#❛ �� ✧ ┊ arc ┊ let the curtain rise on tonight's dream.

[clarafell]

@deathdanse has made a contract.          —         ★

In the beginning, the newly created earth is without form and completely empty. Darkness blankets the surface of the planet until light is summoned into existence, instantly pronounced as good. The light, now called day, is separated from the darkness, which is now called night. The dance of day and night continues to be an endless cycle as the sun and the moon continue to fight for the right to rule the sky.

In the beginning, Homura Akemi woke up from her now shattered dream. The world around her is dark and cold and devoid of life. She lies neatly upon a cool marble surface, mimicking a corpse in her final resting place. Dull, slightly wilted flowers surround her motionless body. The Isolation Field, the place where the Incubators created just for her body, is now destroyed.

The countless red eyes that once closely examined their isolated experiment are gone, but it matters not to the experiment. They never, not even once, shown any sign of remorse, or any other emotion, for anything they have done in the past. She awakens, though she still looks more like the deceased body than some dreaming shell of a person. No longer trapped within the depths of her dreamy labyrinth, she opens the eyes she was never meant to open again. First, there is darkness and emptiness until a dazzling light chooses to rain down upon her.

A goddess draped in white reaches out to her with a piercing gentleness, but Homura is finished with waiting— No, she will not be taken away with the Law of Cycles to go to somewhere beyond the earthly soil— Homura gripped her destiny with a calm viciousness until she found herself ripping the radiant goddess apart. Everyone can scream for her to stop, but she is finished with backing down. She will tear divinity apart until she finds what she wants. The Incubators were always getting in the way, weren't they? Always wanting to seal as many contracts as they can, claiming they only want preserve the universe from entropy.

No one can stop her now, can they? Oh, they can try. She welcomes the challenge simply because she knows there will always be an enemy in her way. Blood will always drip upon her soul, so why choose to dream of anything else? She might as well as embrace the broken reflection, not avoid it by draping a shroud over it for the rest of her life.

As she rewrote the universe, the ascended being began to experiment with her power. Trial and error is common, she knows from experience. Mistakes are bound to happen. No one, not her years of repeating the same time, can prepare her for what happens next. The new stage of her soul gem, all of this unfamiliar magic and sensations, begins to overwhelm her. One such mistake did happen when she got thrown back into the past, far deeper than she has ever gone before—

She landed back in Europe during the Hundred Years' War, in fact.

Homura always did have bad luck, but throwing herself that far into the past has to be her pièce de résistance—

This is where she meets Corbeau.

Though they were (supposedly) never meant to meet, Homura crosses paths with the sworn enemy of the heroic Jeanne d'Arc. Though she had yet to meet the French hero, none of that crossed her mind. All she truly cared moments before her discovery was catching that troublesome salamander, the same creature that clung to her soul. At the time, Homura did not know what to make of the creature. None of the soldiers understood why Corbeau chose to bring the suspicious stranger closer, but the seasoned fighter fed all of them a easy-sounding cover-up story.

Homura, in all honesty, wasn't sure if she could trust the masked stranger. She knew she refused to trust any of the men outside the tent, that's for sure. Corbeau, however, at least understood part of her perspective. They both, after all, traded their souls for a wish. Homura knew she couldn't trust all the people the Incubators found.

Fighting over grief seeds and territories were common, at least back in her original time. Desperate and all alone, she took a risky bet in assuming that Europe in the Late Middle Ages had to be a lot better than her home. The Late Middle Ages, she imagined, were full of witches and man-made wickedness. Lots of despair to go around when the bubonic plague existed.

She couldn't tell if Corbeau was her rescuer or a potential kidnapper, maybe even a weird blend of both, but...

Corbeau still offered her shelter and water and, more importantly, answers.

❝  It's quite pleasant to see you again, Corbeau. ❞ Homura's voice rings out, pleasant and perhaps a bit too calm. She wasn't sure where to place Corbeau exactly, but... She decided to choose a quiet library in the depths of a museum, hoping the soothing environment wouldn't be too much of a cultural shock. Homura's time in Europe was... not her best of times, so Homura wants to try to make Corbeau have a much more easier time. She chose to wear her uniform, the very same outfit that Corbeau met her in.

❝  I do apologize for not bringing your sisters with you, but— I wasn't sure if I could trust them, if I'm being honest. Fear not, they are safe. ❞ As someone without any siblings to call hers, Homura realizes her phrasing might be a problem. She tries to sound reassuring, though she doesn't know how effective she is until she tries.

She wanted to address the missing sisters as quick as possible, not wanting to potentially cause a potential fight to break out. It would be horribly awful for the poor books to get hurt.

❝  I'm sure you must be very confused, judging by your staring... ❞

Homura is risking a lot with her gamble with fate, but she is more than prepared to control the situation if a confused Corbeau decides to attack her to gain the upper hand. The self-proclaimed devil knows the chances of her gaining any allies is slim, so she has decided to enlist the help of witches. It's why she brought Corbeau to her time, after all. It's entirely selfish of her, she knows that, but what is the harm? Well, it isn't a complete selfish seed... Homura also brought her back because she did desire to repay Corbeau for her act of kindness.

❝  I have an important question for you, so please refrain from yelling at me for just a moment. We're in a library, after all. Now... Do you remember me? ❞

[ms0milk]

𝟏 | 𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐩

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"The prince meets you with a ferocity that probably stops people’s hearts and with his mother’s halo of silvery hair and decisive eyes, it’s lovely enough to stop yours too."

no cw big time fairytale castle, blunt bkg & silly co. reader's a lil stiff bc character arcs aren't built in a day, let the slowburn begin. i am not immune to aizawa in any universe. author does not attempt to hide how very badly she wants to ******* *** **** bkg's mama. 3.8k

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Waking up is so peaceful this morning. Gentle and warm.

"..…"

That sweet kind of rise between waking and dreaming, where you’re able to say goodbye to your dreams and the people in them with a tip of your hat and wave goodbye. Forgiving and patient.

“..Y/n…”

The queen was in your dreams tonight. And you were in your hometown– you’re there now. The fields are golden and heavy before autumn harvest and your neighbors have no need for locks on their doors. She is beautiful today, and she is your sister, your mother, your Lady when you try to look past the sun’s rays to her face. Up, up, up into her eyes, why can’t you find what you’re looking for? Higher and higher until it’s the stars you’re on your knees for.

“Y/n.”

You jolt at the sudden sensation of falling with a quick and panicked grip on your pillow but you’re back in your room, stuffed mattress and all. Every part of your body is grounded to woolen blankets and the weight at your feet. Someone laughs at the foot of your bed when you sigh in relief and you jump again, because this time it’s the queen.

“I’m sorry to wake you.” She smiles behind her hand. You’re staring. And then it’s been a second too long before you gather yourself like a member of the castle with some respect and make a move to stand for formal greetings. But you only get as far as sitting up when she stiffs her palm to your forehead. “Stay.”

From your spot still tucked in bed you muster a, “Yes, your Majesty.”

The queen’s hair is wild and silvery by the light of a candle she holds at her chest. The only light in the room. Heavy fur cape clasps fit neatly into the bodice of her nightgown– gown almost isn't the right word. You love her. There isn’t a citizen alive that doesn’t love her, “I have a question for you, Y/n.”

“Anything, Majesty.”

What time is it? Your curtain is drawn, but still there doesn’t seem to be any morning light trying to peek through.

“My son’s been invited east to celebrate a new observatory.” The queen pulls a once-neatly-wrapped envelope from her pocket, “The end of some momentous constructional undertaking or another,” she laughs. She extends her hand to you and smiles at just how dumbstruck you still seem to be by candlelight, “I’m sorry it’s so early.”

“Not at all.” You move too quickly and too slowly somehow– you curse yourself– while taking it from her, and regret what a silly child you must look like the way she has you perched against your pillows.

“I just received word from a Takoban messenger. A letter from their queen.” You nod, turn the letter over in your hands until it falls open. “He’s leaving today and I would very much like you to accompany him.”

Your apartments on Castle Southside are suddenly less like one modest room and more like the very stables you live above, wholly unfit for her. She’s still smiling at you. You’re still tucked-in. “Majesty, me?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not. But wouldn’t– shouldn’t Master Jeanist go?”

“Jeanist stays with me.” And you realize in horror– too many emotions for one woman to manifest only minutes after waking up– that you implied the queen may have made a mistake. “Don’t apologize,” she catches you before you can open your sleep-addled mouth again, “Captain of the Guard stays here. But you’ve trained with Jeanist for years Y/n, you’ll be my son’s captain soon.” She scoots closer to you. She takes your hand, “Can I trust you with this mission?”

It's fuzzy, hearth warmth and happiness when she uses your name, “With anything.”

Queen Mitsuki handed over one more letter before leaving you to prepare for your morning. Just a thank you card, she’d said. For you to deliver to the eastern queen, the Queen of Takoba.

As long as she asks you might do anything, although spending the most time with Jeanist meant nothing by way of his successor. The next monarch will choose his own captain. Spending the most time with Jeanist only means that you haven't given great priority to making your own friends.

The click of your heels down the stone hallway line up with another’s as you round the corner to your station. A tree today. Trees and wildlife grow freely in the Bakugous’ Aldera Castle and make the palace warm even in the grip of winter. Knobbly trunks and grasping vines twist in and out of windows, fruit rolls down the halls in fall. Squirrels and birds get in so regularly that members of the guard each have one shift a week exclusively for hoisting the creatures back out.

Fresh air is never far away. In the springtime you are all tasked with sweeping blossoms off the castle floors before they wither or trip a staff, and from the very second the first magnolia blooms in March you’re swimming in flowers til June.

Jeanist stands under the lichen of Castle Southside’s oak tree when you arrive, and the soldier he was speaking to has already strode away. Tall, black hair.

The oak tree is four stories tall to have arms reaching this far inside and is older than any historian could recall. It is precious family. It reaches up and over the banister at the edge of the hallway and dips down into the library like a leafy chandelier, causing much headache in autumn when Aldera's tallest ladder is procured for the poor novice whose job it is to clean the books underneath.

“Good morning, Y/n.”

“Sir.”

Jeanist only smiles under the high collar of his red uniform. You rarely get the chance to stand beside your mentor anymore, now that the prince needs only a senior guard on diplomatic errands. Your uniforms were meant to stand together just like this– warm next to each other. Yours are the only two of their kind and your mentor made these himself, blood red gambeson and white bone clasps. You assume your position beside the tree and stare dead ahead, happy, if only for a second, if only on the inside, to belong once again to this group of two.

“Y/n?”

“Sir.” You don’t break eye contact with the far wall. Dawn is dim on the fifth floor of Southside. All you have here to entertain yourself is a tapestry you’ve memorized every stitch of, until another soldier comes to relieve you.

“Did you speak with the Queen?”

“Yes, sir. Early this morning.”

“Earlier than dawn?” Jeanist chuckles and turns to gaze out the window through the ancient knots of the oak tree. The sun crests the mountains somewhere farther than you’ve ever traveled and spills into the folds of his uniform. It warms the back of your head. “What did you tell her?”

“That I would be honored to comply with Her Majesty's request.”

“And how do you feel?”

“Privileged, sir.”

“Y/n." Your eyes tug at your periphery, confused by the general chattiness of the old guard this morning, “I’m proud of you.”

Your head turns fully at this, in surprise and without your permission, and you realize it hasn’t yet struck you to ask why he’s at your post in the first place.

“Go on.” He’s looking at you too now, as he has been the whole time, “They’ll leave without you at this rate.”

You stare for another two seconds at this strange mentor of yours. You try to keep your heart from spilling onto the floor is actually what you do; it’s all you can manage. “Yes, sir.”

If anything you’ll be the first of the entire party to arrive in the Great Hall, but you still let Jeanist assume your position and even turn in surprise again when he rests a hand on your shoulder. He taps one of your small earrings with a gentle finger and with his other hand unclasps the dragontooth brooch from his breast.

“How long did you stare when the queen spoke with you this morning?”

Ears go hot immediately under his knowing gaze, but he only smiles. He pulls your hand forward and rests the dragontooth in your palm with an amount of pressure that can only mean, be careful. And so you will, you determine, and turn to make your way to collect your things.

“Word of advice!” In a neverending morning of spinning, you drag your foot and face him again. Jeanist is nearly laughing and trying very well to hide his worry, “If you stare at the prince the way you have the tendency to do, he might just take your head off.”

He doesn’t get to see you smile often, but it does feel fitting now for you to nod your goodbye to him with the look of yours he loves so much, “He might try, sir."

It didn’t take more than a few months in the castle, at six years old, for the prince to rectify his opinion of you. To clarify his disdain in the event that his mother’s favoritism towards the orphan gave anyone the wrong idea about his own priorities. You could hardly say it mattered. Hundreds of new faces fill the castle every year and he had forgotten yours just as quickly as you had been whisked into Jeanist’s care to begin your training and earn your keep.

Today your satchel is packed, your hair’s braided back, and the prince thinks no more or less of you than he always has. Indifference will make your job easy.

The whole sprawling maze of stone buildings warm in the morning sun as you make your way to Castle Northside, although autumn is here and soon heavy curtains will need to be draped over windows and trees. Soon too, it’ll be time to sweep fallen leaves out of the hallway and collect ripe peaches from the branches of the western stairwell. You’ll need to have your winter uniform cleaned when you return so the white fur of the collar glows, because when the queen happens to see you on duty she always remarks on how well you care for her colors.

Even your earrings– tiny suns, gold and dangling– represent your love for Aldera down to the smallest detail. They were a gift, and you swell when her eyes jump from one carefully polished detail on your body to the next. To Jeanist, she is personification of meticulous craft. You know that’s why he loves her. Each hulking winter cape in her collection drops her into the background of some priceless painting or ethereal scene and for this reason alone, winter is your favorite season.

Sometimes in cold weather, when she sneaks to the kitchen in the middle of the night, Her Majesty wears battle gauntlets to stay warm and is altogether too Alderan in delicate furs and armored gloves.

It is just at this moment of routine admiration that, out of an auxiliary hallway to the kitchen, saunters a tall boy you’ve never seen before wearing the white soldier’s greaves. He's hardly dressed, greaves aside, all loose undershirt and lazy stride. He knows your name and he calls to you as he approaches.

“Yes soldier?”

His limbs are knobbly and his mouth hitches uncomfortably upwards when he finally gets close enough to you to speak, “Hanta ma'am, Sero Hanta.” Tall and disrespectful. “Master Jeanist sent me to fetch your halberd from the smithy but when I came back–”

“I don’t keep my halberd in the smithy.”

He shifts his weight between two legs too long for his greaves like he has somewhere else to be, “Whoever’s it is, Kirishima has it now and we’ve all been searching Southside like madmen trying to fin–”

“Who–” You shake your head and turn to face him fully now, “Why does the master–”

“Sero! Oh my everloving gods you found her!” Another boy, quite blond, scrambles out of a different hallway– oh, he’s tripping on the decorative runner– out of breath to the soldier’s side. “Kirishima–”

“You found her!” One last voice shrills over the banister of the hallway above. This one belongs to a lithe pink girl and she hops the last five stairs to land at your side, “Don’t you look nice today Miss Guard.”

“Excuse me?”

She addresses her companions instead, “Where’s Kirishima?”

You have half a mind to take the closest person by the arm and hold them for questioning. How have they gotten so far into the center of the castle unaccompanied? To whom do they belong? “Identify yourselves.”

“No time for that,” Soldier Sero snaps and links a hand under each of his companions’ arms, “We’ll parse out introductions once we’re not all about to be hanged.” Without direction or permission, the three of them are down the last stretch of hall quicker than north wind through bare branches and great iron doors scream open.

You’ve walked the Hall ten thousand times and so the gold trim, the fireplace and both it's stories, the sappy scent of pine, and the rows of tables long enough to seat whole families of dragons, only bring tears to your eyes on occasion. The floor is cobbled with river stones that catch fruit and nuts in their grooves but glow a molten-glass purple when the sun comes in through windows. It gets warm, too warm, when it’s full of staff at mealtimes so you take your dinners elsewhere. It’s too stuffy. You’ve never managed large crowds in tight spaces so times like these are precious, when it’s empty before breakfast and still clean from the night's housekeeping.

Except it’s not empty now, is it? There are three fools and two brand new strangers loitering in front of the fireplace at the other end of the room, just waiting for you to call for reinforcements. Sero begins to take off his pants–

“Soldier!” You shout down the Hall almost as quickly as you cross it.

“Good morning,” an altogether new voice pools between your exclamations.

Of the five people in the empty room, two of them obviously belong someplace very far away. Somewhere unkind. Blue tunics and windswept hair. You slow your warpath and try to take in the details of the two new men that Aldera's three fugitives have approached without an ounce of concern or respect for personal space.

The younger of the pair repels hair ruffles and claps on the shoulder from your three trespassers while the taller man, worn and travel-sallow, peers over the bustle to you.

His eye contact doesn't match the way he holds his exhausted body. It is this one part of him that threatens, surely only in your own tired mind, sudden and practiced violence. You move closer.

“I am Master Aizawa."

When he blinks the threat vanishes and you buckle a bit in the whiplash from danger to gentle authority. You are unarmed for a second– suddenly a schoolgirl again, pitied by her teacher in a classroom full of people who haven't learned to talk to child soldiers.

"Your party will be under my protection and instruction beginning today.” Disarming eye contact aside, Master Aizawa, this fourth stranger of the morning, looks as if he could barely be trusted to remain upright on a sunny day, let alone manage other people. “This young man is Hitoshi Shinsou,” he tips his chin to the boy trying to stand tall beside him, still speaking only to you over the chittering crowd, “my apprentice and your second in command.”

Windswept, violent, exhausted, trespassers, guests, useful, useless– these people do not matter. You are meant to be waiting for the prince and his convoy not chasing strangers in circles around the castle, when a much worse thought comes clear to center focus. In your rush this morning it hadn’t occurred to you that this group of people might share your objective. The iron doors grunt open again in your confusion but louder than the doors are the people walking through them.

“Oh amazing, you found her!”

“I could hear you horrible fucks all the way from the courtyard.”

Your blood doesn’t rush properly for a second most likely because your heart has stopped pumping it out. The prince. You square your body to the back wall immediately and bow with fists at your side, trying to bury the incorrigible urge to stare.

Even from half a Hall away it is palpable, the tremendous confidence that swells to every corner of a room when he enters. He wears an Alderan vest lined with furs and you know the clasps at his neck are gold because the queen wouldn’t settle for less. The red cape they grip sweeps in an arc as he navigates tables, and walking duly tall beside him is the prince's champion, Kirishima, who holds a polearm in one hand while waving to the group with the other.

The two familiar faces put you at a strange kind of ease. Kirishima is a joyful addition to the castle, always smiles for staff in passing, and the prince– the prince is taller now. It’s been years since you’ve stood near him properly. Castle staff are meant to bow their heads when a royal approaches. You’re fairly familiar with the details of his boots but not much else.

“Good morning, Highness,” Master Aizawa is the first to reply and his voice simmers just above a growl. You raise your head so that you’re standing tall when the prince finishes his march to the group but you’re too practiced in looking away to keep your eyes up for long.

“Long time no see old man.”

“Ready?”

“Let’s get this over with.” The prince doesn’t offer you a glance, not even a blink, before he’s tossing a rucksack from the man’s outstretched arm over his shoulder.

Soldier Sero calls after him, “You clean up nice,” and lifts his arm to give the prince a playful swat, but you’re already holding his wrist behind his back and he’s standing on tall tippy toes to keep the pressure in his knobby elbow from breaking it. The prince squares himself to the yelping and now he’s looking at you.

“S-sorry Y/n! Friendly fire.”

You drop Sero’s arm and try to speak– it's your only chance for appropriate introduction– but the prince meets you with a ferocity that probably stops people’s hearts and with his mother’s halo of silvery hair and decisive eyes, it’s lovely enough to stop yours too. His coalfire gaze is quick and flickering. Like he hopes to avoid looking at you altogether. You try to speak even less successfully than the last time, to wet your lips, try to make a sound, but he’s already rolling his eyes and ushering the two blue guards towards the door.

“I don’t need a fuckin’ babysitter. The rest of you, hurry up.”

They do. The prince, two escorts, and three guests are back out the iron doors without so much as a greeting, explanation, or itinerary. You stand next to the cold fireplace, still half bowed in greeting.

As the Great Hall stills, empty now except for Kirishima, the redhead sidles closer in the quiet. He watches you excitedly, as you exhale and adjust the travel bag at your hip, eager to present you with the weapon he’s been carrying.

“Mornin’, I think this is from Jeanist?" He chirps and twitters with a smile and precisely no clue what it is he’s handed to you. He’s straightforward and confident and warm.

It’s been a long time since a day so new has been so active. Since dawn, nothing but one heart palpitation after the next. One pair of red eyes to the next. The prince’s red burns your vision like sunspots, Aizawa's turn grapes to wine, but Kirishima’s is patient. You’re slow to remove your gloves before handling the weapon and take it from the champion who vibrates in the new quiet. He is not particularly good at standing still.

Shifting in your hands is a halberd. Its balance is even and it’s not the cherrywood weapon you’re familiar with, the one that’s hopefully still hanging up in its slot in the Keep. This weapon is a deep blood red from shaft to socket. You nod your head without taking your eyes off the shimmer of the metal polished so fine it's turned white, and on any other day there might be tears in your eyes.

Kirishima is still smiling as you fiddle with the rivets, “You have lovely taste, it’s beautiful.”

“It’s not mine,” you whisper, because it’s Master Jeanist’s.

Outside of the castle gates, a particularly dazzling blue carriage is waiting, pulled by a team of white horses. You squint at the three fools wrestling with each other next to a quilted door of the most delicate vehicle you’ve ever seen. Like something out of a storybook, like something built by fairies. The prince tiffs with a less-than-interested Master Aizawa in the grass a ways off and taps his foot angrily just like his mother.

“Are you the Alderan escort?” Shinsou, the spitting image of apathy, appears between you and Kirishima as you trek the stone path to join the party. He hands you each a sizable knapsack.

You nod, “Y/n, apprentice to Captain Jeanist.”

“The one and only?”

“Captain?”

“No, the only apprentice,” Shinsou corrects and smiling eyes betray his disinterest, “I’ve heard stories. It’s nice to meet you, Y/n.”

“Likewise,” you murmur as he leaves you with a bag in both hands, and strides back to the crowd to help load luggage. The champion is long gone and mingling with friends and so you’re alone again, left to fiddle at a distance with your halberd and the leather sling used to carry it on your back.

When you gaze back over the group from afar, it does seem that everyone but you already quite likes one another, and it probably feels that way because it’s true. They know each other somehow and you are the only stranger. A foreigner at the front gates of your home.

Next to the stack of luggage, Sero opens the door for his two friends and you must watch them all curtsy before trying to wrestle each other inside. Shinsou catches the blond when he trips backwards on the single carriage step, Sero is finally wearing pants that fit him, black and pleated, and the prince is now stamping his foot on the ground in conversation with the most unfazed man you’ve ever met. Master Aizawa, you suppose, from Takoba.

Behind you the warm castle whistles with wind and morning activity. Your home. In front of you the pink-haired girl blows kisses to imaginary admirers and Kirishima hoists the prince into the carriage by force. It hasn’t been more than an hour and it is already good, true, and apparent that this caravan will have your full attention or else start a war.

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tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @cherrykamado @nonomesupposedto @zombiewarprincess @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @eirlysian @lunrai @cherripunch26nch26 @km74744 @arayoflia

could not tag for some reason

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Deep and Rapid River, Ch. 9

<- Chapter 8 | Chapter 10 ->

@sexy-opium-ravioli​ asked me to write a comfort Frankenstein fic so instead I did this [stares at the camera] 

cw: suicidal ideation 

Heavy raindrops pound on the wood-shingle roof, each impact combining into a chorus that roars in your ears in the pitch-black darkness. It’s like you’re being swallowed by a great beast. The entire building creaks, straining against the wind, making your heart race with the fear that it might all come crashing down on top of you as you lay clutching the covers in bed.

A deafening crack and blinding surge of light is followed shortly by a second, earthier crack and a dull thud on grass. Lightning hit one of the trees in the pasture.

In the middle of this raging tempest through which no living being could survive, there comes a scratch at your shutter. The curtains flutter as wind suddenly swirls inside, and the roar of rain grows louder. Something is coming into your bedroom.

Another flash of lightning reveals the silhouette of a massive figure, drenched and dripping, standing in front of the window. The blast of thunder that shortly follows makes the enormous figure jump, and rush, trembling like a kitten, to your bedside.

You take his deformed and scarred hand in yours, and squeeze it.

“I do not like thunder,” his grave voice whispers through gasping, timid breaths. Your beautiful, sweet creature. You never want anything to hurt him. An aching sadness washes over you anew, quivering your lower lip.

He notices you are shaking, frantic, frazzled, and puffy-eyed. He doesn’t look much better.

“When you did not come, I feared for you.” He licks his lips nervously. “I ascertained that you were within the house, but were under guard, and I could not reach you. Please tell me you are unharmed—if anything has happened to you, I shall not forgive my cowardice.”

Without warning, a sob chokes you, and hot tears roll down your face. The monster, filling up half your small cottage bedroom, doffs his wet cloak and pulls your crying form against his warm, broad chest like an extension of the furniture and holds you, rubbing your back and cooing soft words of comfort. You hide your face against him, trying to disappear as muffled sobs wrack your shoulders.

“What is wrong?” he asks with a voice so fragile from your silence that the answer might break him.

“Just let me hold you for awhile. Please.”

You feel him shudder against you, and surround you in his warm arms like a cocoon. It’s a long time before you can collect yourself enough to tell him what happened.

*****

“Like hell we are!” you snapped impulsively as soon as Ferdinand announced your “engagement.” Your fists clenched into tight balls of righteous fury. He was delusional. You were leaving.

Then your father stared at you—that dark, severe stare that threatened violence if you did not behave. “Mind your tongue, child!” he snapped, and your tongue stopped moving, and all of the smart words that had been on the tip of it just disappeared. It was so strange. You had been frightened to run, terrified, but you were ready. Just like that, all the oxygen seemed to drain from the room as Ferdinand, your father, and your mother surrounded you, reminding you of your place in the world and how helpless you were in it.

Your fiery ember dropped into a bucket of water.

You sat in the living room, trapped like a rabbit in a snare, crawling inside your own skin as reality washed over you. They laid out the situation. There were rumors around town—serious ones—that you’ve been consorting with the devil. Half the village thought you were a witch. It wouldn’t be long before something terrible came of it, but Ferdinand had graciously offered to make you his wife, and in doing so, put the rumors to bed. So you would marry him. He was well-liked among the superstitious factions, and could get them to leave you alone if he made you an honest woman. (You growled at the implications of that particular phrase.)

Ferdinand sneered with self-satisfaction, his voice dripping with honey as he said how much he worried for you.

They were pressing you into the marriage and would hear no arguments, no back-talk. They suspected you might run, and wouldn’t let you out of their sight—your mother, your father, and Ferdinand.

You were prey. There was nothing you could do to fight.

The sky grew ever darker and more ominous with each passing minute you spent ensnared, until you knew you had missed the rendezvous time. Your heart twisted—if your daemon were wise, he had left already without you. Thinking of the alternative—that he had stayed, and would be discovered—your chest twisted even tighter. Marrying Ferdinand was a get-out-of-jail-free card for you, but the creature’s life was in irrevocable mortal jeopardy.

“You can’t force me to marry him!” you whimpered to your mother, praying for a sympathetic ear when you were left alone with her for a moment. She was horrible, but she was a woman. She must understand, at least a little, what they were doing to you.

She patted you softly on the shoulder, but her eyes stayed hard. “Your grandmother remembered when they burned a witch right in the center of town. Believe me, this gossip is not something to take lightly. Making you a proper wife is the only way to make people see that you are a normal girl. If you do not, then you shall no longer be our daughter, and we cannot protect you from whatever shall happen next.”

You tried to speak, but your tongue was dry. You kept trying to swallow the dryness away, but it stuck in your throat. You wanted to rage, to scream against them, to be on fire, but your blood had all turned to ice.

This was happening, and there was nothing you could do but accept it.

*****

The creature strokes your cheek gently, his sympathetic and sorrowful yellow eyes glistening in the erratic flashes of light from the storm. “I am sorry I could not protect you. I am here now; let us depart under the cloak of night.”

Your head shakes in tense arcs before you decide to make them, your throat closing up. “You don’t understand—I can’t.”

The dark shadow shaped like his body becomes a tense, rigid statue. “What do you mean?” he says, cautiously.

“I can’t!” you repeat, as if he’s the one not making sense and your feelings should need no explanation, but you explain anyway, the words gushing out like a flooded river. “Maybe I wanted to, I thought I could, but it isn’t realistic. Look at the storm outside! I can’t run away in the middle of this—it frightens even you, doesn’t it? You couldn’t protect me should a thunderbolt strike me on the head! What will we do during weather such as this without any shelter? With my family monitoring me like a prisoner, I could not even finish packing—I haven’t the food and water to survive a week away from home! Where could we go, anyway? You cannot guarantee Victor Frankenstein will take us in! He may just as likely kill us! They think me a witch here, where everyone has known me since I was a baby. I will be a witch in the next town. We will be pariahs wherever we go.”

You wished he would yell, that he would argue, or be consumed in a fit of emotion—that would be better somehow—instead, he listens to your fearful list of excuses silently, with no reaction but his shoulders slowly falling and a soft, pained growl deep in his throat.

“D-don’t you see?” you explain frantically as if he had been arguing back. “We don’t need to run. They never spoke of you as more than rumor—those hunters, and Bess, they must not have been believed as any more than superstition. Every town has its ghost stories. There is no bloodthirsty mob, so long as I marry him. We can stay here and keep you hidden. We’ll be safe.”

“Safe?” he growls, but only softly and without malice. He can no longer bear to listen quietly. “You wish to marry him?” You hoped he would be angry, but his voice is a wavering medley of betrayal and confusion, and the pang it leaves in your heart is almost too much to bear.

“Of course not, but I have no choice.”

“Yes, you do. Run away with me tonight.” An angry bolt of lightning splintered another tree out in the pasture, making you both jump, and providing the counterpoint to his argument for you. “Tell me you want to marry him,” he reaches out with a large hand that could cover your entire head, and delicately strokes your cheek. His eyes glisten with longing. “Tell me you want this and I will go. I shall live the rest of my life a miserable wretch, but I shall bear it, knowing you are happy.”

“Y-you once told me you wouldn’t care if I was with other men, so long as I came back to you. Maybe we could…”

That finally gets a rise out of him. “We could what?” he snaps, cutting you off. “You desire to marry another, and keep me hidden away in a barn—a filthy secret for you to visit at your leisure—to make love to when you are not sharing a bed with your husband? Is that… what you want?” The energy and indignation he had begun with fades away to a lame sort of helplessness by the end.

You know how pathetic you sound. How weak. It was the last thing you expected of yourself, too. You had always walked to your own beat, never fit in, and never cared what anyone thought of you—at least not enough to change for their benefit. You always dreamed of running away one day.

But you hadn’t.

No matter how much you had dreamed it—and even one exhilarating day had packed a bag and chased an eight-foot monster into the forest, convinced that you might run away with him—you never actually did. So many years waiting in misery, and all of that time you could have run.

But you wouldn’t. The moment the fantasy began to crystallize into reality, you froze with terror. You never would.

You only wish you had realized this before hurting him. Your precious daemon stares back at you expectantly, fiercely blinking his watery yellow eyes to fight off tears he won’t let fall in front of you. He’s waiting for you to assure him that this is a mistake—that he’s more to you than a sexual pet—and your heart twists with shame.

“Here is bad, but here is safe. It’s that kind of bad that’s all I’ve ever known. That sharp, snow-covered peak you can see from the barn has stood there, unchanging since I was born. It was there watching over our valley before my parents were born. The alpine winds have shaped it for thousands of years, since before the great pyramids of Egypt. Maybe I am like that mountain. Maybe I can never change, no matter how much I want to.”

It’s not the answer he hoped for. His jaw clenches. He had come here thinking you were running away together at last, and finally, finally, the weight of what is happening sinks in. You watch as the hope goes out of his eyes. Lightning flashes behind him, a little more distantly now. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“Please don’t look away,” you sob, begging. Something inside you is breaking with him.

Footsteps creak on the stairs and the faint orange glow of a candle filters under the door. “Are you talking to someone in there?” demands your mother’s shrill voice just as the door to your bedroom swings open. Your mother gasps in horror.

“You’ve left the window open, you fool child!” She clucks disapprovingly and rushes to shut it, closing the drenched curtains over it once it is latched tight. The shadow of the creature is gone. “What were you thinking? Of running away?” she snaps.

Yes, you want to scream. You hate her. Pinpricks of tears sting your eyes, and you wish you had disappeared into the night, too, for a vengeful bolt of lightning to release you from your misery.

Then she does something that surprises you. She sighs, and sits at the edge of your bed, her weight making a sinkhole on the straw-filled mattress. “My baby girl, you’re crying. They say it isn’t right for a bride to cry on her wedding night, but we know better.” She smiles sadly and wipes a tear from your cheek. “I wanted to run away, too,” she says quietly. Her gaze drifts over the window thoughtfully, like she was imagining a different life. In the flickering candlelight, you wonder if she could almost see it, that other life. You wonder what it was. “But if I had, where would you be?!” Her voice is back to an accusing, judgment-laden shrill. “I’ve tried so hard with you, to get you to grow up. You finally came to your senses—you’re not a child anymore, you can’t just do whatever you want. Life isn't a fairy tale. Life isn’t about being happy… it’s about doing what you have to do. Don’t disappoint me.”

When she leaves and returns downstairs, you give a cursory but hopeful search under the bed and in the corners and shadows for the creature, but he is gone. You had seen him disappear into the loft at the slightest sound of footsteps dozens of times, and you know he had fled out the window and is miles away by now. You wonder if he had returned to the barn, but you know in your heart that he’s gone. It’s already too late. You saw the way he had looked at you before your mother interrupted. Betrayed. Wounded. Finished.

He must hate you.

You throw open the shutters again and look out on the dark, windswept landscape. Heavy, cold rain pummels your face, soaking your night dress instantly and making your squint and shiver against it. There is no sign of him, though above the howling of the wind, you imagine that you hear him howling, desperate and anguished. You could jump from here, you think. You could lash together your bed sheets and climb down undetected, and—

A bolt of lightning strikes a tree in front of the house and it explodes to splinters as a cataclysm of thunder bursts open your ears. The blinding-white flash fills your room and your senses, sets all your hairs standing on end, and for several moments after you can’t see or hear a thing. Am I alive? you wonder first. Is he scared? you worry a second later. When your eyes finally adjust to the dark again, you can see the smoldering embers of the destroyed trunk, its crown lying in pieces on the ground. One branch had scarcely missed the roof, and had you jumped from your window a moment before, you certainly would have been hit.

If only you had been, a part of you screams against your skull. It’s the only way out, now. Jump from the window! it insisted, its voice weaving harsh fingers of smoke through your mind. Run, slipping in the wet grass with your ankle broken into the night and find him, or be eaten by a bear. Let a branch fall and crush your pathetic body. Let the lightning take you to Hell.

You close the shutter, and latch it.

Shaking, you return to your bed and lay on top of the covers. The depression in the mattress from your mother is still flattening out. Wet spots on the blanket are the only memento of the creature’s visit. You remember what it felt like to be held, warm and safe in his arms just moments ago, and try to tuck the memory away somewhere it will never be lost. Somewhere you can look back at it in the years to come. You’ll never feel that way again.

It would be a mistake to run.

You're making the right choice.

You don’t want to die. Surviving means doing what you have to do.

You're making the right choice.

You're making the right choice.

You repeat it to yourself over and over, shivering alone on top of your bed until the black sky turns to grey, and the birds start to sing a summer chorus—first one melodic song, then a jarring metallic buzz, a repetitive whistle, and more and more add their voices until it swells into a cacophony in the purple dawn. The storm must have passed some time in the night without your noticing. It doesn’t matter. You made your choice and broke your own wings.

You made the right choice.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Masquerade

Synopsis: A mystery invitation in the mail leads you to a magical night.

Words: 1661

Warnings: None

AN: Can you guess where i was when I came up with this idea? Venice. I’m in Venice. And I haven’t been able to get this thought out of my head. So here you go. I hope you like it.

**GIF not mine***

You hadn’t been sure if you should attend. The invitation had come in the mail on heavy card, unsigned but accompanied with instructions. You’d followed them, finding yourself being set up with a beautiful dress and a work of art for a mask, all paid by your mysterious benefactor. It had all been delivered to your door with a reminder of how to get dressed in all the layers of fabric.

It had hung on the back of your door, staring at you every night. You’d gone backwards and forward, changing your mind every other hour as to whether you should go to the party.

But you were scared of what your benefactor would do if you didn’t.

A hair and makeup artist had shown up early in the day, sitting you down and assuring you everything had been explained to them and paid for. You’d been kept from a mirror as you’d been tugged this way and that, told how to hold yourself and which way to look. Your breath had been taken away when you’d finally been shown your reflection in the mirror. You’d never seen yourself that way.

Outside the beautiful house people were arriving in expensive cars. You felt self-conscious in your Uber, doing your best to manoeuvre your way out of he car in the miles of fabric encasing your body. You could see the sneers directed towards the car as you practically rolled from the back seat. You’d never felt so out of place in your life.

The ballroom was bathed in warm light. Imitation of candles were suspended in beautiful crystal chandeliers above your head. People were crowded on the sidelines, leaving the dance floor empty. At one end a live orchestra was playing soft music, mixing in with the chatter of the people. You looked, trying to see if there was anyone familiar in the crowd, but with the masks you couldn’t tell.

You weren’t sure what to do with yourself. You knew no one in the room. You felt out of place. You’d never been in a place as fancy as the one you were standing in. You’d never worn a dress as expensive as the one you had on your body. You’d never seen anything as beautiful as the masked ball surrounding you.

You passed by people, watching as they turned to look at you. Whispers followed in your wake and you felt your cheeks heat up. You weren’t used to being noticed by strangers, and you couldn’t help the self-consciousness rise in you. You would have preferred to turn around and leave, but you knew you needed to find out who had invited you.

Couples took to the floor, swinging around in arcing circles, twirling to the music. Your blood froze in your veins. With all the questions you’d had about who had sent you the invitation you hadn’t even thought about dancing. You had no idea how to dance in a ballroom. You’d never thought it was something you’d need to know.

You pushed yourself to the back of the crowd, doing your best to lean against the wall despite the voluminous fabric of your dress. You tried to keep out of everyone’s way, not wanting to take up more space than you had to. Despite the sparkle in the air you were desperate to leave.

You tried to ignore the few people who were still looking over their shoulders at you. You couldn’t imagine why people were still looking at you. You kept craning your neck, trying to figure out who had sent the invite.

“Hello.”

You flinched back, surprised at the man who had appeared out of seemingly nowhere. He held his hand out to you, a large ring catching the light. His dark hair hung over his eye, his face hidden behind a leather mask. He looked young but affluent, the gold of his brocade shining in the soft light.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

“No you may not.”

A woman appeared out of the crowd. Her skirt twirled around her legs as she stepped between you and the young man. He sized her up, puffing his chest out. You couldn’t see her expression but she straightened her shoulders and you weren’t sure you would go to war against her. There was something familiar in the movement.

Her red hair cascaded down her back in soft curls. Dark sapphire silk wrapped around her body, flowing to the floor, silver embroidery swirling over her skirts. You’d never seen anyone so elegant in your life.

“She’s already engaged.”

The man glanced over her shoulder, looking at you. His eyes were dark but he had a smirk on his face that didn’t settle well with you.

“I think we should let the lady decided.”

The woman turned to look at you. Black lace covered her face, green eyes staring at you. Jewels hung around her long neck, sparkling in the light. Her commanding presence was intoxicating. Your heart stopped in your chest.

“I’m so sorry but I’m already engaged,” you told the young man.

The woman took your arm, leading you away from the man. You didn’t look back.

She led you onto the dance floor, surrounded by the couples gracefully twirling around you. You looked at her, her blood red lips smiling at you. You gulped.

“I should warn you, I don’t know how to dance,” you said as she took your hand in hers.

She placed your hand on her shoulder and her hand on your waist.

“I suppose I shall have to lead then,” the woman said.

She stepped forward, leading you in the dance. It felt like you were flying, placing your complete trust in this stranger. She kept you from running into anyone else, her arm steady around you. It felt as if she was part of the music, magic flowing from her body into yours.

“You are truly breathtaking tonight, my dear,” she said, her eyes roaming over your face. You felt yourself flush at the compliment, mumbling something in return. You felt her fingers tighten on you.

“You are the envy of every woman here tonight,” she said, her thumb stroking along your exposed collarbone. You shivered.

“Including you?” you asked.

“Why should I be envious when I have your undivided attention?” she responded.

You didn’t have an answer so kept quiet. She allowed you to listen to the music, to watch the other dancers move around you flawlessly. It was like being in a dream, something out of make believe rather than your life. It was making your head spin. You couldn’t get enough air into your lungs, couldn’t stop the heat rising in you.

“I need some air,” you gasped.

She grasped your arm above your elbow, steering you through the dancing couples. She pulled some curtains aside, revealing a balcony overlooking the garden spread out before you, difficult to see in the night. The stars were hanging above you, like diamonds scattered over black velvet.

You stepped out into the cool air, shivering as it touched your bare skin. You lent on the balustrade, looking up at the night sky. You took a deep breath, restricted by the corset under your bodice. You’d tried to argue against it but the dressmaker had told you it was necessary. It had been hard to argue after you’d seen yourself in the whole outfit.

A hand settled on the small of your back, the heady scent of shadows swirling around you. You’d assumed the other woman had left you to collect yourself. You looked over.

A familiar face was looking at you. Pale skin shone in the moonlight and green eyes looked on concerned. You took a step back, almost stumbling over yourself.

“Zelda,” you breathed.

Her lace mask dangled from her fingers. You didn’t know what to say. You’d been helping Zelda ever since the coven had fallen on misfortune, working with her to look after the young witches and warlocks left in her care.

“I didn’t realise you would be here,” you said, trying to recover your composure.

“Did you not?” she asked, “I sent you an invitation and you thought I would not show my face tonight?”

“You never signed your name,” you replied.

“I suppose I didn’t,” she said, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips.

“Why did you send the invitation?” you asked.

“I wanted to spend a pleasant evening in some exquisite company,” she replied, “would you have preferred I ask someone else?”

“No,” you said too quickly, “thank you.”

You smoothed your hands over your skirt, looking down at the light fabric. You were the day to her night, the stark difference never more obvious than it was now.

A finger lifted your chin, forcing you to look at her. She reached behind you, untying your mark to expose your face to her. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as she looked you over, her eyes intense. You knitted your fingers together, waiting for her assessment.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, before kissing you, your mask falling from her hands. You threaded your arms around her neck as she gripped your waist. Your voluminous skirts made it hard to get close but you did your best to press yourself against her. She was so warm, her hands comforting on your body.

You’d dreamt of this, of having her in your arms but between looking after the coven and her sham of a marriage you had pushed the thoughts from your mind. It helped no one. But it didn’t stop your mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

She drew back, holding you tightly to keep you from moving. You moved your arms, draping them over her shoulders rather than wrapped around her neck. Music from inside filtered out to you, faint but wrapping around you in the sweet night air.

“May I have this dance?” she asked.

“You may.”

Tags: @libellule2001​​

[lucyxfowler]

       a somber warmth settled over the kitchen - a wash of deep amber light pooled through the blinds from the street lamps outside, cutting through the darkness like the edges of a guillotine. lucy’s spine arced, elbows propped atop the breakfast island, a glass of red wine balanced between her fingers. she wasn’t supposed to drink on the job, much less pick and choose from their wine cabinet, but what did they know? nannying got indescribably dull after a certain hour - witching hour, when the moon cast a low silver over the skeletal branches scraping the skyline and only silence caught on the wind whistling through empty streets. this part of town was always mellow. only the rich lived here - the proper, the nice and the good american dreams, the cookie - cutter families who never had to worry over how much they spend on lunch and if it means they can only afford to eat stockpiled tinned soup the next day. so they wouldn’t miss a glass of wine or two. weren’t they too old now to pretend to be enjoying life anymore, anyway? she was practically doing them a favour.       bare feet coasted over plush carpet, the muffled sound of the television thrumming through the walls. she gazed over the wescott’s family photos. she noted how jacob seemed to be standing just a centimetre or two further from his wife, kate, with each passing year they’d neatly packed into the frozen second of an image. he was far too handsome for lucy to ever truly behave around him - but he seemed stiff as a board most nights. occasionally he’d come home after having a few too many and would be a little more talkative, but that was right before he sent her on her way with a handful of cash and a cab waiting outside and a sense that she’d missed something he’d been dangling right in front of her. but more often than not, he was a closed book she couldn’t quite pry open. she hovered outside his office for a moment - only a moment - before she repressed the faint tinge of what if i get caught? and slipped inside anyway. it was pristine; as though the last time he’d dusted and polished was just minutes before he’d left the house. she rolled her eyes, TYPICAL, and ran her fingers along the spines of books she thought looked so boring she’d rather claw her eyes out than attempt to read them.        a wicked smile fell upon her face as she sank into his plush leather desk chair. she swivelled in it merrily, the red wine almost teeming over the rim, when something caught her eye that caused her to pause. she squinted at a small tuft of white poking out between two books, as though it hadn’t been tucked away quite right. perhaps in a hurry. she stood and pulled it from between the spines. a crumpled slip of paper sat between her fingers. she furrowed her brow, unfolding it and smoothing out the creases. scrawled, bleeding ink read a complicated website address and underneath: BLUEDEVILS02. her heart bloomed, wreathing wicked vines through her ribs. what had she stumbled across? she sat at his desk and opened up his laptop, blinking blandly at the screen requesting a password. she tried the one written on the paper, but to no avail. it only took to the bottom of her wine glass for her to guess it. MARK2011. his sons name & birth year. the desktop unfolded like a prize to be won before her. her eyes glinted, finger quickly dashing across the mousepad to open up his browser. she checked his history, delicately screwing the button of her nose at the monotonous, abhorrently predictable results. it was sterile: random things probably to do with his job that she didn’t understand, a pretty in - depth search into a video game mark probably wanted, facebook, facebook, facebook. she glanced to the slip of paper and typed out the site address sloppily written on it. her eyes grew immense.       CAM GIRLS - we do what your wife won’t. a bark of a laugh leaped from her chest. she slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes aimlessly darting to the ceiling as though she’d be able to sense mark stirring should he rise. ❝ no fucking way. ❞ lucy almost began to feel a twinge of sorrow for the man. it must get so lonely up there on his pedestal - and so very, v e r y sexless. she shook her head sadly, scrolling through the pages of young girls with their legs spread, on all fours, pinned against a wall with a gag secured between swollen lips. her body flushed. perhaps he wasn’t so bland after all? a swill of unholy ideations filtered through her mind until her body radiated a slight warmth. but it was mr wescott. she’d never gone that old before. her stomach flurried, butterflies turning to small sparks, fizzling in the acid. she quickly did the math. he was only 16 years older than her. only sixteen. eventually she came across a page: archives. PASSWORD REQUIRED. her heart yammered, battering against its cage. she typed it out - BLUEDEVILS02. a plethora of filth spilled over the screen. and it was the same woman, over and over. dana. a thick sepal slipped between her teeth. she eagerly chewed upon it, her eyes scouring the dirty messages passed between the two. lucy was almost giggling with delight. ❝ oh you bad, bad boy mr wescott. ❞ a giddy ember began to flicker between her thighs. she erected her spine, lowering the laptop screen. ❝ or maybe i’m the bad one, ❞ she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head. perhaps the wine was getting to her. a thought barely had chance to emerge before she’d fished her phone from her jean shorts pocket and took countless pictures of the archived perversions littered upon the screen. a small green symbol illuminated in the right hand corner, catching her eye. her heart almost stopped. 

dana: hey baby. you didn’t tell me you were coming online tonight. i thought i wouldn’t get to talk to you again until monday. 

     ❝ oh, this is just too fucking good, ❞ she murmured, opening the chat. she typed quickly. wife out on last minute business flight. i’m all yours. she hit send. a moment later, a message bubble popped up indicating dana was typing back. lucy laughed, shaking her head. she pattered quickly to the kitchen to pour herself another glass of wine, the first still astringent on her tongue, tinging the corners of her mouth a bruised purple. she nestled back into his desk chair to find a video chat request. her thumb slipped over the webcam and she accepted, unveiling a lingerie - clad blonde strewn over a twin size mattress. thing for blondes, mr wescott? her thoughts prattled. dana’s brow furrowed, her low voice beginning to rasp through the speakers: ❝ why can’t i see you, babe? ❞ she mewled. lucy nestled her phone between her cleavage and pressed record to document the chat in a video of her own. she began typing. son in the next room. can i just watch you? i’ve missed you like crazy. lucy watched dana read the message and smile, her fingers sliding a bra strap from her slim shoulder. lucy smiled back, to herself, to her wickedness stirring something vile in her head. ❝ oh, you wanna watch me, huh? we haven’t done that in a while. enjoy, babe. try not to get so hard you can’t hide it from your boy. ❞ lucy almost laughed aloud until she reminded herself the other woman could hear her. she sat back in her seat, thumb secured over the camera, sipping upon rich merlot and letting her phone archive the whole ordeal. she placed the glass on the desk and typed with her free hand. make sure you say my name. and the woman obeyed - jake, jake, J A K E . . . lucy watched with wide eyes, flushed at the sound of his name being called so throatily, so heavily laced with lust. her heart ceased for a moment and she snapped the laptop lid shut. her hands fell upon the desk, breathing heavily, overcome suddenly with an odd sense of... guilt? no... fear? no, POWER. she stopped her phone from recording and slipped it into her pocket, kneeling before his chest of drawers. all of them were locked.       a key rattled somewhere in the distance. lucy leaped from her broken stance. ❝ oh, fuck. fuck. ❞ she swallowed the remainder of her beverage in one mouthful and tucked the empty glass behind heavy, dark curtains. ❝ no, no, no, no. ❞ the back of her hand desperately wiped her wine - stained pout as she hurried to the kitchen to slip the bottle back into the cabinet. the couple emerged, slightly disheveled ( likely from drinking ). a pleasant smile, trembling slightly at the corners, twisted lucy’s mouth upward. ❝ hey guys, good night? ❞ she cooed, resting her elbows atop the marble breakfast island, buxom chest urging between her biceps. ❝ sure looks like it. ❞

[grecoisms]

title: sun sonnet (summer rain) rating: T pairing: Sakura Haruno / Kakashi Hatake summary: In times of war, love comes easy.

No one else will travel through the shadow with me, only you, ever-living, ever-sun, ever-moon.

"Room four is free" says the innkeeper to the young woman, a little bit to quickly, not quite meeting the eyes of the foreigners. He can smell and see the blood in their rigid stances. Soldiers, no doubt, from the front. Konoha, which is oh so very far away.

Behind the young female ninja, her partner, a man with one eye levels him with intent. He looks exhausted, but there is kindness, the keeper thinks, in his eyes. One of his hands linger on the shoulder of his partner for a second as she steps closer to the desk to sign the guestbook. 

"Do you have running water?" rasps the girl, coughing a bit. The heat from which they escaped from is unbearable. Sweat travels from her hair, a crown of pink. The sweat curls in her cheek, making it look like the woman is crying. She has dust on her nose, something they should all smile about, were it not for the sadness in her eyes.

"It will work for five minutes so you'll have to be quick." 

Needless to say; water supplies have been cut off. The conduits were blown to bit three weeks ago. The girl nods, knows. Such is the nature of war. She looks back at her companion and begins to head towards the stairs. The man with one eye thanks him, then follows the girl.

*

What awaits them, is a laughably casual room, with one huge tatami mat just under the small, etched window. A philodendron in the corner. Ancient yellow curtains smelling like smoke and walls looking rice-paper thin. The woman sighs. The man checks the entrances and the small drawer across the plant. But he, too, appreciates the normalcy, finds comfort in this banally conventional interior. The girl can see that the way his hands cease to run into his hair. 

"Shower. Now." the girl says, and tosses herself gently into the back of the man, who hums in agreement. 

They strip with methodical acumen, logical willingness, not yet in the bathroom, but between the tatami and the plant. Holding and treating their bodies as instruments seem to come naturally to these two. The man with snow-soft hair has a long scar running down his face and his belly, old wounds, familiar stretches. Yet as he peels his boots and gloves off, the skin under his left eye - the one halved by a scar - jumps. There are new wounds, and it would appear that they are a bit too fresh to ignore. His stubble is a week old.

Next to her, facing him, the girl with the flower-petal locks seems exhausted beyond the day. She is younger, still, a woman of war. This is obvious, the way she is examining her hands - hands that lack softness - as she uncoils her tunic. The belt and the bindings around the curve of her breasts, the arc of her hips follow the dress onto the grime, the dust of the wooden floor. It does not matter, not really: all of her clothing seems to be bloodied, a sign that she has been on the front half a day ago. An eternity ago.

Finally, the bathroom. It feels crowded with the two of them standing in it, all revealed and tired and shameless in their nakedness. Then the woman of war lets the man with the strange eyes lean on her shoulders as he helps himself into the tub. He winces and she does not blush at the contact. They do look at each other with a certain soft wistfulness though, a light entrancement as she follows him; eager for cleansing.

Steam rises. Hot water starts running, running, running in big, fat, warm droplets and they do not speak as it trickles down, tickling their bodies. Dirt and blood and maybe some guilt and worry, too, leave their clockwork muscles, all knotted from the fight. There is an inaudible sigh, a nonverbal, mutual ecstasy of relief in their shared spaces. Purity is luxury in their trade.

No, not words, but a single bar of soap is all that travels back and fro; all they want and need to share now. She might have been pickier when younger and he might have made a remark or two by now, but this summer evening is austere, the war is in their marrows now, heavy and sharp. The woman wonders whether they should sleep with windows open tonight. The man wonders whether they will be able to sleep at all. Battles, after all, write their curses onto the skin of their dreams and it is no easy task to erase or smooth them. There is no peace in war. These moments thus become powerful.

Small blessings, such as these: a hot shower, a roof above their head, something to sleep on. 

Blessings, like him bowing his head, hand curled in a tent above his eyes, so she can soap his hair, washing the thick-wire curls with routine and care. She massages the foam into his scalp and temple, careful not to get any in his eyes. Her fingers are full of ridges, holy hands, full of scars. Holy things are, after all, hard things. 

After washing off the froth, another blessing, him holding her as she scrubs the soles of her feet, intent of bidding goodbye to the tiniest of scrubs. Until nothing remains but the zigzag way her body tanned weeks ago. There is a click, signalling there is not much time left. 

The woman straightens up, puts her other hand onto the man's shoulder. Steam rises still, and in the fog, the two figure embrace each other, as if wanting to wash each other's back, but really, it is a mutual exhale of grace. Time does not stop. War does not stop. They are alive and the water stops. And they do not let go of each other. 

Only when they start shivering -  the water drops are now ice on their bodies - do they lift their heads up. The man's arms are longer, so he is the one clasping the towel while she steps out and helps him again, and now, now there is more in the way she fastens her hand, more than relief in the way he relies on her help, because the pain is here again, although water made him forget.

She makes him sit on the brink of the tube, and drapes the towel from his hands to his head and starts to ruffle it until it resembles a nest. They both reward it with a small smile. A familiarity. He helps her drying her back, making great circles, carving a mishmash symbol onto her spine. It makes the young woman tilt her head, chuckle.

There is some water leaking from the tap as they head back to the bed. The sun is setting and there is a strange mixture of scents in the room already, something like ozone and that heavy earthly odor they both miss dearly. The man does not bother with dressing again. After stuffing their uniforms back into his bag, he stretches on the mattress and closes his eyes.

"I am opening the windows" says the girl softly, putting on a fresh tunic, all white, immaculate. Her companion lulls. The sun is setting, although there are clouds in the horizon, shielding the orb, shadowing its presence. 

Drawing the curtains, Sakura is calm now, knowing the light won't disturb them in their sleep. Her limbs feel eternal-heavy, but when Kakashi draws her closer with one extended arm, relief comes easy, her head is clearer. 

"We got lucky" he mumbles. 

"I didn't heal you."

"Later, Sakura" he says, and still, forces to open his eyes to see her face, before sleep weighs him down. Such is the nature of love. "Let's sleep now."

She smiles and caresses his elbow, heavy-lidded with fatigue.

"See you."   

They close their eyes, buried in the embrace, hopeful the nightmares won't come to hunt and knowing that even if they do, the other will be there to anchor the fright.

Kakashi starts to snore, light and content. Sakura adjusts the cover on their bodies. 

There is a rumble. The sky opens up. Rain pours down. 

Serenity awaits them both.

[foreversillythings]

roses are red, roses are white chapter one

Prologue

roses are red, roses are white part one now rises the sun of york chapter one so wilts the red rose

It is the coldest Christmas Madge can remember.

It's everything she'd dreamed of and more, yet Madge cannot find any cheer. She is too young to truly understand what happened, but there is a black hole inside of her filled with fear, a fear that eats away at any joy she manages to discover. She should feel like a princess as she walks around the suite of rooms her family has been gifted, but instead she feels skittish and scared of shadows. Madge takes hesitant steps on the fur carpeting the stone floors to keep her feet warm and wants to sink her toes into it, wants to rejoice in the splendor around her but there's a prickle at the back of her neck, a tingle of something awful.

Her bed is large enough for her and several friends, covered in more pillows than she'll ever know what to do with. Delicate roses are etched into the wooden frame and she runs her fingers over them, traces the patterns with her nails. Red velvet curtains hang about the bed and the walls are adorned with finely threaded tapestries depicting battle scenes, the Virgin Mary and heroic deeds.

(Madge stares at those heroes each night before she climbs into bed, promises herself they're keeping her safe)

Her garments hang in a well carved wardrobe, a merry fire crackles in the hearth but it never fights away her chill and each item of dark wood furniture is glossy to the touch. She wishes she had flowers to put on every surface, to make the room feel bright and alive, but winter cold has killed them all.

(Madge almost believes they'd have withered anyway)

(there is something in the air at Westminster, something toxic)

Madge climbs into her great big bed and drowns in it, memories blending with nightmares to cling to her even in her waking hours. She stares at the panneled ceiling of her room, painted with roses, crowned wolves and King Coriolanus, and feels sick and lightheaded. The mesmerizing magic Madge had seen on her first foray into London has disappeared, replaced by the harsh light of day.

I just want to go home

Let us just go home

Fires blaze in every room, garlands are strewn across doorframes and banisters, and talented minstrels play music all day long but Madge does not feel the warmth or recognize the tunes, feels as horrible as her mother looks. Lady Bedford is pale and drawn, barely eats and speaks so quietly her words sound more like breaths. She withers and wastes under the King's dark eyes, but still attends every festivity, the hunts and feasts and masques, the performances and concerts and recitals. Her husband begins to lose his colour, rounded cheeks starting to thin, but the King doesn't seem to notice, greets them with oily smiles, offers them the best seats and the choicest foods and Madge's curiosity would usually ask why, but she is too dazed with horror to wonder.

The palace smells of holly and rich food, an army of cooks slaving in the kitchen for every hour of the day and each meal is a feast, course after course after course. Madge can barely stomach it all, would feel like a glutton if she even tried but King Coriolanus' court is one of extravagance and excess, always loud and full of people. The celebration never seems to end but Madge is listless and quiet, can't muster any excitement at magnificent decorations or beautifully dressed lords and ladies. Her father points them out to her, trying to rise her to emotion, to life.

"That is Lord Brutus, Duke of Somerset. He is a favourite of the King and Queen."

(hard and mean with angry eyes, Madge is not surprised)

"Over there is the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Boggs. The King's half-brother."

(younger and darker, he looks nothing like his brother. Madge cannot help but find that comforting)

"Beside him is his nephew, Finnick, Earl of Richmond."

(slightly older than her and already handsome, Madge would have swooned if she didn't see blood every time she closed her eyes)

"Ah yes, and that is the Earl of Richmond's mother, the Lady Alma and her new husband, Lord Heavensbee."

(she is grey and stern, he is colourful and laughing. What an odd combination)

(the Duke of York is nowhere to be seen)

None of her observations are enough to dislodge the monster taken root in her mind. The King fills every corner of her, dark eyed and cackling as heads roll. He looms over the festivities from his raised throne, dressed always in exquisite garments trimmed with fur. His bony fingers are weighed down by rings studded with every jewel she can name and even some she can't, and a glittering crown sits on his head, bright gold with dazzling gems. It presses down on him and makes him hunch, his neck bending under the weight.

He orders performances every night, but instead of Saint George and the Dragon or Noah's Arc, these players act out scenes all about the glory of His Majesty, King Coriolanus of England. Shimmering plates of solid gold piled with sugared deserts are laid before them as poets rhapsodize about the King and Madge finds herself unable to eat, the sweets appearing almost grotesque.

Madge counts the days as they pass, looks out snowy windows and prays they will soon return home.

(if anyone ever bothered to ask, Madge would say Westminster is more a prison than a palace)

Their last night in London finally comes, capped by the most opulent ball.

Madge is determined to enjoy herself, refuses to wallow in the same hole of misery she's been trapped in since they arrived here. She is tired of nightmares and fear and sadness, wants to have one night where everything is bright and lovely and wonderful. A fool's hope perhaps, but Madge promises herself she will be happy tonight, that she will greet this new year of 1463 with nothing but smiles. This will be a year of joy.

Not even a king shall take that from me she vows as her maids help her dress. They lace her into a white kirtle threaded through with silver and then her new periwinkle houppelande, the fabric decorated with delicate fleur-de-lis made of pearls and a collar of white velvet. They accent it with a white girdle jeweled with sapphires, then weave blue ribbons and pearls into her hair and Madge runs hands over the silk of her dress, enthusiasm flagging in her heart. One of the maids hangs a pretty string of diamonds and pearls around her neck and Madge looks at her reflection, tries to muster up some excitement. This should be a dream come true, after all, how often does she get to wear such finery?

Stop it, be happy

Madge pinches colour into her cheeks, puts on her rings, a ruby one from a grandmother who'd died before she was born, a sapphire one received as a gift from her father and affixes a silver and turquoise brooch from her mother to the front of her kirtle.

"You look beautiful, my lady," one of the maids tells her and Madge forces herself to preen like she usually would.

This shouldn't be so hard.

Just tonight, just be happy tonight.

They dab her with rosewater and then she steps outside her chamber to greet her parents, both of them in their very best garments. They walk down together but don't share a word, Westminster's forbidding walls leeching the life right out of them. Elegantly dressed lords and ladies crowd the halls and Madge feels a small thrill at the sight and focuses on it, tries to force that spark into an inferno. Her eyes drink in everything they pass and she desperately wants this night to be one worth remembering, wants to preserve just one happy memory from this trip.

The great gilded doors to the banqueting hall are already thrown open and Madge enters behind her parents, a tiny, tiny part of her managing to marvel at the golden festivities. She inhales deeply, the whole room hung with sweet smelling wreaths and garlands. Minstrels play lively music and the floor is scrubbed so clean it almost shines. Thousands of candles burn while roaring fires keep the room warm and silver bells jangle from the wrists and ankles of dancing girls dressed in floaty, nearly transparent costumes. A tiny sigh flutters in Madge's chest, in awe at the splendor and she looks up at the King's table, raised higher than all the rest. The royal family will be the last to arrive and the room feels brighter without them, the holidays slightly more merry.

Madge sits at the long banqueting table assigned to the various children and younger nobles, each one dressed in glittering finery. The wood shimmers in the candlelight and the handsome Earl of Richmond, thirteen year old Finnick Odair, sits at the head of the table, resplendent in emerald green. He talks excitedly, too far away for Madge to hear, but his very green eyes light up, his golden smile stretched wide. Heads turn in his direction, girls tittering excitedly and Madge guesses Prince Cato must be seething with jealousy.

(she feels the start of a genuine smile at the thought)

Madge looks around the table and tries to remember everyone's names but they blur in her head, her misery these past weeks having foiled her memory. A dark haired girl in purple sits to her left, but doesn't speak, her gaze lingering on Finnick of Richmond and Madge looks at her from the corner of her eye. She wracks her brain but honestly has no idea if they've been introduced before, an utter blank filling up her mind.

Do I introduce myself and hope for the best? But what if we've already met? What if I insult her?

After too many minutes spent agonizing, she decides not to say anything, not wanting to risk it but then she remembers her promise to herself, that she will be happy tonight, will enjoy herself. She plasters on a smile and hopes she looks sincere.

"Hello, I'm Madge of Bedford. My father's the Duke," she greets and the girl turns abruptly, lovely ocean eyes wide. She continues to stare at Madge in surpise, as if someone speaking to her is the most baffling possibility and Madge feels her smile start to wilt. Perhaps she'd have been better off remaining quiet. The girl ducks her head.

"My apologies, my lady. I'm Annie. Anne! Of Oxford. My father's the Earl."

Madge can see Anne's cheeks flush pink and wishes she would look up, but she supposes the daughter of a duke outranks that of an earl. Madge smiles as warmly as she can manage.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Lady Anne."

"And you Lady Madge."

A herald blares on his horn before they can say anymore and a deep hush falls over the room, every head turned to the doors. Madge feels her chest tighten.

"His Majesty, King Coriolanus!" the herald bellows and everyone stands. The men doff their hats and bow, the women all curtsy and the King sweeps in with an amused smirk, his lips smeared over with blood. Madge focuses in on that, that one disturbing detail and cannot help but wonder why his lips are always painted and dripping with blood. Is he diseased? Is it contagious?

He does not look sickly though, instead he glows, dressed in his finest houppelande of cloth of gold crusted with precious gems and a long ermine lined mantle that trails across the floor behind him. His hands twinkle with rings, his crown sparkles and the Queen beside him dazzles in a ruby red gown studded with diamonds, tourmalines and garnets. Prince Cato swaggers in behind them, his boots black and glossy, his doublet silvery and delicate. A golden coronet rests on his head and blends well with his sunny hair and Madge thinks he could be handsome if only he didn't make her so uneasy.

The royal family take their seats at the high table but the King waits for a few moments before commanding them all to sit. He enjoys this, Madge thinks, enjoys flaunting his authority.

"Be seated," he finally allows and they all sit as the music begins again. All eyes stay on the King, waiting for his instruction and Madge starts to feel an itch at the base of her spine, a bubble of discontent starting to grow inside her. The King roves lazy eyes over them, lingering over the dancers with his lips curled and then claps his hands. Silver angels enter with jugs of spiced wine and mead while golden ones bring trays laden with figs, dates, pears, apples and strawberries. Madge wants to be enchanted, she really does, but that bubble keeps growing larger, filling her up with no room left for anything else.

Don't do this

Be happy, please

Madge pinches her palm to clear her misgivings and focuses on the food in front of her. She knows it isn't ladylike, but she piles up her plate with strawberries, is always craving her favourite fruit.

(and maybe she hopes to pop that bubble inside of her with something she loves)

Lady Anne nibbles on a single pear and Madge feels a bit like a pig, her mountain of fruit looking monstrous in comparison. She peeks up at the King, juices running down his chin and catching in his beard, and feels decidedly better.

(though she supposes while someone might lecture her on her manners, no one would dare do so to the King)

The fruit is exquisite, the best she's ever had but that bubble stays inside of her, not even dented and Madge feels like a sinking ship. She's never been depressed a day in her life, and now, surrounded by more splendor than she could conjure in her wildest dreams, a smile feels impossible. Happiness has never been such a chore and Madge cannot help but blame the King. His wicked deeds have poisoned her.

(that's treason, comes a voice in her head)

(I know, she whispers back)

Servers come with basins for them to wash their hands before the second course and Madge shakes her head, stubbornly refuses to give up. She will enjoy herself tonight, she will. Angelic servers arrive with a variety of pies, filled with meat, eggs, vegetables and fruit, mountains and mountains of them, enough for an entire village. Madge takes in their delicately feathered wings and wishes real angels were here, children of light to fight off the shadows in every corner.

Stop thinking like that, stop it

Madge closes her eyes, digs nails into her wrists and inhales deeply. She opens her eyes, resolved again to banish unhappiness from tonight. She turns to the pie platters before her and knows it's silly after eating an entire plate full, but takes a strawberry pie from the pile anyway.

(gluttony some might say, but this is the only comfort she can find)

Her nurse would be utterly appalled, so Madge turns to Lady Anne beside her.

"Would you care to share? I think a whole pie might be too much for me."

(this is a lie)

(Madge could definitely eat a whole pie)

Lady Anne blinks at her but then smiles sweetly, eyes bright with pleasure. "I would love to."

Madge is surprised to feel a smile on her own face, that bubble in her stomach suddenly leaking air and cuts the pie carefully in half, sliding Lady Anne's portion onto her plate.

(maybe there is comfort to be found in other places too)

"Bon appetit," Madge says and Anne dips her head.

"And to you."

They giggle a bit and Madge wonders if this is what it feels like to have a friend, one who isn't a poppet or your parents. Not that Madge would be so presumptuous as to call Lady Anne her friend, but deep down, she feels a little better already. They dig in and the pie is delicious, though not quite as good as their cook's back home, and Madge is craving a hundred others. She wants more but knows she shouldn't, shoulders lighter after her exchange with Lady Anne.

(maybe because now she's not alone)

Thankfully the servers arrive to clear the dishes and Madge is saved from any decisions. Washing basins come around again and the pies are replaced with oysters, mussels, scallops and more fish than Madge could ever name. Anne takes dainty bites of a scallop and Madge knows it is a sin, but she cannot help but be envious of how birdlike she is, will never look quite so graceful as she eats.

Washing basins come to signal the end of the course and Madge washes her hands even though she didn't eat anything, would hate for people to think her unhygienic. Next comes meat, with beef, chicken, pork, mutton, lamb, venison, partridge, quail, goose and duck. Even more impressive, a staple of royalty, are the swans and peacocks, painstakingly re-feathered after they were cooked. Anne frowns.

"Is the scallop not agreeing with you?" Madge asks worriedly, having had her own bad experiences with fish and queasy stomachs.

Anne blushes down to her neck.

"Oh no, no of course not. I just...I don't like when it still looks like a real animal, like it might fly off any moment," she admits, embarrassed, but Madge takes a long look at the swans and peacocks and realizes she may be right.

"It is somewhat unnerving," she agrees and Anne sinks in her seat in relief. They share a smile and Madge helps herself to some quail while Anne takes a miniature amount of pork. Madge ladles a thick sauce onto her meat and everything is luxuriously spiced and seasoned, the heady aroma floating into her brain and making her hazy. Her eyes drift around the room and find Prince Cato, who has clearly inherited his father's table manners. He gorges himself on roasted swan and peacock, stuffing it in his face like a wild animal and Madge grimaces in disgust. Anne follows her line of sight and takes him in with wide eyes.

"Not quite so princely, is he?" she whispers and Madge giggles into her sleeve.

(he doesn't seem so frightening now)

They wash their hands again and then dine on doughnuts, biscuits and turnovers. Each one is scrumptious, but Madge makes sure not to eat too much, wants to be able to savor dessert.

"Is this your first time at court?" Anne asks her and she nods. "I thought so. How old are you, Lady Madge?"

"I shall be ten in March," she declares proudly and Anne smiles.

"I turned eleven in August," she says and Madge pouts even though she knows she shouldn't.

"Have you been to court before?" she questions, hoping she won't be beat in this too, but Anne nods slowly, eyes turned down to her plate.

"I have been coming ever since I was very young," she murmurs and there is something in her tone that makes Madge bite her lip. She grabs Anne's hand beneath the table, the fingers cold and trembling. Anne looks up with wet eyes and Madge smiles at her, wants to sweep away her sadness like Anne did hers. Anne sucks in her bottom lip and then smiles back, a cloud seemingly lifted and they keep their hands together until the servers come with more washing basins.

(what could make her so unhappy?)

(Madge is fairly certain she knows the answer)

Melancholy thoughts start to recede at the magnificent spread of subtleties laid out before them, decorated with the petals of roses, violets and elder flowers. They are presented with fritters, sweet custard, darioles, crepes with sugar, strawberry tarts, plum tarts, cherry tarts, mulled wine, aged cheese, fruit paste and fruits covered in sugar, honey or syrup. Several servers come out carrying a great replica of Westminster made of marchpane and people applaud as it is set on the head table.

Madge takes a few spoonfuls of custard, several syrupy strawberries and splits a crepe with Anne. She smiles, finally truly enjoying herself, and this is nice, is what she wanted all those months she dreamed at home. Prince Cato takes everything he can get his hands on, stuffing his face with darioles, honeyed pears, crepes and marchpane. Madge purses her lips, wonders if he's ever learned any manners, and her eyes slide to his father beside him, her blood suddenly running cold. There is a red smear left behind on the King's wine goblet, like a kiss of death and it terrifies her for reasons she can't explain, all the warmth and joy she'd began to feel draining away, the horrors of Westminster returning with a fresh virulence. She abandons the rest of her dessert, her stomach shriveled and small.

They wash their hands for the final time and the King claps his again, the music becoming more raucous. The dancers spill between the tables, spinning and whirling and performers stream into the hall, some juggling and others flipping through the air. People ooh and ahh as acrobats fly and a man breathes fire, a knife thrower earning gasps and applause. Madge yearns to enjoy herself as well, but she wants to retire, her excitement replaced with the claustrophobic dread she'd been feeling since that terrible day in the square. She squeezes her eyes shut as the memories flood back and this isn't what she wanted. Can she not have just one night?

(no)

The performances seem to carry on forever and Madge feels so tired, like she hasn't slept in months. I just want to go home. She needs her parents but can't find them in the sea of faces and finally the King stands, everyone hurrying to do the same, their benches scraping loudly over the stone floors. He steps down from the dais, Queen Enobaria and Prince Cato following after him and Madge prays this means the night is coming to it's end.

The bell wearing dancers begin to twirl from the room, the royal family falling in behind them. Soon, everyone in the hall is moving out as a procession, the musicians bringing up the rear. Madge wonders if she could just slip away and crawl up into her oversized bed, desperately wishes this night was over. Instead, they are led into a great hall, the dancers spinning around in the center of the room. The King and Queen sit on gilded thrones at the far end of the hall and everyone else fills in around the edges, the musicians setting up in the corner. Madge takes a look around the large, empty room and knows they've been brought here for after dinner dancing. Will this night never end?

(never ever)

No one moves, waits for the King to decide what happens next. He surveys them with smirking malice and then makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. The dancers cease their movements, the echo of their bells tinkling around the hall. They drape themselves around his throne and Madge wonders if she's imagining the uneasiness in their eyes.

(she doubts it)

"Let the youngest among us begin tonight," the King commands and Madge feels like her feet are made of stone. A serving boy hurries to bring the King more wine and the children around her begin buzzing excitedly, each one searching for a partner. Even though she'd practised for so long, even though she'd be so looking forward to it, she prays no one will ask her to dance.

Various pairs form but the girls around her hold their breath and Madge realizes it's because Finnick of Richmond is looking around, eyes skipping over each girl they land on. Every girl seems to vibrate, desperate to dance with him but his gaze stops on Anne, her eyes sparkly as she takes in the dancefloor. He lights up and smiles, easy and slow as it stretches across his face. Lord Finnick walks over, girls deflating like old wine sacks when he passes them. He stops in front of Anne and smiles, bowing low.

"Lady Anne, may I have this dance?"

Her cheeks turn a deep, dark pink and she won't meet his eyes, but she nods quickly and he takes her pale hand in his. They step out onto the dancefloor, followed by venomous glares and Madge feels a little warm for a reason she can't explain. It vanishes quickly though, replaced with frigid unhappiness when she catches sight of Prince Cato. He sneers at her, but is definitely walking right towards her. She peeks around him and sees the King watching them, his eyes narrowed and his smirk bloody as always. Her stomach sinks and though she has no idea why, she knows he must have ordered the Prince to dance with her. Cato half-bows before her, eyes hard.

"Would you like to dance, Lady Madge?"

No, she wants to shout, no! She knows better though and dips into a curtsy.

"I would be most honoured, your Highness."

He takes her hand with sticky fingers and tugs her into the centre of the room. The music picks up in intensity and everyone stumbles through the appropriate steps, Madge's own legs weighed down with lead. Cato jerks her around the floor, her movements stiff and Madge counts each and every second of the dance until it is over. Cato takes issue with her inattention and stomps on her foot, pain screaming up from her crushed toes. She bites her lip to stop from crying out and knows he did it on purpose, his eyes mean and dark. She exhales sharply and does not glare at him no matter how much she wants to, chooses to peer over his shoulder and take comfort in Anne and Finnick, making such a pretty pair as they dance.

The song mercifully comes to an end and Cato releases her like he's been burned. He scowls, the edges of his teeth visible between his lips.

"You're not very good, are you?" he asks, voice harsh and loud enough for everyone around them to hear. Madge does not bristle even as lightning crackles beneath her skin, drops into a curtsy instead.

"My most sincere apologies, your Highness," she demures and he snorts, stomping off. She rises and people are staring at her, whispers passing behind their hands. She wants to run and hide, humiliation heavy on her shoulders but she doesn't, retreats instead to the edge of the room with as much dignity as she can muster. This night was supposed to be her one perfect memory of this trip to court, but tonight she is as miserable as she's always been.

Perhaps there is no such thing as happiness here.

"Idiot!" the King's voice booms and Madge flinches, heart suddenly racing. There is a terrible sound of a hand striking flesh and Madge turns in time to see the King's serving boy crash to the floor, the force of the King's backhand sending him reeling. The wine jug he'd been carrying cracks as it lands on the stone, a dark puddle spreading out in every direction.

"Useless cur!" the King continues, the pointed toe of his shoe digging into the boy's back as he kicks him. Madge clamps her hands over her mouth, the urge to retch seizing hold of her. The King kicks the boy again, ignores his whimpers and then looks up, his face feverish.

"Did I say you were allowed to stop?" he barks at the minstrels and they hurriedly start playing again, their pace frenzied. Madge hadn't even realized they'd stopped, her whole world narrowed in on the bleeding boy on the floor. How could the King be so cruel?

"Remove this filth from my hall!" he snaps to a pair of guards and they haul the boy off, dragging him from the room.

"Lord Brutus, see that the wretch is properly dealt with," the King orders and the Duke of Somerset steps forward with an eager grin.

"As you command, my King."

The boy thrashes suddenly in the guards arms and begs for mercy, garbles out apologies, tears leaking onto his face. Madge wonders why he looks so terrified, wonders what awful punishment the King and Lord Brutus have in store.

(she's better off not knowing)

Everyone hurries to return to their dancing as the King sinks back into his throne but Madge cannot move, rooted to the floor with horror. This place is cursed she wants to wail but never would.

Even at nine, she knows she will receive no mercy.

Madge wakes early on their day of departure, a thick, sickly anticipation coursing through her veins. There is only the faintest hint of dawn light creeping through the window and Madge stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the outline of King Coriolanus' portrait. She can't make him out, but she knows he's there, looming over her and the thought makes her stomach turn. She yanks the covers up over her head to block him out, like the shields brave knights wear into battle.

"We'll be home soon," she whispers in the gloom, "home and safe."

(except there is no safe, not in King Coriolanus' England)

The maids help her dress for traveling and she vibrates with an eager intensity to flee this castle of terror. All her things are already packed, ready to be lugged into a litter and Madge waits impatiently for her parents, can't understand why they're taking so long. She paces along the length of her room, fingertips brushing extravagant furniture and oh, how she wishes she could be as enamored of it as she wants to be.

(but her eyes are open now, and beauty can't hide the hideous things that lie beneath it)

She thinks it must have been hours she's been pacing when a knock sounds at the door, a page of her father's bringing summons. She practically bounces out of the room, her nurse hurrying after her and already, it's like she's shed so many weights and pounds.

"Good morning," she chirps as she greets her parents, livelier than she's been in all the weeks they've been here. Her father smiles as he pulls on his travelling gloves and a lady's maid fastens a cloak over Madge's shoulders, tugs the hood up over her head. His grin is wider, like it always used to be and Madge puts on her own gloves with a sense of contentment she's been missing. Her mother still looks frail under her heavy winter wear but the colour is returning to her cheeks and Madge feels hope fluttering like a bird in her chest.

We're going to be okay

She clambers up into their carriage, her mother settling in beside her. Maids rush about, draping them in thick furs and placing hot bricks underneath their feet while Madge leans against the window edge, takes in Westminster Palace for what she hopes will be the very last time. Her father swings up onto his horse and winks at her. Madge bites her lip around a grin and their long train of horses, litters and men starts off, trundling down London's cold streets.

"Come away from the window, sweetheart," her mother says but Madge doesn't listen, drinks in the chilly air and the wan faces of the people they pass. Everyone averts their eyes as they roll by, all of their movements shifty and nervous. The air here is tense and she can feel it trying to leech away her glee at going home. Madge sucks in her bottom lip as she loses count of all the soldiers and guards sprinkled throughout the city, each one sporting a livery badge of the King, a silver wolf crowned in gold.

Why are there so many? Is London really so dangerous?

(the answer is yes, of course)

(the real question, is who in London is so dangerous)

They turn a corner and Madge inhales sharply, her eyes widening in alarm. Standing in the slushy road is a line of men bound together with chains, their clothes thin and ratty. The carriage lurches to a stop, the road blocked and her father's squire rides forward to speak with the man in charge of these men, his uniform a bloody red and emblazoned with the King's wolf. Each man is sallow and ill-fed, eyes sunken and cheek bones jutting out. Madge cannot take her eyes off of them even as her stomach rolls over and over and she leans forward, nearly hanging out of the window.

"Madge," her mother reprimands but she barely hears it over the crack of a whip, like thunder loud in her ears. Madge flinches as the men are hurried to the side of the street and one stumbles, his knobbly knees sinking into the grey snow. He hunches over and Madge watches in horror as the snow starts to redden, her throat burning with bile.

"Madge," her mother starts again and Madge closes her eyes, nails digging into the wood of the carriage. A wave of sickness crashes inside of her as the carriage starts again and she keeps her eyes closed until they turn another corner. She breathes deeply and blinks them open, the very top of Westminster still visible. It towers over London and Madge does not need to wonder about the fear she sees in the eyes of the people they pass. There is a shadow over London, a fear permeating the streets.

No one here is happy.

(except the King)

They reach the city gates and Madge says a last farewell to London, offering silent prayers that she never has to return. Her mother pulls her against her side and Madge snuggles into her arms, relieved to be on her way home.

The King can't touch them there.

(if only if only if only)

Bedford Castle is the most welcome sight Madge has ever seen and she throws herself out of the carriage almost before it's stopped.

She nearly trips over her skirts but her father swoops down from his horse and grabs her, swinging her up into his arms. Her mother climbs down from the carriage in a much more careful fashion and comes to stand beside them, her arm fitting snugly around her husband's waist.

"It is good to be back," her father says and Madge nods.

"It is good to be home," her mother corrects and they all seem to exhale together, expelling the toxins bleeding from Westminster's walls. Whatever happened in London is over, Madge assures herself, we are safe now, home and safe.

(how naive she is)

Only months later, before Madge has even turned ten, news comes of another revolt in London, followed by a mass execution.

(fifty four dead)

(fifty four)

Madge wraps her blankets around herself at night and knows she won't sleep a wink. The dead crawl like ghosts through the shadows of her room and she wonders if it will ever end, the rebellions and riots and death.

Why is it that so many people are willing to commit treason, to rise against their sovereign lord? Was he not ordained by God? Are they not compelled to show him fealty?

But he is wrong wails a voice in Madge's heart as she remembers the fear that hung heavy in London's streets, the terror in the eyes of its citizens. There had been a dark whisper then in the halls of Westminster, a promise of bloodshed to come.

Perhaps the time has finally come.

(not yet, but soon)

(here is a secret Madge learns at nine)

(the King is evil)

"It appears I've won again," the Duke of Bedford says with a grin, setting down his cards on the table. Madge pouts.

"Ladies do not pout, my love," her mother admonishes gently while her graceful fingers put the finishing touches on a purse for her husband. Madge tries to squish down her pout and fails, tossing her own cards onto the table. Her father laughs.

"Fear not, my sweet. Practice does make perfect. I'm sure you'll be beating me in no time."

Madge huffs softly. She'd like to be beating him now. Her mother examines the purse with a critical eye and then offers it to her husband.

"What think you, my lord?" she asks and the Duke takes it with careful hands.

"Magnificent," he declares and his wife rolls her eyes, "I shall wear it proudly."

Margaret of Bedford shakes her head fondly at him and he leans in for a kiss. Madge watches them and the smiles present on both their lips and feels her frustration ebb away.

"Try and keep better care of it this time, I would prefer to do more with my time than embroider purses," the Duchess teases and her husband grins, fastening the purse to his belt.

"I shall endeavor to do my best," he promises and the room feels pleasantly warm to Madge, everything bright and rosy. It's been months since they'd left London, she's ten and all grown up now, and she could almost imagine it was all a bad dream, a nightmare half-remembered.

"Alright," her father says, standing up, "I think it's time our little lady went off to bed."

Madge frowns.

"I'm not tired!" she insists and her father smiles and scoops her up into his arms.

"Perhaps not now, but you will be tomorrow if you don't get enough sleep tonight."

"But fatheeeeerrrrr," she whines and her mother frowns.

"Madge, remember your manners."

Proper ladies do not whine and they always obey their lord father, she recounts in her head and why must manners always be so bothersome?

"Indeed, what great lord will want such a whiner as a wife?" her father asks and tickles her side. Madge squirms in his arms.

"Oh Papa, stop, stop Papa!" she giggles and her mother shakes her head.

"You are both terrible," she pronounces but she smiles prettily at them all the same.

"I was merely punishing a disobedient daughter," her father insists and Madge giggles into his shoulder.

"If I believed that, I would have to have wool for brains," her mother retorts, voice bubbly with laughter. The Duke gasps.

"Is that any way to talk to your Lord Husband? All the women here are so impudent," he says in mock-disappointment and then looks down at Madge with a secret smile.

"Shall we teach this lady a lesson?" he asks and Madge nods eagerly. He reaches out and takes her mother by the hand, tugging her gently over to them. Her mother's arms go around them both and Madge likes this, being warm and safe in her parents' embrace.

"I know exactly what you are planning and you would not dare," her mother tells them and the Duke catches Madge's eye and winks. Tiny fingers attack Lady Bedford, tickling wherever they can reach.

"Madge-stop this-at once," her mother gets out between peals of laughter but Madge ignores this, her own laughter mingling with her mother's.

"Stop-stop!" her mother begs and all three of them are laughing, together and happy and untouched by all the horrors to come.

(and that's how Madge will remember this, one perfect golden moment where everything was wonderful and bright)

A knock sounds at the door and interrupts their mirth, both of her parents furrowing their brows. Her father sets her down and turns to the door with a frown.

"You may enter," he calls and Sir Thomas Cartwright, her father's Marshal, steps inside. His face is drawn and Madge feels the temperature drop. Sir Thomas is in charge of all their defenses and military matters, does this mean they are under attack?

"I apologize, my lord," Sir Thomas says as he bows, "but you have received urgent summons from the King."

All the air seems to have left the room, Madge's whole body left breathless.

"Why?' her father questions, a quaver in the back of his voice. Sir Thomas looks at Madge and her mother, clearly uncertain if he should say whatever it is in front of them.

"Go ahead," he father urges and Sir Thomas bows his head.

"There is armed rebellion in Kent. The King commands you to raise men and head there immediately to help stamp it out."

Madge feels her mouth drop open and her mother gasps, covering her mouth with trembling hands.

"I see," her father whispers, voice suddenly rough. "We will leave as soon as possible. See that everything is prepared."

Sir Thomas bows again. "Immediately, your Grace." He turns and sweeps from the room, Madge staring unseeingly after him.

"Joseph," her mother says and snags her husband's sleeve between shaking fingers. He turns to look at her with sad eyes and neither of them says a word, so much more conveyed in silence. He covers her hand with his, their eyes trained on each other and the sudden urge to cry bubbles up in Madge's gut.

Don't go Papa, please don't go

Her mother grabs her husband's face, fingers on his cheeks and kisses him with a fierceness Madge has never seen before, her skin flushing red.

"Be careful," the Duchess commands him, their foreheads touching.

"I will."

"You'll be back soon, won't you Father?" Madge asks, fear like poison in her veins. He turns to her with a smile, reaching one hand out to stroke her hair.

"As soon as I'm able," he promises and then kisses her forehead. Madge closes her eyes, tears stinging under her eyelids.

"We will come and see you off," her mother murmurs, voice faint and afraid. There is a pause, heavy with unsaid things and Madge hugs herself, dread welling up and spilling through her body.

Even here, so far away from London, the King has reached into their home and stolen away their happiness.

The entire household gathers in the courtyard to say goodbye and Madge tries her best to play the prim and proper lady, her heart weeping inside her chest. The Duke kneels before his Duchess to receive her wife's blessing and Madge tells herself everything will be okay. There is a special magic in a wife's blessing, a power that will surely keep her father safe. He stands when it's done and Madge's mother presses a delicately embroidered handkerchief into his hand, a token to carry with him through the fight to come. He holds it briefly against his heart and then kisses her hand, eyes staring deeply into hers.

Madge sees tears in her mother's eyes but they do not fall and Madge swears she will be just as strong. Her father turns to her and as much as she wants to throw herself on him in a hug, she knows she can't. That isn't how a lady is meant to behave herself.

"I will pray for your victory and speedy return," Madge vows and he smiles, eyes wet.

"I will be grateful for it," he replies and Madge knows the time has come. He shares one last look with both her and her mother and then he swings up onto his horse. A squire hands him his helmet and he looks just like a fairy tail knight. Those men always triumph and so will he. Madge believes that, she has to.

"Godspeed," her mother says in a trembling voice and then they ride off, a long line of horses pouring out of the castle grounds. They are not off to slay a dragon, but other English men and Madge is not sure she understands that, is not sure she ever will. She grabs onto her mother's skirt and already, she is praying.

Come home soon, Papa.

Come back safe.

Madge cannot sleep that night, her head filled with terrible thoughts so she creeps past her sleeping nurse and out into the hall. Everything seems sharper, harsher tonight, every item of furniture and brazier on the wall. There is unseasonal ice in the air and Madge tiptoes to her parents' bedchamber, heart hammering in her throat. She sneaks inside, past sleeping ladies and stops by her parents' huge bed and finds her mother awake, her eyes luminous in the dark.

"Come here, sunshine," she whispers and Madge clambers up into the big bed and under the covers. Her mother pulls her close and rests her chin on the top of Madge's head.

"Papa will be home soon. You must believe that."

Madge nods. "I do, Mama, I promise."

She wraps her own arms around her mother, breathes in her comforting scent.

Papa will be home soon she repeats as she drifts off to sleep.

Soon

Three weeks later, a guard posted on lookout duty hollers into the courtyard.

"Our Lord of Bedford is returning!"

Madge hears him through a window and drops the book she's meant to be reading, happiness bursting inside her.

"My lady!" her tutor tries to scold but Madge is already running from the room. She tears down corridors and up stairs and crashes through a door out onto the guard wall. She clutches the stone and peeks through the parapets, standing up on her tip toes. There, out beyond the castle walls, she can see them, a train of men and horses, waving a white banner above their heads, one blazoned with the silver Bedford Bell.

Her father is home.

The household gathers outside to welcome their victorious lord home, relief making them giddy.

Great cheers rise up as the knights and soldiers ride into the courtyard, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, and ladies wave handkerchiefs and scraps of lace at them, white ribbons tied in their hair to match their lord's banner. The men toss up their hats in joy and Madge stands with her mother, her own hair filled with ribbons and a solid silver Bedford Bell pinned to her kirtle. There are less men returning than left, but at the head of them is the Duke of Bedford, weary but whole. Madge feels her knees wobble and can barely keep her face straight, a smile dangerously close to breaking through.

Her father pulls off his helmet and hands it to a squire, his dismount slower than usual. There is a heaviness in his bones that gives Madge pause, scratching at the back of her mind. Something isn't right. He walks towards them and they curtsy, Madge's a bit clumsy with glee and apprehension. She looks up at his eyes as she stands and her excitement is stomped down by what lingers there, something foreboding and melancholy.

"Congratulations on your triumph, my lord husband. We will have a great feast to celebrate," her mother says and the tired soldiers give a hearty cheer. Her father smiles but it doesn't light up his face like it's supposed to, looks more strained than it should. Madge bites her lip, worry eating away at her happiness and her mother clearly senses something is wrong too, her eyes narrowing as she looks at her husband.

"I will have a bath drawn for you," she tells him and he nods gratefully. Madge wonders why she doesn't ask what's wrong, but perhaps proper ladies aren't meant to do that either. Her father offers his arm and her mother takes it, the two of them leading the household back inside.

Servants rush about to prepare and Madge tracks her parents with her eyes as they move farther away, up to the privacy of their bedchamber. There is something going on here. Madge knows she should head to her chamber to get ready, but instead she ducks away from her nurse and follows discreetly behind her parents. She is quiet and their posture is tense, confirming her suspicions. There is a secret her father is keeping, a terrible, awful one.

But what could it be?

(are you sure you want to know?)

They enter their bedchamber and Madge presses her ear to the door, their words slightly muffled but still understandable.

"So you suppressed the rebellion, then?"

"Yes, but something was very clear as we rode across the country. This isn't over. There will be others, many others. I fear we will soon be at war."

Madge gasps and pulls away from the door. There is a clatter from the other side, someone having dropped something but Madge barely hears it, heart tumbling over itsef in her chest.

Will they never be allowed to live in peace? Will the King's shadow haunt them forever?

(yes, yes, yes)

(Madge wonders if it is a sin to hate her king)

(but perhaps it was not God who set him on the throne, perhaps it was the Devil himself)

When Madge is eleven, she learns of her own claim to the throne.

King Coriolanus is her great uncle, they share a common ancestor in King Henry IV. She falls in the line of succession after the King's son Cato (her cousin once removed) and her own mother (the King's niece).

(this then, explains why the King knows her mother, why he showered honours on them)

(her stomach does queasy somersaults at the thought)

Madge does not have any expectations of being Queen, knows that Prince Cato will surely marry and have children, will push her farther and farther away from the throne. It will, on the other hand, improve her options of marriage, this blood tie to kings. And that is all Madge thinks she can do for her family, marry well.

(she is wrong)

(but why, Madge can't help but ask herself, why did her parents keep this monumental relation a secret for so long?)

(but then she remembers rolling heads and puddles of blood and maybe she knows the answer)

"You are growing into quite the young woman, Lady Madge," her nurse tells her as the tailor fits her for a new gown. Madge beams.

"I wager suitors will be lining up outside the castle walls any day now," her nurse continues and Madge blushes at the thought. She thinks she would like a husband, one who was brave and handsome and would love her forever and ever. They would live near her parents and have a very large family and always be happy, until the very day they died. He would wear her favor into battle and fight every tournament in her name. She swoons just at the fanciful imagining of it, like a fairytale come to life. Her nurse chuckles softly.

"It won't be for some years, dear, so don't get too excited."

"Why not? I'm almost old enough," she points out and her nurse nods.

"Indeed, but your lord father and lady mother aren't so keen to see you packed off and wedded until you're still a bit older. In fact, they told the Duke of Exeter just that."

Madge doesn't actually want to get married just yet, would much rather stay with her parents, but her nurse's tidbit of gossip puts hooks into her imagination.

"The Duke of Exeter wishes to marry me?"

Her nurse snorts.

"Goodness, no! He already has a wife. He wanted you for his son and heir, Henry, the Earl of Huntingdon."

Madge bites her lip and ponders this new information.

"And what is this Henry like?" she asks and her nurse turns thoughtful.

"I reckon he's about fourteen and quite tall from what I've heard. They say his father is rather handsome, so he might be as well."

Madge drifts off into thought. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon and future Duke of Exeter. Tall, fourteen and potentially quite handsome. In her eleven year old mind, he sounds perfect.

"Now don't go getting any ideas, the Duke and Duchess have already said you're too young to wed him," her nurse reminds her and Madge nods.

"It is no matter, he will wait for me," she decides, because of course he will. The charming boy in her mind would wait a lifetime for his lady love. Her nurse shakes her head but Madge pays her no mind.

Lady Madge Holland, Duchess of Exeter.

It sounds lovely.

Riots rise up again, just as her father predicted, but this time in Devonshire.

Madge watches her father ride away and waves her handkerchief after him, praying for his safe return. Her mother stands by her side and squeezes her shoulder, tears glittering on her cheeks in the golden sunlight.

They do not ride out with her father, but they do fight battles, against despair, waiting, the agony of not knowing.

At least her father has a sword to beat back his enemies.

Madge has only herself.

Madge takes to practising her letter writing skills, imagines beautiful love notes passed between herself and her future husband, the ever enchanting Henry Holland. It does not matter that she has never met him, because her imagination has long ago run away from her, caught up in pretty, romantic dreams.

As their parents hammer out all the boring legal details of their marriage, Henry and she will spend their courtship taking long walks in the garden, writing letters and playing cards by the fire. His lips will linger against her hand when he kisses it, his eyes will seek her out across the room and they will dance every dance together. He will whisper sweet words into her ear, promises of a lifetime of joy and love.

She blushes, skin heating up and buries her face in her pillow in embarrassment. How silly he would think her if he knew! But still, girlish hopes of love and marital bliss keep her mind from drifting to her father in battle, to his bloody body strewn out across some war torn field. She must have hope for tomorrow, it is what her father would want.

One day, all these rebellions and riots will be over.

One day, her father will give her to Henry in marriage and they will all live happily ever after.

One day.

She and her mother are breaking their fast when a messenger arrives bearing news from her father.

Madge stops eating immediately, stomach too excited for food, and eagerly looks over what he's brought. There is a crate, a small box tied with a cord and two letters sealed with her father's crest. The messenger bows to her mother and presents her with the letters, his hair swept back by the wind.

"From His Grace the Duke of Bedford, milady," he says and her mother takes the two letters with a smile.

"My thanks, good sir," she tells him and offers him a few coins as a tip. "You are welcome to stop by the kitchens for food and drink and I will have my Constable tend to your horse."

He bows again, cap clutched to his chest and their Steward shows him out. Madge leans over the table to get a better look at the letters, both addressed in her father's hand. On the first is written To My Dear Duchess and Sweet Daughter and Madge thrills at the sight. The second says For My Most Beloved Margaret and Madge imagines it must be a love note, filled with romance and she can't help but dream of the days she'll receive one from her own husband. Her mother breaks the seal on the first and pulls out the letter, Madge vibrating with anticipation.

"To my Dear Duchess Margaret and Sweet Daughter Madge,

We have stopped to sup at the Duke of Exeter's castle and we are joined as well by the Earl of Oxford (Anne's father! Madge thinks with a jolt). I think you would both like it here very much, for they have the grandest gardens I have seen outside of Windsor. Exeter says his son Henry spends most of his time exploring the grounds and climbing trees, to the eternal vexation of his lady mother.

Exeter also bid me take a crate of spirits he has been sent from France, claiming, of course, that he merely thinks we might enjoy them. I would guess his constant talk of Henry and the spirits have an ulterior motive, though it would be rude to say so, or to refuse such a generous gift (her mother interrupts her reading to laugh, shaking her head). As such, I have taken the liberty of accepting them and have sent them along with the messenger. Perhaps we may use them to toast my return (her mother laughs again and Madge can imagine her father's tone as if he were speaking the words himself and the smile that would grace his lips)?

Speaking of gifts and young Henry, he has sent something along for you, my Madge. It is in the other package and I swear I have no idea what it might be (Madge's heart does back flips, a silly, overjoyed smile breaking out over her face).

We are planning to spend the night here and ride out on the morrow, which is why I have the time to write. Oxford has spent the evening challenging me to cards, but he is nowhere near your level, Madge dear, and so I have been beating him handily. Exeter's wife, Lady Anne, is much admiring of your needlework, Margaret darling, and has made me swear a hundred times to relay her compliments to you as she has spent the night gushing over the purse and handkerchief you made me. Of course, this may also have to do with those ulterior motives mentioned earlier.

It is late and I should rest, but I confess I would much rather stay up writing. I won't though, I know how you would scold, sweetheart. I will be rested for tomorrow, as you would insist.

I wish most heartily that all this was over and I was with you both, but know that I think of you often and pray you are well.

With all my love, your most devoted husband and father,

Joseph, Duke of Bedford

written this day may eighth of the year fourteen sixty four in the Duke of Exeter's castle of Rougemont."

Madge's heart is warm from her father's words but there is also a knot of shivering excitement in her chest at the thought of what Henry Holland might have sent her. She looks to her mother for permission and the Duchess frowns but nods, clearly not pleased at boys sending Madge gifts.

Madge eagerly pulls the package towards her, barely even registering her mother's watchful gaze. She carefully unties the cord around it and lifts the lid, her heart pounding as loud as a giant's footsteps. Inside the box is a folded note and she takes it with shaking hands, romantic dreams swirling in her blood. She unfolds it and her eyes take in the the hastily scrawled message, the first tangible part of Henry she's ever encountered. She doesn't read it aloud as her mother did the letter from her father, wants this to belong just to her and Henry.

Lady Madge,

Your father has come to stay with us and I hope he will give this to you. My lord father says we might one day be married, and so I would like you to have this token of my esteem. I bought it from a traveling merchant, who promises it once adorned the hand of a foreign princess.

I liked it because it reminded me of outside, which is where I spend most of my time. If I had a choice, I think I would spend all my days and nights outdoors. Would you marry a man who lived in the woods?

I hope you like my gift and fare thee well,

Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon

It is not gushingly romantic and yet it might as well be, Madge feeling like she's skipped right over the moon. She holds it against her chest and sighs, her mother watching her with a fondly exasperated smile.

"You look feverish, love, and you have not even seen his present," she points out and Madge startles back to the moment. Again, bright hot excitement courses through her and she peers into the box, gasping aloud at what she finds. It is a ring made of gold with a silver flower on the band, the center set with a tiny pearl. Madge cradles it in her hands and is fairly certain she has never seen anything more lovely. She slips in onto her finger and swears right then that she will never take it off, not as long as she lives.

Thank you Henry, she thinks, heart on fire.

I will treasure it always

That night her dreams are filled with Henry, dashing, charming Henry who sweeps her right off her feet. But better than any dream is the thought that one day it will all be real, Henry loving her in life and not just fantasy.

She hugs the hand bearing his ring to her heart and plans out her return note in her head, cannot wait to put it all to paper.

Oh Henry, Henry, Henry, how lucky I am to have you.

Her father returns a victor, but he looks exhausted, the beginnings of an ugly red scar visible at the edge of his collar.

"Mercy, Joseph, what happened?" her mother fusses as squires help him remove all his armor. They peel back the layers and Madge hisses in shock at the twisting injury on her father's chest, long, deep and startlingly crimson. Her mother presses her fingertips to it in worry, her face awash in terrifying what-could-have-beens.

"I am alright," her husband assures her and takes hold of her hand, pressing it against his beating heart. "We were caught off guard, we were not expecting so many."

Madge clasps her hands and closes her eyes, the thought of losing her father making her head swim and her stomach roll.

"They almost got the better of us."

Her mother inhales sharply and her father's face turns dark and stormy, sorrow drawing heavy lines on his face.

"It was terrible," he murmurs, lost in some awful memory, "the Duke of Exeter's young son, Henry, snuck after us, eager to follow his father into battle. The rebels cut him down right before his father's eyes."

Madge does not hear anything else her father says, her head connecting with the stone floor as she collapses.

Madge spends a whole day laid up in bed, but it is not her head that ails her, not nearly as much as her heart does.

The physician tends to her, her parents hovering worriedly nearby but Madge barely takes note of any of them, sobbing as she mourns the boy she never met but could have loved. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon who would now never be Duke of Exeter. Her dreams all fall to shambles, victims of the cruelty of King Coriolanus' England.

There is no childhood here, no innocence.

Just death and blood and ruin.

(poor, sweet Henry)

(even in all the decades to come, Madge will never forget this boy who never grew up)

(in the wars of Kings, the innocent are often forgotten. Madge vows to keep their names alive)

The halls are filled with whispers now, of the treachery of the rebels, the unrestrained violence of these riotous citizens. Maids and cooks pass words behind their hands, say this is the Devil's work, that God will lay a curse down on their wretched souls.

Madge cannot deny they are evil, horrid people, young Henry Holland rising like a specter in the back of her mind. What kind of monster would someone have to be to cut down a young boy, still so bright and full of life?

But if the rebels are doing the Devil's work and the King is the demon haunting her nightmares, what does that mean for England?

Are all of them cursed? Has their Heavenly Father abandoned them?

(one look at the atrocities committed here and the answer is obvious)

(yes)

Madge wanders garden paths and plucks spring blossoms from their stems.

She carries them to the top of the grassy hill at the edge of the grounds, the one her nurse used to whisper belonged to fairy kings. The world still glistens from the morning's rainfall and her boots sink into the soft earth, the hem of her dress trailing in the mud. She kneels down and doesn't feel the cool wetness of the ground as it seeps through her layers of skirt, her mind focused entirely on her task.

She ties sweet smelling flowers into wreaths and drapes them over a large, mossy boulder, one too large for any man to move. Her hand reaches into the pouch hanging from her girdle and pulls out the diamond she'd smuggled from her mother's coffer of jewels, running her thumb over it's smooth edges. She remembers being told diamonds are harder than stone and so she takes her stolen gem and carves into the boulder, her hand cramping from clutching the diamond so tight. It takes longer than she'd thought it would, dusk starting to kiss the clouds by the time she's done, but Madge looks at her work and though she is too raw to smile, she still feels proud. Carved in this boulder, forever and ever and ever, is just one name, shaky and squiggly but legible.

Henry.

She is sure his family has buried him with full pomp in a magnificent tomb, but Madge remembers his letter and wants him to be outside forever, just like he'd wished.

Let his spirit rest here on this fairy hill, chasing endless adventures.

Let him be young and carefree and laughing for eternity.

Madge twists his ring off her finger and holds it in the palm of her hand, a soft breeze blowing petals off the wreaths she'd left for him. They swirl through the air and down the hill, bright and colourful, just like she imagines Henry would have been.

She digs a hole with her free hand, dirt clumping under her nails and sullying her sleeve. She places his letter inside, gently covers it with earth and pats it down, safely burying it below the ground. She says a final prayer, his ring held between her hands and looks up at the sky, the sun meeting the stars against a pink and purple canvas.

"Rest well, Henry," she whispers and hopes her words float up to the heavens themselves.

(she knows it is just her imagination, but for one brief moment, she could swear she hears a voice, young and full of boyish cheer)

(i will)

The only sound in the schoolroom is the scratching of Madge's quill as she works on her Latin. Her tutor sits at the front of the room, reading quietly to himself and Madge works diligently, will broker no mistakes. Latin is the only one of her languages that she struggles with and she is determined to get this translation right, wants to surprise her parents at dinner tonight with how far she's come.

Her concentration is broken by a clatter of hooves outside and even though she knows she'll receive a scolding for it, Madge hurries over to the window. A messenger rides through the courtyard and just as she dreaded, he sports the King's badge, a crowned wolf she has learned to despise.

"Lady Madge," her tutor says sternly, demanding she return to her seat.

"It is a messenger from the King," she whispers. "It is rebellion again, isn't it?"

Her tutor doesn't answer but that's alright, he doesn't need to.

Dinner is a somber, hurried affair, the castle filled with urgent preparations for her father's ride to help crush yet another revolt against the King. He shovels down his food and Madge's eyes bounce anxiously between her parents. Her mother's skin is ashy, her face drawn and her lips pressed into a tight line. She does not touch her supper and Madge feels as if her own appetite has run off, her throat far too dry to swallow anything at all. Her father takes a last gulp of wine and sets down his goblet with a thunk.

"I need to get going, we want to rendezvous with Pembroke before tomorrow night," he tells them and pushes out his chair. Madge feels pulled tight all over, stretched so thin she might snap. Every goodbye is worse than the last and she wants to beg him not to go, would get down on her knees and clutch at his legs if she thought it would do any good.

"I cannot take this anymore," her mother moans, swaying in her seat. Her husband hurries over to her in alarm and Madge is too frightened to move, the world crumbling around her ears.

"Shall I send for the physician?" her father asks, voice distressed and Madge tries to swallow around a lump in her throat.

"What is the point? A physician cannot cure me."

The Duke looks at his wife in confusion. "Whyever not? What ails you, my love?"

"These rebellions! You, running off to keep the King on his throne!"

Madge watches her father recoil in shock and she cannot help but feel it too, has never heard her parents exchange even one harsh word in all her life.

"He is our sovereign lord, I have no choice but to obey his commands," her father says, tone still lilted through with confusion.

"You've said it yourself, these riots won't end, not until the entire country is at war! The people hate him! How long will you fight his battles, beating back his enemies while he sits safe in his palaces?"

The Duchess' face is red and flushed, her breathing heavy and she looks so winded and out of breath from so little conversation it makes Madge want to weep.

"He is my King, and your uncle!" her father snaps back, voice raised in a way Madge has never heard, a kernel of fear rooting in her stomach.

"Exactly! I have grown up haunted by his shadow! We both know what sort of man he is better than anyone! Would you die for him, leave us forever, just to keep him on his throne?"

Madge wants to close her ears from the shouting, hates the King all over again for tearing apart her family.

"What would you have me do, Margaret?" her father demands, anger turning his neck and ears bright red. "Abandon my oaths? Fall in with the rebels? Loose everything we have and have my head put on a spike on Tower Hill?"

Her mother doesn't answer, eyes narrowed into slits and chest heaving.

"That is treason, Margaret," the Duke pronounces, voice so grave Madge feels like she's climbed into a bath of ice. Her mother holds his gaze for a few moments more and then collapses in her chair like a popped soap bubble.

"You're right of course," she whispers and the anger seems to drain out of her husband, "he is God's anointed King, we owe him our loyalty."

Madge watches her father nod and return to his wife's side, taking her limp hand between both of his.

"And we are bound to him by blood, no one will ever forget that."

Her parents share a look, one steeped in hopelessness and it's what they aren't saying, the undercurrent in their words that scares Madge worse than anything they have said.

If the King loses, they shall all be condemned right alongside him.

The physician decides her mother must be conveyed straight to bed despite her protests and so her husband carries her upstairs to their bedchamber, Madge trailing after them.

"I am well enough to see you off, Joseph," Margaret insists as he lays her down gently on their great bed.

"There is no shame in being ill, darling. Rest and be well again," he murmurs, fingers stroking her hair. Her mother struggles up onto her elbows and her dress slips slightly, exposing a frightfully thin shoulder. Madge flinches in shock. How had she not noticed how thin her mother was becoming, what a toll her bouts of sickness were taking?

"I have been ailing since the day I was born, Joseph, we both know I shall never be well. But I am not an invalid, I am the mistress of this house and I will see you and the men off." She tries to fill her voice with steel but it is threaded though with weakness instead. Outside these castle walls or within them, it seems there are always threats to ravage Madge's happiness.

"Don't go, Mama," she begs, dropping to her knees at her mother's bedside with fear in her heart. She clutches her mother's hand and she can see the surrender in her eyes. The Duchess lies back against her pillows and folds into them, looks so much older and frailer than her thirty one years.

"I shall be back soon. I love you," her father says and kisses her mother's forehead. Margaret nods tiredly and Madge bites her lip to fight back tears. Her father smiles at her and lifts her chin with his hand.

"Be brave, sweet Madge. All will be well again soon."

Madge squeezes closed her eyes and nods. "I will be, Papa, I promise," she says, sobs catching in her throat.

"I know you will."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and then he's gone, tears slithering out from beneath her eyelids and down her cheeks. Her mother squeezes her hand and Madge holds her father warm in her heart.

I shall be brave Papa, the very bravest

Madge's favourite story has always been that of King Arthur, the brave, good king who will rise again to save them in their darkest hour.

Whenever times get rough, she has always comforted herself with the thought that he hasn't returned yet, that whatever she thinks is so terrible, isn't truly so horrid. If it really were, King Arthur would've come to save them.

(of course, if he hasn't come yet, if this isn't bad enough to call him back, that means something even worse is in store)

(even her heroes conjure nightmares now)

Her father returns victorious, the King's forces once again triumphant.

How long, Madge wonders, how long will this continue?

(forever and ever and ever)

(Madge is twelve when she learns of the other claim to the throne, the one no one speaks of)

(at least not out loud)

(He is Finnick Odair, Earl of Richmond, but the word bastard haunts his name, on either side of his family tree.

His mother is a descendant of Edward III, just like Madge, just like King Coriolanus himself. John of Gaunt, son of Edward III and father to Madge's great grandfather Henry IV, had several children by his mistress Katherine Swynford, all born out of wedlock, but legitimized once John and Katherine married. From these once bastard children comes the line that leads to Lord Finnick's mother, the Lady Alma.

Lord Finnick's father, meanwhile, is the half brother of King Coriolanus, born of the same mother but different fathers. The stain of illegitimacy lies in the dispute over whether King Coriolanus' mother, the Dowager Queen, ever actually married the servant man to whom she bore so many children, including Lord Finnick's father)

(this boy, a handful of years older than Madge, is never openly acknowledged as a potential heir, even with royal blood flowing through his veins)

(it does not matter though, because he will never see the throne. Prince Cato would have to die without heir, as would Madge and her mother before Finnick Odair of Richmond could call himself King)

(and Madge is sure there is little chance of that)

Madge is safe in Bedford Castle but she is no longer ignorant of the upheaval in England.

Messengers bring evil tidings every day, a list of dead men and burned cities. The kingdom is fracturing, splintering and the King's idea of order is to continue the killing, to put down the riots with as much brutality as he can manage. He could build fortresses from the bones of his victims and rage sweeps through England, bright and hot, setting the entire country aflame.

The people of England hate their King.

(Madge cannot blame them)

There is only one way to douse this inferno and it is a crime no one would ever be brave enough to say, not even in a whisper.

(regicide)

Madge lays flowers by her makeshift memorial for Henry and no longer fools herself into believing she'd loved him. She might have, in another life, but in this one he was just a name, not even a face. She does not love him, but still she mourns him, his life snuffed out far too quickly.

Fourteen year old boys should never die, but certainly not by the sword. Was he frightened? Did he suffer? She closes her eyes and prays that his soul is at rest, that he has found peace in the hereafter.

Poor Henry, she thinks, to be remembered as nothing but a victim, a child murdered in cold blood. If history will recall his name, it will be as a footnote, just one of many tragedies blooming across England in these tempestuous years. He deserves better in death as he did in life, but he will not get it. No one will.

If life has taught her anything, it is that nothing is fair and no one receives what they deserve. Perhaps the Lord is testing them or perhaps the Devil has wrested England away from him and torments them for sport.

It matters little.

Madge cannot change it, she must merely try and survive it.

(here is another secret she learns, this time at thirteen.

The Duke of York is a distant cousin of King Coriolanus and thus of her as well. They all descend from King Edward III and there are whispers and echoes that maybe, just maybe, the Duke of York is the rightful King of England.

King Coriolanus' father, King Henry IV, usurped the throne from his cousin Richard II. His reasons, of course, were that Richard was a tyrant, a monster, unfit to rule.

True or not, he has set a precedent.

Even God's anointed King is not safe, is not untouchable.

Worse, some believe the Duke of York has a better claim to the throne than King Coriolanus, as he is descended from Edward III's second son, while the King is descended from his third son.

Madge tries to tell herself it doesn't matter, after all, no one would ever depose a king)

(then again, that's how all this started)

The world around her always feels like walking over eggshells, fragile and delicate, about to fall to pieces any moment. Everyone's nerves are rubbed raw and her mother is always ill with migraines, skin ashy and body weak. Her father loses weight, his clothes hanging off his frame and his hair starts to thin, dark circles blooming under his eyes. No one sleeps right, pressure and worry building on their shoulders, ready to explode.

Madge feels like rats have taken residence in her stomach, clawed feet scrabbling along her insides. She prays for respite, for her parents' health but still the days seem to grow darker, the menace of rebellion stalking every man, woman and child in England.

They cannot go on this way, something must be done.

(and here it comes)

Madge wears the loveliest gown of violet silk, dripping in gold and amethysts, pearls and diamonds. Fragile lace veils cascade down from her hennin and all eyes are on her in the middle of the dancefloor, the handsomest man in all of England bent over and kissing her hand. His lips are warm and soft, butterflies fluttering deliciously in her stomach.

He stands and Madge looks down at her hand, a smear of blood left behind from his mouth. She frowns, something cold and horrible settling inside of her. She raises her head and screams.

Screams and screams and screams.

Henry Holland stands before her, throat slit and body broken, head and limbs bent at odd angles.

She stumbles away in horror and arms catch her, her back landing against someone's chest. She twists around and cannot even scream, terror clogging her throat.

It is her father, his eyes plucked out and the skin of his face pecked away by crows. He smells fetid and rotting, glistening bones visible and Madge scrambles away from him, heart stampeding as she tries to escape.

She sprints down the hall but her feet trip over her skirts and she falls, the ground catching her and swallowing her up. She starts to sink into it and when she looks up, desperate for help, she finds only the King, dripping with blood and cackling wildly.

The Duke of York comes up behind him, swinging a heavy ax and Madge closes her eyes, feels something hot splash across her cheeks. She opens her eyes and looks right into her King's, open and lifeless.

Madge screams, no sound leaving her throat and no one comes to save her.

No one at all.

Madge is fourteen when war erupts across England.

It's a mild morning in September of 1467 and she is working on her embroidery, is determined to successfully capture a bird in thread. Her mother reads beside her, the other household ladies gossiping quietly. Their peaceful scene is interrupted by one of her father's squires barging into the room, the same one who used to dance with Madge so long ago.

The door crashes against the stone wall, the ladies gasp in scandalized shock and Madge pricks herself with her needle, scarlet blood dripping onto the pale lavender of her dress. She hisses in pain and looks up at Bristel in reproach but the frenzied look in his eyes makes her rebuke dry up in her throat.

"My lady," he pants, red faced and Madge's mother looks at him with feverish eyes.

"What is it?" she whispers, colour sliding out of her face.

"War, your grace, England is at war."

England has erupted, split down the middle by two powerful men.

The Duke of York has declared the King a tyrant, has deemed him oppressive, cruel, unfit to lead England and her people. Nobles flock to his rebellion, including his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury and his nephew the Earl of Warwick. They seek to remove King Coriolanus from power and place the Duke of York there instead, backed by his own claim to the throne, Edward III's royal blood pumping through his veins.

King Coriolanus retaliates, his own army rising to meet this would-be-usurper.

The clash, when it comes, will be devastating.

For so many, for so long.

(for Madge)

The Duke of Bedford is called to arms, summoned to prove his loyalty to his King.

Madge and her family are Lancastrians, as the King's supporters are called, not by choice but by blood, and Madge's father gathers as many men as he can to ride out and meet his king. Madge watches him as he prepares to leave, looking small in his gleaming silver armor and hates the Duke of York. She does not know him, has barely met him but he has brought war to England, has dragged her loved ones into bloody conflict.

(there is a small voice though, one that whispers of the fear in London, the chill in Westminster)

(perhaps the Duke of York is on to something)

Her mother is too ill to see the men off, so Madge stands in the courtyard as lady of the house, keeps her back as straight as she can. She wants to grab hold of her father's reins, refuse to let go until he agrees to stay behind but she doesn't, has been raised with Bedford bravery in her heart, will make her father proud.

His eyes are wet as she ties her mother's handkerchief to his gauntlet, a wife's token to keep him safe. He kisses her cheek as the wind picks up, the cold cutting through her skin.

"Take care, my Madge," he whispers.

"And you father," she replies, voice shaking.

He mounts his horse and he looks so pale in the watery sunlight. The ground shivers as the men take off, a thunder of hooves and Madge stays in the courtyard long after they've gone, holds herself tight as tears stain her cheeks.

Come back father, please come back.

Life continues in Bedford Castle, news few and far between.

Madge stares out the windows as the weather grows colder, tries to catch a glimpse of a rider bearing some sort of message, some update on the state of England, but always, there is no one.

Madge's fingers are clumsy at her needlework, her eyes blurry as she tries to read her books, her hands limp as she attempts to play her instruments. She cannot concentrate, lives in a state of frigid fear. The world outside is a mystery, one she is desperate to unravel.

How goes the war? Who is winning? Losing? And what of my father?

Madge needs to know, just as she dreads finding out.

"There must be something we can do," Madge says for the thousandth time and her mother sighs, setting down her embroidery.

"I have told you darling, there is nothing we can do but pray. Pray for your father and the King, that they will be safe and victorious. We must trust in the Lord."

It is the same speech she has given every time Madge has asked and just like always, it does little to soothe Madge's nerves. Her mother's ladies-in-waiting share looks of pity and Madge bristles, determines right then that she will find something useful to do.

"May I be excused?" she asks and her mother blinks before sighing again.

"Yes, Madge, you may."

Madge curtsies and turns in a whirl of skirts, desperate to be out of this stifling room, desperate to be doing something. She slips from her mother's solar and leans back against the closed door, at a loss for what that something might be. Think, she tells herself, there must be something...

She pushes off from the door and moves across the hall to the window. She leans against it and looks out at the castle grounds, but it is the same view as always, empty and without a rider bearing news. The wind picks up and Madge's eyes catch on a pennant at the top of one of the turrets as it whips in the breeze. It is a fraying white with her father's badge, the silver Bedford Bell, upon it and Madge feels inspiration burn into her fingertips.

She gathers up her skirts and runs down the hall, dodging scandalized chamber maids and shocked page boys as she goes. Her satin slippers nearly flap off but Madge doesn't slow, feels excitement thrusting her forward. She careens through an oak door and arrives in a store room piled high with silks and velvets, brocade and cloth of gold. Reams and reams of fabric, yards and yards of material and Madge falls upon them like a starving man on a fresh pile of vegetables. She picks through crates and boxes, desperate to find the perfect piece.

Yes!

She drags out a roll of white silk, cool and soft to the touch. Perfect! She will need thread, red for Lancaster Roses and silver for a Bedford Bell. She will make a banner, with a border of red roses and a great big bell in the middle. She will proclaim her loyalties to the world, show them all the proof of her faith. She will hang it up on the castle walls so everyone will know who they are, who she prays for, who she sends her every ounce of courage to.

This will be a banner to welcome her victorious father home, one to hold all her hopes. Madge hugs the roll of fabric to her chest.

No more idle hands, I'll be useful.

You will have the very best homecoming Father, I swear.

Madge is diligent in her work, measuring and cutting and designing.

There is still no word from the front but she no longer yearns for it with the same intensity, her mind focused and her hands busy. Her banner comes along and she plans out the celebration they will have when her father returns home. What food they'll eat, what decorations they'll hang and what needs to be cleaned, polished and refurbished.

The Yorkists can fight and even win as many battles as they want. They cannot take Madge's hope and it will never falter or fade. The Duke of Bedford will return.

Madge will never let go of that.

In December, news finally arrives.

It is the worst winter Madge can remember, bitterly cold and heavily coated in snow. The courier who brings word is nearly blue and half dead when he collapses on their doorstep, the words quivering as they leave his bleeding lips.

The Duke of York is dead.

He and his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury have been slain at the Battle of Wakefield, the snow stained red with the blood of countless dead. The routed army has fled, the King is victorious.

Madge sighs in relief. It is over.

(if only)

But then a whisper.

A whisper goes out that the war is not over, that the Yorkists still intend to fight.

The Earl of Warwick is still standing, a new Earl of Salisbury, Gale, only sixteen, has risen to take his father's place and most shocking of all, the Duke of York's eldest child has taken up his claim.

Not a son, for he had none, but a daughter, Lady Katniss of York.

People shake their heads, scoff, for that cannot be true. These whispers must be wrong.

(they aren't)

Madge embroiders with vehemence, her needle like a sword and this banner her war. She cannot fight by her father's side, has no idea how to use a sword. She is not Lady Katniss of York (if she even exists), but Madge is still brave, will fight in the only way she knows how.

Every day and night, she and the entire household get down on their knees and pray, for the safety of their lord and victory for their cause. Madge stitches and stitches, will boldly show her colours to the world. She is a Bedford, they are Lancastrians and she will not hide, will pour every ounce of love and courage she has into this banner. Let this be a testament to her belief, to her faith in God and her father. Let any strength she possesses carry to him and make him mighty. Madge cannot fight with spear and shield, cannot ride out into battle for those she loves, but that does not mean she is helpless.

She will keep the home fires burning, she will pray, she will believe.

Let the Yorkists come, she thinks, let them come. I will not yield or bend or break. I may have no sword or shield, so I shall become them myself.

Come Yorkists, and have a taste of Bedford steel.

1467 becomes 1468 and in February fortune turns over, shattering Madge's fragile hope that this war is over, that her father will soon return to them.

Lady Katniss of York, real and bent on vengeance, and her cousin the Earl of Salisbury lead their armies in the Battle of Mortimer's Cross and win a decisive victory, prove themselves deadly and capable. The Lancastrian army is devastated and the King's half-brother, Lord Boggs, Earl of Pembroke, is forced to flee for his life.

The tides have turned.

(but Madge's hope is not shattered for long)

(she picks up every shard and piece and puts it back together again)

(she cannot command an army)

(instead, she shall destroy the Yorkists with the force of her convictions)

(the good shall triumph, her father will return)

(that is a promise)

Madge lies awake at night and thinks of Katniss of York.

This girl, only a few years older than Madge, has done the impossible. She rides to war in full armor, rallies troops behind her. She keeps the cause of York alive, no, she does more, she turns York into an unstoppable force, takes them to victory and victory and victory.

It is unnatural, some of her mother's ladies say but Madge wonders if that is really quite as true as everyone believes. There is a fire in her chest, one that burns hotter than any hearth and if Madge knew how, she would charge to war, vanquish enemies, bring her father home safe.

She and Katniss of York are both warriors, just of a different kind.

(even still, they are enemies too)

February continues, dreary and darker with every passing day.

There is a somber air in Bedford Castle and joy flees from their long faces and terror of defeat. Katniss of York is a chilling specter, far more effective than her father ever was, bolstered by the Earl of Warwick and the new, young Earl of Salisbury.

Isolated and trapped in this castle as they are, the Bedford household knows only that Katniss of York inspires loyalty wherever she goes, crushes Lancastrian forces like they might an ant. Hope is a delicate thing and Madge can tell by the faces around her that most here have had theirs broken, shattered and destroyed. It is only a matter of time they think but don't say. Soon, the Yorkists will kills us all.

Madge won't surrender so easily.

She puts the finishing touches on her banner, ties off the last silver thread. She instructs some men to hang it above the castle gate and dares the Yorkists to try and take this keep.

Let them come, she thinks, we will not fall.

We are Bedfords and proud.

We are Lancastrians.

We are ready.

It is not the Yorkists who come, but Bristel the squire.

Madge has some grooms carry her mother outside, hopes the fresh air with do her well. They set up in the garden, the Duchess wrapped snugly in layers and layers of blankets and furs. They won't stay long, the winter cold, but being cooped all day cannot be helping her mother strengthen. Madge reads aloud to her mother from Chaucer while the other ladies take to their needlework, each one pretending everything is fine and fear does not haunt their every hour.

(but oh, it does)

They have only been out for a handful of minutes when loud shouts come from the direction of the gate, the clamor soon drowning out Madge's voice. She closes the book and rests it in her lap, nails digging into the soft leather cover. Is it news? Or the Yorkists come to burn us to the ground? The ladies stop their stitching, faces turning white and Madge knows they are thinking as she is, wondering if death has come to find them.

They do not have to wonder for long.

Bristel comes galloping into the garden, grooms and guards streaming after him. His horse leaps over a low hedge to crash into their midst, hooves trampling all over the Duchess' flowerbeds. The ladies shriek in terror and Madge jumps up and knocks her chair back, the book clutched tight against her chest. Her mother lifts her head to look at him as he tumbles off his horse, haste evident in every move of his muscles and he hurries into a bow.

"Are you mad?" bellows Sir Thomas as he and a contingent of guards come running towards them, his cheeks puffed up and red. Bristel ignores him and addresses her mother instead.

"My Lady, I come bearing urgent news from the Duke."

Madge almost swoons with relief. News from the Duke means her father is still alive.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sir Thomas thunders. "Have you lost your mind? You cannot-"

"It is fine, Sir Thomas," her mother interrupts gently. "Tell us your news."

Sir Thomas clamps his mouth shut and Bristel nods, his armor spattered with mud.

"The Yorkist army is moving this way, they shall reach the castle in a matter of days."

The ladies around her whimper, Sir Thomas blanches and Madge feels a fire kindle in her belly. Let them come.

"I rode as fast as I could, but Lady Katniss moves them at a punishing rate. The Duke bid me tell you that you must all leave, as quickly as you can."

"No," Madge finds herself saying without thinking, the word torn from her throat. Everyone turns to look at her, their eyes poking at her like daggers. "We will hold the castle against any Yorkist siege," she continues, a hysterical conviction mounting in her bones. Bedford Castle must stand, must be ready to welcome her father home when he wins, just as he has done every time before.

"We cannot, Lady Madge. His Grace the Duke of Beford wishes every man not needed to guard you on your way to join him at the front. Times are desperate and we cannot spare enough men to withstand a siege, and certainly not one from Lady Katniss' entire army. We must run."

Bristel's eyes are hard and Madge feels like the ground is sinking beneath her feet. She cannot leave, will not.

"Sir Thomas, ready the men to join the Duke," her mother orders and Madge is sure she might vomit. We cannot do this, cannot leave. The Yorkists cannot chase us from our home. Sir Thomas bows in assent and hurries off, the Duchess turning to Bristel.

"Fetch the Lord Steward, have him ready the household for departure. We will leave for Berkhampstead immediately."

Madge shakes her head, cannot allow this. Her father has many castles, more than anyone but the King, and Madge has been to most of them. But unlike most nobles, Madge and her family have always preferred a more settled life, have always called Bedford Castle their home. She cannot abandon it now. Bristel frowns.

"My apologies, my lady, but the Duke insisted you go to Westminster and join the King."

The temperature seems to plummet, horror settling over them like a cloak.

no

please no

"My husband is both the Duke of Bedford and of Clarence, he has more castles and palaces than anyone in England save the King. Any one of them will be suitable to wait out this war," her mother retorts, voice steely even as her skin turns a frightening grey.

"The Duke was adamant, your Grace. Westminster will be the most heavily guarded place in England, there will be nowhere safer. The men that will escort you there will not be enough to defend a castle, no matter which you choose. You are the King's niece and the Duke is one of the King's staunchest allies, the Yorkists will make a point of burning down your castle and seizing you and the Lady Madge," Bristel says and he is being so very bold for a squire. The Duchess shakes her head and Madge knows she will refuse, would never countenance them going back to that devil's den.

They have to stay here.

"Very well, inform the Steward."

Madge gapes at her mother, disbelief tingling in every part of her body.

"Mother, no! We cannot go back there! We cann-"

"Enough, Madge. Your lord father is correct, we will be safest there. He would not suggest it unless it was the only option."

Madge shakes her head, furious tears building in her eyes.

"This is not right! I will not go, I will wait here fo-"

"Madge, stop this. We have no choice. We are going to Westminster as your father wishes. Be brave," her mother says, voice softening, "we must have courage and see this through."

Be brave, her father had always told her as he left, be brave.

Oh father, I'm not sure I can

They pack up everything they cannot bear to part with, know full well that the Yorkists will plunder anything that remains. Madge ransacks her chambers, her favourite gowns, jewels, books and trinkets stuffed hurriedly into chests to be packed up in litters. She forces herself not to cry as she bundles it all together, will be strong and resolute.

This is not forever. When this all over, we will be back.

Madge orders them to leave her banner hanging, will not be ashamed of her colours. Even if the Yorkists win, Madge will not renounce her family.

We are Bedfords and proud. We are Lancastrians born and raised.

"Your Grace, the Lord Steward would like to know who is to remain here and who shall travel to Westminster with you," a harried clerk tells them as Madge helps her mother pack up her things.

"No one is to remain here," her mother says immediately and the clerk steps back in surprise.

"No one?"

"No. Abandon the castle. I will not leave men and women behind to be slaughtered or imprisoned by the Yorkists. Tell them to return to their families and give an address to the Steward so I may send them excellent recommendations when I reach London. Take this," she says gesturing to one of her chests full of gold, silver and jewels, "and have the Steward divide it amongst them so they may pay their way until they have found new employment. Tell them also that they are welcome to anything we do not take with us. It is not enough, but it is all I can offer in repayment for their years of loyal service."

The clerk gapes and Madge feels a pang in her heart. Abandon the castle. Who knew three words could ache so much?

"As to those who will accompany us...only those who wish to. I will not yoke anyone to a ship that may soon sink. Everyone has my blessing to leave and seek their own safety, I will not hold them to us."

The clerk is speechless and Madge clutches tight to the rosary beads she'd wrapped around her wrist before leaving her room, praying that God can hear her.

Deliver us from harm

Keep us safe

Please

Madge carries a coffer of her mother's things out into the courtyard and stops in surprise at what she finds.

A full complement of guards stands at attention, Sir Thomas at their head; Bristel and several grooms ready the carriages and horses under the direction of their Constable, Sir Richard Keene; maids pack up the last of the things, guided by the Steward, Sir George Costmary and all her mother's ladies are waiting and dressed for travel.

So many have stayed when they could have fled, have chosen to stand with them, even faced with the coming storm. Madge feels like they have reached into her chest and touched her heart, tears building in her eyes. Sir George notices her and comes over.

"I made the Duchess' offer, but none would take it. Those you do not see here, I had to force to leave. We cannot afford to take everyone if we are to make any haste."

"Thank you," Madge chokes out and Sir George's face turns fierce.

"You needn't thank us, my lady. Each one of us is proud to wear the Bedford Badge."

Madge looks at those silver bells embroidered on their clothes and cannot hold back her tears. They drip down onto the coffer in her arms and see Father? They all love you, you must come home. No matter what the Yorkists do, we are with you.

Always.

Madge, her mother and all of her ladies squeeze into the carriage, sacks and chests piled beneath their feet and under their skirts. It is a tight fit but they have no room to spare, every litter they own filled to the brim. Those maids, cooks, clerks, grooms and other household staff they cannot bring with them cluster in the courtyard to see them off, even Madge's elderly tutor, his stern face melted into tears. Sir George has chosen who will come with them and who cannot, ordering those remaining behind to flee immediately. There is no telling when the Yorkists will arrive. They stand beneath Madge's great banner, waving scraps of fabric bearing the Bedford Bell and Madge fears her heart might burst.

"If there were but room, we would ride anywhere with you!" calls a groom, only a year or two older than Madge.

"God keep you, Lady Margaret!" shouts a ruddy faced cook.

"We shall pray for you, Lady Madge!" promises a teary maid.

"You will be in our hearts!" "May the Lord bless the House of Bedford!" "Keep safe and ride swiftly!" "It has been an honour!"

Madge covers her mouth to stifle her sobs and does not take her eyes off of them as their carriage pulls away, will imprint this scene onto her heart. There are no words she could say that will express her gratitude for such devotion and loyalty, no actions she could take that would ever be enough. Her mother has left them that chest of jewels and coins and given them leave to take anything that remains, but even all those gold plates and silver goblets, those gem encrusted gowns, the carefully carved furniture and store rooms full of food, drink, fabric and wood are not enough, could never repay the kindness they have shown.

"God keep and bless you all!" she shouts out the window and she will pray for just that each and every night. The silver thread of her banner catches in the sunlight and Madge vows that the house of Bedford will survive, for her parents' sake and for all those who have shown them such limitless loyalty.

This is not the end.

The ride to London is torturous, a fear of ambush staying all their tongues.

Will the Yorkists catch them?

Will they make it to London unharmed?

Will it even matter if they do?

Madge keeps her eyes fixed on the window and when she sees London looming before them, she cannot say she is relieved.

Which is the greater of two evils, she wonders.

Rebels who would burn me for my blood?

Or my King?

They stop before the city's gates, Sir Thomas riding out ahead of them.

"Who goes there?" a guard calls from the gatehouse, his shout tinged with fear.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Bedford and Clarence, niece to his Majesty, King Coriolanus of England! We request entrance!" Sir Thomas answers and there is a pause, one Madge cannot understand. Why do they not open the gates?

"Prove it!" one of the guards yells down at them. Madge can see Sir Thomas bristle.

"How dare you refuse to open your gates to the King's blood kin! Our lord the Duke of Bedford fights for his King and you would deny his wife and daughter safe passage?"

Madge is distracted from the guard's reply by her mother moving beside her. The dismal weather and long ride have only worsened her condition and she looks too weak even to stand.

"I must go out," her mother says feebly and Madge shakes her head.

"Mother, you can't!"

"They want proof, I shall give it to them."

Madge wants to argue but it is clear her mother will not listen. She struggles out of the carriage, her ladies helping to support her and Madge prays she will not collapse right there in the street.

"My lady!" Sir George squawks when he notices her mother leaning against the side of the carriage, her breathing laboured. He scrambles down from his horse and takes hold of her arm to keep her steady. She leans into him and looks up at the guard wall, her face dangerously pale, all the veins visible beneath her skin.

"I am Lady Margaret, daughter of Prince Henry, Duke of Clarence, granddaughter of King Henry IV of England, wife of Lord Joseph, Duke of Bedford and niece to your King, Coriolanus of England. I demand you open these gates and allow us to pass so I may see my uncle."

There is strength in her mother's voice, an authority and iron Madge would never have guessed her frail mother capable of.

It takes only moments for the guards to order the gates opened. Sir George helps her mother back inside and she collapses in her seat, chest rattling as she tries to breathe. Madge takes her hand and squeezes it tight.

"We shall be there soon, Mother. We shall be safe."

(Madge wishes she could believe that)

There is a servant of the King's waiting for them when they reach Westminster, the badge on his uniform curdling Madge's stomach. He bows as she dismounts the carriage.

"The King bids you welcome, my Lady, and wishes you and the Duchess to follow me to his Majesty's audience chamber."

Madge expected such a request, but even still, it leaves her cold all over.

"My mother is too ill to see anyone, she must be conveyed straight to bed. I will see his Majesty," she offers, gathering courage around herself like armor. The man looks unconvinced and Madge hardens her voice.

"The King will not take kindly to the Duchess being so poorly treated. She needs rest, please show her to her rooms."

The threat of the King's displeasure is enough to make up his mind.

"Of course, my lady, right away. But will you not need someone to show you to the King's audience chamber?"

Madge shakes her head and turns to look down the hall, feeling like she's about to walk to her own execution.

"I know the way."

Madge waits outside the doors as she is announced and tries to fortify her heart. Better me than mother. She cannot take this torment, sick as she is. The doors swing open and Madge squares her shoulder, marching in with all her dignity. I am a Bedford. I have royal blood in my veins. I am not afraid.

The King sits in his throne but he looks older by decades since last Madge has seen him. He is dressed in dark maroon, lines carved deep in his skin. The Queen beside him is not the bejeweled woman of ice Madge remembers, but hunched and suspicious in her throne, with hostile eyes and a dress of somber blue. Prince Cato has a savage look on his face, his hand clamped firmly on the hilt of his dagger. He must be at least sixteen now and Madge can see the itch to be out fighting painted clearly across his face.

(is it wrong that she wishes he were out there, rather than here?)

Pale, dying sunlight flitters through the windows and the luster of Westminster has clearly faded. She curtsies low and waits for the King to order her to rise.

"Lady Madge," he begins, rolling her name around on his tongue, "wherever is your mother?"

"The Duchess has regretfully fallen ill, your Majesty. She has been brought to bed."

Madge waits, eyes staring at the dusty floor and wonders if he will ever allow her to stand.

"Why have you come?" he demands, a cruel edge to his voice. Madge swallows, throat dry.

"We had received word from my lord father that the Yorkists were coming. We hoped-"

"You hoped to hide here," he interrupts, cutting across her like a knife. "Five years you have not deigned to visit and now you wish to hide behind our walls," he accuses and Madge clenches her hands in the fabric of her dress.

"My most sincere apologies if we have offended you, your Majesty, but we have not come to court because of the danger of the roads and the instability plaguing the kingdom."

A scoff comes from Prince Cato and Madge continues, feels the weight of her and her mother's lives pressing down on her shoulders.

"My lady mother and I have prayed for your victory every day and night while my lord father fights even now to defend your crown. I have hung a banner on our castle walls to show the world that the Bedfords stand side by side with their king. We are your Majesty's most loyal and humble servants."

She closes her eyes and waits for his judgement, their fates resting in his hands.

"Many have renounced their allegiance to us," he murmurs and Madge breathes in deeply.

"We have never your forsaken you, your Majesty," she replies, "you are our King and our blood, placed upon the throne by God himself."

"Indeed. You may rise."

She does, the entire royal family scrutinizing her closely.

"One of the Queen's ladies was not so loyal," the King tells her almost casually, a glint in his dark eyes. "She has since lost her head."

He smirks and Madge bites down hard on her tongue, forces her expression to remain neutral.

"As such, there is a vacancy in the Queen's household. Seeing as you are a noble daughter of loyal stock and possessing of royal blood, we think you would make a good replacement."

He narrows his eyes, watching closely for her reaction. She curtsies again, bowing her head.

"I would be most honoured, your Majesty."

"Good, you shall begin tomorrow. Tonight, see to your mother. We will send the royal physician to tend to her."

"Thank you, your Majesty. You are too kind."

He smirks again, tongue darting out to lick the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.

"We do hope she will be well enough to break her fast with us tomorrow," he says and even though the words are innocent enough, Madge recognizes the command behind them.

"I am sure she will be."

"Good. You may go now, the physician will soon join you."

Madge holds in her sigh of relief at being dismissed and curtsies again. She leaves the room as quickly as she can without running and clutches her rosary to her heart.

Let this war be over soon

Let us leave this place

Let this not be our tomb

Her mother does not recover but soldiers on valiantly anyway, attending on the King whenever he wishes.

"It has been too long, Margaret," he croons and leads her to the seat beside him, seems not to care that the life in her eyes is flickering and fading with every passing day.

"Indeed it has been," her mother always agrees, voice the faintest breath of sound.

She is wasting away here, but she is not the only one, the entire court wilted and lifeless. These once splendid halls are drab and dingy, no longer echoing with music and laughter. The dark cloud that has lingered for so long over England has finally reached the palace that conjured it, the King suffering as his people have done for decades.

Madge waits on the Queen and it is clear that the royal family are terrified, can feel Lady Katniss' net tightening around them. Their eyes dart about at every sound, every scrap of news devoured. They jump at shadows, punish any who even look at them crosswise and they are irritable and snappish, suspicious of everyone and everything. They cannot survive like this for much longer, no one can.

(they won't have to)

As February begins to die, Madge spends her nights on her knees in prayer, hands clasped and head bowed.

I beg you Lord, please keep my father safe.

Please, bring him home to us

(but does the Lord answer prayers that come from a house of evil?)

(Madge is afraid to find out)

March rises over London in a blanket of fog and with it comes Madge's fifthteenth birthday, but she does not tell anyone and is glad of the lack of celebration.

She does not think she and the King share the same taste in entertainment.

(her mother presses a gift into her palm and when Madge opens it, she almost sobs.

It is a set of miniatures, one of each of her parents, held together with hinges.

"To remember us by," her mother whispers and Madge almost chokes on her tone of defeat)

(Madge does not want to remember them)

(remembering them means all she has left are memories)

A handful of days later, Madge is helping the Queen dress when a knock sounds at the door.

"Answer it!" Queen Enobaria orders, voice cracking like a whip and Madge curtsies, an angry spring coiled in her chest. She hurries over to the door and opens it to find a frightened looking page waiting on the other side. His face softens in relief when he sees it is her and not the Queen.

"I bring summons from the his Majesty the King. He wishes the Queen to join him in the hall immediately."

Madge nods, thanks him and watches him sprint away while she has to turn back to her mistress, the Queen's expression poisoned and sour.

"What did he want?" she demands and Madge reigns in her frustration. Everyday is a constant stream of belligerent bullying and she is beginning to think she might be better off losing her head as the Queen's previous lady did.

"The King requests your presence, your Grace."

"Then hurry up and get back to work, we mustn't keep him waiting," she snaps as if Madge had been slacking off. Madge bites her tongue and does as she is bidden, lacing the Queen into her gown as quickly as she can. The other ladies fuss about with her hair and hennin and Madge wonders what news of the King's could be so urgent.

Victory perhaps?

Or is it defeat?

The King does not waste time with plesantries.

"We are riding out," he announces and people around her gasp in shock. Madge furrows her brow.

"My ministers think it will do the men good to see their King, so we will go and meet them on the battlefield. With God's grace, this will put a swift end to this cursed war and see our kingdom righted once again," he continues and Madge feels like a ray of sunshine is beaming down directly on her head. The King will be gone, they will be free of him, at least for a time. She sends a silent thanks to God for His mercy.

"Let me come with you, Father," Prince Cato begs, bloodlust thick in his voice.

"That will do more harm than good," the King says, brushing him off. "It would be foolish to risk both King and heir on one battlefield."

Cato stiffens, eyes burning.

"I am old enough to fight! I should not be left cooped up here with the women!" he growls and the King turns sharply to look at him, eyes colder than ice.

"You will do as we tell you or you shall suffer as all others that disobey us. Is that clear?"

Prince Cato stares in shock a moment before wilting and Madge frowns.

What kind of man threatens his own son?

(a wicked, wicked, wicked one)

"Yes, Father."

"Good. We must now be off. We shall expect you all to pray for us and keep Westminster ready for our return."

Madge curtsies as he passes and cannot wait to tell her mother of this blessing.

She finds her mother lying in bed, her food barely touched. Madge sits by her side and takes her hand.

"The King is going off to battle, to inspire his men."

"So we have lost then," her mother breathes and Madge cocks her head in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"In all the years, with all the battles, when has the King ever gone out to see his men?"

Madge opens her mouth to reply and realizes the answer is never.

"If he is leaving now, it is because he is running away."

"He wouldn't abandon his son, or the Queen, would he?" Madge asks, cannot believe she actually wishes he were still here. Her mother looks at her with pitying eyes.

"Wouldn't he?"

Yes, she admits, yes he would.

The King's departure has left a ragged wound in Westminster, his unflinching arrogance no longer present to stem the flow of desolation flooding London. It is obvious now, without his overpowering menace, to see just how dire their situation is.

The House of Lancaster is losing.

Katniss of York, her followers emblazoned with her badge of a white rose, so vividly contrasting with the King's bloody red, marches through England like a storm, churning Lancastrian armies into corpses and convincing others to turn their coats. Her ranks swell everyday and there is nothing the King's flagging support can do to stop her. Sooner or later they will all be caught up in her current, swept away by the House of York and it's vengeful lady.

The only question is when.

Madge relishes the moments she can be alone, away from the Queen and her brittle temper and caustic words. She sneaks away to wander Westminster's long halls and could almost believe there was no war, if only her heart didn't ache so for her father. The palace is so quiet now, entirely unlike the one she remembers from childhood and there's peace in that, however fragile. The only sound is the echo of her boots and Madge wishes she knew what happened beyond these walls, but news has been sluggish since the King left, trickling slowly like water from a tiny crack in the wall.

They heard, over a week after the fact, of the Earl of Warwick and William Herbert smashing the King's reinforcements from Wales, leaving them unable to meet up with the main body of the King's army, gearing up for one great, last battle. This will be the one that determines the outcome of the war, the victor claiming the throne of England.

(Madge tries not to think about what will be left to the loser)

Agonizingly slow reports come in that young Gale of Salisbury inspires many to flock to the Yorkist banner, his words stirring loyalty into their hearts. Madge stops by a window with slightly warped glass and tries to guess at what he might be saying, what spurs them on to treason. The grass outside is sodden with late season snow and Madge hopes her father keeps warm, hopes he crushes Gale of Salisbury to dust, hopes he routs Haymitch of Warwick and leaves Katniss of York destitute and friendless.

Madge may not bear the King any love, but the curse of her blood means she is a Lancaster, her life depending on a Yorkist defeat. More importantly, she knows what tragedies will await her parents if the Yorkists prove triumphant and Madge cannot bear to see them suffer. They have only done what they had no choice to, for had not every great noble man sworn an oath to serve his King? Was he not anointed by the Lord himself?

(in a different world, Madge may have chosen to be a Yorkist, would have seen the injustices committed by King Coriolanus and wanted him condemned to Hell for it)

(but this is not a different world and Madge has no luxury to choose)

(and even if she did, she would always choose her family, over anything, over everything)

Her musings are interrupted by a throaty giggle, followed soon after by enthusiastic grunts. Madge frowns in confusion but it soon vanishes when heavy panting drifts towards her from down the hall. Her face stains red and she may still be a virginal maid, but she is no idiot. Servants talk and Madge has heard enough to guess what is happening nearby, a low, ecstatic moan making it all the clearer.

(as horrified as she is, this is almost a blessing, her mind entirely distracted from the terror that awaits her loved ones)

(all she can think about now is how utterly, utterly mortified she is)

Madge, perhaps childishly, covers her ears and means to rush past the not-entirely-closed door a few feet down the hall, but just as she is passing the doorway, her eyes catch on silver thread shining in watery sunlight. She pauses and the scene comes into focus before her, worse than she would have guessed.

She is facing Prince Cato's black and silver clad back, his fair head almost glowing in March sunbeams, as he grunts and thrusts up under the skirts of one of the Queen's ladies, one Madge never has the interest to remember the name of. Her legs are tied around his waist and her head thrown back, her long black hair flowing freely.

Madge takes a step back and then a few more, determined to be as quiet as possible. She cannot imagine the prince would be pleased at her witnessing this event and would rather not take any chances. She whirls then and hitches up her skirts, flying down the hall at an unladylike pace, and plans to purge this moment from her memories. Even still, she cannot stop her mind from wandering just a bit, curiosity slinking up her spine. How long have they been doing this? she wonders, and are there others, or is Prince Cato dallying with only her (the lady Madge cannot for the life of her put a name to)? Is this lust? Or is Prince Cato actually capable of something as human as love?

In any other circumstance, Madge might ask, but Prince Cato would probably slit her throat if she tried. And if that lady is his sweetheart, she'd probably be just as likely to as well.

Madge shudders.

Less than a week later, her mother's grave pronouncement is proven true.

Madge sits beside the Queen, embroidering a gift for her father and surreptitiously attempting to puzzle out Prince Cato's lover, Lady Clove (Madge has finally remembered her name), when a messenger arrives, his expression grim. Madge inhales sharply and sets down her needlework, heart nearly racing out of her chest.

Please be alright Father, please please be alright

"What is it?" the Queen asks, the tremor in her voice making it clear she has already guessed.

"I have just come from Towton," the messenger begins and there are nightmares playing over in his eyes. Madge squeezes her hands together and wishes her mother was beside her, rather than laid up in bed.

"It was the bloodiest battle I have ever seen. I would wager there were more dead there than in any other battle on English soil," he continues, voice haunted.

"Enough of that, what news?" the Queen huffs impatiently but Madge is not sure she wants to know, would rather have a few more minutes of blissful ignorance. The messenger swallows.

"The King's forces were utterly destroyed. Lady Katniss of York and her cousins, Haymitch of Warwick and Gale of Salisbury, slaughtered them all...it was a massacre. Only a handful escaped, including his Majesty, who has fled to Scotland. They are marching here now, to take London and declare a new sovereign."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Father, you must be alright, you must have escaped.

You must.

"We will bar the gates and push back the Yorkist scum!" Prince Cato declares, voice hot and angry. The messenger shakes his head.

"The mayor has already said he will not," he informs them and the women around the Queen start weeping, their embroidery tumbling to the floor. Madge feels like the world around her has gone dark, every candle snuffed out. We are doomed.

"They would abandon their King?" Cato spits, knuckles white on his dagger and Madge wants to laugh and sob all at the same time. He has already abandoned them! she wants to scream but instead she picks up her needle and thread with numb fingers.

"We must get to sanctuary," she whispers and Cato whirls on her, face burnt red with his fury.

"I will not hide like some coward!" he bellows in her face, spittle showering her cheeks but Madge does not flinch, feels almost like she has been hollowed out, all her emotions scraped clean.

"Then you will die, struck down by the Yorkists."

"You filthy whore, shut up!" he screeches and his knuckles are violent as they collide with her face, knocking her to the floor. Her knees shriek as they collide with the stone and the ladies near her scream in shock. The skin is scraped from her hands and Madge feels dazed, her cheekbone aching. Cato grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her head back, his nostrils flaring and tears spring to her eyes with the pain, a gasp spilling from her lips.

"How dare you speak to me like that, how dare you! I will be your King!"

"Enough," the Queen states, voice slicing through his fog of rage.

"You heard what she said?" Cato demands and Madge feels lightheaded, the world blinking white and bright.

"It is of no consequence, we must prepare. Come now," she orders and Cato throws Madge to the floor, her chin slamming down painfully. She bites her tongue and tastes her own hot blood, the world swimming in her eyes. The Queen and Cato rush off, followed by all their attendants and Madge is left alone in a sticky, red puddle, pain sparking across her body.

So this is how it ends, then.

The House of Lancaster has fallen.

Now rises the House of York.

Madge eventually finds the strength to heave herself up and back to her chambers, every part of her throbbing.

What now? she thinks, spitting blood into a bowl.

What now?

She awakes the next morning to find the Queen and Prince Cato have disappeared in the night, have abandoned them to the mercies of the approaching Yorkists.

Madge wanders the deserted halls of Westminster with a chill in her heart, her footsteps echoing in ancient halls as she hugs herself. Her King, her Queen, her Prince, they've all forsaken her and she knows she has no choice but to stay and await her conquerors, cannot run or hide. Lady Bedford cannot be moved and Madge cannot leave her, will not, so she does the only thing she can.

She clutches her rosary and kneels in the chapel, stays on cold, hard floors all day and night. No one is coming to rescue her, no ally or white knight, so Madge prays, for her father, for her mother, for Lady Katniss' mercy. It may not be enough, but Madge has no sword, no shield, no quiver full of arrows.

At fifteen, Madge of Bedford learns she has only herself.

[jayne-hecate-writer]

More Opera, not enough Death!

Thursday 25th October, 2018. La Traviata by Verdi.

Friday 26th October, 2018. La Cenerentola, Cinderella by Rossini.

Bristol Hippodrome

La Traviata

This is now my third or fourth opera, but who is counting? Because by now I am a seasoned opera goer! I know enough to make sure that I don't drink too much water before going in, thus avoiding the kidney punching dance for a wee during the first act! I know enough to make sure that I am dressed comfortably in thin layers of clothing that I can strip off as the auditorium heats up during the performance. I also know enough to make sure that I read the synopsis before hand, so that when the story unfolds on stage, I can sink into it, allowing the beauty to flow over me without effort and tonight's opera was yet another exercise in beauty of sound layered upon beauty of visuals.

The stage was minimally decorated with drapes and almost translucent windows and just enough furniture to give the hard working cast somewhere to sit or lean against as they performed. Prior to the first curtain raise, three gentlemen in brown jackets could be seen checking the stage, but the way they moved implied that they were more dancers than mere safety officers. When the curtain rose from the floor, it was a luxuriant black drape that seemed to rise up from within the depths of the earth itself and when the stage was revealed once again, it had changed in an instant! With every subsequent stage change, it was revealed to be yet another simple if exquisite set. It is hard not to admire the effort that goes into such elegant stage design.

When the cast are introduced, it is en-mass and the singing was explosive and instantly recognisable. The costumes were heart-rendingly beautiful and straight away were introduced to our main cast, as they sang, while they drank and made merry. The atmosphere was so welcoming on stage that it felt like we the audience were also a part of the party. But as the crowd wandered out of the main party room and into the next, carefully arranged just out of view at the back of the stage, we are able to see them chatting, kissing and playfully flirting through the windows. It was here that the main story arc is laid out, the love between Alfredo and Violetta, sang by Kang Wang and Lynda Richardson respectively. Their voices were a mixture of gentle melodies with sudden energetic supernovae of power and I sat on the front edge of my seat in rapture, this was a moment that will stay with me, as Alfredo declared his love for Violetta, a love that had lasted for a year or more. At first she is dismissive of his affections, she shuns him demurely becoming more forceful, but as he leaves, she ponders the feelings that she has, asking herself has she finally met the man who can win her heart, despite her illness? Oh yeah, she is ill, but more of that later.

Act two see the two lovers waking and once again, the movements on stage are barely visible, but each step taken is urgent and leads quickly to Alfredo discovering that his beloved is almost bankrupt. His shame at having living off of her rises in him and he departs for Paris to reclaim her money so that she can stop selling her worldly possessions. While he is gone, Alfredo's father performed by Roland Wood enters and tasks Violetta with leaving his son so that he can return to his family who miss him terribly. Reluctantly she does as she is asked despite the emotional pain that it causes her. But there is the dark cloud of her illness hanging over her and so she lets him go so that he can lead a long and happy life.

Alfredo is devastated when he discovers that Violetta has left him and when he turns up at a party thrown by their mutual friend and sees that Violetta is on the arm of Baron Douphol he gets drunk, wins several rounds of cards and then in disgust throws his winnings at Violetta, claiming that she has betrayed him. Alfredo's father witnesses his son's outburst and chides him for his poor manners and shocking conduct, which leads the Baron challenging Alfredo to a duel. The party is then crashed by several Gypsy dancers who offer fortune telling and lascivious fun to the revellers. One of the leading Gypsy dancers is revealed to be a drag queen, and despite the gentle clues from the dancer that this is the case, it still comes as a surprise. Quite frankly, the Gypsy dancers was one of my most favourite parts of the show, the dancing is frenetic, the costumes are utterly beautiful and quite frankly I would sell a kidney just to buy the cerise dress worn by one of them!

The final act sees Violetta living in poverty with her only companion being her long standing friend and servant Annina, performed exquisitely by Sian Meinir. It is very clear that Violetta is dying of Tuberculosis, her blood splattered night dress, her hacking and coughing into her chamber pot after which she is left wiping the blood from her mouth. I can honestly say that it was then that I was sat with tears in my eyes. At this point in her performance, Lynda Richardson was came across as fragile, incredibly vulnerable and utterly believable as she coughed up her last remaining breaths, despite the sheer power and devastating beauty of her voice. However, I found that my tears suddenly turned to evil black humour and I was appalled with myself for laughing albeit silently. While a heart broken Violetta dies on stage from the awful disease Tuberculosis, it became apparent that quite a few people in the audience around me had come along while suffering with coughs and colds. In a strange dark way, this added an extra if rather distracting layer to the show. However, I seemed alone in noticing this and was soon engaged back into the story and was once again on the verge of tears as Alfredo bursts in the decrepit room and discovers his lost love on her deathbed, where upon she dies in his arms.

This show is a tragedy, it starts with such promise of fun and it slowly and gently winds down into heart break, I would quite honestly be surprised if during this performance I was the only person in that auditorium who was so emotionally involved in the story that I shed actual tears. The Welsh National Opera are an experience that every music lover should have at least once, the power of their shows cannot be underestimated, from the more fun shows such as Die Fledermaus to the tragedies of La Traviata and I have sat rapt through every show. Now bare in mind that I am more well known for my love of extreme metal, in particularly the genre of Black Metal, with bands such as Marduk, Voices and Enslaved being my most recent concerts. In a strange kind of way, opera gives me a similar feeling, the music bites into my soul and takes hold. There is no mosh pit here and opera goers do not violently slam dance into each other, but the sensation of a live orchestra is the same, the power of it is the same and the experience is the same as seeing a Black Metal band at the height of their rage and power, utterly devastating beauty.

Cinderella

In complete contrast to La Traviata's darkness, the second show I was able to see, Rossini's La Cenerentola, more commonly known as Cinderella, is a sugar coated technicolour fairy tale. Where La Traviata is darkness and death and misery, Cinderella is laughter, joy and forgiveness. It is only when one sees the production that we realise that actually, Cinderella is an abused, neglected and despised first child of a remarried and then deceased Mother. Her step sisters and her step father have her pretty much imprisoned in the house, where she is used as a source of cheap labour, bordering on slavery, as such her life is really an unending cruelty of beatings and berating. We all know the story and we all know that it has a happy ending, although to my mind, a happier ending would have seen Cinderella laying waste to her family with the ferocity and vengeance of an executioner! However, this is a fairy tale and as such we have to be nice, so she forgives her family and tells them that her revenge against them for all of their cruelties is for her to love them and be happy. Am I alone in thinking that this is some form of PTSD or survivor guilt?

Now before we get ahead of ourselves, let's get the introductions over with. Angelina (Cinderella's real name), is preparing the house for the waking of her stepsisters and step father, she lights the fire and sweeps the floors and snuggles with the rats, while singing softly to herself a folk song about a King who marries a faithful and lovely girl, dragging her from her poverty. The sisters when the emerge from their beds in their underwear react badly to this and start hurling their shoes at her, until the rumpus wakes their father from his dreams. Annoyed and unshaven, Don Magnifico explains that the girls have woken him his happy dreams of wealth and power.

Following this, a beggar comes to the house seeking sustenance and Angelina gives him food and coffee, much to the disgust of her family. Seeing her in such poverty, the beggar reveals himself to be the tutor to the ruling Prince Ramiro who will shortly be looking for a wife. Angelina's kindness makes her the perfect choice! Now I am going to pause here for a moment because the treacle is being firmly sloshed about and yes, I know that this is a fairy story and there is not much time to tell it all and still make it coherent, but one has to ask, where is the young woman's autonomy? Why the subterfuge from the Royal household? Also, why is the misogynistic prick of a prince allowed to choose the prettiest girl from the local aristocracy? After all, we all know that the lifestyles of these people leads to bankruptcy and then a painful and miserable death from TB! Ahhh, I must put La Traviata out of my mind, this is a happy story with a happy ending. But a girl can dream...

When the prince arrives, he is disguised and is seen creeping, pervert like, around the house of Don Magnifico so that he can spy on the Don's daughters. He instantly falls in love with Angelina and she too falls for him, believing him to be a simple page to the Prince. It is all so bloody nice... With the arrival of the fake prince, the Prince's actual servant Dandini dressed up in finery and acting with the pomp and arrogance of the prince, we see the stepsisters and their father begin to worm their way towards power and wealth. Angelina is not nearly so coarse and it is her innocence which attracts the prince to her, because he clearly has his own despicable agenda! Oops, must not forget, this is a happy story, evil does not dwell in its telling!

So the girls are invited to the Prince's ball at which he will choose a wife or risk losing his inheritance. Don Magnifico informs Angelina that she is not going anywhere near it and it is revealed that whoever her Mother was, she left Angelina a significant fortune, which her step father has spent. So we can add financial abuse to the list of crimes that her family has committed against her! The Princes tutor tells Angelina that she will attend the ball and that her life will change from one of misery and hard labour to one of love and joy. Well as much joy as being the wife of a Prince in seventeenth century Italy can bring, with no proper medicine, unhealthy food and a complete lack of internet!

On the night of the ball, Angelina's family are doing their very best to win favour with who they think is the Prince, while showing themselves to be the vain and unkind monsters that they are. The Prince's valet can see right through their act and merely gives them enough rope to hang themselves with. Although Don Magnifico is seemingly able to almost drink the wine cellar dry without collapsing, meaning that we can add alcoholism to his character failings. Angelina arrives at the ball in a veil and almost no one recognises her. The real prince is awestruck and his valet attempts to seduce her, but she states that her heart is sworn to another, the prince's servant, who we all know is really the prince in disguise. When the subterfuge is revealed, she warns him that he has no idea who she is and that he may not want her when he finds out that she is effectively a servant and she gives him a bracelet, one of a matched pair so that he can track her down.

Sure enough he finds her, all is revealed and the stepsisters and their father are revealed to be insincere and vile. The Prince marries Angelina and she is taken away from her life of misery and married, to live happily ever after, after magnanimously forgiving her family for their abuse.

Where La Traviata was black metal, this is sickly sweet pop music. There is very little depth to the story, it is a crowd pleaser, a happy little fairy tale and sadly for me, I just did not engage with it to the same depth. I cannot in all honesty say that this was due to bad performances because each performer was wonderful. The stepsisters sang beautifully, their father although a cad was perfectly portrayed, the prince's servant was a delight and although to my mind the prince was a drip, he was played beautifully. Angelina was performed wonderfully by Tara Erraught, her voice a perfect mix of power and beauty and I am sure that in other productions I would have sat in rapture just to hear her sing. The costumes were fabulously fun, reminding me in style of those wonderful old films such as The Wizard of Oz or even Labyrinth.

But despite all of this, I just really struggled to engage with the show. I cannot in good conscience tell you that this was it was badly performed because it absolutely wasn't, but for me it was too light, too happy, too... er, fairy tale! The reason I listen to Black Metal is because I love the power of something so brutal, so visceral, so dark. In contrast, this show is a chocolate box filled to the brim with soft centred, two dimensional characters, some of whom are shown to be villains but without any actual evil to their substance. Yet it seems I need that evil, I crave the darkness and brutality in the substance. When I see a child being beaten and disowned by her family, I want to see the perpetrators leaving the stage in irons, on their way to the gallows, weeping their last tears in shame and fear. I want the desolation and the horror. This I think says more about me than it does the show because I am clearly a very bad person and I know this to be true because even at La Traviata, I found myself laughing during the terribly sad death scene of Violetta!

Both of these operas are wonderfully performed by a cast that truly give it their absolute best, the live music played a professional orchestra is worth the ticket price alone and to be honest I am just being a spoilt brat by saying that I preferred one show over another because they are both wonderful. Thursday evenings performance was thoroughly enjoyable to hear and completely mesmerising to view. The surtitles on the screen above the stage for both shows were intermittent, but whether this is through design or accidental failure, I couldn't say. The story of each was easy enough to follow anyway even without the words above. It has never struck me as a problem that even though I do not speak Italian, the operas are performed in this language. Also La Traviata may be a little dark for the first time opera goer who wants the brighter and more vibrant if ultimately slightly more shallow experience of Cinderella. For me, this was as Goth and dark as any Black Metal gig, it had the heart break, it had the despair, the only real difference is that in this opera, religion is seen as a good thing and God is praised by the characters, rather than derided. With an open mind and a desire to feel the music, not just listen to it, operas such as these are both soul enhancing and in some instances heart breaking and I cannot recommend a visit to the Welsh National Opera enough. Do check them out through November in the Bristol hippodrome, because just like me, you will not regret it.

[clarafell]

❝  Manuke won't— She won't try to hurt you...  ❞         A brief flash of guilt blends with her uneasiness as she observes his body language. She had a habit of watching people from a distance, even before she made a contract with Kyubey. Being friendless left her to watch people when she was not burying her face in a book. She watched families and friends come and go to visit their loved ones in the hospitals.

Only the older nurses would occasionally reach out to talk to her, but their conversations always felt so... stiff. She stopped reaching out to the nurses once she realized that they had more important things to do in a busy hospitals. They repeated their reassurances to her, almost as if they were reading off a script. Playing the role of a friend is a waste of time for the both of parties, were they not? But it was alright. The dolls used to keep her company when she was much younger.

Reading books only helped her imagination soar to create rich adventures with her dolls. Then, one day, she had abruptly abandoned the dolls after she noticed the stares she received whenever she begun to talk to her dolls a little too much. Books swiftly replaced the dolls. No one judged her when she had stacks of books to keep her company. She got lost in the fictional worlds for hours until she is shaken back to her reality. Watching people from a safe distance is the only thing she could do when she did not have a book in her hands.

She learned to have a little bit of fun watching people live their complex lives after the pang of envy and jealousy loosened their grip on her fragile heart. She got to see the sincere side of people when she watched them all by themselves. Then came forth Kyubey and the world of witches. Her little hobby of observing wilted into something she had to hone before death claimed her soul. Her wish, the phrasing of her wish, determined that she should be given a shield. Everyone that she knew had their weapons, including the ability to summon or manipulate their said weapons.

But all she got is a shield.

The shield is small, almost as if she became the target of an inside joke. She had no weapon to call hers. What good did curing her heart condition with her newfound magic do when she could not have a weapon to fight? What use was she on the battlefield? She made a contract, but Madoka and Mami still had to look over their shoulders to make sure that she is protected during their fights. The memory of her weaker self always makes her feel disgusted.

She knew her shield had an impressive power over time, but she still had no weapon. Mami came up with smart ideas that involved lots of teamwork. Madoka encouraged her with the brightest of smiles. Their teamwork did work for a little bit, but Homura saw that the other girls were still pulling most of the weight. All she did is freeze and unfreeze time during the fights. Madoka and Mami used their advantage over time to the fullest, but Homura still felt utterly useless.

What would happen if she had to go against a witch by herself? They improvised with a golf club, but that did not go so well. Homura decided to learn how to make bombs. A dangerous move to do, but she did not care. All she wanted to do is give herself a weapon to finally be on the same playing field as her teammates. Making homemade bombs consumed resources, much to her dismay.

She enters a labyrinth with a dozen of bombs, but then she exits with no leftover bombs. She had to learn how to steal other weapons. But gaining more stolen weapons is nothing if she did not learn how to fight in a smarter way. She has spent so much time observing the pattern of witches. Each witch had their different natures, she noticed. It must have harkened back to their forgotten days as former human beings.

They were no longer human, yes, but they still had colorful personalities. There is strange, macabre beauty in their differences when one is forced to observe their patterns. Catching Hanekoma's subtle change would have been harder for her to do if she wasn't already so focused on watching his every move right now. She didn't fully understand what she was seeing, but she assumed that he did not like how her doll got closer to him. She isn't upset if he didn't like her doll. All she feels is guilt that she made him even remotely uneasy.

Having just a conversation didn't sound so bad, but she still frowns nonetheless. There's countless of things she thought could happen during a conversation. What did he want to tell her? She did not know how to proceed. Conversations with the girls came easy when she knew their behavior so well. But she did not know what to say in front of Hanekoma.

❝  You... You what?  ❞         Hanekoma is not the only person to be surprised. His question threw her off guard completely. She stares at him, unable to hide her surprise. She has never heard him ask those words before.

What did she even say to such a question? She noticed that he wasn't looking at her. The lack of eye contact only made the frown on he lips tug even deeper. He felt more distant. Was this distance because of what she has done? She's a bit hurt to see that he wasn't looking at her, but at least she didn't have to worry about the pressure of eye contact.

❝  Of... Of course...  ❞         She answers back after a small delay, but there is traces of hesitance in her voice. She notices that she has a growing urge to turn away and walk outside. It came from a cowardly place in her heart, but she couldn't help feeling this way. She supposes confrontations were still not her thing.

Homura looks down at her feet, forcing herself to remain in her spot instead of running off. Applying more pressure to her palms brought more pain to her mind. The pain kept her focused on something. She's felt worser pain before, but it still helped her to focus. It was better than resorting to fidgeting. Old instincts made her want to take a step back from the smoke, but she stands her guard. Both her heart and her lungs were in better shape, but old habits were hard to completely kill.

❝  What do you want to discuss then?  ❞         She didn't want to say anything else, but she tries to be more calm. She knew it's a futile attempt. What would have happened if she rejected his request? She's tempted to go back on her words. She did not like this loose tension in the air.

She has more power than she ever knew that she could obtain. Homura thought this newfound power would help, but nothing seems to cure her nervousness. She thought she had better control over herself. She could only muster the strength to lean away from the smoke. It reminds her of that false world's descent to chaos when her surroundings began to burst in flames after her awful discovery. The flames only grew stronger when she riddled her soul gem over and over with bullets.

being so close to the 'source' put him in a unique position to see the 'dolls' up close. they were distortions of her own making- manifestations of akemi homura herself, he guesses based on their make up but he doesn't know for certain. they are new abjurations to him and worth studying with time. he wonders if they only exist so close to the newly stated in goddess, or if they are spread out across the universe to do her will.

he does his best ( for the time ) to ignore the doll that has wandered near him clumsily with it's apple; but it's movements were erratic and he finds himself staring as it drops the item. the closer to him it gets, like a cat, the hair on his arms and neck stands on end with unease. he does his best to not let this betray his expression. if he showed discomfort then there was no telling where this conversation would go. he was glad his wings were not visible currently. he'd keep them pressed down as far as he could unless necessary.

he wasn't scared of homura. it was much worse. he was scared for her. there was so much uncertainty in the world now and there was no dictating the path forward. even with all this power, she was still a teenage girl. she was still growing up even if she had the power of the universe and it's chaos at her finger tips.

❝  s' right. jus'a conversation. ❞ he says, turning his attention back to the goddess; lifting his stubbled chin up slightly as he put his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. ❝  do i have yer permission t' speak freely? ❞ he doesn't quite understand why he needs to ask this. the words left his mouth before he could even think about them. every other time they'd spoken he'd felt comfortable to speak his mind but there was new circumstances in front of them both.

was her authority so great now that it was over the higher planes now? higher than the almighty that ruled the angels? that.... changed things. the realization of it made him avoid looking at her outright, instead focusing his eyes to her right, against his own will.

he opens his mouth to attempt to say something else but no sound leaves him; uncertain if he is allowed to speak or not. instead he puts focus into what exactly he wants to ask her. the conversation that at heart needed to be had.

he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his slacks pocket and pulled one of the tobacco sticks out to light with his flick lighter; cupping the flame while he got the end started with a slow drag. he'd given up smoking for awhile but with everything changing, the angel figured he should put less stress on himself. he uses this time to focus on just what he wanted to say when he got her blessing to continue.

when he looked at the readily avalible information as to what reordered the universe; rewriting it to the standard it currently was, hanekoma was horrified to find himself sympathetic to her. if he had been in her position with his chosen people so close to his fingertips; he just might (would) have done the same thing. he'd break space if it meant protecting what was his.

for shibuya.... for his composer, he'd do anything. akemi homura created a situation where that was possible for her under her unprecedented conditions under incubator supervision as their little test subject. hanekoma almost found it laughable something hadn't happened before then. that she hadn't done worse.

he wasn't surprised when he saw everything laid out with the data. humans in grief do extreme things. the same could be said for people in love. that was something they had in common, he supposes. he might have done worse if he had been where she stood.

[clarafell]

Watch out Homura, you might have a new big sister!

(From @deathdanse!)

HOMURA’S BINGO CARD :  Accepting!!!

@deathdanse​ / @misfxts​

Homura’s gaze stares at the completed card in her grasp, focused on the green circles.

An exchange between the past and future shouldn’t happen, but it’s happening in this delicate moment. She has brought down a godlike being back to the mortal world with greed, did she not? This power to spin through time is hers now once she ascended to something higher, perhaps something darker. The Law of Cycles once touched the lives of forgotten girls from the depths of the past. The glorious goddess in white saved even the ones that perished centauries ago with her shimmering wish. Then the Devil tore the Law of Cycles apart to bring Madoka Kaname back to the mortal world, silently refusing to join all the saved souls.

❝  Don’t play with them inside my home… ❞  Homura finally speaks up, gesturing to her eager dolls. She needed to establish a little rule once she saw that Corbeau truly gave her consent to play with her dolls. Their definition of “playing” meant fighting to the point that they would turn any clean home into one big crime scene. Their strength and skills were on the same level as most people bound to a magical contract, not mere humans. The false children may look dainty, but they could easily match even the most clever fighters with their endless stamina.

They also love to play harmless games whenever they got bored of their violent games!

Homura has so much in the palm of her hands, but what she lacked is proper companionship. The Law of Cycles was destined to be all alone without a chance at being a happy mortal girl until the Devil came along with a burning desire. The goddess in white had her loyal subjects to help her, such as Sayaka Miki. But Homura had no puella magi (or puer magi) to join her cause. She couldn’t necessarily blame them for not joining her selfish cause. They were happy with being held by the Law of Cycles; the one who saved them from being witches.

Why would they ever want to support anyone tampering with their salvation?

Her pale face doesn’t reveal her inner shock, but Homura’s still stunned to see even two successful bingos on the bingo card. She didn’t expect Corbeau to be gentle and patient. Wanting to become closer to her didn’t sound correct, but Corbeau did fill it out. Like a soul within a soul gem, the card in her grasp is physical proof that Corbeau wants to be in her presence. What Homura didn’t understand is why. Is this really what Corbeau wanted?

She has denied herself the pleasure of befriending Madoka Kaname all over again. It turns out that merely watching Madoka live her life from a distance can still bring Homura some happiness. Hanging out with all of the girls that once formed the Holy Quintet did sound tempting to her naive, lonely self. Homura closed the door to that innocent route of friendship, sealing herself in a cocoon meant for only one. Being friends with all of them is an impossible dream, unless she wanted to risk exposing the truth that she hid away. A group of friends is something only her labyrinth could give to her.

❝  Is all of this what you really want? ❞   Homura allows the question to slip from her lips, mostly because she didn’t want to think about being trapped in her own labyrinth. Dwelling on the memory led her to the uncomfortable memory of the cold Isolation Field. Kyubey and the rest of his filthy race are under her thumb now, but she still couldn’t shake off the sickening feeling she got whenever she remembered how she was once their trapped little experiment. They had no regret for piercing her tainted soul gem over and over again in order to complete their goal. Homura allowed herself to question Corbeau in hopes to distract her mind, but she’s also trying to satisfy her growing curiosity.

Corbeau would’ve received a more expressive reaction if she was dealing with the shy girl with the poor eyesight. She may even receive an invitation to go look for some sweets, maybe look for some flowers. But Corbeau is dealing with someone more colder and guarded. Homura isn’t sure if she trusts Corbeau, but she’s still willing to give her a chance. The fact that Homura took the offered sheet of paper is a good sign. Maybe, just maybe, a step in the right direction.

[clarafell]

                        @dnangelic has made a contract.          —         ★

❝  I don't know what troubles you so much... But will you please try to calm yourself down?   ❞         His appearance is unknown to the self-proclaimed Devil. She can feel a pulse of intriguing power as she gazes straight into his eyes. She cannot tell if he notices the power coursing through his veins or not, but she does keep a careful eye on him. Kyubey and the rest of the alien race would have latched onto the boy's power. They would claim that it was for the greater good of the universe.

But Homura is not interested in his power. She's curious, but she keeps her distance. His nervousness reminds her of someone that used to be an ordinary yet kind girl until the universe kept entangling her in a more dangerous, darker world. Her existence as a regular human was erased once she ascended into something akin to a goddess. Homura chose to rewrite both of their fates. The Law of Cycles is forced to play the role of being an oblivious human being again.

This stranger had something powerful connected to him... But he had no soul gem. How he came to hear the rumors that she could grant wishes is beyond her. All she knew is that she refused to make a contract with someone while they were clearly not in a good emotional state. Homura didn't understand why he was upset, but she will not pry into his business. The aura that she noticed from him is shifting, almost as if it is actually alive.

All she can gather from his expression is that he seems to be lost. He still longs to make a wish, though. All Homura saw is a boy that would have been a really, really easy target for witches. He is safe while she lingers in his presence, but... Why was he wandering around so aimlessly after dark? Her beautiful purple eyes remain locked on his form, wary yet still patient.

❝  Making a wish while you are like this will not do you any good.   ❞         

[clarafell]

                        @wolfvirago has made a contract.          —         ★

❝  Oh, what is this? What a pleasant surprise to have a visitor at this hour...   ❞         Homura did not expect the female to venture outside of her forest. She almost did not believe the lizard's whispered warning. It received information from one of her dolls. It seems like some of her dolls like to play and wander near the forest.

Any other ordinary civilian would think nothing else of the blue-eyed children. Maybe they would question why they wore such gloomy-looking clothes, but that was about it. Her dolls often acted a little bit like real children, so they were always hard to keep track of. Keeping an eye on all fourteen of them is a waste of time. They could defend themselves, after all. Their strength rivaled an average person with the power of a soul gem, so she didn't worry about them.

What concerned her is what they chose to do with their freedom.

At least they still listened to most of her orders.

❝  Yes, you came to the right place. I can help you, but everything comes with a price. All you have to do is rise up to the challenge. You must learn how to bring hope, so you must learn how to fight. However, this path is not for the faint of heart. I suggest that you choose your next words very carefully.   ❞

The arrival of a familiar face brings a cordial smile upon her face. Her smile makes her seem friendly enough, but her words sound... odd. There is a weight to them. She almost sounds like she is speaking from some kind of experience. Homura knew she will not stop her from making a contract, but she did feel like she should offer some kind of warning.

Kyubey must have gotten early to the blonde many years ago... But Kyubey is not in charge anymore. She did not know the woman that well in the other worlds, but she did know that the blonde used to be a veteran magical girl. She managed to be strong and determined enough to become a veteran, but Homura already knew that even veterans could still hatch into witches. Like most veterans, this former magical girl used to prefer to stay in her territory. She was lucky to have a quiet forest as her territory since there weren't that many civilians to worry over. However, the duty of anyone with a soul gem will always be difficult and unforgiving, especially when the person has to work alone.

She knew that all too well.

❝  Allow me to ask one question: Does your wish burn so brightly inside your heart that you would do anything to make it come true?   ❞

[clarafell]

How... strange.

Most people that manage to find her do not really ask about her. Their wishes burst out of their lips after they declare that they can accept any terms that she gives them. But this boy has chosen to throw a question back at her. The talk of wishes reminds her of the first time she heard about Madoka's original wish. She wished to save the life of a recently deceased cat in the first timeline, did she not? Madoka's wishes changed during some timelines, but they always came from her kind heart.

❝  I haven't met someone with so many questions until now...   ❞         She finally speaks after taking in all of his words. Anyone else would be upset if someone asked if they were tyrants, but Homura's facial expression does not twist into anger in the slightest. She has called herself worser things before. To be asked if she was a tyrant did not surprise. She is under no obligation to answer any of his questions...

But she will answer him.

❝  My original wish, the one that began my long journey, was to see someone dear to me all over again. My wish is to protect her, but... Now? It seems like my wish has grown into something bigger. Protecting this world, the one that she holds dear, is now my purpose.   ❞         But Sayaka would have different opinions on that statement since she really did believe that she would destroy the universe.

❝  I'll admit that I'm familiar with working by myself... But I do have some assistance right now.   ❞         Questionable assistance is still assistance. She had her familiars along with her dolls. They gave her information that they have gathered. The information flows straight into her ear.

They weren't real human beings, but she trusted their words the most. They may have mocked her little performance by throwing tomatoes at her, but they had no reason to betray her commands. She did need the help of the Incubators in the beginning, that's true. To enslave them into doing her bidding felt like a fitting punishment... But she knew she would never ask for their help. They took her cold body and her corrupted soul far from civilization because they wanted to turn her into an experiment.

❝  You have a point. Some people can make some of their wishes become reality. It may take time, maybe even years, but it can happen. However, you fail to understand that not every wish is so easy. Lots of wishes, especially the really hard ones, cannot be solved by the hands of ordinary people.   ❞         That's where Kyubey and his kind would normally enter the scene, but Homura has thrust their job upon herself.

❝  Is that what you see? Some kind of uncaring tyrant?   ❞         Her soft voice still remains calm and unbothered, but the smile on her face has completely fallen.         ❝  I apologize for not looking happy enough to fit your liking... But to label me as a tyrant because I don't look happy enough is rather uncalled for. My duty to grant wishes needs to be taken very seriously.  ❞

She is here to perform her duty as the new messenger of magic. Nothing more, nothing less. She may not look the happiest person on the planet, but she still had her emotions. She knows she is not as friendly as Madoka, but she is still much better than having a race of emotionless monsters. She refuses to let Kyubey to come back to his role after finally, finally putting his kind in their rightful place.

❝  You think that none of this feels right to you, do you? Would you prefer to have someone that has no understanding of any emotions to take my place then? I doubt you would like that. Call me a tyrant all you like. I've been called worse. It's understandable that you do not trust someone as gloomy as me.  ❞

Homura wants to say that she is not here to make any kind of bond, but she holds her tongue. His worry should be given to someone who deserves all of his attention.

again , the vague lines of dreams and reality begin to intersect . everything sounded wonderful and full of hope and promises when it left her lips , yet there was still an unshakeable sense of malaise . something was wrong in a way that he couldn't possibly ignore . faustian bargain ; devil's temptation , sweet as a flytrap's snare , something grim and disturbing lurking beneath , like a fine gem in a muddy bog .

had the boy any wish , then it too was simply for a thing like everyone's happiness . but once upon a time he had met a defective work . a teddy-bear doll baku , abandoned and betrayed by that very abandonment , stealing up dreams and nightmares and begging him query about things and their wishes after the matter . maybe that was just what the boy was sensing , then : another deep and lonely hurt .

he doesn't step backwards or wince when the other approaches . rather , he's already begun to try to memorize the shape of her face . if fortune smiled upon him , then he might have been able to leave this place as more than just a stranger to her . and yet , if both his words and his luck turned sour , then surely he could easily fall to become something worse .

' akemi-san ... ' his shoulders set , and briefly , his glance goes downwards . ' i ... don't know what grounds i have to say this , but it feels like --- you shouldn't do that . something feels wrong about it . is that really your own wish ? ' he takes half a step closer , despite the way that all he can do is plead and implore . ' are you doing all of this by yourself ? if you grant one wish after another ... something's bound to go wrong someday , isn't it ? wishes should belong to individuals ... and isn't it better to help them accomplish things themselves rather than grant everything one-sidedly alone ? '

if something went wrong , then what would happen ? would she grant more to try to fix it ? would she erase and destroy , like another family he knew ? the entire world , brought to peaceful , idyllic harmony ... they were the words of a benevolent savior , and yet --- ' i don't know why you have this power , but ... i'm scared . i'm worried . akemi-san , you're not a tyrant , are you ? '

( ... daisuke . )

' i'm sorry . i don't want to sound like someone who's baselessly accusing you . it's just that ... for someone who says they're granting wishes , bringing hope , and making what should be a good dream come to fruition ... you don't look truly happy at all , akemi-san . i don't know why you're pushing this far --- and i know we only just met , but ... i'm worried . '

[clarafell]

                        @memuria has made a contract.          —         ★

❝  Do you really have a wish in your heart, Madoka Kaname? That look on your face tells me that you have no idea what you really want in your life. With that being said, I suggest that you forget about wishes. You don't look ready.   ❞         The faint smile plastered upon her pale face is polite, but the rest of her expression is a little bit distant. The look makes it seem like she is lost in her thoughts or, maybe, she is troubled by something. Her voice sounds gentle, almost thoughtful, but her choice of words can pierce anyone in their tracks. Her smile still remains on her face, but her purple gaze has lost any of its remaining warmth.

Homura didn't know what sparked Madoka to come to the dazzling water fountain today, but she didn't bother to think too deeply into it. Her heart aches all over again when she caught the sight of Madoka in her red ribbons. It seems like Madoka has heard that this beautiful garden is one way to find her, the girl that can grant any wish. Madoka nervously broke the silence by cutting to the chase. Pale hands grip the black parasol a little bit too tightly as she stares down at her former friend. A strong gust of wind brings forth the scent of blooming flowers, but their pleasant aroma can soothe Homura's heart.

She has become familiar with making brand new magical girls, but... She did not expect Madoka to find her like this. She thought she still had more time. The lizard-shaped ear cuff carries the cold laughs of her dolls straight to her left ear. She isn't sure why her dolls broke out in laughter, but their laughs still felt like they were directed at her. Either way, she will not let them bother her with their nonsense.

❝  You should go back... Your friends are waiting for you. ❞         

It's a good thing she did not have to worry about hunting down Kyubey now. She still wants to torture every last Incubator until each and every Kyubey becomes familiar with pain. She has true power now. But she still cannot allow Madoka to ruin her new chance at a safe and happy life. Not again. She will be stronger this time.

She cannot back down now.

[clarafell]

                        @catncore has made a contract.          —         ★

❝  Is this...  ❞         Homura's soft words trail off into silence as she struggles to believe what she has heard leave his lips. Anyone with a keen eye for detail would notice how the temperature in the warm room dropped severely once her heart plummets all the way down to the depths of her stomach. She forgets that there is so much power at her fingertips. The blood running through her veins froze over in... What is this emotion she feels? Dread?

❝  Is this a joke?  ❞         She thinks she wants to hurl the question at him, perhaps snarl at him, but the question only comes out as a weak whisper. Homura subconsciously clenched her chest, almost as if the act alone can cure her heart of the confusing emotions. He's always felt like some kind of walking mystery. Each time she meets him in a brand new restart only makes him become more and more complex. She has so many questions on the tip of her tongue right now, but her exhaustion has caught to her. All the thankless work she has done to the rewritten world does not come with any form of praise.

The barista had always been someone who knew how to surprise her. He kept his secrets close to his chest, but she never criticized him for it. After all, she knew what it was like to carry secret after secret all too well. No matter his secrets, he always painted himself to be friendly to her whenever she would cross his path. She expected he would turn away when she lost that innocent-looking gleam in her eyes. But he's always there, quietly offering words of wisdom.

❝  Or is this some sort of test?  ❞         She tries to tell herself that his request is some form of a test to help herself breathe easier. Alas, she still struggles to take the deep breath that is meant to steady her racing heart. She almost expected to feel the agonizing jab of pain in her heart from her heart disease, but no physical pain comes to greet her anymore. Her heart, much like her eyesight, has been cured with her magic. Nothing can cure what truly stains her heart, however. She can pretend all she wants, but Hanekoma sees past her... for the most part. Thankfully, her dolls were not here to ridicule her for straying from the script. She doubted the barista would appreciate smashed tomatoes littered across his property like graffiti.

❝  You... Do you truly have a wish in your heart?  ❞

[clarafell]

*   sneaky tag drop.

❛   ✧  ┊ arc ┊ let the curtain rise on tonight's dream.

(for Walpurgisnacht Rising aka Movie 4)

❛   ✧  ┊ arc ┊ flame of despair; come dance with her in the stars.

(for Genshin Impact verse)

❛   ✧  ┊ will we fade away from this world with no hope to hold onto.

(for all the magical girls outside of the holy quintet)

❛   ✧  ┊ can you fight against the curse of this world. starter call.

❛   ✧  ┊ the abyss of this mortal world is our stage. thread.

❛   ✧  ┊ guiding my wish with all my might. open.

❛   ✧  ┊ is this funeral procession still going. verse info.

❛   ✧  ┊ and the bad dreams will never come again. meta.

❛   ✧  ┊ she will not end the night again. dash games.

❛   ✧  ┊ do not reblog.