She lets Orochi keep her secrets.

"This is horrible, morbid ninja sex talk," Orochi remarks dryly.  "Let's make this a little jollier, hmm?"  Her fingers slip beneath Kagerou's waistband and do something that elicits a gasp Kagerou does not have to force.  And Orochi says, "Good, that's better," hair falling down and casting a lattice of shadows on Kagerou's face as she leans in close.  "Now give me more."

[stelliscripture]

02. but i say it is what you love

bday fic for @sumias!!  also doubling as fill 02 for the sappho prompt challenge.  i’d absolutely butcher leo, so i hope some scarlet/azura is okay instead, since we’ve been talking abt that a lot lately.  while she’s not in “survival mode” like i’ve seen her described on conquest, i’m hard-pressed to say azura’s entirely happy, esp since birthright really seems to thrive off of her self-sacrificing Mysterious Waif pain.  imo scarlet’s outsider status as someone whose entire country is hanging between nohr and hoshido would give her and azura and interesting dynamic.  also, scarlet trying to be Smooth w/azura is cute to me, in contrast to azura really wanting to open herself to someone.  this is the most tl;dr author’s note i’ve had in a long while, oops.

---

"some men say an army of horse and some men say an army on foot and some men say an army of ships is the most beautiful thing on the black earth. but i say it is what you love."

Somehow, the task of organizing the group's flying mounts has fallen implicitly to Azura.  The matter had been a nonissue until Cheve added its forces to Hoshido's, bringing with them a small but well-trained flight of wyvern riders.  Most pegasi don't balk at a lone wyvern, but a group of them is enough to set both parties on edge, and the kinshi begin aggressive displays of their feathers the moment they lay eyes on the unfamiliar wyverns.  Thus, the handful of wyverns are relegated to an awkward, ramshackle stable of their own, cheek and jowl with Silas' lone cavalry horse, who regards his new companions with placid disinterest.

Azura doesn't mind spending time with any of the mounts, for all that they belong to other people.  Each animal has its own personality, much the same as any human--the key difference is that none of the animals attempt to solicit her for unwanted conversations.  It's almost enough to make her wish sometimes for such a companion of her own, though she wonders how many secrets she could spill to an animal before even that became too much.

The wyvern whose stable Azura visits now belongs to Scarlet, and the other wyverns regard her with the same deference as the humans do her rider.  She's a beautiful creature, easy to admire in the way the striking white of her scales fades seamlessly into the soft, pearly grey of her underbelly.  Her temperament is a gentle and patient one, though Azura knows from her time in the Nohrian courts that most wyverns are bred to be so fierce that even their masters must struggle to assert their dominance.  Not so with this wyvern, who butts her head gingerly against Azura's hand, signaling that she'd like for her nose to be rubbed.  Azura humors the wyvern--the feeling of scales against her skin is a soothing one.  Had she never seen Scarlet and her mount in combat, she might worry that the wyvern is under the impression that she's a house cat.  

As Scarlet's wyvern leans forward into the petting, her reins dangle down, and Azura notes that they're studded with jewels.  Azura has only spoken to Scarlet one-on-one on a few occasions, yet the bejeweled reins are so quintessentially her that Azura has to smile.  It's one that twitches the corners of her lips upwards, despite her brief effort to contain it.  She takes the reins into her free hand for a closer look, brushing her thumb across the stones, each one evenly spaced from the next and pressed deep into the leather.  Some of them are paste, while others are simple rocks, and there's even what appears to be several kernels of vividly-colored corn, a food Azura has to think about for a moment before she can recall its name.

Someone knocks rhythmically on the wall of the stable.  Both Azura and the wyvern's heads jolt up--Azura's in surprise, the wyvern's in evident delight.  Scarlet leans against the wall like she's been there for a while, half in her armor, half out of it.  Almost immediately, Azura shuts herself down into her default mode for socialization.  Polite, even sweet at rare times, with a manufactured air of mystery that keeps people at arm's length before they can push her away even further.

"I apologize for being in here without your leave," she says, quiet and even.  "I'll be gone in just a moment."  Scarlet waves a hand in easygoing dismissal.

"It's no big deal.  I see you down here every so often, and if Bijou likes you, you're good in my book."  

Bijou can only be the wyvern Azura is still petting, and Azura's incredibly limited knowledge of the language is enough to tell her that the name means "jewel" in Chevois.  At the very least, it's certainly fitting.  As Scarlet strolls over to join her, Azura stays stiffly rooted to the spot, like an amateurish model holding a wooden pose for a painter.  She can see Scarlet sneaking glances at her, trying to figure out a way to drum up a conversation without scaring her off.

"You ever flown before?" is what she decides on.  She doesn't ask in a leering or condescending way.  It's nothing more than an innocent get-to-know-you question, the kind that Azura has conditioned herself to be wariest of.  Earnestness is far more difficult to respond to than passive-aggression, or even outright hatred.  Letting herself be wanted or unwanted as a commodity, and overtures to friendship leave her waiting for the point where she becomes too melancholic, too inaccessible, for the other person to bother any longer.  She feels as though she's missed her cue, and rushes her response like the speed of her words can make up for her silence.

"I've had some elementary training on a pegasus," she admits.  Scarlet simply nods in response, running a cupped hand up and down the stretch of her wyvern's long neck.  Bijou looks for all the world like a cat having her chin scratched, her body language loose and relaxed, her fierce eyes hooded as she leans into Scarlet's touch and emits a little trill of contentment.  

"So, would you maybe wanna try flying with us sometime?  I mean, since you're always down here with the wyverns, looks to me like you're at least a little interested, yeah?"  Thinking that Scarlet is referring to combat, Azura responds in kind.

"High mobility may help me accomplish my tasks faster, but I feel wrong in reducing a flying soldier to little more than my bored escort.  I'll have to decline, for your sake."  For her own sake as well, as she never knows what to say to whichever sky knight hovers back and watches her sing, their wonder always a touch begrudging.

"Nah," Scarlet says, shaking her head, "I meant just for fun.  Y'know, like a joy ride.  You've got some gorgeous skies here in Hoshido that I won't tire of seeing up close anytime soon.  Hell, I even got Ryouma to go on a few with me," and at this, Azura perks up in surprise.  Seeing that she has Azura's attention, Scarlet is enthusiastic to continue.  "Back in Cheve, when we all thought he was just some Hoshidan noble's son with nothing better to do than lend us rebels a hand.  Sure, we had to go at night--less risk of getting shot down--but it's still fun."

Azura tries to picture Ryouma going on a "joy ride", or doing much of anything involving joy.

"He's a good guy, your brother," adds Scarlet.  "I don't feel like some sort of second-rate lackey the way I thought I might, dealing with him, or really with any of you Hoshidan royalty."

"By blood, I am not a member of the Hoshidan royal family," Azura demurs.  She stops herself short of saying that Ryouma is not her brother--he called her his sister when he first introduced Scarlet to her, she remembers suddenly.  

"You're still a sweet girl, though."  Before Azura has a chance to respond to that peculiar remark, Scarlet hurries on from the matter.  "I mean, I didn't come this far just to have Cheve go from being a Nohrian territory to a Hoshidan one, like it's just a hot potato for the big-wigs to throw back and forth."

"Are you admitting to me that your alliance with Hoshido is nothing more than a matter of convenience?" Azura asks, meeting Scarlet's eyes for the first time in their conversation.  Even when her intention is not to be confrontational, she knows this is a gesture that unnerves people.  For her part, Scarlet only laughs.

"You can be a blunt one when you want, huh?  Look, I know Cheve doesn't have a chance in hell at independence on its own, but winding up stuck as a friendly country's vassal still isn't freedom, even if it's cozier."  Azura wonders, then, how much Ryouma has told Scarlet about her, for Scarlet to draw such a hamfisted parallel between Cheve's situation and Azura's own.  Then again, perhaps it only stings her because Scarlet is completely right.  Azura loves Hoshido dearly, but Hoshido loves her only conditionally in return.

She decides it's time to go, her endurance for conversation spent--it's not running away if you go about it right, even if a lonely part of you wouldn't mind staying.

"I hadn't meant to interrogate you.  If you don't mind, I'll leave now, like I said I would," Azura says.  Scarlet looks surprisingly woebegone as Azura begins to withdraw, giving Bijou one last pat on the nose for her quiet, impartial observation of the conversation.

"I didn't mean to scare you off," Scarlet says.  "I'd love it if you came and visited Cheve, once this is all over.  Hell, I'd love it if I could talk to you a little more, period."  When Azura looks back at her, there's a blush covering the freckles on her cheeks, like she'd expected this "chance" meeting to go differently.  Azura scolds herself inwardly for wanting from afar, yet also for the tiring persistence of her own aloofness.  

For the first time, she tries to imagine herself just vanishing into anonymity.  It seems no different from the death she can accept is coming for her, if she thinks of it as something cold and far away.  Instead of dying with a blade through her gut, or singing herself away into a wisp of foam, Azura ventures to picture herself taking a joy ride with Scarlet on her wyvern.  Again, she knows she's been silent for too long, so she indulges Scarlet (and herself) with a smile.

"I'll certainly consider it," she says quietly.

[stelliscripture]

winging it

a glorified warmup that turned into a vague sort of sibling study between lissa and chrom, as well as a bit on lissa as a healer.  i think that constantly calling back to and comparing themselves to emmeryn is something that both chrom and lissa would do almost habitually, for years following her death, and i wanted to mix that w/some good old fashioned sibling banter, too.  why are the randos in the beginning two women??  b/c it’s not me if i’m not shoehorning femslash into everything www

---

Exhaustion creeping in, Lissa moves surreptitiously to pick up her staves.  A few local healers have been in and out of the birthing room, helping her with the aftermath, but she judges that now would be a safe time to leave the baby she's just delivered to his family.

"Will you bless the child, Princess Lissa?" the mother asks from the bed.  Lissa looks up with a start, jostling a loose strand of hair completely free from its pigtail.  It tumbles down gracelessly to cling to her sweaty cheek, though Lissa takes distant comfort in the fact that she's hardly the only one who looks like she's been through the wringer.

"Me?" Lissa echos, voice lilting in surprise.  No, the other Princess Lissa in the room, she retorts to herself, inwardly.  The other Princess Lissa who can be graceful both before and after half a day's work delivering a child.  

"If it wouldn't trouble you too greatly," supplicates the baby's other mother, taking the child from her tired wife's arms.

"No, of course not," Lissa rushes to respond, not wanting either woman to think she's too snooty to put in a few nice words with Naga for their son.  She lays her staves aside to accept the tightly-swaddled baby, wondering briefly how he feels about being passed around from stranger to stranger like a hot potato.  His wrinkled little face peers up at Lissa from amidst his blankets, and she can feel his tiny limbs wriggling in fidgety bewilderment at the newness of his own existence.  

She tries to remember how a blessing for a newborn is even supposed to go--if she ever knew this nicety of a cleric's many duties, she's long since forgotten it in favor of all the harder minutiae of being a battlefield healer.  Emm used to love to bless children, Lissa thinks.  She'd go to them one by one, newborn to awkward teenager, whenever she got the chance.  Lissa can picture Emmeryn's hand on each child's forehead, her benevolent smile (though the details of her face are harder and harder to call up, these days), but she can't for the life of her recall what sacred words her sister would use.  As per usual, when it comes to being a princess, Lissa decides that she's simply going to have to wing it.

"Um."  Off to a fantastic start.  Lissa takes a deep, calming breath, closes her eyes, and tries again.  "May you have a long, happy life, a home to always return to, and people in that home who will always love you."  She lets the words hang there for a moment, hoping that they sounded serene and sincere, rather than childish or holier-than-thou.  Halfway through opening her eyes, Lissa suddenly squeezes them shut again, following up with a hasty, "In Naga's name."

"In Naga's name," both mothers intone, gratitude writ in the tired harmony of their voices.

---

"Are we done here?" Chrom blurts out, nearly the second Lissa rounds the corner into his line of sight.  Lissa snorts with utterly indelicate incredulity, plopping herself down into the chair beside her brother with an equal lack of poise.

"Chrom, really?  That's the first thing you have to say after I've been off delivering a baby all day?  'Well,'" slipping here into an exaggeratedly deep imitation of Chrom's voice, "'We've popped that baby right out, so let's move on, Shepherds!'  Jeez."  Chrom bears her poor (though suitably cavalier) imitation of him with a long-suffering roll of his eyes, likewise devoid of princely patience.

"All right, all right.  At least you were actually doing something, as opposed to sitting around uselessly and making the entire manor's staff uncomfortable just by existing.  I hadn't meant to impose on these people for so long, is all."  

"These people" being a minor noblewoman and her household, situated right along the coast of the small, landlocked sea between Ylisse, Plegia, and Regna Ferox.  Chrom's advisers had described the noblewoman vaguely as "an eccentric mage"--a phrase that Lissa supposes is a politely condescending way of alluding to the fact that the woman has a wife.  She sees nothing "eccentric" about the hospitality the small detachment of Shepherds has been shown, their travel by sea delayed by stormy skies and stormier waters.  Indeed, Lissa is starting to feel proud of herself, for having a hand in delivering the baby and paying their hostess back, in some small way.

"They asked me to bless the baby, you know," Lissa says, half to make it feel a bit more real, half to bask in her own usefulness compared to Chrom.

"They asked you?" Chrom repeats, with a little laugh of disbelief.  Lissa shoots him a glare, and his smile turns softer, more appropriately proud and brotherly.  "What did you say?  Gods know I'm glad they didn't ask me."

"I told him that if he ever has a little sister, he has to take her seriously and never be a jerk to her, or else he'll wake up with frogs in his bed every morning."

"That sounds more like a curse than a blessing!"

"Hey, so I'm a curse?" accuses Lissa.  She's mostly just returning fire at his teasing, now self-assured with the knowledge that Chrom probably couldn't have come up with anything better himself.  Thinking of her sister-in-law, pregnant in Ylisstol, Lissa can only imagine what a dunderhead Chrom will be with his own baby.

"You do have your moments," Chrom admits.  He goes silent, then, as if mulling something over.  "Although," and Lissa is instantly wary, hearing the very timbre of his voice shift from a teasing older brother to a prince about to make a speech, "You did a great thing today, Lissa.  Make no mistake."  Lissa averts her gaze a little.

"I've delivered babies before, Chrom.  I didn't skip out on all my cleric's training, you know."  She makes a show of nonchalance, not entirely sure how to face a rare compliment from her brother head-on, nevermind one delivered with an iota of eloquence.

"I mean it--it's a great gift you have, to be able to save lives while so many of us are preoccupied only with taking them.  Every once in a while, even I wish..." he trails off, contemplating the hilt of Falchion that he seems to have taken ahold of subconsciously.  Emmeryn had refused to touch their father's sword, but Chrom had taken to it so naturally that no one even bothered to test if Lissa could wield the one blade that might prove her of Exalted blood, Brand or no Brand.  Despite that, she can't imagine Chrom as anyone or anything but Falchion's rightful wielder, for all his private agonizing over whether or not he's making his own legacy or merely continuing their father's.  

"You wouldn't last a day as a priest," Lissa reassures him.  "If I had Falchion, you'd just bop people around with staves until they broke."

"And you think you could lift Falchion?" Chrom teases in return.  He keeps his doubts so close, unlike everything else he feels, but Lissa knows when not to push him.  

"Hey, mister, you were actually cool for a moment, there--don't be too quick to totally ruin it."  Chrom reaches over and ruffles Lissa's hair a little too hard, twisting even more of it free from her especially haphazard pigtails.  With an agitated groan, Lissa tugs off both her hair ties, letting the whole tangled mess tumble over her shoulders.  Chrom chuckles with the kind of obnoxious triumph only an older brother could exude.

"I must admit, I took that line from Frederick--he said it about Emm, once.  But I do believe it's true for you, too."

Lissa cuts herself short before she can even speak with a jaw-cracking yawn, the exhaustion she'd temporarily forgotten now settling back in.  About a second before the yawn ends, she remembers to cover her mouth.  Chrom snorts, a shared habit of theirs that he swears up and down he's grown out of.  Lissa flops over to the side, resting her head on Chrom's shoulder--the clothed one, of course.  If he's going to tease her, he can be her pillow for a bit, too.

"Thanks," she mumbles belatedly.  "Wake me up in an hour or so?"

"I suppose we can wait a little longer," Chrom concedes, flicking up his travel-worn cape so that it covers Lissa as well.  It's nice, Lissa thinks sleepily, to know that both of them are still winging it sometimes as a prince and princess.

[stelliscripture]

14. but me you have forgotten

number 14 for the sappho challenge, ft. miyaio and timeloops in the endless war ending.  literally no one is surprised, given that timeloops are my favorite thing ever and desu 2 is so good at supplying them.  it’s ambiguous as to whether or not everyone remembers resetting the timeline after the tri arc, so i went w/the idea that they start to remember as the loops accumulate.  it’s reasonably popular fanon that hibiki remembers most of the sep arc timeloops, so i went off of that, along w/some references to kingmaker and my unnecessarily convoluted hcs abt the whole stars/asterisms as actual beings + their relationship to the akashic record.

---

"but me you have forgotten"

0Io swears, at the last, dizzy moment, that Miyako is looking up at her.  Too late, she wonders if either of them will remember any of this.

1

"My name is Houtsuin Miyako, acting chief of JP's," she announces.  This time, Io does not immediately wonder where Yamato has gone.

2

"You have promise as a tactician," Miyako remarks.  "You're certain you were really always a civilian?"  She says it in a tone that could almost sound fond, and Io tries not to deny herself the possibility, for once, that someone could ever like her back.

"I think so," is Io's response.  "I'm just doing what I have to do, for all of us."  Miyako nods; her mouth is a sliver of a smile.  

3

"I'm not really that brave," Io insists, hands raised nonconfrontationally, like she doesn't really want Miyako closer.  Miyako's eyes narrow.

"False modesty will get you nowhere, Nitta-san."  She steps forward--not enough that she's in Io's personal space, but almost, almost.  "If you need validation, let me tell you--I like you when you're bold."

4

Io wonders if she's hopelessly fickle, if her romantic instinct is to fall head over heels for the nearest person who helps her stave off the apocalypse (again).  She makes herself look at Hibiki, really look at him, and he's still comforting and secure and warm--but he doesn't make her hot, she realizes, mortified by the thought.  Sleeping under a tarp at a refugee camp, Io pictures herself pulling Miyako down to her, instigating a kiss on the vague memory of Miyako saying that she likes it when Io is bold.  She can't quite recall when Miyako told her that, but the words are so easy to hear in her voice.

5

They all start to remember, by now--at Fumi's behest, Nicaea 2.5 now has a changelog, going back to their original fight with the Triangulum.

"Are you used to remembering?" Io asks Hibiki quietly.  His glance slides to the side, nonchalant, but she can see that his brow is furrowed.

"I wouldn't say I'm used to it, but it happened before.  With the Septentriones, that is."

"Do you think Saiduq and Miyako-san remembered it all from the beginning, then?"  It makes her uneasy, to think of meeting and re-meeting Miyako over and over again, when Miyako has already known her all along.  Hibiki smiles--the one where he looks for all the world like he knows something you don't know yet, something you'll like when you figure it out for yourself.

"Probably."

6

Io takes Miyako's gloved hand in her own, willing the feel of the fabric on her palm, of each individual finger laced between her own, to stay with her.

7

"I will remember," Miyako assures her, perfectly rational.  "Believe me, I remember quite well how long it takes you, each time around, to call me by my name."

8

"Miyako," Io blurts, nearly tripping in her haste over a pipeline exposed by the torn asphalt of the street.

"How forward," is Miyako's remark, punctuated by a smile that could keep Io fighting forever.

9

Intensely aware of Miyako's gaze on her bare thighs, Io wills herself not to bite her lower lip out of sheer embarrassment.

"Why persist in wearing your school uniform?" Miyako asks suddenly.  "Surely by now, you would think to bring a more suitable change of clothing."

"I, um...  It slips my mind, usually, even though I know every time that I won't even finish the school day."  This is an excuse, Io knows.  "My home is always gone, by the time I get a chance to go back for anything."  She does not go back for her parents anymore, not when the thought of seeing them at the start of the next loop is half of what keeps her going through the one she's already in.  Miyako's awkward arm around her shoulder is the other half of her motivation.

"It wouldn't be any trouble for me to procure you something more sensible, provided you don't mind wearing clothes with a JP's logo."  Io looks at Miyako's flashy coat pinned to her shoulders, the svelte dress uniform, and smiles at the notion of Miyako telling her to dress practically.

10

They want her to channel Lugh again, and Io finds herself surprised it's taken this long.  This has nothing to do with the Dragon Stream, though--they need only a medium, to pierce this invader's defenses with something not entirely human, nor entirely divine.

"Logic tells me that you're more suited to act as a medium than I am," Miyako says, just as Io closes her eyes to try and picture the magic circle in her mind.  For this, she no longer needs Yamato's summoning stage.  "Sentiment tells me otherwise."

"It's natural to worry, I think," Io reassures her.  "That's what friends do."  Miyako takes Io's hand in her own and presses a kiss to it.  For once, she does not meet Io's eyes head-on.

"My irrational fretting comes from something more than just a sense of  platonic camaraderie."

11

"Don't," Io gasps, even as her free hand punches the commands into her phone to summon a demon with healing skills, infuriatingly steady.  She feels lightheaded, but far too in command of herself when Miyako is bleeding out in her arms.

"The needs of the many," is Miyako's firm, ragged insistence.  Her voice is waterlogged with blood.  Io does not cry--she only aches.

15

Miyako looks a thousand years younger and a thousand years older all at once, Io thinks.

"You could have died," she says, voice alarmingly tremulous.  "I'm such a hypocrite."  Io isn't the type to throw Miyako's words back in her face, particularly when she can believe, now, that she is worth more alive.  It pains her to know that Miyako still doesn't feel the same way about herself.

"I'll be here for you as long as you need me."  Given their situation, it's one promise Io is certain she can keep.

19

"I, um.  I love you."  Miyako rolls over rather abruptly, eliciting a pained squeak from the metal cot frame.

"What's brought this on?" she asks, sounding less businesslike than perhaps she wants to.

"I don't think I've ever confessed to you properly," Io soldiers on, trying to imagine herself working up from notes in Miyako's shoe locker to a full letter, a date, a relationship that lets them grow older together.  "I keep thinking about what I want to say, only everything ends up sounding so silly."  The generator buzzes ubiquitously behind her every word, rushing in as soon as she's done speaking to chew on Miyako's silence.

"This is perfect," Miyako says at last.  "This is more than enough."

23

These invaders have been here long enough that Io really does feel like they're at war.  A war of attrition, against a veritable fleet of stars that Miyako and Saiduq insinuate are not even a proper asterism, but instead a group of renegades hurtling themselves at Heaven's Throne.

"Maybe this means we're almost done?" Io ventures.  "If there aren't any legitimate successors left, maybe invaders will stop coming for the throne."  Miyako smiles wanly and shakes her head.

"This is nothing more than an invitation for the riffraff of the cosmos to grab at control of the Akashic Record.  Then again, perhaps I'm not one to talk, given my own status."

"You're not like them," insists Io.

"Really?  If I were a proper Triangulum and I could sit Heaven's Throne, would you let me?"  Miyako asks the question, and it hovers somewhere between a challenge and a plea for reassurance.  Io thinks of something Hibiki told her once, who knows how many times ago.  A world that only he remembered, where Saiduq took Heaven's Throne and stayed there, putting everyone else in a surreptitious little pocket dimension where not even Canopus could touch them.  I missed him, Hibiki had told her simply.  She wonders if that world spins on, undisturbed, if she and Miyako ever met there,

"I would miss you a lot," Io admits, "But I think you would make a good, fair Administrator."

??

"It's my birthday," Io says suddenly.  The loops seldom go on this long.  She realizes that she is technically a high school graduate, too.

"Happy birthday," Miyako tells her.  "I'm afraid I've never celebrated such an occasion before--will this do?"  She cups Io's face in her hands and kisses her with a slowness that reminds them both of having all the time in the universe, and yet never enough of it.

???

Io releases her grip, but Miyako twists and catches Io's hand instead.

"Not yet," Miyako tells her, as the two of them float in the space between one timeline and the next.  Io knows, if nothing else, she will remember the feel of Miyako's bare hand in hers.

[stelliscripture]

10. wisdom like this

i sure didn’t mean to actually whip up a half-baked drabble for that sappho challenge, yet here i am, not even starting w/the first poem in the list.....  this is for poem 10, b/c i can’t resist sophelia when the ship writes its own hokey sun and stars references.  this is sort of a b-side to the “jenny” drabble, in that it’s ophelia’s own feelings of “does she like me, or does she Like Me like me?”.  also enjoy ophelia’s ridiculous internal dialogue and her revisionist interpretations of constellation mythos www

---

"not one girl i think who looks on the light of the sun will ever have wisdom like this"

She takes Soleil out on a cold winter night, cold enough that her own breath tears through her lungs and makes her teeth ache.  They are stargazing--Soleil's suggestion, though Ophelia knows it's born more from a desire to cater to her interests than any genuine astrological knowledge on Soleil's part.  Ophelia resolves to be her teacher, then.

"If you look...right there, yes," squinting along the line of her own pointing finger, "You'll see the tresses of the queen flowing behind her as she preens and displays her beauty for all the cosmos to see."

"Is it just her hair I'm supposed to be looking for?" Soleil asks.  Ophelia glances up to see her peering, mouth set in a perplexed pout.  "Where's the rest of her?"  Soleil's breath puffs out in a soft cloud through the slightest gap between her lips, one that Ophelia is seized by the desire to kiss.  She buries the thought, but not deeply.  

"You've got to imagine that bit," Ophelia admits.  "Once you've studied the configurations of the stars enough, their faces and stories begin to take shape."  Soleil nods slowly, evidently pretending that she can pick out the right cluster of stars and draw a thread between them.  Ophelia loves her, quietly, for trying.  She indicates another array of constellations, down and to the right from the first pair.  "Here," she says, "This might be more to your tastes.  According to the Hoshidans, this set of stars signifies a tenma-riding princess locked in mortal combat with a leviathan of the deep!  When no prince came to save her from the beast's jaws, she tore herself loose of her bonds, sprung onto her steed, and fought for her own freedom."

Soleil's smile in response is the kind Ophelia can only meet head-on in the dark, where not even a full moon can belie how hard it makes her face flush.  She wonders time and time again why she bothers to hide her affections when Soleil lets hers shine bright and open as the midday sun.  The thought that she's fickle, that she's expecting Soleil to love her (to really love her) just because she's a girl, is what stops Ophelia just short of a sweeping monologue or an overture to a well-timed kiss, every time.  I could save you from that monster, she might say, we could each be one another's princess, we could be each be one another's wings.  It's a shame that her excellent star-themed pickup lines must always go to waste.

She sniffles, and it makes a muffled echo out across the nighttime air.  

"Oh!  Do you need a hanky?  I have, like, six of them, hold on," and Soleil is already snaking a gloved hand into her sleeve, of all places, to produce a handkerchief with what appear to be slightly malformed bunny rabbits prancing all along the edges.  Ophelia accepts it gingerly, picturing Soleil doggedly stitching the design in to make something cute out of a glorified snot rag.

"Confound this leaky faucet of phlegm, broken wide open by the bitter winter's assault," Ophelia complains in a voice made pinched by the handkerchief over her nose.  She tries to blow in the most maidenly way possible, so as to avoid leaving Soleil with the image of her snorting out snot.

"We can go back inside," offers Soleil.  "I can fix you some tea or something, maybe?"

"Tea for true?" teases Ophelia, turning to face Soleil.  "At this hour?"

"It's always time for tea--what else would we be doing?"

Ophelia can think of any number of other things they could be doing, placing a hand lightly on Soleil's forearm.  Light enough that she could brush it off, or bring a hesitant hand of her own to hover just over Ophelia's waist.  It's endearingly awkward, a liminal gesture whose threshold they are both stopping just short of.  They could kiss, like this, under the stars, and no one would ever have to know.  Ophelia's pulse flutters adamantly, leaving her light-headed.  I want to know if you adore me, truly, the way I've come to adore you, she might say.

"Your nose is running, too," is what she says instead.  They both burst into nervous laughter, but their hands do not move from each other.

[stelliscripture]

wordfart: jenny, darling, you’re my best friend

when yr so salty abt seeing slash fanworks using “jenny” (as in the studio killers song) that you immediately sit down and write femslash that vaguely alludes to the song in order to restore balance to the force.  or: soleil navigating boundaries post-a support w/ophelia and trying to figure out if the attraction is mutual (it is).

---

"Before you go," Ophelia says, her fingers feather-light on Soleil's wrist, "Hold on just a moment."

"Okay," part acquiescence, part question, part wishing she hadn't nearly jumped out of her skin at such a simple touch. She doesn't mean it like that, Soleil knows.

"I keep meaning to enchant your armor, and yet you keep flitting away like the shortest days of winter before my blessings can ever catch up with you."

"Do you need me to take it off to enchant it? 'Cause I'll get an earful from Siegbert if i'm late." This is what Soleil says. What she doesn't say is that she would cheerfully strip naked and later pay the price of listening to Siegbert attempt to lecture her about punctuality for hours, if it meant Ophelia would work her magic right here with just the two of them. She has only the vaguest understanding as to how magic even works, but she trusts that whatever it is Ophelia wants to do will be done right. Ophelia's gaze drops down Soleil's figure, then back up.

"It's not strictly necessary--unless, of course, you'd prefer the blessing of skin upon skin?" Ophelia punctuates the statement with a saucy wink, and Soleil feels heat jump straight from her heart into her cheeks. She doesn't mean it like that, Soleil is fairly certain. She laughs to punctuate the tension that only she is feeling, to take up the space in between words until she stumbles upon the right thing to say.

"I'm all yours," she concedes, and she means it very much like that.

"Excellent! Now, take hold of my hands, close your eyes, and focus hard until you can feel yourself fortified like the very core of a star--no peeking, mind you." Ophelia's instructions come in an enthusiastic rush, her fingers already laced with Soleil's before she's even done speaking. Soleil squeezes her eyes shut tight, regretting the fabric of her gloves between her hand and Ophelia's. She has such nice little fingers, and Soleil would let her do such wicked things with them. Soleil exhales a bit too hard at the thought, not thinking about fortified stars at all.

"Are you focusing?" comes Ophelia's lilting voice from somewhere in front of her. She sounds more amused than stern.

"Yes, ma'am," Soleil says, all mock seriousness. She straightens her back and squares her shoulders, just to make her point. Ophelia giggles merrily, giving Soleil's hands a final squeeze.

"Well, then, if the stardust has settled, you may open your eyes." Soleil complies, blinking once or twice to readjust to the midday light that filters through the tent's canvas. In it, Ophelia is radiant.

"Am I all protected now?" she asks, wondering if she's meant to feel different, or if she's just a complete clod when it comes to magic (when it comes to Ophelia). Ophelia purses her lips, like she's debating something with herself.

"Actually, there's one more step, should you be willing to indulge me in a bit of magical experimentation."

"You know I'd be willing to indulge you in pretty much anything," Soleil teases with a wink of her own. To her surprise, Ophelia looks away for just a moment, a hint of embarrassment playing at her features.

"Lean down, then," she says. Soleil opens her mouth to respond, and promptly forgets how to speak at all when Ophelia presses a soft kiss to her cheek. She stands there, absolutely gobsmacked, hyper-aware of Ophelia's slightly-parted lips pressed right against her skin. It lasts for maybe a few seconds before Ophelia pulls away, her face awash in a blush that borders on luminous. She still holds onto Soleil's hands. "For luck," murmurs Ophelia. She means it like that, Soleil begins to think.

[stelliscripture]

wordfart: can i, baby

veeery short thing i wrote on this fancy typography site that ppl are using for flashfic.  will probably show up again in a much longer owainigosev fic i’ve been planning for once i finish all my femslash fest backlog.  contains even more fef weepypasta abt inigo’s memory b/c i just can’t let go of that theme, references to the dream magic in odin/selena and henry/lissa supports, and a title i have to admit comes from a drake song lmao

---

"not tonight," laslow says, like he's been waiting with the words clenched just behind his teeth for the second odin walks through his door. "i love them, truly, even the ones where you're ruler of the universe and i somehow find you incredibly dashing--but not tonight, please." shadows pool into crow's feet under his eyes, and odin wants to burn them away with nothing but his bare fingers. "it's just," laslow swallows though his throat must be so dry, "it's making it harder and harder for me to know what's real and what's fake and what you've been putting in my head."

he doesn't reach out, so odin reaches for him, taking laslow's hand in his own like he can stop it from shaking if he holds it firmly enough. it makes him deliriously ill to see laslow this way, when he is supposed to be the best-adjusted of the three of them.

"i don't have to do it every night," odin offers. his voice comes out low and scratchy against his lips. laslow laughs, and he has such a lexicon of laughter that odin could write a dictionary of it if he could just capture all the sounds right. this laugh is a sad, short little bark, disingenuous and breathless.

"the worst part," leaning in so that his forehead rests against odin's without their eyes meeting, "is that i almost want it, sometimes. for you to keep feeding me false memories."

"they're not false," protests odin, though there is no bite in it. "you and i, we've been together for all these things. it can't be some mass delusion if both our memories overlap--i'm just helping you set the record straight." after a beat, he hastily adds, "but if you don't want the dreams, i won't give them to you." laslow looks up at that, eyes narrowed and bleached of their warmth like something forgotten too long under a desert sun that does not shine in this world.

"i know how dream magic works--better than you, perhaps, mister exalted prince." he sounds as though he hates to drag the words from himself, for all that he smiles at an opportunity to rib odin like they're nothing more than two boys in a petty squabble. "how many songbirds have you killed for selena and me, odin?"

[stelliscripture]

wordfart: the exalt’s new clothes

this is straight-up the worst thing i ahve ever written, and it’s all @cloudyuri ‘s fault.  it’s lucisev w/lucina wearing janties.  that’s it, that’s what this is.  take this maybe 50% seriously.  does denim even exist in fe-verse??  i don;t even know tbh

---

"There we are," Lucina murmurs, hot and throaty as Severa drops to her knees.  Severa almost hates that she thrills with it every time, the way Lucina can make her yield without fail.  Then again, almost (almost) hating it is part of the charm, putting up a fight that is not entirely play to goad Lucina into ruling her with a firmer hand.  Severa drags her gaze up to meet Lucina's, knowing how irascible she must look.

"I'm not a dog," she complains, knowing that her tone borders on outright whining.  Her witticisms sound so much sharper in her mind before they roll off her dull tongue.  "What, do I get a treat for being a good girl?  Or should I just roll over and play dead instead?"

"It depends on if you think this to be rewarding," responds Lucina, her hand drifting over to cradle the back of Severa's head.  This is her velvet glove, when she knows (they both know) Severa wants the iron fist beneath.  "I almost feel as though punishing you is a reward in and of itself, sometimes."  Severa exhales hard, too hard, her petulant poker face crumbling as a low whine of pure want slips from between her parted lips.  Lucina's gentle touch turns sharp all at once, her fingers lacing through Severa's hair at the roots and pulling like hot metal against the skin of her scalp.  "Service me," Lucina orders quietly.

Severa tries not to comply immediately, tries to make it seem like she's considering the ramifications of disobeying rather than already fantasizing about Lucina fucking her face until she can barely breathe.  She tugs at the waistband of Lucina's leggings a bit, mouthing along the line of skin now bared to the too-warm air between their bodies.  Lucina presses her closer, yet she hides her eagerness far better than Severa ever could--the only indicator that perhaps she wants this as badly as Severa does is the dark glassiness of her eyes that makes her Brand burn like a fever pitch in contrast.  Severa is always the first to break, though, perhaps because she wants to be broken, snapped over Lucina's knee like something helpless and wanting.  Fervent in her haste, Severa yanks Lucina's leggings all the way down--

--and feels a tiny piece of her soul die as she comes face to face with the most atrocious smallclothes she's ever seen in her life.

"What," Severa begins, voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and arousal that is now going out the door, unlikely to return, "What in the gods' names is that."  It isn't even a question.

"My new undergarments?"  Lucina's regal air dissipates almost visibly, her expression now open with earnest confusion at Severa's disapproval.  "I'd purchased them just the other day from an Anna, and I'd thought you might like to see them..."

Severa groans in utter dismay--of course, an Anna would enable Lucina's gods-awful fashion sense, so horrendous that it loops back around from comical to just plain bad.  She wants to put an axe through the next gaudy merchant's tent she sees, even if her fashionable vengeance can't be exacted upon the specific Anna who swindled Lucina into paying real money for this abomination.  

The underwear is cut normally enough, and it could actually be flattering, what with the way it hugs Lucina's slender hips and leaves little to the imagination.  Where the problem begins is the material--a faded shade of light blue that looks like it's been washed with too much bleach a few too many times, paired with thick, rough fabric that cannot at all be comfortable when worn right up against particularly sensitive skin.  There's even a little brass button at the top where a ribbon might normally be, winking cheekily in the low light.  Severa wants to scream.

"The only place I'd like to see this hideous affront to good taste is off you and in a garbage fire!  Good gawds, Lucina, I don't even want to know how much money you blew on this thing."

"I bought several pairs, actually," Lucina admits, somewhat abashedly.  "The merchant gave me a bulk discount, and I was told the color flattered my complexion.  Tell me, is this really so much worse than the nightshirt with Exalt Emmeryn's visage stitched into it?  I seem to recall you disapproving of that one as well."

"Um, maybe because that's, like, your aunt?  I don't need Chrom's holy sister watching me have sex with her niece!"  Severa exclaims, unable to believe that Lucina sees no problem in wearing clothing like that to bed--or to anywhere, for that matter.  It probably also counts as some form of sacrilege, both to Naga and to common sense.  "So, yeah, this is at least as awful as the Emmeryn nightie.  Possibly even more awful."

Lucina almost seems a little crestfallen, rather than offended by Severa's scathing criticism of her sorely lacking fashion sense.  Severa, still on her knees, would appreciate it if the ground opened up and swallowed her whole right about now.

"If I were to remove the offending item of clothing, could we perhaps proceed?" asks Lucina tentatively.

"Yeah, maybe if you let me burn it first so that I can get back into the mood.  Gawds, every time I think I've finally stopped you from unleashing the ultimate in bad fashion on me, you pull another turkey out of the hat."

"I don't believe I've ever worn a hat so big as to contain a turkey."  Severa scrutinizes Lucina's face for any sign at all that she's joking, and catches an upwards quirk at the corner of her lips.

"Now you're just messing with me," she accuses, eyes narrowing.

"I'd thought my choice of underwear was quite fetching.  I might even suggest you wear a matching pair next time."  Lucina brushes a curled finger beneath Severa's chin, smiling with a radiance that is patently unfair given the absurd situation.  "I might even make it an order."

"You are absolutely not turning your horrid, ugly underwear into a pickup line," Severa grouses tersely.  Of course, the mere mention of Lucina ordering her to do anything sets a spark of arousal pooling low in her stomach.  Taking another look at Lucina's undergarments douses that spark with the force of a small hurricane.  "Now take that ridiculous thing off so that I can go to bed without getting nightmares."

"Very well," Lucina cedes with a good-natured sigh.  The mood is quite obviously a bust at this point, though Lucina does take the abominable smallclothes off in exchange for some nice, normal ones.  "Would you rather I wear nothing at all down there?" she asks as she slides into bed next to Severa.  The heated tension between them now gone, the room is faintly chilly--that is absolutely the only reason Severa immediately turns to snuggle into Lucina's chest.

"No, but you're on shopping probation for like, at least the next five years, missy.  You buy so much as a sock, you run it by me first, you hear?"

"I am in your care, as always."  How Lucina can humor her so sagely is always somewhat beyond Severa.

"Gods know you need it," Severa grumbles, wrapping her arms tight around Lucina's waist.  She's feeling vaguely saintly for putting up with a lover who could rally a dying future against everything that would break them, and then turn around and come to bed wearing denim underwear, of all things.