#Ephemeral Iridescence

[whereporygon]

Have you ever stood before the beginning of a storm, or after the downpour? There is a special incandescence to the light that bounces off your surroundings, whether it's a building or the trees in the middle of nowhere.

Everything glows. Everything is ten times more colorful, more radiant. The houses, the leaves, all a stark contrast against the dull, plumb-gray storm clouds.

You may feel like you are in a different plane of reality altogether. Your entire world has shifted and changed.

What I'm trying to say is that Angel was that to Ren when they were small.

[yeyinde]

i would give you my life for marriage counselor!reader x price part 3, pleaseeee im begging you 😮‍💨🙏😮‍💨🙏

He fucks you in your office, for sure.

18+. extremely dubious consent. unk. condescending Dom!Price.

Petty, combative. Authority figures make him itch. But there's a sick thrill that goes through him when he sinks down into your chair, fully dressed with just his trousers undone, cock freed, and pulls you, completely naked, onto his lap. Makes you ride him as he sprawls out over it, too; his hand tight around your neck to keep you up, the other dangling over the edge, drinking from the sneaky stash of booze he finds after rummaging around your desk (all the while, he had you sitting on top of it, one hand rifling through your belongings and the other buried between your thighs, making you answer his inane questions as he tuts about how you're getting his cuffs all wet, not such a smart little girl now are you? soakin' his hand like that. needy little thing, more like.)

It's not his preferred position, but he likes the sight of you glaring down at him as he fills you with his cock. Unable to to do anything at all even when you're on top, in the dominant role. Reduced to a mess of a once smart, haughty girl. Biting your lip as he bucks into you. Trying to smother the scream, the plea—slow down, slow down, please, it's too deep—that trembles on your lip. Pride and this fickle, paperthin ideal of agency is the only thing keeping it all in.

You think you can take him. Handle him.

So, John gives you the reigns and leans back on your smart little chair in your smart little office. Accolades hung on the wall. Polished and mature. It's all so—

Adorable.

The contrast of it all feeds the monster in his chest that's been prowling around ever since you tried to boss him around. The mouth that once said you're not trying hard enough, Mr Price you need to do better now all slack-jawed and drool slick as he spears inside to the deepest part of you he can reach; the doleful glare swallowed by the shiver of your lids as your eyes roll back into your pretty little head.

Struggling to take him. Hesitating to slide down the thickest part of his cock, whimpering when he shifts his hips and makes you take him down to the root. Tears flood your lashline, gleaming iridescent like sunshine hitting an oil spill. Lips trembling as you jolt at the realness of it all—of trying to handle him like you said you could but quickly realising you can't when the heart of yourself starts to feel like a raw, open wound.

Yeah, he thinks, and brings the bottle to his lips. You look so much better just like this.

And that's what it's about, really. Control. Something you stripped him of when he marched into your office and you—younger, less experienced, less established—just looked at him, and said, sit down right there, Mr Price.

Well. You didn't say it, did you? No, you commanded. And Price doesn't take orders from idiots in office who think they're his superior, so why the hell should he listen to you, mm?

But he did. And now he's savouring it because this is quid pro quo. Something for something. His compliance (ephemeral as it was) for you.

Because the problem is that you riled him up. With your neat, clean office. Your smart suits. The unbidden air of authority—this condescending, sophisticated cloud that clung to the haughty tip of your chin when you talked to him. It all itched under his skin. Made his heart thunder with the urge to break—

(Claim, maim—sometimes he gets the two mixed up, the word eliding together under the malformed snarl in his throat. But you're tough, aren't you? He's sure you can handle whichever one ends up spilling out.)

He bites down on the little sliver of skin beneath your jaw—that small patch where his hand, still spread over the thick of your throat, doesn't cover—and groans, feeling you clench tight around him. Tight little hole barely stretched enough to take him without it aching each time he moves, tugging on thin, sensitive skin until he has to snuff the whimpers he can feel crawling up your throat with a squeeze of his hand.

It has the after making his head swim already. When he finally finished getting his due, breaking you in, he'll take you home. Let you rest. Court you good and proper until you're melting his hands, softened wax for him to play with and mould however he likes. And he will.

He saw the potential in you the moment he leaned in close—too close, his ex-wife will accuse him of later; you never get that close to me anymore, John—and saw the shift of your throat when you swallowed. The flex of your thighs as you squeezed them tight together. The little flutter of your lashes, eyes listing treacherously downward, so achingly close to submission that it punched the air from his lungs. Kept him winded even as you pulled yourself back together. Meeting his stare with a glare of your own. All fire, all teeth. But he'll enjoy filing your canines down until they're pretty and soft and round—

"mm, not so arrogant now, are you?" He pulls you closer, nips at the thrill of your pulse until he feels it thudding against his enamel. Rabbit-quick. Ferocious lioness purring at his feet. "S'all you needed was my cock, mm, to make you this sweet?"

He doesn't expect an answer, and can really only groan when you eke out a liquid, breathless, fuck you, John, content to let you lash out as much as you want, holding you tighter in the cup of his palm. Pussy clenching tight, tears dripping down your cheeks—he basks in it even as you claw at him, pawing at his chest with your teeth bared as you pretend this is your choice. That you're taking from him with each unsteady, furious roll of your hips. Pulling him in deeper. Letting the part inside of you that rages against this hew fantasy into reality; cobwebs of delusion thickening in the whites of your eyes as you shatter over him, on his lap, stuffed full with the thick of his cock, and play pretend in your head that he's just your throne—

Even as he kicks his heels against the legs of your own, planting his feet on your carpet, in this space you build yourself, driving inside of you until the webs shake, starting to come loose.

You—this free, willful bird—have been left in the wild for too long. And he'll spend the next two months building your cage, and when he's finally finished, you'll beg him to throw away the key.

"Told you, didn't I?" he growls, hand tightening around your throat. "You were in over your head, little girl. You should have listened."

(Freshly divorced—ink still wet on the paper—and he's already engaged. How about that.)

[eternalstarlitwonderland]

Rainbow✦•🦋•✦Butterfly

As the Earth spins gracefully on its axis, and completes its graceful rotation, it closes off the sunlit side and cloaks the opposite side in a gossamer shroud of darkness, ushering in the gentle embrace of stygian, drawing a thick, gauzy curtain of night, shrouding the world in a delicate, hazy veil of umbra

Nightfall descends like a whispered secret; the atmosphere shifts subtly, imbued with a rich nocturnal hue, deepening the mystery and transforming the world as it cloaks everything in a deep, enchanting twilight, now painted with a mystical nocturnal hue

Gradually, many fluorescent stars begin to punctuate the expansive, velvety canvas of the sky, twinkling like scattered diamonds on a darkened tapestry

A new hour emerges, and the enchanting starlit hour graces the night; illuminated by an argent glimmer, with the arrival of this celestial hour, a starlit realm is born anew

With a silvery coruscation, ethereal butterflies materialize, their wings radiant, as they dance amidst the flickering lights that dot the sky like scattered diamonds

One delicate creature flutters gracefully downward, alighting softly upon her outstretched fingertips, a fleeting connection between realms

As the velvety darkness yields to the gentle embrace of light, it begins to weave its magic; she descends gracefully from the celestial radiance, gliding gracefully in a mesmerizing ballet of glimmering silver, weaving through the night, a graceful figure illuminated by the glimmers of twilight

With its resplendent shimmer, the ethereal starlight enveloped her in a soft embrace, illuminating the vast stratosphere while shrouding her in a delicate veil from the prying eyes of the world below

As she fluttered gracefully in the silvery radiance, the luminous lights became her companions; they danced around her, twinkling playfully as if inviting her to partake in their celestial ballet, drawing her gaze as her delicate wings catching the light as she surveyed the world beneath her, gazing down upon the slumbering humans, their nocturnal existence a tapestry of quiet rhythm beneath the night sky

The stars twinkled softly, each flickering a heartbeat in the vast expanse of the universe while she basked in their enchanting glimmer

Each twinkle of the stars painted a vivid backdrop, their brilliance enveloping her in a celestial embrace as they flickered softly like whispers in the tenebrosity

Captivated by the celestial dance above, she found herself lost in thought; she pondered her presence in this extraordinary place, her thoughts swirling like the bright constellations around her

“How did I arrive here?” she mused softly as she floated amidst the cosmic brilliance

Could it be that her arrival was orchestrated by the starlight itself, guided by the whispers of the universe? Or perhaps she was a wistful wish, born from the longing of a solitary human gazing up at the night sky?

The questions hung in the nightly zephyr, suspended like the stars overhead, yet the answers eluded her, like the distant flickers, clearly shrouded in mystery

Still, she knew one thing: she was here, an ephemeral presence cradled in the warmth of the celestial tapestry of night, a fleeting silhouette against the cosmic canvas

Now, she finds herself enveloped in a realm awash with tantalizing lights; each effervescent glimmer accents her ethereal beauty, illuminating her features with a mesmerizing halo

Her iridescent wings sparkle brilliantly, akin to a pair of kaleidoscopic diamonds that shimmer captivatingly in the starlit expanse; they fluttered with a graceful elegance, dressed in soft pastel shades that mirrored the full spectrum of the rainbow, creating an enchanting display that captivated the eye, and yet maintaining an air of subtlety, never ostentatious or luridly bright but rather a gentle, inviting glow

Her complexion is strikingly ethereal, so fair that it borders on translucency, flawless in its immaculate perfection, devoid of any blemishes or imperfections

Her delicate facial features convey a sense of refined grace; her perfectly arched eyebrows are a rich shade of dark brown, nearly black, yet softened, just framing her face with a graceful arch to enhance her captivating gaze

Her narrow and elegantly shaped, petite nose epitomized refinement, and its delicate, finely sculpted bridge hinted at her possible Eastern European heritage that seemed to whisper through her very being

At the same time, her lips, though similarly petite, are enticingly pillowy; they were sculpted in the sultry contours of a perfect Cupid’s bow, shimmering with a rosy glisten that caught the light alluringly

She possesses thigh-length tresses of crimson, each silk strand glimmering like a fine elixir of carmine wine as if blessed by the night itself; their rich fringe sweeps across her forehead, dancing playfully in the night's soothing zephyr, adding to her enchanting presence

Her eyes, piercing ultramarine jewels, twinkle with a captivating brilliance reminiscent of cerulean diamonds, shimmering not only with beauty but with an insatiable curiosity

They possess a keen sparkle that cuts through the shadowy veil of night, revealing depths of wisdom and intrigue

Her fingertips, adorned with nails lacquered in an ultra-bright iridescent glitter polish, sparkled like a cascade of stars

As her fingertips grazed the silvery flicker above, they glistened with a magical brightness, touching the air as if weaving spells of wonder

In her heart, she understands that the world is her vast oyster, a treasure trove waiting to be explored

As an observant and inquisitive fairy, her keen eyes sparkle with an insatiable curiosity for the human realm, which knows no bounds; she longs to wander it in all its vibrant complexity, yearns to experience every facet of it and take in all its wonders

Her delicate wings, adorned with glimmering iridescence, produced a soft, melodic tinkle that echoes like tiny bells as she glides gracefully through the air; with a heart brimming with curiosity about the intricate tapestry of human existence, she yearns to fully immerse herself in their diverse and bustling lives

Her finely tuned aural senses capture the symphony of conversations around her as she glides, each exchanging a distinct note in the chorus of life

From delightful exchanges filled with laughter to passionate debates charged with emotion and even to hushed tones laced with melancholy, every sound painted a picture in her mind

Among this melodic cacophony, she discerned French's rich and flowing lyrical notes, mingling with tantalizing hints of Italian

This stark contrast blended perfectly, creating a harmonious backdrop to the bustling life around her

Each utterance was a reminder of the beauty found in their diversity, a dulcet serenade that intrigues her and enhances her desire to explore this human world

The starlight shimmered delicately like a thousand diamonds scattered across the velvety night sky, casting an ethereal glow that danced across the enchanting scenery

At this very moment, it dawned on her that she had arrived at the enchanting principality of Monaco, a diminutive diamond poised elegantly by the edge of a sapphire expanse of the Mediterranean Sea, where the cerulean waves danced gently along the sunlit shoreline with shimmering elegance, whispering secrets of serenity

This exquisite jewel of the Riviera revealed itself as a resplendent tapestry, where captivating opulence seamlessly intertwined with the picturesque seascape that stretched endlessly before them

With each flutter of her gaze, she glided gracefully past the world-renowned harbor and marveled at the luxurious yachts that rested majestically at their docks like floating palaces, their hulls gleaming under the stars above

their polished hulls gleaming under the soft glow of the moonlight

A graceful marina, Port Hercule stood adorned with vessels of every size, each was a testament to wealth and elegance, anchored with an air of steadfast grandeur

She breathed in the salty breeze, feeling the gentle rhythm of waves lapping against the pristine, snow-white sands, their pearly froth leaving a delicate lace-like residue that shimmered like diamonds in the starlit glimmer

Delighted in the tranquil ambiance as she wandered along Larvotto Beach; a silvery ribbon of paradise beckoned her to pause, unwind, and savor the beauty of its immaculate shoreline, and its crystal-clear waters shimmered invitingly

The nearby cafes and restaurants exuded a warm and inviting atmosphere, enticing visitors with promising delightful culinary experiences under the twinkling stars

With every glimpse, from opulent yachts that bobbed gently in the harbor and sailed the deep blue sea to the vivid stretches of sun-kissed beaches adorned in vibrant hues that danced in the moonlight, Monaco's everlasting allure shining anew in her mesmerized gaze, casting a spell that made her fall deeply in love with its beauty all over again

Now, at long last, it was her profound moment, and she stood on the cusp of an extraordinary opportunity to weave her narrative, a blank canvas awaiting her touch, a tapestry of words unencumbered by the expectations of others

Yet, unbeknownst to her, the ethereal starlight has already penned an ending to her tale that danced just beyond her reach, shimmering with cosmic intent

Her fingertips glimmered with an ethereal brilliance, their iridescence punctuated the night with a silvery sparkle that danced like a fleeting dream

A sudden snap ignited the air, and in an instant, a dozen iridescent butterflies materialized from the ether; their delicate wings shimmered with a kaleidoscope of colors that ignited the night

They encircled her like a living constellation as she floated gracefully above a bed of brilliant lights, which flickered like distant galaxies beneath her

In a breathtaking display of harmony, the enchanting butterflies, without a word spoken, swiftly dispersed and fluttered freely among the stars as the unspoken stories yet to be told

She senses that her time on Earth is ephemeral, the enchanting hour of the starlight beginning to dim like the final embers of a once-brilliant fire

Yet, in this fleeting moment, she finds a strange comfort in the glowing celestial orbs suspended above

With a gentle tilt of her head, she gazes up at the cosmos, where countless sparkly stars twinkle like distant diamonds scattered across a velvet sky

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she gazes up, reflecting the celestial beauty overhead as she embraces her inevitable fate with an unexpected sense of peace

With a luminescent flash, a pearlescent coruscation that cuts through the stillness of the night

Her essence shifts, her physical form begins to shimmer, becoming translucent as though kissed by the soft light of the universe

In a breathtaking metamorphosis, she dissolves into a kaleidoscope of vibrant, fluorescent butterflies, each dancing into the night as they carry her essence into the cosmos, a transcendent farewell that whispers of both an end and a beautiful beginning

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Fate vs. Choice - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx has a decision, and a deadline.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Six o’ clock. Late evening.

The Cathedral of Progress.

Lanterns burned in their iron-scrolled brackets; the shadows cut flayed patterns on the granite walls. In the nave, the acolytes chanted, cloaked and cowled. In their palms, the lit tapers cast long, lean shadows across the stone floors. Their voices were a mechanized hymn: harmonized down to the smallest atom vibrating in the air. There was no music riding the currents. Only silence, draping a veil of total stillness over the congregation. Perhaps even eternal damnation, to those who dared trespass.

Jinx didn't give a ripe toot about damnation. She'd already fallen from grace: the moment she'd set a wind-up monkey loose to rescue her family, and jinxed them instead. Her own jinx, since that fateful night, was an inevitability, and a long time coming.

Now, at nineteen, she was the living, breathing epitome of it.

The harsh sweetness of coffee cut through the chants. Jinx cracked an eyelid open; for one long giddy second, the world spun in a sickening circle.

Then it righted itself. Or Viktor did: a cool hand clasping hers.

“Wake up, Jinx.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She lay, starfished in an indolent sprawl, in sweetgrass that swayed as if under an invisible caress. The aroma of lilies was ascendant; twilight had deepened their perfume. The night-garden was tucked into the courtyard at the heart of the Cathedral, abutted by a small cemetery of granite.

Under the surreal refractions of a stained-glass dome, it was a wonderland: teeming with long-dead saints, and the perfumes of late-blooming flowers, all a-glow in holy light. Upon closer scrutiny, the holiness inverted into the uncanny. Every plant, aspirating beneath the multicolored rays, was revealed to hold an almost numerical symmetry: logarithmic spirals of orchids, geometrically-profound petunias, grid-patterns of clovers all fractaling in golden ratios.

As if every organism—from soil grain to leaf tip—had coalesced into life under the touch of a divine hand. Or a very obsessive mathematician.

Or—both.

Then there was the tree.

It was a prehistoric sycamore of darkling wood: five times the height of the average Piltovan oculus; three times as broad across. The branches fanned out into spokes as big as a ferris wheel. The ends of each spathe, splayed wildly under the skylight, erupted into iridescent blooms. They were nearly gem-like in their purity: their crystalline petals glowing in colors of multicolored amethyst, chrysoprase, quartz, topaz, ruby. The canopy spread over the entire garden; the roots curled deep into the bedrock.

By nightfall, it gave off an eerie luminescence: bathing the garden in an ephemeral glow. By daylight, it cast a rainbow halo across the grounds. Its fragrance changed constantly: one minute pungent as wormwood, the next citrusy as lemon zest, another woody as cardamomh. Insects swarmed about its roots; butterflies flocked its boughs. Some even swore they'd spotted faeries dancing in rings beneath its shadow.

The hallucinogenic effects were, by Viktor's accounts, an ur-example of magicoreality: an object, space, or phenomenon that is created through the combined imagination of multiple entities. It was real, because they believed it real. And vice versa.

Like a mobius strip blossoming into being.

Viktor's acolytes had transplanted the tree—roots to stem—from Singed subterranean laboratory. Something in the soil of the Cathedral's grounds nourished it with unique potency: the tree flourished where naysayers, Silco chief among them, predicted it would rot. By the first month, it'd become the centerpiece around which every botanical beauty revolved. By the sixth, it was the brilliant heart of a preternatural paradise: creepers, ferns, lilies, ivies, marigolds, all erupting in a palette of purest life.

By the tenth?

The tree was worshipped as an entity unto itself. It dominated the cultists' rhetoric; it haunted their reveries. It was rumored that Janna herself had breathed life into its veins, rescuing it from the brink of collapse. Pilgrims from the depths below, voyeurs from the heights above, arrived in droves to seek the sheltering boughs as if for the same restorative breath.

And under those twirling branches?

They were never the same again.

Formerly pallid patients were rumored to stagger from their sickbeds, sit beneath the blossoms in solemn ceremony, then unfold from their atavistic comas miraculously reborn. Like larvae metamorphosing into butterflies.

From devolution to evolution.

But though the tree restored a measure of life to its devotees, its own was an hourglass suspended between grains. The fruits hanging off its branches evoked a spectrum of incandescent sea-shells washed by whitecaps onto arid shores. They were entirely inedible; ash and air. And as soon as they fell, their shells fossilized: petrifying into stone-crusted facets within minutes of detachment, before dissolving into inert dust.

It was the tree's perpetual paradox: the promise of life, forever beyond reach. And death, ever-encroaching at its heels.

In its shadow, Viktor, the most devoted disciple of one, held court weekly with the most notorious apostate of the other.

"Wake up, Jinx."

Viktor's hand, freed from its tight leather glove, squeezed hers. His fingers, long and thin, held a delicate strength: there were calluses, velvety, at the tips, and a roughness along the heel. A scientist's hands, evolved into a healer's. Tonight, Jinx saw ink smudges on the knuckles. There was also a tiny nick, from wielding a scalpel during the evening's surgery on a young boy's ruptured appendix.

The boy was safe. Tucked into a cot at the infirmary, with the others under Viktor's care: each dosed with enough poppy-milk to see them through the night. The boy's mother, one of the dozen souls who'd flocked to the Cathedral seeking the Machine Herald's aid, had wept at her son's restoration, kissing the hem of Viktor's robe in a show of gratitude.

It was a scene that Jinx had witnessed, over and over again, during her visits. And it never failed to unsettle.

Devotion, undiluted, had that effect. Especially when it was devoid of desire.

Daily, scores of souls passed in and out of the Cathedral. Each brought with them a problem, a poison, a plea. Each, Viktor addressed in their turn: salving their sores, purging their pustules, and bestowing, with a steady hand and a soft voice, his personal brand of salvation.

He never charged for his chem-modifications. Even the most complex, which took months to design, were given for free.

His payment, his only payment, was everything.

From the start, he’d made plain that his services were offered on a strictly non-partisan basis, and would cease immediately should any faction in Zaun attempt to co-opt his work. Except that was a lie. Everyone knew, in Zaun's hierarchical honeycomb, Viktor had no love for politics. But he was fiercely political: his sacrifices, solely and exclusively, were for the elevation of Zaun's future.

It was his singular obsession: the evolution of the present into an age of transcendence, and the eradication of the past into obscurity.

Viktor hated the past. A past that’d left him broken, disfigured, discarded: an imperfect specimen, unworthy of survival.

The same past, which had yet forged him.

And Jinx, his muse and mirror, who'd been reborn in its bloodshed.

"Jinx," Viktor repeated. "Wake up."

His hand squeezed hers, then let go. A moment later, a metal cup was pressed into her grasp.

The warmth radiated; Jinx's flesh drank it up. The coffee gave off its curls of aromatic steam: a nutty blend of chicory root, black chocolate liqueur, and the sweet whiff of anise.

Diluted, as always, with sweetmilk.

Viktor, his own cup balanced precariously between two fingertips, reclined with an easy elegance in the grass. His staff lay within arm's reach: the undying habit of a boy whose mind is always five steps ahead, but whose body is forever falling behind. Everywhere, leather-bound books were scattered, some facedown with cracked spines, others bristling with raven's feathers that doubled as bookmarks. An inkwell glittered, half-empty, on a stack of maps scribbled with notes.

In this garden, Vitya was ever-studying, ever-searching. Never satisfied with the knowledge already in hand, and the miracles already in motion.

Something he and Jinx shared in common.

Reclining on elbow, Viktor sipped from his cup with the other hand. Then he plucked a notebook from the pile, stirred through its pages with a fingertip, and resumed writing with his cockatrice quill: a rapid series of symbols that, unfurling, imprinted themselves in a secret pocket of Jinx's brain, and the darkest recesses of her heart.

Destiny: charted beyond the stars.

Jinx sat up, knees tucked against her chest, and drank from her cup. The flavor was just as it should be: bitter chased by sweet, complexity balanced by simplicity.

Viktor's handwork: the paradox distilled into metaphor.

Just like the garden, where every blade of grass grew exactly the same height, and every flower, in its arrangement, was a repetition into infinity.

Sipping, Jinx's eyes flicked from bloom to bloom. Then, she noticed:

A single blossom out of place.

A lone iris, curling its way from between the tree's roots. It was sly as an intruder, bright as a fallen star.

The same hue as Powder's wishful blue eyes.

Jinx's lips curled. Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingers traced the blossoming petals. They were silky, smooth. Almost too flawless to be real.

"Is this place," she whispered, "alive?"

It was only half-joking. During each visit, she could never escape the sense that the garden—multiform, deviant—was suffused with a spiritual awareness sister to sentience. And the tree, gathering them both under its protective penumbra, was rooted right to the crux of Zaun's stony heart.

"Not exactly," Viktor replied, without looking up from his notes. "Not by our reckoning. More a kind of... meta-life."

"Meta-life?"

Viktor, dipping the quill in its inkwell, shrugged.

"This tree is but a reflection—an iteration—of something larger-than-life. Something of a piece with the city's vital flow. A conduit of sorts."

"Like, what? A portal?"

"Perhaps," he said, and absently rested a palm on his leg, the site of his first augments. "Or perhaps a lens. Something which reflects, refracts, magnifies. An imperfect metaphor."

"Serpent's tongue. Apple's flesh. Devil's promise."

"Precisely. A system of shorthand within which meaning can be imparted, and context given."

Jinx's eyes lingered on the flower: a star's winking light, buried under layers of soil.

"What's the point, though?" she wondered. "I mean, yeah, I get it: a symbol's powerful. But if you're trying to forget the past—"

"Forgetting is not the same as erasing," Viktor corrected, patiently. "And what good is a symbol, Jinx, if no one knows what it stands for?"

Double-edged question and double-pronged answer: classic Viktor.

Sighing, Jinx returned to her cup. The coffee, cooled, had lost its bite. She drained it anyway, then let the cup rest in her lap. Her eyes, half-lidded, took in her companion.

He was still garbed for his duties: a mauve linen robe with a high collar, its sleeves rolled up, the hem draping past his knees. It was a garment, once, meant to conceal. Now, it served a purpose quite the opposite. Its folds bared the armature that held Viktor together: once emaciated, now elegantly streamlined beneath a segmented exoskeleton of synth-plates. His bad leg, encased in gleaming obsidian augments, now held the flexile precision of muscle, and the springing strength of a steel cable.

The fusion was seamless: the stuff of futuristic fairytale. When he moved, it was with an almost regal glide. As if, somewhere in the gaunt structure of Viktor's frame, there was an ancient drop of royalty, finally emerging from its hardscrabble shell in a blend of princely asceticism and common-born resilience.

Under the tree's canopy, Viktor's pallor was offset by his deep-hued robes. The effect wasn't peaky so much as pearlescent. His untidy curls tumbled freshly-glossed along his shoulders: the barest delineations of a beard teased the contours of his jawline. The sum total was neither masculine nor feminine. Only androgynous; ethereal.

Transcendent as stardust.

The rim's of Jinx's eyes burned. Why was it that even at their closest, Viktor seemed as if he was dissolving into astral orbit, a beautiful moon drifting farther from reach?

And why did Jinx feel herself hurtling on an opposing trajectory: crashing to earth with fatal velocity?

The wind, still unseen, sawed gently through the tree's branches. Its blossoms whispered: the susurration of silk sheets, or a lover's sigh. Jinx found it fitting that, though the Cathedral of Progress was, technically, the building's newly-christened designation, ordinary Fissurefolk referred to it, unofficially, by a different epithet.

The Resurrection Root. The Everbloom. The Glass Garden.

And the most popular—

Der Wunschbaum.

Ur-Nox for Wishing Tree.

Except Ur-Nox was a double-edged sword. It was the language of the ancients; Mages and Guardians who'd lived in the time before Zaun had ever been. Their language, therefore, was the language of enchantment: one half lofty, the other half sinister. Wish, for instance, was rooted in the word Wunschet: to want. To desire beyond the bounds of reality.

But it was also rooted in Wählen: to choose.

A wish could be a heart's deepest desire unlocked. Or it could be a will to power: to take what you want, no matter the cost.

And me? Jinx wondered. What do I want?

And what will I give to seize it—or throw it away?

At her silence, Viktor stopped scribbling. His eyes, deep-gold, met hers.

"All right, Jinx?"

"Y-Yeah."

"You should wake up."

"Don't wanna."

"No?" Scritch-scritch went the pen, runes blossoming in its wake. Distantly, Jinx heard the acolytes singing, a ghostly engine of harmony. And—could it be?—Sparky's yips, cutting through the choir: a dissonant counterpoint. The greedy mutt, somewhere, was begging for treats. "If you do not wake, how will your Name Day be celebrated?"

"Multitasking's a thing. I've always been a pro."

"You are terrible at multitasking."

"Am not!"

"You fell asleep during the surgery."

"You told me not to interrupt. So I closed my eyes. But I was listening. I always listen."

"You were drooling." And, closing the notebook with the coordinates plotted inside, he set it down. In a single graceful movement, he'd shifted closer. Close enough to touch his thumb against the corner of her lips, where a grin had stolen in. Viktor's own lips, palely-parted, were a few inches away. "You look like a child when you sleep. Peaceful. It is... rare."

"I was havin' a sweet dream."

"Oh? Tell me."

"A night full of stars. Wishes a-popping like fishes. And a beautiful boy." Her voice, at half-octave, came breathless. Always, his proximity did that to her: an unravelling of everything she held dear about herself. Like deja vu—except more desolate. Dying, when you longed to be reborn. "Except he won't wish me a Happy Name Day. He won't even gimme a kiss."

At that, Viktor smiled: a slow, secret curl that was yet the saddest expression in the world.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "he is a fool."

"Yeah?"

"And a coward." The thumb, tracing the full jut of her bottom-lip, was cool as snowfall, and as chaste. "Because he knows, deep in his heart, that you are still a child. The child he sees when you sleep. And because, despite whatever tradition or legality declares, you are not yet a woman. Certainly, not the woman who, once she comes into herself, will outrace him, and his grand designs, and fly off on wings of stardust."

"You talkin' about Silco?" Jinx quipped. "'Cause, no offense, but he's no competition. I can outrun that fossil anytime."

The levity fell flat. Viktor's golden eyes, augmented to their depths, lost their imperceptible luster. A moment later, his hand retreated, as if it'd never been.

"I know," he said, "that this is only an interlude."

"You think so?" Jinx, impulsively, caught the hem of his sleeve. "Pretty harsh frame to put 'round forever."

"Forever means little in a cosmos of infinite permutations."

"Not so long as we're still us, right?"

"A conundrum in itself." He didn't withdraw, exactly. Only laid his fingertips over hers, knotted into his sleeve. "Are our mirrored selves—in the physical, in the quantum—so very different at their crux? Is one less worthy, less agentic, than the other? Or are they simply two sides of the same coin, flipped endlessly, until the universe collapses on itself."

"Yikes. Talk about buzzkill."

"I am not a man for platitudes, Jinx." The smile, sadder, stayed on the surface. "Not will I feed you falsehoods, in hopes that the future may hold more than the present."

"So you say."

"So I mean." And, surprising her, he caught her hand in both his own: a tender clasp. "We've pledged our spirits as one. We've plotted our course. Escape velocity is inevitable. But the path ahead will not be easy. Not for either of us. If anything, it will be harder, given what we must renounce to see the destination through. And I—I cannot be sure—"

A crack in his faultless equilibrium. In turn, Jinx felt her own fragile serenity evaporate.

"Sure of what, Viktor?" she said, with quiet ferocity. "That I'll change my mind halfway? Chicken out before the starting gun goes off? Let Silco dictate my choices, like I've always done?"

"No, Jinx, no."

He shook his head; the curls danced, a ribboning cascade of cornsilk. There were silver streaks beginning to thread at the temples. Thirty-three, and a full-grown man where Ekko was still shedding the last vestiges of boyhood. But moments like this, it struck Jinx that Viktor was, at his core, even younger than Ekko. Two orphans prematurely thrust into roles before their time: the savior leading his flock to the promised land, and the savant saving souls that the world would sooner crush underfoot.

But both, in their hearts, still children. Still seeing Jinx, and what she'd become. But never, ever seeing her for who she was: the girl, not the legend.

The woman, not the jinx.

"Never that, Jinx," Viktor said. "Never would I think so little of you."

"...But?"

"It's been difficult, these past months, for us to speak frankly."

"Vitya," Jinx said, a touch exasperated. "We're speaking now. Aren't we?"

"We are." A squeeze, gentle, on her fingers. "At risk on both ends. But I have never once doubted your commitment. Your passion far exceeds mine; far exceeds whatever designs I may conjure. The world will be a better place, with you striving to make it so. My only fear is that, if you choose this path, yours will be the lonelier one."

"Lonely, how?" The ghost-prick of tears. "We're bonded, aren't we? Even if it's not what either of us planned—"

"A bond that can never be consummated. Never, in any sense, bear fruit." His grip tightened; yet the timbre of his voice held no rebuke. Only truth. "I am a creature born of disappointment, Jinx. Faulty in form and function. Unfit for any world except the one I will create, and even that shall be a long time coming. Yet, in the Void, you gave me a glimpse of paradise, and it was... indescribable. All I will ever want."

"And?" Her lip quivered, but held. A child, he'd called her, and yet her voice was steel. "Wasn't it enough? Wasn't I—?"

"You? Not enough? My dearest." Even though his sigh was bittersweet, a mote of passion shot through: the same passion that'd flowed, so effortlessly, between them in the otherworld. The same passion that now translated itself—sublimated and yet quartered—into the gentle dexterity of his hands on a circuitboard fused to a sobbing boy's flesh, and the consoling caress afterward as the boy's mother, sobbing too, laid a kiss of gratitude upon her savior's robe. "You are the only star in a universe without light. But because you are, you are far too much. For anyone's good. Least of all mine."

The tears, against Jinx's will, spilled free.

"So I was a mistake?"

"Yes. And no"

"How?"

"You were a miracle," Viktor said, and his smile, in its sadness, was radiant. "And a miracle is a gift bestowed by Fate. Without factors such as deservingness, or suitability, or even equity, thrown into the equation. A miracle, simply, is. As you, Jinx, always are. I know you've made your peace with our bond. You've acclimated yourself to it, the same as I have. But if we commit—truly commit—to the path ahead, we must renounce the rest, in every way. And Jinx... I cannot, in good faith, ask that of you. Not when I know what you stand to lose. Not when I know all the ways you need, and deserve, to be loved."

The tears kept falling. Jinx made no effort to stop them. The garden, with its Wishing Tree, was a time-out from pretense. Not sanctuary, but as close as Zaun's chaotic confines allowed. The other one—the Wishing Wagon, in civilization's shadowed cul-de-sac—was her true refuge. But that was a different her, with a different future.

A girl who'd yet to realize her greatest wish. A woman who, at the crossroad's fork, could take a chance.

She'd never told Viktor about the Wishing Wagon. Same way she'd never told Ekko about the Wishing Tree. Both were secrets within secrets: mirrored halves of a fractured whole.

And Jinx, at the liminal space in between, wondering: What's it mean?

What did it mean that one man had her soul at knifepoint, but another was holding her heart hostage? What did it say that she and Viktor fit together just right, but she and Ekko were built from perfectly mismatched puzzle pieces? What did it matter if she needed them both, but in ways so opposite they might as well be a different language?

How could she make the ends meet?

Especially when her life—her death—still hung on Silco's strings?

And her past—her future—still hinged on Vi's?

"Maybe," she said, and caught her lip in her teeth, "that's the point."

"Oh?"

"Maybe... the glimpse of paradise was all it was. A glimpse. The rest's about struggling to make it happen. Because it's the only way. Because choice is nothing but fate with a kick."

"Jinx, no."

"Why not? It makes sense. In a twisted sorta way." Her eyes, smarting-wet, blinked hard. "Fate's not a pretty delivery-gal on the front step with a package. He's a blind old pirate, throwing darts at a map and laughing as they land. Doesn't matter who gets skewered. Once that bullseye hits, it hits. And you're on the hook. No takebacks." Her other hand, lifting, aligned itself with Viktor's jaw: stubble yielding velvety beneath her palm. "We were always gonna be on the hook, Vik. At least, in the Void, I saw where we’re headed. What, in the end, we could become. And sure, the path's not a fairytale. But if we don't take it, the rest'll be fucked. And blind old fate'll be laughing his ass off, watching us sink under the waves."

"Perhaps," Viktor said, and leaned into her touch. But the smile, always, stayed sad. "But Jinx?"

"Yeah?"

"Fate is not the same as choice." Turning his head, he laid a kiss, pure as a snowflake, in the heart of her palm. "Even the cosmos, no matter its dictates, allows breathing-room for free will. I have mine, and I know what they will cost. Now, and in every incarnation. But you, Jinx: you are still so young. Your wishes, the ones that matter, have yet to be made. And once they are lost, you will not have the chance to reclaim them."

"Because I'm a child, right?" The anger, a flashfire that filled her to the seams, in this garden only left her aching. "Too dumb to know what I want. Too naive to make the tough call."

All at once, Viktor closed the gap.

Silently, he swept Jinx into an embrace: a cradle and a coffin holding both living and dead in sacred embrace. His arms made a crossbones at her shoulderblades; his breath stirred the top of her scalp. They were both clothed, but Jinx felt her heartbeat resonating through their ribcages, keeping time with the rhythmic dirge of the Cathedral's chants, and the Old Hungry's distant chimes

Reality and dream: melded into one.

Somewhere, Sparky was pawing at Jinx's slumbering shape in search of belly-rubs. Behind her eyelids, neon bled through. She heard fireworks; smelled engine-grease. Felt an odd pressure on her spine that had nothing to do with Viktor's cool fingertips tracing its curve, and everything to do with being bound, on a visceral level, beyond this communion they both shared.

"Fate," Viktor breathed, and his lips, against her temple, imparted prophecy, "will always come due. But choice? That, my dearest Jinx, is an arrow aimed straight for the heart. And to deny it: that is an error far graver than anything science, or the cosmos, could dole out." He kissed her forehead: the sweetest absolution. "Your choice must be yours. Do not allow a hand, no matter how divine, to dictate it."

Jinx, closing her eyes, lay her cheek to his chest.

"Not even yours?" she whispered, as the tears stopped falling.

"My hand, like my heart, will belong with you, Jinx. Even if you choose another path."

"Mirror, mirror on the wall."

"In every iteration," Viktor murmured, a tender withdrawal, "of this cosmic joke. An imperfect metaphor. Do you understand?"

"I do," Jinx lied, and lifted her face. "Kiss me?"

"This is not a space for secrets, Jinx."

"Then it's a perfect place, ain't it? 'Cause I won't have any left, after tonight."

"You will," Viktor said, and his thumbs smoothed the fading tear-tracks from her cheeks. "You do. We all carry secrets within ourselves. But to hide one, here, is to desecrate the very vow we must keep. And to deny our truth—any of our truths—is the greatest dishonor to the other. Do you understand?"

Foreboding rippled over Jinx's skin. The garden, the tree, the chants: all the beautiful trappings of ephemera, slipping like sand through the hourglass.

"Viktor." She caught his hand in hers, holding it fast. "Please."

"I'll see you tonight, Jinx."

"Don't—don't go—"

"Tonight. When you make your choice. Whatever that choice may be."

"But—"

"Wake up now."

The hourglass, upended. The Cathedral, the garden, the embrace, dissolving. All the dreamscape and its dazzling details, blotting out.

"Viktor!" Jinx cried. "Viktor!"

"Happy Name Day, Jinx," he said, and the ghost-imprint of his kiss died before it met her mouth. "I will kiss you, truly, tonight."

The ceiling spun above: a galaxy's worth of stars, winking out. Her hands, searching, found nothing.

Nothing but the blue iris, unfurling at the tip of a finger.

And Viktor's voice, deep as midnight.

"Make a wish."

The last winking star: her own.

[fleurlind]

[faerouzia]

𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚆 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙻𝙾𝙶𝚄𝙴 | 𝙺𝙷𝙹

☦︎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛!𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐

☦︎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛, 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏

☦︎ 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚞

☦︎𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: [𝟸𝟷+!!!] 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 (𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛), 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜, 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 [ 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎], 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝, 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚡 (𝚏.𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐), 𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚑𝚢𝚙𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜, 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚡 [𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚔] 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚝 [𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜]. 𝙰𝚐𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝟽𝟶 (𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐), 𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝟸𝟼.

☦︎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚋, 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚝. 𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕. 𝙰𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗-𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟸.𝟹𝙺

The ambrosial aroma of alfalfa, simmering languidly upon the stove, permeated the very essence of my being, each inhalation a testament to the verdant bounty bestowed upon me by nature's generous hand. My collection of jars, each a veritable cornucopia of nature's treasures, stood resplendent, their contents a vivid tapestry of the earth's offerings. The walls of my humble abode, adorned with cascading ivy leaves, bore witness to the legacy of my forebears—both matriarchs and patriarchs—whose precious gems and iridescent crystals shimmered with an ethereal luminescence, casting a kaleidoscope of colors that danced playfully in the silvery embrace of the moonlight. 

As the somber gloom of the night enveloped the landscape, the winds, with an almost mischievous spirit, rustled through the grass, which swayed and twirled in a harmonious ballet, choreographed by the unseen forces of nature. Above, the clouds, delicate and ephemeral, drifted languidly across the vast expanse of the star-studded sky, their presence barely discernible against the backdrop of twinkling celestial bodies.

In the midst of this tranquil tableau, he lay in a deep slumber—the one whom I had once held dear to my heart—while I busied myself with the preparations for supper. The copper pots, gleaming with a warm patina, bubbled contentedly as they cradled the maize, a humble yet nourishing staple, while a pot of honey, golden and viscous, awaited its turn to grace the evening's repast with its sweet embrace.

Alas, such was the extent of my modest means; maize and honey constituted the entirety of my culinary offerings, for the price of sheep had soared beyond my reach. Moreover, the whispered admonitions of the spectral souls that inhabited the very walls of my cottage echoed in my mind, cautioning me against the consumption of animal flesh. Thus, I found solace in the simplicity of my fare, a reflection of both my circumstances and the enduring wisdom of those who had come before me.

I delicately unfurled my fortune cards across the weathered surface of the table, seeking to occupy the fleeting moments until the maize reached its culinary zenith. My fingers, nimble and practiced, shuffled the deck with an almost reverent precision, when, quite unexpectedly, two cards leapt forth from the pack, as if propelled by some unseen force, eager to unveil the narrative of my anticipated destiny.

Before I could summon the courage to reveal their hidden truths, a sudden gust of frigid air caressed the nape of my neck, sending an involuntary shiver coursing through my spine. It was as though the very essence of the night had conspired to envelop me in its chilling embrace. With a heart that raced in trepidation, I turned the cards over, and a wave of goosebumps cascaded across my forearms, prickling my skin with an unsettling awareness of the supernatural.

The first card, the Tower, appeared in its reversed position, a harbinger of upheaval and chaos, while the second card bore the ominous inscription of Death—a symbol not merely of mortality, but of profound transformation and the inexorable passage of time. My breath caught in my throat, a palpable tension suffusing the air around me, as the whispers of restless souls began to swirl and intertwine, their ethereal murmurs dimming the flickering glow of the candlelight that had previously illuminated my modest surroundings.

The shattering of glass echoed ominously in the distance, accompanied by the harrowing screams of my fair maidens, their voices rising in a cacophony of terror. Rising abruptly from my stool, I approached the window with a heart laden with dread, peering into the encroaching darkness. What I beheld sent a chill coursing through my veins: a throng of men, brandishing pitchforks and flickering lanterns, advanced with a menacing fervor. Their faces, obscured by the shadows of the night, were mere silhouettes, yet the brutality of their actions was all too apparent as they hurled the maidens to the ground, their anguished cries mingling with the frustrated grunts of their captors.

“Where is the witch?!” they bellowed, their voices a discordant symphony of rage and accusation. Panic surged within me, and I dashed to my chambers, desperate to rouse my beloved from his slumber, but alas, I was far too late; the doors of my sanctuary splintered under the weight of their fury, crashing down with a resounding finality.

The Senate had arrived, clad in rough black cotton cloaks that billowed ominously around them, their expressions twisted with disdain and malevolence. “What is it you want?” I stammered, my voice trembling as it escaped my parched throat, the weight of their presence pressing heavily upon me.

A suffocating silence enveloped the room, punctuated only by the crackling hum of the flames that danced upon their pitchforks. The eldest among them, Senator Kim, unleashed a guttural sound from the depths of his throat, spitting contemptuously onto the wooden floorboards of my humble abode. “Witch! Devil!” he proclaimed with a fervor that sent a jolt of terror through my very core. My breath caught in my throat, the titles hurled at me like daggers, leaving me utterly dumbfounded by the absurdity of their accusations. “I do not follow; I am no witch, nor am I a devil. You must be mistaken,” I implored, my voice quaking with the weight of my disbelief, the intrusion upon my sanctuary igniting a profound sense of agonizing discomfort.

“You have been the architect of a heinous crime of witchcraft,” he thundered, his voice resonating with the fury of the storm that raged outside, as the townspeople’s screams crescendoed in response to the sight of their homes engulfed in flames. Younger men surged forward, their hands grasping me with an iron grip, as I writhed in futile resistance, my arms flailing against their unyielding hold. My knees buckled beneath me, collapsing to the ground, while my beloved remained blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding just beyond his door.

“What—”

“Witnessed by those whose testimonies have been heard,” Senator Kim interjected, his voice a relentless torrent.

“No, that is not true! I am but a herbalist. I only—”

“Herbalist with fire! You were communicating with the dead, the devil!” he accused, his words laced with venom.

“Lies! Damn those who have spoken ill upon my name!” I cried, desperation clawing at my throat.

“I shall not risk damnation upon these good people,” Senator Kim continued, his voice slicing through the air like a blade, commanding the men to drag me from the sanctuary of my humble residence.

My once-pristine white gown, now sullied and stained with the muddy earth, bore witness to my degradation as the townspeople swarmed around me, their faces contorted with rage and fear, fingers pointing accusatorily at my disheveled form. I had endured a brutal beating, three merciless blows to the head, as refuse and waste were hurled at me, each projectile a testament to the unfounded wrath that had been unleashed upon my innocent soul.

And then, in a cruel twist of fate, I found myself shackled, the cold metal biting into my skin as the senator delivered his final, damning declarations. Bruised and smeared with filth and blood, my heart raced with a primal fear as one of the men stepped ominously toward the threshold of my home, a flaming pitchfork clutched tightly in his hand.

The rusted brass collar encircled my neck, a cruel reminder of my captivity, while shackles bound my ankles and wrists, rendering me powerless.

“She did it!” a voice cried out, filled with venomous accusation.

“Agatha’s son died because of her!” another echoed, the whispers of the townspeople swirling around me like a tempest, their fervor feeding the flames of my impending doom as the senator prepared his words for my execution. The gentlemen at my doorstep stood poised, awaiting the final blow.

“Y/N Valerius, you have, by the decree of the senate and the will of the people, been found guilty, and it is passed upon you according to your gravest crimes…execution!”

A chorus of chants erupted, a cacophony of hatred and fervor, as the senator raised his hand, signaling the man to take charge. The pitchfork, now poised to grace the doorframe, sent my heart into a frantic triple beat, my eyes widening in horror as the realization of my fate dawned upon me.

“No—”

“Burn it all!” he commanded, his baritone voice resonating with an authority that brooked no dissent. I struggled against my bonds, writhing in a desperate attempt to save what little remained of my existence. My knees scraped against the unforgiving ground as they held me down, my screams erupting from the depths of my diaphragm, a primal cry as the flames began to engulf the walls of my home. I witnessed the fire ignite, a cruel paradox of speed and slowness, granting me a fleeting moment to save him. But then it was done; the scents of herbs and crystals exploded in a fiery conflagration as the flames grew ever higher.

Amidst the chaos, I could hear the subtle wails of his voice, the agony of the flames melting his skin away, charring him to his very marrow. The last vestiges of his being were consumed by the inferno, a tragic consequence of my sins. I wept, my eyes brimming with an emotion far more profound than mere anger or sadness; it was heartbreak incarnate. I wailed once more, my stomach churning with despair, for I had lost everything—my home, my love, and the very essence of my humanity. I was stripped bare of my dignity, left with nothing but the ashes of my former life.

“No evil shall reign, as long as I live,” the senator proclaimed, his voice a chilling decree as he strode toward the carriage that awaited him, a human-sized cage secured at the back. It was a cage reserved for the most notorious of criminals, and in their eyes, I was the embodiment of all that was vile—a murderer, a witch, a devil.

Prison was not a foreign concept to me; I had once been a mere cleaner, tasked with the eerie duties of maintaining the cells, distributing meals at the tender age of seventeen. That was until I had fled one fateful night, spurred on by a voice that whispered, “Take the leap, and beware of those who seek your downfall. Run, child, run.”

I had run as fast as my legs could carry me, the hound dogs barking furiously at my departure, yet hope propelled me forward. Had I known I would return to this wretched place, I would have never left. What had once been a gift had turned into a tragedy. I had never taken a life, and yet my love lay dead, taken from me in his sleep, deaf to the ruckus that had unfolded.

Now, my execution loomed just three days away, and I was left in a cell devoid of sustenance—no food, no water—merely a corner plastered with the remnants of humanity and the filth of rats. It was safe to say that I had begun to lose my sanity in the span of mere hours. The walls became my only companions, while the guards, alerted to my troubled illusions, dismissed my plight with indifference. Until one fateful night, a card slipped into my cell—the Tower card.

I could not reach for it, shackled as I was, far from its tantalizing proximity.

And then it appeared, a dark figure lurking in the corners, formless yet palpable. I felt no fear at its sight; rather, I was enveloped in an unexpected sense of comfort. “Your heart is weary, yet you grow insane by the hour,” it intoned, its voice imbued with an ancient power.

“I've lost much—much that cannot be replaced,” I replied, my voice trembling with the weight of my sorrow. It hummed in response, and then silence enveloped us. Its arm reached forward into the dim light, revealing wrinkled fingers adorned with long, black, sharp nails, and a mark upon its wrist—three pinnacles etched into its skin. “I know what you want, what you deeply desire.”

“Since you know so well, why don’t you enlighten me?” I challenged, my curiosity piqued.

“Revenge, I can feel it, I can see it,” it declared, the word resonating within me like a long-forgotten echo. Revenge? The thought had crossed my mind, the last words I had uttered before being hurled into the cage: “You will all be sorry.” It was a desire that paled in comparison to my longing for my love, yet I knew I had to make them pay for the atrocities they had committed against me.

“If you wish to receive, your right hand shall release you from such a fate,” it offered, its voice a seductive whisper.

“Will I be granted the opportunity to bring back life?” I inquired, hope igniting within me.

“For eight souls, it shall be your prize,” it replied, the weight of its words settling heavily upon my heart.

I pursed my lips at the thought—eight souls to bring him back. My heart raced not with fear, but with a grim determination. They had labeled me a witch, a devil, a murderer; I had nothing left to lose but my life. I extended my right hand slightly, and it stretched its arm to grasp mine, the contact sending shivers down my spine, as if it were desperate for this connection. Then, its nail pierced a vein on my wrist, blood curling in fine prints as it burned into my skin.

“Call upon my name, and you shall be free,” it instructed, pointing at the blood that now marked my wrist. And then it vanished, leaving behind a dark etching that formed a name upon my skin. Once red, it transformed to black, veins emanating from each letter.

“Damien.”

taglist (open): @ninjakitty15 @velvetdolor

[dxrlingluv]

If it's not too awkward to ask but like Platonic Aeolus x Reader friendship headcanons?

Clouds

A/N : Hello just wanna say that I am NOT good at doing head-cannons so I guess that should be a warning. Also I know Aeolus’s voice actor is a girl but they are a male based on Greek Mythology so to avoid confusion, I made them gender neutral. Aeolus design is from Gigi!

WARNING : Platonic!GN!Aeolus, No specific gender for reader. Just fluff.

Word Count : 617

• Aeolus loves to present you with a "gift," a swirling vortex of iridescent mist contained in a ridiculously ornate jar. They insists it's "a concentrated essence of pure, unadulterated joy!" You eye it suspiciously, remembering the last time they used the word "joy."

• Sure enough, the moment you open it, the mist escapes, engulfing you in a cloud of shimmering particles that transform your hair into a gravity-defying, rainbow-colored afro. They watch the whole thing with a mischievous grin, clapping his hands together and declaring it "a masterpiece of ephemeral artistry!" You spend the next week trying to explain your new hairstyle to the other deities.

• They’re constantly devising elaborate "challenges" for your amusement (and, you suspect, their own). One day it's a riddle-off with a sphinx (who, it turns out, is surprisingly good at puns), the next it's a breath-holding contest in a cloud of pure helium (which results in you talking in a squeaky voice for hours), and then there's the time they challenged you to a staring contest... with a cyclops. They always frames these as "opportunities for growth" or "tests of character," but you're pretty sure they just enjoy watching you squirm.

• Aeolus insists you be their audience for his theatrical performances. They’ll drag you to the highest cloud, strike a dramatic pose against the sunset, and deliver booming monologues to passing weather patterns. Their favorite line, "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer," is delivered with maximum gravitas, complete with dramatic hand gestures and a voice that echoes across the heavens. They even try to incorporate interpretive dance, which mostly involves a lot of arm-waving and dramatic swaying, much to the bewilderment of the aforementioned clouds.

• Aeolus introduces you to their personal retinue of cloud spirits. They're... enthusiastic doesn't even begin to cover it. They follow you around like fluffy, overeager puppies, offering unsolicited advice on everything from your fashion choices to your love life. They try to braid your hair out of mist (with limited success), attempt to teach you how to "ride the thermals" (which mostly involves being tossed around like a rag doll), and are generally just very, very present, all the time.

• Aeolus once invited you to watch Odysseus's ship sail away, a strangely contemplative expression on their face as the vessel shrinks on the horizon. For a moment, they’re uncharacteristically quiet, lost in thought. Then, they suddenly bursts into laughter, a loud, booming sound that startles a flock of migrating birds. "Off they go!" they exclaimed, clapping you on the back. "With my little... present! I wonder how long it will take them to open it?" Aeolus winks, a mischievous glint in their eye, and you can't help but shake your head at their antics.

• The pranks. It starts innocently enough, with a few harmless gusts of wind rearranging your carefully placed belongings. But it quickly escalates into a full-blown prank war, a battle of wits and weather manipulation. You retaliate by subtly altering the wind patterns around their favorite lounging cloud, making it wobble precariously. They respond by creating a small, localized rainstorm that follows you wherever you go. The other deities watch with a mixture of amusement and concern as the heavens become a chaotic playground for your escalating pranks.

• Despite his playful exterior, Aeolus sometimes reveals a surprising depth. They might confide in you about the burden of their responsibilities, the loneliness of being a god of the winds, or his secret desire to write poetry (which, you discover, is surprisingly terrible). These moments of vulnerability are rare, but they offer a glimpse into the complex being beneath the mischievous facade, and they strengthen the bond of your unlikely friendship.

[wulfhalls]

the most effervescent ephemeral iridescent queen <3

[mercymaker]

he sits there, the necklace heavy in his hand, crimson eyes focused on the dark film covering the golden chain. blood—long-dried—that looks more like rust in the crook of his palm, reminds astarion of the night he retrieved the pendant, flashes of memory playing in his mind again and again like the iridescent sparkle of the shifting jewel.

some of them died too quickly, he thinks.

but the spawn had to be fast in thinning their numbers as his ambush hinged on the element of surprise. once that was gone, he would've been quickly outmatched. he made sure to save the archer and the leader for the final act, refusing to end their lives with a quick lick of his blade. they had shown no mercy to maleane, and astarion was never of the merciful sort to begin with.

yet, as he rotates the pendant in his hand, the unsoiled edge of the amethyst catches a stray beam of light coming from the lantern behind him. a sudden, ephemeral gleam of purple is all it takes for his mind to conjure up a different memory. a glimpse of pale lilac eyes finding him in a busy room. a soft, understanding smile that followed.

like a pendulum swinging, one second the moment is there, and then... it's gone. just like her.

against his very nature, however, astarion chases those thoughts. he unravels the spool of his memory, pulling the string between his fingers, searching for those warm moments, for the soft laughter, for the sound of her voice. and yet, every single one of them cuts like a shard of glass, nipping at the tips of his fingers, until the thread is coiling around his throat and his heart is full of splinters.

astarion hates how tainted it all feels. how instead of finding comfort in those loving moments, he now feels pain. how loss twisted and skewed his own mind against him, turning the last remainders of her into poison spreading in his cup.

first, he turned that pain into anger that had a direction, a sharpened arrow he could point at those who were at fault. but now all that remains is him and no more targets to aim at. maybe that's why astarion's dagger was sinking into his own heart.

▬ some post-atvs musings living in my head

[baphometsgirlcock]

I need to have inhuman sex immediately.

I need to be a mess of sweat-matted fur and scrabbling claws, rutting desperately into a whimpering breeding bitch, covering them in bite-mark hickeys and panting and growling as I fill them up, knock them up.

I need to be many careful hands at the end of too-long limbs, fingers wrapping around wrists, grabbing their hips, holding their legs to spread them open or pin them down, my iridescent eyes tracing their body in reverent light, making them squirm into my ever-present touch.

I need to be an ephemeral impossible touch, undressing them with tugs of cloth, longing touch felt but never seen, my hot and needy breath like a distant wind whistling past their eat, something intangible but thick and distinctly throbbing pushing carefully past their lips, their hair lifting in every direction as I fuck their face from beyond the grave.

I need to be heat so pervasive that it soaks into their throat from the tip of my forked tongue, that a simple kiss is enough to make them feel as though I’ve entered them somehow, and the pinch of my tracing talon fingers feels so much sharper and vivid, in a daze watching the hellfire behind my enrapturing eyes.

[timperi-fan]

"Are you alright?"

A calm voice broke through Timmy's panic, and he blinked. He always thought that if he ever found himself being mugged or attacked, he would stay calm and handle himself with dignity.

Instead, when his walk home from his shitty fast food job had been interrupted by a knife pointed at his face, Timmy had froze.

He still felt frozen now, sitting on the asphalt (when had he gotten on the ground?) with the night chill biting into his palms and leaking through his jeans. His heart was still slamming in his chest, even though the threat was gone.

The threat was gone?

The figure standing over him moved, and Timmy flinched. His wide eyes darted up, absorbing the stranger's concerned gaze and his mask and God, that was so much purple—

"Hey, hey, it's okay... You're in shock," the masked man said gently, like he was trying to settle a spooked animal.

Timmy worked his jaw a couple of times. He swallowed; squinted up at the man. "...Sídhe?"

It was. Sídhe — Dimmsdale's resident superhero — stood over Timmy, bending over to be closer to his height. The wings on his back cast scattered light over Timmy's prone form. The sound of his name made the hero grin in relief.

"You're okay. I'm so glad." He offered Timmy his hand. "Can you stand?"

Timmy nodded. He still felt shaky, but he was calming down some, now. He took Sídhe's hand on autopilot, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

He always thought that Sídhe would be taller in person, but the TV had a way of making things seem bigger than reality. He never thought he would be meeting Sídhe in person at all.

"It's a good thing that I was doing a late patrol today — I saw that man try to mug you," Sídhe explained, his voice tight with fury. Despite that, his grip on Timmy's hand remained gentle. "Are you injured at all?"

Somehow, Timmy found it within himself to shake his head. "No, I'm— I'm fine," he mumbled. "Just tired."

Sídhe leaned in. His other hand settled on Timmy's cheek, and he had the ludicrous thought that he was about to be kissed. Instead, Sídhe swiped his thumb over Timmy's cheek. His hand came away with blood on it.

It almost seemed like Sídhe's golden pupils flaired brighter still. "You're hurt."

Timmy reached out and caught Sídhe's hand. "It's just a cut. I..." He struggled to speak evenly. "I just want to go home. Really."

They stood still like that for a moment more. Sídhe's inhuman eyes scanned his face, like he was peeling away Timmy's skin to gaze at his soul. Could he do that? Maybe. He was magic, right?

Timmy was a little surprised to find that he wasn't bothered. He felt at ease around Sídhe.

Their hands were still entwined. He didn't feel any desire to change that.

Finally, Sídhe nodded. "I'll walk you home," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Timmy wouldn't have refuted even if it was.

He turned and started walking.

In his mind, Timmy always thought that if he did get to meet Sídhe, for whatever reason, he would ask a bunch of questions that he wanted to know the answer to. Like, where did he get his powers from? Why did he choose to be a hero? Were his wings as delicate as they looked? Was he born with them?

Was being a superhero lonely?

Instead, they walked in silence. Timmy stole glances at Sídhe as they walked, just to ensure that he wasn't dreaming. His wings were iridescent and looked as thin as air, like the details were spun from spider's silk and would fall apart at a touch. His clothing choice didn't seem to include any armor — Sídhe was dressed in flowing, loose fabric. The effect was that he looked ephemeral. Timmy kept thinking that he was going to blink and Sídhe would be gone.

For some reason, he stayed. He stayed all the way down the street, to Timmy's shitty little apartment just two blocks from his college campus.

"This is my stop," Timmy said.

Sídhe glanced appraisingly at the run-down brick building. "Are you safe here?" He asked.

"Uh." Timmy wasn't sure how to answer that. He wasn't sure why Sídhe cared. He shrugged one shoulder. "More or less."

Sídhe hummed. He set a hand on Timmy's shoulder, leaning in — so close that their breaths mingled and Timmy could count the flecks of gold burning in his irises.

This time, the last thing that Timmy expected was to be kissed. And that was exactly what Sídhe did.

His lips brushed the cut on Timmy's cheek, and it felt like time stopped. Timmy's fingers curled, clenching around nothing. He wanted time to freeze again; wanted this moment to last just a little bit longer.

Instead, Sídhe pulled back. The corner of his mouth was quirked up in a smile. "I have healing magic," he said by way of an explanation. Timmy could feel the place where he'd kissed tingling but, honestly, it would have felt that way even without magic.

"T-Thanks," Timmy managed. He cleared his throat. "I really, um, appreciate you, helping me out and walking me home... You didn't have to do all of that," he said awkwardly.

It was easier to make conversation when he'd been frozen. Now that he was thawed, all Timmy could focus on was the way that Sídhe's purple curls were hanging in front of his eyes, just begging to be brushed away from his face.

"Of course I didn't 'have to.' I wanted to," Sídhe said warmly. And he smiled, like there was no where in the world he'd rather be than on Timmy Turner's doorstep, with blood on his glove and fondness in his eyes. "Get some sleep, Timmy."

His wings fluttered as Sídhe became airborne. Timmy watched, amazed that something so pretty was actually functional. He wanted to memorize those swooping swirls and careful curves. He wanted to duck his head along Sídhe's bare back, lips brushing down his spine, while his fingers traced the patterns on his wings from memory.

Instead, Timmy stood there like an idiot, staring at the night sky until long after Sídhe was out of sight.

His cut had been healed, but his cheek still burned.

All Timmy could think was that he wanted Sídhe to stare at him like that again — like he was the most important thing in the universe.

(It didn't occur to him until the next morning that he had never told Sídhe his name.)

[ginoeh]

Welcome to my entry for the @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang 2024! Art was done by the amazing @lalaithquetzallicaresi ! You can find her over at Deviant Art as well!

Biggest thanks go to @tharkuun for tackling the task of pruning the purple out of my prose 💜! Thank you so much, friend!

Special thanks go to @chaosheadspace for allowing me to annex parts of her idea and doing my own thing with it! Without you this would be a different story altogeher...

To The Edge of Night

Explicit | Hob Gadling/Dream of the Endless | Part 1 of 3 | 11k

Part One Part Two

*** *** ***

Chapter One

It is quiet beneath the water’s surface.

Hob hangs there, suspended and weightless, beams of light filtering down through the cool liquid and refracting on ascending bubbles. In the back of his mind, there is the animal fear of nonono you need to breathe and no not again I don’t want to drown, but it is a muted, sizzling static barely more than white noise and easily disregarded. It is only the well-known echo of an old nightmare, so familiar by now that it is almost a friend. 

He should probably breathe soon, a sluggish and strangely calm part of his brain remarks, more out of obligation to observe the usual human behavioural pattern that is tattooed into everyone at birth and less because he feels he needs air. The larger part of Hob’s brain is preoccupied with becoming self-aware enough to recognize that he is dreaming. 

Below him, in the unseen black depth of whatever body of water his unconscious mind has made up, Hob detects a pressure change. More bubbles rise towards the vaguely defined surface, each of them carrying a world in them, a scene, a mind. Hob rips his eyes away from them; they are ephemeral, they’ll pop upon reaching the surface, like iridescent soap bubbles releasing their dreams into the ether once the dreamer awoke.

He frowns, vaguely aware that he shouldn’t know this, even as he observes the unknowable blackness underneath him. He knows what will happen next. This isn’t the first time he has this dream, after all. As if on schedule, the cold currents that swirl around his toes and bare calves grip tighter, sneaking up his thighs, then hips, grabbing and tugging until they find purchase. 

The first time, Hob had struggled, the old drowning nightmare trying to reassert itself. He’d woken gasping and in cold sweat with the uncomfortable feeling of having done an injustice to some nameless, pleading thing. In hindsight - if such a concept can be applied to something as illogical as dreams - he hadn’t felt threatened by the odd dream, per se. He’d been feeling vaguely guilty about it for days even when the actual dream had started to fade in the daylight hours. Dreaming in and of itself had become such an unusual concept to him over the 20th century that feeling like he had rejected one out of such an old fear had nearly made him want to apologise.

Hob had laughed at himself at that and made it a point to openly anticipate the still, black waters and cold undercurrent. He’d felt like a child, pretending the monster under his bed was actually a nice fellow and just wanted some company. 

The same dream had come again and again after that, not often but insistently, over weeks and months. He’s become strangely protective and appreciative of his only recurring and lucid dream. 

The worlds glinting in the air bubbles are a new addition, though.

Intrigued, Hob casts one more look at them before reaching with his hands into the tugging cold water, trying to bend down towards the depths where the emerging bubbles shimmer like silvery pearls before they rise. Then he is gripped - by fingers belonging to something like a hand, emerging from a body that was like his own but not, a dark mirror with sharp teeth in its smile - and ripped downwards, head first. 

The current tosses him like a ragdoll, down down down, buffeting him from all sides until Hob is twisted and bent in a way no human could possibly survive, were they in the real world. The humanoid shape that has gripped him is long gone, replaced by a cold riptide that carries him along more bubbles and dreams and worlds - over there is a glimpse of a candy coloured sky, here the view of a breathtakingly impossible mountain range, there an impression of creeping horror in a run-of-the-mill office setting -  

Curiously, with his waking mind lurking at the back like an observer behind a screen, Hob takes stock of the images and scenes he is drawn past. Different dreams, he acknowledges with the certainty of the sleeping, not his own but contained in these waters with him anyway. Suffusing them all, there is an emptiness; a yearning and a barren longing for something absent, something alien and all-encompassing. It is an empty night sky missing stars; cracked-dry earth missing the rain; a vibrant picture bled of all colours; a gaping maw of undirected wild dreams that threatens to swallow everything in its path - 

Then, Hob is sucked upwards, the dream bubbles becoming indistinct blurs of colour and sound until only the impenetrable dark of the deep sea remains. 

Finally, he is spat out.

It feels like waking up, only in reverse. 

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, or if time even has any significance in this strange place at all. He isn’t wet, for all that he thinks he’s travelled through water. Underneath his fingertips he feel the grain of age-worn wood, a solid surface that dugs into his back reassuringly.

Suddenly, in the way of dreams, there is someone standing over him. Dark skinned with close cropped hair that shows off elfin-like tipped ears. The being observs him over its glasses, curious and mistrusting.

“You are not my Lord.” The voice is female.

Hob can’t really fault the assertion. This has to be the most interesting dream he’s ever had. 

“No, I’m not,” he says, and doesn’t make a move to sit up. It doesn’t feel prudent to try seeing as he is, in reality, laying in his bed fast asleep. “But if you see him, tell him that his dreaming waters are really pretty turbulent, won’t you?”

Hob isn't particularly sure why it is those specific words that want to be said but it tracks with the whole knowledge that this is, in the end, a dream and therefore he’d better go along with the script. The curious woman’s lips twitch and something a bit warmer than perfunctory curiosity enters her eyes. It might be amusement. 

“I will, dreamer. As soon as my Lord is finally back again.”

Hob frowns, sinking further into the wooden plank beneath him that suddenly feels much too soft and comfortable and warm. He thinks of the insistent pull of the currents, of the uncanny knowledge that the waters are too rough, of the insistent yearning.

“That’s not good though, is it? Him - not here, missing.” He casts his eyes into the sky - grey and drab, but is that the edge of his wardrobe emerging over there? - before trying to focus again on the woman. “Who’re you, anyway? And why am I here?” 

“I am Lucienne, the Palace Librarian.” She sounds far away. ”And you, dreamer, need to wake up.”          

*** *** *** 

It all started by chance. 

At least, that was what Hob would reconstruct much later. He'd been a morose, pathetic bastard in the mid-nineties, so he was loath to call it something as trite as luck, or even bad luck.

He'd nearly cancelled his plans in favour of going on another drug-fuelled bender dose of inadvisable substances the night before, nearly took a right turn to get home faster. But then, entirely on a whim he’d decided to stick to his vague plan and turned left despite it all. However unlikely it was, he'd ended up at the rundown storage unit in The Middle of Nowhere, USA, when night was falling. There was a single light on in the manager's container, but instead of the old and brusque guy he'd talked with on the phone a week prior, a stressed-out twenty-something sat at the desk. 

The office itself was a dump and the person manning not in a largely better state.  

The air was heavy with too sweet perfume, but not enough to completely disguise the smell of mould and sweat. Mismatched boxes littered most of the floorspace and heaps of paperwork nearly swallowed the flimsy plastic desk as well as the androgynous tween behind it. Shadows burrowed grooves along their premature stress lines. They was staring blankly at a stack of folders. Hob thought they might possibly be a woman. Or - might have been born a woman, in any case. 

“I'm sorry, I don't know what Da’ was thinking. This is a fu- a freakin’ mess.” They shoved strands of shortish black hair behind pierced ears and nervously tapped a pen against a page of unreadable handwriting. 

Hob regretted not cancelling his plans. His head pounded something fierce and he thought longingly of the plastic bag of white powder underneath his passenger seat. He could have had a date with sweet delirium instead of standing here in the dark, trying to organize his next life. Mildew stared at him from the upper corner of the office container. 

“Look, it doesn't matter. We can just pretend I was never here-”

They looked up, panicked and pleading, and interrupted him.  

“No! I - we can make this work! I can-”

“Kid, if it doesn't work, then it doesn't work.” Hob sighed and started to turn around. The smell of the perfume itched at the back of his throat. He felt wretched. This whole damn decade was wretched.

“Please, wait. We- we …” They trailed off and Hob had to strain his ears to catch the despondent rest of the sentence. “...We need the money. Da’... Dad had an accident and - there's the hospital bills and… and the funeral bills now and…”

Hob pinched his nose, suppressing the rising nausea, and cursed his bleeding heart. He just hoped to every god that the actual storage units were in better shape than this office.

“I need three storage units at the very least, kid. Can you get me those?” He needed four or five to store all the debris of his past lives, to be honest, but he could be nice about this, just once. 

“I, um. I have two that are empty.” They sounded so carefully optimistic and thankful that Hob felt nearly wretched at his uncharitable thoughts. “And… there's one you can… just have anyway?”

“What?”

The kid worried at their chapped lips and looked up at Hob with a grimace. 

“Like, there's one where the owner is a… kind of a felon? And it's like, we're overdue rent by about three months.” They frowned. “Da’ has a phone number here about payment and stuff but, like, it's disconnected.”

And so it was by pure chance that Hob, on an all around awful and rainy night, hungover and itching for a fix, gained the keys to the storage unit of a convicted felon and found something that would change his life. 

The kid fiddled with the keys before finally just handing them over to Hob and showed him the way. It wasn’t far from the office at all. They hung back as Hob ducked inside, coughing at the wave of dust kicked up by the fresh air.

“I c'n have someone trash all this stuff next week, if you want!” the kid yelled from the entrance of the musty storage unit stuffed with shelves.  

Hob, though, didn't hear any of it. At the back of the cluttered space, on a heavy duty shelf at about chest height, there was a small metal box that drew his eyes. A deep red light spilled from between its hinges and from underneath the lid like beckoning fingers. The weirdest feeling of familiarity tickled his memories.

When he prised the box open, he found in it a red gemstone that looked very familiar.

*** *** *** 

The ruby - though Hob didn't know if it actually was a ruby, and he had no intention of having it checked - got a place of honour in Hob's bedroom. It was a sad state of affairs, if Hob was to be honest with himself, to cling to something just because it reminded him of the stranger that had been his only constant for nearly 600 years.

He wasn’t even Hob’s friend after all. 

Still, he couldn't free himself of the notion that the ruby needed to be kept close. It was pathetic - this couldn’t be the same gemstone his stranger wore to all of their meetings - and yet… he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. It exerted a hypnotic pull over Hob at times, scrambling his thoughts and dreams even when he was otherwise completely sober, and when the nineties segued into the noughties and Hob found sobriety a not quite so unappealing prospect anymore, he decidedly closed the metal lid on its box. 

Looking at it hurt. 

The thought of getting rid of it hurt more.

Out of sight, out of mind, he thought. As it turned out, it wasn’t quite that easy.

*** *** ***

Hob wakes up on wooden planks beneath a slate grey sky. 

Or maybe those are the wrong words. He certainly becomes aware there, with water that isn’t actually wet caressing his hair and strangely indistinct clothes. It whispers as it runs down in rivulets to join with the darkly opaque waters below the walkway Hob sits upon. As far as Hob can see, the wooden bridge extends over the softly lapping waves until it vanishes into the distance. Thunder rumbles overhead.

This is a dream.

Slowly, he stands, cupping the last drops of dry water carefully in his hands. It swirls in glittering strands, reflecting shadows and muffled screams. Hob recognizes something of the old nightmare that kept visiting him faithfully. 

How odd a dream this turns out to be.

Behind him, the sea of dreams and nightmares stretches infinitely until it melts into the horizon. 

“Where did you bring me, little nightmare,” Hob whispers as he lets the droplets join with the body of water below. 

He doesn’t get an answer. 

*** *** ***

His new life, back in London again, greeted Robert Grant with the enthusiasm afforded to any post-graduate student of the Humanities, which was to say, with depressingly little. 

It didn't matter all that much, really, because Bob, as his fellow students found out, wasn’t one for overt enthusiasm either - at least when the matter at hand didn't concern his immediate interest, which anything rarely did. Who in their right mind would voluntarily make ‘The peasants’ life - agency and social standing in late 14th century Europe’ their thesis subject, after all. 

Hob didn't mind. 

After the drug-fuelled mind-fuck he’d made of the prior decade, he could do with a bit of academic solitude. Most of the people he had associated with were dead - or by now old and ill enough to soon be close enough - and sometimes he thought melancholy hung around him like a heavy cloak of shadows that he didn't know how to take off. Hob tried, though, he really did. Not meeting his… his stranger, suddenly becoming a truly unknown particle in an ever-expanding world will not be as world-ending as his 17th century had been, surely.

Hob only had to get a grip on himself again. It couldn't be that hard.

If he sometimes found himself suddenly awake at night, mindlessly caressing the scratched metal box with the ruby lookalike, then that was between himself and his well-loved nightmares.

*** *** ***

The wooden walkway looks the same every time Hobs comes-to on its planks. He's always alone at first, the feeling of travelling through turbulent waters still rushing in his ears while he gets his bearings. Some of the water likes to linger on him, in the folds of his clothes or in the hollow of his collarbone. Hob thinks it might be his nightmare, the one he's had on and off since the early sixteen hundreds, of drowning again and again. He smiles a little and pretends he doesn't see the not-wet water sluicing off and dripping back into the sea of nightmares below the walkway. 

Sometimes the sky above him is grey and stormy, sometimes it's the blackest night Hob has ever seen, without one star to be found in the endless expanse above. It makes him uncomfortable, because something is missing. 

The woman that had greeted him on his first arrival in this surrealist landscape, Lucienne, doesn’t turn up again. He's alone, except for the nightmare that clings for longer and longer each time before joining back with the rest of the dark waters. 

So eventually, Hob starts walking.

It's not easy, seeing as how there are patches of planks that are loose or broken. Sometimes, he takes the time to try and put the boards back into place and fix them so they don't slip off again. But he has no nails or hammer or any other tool on him whenever he wakes on the walkway. All he ever has with him are the clothes on his back; rarely his pyjamas, thankfully, but the truly horrible amalgamation of different styles - leeched of every colour except for the washed out remnants of greys, blacks, and sometimes a hint of red - aren’t much better.  

But Hob persists, and every time he puts another plank back into place, he thinks they feel eager to get back to where they belong. Next to him, the liquid pre-form of his little nightmare lingers and watches and gains consistency.

“Am I doing this right, then?” he asks, not quite looking at the slowly undulating form of the watery nightmare creature beside him. Beneath his fingers, the bleached and worn grains of wood are soft and nearly warm. The plank that he holds wants to be set back into its frame, after beingn loosened and having gone askew with time and weather. 

Carefully, Hob slips it back where it belongs and does his best to press it down into the supporting structure without the aid of any tools. It fits nearly too perfectly.

Then again, this is a dream. So of course it would. 

“How long does this path go on, then?” he asks next, and the tiny, misshapen creature shivers at his side. Hob looks behind him, over the endless stretch of the meandering walkway. It's so long that the farthest reaches of it, the place where Hob once got spewed up and out of the dreaming waters, are lost in the twilit dark.

It's in much better shape now than when he started this journey. 

“As long as it takes, huh? Well. That’s not really helping me much, little nightmare,” he mutters, and then turns back around again, facing the mirroring path before him. Above, grey clouds start to skitter across the depthless black sky.

Hob has no idea how often he has visited this strange strange place - time is a curious thing in dreams, after all. 

“Let’s go on then. No use waiting forever. Someone clearly needs to make sure this road is safe. Wouldn’t want that Lady Lucienne falling and drowning after all, would we?” 

Hob walks on.

*** *** *** 

Robert Grant was having a bit of a shite time of it, if he was being honest. He wasn’t, of course, but there was no one around to tell him off for it. Martin the barkeep might, but the old chap thought that old Bertholt Grant, Hob's supposed uncle, was somewhere off gallivanting in the US and doing nothing more than forking over loads and loads of pounds to keep up the lawsuit against the demolition of the White Horse. 

Martin the barkeep, therefore, had no idea at all about Robert Grant, who was very much not in the US but rather squarely in London, and his current troubles. For if Rob - or Hob to his closest friends, of whom there existed exactly none at this particular early time in his new life - hadn’t been absolutely sure that his last substance-fuelled descent into delirium had been more than half a decade ago, he'd think he was maybe on a particularly long and weird trip. 

He was of course vaguely aware of the arcane - of the supernatural and the magical - in the same way any immortal who had taken part in a few (more or less) genuine seances, spirit walks, and summonings would be. Apart from the whole being-immortal business, which all in all had surprisingly few magical components to it, as far as Hob had seen. Nothing in his vast spectrum of experiences offered an explanation for his recent troubles. 

At times, the reality Hob found himself in felt strangely transient. As though there were an iridescent veil of rippling water behind which other things waited - things that had no business existing in a world where Hob was very much awake. Whenever he closed his eyes on the odd feeling, the shadowy depths of the sea of dreams and nightmares lapped eagerly at his consciousness. His frequent lucid dreams were a curiously consistent comfort as well as a source of mystery.

Thoughtfully, Hob traced patterns on the small, plain box that held the ruby pendant he'd found in the storage more than a decade ago. It was the only thing that had followed him into this new life from his last. Outside, early autumn rain pattered against the windows of his cheap two-bedroom apartment. On days like this, he really didn’t feel like going out at all. 

As if in admonishment, the annoying ringtone of his Philips flip phone rang through the flat. 

Groaning, he set the worn box back on his bedside table and went to grab the blasted thing from the faded linoleum kitchen counter. The cartoon sound of a rubber band grated on his nerves when he flipped the casing open and looked at the caller id on the greenish screen. 

“What's up, Emily?”

There was an exasperated silence.

“You forgot, didn’t you? A-gain. Oswin was right.”

Hob stared blankly at the garish novelty clock on top of the microwave and wracked his brain about deadlines his deskmate in the library would call him up about. He drew a complete blank.

“Forgot what?”

“Ohmygod Bobbie. How are you even- “ She paused and took a deep breath that sounded tinny over the warbling connection. “We're at the Red Lion. The quiz is starting soon. You promised by all that's holy you'd come this week.”

Hob could hear the quotation marks in her words. And he still drew a blank on what - and more importantly why - he'd promised.

“Which Red Lion?” he dared to ask after a pause in which he could hear Emily silently despair.

“Are you shitting me? The one across the street behind the old archives building, of course!” She sighed. “Will you still come? Please? We can order something for you already. You’re not gonna be that late, Bobbie.” 

It was the undertone of resignation that finally convinced him to give in against the lethargy and dissociation that had been creeping up on him again. He cast one last frown at the unassuming box that hid the ruby and ascertained once more that the rain-washed windows were truly only looking out into equally rainy London and not, for example, into the depths of an ocean he had only ever dreamed of. 

It made him feel truly unhinged for one disconnected moment. 

“Okay. Order away.”

At the other end, there was silence.

“I- really? I mean. Yeah, sure, Bobbie! You want anything in particular?” Emily sounded equally as surprised as happy. Hob immediately felt guilty about rebuffing so many of her previous attempts to get him to socialise. 

“Not really. I don’t know, some fish and chips will do. And a lager.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Emily was scribbling down his order religiously as he spoke. Dependable note-taking was something he knew her to be really good at. They’d spent the better part of the last semester sharing lectures and a library table, so he was pretty sure he had her quirks memorised well enough.

“Though I’d rather skip on the apples and chocolate digestives, if you don’t mind too much,” he added, careful and with an exaggerated playfulness in his voice. She’d plied him with both for many months now, keeping up a constant litany of how she never saw him eat. 

It was… endearing, in a way. Even if it made him uncomfortably aware that there was something wrong with him that extended beyond his lucid dreams and the vague sense that there was something hiding behind the reality he perceived. He rarely felt hunger, these days.

Maybe immortality was finally catching up with him, after all this time. Mad Hettie hadn’t gotten her nickname for being entirely sane, after all, and she was many times his junior.

On the other end of the line, Emily laughed a startled breath.

“I don’t think this dump serves anything as uppity as apples, Bobbie,” she joked. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with salty chips and oily fish. I’ll get you some apples on Monday, though.”

“See you in a bit, Emily. I’m on my way.”

“Yeah, laters!” She sounded happy, and Hob stared at the phone after disconnecting the call. He hadn’t realised she cared that much.  

Beyond the window, evening started falling, and the water running down the glass panes looked like waves on the sea of dreams. Hob threw one more look back at the ruby in the box. For a second, he imagined a shimmer of red light spilling through the cracks. It was only an illusion, of course.

He shrugged on his jacket, grabbed his umbrella, keys, and wallet on the way out, and braved the English weather. 

It was time to make some friends again.

*** *** *** 

Then, one night, he reaches the end of the walkway. 

Before Hob, a landscape of sandy hills, scraggly shrubs, and dark moors rises from the silvery mists.

*** *** ***

Chapter Two

Hob sits, feet dangling close to the water's surface, at the edge of the dock. The sea below his feet is silent; breathless. Above, clouds whip past in jarringly fast swirls. The sight mirrors the uncomfortable feeling lodged in Hob's stomach. Behind him is the way he came, with the sea made of dreams and nightmares and the endless path beneath an empty sky.

It’s familiar.  

Hob’s nightmare creature slinks around at his periphery, its form still not quite stable. Its surface is rippling as though agitated, and sometimes it has eight long legs, sometimes only four. A few of them look like tentacles, or nets, if Hob looks as closely as he can. It dips in and out of the still water, equally unable to commit to leaving the sea behind as Hob himself. Or maybe it’s just mirroring Hob’s own indecision.

On one hand, he’s always keen on exploring the new. The landscape beyond the dunes that block Hob’s view beckons him with mystery and intrigue - where would the next path take him in this dreamland? On the other hand, he’s grown pretty appreciative of what he’s seen so far. There’s something tranquil about being alone, held between the sky and the sea, caught at the interface between a mirror and its image.

But maybe he’ll like the rest of this odd country, too. Maybe he’ll meet more strange creatures, like the one that’s been travelling with him so far. 

On the horizon, far behind the dunes, the dark storm clouds gain a lighter edge.

Sighing, Hob pushes himself off the wooden boards and splashes into the water up to his calves. He leaves no ripples in his wake. The water looks and feels as though it's a blanket cocooning him. He gives a perfunctory pat to the walkway.

“Okay then, ‘t was nice having your support,” he jokes before making for the shore.

He wades out of the water’s hold. It laps at his feet when he leaves, sluices off him as smoothly as real water doesn’t and drips into the opaque black sand in shimmering impressions of faces and fears, screams and dreams. The sea starts churning suddenly, as if remembering that it’s actually supposed to be moved by the winds that still whip past them, and not by its own alien design.

Behind him, his little nightmare slinks along, trailing water and legs and fur and a hundred other things that vanish into puddles. It still doesn’t have a form, Hob thinks as he wiggles his toes into the cool and dark sand, observing it covertly. Maybe it’s trying to find one. Hob thinks it should be something sleek and small; agile.

Slowly, they trek across the beach toward the dunes. They are made of the same forebodingly black sand as the beach. Hob stays close to the shore for as long as he can. The ever-growing waves try to lap at his feet. His nightmare gamboles in the surf but doesn't ever actually go back into the sea. 

The walkway behind them is never out of sight. Like one of those portraits whose eyes seem to follow the watcher, the path Hob once walked seems always to be staring at him. But even so, the draw to explore the land beyond never lets him go, either.

*** *** ***

Hob’s new life was slowly starting to lose its alien feel. It didn’t quite fit yet - like a new coat that was too stiff at the collar and too tight at the elbows until it got properly worn in. Hob recognized the crisp feeling of newness even though, usually, it came with the shine and sparkle of beginnings and promises. This time, he kept fighting against a feeling of constriction that sometimes veered concerningly close to panic.

He fought against it, of course. He just needed a bit more time to settle into a new routine, without the constancy of regular centennial meetings. That was all.

“This is it,” he said one uncommonly sunny September evening.

“What. This ramshackle hut? It looks like it’s gonna topple over if I look at it wrong.” 

Oswin, an archetypal Humanities post-grad, took a deep drag of his cigarette - self-rolled, of course - and settled his other hand into his hip. His patterned shirt made Hob dizzy just from looking at it - it should probably have stayed safely hidden in someone’s forgotten 70’s wardrobe. 

“I dunno, mate.” Hob shrugged and hoped it looked casual enough. He couldn’t quite look at the sad sight the White Horse made without nearly breaking into tears. “My uncle’s totally gone on the history of this pub. Anyway, that’s not the main point I’m trying to make.”

“C’mon Bobbie, you promised us a pub and good ale!” 

“That’s all you’re here for, Ossi? I’m hurt.” 

Oswin just rolled his eyes and handed another cigarette to Emily. 

“Anyway, that’s not really what we’re here for. Come on!” Hob turned his back on the crumbling skeleton of his past and took down the street, his friends behind him. “I just came here to show you the why. I’ve still gotta show you the what..”

Emily groaned. “You’re terrible, Bobbie. You’re such an old man, the way you try to lead us on.”

“Me? Leading you on? Never in my life!” The more he had made himself brave the company of others, the easier it became to fit in. Right now, he was only maybe forty percent pretending and already sixty percent genuinely enjoying himself. 

They trekked across an overgrown meadow until they arrived at a quaint two-storey building. It wasn’t even half as old as the White Horse, but it did have some history lined in its timber-framed construction. 

“It’s another old and closed pub,” Oswin said.

“I think I stepped ‘nto dogshit,” Emily muttered around the smoke between her lips.

Hob couldn’t stop the laugh even if he’d wanted to.

“It’s my old and closed pub, if you wanna know.”

That shut them up at once. Property didn’t come cheap these days, after all. And Hob hadn’t exactly pretended to be well-off.

Emily abandoned her attempts to scratch the suspected dog poop off her combat boots with a twig and leaned on his shoulder, eyes narrowed. She nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah… I can absolutely see it.”

“You can?”

“Sure, Ossi. It’s at least as old as Bobbie’s soul, can’t you tell?”

Hob summarily abandoned the shit-talking couple as soon as another figure turned the corner and made straight for the steps of the old building.

“Hey, Martin!” Hob jogged up to meet him. “It’s me!”

Martin Ross was someone whom Hob had taken great care to avoid so far. He’d been ‘Berthold Grant’s’ most staid friend, after all, and he’d been careful to let a decade and a severe makeover pass before even considering taking this particular course of action.

“Dinn’ae think you’d recognize me that easily, Bobbie.” The man gave him a pat with one large hand where Hob was bent over in exaggerated exhaustion after running across the street. It was a calculated move - Hob didn’t feel entirely secure in managing his expression at first, and having a healthily glowing face with wild hair was the opposite of what Martin knew his friend Berti to look like.

As soon as he straightened again, the bartender gave him a thorough lookover.

“How’s your uncle doing? My god, ye’re his spitting image at that age…”

“Thanks! Well so far, I guess. But you know how he is…” Hob trailed off and offered an awkward shrug, letting Martin fill in his own conclusions. 

“Aye, don’t I ever,” the man muttered. “Give me a mo’, Bobbie. I got your keys right here somewhere.” 

Martin had gotten terribly old. He hadn’t been young by any means back in 1989 but now, fifteen years later, Hob again realised that very soon, he’d be mourning another friend. He’d known of course that Martin had celebrated his 71st birthday just months prior. Now, his age slapped him in the face with all the soft wrinkles, liver spots, and his head of gleaming white hair.    

“There you are, little bugger.”

With a self-deprecating grin, Martin handed Hob a set of four keys. 

“Thanks for doing this, Martin.”

And Hob was really, awfully thankful to the old man. He’d taken to Hob as ‘Bert’s’ representative as jovially and earnestly as he’d taken to being ‘Bert’s’ friend in the first place. It wasn’t a good feeling to deceive his friends -past and present - like this. But it was getting harder and harder to come back to the same area within less than a generation and take over for his past self. So this was a good solution, even if he knew it was going to hurt him and his friend for a while. 

Hob wasn’t ready to let the White Horse and everything it stood for simply vanish into the mists of time and so here he was again, barely one generation later, still hoping that his Stranger would one day find him here. The last time he’d clung to a place and its memories this recklessly, it had gotten him drowned as a witch.  

Something must have shown on his face, because Martin’s smile dimmed a bit.

“Ye’re a good lad, Bobbie. I ‘ppreciate what ye’re doing for Bertie here.”

There was a ripple somewhere in Hob’s mind, like a pebble thrown into a mirror-smooth lake, and in that disturbance, Hob thought he saw his own face as it was in the nineties: sunken eyes, bloodshot with too little sleep and too much crack, something resembling a grin on bloodred lips, an unhealthy sweat on his brows. 

“I just hope ye’re not planning on walking the same road as ye’re uncle in other matters.”

Hob resurfaced, confused, and realised he was staring. The rip in reality reflected in Martin’s eyes and refused to vanish no matter how much Hob blinked.

“Uh. Yeah. I mean, of course, Martin.”

 What the hell was that. 

Martin left soon after, promising to keep in touch concerning staffing and management questions and Hob mutely opened the door to his new, old, pub. The image of Hob’s own ravaged face reflected in Martin’s eyes stayed in Hob’s mind. Was that what Martin feared? Dreamed about?

“Ohhhh, look at that!” Oswin crooned into his ear and sashayed into the dusty, empty taproom. “Our Bobbie got himself his own little kingdom!”

“Kind of. I’m supposed to fix it up for my uncle and get a cut of the revenue. It’s supposed to become - a friendly space. For everyone. It’s… kinda personal.”

Emily shot him a look he had trouble interpreting. There was maybe something like hope there. He let his messenger bag flop to the truly awfully dirty floor and rummaged through it until he had unearthed the three bottles of the cheapest ale he could find for sale. 

“There. The ale I promised.”

Emily took hers with disgust written in her face but unclipped the bottle opener from her dangling keychain obligingly.

“You’re actually a terrible cheapskate, you know that? I hate you.”

Oswin simply opened the bottle and made a show of taking an obscenely deep swallow.

“Yep,” he said, settling cross-legged in the dust. “This is exactly as disgusting as the state of this dump. I love it.”

“It doesn’t taste like goat piss,” Hob offered, and opened his own.

“And on that concerning revelation, let us speak a toast!”

They clinked their cans and Hob couldn’t help the smile when it all devolved into more friendly bickering. There were so many possibilities held in smiles and new beginnings.  

*** *** ***

The dunes, when he finally reaches them, are barren except for scraggly grass and thistles. Overhead, the stormwinds rage on. Behind, the vast churning sea, dangerous and beautiful, dips out of sight at last.

Immediately, the world grows silent but for the shifting grains of sand.

Hob kneels and burrows his fingers in the cool dampness. The grains are lighter here, less black and more whitish opaque - a bit like ground glass. They stick to his fingers and underneath his nails like cold and sharp glitter. In between the dunes and the thistles and yellowed stalks of grass, there are the signs of a long neglected pathway. 

“Oh, we're not in Kansas anymore, are we?” 

Hob chuckles, and the sound falls strangely onto the remnants of the white pebbled road. It slips between the cracks and soaks into the egg-white rocks. Maybe here, each step and every stone will bring him closer to his goal as well, whatever that might be. He doesn't think there's an emerald city at the end of this road, though. 

Something sleek and black moves at the corner of his eyes. 

“Are you coming with me, then? I'd be grateful for the company, if you'd care to join me.”   

The shape moves closer and stays still, as if daring Hob to finally take a look. So he does.

The nightmare is small on its four paws and elongated body. It looks nearly emaciated, but its fur is sleek and glimmers wetly, more black in colour than the brown of its earthly brethren. Otters, in Hob's limited experience, don't usually sport such iridescent, nearly oily looking fur. Its too large eyes are an unnerving black from corner to corner and Hob can feel its intent gaze on him like the caress of cold water.

Hob stays quiet, sitting still on his knees with sand between his fingers, and slowly stretches out one hand as he would in the waking world when trying not to spook an animal. He's not sure if the same principles apply here, though.

“There you are,” he murmurs as the creature comes closer, not shyly but cautiously; assessing him, Hob thinks. “Have you decided how you want to look?”

It cocks its head and Hob gets the impression that it's meant mockingly. He doesn't really know why. It swerves around Hob's hand and hops onto the white pebbled path that promises to wind through the dunes and further into this strange, strange land.

It looks straight at him and bares needle-sharp teeth that are much too long. 

“Yeesh, I got you. You want to come along. No need to be so impatient, little nightmare.”

In answer, it twitches its tail and scrapes long and obsidian black claws across the pebbles.

Sighing, Hob acquiesces to the demand and, with his hands, sweeps the mounds of sand away from where the path begins. He rights the edges where the round stones, no larger than his fist, have become loose and pats the restored section of the path obligingly. 

Something like a small shock travels up his arms right then, a warm, static zing that races through him and lodges behind his sternum and tints his vision red for the blink of an eye. He rubs his chest, today clad in something like a fading beige jacket with frayed sleeves, but there is nothing there.

The otter grins with black lips, its teeth glimmering forebodingly. 

“Oh, you're a real nightmare, aren't you.”

He laughs a little at the thin otter-lookalike and follows it into the dunes between the thistles and thorny brambles.      

*** *** *** 

Interlude:

Dream of the Endless startles. 

Something has changed.

The cold of the glass sphere is as inconsequential as ever beneath him; the basement with its mockery of the night sky and badly hewn stones is as ephemeral as it always was - only to human minds these walls seem insurmountable and timeless. 

A guard, Dream cares not which of the several that man the post, shuffles her feet and turns the pages of her paperback book. 

There is a tiny grain of loss at the knowledge that he does not know this book, nor its creator. 

Everything is as he is accustomed to, in Burgess’ paltry fortress.

And yet.

He slowly lays his fingers across his chest, where usually his ruby would rest. It is not there, it has been taken and hidden from him many decades ago.  

He lets the hand fall away again, presses the pads of his fingers against the unforgiving glass, thinking. Someone is using a part of his power for the Dreaming’s benefit. 

He wonders which of his creations has faithfully brought his stolen power home. They are one and the same, after all, Dream of the Endless and the Dreaming. To strengthen one, is to give loyalty to the other. 

There is a smile tilting his lips when he returns to watching the guards. 

*** *** *** 

“Oh. My. God.”

Emily’s voice cut through the background of the radio’s quiet blaring and Hob straightened from where he was bent over the side of the bar counter. 

“Oh my god,” she repeated and picked her way between tools and boxes towards him, “this looks absolutely fab, Bobbie! Where have you learned to do this? I wish I could learn to become a carpenter.”

Hob stepped away from the freshly sanded and glazed wood of the White Horse’s old and saved bar counter and pushed his safety goggles up. Instantly, his eyes started watering at the sharp chemical tang that hung in the air.

“Ah damn it, can you open a window please?”

Emily gingerly edged around some precariously stacked tables and leaned over to quickly push one of the creaking windows wide open. 

“Good thing you’re wearing a mask.” She laughed and pulled up the collar of her red turtleneck to hide her nose behind. “You’d prob’ly be high as a kite otherwise.”

Hob threw the brush into the designated painting can and managed to squeeze through the assembled detritus of the unfurnished New Inn towards Emily. 

“Let’s sit outside. I could do with a breather, to be honest.” 

He grabs a couple of lemonade bottles out of a nearly empty case. They settled on the porch steps where the late winter sun did its level best to make them feel like it was early spring already. 

“Cheers!” 

The silence was nice, companionable. Until, of course, Hob made the mistake of watching his friend from the corner of his eyes. He shouldn't, he knew that. He’d learned better over the last few months than to look too closely when these strange wisps of whimsy and water started to peek through into reality. Martin had been only the first of many instances where he’d… seen things. 

He was going crazy. He was just going round the bend that was all there was to it.

Emily turned her green glass bottle, hands compulsively tightening. There was a frown caught between her brows. He'd noticed it often, for a couple of months now; there was doubt in the way her eyes had lingered on him and Oswin, indecision and apprehension in the set of her shoulders. 

He'd noticed then, too, the little thoughts that shimmered around her, the little fears she nurtured. He'd chosen to ignore them, at the time. It was nothing, surely. He was just - seeing impossible things.

But Hob wasn’t ever good at simply letting things go once they had caught his interest. He’d never been one to back down. But maybe…maybe there was a way to find out, after all, if any of it was - real. 

He cast a sideways glance at her and laid a hand over hers where it gripped the bottle too tightly. All or nothing.

“Hey there’s no need to worry, Emily. Oswin won’t care. Neither do I, by the way.”

Emily stopped twisting the poor bottle. 

“What?”

She stared at him, uncomprehendingly. 

There was his chance to take it back, a way out. He could just laugh it all off. Then again, Hob had seen those same fears and thoughts crowding around Emily day after day for so long now - more in impressions than in visual images, a bone deep knowledge when he looked at her that she was afraid. Emily feared what her best friends would do and say when she’d finally dare to tell them.

Still, he was tempted to back out. He could still pretend nothing was wrong; tell himself that his dreams were just dreams and those visions and insight were nothing more than the product of a too old mind.

All or nothing, he thought again and forged forward, as always.

“Love is love, Emily. I don’t care if you’re not into guys. I won’t abandon you. Or judge you.”

Emily froze and Hob was immediately sure that what he knew, what he’d learned of her by whatever strange kind of magic this was, was the truth of her fears and nightmares. It sisn’t feel like the good kind of validation at all. 

“How did you-” She stood, aghast, and stepped neatly out of the range of his hands.

“Emily, please.”

“No Bobbie. What the- how did you kn- How can you just throw this at me like that?!”

Hob winced and held up his hands in surrender.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Em!”

“Uncomfortable?! You just - You just outed me without even-” She violently scrubbed a hand through her short bob. “I haven’t told anyone, ever! There is no possible way you could have simply-”

She gestured wildly and if it weren’t for the tears that she was furiously blinking away, he’d be counting on getting slapped and summarily left. Instead, she calmed down by herself. She was still tense when she settled back down next to him and shakily lit herself a smoke. There was a cautious distance between them, now.

“Thanks for trying to support me. However ass-backwards you went about it.” 

Her voice remained clipped and she didn’t really look at him but something in the set of her shoulders had relaxed all the same. The impressions of fear around her became lighter, nearly see-through if they had been visible in the first place, their substance more ephemeral mist than dark water. 

“Stop staring.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. It’s creepy.”

“I’m creepy?”

“Oh god Bobbie. Yes you are,” She laughed and it sounded a little less warm than what Hob was used to hearing from her. He’d earned that, most likely.

“It’s really no wonder you’ve got a hard time making friends,” she said, “I did notice that you’re.. strange, sometimes. Too intense, I guess. But it’s all part of your charm. At least as long as you don’t overdo it.”

“I swear I won’t.”

“Sure thing. Just - do me a favour and don’t randomly out people without a by-your-leave. There are a lot of us that have actual nightmares about that kind of thing.”

She stomped her cigarette out and got up again.

“See you later?”

“Of course.” 

He watched her go, steps surer and shoulders straighter than when she’d come. 

“Nightmares, huh.” 

*** *** ***

Beyond the dunes, the land transforms into an inhospitable moor. White sand, each particle hard and cold like glass, becomes earthy and deceptively soft. Dead plant matter clings wetly in little slippery clumps and squelches uncomfortably loamy underneath each of Hob's steps. 

Perpetual twilight falls and fog lies over everything.

It caresses the black pools of brackish water, winds around spindly plants and dying trees and stretches its cold, translucent fingers into Hob’s face. His nightmare nearly vanishes, its black fur becoming one with the waters of the ponds when Hob doesn’t look. 

The path of white pebbled stones has long since melted into a footpath that winds around and around. Sometimes, there are the remnants of old bridges that cross softly murmuring streams and little pools. Other times, wooden walkways cross over soft peat. 

It feels like-

It feels like home to Hob.

He kneels, neglected and decomposing wooden slates in hand, at the edge of one bridge. The dampness creeps through his trousers - this time some ludicrous, wrapped things of fading black. The handrailing is long gone and Hob doesn’t know if it will support his weight if he tries to cross it. Carefully, he fits the slates back into place.

“When I was a kid,” he murmurs, “there was a place just like this a few miles behind our village. We used to go and cut peat there, my Da’ and I and my older brother.”

In the pond next to him, the Otter floats with its head barely above the surface. There is a red shine to its eyes as it keeps them focussed intently on Hob.

“After, we’d sit at the fire and the men would tell stories. Of wicked souls and lost children. Of the little ghost lamps they’d light up at night to lead wanderers astray and drown them.”

Hob looks back at the bridge, and as he had thought - as had happened so many times now - the part he has repaired, the whole of the bridge even, has regained a structural integrity that’s most certainly not due to the few slats Hob has put back into place. 

He smiles a little, content. The path already knows what it is supposed to look like, he thinks. Hob is just providing the material.

And the faith.

“We were told to always trust the paths, and to never leave them.”

He stands and pats down his sorry excuse for trousers. The wet dirt clings stubbornly to his clothes and hands, though.

In the distance, barely visible, the dark shade of a treeline rises. There is yet a sea of mist and bog to wade through before he can reach it and as he takes his first step onto the new bridge, trusting that it will hold him, a light blinks into existence, an eerie yellow shine distorted through the fog.

Hob can’t help the grin that steals across his face. It’s been a while since he felt so young. There aren’t any moors like this left in England - precious few across the world and none that feel as familiar as this one. He takes a deep breath, then another. 

“Let’s go,” he says in the direction of his nightmarish companion, “Let’s see where these paths want to lead us.”

Another light blinks on, and then more and more shine through the mist. They follow him, he thinks. Overhead, the perpetually setting sun throws pale red light against the cloud cover. It looks exactly as Hob remembers from a world long lost to time. 

*** *** ***        

The morning dawns with the unrelentingly gentle insistence of early spring. Rain drums a beat against the window panes of Hob’s bedroom and gurgles down into the earth through too old pipes. Hob blinks away the lights of the ghostly lanterns in the moor and tries to hush the quietly bubbling brooks that he thinks he hears echoed in the rainfall.

He sits up slowly, not really sleepy at all but still caught in the tail ends of his dream all the same. The old and drafty floor to ceiling windows show nothing but his own reflection, distorted through the water washed glass. 

Soft thunder rumbles over the skies and a flicker of red flits across the smooth glass panes.

Hob frowns and straightens. It's not really bright, despite the daylight outside but he can't discern at all where the eerie glow comes from. He stares at himself, distorted and see-through, with red light hollowing his throat and cheeks and reflecting in little pinpricks from his eyes.

His breathing is too loud in between the bouts of thunder.

Then, his reflection wavers, shudders - and vanishes. 

“What…”

The rain sounds like waves crashing onto the shore. 

Hob stands, drawn upright by invisible strings, and stumbles towards the offending window. 

This is a dream, he thinks, half-delirious. It must be, even though it feels neither as present and sharp as his recent bouts of lucid dreams, nor as soft-edged and fuzzy as the ones that came before.

No matter how often he blinks, the vision doesn't change. Hesitatingly, he presses his palm against the flat and cold glass, comes closer and closer until his too-fast breath fogs over the panes and smears the edges of the impossible view.   

There is a world behind his windows that has no business existing outside of his dreaming mind - an endless sea as deep and unfathomable as the depth of space, and beyond, if he looks closer, there rises a vast landscape in gentle hills and slopes until it bends towards its centre. For a mere moment, he glimpses an impossible palace.

“Just a dream.” He lets his sweaty forehead thump against the fogged-up window and screws his eyes shut hard. When he opens them again, the window is simply a window into London’s dreary weather again. He turns, feeling oddly wrung out and disappointed.

It's only when he slumps back onto his bed, that he notices the other incongruity. The box with the ruby is open on his nightstand. The stone is glittering invitingly. It's the same shade as the smattering of colour before. Carefully, he reaches for the precious stone. 

He freezes half-way; there is dirt in the groves of his hands and underneath his nails. 

“This is impossible.” 

He scrubs at the smears and wracks his brain for another explanation - any explanation really, other than the one that’s staring at his face in invitingly gentle, red reflections. There are none, if he’s being honest. He hasn’t left his flat for more than a day and he hasn’t owned any plants since one life over. 

The dirt and mud are still there, despite all rationality assuring Hob that it should not be so. 

“Did you do this,” he whispers to the inanimate stone. 

It’s surprisingly warm in his palms when he finally dares to take it out of the box. It draws his eyes and mind and it feels like he’s slowly slipping into the centre of a dizzying vortex. Still, he can’t stop looking. In its facets there is the same landscape that pretended to exist beyond his windows. 

“Are you the real thing then?”

If this is a magical jewel - more, if this is truly the ruby his Stranger has worn on each of their meetings, then what does this mean for him? How did it come to be in a run-down storage unit of a convicted felon? Is this… a test? A task? Or just coincidence? There’s really no way to tell, for now.

He presses the ruby against his chest, where he remembers the Stranger wearing it. It feels like it’s pulsing slowly in time with his heartbeat. 

“You’re the thing that makes me see people’s fears, aren’t you. Even when I’m not in your vicinity.”

And isn't that a dismaying revelation. Hob doesn’t think he has the will to get rid of the ruby, now that he’s nearly sure that it is the real thing, the Ruby. He hasn’t even managed that before he knew, after all. And yet… he doesn’t want his new … skills to isolate him. He’s aware that his inborn sociable nature clashes horribly with them. 

After the near disaster with Emily, it hadn’t gotten easier. Hob knows he thrives on friends and laughter and love but -  currently, he keeps making people uncomfortable because he gets too close and personal too fast. 

He knows too much about them, after all, while they don’t know him at all.

Slowly, he sets the stone back into its lacklustre housing. It’s probably not a good idea to carry it on him. For now, at least.

“Looks like we have to learn to get along somehow, doesn’t it?” 

*** *** ***

Hob doesn’t know how often his dreams have brought him into the moors, how many paths he’s tread and repaired, how often he’s been turned around and beckoned to another part of the twilit landscape. As with the sea of dreams and nightmares, he’s not sure if he wants to leave - and he feels like the moors don’t want him to leave them either. It’s in the caress of the fog, the soft murmurs of the brooks and the faithful light of the soul lamps. 

His Otter moves swiftly through the dark pools alongside Hob and sometimes he thinks he sees other shapes with him - skinny and scrawny things of spindly limbs and crooked spines. Nightmares, Hob hazards a guess, all of them and perfectly at home here.

“If they want to, they can come with us,” Hob says during one night, not quite looking at the crawling shadows that populate the twilit mists. His Otter lies a few metres from Hob’s bare legs, his dirty linen breeches sensibly tied up around his knees. 

He’s doing the whole middle ages peasant thing this time and wears a matching threadbare tunic above it. He thinks there might be a pendant or something hanging at about chest level but whenever he checks, there’s nothing there. It’s a confusing sensation, akin to what he thinks feeling a missing limb might be like. Hob rubs his hands across the empty space again before snatching the hand away. 

The Otter lifts its head. It’s gotten less emaciated, Hob thinks, even though he’s never seen it eat. He doesn’t know if dreams and nightmares even need to eat, in any case. 

It leers at Hob with its needle sharp teeth and Hob feels he knows the answer. 

“Okay then. But they can, if they decide to change their mind, okay?” 

The nightmare lies down again and doesn’t turn his stare from Hob. Hob doesn’t know what to make of it.

“D’you think we’ll get to the forest next time?” 

He thinks of the Ruby lying in its box and of the unanswered questions about his Stranger. Hob doesn’t get to find out his nightmare’s response, though, because the next time he blinks, he’s lying in his bed again.

*** *** *** 

Waking up isn’t disorienting or jarring at all. It is, if Hob had to put words to it, almost disconcertingly natural and smooth - nothing more unusual than stepping from one room into the next. While one might be surprised by a new piece of furniture or disproportionate chaos, it isn’t anything that really defies any fundamental expectations or perceptions. 

And in this normalcy, exactly, it feels significant in a way that waking up really shouldn’t be. Sometimes, there is no dividing line between his dreamworld and his waking one any longer.  

*** *** ***

Then, finally, the muddy ground of the bog makes way for a firmer ground, the land rises out of the water logged plains that had started behind the dunes of the nightmare sea. Hob’s steps resound on springy earth, covered in the debris of old leafs and fragrant pine needles. 

The forest is dark and still. 

The tall trees enclose Hob in a hall of shadows as rich and teeming with possibilities as he remembers from his youth. If he looks closely enough into the underbrush,he thinks there are eyes staring back at him. Screams live underneath these branches, and things with too many teeth. 

At times he thinks that underneath the quiet murmur of the forest, he hears the rumble of the sea of all dreams and nightmares. There are nightmares in these woods as well, after all.

The path his Otter treads with him is narrow. The trees and bushes reach into and over it with long and arching fingers, man high ferns brush cooly along his arms and hide the sight of spiderwebs that seem entirely too malicious to be anything other than an amalgamation of subconscious fears. Hob never sees any spiders, though, not outright at least. But sometimes he thinks they scurry along in his shadow. 

When they pass the first small clearing, Hob stops and stares, old memories rising unbidden. There are flowers strewn across the clearing, all of them unknown to Hob. All of them,  he thinks, might be nightmares of poison and danger.

In the middle of the clearing, there is a ring of white and yellow flowers.

“We were warned about the fae circles, did you know? People have all but forgotten about them, these days.” 

He bends and takes a single flower between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a small blue thing, with fragile petals that make for a deep calyx with an oddly glistening stem. 

His nightmare looks - not really out of place with his black coat and black eyes but in contrast to the nearly natural habitat it had in the bog, the field of flowers makes it look oddly incongruent. Still, it stays still and watches Hob intently. 

More flowers join the first, in reds and whites and all of them make Hob think of poison and pain and disregarded warnings spoken in soft voices. The flower crown comes together easily underneath his nimble fingers; no matter that he hasn’t made one in longer than a century. 

The flowers are preening under his attention, twisting easily together despite their thorny stems and tissue thin petals.

“My mam - I got a little sister when she was already too old to safely bear children, I know that now. But back then, we didn’t. So my mam had one last daughter. She was a sickly child from the first second, too quiet, didn’t drink right. My ma got down with fever alongside her after giving birth.”

He can’t quite recall the colour of his mothers hair or the shape of her face any longer, but he’s never forgotten the sound of her voice. He’d been barely ten when she’d passed in childbed. He turns the flower crown thoughtfully in his hands. This is a story he hasn’t remembered in so very long, hasn’t told anyone about, ever. The Otter at his side stares at him attentively as if it’s absorbing his stories. The forest is quietly listening as well.

“The little one died within a week. Ma was so sad but - then she sent us others off to gather flowers. Made little flower crowns out of all of them and told us to leave them at the large stone at the fairy gate. Where we usually weren’t allowed to go.”

He had quite thoroughly forgotten how he’d left flower crowns for all his brothers and sisters when they’d been taken by the plague, uncaring of any fae or fairies. He’d done that, on and off, for decades even long after the hurt had faded. He bends and picks a few leafy greens - weeds he thinks most would call the delicate plants - and winds them around the flowers. 

“She said that if her daughter had been switched with a changeling that had died, she at least wants to give her real daughter something beautiful to wear for Queen Mab’s court.“

 He shows off the finished crown to his companion.

“There, what do you think? Is this something that’s worthy of the royal court of the Queen of Dreams?”

The otter levels a long long look at him and Hob gets the impression that it’s equal parts amused and ravenous for some unnamed thing. There is a decision that Hob feels but doesn’t see being made and then the nightmare springs into action, swerving off the overgrown footpath and into the darkness of the looming trees. There it waits, expectantly.

Hob doesn’t need to think before he follows. 

There are the nightmares of old lingering where he runs, the cursed clearings, the ever-twisting paths, the ominous sounds that are too close behind. There are also the fears of the fairy tales: malicious wishing-wells, the howling of were-creatures and forebodingly shadowed shrines.

His Otter slips between trees and shadows like a ghost. Hob has no trouble following; they’ve been travelling together for so long now, that Hob can nearly feel his little nightmare. He feels the other creatures in the dark as well, their interest, their hunger and their hope. 

They pass fae circles, shinto trees and little shrines, fairy gates and cursed ponds. Hob slows down to build up a trollstone who’s upper layers had toppled down with time and neglect, sets a forlorn bucket back onto the encasement of a wishing well. In his wake, he thinks he sees them gaining substance and presence.

They slow down, finally, at the edge of a dark pond. 

The conifers and ferns crowd close around it and reach over its blank and empty surface like a protective cocoon. His Otter doesn’t make a single move to step into it. Instead it waits at the water’s edge, clearly expectant. Hob looks down at the crown of deadly flowers and thorns he holds, then back to the pond. 

“You’re asking me… to make an offering, aren’t you?”

The Otter does a curious mix of a wiggle and the shivering of a shadow. It looks completely unholy and is probably the closest it can get to the equivalent of an enthusiastic nod. It’s a bit endearing, really.

The pond looks like nothing so much as a reflective door into the depths of space. No matter how close Hob comes, the water stays entirely still. Hob contemplates the flower crown again. While he doesn’t understand most of this world, he thinks he recognizes some of it from times long before the modern age; where wishes were magical, faith the most powerful and dangerous thing, and where one never offered a name to the creatures of the forests. 

What he’s asked to offer now is made of his past, lost stories and preserved love. It would be… powerful, most likely, in this world. And he wouldn’t mind giving it. He looks around himself, takes in the pervading sense of wear and neglect that has been following him ever since he arrived, thinks back to the eager ease with which each stone he set and each plank he righted transformed back into what they were supposed to be.   

This world is magical and Hob is - fond of it. He wants to see what it would look like, whole and restored. 

“For you then, my Monarch of Dreams. May you wear it or bestow upon someone worthy.” 

He gives a wry grin to the Otter, who has his eyes so wide open that Hob thinks he ought to be able to see their whites, and lays a careful kiss on one of the poisonous flowers. He knows his courtly manners, after all.

Then, he throws it into the pond.

It would have landed smack dab in the middle, too, if two arms made of water and smoke hadn’t reached out and up and caught the crown securely in their clawed hands. The flowers shimmer in the dark, suspended, before they are swallowed into the water. 

Within seconds, the pond is entirely black and still again. 

“What was that.”

His Otter doesn’t move. It’s pressed to its belly and doesn’t look at Hob at all. Carefully, he braves the shore of the pond. Where water meets the springy earth, he hesitates before discarding his fear and stepping into the water despite the tattoo his heart beats against his chest. 

There are no ripples in the water. It feels exactly like the sea of nightmares and dreams had. It’s then that he becomes aware of his reflection below him. It’s nearly familiar.

It wears his face and his body but it’s too lean, too tall. Where his eyes are brown, these eyes are as black as the ones his little nightmare has. There is a red sheen to them, a refraction of light that shines from underneath the shadows his other self wears for clothes. It pulses in time with an unheard heartbeat. Hob thinks it looks like the Ruby. 

On its head rests the crown he has just thrown into the pond.

In the second before Hob gathers his wits enough to stumble back, a ripple shivers across its face and he thinks he sees his stranger, thin, pale and naked behind glass, the crown on his wild hair. 

Then it’s gone and Hob rears back.

“What,” he repeats, wheezing, “was that?!”

Around him, there are creatures scuttling about the edges of the small clearing. His nightmare Otter sidles up to him, calm and expectant. It looks healthier than Hob has ever seen it, all shining fur and gleaming eyes. Instead of providing an answer, no matter whether it’s entirely nonverbal as always, it scurries up onto Hob’s shoulders and drapes across them like an unholy sable fur of sharp teeth and sharper claws. It’s a strangely comforting weight.

Slowly, Hob gathers himself. His heart hurts. Why had he seen his Stranger; why now, like this. At long last, he starts walking again, uncaring of where he sets his feet. It doesn’t matter anyway, as he discovers quickly. 

Because the forest is different now. The shadows aren’t any less deep, the screams are still eerie but Hob still thinks he sees - more, for lack of a better word. Where before, there was only one path bordered by sinister wilderness only traversable in the wake of his nightmare companion, now there is a way wherever he sets his feet. 

The nightmare forest, it seems, welcomes him wholly. 

*** *** ***

Interlude:

Dream sits motionless in his cage of glass and steel. The painted Stars are dulled in the flat glow of the yellow light bulbs. The tinny sound of a radio echoes uninvitingly from the stone walls. His guards, two men this time, make no move to look up from their card game. 

If they had, they would not have seen any change and gone back to their game, not caring to spend one more second on observing the naked entity in the glass sphere than is absolutely necessary. The devil does not change, after all.

They would have been wrong.

Dream sits, cross legged and still, and feels the warmth of stories flowing through his limbs. He sees, in the distorted reflection of the molten sand that keeps him captive, the uncommon blush that colours his lips and his cheeks. There rests a weight on his brow that feels like a crown of petals and memories.

Slowly, he lets his eyelids flutter shut and cradles the unexpected touch of his realm and power and condenses it where a human heart would reside. It tastes like faith and vibrates like hope. An offer to Morpheus, to Dream and the Dreaming.

It feels like gentle care beneath his crafted skin.

Where usually stories and dreams sing in his ears, there is only the nightmare scream of vengeance. In time, he will leave this prison of ambition and greed. In time, he'll find his way back into his realm and reward the one who so staidly attends to a duty above and beyond expectations.  

He is endless, after all.

He can wait.

*** *** ***

When Hob finally reaches the treeline, he sees the first well-tended landscape unfolding before him. The valley that lies to his feet holds several tilled fields that cluster around two houses. They are old and crooked but smoke curls from their chimneys and Hob spies movement behind one window.

Above it all, a shape circles in the air that looks like something out of - well, of a dream. Hob chuckles quietly.There is a golden shimmering Gargoyle flitting through the air like an overgrown hummingbird. 

[slivertm]

LORD ZHŌU YÌZÉ ; second in command of dusk.

‘ dylan wang, cismale, he/him, 30/300 , high fae ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems zhōu yìzé has been teleported to the summer court, the second-in-command from the dusk court is said to be charismatic and is said to describe themselves as the iridescent scales of a dragon still bleeding from where it was plucked, an overused brush with clumpy bristles stained with black ink, seeing your future as ephemeral as a cloud of incense that fades into the oblivion as you try to grasp it, and with all of this in mind their self-sacrificing nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time.

full name: zhōu yìzé name meaning: serene duty age: three hundred place of birth: the dusk court gender: cismale pronouns: he/him sexual & romantic orientation: he doesn't have time to think about this

occupation: second-in-command personality traits: kind, charismatic, charming, filial, deceptive, self-sacrificing, severe, unrelenting interests: reading, calligraphy, boating abilities: shadow manipulation inspiration: jinshi (apothecary diaries), nezha (poppy wars), nolan grayson (invincible)

mother: lady (deceased) father: high lord (deceased) siblings: high lord zhou yijun, liege zhou yuanyi (twin), lady zhou nari cousins: ihaku yronwood (deceased), jia yronwood dragon: asterion, purple bonded for 120 years

height: tall body and build: muscular hair color and style: dark hair complexion: pale, and he's keeping it that way eye color: dark brown with fleck of gold clothing style: thin layers (he's not going shirtless you harlots) signature scent: tobacco, woodsmoke tattoos: asterion, his dragon's name, written along his spine scars: three long scars along his right cheek that trail down his neck

they look at you strangely when you first return with asterion under you, scarlet rivulets dripping against the shifting amethyst scales. the air smells of confusion, eyes focused on the drake, on your face, fixated on your age, wondering if the cuts will scar. they're ruthless - they whisper to each other, confused - bloodthirsty. there is something they do not see in you, an ugliness you push down. but, asterion sees the very corners of your mind. even better than your twin does.

while you long for simplicity, you are cursed with duty. you are a zhōu. you are of the dusk court. you are the dusk court.

you hardly feel ready for it with only two centuries under your belt. but even with that being true, how can you say no to your brother? you have never known how to face the world alone, so how could you allow yijun to take those steps by himself? just as he does, you push down your grief and solemnly accept the weight of being second. what else can you say of your other siblings? while you remain solid as ever, steadfast in your decision to remain by the high lord, the others are not so loyal. your twin does nothing. your sister disappears.

the years pass and you grow into the role. they know you as a loyal dog, willing to do anything your brother asks, willing to do anything for the good of the dusk court. even when your cousin passes, you give him a moment of silence and continue business as usual. while you grieve him quietly, you can't help but roll your eyes when his sister takes on the pattern uselessness. still, you say nothing and focus on the court.

you find half of your family to be a nuisance who are little to no help with the mainlanders but you do the best with the cards you are dealt. you meet new allies, build new relationships, forge friendships. you hope that these will carry you onward as the journey begins within the summer court.

[asukiess]

find the words

thank you @bittersweetresilience for the tag!! <3 sunny provided us with the following words: water, shadow, and yesterday. I believe we were just to find these in WIPs, so...!

water, from the loveywalker fic:

The skyline behind Loveybug is a roulette of colors, bokeh yellow streetlights and office harsh white fluorescence and flurries of red tail lights passing by this unassuming scene. Water laps at her smirk as she peers up at him, half-way beneath the iridescent pool waves. Each one overlapping the other, throwing rippled refractions of her pink suit across the pool. Oddly, Cat Walker remembers the first day he met her, how her suit seemed to him like cotton candy. Irrationally, he fears the more she swims, the more the water might dissolve her completely like candy, too, leaving him all alone on the roof.

shadow, from my flower is ephemeral (adrien dies!):

Protecting her for the last time. Chest heaving. His eyes fluttering like butterfly wings, persisting against that creeping shadow of death, until they submit under the weight and close, finally. “Alix,” she croaks, eyes glossed over, “Please let me forget.”

rose (reserve word!!! ty sunny), also from the loveywalker fic:

“What’s in a name?” she giggles, drinking in his stunned reaction. “A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”  Hooking her arms around him as he hoists them up, she leans into him.  “You can call me anything you want,” she croons. “Your partner, your girlfriend, the love of your life.” She arches herself to say into the blushing shell of his ear, “But the name’s Loveybug.”

I'll tag @coffeebanana & @blur0se & @monpetitchattriste if'n you want to do it :)

words: new, sunrise, cuddle

reserve words: father, sobbed, exhausted

[wingedjewels]

White-necked Jacobin by Adam Rainoff Via Flickr: Capturing the White-necked Jacobin (Florisuga mellivora) in its natural habitat at Birdwatch La Conchita near Cali, Colombia, provided a remarkable opportunity to explore and document the vibrant dynamics of avian life. The photograph showcases this striking bird in mid-flight, its deep blue hood and green upperparts set against a softly blurred green background. Utilizing a shallow depth of field, I was able to isolate the bird from the surrounding foliage, emphasizing the brilliant coloration and intricate feather details that make the White-necked Jacobin a subject of endless fascination. From a technical standpoint, shooting this image required patience and a high shutter speed to freeze the rapid wing movement, capturing a moment of pure, ephemeral grace. Lighting played a crucial role, enhancing the iridescent quality of the bird's plumage. This image not only reflects my passion for avian photography but also underscores the importance of precision and timing in wildlife photography. It's a testament to the serene moments of nature that are often hidden in plain sight, waiting to be immortalized through the lens. ©2021 Adam Rainoff Photographer

[screamingiminlovewithyou]

Words I hope taylor uses on ttpd:

(Any form of the word is acceptable)

Melancholy

Effervescent

Extrapolate

Iridescent

Diabolical

Nefarious

Flippant

Bespoke

Acquiesce

Quintessential

Besotted

Enigmatic

Ephemeral

Egregious

Proverbial

Impropriety

Pernicious

Unequivocally

Monochrome

Egocentric

Lucrative

Erudite

Pulverize

Penultimate

Despondent

Lucid

Diatribe

Vitriolic

Morose

Incendiary

Sycophant

Surreptitious

Demure

Elixir