#;; a path lined with petals and thorns // ic

[sweetrevxnge]

Ghosts In The Snow

Chapter Five

Pairing: Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader AU

Summary: Six long years had passed under the reign of the First Order. The bitter winters grew longer, and as they did, hope faded from the hearts of the citizens of Hosnian Prime. As a lieutenant in the Resistance cavalry, it was your duty to nurture that ember of hope. After a mission takes an unexpected turn, you are taken prisoner by a commander in the First Order, a mysterious man with an insatiable appetite—for violence, power, and you. In the coming days, you must keep the spark of your own hope alive from the dark confines of the Commander's castle.

Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood kink, gore, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Next Chapter

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 3k

Chapter-specific CW: compulsion, light emotional manipulation (but it's ok bc he's a hot vampire)

A/N: "how am I supposed to live laugh love under these conditions?" -y/n to kylo probably

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“After you, my dear.”

The threshold of the doorway was all that stood between you and the prospect of freedom. Or at least, so you thought.

Moonlight peaked through the dark clouds above, flooding the spacious courtyard Ren had brought you to with silver light. Disappointment sank through you like a stone—not that you were expecting him to loosen your invisible lead enough to allow you to roam an open area of the castle’s property. All things considered, this was generous.

Tentatively, you stepped out into the night, disregarding your lack of footwear as you followed the ivory tiles lining the path. Short, frostbitten hedges surrounded you, perfectly manicured despite their leaves being brittle and sparse. Snowflakes dusted the earth, falling like tiny, frozen kisses on your skin.

Woven throughout the foliage were dozens of rosebushes, their thorns now all that remained of their beauty. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the garden in bloom, with rays of sunlight bathing the roses until their petals unfurled, inviting bees to collect pollen from each colorful bundle. But spring had long since passed. The stems had morphed into skeletons, their wilted petals cracking under the blanket of frost. It was oddly beautiful; something that was once so vibrant, now faded and cold, preserved by winter’s embrace.

Around you stood the high walls of the castle, with elegant archways and stained windows. Everything felt venerable, even down to the footsteps immortalized in the tile from centuries of tread, aging the fortress well beyond the Empire’s rule. Judging by the weathered state of the walls encasing you, the castle was likely constructed during the Grand Republic’s reign, dating it beyond the past three hundred years. To think that there was a time when its halls had been occupied by diplomats—ones who placed the interests of the people above their own aspirations. Much like the garden, their memory had faded in the presence of the First Order.

You stopped in front of two black iron benches arranged in the center of the court. They accented the focal piece of the garden: a pond, sheathed by a layer of glistening ice. You pictured a family of ducks paddling through it in the summer, creating tiny ripples as they splashed the cool water onto their feathers. The irony of peace existing in a place of such violence.

“What do you think?” Ren asked behind you, joining you in observation of the frozen water.

Releasing a long breath, you answered bluntly, “It’s hard to say. Everything’s dead.”

He chuckled at your honesty. “Yes. But even now, there is a certain beauty to it, wouldn’t you agree?” He stepped closer, pressing his chest flush against your back, offering you no heat. There was nothing warm or soft about him. For all you knew, he was made of marble beneath the layer of black fabric—his body temperature suggesting as much.

You instinctively pulled away, turning to face him. Quick breaths passed through your lips, the wisps of vapor lingering in the air like ghosts. Ren was frightening and beautiful, making him the most dangerous kind of monster. Not the kind that mothers warned their children of through tales, hoping to deter them from venturing too far into the woods, but the kind that the ladies at court would gossip about. The handsome devil.

“From a certain point of view, I suppose,” you finally said, turning your back on him once again. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing—even if he had heard your inner dialogue earlier.

Ren walked alongside you as you continued to meander through the garden. Even the slightest brush of his arm made the hair on the back of your neck stand. Although, in fairness, the culprit could very well have been the winter air, too.

You considered making conversation with him, less because you were interested in what he had to say, but rather as a pleasantry in return for the change of scenery. When you opened your mouth to speak, you found that the words were lodged in your throat, impossible to push out. Perhaps it was the icy air burning your airway, or another force entirely. Regardless, you continued to walk in silence, sorting through your thoughts—as you suspected he was, too.

It seemed as if the tile path had transformed into shards of glass by the way your feet ached, each step sending a wave of pain through your nerves. Determined to stay outside as long as possible, you ignored it, slowing your pace to accommodate.

“You’re shivering,” Ren stated, as if you were somehow unaware of your chattering teeth.

“Yes, I know.”

“Would you like to go inside?”

You froze in place, but unlike in the forest, this was not his doing. He came to stand in front of you, tracing your face with eyes as black as obsidian.

“I doubt that decision is mine to make,” you countered. The illusion of free will—as if you weren’t trapped in this castle because of him.

“You would be dead if it weren’t for me.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, yes, how could I forget? The man who slaughtered my entire squadron—my savior.”

His jaw tensed. “It’s not as if I was acting of my volition. I was merely protecting my men, keeping my oath. Surely that is something you can understand.”

Of course it was. But you had failed to do that, and now you would spend a lifetime being haunted by it.

“Enough,” you said, tearing your eyes away from him as you turned to face the withering garden. The frayed threads holding you together snapped, allowing the flood of emotions to pour in. As it did, you wondered if it would always be like this. Reminded of the carnage every time you laid eyes on him. Sentenced to a miserable existence with the man responsible for your nightmares.

A hand came to rest on your shoulder. You shuddered at the touch. “For what it’s worth, their deaths were wholly unnecessary.” There was a trace of remorse in his words, quickly replaced by his usual tone. “But such is the nature of war, my dear.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, biting your tongue before you could say anything else. When you opened them again, Ren was standing in front of you, close enough to hide the moonlight behind him. 

“Why did you do it?” Your voice cracked as you spoke, fighting desperately to hold back your frustration.

He furrowed his brows, confused by your question. “The Supreme Leader’s orders were clear–”

“No,” you snapped, a harsh edge replacing the weakness in your voice. “I mean, why did you capture me? How is it fair that I should be the only survivor, condemned to live out the rest of my days under your thumb?”

As soon as the words had left your mouth, you wished you could reach out and shove them back into the depths of your mind. He didn’t deserve to see you like this, brimming with raw emotion. It was a state you reserved only for those closest to you, those who you would likely never see again.

Ren was silent, stoic. In a moment like this, you wished you possessed his ability to probe minds. Instead of offering you an answer, he cupped your face, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone and jaw, tracing a line as light as a whisper over your skin.

Immediately, the tension in your shoulders dissolved, washed away along with every concern occupying your mind. Despite his cool touch, warmth rose to your cheeks.

“Have you ever considered the possibility that this arrangement could liberate you in ways you’ve never imagined?” His voice was silky, falling on your ears like a symphony of angels. A soft cloud settled over you, eliciting a strange feeling within your chest as you gazed up at him, searching his black eyes for an answer to his question.

“I have not, my lord,” you whispered, the words leaving your tongue like a prayer.

Ren’s lips parted, revealing brilliant white teeth as he grinned, amused by your response. “Of course not. And why should you have? Such thoughts have no place in a mind as troubled as yours.” He swept his fingers over your cheek again, soothing you.

You nodded into his hand. The cold that gnawed at your fingers and toes was nothing more than a distant sensation, an ache quelled by his touch. He glanced down at your figure, frowning at the sight of your dress. In the time that the two of you had been standing outside, a light layer of snow had melted into the thin fabric of your gown, clinging to your skin. With deft fingers, he tied the strings of your cloak into a small knot and smoothed the fabric over your shoulders.

“Now, let’s go inside. I can’t have my bride freezing to death,” he said in a low tone, leaning closer to your lips. “Next time, I advise you to wear more fitting attire.”

Next time. Intoxicated by his words, you nodded in agreement, your eyes still fixed on his.

As if you were a sack of feathers, he hoisted you off the ground, holding you as he did in the forest. Only this time, there was no fear in your heart, no panic closing off your throat. With your hands clasped behind his neck, he carried you back into the castle, moving swiftly through the courtyard. Although the taste of freedom was dwindling with every step he took, you were content—almost pleased—to be returning to the safety of your chambers.

Your head felt as light as the cushions of the chaise lounge as Ren set you down upon it. The memory of where his hands had gripped you remained after he released you, leaving your skin tingling at each spot. In the darkness, it was nearly impossible to see him moving through your chambers, an issue remedied by a fire roaring to life in the hearth.

Satisfied with his work, Ren stood behind the sofa, peering down at you laying across it. Golden flames flickered in his eyes, softening his strong features. Your cloak had shifted, exposing more of your nightwear than you would’ve preferred. But you didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it—how the sleeves had fallen past your shoulders and the hem of the dress had gathered above your knees. You felt ethereal, basking in the glow radiating from the hearth. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d been this relaxed.

You sighed, closing your eyes as you relished the warmth spreading through your toes. “Who should I thank for starting this fire—you or your magic?” You made a vague gesture with your hands, wiggling your fingers as if you were casting a spell.

He chuckled quietly, moving to sit in the chair across from yours. “Neither. Thank the tinderbox that was left on the mantle.”

Propping yourself up with your elbow, you turned to face him, letting your dress drape over your hips. The knot at your neck loosened with every movement you made until you finally grew tired and pulled it free, shedding your cloak onto the sofa. Under any other circumstance, you would be scrambling to cover yourself. This was completely unlike you—to allow anyone other than your handmaid to see you like this. Harlot, your mother would say in her scolding tone, coupled with a scowl. But she wasn’t here—only Commander Ren.

“I find it hard to believe that you’re incapable of starting a fire, given everything else you can do.”

“Unfortunately, I was never any good at it,” he said, his eyes wandering to the golden flames. “Pyromancy, however, has always been one of my strongest suits.”

The conversation stalled for a moment as you watched his fingers glide over the armrest, hypnotized by the patterns he traced in the black velvet. His veins mingled with tendons as he moved—an intricate dance beneath his ivory skin. Somewhere deep within you, an ember flickered to life, its warmth spreading throughout your being. It was unusual, but not unwelcome.

“How can you do these things?” you asked, your voice floating through the air like the wisps of a dandelion.

He sighed, rolling his tongue over his teeth in thought. Finally, he said, “I was raised by witches.”

Your eyes widened—not in shock at his answer, but because he had answered at all. Rey’s words echoed in your mind. Commander Ren is a very private man.

“Witches? As in, multiple?”

He snickered softly. “Just two.”

“I see,” you whispered, watching him intently. There was something inherently alluring about him, an appeal that had drawn you in the instant you laid eyes on his portrait. An indescribable—yet persisting—quality. A charm.

After the success of your first question, you found the courage to pose another. “What were they like?”

A beat passed before he spoke, unease filling your stomach as you waited. The look in his eyes told you that your valiant effort was in vain. “What else did the handmaid tell you?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his seat.

His words hit your chest like a thousand stones, shattering your confidence. Rey had warned you—begged you—to not discuss the matter of the Commander, fearing the consequences awaiting her if she did. Guilt crashed into you.

“Nothing. She said nothing else,” you stammered, pushing yourself up to a sitting position. With pleading eyes, you turned to him. “I swear it by all the gods.”

Ren stood to his feet, shushing you as he strode toward you. “There’s no need to call upon the gods, dear. I believe you.” His long fingers caressed your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his intense gaze. “I also believe that the girl is sensible enough to want to keep her head attached to her body. You asked her about me, didn’t you?”

Your heart slammed into your ribs, as if it were attempting to leap out and crawl into Ren’s hands. There was no use in arguing—he already knew the truth. The outcome of your fate depended on any ounce of respect you could earn from him. Lying now would be a disservice to everyone involved.

“Yes, I admit, I asked her to tell me what she knew of you, but she refused. It was only after I continued pressing the matter that she finally answered. Please, have mercy on her, she is innocent–”

He silenced you by pressing a finger against your lips. “If I beheaded every servant who spoke ill of me, the castle would be swept by ghosts.”

You said nothing, an unspoken understanding passing between you. While you believed him, there was also validity in Rey’s fear. Even the servant boy cowered in his presence. If one thing were true in this life, it was that rumors carried weight, and at times, merit.

“Why do they fear you so much?” you asked as his thumb brushed over your chin.

Ren let out a long sigh as he ran his fingers down your neck, pausing at your pulse point. “People fear what they do not understand.”

The air grew thick in the silence. A familiar sensation embraced you, igniting every fiber of your being under his touch. Much like the fire in front of you, the ember in your belly became an inferno. Your gaze fell to his pillowy lips, imagining what they would feel like against yours—what they would feel like on every inch of your skin. As soft as sin, probably. His eyes were coals, twinkling in the amber light, a tell that your thoughts were not as quiet as you had hoped.

“What do you fear most, darling?” he asked, his voice low and inviting. “I imagine that a woman like yourself doesn’t fear much, but everyone has their weakness.” He tilted your head slightly to the side, eyes wandering down your neck. “What is yours?”

Blood rushed in your ears, making you dizzy. Through the haze in your mind, a tiny voice broke through, begging you to resist him—resist the urge to bend to his will. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to barricade your thoughts, and as his eyes bore into yours, irises now a deep shade of red, his devilry won.

“Purpose.” The word passed through your lips like a specter, carrying a cadence that was foreign to your ears. “I fear a life without purpose.”

Satisfaction radiated off of Ren. “I see. And that is exactly why you were the only survivor.” He stretched his hand over your throat, applying gentle pressure to either side of your neck. The rhythmic drumming of your heart pulsed through his fingertips. “Because your purpose is so much greater than serving the Resistance.”

“What do you believe my purpose is, Commander?”

The backlight of the hearth cast a halo around him, deifying him. Ignoring your inquiry, he said, “The night is almost over. I suggest you get some rest.”

With that, he left you, somehow more cold and alone than you had been before. As the latch clicked shut, the haze lifted, quickly replaced by dread. Your vision tunneled on the fire in front of you, the black edges snuffing out your surroundings, narrowing your view to only the flames dancing over the logs.

As you stood from the lounge, your knees buckled, forcing you to summon all your strength to reach the bed before collapsing. Chest heaving, you stared up at the canopy, hoping to find anything but flecks of light dancing across your eyes. The voice in your head was shouting now, building to a deafening pitch, its message clear.

In the wake of his presence, two things remained: your distrust of Commander Ren and the strange warmth that had settled in your stomach.

[wxrkingrose-blog]

@2536-whistleblower liked for a starter!

As if anything couldn’t get any worse. The Walrider was out on a rampage, patients and staff were hunting each other down, bodies and blood lined every single corridor you came across. Thank lord he wasn’t in the same room when it broke out. He knew this whole project was a bad idea. He told his parents that this idiot project was taking more lives than it would save. Did they care? Of course not. They just laughed and waved it off.

He rounded the corner, hand clenched to the one clean shirt sleeve of his other arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding on his palm. He stopped, shakily inhaling as he spotted someone else in the corridor .The blonde running in the opposite direction, straight towards him, was alarming. 

So was the almost naked man with the saw behind him. 

He recognized the guy in the patient’s uniform to be Waylon Park, a previous worker that Blaire ‘deemed too mentally unstable’ to work. It took the man getting almost in front of him for Maxwell to register what was happening, and to turn on his heel, shoes slamming against the concrete as he followed closely behind.

“Take the right, left is a dead end.” He called, having tried that way earlier. Someone had blocked it with a ridiculous amount of hospital beds.

[abalonetea]

Short Story - Aster Flowers

a short story written for @quilloftheclouds who wanted to see something about aster flowers! cross posted from patreon!

want custom short stories? consider checking me out at patreon.com/abalonetea!

Patience.

 Love of Variety.

Elegance.

 Daintiness.  

Afterthought.   They say that the aster flower is these things and more, the epitome of the best collection, the base of what a kingdom needs.   Except they look for those things in the queen, the princesses, the court of ma’ams and madam’s that drift through the halls of the castle. They look for the aster flower in the upper-crust, focusing on dainty, on elegance, on those two things and those two things alone.   They forget that patience is not always the ability to sit for hours on end, without speaking or moving. They forget that love of variety is not just a need to travel, an urge to collect endless paintings, and jewelry, and other oddities.   And they forget, always, of the last one.   Fitting, isn’t it?

Purple.   Pink. White.   Red. Celeste.   Hazy. Puff.   A field of aster flowers, stretching out, bleeding into the sunset horizon.   Mary asks, “do you ever think about what’s out there?”   “Sure,” says Aster, as she does near every evening. “I think about it a lot. Reckon that there’s a whole ‘nother world on the other side of that forest.”   “I want to see it. More than anything else.” Mary rolls onto her side, back towards the old crooked barn, with it’s peeling paint and empty stalls. “Do you think I’ll make it there someday?”   “Reckon if that’s what ya wanna do. Can’t rightly say there’s anything that’ll stop ya from doing it,” says Aster, even though they both know that’s not true, even though they both know that there’s a lot to stop Mary from leaving, or Aster from leaving, and all that they can do is wait and hope that something will change.   Things have to get better, right?

Spring.   Summer. Autumn.   Winter. Tomatoes.   Wheat. Pumpkins.   Squash. The crops cycle in and out of season, each field another plane of of existence. Aster walks through them, her basket on one arm, always mindful of the journey’s rules. Take only what’s needed for you and yours. Leave enough for all the rest. Bow to the gazelle should they cross your path and be mindful of the strawberries teeth as you pluck them from the vine.   Servants of the great lords and ladies o the high castle pass Aster by, and others like her, children of the poor, daughters and sons of the aster fields. All are mindful not to look too long, lest the reflection change. All know better than to speak, lest they lose their voice.   Aster picks from every season, careful to leave from the same field she existed. It wouldn’t do to lose another half-a-year.

Ribbons.   Feathers Wolf teeth.   Glass beads. Lace shawls.   Mary laughs as they dress themselves up, donning all that they own, the lace and the furs, the tartan and the flannel, their good winter boots and wreaths of sunflower crowns. In the highlands, the castle hosts a grand ball, celebrating the flowers that give their home its magic, and celebrating themselves, the living embodiment's of flowers, with their petal hair and leaf-lined skin.   But it’s here in the meadows where the magic happen, and the girls rush outside, an amalgam of creation, elegant in their own making as they dip their skirts to the fae, and the creatures that crawl from the field at the moon’s strongest light.   Aster takes the hand of a creature crafted from silver, and lets it spin her around the flowers, leaving naught but laughter in their wake.

Mice.   Blood. Berries.   Metal. Sunlight.   Aster cups it in her hand, watching the butterfly wings struggle feebly. It’s rare to see a mouse out in these parts. They seldom leave the aster fields. And this is why, of course, because the local teenagers, the ones too bittered by the rules and boundaries, take out their rage and sorrow on the small things. The things with no teeth that cannot bite back.   It takes a steady hand to pull the iron nail from the mouse’s paw. It takes a dainty hand to treat the thing afterwards. For all that the mouse is the size of a rabbit, it’s skittish and shy and gossamer frail, and Aster takes it home with her, and gives it her bed, and Mary fetches it berries from the pantry, and they tend it, the two of them, long into the night, and longer still into the next.   And when the mouse leaves, finally, they escort it back to the aster fields, and a flutter of mice run through the flowers, their great butterfly wings softly parting the plants like a shark parts the sea.

Snow.   Ice. Cold.   Hunger. Dark.   Winter brings a vast emptiness to the land, as the stars blink out, as the snow comes down, and the fields close up, and the magic is stolen from those who need it most, and used in the highlands, where the castles are, and the lords and ladies, the queens and princesses, who take the meaning of aster and apply it to themselves.   But down in the fields where the flowers really bloom, the cold seeps into Aster’s veins. She curls up closer with Mary, who is shivering and sick and longing for a land they will never see, and she weaves a story about what might lay on the other side of the trees, and the sun does not rise the following day, just as it will not rise until the first day of spring, it’s heat and light plucked from the sky to fuel fires for the queen’s.    They are but afterthoughts in a greater existence, tossed aside, left to live and fight and die and mourn on their own. And in the darkened hours of mid-winter’s quiet longing, Aster finds within her, for the first time, a want for that to change.

Fire.  Thorns. Teeth.   Bugs. Aster takes to the higher lands, with their castles and maidens, with their lords and ladies, for they have sown but never reaped, and they have taken on the elegance, and they have taken on the daintiness, and they have left the daughters and sons of the fields upon which their riches are built to fester like weeds, to rot like spoiled fruit, to live and long and die and mourn by themselves in the harshness of the endless winter night.   And those which have no teeth remember who offered them kindness, and they might not have teeth themselves but they have friends that do. Aster walks up the winding path to the higher lands, and a snarling pack of wolves with hawk wings and fox hearts walk beside her, for their pelts hang on the castle walls, and their feathers adorn the hair of the flower born queens.   There are many meanings to an aster flower, and most of them often lay forgotten. But tonight, on the last eve of winter, to the tunes of the sobbing stolen sun, Aster reminds the world what her roots mean. And tomorrow, when the first glint of sunlight once more touches the land, she will walk through the woods without fear, and she will see what lays on the other side.

[rosegoldannie]

Cacti (feysand bachelor AU) part 2

Masterlist

Butterflies fluttered wildly in my stomach as I met his gorgeous violet eyes, which nearly sparkled in the warm light from the overhead lights, strung artfully back and forth.

Rhys simply smiled deeply, ducking his head slightly. “Well, tell me a little bit about yourself, Feyre.” He prodded kindly. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw his cheeks tint ever so slightly pink.

I couldn’t hide the flush of my cheeks, even as I internally panicked to think of something. “Uhh..” My eyes roved calmly around us, settling on a small, potted cactus. “I like cactuses?” I offered with an apologetic smile, my eyebrows drawing together. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What kind of answer is I like cactuses?

A new sort of smile spread across his lips, brightening his eyes. A small strand of inky hair fell out of place, and I felt as if I had been punched, the air whooshing silently from my lungs.

Cauldron, I’m pathetic. There is absolutely no way he’ll give me a rose. And hell, who could blame him? What kind of answer is ‘I like cactuses’? Glancing up, I saw the producer waving me forward with a disappointed look, even as my eyes burned. I couldn’t meet the gaze of the man before me as I slipped silently past him and click-click-clicked up the path and into the house, where twenty-four other women were already waiting for me. I could feel those eyes burning a hole between my shoulder blades, and it took nearly everything in me to resist turning back to him. But I didn’t, knowing it would be easier for me in the long run if I were to avoid getting attached. Because who the hell did I think I was, to stand a chance against these super modelesque women, all of whom could easily outshine me on their worst days.

Inside, a warm breeze greeted me, which was quite the opposite from the icy stares of the other women as I took a tentative seat on an overstuffed chair. I fought the urge to tell them that I would most definitely be sent home that night, and that I was of no competition. But I didn’t, some small that sounded all too similar to Elain’s, telling me to buck up and hold my head up high.

The next half hour passed in much the same fashion as those first few minutes, with frigid glares and thinly veiled insults being flug across the room at each other, until a thin woman in a black collared shirt and trousers slipped into the room, and directed us all to proceed to the foyer for the first rose ceremony. 

Belatedly, I wondered if it would be worth it to attempt making some friends, or if I should simply stand back (should I miraculously avoid being sent home tonight), and watch the catfights begin. Women were caddy, this I knew. But despite the silent glares and insults I had watched being thrown across the room for over half an hour, I now saw something akin to kindness in how some girls were silently adjusting the hair and gowns of the others.

I made a mental note to seek them out and try to become their friends, then drew my thoughts back to the task at hand. Mentally, I prepared myself for rejection as we were arranged like china dolls for the camera. Ever the darlings of Prythian. Mentally, I rehearsed my reaction to being rejected. Nothing new there. I was always someone’s second choice, someone’s afterthought.

Mentally, I calmed myself. Planned out my days of moping about on my couch until my vacation days ran out. I’d call Isaac, cuss him out, then eat pizza. Eat so much cookie dough ice cream that I’d have a brain freeze until mid-summer.  Yeah, totally not pathetic.

I blinked, then nearly swore when I realized that I was one of only three girls left, with one rose remaining. How long had I been zoned out for? I met Rhys’s eyes, trying, trying, trying to mask my panic and held his gaze, trying to find some flaw within him to convince myself I’d dodged a bullet. Anything to make this hurt just a little bit less.

“Feyre,” He murmured, clutching a rose. Shock flooded through me. Confused and numb, I half-stumbled, half-tumbled over to him, never breaking his gaze. I held his gaze, praying that this wasn’t some wicked prank. 

Behind me, I heard the disappointed grumbles of the two women who hadn’t been chosen, but the only thing I could focus on was him, those violet eyes. “Will you accept this rose?” A hint of a smile tugged at his lips, and I couldn’t hide the eagerness behind my nod.

His smile turned near-giddy, never looking away from me. Something hidden sparked in his eyes.

I slowly turned to follow the other twenty-two women up to our rooms, fingers stroking the silky petals of my rose and coming dangerously close to slicing them on the razor-sharp thorns, but Rhys gently caught my wrist. He leaned in carefully, pressed a gentle kiss to my cheekbone, then murmured, “Meet me in the gardens at midnight.”

Stunned, I could only muster myself together enough to meet his gaze just long enough to acknowledge that I’d heard him, before turning and almost skipping after the others, beyond thankful that I was the last girl in line, and wouldn’t have to deal with any jealousy.

At ten minutes to midnight, I was in my room, my palms smoothing over my jeans, trying to get rid of any wrinkles, then moving to my hoodie. I had debated wearing something more daring, but decided against it, and opted for comfort over style. Pulling on my formerly white vans, I slipped silently from my room, and began to make my way down the marble halls and opulent staircases, out to the garden where I had seen him for the first time only a few hours prior.

A dark shadow was meandering back and forth by the fountain, head leaned back up to gaze at the stars. The overhead lights were still on, only set to a much dimmer setting.

As I approached, I allowed my footsteps to become louder, and alert him to my presence. The lights cast his tan skin in a gorgeous, golden glow that had my fingers itching for a pencil. Rhys turned, and when his eyes met mine, he positively grinned, and held out a hand to me.

I took it, both completely taken aback and not at all surprised by the callousness of his palms, and allowed him to lead me over to a padded settee.

“So,” He murmured, crossing an ankle over his knee. 

“So…” I hummed, hating how hot my face felt.

Rhys cracked a small smile, and chuckled a slight bit. “I felt horrible that we didn’t really get a chance to talk earlier, and as much as I loved learning how much you care about cacti, I want to know more about you.”

A warm, yet slightly nervous feeling strung through me, turning my muscles to spaghetti and my joints to springs. My knee began bouncing wildly up and down, causing Rhys’s smile to widen a small bit, as his eyes sparked in positively wicked delight..

A moment of silence passed, before I was finally able to speak. “I love to read.” I murmured, not entirely meeting his eyes. “I… I didn’t learn until I was twelve, because of a lot of different reasons, but I love it.”

That wicked smile became genuine, his eyes softening. “Really? Who is your favorite author?” He murmured quietly, then added, “At the moment.”

Instantly I felt myself relax with the neutral turn our conversation was taking. “I love The Falconer series by-”

“Elizabeth May?!” He finished, stunned and jaw agape. “You’ve read that? I’ve only ever known one other person who has.”

I couldn’t hide my surprised shock. “Really?! I haven’t ever even met someone who knows it. It’s so good. Which book is your favorite? I’m rather fond of the first one myself, especially with that ending..”

“The first one? Really?” Rhys chidded teasingly, while giving my hand a sweet pat. “Come, now Feyre. The second one is clearly superior.”

I chuckled, swiping a strand of hair out of my face, shaking my head. Folding my legs under myself, I braced my elbows on my knees. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.” I teased, shoving gently at his shoulder. “And if you don’t mind, can I ask who you know that’s read The Falconer?”

That smile saddened a bit. “It was my sister, Violet. She absolutely loved that series, and said her favorite character was Kieran, because he and I look alike.” He paused for a moment. “She died three years ago.”

Guilt overwhelmed me almost immediately. “Oh, gods I’m so sorry, I shouldn-”

“No, no. It’s okay, really.” He assured me, gently leaning forward to take my hand.

My heart jumped at the contact, turning my blood electric.

Shit, being eliminated was going to hurt like a bitch.

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[strawberrymarshmallowstories]

Ice Queen (Gods&Goddesses AU) - Kim Seokjin

What the-

Your nose tickled with a familiar scent before you saw it - the bouquet of blue roses as waves of the ocean, the tips fading to depths not many witnessed in a lifetime. But instead of appreciation or surprise, a curse slipped from your lips.

You ran a scan on your psychic shields.

Negative - no irregularities over the past 12 hours.

It would’ve been scary hadn’t it happened before. The main house scan from security office came back a moment later - also negative. As always, you logged it for further investigation.

One day they were bound to make a mistake.

But when? And how?

Teleporting left a detectable trace. It could be masked, but not eliminated. You ran another scan on the bouquet itself - the flowers came back as pure, energetically untouched.

Human handiwork?

A tilt of your head, eyes narrowing at the inanimate intruder. Impossible. To bypass security, to bypass your rock-solid shields without a trace.

But despite all that, somehow still, at least once a year you woke to a bouquet of blue roses at your bedside. Blueberry-blues to arctic ice, from matte navy's to robin-egg blues. Unimaginable colours, hadn't you seen it with your own eyes.

A quick twinge along the familial line and your sister's energy greeted you before her long-limbed frame. As she danced through the doors, her long white dress flowed around her with a life on its own.

But her joy was short-lived.

'Again?' A whisper, her steps slowing to a reluctant gait. As the morning rays touched the flowers, tiny bursts of light erupted on the blossoms. As if small fireworks had sparked to life between the delicate petals.

You’d never heard of such talent for manipulation. With big eyes specialists deemed it impossible, all while clutching to the rose as drops of deep red stained their skin. But thorns mattered little with magic petals between their fingers, nose in the blossom as if its scent was a drug.

That they hadn't turned this into a fortune was a hint of their power. And wealth.

Ania leaned closer. 'It's kind of romantic though. Absurd, yes, but romantic.'

With a scoff you pulled a robe over your gown, soft yellow over black silk. An unexpected gift from your sister because you needed some sunshine in your life.

As a reply you’d almost iced over her aquarium.

'Cowards.’ You jutted with your chin as she pulled you into a hug. ‘It’s more creepy than what-not. How many years has it been?’

'Immortal’s infatuation lasts way longer. But hey sis, it’s not worthy enough to ruin your day.' A squeeze. ‘Happy birthday.'

Your arms wrapped around her on its own. With days being counted and her excitedly packing her bags, you wanted to laugh and cry the same. Accepting a position at the Union should've been a happy occasion.

But she'd chosen Alta on the other side of the world.

'I really don’t want to go in today. Can't I just burn the whole building down?'

She only laughed, having been there for many of your late-night rants. About Ancients and their Seconds who had no proper concept of time, about their minor territorial issues blown into elephants - the bare thought gave you a headache.

But you’d accepted it as a part of your job. You’d long realised Ancients didn’t see time as everyone else - they had centuries long behind them, a pebble in the ocean compared to yours. You’d once asked your mother how Ancients would ever respect you with their age against yours. She’d only laughed and told you to grow thicker skin.

Your sisters’ wink jolted you back to reality, mischief streak a spark in her eyes. 'You want me to do it? Oh please tell me yes!'

Different from yours, your sister had fire flowing in her veins, one that made her locks flow as lazy flames licking dry wood. It had placed its claim just after her first decade - early but not unforeseen. But what made her unique apart from her winning smile and olive-kissed skin, was the mark on her shoulder. Worn with pride, a medallion of a true claim.

Not many could take pride in it.

You, on the other hand, had been born from the other side of the spectrum. Ice queen, as per the hushed whispers. Ironic, as the roses always held an imprint of icy hues, as if a reminder of who you were.

'Would you like to come along?' You asked with a hopeful tinge. Ania had been there for your many risky escapades which had your mother breathing out fire, and her silence had earned your unwavering trust. Because even between family members trust wasn’t a given.

It had to be earned.

But today she only shook her head. 'Don't take it the wrong way but the Union you sure scares the hell out of me.' A theatrical shudder. ‘As if possessed, you know?’

You shrugged but couldn't hide a smile. 'What can I say, it’s a gift.'

‘Sis-,’ she said, her tone alert. ‘You may want to get dressed.'

Warning and uncertainty in one.

'Jin just, ported in?' A question of wonder, as if she herself doubted the pathed words. ‘Are you expecting him?’

'Not that I know of.' You scanned over your mental calendar. 'But let him in, he’s not the type to leave.'

Ania finished telepathing with a frown, seating herself in an armchair under the squared windows.

Every god had its own essence, something to warn the people ahead - a feeling of the sorts, that made weaklings scatter and called strong ones to attention. Energy reacted to his every footstep. It gathered around him, drawing nearer to the silent power humming through his veins.

He’s beautiful. Ania pathed with a nervous glance.

A fact. He was, even for an immortal. A muse for artists of many species since - whenever he was born. With his energy as a prided cloak he had nothing to prove - even his role as Lindiana’s Second a status to envy for.

He greeted Ania first with a kiss on the back of her hand that barely touched.

Before his gaze fell on you.

'Happy birthday to my favourite princess.' He mocked a bow, dark hair tickling his forehead, silken as if asking to be touched. But it was his eyes that had you pinned - deep earthy browns, whispers of warm summer nights and honey on the tip of your tongue. Tempting in a way he must’ve known.

And intended.

'Appreciated, not many call me a princess these days.' You leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed. ‘But I'd prefer not to see your face first thing in the morning, Jin. So why are you here again?'

He only smiled as he took in the surroundings, the space filled with the most luxurious of fabrics in the richest colours - ones you’d selected personally and had travelled lands to acquire. Ones heaven against your fingertips, of softness only cashmere could grasp the edge of.

How unlike you, and he must’ve known.

You shifted in your spot. The games he played, you didn't know how to win.

'Actually I've been demoted to a pickup guy.' A glance at Ania. ‘Summons.'

‘What is this about?' You forced your shoulders to straighten. Even when you felt nothing without your usual suit of straight-cut trousers and a blazer tailored to fit every curve.

'Incident on Ancient lands, your mother asked me to get you,' he said just as the buzzing datapad stole your attention.

Rebel activity in Alexei’s territory. Summons have been sent out, documents forwarded. Seokjin will pick you up. - Mother

'I’ve always wondered why my mother likes you so much,' you asked as much as sighed. 'What do we have so far?'

'It’s the charm,' Jin dragged out as you headed to the closet room, his voice loud enough to carry through the divider wall. 'But for the incident, lots of fire, no casualties.'

Nothing that’d normally require immediate summons. But your mother had a reason for everything.

'By the way.' His eyes skimmed over the formal suit as you walked out, twirling a blue rose between his fingers. 'Nice flowers.'

You cast him a narrow-eyed look.

'A special occasion? Or perhaps a message?'

He handed a rose to Ania who graced him with one of her sweetest smiles, her cheeks flushing to the skin of a ripe peach. With the dimples sharp as if encarved into her skin, even Jin held her gaze as if to breathe in her beauty and joy.

'That's none of your concern.' You threw a knowing glance at Ania. You'd seen those eyes work on its prey. She had yet to learn that Jin was never anyone's prey.

He was a hunter.

'However, Jin.' You refrained from rolling your eyes, focusing on perfecting your low bun. 'You're a pretty good teleporter--'

‘--one of the best, as a matter of fact.''

An obnoxious irritating man.

‘Is it possible to teleport something without appearing with it?'

A tilt of his head.

'An interesting question.' He ported another blue rose into his hand as he set his steps towards you. 'This information doesn't come cheap. What do you need it for?'

No other god would flinch at the proximity, and neither would you. Even when goosebumps ran down your spine and down to your fingertips. So you held his gaze as he stood before you, although your instincts demanded you run.

Your breath hitched at the gentlest brush against your neck. He’d tucked a rose behind your ear. 'And here I thought you didn’t like me.’

'Alright, that’s enough.' You shoved at his chest. Away, you had to get away. 'I don’t know how these flowers got here overnight. My security office detected no movement, neither did my scans find any breaches.'

Jin rubbed the spot on his chest. ‘I'm sure your shields are of steel. Then either a human or a family member.'

Human, perhaps. But a family member - not an option you'd ever consider. You glanced away. Stark contours stared back from the mirror, with a glint in your own eyes you’d never seen. But that didn’t faze you, not when silver flicks played in your hair.

Only a bare hint. As on the roses, until hit by sunlight and the chaos ensued.

With the look you threw at Jin, anyone would’ve been quivering in their boots. But Jin was an insufferable man not fazed by much. 'And no, nothing out of the ordinary.'

Jin ported a feet closer, making you jolt when his chest almost touched yours.

'You need a list who's been here for the past three days and why. Teleports can be set up and traces can be covered - the best can do it 48 hours beforehand with an inanimate object.'

A sharp inhale and you took a step back, one out of instinct. 'Stop doing that, you're setting off my shields.'

An excuse. A pathetic excuse that went on deaf ears as his hand came up to your ear once more, a brief touch before brushing aside the rebellious glittery strand. ‘It suits you well though.’

You swatted his hand away.

'You think it's previously set up?' Ania voiced, a grin on her lips at the unfolding theatrical play.

'Who knows, we all love a little secrecy around here, and you go around in pretty high circles. I think someone’s trying to impress you.' Jin sauntered across the floor, taking a seat on your bed as if that was the most natural thing to do. Back in the playful element - one surprisingly more comfortable. And predictable. ‘And some immortals like their lovers cold and stiff.’

You heard Ania gasp.

It would’ve been an insult had it not been Jin. But today your eyes lingered - on his suited up frame against the backdrop of your messy sheets.

You bit into your inner lip, body stiffening at the tightness in your belly. He was pushing your limits, he always did. This was your home field, a place where you were supposed to be your strongest. But still he smashed through every shield, every facade that kept you safe.

'I told you to stop,’ you muttered under your breath, hands balling into fists. Clutching for control under a veil of anger.

Silly silly girl.

He smiled. 'I don't think they'll make a move. Perhaps a message. What did they call it back in the day--’ he trailed off, a low hum at the back of his throat. ‘Desire for the unattainable?'

You shoulders tensed.

He’d spoken the same words as the old flower vendor many years ago. In an antiques store in the middle of a human town, he’d spoken of meanings humans placed on flowers. A human folklore passed down through generations.

But if Jin knew of it...

Ania's laugh pulled you out of your thoughts, the sound bubbling through her whole being. 'I'm sorry sis but it makes sense. You, uh--’ A quick glance at Jin. ‘Shoot down anyone who dares to approach.'

'I could care less,' you hissed back. It hadn’t been a choice, but a necessity. Because if you slipped once, someone could die.

And everyone would find out you were flawed.

'And you.' You pointed at Jin, lowering your outermost shields to initiate a psychic link, just enough for a teleport. He accepted it without hesitation and held out his arm.

You never had that freedom. Every single touch and mental contact had to be calculated and prepared for. A single wrong move and you could betray yourself.

And once you tucked away your darkest memories, you accepted his arm and the room turned into a whirlwind of colours.

~

 'Oh great, you're here - here’s the files,' you heard as soon as the energy materialised into familiar grey walled conference room. Your fingers clutched at thin air, digging into your palms, close to drawing blood. All to silence the past.

It always happened. The nightmarish demons had first found you when you had been no more than a babe. It was then when your mother had learned of your wide broadcasting affinity, when your scream for help blasted through every single pair of ears in the household.

You’d asked her many times about that night, but she always chose silence. Although her eyes spoke of sadness, of a little guilt and of secrets she’d one day take to her infinite sleep.

Luckily no one questioned your fears. To anyone, teleporting came with careful consideration due to risks imposed - it was a sign of great trust.

But in this case, you had to trust your mother’s judgement.

Because you knew, no one wished to be on the receiver end of your mother's wrath. You'd seen it, seen the power she held and the mercy she did not have.

Yes, she was your mother, but she was also a warrior queen.

'Wasn't that Jin?' Madeli piped as you sat down, her hands sorting paperwork to be reviewed. 'I thought you hated his guts.'

You scoffed. ‘My mother seems to like him. And I think she likes it when we don’t agree.'

'I wish he'd pick me up in the mornings, how romantic would that be.'

'Depends what you consider romantic,' you retorted. The room had started filling out, most entering in silent discussion. You nodded at everyone who glanced up, a couple of silent-mouthed greetings. ‘But you hate commuting and he loves women, sounds like a fair deal.'

Madeli lowered her voice. 'Did he ever do something to you?'

You shrugged and skimmed over the first report.

'It's about him not leaving me alone.' You handed her a signed document that disappeared into one of her many organisers. Once you wondered how she carried it all, and then recalled a queue of others that stayed behind for a kind word in exchange.

Maybe they had more commonalities than you’d thought.

A dreamy murmur under her breath. But your attention had already been stolen, by the friction in the air that had grown to a point where you could no longer ignore it. Too much energy in one space.

This time many territories had come as a pair when only one presence was required. The rumours had spread.

An Ancient had been struck.

Madeli finished with the attendance list and stepped down from the podium. After a nod at the closest guard, you started with the ancient incantations that came as second nature. Pages and pages of words that now slipped off your tongue, but once had taken a year to remember.

Fed by each Ancient’s contribution, the barriers could hold in anything. As a Mediator, at times like these you got a slight taste of their power.

A heavy mass, too heavy for frail shoulders. One could only be born to hold such power, and you were not one of them.

With a tight-lipped smile of control, you raised the outer barriers. As a barriers master, it was your job to keep it intact, to stop the energy from the world.

You cleared your throat, eyes browsing the crowd just as the microphone light flashed green.

The energy of the room focused on you. It was massive, possibly destructive even when constrained. The energy peak was also why Ancients rarely met in one place, and if they did - only under supervision.

Although civilised to a certain extent, one offensive remark and chaos would ensue.

That’s where you stepped in.

'This will be short. Alexei is still forwarding us the reports.' A quick inhale. 'It is true, his territory has been struck. And by someone with ancient control and strength, or something close enough.'

Quiet gasps and low murmurs around the room.

That should've been impossible, a pact of peace confining Ancients not to strike unless formally challenged or attacked. It had taken a century, endless hours of work and negotiations until everyone’s energy prints decorated the Terra Agreement.

If someone overstepped it, the Terra Union had the right to strike back as one.

'It's not one of us, as far as we know. The energy pattern doesn’t match our database, so we’re currently leaning towards a group channeling.'

Glances around the room - some of suspicion, some of surprise. Channeling was an ancient art lost in time. One not practiced or taught due to its inefficiency - it drained the participants of energy and could render them useless for days. No god would willingly leave themselves this vulnerable.

'I need access to energy reports for the past week, of any imbalances in each territory. We believe they yield fire as a general element but we cannot set it as a limit.'

You knew that didn't say much, earth elements only a basic affinity and could be trained. But this one had been nothing but simple, this energy had expanded until the verge of bursting.

Add fire into that mix, and you got what humans would call a bomb.

This required a long buildup, of months at least.

'Alexei is feeding information back to us as we speak, including ash samples. We will also get Yoongi's team dispatched shortly.'

'The one with the human? Is the human trustworthy with this?' A female voice jeered from the back. Lindinia, a goddess from a neighbouring territory to Alexei's, the one to steal your sister away.

Her eyes narrowed even further at your delay, making the resemblance with her cat uncanny.

'The human's a she, and she worked as much on the Lux medication as anyone else in that team.'

Silence. It had only been a remark, one you could've ignored but didn't. Everyone in that room knew of the specialised research team, one of the best in the immortal world with queues up to decades. And many of them had orders in for research costing billions.

Even with a human on it.

'However, while you're already standing, would you please share the incidents from your today's report?'

While gods kept to their own territories and upheld the value of family ties, there was a reason your family was in the middle of it all.

Aethra family were Mediators, ones who'd brought the lands together through a psychic network. And for that, they'd earned their respect from Ancients. They had even gone further to form the Terra Union, to work on justice with fairness extended to humans, gods and Ancients, and even creatures rarely seen in your realms.

But in the middle of it all, even the Union couldn't escape mundane politics.

And so your own special broadcasting ability had been skillfully buried under barrier-mastering and shield specialisation that gave you this job. But apart all the ranks you'd earned, your mother still considered you a weapon she'd protect, until the reveal was absolutely necessary.

Which hopefully never came to be.

Because that meant war.

Because what you could do wasn’t supposed to be possible - to blast out a message to any living being, or the whole globe if you so wished. Terra psychic network worked through signal transmitters, family members with broadcasting affinity, where they lent their abilities to connect others directly.

But you didn’t need signal transmitters for pathing, you didn't even need to link into the familial Terra network.

You somehow bypassed them all, exempt from any regulations. That meant you couldn't be tracked and left no evidence.

A weapon.

When Lindinia spoke, the calamity of her voice shushed the whole room. 'An energy bubble burst yesterday, exactly 24 hours before the incident. The centre was in the middle of an uninhabited forest. Sadly, no witnesses-'

'Not this again!’ A loud voice rumbled through the space. ‘I will not risk with the rogues getting to my territory! I'm out!'

In these moments you understood what your cousin Karter, another Terra network transmitter, meant with the impression of a burly bear. Still as handsome as any god, Rangeet held stark masculine beauty only the bravest would invite to their bed.

‘You can't.’ You said, stating what should’ve been obvious. ‘Your comms links will break and we need your link as much as you need ours. Karter can’t hold up your network on his own.'

His eyes blazed, fists clenched.

'But it's your choice Rangeet. You can go back to using phones, handy little devices that humans like. You can even give me a call sometimes, let me know how you're doing.'

You watched his eyebrows turn into a frown, his Second tapping on his arm. Phones could be too easily hacked, its signal picked up midway and destroyed without ever reaching its recipient. It was too easy, a child’s play.

Whereas Aethra transmitters could forward a message and no one would even know its contents. Once a link was initiated, it formed a secured bubble around the parties, formed from both energy fields and invisible on the psychic plane.

'Once we get our hands on those ash samples, shall we attempt a location teleport?’ Jin’s voice sounded and your eyes met his, a glint of amusement lingering on his lips. ‘Surprise them a bit? I'm sure Markir would love a slight exercise, that old man is turning grumpy.’

‘That’s right, let’s get the trackers on the energy lines,’ Lindinia cooed, her eyes flashing with her own power. ‘That would set a great example.’

‘No,' you interrupted. ‘They haven’t killed anyone yet. We’re sticking to the agreement. Trackers have already been sent out to scope the possible areas and so we wait. And prepare.’

‘Are the lines enough for an energetic photo?’ Jin asked and you glanced over at him again - while a reasonable question, you shook your head.

‘Not enough to attempt a teleport. I will not risk losing any more trackers on this.’ What you left unsaid was clear to anyone. Attempting a teleport on an incomplete energetic photo could be fatal.

You’d seen photos once, the torn limbs and the still beating heart halfway spiked through. Sickening. You took a breath to focus.

‘Let’s continue.’

~

'That was tough, Rangeet was so close to ripping out Jin's throat,' Madeli giggled as you both headed out, two pairs of heels clicking on tiled floors.

'I wish he had,' you muttered as you nodded at Lindinia. The goddess with feline grace in a hushed discussion sent back the faintest of smiles. Jin only nodded in acknowledgement, as per the etiquette. Nothing more, nothing less.

'I really have no idea what's up with him,’ you continued once you passed them. ‘He just… really irritates me.'

‘Well, my darling,’ Madeli started, her arm linking over your shoulder. ‘If you haven’t noticed, we’re all a little weird around here.’

Yeah, you'd definitely noticed.

‘But tell me,’ she hushed. ‘A little bird sang of a secret admirer.’

Damn it Ania, you sent another twingle along your familial line. You got back airy bubbles, showing her glee and joy. In hindsight, the rom-com loving secretary and your sister’s fiery soul had been a bad introduction.

‘Who knows, it’s been going on for years,’ you confided as you glanced into the mirror. The glittery strand still remained, but no one had mentioned it. They probably thought you’d lost it. ‘Please also schedule a meeting with Yoongi for later this week. But be careful, he’s in a foul mood.’

‘Of course.’ A snap of her fingers and her organised beeped. ‘What will you do about the stalker guy though?’

You touched the scanner pad and the doors slid open before you. Almost as large as your living quarters, your office space welcomed you with its delicate design and minimalistic interior - a perfect balance of cool ice you represented. Beautiful work, done by another cousin who’d pursued an alternative career path.

‘It’s beyond me.’ You plopped your bag on your desk and headed over to the windows. The view of the city was breathtaking in any weather, the streets bustling with immortals with a human or two thrown into the mix.

The room echoed as Madeli dropped a folder on your desk. ‘Anyway, Alexei just sent through additional energy reads, I’ve passed these on but there’ll be a copy on your datapad. No updates from other teams.’

‘Thank you.’ You glanced over your shoulder. ‘And listen, is it just me or something's not right?’

On your birthday, of all times. When you wanted nothing else but to relax, bask in the sunlight and laugh at silly things that didn't matter.

But a hunch was a hunch.

You didn't ignore hunches.

‘You want to fly over there? A plane would take 2 days and you can't leave for that long. Would you like me to schedule a teleport?’ Madeli checked her organiser. ‘The earliest is tomorrow morning, 7am?’

You shook your head while horrified somersaults ransacked your stomach. One teleport too many in one day.

The nightmares always waited, at the dimensional space you'd vowed to stay away from as a child. That's the only vow you'd ever broken.

‘Today.’ Your heart sunk. ‘Can you contact Jin please?’

Madeli’s raised eyebrows asked questions you didn’t have answers for. 'But he's not an official Terra teleporter.'

‘It’ll be fine.’ You assured, yourself more than her. ‘Sadly he finds me too amusing alive.’

A reluctant tilt of her head, nails clicking against the datapad. A quick affirmative nod a second later.

‘He said he’s free in about an hour, and that.. he’d love to spend some quality time with you?’ A quirked eyebrow. 'Are you certain?'

You slipped out of your heels, rubbing at your calves. ‘Positive, and thank you, I'll get some work done, so let me know what needs immediate attention.’

A shrug as a grin formed on her lips. ‘That's what I do best. And you must keep me posted on your date.’

You would've thrown something at her, but papers did not quite fly well.

 ~

[sarissophori]

Hither Yonder, Chapter 11

Among the White Wolves

After a half-league trek along the cold banks and frozen waters of the ravine, Chieftain and his pack led Halli and Noma up a narrow goat-path hidden by the slopes, covered over by snow. It rose with the mountain flank, more north than the highway and winding through craggier, uneven places, on and up, curving with the slope. The Wolves effortlessly scaled the ledges and worn natural steps, but Halli and Noma kept pace with them despite their weariness. Chieftain would at times look back to make sure, then sprint on.

      The goat-path snaked through a maze of tumbled rises before broadening out as a long open lawn, enclosed by dark walls of granite –a mountain hall open to the sky, but sheltered from the wind. Into the side of the ‘hall’ were many tunnels that led to dens, kennels and caves for gathering, occupied by the White Wolves since before Tarmaril’s founding, and the western seas were explored by men.

      “This is the home of my clan” Chieftain said. “For now, it is yours as well.”

      As they entered the lawn, a sentry standing watch gave a few short barks to herald their return. The clan gathered out onto the lawn to welcome their return, young and old, hunters and mothers with pups, intrigued by the sight and smell of two outsiders in their leader’s company. They held their curiosity in check and waited for his address.

      “We return” Chieftain said, his voice carried by the hall. “Not from a hunt, but from battle, for the Beasts had defiled our sacred place with their presence. They will not again, thanks to the aid of these two who stand with us; Nomatakana, shepherd of the Gallenwood, and Halli, human of Hanan. They have my blessing to take shelter here until the weather favors their travels. Give to them every courtesy. It is their earn-right.”

      Halli and Noma bowed to the clan, who returned the gesture.

      “Friends of the clan, welcome” the eldest female said, the first of the Chieftain’s many mates, and their ruling Matriarch.

      “A den shall be set aside for you and made comfortable, even perhaps to a biped’s liking. Will this be good for you, child?”

      It took Halli a moment to realize that the Matriarch’s question was directed at her.

      “For me?”

      “Bipedals are more sensitive to the cold than a Wolf of the mountains” she said. “We have little bedding, but we will spare you what we can.”

      “Thank you” Halli said. “You knew I understood wolf-speech, then?”

      “We guessed it” Matriarch said. “Your scent is similar to the Westerlanders, though more tolerable. Worry not, wolf-friend. We shan’t hold it against you. The Chieftain has spoken in your favor.”

 So Matriarch lent to them a den close to her own, far enough within the caves for warmth, but still touched by the lawn’s tempered light. The den’s floor was covered with dry grass, piled so thick Halli couldn’t feel the rock underneath; cozy, though the smell of dank fur and past litters made it very pungent. Noma went to a corner and curled up in the grass. Halli sat down beside her and counted what remained of their supplies.

      By evening Chieftain and Matriarch came to check on them, giving them a portion of meat saved from a recent hunt.

      “It is said humans prefer their meat to be cooked” Chieftain said. “Kindling is scarce in these heights, and I do not recommend searching for any soon. It is unsafe for you beyond our shelter.”

      “I have enough with me to last a few days” Halli said. “Noma may take my share.”

      Noma’s appetite concurred, and Halli nibbled on a few cold strips.

      “If you have any other needs, tell us” Matriarch said. “Until then, sleep well.”

 The storm picked up, carrying on well through the night. The dark inside and outside the caves was seamless, though Halli could hear the wind whining high over the lawn, and when it died down, the subtle crunch of sentries pacing. As a late hunting party returned with fresh hares for the pups, a low, rumbling groan echoed over the open hall, answered by booming moans that shook the air. The sounds of great cumbersome things were heard in the darkness, stomping heavy feet, beating heavy fists. The Wolves looked out with their ears pulled back.

      “They are close” one said.

      “Something has stirred them” another said.

      “Stirred what?” Halli said, crawling out of her cloak to peer out from the hall. Noma sat and listened, ears up and intent.

      “The Stone People” the first Wolf said. “We share the mountains with them, but they are friends to none, especially when roused. It would be wise to postpone all patrols until morning.”

      “Stone People…you mean Stone-golems?”

      “If that is your name for them.”

      Halli glanced at Noma’s darker outline in the den. “They’re real?”

      “So they are” Noma said.

 The storm went on for two days before finally ebbing, yielding to the clearest day since Halli and Noma entered the Grayrim. The wind was subdued, making the mountains eerily quiet. In the open hall yipping pups were at play, shaking off their boredom. Pale autumn mists clung to the slopes, roaming and fading, dotting the frost with glinting droplets. When the mists lifted Halli and Noma thanked the White Wolves for hosting them and then, accompanied by Chieftain, left the hall along the old goat-path.

      “What road will you take into Westerland?” Chieftain said.

      “The surest I know is the highway” Halli said. “But I fear to take it.”

      “You should. Now that the Beasts have your scent, they will hunt you again as soon as you leave our territory, especially if you go that way.”

      “Know you another?”

      “There is one, inside our territory, that we use at times” he said. “It is barren and not well-marked in places, however. Without a keen sense of smell, or a sure guide, you would risk becoming lost. I will lead you, if you are prepared for it.”

       “Lead on” Halli said.

      Chieftain nodded and trotted ahead of them, taking point. Passing through the tumbled knots and hills on the slope, they walked quickly first in a southerly direction, then went curving northward as they left the goat-path and traced another, rutted into the gravel, going around an outcropping that dominated the hall’s western vistas. The ravine was below them, thawing out to a trickling flow between ice patches smoothed to a crystalline shine.

    Past the outcropping, the rutted path turned west and kept with the ravine for a while, until it took them up and over the shoulder it ran along and dropped into a dimple in the stone, then carried on as a track between two ridgelines, worn yet jagged. It was rocky, patched with frost, and lined by hardy shrubs that bristled with thorns; and on it went, through miles of trying terrain, confused in its turns if keeping discernably west. At length the ridgelines met and merged with a bluff thrust out from the mountainside, blocking their way and ending this particular section of the path. Here Chieftain allowed a small rest, for they had gone the entire morning and noon unceasing in pace, making better progress than he supposed of them.

    He sniffed the air. “Our luck holds. The weather remains favorable, and the Beasts have yet to catch our scent. That said, I have no desire to press our fortune. Eat a little if you must, but no sleeping.”

      “Just as well” Noma said. “I’m hardly tired. I actually missed the distances we used to cover, wouldn’t you say, Halli?”

      Halli groaned. “Maybe when I wasn’t wearing boots.”

 There was a deep gouge where the bluff began to rise over the ravine, leading down as short choppy stairs to a slender vale choked with boulders from rockslides. Chieftain weaved them among the boulders, beginning their trek south and out of the Grayrim’s frigid reaches. The vale gently dipped as its west arm pulled suddenly back, offering Halli and Noma their first view of Tarmaril proper: green plains stretched out before the knees of the range, low and fertile, with rolling fields like an emerald sea and small woods scattered like islands; the lofty heads of the Andrim Mountains were set against the far horizon, their flanks sheathed in lush pine forests hiding meadows and glens fed by streams of melted snow. Now, after so much hardship, they beheld Tarmaril’s true beauty.

      “Our path is nearly done” Chieftain said. “There are springs close by, from which a river flows. The Westerlanders once held them sacred and use to make pilgrimages to them, in their better days. If they still do, I cannot say. I will take you there, but no further.”

      “Understood” Halli said.

      The path followed the vale’s descent, making a slow transition from bare stone to traces of shabby grass and pine needles as gaunt trees leered over them. The air was warmer here, showing little trace of the winter-like clime higher in the mountains, until all the frost was gone, and they felt the touch of sunlight. Whatever spell or chance of nature held the Grayrim’s snows at bay Halli couldn’t guess, but she was thankful for it.

      They walked deeper into a growing mix of trees and ferns, many laden with their final autumn blooms. For the first in a long time, Halli heard birdsongs and the scurrying of small animals through underbrush. Pale flowers grew along the path, opal-lilies and moonsickles, wildflowers like painted fans and god-fingers, and winding around the boughs of many trees were ivy vines laden with golden flowers, eyes-of-sun, and the trees themselves looked in blossom. Purple posies sprung out between the roots, among indigo suckles and jade-petals. A smoldered nostalgia took her, reminding her of the Irdon Forest and the groves of Lake Onu, beautiful in that spring since passed. Down the slopes they went, into yet more pleasant country.

 The path turned south and a little east, coming to the edge of a narrow outlook from the mountain-flanks. It ended before the rim of an enclosed dell, oval-shaped and flecked with feldspar, holding in its embrace clear, crisp springs, the birth-waters of the Valos River. There were three pools, blue as sapphire at the edges and dark as obsidian at their hearts, welling out from mouths of marble and granite, strung by veins of ghostly quartz. Watching over each pool was a monolith of vague human features, quartz-striped and rune-etched, monuments dedicated to keeping the Valos pure; they were remnants of Tarmaril’s earliest age, when her people had a greater love for nature than warcraft.

      “Here is where I leave you” Chieftain said. “This is as far as I go into the Westerlands.”

      Halli bowed. “You have given more than was our right to ask, thank you.”

      “Return with speed to your clan” Noma said. “Give them our thanks as well, if you would.”

      “I shall” Chieftain said. “You were respectable guests, while we had you. Farewell.”

      He turned away and made to depart, then stopped and looked back.

      “The business of outsiders is not ours to know, yet I must ask, if you will answer; why seek you the Great Water? Why risk such a danger?”

      Halli stood silent for a moment, then said softly, “To find someone I lost, beyond the sea.”

      She looked westward and said no more, but Chieftain understood her.

      “Then the greater part of your journey still lies ahead. May all the luck in the world go with you, and may your strength never fail you.”

      With that he returned up the path, leaving Halli and Noma to continue their journey by their own way.

[silverfootstepswrites]

Contralto [1/2]

Part 1 (here) | Part 2 

Fog settled over the woods in a heavy blanket. The damp leaves muffled the sounds in the forest. Turning the spindly trees into monsters with gnarled arms reaching to the heavens.

She let out a long breath. Lowered the hood of her cloak. The fabric was the color of blood against her white skin. She flexed her fingers, feeling her gloves creak against the movement. Pulling her shears from her basket, she ventured deeper into the trees. 

The plant she was looking for didn’t like to be out in the open. It took shelter under trees, roots burrowing into cramped patches of soil. Sometimes it climbed up hills, springing from soil that seemed otherwise lifeless. She snipped branches, careful to leave enough to allow the plant to continue growing. The thorns snagged on the fabric of her gloves. She tugged them free. 

A cold wind whistled through the trees. Gathering the cloak around herself, she lifted her chin. There was a rustle in the woods. She waited, holding her breath. 

Most bears had already gone into hiding for the winter. They burrowed deep into their warm dens. In fact, as the leaves withered and fell from the trees, many of the animals either left for warmer weather or looked for shelter. So it likely wasn’t a bear. But that meant that it could be something much worse.

As she squinted in the dark, she could make out a human shape. Which didn’t say much either. There were many human-shaped things lurking in the night. She exhaled, mist spilling from her mouth. The figure didn’t come any closer. 

She snapped her fingers. Sparks flew from them, like flint striking steel. A small orb of fire appeared between her thumb and middle finger. She tossed it up into the air. It hovered at shoulder-height, illuminating the brush a little better. Casting an orange glow over her own face too. 

A boy stood half-hidden behind a tree. He was far too thin. Shirt drooping off his shoulder. But it was the eyes that caught her attention. A brown that bordered on red. Unsettling and normal all at once. 

He didn’t move toward her. He didn’t flee either. She saw his cheeks were dry, devoid of the tears that normally accompanied children lost in the forest. 

The fire also revealed a plant heavy with fruits that sat between them. The leaves sagged under the weight of the berries. They were black, shining like patches of ice in the darkest winter night. The boy’s eyes darted to the plant. Hunger made his eyes gleam brighter than the fruits.

“Don’t eat those if you don’t want to die,” she warned, turning away from him. She grasped the edges of her hood.

“…What if I want to?” he asked. Voice scratching like stone crumbling apart.

Her hands paused. 

She looked over her shoulder at him. Studied his gaunt, dirty face. The dark shadows under his eyes. He was far too thin for a child. She had seen many like him before. She also knew why he didn’t beg and cry. 

He understood that he had been abandoned.

“Do whatever you want. But make sure you eat a lot if you don’t want to suffer,” she retorted. Pulling the hood over her hair, she strode down the path she had memorized many years ago. 

It was quiet for a long time. A solitary owl hooted as she moved past its tree. Leaves rustled as the wind tickled them. And then, she heard a set of footsteps that didn’t match up with her own. They rustled through the leaves as the little boy followed her home. Crunching in staccato as he stumbled over the roots and vines that littered the forest floor.

The winding trail through the woods led to an oddly-shaped place. It had started off as an old, square cottage. But as the years went on, she had added on to it. An extra room off the kitchen. And then a second floor. To the left was a greenhouse made from red wood and squares of glass.  The glass trapped the heat inside during the winter months and kept pests out. 

As she approached, the lanterns lining the path suddenly lit themselves. The windows of the house filled with gold light too. She stepped down the stone path, ignoring the double doors out front. Instead, she followed the mossy stones, around the side of the house. To the back door. A big crow sat on the lantern mounted beside the door. When Sakura approached, it let out a single “caw”.

Sakura opened the back door. The smell of something sweet wafted out to greet her. The jars of apple jelly she had left on the counter were still warm when she ran her hand along them. 

The boy hovered in the doorway of the kitchen. Neither in nor out. He watched as she stepped out of her shoes and undid the tie on the front of her cloak. She tossed it over the back of a chair. The cloak draped itself so that it wouldn’t wrinkle. The broom leaning in the corner sprang to life when she gestured toward it. It swept up the little bits of leaves and dirt that had followed her shoes into the house. The boy stepped aside as the broom approached to push the dirt outside. 

“Have you eaten?” Sakura inquired.

The boy stared at her. 

Sighing, Sakura twisted her right hand through the air. The fire in the hearth roared a little brighter. There was a black cauldron hanging in the fireplace. Whatever was inside began to bubble. Soon, the kitchen was filled with a savory smell. Herbs mingling together in a delicious harmony. 

As the soup heated, Sakura opened up the breadbox. Inside was part of the loaf of sourdough she had baked yesterday. She sliced off a generous hunk and set it on a clean plate. As she worked, she glanced up at the boy. 

“Shut the door. You’ll let the heat out,” she instructed. 

He stared at her. She stared right back. Until he moved to close the door. The lock turned before he could touch it. 

“Sit.”

A chair jerked out from the table, swiveling towards him. He stepped across the floor, barefoot. The broom followed after him. The sweeps almost sounded like scolding as he it gathered up the dust he had dragged in. 

Once the soup was warm, Sakura pulled a bowl from the cabinet. A ladle rose from one of the hooks by the sink. It dipped into the cauldron, pulling up a generous serving of a deep brown soup. Translucent slices of onion and bits of herbs bobbed on the surface. The ladle deposited the soup in the bowl before it threw itself in the sink. 

Sakura made a pushing gesture with both hands. Both the soup and the bread floated across the room. They landed very gently on the table in front of him. 

He began devouring his food without hesitation. He didn’t even notice when she slipped out of the kitchen.

“Boy,” she said, appearing again. His head jerked up. Mouth stuffed full of bread and soup. 

“When you finish eating, just go to sleep. Don’t touch anything. Find somewhere else to stay in the morning,” she told him. Throwing the blanket at his feet, she turned and walked out of the room. She climbed the stairs up to her room. Listening to the spoon clink furiously against the side of the bowl. The lock of her bedroom door snapped shut behind her. 

In the morning, he was gone. The pantry doors were ajar, as were the drawers of her cabinets. Several pieces of her cutlery were gone. Two jars of her apple jelly were missing too.

Sakura stood in her kitchen, hands on her hips as she surveyed the damage. 

“Oh well,” she sighed. She gave a wave of her hand. The broom in the corner stood upright and began sweeping across the floor.

She raised her arms. A clean apron whisked off the hook by the door. It lowered itself over her head, strings tying a neat bow behind her back.

“It could be worse,” she added as she picked up the dirty bowl and plate from last night to place them in the sink.

Later that morning, Sakura pulled her cloak over her dress. Basket hung over her forearm, she headed out of her house. The lock snapped shut behind her as she descended the stone steps. 

The market was bustling already. Merchants pushed their carts past, chickens clucking in their cages. The women cupped their hands around their mouths, shouting about the prices of their cabbage and whatnot. 

The people in the street tried not to make eye contact with her. But they didn’t exactly ignore her either. There were a few nervous nods here and there. 

Magic was one of those strange things that was both illegal and extremely common. A new mother with a colicky baby often sought soothing potions. The priest turned to her when he came across congregants who suffered from nightmares. Men who toiled in the fields stopped by for salves for their blistered hands and feet. Almost everyone in town had asked her for something. 

It had become an unspoken agreement that she was both an abomination and necessary. Which was why no one had tried to chase her out with torches and pitchforks yet.

Sakura bought a few things in the market. On her way to the apothecary, she thought she saw someone following her. She turned, red cloak swishing with the movement. There was nothing behind her.

The apothecary was a dusty place. There were probably things on the shelves that the owner himself had forgotten about. He sat on a stool behind the counter, barely paying attention as she measured out sacks of dried ingredients. She paused as she opened the jar containing orange and red flowers. The brittle petals were shaped almost like fingers. The flowers were in good condition so she added a little extra to her bag. 

As she set her bags on the counter, the old man got to his feet. He winced, hobbling over to weigh each of her sacks. 

“Your joints?” asked Sakura. The man grunted. Sakura said nothing as she looked him over. She paid him. And as he handed over the change, Sakura decided what to say.

“Send your grandson sometime next week. I’ll have a salve ready for you,” Sakura promised him. His white mustache twitched.

“Money’s a bit tight right now,” he muttered. 

“I’ll be troubled if you close the store. Give me a discount on this witch hazel and I’ll consider us even,” Sakura declared. She lifted the jar and shook it a little. Enough for the dried flowers to rattle around inside. He squinted at her, stroking his mustache. She knew she’d won when his shoulders drooped.

“Thank you,” the old man relented.

He threw in a bundle of dried sage with her other goods. Sakura pretended not to notice it. She would only embarrass him by thanking him. 

Sakura walked out of the apothecary, pulling her hood over her head. She paused when she heard something like a whimper. When she hesitated at the door, the man hobbled over to peer out into the street. Sakura heard the noise again. She leaned around the corner of the building and spotted a figure slumped in the alley. 

“These damn vagrants,” the old man grumbled. But Sakura held her arm out to stop him. She lowered her hood before she took a few steps toward the figure. As she drew closer, she saw that her suspicions had been correct. It was the skinny little boy. He had stolen one of her red cloaks and draped it over his tattered clothes.

Sakura crouched in front of the boy. 

“I told you not to touch anything,” 

The boy’s breathing was ragged. His face and chest were flushed under all the dirt. 

“You know this brat?”

“Mmhm. You know, that apple jelly was supposed to be medicine for the lady who runs the orphanage. Those children are so picky. The apple masks the taste of the herbs. But it makes you sick unless you’re sick already,” Sakura told the boy. She rested her cheek in her palm. 

Sakura let out a long sigh as she got to her feet. She dusted off the bottom of her cloak. 

“Well, it’s no concern of mine. I did warn him,” she added. 

The boy’s eyes fluttered shut. Another whine left his lips. Everything ached and it was so hot and cold at the same time. The inside of his stomach burned like something was trying to claw its way out. Something rattled nearby. Hooves clattered against the cobblestone. 

His eyes opened. 

“This time, listen when I tell you not to touch anything,” Sakura ordered, leaning over him. She gathered him into her arms, pulling the cloak tighter around him. She set him on the back of the cart, on top of some clean straw. And then she climbed into the front seat. 

“Thank you, Minato,” said Sakura. 

The farmer flashed a smile. When he whistled, his old work horse lurched forward. “Not a problem, Miss. My boy’s teething fever was driving us all insane. Can’t thank you enough for your help,” he replied. 

“And your wife?” asked Sakura. 

“Couldn’t be better,” came his cheerful reply.

They made idle talk as the cart rumbled out of the town, out toward the forest. The wooden wheels bumped along the dirt path. Sakura glanced back every once in a while to check on the boy. When she touched his cheek, it was alarmingly hot. 

“The boy?” Minato queried, also looking over his shoulder. 

“A stray. He followed me home and caused some trouble. It doesn’t feel right to let him die on the street,” she replied. 

Minato took them to the gate that separated her home from the forest. He jolted when the lanterns lining the path lit up all at once. She got off the wagon and he twisted around to watch her.

“Do you need help?” he asked. 

She had no trouble lifting the boy in her arms. He weighed much less than he should have.

The kitchen came to life when she stepped inside. Cups and plates swirling around. Pie dough flying from the ice box to roll itself out on the counter. She crossed the kitchen, moving to the pantry. The door swung open. The broom nudged its way ahead of her, sweeping out any cobwebs and stray bits of dust before she stepped inside. 

The boy started when something cold touched his face. He slapped the hand away. Only, there was no hand. Just a wet cloth hovering above him. He bolted upright, scrambling away from the levitating piece of fabric. He winced when his head knocked against the wall. 

“Oh, you’re awake.”

He swiveled his head. The woman stood in the doorway. A book hovered beside her. She cast him a bored look over her shoulder before she turned back to the book. She flicked her wrist and the wet cloth smacked against his forehead, resting there. She carried a long pipe in the other hand. Smoke rose from the tip of it, earthy and a little sharp.

“Your fever’s gone down, but not enough. Drink some of this and go back to sleep,” she ordered. She waved her pipe. A cup zoomed into the room. It jolted to a stop just in front of him. She wiggled her fingers. A transparent, slightly green liquid poured into the cup from thin air. Steam rose from the surface of the drink. 

“Don’t touch anything, boy,” she warned before she turned and stepped out of the room.

He waited a while, listening to her footsteps creak away. Slowly, he reached over. Turned the doorknob. The door swung open, but the broom stood waiting there. It gave a few angry sweeps towards him. He yanked the door shut. 

The door creaked open in the morning. He scooted back into the corner, wrapping the red cloak around his body. Light seeped into the little closet.

“Oh, good. You survived the night,” came the woman’s flat voice. And then another cup of bitter tea flew towards him.

“Drink this,” she ordered. He could hear her walking around just outside the door. Something made clinking noises. As he inhaled, he recognized the fragrance of meat cooking. Juicy, red meat. Not just the watery soup with onions she had offered him the night before. 

“I’m hungry,” he croaked. 

“Drink your medicine first,” she answered. He could hear her tapping her spoon against the edge of a pot. 

“I don’t want to,” he responded.

There was a pause. Her head appeared through the doorway. Her pipe dangled between her fingers. “Then you can leave,” she told him. Her head disappeared, but the cup continued to float in front of him. He stared at it for a long time before he grasped the porcelain handle. He gulped the bitter liquid down. 

As soon as the cup was empty, it flew from his grasp. A bowl materialized in its place, filled to the brim with stew. Tender chunks of beef and bright green carrot tops filled the bowl. He hesitated. A spoon appeared in his hand. He gobbled his meal down without another word. 

He crawled back into the narrow bed, curling up on his side. He fell asleep with his stomach almost uncomfortably full. 

He woke again in the dead of night. Wrapping the cloak around his shoulders, he eased off the narrow cot. The old floorboards creaked under his traitorous feet. Wincing, he stood still. Listening for something outside. The quiet outside was unsettling. Leaning against the handle, he eased the door open.

The kitchen wasn’t empty like he’d hoped. The woman sat in a chair by the hearth. Her back was to him, but her head turned in his direction when he took a few shaky steps out of the pantry. Glass vials hovered above the sink. There was deep red liquid inside. As he drew closer, he could see that the vials were rotating bit by bit. 

Blue smoke trickled from the end of her pipe. 

“Go back to sleep, boy. Find somewhere else to stay in the morning,” she said without looking at him. 

He looked down at his feet. “I…I don’t feel better yet. I think I’m still sick,” he lied.

When he lifted his chin, she was looking over her shoulder at him. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness, the color of robin eggs. He flinched a little as her eyes narrowed.

“Hm… I see,” she responded. And then she turned back toward the fire. “Then I suppose you’ll have to stay a little longer.”

In the morning, he emerged from the pantry, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. She stood at the sink, a black robe tied at her waist. A piece of paper hovered in front of her. 

She didn’t greet him. But she swished her finger and one of the chairs at the kitchen table pushed back. A plate sat waiting for him, piled high with potatoes and fried eggs. He hesitated, eyes filled with longing as the fragrance of the food wafted over to him. And then he looked at the woman again. She swished her finger again. An invisible hand pushed him across the kitchen, plunking him down in the seat. 

“Hm,” the woman sighed. She rubbed her fingers together. The paper crumpled before throwing itself in the fireplace. 

He gobbled down his breakfast as fast as he could without choking. He jolted when he looked up and realized that she was watching him. He ate a little faster, just in case she was about to kick him out.

She was silent as he ate. When his plate was empty, she swiped her hand to the left. A basket unhooked itself from above the counter. It landed on the table just beside him. 

“Hold out your hand,” she ordered. 

He did. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw her begin to gesture. Fingers twisting together, like she was shaping something out of thin air. Something began to glow in his palm. It was a little mushroom. When he tried to grasp it, his fingers passed right through it. And when he turned his hand over, it disappeared. As soon as his palm faced up, the mushroom appeared again.

“Go out into the woods behind the house. Fill that basket with as many of those as you can find,” she instructed him. She pointed to show him where.

He stared down at the mushroom. Let his fingers squeeze through the specter again.

“No.”

“Then you can leave,” she replied, turning away from him. She waved her hand. A book flew off the mantle, opening up to a page towards the end. She continued to swish her arms, like she was the conductor of a grand orchestra. Dried herbs and dusty vials drifted off of shelves, dancing their way to her. 

She didn’t look at him again.

He grabbed the basket and walked out the back door. It slammed shut behind him.

He stomped his way down the damp forest path. The mud squished between his toes. His breath puffed out in front of him in the misty morning. When he looked over his shoulder, he could see the strange house shrouded in the same fog. The windows glowing with warmth, smoke rising from the brick chimney.

He plucked a couple mushrooms and threw them into the basket before he made his way back to the house. But for some odd reason, no matter how far he walked, the house didn’t seem any closer. He tried moving to the left and right, but the house stayed the same distance away. Just close enough that he could make out the shape of a woman in the window. 

His hand tingled. He turned it over. The mushroom appeared in his palm, glowing just a little brighter. When he looked up, he thought he saw the woman smirking in the window.

Huffing, he turned around to head deeper in the woods. It took a few hours to fill the basket with the mushrooms. But this time, when he moved in the direction of the house, it drew closer and closer. The back door swung open as he approached. 

The basket flew from his fingers as he stepped into the kitchen. 

“You hexed me,” he accused, pointing at her. A smirk curled her lips.

“If you don’t like it, you can leave,” she retorted. She drew a circle with her pointer finger. And the basket of mushrooms spun.

The following morning, she sent him out with pail to draw water from a waterfall. Through the woods, inside a dark cave. Even though plenty of water flowed from the kitchen sink. 

The next day, she sent him up to the roof to feed the crows that had gathered there.

“Go chop firewood,” the woman commanded the day after.

“You don’t need more. I’m tired,” he complained.

“Then you can leave,” was the only response she gave whenever he refused her tasks.

Every couple days, she remarked, “If you’re feeling better, you should find somewhere else to stay in the morning.” 

Even though he went to bed aching from all the work she made him do, he came up with excuses. He still felt weak, his stomach hurt. He invented a new ailment each time. And she always replied, “Then I suppose you’ll have to stay a little longer.”

It was only after almost a week of staying there that he thought to ask, “Who are you anyway?”

The woman was busy grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle. She gestured with her chin. A bottle of gold liquid drifted off the counter. The cork popped out before the jar tilted, dribbling the contents into the mixture.

“You already know. I’m the bad witch who lives in the woods,” she answered.

He watched as she added some of the bright yellow flowers he had picked from the greenhouse. To his surprise, the mixture turned red when the petals began releasing their juices.

“What’re you making anyway?” he then asked.

“A sleeping draught,” she told him.

She added a handful of dried purple flowers. The buds crunched under the stone pestle. 

 “Sakura,” she suddenly said.

He stared at her. When she looked up at him, a smile flickered across her face. “You can call me Sakura. That’s what I go by nowadays.” 

“I’m Itachi,” he mumbled.

He didn’t know whether she had heard him or not. Because even after that day, she continued to call him “boy”. Her call carrying out of the kitchen, sending him to dig up tubers in the woods or to pluck the wings off dead dragonflies.

People came to request things from Sakura. That was how she made her money. She met them in the parlor of her home, the hood of her red cloak pulled over her face. She had him make the customers tea. Itachi overhead bits and pieces of all sorts of problems. A woman who couldn’t have a child, a man who suffered from headaches. They all came to Sakura with their ailments and woes. She listened to all these things, silent as she deliberated.

“Boy. I need five mandrake roots,” Sakura called as Itachi walked into the kitchen. He set down the bucket filled with water. She had sent him to the waterfall three times that day alone. He heaved a sigh, crouching beside the bucket. The skin on his palms was raw and red. She looked up from her spell book.

“Boy.”

“It’s late,” he protested. But he already knew what she was going to say.

“Then you can le-”

He was out the door before she could finish the sentence. 

At least the mandrakes grew in the greenhouse. He didn’t have to venture into the woods again. Pulling on leather gloves, he opened up the door to the greenhouse. Despite the cool weather, it was warm and a little humid inside this place. 

Mandrake flowers were purple. Itachi was careful not to damage them as he seized the plant by the stem and pulled them from the soil. The roots were long and pale, almost like bizarre, hairy legs. He harvested five and gathered them in his arms. Sweat beaded above his upper lip and at his temples. He didn’t understand why she insisted on getting them now when they would still be there in the morning. 

Grumbling, he got to his feet. He was careful to close the greenhouse door behind him. As he crossed the yard, a cool wind began to blow. The back of his neck tingled. Dread pooled in his gut as he recognized the sensation.

When he lifted his chin, he saw that the clouds had parted. Watery moonlight peeking through. The plants tumbled from his arms. 

“Boy, the mandrakes!” Sakura’s voice drifted out from the house.

Itachi scrambled to gather the mandrakes again. One had rolled down the path. He grabbed it just as the door opened. 

“What are you doing?”

His head whipped around. And then he began looking for a hiding spot. Anywhere so that she wouldn’t see him. He just had to find somewhere that the moonlight couldn’t touch.

She stepped outside, a lantern held in one hand.

“Boy?”

Itachi froze. And she did too.

The lantern bathed the side of her face in orange light. And it was just enough to illuminate him too. To highlight the sharp teeth and the horns growing from his temples. He knew that his eyes glowed bright red in the darkness. He had seen the reflection many times, on the nights when he had forgotten to draw his curtains before the moon rose.

She reached for him. A snarl escaped his lips.

“I haven’t seen a tiefling in a long time,” she remarked.

Tieflings weren’t quite human. All it took was drop of demon blood somewhere up the ancestral tree. Sometimes families went generations without showing any signs of this influence. It was just every once in a while that tieflings were born. Monstrous things with tails and fangs. Horrific to behold. Many were smothered in their cribs to spare their parents the disgrace.

 “It looks like someone tried to mask your appearance. Probably some half-wit wizard,” Sakura observed. “They should’ve used a more robust spell if they wanted it to last under moonlight.”

Itachi waited for the disgust. For her fists to strike him as she called him a beast. Her shrieks of terror and rage as she drove him far from her home.

“Bring those mandrakes inside. I want to finish this potion tonight,” she told him.

She slipped back into the house, taking the lantern with her. Itachi waited several seconds, wondering if he had misheard her. And when he took a couple steps toward the door, it swung open a little wider. 

He stood in the doorway, heart racing. He watched Sakura spin her finger. A knife danced through the air, peeling an apple in one deft movement. 

“Wash those in the sink,” she told him without looking up. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. 

“…You…you’ll let me stay here?” he asked.

“Not if you don’t wash those mandrakes,” she answered.

[jedicreed-fr]

A Friend

[happens after the events in Further and Further Away!]

(All dragons are in gijinka’d forms (which are in their links)!)

---

Azarhi came to slightly, leaning into a cool touch on his cheek. It felt...welcomed against the ache there. For a blissful moment, everything was foggy. He didn’t know where he was, or how he got here...but he was laying on something soft. And the pain in his face was going away gradually, with the cold touch there. But why was it hurting in the first place?

...Oh.

Oh--

The fog cleared instantly, and Azarhi’s eyes snapped open, as he sat up abruptly with a gasp.

He wasn’t in his room. He...didn’t recognize this place. But he wasn’t chained to anything, so this wasn’t the dungeon, either. He was in a bed, a soft cover laid over him, one he was gripping tightly now. The room itself was cool, but nothing too extreme. He was an Ice dragon at heart, so cooler temperatures were always welcome. But...where was--?

“Azarhi...?”

The Imperial jumped at the voice, turning to the source of it, before letting himself relax.

It was just Solomon.

Everything that happened previous came back to Azarhi. His desperate hopes of getting Janto back, meeting with Daasdrei, hearing those hurtful words from her, before being slapped hard and scratched. And watching her walk away with Janto, who did absolutely nothing to help. He had just...walked away, with Daasdrei on his arm.

He must’ve looked rather sad, as Solomon got his attention again, by calling out to him, “Azarhi? Are you okay?”

Azarhi swallowed hard, wincing at how parched his throat was, “Y...Yes...in a way. But how did I...?” he looked around the room in question, before watching Solomon reach over for a glass of water. The air around his hand, and the glass, became frosty, and soon the water was ice cold, as he handed it to the shaken Imperial.

“I found you in a sorry state, while walking the halls.” explained Solomon, as he watched Azarhi drink down the water, “I held you as you wept, but you couldn’t answer any questions I had. The moment you stopped, you just collapsed. I carried you back here and patched up the wound on your face. You weren’t out for more than a few minutes, before coming to.”

“I see...” said Azarhi, as he lowered the now empty glass. He did remember crying...his exhaustion must’ve caught up with him to the point where he collapsed. Honestly, it was about time, “Thank you, Sir Solomon. I’m sorry you had to see me in such a way...”

Solomon shook his head, before waving a dismissive hand, “Please, just Solomon is fine. I don’t deserve the title of ‘Sir’ or anything of the sort. And you’re welcome, I couldn’t just leave you there, so...”

Azarhi watched the assassin curiously. During his time as Janto’s escort, he’d only encountered Solomon a few times. And each time left him a bit intimidated. The Pearlcatcher was Janto’s personal assassin, and had the blood of Janto’s enemies on his hands. ...But that meant he had innocent blood on his hands, right? But right now, he didn’t seem like a threatening assassin. He was being downright gentle with him.

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” asked Solomon gently, as he sat on the edge of the bed, looking over at Azarhi, “Those scratches on your face were done by claws, and I thought I heard Daasdrei speaking to someone. Was that you?”

At her name, Azarhi winced, and Solomon knew he hit the nail on the head. Azarhi was quiet for a moment, before sighing, fiddling with the blanket in his hands, “...It’s along story.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be.”

A small smile graced Azarhi’s lips at that, before he quietly delved into what had been going on. Between him and Janto. And between him and Daasdrei. How he had been feeling, since Daasdrei was crowned Empress of the Executrix Empire. To his credit, Solomon didn’t interrupt or react in any way, as he explained everything that had happened, up until the Pearlcatcher found him.

“...I have a sinking feeling that, despite everything we’ve been through, I don’t think Lord Janto will have me again, as he did...” ended Azarhi quietly, unable to look up now, “I thought...I thought we had something special...I was led to believe that nothing would change, when he got an Empress, but...”

Azarhi blinked, as he felt more tears well up in his eyes. He sniffled and wiped at his eyes, before a handkerchief was presented to him, from Solomon. He nodded his thanks, before wiping his face. He paused, when he watched Solomon stand up, arms folded over his chest.

“Janto uses everyone he comes across.” he said, frowning, “He doesn’t ‘form’ any special bonds with anyone. To him, everyone at his hands is just a pawn. Once they’ve been used to his satisfaction, he either lets them go, kills them, or completely disregards them. He toys with emotions, as if they’re his own personal playthings, using any sort of blackmail he has on hand to make sure they stay in line.”

Azari stared down at his hands, before balling them up into fists. Solomon had pretty much got everything right. Azarhi saw first hand, how Janto treated his ‘pawns’ in his Empire. How many innocent lives had Azarhi watched be ruined, as he sat at Janto’s side, blissfully ignoring the situation to focus only on ‘his’ Emperor. He...had known, but he ignored them completely, in favor of Janto. Because Janto had been his entire world, then.

Gods, he felt sick to his stomach... 

“...So...So I was used again. Again. I thought I was done being used like a...a-a plaything, but instead...” His tail moved from under the covers, curling around him almost protectively, as his ears drooped, “My life has been ruined once more...! B--By both...both of them! Used by both of them! And I willfully played along! I...They...” Azarhi swallowed thickly, feeling more tears well up, both in frustration and anger, “They need to be destroyed...!”

Solomon watched Azarhi, surprised. The normally meek Imperial, despite looking like a cornered animal, was actually snarling. He still had some fight in him. Good. Smiling softly, he approached the bed, and cupped Azarhi’s bandaged cheek, causing his eyes to snap up to his. Using his Ice magic, Solomon cooled his palm, trying to ease the ache in that wound there.

“...Don’t go down that path. Vengeance doesn’t suit you.” said Solomon softly, a thumb wiping away a stray tear, “Keep your hands clean, Azarhi.”

He stood back up, “You were blinded by him, and fell victim to his honeyed words and promises.” said Solomon gently, as he watched Azarhi, normally icy eyes soft was he watched the Imperial, “I don’t fault you for that. He promised my kingdom wealth and land, but when he took over, he immediately used everyone and in the end, destroyed everyone once he got what he needed...”

Azarhi was quiet, before blinking and lifting his head, “...Wait, kingdom You’re...?”

Solomon glanced towards the door, as if seeing if anyone was listening, before turning to Azarhi and pulling his shirt down slightly, showing a tattoo of an icy rose on his breast. One that looked familiar, to Azarhi’s knowledge.

“I’m the price of the fallen Frozen Rosenkreuz kingdom.” stated Solomon, and for once, Azarhi saw pride in him, “And while I may be Janto’s dog for now, I vow to get revenge for all the lives he’s taken.” The burning pride soon faded from his eyes, as they softened, looking as Azarhi, “My hands are already stained in blood, Azarhi. Let me deal with the revenge. Vengeance isn’t meant for someone beautiful like you.”

Azarhi couldn’t help but blush at his words, “But...I-I don’t want to stay here and do nothing...” he said, wiping away his tears, “I want to do something...so that what happened to me...and to you...won’t happen ever again.”

Solomon watched Azarhi carefully, contemplating. Azarhi saw the look and tilted his head, slightly. What was he thinking? Before he could ask, Solomon held out his hand, palm up, before using his Ice magic once more. Azarhi watched, amazed, as a frozen rose formed in his hand; The petals glittered gorgeously, the stem translucent, as well as the thorns. Once it was formed, he held it out for Azarhi.

“Keep this.” said Solomon, “With you being an Ice dragon, it won’t melt around you.”

Azarhi took it, amazed, as it was placed in his hands. True to Solomon’s word, he didn’t feel the ice melting, as he held the rose. No doubt he’d have to hide it from Janto, whenever he did come into his quarters...but he could do that easily enough.

“Keep an eye on it.” continued Solomon, “Since your quarters are somewhat close to mine, I’ll be able to control the rose. When a petal falls, come and find me in the rose garden. I want to discuss something with you.”

“Discuss...what?” asked Azarhi, glancing up at the Pearlcatcher, who only shook his head, and smiled as he placed a finger to his own lips. A secret. But what sort of secret?

Azarhi glanced down at the frozen rose in his hand. It felt cold, like the awful ice that had threatened to encase his heart earlier, when Janto broke it into pieces. But something about this rose, and Solomon’s words gave him...hope.

Hope that he hopefully wouldn’t lose again...

[olga-eulalia]

You know what? I can post terrible self-indulgent fic if I want to, so here’s a Sleeping Beauty AU, featuring Silver and Flint. ~3500 words. R just to be on the safe side. Some non-con. Unbeta’d. Non-native speaker writing here.

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, when it was late winter and John Silver had been travelling across the land for many months, he came into a forest that was dark and strangely quiet, and he thought he’d lost the path when suddenly, just before nightfall, a hollow-way appeared in the gloom that brought him safely to the entrance of an inn.

The room was dimly lit, the ceiling low, and smoke came curling out when he entered. For a moment, all faces were turned towards him, squinting. But since Silver was not altogether unpleasant to look at and had the gift of a charming smile he found himself accepted rather warmly for a mere stranger passing through.

Over the years he had learned a couple of valuable things: That news, embellished, were quick to draw a crowd. That people in general enjoyed the company of a man who held their opinions in high esteem. That a ripping yarn was as good as any currency in that even the most standoffish were afflicted with an unusual bout of generosity once the teller’s tongue started to feel a bit parched. And all these, and more, came in very handy that night.

*

Now it was true even then that every place, no matter how remote, had its own stories, some of which people liked to talk about gleefully and often. While others, they only mentioned under their breath or kept secret altogether for fear of catching their oddness. And as knowing which was which was nigh impossible in advance, one had to excuse Silver. It was nothing but his natural curiosity that made him ask about the manor in the distance, whose it was, and he couldn’t have known that it would bring conversation throughout the room to a halt.

"The Devil's," a woodcutter muttered into his jug of ale.

The blacksmith, no less brawny in stature, set down his mug and corrected him.

Then, bit by bit, more people felt confident enough to chime in. Indeed, a rather fierce competition arose as to whose sources were the most reliable, whose account the most accurate. The innkeeper's face was impartiality itself as she pulled another frothy pint.

From what Silver was able to gather the building had been abandoned for more than two generations and folk in these parts believed that it was frequented by a most godless crowd: Ogres, ghosts, witches and suchlike. It was somewhat difficult to pin down the particulars of the tale since it morphed as it went from teller to teller, but in one aspect they all agreed: Don’t go near. The message was so uniform that one could almost believe everyone either in on a joke or cleverly hiding something from an outsider.

Silver, intrigued, had just made the decision to discover for himself whether the place held anything of value that could make his detour yet worthwhile when a shadow by the fire spoke up.

Hogwash! A tall, old man shifted his lined face into the light. In his days, everyone knew that the manor had been bewitched and that the only way to release its residents from the spell was to bestow one kiss on the beautiful princess trapped inside.

The old man frowned at the amusement rippling through his audience. He continued: Some of his friends had tried it in their youthful folly. Thought they could best the brambles that encased the stone walls as securely as an iron casket, but none of them were ever seen to make it through. Or return.

"Witchcraft." The woodcutter nodded.

The talk then shifted to discuss other possible doings of the Devil and whether the local magistrate was in cahoots with him, and Silver, feigning bodily discomfort, moved across the room to occupy a cosy seat by the fire as well.

"I'd very much like to see this manor house for myself," he said. Perhaps the tale and her teller's name would find their way into the book he was writing, he offered as incentive, hoping that, at the end of the day, an interested listener would make up for an empty promise. "You wouldn't happen to remember the shortest way?"

The old man studied the frayed edges of Silver's second-hand coat and his peg leg with great care, but Silver’s face yet more carefully still. From the corner of his mouth, where a missing tooth allowed him to comfortably fit the amber stem of his pipe, he admitted, “I do.”

Chapter 2

A glittering layer of ice outlined branch and fallen leaf. Overnight, the ground had frozen over and Silver’s breath fogged the air as he walked the perimeter. His snares were empty, winter mushrooms sparse. With the supplies in his bag dwindling, a longer stay would be ill-advised, and it pained him to think that he'd have to seek his good fortune elsewhere while the turreted manor sat like a most precious egg pristine in its spiky nest. His gaze roamed all that unspoiled glass and iron he'd be able to sell if only he could find a way to get his hands on it.

At one point, the house must have lorded over a large swath of land. The tree-lined road, whose faint remnants had guided him on his way, stretched for about two miles up north and the overgrown front gate was wide enough to fit six horses side by side. In an abandoned farmstead close by, under a roof that sat worryingly askew, Silver had made camp. And though he had a good view of the premises, there was nothing out of the ordinary to report on. Except for one very obvious thing:

The unusually large thornhedge that wrapped the manor in a tight embrace, covering it all the way round and almost all the way up the highest tower. Even the forest kept its distance from such an unruly, greedy growth that had swallowed up ladder, plank and axe in its past and more recently Silver’s handsaw.

He spotted the tool and began to tug at it with all his strength, hoping to pry it from the clutches of the hedge this time. The sun's rays were slanting in just so that he could make out something stuck further inside the thicket. A piece of clothing perhaps. Or perhaps it was...

"Good morning!" An old woman, snugly wrapped up in shawls, had come out of the woods and startled him.

"Good morning," he scrambled up his last ounce of cheer. Seeing that she was dragging a bundle of brushwood along on a makeshift sledge, he then offered his help, though, truth be told, he deemed his own work far more important and had no real intention of abandoning it.

She mustered him with a critical eye and declined. “You seem very busy.”

As it turned out, she was much more interested in what he was doing anyway, lingering by his side and quizzing him about his intentions.

Those were nothing but chivalrous, he assured her. Curse-breaking was his business. Drawn by the warm sparkle in her eyes, he leaned in and said, "I heard," and then recounted the old man's tale.

"Oh, nonsense!" She poked the hard ground with her walking stick. "When I was young, everyone knew that it was no princess trapped inside this bloody hedge, but a handsome prince." The edges of her smile gleamed with gold. "You let me know if you need any help in waking him from his slumber."

Despite the chill, Silver flushed terribly, seeing himself bent over a downy pillow, lips skimming across a prickly cheek, and gave a chuckle that only drew more attention to his self-conscious state.

Perceptive and kind, the old woman changed the subject, entertaining him with anecdotes of bygone days for a while, bringing to life the bustle of the estate with such clarity in his mind’s eye that he was almost tricked into mourning its loss.

“Snow's coming. Can always trust my bones to be right about that,” she eventually said and then pulled a wrinkled apple and a handful of raisins from her coat pockets -- a sweet haul which she handed to Silver in its entirety, patting his cheek. “Good luck, dear.”

*

Long after she had disappeared back into the forest, Silver was still sitting on an empty plinth with a raisin tucked between his back teeth. When was the last time someone had shown him such kindness? Gifted him food without expecting anything in return? Called him dear without disdain? He should've been more honest about wanting to help her. He should've been more honest in wanting to immortalize the old man's name in a book, too. But instead, he had chosen this. This unrewarding task. This confounded thing.

His next attempt at freeing the saw was rather ungentle. And the more he chided it for its stubbornness, the more the hedge creaked and fought against his efforts. With thorns like talons, it rewarded his impatience by goring him to the bone.

Chapter 3

In the wan morning light, slowly among the branches, snowflakes descended. The forest lay quiet and still as if it had taken a deep breath and slipped under a white cover where it now waited for the sun's return.

While Silver’s sore hands were preparing his belongings for the journey ahead, carefully cording up his burlap bag, his thoughts were far away already, imagining a warm spot, a mouth-watering meal in the next town. He was about to turn his back on the manor, erase this disappointment from memory to the best of his ability when it pierced him: Red.

Red, almost purple, amidst the fresh snow and ashen wood, a delicate bud poked its head out from an array of tender green where yesterday none had been visible, so vibrant and soaked with colour that paint might drip from it at any moment. Behind it, within reach, another blossom coiled. And then another. Dazzled, Silver quite forgot all caution and stepped closer to touch them with his fingertips. They were real, all of them. And a little further on, closer by the wall, where warmth huddled by the stones, one had unfurled its petals like a joyful welcome.

There he saw that he had come a long way already and that the forest was barely visible from this far inside the hedge. Slender rods arched above him like a protective bower, criss-crossing densely. If the old tale had been true and those been possessed of malicious intent, escape would have been quite impossible at this point.

So when the man-high wooden door at the end of the path yielded and allowed him in, Silver grinned: People like him never got stuck in fairytales.

Chapter 4

It was as quiet as the whispering snowfall outside. But a peal of laughter might ring out any moment. A door fall into its lock. A serving-maid pass by, carrying a stack of freshly folded linen. Sumptuous carpets muffled Silver’s steps as he walked the long, branching hallways of the manor, a flickering five-armed candelabra in hand that illuminated a wealth of riches difficult to wrap one’s mind around. Marble, golden ornaments, exquisite furnishings -- only the finest, most expensive materials had been good enough for the owner, whom Silver had started to think of very dearly.

Coming into the great hall by way of the kitchen, he had tried his way through the pickled goods in the pantry till his stomach was stuffed full so that his gait was unhurried now and slow while the bag in his tow grew heavier fast.  

Wherever he went, whether rounding a corner or climbing a stairway, eyes followed him, recognizing him as someone who did not belong and looking on his presence with according disdain. At times bewigged and befrilled, at times presented on black silk and ermine, a hundred unhappy faces judged his actions as he explored room after room. It filled him with an odd sense of satisfaction to see that a couple of these portraits had been knocked down and vandalised, their faces ripped out.

Following those, he discovered that someone had beat him to the library. Books had been pulled out, drawers upturned, the floor strewn with loose papers. Ransacked it appeared in stark contrast to the rest of the house which remained undisturbed in its stately splendour.

Like a box full of choice jewels, the lady's bedroom opened up to him, the surfaces sheened with mother-of-pearl gloss in the pale light. A satin evening gown had been laid out. Matching jewellery. Items that Silver thought to leave untouched, stepping past them into the adjoining chamber where he found half the curtains drawn.

In the dusk, which made it difficult to tell shadow from shape, Silver at first believed that an armful of clothes had been carelessly flung across the bed, but the glow of his candelabra soon transformed it into two knee-high boots, a dark coat and even in the dimness the red shock of hair then became unmistakable.

Silver backed away, withdrawing his light as fast as possible. A doorframe bumped his elbow and startled him into speaking. "I'm awfully sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to disturb...,” he said.

But the figure continued to sprawl facedown as if felled by a mortal blow.

Silver hesitated. He thought of the bag bulging with jewellery and artworks that was waiting for him outside in the hallway and he thought of what happened to thieves who were caught stealing from rich people's homes. And then, unbidden, the memory of the two old people and his own wheedling talk entered his mind and prompted him to drag his courage by the scruff.

It took both hands and a lot of strength to roll the body onto its back. Thick strands of hair fell aside, revealing a face both virile and elegant, its features so handsomely drawn and complexion so delicate that Silver was quite startled by its beauty. He had spent enough time in the study, rummaging through the documents there and looking at the portraits to know that this man was not the master of the house, and since there was no plunder on him except for a scrap of paper clutched in his hand, which made thievery an unlikely motive for his being here, his presence remained a mystery.

A quick examination revealed no visible wound. And another couple of minutes gave certainty that the man’s life was not altogether gone. Both his heartbeat and his breath merely came very slowly and could not be quickened by any means at hand. Whatever it was -- surely a quick peck would not be able to cure as strange a condition as this.

To distract himself from that particular thought, Silver grabbed the crumpled paper and smoothed it out. The lines there were even, the letters themselves full  of verve as their author vowed to do the utmost to mitigate the damage of the curse and apologised more than once for reneging on the promise of forever, but that these drastic measures were necessary, alas, to avert a much more dreadful fate.

“So I take it you’re James?” Silver, stirred by the intimate, imploring tone of the letter, pondered the sleeper’s face.

By the minute now, the old tale gained in plausibility until it had lodged itself in Silver’s mind like a bulky obstacle that he couldn’t think past, and he caught his gaze returning to those tender lips again and again. Considering it as a real possibility was simply absurd. And it definitely wasn’t good sense that made him lean over and study the man from up close. His thick eyelashes. His freckles. The faint lines bracketing his trim, red beard. Was his expression dreamy? Thoughtful? Mournful? Silver, watching the candlelight shift emotions around like ill-fitting puzzle pieces, couldn’t say.

Nerves aflutter, he gnawed on his lip and considered what if. He lowered his face further. "You’ll forgive me if I," he said, voice thinning to a whisper, “try,” and then hardly dared breathe while he let his mouth sink down into the midst of that soft beard and onto silken lips.

*

Satisfied, at last, that it would be considered a kiss and not only an attempt at one, Silver drew back and watched for a response. But none came.

Of course, none came. He shook his head. Truly, it was high time to put silly notions of fantastic deeds aside once and for all.

“Well,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet in no time. I’ll just... need to take some things to incentivise the good doctor to make the trip out here. I’m sure you’d understand.”

Concentration proved a slippery thing when he tried to picture his loot and which item he could part with painlessly and, idly searching for a clue perhaps, he glanced at the man’s face again, expecting tacit permission there, but finding green eyes instead whose focus jumped, caught and pinned with terrible accuracy. Silver’s gaze was dragged into them like light into an endless well.  

The man pushed himself upright. With an unexpectedly gentle caress, a touch so light that it was barely there, he slipped Silver’s bandaged hand into his palm.

Silver, suspended in a state of anticipation, let it happen. He was glad to be greeted with no anger and no confusion, only a persistent kind of curiosity.

They held each other's gaze for a long moment and then plaintively, evoking an overwhelming need to comfort and reassure, the man asked him, “You’ll forgive me?”

“I,” Silver said and at that instant found himself grabbed by the nape, a thumb splayed across his pulse. “Wait! No, I didn’t mean to– I thought-”

As the man pushed him back onto the bed and shifted his muscular body on top of him, it dawned on Silver too late that he had read the signs wrong, that what he had interpreted as curiosity was voracious appetite instead. And as a gust of hot breath moved over his neck and a set of sharp teeth grazed the all too tender skin there, he remembered that some people knew how to craft a spell with skill and purpose and that not all of their handiwork was meant to be broken.

Pain pierced his skin and sank deeper, sounding out the depths of him.

It seemed impossible that someone might desire such a thing as this and therefore Silver had no words at the ready that would stop the act from happening, and his tongue, which had talked him out of many a precarious situation, floundered.

Compared to the immovable grip on him, his own struggle seemed laughably weak, as if his hands were only curled into loose fists, as if his limbs were good for not much more than a twitch, as if he weren’t struggling to free himself with all his strength, now hanging from a mouth like prey.

The man’s lips were fastened tight to his neck, drinking deeply from his heart’s stream. Warmth radiated from the wound, crawling up Silver’s cheek, down over his chest. Slim-fingered, it reached into his veins and sprouted blossoms, letting them grow as tall as trees so that they tinted everything in the luminous red of their immense petals. To Silver they seemed a marvellous thing and he thought he might rest a while in their light and laze in contentment where pleasure was so abundant and he wanted for nothing. Drowsy, he was rocked. Sated, he was fed more. Aroused, he was excited further until ecstasy prickled all over his skin and every individual heartbeat was delight, so that he was a reedy whine, a writhe in the sheets, and nothing more.

His body didn’t seem to know what to do with all that bliss, and he cusped and came inside his drawers -- a feeble lift of his hips. And then he was spat out.

Waiting for just that moment, cold, slavering, laid hands on him and made him shiver. With a head full of noise and his vision flickering out, he rolled over and dragged himself across the bed, miles and miles of bright cloth stretching out ahead of him. Reason, perhaps, whispered that he was not going to make it, not in such a weakened state, and he could not counter it, not understanding why he was trying to leave in the first place when there was so much comfort and joy waiting for him just an arm’s length away, only knowing that he absolutely must.

And so he grabbed another delirious inch of his freedom and then another, and slowly, ever so slowly managed to pull himself to the edge of a cliff. He clutched at it, belatedly trying to mitigate his fall, already plummeting.

A pair of strong arms gathered him into their cradle, clasped him tight and lifted him up. “Are you trying to lose another limb?” He was deposited somewhere flat and impossibly soft and then covered in warmth. Silver let the world happen around him for a while. “When you’re awake your hand will need cleaning.” The hair was brushed from his face. “And I’m sure you’ll be hungry too.”

[the-writing-on-the-statue]

in the halls of the mountain king

Summary: Tsubomi can taste the ozone in the air.

Author’s Notes: Part 2 of the Esper!Tsubomi series, now with added Shou for flavor! Shou is a very interesting character to write, even though I haven’t discovered too much about him (and what I have discovered has some fucking horrifying implications).

This is a sequel to the fallacy of memory, so make sure to read that first.

Read on AO3

Tsubomi feels him before she sees him.

He’s no raging bonfire like Shigeo, more like a banked blaze, more like lightning that scorches and strikes down trees. She thinks of lightning that sparks wildfires, and her vines bloom thorns as long as her fingers.

“Well, there’s no need for that,” the wall she’s left bare of bristling greenery says, and the light there twists.

He’s refracted the light around him to make himself invisible, Tsubomi thinks, as the boy steps into her view, seemingly from thin air. And then, on the heels of that thought, comes: this boy is very dangerous.

The boy in question looks her age, perhaps a little bit younger. He’s short and pale and foreign-looking, his eyes a much lighter shade of blue than her own, his spiky hair almost neon-red under the fluorescent lightning of the hall.

Dangerous, her mind whispers.

Tsubomi can taste the ozone in the air.

He smiles at her, oozing a poor approximation of charm and charisma, and Tsubomi fights the urge to smirk. He’s too young, too unused to it for such things to make any dent in the armor she’s worn all her life. He looks vaguely rich at the edges, like someone who had grown up in wealth, someone who had grown up among people too scared of him to do anything but obey him whenever he twitched.

He walks the halls with authority, and impunity in his confidence. Like he’s royalty.

Tsubomi, on the other hand, has spent years learning what makes people twitch and tick and how best to move under people’s eyes without raising suspicion. She had to learn from a young age how to make people like her and in the same breath not question it. It had been a matter of life or death to do so.

“Well, you’re a pretty sight around here,” he says, and Tsubomi raises an eyebrow at him.

“Really,” she says, unimpressed. “That’s what you start with?”

The boy rocks back and forth on his heels. He moves as though he could leap into the air at any given moment, and would probably not bother to come back down once he did.

“You have pretty eyes,” he offers, still smiling wickedly.

“I thought you were going to try to throw me through a wall, not compliment me.”

“Now why would I do that?” That mocking tone curls lazily through the words, like a joke played at her suspense.

Tsubomi feels a vein twitch in her temple at his insouciance.

So much of her life has been played in secrets and half-truths, an ever-wavering line Tsubomi has had to dance along for years. 

But she has no patience for it, not now.

Not when the greatest lie she has ever been burdened with has been pealed back, to show thorns and petals of blood at any who would attempt to cover it again.

“Are you Claw?” she asks, tired of this going round-and-round without reason.

She wants to find Shigeo and his friends again, and help them get free of this place. She wants Claw to stop chasing her, she wants-

Well. She wants a lot of things. But right now all she wants is for this boy whose hair looks like he stuck his finger in a light socket to leave her alone.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, still smiling at her, like she was a pet about to do something funny for his own amusement.

“Because they murdered my mother and father, hunted me and my aunt for years, and then kidnapped my aunt to make me obey,” Tsubomi says.

Each word is like a chip of ice pushing past her lips, but with them the truth is out, hanging in the air.

The boy stops. 

His face is in the shadows.

Then he smiles, all stretched at the edges, vicious and cruel and somehow, still almost kind.

“Ahahaha, you’re as interesting as that other guy is…I may just have to take you back to HQ, to see what I can make of you,” he drawls.

The taste of ozone is in the air again. And there’s bravado curling once more around the boy’s shoulders.

Vines drop down from the ceiling, twining around Tsubomi like armor. A blood-colored rose blooms into life with petals longer in length than her arm bristles by her ear.

“I’d like to see you try,” she retorts.

He pouts at that. “Really, nobody ever wants to be my friend these days.”

“I wonder why that is,” Tsubomi says dryly.

And psychic power spills into the air.

It clamps like a vice around her lungs, but Tsubomi breathes in the scent of green things and blooms thorns around her skull like a crown.

Psychic power is all well and good, and she has that, but her vines and her roses – they are real. Plants are things that grow and live and survive in the world, things that ordinary humans could touch and cradle in their hands without requiring power to do so.

She only nudges her power to move the plants along their natural paths, to make them grow a bit faster, a bit deadlier, a bit more protective. So many people forgot that plants lived, just as humans or animals did, if but in their own ways.

Plants do not need us, Mirai-chan…

“I see you,” Tsubomi hisses, and plucks the boy out from behind his walls, to throw him into the ceiling.

He laughs, bright and airy and vicious, and goes for the throat.

…But they like us all the same.

[kykyelric]

The Ice Prince’s Rose Garden Ch.5

Read it on AO3 here!  Find the other parts on my masterlist, here. Otherwise, enjoy~!

The prince’s silver hair shone in the soft pastel rays of the sunrise. The sun caught his crown, reflecting off the sapphires and white gold, and it dazzled Yuuri. Yuuri sucked in a breath, slowly, oh so slowly, as he relished the sight in front of him.

Because, for the first time since he arrived, Yuuri didn’t find Prince Viktor intimidating. Prince Viktor’s mouth wasn’t pursed into the usual hard line; it was open in genuine shock. And his eyes…

Oh, his eyes were mesmerizing…

Maybe it was the reflection of the sunrise, but they were alive. Yuuri saw the tides in them, rising and falling… the gentle spring rain… the soft ice in flavored drinks on a hot summer’s day… his reflection as if he were gazing into a clear pool after a storm…

Yes, he saw his own brown eyes within Prince Viktor’s.

Then he blinked, and the Ice Prince’s mouth was back to the pressed line, his eyes the hard ice that Yuuri had come to expect. “Well, did you come here to kill me?”

A wave of realization rocked through Yuuri. It started as a shiver in his shoulders that worked its way down his spine until it threatened to couple his knees.

“Y-Your h-h-highness?”

“Ugh,” the Ice Prince gritted his teeth and spit his words like poison. “Don’t mock me. I’m not really royalty to you.”

The prince’s words were like ice water dumped on Yuuri’s mind. The effect was so immediate that he was groveling on the grass in front of the Ice Prince without a second thought. His face pressed into the sharp stalks, eyes closed, gasping as he awaited his fate. He couldn’t even get a word out. He thinks I’m an assassin. He thinks I’m here to kill him! I don’t… I don’t deserve to live!

After a moment of pure silence that was filled only with the rustling of the rose bushes and Yuuri’s frantic heartbeat, the Ice Prince spoke. “You aren’t… here to kill me?”

Yuuri slowly raised his head. “No, most definitely not, your highness.”

“Then, why are you here?” His eyes were hard, suspicious, questioning. Yuuri sucked in a breath and gathered all the courage he could muster.

“I saw the rose garden from my window and was curious, your highness.” Yuuri pressed his forehead back into the grass.

Somewhat satisfied, Prince Viktor turned away, his frown deepening as he paced a few steps away from Yuuri. “… that still doesn’t explain how you got here…”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s nothing,” the Ice Prince retorted. A deep crease had formed between his brows. “I assume if you are not here to kill me, you are not a part of the... the Society?”

His voice dripped with sarcasm, and Yuuri flinched, like Prince Viktor had thrown a physical punch towards his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, your highness.”

A look of disgust now adorned the Ice Prince’s features, and the light that illuminated them now turned wicked, malicious, hateful…

“Heh. Another trick to get close to me. I admit, I am impressed that you got this far. My rose garden is difficult to find, let alone enter. Now, don't be shy. Voice your true intentions.”

Yuuri was shaking with fear. His thighs trembled against the ground, and his fingers nervously grasped the grass by his face. Prince Viktor could kill him easily in this position. What he said next could keep him alive… or lead to an unpleasant and extremely painful death.

“P-Prince Viktor,” Yuuri began, and he dared to look up. “I don’t believe that you are like what the others say.” Yuuri shifted his gaze away and took a deep breath before continuing. “You may appear… um… harsh sometimes, but that’s not- that’s not what you’re really like, right?”

“Who are you to judge who I really am?!” the Ice Prince exploded, his boot coming down right by Yuuri’s nose. Yuuri went cross-eyed trying to focus on it.

“I-I-I’m so sorry, your highness! I was presumptuous! Please forgive me!” Yuuri’s breaths came in short gasps, and his stomach tightened. I’m going to die… I’m going to die…

But the air was still. There was no swoosh of a sword upon his neck. No pain as it broke through his skin... his blood... his bones-

“… Go on.”

What?

“I said, continue.”

“Y-Yes, your highness!” Yuuri stammered, relief flooding him. He took the opportunity and rushed his words. “You may seem cold and unfriendly, but I think you just feel that there’s nobody who will talk to you. You try, but your efforts don’t get across. If anything,” Yuuri paused, “it provokes frustration… and apparently that boiled over tonight.”

Yuuri looked up hesitantly, but was met with an empty clearing. Prince Viktor was nowhere to be seen. He slowly got to his feet and glanced around, confused. Was it something I said?

Then he spotted a broken branch hanging off of one of the rose bushes. With everything else in pristine condition, the branch stood out like a missing brick of a wall, and Yuuri approached it. Peering over the bush, Yuuri could make out a pathway leading deeper into the rose garden. The grass was pressed down in some areas, forming a trail of footsteps.

Yuuri gingerly made his way around the bush, removing the branch and holding it in his hand carefully, as to not stab himself with any of the thorns. A single red rose adorned the end of it, the perfect petals decorated with a light mist of morning dew.

The path was easy to follow, and Yuuri tracked the footsteps until he heard a faint choking ahead. From his memory, Yuuri traced his path according to the view of the rose garden from his room. I took a right turn… I should be around the area where Prince Viktor-

Oh.

Yuuri took a hesitant step forward, and a light breeze ruffled through his hair. It brought more of the strangled sounds, and they fell on Yuuri’s ears like a mysterious symphony, one that sparked a strange feeling in his heart.

A yearning.

“Prince Viktor…?”

“S-Stop!” the crowned individual sputtered. “Don’t come any closer!”

Yuuri froze. “Yes, your highness. But, may I… stay here?”

There was no response, so Yuuri took it as a ‘yes’ and took a seat on the grass where a rose bush blocked his sight of the prince. Maybe it would give him some peace of mind.

The struggled chokes were lessening now, leaving only the occasional faint sob that one could mistake for a rush in the wind without context. Yuuri wasn’t sure what his presence meant to the prince… Did he find comfort in it? Did it frighten him? Or maybe he was just awkward?

But Yuuri didn’t want to leave, even if the prince wanted him to. He wanted to find out more about the warmth he sensed below Prince Viktor’s persona of the ‘Ice Prince.’

 Because even if appearances meant a lot, they weren’t everything.

A cloud passed over the sun, which was climbing ever higher in the sky, provoking a shiver down Yuuri’s spine and goosebumps over his arms. The breeze turned harsher, and Yuuri wrapped his arms around himself, attempting to hug the cold out.

“You- *sob* - Did you mean what you said?” came a soft voice behind him. Yuuri inhaled, because that voice was beautiful. It rang like a harp in his ears, soft and gentle… and yet it still felt restrained, so much so that the crack in the prince’s sentence seemed to slice the tension, cutting through the air in a single stroke. It lay troubled on Yuuri’s heart, a layer Yuuri desperately wanted to remove, so that he may hear the true voice the prince had, one that was surely as beautiful as his open face that had been illuminated by the sunrise.

That face seemed so long ago, now. Did I really see such a thing? Was it-

“Yes, your highness,” Yuuri spoke, pulling himself together so his voice did not waver. For some reason, he felt that any sign of hesitation would break the moment.

Was it only a dream?

Then a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, shining directly through the bushes. Yuuri felt it before seeing it, felt the gentle warmth on the back of his head. He naturally turned around, standing up as he did, and the moment seemed to slow to a halt.

Prince Viktor had stood from his seat on the bench and was now facing Yuuri, his back to the ray of sunlight. It shone around his body, and Yuuri could only gasp in utter reverence at the holy sight that was Prince Viktor.

His body was ringed in a golden light, his crown a source of all admiration. If Yuuri had been shocked at how Prince Viktor looked with the light shining on him, that did not even compare to what he felt now, seeing the light shining behind him. It caught on his silver hair just the right way so that each strand was highlighted in its own unique angle… so much so that he did not even seem real anymore. But the depths were off, the shadows existent in places they shouldn’t be. It gave him an ethereal halo, both angel and devil.

Prince Viktor was a god in Yuuri’s gaze, and Yuuri wanted nothing more than to show him all the worship he deserved. He graciously fell to his knees, but kept his eyes raised, filled with praise, at Prince Viktor’s heavenly form. “P-Prince Viktor,” Yuuri said, and this time he let his affection waver his words, flow over them and fill them with an utter love for the being in front of him. What love he felt, Yuuri didn’t know, but he could not describe the feeling otherwise. “I don’t care what the others say. Let me serve you, please.”

Prince Viktor was intimidating, dark and light, hard and soft, justice and mercy all at once and more. But it was a different intimidation than before. It was powerful, controlling, demanding. Yuuri could do nothing more than await his fate.

He waited. And Prince Viktor’s words were honey and thorns on his skin.  

“Do not come back to this garden without me.”

[wxrkingrose-blog]

basics tag dump!