#ABANDONED TO WHATEVER FORTUNE THE CRUEL WATERS BRING!!!

[ofbardsandmen]

haven't stopped thinking about this for a second.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Betrothed Ch. 10 - Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

Chapter 10: Bewilderment

Summary: What is Illumi doing while you are searching for him?

Warnings: Violence, murder, angst.

Words: ~1900

A/N: Sorry for taking so long guys, I recently have little time left to write.

Story Masterlist

“No one is more dangerous than the insane which is calm all the time: he is like a steel bridge without flexibility, and the order of his life is rigid and brittle.  A minor change can cause the functioning madman to collapse.”

There was no time to grieve.

After you had put an end to the puppet that took after your beloved husband, Okogame revealed that he in fact had cloned the entire Phantom Troupe as well.

Gladly, and much to your surprise, the spiders cleaned their own mess and assisted you and your friends in getting rid of the remaining puppets.

And ultimatively, Pretz was the one to put an end to her brother’s wrongdoings, ending both of their suffering as well.

Their deaths left you with a bitter aftertaste: Was there really no other way to end one’s madness? There had to be another way!

Kurapika had run out of strenght, which was only fortunate since him collapsing was the only thing keeping him from recklessly challenging the spiders.

So all of you stood in front of the burning chapel, only able to watch as Okogame’s sins were cleansed through the fire.

What would it take to free Illumi from the curse that was his own mind?

“Not so fast” you gnarled while your friends were still distracted by the tragic view. “Hisoka. We need to talk.”

The mage was already about to leave, yet acting all innocent. “Oh? Who do we got here? The happy bride...”

“Don’t play stupid.” Trying to act intimidating, you built yourself up in front of the much taller man. "You’re what comes closest to being a friend for him, so you must know where he is. Tell me!”

“It’s so long since we’ve first met at the Hunter Exam...” Hisoka chuckled quite amused, licking the blood from one of his playing cards. “I didn’t even know you had relationship problems.”

“Big understatement.” Hisoka’s carefree manner had gotten to you vfrom the very first moment, you had to admit. He almost managed to make you crack a smile.

“You seem to have gotten quite the control over your husband, so I thought our next meeting would be under...different circumstances. Maybe getting a drink together or even murder someone.”

“I don’t have time for your bullshit.” His eyes widened in pleasant surprise, a strangled moan escaping his throat as your knife threatened his neck. “Where. Is. He?!?”

“Oh, my...you’ve sure grown strong. Is that Illumi’s influence?”

“Yes. It is” you smiled confidently, putting the blade down again. “We may fight one day, but this is not the time.”

“Promise?” Hisoka was almost aroused at your words, imagining you and Illumi both challenging him at the same time.

“Whatever.”

“Well...” he waved the card in the air, putting it to his lips as if he was in deep thought. “He didn’t contact me, but word spreads fast. There’s a rumor about a mass murderer in Yorknew City. His only targets are assassins and other criminals. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

Your eyes immediately widened, heart painfully hammering against your chest as you imagined that he escaped his family, yet kept on taking lives.

“Lumi...”

At the same time, on the other side of the ocean, Illumi was wandering a dark alley in the poor district of Yorknew City.

Usually, he wasn’t able to dream in years, or at least it was insignitifant enough to instantly forget about it - yet ever since he had left you and his home, nightmares occured daily: 

Most of the time it were especially cruel things he did on his missions, or murders he performed solely out of his own, twisted desire. Sometimes it were flashbacks about his childhood, which he actually thought to have forgotten about a long time ago.

It all re-emerged now, robbing his sleep - the last thing to keep together the fraction of his sanity.

More than often, he’d dream about you too, of course.

But you’d always only be running away from him, deeply sfrightened. And every time he reached you, without having the intention, his blood-stained hands ended your life as well, leaving him to scream and cry for his precious Y/N.

How were you doing these days, he wondered?

His conscience was calling out to him ever since he had abandoned and left you alone with his family. This wasn’t like him to act without thinking things through.

But he did, and he won’t be able to change the consequences.

“Y/N is strong. Any my family doesn’t have any use for them. They’ll be okay...”

Suddenly, a noise drang to Illumi’s sharpened senses: A weak voice, barely audible, pleading for anyone to hear.

Illumi’s feet moved on their own - maybe because of curiosity, but who knows. And only a few blocks away he found the surce of the voice: It was a stray cat, way smaller than the usual ones, due to malnutrition.

Your husband was merely a bystander, watching a man yelling at the animal that of course couldn’t respond. How odd.

“Fucking thing!” the man balled his fists, swinging them in the air. “Hey! You! Whaddaya looking at? That your cat?”

“No” was Illumi’s plain answer as he stepped into the dim street light, actually not wanting to bother himself with the situation.

“It better not be. Stole my fish at the market, and ruined the others with it’s dirty paws!”

Just when the man prepared to kick the poor animal with his boots, his leg seemed to have magically disappeared midair.

Before the amputated leg hit the ground, the merchant had already collapsed, screaming in agony as he slowly but surely bled to death.

“Here” Illumi spoke casually as he threw a piece of fabric towards the man. He always pitied his victims, at least a little bit. “Try binding off the stump to stop the bleeding. Maybe you’ll make it until an ambulance arrives.”

Already prepared to attend more important matters again, he turned around - but then he heared another, weak meow close behind.

The tiny cat couldn’t even hold itself on it’s feet, yet tried everything to follow your husband’s firm steps. It bit the fabric on his legs ever so slightly, trying to keep him from leaving so fast.

Letting out a small noise of surprise, Illumi crouched down the the cat’s heigh, eyeing it quie suspecting.

Because usually, animals were smarter than that. They had a natural instinct when it came to aura, so it was no wonder that Illumi’s constant hostility and bloodlust always drove them off - even though he actually was really fond of them.

They were easier to deal with than most humans, he thought.

The kitten was bleeding, and his left ear was slightly bitten off by another animal.

Even though it was quite the depressing view, this wouldn’t revoke any emotion inside of your husband. He had seen and did worse, and he had no affiliation with that thing.

“What would Y/N do?”

He remembered how you’d always bring home injured animals, talking about responsibility and how every life was precious somehow. That doing good deeds could make one happy without having an actual advantage from it.

To be honest, he thought it to be kind of hypocritical considering you were a goddamn assassin, but whatever.

Who was he to judge anyone’s morality anyway?

And the pet’s behaviour somehow intrigued him, so he carefully picked it up as he bid the merchant one last look.

“Oh. He died already.”

The Zoldyck family possessed safehouses all over the world, and in big cities like Yorknew City was one, several at once.

Only a few, chosen people knew about those certain locations - and since his family never really seemed to care for him anyway, he knew they wouldn’t be searching for him. And even if they wanted to find him, there was no clue where an erratic man like himself could’ve gone to, so they would take a while.

So it would be fine to use them until he had cleansed the city from all filth before he’d travel to another - even though that would take quite a while.

“Here” he mumbled, still quite unaffected by the animal’s condition as he put it down on the small sleeping cot.

There wasn’t anything else to do right now, so he could save that thing, he thought.

Trying hard to remember how you’d always patch him up, Ilumi got the first-aid kit out of the shelf and gathered a bowl of water. Only when he didn’t find anything to nurture the cat he realized that he himself hasn’t eaten in days.

“Y/N would be furious..” he thought, almost smiling while recalling how you’d always scold him for not taking care of himself enough. “Maybe I should buy some groceries.”

The cat was unusual still, considering hurt animals are more than often very defensive and on high alert. Yet that one let Illumi touch it all he wanted, even purring as he unconsciously began to pet it’s dirty but soft fur.

It was almost heartwarming to him, giving him a slight impression about what you liked so damn much about helping those weaker than yourself.

Yeah, animals were way easier to deal with.

They had no difficult emotions or morals, neither did they want you to understand them. All that was important was their natural needs, and shall you fullfill them, they’d get attached to you.

But humans were different.

Asides from his work, Illumi had spent a of his time and concentration on you and you alone. He had given you food and shelter, also basically drowning you in gifts and luxurity. And he would’ve died for your protection.

Of course it had also been his duty that you’d become a perfect assassin, yet he went very easy on you during training. In wild contrast to everything he had experienced himself, his touch was always tender and full of care.

Yes, he would’ve met every single one of your desires, and yet you were unfullfilled.

Animals seeked freedom. They don’t like being locked in cages.

Was that it?

Were you feeling the same after being locked away for such a long time, like some sort of trophy?

He just now realized that you had always listened to him: His feelings, his past, his commands...but did he ever do the same for you?

Before, just like Hisoka, Illumi was a man of the present: He would’ve never looked back. The past wasn’t worth remembering, even faces of the people he killed vanishing from his inner eye just barely after he finished them off.

And the future? He’d never thought of that.

Illumi Zoldyck was merely a tool of darkness, working with a ruthless efficiency to ensure his place in the family.

He was numb and served no other purpose...right?

But now he had an own goal: Cleanse the world from the profession of those filthy assassins - so no one would’ve to suffer as you or his siblings did.

“Oh.”

Your husband pulled his hand away after the cat softly dug it’s teeth inside of his index finger. He probably accidentally hurt it. “Sorry.”

At least he had someone to talk to, now. You knew best just how often he would rant to himself or think out loudly - and he had to remember how you told him that only very lonely people would do that, because no one has ever listened to them.

“I always told Kill he doesn’t have the qualification to make friends, but in the end it was only me...”

Illumi didn’t even bother washing the blood from today’s work from his hands, falling on the bed with his back first and staring to the bare ceiling with a broken smile.

“Moreso...I don’t deserve to be loved. I really am the worst.”

_____

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[writings-of-a-crazy-lady]

Invisible Ties

Word Count: 2,249

Chapter 14

My fingers glided across the ivory, the simple melody that I knew encasing me in a fantasy world.  I was lost in my mind, unaware of my surroundings or those that came and went.  I had a few human “maids” that would often check on me, asking if I needed any water or food.  But I was entranced in the song, humming the words that I had practiced over and over again in school when I was able to attend.

Music was always an escape for me.  Always a way for me to slowly lose myself, forget my troubles and pain.  Even when I was nothing in my mind, in the world of song, I was something.  I could sing away my troubles, my broken heart or soul.  I was able to disappear and become something.  Prove all of my bullies and cruel mother wrong in just a few minutes.

I heard the door open to the room, but my fingers did not stop the melody as I allowed my hands to move across the keys.  I never allowed the words to fall from my lips, merely humming the tune until I felt hands touch my shoulders.  I quickly stopped playing the piano, allowing the unfinished notes to ring in the air that left me feeling a bit uncomfortable.

“Yes?” I looked up, spotting the crimson gaze of Marcus.

“You seem troubled, little one.”

“Is it that obvious?” I sighed, scooting over to allow Marcus a chance to sit on the bench with me. He took the hint, sitting close to me. I had closed my eyes, but I could feel his concerned gaze upon my face, as if he was searching for an easy answer to his many questions.

“Not obvious, mia amore.  I can feel the disturbance.  It is slight,” he quickly corrected when I looked at him, my immediate discomfort of the others knowing that I was unhappy showing.  “But none the less there.”

“I guess I can’t keep it a secret, can I?” I sighed heavily.  Aro could easily discern it if my power did not block him and now Marcus seemed to feel our connection and could sense if something was wrong.  All that is left is for Caius to have some secret ability at discerning my emotions and then it would be a losing battle to deal with my discomfort alone.

“Never keep secrets from us. If anything, then you can tell me whatever is bothering you.  I do not judge, little one.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?  Little one? Do I seem small to you?” I tried to change the subject, distract him somehow, but Marcus was as attentive as ever. His eyes gave that much away.

“I am much taller than you,” he pointed out, reminding me how short I was.  I nodded before sighing again, glancing down at my hands before staring straight at a wall.  I wasn’t sure how to tell him.  How to explain my discomfort at what had transpired recently.  After my panic attack at the pool, I spent the rest of my evening contemplating everything since I spent much of it alone.  And being alone was apparently dangerous since I overthought everything.  Every little detail of my life, my body, my hobbies…. All of it.  And honestly, I was second guessing their attraction or their faith in me.  Which was easy since my confidence was non-existent and the Volturi had a high level of it.

Still, I found myself unable to form the words, much less look at him.  How would he feel if I told him that I had zero faith in them?  That their affections could not be true? Marcus would probably feel hurt more than anything.  Something I didn’t want him to feel.  But I couldn’t help this doubt, no matter how much I wish I could.

A soft melody began to play, immediately gaining my attention as I turned to look at my partner. It was a tune I did not expect Marcus to know, yet he played it none the less.  Long fingers glided across the ivory keys as I found myself hearing the words in my mind.  It wasn’t a popular broadway musical, in fact, it flopped quite horribly.  It didn’t live up to the expectations of its predecessor but one particular song always stuck with me…

“~Who knows when love begins?  Who knows what makes it start?  One day it’s simply there, Alive inside your heart.”

I started the tune, the words quick to fall from my lips.  I didn’t realize I had gotten his attention, not seeing how Marcus’ gaze focused on me.  He just continued the melody as I sang the song, the words meaning something to me.

It was simply about love. How it ensnares those around them. Love was a mysterious emotion, never knowing how it begins or ends, if it ends at all.  And the fact that it can cause you great pain and lonely… Love itself was a confusing thing.  It could bring happiness and destruction all at the same time.  And in the end, it still endures.  Even through all the breakups, there was always a little bit of love left.

During the song, as I allowed the music to consume my everything, I had allowed my eyes to close once again.  My mind emptied of all my worries, every single thought slowly ceasing in my mind until nothing but a blank slate was there.  Just the words of the song and the emotions I was feeling.  And during that time, an audience began to form. Just 2 individuals, but still, an audience nonetheless.  Something I wasn’t quite use too…

The melody surrounded me, my voice carrying through the room.  Marcus never once missed a beat, keeping up with me as I hit the climax of the song, following the notes until I was able to reach the end of the song.  And I couldn’t help but ponder on the words for a few seconds more as he finished the melody, allowing the tune to ring in the air as if it was a thick blanket surrounding us.  Love truly was a strange concept.  To appear, even when you least expected it.  Doubtful anyone in the world could understand it.  Especially surrounded by twinkling vampires.    

“Brava!  Brava!” estatic clapping forced my eyes to open, my whole body immediately standing to attention as I finally realized that it wasn’t just Marcus and I in the room alone.  It took me a few seconds to finally realize that it was Aro doing the clapping, Caius not at boisterous but seemed quite impressed with my impromptu performance.

“E’stato magnifico, il mio amore,” Aro gushed over me, clasping his hands together.  “Truly marvelous.  You have such an enchanting voice.”

“Indeed, much like the siren we claimed,” Caius agreed.  I found myself blushing, rubbing my cheeks to dull what I could of the red.

“It’s nothing really,” I tried to pass off the praise, the idea making me far more uncomfortable. But I could tell they didn’t want to pass it off, trying quickly to continue the compliments.  Even when my stance turned to me hugging myself, forcing a fake appreciative smile on my face.

“Aro, enough,” a sudden snap from Marcus made him stop, the low growl not something I expected from my gentle giant.  I had to look up at him to make sure he wasn’t angry, but I was merely greeted with a calm look.  One that hid a small bit of worry underneath.  But the compliments ceased, Aro and Caius sharing a very confused look.  They didn’t speak, at least, not at an interval I could hear.  I mean, they could be sharing some telepathic language that I am not aware of… right?

“Forgive me, I’m just not use to attention or praise.  Truth is, I’m use to being exactly what I am good at, and that’s being invisible,” I started, knowing now that I had their attention.  Truth was, I was debating with telling them about my past.  I knew it would be difficult to explain, but Aro was right in a way.  Perhaps one of them knew exactly what it was like.  They were thousands of years old.  Lived through a time that I could never fully understand myself.  So perhaps someone understood.

“I grew up in a very chaotic life.  My father abandoned us before I was born.  Mom held some hope he would come back but he never did.  And mom and I could never see eye to eye.  She hated me.  Hated that I existed and took away the one person she loved.  We often lived in the poorest and darkest parts of town,” I paused, picking at a spot on my shirt.  It took me a second to gather my thoughts in order to continue.  “It was easier I suppose.  Mom often performed sexual favors to get out of paying rent or if she was short.  She drank a lot.  Got into some heavy drugs.  There was hardly any food in the house so I scraped by with what I could get ahold of. Mom, of course, never wanted to really see me out and about so I had to sneak around to avoid her.”

“I see,” Marcus’ voice held a sad note, his eyes void of any light that I was used to seeing.  He probably saw the line that connected me to her. He had explained his gift once to me. So, it was only logical.  I’m sure it didn’t look all that pretty either. Probably frayed and merely connected by a single thread.

“Yeah.  It’s like I told the Cullens, I saw a lot of red eyes where I lived.  Ran into a group that I guess activated my ability because they tried to attack me. But I disappeared on them.”

“Do you remember them at all?” Aro’s voice held a bit of retribution in it, my eyes finally connecting with his.  I guess my ability blocked out that part of my life because I could tell this was news to him.

“I could recognize them if I saw them.  But not off the top of my head,” I answered honestly.  Aro nodded only once, sharing a look with Caius as if he could deduce anything.

“Rogues.  They frequent the less fortunate areas.  High crime rates, missing persons- any attacks can go unnoticed and unsolved by law enforcement,” Caius shook his head.  “We cannot fault them for that.  Or we would have to fault ourselves for not finding her.”

It only took me a minute to realize what Caius meant, knowing then that Aro held some animosity toward the ones that attacked.  Which was odd.  I figured Caius would be the one to throw some sort of fit about them.  Not Aro.

“Alessandra,” a soft sigh made me look at Caius, the blond vampire having some sort of understanding in that moment.  It took a lot for me to not bolt when he held his hands out.  I didn’t know if I disappointed him yet I couldn’t feel that coming from him either.  Caius, to my surprise however, didn’t rush me.  It was as if he knew something the others didn’t.  Something about me.  Or about my situation.

“You do not need to blame yourself for anything that had happened to you.  I can see it in your eyes,” those words made me stiffen.  Aro and Marcus did as well.  Which surprised me once again.  I didn’t know what to think of those words.  Perhaps the shock came from it being Caius, the most volatile one of the bunch.  Yet he was not rushing, not snapping at me… what was going on actually?

“Masters!”

All three turned toward the doorway, Marcus quick to shelter me in his robes as they addressed the one who had bothered us.  It wasn’t one of the normal guard, I could easily tell that.  This one was probably of the lower ranks, though it made me wonder for a brief moment how large their army was.  I mean, vampires couldn’t die of natural causes, so an endless army was possible to build.

“What is it?” the familiar snap of the blonde was back, though he was standing closer to my form.  Aro had done the same as well, each standing unbearably close to my form as if they couldn’t trust the new comer.  Again, made me wonder…

“Multiple visitors have arrived, requesting your presence,” came the news, the young vampire swallowed thickly, her focus quick to snap to me.

“Tell them it can wait. We are busy,” Caius’ words were not kind as he turned to face me.  But his features did not match his words, as if he was hiding his displeasure from me.

“I understand, Masters, but-“

“But what?”

“One of them has asked to see Lady Alessandra,” she paused, bowing deeply before adding, “by name.”

“Who would ask for me? No one knows I’m here aside from the Cullens,” I countered, suspicious by the situation.  No one knows but them.  They were the only ones who mattered anyways.

“I am not sure, my lady. But she claims,” the vampire paused, again unsure of what else to say.  At least until Caius snapped again, peering over his shoulder toward her.  And that was when she uttered a single sentence that made my body go cold with shock and horror.

“She claims to be your mother.”

[randomfandomimagine]

Love Spell (Jaskier x Nissa)

Characters: Jaskier, Nissa (OC), Geralt

Fandom: The Witcher

Series: Soul of a Warrior

Tags: Original character, hardcore fluff, mild angst, sorcery

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4k words

Summary: While Geralt goes on a witcher job, Jaskier and Nissa wander around the woods. When they stumble upon a strong magic, it comes to Jaskier to help Nissa overcome the spells that falls upon her.

A/N: I wanted to give this a try, so here’s a Jasnissa ficlet because I love these two nerds. This is set after Soul of a Warrior, but has no spoilers, just a few references. I might write more stuff like this if you enjoy it, and maybe even take OCs requests if anyone’s interested :)

Written in Jaskier’s POV!

_

Oh, the way the sunlight falls on her, shining down on her silky raven hair, stealing the light off her emerald green eyes. Oh, the way her smile brings more life to the world than the sun above us itself. I should put this in a song. What rhymes with perfection?

“You’re staring again, stupid bard” Nissa tells me, despite the delighted grin in her enticing pink lips. 

Something about her disarms me at this very moment. Perhaps it is the resigned fondness and adoration in her eyes, or the way she tilts her head and smirks in smugness at the smitten manner in which I admire her. 

“How could I not?” I sigh, grinning when she laughs at my dramatic tone. “You have enchanted me, you cruel goddess” 

Nissa’s hand tugs at mine. Her gaze falls on the ground, and there is that flush on her cheeks, the one that makes her seem ever so beautiful. More so than usual, that is.

“That’s your punishment” She glances up at me, wrinkling her nose. “For being so insufferable” 

I am tempted to retaliate, though I only admit defeat and drop my head in resignation. Her eyes linger on me in expectation. 

“Well… love will do that to you” I blurt out, and the sound I was waiting for follows: her genuine guffaw of laughter. It makes my heart sing. I can overcome anything as long as she is happy.

Still laughing, Nissa stops on her tracks and throws her arms around my neck. I wasn’t expecting that part, but I am certainly not complaining. My hands immediately move to the small of her back to keep her close. We move to kiss, though something in the distance gathers my attention. Our lips are already grazing, though Nissa looks over her shoulder to whatever has caught my eye behind her.

“What is that?” I utter in fascination. Before us is an empty yet untouched building.

“A temple? It seems abandoned” She retrieves my hand before heading there. Our fingers play with each other as we advance together and soon reach it.

The temple, made of faded white stone, stands in ruins. Despite it all, there are no weeds clinging to its structure, no flora whatsoever. An eerie atmosphere surrounds the building, settling an unpleasant feeling in my gut. However, I am not worried as long as Nissa is by my side. 

Our footsteps echo across the temple as soon as we trespass the big arch at the threshold. The inside is incredibly spacious and the distant sound of water dripping somewhere fills the silence that we dare not break as we continue on our way, tightly holding the other’s hand. I can hear Nissa breathing next to me, trying not to let it show how restless she is. Nonetheless, I know her too well and merely taking a look at her expression I can tell how she’s feeling.

“Who goes there?” A voice erupts from nowhere, bouncing against the walls of the temple. I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound, and so I press my side against Nissa’s.

We turn to the noise, finding that a figure stands there in the distance, behind a white marble table that delimits the end of the long corridor we are on. She is a woman with long brown hair and piercing black eyes that lurk into my soul, like a black hole that threatens to swallow us whole if we get too close or stare too long. Her skin is white and smooth like porcelain, and I find myself attracted to her in a way I can’t explain. It is definitely not the way I am attracted to Nissa, this is quite like looking at an eclipse: I can’t stop staring yet fear something bad will happen if I linger. Something in her makes me shiver. Perhaps it is the fact that she reminds me of someone else. My free hand instinctively moves to protect my jewels.

“You dare break into my home?” The sorceress says, and eyes us with disinterest and contempt. “Leave, before I kill both of you”

I open my mouth, unsure of what will come out. Perhaps it will be a defensive statement, or a complaint, or a nervous apology. Whatever the case, Nissa takes a step forward and bluntly retaliates against the mage’s nonchalant warning.

“We were doing nothing wrong” Nissa assures vehemently. “Don’t-”

“Shush!” The woman quiets her, and I can feel how Nissa seethess next to me. “One more step and you will drop dead”

“Are you threatening us?” I gasp when Nissa steps before me and pulls out her dagger. “I won’t stand by and-!”

“Uh… Nissa, love?” I mutter, tugging at her hand pressed against mine. “I don’t think you should-“

“And you defy me” The smirk the sorceress dedicates us causes my stomach to churn in anticipation. Oh god, what is she going to do? We didn’t actually mean any harm!

“Alright, everyone calm down!” I exclaim, noticing how they watch each other. The energy is dangerous and electric and I fear what might happen next if I don’t intervene. “Nissa, we can just leave, can’t we? Yes, of course, we didn’t mean to break in. We didn’t know someone lived here”

Nissa stops, glowering at her while she slowly saves her weapon. The woman’s black eyes languidly fall over me. I gulp. I really genuinely don’t like mages. Her gaze is piercing me, seeing deeper, I can feel it. The imposing expression fades from her face, being replaced by a smirk.

“I see” She briefly glances at Nissa before staring at me once more. I don’t like it… I don’t like it at all. “Perhaps you will think twice before doing anything of the like again”

“I… Y-Yes, absolutely” I squeeze Nissa’s hand as I restlessly step back, hoping she will follow after me. “We will be more careful, that’s for certain. Isn’t that right, love?”

Nissa doesn’t reply, only lets her head fall forward. I could be hearing wrong, but I swear I heard a strangled noise escape her throat. I frown in concern, confused as to what she is doing just standing there. Why won’t she move?

“Thank you very much, we are on our way” I insist, tugging harder at her. Moving my gaze, I realize the sorceress’ smirk has widened. “Come on, Nissa, we… Oh, god!”

A movement out of the corner of my eye gathers my attention away from the mage. I move just in time to catch a falling Nissa. My breathing is suddenly erratic as she limply lies in my arms. I swear I am having several heart attacks at once as my mind races with reasons why she has suddenly faltered. Is she conscious? Is she ill? Can it be that she was frightened enough to faint? No, that doesn’t seem right. What has happened then?!

“I have dealt with enough people seeking power and fortune” The sorceress is unfazed as she watches us. “Fear not, bard, if she truly harbored no bad intentions nothing will happen”

I gape at her as the recognition slowly settles in. This is her doing, isn’t it? Shit. I hate mages.

My hands are shaking as I adjust my hold on Nissa. One arm firmly wraps around her frame as she rests against my torso. With my free hand, I nervously move the curtain of soft dark hair away from her face. Her emerald eyes are indeed closed. There are no signs that betray her unwell, instead she seems to sleep peacefully. She would look beautiful if it weren’t because I am still worried out of my mind that she might not wake up.

“W-What did you do to her?!” I exclaim, in my fervor causing Nissa’s head to tilt to the side. The weight and inertia causes her body to lean off as well, and she would fall were it not because of my grip on her. “Y-You, sorceress! Undo this right now! She was only trying to protect me, I-“

“Save it” She rolls her eyes, and I pay no more attention to her as I try to shake Nissa awake. She still doesn’t respond. The mage continues speaking. “You will find a way, now leave”

“A way to what?”

“Leave!!!” Despite her furious roar that echoes against the walls like a bad omen, I glare daggers at her. She did this to Nissa, whatever it is. No one should dare touch her, not my Nissa…

Alright, calm down, Jask, or you’ll make it worse for her. I clench my fists, ignoring the bubbling anger heating me up from the inside. I can’t retaliate, for Nissa’s sake. Enough harm has been done to her. Leaving is the only thing I can do.

Still gritting my teeth, I maneuver with Nissa’s limp body until she is scooped into my arms. I tenderly cradle her, lingering as I fear that abandoning this place will somehow mean her doom. Though I know not what to do, I decide to walk away. Who knows what this unstable sorceress might do if I disobey and stay. In any case, I have no reasons to remain in this place for myself, yet I doubt it would help Nissa.

Gingerly leaning her frame against my torso so her head falls against my shoulder, I begin to move. My footsteps echo around the temple once more, now bearing the anger and fright that I try so hard to conceal. Her weight on my arms seems to be nothing compared to the one that has established in my heart, sinking it into my stomach.

“Shit…” I mutter as I exit that wretched place.

As I walked hand in hand with Nissa, the sound of the birds chirping and the warmth of the sun in the back of my neck felt like a blessing. Now it all feels wrong as my light has faded and I hold it in my arms, desperately trying to keep it alive. Hoping I can keep her alive. Gods, I don’t even know what she has, how am I to look after her?

Wait… Geralt! He is a witcher, surely he knows about the subject and can find a remedy to whatever ails her. My heart had been racing ever since Nissa fell, but now it follows a crazed pace as I start moving faster.

“Geralt?” I shout to the void, looking around searching for a burly figure with silver hair or a bay mare. “Geralt, are you back yet?”

Where is this witcher? Surely he must be done with his hunt soon… we had the time to endlessly walk and wander around the woods. Time had flown by, of course, being by her side, but now… Shit. How long could it possibly take him to return? I can’t stand this helplessness for much longer, it is torture. I move to one side and the other, but realize there’s nothing I can do until he gets back. There is no way I can help her, not this time. Hence, I slowly kneel down and carefully lay her on the ground. I fear she might grow cold, and so I take my doublet off and put it over her. Is it my imagination or does she look a bit pale now?

Wanting to kill the time, I lean closer to her and check her vitals. After traveling so long with her as our medic, I must have caught on to some things. Her pulse under my fingertips seems normal, and so I gently let go of her wrist. Her breathing seems calm and paused when I lean my ear close to her mouth. Nothing seems wrong with her. Again, it is as though she merely sleeps. My anguish comes from the question of when she will wake up, or if she will wake at all.

Though I know it is in vain, I shake her shoulder. I tirelessly call her name as well as any and all of the terms of endearment I have addressed her as ever since we met. Love, delicate flower, sweetheart, my dear… None seem to work as she remains unconscious. I tap her cheeks, I move her head and her arms and yet nothing works. I even squeeze her sides in the hopes that she will move away as she has done before, lecturing me about tickling her. She doesn’t.

I let a big timorous sigh out as I restlessly sit down, passing a hand through my hair. If only she could open her beautiful green eyes and look at me that way she does, playfully and with a fond exasperation. I want to see her breathtaking smile once more, even if it is as she laughs at me in amusement to my foolishness or smirking with superiority and smugness. I would give anything to hear her call me stupid bard again, or to say my name angrily like the time I first kissed her, back then when I didn’t know what it truly meant to her.

“I need you, Nissa…” An unexpected sob tears my throat as the panic sets that she might not wake from this mysterious and magical slumber. “Come back to me, love… please…”

Tears are already welling in my eyes when the sound of hope comes to rescue me before I completely give in to despair. Two pairs of hooves rhythmically hit the ground as the horse’s rider urges his mount. I jump to my feet and turn my body to the sound, breathing once more when I recognize the witcher’s black leather clothes and silver hair.

“Oh, Geralt, thank the gods…” I stutter, gulping as I also stumble over my own two feet. Negative thoughts haunt me, and I try to ignore the possibility that he might not know how to aid Nissa either. “You’re here, I need… Geralt, please, I…”

“What happened?” The witcher jumps off Roach. He quickly hangs a creature’s head from his belt to the hook that his mare carries in the saddlebag. I don’t even pay attention to the monster he slayed, and he barely does either as his amber eyes fall upon me.

“It’s Nissa…” I drop to my knees beside her once more, clutching her hand in mine as I peer up at him with pleading eyes. “She has fainted and won’t wake up”

“Suddenly?” His deep voice grows near as he crouches by my side to look at her.

“N-No, we were in a…” I have to pause, forgetting to breathe and needing to focus on it for a moment. “A temple, we found it nearby and… this sorceress…”

“Sorceress?” Geralt interrupts my feverish ramblings. “So this is the work of magic”

“Yes, exactly. Or at least I think so. Oh, god… Geralt, please tell me you know how to reverse it”

I notice he clutches the wolf medallion hanging from his neck, though his amber eyes are fixed on her unchanging face. His other hand falls on her cheek as he moves her head from side to side as though examining her like a medic would.

“It depends” He only says, frowning in concentration as he stares at her. “Did this sorceress say something?”

“She did, she said…” Trying to recall the exact words, I stop to think for a moment. “That if she didn’t harbor bad intentions it would be alright”

“Bad intentions?” Geralt glances up at me, and I do not like the way he watches me. “What the fuck did you do, Jaskier?”

“Nothing!” I exclaim in outrage. “She is the one that cursed Nissa! My poor dove was only trying to protect me”

“Hm…” Oh, that is a frustrated and vexed grunt for sure. Geralt’s gaze lingers for a bit until it eventually falls on her again.

“Talk to me, Geralt” I beg of him, squeezing her hand tightly in mine and pressing it against my chest. “What did that bloody witch do to her?”

“Judging by what you said, it is a spell” He rummages through the small satchel hanging from his hip, though seems to find nothing useful. “From what I know, it searches within her heart and will kill her if the magic finds ill intent“

“K-Kill her?” I suddenly feel light-headed and have to lean on his shoulder not to fall flat on my ass, even from my kneeling position. My hand flies to my forehead. “Geralt…”

“Calm down” He brushes my hand off him in exasperation. “She had no ill intent”

“I know, but…” Remembering how Nissa brought out her dagger, I wonder what the so called magic considers ill intent. “How do we wake her? Will she be alright?”

“Did the sorceress say anything else?”

“Uh… she… she told me I would find a way, whatever the fuck that means”

That seems to inspire Geralt, as he quickly tilts his head up and glances from me to her and back to me. I frown, confused as to why he stares now. Nonetheless, I can nearly see the wheels in his brain turning. Perhaps I have had the solution all along without knowing.

“Kiss her” He blurts out, and I roll my eyes at him in exasperation. What a moment to tease us about our relationship, no matter how much it usually upsets him.

“I won’t do such a thing, Geralt!” I shout in anguish. “This is serious”

“So am I”

“No, this is no time to be sarcastic. This is not a fairy tale”

“All fairy tales have some truth in them”

It seems to me like he is actually being genuine. He is a witcher after all, he must know the intrincacies of magic. I frown and stare at my friend. Geralt deadpans as he stares back at me. I hesitate.

“Are you sure?” Honestly, I am so scared. When she was wounded, we at least knew how to help her. Nnow I feel utterly useless as she just lies there with no way of waking up. The witcher nods, and so I sigh. “Alright…”

I reach forward, puckering my lips until they make contact with her forehead. Her skin feels slightly cold, and I hope there is nothing actually wrong with her. If it is, that sorceress will suffer my wrath, I don’t care that she has powerful magic, I don’t care if she threatens me like Yennefer did. As I expectantly stare at her, I promise myself to get back to that temple and give that witch a piece of my mind. If she has somehow hurt Nissa…

“On the lips, Jaskier” Geralt tiredly tells me, abruptly bringing me out of my obsessive thoughts.

“Oh” I only say, leaning forwards again. However, his hand urgently presses against my chest and pushes me back. “What? What’s wrong?”

When I peer at him, Geralt is frowning. He clutches the medallion hanging from his neck.

“The magic intensified when you kissed her” The witcher gravely says. “It is a love spell”

“So I should kiss her again, right?” I hesitate, fearing that something might go wrong. “Then she will wake up… like in the fairy tale”

“If your love is strong enough” I know by his tone that he is only teasing me, but for a moment I panic at Geralt’s words. However, I recover the faith quickly. No, our love is strong and resilient. After all, it has withstood all these hardships we have lived together.

I take a deep breath and lean closer to her. My breath catches in my throat and I freeze. Concerned, I lift my head to look at Geralt. He sighs impatiently.

“What if it doesn’t work?” I point out, absolutely terrified by the idea. “What will I do if she doesn’t wake up, Geralt?”

“She’ll be fine” Though there is only determination in his voice, I read the worry in his features as well. He speaks only to convince himself, as he is just as frightened for her as I am. “Kiss her already”

“But what if it makes it worse, what if-“

“Jaskier, this will be the only time you hear me ask this of you”

Although I don’t know whether this is some sort of display of his strange humor or not, I roll my eyes in any case. Witchers make unique friends, that’s for certain.

“Alright…” I nervously breathe in, leaning closer to her once more. Her lovely scent fills me, reminding me of flowers. This appears to be enough to give me the courage to finally press my lips against hers. The feeling that overwhelms me is no different from other times.

My heart picks up its pace in euphoria, just like when I’m playing a tune to a welcoming audience or when I make Geralt laugh. It is the same sensation that envelops me whenever Nissa interacts with me, one of pure joy. It doesn’t matter what she does, a mere glance from her beautiful eyes in my direction makes my heart sing the most wonderful ballad I have ever composed. When she smiles, the feeling multiplies. When she holds my hand, I struggle to stand.

I lean back, closing my eyes to linger in the sensation of the kiss. There, I have poured all my love for her in that gesture. Hopefully the magic wil work, although if we needed any magic to fight the one that falls upon her, we need to look no further than the one Nissa possesses herself. Despite it all, I had never felt this tingling in my lips at the graze of someone’s, only hers, not to mention the way it spreads through my body and settles in my stomach.

“Nissa?” Geralt calls her, bringing me back to reality as I try to anchor myself to these sensations she produces in me… perhaps because I fear they might have come to an end.

“Come on, love…” I whisper, carefully watching her face in search for any changes.

Nissa’s eyelids suddenly flutter, and her eyelashes seem butterfly wings as they separate. Once I am received with the sight of her stunning green eyes once more, I let go a breath I had been holding ever since she collapsed. Intense relief floods through me, and a strangled noise leaves my throat, though I don’t know if it’s a chuckle or a sob.

“What…?” She whispers, and I smile when she gazes at me. “Jaskier, what happened?”

“Thank the heavens, it worked” I throw myself at her, being careful as I lovingly wrap my arms around her frame and bring her as close to me as possible until I feel her torso pressed against mine. “You’re alright”

“But…” Nissa mumbles. Her voice sounds drowsy as she clumsily puts her arms around me as well.

“Welcome back” Geralt pats her shoulder, moving us both under the force of his strong hand.

“What the fuck happened?” She insists, yet despite it all she allows me to hold her still. Good, I don’t plan on letting go of her anytime soon.

“A sorceress put a spell on you” The witcher replies, for I am too busy burying my head on her shoulder and holding her still.

“Oh…” My lovely Nissa hesitates, though in the end chuckles as she pats my back. “You can let go of me now, Jaskier”

“Don’t do that ever again!” I reluctantly pull away, bearing a grave expression as soon as we are face to face once more. “I thought we had agreed you wouldn’t scare me like that”

It had been awful to see her crumble soon after we met. It had been worse to witness how she got gravely injured that one time, the one I truly feared for her life and Geralt and I had to attentively tend to her for days. My fragile heart simply cannot take that uncertainty and pain again.

“I’m sorry” Her words are gentle on top of her sweet voice, and her hand is delicate as she presses her palm against my cheek. “I will be more careful next time”

“I certainly hope so” I dramatically put a hand against my chest, theatrically throwing myself backwards as though I am swooning. “Or else I might perish from such tension to my poor hummingbird heart”

In reality, my poor heart is actually racing. It doesn’t matter, my attempts have been successful and Nissa laughs. Geralt grunts next to us, but I pay no mind to him.

“I will make it up to you, dear bard” Nissa takes my face in her hands and gifts me with a chaste kiss.

For a moment I tense up, still fearing that the spell hasn’t quite been broken and the exchange will somehow undo what mine magically cured. However, I sigh once more when I see her still lovingly gazing at me, awake and well. What a scare… but the anguish is over.

I stare into her eyes, knowing what she is thinking of. We possess a special magic that exposes each other’s thoughts. She regrets worrying us both, yet at the same time she understands my jokes are a reassurance that everything is alright. By now, Nissa understands that I will comfort her as I have all this time. Grateful for this, she smiles with the power of a dozen suns. That is enough to heal any damage done to my heart.

“That was too fucking close” Geralt complains, now having returned to his blatant dislike for our affection.

“I agree” Taking her by the hands, I pull the both of us up to our feet. “We know better than to mess with sorceress”

“Yeah…” Nissa grins, looking from the witcher to me.

“Next time, Nissa…” He pauses to drop a hand on her shoulder. “Try not to threaten a sorceress”

We are so surprised by his rare and unexpected joke that we break out in laughter. It is the ultimate test to show the positive end of this particular tale. Sleeping beauty has awakened. Nissa is alright, and so everything is alright with the world again.

Tag list: @x-joie-x / @x-jodi-x / @bravelittlesunflower​ / @golden-guide / @alwayshave-faith / @this-is-whump-dammit / @legallyblindgamer727 / @lilyevans1 / @kingniazx / @molethemollie / @a-somehow-functioning-dumbass // Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list for this series!!

[kumeko]

A/N: For the @invinciblezine‘s Marianne: Survivor of the Curse zine—the end of Marianne’s paralogue never sat right with me and I took this chance to fix it. And do a little MariHilda, as a treat.

…

…

…

…

Finally, this nightmare of a thousand years is at its end. Oh, Inheritor of my crest…

 Seated on a log, Marianne stared at the crackling fire, watching as the flames leapt higher and higher. Against the night sky, the dark smoke was almost impossible to notice except for the patches of stars hidden behind the smog. Not that she minded. For once, nature couldn’t distract her from her problems.

 No, her mind was stuck on the last words of her supposed ancestor, of the beast who had terrorized entire villages. No, not supposed, not anymore. Marianne looked beside her, where the Blutgang lay on the ground. Its sharp edges gleamed in the pale light. That was the sword of a hero. That was the sword of her family. That monster had been her ancestor, whether she liked it or not.

This realization left an unsettled sensation in the pit of her stomach. It had been easy enough to ignore it in the heat of battle, when she had been surrounded on all sides by monsters. In a life or death fight, Marianne hadn’t thought too hard about just what she was slaying. About who they were. Now that she was alone in the chilly night, it was harder to ignore the facts. Miklan had turned into a beast. Who was to say that the monsters there hadn’t been her kin, doomed to follow Maurice for eternity? Who was to say that one day she wouldn’t join them as well, the cursed blood flowing within her transforming her overnight?

 Despite the fire, she couldn’t stop shivering.

 “There you are!” Marianne looked up as Hilda eagerly plopped on the log next to her. Rubbing her arms, she sighed. “Brrr, it’s so cold! I can’t believe we have to camp here of all places. Sure, we killed those monsters, but who knows what else’ll pop out?” Grumpy and put out, she puffed her cheeks. “Honestly, what is the professor thinking?”

 Squashing her fears, Marianne forced a smile. “It’s too late to go back.”

 “I know, I know. But still.” Hilda sighed once more before shifting closer to Marianne. “It’s just so—”

 Unconsciously, Marianne recoiled. It wasn’t a big move, but it was enough for Hilda’s arm to bump into the air, for Marianne’s body to stiffen. They stared at each other for a long minute and Marianne immediately flushed. “I-I didn’t mean to—”

 Hilda dropped her smile, her expression serious. “Is something wrong?”

 “No…” Marianne trailed off helplessly. She didn’t want to bring it up. She shouldn’t bring it up. It wasn’t a problem anyone could do anything about, and why make Hilda worry over it? “It’s, um, it’s nothing.”

 “It’s okay.” Despite the smile she wore now, Hilda’s expression remained serious. She didn’t move any closer, though she also didn’t move away and Marianne’s heart did a funny flip-flop at that. “What’s wrong?”

 “I…I just…” Marianne swallowed. It was just her problem, but if her time at the academy, her time with the Golden Deer had taught her anything, it was that problems were meant to be shared. They had all come here, for no other reason than to support her. Wasn’t it time she showed some trust back? She had vowed, on that day in the rubble, to become strong. To never run away from herself again. To take the hands reaching out for her. Steeling herself, Marianne mumbled, “Maurice…”

 “What about him?” Hilda asked ever so gently but still so firmly. She had always been like that, insistent and pushy and always making sure Marianne was a part of things, that Marianne always said what she needed to.

 It was no different now. Marianne stared at her hands as she spoke, the words tumbling out of her like water off a cliff. “Maurice, he was, um, my ancestor, right? And he was that…that monster. My crest, it was his. I might turn into a monster like him.”

 “Who said that?” Hilda asked, and Marianne could hear the threat in her voice.

 “No one,” Marianne quickly blurted, preventing a murder. She dug her finger into her legs. “No one in particular. Just…maybe I’ll turn into a beast too. Maybe my parents did.”

 There was a long silence. Marianne kept her eyes glued to her thighs, too scared to look up. Would it be worse to see pity or fear? Kindness could be cruel too and she knew her fair share of that.

 “You know, you’re warm.” Before Marianne could react, there was a warm weight on her shoulder, a heavy arm wrapped around her waist. “Perfect for a night like this.”

 “Hilda!” she hissed, stiffening as she looked down at the head on her shoulder. Just when had Hilda closed that gap? She had never been fast. Squirming, she tried to escape but Hilda’s grip was too tight. “What are you doing?”

 “You’re warm,” Hilda repeated, looking up at her. “And you’re the perfect height for a nap.”

 Sitting ramrod straight, Marianne stared at her, not sure what to do. “Hilda, I’m serious.”

 “So am I.” Hilda’s long, pink hair tickled Marianne’s neck. “You’re not just warm, though. You’re also clumsy and kind and so earnest that it sometimes takes my breath away.” She leaned forward slightly, pressing a kiss against her shoulder. “And you’re so very human.”

 Marianne’s voice hitched and she almost forgot how to breathe, let alone speak. Ignoring the tingle running up her spine, she clenched her jaw. “For now. I could change. Miklan did. My parents—”

 “You don’t know what happened to them,” Hilda interrupted. This close, Marianne could feel the vibrations as she spoke. “And Miklan didn’t have a crest. You do.”

 “Maurice had a crest,” Marianne pointed out quietly. His voice had sounded like a rusty nail, like the creaks of an abandoned home. A thousand years of loneliness could be her future and maybe it was preferable to be a mindless monster instead.

 “It could be something else. I thought Claude banned us from assumptions?” Hilda paused, her hand digging into Marianne’s side. “Besides, even if that is the case, we’ll save you. You’re one of us, right?”

 Marianne wanted to believe. She wanted to lean into that touch, to accept Hilda’s warmth. “And what if you can’t? Could you…” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

 Immediately, Hilda snorted. “Hello, Byleth went through, what, five impossible things?”

 “Hilda—”

 “If you want a mercy kill, I’m not doing it. We’ll save you, somehow.” Hilda sat up straighter, looking Marianne straight in the eyes. “We will.”

 It sounded like a fact coming from Hilda. As though there was no other possibility. “Really?” Marianne whispered.

 “I might not do it myself, but have you ever seen me not get something done?” Hilda leaned forward and hugged her. “You’ll be fine. Promise.”

 And maybe she would—whatever happened, Hilda would be there. And that was more than enough. Marianne leaned into her embrace, soaking in Hilda’s warmth. She finally relaxed, burying her face in Hilda’s neck.

 “But you better not live to be a thousand,” Hilda added playfully. “It’ll cost you a fortune in anti-aging cream.”

 Marianne laughed, a wet sound that immediately got muffled by a mess of pink hair.

[swishandflickwit]

a million nights i've lived this quiet (i need to know if you hear this too) — 1/1

Summary: “That looks dangerous.”

“I eat danger for breakfast,” he snits, tone dry as a desert and the effect just as unpleasant.

She raises an unimpressed brow.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Toph.”

He smirks.

“That one’s on your brother, actually.”

“Figures,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes.

zutara + haircut

Ratings: General Audiences

Words: 2.8k

Warnings: unbeta'd, fluff, fluff without plot, haircut, hugs, hand holding, canon divergence (i think?), sozin's comet, set somewhere in the old masters (because as usual, we throw canon in the blender), generally a lot of wholesomeness all around, gratuitous use of sun and water metaphors (as you do when it comes to zutara), basically zuko and katara share a quiet moment before canon hits the fan lol

AN: i see a lot of zutara post agni-kai but what about zutara pre-agni kai huh?

Title from: wanna know by sabrina claudio

Other song inspirations include: frozen also by sabrina claudio and this version of chasing cars originally by snow patrol, covered by the wind and the wave. highly recommended listening.

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

Tagging: @jerkbend by request! hope you enjoy this one bb <3

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"That looks dangerous." 

He doesn't chuckle, but neither is he quick enough to suppress the tug curling at the right corner of his lips—his mirth incontestable even through the warped looking glass from which she views him, stood as she is at the opening flap of his uncle's tent.

By the time she fully steps into the living quarters, his face is schooled into the deeply discontented, partly pained-to-be-alive glower he so favors.

"I eat danger for breakfast," he snits, tone dry as a desert and the effect just as unpleasant.

She raises an unimpressed brow.

"You've been spending too much time with Toph."

He smirks.

"That one's on your brother, actually."

"Figures," she mutters with a roll of her eyes. "What with half his brain being in his stomach..."

The laughter that the gibe yanks from the firebender is biting and brief, but Katara's breath hitches at the sound all the same. She latches on to it, holds it somewhere between her throat and chest, not too distant from the pitifully hollow space in her heart that she isolates from the bitter, ugly parts of her that are forged in battle and conflict.

"Should you…" is there a delicate way to phrase such a question? No, judging by the dirty look he throws her way, guessing at her thoughts, no there is not. She stifles the giggles bubbling at her throat with herculean effort, before remarking rather bluntly, "Are you qualified to handle that?"

He maintains his glare a second more before bowing his head and releasing a hot huff of air towards the ground in resignation. He places the mirror—from which the whole of their interactions had been exchanged thus far—atop the low table in front of him, then shifts so the entirety of his figure faces her. When he lifts his gaze, the veil of gloom that so frequents his visage has dissipated enough to allow a brittle smile to peek through.

"Probably not," he concedes with an amiability uncommon to his appearance. "Will you help me?"

But she likes the way the expression settles on him. It quells the ragged contours of his scar, somehow—his eyes seemingly unburdened by the sorrow he often declines to share, for once. As if in putting breath and voice to the request, he's quieted the ghosts of his troubled past for the moment to be fully present, here. 

With her.

So when his metal-ladden hand falls almost shyly towards her, his stare gentle but no less piercing in its signature, sun-blessed intensity—obscured as they are by his unruly, ebony tendrils—she smiles. It is a fragile thing, muscles straining as they pull from the recesses of memories she also staunchly refuses to be tainted by war, but there—its sweetness shaped after her mother's loving lullabies, built in her father's effervescent embrace, and fashioned from each of her friends' unconquerable spirits. 

She catches him, fingers winding into the shears in his grasp, and there is nothing for her than to accept.

"So what do you wanna do," she starts, eager to dispel the solemn atmosphere. "Some more layers? A buzz cut? Oh!" she nicks at the air experimentally, gleefully. "How about we just cut everything off?"

"You look way too happy to have an excuse to point that thing at me. That very sharp, very death-inducing thing."

"Shut up!" This time she lets her laughter loose, shoving at him playfully so that he's once again turned to the wooden chabudai. "Seriously," she cajoles until he picks up the mirror and through it, she glimpses his sedate mien. The levity in her demeanor fades, pitch dipping instead to match his contemplative stare. "What do you want?"

"I've been asked that a lot this past year," he sighs, bending his legs into a lotus position before slumping in on himself. "Yet I don't think I've ever really given a straight answer."

Task temporarily forgotten, she abandons the scissors at her feet to squeeze both his shoulders in reassurance. "Well whatever it is, I won't judge, if that's what you're worried about."

"I know. You're a great friend," he leans into her touch, and she beams at both the declaration and the rare show of guileless affection. "Fortune rarely sees fit to favor me but I'm really lucky I get to call you so."

The gravity of his proclamation has distress roiling like a tsunami underneath her skin, tempered only by the tinge of whimsy that weaves itself into his articulation. More curious than concerned now (although the stale taste of it lingers on her tongue), she lets her alarm abate at his unexpected resonance. She folds into a seiza at his left, fingers trailing the stalwart line of his back as she goes before placing them serenely on her lap, in absolute symmetry to their figures from last night. And just like she did then, she does so again now, ears at the ready and heart wide open so she can be the friend he needs, someone deserving of his reverence.

(Someone, she thinks as flickers of retrospection—of fighting against him slowly evolving into fighting with him—burst into brilliant clarity, worthy to be at his side.)

"You asked what I wanted," he rasps, low and tenuous.

He meets her stare and she hopes the encouragement in her chest burns soft like an ember through her eyes, enough to fuel the feeling of safety that ignites all too easily the more they orbit each other's presence. He inhales deep in a way that is familiar from his meditations then releases, a surrender in the exhalation—as if his apprehensions could drift away in the warm gale.

"Peace," he whispers, breaking their connection to look down at his fidgeting hands. The revelation is wrapped in such unfettered fear, as if in admitting the longing he has secured its impossibility instead of the inevitability she knows it to be, and she aches for him. "I want to put a stop to the bloodshed, an end to the suffering of both my people and yours and the rest of the nation. I want there to be a place for my soldiers to come home to. I want my mom," he sighs shakily, "and for no child to ever feel what it's like to lose a parent and for no parent to have to fear for the lives of their children as they're forced to this—this—needless slaughter. I want Toph's parents to see her for the capable woman that she is and for Suki's fellow warriors, her family, to be okay. I wish Sokka's plan succeeds, whatever it may be, and that I could guarantee your father's safety and that of your tribe. I wish my sister wasn't so messed up and that I didn't have to keep relying on my uncle to clean up after me when he's already lost so much to this fight. I wish the Spirits weren't so cruel as to put the fate of the world on the shoulders of a twelve-year old. I wish—I wish I could take back the past year, the past hundred years. I wish I could make up for all of it. I wish…" his gaze darts to her neck, digits hovering just shy of the luminescent pendant there, but not touching. 

"I wish I could bring her back for you." He drops his fingers before he can make contact. His whole body wilts with the motion before he tightens his hand to a fist at his thigh. He shakes his head, craning it towards the ceiling where he directs his smile, devoid of any humor when he adds, "But yeah, a trim should do it."

Her heartbeat is loud in her ears in the wake of the silence his confession inflicts. The weight of his monumental aspirations sits heavy on her chest yet strangely enough, it doesn't leave her shaky. If anything, it strengthens her, grounds her, lends fire to the ice in her veins so when she moves, it's with the lofty grace she knows she possesses but doesn't always feel—the skill of a master and the experience of a hardened soldier encased in her fourteen-year-old bones.

But she is grateful for it anyway, when she positions herself at his back and the scissors don't tremble in her grasp when she loops her fingers around it.

"Yeah," she murmurs right back, smoothing her digits through surprisingly silky locks. "Yeah, I can do that."

She doesn't deign to push her skill given how dim it is—both inside and out, the sun sequestered by its billowing companions like it's taken refuge because it knows the blazing, celestial wildfire to come—and that there isn't much to cut in the first place. His tresses are at that awkward length of too long to be considered short but too short to be tied up into a bun or tail. So she merely evens out what she can, tidying stray tufts and snipping at scraggily ends, grappling at any excuse to keep her hands on him. And when that same excuse runs thin—because there's only so much she can cleave before she makes good on her drollery and indeed hacks it all off—she summons the dew drops hugging the blades of grass from outside the former general's tent. She glides the ribbon of water where her hands cannot reach, siphoning the severed hairs from his person and his clothes, before discarding the soiled glob completely.

"Thank you, Katara," he mumbles, though his focus remains on the distortion his image projects on the once cast-aside mirror, particularly on his marred skin. She wants to do something about the melancholy etching his warped effigy—a stark contrast to the hue of near-tranquility that had painted itself beautifully across his pale, elegant features—so she resumes her place at his left, sitting side-saddle with her left hand propping her up and her legs curved comfortably behind him. She narrows her vision onto his profile—the pucker of his mouth, the acuate bridge of his nose, and the graceful sweep of his jaw—then lays down her query with dogged finality.

"Will you do something for me?"

"Name it," he vows in that inordinately earnest manner of his, his countenance brightening enough to keep the deceitful umbrages at bay, that she feels almost bad for asking. "Name it and it's done."

She tuts. "I can't promise it will make up for everything, and it certainly won't be easy."

"I'm used to the fight." There is no arrogance in his enunciation, only a steeliness and determination that is uniquely Zuko. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"You promise?"

"I swear it, on my uncle's life—my mother's, wherever she may be—my nation—"

"Your honor?"

He chuckles—a little broken, a little watery and not enough amusement—but does accede. "Especially on that."

"Then forgive yourself, Zuko." He drops the looking glass in shock, head abruptly swiveling towards her in a dazzling collision of blue and amber, though she does not cower—her own renowned stubbornness stoking her fortitude when she simply holds his scrutiny. "And live. Live to see your soldiers come home. Live to reunite families, to find your mother. Live long enough to create the peace you seek, and to revel in this new world you will help rebuild, help heal. Because Aang's going to save the world. But you? You're going to change it."

I hope I'm there with you when you do, she wants to say, for he may not be able to alter the past but the future—

The future will be his to shape.

So she blinks back the mysterious haze in her eyes and swallows against the lump in her throat, and teases him instead, "I mean, you're not half as useless as I thought you were after all, so you could definitely do it."

"Your vote of confidence is astounding," his inflection is wry, but she is an excellent student and he had fast become her favorite subject. She knows him, and sees the carefully cultivated rancor for the barrier that it is, hoarding all the anguish and the grief but all that overwhelming love, too, that he is so hesitant to give. And who could blame him? When he's been shunned to darkness for every moment he's attempted to part with his vulnerability. All that radiance too afraid to shine, and she wants to tell him to let the light in.

(If Aang won't kill Ozai then she will convince—not that it would take much—Toph to dig the deepest, murkiest, most rodent-infested hole for the monster who dared to smother his own son's flame.)

"And I guess," she toys with rescinding, then thinks better of it, trading banter for sincerity when she unfurls his still-clenched fist and slides her fingers in the spaces between his. "Maybe I like having you around."

And, oh, but there it is—the soaring of the dawn, and all the exaltation of new beginnings it brings with it, in the exquisite harmony of his golden gaze.

"So," he hums, twirling the tawny ringlet right by her collarbone round his pointer before tucking it behind her ear. She reels with the gesture, tilting into his space. "Forgive myself, huh?"

"And live, of course," she miffs, albeit wetly. "If not for yourself, then for your uncle who loves you dearly." She tips her chin up defiantly, daring him to contradict her. "For all of us, who love you dearly."

"Is that all?" He rolls his eyes but that elusive, frolic quirk toils with his lips. He inclines his head until their noses are but a scant few millimeters apart, buzzing impishly, "Anything else I can do?"

"Actually," she hems, stroking at a badly-hewn strand by his cheek with just a pinch of regret before resolving not to volunteer for the act of cutting his hair again in the foreseeable future. "There is." 

She bites her lip, wondering if she should request it at all before ultimately throwing caution to the wind. "We still have some time. Can we just pretend for a little while…" but no, the thought of ignoring the war even for a few minutes reeks too much of Lake Laogai so she amends. "Just stay here with me, please? Just—" 

She brings their joined hands to his chest where she can sense his heartbeat, as strong and as steady as the soul it vivifies. With the tip of her finger from her other hand, she traces the frame of his too-tense lips until it is slack with repose, trails a featherlight pathway to the outer ridges that make up the border of his scar. 

"Be quiet with me."

Those scorching orbs dance about her visage like the flickers of a candle—except he is more wax than flame when she cups his scabrous flesh, and he melts into her caress.

"I would do it just because you asked," he utters in the most dulcet of notes, and she is honored, for she recognizes the tenderness for the offering that it is. "Whatever happens out there, I'm glad it's you," he sighs, just once more. "I'm glad it's you with me."

"Together," she agrees, chin slumping onto his shoulder for purchase at the alluring giddiness his words incite. She is whirling, unmoored, until the digits of his own free hand anchor at the downy arch of her waist. He nudges, and she ebbs into a pool of untouchable calm on his lap, awash as she is in the current of him.

She closes her eyes, and when he follows suit, content to flow at her pace like he always does in return, a piece of her she hadn't even realized was aslant slots right into place.

They are hours away from the most important battle of their lives, one in which its outcome could very well destine the course of the next hundred years. Katara will not know the caliber of her entreaty, the importance of his promise, until the comet is at its zenith and her life is a paroxysmal brand seared across his middle like a supernova.

But for now, foreheads touching and their fingers seamlessly twined right above his vibrantly thrumming heart, she stows this moment beneath her ribcage, right in that war-untouched trove that pulses to the rhythm of his heart.

They are steeped in stillness, disrupted only by the din of the busy camp, and even that fades away as their breathing syncs.

Somewhere outside, the sun coasts along the heavens, beams of brilliance wrestling against its adumbrate prison. 

The clouds part, feeble rays snagging at the canvas archway of their shelter.

The light pours in.

The shadows recoil.

And together, they shine.

-//////-

AN: okay this was supposed to be an exercise in brevity and restraint but uh, i don't think i succeeded?? but given that my goal was less than 2k and we're clocking this in at 2.8k, all things considered, i see this as an absolute win lmao so if you would be so kind as to let me know if you liked it, that would be stupendous!

come say hi to me!

[theomnilegent]

2019 Upcoming LGBTQA Fiction I’m Excited For!

A new year, a new top nine for women-lead LGBT fiction I’m looking forward to reading! There are, of course, a great many more books than the nine I’ve chosen this time ‘round - I think I will eventually make a part two to this post. I am so, so happy to see that this year we have even more diversity, even more stories about characters from all walks of life, from different parts of the LGBTQA umbrella, and even more LGBT novels. I remember a time where it’d be hard to find more than two YA novels with LGBT themes published in a single year - and now we have so many amazing works coming out!

The themes for 2019 seem to be gay witches, space gays, and explorations of mental illness in the LGBT community. I am so excited to read stories about girls and magic! I am more excited to read stories about girls and love! And I am definitely excited to see multiple books seriously addressing the issues of mental illness in young lesbian and bisexual women - it is a serious topic that has often been glossed over in the past, and to see multiple works that want to tackle these issues, and the issues of toxic relationships, in a healthy way is refreshing. 

Below you’ll find titles, summaries, and goodreads links.

Laura Dean Keeps Breaking Up With Me by Mariko Tamaki Laura Dean, the most popular girl in high school, was Frederica Riley's dream girl: charming, confident, and SO cute. There's just one problem: Laura Dean is maybe not the greatest girlfriend. Reeling from her latest break up, Freddy's best friend, Doodle, introduces her to the Seek-Her, a mysterious medium, who leaves Freddy some cryptic parting words: break up with her. But Laura Dean keeps coming back, and as their relationship spirals further out of her control, Freddy has to wonder if it's really Laura Dean that's the problem. Maybe it's Freddy, who is rapidly losing her friends, including Doodle, who needs her now more than ever. Fortunately for Freddy, there are new friends, and the insight of advice columnists like Anna Vice to help her through being a teenager in love.

Starworld by Audrey Coulthurst & Paula Garner Sam Jones and Zoe Miller have one thing in common: they both want an escape from reality. Loner Sam flies under the radar at school and walks on eggshells at home to manage her mom’s obsessive-compulsive disorder, wondering how she can ever leave to pursue her dream of studying aerospace engineering. Popular, people-pleasing Zoe puts up walls so no one can see her true self: the girl who was abandoned as an infant, whose adoptive mother has cancer, and whose disabled brother is being sent away to live in a facility. When an unexpected encounter results in the girls’ exchanging phone numbers, they forge a connection through text messages that expands into a private universe they call Starworld. In Starworld, they find hilarious adventures, kindness and understanding, and the magic of being seen for who they really are. But when Sam’s feelings for Zoe turn into something more, will the universe they’ve built survive the inevitable explosion?

The Lost Coast by Amy Rose Capetta Danny didn't know what she was looking for when she and her mother spread out a map of the United States and Danny put her finger down on Tempest, California. What she finds are the Grays: a group of friends who throw around terms like queer and witch like they're ordinary and everyday, though they feel like an earthquake to Danny. But Danny didn't just find the Grays. They cast a spell that calls her halfway across the country, because she has something they need: she can bring back Imogen, the most powerful of the Grays, missing since the summer night she wandered into the woods alone. But before Danny can find Imogen, she finds a dead boy with a redwood branch through his heart. Something is very wrong amid the trees and fog of the Lost Coast, and whatever it is, it can kill. Lush, eerie, and imaginative, Amy Rose Capetta's tale overflows with the perils and power of discovery — and what it means to find your home, yourself, and your way forward.

Tell Me How You Really Feel by Aminah Mae Safi Sana Khan is a cheerleader and a straight A student. She's the classic (somewhat obnoxious) overachiever determined to win. Rachel Recht is a wannabe director who's obsesssed with movies and ready to make her own masterpiece. As she's casting her senior film project, she knows she's found the perfect lead - Sana. There's only one problem. Rachel hates Sana. Rachel was the first girl Sana ever asked out, but Rachel thought it was a cruel prank and has detested Sana ever since. Told in alternative viewpoints and inspired by classic romantic comedies, this engaging and edgy YA novel follows two strongwilled young women falling for each other despite themselves.

The Meaning of Birds by Jaye Robin Brown Before, Jessica has always struggled with anger issues, but come sophomore year that all changes when Vivi crashes into her life. As their relationship blossoms, Vivi not only helps Jess deal with her pain, she also encourages her to embrace her talent as an artist. And for the first time, it feels like the future is filled with possibilities. After In the midst of senior year, Jess’s perfect world is erased when Vivi suddenly passes away. Reeling from the devastating loss, Jess pushes everyone away, and throws out her plans to go to art school. Because art is Vivi and Vivi is gone forever. Desperate for an escape, Jess gets consumed in her work-study program, letting all of her dreams die. Until she makes an unexpected new friend who shows her a new way to channel her anger, passion, and creativity. Although Jess may never draw again, if she can find a way to heal and room in her heart, she just might be able to forge a new path for herself without Vivi.

The Weight of the Stars by K. Ancrum Ryann Bird dreams of traveling across the stars. But a career in space isn’t an option for a girl who lives in a trailer park on the wrong side of town. So Ryann becomes her circumstances and settles for acting out and skipping school to hang out with her delinquent friends. One day she meets Alexandria: a furious loner who spurns Ryann’s offer of friendship. After a horrific accident leaves Alexandria with a broken arm, the two misfits are brought together despite themselves—and Ryann learns her secret: Alexandria’s mother is an astronaut who volunteered for a one-way trip to the edge of the solar system. Every night without fail, Alexandria waits to catch radio signals from her mother. And its up to Ryann to lift her onto the roof day after day until the silence between them grows into friendship, and eventually something more...   

How It Feels To Float by Helena Fox Biz knows how to float. She has her people, her posse, her mom and the twins. She has Grace. And she has her dad, who tells her about the little kid she was, who loves her so hard, and who shouldn't be here but is. So Biz doesn't tell anyone anything. Not about her dark, runaway thoughts, not about kissing Grace or noticing Jasper, the new boy. And she doesn't tell anyone about her dad. Because her dad died when she was six. And Biz knows how to float, right there on the surface--normal okay regular fine. But after what happens on the beach--first in the ocean, and then in the sand--the tethers that hold Biz steady come undone. Dad disappears, and with him, all comfort. It might be easier, better, sweeter to float all the way away? Or maybe stay a little longer, find her father, bring him back to her. Or maybe--maybe maybe maybe--there's a third way Biz just can't see yet.

Going Off Script by Jen Wilde Seventeen-year-old Bex is thrilled when she gets an internship on her favorite tv show, Silver Falls. Unfortunately, the internship isn't quite what she expected... instead of sitting in a crowded writer's room volleying ideas back and forth, Production Interns are stuck picking up the coffee. Determined to prove her worth as a writer, Bex drafts her own script and shares it with the head writer―who promptly reworks it and passes it off as his own! Bex is understandably furious, yet...maybe this is just how the industry works? But when they rewrite her proudly lesbian character as straight, that's the last straw! It's time for Bex and her crush to fight back.

These Witches Don’t Burn by Isabel Sterling Hannah's a witch, but not the kind you're thinking of. She's the real deal, an Elemental with the power to control fire, earth, water, and air. But even though she lives in Salem, Massachusetts, her magic is a secret she has to keep to herself. If she's ever caught using it in front of a Reg (read: non-witch), she could lose it. For good. So, Hannah spends most of her time avoiding her ex-girlfriend (and fellow Elemental Witch) Veronica, hanging out with her best friend, and working at the Fly by Night Cauldron selling candles and crystals to tourists, goths, and local Wiccans. But dealing with her ex is the least of Hannah's concerns when a terrifying blood ritual interrupts the end-of-school-year bonfire. Evidence of dark magic begins to appear all over Salem, and Hannah's sure it's the work of a deadly Blood Witch. The issue is, her coven is less than convinced, forcing Hannah to team up with the last person she wants to see: Veronica. While the pair attempt to smoke out the Blood Witch at a house party, Hannah meets Morgan, a cute new ballerina in town. But trying to date amid a supernatural crisis is easier said than done, and Hannah will have to test the limits of her power if she's going to save her coven and get the girl, especially when the attacks on Salem's witches become deadlier by the day.

[elliemarchetti]

Raised by Wolves

Masterlist

Part 1

Words: 1621

Evangeline was the first to spot six small warship of the Lakeland armada ahead. It was less than they expected but they were still outnumbered, therefore she still didn’t feel like claim victory, but if it made her think: even with their own in balance, Queen Cenra hasn’t brought her full strength. Not that it was a news, since she hadn't done it for her own daughter either. That was the attitude of a true queen, a cold detachment even toward the people she cared for. Fortunately, Evangeline was no longer one nor she would ever be because she wouldn’t bear having to pretend up to that point, but there had been years in which she was trained to do so and a short, grueling time in which she had been betrothed to a king and then to another, and again to the first one, the worst time of her life. Perhaps Iris Cygnet's arrival in Norta saved her from a cruel fate that would’ve tied her to an even crueler man, a wild card that would never allow her to realize her plan like his older brother, but only the idea of having to be grateful to the Lakelander princess made a tickle of heat bursts through her, a tongue of angry fire down her spine. They were the ones who killed her father, not her. Until then, even if she had kept repeating it to herself, she hadn't truly believed it but seeing the ships and all that blue around them left no room for doubt in her heart. Was the constant motion that made it more difficult to keep her grip on her thoughts? She had to calm down and focus on the priorities: her father was gone and no outbursts of anger could bring him back, rather quite the opposite. If he had seen her at that moment, while trying in every way to look like a threat for anyone determined to analyze her expression and posture, he would have been proud of the warrior who had grown up. The words that Ptolemus had said to her the day before the abdication came back to her, vivid as if he was saying them at the moment. They always wanted to make us survivors, and they succeeded. He was right, they had succeeded very well and sometimes she hated them for this because she didn't want to be a survivor but simply a daughter loved for what she was, even in a place where she could be considered wrong. She was a disappointment and there were always consequences when someone disappointed Volo Samos, even for his own daughter, otherwise, what example would he have given? How could he have been a good teacher if he had always let her get away with everything? Truth was he never forgave her, not when it was something stupid and not even when it was the only thing she really wanted to be forgiven for. The bitter memories, difficult to bury in a moment like that, made her ask herself if maybe she should’ve never wrote that letter to Iris, if maybe she should’ve left that pile of bones in the Lakelands and the let the nymphs do with them whatever they wanted, but her father's obsession with family had planted a seed in her that blossomed only after his death. Sometimes she was glad for it, after all it had made the news of Ptolemus and Wren's wedding the next spring a joy and not a source of stress for the terror of losing him, other times it made her woke up from uneasy sleep with his last words still ringing in her ears, still with her whether she wanted it or not, making her uncomfortable for the whole day. Often in her dreams she saw the last interaction they had, the last childish chance she had given to Volo Samos to be a good father and that he hadn't caught. He had told her that she was his, just like yet another property, but Evangeline Samos belonged to no one but herself and had shown it a matter of minutes later, yet his words still hurt her and probably would never stop doing it, just like the sharp sound that sounded like a fraying, splintering shriek, similar to steel on steel or glass popping in the heat of flame, at the end of her nightmares where he dies on the bridge. Sometimes it was so awful that when she awoke abruptly she escaped from Elane's soft grip and went to look in the mirror to make sure that her eyes and ears weren’t bleeding. They never did. Her nightmares never existed beyond the cage of her head. She wondered if Cal also did the same kind of nightmares. After all, though under his stepmother's control, he had beheaded his father, his were the hands clutched on the sword, stained with his silver blood. In the end, one of the most terrible experiences tied her inextricably to the one to whom she had fought so hard not to be tied. But after all, didn't those who participated in that war have their hands dirty with the blood of someone they loved? To some extent, were they not all guilty of the death of their loved ones if they had decided to get their hands in that putrid and slimy swamp, both red and silver, that was war? She tried to focus on the waves again, each one a white crest of foam, to clean her mind but she started to think of the path laid out not before but behind, like always when she was alone. In Montfort, the life she had always wanted awaited: a job for her and Elane, a happy life, to look after Ptolemus and Wren’s children and perhaps they could even adopt an orphan of the war they had fought, yet another act of redemption for which no one would’ve given them a medal, and surely would’ve never made her feel less guilty. Elane didn’t have blood on her hands as much as she did but she had disappointed her family almost the same way. Perhaps, in the future, a child could’ve made her happy and remove the veil of sadness that covered her eyes when she crossed the Barrows even if it was not a replacement for the siblings she had lost, just like Evangeline, Ptolemus, Wren and all the friends who surely she could’ve made in Ascendant weren’t. How far she had gone to stand on the prow of a ship, an ordinary woman with the spray of salt water drying on her skin. What she sacrificed, the people she left behind, willingly or not, dead, abandoned or betrayed, the terrible things she had done and let be done in her name, nothing in vain. Provided that the Lakelanders kept their word about a peaceful exchange. And even if she died, she would die being herself, doing what she knew was right, fighting alongside the people she loved. If things went wrong she hoped that Ptolemus, Elane and Mare could escape, even if she doubted that any of them would leave her behind, Barrow included, or that Iris didn’t want to take revenge on the little lightning girl. She almost laughed thinking about that nickname that belonged to a past life, more comfortable but in cotton wool that hid sharp pins ready to pierce her. Mare Barrow was no longer an easily maneuverable girl and neither was Evangeline. They had changed so much with time that she was even grateful to have met her. If she had never fallen down from that dome, wrapped in lightning, nothing would’ve changed and she would never have been who she wanted to be. Of course she had hated her, perhaps more than anyone else, especially when she found out what she really was, and she even tried to maniple her against her own interests whenever she saw the right circumstances like every one of her ancestors ever did  with their enemies, but it was an old story, a book she would’ve gladly burned if she could. Of course her dead brother was never too far from her thoughts. Surely she missed him, a permanent ache, a dull pain, like a missing finger or a shortness of breath. Evangeline had had a taste of it too many times, for her liking. Nothing would’ve been the same if Ptolemus had died and she knew the weight of the promise she had made her do was heavy but it was the only way to save him, to spare herself what she knew she always felt. Mare Barrow could’ve been her friend but one from whom she would always have to watch her back. There was no sadness or anger in that thought, she was just telling the crude truth, an unchangeable fact if not with the possibility of going back in time and doing it all over again. If only she could she wouldn’t have been there, trying to exchange her father's bones with prisoners that their families would’ve been barely able to recognize, given the torture they had to endure. If there had been other whispers it would’ve been easier, or perhaps Norta would’ve continued to be a terrible place, with the danger of repeating what had happened to the Calore brothers, or maybe they could have helped Maven be a different person. Evangeline could read it in Cal and Mare's eyes, regret for the possibility that something could be done to save the person they loved. She wouldn’t end like them. If, perhaps, maybe, they were all terrible words and she would no longer live under their rule.

[yehet-me-up]

A Truth Universally Acknowledged - Chapter One

Pairing (this chapter): Junmyeon x Reader (female) 

Genre: Jane Austen-inspired, Regency fun + angst 

Rating: PG (this chapter)

Word Count: 5,296

Summary: A chance meeting brings a handsome, charming man named Jun into your life and your heart. But as your family gets used to their new life after a scandalous loss of money and status, the obstacles between the two of you stack up. 

Moodboard by @gingersaysjump​ A GODDESS, TRULY 😍 

A/N: I’m indebted to Shanae and Kat @yeoldontknow​​ for support and plotting with me and for fanning the flames of this series. 💕😘

Story Masterlist

The meal is half finished by the time your father finally joins the breakfast table; ambling and struggling to remain proud even in the face of ruin. 

He sits down at the head of the table like the king of a crumbling country, lost and diminished with lack of purpose.

Your mother watches him anxiously, her toast abandoned on her plate as she takes in his drawn brow. He clutches a letter in his hand, his mouth thinning to a tight line.

Across the table, you and your sister meet each other’s gaze. She chews anxiously on her bottom lip and you give her a small shrug of surrender. Since word came out that your family’s fortune was lost in a series of bad investments, the news of your fate has felt like a sword hanging above your head.

But now, apparently, the sword has fallen.

Your father clears his throat. ‘John has written to me.’ The words stretch out into a pause.

With a noise of frustration your mother drops her glass to the table. ‘And?’

He can’t meet her eyes, staring at the unfolded paper in his hand. ‘The house has been purchased. And at ten percent over what we asked for.’

Your sister raises her brow. ‘Why on earth would someone pay more?’

He clears his throat, awkwardly looking out the wide dining room window to the lush garden beyond. ‘We... came to an agreement.’

Dread settles low in your stomach. Whatever this agreement is, you have a sickening feeling it involves you.

‘As Mary and Daniel will be coming with your mother and I to Bath, the house will be lacking proper help,’ he says softly, ashamed. ‘The new owner inquired as to whether my daughters would be willing to remain at the house under his employ. Your room and board will be provided for.’

Your sister stands, fire in her eyes. She slams her palms on the thick wood table. She is a spark, always a roaring blaze, while you are the embers, burning hot beneath the surface, consuming yourself with indignation.

‘You mean he offered us the gracious opportunity to be servants in our own home? And you accepted?’ She demands sharply, rooting out the truth with a voice like a knife. 

Next to you, your mother drops her head into her hands, quietly weeping. ‘How could you?’ she pleads. 

When she looks up her cheeks are shiny with tears. ‘How will our daughters ever find husbands now Richard? What will become of them?’

He straightens, trying to regain some of his pride. ‘It seemed the best situation… for all.’

Your mother and sister scoff but all you can do is stare at the way the light glints off the water in your cup in front of you. Sadness settles over you, heavy and resigned, and you try to find something positive to cling to. 

‘This is humiliating,’ your sister hisses. She folds her arm and goes to stand at the window, radiating shame and heat.

‘We have hardly enough money for your mother and I to live. There is not enough to- you would have had to support yourself somehow anyway. There are still those in this village who are sympathetic to us. It seemed... the best solution.’

‘What about Bradley?’ your sister asks. The fact that your brother is able to work a respectable job and earn his own living is a wedge between him and you two.

‘Your brother will remain here in town, as well,’ he says. ‘The Allens have consented to let him sleep in the back room of the shop, in exchange for some extra work he will do from now on.’

Silence falls in the room. 

Finally you speak, resigned to this fate. ‘When?’

Everyone turns to your father. ‘Well. Your mother and I are essentially packed. The furniture, the art, most of the clothes will remain here with the house or be sold to appease our debts.’

‘We can’t even take our clothes?’ your sister demands. Her one true love is fashion and this must cut her deep.

He raises a hand. ‘Now, now darling. You can select three gowns to take with you to the servant’s quarters. That should be plenty. And Mary has a few spare work dresses she can leave behind for you and your sister.’

She glares at him, resembling a snake, spitting venom. ‘When? A month? A week?’

Your father pauses, rubbing his eyes. He looks as old as time itself when he finally looks around the table. ‘Tomorrow.’

The word is akin to a punch in your gut and you gasp. It’s drowned out by your mother and sister speaking in unison.

He makes a noise like a bear. ‘Your mother and I will depart in the morning. The two of you will move into the servants cottage tomorrow and begin preparing the house for the new tenant. Anna will be staying here, she will show you what to do.’

‘I’ll be meeting him later today to formalize the papers with the clerk.’ Message delivered, he slumps back in his chair. The last of his kingdom gone.

The wounded pride, your family name tarnished, you could tolerate. What use have you for the opinions of the small-minded people in town, as long as those you love are happy and in good health?

But the sight of him like this, broken and hollow, undoes you. Robs you of the naive hope you’ve kept hidden in your heart for weeks. That somehow this was all a joke. That it would somehow be fine. 

The stories you read had built up in your mind a fervent hope in divine intervention. A distant relative who would take you in. A gift from a wealthy friend who takes pity on you. A fairy godmother or a magical witch to grant your deepest wishes.

But as you listen to the sounds of baking through the open kitchen door, you know it is well and truly over. Neither of your parents have siblings of means. Your best friend, Maggie, has to work as a seamstress to help her husband’s meager income. Fairies and witches only exist between the pages of books.

No one is coming to rescue you. 

Your parents will be far away. Any hope you had of a life spent in the gardens - reading and laughing with your sister and Maggie - is dashed. Freedom leeches from your life and you find it suddenly very hot in the room.

Soon, you will be forced to marry to survive, whoever will take you. Either that or spend your days working in the kitchens, scrubbing pots and floors and pillow cases until your fingers grow old with age. 

‘I’m coming with you,’ your sister says harshly. ‘I want to look this man in the eyes before you sign our fates away.’

He waves a hand listlessly in agreement. Despair roars in your chest and you stand abruptly, chair clattering to the floor behind you.

‘I’m sorry, I have to- I can’t breathe,’ you say, heart thundering in your chest.

You turn and rush through the entry to the kitchen, your father calling after you. But you don’t stop as you run through the back door out into the yard. The chill of winter is finally melting from the earth and it cools your skin as you run like a woman possessed.

The length of your dress threatens to trip you and you gather the fabric in your arms with an uncharacteristic growl of frustration. Frustration at the stupid material, impeding your desperate run. Frustration at your father and mother for what feels like abandonment. Frustration at the men in your family for losing your very livelihood. 

Frustration at whoever purchased Springwoods for offering this ludicrous arrangement. He must be an old man, you think savagely, as you leave the neatly trimmed garden of your family’s home and enter the wild field beyond.

The path through the expansive, unclaimed territory at the edge of the town leads to a small hill and you dash up it as though salvation is at the top. 

An old man with a miserable wife and several greedy children. You hate them all already with a fire you didn’t know you possessed.

The vitriol of your thoughts makes you stop and catch your breath. You drop to your knees in the long grass with surrender. 

No, you shake your head. No matter how horrible this feels, you vow to not let circumstances turn you cruel, mean, and bitter. 

For long moments you breathe, savoring the sweet smell in the air. It must have rained last night while you slept, for the air is rich and full with the scent of earth and the ground is damp beneath your palms. 

You wish it would rain again; cleanse the world back to what it was before the news of your family’s ruin. But the sky is clear and the sun shines tauntingly through the white clouds. 

If the world refuses to offer you relief, you’ll give it to yourself. Underneath the great tree at the top of the hill you allow the tears to fall. Up here there’s no one but the wind to hear your sobs.  

Just when you begin to wonder if there are no more miracles in the world, you see something that feels positively magical.

On your left you hear barking and you watch as a large golden-brown dog comes barreling up to you. Your mouth falls open with surprise as the creature reaches you. 

He pants, his tongue to the side. His mouth pulls back in what you would consider a smile if he were human.

‘Well, hello there,’ you say with a laugh. He roots himself under one of your arms, wiggling to settle himself against you. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.’

You giggle when he looks up at you, eyes wide with innocence. Without hesitation you begin to pet his head. He closes his eyes and makes a rumbling noise of pleasure that melts your heart.

‘Where did you come from, little love?’ you ask him around the thickness in your throat.

He lifts his head and his tail starts to wag, thumping against your side and back. You see what he’s excitedly watching - a man is making his way up the hill. 

A noise of surprise leaves you. You can’t help it, this man looks like an angel or a God; something powerful and radiant, impossible and otherworldly.

His black hair sweeps messily across his forehead in the wind. The white shirt and black pants he wears fit him perfectly. He must have some money, then, if he can afford such nice, tailored garments. 

He’s not from here, though; you absolutely would have remembered meeting him. He seems to have appeared suddenly from your imagination. His face is open and unbelievably handsome in a way that makes you smooth your free hand through your hair self-consciously.

When he reaches you and your new furry companion, he laughs. The sound is melodic and deep, reaching down to your bones.

‘There you are, you rascal,’ he says to the dog with amusement in his warm, dark eyes. ‘I see you’ve made a new friend.’

His attention turns to you and heat blooms in your face under his gentle scrutiny. There are several boys in town you entertained a fancy for growing up, but none of them made you feel this way - the way the air feels heavy and dangerous when a storm is brewing. 

But this is not a boy, you think. This is a man. 

To avoid embarrassing yourself further you turn away, wiping at the tears on your cheeks with the back of your hand.

From the edge of your vision you see him sit next to you, leaning his head on one elbow and stretching his legs out in front of him. He does it casually, as though he happens upon women crying in the wild every day. 

You sniffle, hating how small and fragile it sounds.

‘I think our new friend is sad, Oliver,’ he says softly, petting the dog’s head. ‘I wonder if there is anything we can do to help her.’

When you turn back to him he’s looking up at you with warmth and compassion. The sincerity and honesty of him is readily apparent.

‘You already did, just by being here,’ you answer, attempting a small smile.

He smiles broadly and you think of the stars, shining on a clear summer night. You think of him as a creature from the forest beyond this field, sent by magic to come and whisk you away from your fate. 

You imagine him riding away with you on a great white horse like some knight of old. In this moment you’d go wherever he wanted to take you.

‘No one should be alone when they are crying,’ he says gently.

His mouth tugs to the side, his thick brows pull together. He looks as though he speaks from experience and you wonder what sadness has visited his life.

Against reason you feel instinctively protective of him. Something in his nature is too open, too ready to help, and you feel a desire to shield him from everyone in the world that would take advantage of him.

Oliver shakes himself before resting his head on your knee, looking at you and begging you to pet him. You chuckle and wind your fingers through the soft fur at his neck. 

The man laughs, the rich sound spreading along your skin like a balm. ‘Sorry about him, he’s a bit… wild. He’s not used to being in the company of beautiful ladies.’

He fights the tug of his lips as he watches you. His words undress you with his boldness, warm your heart and make your chest feel pleasantly heavy.

‘Untamed, wild things are the best of all, I think,’ you answer confidently, leaning back on your own elbow, mirroring his pose.

Oliver stretches out in response, sticking his nose in between the fabric at your knees and huffing. The man sighs. It’s impossible to tear your focus away from the playful glint in his eyes, the comfort you feel around him wholly unprecedented

He raises a brow and cocks his head, considering. ‘Yes, I think you are absolutely right.’ He smiles at you like the two of you now share a secret. 

If he were Joseph, the barrister your mother has been shoving you towards for years, he’d turn the conversation to matters of politics. If he were Lord Clarke, he’d bore you to tears with tales of his days at sea with the Navy. If he were your brother Bradley, he’d make some inappropriate joke to get a rise out of you. 

But he proves himself to be an unexpected kind of man.

‘Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave…’ he says dreamily, looking up at the swaying branches of the great tree before meeting your focus once again.

This time there’s a heat, a knowing, in his expression that feels like the time you burned yourself on a candle. But this burn is far more pleasant.

You laugh with joy and surprise, the grief and anguish from an hour ago feel acres away from you. 

It occurs to you to remember your manners. You should sit up, straighten your dress; ask after his name, his family, his occupation. But up here, above the town, slightly damp and dirty, amongst the wind and the unruly grass, you can’t find it in you to care. 

‘You like Keats?’

He nods. ‘I prefer Lord Byron, myself. But I can’t deny the beauty of Keats.’

Delight flares in your chest. ‘I adore Byron, the scoundrel. ‘Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.’’

He smiles and hums, satisfied at something. The sun breaks through the clouds and he follows it, watching as it dances along the folds of your dress down to the sliver of exposed skin at your ankle.

You should find your dignity and cover it. He should stop looking. But neither of you move. 

He breathes deeply and you watch as the motion moves the fabric of his shirt. Absently you wonder what his skin would be like beneath your lips. If it would be as warm and soft as it looks.

The bell in town distantly sounds the hour and you both jolt; the spell is broken. You tuck your legs under you, feeling as though a pitcher of cold water has been poured over your head.

The wildness in his eyes is hidden safely away when he looks back to you. ‘I’m sorry, I have an appointment in town I cannot miss.’

You nod sadly, wishing you could stay here forever. ‘I should get back to-’ you start, unable to give voice to the tangle of circumstances that await you back home. ‘I should get back.’

He stands, dusting himself off. Oliver stirs, raising himself and running in a lazy circle around his master. 

The man moves closer, offering you his hands. Something warns you not to touch him. Warns you that once you know what his palms feel like against yours, the sensation will haunt you all the rest of your days.

Ignoring reason, you reach for him with a recklessness born of longing. He clasps his hands around yours and pulls you upright. You stare at him and savor the heat and the roughness of him against you, unwilling and unable to release him.

His thumbs lightly stroke the top of your hands; a thrilling and foreign sensation builds in you. The way he watches you reminds you of the cover of a book you saw, hidden away in the back of the shop. Swirls of reds and oranges. A couple in an embrace. Hands and lips and nakedness and everything forbidden and raw and sensual you had longed to know.

Your rational mind reminds you of your family, waiting for you, mourning and broken. You take a step back, dropping your hands and regarding him with surprise and a tinge of fear. 

This is a dangerous thing. And you cannot afford the luxury of danger.

You curtsy for him, trying to remember how you are supposed to act. ‘Good day, sir.’

He frowns, shaken. But his good breeding takes over and he bows to you formally in return, dissonant with the lawless nature sprawling around you.

‘Good day, miss,’ he says politely in return. ‘I hope to see you again.’

Swallowing all the desperate and foolish things you with to say to him, you simply nod. Before you can do something truly reckless you turn and hurry down the hill.

‘Wait, I forgot to get your name!’ he calls out, sounding desperate.

You turn and don’t fight the smile that graces your lips. You shout your name to him and he reaches a hand in the air, pretending to catch it and tuck it in his breast pocket.

‘My name is Jun,’ he shouts back and you mimic his motion, pretending to hold his name in your hand.

For long seconds you hold his gaze, once again wishing you could leave with him and never return. When you turn from his sight you imagine hiding his name away inside your chest.

The walk back to your house feels effortless, as though you are floating on air. A giddy lightness lives in your heart alongside his name and refuses to abandon you.

You skip breakfast and stay in bed the next morning for as long as you can, savoring the softness and comfort of your bed, knowing you won’t sleep in it again. 

When you cannot delay any further you rise and dress yourself in a simple purple dress and plain shoes. 

With a heavy heart you pack two more dresses, one plain and blue, the other white and finer, into a square of fabric with some underclothes. Along with that you add a pair of sturdier walking shoes, the essentials you need for your hygiene, and your favorite book of stories. 

Once the task is complete you linger to make the bed, straightening the already tidy room, and to stare out the small window out at the garden and the field beyond. 

You sigh. Yesterday you felt magic in your fingertips, that around Jun anything was possible. 

Today, by yourself, you feel small and human and fragile. As though you are already fading away in the background of his house. 

‘Time to go,’ you say to yourself, to the room that is no longer yours. 

Gathering the corners of the fabric together, you pull the small bundle into your arms. In the hallway you find your sister with a similar pile of fabric and items.

‘I don’t care what he says, I’m taking four dresses,’ she says, indignant and regal, like a queen. 

You laugh, reassured that even though everything has changed, you still have each other. 

The departure of your parents is strained and emotional, but neither you nor your sister cry as they drive off. You’ll need all the strength you have to face the days ahead and it wouldn’t do to break down now.

Once their carriage disappears around the bend you go to set up your meager possessions in the small corner of the servant’s cottage. Two beds and a small closet to share now belong to you and your sister. A short few minutes later you head off to the house to begin your new life as servants. 

The two of you find Anna, the housekeeper, in the kitchen inventorying the food. Lucy, a woman in her early twenties and a close friend of you and your sister, gives you a nod as she kneads a mound of dough. 

Aside from Anna, the only members of the staff left are Frederick the butler, promoted from footman at Daniel’s departure, and Lucy, a kitchenmaid who is now the head cook of the house with Mary gone.

Anna notices you both standing there. ‘Good morning ladies. We all know the state of affairs here,’ she says with characteristic bluntness. 

‘Your father told me the new family is bringing a ladies maid. So, one of you will help out in the kitchens with the cooking and one of you will need to tidy the rooms and do the laundry. It’s up to you to decide, I know you’re both capable young ladies.’

You and your sister look at each other and both start talking at the same time. 

‘Well, obviously -’ ‘Of course, I’d-’

She laughs and looks at Anna. ‘I’ll cook and she’ll clean.’

‘Exactly,’ you say in agreement, a smile pulling at your lips.

Everyone knows you’re an awful cook and she’s messier than a hoard of wild animals. Anna chuckles and rolls her eyes. Maybe this won’t be so awful, you think with a small candle of hope in your heart.

‘What time are they arriving?’ you ask Anna, already imagining the dozens of things that must need to be done.

‘They’ll be here for dinner.’ She says before waving a hand at you both. ‘Go on, get out of the house. Enjoy the day. Lucy and I have the meals for today. The house is in fine state. We can start on your duties tomorrow morning,’ she says with a wink.

‘Let’s go to the market, shall we?’ your sister asks, a light in her eyes you haven’t seen in weeks.

The air in the town is hot and close, crowded with shoppers and sellers. You and your sister cling to each other until you pass through to one of the quieter side streets. 

Neither of you are inclined toward melancholy. Despite the change in fortune and status, you’re both determined to enjoy yourselves.

‘Hmm, what shall we buy today?’ she muses, knowing full well neither of you can afford a single thing.

Always ready to play a game, you join her. ‘Let’s buy another horse for our extravagant carriage. Perhaps some jewel-encrusted slippers for the next ball.’

She laughs, squeezing your arm. A shop selling ribbons, bows, and other assorted fabric is just ahead. She dashes inside and unfurls a length of long pink ribbon from a display, wrapping it around her waist dramatically.

‘And I shall buy a new dress, the most lavish and expensive one we can find,’ she says, fanning her lashes and pouting her lips absurdly. 

You laugh so hard you almost snort and clasp your hand to your mouth. She fixes the ribbon and twines her arm through yours again, pulling you forward, cackling happily in your ear.

On days like these the loneliness and drudgery of country life seems far away and manageable. On days like these, when the sun is shining and there are reasons to laugh, life seems downright idyllic.

The two of you round a corner and the sight of a pair of men up ahead makes your heart leap into your throat.

Though he’s cleaned up a bit, one of the men is definitely Jun. Color rises in your cheeks at the sight of him, the way his lips pout as he speaks to his companion. 

He laughs, reaching a hand to the other man’s arm in delight. This man wears the standard red and gold military dress, highlighting the auburn tint to his hair. Jun is much more formally attired today in white trousers, polished leather boots, and a high-collared, deep blue shirt, confirming your suspicion that he has money. 

His eyes crinkle in the corners and your stomach flips with something hot and untamable. You freeze to the spot and your sister tugs on your arm.

‘What? What is it?’ your sister asks, looking around.

You pull her back slightly around the corner so you can observe. ‘That man, up ahead. That’s the one I met yesterday. Jun,’ you say, unable to help your grin when you say his name.

She turns and scans the crowd before frowning. ‘Oh no. Him? In the blue shirt?’ 

You frown in confusion at the intense dislike in her voice and follow her gaze. ‘Certainly you can’t dislike Jun?’ you ask, searching her face for signs she’s joking. ‘He must be new to town, what can he have done?’

Aside from Jun and his friend the only other people on the street are women and children shopping for food at the grocers across the way.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the gentleman in the blue shirt - I met him yesterday,’ she points, none too discreetly, to Jun. Her intense bright eyes brook no laughter. ‘That is Lord Junmyeon Kim, the man who has purchased Springwoods from us.’

‘Oh.’ Your whole being sags in disappointment against the stone wall. 

Already your foolish and impetuous heart had fantasized about seeing him again. Last night, when you told your sister about the things he said, the way he made you feel, you’d felt brighter than the moon shining in the sky.

But if he is the new owner of your family estate, then there are several monumental obstacles between you now. While he is no old man, he might be mean and dreadful underneath his cheerful exterior. 

When he realizes you are not only a servant, but a servant in his very home, he will certainly never take you seriously. You clasp your hands together at your chest to stifle your dismay. How on earth can you face him now?

‘And so we meet again,’ comes a warm male voice to your right.

You turn, gasping in surprise when you see Jun and his companion standing next to you. You were so distracted you didn’t even hear them approach. 

He’s fighting a smile again, his lips twitching at catching you off guard.

‘Hello again, Lord Kim,’ your sister says pointedly, curtsying to him. ‘May I introduce you to my sister?’

You grit your teeth and follow her lead, forcing yourself to keep your emotion locked inside as you curtsy to the new Master of Springwoods. Your hope and joy at his presence turns to embarrassment in the pit of your stomach as you straighten to look at him.

He looks to your sister and falters, his attention darting between the two of you, no doubt putting things together. His easy, open expression draws back into something confused. After a beat he bows to you both.

‘Pleasure to see you again, ladies,’ he says, resigned, brows pulled together. ‘You must be Lord Hayward’s youngest daughter then?’ 

You nod. The moment stretches out while you get lost in his eyes once more. You wish there was some way to undo this moment and return you to the purity and lightness of yesterday on the hill. No doubt he realizes how lowly you are in comparison to him and wants nothing further to do with you. Given the circumstances, you shouldn’t want anything to do with him, either.

Blessedly, you're all saved by the military man.

He bows. 'Don't worry, I'll introduce myself,' he says gamely. 'My name is Colonel Kim Minseok. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies.' 

The corners of his mouth tip up like a cat and you feel your sister grab at your elbow like you've always done when trying to discreetly get each other's attention.

There's something playful and mischievous in his face and you look between the two of them. Your sister's cheeks color and she bites her lip. As always, she is able to recover and cut through awkward situations with grace.

'So, what brings the two of you to the market today?' she asks the Colonel in an attempt at conversation.

'Ah, well. My friend Jun here is new to the life of a Lord and I decided he simply must stop dressing like some retired military scoundrel and look the part,' he says, motioning to a shop up the road.

'Oooh, I love Taylor and Sons,' your sister exclaims, clasping her hands together in delight.

She takes a step towards the Colonel and asks how a military man came to be have such exquisite taste in fashion. In the space left by the pair of them you and Jun regard each other.

‘And how are you today... Lord Kim?’ You hope he can’t see the way you knead your palm with your thumb in the folds of your dress, doing your best to stay composed. 

He winces. 'Please, call me Jun.' His expression implores you, attempting to draw you back into his warmth.

But if your mother bred nothing else into you, she always encouraged you to be polite and formal. Though she could never curb your wild and imaginative nature, you can't help but follow her lessons on decorum. It gives you the feeling of being in control in spite of your aching heart, and you cling to it.

'I think we had better remain on formal terms, Lord Kim, given our mutual statuses,' you say softly.

'Please, if we could -' he starts, reaching a hand to the space between you, seeming saddened at thought.

But something behind him catches your attention and he stops speaking to look at what caused the sudden change in your mood.

Your older brother Bradley steps out of the men’s club opposite you, looking far more disheveled than usual, especially given the early hour. He looks awful, hair matted and eyes hollow, a large stain on his shirt.

He darts a calculating look up and down the street before turning up his collar and hurrying off. It's such an odd moment you can hardly believe it's the same person you've known all your life.

'Do you know that man?' Jun asks, perplexed. 

If he was gambling... Gods, how much more trouble can this family cause in one week, you think with a sigh. An instinct to preserve what is left of your family’s reputation makes you move.

'Sister, we must go,' you call to her abruptly, interrupting her conversation and stepping forward to grasp her clothed elbow.

She looks at you with confusion, as do Lord Kim and Colonel Minseok. 'Now?'

'Yes, now,' you say, trying to convey to her the urgency of the moment with a look. 'Please.'

With a sad look to the Colonel she nods and winds her arm through yours. 'Well, it's been a pleasure Colonel.' She smiles at him and her mouth sours with tension when she looks at Jun. 'Lord Kim.'

The last thing you see as you pull her back towards the direction Bradley went is the unguarded expression of longing on Jun's face as he watches you hurry away.

[sending-the-message]

Lila by emareil

The baby didn’t cry at all when it was handed to me, it just stared up at me with its wide, blue eyes.

There was noise all around me, the child’s mother was crying, or moaning, but her words burred together into one unintelligible stream of sound that I filtered out. The baby blinked, a fringe of black eyelashes brushed its cheek and I shook my head- in the moment of clarity before the baby’s eyes opened and entranced me again.

The gaze seemed to me, completely aware and oddly complacent- as if the child had trusted itself to me, to my arms. The mother, Angeline- I think her name was reached out for her baby, but I stepped back from her grasp- unkind perhaps, but I couldn’t muster a single ounce of sympathy for the woman writhing before me. I despised her for what she had put the child through.

She would die soon, I imagined- but again, I felt only relief. I checked the baby in my arms, the child was shaking; convulsing- its frantic movements mirrored the mother’s.

The baby was female. Her skin was warm against mine, feverish. I hummed softly and bent down to bring my own eyes level with the mother’s.

“I want my,” The woman hissed at me. Sweat beaded her forehead and her hair was matted around her head. Detached, I watched the spit fall from her mouth as she struggled to speak. “I change- I don’t.”

I cut the contemptible woman off. “No.” Compared to her raspy vowels my own voice was pure and unusually forceful.

The baby shook against me; the child had been born addicted to whatever vile substances the mother had forced through her clotted veins. A horrible cruelty, I thought, to subject someone so innocent, so utterly defenseless to torture at the hand of one’s own despicable cravings. I stood up, and fixed the warm cotton blanket around the child.

“You know what the agreement was. I’ve fulfilled my end.” I made my voice soft, for the baby’s sake, but the power was still there. The woman drew away from me, cringing into the filthy ground of her apartment. A beer bottle rolled across the floor as she knocked into it.

“You promised,” The woman tried to raise her head, but gave up. It made a heavy thunking sound as it hit the ground. “I’m not, my life isn’t what...”

I ignored her, and stepped around her prone body towards the door. If she had false hopes, then they were her problems. I didn’t even bother trying to assuage her doubts, she was to weak to do anything, and I had paid her the money she’d asked for anyways.

The mother tried again, “You can’t… You won’t”

“I will.” I told her, allowing an edge of steel to creep into my words. The baby, the little girl was mine now.

I called her Lila, the short form of a traditional name in my mother language- shortened because I didn’t want her ridiculed by the children in her classes. I knew children could be cruel.

She was a beautiful child, special somehow, as if the fates were compensating for the trial of her first days. I never came to regret the adoption, as unorthodox as it was; Lila was my only light in the world.

When I’d brought her home, I’d held her to me, skin to skin against my chest and sang to her until she’d stopped trembling. I couldn’t feed her myself, of course, and I couldn’t bear to get her a wet nurse- to give the job of sustaining my baby to some other woman. Besides, I couldn’t stomach the thought of some alien girl’s bodily fluids coursing through my own child.

I bought her best nourishment money could buy, and I gave her what no one else could; my undivided attention and unconditional love. I had enough money, more then enough, to spend every single second with her. I never tired of my baby, the way other mothers might have. I had lost enough to realize how lucky I was; every moment with Lila was a blessing.

Her mother had had brown eyes, with ugly dilated pupils and bloodshot veins marring the whites of them. The father was unknown- any number of philandering men could have donated half of my baby’s genetic makeup. The doctors had told me that eyes darkened over time- but that was never the case. Four years later, Lila’s eyes were even more stunningly blue, and her hair was dark and wavy against pale cream skin.

The doctors had also said she could face any number of symptoms; from sudden death to attention defects, to delayed and stunted growth to mental retardation. I should have paid less money for their council.

I was my daughter’s guardian, I watched over her, helped her learn, taught her to read and write, and to solve problems and form conclusions. I watched as she played in the bath, and I sang to her every night- protective lullabies against whatever evils the mother may have lashed to her fate.

Lila was gifted, by far the brightest out of all her classmates. Her school was a private one that advertised the best facilities in our city- one with teachers that loved their jobs and a big list of successful alumni. I doubted that it was the facility alone that had produced the fame and fortune of their graduates, but rather, the bar of excessive wealth that gatekept the progeny of the less fortunate.

My own wealth was a huge aid in the world, an untimely inheritance that I had never felt I deserved. I had privileges that the vast majority of society never would- Lila had been legally mine six months before she was even born. She had privileges too. I’d enrolled her in the stupid pedigreed elementary school full of stupid children from ridiculously affluent backgrounds, after all.

But wealth wasn’t everything, because Lila’s biological mother hadn’t had a penny in the world- at least not before she’d met me. Lila’s biological father was, presumably, equally bereft. Still, Lila had had full reading comprehension while most of her classmates struggled to read single words.

Today we sat together on the couch in our home, her head against my chest and her legs tucked up besides me.

“Mama,” Lila had said, reminding me of the first word she’d ever spoken. She hadn’t cried at all as a baby, and she hadn’t babbled, just watched me until she’d been able to model my own words, to call me Mama in a pretty sing-song voice that had sent a thrill of pride through me.

“Yes darling?” I brushed some of her hair away from her face and tried to imagine what she would look like as a grown woman.

“Will you swim with me tonight?”

She’d always loved the water, something that brought me great relief. I missed the beaches and the glittering waters of my home. Although we were far from the beach, I was glad she could still appreciate the pool I’d had built with the house.

I agreed easily and poked her in the side, prompting her to tell me about her day.

We talked about all of her feelings in depth, and she was angry because the children in her class were boring and self absorbed. She was frustrated because the classes moved too slowly for her.

I called the school while I prepared dinner- they would move her up two grades. She was mature enough not to be stunted socially, and the coursework was advanced enough for her.

Lila was twelve when she came home from dance class upset. She never cried, but I could read it in her posture, in the tense way she carried herself and the shallow breaths she pulled in. I poured her a glass of water from the fridge and passed it too her, motioning for her to sit besides me on the couch.

We sat in silence for a while, and I looked at her. She was my proudest accomplishment, my baby, my daughter and my only light in the world. She looked like me now; we both had black hair and strong bone structures. Her face was symmetrical, a product, I thought, of a good childhood. It took the body a great deal of energy to grow symmetrically, and symmetry was an indicator of health and ample resources during the growth periods. She was softer then me, though, a gentler beauty whereas I was regal and harsh. I was proud of that too.

She also danced with an elegance that was unusual amongst her awkward, prepubescent peers. Already, she carried herself with the grace of a young woman, with a quiet confidence that set her apart.

“Do you think Fermat’s principle is prophetic?” She broke my reflective silence.

I didn’t share her love for all things physics, but I kept up with her because I loved our conversations. I furrowed my brow, worried.

“No, and neither do you.”

Her love for the sciences and math’s had never been philosophical in nature; she delighted in the purity and in the fixed properties of physics.

“What’s bothering you?”

Lila was silent a beat longer. “Did you date?”

I laughed now, relieved. Boys bothered everyone.

I had attracted men as a teenager, a lot, and a new suitor every week. My family’s status had been fortunate (perhaps unfortunately) enough to merit undue attention from men older, and far more mature then me- an impressionable child.

“Not at all. Romantic relationships are never worth it.” I said, trying to keep my tone light. Lila looked relieved, she confessed she didn’t share the shallow attractions her friends obsessed over.

I was relieved too, and it flooded my body like an ocean of reassurance. I feared the corrupting influence of teenage boys. Perhaps I was overprotective, but they disgusted me, and I had my own reasons.

It had been my own heart that had brought devastation to my family. Bored with my life, and my duties as an heiress I’d allowed myself to be charmed by the first man to show me sustained attention and had abandoned my family to be his wife. My father had died soon after- and I hadn’t even made it to his deathbed. Our marriage hadn’t been happy- and we’d both grown idle- as the obscenely rich did.

Affair after affair had followed, and I- for all of my ambition was nothing but eye candy. In the world of socialites and business magistrates my job was to look pretty. I had stood calmly by, smiling graciously as he charmed a steady stream of women- a thick coat of makeup covering the regular bruises that had painted my throat black.

When he’d died, I had been relieved beyond words but hideously angry, with only my sisters left as family. Eventually I had abandoned them too- and wandered, lost, until I’d found Lila- or the woman carrying her.

Family. I rarely thought of it now; therapy sessions with the most qualified professionals I could find would do that- but Lila’s words had reminded me of the past I tried so hard to forget. Still, I wouldn’t change a thing if it meant I could keep her.

Boys brought my daughter more trouble, and one day I left a conference abruptly to join her principal, an ugly teenage boy and his insufferable parents in a school office.

“Lila bit Bennett’s hand.” The principal’s voice was long suffering, and he gestured to the boy who was cradling a hand wrapped in white gauze.

I raised an eyebrow at my daughter, who was glaring at the boy, her wide blue eyes awash with fury. I could feel the tension in the room, in the harsh anger emanating from my daughter and the duplicitous pain the boy was trying to project.

“Why?” I asked, and I could hear the fury in my voice. The boys parents looked smug, they though I was angry with my daughter. Lila, however, was vindicated- I was her cavalry- and I could never be mad with her.

“She claims he touched her breast.” The principal said, in his stupid, long-suffering voice, as if he dealt with claims of sexual assault daily. Lila met my eyes, and the anger simmering below the surface erupted into a point of white-hot fury. I hummed under my breath, a low sonorous note to try and calm myself. It didn’t work.

I was reserved, but terrifying in my defence of my child, and the boy’s parent’s cried. The boy’s name was Bennett; it was a stupid name that his idiot parents modeled in their equally idiot behaviour. The father told me, “Wait now a minute,” and the mother covered her mouth and wiped at her eyes. Lila didn’t cry, because I’d raised her to be strong.

The principal apologized to me personally, I wouldn’t sue the school, and Lila’s tuition would be free this year- as if the money was ever an issue. The boy changed schools and Lila took a long, long shower to wash off the feeling of his hand on her.

After, I taught her to fight, and we practiced the movements under the big window of the living room. She was a natural, years of dance brought the movements effortlessly to her, and she was sinuously graceful where I could only ever be harsh and brutal. Our legs made susurrus sounds as we sparred, and I taught her what to do if a man ever laid an unwanted hand on her again.

Lila’s classmates enjoyed social media, and she did too. She had always been popular, because she was beautiful, and because some twisted property of society made that a desirable trait.

She threw a party for her sixteenth birthday, and we strung fairy lights around the yard, and waterproof lights inside of the pool so that it glowed at night. It was a rather unearthly blue colour and Lila loved it; it reminded me of her eyes. I taught her the melodies of my favourite songs as we prepared, and she picked up the notes with ease.

They took lots of pictures at her party, these groups of giggling, tittering teenagers. Lila had never looked so separate from them- they were still insecure and they preened like a flock of birds. My daughter was effortlessly confident, poised and lovely. She spent most of her time in the water, whirling in circles and laughing as she splashed her friends. I remember teaching her to swim, just days after she was born.

I didn’t like Lila’s friends, they reminded me too much of the women I’d known growing up. Superficial, vain, and outer beauty only barely concealing horrific nasty streaks- women could be unassumingly dangerous, the undertow beneath a calm surface.

Later, as Lila and I looked at the photos her friends posted online, she confessed she only threw a party for their enjoyment. She would have preferred doing something with me- I promised her we’d go cliff climbing or swimming together as a treat later. She smiled hugely. Altruism, I suppose was a fine quality.

Lila’s biological mother finds us a month later; I should have been more vigilant with the online posts. It never occurred to me that she would survive the birth.

Her eyes are sunken and hollow, she’s disgustingly thin and I make a conscious note to clean the carpets she stands on. Or to have them cleaned, I don’t want to touch them.

“I want my baby back.” The woman says, coughing weakly into her sweatshirt.

Lila stays behind me, this woman means nothing to both of us.

“That’s my Abigail!” The woman insists, stumbling forwards. She’s bleeding from both arms from where she climbed through a hole she’d smashed in our window. Her arms are bruised from decades of drug abuse, and I am reminded of Lila’s first days of life, and the pain my daughter had endured. I meet Lila’s eyes for reassurance, and I am furious as well, I will protect my daughter to whatever end.

“You promised me a better life!” Spit sprays from her mouth, and the drugs in her system egg her on, making her feral. “My life is shit, I deserve my baby back! GIVE ME MY BABY!” She screeches, and makes a grab for my daughter.

I force the woman, screaming, from my house, and the police are called to remove her. It doesn’t take much from them to believe my story.

Legally, Lila is my biological daughter, and this woman is a crazy drug addict who vandalized my property. The mother is also unconscious now, which probably lends a significant amount of credibility to my story. That and Lila is almost my spitting image. Her father is out of the picture too, which helps. I’d found his records years ago; he’d stumbled in front of a truck with a blood alcohol level high enough to kill him anyway. Good riddance.

Despite the damage to my property, I don’t regret a second of Lila’s adoption. I couldn’t have gotten pregnant if I’d tried, and I couldn’t have endured it anyways. I was an undocumented citizen- or at least a falsely documented one.

Lila’s biological mother had been younger then Lila was now when she’d fallen pregnant with my child. It was an unorthodox exchange, but with my funds, it was entirely convenient. It was also the best choice I’d ever made, even if accepting a street girl’s proposition of money for a child had been legally grey.

Besides, Lila had always been special.

Lila’s graduation marks the end of our need for this country. She has learned all of the math and science I couldn’t teach her, and I feel obligated to leave.

For the first time my daughter disagrees with me, she wants to stay and learn more about the world, about the laws that govern the universe. I think a portion of her insatiable quest for knowledge stems from her inability to understand herself.

Still, I suppose knowledge is as worthy a pursuit as any, so I agree easily and fund the tuition for whatever university she wants to study within. I listen eagerly as she tells me about everything she’s learning, although most of it escapes me.

Her biological mother contacts me again, this time through mail following an incessant stream of online attempts. She wants more money. I ignore the messages.

Lila finishes university with honours, I have never been prouder. She also finishes university without a romantic attachment; something which pleases me too.

She is away from me more, and I’ve been having nightmares. It’s been many years, but I fear for Lila’s safety. I sing to her every night, although she’s old enough now to sing for herself.

I think she intends to learn even more, to absorb every ounce of knowledge available before we leave. It seems foolish to me, but she is resolute. She needs to know enough to continue her studies in another country.

I acquiesce, of course, and I pay for her courses. We still have as much time as she wants, and I can hardly blame her for being anxious about leaving what she knows.

My sister visits me while Lila is away; she wants me to come back home- to bring Lila with me. I disagree, it is still unsafe for her, and for me- my family will not be so quick to forgive me. My sister tells me they already have.

The second time the biological mother finds us, Lila is grown herself - and we are planning on leaving for my home country soon, leaving the bleak grey of this city for sunny Mediterranean seas and salty ocean breezes.

The mother is stronger now too, and I can tell the drugs are free from her veins. Still, she is mad. Mad perhaps with the dreams I’d sang to her still carving a path through her skull. Mad because the paradises I’d promised her in return for her complacency would never come to fruition, and because she had no other option save for this frenzied pilgrimage. I pitied her.

“I only want my baby!” She shrieks at me, she had climbed the backyard fence and she stood across from us on the pool deck.

I could see the insanity within her eyes, dark, hollow pits consumed by the glimpses of heaven I’d afforded her. I imagine she saw my daughter as a way to go back to the girl she was, before she had seen exactly how much she was missing, and how much she could never have. False promises were an exquisite torture. I hummed beneath my breath, but the woman was screaming so loudly I doubted she could hear it. Lila hid behind me, terrified.

“I want my fucking baby back! Give me my life back!” The mother shrieks again, deranged, tears brimming in her eyes. “You did this to me! You took my life away from me!”

She gasps, spine jerking, and eyes roving madly. She fixes her gaze on something I can’t see and laughs- a chilling sound, although I am unmoved. “All I see is perfection.” She laughs again, and then screams at me, “It’s not real! NONE OF IT IS REAL.”

I tune her out.

“I need money- I have to,” I turn to face her as she claws at her forehead- I notice streaks of blood covering it. “Please,” her voice is low now, groveling, “You have to help me.”

I turn to face her. “You’ve wasted your life of your own volition.”

“Bitch!” She howls, furious again, “You promised you could make my life better!”

I won’t make any more false promises, “I can’t help you.”

“NO!” The woman cries out, she is beyond reason. I edge towards the door and keep an eye on her out of my peripheral vision, she can hardly stand upright- perhaps the drugs really did help her.

The mother speaks up, this time softly, “So you wont help me.”

“No.” I tell her.

And then something changes, and the mother- biological mother- because the only right she has to my child is a packet of donated genes- shifts. Like a switch has snapped, and I see with horrifying clarity what she was hiding behind her back. It’s too late now for me to convince her otherwise- and I can only accept whatever the fates may bring. Adrenaline courses through me, and I feel the song build up within me- ready.

A few things happen at once, and a bullet tears it’s way towards us, towards my daughter. I fling myself in its path. Lila cries out as the bullet tears through my chest and out my back. I feel it in an odd detached pain; I am consumed with protecting Lila, I barely notice- all I can feel is relief that she is okay.

Lila became my life after I left my sisters and mother behind. She is the heir I raised in my place once we return, destined to take my place as queen. Now, I am furious, my anger is hell-hot and a raging, blistering fire at the though of my daughter being taken from me.

I sing.

My voice is powerful; it protected my daughter from the pain she might have faced, chased the drugs from her veins, and helped shape her into her truest self, but this time it doesn’t nurture.

I shatter the mother’s bones with my song, I sing her skin to putty and I snap her spine-it makes a hollow sound. My song is beautiful- hauntingly ethereal, and I sing dozens of notes at a time in an unearthly concert. Energy crackles around me, and the stone under my feet turns black and cracks. The water in the pool bubbles and steams, and I can feel the strength of my voice reverberating away from me.

The song pours effortlessly from me, my throat contracts around it but the melodies form of their own volition now. Long, bloody ropes of flesh peel from the mother’s arms and legs and her hair snakes across the concrete as I split her skull open with a sickeningly satisfying crack. My song pounds into her like shrapnel and the blood that spurts from her abdomen is vaporized almost instantly. Her screams are piercing, shrill, and they remind me of when I cut my daughter free from her womb after I’d sang the control of her body away from her. I didn’t want to give her the honour of birthing my child.

My song is as brutal and as carnal as I can make it, a stunning cacophony of melody, I will make the mother’s final moments my first slice of retribution for daring to hurt my child. I suppose I am still furious at the pain she’d caused Lila, even if it had allowed me to claim her. I had known my daughter from the second I’d sensed her in this woman’s belly. The mother was only ever the container- although I had underestimated the lengths she would go to see the empty promises I’d bestowed upon her played out. The only thing I regretted about the adoption now, was not seeing her dead.

I rip her limbs brutally from her body, the bone within them leaks out of the end and steams out of the pores- and the appendages incinerate to ash before they touch the ground. Poofs of the dust blow over the mother’s face and paint her black. Blood pools below her and the mother’s strident screaming fades to a harrowing keening and then strangely funny gurgling as I turn her lungs to mush.

Unlike the other’s I’d killed for Lila; various men lured into my house for dinner or convinced to donate blood to suckle my infant daughter, I relish the mother’s pain- even though her death is costing me my life. I would gladly die to protect my child.

With a tremendous force, I sing her soul from her body, and slam it down into the deepest reaches of Hades- now she will enjoy an eternity of torment and pain.

I am a Siren, Lila is the ascendant queen of my people and there is no rival to my song on earth. I could sing armies of men to do my bidding, command an entire nation to sacrifice themselves at my feet- but it is hardly worth it, Siren women have no reason to desire more then they have been given.

A siren woman is a dead woman, usually one drowned- choking on the salt of the sea spray before her vocal chords harden- and before she is sung from the ocean to become a sister.

Lila was different, drowned in her mother’s womb as a defenceless child- but still I could sense her potential. The mother just wanted money at first, only later had she required coercion. She hadn’t known the fetus she protected was a corpse, and she hadn’t cared after she’d heard my song.

Sirensong was a funny thing, and there was a reason those who heard it usually jumped to their deaths. My song had warped the young woman’s mind, possessed her until she was consumed by it. A fatal mistake, as it turned out.

Besides me Lila, my daughter, my Scylla, sings too, but she doesn’t cry because I’ve taught her mastery over water. Her eyes are brilliant, blue and she raises her arms to the sky and the water of the pool rises with her, surrounding her in a glorious whirlpool. I’ve taught her how to fight, and she is practiced as she controls the waves, as she rises up, black hair whipping around her.

I know where she will go, to the our home just as we’d always planned, and I know she will be able to control my sisters just as easily as she controls the water.

I’m proud of my daughter, of my only light in the world, she is monstrous and she is powerful, named for the cliff monster of old that I’d hoped she would take after. She is even more fearsome, and I know she will be safe. She will be Queen as well; her voice will bring a new generation of men to their knees at her feet. She will always have enough to eat.

She is everything I have ever wanted. My life has been long, but I have only been alive for as long as Scylla has. I met death the first time with fear, but this time I can smile as the world around me blurs at the edges- there is nothing else I could ever want. I suppose that I too have been consumed by Sirensong.

I meet Scylla’s eyes, her beautiful blue eyes- just like my own- and she fixes me with her gaze, and I am transfixed just as I was when she was a baby. Her eyes are full of understanding, and this time; trust in all I’ve taught her. She knows she will be okay. Scylla, my daughter blinks and my head clears.

I look at her one last time,

And then

I let go.

…………………….It’s 1925, and my husband stands besides me- or perhaps a little behind me. The ocean is blue, an unearthly colour and I love it.

The musicians are playing, some jazzy upbeat tune- but I let the roar of the waves tune it out and concentrate on the faint strains of music flowing over the water.

“Darling,” My husband says with what I think must be his most charming smile, “you don’t look well.”

His voice breaks my concentration- and already the images flowing through my mind have passed. I can’t look at him anymore- so I look out at the jagged cliffs that line the edge of the island chain we are sailing by.

“Though you always look a vision.”

My husband reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and involuntarily I flinch away. Something cold and sinister flashes beneath his vision- betraying the good-natured half smile he always has playing around his lips.

I look at him through my lashes, and brace my hands against the balcony. He nods as though he approves and takes a deep breath to steady himself. His breath blows hot over my face, and it reeks of alcohol. Illegal- but easily bought, especially for the rich.

Below us, I feel the hum of the ship’s engine as we change course- imperceptibly, but I know we’re headed for the islands. We can’t hear their song over the loud music- but the captain can.

“I was going to take a boat out with the boys and head back the way we came- try and catch a few fish.”

I look at the jagged rocks and to the shore below littered with the wrecks of other ships- although from this far away they look like black smudges.

“No,” I smile up at him, and meet his eyes. I reach a hand to my back and undo the zipper that holds my dress up, and I take in the way his eyes widen as my dress falls softly to the floor around me, with satisfaction. I curl my hand around his cheek and lock the other around his wrist. “Stay.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing. And I smile against his lips as I wrap my body around his- I’ve seen everything I could ever want in the world, a curse and a blessing because I know it will cost my life, and I would rather die then fight it. I resolve to write all I’ve seen down in my room later- so I don’t forget.

Behind us, the rocks inch ever closer and I know that when I drown my husband will drown with me- but only one of us will rise again.

Lila, I’m coming.

I am posting this today, three months after purchasing a house here- in the city, three months and twenty-seven days after leaving my sisters. Today has been an uneventful day- uneventful aside from your biological mother camped out beside the subway station.

I write this, because the Sirensong that drives me is relaxing now- I met you today, and already I am forgetting all that I have seen. I have posted this on hundreds of forums, written notes to you, secured papers in safe deposit boxes. This is a redundancy.

When you find this I imagine I will already be gone from this realm- and I imagine you will be a Queen. Know that I am proud of you, and that Sirensong was not the only thing that drove me to die for you. Rule well, my love.

[kittenwritesstuff]

Till the end of the line

Fandom: Marvel Pairings: Steve x (sister)reader, slight Bucky x reader Genres: so. much. angst, tiny bit of fluff Words: 2.810 Summary: Not wanting to leave her brother’s side, reader insists on getting the serum as well. She lives through it all, fights by his side and eventually comes face to face with Bucky, the man she fell in love with, who’s now HYDRA’s weapon - requested by @hopelessgarbage

Your eyes grow wide as you stare at your brother, trying to fully understand what he’s just said. A sickening feeling takes residence in your guts, filling you with nauseous dread.

“Stevie, please, tell me it’s just a joke.”

“No, Y/N, I’ve got enlisted. Legally.”

“B-but… how?”

“A doctor, who was examining me, told me that they have a special program and that I can participate, if I want to. I do want to. I’ll join the army, help the country-“

“No, Steve, no!” you whine, cupping your face as you lower your head, squeezing your eyes shut. It can’t be real, it can’t be happening. What kind of insane doctor looked at Steve and deemed him healthy to any kind of activities? Your brother is too small, suffers from asthma and heart problems, how could anyone agree on him joining the army?

“It’s too much, I can’t…”

“Y/N, I’m gonna be fine. Maybe they’ll fix me,” he shrugs, smiling weakly as if it’s not a possibly experimental treatment he’s signed up for. Steve looks too calm, too certain of this whole thing and you start to regret not cuffing him to a radiator as you said when he first mentioned enlisting.

“You don’t need fixing, Steve. You’re not flawed. I’ve already lost Bucky to the war, I can’t willingly let you go. Who knows if you ever come back to me?”

“Silly, of course I’ll be back. As will Bucky.”

“Both of you treat it like an ordinary camp. It’s war, Steve, kill or get killed.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he asks rhetorically, his tone turning serious and you lift your gaze to meet his big blue eyes. He’s made up his mind, you know you can’t reason with him. Nothing you can say will change his decision, and it breaks your heart.

“And Y/N, if you said a word, Bucky wouldn’t go. If you only told him…”

“No, don’t start with it again. I didn’t because it wouldn’t change a damn thing. He’d go and you’re well aware of it. I don’t need what-ifs and you-should-haves. Bucky’s gone and I… I need to deal with it somehow.”

Steve rises from his seat and comes to your side, putting his skinny arms around you and hugging you tightly. You never actually spoke about what you feel for Bucky but Steve is way too observant to not notice it. He didn’t prod, didn’t bug you to tell James, and you’re grateful for that.

It’s always been the three of you, since your childhood. You, Steve and Bucky. Together or not at all. As you grew up, however, your feelings for Bucky changed, became deeper but since Bucky didn’t show any sign of feeling something more, you remained silent about your affection. Steve was positive Bucky reciprocates your feelings but you were too scared of losing him to utter a word.

And now, when the war came, you lost him anyway. How cruel and ironic.

You bite on your lower lip to will away a sob as you realize that soon, you’ll be on your own. Alone, in a flat shared with Steve, waiting for your boys to come home, hoping that they’ll return in one piece. Foolishly, during last evening with Bucky, you promised yourself that you’ll confess once the war is over and he’s back but now, it all seems impossible.

Inevitably, the fate will gift you with a broken heart, regardless the outcome. Because you are sure that miracles don’t happen and either one of them, or – worse – both will get hurt and won’t return to you.

Unless…

“I’m your big sister, Steve, you’re gonna draw me in.”

“W-what?!”

“I’m coming with you. Or you’re not coming at all. End of the discussion. I promised mom to keep an eye on you and I intend to hold on to that promise no matter what. I’m coming with you.”

______

Steve knew better than to argue with you. You’d win, as per usual. You had more common sense than him, but equally lot of courage and so when Steve took you to doctor Abraham Erskine, the medic only smiled and gave you papers. You quirked an eyebrow but assumed that Steve was already kind enough to tell the doctor about his ‘overprotective’ sister, and you signed the papers.

The doctor then examined you and explained what kind of program you’d just signed in. Project Rebirth, as it was called, was a secret experiment to create America’s Perfect Soldier, someone who would lead and inspire the troops to keep fighting for freedom. He wasn’t convinced that bringing a woman to this program was a good idea but when you jested that nothing fuels men more than a pretty lady, he admitted that you might be right.

The training was harder than you anticipated. You realized they’d push you to your limits, just as they did with Steve, but neither of you gave up or even complied. It was a necessary step, despite all of the catcalling and teasing you received. More than once, you proved yourself worthy more than the men, prompting a smile to appear on Peggy Carter’s face and an expression of approval and slight surprise on Colonel Phillips’s.

You were happy when the day of injecting the serum came. It meant that, only in few days, you’d be fighting for freedom, for your country. You’d lie if you said that those ideals didn’t flood your head when you were training, backed up by Steve’s proud words.

Yet, concern for your brother stayed glued to your heart, no matter how many times he succeeded, no matter how many time he bested those bigger and stronger than him. He was still your little brother, your Stevie and you would protect him with all your might, small or big.

‘Taller’ wasn’t the word you’d use to describe how you felt after stepping out of the reactor. Steve went first and you prayed to whatever deity was listening that he’d walked out really ‘fixed’. Peggy held your hand reassuringly as the procedure was performed on your brother, surely doing the same for him when your turn came.

Admittedly, you didn’t grow taller. Of course, you gained muscles but what changed the most was the feeling of undefeatable, unstoppable strength, a sort of energy pumping through your veins. It came with a modesty, too, a respect of what was given to you and the sense that it should be only used for good, never for bad.

And so, you were utterly crestfallen that, after doctor Erskine’s violent death, you were proposed, almost ordered, to perform for people, turning Steve into Captain America and you into Miss America, the country’s role model sibling. You were to be symbols of hope and strength, to promote and encourage participation in war.

It wasn’t what you were supposed to do and soon, Steve and you decided to run away and serve in the army, as you were meant to be. Fortunately, Peggy was on your side and supported you through your breakdowns. You didn’t know what you would do without her.

Scared to death after finding out about HYDRA, an organization of power-abusing and ill-driven monsters, you fought with all your might with it. Knowing that it must be destroyed by all means necessary, to save Americans and whole world, you did what you had to and never hesitated.

You jumped onto the plate alongside your brother, not questioning this decision. It had to be done.

You reached for his hand when he piloted the jet, holding it firmly as you directed into the water.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Steve muttered after connection with Peggy was lost and tears pricked at your eyes but you smiled regardless.

“Don’t be. I knew what I was signing for.”

Bucky’s grey-blue eyes was the last thing you saw before you hit the water.

_______

It gave you hope, to become a part of a team. Amongst the Avengers you found new friends, people who helped you with adjust to modern times and who gave you a sense of belonging, so much needed after you and Steve were awoken from the ice.

What you did not expect, what never even crossed your mind during dark times was that HYDRA was still growing, still alive, despite your efforts to take it down. It had its claws everywhere, even in something so safe and transparent as SHIELD.

Once again, Steve and you were fighting with it. Once again, you were trying to rid the world of its ideals, its drive to control every aspect of people’s lives and ignite fear. It had to be stopped so, with Steve, Natasha and newly met Sam, you are now running away from a chase, not even slightly prepared for what comes next.

A figure lands on the top of the car with a loud thud and before you can act, Sitwell is grabbed roughly and pulled out of the vehicle, a metal arm the only thing you managed to catch with your eyes. The steering wheel is ripped as well, giving you no choice but to abandon the car whatsoever. You grab your shield, Steve takes his and by some miracle, you jump off relatively unharmed, although scattered about the highway.

You land on lower level, on a car’s top and you groan when you roll underneath it, shouting at people to get as far away as they can run. A dull ache in your back briefly makes you unable to move but as Natasha darts in the distance, you jump on your feet, fishing out your gun. At least, you’re armed.

She manages to hit the metal armed assassin and then runs for her life, a hopeful look in her away as she passes you by.

“Get help, I’ll cover you!” you shout after her and dare a look over your shoulder to check on Steve. He’s unwounded, it seems, and so you position yourself, shooting at the men clad in black as they slide down on their lines, taking them down one by one. Steve stands next to you, using his shield to strike off their bullets as he slowly closes the distance between them.

And that’s when the Soldier makes an appearance.

Your brother hides behind a car and you do what you always do – you join him.

“Y/N, he’s too strong.”

“Bullshit. Okay, maybe. You go, Sam will cover you. I’ll be right behind you.”

Steve nods and doesn’t waste any second as he runs off. True to your prediction, Sam keeps the Soldier occupied for a moment and you use it to take off as well, creating as much distance as you can and crouch behind a car, immediately noticing Natasha’s phone.

“Clever,” you mumble as you realize it’s a recording and the Widow herself is stationed behind a car across the street.

The Soldier comes into the view again, preparing his gun. You watch him walking exactly when Nat wanted and when he rolls a bomb you know he caught the bait. Before you can even move, Natasha jumps and wraps her thighs around his neck, putting a line on his throat.

She’s not as successful as she wishes to be, however, because the Soldier sends her crashing against a car, giving her no time to recover. You do what comes up first in your head – you send your shield at his legs, making him lose his balance and Natasha uses that chance to flee, ushering remaining people to run for their lives, still she doesn’t run fast enough – a bullet reaches her, knocking her down.

With anger boiling in your blood, you decide to go against the Soldier. Hand in hand combat is a rather stupid idea but his gun isn’t prepared and when you reach him, you kick in it, disarming him. Then, you aim for his crotch but he backs away just in time, punching you in your stomach. You collapse onto the ground but, luckily, Steve is there on time – next punch collides with his shield and the sound resonates straight into your core.

Once you recover, you stand up and, working with Steve, you try to stop the Soldier. He seems to be undefeatable, even for the two of you fighting in sync, but somehow Steve manages to send the Soldier flipping over, losing his mask in the result.

Holding on your middle, where you believe you have a broken rib, you stumble to stand next to Steve as the assassin straightens up and turns around to face you.

Your mouth falls agape as a breath gets caught in your throat, your heart sinking and a cold shiver runs down your spine. You know him. You’d recognize him everywhere, even with long hair and that terrifying metal limb.

“Bucky?” Steve says out loud what your mind already knows, his voice thick and breathless.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” the Soldier says and his words are enough to completely beat you up, better than any gun can. It pains, more than all those hits he directed at you, more than anything ever, even seeing him fall from that bloody train.

You can’t quite make up anything after that moment. Somewhere from behind you Natasha shots at the Soldier – at Bucky – after Sam knocks him down. The assassin flees and then you’re taken by the Strike Unit, by HYDRA and you don’t know how but you’re driving in the van, most likely to a place you’ll be killed off.

You hear what Sam and Steve are talking about but you can’t really understand it. How is it possible? How did this happen? Why did they turn Bucky into the Winter Soldier?

“Y/N?”

“Y/N, please, say something.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“He doesn’t know me either, Y/N,” Steve mutters, his voice filled with sadness and you bit harshly to not sob out loud.

“It’s okay, you can cry,” Sam sooths although you’re sure he doesn’t really get why Steve and you are so shaken. He didn’t know Bucky before the war. He didn’t know the caring, selfless man who often spent sleepless night with you when Steve was sick and you were afraid that it was it, that he would not wake up. He didn’t know the witty, funny guy who often said jokes just to make you laugh.

He saw only the HYDRA’s weapon, not the man you loved underneath it.

Steve answer the unasked question before you can open your mouth to stop him.

“Y/N and Bucky-“

“There was no me and Bucky, Steve.”

“I know, but you-“

“I still do.”

“Y/N-“

“No, Steve. Just don’t say it.”

_____

“I knew them. The two on the bridge.”

“You’ve met them earlier this week on another assignment.”

“But I knew her. I knew him. She’s…”

“Prep him.”

_____

After Maria rescued you and brought to Nick, you couldn’t do much. You were indifferent, deep in your thoughts. You only told you’d do anything Steve would agree on and so they gave you a part in taking down the Hellicarriers as a backup on the ground, in case Sam or Steve were unable to reach the panels.

You were glad that you didn’t have to face Bucky once again. The first encounter with him already did a damage and you’re not sure if you’ll ever recover from it. It’s way too much for you handle at the moment.    

It was even more heartbreaking when you got to Steve and he mumbled that it was Bucky who pulled him from the river. That he cracked the code, that Bucky remembered. You couldn’t believe it and you’re still not convinced if you should.

Despite your doubts, you are now standing by your brother’s side, looking at the file Natasha gave him. Everything’s there, all the answers and your heart starts racing at the mere thought that you’ll find out what happened to your Bucky.

“I said your name and he hesitated.”

“Steve, don’t torture me. I don’t wanna know about this.”

“Y/N, stop. I don’t want to hurt you but I think… I think you’re the one who can bring him back.”

“You’re going after him, aren’t you?” Sam asks as he approaches the two of you and you nod at him. He smiles, obviously already knowing the answer.

“You don’t have to do this,” Steve adds gently, giving Sam an opportunity to give up the case but the latter only smiles wider.

“I know. When do we start?”

“Y/N? You’re in?”

“Are you serious? Of course I am.”

“Thought so.”

“How can you ask? You know the line, Steve,” you squeeze a smirk, your eyes however remain sad and desperate.

Steve wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into a hug, kissing your temple.

“I know, Y/N. Together or not at all.”

[probablythevaria]

I don't care if you do this as headcanons or scenarios or whatever, but could you maybe perhaps write what the Varia would do on their last day on Earth? Maybe the world is ending? I don't know. Whether or not you add a S/O is your choice, I don't care either way. ♥ Thanks much!

((I liked scenarios for this since the effect made it better! ♥ I just sort of said the world was ending versus saying they were all dying in seprate ways, but some of them you could take either way.))

Xanxus:

Somewhere, in the back of devastation, lingered torturous pain. His head split from the ache, the faint recollections of remorse and tinged hatred flaring at the base of his heart where his chest throbbed under the lash of fingers he placed upon his chest.

Catering to a dying wish perhaps, he started to fall. The losses piling up- the damage already done as Xanxus let himself have it for everything he’d committed to. But could never confess.

It was one last night. One more drink to those who condemned themselves to hell alongside him with their drinks holding high when their boss began to shake under his calm exterior. The irrational tension causing their eyes to tremble back in their sockets when he toasted to death.

Subordinates…they wasted so much of his time. They once ruined his life, his plans- but they were so loyal that they would die for him. Their eyes sinking low to the table as Xanxus waited for his death to come. The chance of the misery- the neverending pain preparing to slash into his rugged skin making his body creep with nervous desire when he tilted his head back into the soft chair and closed his eyes.

The taste of wine washed over him, and yet it would never soothe his nerves.

Superbi Squalo:

Away from the sound, it was like the world was no more as it was. Silently drifting apart beneath layers of smooth waves he gazed upon with a grip on the railing he observed deeply without realization.

He just craved the nothingness. That momentary bliss bursting in his senses where there lie nothing left to scream for him, nor anything to beg, plead, or cry from the immense wash of tides nearing to the shores below.

Honestly, if he wasn’t so scared inside, he would have ended it there. Looking down on the ocean. Listening to everything nature sang as it lulled them all to demise from the distance. Like angels. Or sirens as he was plagued by the thoughts of dashing the blade from his sleeve across his soft neck.

But there surfaced the fear. Maybe he didn’t want to die; at least not like that. Not with cowardice and shame that caused his eyes to water whether he wished for it or not. 

It was like an unyielding statue had taken his place on the ledge. He didn’t move, breathe, or speak. he anchored himself down to the rocks and hardly allowed himself a thought as the time passed by slowly. And all Superbi Squalo could think to do was wait for the end.

Alone.

Leviathan:

He was promised so much out of life, but it was the end of the rope. Where was his own castle? His own style? The love of his life- or the happiness he was to receive for the duties he performed?

He could drink it all away, but it didn’t make it end. It didn’t bring the end of days any closer on the clock as he watched it hand to hand with only the glass of a hard liquor to cool him. 

Hell beckoned him in the form of a sports game on one television, and the flashbacks of memories on another- haunting him, mocking him with composed voices that snapped his nerves piece by piece until she sat down.

Pretty face, life to be taken too soon as he saw it without a ring on her finger reaching for the menu he pushed down. 

“Let me buy you your last drink,” Levi insisted smoothly, his eyes falling closed when he dared just chase deep into the act. It wasn’t worth dying entirely alone. 

But that last kiss was worth every ounce of trouble it would get him into as he sunk his lips upon hers without fear or regret.

Lussuria:

Through the streets, it looked like it was too far gone. Unrecognizable disasters once known as stores- rampaging innocents, illegal actions flooding by as Lussuria walked so fearlessly.

They were among the dreadful, joining the raging crowds who took what they wanted for the last time of their lives. Fur draped their shoulders down one side, ripped fashion jeans, leather bangles- hair done up as though for the performance of Lussuria’s life were about to happen right there in the main street where all those who cowered now could see them. 

Lussuria did no true wrong. The stores were abandoned hours before. The shelves already picked through prior to their entry, but without a true eye for fashion. 

It was a celebration; life was over as they all knew it, and it was time to put on a show. To show off like they had the carefree lives of animals dressed up in feathers and glitter adorning their boots and hair. Lussuria felt like a queen where they walked into town, and had all eyes on them.

It felt nice to be stared at; it felt nice to feel beautiful one more time.

Belphegor:

One. He burned out, slumping further down against the pavement with sweat taunting his eyes through clinging bangs he tore at. Blood drenched his face where the pads of his fingers streaked- his lashes laced with gore and the tingling trickle of tears flooding out the suffocating sting.

It felt good, but it destroyed him. There was no name for his cruel actions- the laughter echoing out of the hollow walls as his knees ached on the stony earth harshly where they dragged and bled.

Some fought back- the stab wounds and internal bleeding making every last breath shallow. But he was lost inside of himself- too deep to feel that this should have been a lie.

That the body count wasn’t a heap where he slaughtered to his heart’s content. That he wasn’t shredding flesh for fun and choking on his own blood because of the crude thrill he hated thrumming in his veins.

God, why was he like this? Why could he be so disgusting and crazed- that vicious delight glowing behind unseen eyes looking to the darkening sky dimly. There was nothing left in that husk of Belphegor as he fell.

Because not everything begins with “one,” because it counted back from one hundred.

Mammon:

It was a weight on their shoulders. Death was a foreign feeling- the excitement faded from Mammon’s eyes where they sat darkly. Hood covering their eyes from the sorrows that ailed them at last.

This was the end. The waste of life making them destroy what remained of their possessions because it was all meaningless now. Tears and tattered clothes scattered the floor, money lost to the bedroom’s wrecked state where Mammon didn’t dare look at it.

Fuck this world and whatever it stood for- it lied to them. To everyone. It took away the promises it gave. It told them that fortune and skill were all they could have, and then tore it from their grasp like weaklings while they sat and watched them all fall apart.

“I won’t cry,” Mammon hissed second after second. Rocking back and forth against the window sill. “I never cry!”

Fran:

Home was a place Fran never realized he wanted to remember. The hole-riddled walls and dusty countertops. The way the floorboards creaked, but the creek outside was a lot louder.

Delusional speeches, yet loving affection- it was like a home Fran always knew no matter what people thought of it. It was a playground his imagination conjured; the overgrown weeds and waterfall where they always stood as he created it.

His illusions cast upon a place he disliked just to ease the growing pain in his heart throbbing to see her face again.

“Grandma?” He called into his subconscious, his steps trailing onto hard floors in the cottage. The hollow feeling so warm as he saw the lit stove and pathetic furniture so old and scrappy.

It was falling apart, weathered, but his form bent to the floor where he didn’t want to move. His body starting to shake as his head fell into his hands.

“I wanna come home.”

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking With the Schuylers (17)

So I wrote ahead the other day and couldn’t let it just linger in my word doc anymore...so another update this week!

Alex has some childhood flashbacks...Alex is continually worried....

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   I   13  14   15   16

               His feet tread rapidly over dirt-covered ground, kicking up dust as he flies, chest heaving, over the familiar path. Rough sand spills into his well-worn sneakers, chafing against the bare and blistered feet inside. Alex barely notices. He continues to run.

               His arms pump wildly as his ‘chicken legs’ carry him, his mind hyper-focused on the task at hand. He can hear voices behind him, hooting and hollering and getting closer by the second. He blinks, gathering his courage in a deep and hearty breath from his stomach, before hopping over rusted railroad tracks, ducking into a rickety doorway.

               He knows this path by heart; lifted floorboard in what used to be the foyer, a doorjamb that’s just about to fall between the old kitchen and living room. Alex skillfully hops over a worn-out ottoman, blocking yet another doorway. And then there’s the stray dog that sits in the kitchen, nestled between a cabinet and a stack of decomposing cardboard. He looks feral; blonde fur matted against a bone-thin chest, teeth scraggly as he opens his mouth in a wide yawn. But Alex simply throws him a scrap of meat from the bag that bumps against his leg as he runs, and the animal is satisfied.

               Not once does he stop in his running.

               And the voices vary, coming closer until they meet the obstacles of the run-down shack, then fading into the distance. It’s the usual pace of the game, this cat-and-mouse that he plays. And there are two paths that weigh heavy on his mind; the probabilities that jump back and forth as the chasing intensifies. The way that he figures it, there is a certain calculated risk to what he is doing.

               One day, he could wake up slow; knees injured from the day before, legs unable to carry him…then, it would be all over. He could trip over an unforeseen obstacle; a new hurdle in the familiarity. At eleven years old, he was acutely aware of just how much was riding on him. He was fortunate…lucky that the people at the market weren’t cruel to him, lucky that they knew his mother. His slender frame let him run and duck and hide; his quick wit and ease of conversation had gotten him out of many a situation before; squabbles with merchants, arguments with the older village kids…

               All in all, Alexander Hamilton considers himself to be very, very lucky.

               Once he exits the abandoned house he climbs half-way up the sturdy palm (the third long branch is just about to break), shimmying along its rough and narrow surface before clinging to it with blistered, work-worn hands. With one long leg out, he can just barely reach the unhinged shingles of another rooftop. His toes curl in his shoes, his thighs burning from the extent of the stretch. He jumps, just in time to hear the clattering of metal on hard ground. The thugs are shouting now, watching as he clambers from rooftop to rooftop, ducking low and keeping himself covered as best he can. But although his heart is racing, this is the checkpoint where he can finally begin to let up on his pace a bit. He knows the complexity of the village below; the ins and outs it would take to even begin trying to keep up with him on foot below the rooftops. It’s this route, with its high climbs and dangerous stakes, that has sent him home free time and time again. So he sighs, successful once more, as his precious canvas bag bumps along his leg; a reminder of his victory.

               When he returns home he pushes back the cloth separating their doorway from the world, grinning wildly as he brushes the dirt from his torn clothing. He can hear his mother’s voice, sweet and demure, ringing out from their kitchen. He tips the canvas bag over onto the table, smiling with pride as his possessions spill out onto the wooden surface. His mother turns, crossing her arms over her chest.

               “Just look at you, you’re a mess.” Her warm eyes linger over his dirt-coated appearance. He kicks his shoes, split and worn, in embarrassment as his mother wets a finger, tracing it along his sand-caked cheek. “Mijo, my sweet brave boy, you need to stop putting yourself in danger like this.”

               “I’m not.” His mother does not scold, but her face has been traced with worry lines and sorrow from the year’s events; nobody had expected his father to leave them, and now that it’s just the two of them she worries often about her young son. Alexander watches as his mother thumbs through the contents of his rucksack; a small, ripe mango, a torn blanket of soft cloth, a loaf of hard bread…she smiles through warm eyes and cradles his face in her hands.

               “You know we can make do with what we have; we always find a way.”

               “You need your medicine.” There’s a small bottle hanging from a ragged piece of twine, kept safe underneath his shirt. A clear, chunky liquid sloshes around inside of it and eleven year old Alexander guides his mother to one of their low pillows, sitting her down before removing the necklace and handing her the vile. She sighs, looking him over; her scrawny, rooftop climbing boy. Her protector. He smiles back at her-tentative. His nerves are clear in his face, gaunt and determined through the near constant frown plastered on it. And his hands-his now blistered, bleeding hands-twitch with anxiety. He’s worked so hard.

               His mother chokes back the lump in her throat before sucking down the liquid, grimacing at the taste. But she smiles at Alexander, handing him the bottle before standing up again, moving to the basin of water in their kitchen.

               “How are you?”

               “-I’m feeling great, mijo. You’re doing a wonderful job going into town like that. I’m sure that we’ll be alright.” Her eyes are warm. She scrubs the dirt from his cheeks as she smiles at him, projects every ounce of herself onto him. And she radiates so much positivity, his mother, that he can’t help but believe her. He beams with pride, with warmth, and with love. “Now, we really should talk about cutting this hair of yours.”

…

               He wakes with the juxtaposition of serenity and sorrow; the dream-like feeling of damp cloth on sand-caked skin weighs heavy on him, as does the feeling of her love. Alexander wonders immediately what the purpose of a reminiscent dream like that might have been; lately, he’d been nothing but blissful. Is that what had brought on such a powerful memory? But then, why had he woken with such a knot of anxiety?

               He knew what happened in the story of his dream, how things had progressed. Surely, his mind wasn’t pretending to forget the moment his mother had died in his arms, how haunting it had been to sit in the scent of their sick. If he let himself trace the memory far enough Alexander could even feel her skin against his, the way it had gone cold so swiftly against his feverish body. But the moment of his dream had felt so real that none of it seemed to matter. It was almost as if his mother had been alive again, as if he had been back in the Caribbean. Before he had been ‘just call me Alex.’ Before the sound of his full name had become soothing again. Before he’d let Eliza, and only Eliza, say it. He liked the way it came from her lips, the way his ears translated it to a dream-like sigh; how she inflected the middle syllable, and always took great care in it.

               But maybe that was it; maybe there was some sort of connection from his dream to his reality. He sits up in bed, pulling a journal from his bedside table as he recounts every detail into it, pouring over it page after page. He wants to remember these feelings. And in some respect, on this morning, he wishes he could go back.

               The memory of his mother’s warm eyes and prideful smile brings him back to his youth; to feeling responsible, accepting the fate that had been bestowed upon him with his father’s absence. And as he breathes through the retelling of this dream, of the memory he’d been able to relive, his mother’s eyes warp between her own and Eliza’s. When he finally closes the journal he sits back in bed, allowing the plethora of emotions to swirl around him once more, a confusing cocktail that is nearly sickening. It’s too much at once, he decides, to linger on the past. It’s too hard.

               As he rises from bed and readies himself for the day, memories of his dream are replaced with thoughts about the night before, about Eliza. He recounts the night, guiding her through the downtown streets as she leaned up against him. He can nearly feel the urgency of her hands on his jacket as she had tried to come on to him…the shut-down when he’d told her no.

               He’d hated to tell her no; to make her upset. But her eyes had been clouded with mischief and incomplete judgment, her hands too quick and too weak to be interpreted as anything she’d been aware of doing on that night. So he’d taken care of her, instead. And she was quiet on their walk to the fry truck, shoulder laid heavy on his shoulder. She’d picked at the fries, too. Eliza hadn’t even picked her way through to all of the larger graham cracker pieces. Eliza always hogged the graham cracker pieces. And then he dropped her off at her dorm room, guiding her shoes from her feet before tucking her into bed. Eliza had looked up at him with eyes that were larger and darker and pooling with a sadness that was then easily readable. She hadn’t even tried to disguise whatever pain she was going through at that point, and it broke his heart. But then she’d fallen quickly asleep, so Alexander left some aspirin and some water on her bedside table, pressing his lips to her forehead and letting them linger there. She hummed happily in her sleep, as if she could feel his presence once more, before rolling back over.

               The moment plays on in his mind the entire morning.

               “Something’s upsetting Eliza.” He begins over the counter of the campus Starbucks, waiting on John to mix his cocktail of dark brew and espresso. His best friend nods, understanding, but does not look up from his work. Alexander knows that he’s listening by the slight hum of his voice, so he continues.

               “When we left last night, she was drunk…I’ve never seen her like that before. And when I think back on it she’d been drinking to get drunk all night-she never has as much as she did in such a short time.”

               “Maybe she’s stressed about student teaching.”

               “No, that’s not it. She likes the teacher now, understands her more. Last time we talked about that she seemed to be at peace with it. This is something bigger.”

               “Bigger how?” John spins around to hand Alex his coffee and stops upon seeing the look on his best friend’s face. His eyes are tired, dark circles engulfing his entire appearance. And he’s shrunken, leaning on the counter with worry-filled eyes. He hesitates, looking down at his cup as his hands play with the cardboard heat protector. He’s not sure how to proceed lightly, so he just continues.

               “Last night, when we first got outside…she was grabbing me, kissing me. She was all over me, but nothing about it felt right. She was so drunk, John. And I had to say no. There’s no way I would have forgiven myself if I’d let myself give in to her, if that had been our first time. I know that I love her, but,”

               “You were being respectful.”

               “I was. Because something was wrong, that’s not Eliza. And so I said no. And then something just clicks, and she’s sobbing. Hysterically. And she couldn’t compose herself, not for a long time. But when I asked she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. She wanted to, but I think she was so drunk and so upset that she couldn’t find the words. Or the composure. But this is something big, John. This is something that’s really bothering her. So what do I do?”

               “What do you mean?”

               “If she remembers last night-or if she doesn’t…how do I bring this up? This conversation…I know she wants it to happen, but I also know that it’s not something simple. I need to help her. I can’t let her hurt as much as she was last night. Seeing her like that…it killed me. I haven’t felt like that since…it’s been a while.”

               “You need to talk to her. If she’s not ready, it’s her decision. The possibility of an awkward conversation is nothing compared to how she must be feeling.”

               “You’re right. I’ll call her. Today, before she feels like that again. I don’t think I can stand to see her hurt again.”