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cxmetery-gates · 4 years ago

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VALOR - DARTH MAUL

CHAPTER ONE: THE HUNTRESS AND THE HUNTER

SUMMARY: After attempting to kill a Sith lord unbeknownst to her, Ucilla Zykoff realizes she has made a grave mistake. WORD COUNT: 3.4K NOTES: Chapter one here we goooo! Love a couple who want to murder each other on sight. Sorry it took so long. I had so many ideas ready to go, then life got in the way. Anyway! I have a discord that my readers can use to discuss the story! It also let me share my silly memes and get to know y’all. Thank you for reading! WARNINGS: general sci-fi violence

VALOR MASTERLIST

AS THE SUN BENDS BEHIND the horizon, the cover of night encapsulates the city. With the rising of the moon, the mission is awoken.

Dusk phasing into night elapses with a stillness, but as a gust of sudden wind shakes the shutters as it passes, a chill runs up her spine. Startled by the sounds for a fleeting moment, a sigh passes through her lips before turning into a bemused hum. Cool air drifts over her skin, soothing yet awakening. With the seasons beginning to change towards a wet, flourish spring, the air is crisp and dry from a winter willing itself to create one last frost before retreating once more. She would be offworld long before the petals started to bloom.

Once the last of the day's shadows unite into one blanket of darkness, Ucilla Zykoff stands from the measly excuse of a bed to glance out the window through the slits of the shutters. Her icy blonde hair is pulled back with a tie resting against the nape of her neck, a few hairs escaping to try to obscure her sight. Her golden eyes watch figures tuck into their homes, counting down the seconds until their lights are shut until the next morning. It will not be long before the impenetrable sound of the night life masks her task from wandering eyes and ears. Tucking strands of hair behind her ear, the young woman leans back on the wall of her room. Cobwebs cling to the fabric of her clothes as she does so.

The establishment is nothing to rave about, though the dusty room and a firm cot above a noisy cantina is a luxury in comparison to other make-shift lodgings. The bounty hunter has grown used to rocks boring into her spine, cramped spaces, and days without sleep— typical for someone in this line of work.

Across from her, a sniper rifle stands against the opposite wall. The durasteel has seen better days, but so has she. Ucilla pushes herself off from where she leans, making her way towards her weapon. It is surprisingly light due to Ucilla's modifications. Positioning her sniper rifle in her hands, Ucilla now waits patiently for movement off in the distance. The barrel of the gun sits between the slightly ajar shutters, invisible to any bystander. Waiting was part of the job, and she has become very good at it.

Ucilla scans the rooftops of the city buildings using the scope attached to her weapon. The infrared colors become all too boring as the sight hardly changes over a period of minutes. The job is similar to any of the other hundreds she is taken: hunt, locate, go for the kill. All her missions become an identical cluster after a while.

The night carries on and Ucilla's eyes are beginning to sore from being trained on movement. All she wants is to get the job over with and allow herself to indulge in the reward. Bounty hunting is not a line of work that she believed would ever suit her, but with the hefty rewards for high targets, the comfort of credits is enough to keep her coming back. Even though Ucilla could buy a small house or decent apartment for what she currently has in Republic credits, settling down never seemed to work out well for the Scaki. She had not even returned to her home world, despite having every reason to do so.

Where once soft mummers acted as a hush over the city, now the lights and the noise of cantinas flood the dark alleys and streets. The city is preoccupied by dreams or by those wishing to live in dream, opting for late nights in hopes to escape from the trivial lives they find themselves in. As such, Ucilla would remain unbothered.

As the sound of drunken men and flirtatious women reverberate as echoes under her feet, Ucilla uses the increasing noise from the cantinas around the area to mask the sound of her ignited weapon. No one would hear a whirling buzz or the unexpected cry when a tankard had drowned out all their senses.

Ucilla is good at her practice. She must. There are many hunters who would not bat an eye in killing her if she stood in the way of an expensive bounty. Trial and error led her to where she is, and it did not take long before her use of stealth, accuracy, and efficiency turned her into a highly sought out freelance bounty hunter.

Though she would never admit to it openly, Ucilla has a slight advantage on her associates. One being evident by the cylindrical weapon always hidden at the bottom of her satchel that has not been ignited in years.

Ucilla learned long ago that studying a target is far more beneficial than making things quick and messy. After all, depending on the target, the price typically rises each week. For instance, in the scope of her rifle, Ucilla now spots the man who disclosed a long list of individuals working for one of the galaxy's biggest crime syndicates: his bounty doubled just two days ago.

Over the week and a half, she spent watching Jaro Linst, Ucilla had memorized the snitch's schedule. In the morning, he wakes early to have a large breakfast. He stays indoors during the days, but he typically makes a run to a shop or the market before noon. He seldom has guests, but when he does, their either men being paid to protect him from the Hutts or Twi'leks being led by chains. When night envelops the area, he is bold enough to bring his guests to the rooftop of his hideout. Linst's eyes are always shut as he takes the first breath of the nighttime air, absorbed in the taste of prolonged freedom.

Just as she suspected, Linst reaches the top of the building with a drink in his hand and his broad, tall body open to whatever blaster fire she could afford to waste.

However, unlike most nights, his face is turned downwards, and he is not entirely alone.

Trailing behind the man, a figure in all black has their face hidden by a heavy cloak with a hood. This offered no indication as to who this mysterious person may be. Not that it mattered. Her bounty was clear: kill Jaro Linst and get the reward, no matter what happens.

Her sniper-rifle is angled towards her bounty but, given the fact that Linst may have more hunters on his trail, Ucilla decides on removing the additional threat first. In the scope, the hood still conceals the face of the new target.

No matter.

She pulls back on the trigger.

The shot rings out near silently and in perfect alignment.

But it never reaches the head of her target. Instead, it ricochets off a familiar weapon and embarks on a mission straight towards her forehead.

Ucilla dodges the attack, rolling her back against the wall of her hotel room just in time as the red blaster fire digs straight through the opposite wall. Imagining if she had frozen for half a second more, Ucilla offers her blessing to the makers for her reflexes.

Clutching the gun to her chest, Ucilla finds herself now semi-frozen in fear. An icy feeling coursing through her veins offers no help in alleviating the shock. Instead, she releases the breath she was holding from stupor, blinking away the cloudy vision.

The brightly colored weapon that shot her fire back was one she had used long ago. This time, the blade was not lilac in color. Even the most uneducated creature could sense the danger that flows through the shaft, the deep dreadful color that exuberates caution.

A bleeding kyber crystal resides in that blade, crimson in color.

"Kriff."

Wasting no time, Ucilla lowers herself to the ground, carefully making sure the lightsaber wielder could not see her through the shutters. Cursing in every language she knows, Ucilla crawls on her belly until she finds the brown satchel at the foot of the cot. In haste, the blonde slips the strap over her head, hugging across her chest tightly, but there was no time to adjust. She flings the rifle over her shoulder before hurriedly skidding out the door.

On her way out, Ucilla pushes through drunken patrons to reach the bar to slam down a handful of credits on the counter in front of the inn keeper, continuing to walk towards the exit as she does so. The inn keeper raises his voice, calling out that she owes him more, but his voice is drowned out among the crowd and she is already gone.

Lifting her wrist closer to her face, the Scaki swipes through her holocom until Jaro Linst's bounty appears. Despite the large sum, Ucilla presses down on the option to forfeit. There was no chance she would go near a mission that was compromised by a Dark sided individual.

A Sith.

Ucilla could not calm her heart, the organ forcing blood to pump fast through her body. The reverberation echoes in her ears. But the headache is nothing in comparison to what the Sith could do to her.

She was almost to the heart of the city when an impeccable drought in the energy stifled her movements. The atmosphere is heavy, darkness tingling at her senses. Ucilla's hair stands on end at the sensation. Against her better judgment, she freezes.

Moments later, Ucilla's thrown off her feet, landing hard against a wall before crumpling down.

The blow had torn the breath right out of her. Gasping, Ucilla reaches for her chest, gripping the long, worn leather vest tight in her palms. From the inside pocket above her heart, she pulls out a circular object, yanking the pin out of place before dropping it to the ground.

Footsteps draw near. Instead of wasting her time, Ucilla prances from her crouch and bolts up the side of the wall, using rails and the closeness of the buildings as her foot and handholds. She forces her body to move swift and precise, just as she was taught years ago. By the time she reached the roof, the smoke bomb had gone off. All Ucilla can do is hope that the distraction is enough.

Ucilla is left without much of another option. The shingled roofs were difficult to adjust to at first, some coming lose from her added weight, but eventually her footing held on and she was off like a speeder. Running along the tops of the buildings, jumping to the next one with grace and stead, Ucilla knew when to dodge attacks and when to advert her direction. It was not the first time she was running away from a foe, and she had a feeling it would not be the last.

Daring to look back, Ucilla feels her heart drop. The man following her copies each step, leap, and now, he is close enough to claim her dead, for real this time.

With no other option, Ucilla calculates her jump. Instead of throwing herself far enough to reach the next building, she leaps down several stories. Thankfully, they had come across the hub of the city and a canopy breaks her fall, bouncing from the cloth and onto the ground once more. The moment her tall boots hit the earth, she is off running again. With so many people wandering the streets, Ucilla hopes she can blend in, even though she is seemingly the only one in worn clothes and dashing through the streets.

The city is vast and incredibly narrow— easy to get lost in⁠— but Ucilla had been here for quite some time, learning every back alley and corner shop during her weeks on the planet. With this knowledge in mind, surely, she has some advantage over her opponent. How likely is it that they, too, has memorized back alleys that leads to the shipyard?

Ucilla felt as though she could feel their breath on her neck, their fingertips just centimeters from gripping her hair. As if possible, her legs pushed harder than ever before.

Ducking into a back alley, Ucilla used her petite figure to maneuver through the garbage, boxes, and drunks that scattered the path. To her surprise, the person following was not prepared for the turn nor the obstacles in their path. They had fallen behind. She takes this moment to press her back against a wall between two strangers, pulling her hood further to hide her face.

It was not long after when Ucilla feels the dark ease away. She needs to know if he still lingers. Before she can make it safely to her ship, she will have to know how far behind the hunter is and if he can easily make it onto her ship or destroy it in some way.

Any normal foe would have mistakenly moved on from the area, never to find her again. Though she has never faced off against a Sith before, nor does she know anyone who has, what Ucilla does know is that there is no telling what a creature fueled by uncontrollable emotions with an unpredictable nature will do.

Before the drunken men could ask once more if she would like a drink, Ucilla pushes herself from the stone wall, cautiously making her way through street after street, back alley after alley. Her heart hammers in her chest no matter how she tried to stop it. Without knowing what kind of species the dark side wielder is, she has no conclusive answer if he can hear her labored breathing. As she sticks to the shadows of the city, Ucilla sends silent prayers to the makers to spare her this time.

With each step nearing the shipyard, the amount of people out and about grow less and less. By the time she was within blocks of her ship, only a few stragglers walked the streets. She felt lucky, allowing herself to walk faster even if the passersby gave suspicious looks.

Ucilla is no more than a block from the garage where her ship was located when she tumbled to the ground, a powerful blow toppling her, a wrestling match ensuing to determine life or death.

Kicking the figure off her, she throws a punch blindly. The huntress's punch misses the figure's jaw by a second, but that does not stop her from swinging again.

To her surprise, the saber is not ignited, nor does he go to reach for the weapon. The Force wielder instead copying her hand-to-hand combat. Maybe they thought she deserved a fair chance, or maybe they were simply trying to torture her into submission.

The hunter was the first to strike a powerful blow.

Ucilla's nose begins to bleed upon the impact of a fist, knocking her dazed for a moment. In the haste of her backing up and the figure coming forward, Ucilla did what any bounty hunter would have done.

Perhaps the cloaked Sith was not expecting the blaster to be drawn and the trigger to be pulled so fast, because the hunter is thrown off balance by a bolt embedding itself into their shoulder. A sound akin to a growl shakes Ucilla to the core.

When his head turns back, the hood from his cloak falls, just enough to give Ucilla a picture for her nightmares.

A male Zabrak. How interesting. Ucilla's eyes run over the intricate black tattoos on his face, trailing from where they start down to where they disappear beyond his dark robes. The red and black contrast is frightening to some degree, but Ucilla has faced worse. His appearance matches the fiery energy he exudes. Horns adorn his skull, several points wrapping around to remind Ucilla of a crown. Glowing, boiling amber of his altered eyes catch her attention.

So full of hate and anger; a storm that brings no calm in the wake of its destruction. There is a moment where Ucilla wonders what happened to this Sith, the journey that led him here to strike her down.

A Sith deals with the lust for absolute power, the destruction of the universe to make their strength known. To conquer is all they know, no matter who stands in their way.

He bares his teeth, and Ucilla can feel the rage coming from him. Rather than sticking around to anticipate his next move, Ucilla shoots several more times in the Zabrak's direction then begins to run to where her ship waits.

She can feel his decision, the way his anger directs his actions, how his natural rage bubbles over, destruction always existing, white-hot. There was no other warning before the Zabrak throws the dual blade at her. Instincts kick in. Ucilla turns on her heel to hold out her hand, something she has not done in years.

In midair, the blade is still. One entity aims to kill, the other refuses to let death take her.

The blade then falls, dust splashing along the steel. Both watch the unignited weapon on the ground. Simultaneously, both look up, their eyes meeting with new sentiment.

The tension is heavy in that street. Neither can predict what the other is thinking nor what moves they plan on making. However, there is something that Ucilla can read off the Zabrak. The squint to his eyes combined with wrinkles forming on his forehead tells her that his mind races with questions. After all, he most likely was not expecting the night to end with a woman one-upping him in the Force. Like a switch, Ucilla suddenly feels the anger exploding from the Zabrak; he is not going to let her get away.

But Ucilla is faster. Her secret is already out, and she has no time to waste. Reaching up, she uses the Force to bring down the archway, the stones and rubble falling on top of the tattooed Zabrak. She hears him cry out in anguish, but she does not stay long to hear anything else.

Ucilla is quick to slip into the cockpit of her ship. Her voice has once again resorted to curses in a number of languages as she flips various switches. A loud sigh of relief exits her when the sound of the engine roaring to life reaches her ears. As she activates all the right gears to get her off the dry planet, she takes one last look down to the earth: her blood runs ice cold.

There, close enough to stop her if he wanted with a single slash of his crimson ignited saber, is the Sith. His hood has now returned atop his crowned head, though it does little to obscure his glowing amber eyes.

His actions, or lack thereof, surprise Ucilla, the woman he had been hunting for a good mile through a city. And now, he stands there, seemingly unfazed, without care as she makes a successful escape. Escaping was certainly part of the plan, but the fact that the Zabrak has forfeited in spite of being so close to winning is annoying to some extent.

Before Ucilla has another moment to dwell on the Sith nor giving him another moment to reconsider, the YT-1210 lifts off from the ground. The Scaki's focus is drawn away from her foe despite knowing that turning her back on an enemy is a recipe for disaster. To her fortune, the Revenant makes it into the atmosphere and into hyperspace with ease.

The coordinates are placed. A safehold on Duro. Ucilla had not been there in quite some time and if she were lucky, an enemy-to-partner would be there, too. At least she would have someone to listen to her story.

The ship is set to autopilot, allowing for Ucilla to lean back in the pilot's chair, her leg bent to hold her knee against her chest. Though she is safe at the moment, Ucilla can not be sure for how long. What would she do if the Sith tracks her to Duro? Would he make her wait in anticipation as he had done in the shipyard?

For the first time in millennia, a Sith had revealed himself. At least to her knowledge: dead men tell no tales. Perhaps telling Bane about her encounter is for the best. If she becomes a successful mission for the Sith, at least someone would know what happened to her.

If anything, Ucilla knows of one plan that has not failed her yet. Just as she had done long ago, running has always been part of a good plan.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

TAGLIST:

@bonesaldente @blue-space-porgs @jayden-rose-leon

IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE TAGGED, LET ME KNOW!

#valor #darth maul #darth maul x oc #darth maul x reader #maul #maul x oc #maul x reader #star wars #star wars prequels #ucilla zykoff #chapter 1 #The Clone Wars #Clone Wars #obi wan kenobi #Anakin Skywalker #crimson dawn

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pbandjesse · 3 years ago

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Today was a good day. I have a heating pad on my feet which is helping my toes which have been so cold. I am in a good mood, but man I am tired.

I did enjoy my own company a lot last night. I would stay up until around 130 and fell asleep soon after that. But I woke up at 3 to a freshly showered James getting into bed. I gave them a big hug and fell right back to sleep.

I am very glad they made it home safely. They had shared their location with my phone so I would know they were okay on their late night drive home. They had a great time at the show though and that was great. Made me feel good to know they were having fun.

Both of us were very tired this morning. So we didn't get up until 8. I know, so late. But we had the market to go to! We got up, James got dressed quick and started taking things to the car. I took a little longer. I had to change twice because I was a little more cold then I expected. And then the layering shirt I chose was wrong and I had to change again. But it was fine. We had time.

I quickly printed off the poem for the print I made last week. And we were off. I was glad I got all of our stuff ready earlier this week because the only thing we ended up forgetting was our chair. But because I left the wagon in the car we were able to just use that. And honestly, was pretty comfortable and was a little easier to get out of when you needed to stand up.

We had to fuss with our set up of the table because we didn't do a dry run. But the 35 bears all looked great and I was very glad I brought some prestuffed ones.

The nice man who makes the birdhouse's lent me his markers so I could make a sign. It for real helped make people understand what we were doing. And we did sell some!!

It was honestly a great day. It was cold but that was fine. James went to get us breakfast. And I would run the supplies from my program yesterday into the museum. And I had some many nice interactions today. With the tables around us. And with customers.

We made a good amount of sales. There was a lot of foot traffic surprisingly. People really got a kick out of the making aspect of the build a bear style. Some little kids would help me stuff them, while the adults would just have me do it. I would tell them they have to make a wish before they put the heart in. And then I would sew them up. I had predone a few with a ladder stitch and while it made it a little harder to stuff, it did make sewing go so much faster. Thats such a good stitch to learn. Feels like magic when you pull that thread.

I also sold some prints and a pair of bear earrings. I think something I am going to try to do is actually make the tiny bears for the earrings. Maybe out of felt? We will see. But that will be my next project, along with my prints Im going to keep carving. I just have to keep the momentum going.

We finished up, made a few more sales. We packed up and said goodbye, until next time, to the other vendors. And we were off.

I was really glad James had gotten me a donut earlier that I hadn't eaten. We drove to the other side of the harbor to go to Micheals for more velum and envelopes. We would also go grab a snack at the herris teeter. And then home.

We were both really exhausted honestly. James had some lunch. I would poke around on the internet for a bit before I would make something.

James went for a bike ride. I was surprised, because they were so sore from their concert, but they love being out on their bike so I understand that. Chasing that joy.

I made frozen spring rolls. And played animal crossing. And once James was home I showed them some stuff I made and got off the game for the day.

I laid on the couch while James worked on their podcast. And I just scrolled on my phone until 6. When it was time for us to work on putting up some Christmas decorations.

I want to get some more tinsel or garlins. But I was happy to see the holiday furbies. Me and James both have silly holiday hats now. And Belk is off of house arrest. This is the one time a year when James "lets" Belk out of their house to be used as decor. So we (me and Belk) were pretty excited.

My head started to hrt though. Not even a regular headache. My teeth were just aching. My appointment is on Wednesday. I am not looking forward to it. But I hope they can help with the pain.

I took an asprin and we worked on legos for a little bit. But I wasn't having a great time because I was hurting. So we just did a part of it before I laid on the couch.

Tina got us another space heater. Its like our radiator one so it is slient. So much nicer. So the living room is not as frigid. Not ideal still, but its something.

James showered. Then I did. James put my heating pad int he bed for me so I can have warm toes. And now we are getting ready to go to sleep.

I hope you all have a great night tonight. Tomorrow should be a fairly calm day. We are going to get breakfast and work on our save the dates. I hope you all have a good day tomorrow. Take care of each other.

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 4 years ago

Note

Rojascorp - Lena is kidnapped

“Are you scared?”

Andrea whispers into the dark, not even certain whether Lena is awake to hear. The room is dark-- no lights, no windows. All she has is Lena’s hair in her fingers as she strokes the strands with gentle care.

Lena shifts under her hands. “No,” comes the soft, blurry response.

“Really?”

Lena’s hand lifts, pressing against Andrea’s hip. “We’re together.”

She says it so simply that tears burn against Andrea’s eyelids. She sniffles in the darkness.

When Andrea invited Lena to stay with her in Madrid over spring break, she imagined their two weeks would be filled with sunlight and beaches and shopping, with the dreary walls of their boarding school far out of sight. But on their second day in the city, when rough hands grabbed them in the open-air market, Andrea had frozen.

Not Lena.

Lena had fought back, slamming her book bag into the face of one and elbowing another in the groin behind tearing off with Andrea in tow. All it did was make them angry when they reached again and hauled them both into a black paneled van.

“Puta!” One cursed before slamming the butt of his gun into Lena’s temple. The last sight Andrea had seen was her best friend falling limp before a hood had been pulled over her head.

The hood had stayed on until they were locked in this room, devoid of light and furniture. They had a single mattress to share: Lena used it now, fading in and out of consciousness.

The blood on her brow has long since dried, but Andrea worries of internal damage, when some of Lena’s words slur, and their hushed conversations drop off suddenly. But Lena keeps breathing, and for that Andrea thanks god.

“You should have run,” Andrea whispers. “You could have gotten away.”

She remembers the moment their fingers had almost slipped apart, when she had stumbled. Lena could have kept going, but instead she had stopped, reaching back to solidify her grip on Andrea’s hand.

The vacation had been a last minute idea, proposed late enough that Andrea’s father was so excited to see her he’d agree to anything. An abduction like this must have been months in the planning-- they’d been after her alone, not Lena.

But Lena’s cheeks swell into a smile, her face turning to press against the back of Andrea’s hand. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Andrea hiccups a sob, knowing comes next. “You jump, I jump, remember?”

---

No one enters the room, not even to deliver food. Andrea finds a gallon of water and a box of protein bars in one corner, and quickly calculates they have enough for three weeks if they ration it. There’s also an empty bucket, which she refuses to think about.

There’s no way to know how long they’ve been there. It feels like months-- Andrea’s skin is sticky with sweat, and her hair is heavy with unwash. The darkness is maddening. She clings to Lena’s hand.

“It’ll be okay,” Lena whispers. “They’ll pay.”

It sounds so simple, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not with the oppressive dark pressing in on them, tightening Andrea’s chest. But it’s enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, they won’t die here.

---

Andrea wakes to the sound of a sharp, short boom that snaps against her eardrums. But when she opens her eyes, the darkness is still there, filling her eyes and her lungs with its inky black. She wonders if she imagined the sound. It won’t be the first time she’s imagined something that isn’t there.

“Lena?”

Lena doesn’t answer, but the sound of a gunshot does, followed swiftly by another, and another. Andrea screams when the door explodes inwards, sending bits of metal flying. She curls over Lena, shielding them both from the sharp voices and bright flashlights that lance across the room. It’s long moments before the shouting resolves into words she recognizes.

“Andrea Rojas?”

“Yes,” she rasps, squinting up at the hulking shadows surrounding them. “Si.”

The flashlights lower, and Andrea realizes then that they’re affixed to guns. The silhouette who’d spoken crouches down, shining his flashlight against his chest. Andrea almost sobs. A badge.

“We’re here to help.”

---

Andrea refuses to leave the hospital. They roll her out in a wheelchair and the moment she’s on her feet she strides right back in, her father at her side. Lena’s family hasn’t arrived yet, and so there’s no one to kick her out when she plops herself in the chair at Lena’s bedside. Her best friend looks so small in the sterile bed, her head bandaged and a nasal canula under her nose. Andrea’s dread was confirmed: a skull fracture had slowly bled against Lena’s brain, leeching the life from her. The doctors promise she’ll be fine, that they caught it in time. She’ll be all right.

Andrea won’t believe it. Not until Lena opens her pretty green eyes and tells her herself. She finally does on the second day of waiting. By then, Andrea’s father is antsy and itching to pace, but after the darkness, Andrea sits still as stone, her hand tucked in Lena’s.

Their fingers tangle when Lena smiles at her with tired, bruised eyes.

“How long?” Lena asks.

Andrea chews her lip. “Eighteen days.”

“Toldja they’d pay.”

Yes, their families had paid the ransom, but the Luthors had issued a post script of armed forces storming the location. Andrea sees the six bodies on the floor every time she blinks, but in a way, she’s grateful for the haunting image-- it’s better than the dark of her own eyelids.

“Hey,” Lena tugs at her hand, drawing Andrea from her thoughts. “We’re okay.”

Andrea crumbles then. She doesn’t sob, but her tears pour from her eyes with every blink. “I was so scared.”

Scared she would lose Lena, that she would never see her father again, that she would die alone in the shadows.

Lena just squeezes. “Love you.”

Andrea nods, swallowing thickly, uncaring that her father watches from his seat by the window.

“I love you too.”

#quarantine prompt party 2.0 #rojascorp #young rojascorp #none of my adult ideas were working #but this one did #hope it's okay #prompt filled #prompts are closed #this is an old one #still working my way through #one of these days i will make a proper event of it #oh well

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sugarmaplewings-fics · 4 years ago

Text

Deep Blue Fantasy Part Four

Pairing: Merman!Tamaki Amajiki x fem!reader

Warnings: None

{Pt. 1} {Pt. 2} {Pt. 3} {Pt. 4} {Pt. 5} {Pt. 6} {Pt. 7}

くコ:彡くコ:彡くコ:彡くコ:彡

Tamaki followed you out of his room, keeping close to your side in case he stumbled. You were both alone in the hall, your footsteps echoing off the high stone walls. Tamaki marveled at the architecture, noting how intricately placed each stone brick was.

He'd been to various parts of the merpeople empire, witnessing incredible underwater palaces, but he was used to the simpler practice of living in caves or small houses formed from the muck on the seafloor. Tamaki loved seeing the attention to detail in each of your walls; windows perfectly spaced and letting the sunlight warmly spread across the floor. He couldn't help but wonder if all human homes looked like this, but a part of him figured they didn't.

His mind also began to question why you lived in a place like this, and had what you called a handmaiden like Brianne. Were you important in some way? Was it your father? You had mentioned him a few times. Maybe you happened to be from a very rich family. Tamaki felt a slight lump form in his throat. Of course, he had to fall for someone who seemed to be more and more out of his league with every new piece of information he found out about her.

Just what was a princess? Tamaki felt like he might have heard the term before, maybe in some kind of legend or story, but he couldn't remember where. The not-knowing nagged at the back of his brain, but he was determined not to ask in case he insulted you.

You led him through a big room with a large table, guiding him towards a door in the wall, which was nearly hidden against the cool tones of stone. The door swung open, and Tamaki found himself looking down at a flight of steps leading down into a warmly lit room.

You showed him the rail, letting him cling to it as you assisted in making your way down the small number of steps. Miraculously, Tamaki survived, and he felt very proud of himself for not tumbling down the stone stairs on his first try at them.

You confidently strode around a bend and excitedly led him towards a burly man who was washing dishes in the sink with his back turned to the two of you.

"Gabriel!" you called out. "There's someone I'd like you to meet!"

The man turned. He looked to be about in his forties and sported a brunet mustache, his eyes twinkling when he caught sight of Tamaki.

You pulled him closer to the new man, beaming excitedly. "Tamaki, this is Gabriel, our cook. He's very very sweet. I'm sure you'll also be interested to hear that he was the one who rescued you off the beach."

"Please tell me you didn't go there on purpose? The water there is dangerous." Gabriel's voice was gruff yet somehow smooth, words reverberating in his chest. Tamaki allowed the sound to resonate in his mind for a minute, savoring how it sounded so different from the women he'd heard before. It vaguely reminded him of the lower pitches of whale song he'd hear when the large mammals would migrate north in the spring and summer; when the waters would warm and the currents would slow.

He barely had time to nod before you jumped in at his silence. "He's a castaway. Apparently his boat went down out at sea and he happened to wash onto our shores." You turned and grinned at him. "You're not a complete idiot after all."

"I knew I didn't recognize him," Gabriel said, looking into Tamaki's face and making him go back to being generally uncomfortable. "It's rare for me not to know a fellow islander. I see pretty much everyone when I go off to market. Feeling better, son?"

He placed the back of his large hand over Tamaki's forehead, making him elicit a small squeak as he shied away. His touch was warm and gentle, but such factors were canceled at the fact Tamaki had never met him before.

"Jumpy thing, aren't ya?" Gabriel straightened, apology quickly flashing in his eyes. "Still shook up? You were in pretty rough condition. Must have taken a blow to the head on one of those rocks. But you weren't too bloodied up, thankfully. I've seen so much worse come of those that venture into the cold, dark sea . . . ." His voice trailed off, gazing at nothing as it looked as though his mind traveled to places unseen or heard.

You placed a hand on his solid arm, catching his eyes with yours as you gently pulled him out of his daze. "Hey," you softly crooned.

"Sorry, Princess. Got . . . distracted." He abruptly straightened and shook his head. "I'm glad we found you as soon as we did. Any longer and you woulda frozen to death. You really have (Y/N) to thank, here, for finding you."

You bashfully lowered your gaze and shrugged, toeing the stone floor. "Without you, I would never have been able to get him all the way back here."

"A team effort, then." Gabriel slid back into a grin and winked at Tamaki. "You best get plenty of rest. Did you enjoy the stew?"

Tamaki nodded. "Thank you," he said, trying to keep his voice above a mumble. "It was really good."

Gabriel squinted at him, suddenly confused. "What?"

Tamaki frowned and looked back up at him, opening his mouth to repeat himself before remembering the necklace that still hung around his neck under his shirt.

You'll be able to speak to the first human that touches you, so make sure it's her.

This must be what Nejire meant. Gabriel couldn't understand him. Tamaki briefly wondered what the man had heard come from his mouth, hoping it wasn't too embarrassing before you jumped in again.

"You ate it so fast!" you giggled. "Which reminds me. Gabe, could you get him another cup of water? I think he's still thirsty."

"Of course." Your friend pulled another metal cup from the sink behind him, giving it an extra rinse in the water of the basin before filling it with clean water from a pump. He handed it to Tamaki who gratefully took it and began to take small sips from the mug, enjoying the newfound taste of fresh water. "So where are you from?"

Tamaki faltered mid-sip, mind starting to spin. Should he lie? He didn't know what to say. How should he keep his secret? Gabriel couldn't understand a word he said but you could. Even if he told the truth, the name of his empire would be very difficult to translate. He was sure even you would have a hard time figuring out what he meant.

Tamaki just tried for a mildly distressed hum and shrugged his shoulders, going back to swallowing some water.

You and Gabriel shared a glance that went unnoticed by Tamaki's eyes, hidden from view behind the rim of his cup. "Were you . . . a pirate?" you spoke up, trying to work out his history.

Pirates . . . . The term was vaguely familiar to him. Maybe he'd seen it in one of the children's' story scrolls at the library. He hesitantly shook his head, trying to stay hidden behind his drink.

"Just a sailor that lived out at sea?" Gabriel asked, his voice suspicious yet equally hesitant.

Tamaki decided this would be the best one to roll with, finally peeking out and nodding his head.

"Sure are quiet . . . ." the man softly muttered, lightly stroking his chin as he studied Tamaki's face. "Are you mute or something?"

Mute?

"He was talking just fine before," you said, resting a gentle hand on Tamaki's shoulder. "Do you need to go lie down again? It's been a long day."

Tamaki shook his head. He wanted to spend time with you. Just maybe you alone, without other people who might hear whatever nonsense came out of his enchanted mouth.

"He staying here?" Gabriel asked, relaxing his stance only fractionally.

"Yeah, in one of the guest chambers. We're waiting for the ships to the mainland to come back."

"That'll be some time," the man mused. "Oh well. If you ever need anything, you can always ask." This was directed at Tamaki. "And if you ever try anything funny—" a steely glint arose in Gabriel's eyes, making the boy gulp, "—you'll have to deal with me."

You smirked and caught Tamaki's gaze, mockingly giving him a sharp nod. Everyone in the room could agree that Gabriel was not a man to be messed with.

"Thank you, Gabe," you said, nudging Tamaki so he would know it was time to start moving again.

"No problem, Princess." Gabriel turned and went back to his work. He lifted something out of the basin that caught Tamaki's eye. It was a sponge. What was he doing with one of those?

Tamaki glanced at you, but before he could even think to try to subtly whisper something in your ear so Gabriel couldn't hear him, you pulled him back to the stairs. After a short moment of collecting his legs, Tamaki soon found that climbing stairs was much easier than going down them. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself for reaching the top of the landing.

"Yay!" you congratulated him when you were both standing together at the top. "You're really getting the hang of things!"

Tamaki blushed and smiled at the floor, nearly melting in the glow of your smile. How were you always so vibrant? You tapped him on the shoulder, making him look up to see that you had raised up a hand, level with your shoulder.

"High five?" you asked, giving your palm a little shake.

Tamaki hesitantly lifted his hand to press against yours, confused.

You giggled. "Do you not high five out at sea?"

"No," Tamaki answered truthfully. "What is it?"

You demonstrated on yourself, clapping one of your hands to the awaiting other. "Like that, except this hand is supposed to be yours."

You held out your hand again in the same manner, and Tamaki gently slapped his against yours.

"See, you learned something new today!" you beamed.

Actually, Tamaki thought, I've learned so many things today. I can barely keep up.

"Come on." You started walking and Tamaki hurried to keep up. "There are still some people I want you to meet."

The two of you didn't speak for a few moments, traveling together in companionable silence.

Finally, you broke it, making Tamaki look up at your pensive face. "Why didn't you want to talk with Gabe?" you asked, steps echoing off the walls of the cool hallway.

"I, um—" Tamaki tried to think of a good answer. He finally alighted on a half-truth. What could be better? "I get . . . really nervous around people and it's like I can't function," he admitted, keeping his eyes cast down. "It's mostly just around strangers I don't know very well."

"You're not like that around me," you said. "You talk just fine."

"Yeah, but you're just so—" Tamaki stopped himself before he could say any more. He didn't want to go too fast. He wanted your affections to be as much your choice as his were for you.

"I'm so what?"

"Uh, nice, I guess."

"Gabriel is really nice." Your voice remained soft and nonaccusatory. "He may look a little intimidating, but once you get to know him, he's a real sweetie."

Tamaki silently reeled at the idea he might have accidentally insulted your friend. "I didn't mean he wasn't! It's just that . . . I feel different when I'm around you." He dared look into your face.

Your expression was slightly flustered, yet you had undeniably been flattered by his words. Who was this boy? You had to wonder. Why was he so . . . strange?

The two of you remained quiet on your way through the halls. You had Tamaki meet a few more people who worked at your father's chateau before leading him outside. You gleefully threw off your flats, letting your toes sink into the plush grass beneath them.

Still barefoot, Tamaki followed after you, discovering the new sensation of sun-warmed grass tickling his ankles. He watched as you twirled around in the light, skirts flowing around your skilled, graceful legs. Someday, Tamaki promised himself, he would be able to have that much control over his new limbs. He imagined himself joining you, bouncing around almost as weightlessly as if you were underwater.

You came back and pulled him over to a small patch of flowers. Tamaki had never seen anything like them, and he hesitantly reached out a hand to brush the tips of his fingers over their soft petals.

A small creature burst into flight near his hands, making Tamaki jump back. It didn't look like a bird, and yet, its wings carried its tiny body effortlessly through the air. It was a light yellow, starkly showing up against the green grass behind it. It alighted on Tamaki's arm, making him freeze in apprehension, watching as little antennae brushed against the cloth of his sleeve.

"What is it?" Tamaki scarcely dared to breathe.

You laughed aloud behind him, carefully settling down beside him so as not to frighten it away. "That's a butterfly."

"Woah."

The two of you observed it wander over his appendage until a light breeze prompted it to flutter off.

You noticed Tamaki's face as he watched the insect leave. His eyes practically had stars in them as he looked after it, and you couldn't help but appreciate for the first time just how blue they were. At first, you had thought they were just kind of black, but now, in the setting sun, you could make out each sapphire hue. They reminded you of the ocean, and intrigued you just as much.

He really was handsome. You admired the way his blue-black hair fell between his eyes, following it with your own eyes to the little tufts that spiked up in the back. His ears poked out of the falling locks, and you noticed with curiosity that they were somewhat pointed. The urge to reach up and touch them struck you, but you fought it, stilling your hand so it remained in the grass. You went back to his eyes, and they met yours, heat suddenly growing on both your cheeks.

"So, uh," you began, finally reaching up your hand to place on the back of your neck. "Were you born on the sea or something?"

"Why do you ask?"

You smiled sheepishly, dropping your gaze to the dirt. "I guess you're just so . . . intrigued with all this. It's like you look at the world with so much wonder as though you've never seen anything like it before."

"I haven't."

You looked back up to him. "You've never been on land?"

Tamaki blew out his cheeks, trying to decide yet again how to answer. "Not really."

Your eyes widened. "How—?"

Tamaki abruptly stood. "I-I can't tell you. I want to, but now isn't a good time." His eyes contained fear and maybe regret, wincing as your face fell into confusion.

"Are you in trouble or something?" you asked. "If there's someone bothering you, I am capable of placing you under my protection—"

"I-it's not like that." Tamaki hated the way his voice shook. He wanted to tell you who he was, what he was, but now just wasn't the time.

When?

"I promise," he said, shakily offering his hand to you. "I will tell you."

You looked at his hand dubiously. "I have my safety to worry for as well," you told him, glancing from his expecting fingers and back to his eyes. "Tamaki, I know I've just met you, but I want to be able to call you my friend."

His heart melted at your words. Friendship was a start. Could you like him as a friend already? "You have my honor," he said, and you finally placed your hand in his. "I will never do anything to hurt you."

You nodded, now standing. "When can you tell me?" you asked, dropping his hand. "I want to know more about you."

He chewed his lip, already missing the moment of contact you had briefly shared. "You consider me your friend?" he asked, hesitantly.

"I would like to."

"Tomorrow then. I would really like to get to know you too."

"May I ask what the purpose is of keeping this secret?"

Tamaki winced. "I don't want you to think differently of me."

You gently placed your hand on his shoulder. "I won't judge you. I'm not like that. As long as you're a genuinely good person, I don't care where you grew up."

Tamaki almost spilled his guts out to you right then and there, but a voice interrupted him in his tracks.

"Princess! There you are!" Brianne stepped out of the doorway. "You should do some studying before dinner. You know your father wants you to keep up with that."

You smiled, giving a light eye roll. "Coming."

"Hurry up," she called over her shoulder as she turned to go back inside. "You've already missed quite some time running around with this boy all afternoon."

Tamaki blushed, embarrassed at her reference to him.

"Wanna come with me?" you asked Tamaki. "You can keep me company."

"Sure."

"Can you read?"

"Yes."

...

It turned out, Tamaki couldn't read.

At least, not whatever script you showed him. He was used to a different, swirling type of print the merpeople used to write.

The two of you had settled in your study, and you had handed him a small stack of books for him to skim through while you did some work of your own, an ink pen in hand, occasionally jotting something down onto a sheet of parchment.

Tamaki thumbed through the bound pages, amazed at what was possible in the dry air. He tried to make sense of some of the words before him, but he remained clueless.

He found some drawings featured in one of the books, this one appeared to be on the creature from earlier you had called a butterfly. He delicately traced his hand over the ink, studying the anatomy of the insect's wings and small body pictured before him. Every few pages there was another drawing, and he would look it over. He hadn't even thought to wonder about how many different species there were. It struck him that you and he were like that; different species, but so tantalizingly similar all the same.

Finally Brianne called you down for dinner and the two of you ate alone together at the big table. You made conversation on what you had been studying, talking a bit about human history. Tamaki was deeply intrigued, hanging on every word and occasionally interrupting you with a question.

When you were both done, you walked him back toward his room. "Would you like a bath?" you asked him. "I can ask Brianne to draw you one. It might feel nice."

"Uh . . . sure, if it's not too much trouble." Tamaki had no idea what it was that you were talking about, but he was curious all the same.

"Not at all." You beamed up at him.

If a week ago someone had told Tamaki that he would be on the receiving end of so many of your beautiful smiles in one day, he'd have thought they'd spent too much time in the sun. You were so beautiful to him, and he wanted nothing more than to stay by your side forever.

Forever . . . that was a long time. And he now only had twenty-nine days left. He hoped he could come up with something soon. Maybe Mirio would help him again. You would wait for him, right? After you found out he wasn't a human?

You let him in his room and ducked out again to go find your handmaiden. Tamaki stood alone in his room, glancing toward the dark window. In the dim candlelight of the chamber, he saw something in the glass. He took a few steps closer and saw . . . himself.

He had seen his reflection before. One of his fellow townspeople had found a human mirror in a sunken shipwreck. Everyone had gathered around, curiously peering into the reflective glass. The window before him didn't work so well, but he was still able to make out just how much he'd changed.

His cheeks looked rosier and less pale than they had once been. His pupils were smaller, eyes not as big. His nose protruded from his face more, but not in an obnoxious way. Gills no longer lined his neck, and the small frills behind his ears were missing, although he had figured out both of these facts much before seeing it for himself. His teeth were flat like yours and his lips had filled out slightly, no longer just barely visible outside his mouth. He looked perfectly human, although he noticed his ears were still pointy, but they had always been that way. Even among the merpeople, they had been a little odd.

He heard his door click and swing open, making him turn around and see Brianne standing in the doorway.

"Come along, now," she said. "It was Tamaki, right?"

He nodded, following her into the hall. She led him into a room that held a large white basin, filled nearly to the brim with steaming water.

"Do you want me to take your clothes?" Brianne asked from behind him.

Tamaki thought for a moment, trying to decide how to respond. He cringed, remembering that if he tried to speak, she wouldn't understand him. He finally nodded, looking down to his shirt. Now to get it off . . . .

His fingers fumbled with the buttons, only made more shaky with Brianne standing there, watching him. A small part of him wished that it could be you instead. Not for any impure reason. He simply felt more comfortable around you. Adding to the fact he couldn't answer her or even begin to explain why, he couldn't help but feel horribly awkward around your friend.

He finally worked out three buttons and attempted to slide it off over his head. Now holding it, he handed it off to Brianne, who took it and draped it over her arm. Tamaki then started with the tie around his waist, finding it much easier to undo and tugging his pants down around his ankles.

Averting her eyes, Brianne took them from him as well and swiftly whisked out of the room, shutting the door tight behind her. Tamaki stepped over the rim, letting his toe dip into the water. He found it comfortably warm and fully submerged his foot, repeating the action with the other leg. He slid down, the warm water unfamiliarly soothing his muscles.

It was a strange sensation to be wet again. The idea of taking off the necklace and letting his tail come back floated hazily into his mind, but he decided against it. He vividly remembered the excruciating pain of transforming between species and decided that taking it off would only happen when absolutely necessary. Besides, what if Brianne walked in and saw? That would be a horrible way to be outed.

Now came the question of what he was supposed to do.

Tamaki shifted down, letting his head sink underwater. He briefly wondered how long he could hold his breath, now that he only had a slightly larger pair of lungs. The temperature made his eyes sting so he shut them tight, letting a dark silence press around him.

He already missed you. He wanted to keep talking to you. Your conversation at dinner had been so enrapturing to him, his mind couldn't help but go back to what you had said. It amazed him that two species could live on the same planet together for so long and yet have such contrasting, separate histories from each other.

He came back up, wiping some of the water from his eyes and glancing around. He noticed that on the rim of the tub sat a sponge. The second one he'd seen today.

He picked it up, finding it squishier than he'd expected. What were you doing with so many of them?

Hundreds of years ago, merpeople had seen male dolphins exchange sponges with female dolphins as a mating gift. It had become tradition to do the same; a male merman presenting a sea sponge to a mermaid he was interested in.

Tamaki blushed, thinking of you. How would you react to him giving it to you? Would it mean anything if you already knew of having it in this room?

How different could she be from the mermaids back home? Mirio's voice sounded in his mind.

From what he'd seen today, very, but maybe this could be something you had in common with him.

He toyed with it, squeezing it between his fingers. Maybe you would appreciate the gesture. He set it back on the rim of the tub, sinking back down into the water.

He let his mind wander, briefly stressing over things he would have to do in the future. The most pressing one was telling you about what he was. Tamaki spent the next several minutes rehearsing in his brain, trying to picture your reactions to various confessions he came up with. He scarcely noticed the water cooling around him as time passed.

Eventually, Brianne opened the door, preceded by a rapid knock before swinging it open. She laid out a different shirt, a pair of pants, and another rectangular strip of cloth before leaving again. Tamaki stood, trying to shake off as much water as he could, planting his feet on the cool stone below. With his skin still glistening with water, it was difficult for Tamaki to pull on his clothes, but he eventually managed. Pacing back over to the tub, Tamaki swiped the sponge that balanced delicately on the rim. He shoved it into his pants pocket and stepped out into the hallway where a waiting Brianne stood silently by the door. She gave his still-dripping hair an odd look but, all the same, led him back to his room.

He flopped into his bed, tiredness finally beginning to settle within his bones. In the dying light of a candle, Tamaki drifted off to sleep, hoping against all things that he would still be here by tomorrow night.

...

To be continued . . . .

くコ:彡くコ:彡くコ:彡くコ:彡

[Part Five]

Taglist (If you ever want to be added or removed, you can always message me):

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foodiemarketer · 4 years ago

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Top Best Places to buy Frozen Momos Online in 2021

The world consumption of food particularly frozen momos has continued to grow on a daily basis and now a day’s people demand a lot.

With hectic schedules and busy lifestyles, most families choose to cut down on preparation time when it comes to meals and go for quick-fix dinner options. This has brought about the immense popularity of frozen foods, which ensures that there is always something to eat at home and on top of this, freezing leftover meals can actually prevent wastage of food too.

Don’t you just love frozen momos? There’s nothing more convenient than throwing something into the microwave for two or three minutes, taking it out, and having everything you could possibly need in a little snack or a meal. I’m a big fan of frozen momos myself and love to eat these as they save me both time and money. So without taking your much time let’s start and check what are the good option available in the market for frozen momos. 1. Fat Tiger — Frozen Momos

Fat Tiger brand has launched their new category in Momos that is “Frozen momos” Fat Tiger momos are created from a secret and closely guarded authentic “Sikkimese Recipe” thereby giving you the “AUTHENTIC MOMO EXPERIENCE”.

Their momos contain no added MSG and contain zero preservatives. Furthermore, they are prepared from the finest and the most premium ingredients, Each Fat Tiger momos is encased in an authentic handmade “Tibetian Wrap” and are finished using the age-old “secret traditional recipe”. These yummy, extra-juicy, and mouth-watering treats are very easy to prepare and full of succulent flavor.

Fat Tiger momos also have the “largest fillings” (twice compared to any Momo’s available) thereby giving you the maximum “bang for your buck”. Fat Tiger Frozen momos can be steamed, pan-fried, deep-fried, and microwaved and are ready to eat in 3 minutes.

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2. Prasuma

Prasuma Momos offer bite-sized packets of joy filled with fresh meat and vegetables so that everyone can enjoy this delicious Momo at home. Their Momos are fully cooked and ready to heat and serve out of the pack or be prepared to your liking. The best thing that I like about Prasuma is the packaging, they have nice packaging with good print and style but if we taste the prasuma momos they are not up to the mark. I personally changed my mind whenever I think to eat frozen momos from Prasuma and I don’t know why they are compromising with the taste.

If I talk about the ingredients of Prasuma Veg Momos then they claim they are made up of premium ingredients and no preservatives, each Prasuma Momo is crafted with thin wrappers that allow for a larger filling-to-wrapper ratio, these bite-sized treats are full of flavor and easy to prepare. It can be microwaved, pan-fried, steamed, or deep-fried and ready to eat in as little as 2 minutes. You can easily buy Prasuma Frozen Momos — www.prasuma.com

3. Momo King

Momo King is also the perfect destination for foodies who want to find a real taste of Himalayan momo. Just experience the spirit of Himalayan hospitality at their restaurants. Furnished in warm wood, they incorporate traditional design elements to give you that authentic Asian feel. They welcome everyone who walks through outdoor, and their staff will do their best to accommodate all your needs.

Some of their most beloved dishes include Kothey Momo, Steamed Momo, Jhol Momo, Sandheko Momo, Choila Momo, Hakka Noodles, Vegan Momo, Gluten-Free Momo, Whole Wheat Momo, Thukpa Momo, Malaysian Laksa Momo, Chow Chow, Nepali Fried Rice, Schezwan Noodles, Rice & Noodles, Meal Boxes, and Dessert. Trust me that’s too much, still, if you want to try something new and different then you can try Momo King. You can easily buy Momo King Frozen Momos — www.themomoking.com

4. Boring Foods

Boring Foods creates gourmet frozen food that is tasty, preservative-free, & easy to cook. Now one can spend less time in the kitchen & more time enjoying life. Bring our Delicious ready-to-cook food home now for that not ‘so’ boring experience.

They don’t only deal in momo but they also serve samosa and spring rolls. I have not tasted this brand so don’t want to give any extra comments about this brand. Meanwhile you peeps can also share your insight about this brand in the comment section.

You can easily buy Boring Foods — www.boringfoods.in

5. Amazon

Yes, I am mentioning Amazon too where you can see a lot of options related to Frozen food and if you really confused with the other brands then you can directly visit Amazon and go with the flow and try something new.

Recommendation

So by checking all these frozen momos brands personally, I’d really want to give thumbs up to the Fat Tiger Frozen momos, they are literally amazing and perfect, they claim that their momos are the juiciest in the town and when you eat you will feel this. IF you want to try their momos just visit Fattigerfrozenmomos.com and get 15% off on your first order, just use code “FIRSTUSER”

Do try their momos and let me know your feedback in the comment section, I’d love to know your views about this post.

#fattiger Fattigerfrozenmomos frozenmomos frozenmomosonline buyfrozenmomos

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izaswritings · 5 years ago

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Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis: Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: blood, violence, and death (NOT any of main characters), injury, some cursing, references to past character injuries, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here.

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

Previous chapters are here.

Chapter III: The Puppet

As the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing.

It was a song unlike any other, a melody created on a whim for this lovely woman and her lonely dance. For a single moment the song hung in the wind as the woman twirled upon the seas; for a single moment they were in harmony, and all the world held its breath at the sight.

Then the stranger realized what had happened, and froze upon the raging waters. At last, for the first time, she saw the Sun. Her dance stilled; the song, too, fell silent. In an instant their eyes met.

The Sun reacted first, an apology rising to her lips—but it was too late. The stranger, frightened by her audience and her heart moved by the beautiful song she had so briefly witnessed, was overwhelmed and fled. The Sun reached out and cried for the stranger to stop, but already the woman had vanished away into the dark, gone as if she had never been.

And so it was that the beautiful Sun met the lovely Moon, and chased her away…

For the second time in under a day, Varian makes his way through the fields back to Port Caul.

It’s early, still, and the whole world reflects it: dew and frost weighing heavy on the long grass of the fields, the sky bright with the pale colors of sunrise. The clouds above, wispy and thin, are lined with a delicate gold; the breeze still carries the heavy chill of the midnight ice. Despite the misty night, the ground is frozen solid from frost. With each step, the iced greenery crunches underneath his worn boots.

Still struggling to wake up, Varian pulls the collar of his coat closer and shivers. The fields outside of Port Caul are endless and sprawling, and in the light of the rising dawn, near breathtaking. The far-off silhouette of the city is gilded by the sunrise, the blue buildings shining soft with a pearly glow in the creeping dawn. Despite the bite of cold and the frosted edges, there is something soft about it all—a winter tempered by coming spring, ice thawed to a chill, something brisk and fresh and clean.

It doesn’t make it any less fucking cold, though.

They must make quite a sight, the two of them, to any strangers who see them: the woman, Yasmin, older and stern, with short dark curls and a confident stride—and a boy, Varian himself, tripping behind her, ragged and worn and trying desperately to keep up.

“How much farther?”

To say Varian is exhausted is a gross understatement. He is bone-cold tired. Numb to the world. A walking dead in the making. His late night has done him no favors, and this long walk back through the twists and turns of Port Caul’s farmlands drains what little remaining energy he has. His mouth is dry and sickly, his head stuffed with cotton, his limbs heavy and shaking with fever chills. The winter sun burns down on the back of his neck, the sunshine bright and as piercing as ice. Before him the wide expanse of the world unfurls at his feet, the fields of the Port Caul countryside near infinite to his eyes. Every time he looks to the horizon, to that distant shadow of the city proper, he feels even more tired than before.

Farther ahead, Yasmin walks with sure strides, making a confident pace through the overgrown paths. Despite her age and small size, she is damnably spry. Varian, still lagging behind despite all his best efforts, squints blankly in the sun and hurries to keep up. It’s ridiculous. He’s barely a head shorter than her, so how does she keep getting so far ahead?

“Hello?” he tries, when she doesn’t answer right away. The exhaustion frays his already thin temper; his fatigue makes him bold. “…Are you ignoring me?” he asks, and frowns as he says it. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at that or not.

Yasmin, still a few paces ahead, heaves a very pointed and visible sigh.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Varian points out, refusing to be cowed. He’s tired, she’s a jerk, and he does not care about what she thinks of him. Not at all. Nope. He’ll be as rude and spiteful as he wants to be, damn it. “Seriously, how much farther?”

Yasmin gives another heavy sigh. “Until we reach the city.”

“…Seriously?”

“What, was that not funny? I thought moody teenagers were all about sarcasm.” Yasmin stamps the ground with her foot, crushing stray grasses flat. She doesn’t even bother looking back at him. “We will get there when we get there, boy, now stop asking and start walking. Bah, these roads are awful…”

Varian gives the distant horizon a desperate look. It is so far. “Why couldn’t we take a cart?”

“Because I do not own one, clearly.” Yasmin shakes her head. “Walking is good for you.”

“You sound like Adira.”

“Vexing though she may be at times, she is, unfortunately, also often right.” Yasmin pinches at the brow of her nose. “…We will reach the city in another half-hour or so, if we make good pace. May you cease pestering me now?”

Considering the fact they’ve already been walking for about two hours, Varian thinks he deserves to be put-out by that—but he bites back the rude comment rising on his tongue before it can slip free, and takes a moment to breathe. She’s awful, but he’s better than this—or, well, he’s trying to be—so Varian settles for a dark scowl at her back, instead.

Still. He is so bored with walking. He turns his scowl to the ground and kicks a pebble on the road with all his might, smacking it with all the anger and force he can muster. The pebble rolls three measly times and then gets caught in the grass. It’s barely moved an inch.

Typical.

Varian scowls harder.

He misses Ruddiger. He wishes he’d thought to run up and wake the raccoon before he left, but the rapid exit and Yasmin’s swiftly retreating figure had panicked him, and he hadn’t realized he’d left alone until they were already ten minutes down the road. Now Varian is stuck here with a stranger he doesn’t know and doesn’t like—with no raccoon to keep him company.

The day has only just started, and Varian is already certain it’s going to be a miserable one.

Which sucks, because it’s looking to be a lovely day—not a glimpse of clouds on the horizon, a day so blinding and bright it nearly hurts to look at. The sheer shine of the morning is so intense he almost expects a summer heat to match it, but in contrast the wind blows cold, bitingly numb against his exposed face. The grasses sway and bend in the breeze, the fields awash in dark green and winter blue, frost scalding the pebbled wagon road.

In any other circumstance, probably, the view would be beautiful. But Varian’s head is aching and his eyes are sore from lack of sleep, and so instead of appreciating the sight he rubs his bare hands together and shoves them in his sleeves, and thinks only of how goddamn grateful he is that he didn’t forget his coat, too, along with his raccoon.

“Chin up, boy,” says Yasmin, at his silence. “We will be there before you know it.”

Varian directs his bleary frown to her back. Easy for her to say. She barely looks bothered by the cold at all—is it that she’s used to it, Varian wonders, or is it that she’s just pretending to be unaffected to annoy him more? He… really wouldn’t put it past her.

Still, though, Varian knows better to speak those thoughts out loud. “Why are we even going to the market?” he asks, instead, curious despite himself. “And why do I have to be there?”

Yasmin doesn’t answer right away. Like Varian, she is dressed for the cold, in a long trench coat buttoned up to her neck and a heavy dress lined with fur; she tucks her hands in her sleeves and takes a moment to fuss over the fabric. “That is a rather layered question. I am not sure where to start. Let us say… Adira has somehow convinced me to help. Doubtless this is not what she meant, but she is paying me to do my job, not to listen to her. My help takes many forms. For Adira, it is information. For you?” She shrugs. “Market.”

“I don’t need help,” Varian snaps.

“Nonsense child. Who on earth taught you that silly lie? Everyone needs help. Do not take it personally—I still do not like you. This is not pity, or whatever your knotted mind has conspired. This is simply what I do. If it helps, you may consider my help as part of my job to you.”

…Varian doesn’t even know where to begin responding to that. “That’s…” He throws up his hands. “That doesn’t make sense! What even is your job?”

He gets another side-eye for that one. Yasmin scowls at him, her eyebrows drawn low and twisted. “…Let me guess. Adira did not mention that either?”

He stares at her. “No.” Obviously.

“Bah, of course she didn’t. Why do I bother?” Yasmin slows a bit, letting Varian catch up, and glances down at him. “I am… I am not sure how to explain this. I suppose I am something of a dealer of information, and of rare goods. I know many things, and can find a great many more things, and for the right prices I can be encouraged to share them.”

Varian frowns at her, mind whirling. “Like, an information broker? Or a spy?”

“Hm. You make it sound so ill-advised. But yes, both, that is about right.”

“…Isn’t that illegal?”

Yasmin blinks at him, slow and deliberate. “Yes,” she says. “But so says the wanted criminal.”

Varian turns red, and for a moment he thinks to argue—it’s not like he actively chose to become a criminal—except, well, maybe, yes he had, but…

He gives up. There’s nothing he can truly say against that, though he thinks he is starting to understand Yasmin a little better now. He doesn’t know much about spies or information dealers, just that they exist, but he imagines they tend to be pretty secretive. And if Varian really is a known wanted criminal to the rest of the world…

He turns his head away, not wanting to follow that train of thought any longer. “Is Ella, too—?”

“No.” Yasmin’s voice is curt and cold, shutting down the question before he can finish. “Ella is… she is not involved in my work, though she knows of it. She is a singer, actually. Perfectly legal.” For the first time, something of a smile touches her lips. “My dear wife can hold quite the tune.”

Well, okay. But something she’s said stands out to him. Varian frowns. “How do you know Adira, then?”

“Boy, for Moon’s sake. You have traveled with her for months. What about that woman makes you think she cares one lick for legality?”

Varian briefly flashes back to the last six months. Jumping carts, breaking into caravans, sneaking into cities guarded by soldiers who weren’t convinced by Adira’s sheer force of authority… yeah, no, stupid question. “Is that how you met her? Breaking the law?”

Yasmin snorts. “Nothing so grand. I met Adira through other circumstances.”

“What other circumstances?”

“Tsk. Question after question with you, isn’t it? Yet rarely any answers in return. This is why I despise scientists.” She rolls back her arm, an absent-minded stretch. “It is none of your business, frankly.”

His head drops. “I was just curious,” Varian mumbles, and at his side, his fists clench. He feels a little shamed. It probably was too rude a question, but—this is more than Adira has ever told him. For all of Yasmin’s prickly answers, they are answers.

Yasmin is quiet for a long moment. Then she mutters something, the words too low for Varian to catch, and raises her voice for him to hear. “We were… Adira and I came from a similar place, you could say. Running from the same thing. I always thought her plans foolish, but… well. What are friends for, if not to encourage foolish ideas?” Yasmin glances away. “Though I am beginning to regret that. I have been too accommodating, I think. But that is how I know her. I find her whatever strange item or legend she needs, and in return she keeps me updated on the comings-and-goings of whatever country she’s tromped through this time.”

“Oh.” Varian’s mind whirls, putting together the slim pieces he’d eavesdropped from Adira’s conversation with Yasmin just last night. Their talk of a kingdom… Adira’s frustration. Yasmin, her voice low, to Adira: The kingdom died twenty years ago for me and Ella, though I see for you the death is recent.

He’d known Adira was from the Dark Kingdom—it wasn’t exactly hard to guess, what with that stupid symbol on her hand and all—but for the first time, Varian looks at Yasmin and tries to imagine her there too. Yasmin, and Ella, and their little house in the fields… he thinks of the labyrinth, and the ruins he and Rapunzel found in the depths, and still cannot fathom it. Even for someone as prickly as Yasmin or Adira, it’s hard to picture anyone once calling such a desolate place home.

Unaware of his thoughts, Yasmin’s voice lowers to a mutter. “Of course, this arrangement works much better when she bothers to stay in touch. A little head’s up, a small warning, hello, Yasmin, sorry for the year-long absence, just letting you know I am not dead, and also I am forever grateful for your friendship and the many favors you do for me—” She cuts herself off and clicks her tongue. “Ah, never mind. But that is how it goes. In the end you are just another odd job she has thrown my way.”

Varian hums, distant, and the conversation drops into silence. He lowers his eyes and watches his feet, step after step after step. It’s easier than looking at the horizon. The sheer distance to the city is just starting to depress him.

“…That reminds me, actually,” Yasmin says, apropos of nothing. “I forgot to ask her, and Adira did not mention it—did she say anything to you about a flute, boy?”

Varian looks up, his face scrunching in confusion. “Um… what?”

“A flute.” Yasmin gestures, miming an object far longer than any instrument has a right to be. “Grand old thing, carved from amber, looks quite pretty in sunlight? Lovely music, curved a bit like a hook, so big it is frankly ridiculous? Loaded with religious importance? Took me months to find and secure? Yes? No?”

Varian stares at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he admits.

Yasmin’s lips thin. “I see.”

There is a beat of silence.

“If that woman has left my priceless religious artifact in that goddamn kingdom, I am going to strangle her with her sash,” says Yasmin, thoughtfully, and then she turns back around and marches on down the road without another word.

Varian hurries to catch up. Despite himself, and despite the wariness Yasmin still inspires, he finds his lips almost twitching in a smile, a vague sense of relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one Adira drives bonkers.

…He’s probably being a bit unfair to her, Varian thinks, with sudden flash of guilt. Adira isn’t that bad. She… she has helped him, in a way. Maybe not the way Varian wanted, or the way he expected, but she has. She’s tried to teach him fighting. She’s kept him clothed and fed and moving in these past six months. He thinks he should maybe thank her, at least for that. As frustrated as he is, Varian is—here. He’s here.

That simple fact means more, now, than it ever did before. After the labyrinth, Varian hadn’t… he hadn’t known what to do. Where to go. What next, or where to now, or even if he wanted that. He’d been free, but he’d been lost, too—and maybe Adira hasn’t given him the direction he wanted, but she has at least gotten him moving.

Varian’s smile fades at this thought. He looks down at his feet, throat suddenly tight. He remembers the way he snapped at Adira, barely a day ago, and squeezes his eyes shut. A headache pulses behind his temple. He—he should apologize, probably. Maybe. He doesn’t think he can, now, but maybe later… maybe if she apologizes first…

His thoughts drift. The wind picks up, a chill striking through him. Varian shivers under the layers of his coat and yawns into his elbow. He feels tired, worn, too aware for the exhaustion dragging at his bones—like the wind itself is all eyes, watching and waiting, boring into the back of his skull.

One step, then another, then again. The wind howls in his ears. The shadows stretch and warp in the sunlight. His heartbeat feels very loud, all of a sudden—like the droning thud of the drums of war, pounding like marching feet against his skull.

All at once, a sudden dread overcomes him. A chill that strikes down to his bones. Each step sends his stomach plummeting. His ears ring. He feels as if ice has been dumped down his back, and his breathing has gone shallow. His heartbeat is rapid-fire, faster than a bird’s.

Don’t go.

He steps toward the city. He moves through the fields. He walks.

Don’t go there.

His mouth is dry. His vision swims. With each step, his heart beats out of tune. Varian looks up in the direction of Port Caul, and thinks, for one blinding moment of clarity: You don’t want to be here.

“Are you alright?”

He startles, near-jumping out of his skin. Yasmin is frowning at him. She stands silhouetted against the sunrise, the shadows cast long and deep across her face. Her brow is furrowed. She is looking down at his right hand.

Varian follows her gaze. His hand is—he’s holding it, he realizes, he’s gripping it tight in a vice, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of his palm as if to burrow beneath the skin. It hurts. It hurts with a dull, solid ache, like pressing on a bruise.

As soon as he realizes this, Varian snaps his hand away. His veins feel tight and cold, stone under his skin. He blinks fast. “W-what?”

“Does your hand hurt?” Yasmin almost looks concerned, in her own irritated way. “This is the second time I have seen you do that. Is that why you cannot sleep?’

“That’s—I—I don’t know.” He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Varian hunches under the attention, and hides his hand behind his back. But even as he does it, his skin crawls, his right palm itching terribly. He has to fight not to claw at his skin. “How did you—wait, why does it matter if I can’t sleep?”

In the distance, the city looms closer than before—they are practically upon the city gates. The wall towers over him, a cold shadow, and beside them a horse and cart rumbles by through the wrought iron gates. The road, beneath his feet, has turned from soft crushed grass to actual paved stone. Varian’s head spins. How long had he blanked out for?

Yasmin scans him up and down, her brow knotted. “That is why we are here, of course,” she says, at last, looking a little reluctant at the shift in subject. “You said to me this morning you have issues with sleep, and I have little remedies for such in my house… so to the market we go.” Her lips press—but then she seems to let it go, shaking her head with a weary breath. “Well. If not an injury, then what is it? Can you not fall asleep, or is it that you cannot stay asleep?”

Varian scowls at the dirt path and stubbornly does not think of dark hallways and darker rooms, the moonlight streaming through the window. “Why does it matter?”

“I have agreed to help you, but I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.” Yasmin is scowling, but it is a distant thing, not directed at him. She looks vaguely frustrated. “I do not like you, I have made no secret of it; you dislike me too, and you have made no secret of that, either. This is fine. We do not have to like each other. But I have tried to be honest with you, thus far—so please, do me the favor of being honest with me.”

She is frank, she is annoying, she is a bladed voice and angry words—but she has told him more in one conversation than Adira has in months. And it is this honesty that makes Varian duck his head, but it is this truth that finally makes him admit it: for all that he dislikes her, Varian is terrified of the idea of continuing to face the dark alone.

Still. It is so hard to admit it, to put voice to the fears inside him. His words come out a teeth-clenched whisper. “It’s—it’s just—” He doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s just too dark.”

It’s shameful, almost. Childish, certainly. Varian is afraid of many things, but the dark, oddly, has never been one of them. He has always felt so secure in the science of the world that the monsters of myth had been dismissed as easy as breathing. And he still feels that certainty. He still feels utterly secure in the fact there is nothing in the closet, nothing under the bed. It’s just—

It’s just too dark, now.

It’s just too much.

“I see,” Yasmin says. Her voice is quiet too. Another cart rumbles by them, the creak of the wheels almost deafening in the silence. The murmur of voices and the rasp of the sea breeze drifts in from the city gates. Varian looks away from Yasmin and up at the gate, and shivers in the shadow. The whisper comes back to him again. Turn back. Go away. It’s not safe here.

“I see,” Yasmin repeats, and her voice breaks Varian from the spell. “Well then. Just to be sure—you are an alchemist, yes?”

Varian lifts his head, blinking echoes from his eyes. “U-um, yeah.”

“I do not own any alchemical equipment, but I have enough bobbles to get you by, I think, if you choose your ingredients wisely.” She turns to the gates and Varian follows, reluctant, as she pushes through the iron doors. “Come along, boy. In the end it may do little, but if darkness is your issue… then I recommend building yourself a light.”

Eugene leaves the castle that night.

His reasoning is simple: there’s no real reason to delay. Eugene has no desire to draw out this parting any longer than he has to. With his goodbyes to Rapunzel said and her letter weighing heavy in his vest pocket, Eugene returns to his allotted rooms and picks up the travel bags he hadn’t even bothered to unpack. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, but it’s best to be prepared.

That isn’t to say he rushes, oh no—Eugene takes his sweet time. It’s almost like planning a heist, in that way. The devil is always in the details, and Eugene considers details to be the most important step. Missing one crucial item in a theft can be deadly, and in a way, well… this isn’t all that different.

The preparations take him the rest of the day. In the hours following his talk with Rapunzel, Eugene repacks his bags and prepares to leave the castle behind. He chooses new clothes, picks up fresher food, slips in a few items he thinks will serve as a welcome gift for Lance. He finds the daggers he’d stashed away when he first moved in and hides away the finer cloths that would get him mugged five feet out from the castle walls. He has a job to do, after all—and for all that Eugene isn’t the most serious individual, he is most certainly a professional. Either he does this right, or he does this not at all… and doing nothing is no longer an option.

By sunset, he’s all ready to go. Eugene hides his belongings in one of the castle’s many nooks and crannies, goes to bother Maximus in his own silent way of saying goodbye—and, when the daylight has faded and the shadows cover his path, slips inside the guard barracks and goes to find Cassandra.

He finds her in her room, thankfully—he’s not sure he could sneak by her new post in the dungeons without being caught, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with that kind of drama right now. But his luck is holding true: he’s managed, from the sounds of things, to catch her right before she heads off for her post. Her door is half-open, the lock unlatched, and Eugene knocks on the wood frame with one hand as he toes the door open.

The room is as empty as his was; the evidence of an eight months absence. It’s cleaner than he’s ever seen it, no stray weapons lying about or anything, and her bed is made so well the cover corners look sharp enough to cut. For all that Cassandra served as a palace maid, and took her duties seriously, her own rooms are usually where she throws all tidiness out the window. This, more than the shadows under her eyes, tells Eugene all he needs to know. Apparently Rapunzel isn’t the only one with insomnia today. Cassandra probably hasn’t slept one wink since they got back yesterday morning.

She looks it, too. He’s caught her in the middle of preparing for her shift, armor half-on and hair an absolute bird nest. She’s always been pale, but today the pallor is almost ghastly, the shadows of her eyes rivaling even Varian’s. There’s a new scab on her lower lip, a wound never quite healed: she’s bit her lip hard enough to bleed.

Cassandra glances over at the open door, helmet in one hand like she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth trying to pry it over her bush of curls. It takes her a moment to realize he’s there, but as soon as she realizes her face twists in a scowl. Her glare is practically automatic, but whatever sting it might have held is dulled by the bloodless pall of her face.

“What do you want, Fitzherbert?”

Bad mood, then. The last name thing is always an indicator. Eugene’s lips thin. He’s not upset. He can’t even blame her. She looks…

She looks how he feels, really. What a mess. “Long day?”

Cassandra gives him a dirty look for that. Eugene winces. “Yeah, okay. Too soon?”

She throws the helmet on her bed, looking about to snap… and then sighs, her shoulders slumping. Her eyes squeeze shut. In the darkening sunset light streaming through her narrow window, the shadows under her eyes seem bright as bruises. “Sorry.”

Eugene snorts and leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s fine. You realize I’ve dealt with your prickly temper before, right?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha.” She rubs at her face and turns away, sitting down hard on the bed. “Still, sorry. I’m not… I just…” She shakes her head, her teeth gritting.

Eugene can only imagine. Demoted to prison duty, after once having been the top detail of the future Queen? It’s more than a slap on the wrist—it’s a bona fide royal punishment, and it’s going to give her a bad rep, too. And that would be bad enough, perhaps, but that she’s being punished because of the situation with Varian…?

Yeah. Yeah, no. There’s no good ending to that story.

They haven’t talked about Varian, really. They’ve barely said his name at all these past few months, beyond the whys and hows of his disappearance after the labyrinth. There is an understanding between all three of them—a looming fight that Eugene can almost taste in the air whenever the topic is broached, and all three of them have been ignoring the problem of Varian entirely rather than risk the argument it might spike. So while Eugene can’t say he knows how Cassandra feels about Varian… well.

He has a pretty good guess that it’s nothing good.

He doesn’t blame her; some days, Eugene feels much the same himself. His nightmares have come and gone these past few months, ebbing and rising like a tide, but though most are filled with dark stone and the knife-like smile of a terrible god, some are older still. A campfire, halfway burning. Arrows in firelight. The way Rapunzel fell back, the sound of her skull snapping against the stone, and most awful of all: that brief, terrible moment when he thought she’d never get up again.

He knows Cassandra dreams of much the same.

“It’s a bad situation,” Eugene settles on, finally. “As expected.”

“Being right about it doesn’t make it better, Eugene.”

“Uh, yeah, no. Yep. Bullseye on that.” He sags his weight against the doorway, heaving a sigh so heavy it makes his body sink with the sound. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, by gods, I sure didn’t miss this. Politics! Hah!”

The briefest hint of a smile curls at Cassandra’s mouth, almost reluctant. “Oh? And here I thought you liked the idea of being king.”

“Yeeeeeah, about that. Sneaky.” He points a warning finger at her. King, hah. It’d been Lance who’d finally told him how succession worked in Corona. Rapunzel gets crowned Queen—and Eugene, marrying into the family, would not be a king, but rather a Prince Consort. Which is a fine fancy title in its own right, but still. “When were you going to tell me that isn’t how it works?”

“When it was funny.”

��Oh-hoh! Fuck you.”

That pale smile flickers to a true grin. Eugene leans back against the door again, pleased with his work. “But seriously,” he says, humor fading to sincerity. “Things may seem like a shitshow now, but… It’ll blow over. Eventually.”

The grin fades. Cassandra looks away. “Sure.”

“Still sucks, though.”

She exhales hard, pointedly. “Eugene. Why are you here?”

This time it’s Eugene who looks away. He taps his fingers against his arm, the uneven rhythm of a bar song that’s been stuck in his head since winter began. His lips press in a thin line. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then pushes up against the doorway, bracing himself.

Well. No more stalling it, he supposes.

“I’m leaving.”

He senses rather than sees Cassandra go still. “...What?”

“I didn’t come here to get lectured,” he warns her, straightening up, finally meeting her eyes. She looks as furious as he expected. “I already told Blondie. I’m heading out tonight. If you need to get in touch, the Snuggly Duckling is your best bet.” He hesitates, then exhales heavy through his teeth. “Look, I—I get it. I know what you’re going to say. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I… I need to do this.”

“We just got back.” Cassandra’s voice is low. “Just got back, and with things as they are— and I can’t even see her— and you’re leaving her alone?”

“I can’t help her here.” Eugene tries to keep the words even, accusation-free, but he can’t quite keep the coldness out of his voice. He knows this already. He knows, and it's already eating at him, and he doesn’t need Cassandra digging in the knife. “I can’t— I won’t sit here and be useless.” Not again, he thinks, but he bites that part off behind his teeth.

Cassandra scowls at the ground. Her expression has turned dark.

Eugene looks away too, hating the knot in his gut. He rubs at his chin and sighs, leaning back heavy against the doorframe. “Besides,” he says, finally, trying to keep his voice light. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that whole ‘no-contact’ clause part of the punishment. This is Rapunzel we’re talking about. I’d bet good money she’ll find a way to break out of that room and into here in about… oh, three days. Tops.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“Well. It’s Rapunzel.”

Cassandra hums at that, tuneless. She still isn’t meeting his eyes.

Eugene holds back another sigh and shakes his head, dipping one hand in his pocket. “...I didn’t just come to say goodbye, either.” He draws Rapunzel’s letter from his vest, holding it out. “For you.”

She goes to take it, but Eugene pulls it back out of reach. “Cass, before you read it—”

She glares at him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eugene says, undeterred. “Not if you don’t want to. I know how much this job means to you.”

Something in the tone of his voice must get through, because her hand stills. She’s quiet for a long moment.

“…Will it help?”

He’s not sure how to answer that. “It’s something.”

“Then yes.” Cassandra meets his gaze, her expression tense. “I want to help.”

He thins his lips, but hands it over. He’s not sure what to make of the look on her face—the odd pinch to her eyes. Cassandra takes the missive warily, breaking the seal and scanning the page within seconds. Eugene watches her face, trying to put a name to what he sees there.

Cassandra’s expression doesn’t even twitch. After reading, she folds the letter carefully and lays it flat on her lap. With one hand, she rubs the corner of the parchment between her fingers, her eyes dark in thought.

“You understand, don’t you?” Eugene says finally. His voice is quiet. His eyes unwavering. A flash of clarity has struck him. “Standing aside, watching everything happen… I never want to be there again.”

At long last, Cassandra looks at him. She doesn’t move, but in this moment, he can finally read her. In this, he knows for sure. The labyrinth has left its mark on all of them, in its own way—and for the two of them, it has left the same scar. It has united them in the horror of being left behind and helpless.

Cassandra’s eyes drop. The anger has faded from her face—now, she just seems tired. “...I’ll look out for her.”

“She doesn’t need it, I think. But thanks. I hate the idea of leaving her alone.” Eugene straightens, waves one hand in a mocking salute. “Good luck,” he says, gentling into something genuine. “Cass.”

She meets his gaze again. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, and this time, it’s almost real. “You too, Eugene.”

Eugene gives a winning smile back and slips out the room without another word—no need to make this sappy, after all. He closes the door soundlessly behind him, and feels something almost like pleased. The conversation didn’t quite go as he wanted—but he thinks it was a success regardless.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and slips back in the comfort of the shadows.

It is child’s play to get back outdoors undetected. He picks up his bag from the hiding spot and slip it over his shoulder, tilting back his head in the night air. He’s got a long walk ahead of him—a long few weeks to go—and he takes one last second for himself, to settle, to be sure. Taking one last moment to breathe.

Oh, gods. Is he really going to do this?

He looks up behind him, one last look at Rapunzel’s tower room. The window is dark, all the lights gone out. But he can still see the silhouette of a figure on the balcony, the flickering shine of golden hair swept up in a breeze.

He lifts his hand, wondering, a quiet wave. He thinks he sees the figure wave back.

He already misses her. But Eugene turns away from the castle regardless. He slips by those castle gate guards without any issue at all, and just like that: there he is, on the road once again.

His heart is tight, but Eugene manages a smile anyway. Rapunzel will be okay. Cassandra, whatever she decides, will be there for her regardless. They have things handled here—and Eugene’s place, for now, is elsewhere.

He’s got work to do.

It takes him an hour to leave the city behind. By the time he reaches the woods it’s gone completely dark outside. The woods are all shadow at this time of dusk, foreboding and eerie, but Eugene palms his dagger and continues on without worry. Even without a sure light, the moon and stars are bright above him—and he’s always been an old hand at sneaking in the dark.

He walks for most of the night, well on to midnight. The time makes no difference, however—even at this hour, he can hear the Snuggly Duckling before he sees it. Laughter, and roaring music, and then distant light through the trees. Eugene shades his eyes against the startling shine and has to physically bite back a grin when he hears the singing. Oh-hoh, he knows that voice.

He rushes to reach the doors before it’s too late, moving fast as the song and music begin to reach its finale. He makes it just in time.

Eugene throws open the door just as Lance finishes a truly impressive solo, and lifts a hand to his ears with no time to spare. “Good gods, men!” he says, as loudly as he can. “I came here to get a drink—but who let a banshee in this place?”

The music stops. Someone’s cup drops and rolls. The Snuggly Duckling falls into a hushed and reverent silence, and Lance falls off the table.

Eugene stares at the stunned room of thugs. The stunned room of thugs stares back.

“...Surprise?”

Lance’s head pops up from the floor. “Eugene!” he shouts, delightedly, and tackles him in a hug.

Like Lance’s word was the stone to break the glass, the whole bar erupts into noise.

“Hey!”

“It’s Fitz!”

“Welcome back!”

“Where the hell have you been, you slippery bastard?”

Lance spins him around, cackling loudly. Eugene yelps, arms suddenly pinned, torn between laughing and hissing at him. “Hey, hey, hey—!”

“You’re back!” Lance drops him on his feet, beaming fit to burst. He looks—he looks good, Eugene realizes, and it makes some secret weight on his heart lift. It’s just been bad news after bad news for so long, that he’d worried… but Lance is here, his smile wide and true, and he looks happier than Eugene has seen him in a long time. He’s dressed in a new outfit, a snazzy black vest with a red cotton undershirt, a new piercing in his left ear. There’s a glow to him, a veil of health that speaks of regular meals and good care. In contrast to the gloom that haunted the castle, Lance’s presence lights up the room. His hand on Eugene’s shoulder is warm. “Long time no see, Eugene.”

“We’ve gone longer,” Eugene says, an automatic answer, but inside, he agrees whole-heartedly. It has been—too long. Far too long. His returning smile is helplessly fond. He is so glad to see Lance. “How are things?”

“Oh, booming,” Lance says, and he says it casual, but there’s a smile on his face that Eugene knows well— that beaming pride, curdled warm, but this time there’s something softer to the edge of it. “It’s, uh—going really well, actually. I meant to say in the letters, but—well, I got the bar!” He gestures to the Snuggly Duckling. “The whole lot of it.”

“Done good work too!” one man yells, and the tavern shakes with the ensuing roar of agreement. Lance laughs again, looking touched. Eugene looks around at the sea of bright and drink-rosy faces, the warm lanternlight and crackling fire of Lance’s Snuggly Duckling, and grins back.

“Lance!” he says, punching his shoulder. “Buddy! That’s wonderful!”

“It’s been a journey,” Lance says, trying for humble, but there’s a brightness to the words, a disbelieving joy that hasn’t quite faded. “I’ll tell you later. What about you, eh? It’s been ages since your last response!”

Eugene’s smile flickers. Lance immediately pauses. “Oh—”

“You’re never going to believe this, Strongbow, old buddy, old pal.” Eugene slings his arm around him, cutting off the inquiry before the rest of the bar can catch onto the shift in mood. “The number of things I saw across the sea, good man, I could fill a book!”

Lance blinks, rapidly, and for a moment his face is terrifyingly blank—and then his eyes go wide in realization. Thank gods. It’s been awhile since they used that code, but the memory of childhood bonding over Flynn Rider books reigns eternal even now.

Lance slings an arm around his shoulders and grips him in a one-armed hug. “Then I, Strongbow, shall most definitely help you write it!” The word-for-word quoted response. Then Lance winks, and the next bit is all him. “After a drink, of course.”

“Of course,” Eugene echoes, wryly, and manages to grin back.

Lance pushes him through the bar, somehow keeping Eugene from the crowd without making it suspicious, laughing and cheering and chattering like it’s a normal Tuesday. Before Eugene even knows what’s happened, he finds himself in a back room of the tavern, drink in hand and Lance sitting across the table, the room as quiet as any rooms in the Snuggly Duckling can get.

“This is as private as I can give you,” Lance says, sitting back in his chair. His smile is bright as ever. His voice, warm as Eugene remembers. But there is a tightness around his eyes, a worry Eugene reads clear as day, and when Lance leans in, he is as serious as he ever gets. “Okay, buddy. Spill. What happened? And how can I help?”

This is why Eugene came here. This is why Eugene needed to leave. Because he’s good. He’s really good. But he’s always been better with someone at his back—and he’s at his best with Lance by his side.

Gods, he’s missed him.

Eugene drinks deep from his flask, sets down the empty cup, and prepares to tell Lance everything.

“What do you need?”

The sun is high in the bright blue sky, and the Port Caul market in full unbridled swing. Stalls line the main city road, stretching on from the docks to the shopping district, their owners shouting wares from across the street. Vegetables, cheeses, smoked meats and cloth and flowers and trinkets—everywhere Varian turns, there is something new to see, some new dizzying sight to catch his eye. He’d thought the crowd from yesterday had been intimidating, but this one puts it to shame. The sheer amount of people and goods makes his head spin. This is nothing like the market in Old Corona—this is more like the capital than anything, or even the science fair. The amount of people out and about for a daily market is mind-blowing.

“Child, eyes on me.” Yasmin snaps her fingers in front of his face. Varian looks to her reluctantly, fighting the urge to keep gaping at his surroundings. “What do you need?”

“What?” Varian asks, too dazed to follow her questions. His eyes drift to the market again.

Yasmin frowns down at him. “Keep up, boy. For a light. What do you need?”

Oh. Varian blinks fast, thoughts muddled by the market, his own exhaustion, and the constant dread that is stillbeating away at the edge of his mind. He says the first thing he can think of. “Matches?”

Yasmin stares at him. Varian slowly flushes, scrambling to get his thoughts in order—nope, nothing. He tries again. “…Fire?”

“That was not a trick question. I meant—a more permanent light, a manufactured one. A nightlight. Something to help keep the dark at bay without being too bright to wake you.” Yasmin rubs at her forehead. “What do you need to make something like that?”

“Oh.” Well, that makes much more sense. Varian blinks hard, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He feels like he’s wading in molasses, an exhaustion that drags at his thoughts and eyelids. A permanent light… something he could hold, maybe. Something bright enough to let him know he isn’t in the dark but quiet enough not to keep him awake. A soft glow. Unwavering…

“A vial, maybe?” Varian murmurs. “No, glass, breakable, bad idea. Stone… too opaque. Gem, too expensive—”

“Crystal?”

Varian blinks, startled from his thoughts. Yasmin is frowning again, but not at him—just off to the side, looking lost in thought. “Would that work?”

“I…” His mind whirls, thoughts tangling. “If it could hold something—was hollow inside—I think so? I need a space to put in the materials, and then I gotta seal it up after, so—”

“Yes, yes, let me handle that—I am not completely bereft of supplies. I am sure Ella has a jewelry clasp somewhere. We will figure something out.” Yasmin tilts her head. “What would you need to make the light?”

He lists ingredients in his head, remembers the likely lack of equipment, and shoves aside all but a few. Lists down his fingers. “Let’s see… um, distilled water, definitely. Probably some sodium carbonate, luminol… ammonium carbonate, copper sulfate pentahydrate… maybe some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, or would just using zinc sulfide work better?” He frowns at his hands. “I should probably test that, the zinc sulfide might be too weak to last, but the other mixture might—”

Varian cuts himself off, his hand dropping. At once he realizes he’s been rambling. He flushes, his confidence faltering. There in the market cheer he feels abruptly out of place, too obvious, too seen. His skin crawls. He swallows hard. “Um. But I… I don’t think I’ll find all that here, it’s—”

“Do not worry,” Yasmin says, surprising him silent. She looks almost bemused by his sudden bit of word vomit. “Port Caul markets sell many things— and things like that for rather cheap. You would be surprised at how many children like to play at alchemy.”

Varian splutters. “It’s not playing—”

Yasmin has already turned away. Her coat flaps at her heels as she strides deeper in the market crowd. “Hurry along, boy. Let us go! I haven’t got all morning.”

Varian yelps and rushes to keep up.

It must be market day, he thinks; the place is busier than it was yesterday, and the crowd is nearly dizzying. People shouting, people selling, laughter high and bright in the frozen winter air. They’ve arrived early enough that the sun’s rising warmth hasn’t thawed the streets yet—the cobble roads are slick with frost and sea-spray salt, the wind brisk against his skin, the breeze as sharp as knives.

Varian tugs up his borrowed coat collar and follows Yasmin best he can, tripping in his too-big boots even with his layered number of socks. In contrast to Varian’s hesitation, Yasmin maneuvers the market like a king in court, eyes sharp and scanning, seeing all the market has to offer and dismissing it just as quickly.

“This way,” she says after a minute, and tugs Varian to the side, near a small stall off the corner. The covered wagon has a table with a velvet cloth, small glittering gems and jewels shining on the dark red fabric. The man minding the stall is tall and round, and when he sees Yasmin approaching he sits up with a smile.

“Yasmin! Been awhile. How’s it been?”

“Lovely, Marin, thank you. Have you any crystals?”

The man hums. “All sorts. What are you looking for?”

Yasmin puts a hand on her hip and turns to Varian. He stares back, blank, then jumps when the man looks at him too. “O-oh. Um.” Their eyes make his skin crawl. Yasmin has already recognized him for what he is. What if this man, too—? “A, a hollow… hollow center. If you have that. And, um… clear would be—be best—”

“Of course.” The man’s interruption is kind, his smile unsuspecting. He leans down and rummages at his feet, the clink of precious stones in the air. “I’ve a few like that. Take your pick.”

Varian surveys the offered collection of crystals, ranging in sizes from small to unwieldy, and finally selects one near the middle—not the cleanest cut, but a nice size, fitting well in his palm. It has a hollowed center like a shallow shot glass, the opening just barely big enough for a finger. Hopefully easy to seal closed, once he’s made the light. “T-this one’s fine.”

“Great. That’ll be five gold crowns, then.”

Varian freezes, color draining from his face. Five gold crowns? He doesn’t even have copper. Oh, gods, he’s forgotten money was a thing that existed again. “I—uh, I—”

“I have it.” Yasmin sets the gold down with a sharp click, the coins stacked in a perfect tower. “Take care of yourself, Marin.” To Varian: “Come along. Next stop.”

“Come back if you need any more!” the shopkeeper calls. “I’ll have a lot more next week, if those trading ships finally make it to harbor!”

“I will think about it!” Yasmin is walking away, but Varian doesn’t move, and after a moment she glances back at him, eyebrows raised. “Hello? What is wrong. Why are you not moving.”

He stares down at the ground, eyes burning. “I didn’t ask you to pay for me.”

Yasmin tilts her head. “I am the one helping you, and this is my idea. I would not make you pay for it. In a roundabout way, I am being paid to help you. There is no loss here.”

“I—”

He can’t find the words, the anger rootless, his frustration smarting. He is sick of feeling helpless, of feeling like a drain; he hasn’t asked to be taken care of, to be treated like a child. But he doesn’t yet know how to put it into words, and all he can do is glower at the ground and seethe.

Yasmin considers him. Something in the hard lines of her face softens.

“…Come here.”

He goes reluctantly, stepping out of earshot from the shopkeeper. Yasmin places a hand on his shoulder, steering him away, and when she speaks, her voice is not softer but somehow gentler. “Listen. I do not know what brought you here, nor do I care. But you are here. And it is clear to me that you need help.” She looks down at him. “Boy, you do not need to like me. I still do not like you. But I am not here to hurt you, or slight you, or whatever it is you think I am doing. My dislike does not mean I cannot do you a kindness.”

Varian doesn’t answer. Yasmin draws her hand away. “If it bothers you so deeply, you can plan to pay me back in your own time. But for now—can you accept this?”

He looks down. The anger, rising, turns ashy on his tongue, cold and empty. “…Okay.”

He sounds tuneless even to himself. In the back of his mind, the dread hums like a lightning strike. Turn back. Go home. It’s not safe here.

He swallows back the anxiety and shuts his eyes tight. He hears Yasmin exhale, soft and tired.

“Chin up, boy,” she says, half-way to gentle. “I am sure you will like this next part. Come along.”

Varian, doubtful, sets his jaw and bravely follows after her.

She leads him further into the market, closer to the docks. The scent of salt and sea fills his nose. The crowd is a little thinner here, easier to navigate, and the sudden breathing room helps unwind some of the tension from his shoulders. He tilts his head in the breeze and breathes deep.

It’s the smell that hits him first. The burning hiss, the sudden bitterness on his tongue like ash—

His eyes snap open. He sees it almost at once.

The small wooden stall. The bright pink banner. The small jars, the neat little labels. The smell in the air, even in this crowded and clustered market place, a sour snap like citric acid, like the tang of metal—

He knows the stall even before he sees the sign. This—this is an alchemy store.

Varian races ahead, pushing past Yasmin and nearly running right into the stall. It has been so, so long since Varian has seen alchemy, even longer since he’s done it properly. The road isn’t appropriate for intensive experiments, and Adira never willing to buy materials, and Varian never quite confident enough to ask for them. After six months of nearly nothing, the sight of the stall is enough to make his eyes prick with tears.

Even the memory of his last alchemy experiment can’t bring down his mood. In the labyrinth, this skill was the one thing that brought Varian some comfort. Some denial of fate, some way to fight. Through alchemy, Varian found a chance to breathe. Through alchemy, Varian defeated Moon’s golem.

And now, this alchemy stall—the sight of those elements, neatly bottled, the equipment, newly shined—it makes his vision blur. Varian’s smile nearly splits his face in half. He puts his hand on the table and leans up, beaming at the shopkeeper, a woman with a heavy afro pulled back in a bun and a no-nonsense alchemical smock. “Is this all yours!?”

“Every bottle of it.” The shopkeeper puts down a vial, a latest experiment of some sort. Her gloves, heavy and dark and made of solid stitched leather, make Varian’s own now-bare hands itch with envy. “Why, you interested?”

“Yes.”

She grins. “Well, then. Nice to see someone who appreciates the art! What are you looking for?”

“Something for a light, if you have got it.” Yasmin walks up from behind him, sounding bemused. “What was it? Zinc sulfate?”

“Sulfide,” Varian corrects, automatic. “Zinc sulfide, and also some distilled water, and I was thinking maybe…”

He lists the ingredients off from memory, counting them off his fingers to be sure he doesn’t forget any. “…and some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, if you have any?”

“Easy enough.” The woman tugs off her gloves, nodding thoughtfully. “How much of each?”

Varian does quick math in his head—some extra needed if things go wrong, enough to make two batches if things go right—and rattles off the amounts in grams. The shopkeeper hums when he finishes, looking vaguely impressed. “Can do. It’ll be a blue-ish light, in the end—should last you a couple months before you’ll have to remake it.”

Varian abruptly pales. The shopkeeper blinks. “Is something wrong?”

Blue, Varian thinks numbly. Blue light. Right. He hadn’t thought of that. He struggles to answer. “Um—I—that is—”

Yasmin touches at his shoulder. Varian looks up at her, but Yasmin is speaking to the shopkeeper instead when she says, “Is it possible to change the color of the light?”

Something like pride smarts in his chest.

“Of course,” says the shopkeeper. “Easy,” Varian scoffs, pointedly, at the same exact time.

There is a beat of silence. Yasmin rolls her eyes. “Scientists,” she says, disgusted. “Would you need an ingredient for that?”

“Alchemists,” Varian corrects, annoyed, and then blinks as the rest of her words sink in. Oh, right. He turns back to the shopkeeper. “Do you have any pigments?”

“I have all the pigments. Could even mix a few powders, but you’ll have to be exact on the color if so.”

Varian bites his lip, considering. Yasmin looks down at him. “It need not be a difficult discussion,” she says. “The intended use already removes a few options. White, too bright; black, destroys the purpose of having a light at all. Red would be… garish, I think. Sort of bloody. Hmm. What about orange?”

He makes a face, unable to help it. Orange has never been his favorite color, and after the amber… “No.”

“Tsk. Green? Violet?”

Violet is too close to blue; green reminds him of the automatons beneath the castle, and what he did with them. Varian shakes his head.

“…Yellow?”

Golden shine and searing heat, the numbness broken apart by a light that burned as bright as a sun—

Some of his thoughts must show on his face. Yasmin stops herself before Varian can even think to interrupt. “Not yellow, either. Hmph.” She considers, cupping her chin in one hand. “…What about pink?”

Pink. Varian considers it. It’s a pale color, and a soft color, like they wanted. If he makes the glow very quiet it won’t hurt his eyes at all. And pink… there is nothing he associates with the color, no light-based trauma to invite nightmares. Pink is sunrise and sunset, soft flowers in spring fields. It’s a color that reminds him of happy things.

“…Pink would work.”

“Pink it is.”

The shopkeeper nods. “I’ll wrap it up.”

They get the ingredients wrapped in small paper bags, and as Yasmin counts out money for the cost Varian shuffles through the wrapped ingredients with a giddiness he’d almost forgotten. He feels renewed, refreshed, the ever-present exhaustion dulled by a joy that could almost burst out of him.

He tucks the packets away in the satchel and tilts his head into the wind with a soft sigh. His smile is a small thing, barely there—quiet and thin, hidden in the light of the winter sun. The market moves around him, warm and whispering. The noonday sun is melting the frost.

And it is then, in this moment, as the crowd swells silent and the market murmurs soft—that is when the screaming starts.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Cassandra closes her wardrobe hard, hearing the weapons knock around inside. It is three days after their return to Corona, and Cassandra’s patience is nearing its limit. Outside of her window, the setting sun burns gold at their backs, casting a long shadow across Cassandra’s entire room. “Yes, Raps. I already said I was.”

“I know. I just—”

“You worry. I know.” Cassandra takes a breath, holds back a sigh. She’s not annoyed. She’s not. She’s just—

Gods, she wishes Rapunzel could just let it go.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture—to be honest, she’s fully expected this. Of course Rapunzel would come to check in on her, especially after the last few days. Eugene’s skipped out of the castle with a plan he hasn’t even told Cassandra about, Rapunzel has been avoiding her parents best she can, and Cassandra—

Cassandra is right back where she started.

She supposes it could be worse; the king could strip her of the guard title entirely. Being demoted to the dungeons, being forced to avoid Rapunzel… these things aren’t good by any stretch of imagination, but as far as limitations go, they aren’t so bad. Take this, for example—for all of the King’s grandiose orders, here Rapunzel is, only three days later having already discovered a path through the tunnels that leads right to Cassandra’s quarters.

It could be worse, Cassandra thinks, and ignores the way it feels like she’s trying to convince herself. It could be worse.

“I just… I want to be sure.”

Cassandra turns, straightening up in full as she pulls on the last piece of armor, strapping her arm guard in place. Clunky, bronze, degraded, demoted. She misses the golden shine of the armor for Royal Guards. “And I’m telling you exactly what I told Eugene. It’s fine. There’s obviously something wrong, and—and you need my help. And if what you overheard was true…”

It’s the reason for Rapunzel’s visit, after all. Cassandra had woken up to sunset, blearily about to get ready for yet another awful night shift—only to find the resident Princess and future Queen leaning over her face like a fretting hen, eyes bright with a stolen secret.

“I’m almost certain,” Rapunzel says at once. “I know it was Nigel talking, he’s got… a distinctive voice. And he sounded worried.”

According to Rapunzel, just this morning while on her way to meet with her parents for yet another awkward not-quite-conversation, she’d passed by a hall and heard Nigel talking with a messenger. Which isn’t anything unusual—advisors talk with messengers literally all the time—except the contents of this conversation had been a little… stressed. A deal in the making, a big agreement between the King and another party—only whoever and whatever this deal was about, it didn’t seem to be about anything good.

Still, Cassandra is content to play devil’s advocate for this. “The kingdom makes deals all the time, Raps. Compromise, trade, agreements… that’s what running a country is all about.”

Rapunzel isn’t swayed. “Trust me, okay? This wasn’t like the usual. The way they were talking…” She bites her lip. “Cass, it sounded… bad. Almost like they—Corona, my dad—were running out of other options, but also like accepting the deal would be…”

“Like a deal with the Moon?”

“Or Zhan Tiri. Just. Bad.”

“I believe you,” Cassandra says, finally. She places one hand on her sword. “But that’s why, if it’s really as big as you say, we need more information, if anything we do is going to stick. So, if this is what’s needed…”

I want to help, she doesn’t say this time. She’d already said it to Eugene, two days and a night ago, when he stopped by her room and pressed a letter in her hands.

“You don’t have to do this, Cass,” he’d said then, letter in hand but holding back. “I know how much this job means to you.”

“Will it help?”

“It’s something.”

“Then yes,” Cassandra had said, cold and trying hard not to seem desperate, and she’s spent every night after thinking about that letter and what it meant, and the look in Eugene’s eyes when he gave it to her. Like he knew. Like he suspected.

King Frederick had been cold when he’d demoted her, near icy in tone. In contrast, beside her, Cassandra’s father had been spitting mad on her behalf, only just holding his tongue, his face dark with an anger that the King hadn’t even batted an eye at. Cassandra had taken the sentence with her head high and her heart burning. She’d known what this was really about, even then. It’s not about the secrets. It’s not even about Rapunzel’s silence, not really. It’s this—Rapunzel, flinching and quiet and different behind the eyes, the attack Cassandra can’t elaborate on and the prisoner who escaped, Varian vanished into the wilds.

In the eyes of the king, Cassandra has failed. Never mind that Varian got a chance to attack because Rapunzel let him. Never mind it was Rapunzel who let him go. Never mind that—

But even then. Even then, that hadn’t shaken her. But when the King had demoted her, when that golden shine of royal armor was replaced by lesser bronze—Cassandra had stared down at gloved hands, and wondered what the hell she was doing there.

Standing in line, she thinks. Guarding locked doors. She’s traveled across two continents, she’s traversed the ruins of a kingdom long dead, she’s looked a god full in the face and snarled—

And here she is. Back again in the kingdom, with armor that doesn’t fit quite right and a restless burning beneath her skin, the whisper of opportunity lost.

When did I outgrow you? she wonders, absently, picking up her halberd, putting the helmet under her arm. She draws the sword and looks at it, the person staring back. When did I lose this?

But she doesn’t say that. She can’t, not really—she hasn’t the words, and a little bitter voice in her gut says that Rapunzel won’t understand anyway. Besides, Rapunzel has her own issues to deal with. Her own struggles. Cassandra doesn’t want to become another burden—not any more of a burden, at least.

When did I become so weak as to be used against you?

But those are quiet thoughts. Cassandra shoves them away, locked back in the corner of her mind where they belong, and turns to face Rapunzel with both hands on her hips. Rapunzel is sitting quiet on the bed, head bowed, gloved hands folded in her lap, and at the sight something in Cassandra’s chest eases. She crosses over, and kneels down before her. “Hey. Raps.”

Rapunzel looks up. Her eyes are dry, the green of her irises cold and clear. Her mouth is set in a mulish sort of stubborn. That tight knot in Cassandra’s chest eases further, and she manages the barest hint of a smile. “Look,” she says. “I get it. I do. And you’re right. It’s—a lot.” Which is a nice way of saying basically treasonous, but hey. “Look. It’ll work out, okay? I’ll do a scan on the dungeons when I can, get info like you requested—” As per the letter still in her pocket, anyway. “—and yeah, sure, it’s… dangerous.”

“Treason. If you get caught. And my dad—”

“Yeah. But Eugene has the right idea. Don’t tell him I said this, but… look. You can eavesdrop on the nobles. Eugene is doing…whatever he’s doing. And me?” Her lips thin. “I can see what the prisoners say. I can walk around and listen, and see what they know. And maybe it’s dangerous, but if it gets us what we need to know, gets us where need to go…” She trails off, pointedly.

Rapunzel dips her head. “I’m worried,” she admits, quiet. “And you’re right, I don’t know enough. But—Cass, what if you’re right about this, too? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s not worth it? What if we just make things worse?”

“Yeah, okay. Good point. But you’re doing this anyways, right? So… I—I don’t want—” Oh, how to word this. Cassandra blows out a breath through her teeth, hard and hissed. “I can’t just sit here, Raps. I can’t do nothing.” Her hands curl, unbidden. “Don’t shut me out again.”

The set to Rapunzel’s jaw eases, just a bit. She reaches out and squeezes Cassandra’s hand, brief and firm despite how the pressure on her injuries makes her face twitch with an echo of pain. “I won’t,” Rapunzel says, and a pale smile flickers across her face. “I… I did promise, after all.”

“You did,” Cassandra replies, neutral.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll lay off. If you’re sure.”

“Very sure.”

The smile on Rapunzel’s face settles, a little stronger. “Thanks, Cass.”

“It is literally the least I can do,” Cassandra informs her, dryly, and stands up with the creak of new armor. “Now get out of my room before your new guard realizes you're missing, yeah? Elias is skittish, but he’s going to realize you used your hair as an escape route sooner rather than later, and if I have to go guard the sewers we’re all going to suffer.”

Rapunzel’s smile widens. “Right!” she says, and scampers up, heading back for her newfound secret entrance to the tunnels. Seriously, how does she keep finding those things? “I’ll try and visit again soon. There’s this dinner party with my parents, and I think I might be able to ferret out a few details on this mysterious deal. I’ll let you know!” Something in her face gentles. “…Please take care of yourself, Cass.”

“Only if you do.”

Cassandra watches her go, and manages a small wave and a weak smile when Rapunzel looks back. She waits, patiently, until the stone door of the secret entrance latches shut, and then lets her hand falls with a sigh.

For a moment she just stands there, basking in the silence. Her hand goes to her pocket. The missive Rapunzel wrote and Eugene gave her sits heavy by her side.

I’m sorry to ask this of you. I know my father is your King. But I need you, Cass. I need to know if you’re with me. You don’t have to say yes now. You don’t have to answer at all. And I will never, ever be angry if you say no. You’re my best friend, now and forever. But whatever you’re willing to give. Whatever secrets you find willing to share with me…

If the time comes to choose, if circumstances force us to make a stand—will you stand by my side?

Cassandra has never been readier. But still—

For some reason, the knot remains, cold and heavy in her chest.

She marches out of her room to her new guard shift with her chin up and back straight and proud. Some heads turn when they see her pass; some faces creases in sympathy, others tight-lipped. Odd, she thinks, and remembers vividly Eugene’s offhand comment on the castle’s reactions. She thinks again of her father’s face when the King stripped her of rank, the anger he didn’t even try to hide, and her lips thin further. There’s something wrong here after all—she just hopes it’s not the internal battle she’s starting to suspect it might be.

She turns another hall, pushes open the last door. Cold, rank air blows against her face. Her nose wrinkles.

Once, in a different age, the dungeons of Corona had served as part of the castle proper. In the start of Corona’s great history, King Herz der Sonne had walked these halls and eaten in these empty rooms, enjoyed food and rest in the grand circular hall that has become the main prison pit. These stone walls were filled with history and majesty, until an unfortunate winter earthquake fifty years after his reign brought the whole castle tumbling down.

The castle was rebuilt, of course—better this time, and it has withstood every earthquake since for the remaining hundreds of years. But of that first, lonesome castle, only the tunnels and this hall remain—the tunnels locked down for fear of constant collapse, and the rubble of the first castle become one of the worst places in the whole kingdom.

The point is that the dungeons are a place of history—and at the moment, Cassandra feels as if she’s experiencing each one. As she marches through and down the enclosed halls, the cold deepens, the stone growing soft with age and dark with a grime built up over centuries. Voices murmur low and bitter through the grates as she passes, and the stench of rot and mildew and waste is so heavy she almost struggles to breathe. There’s a slick moss crawling stubbornly through the cracks in the mortar, and as she passes down to the last and final floor, the old stone sagging and heavy, the ceilings low and strained under the weight of the years, even the voices fade out. There aren’t many prisoners here. In truth, there’s very little here at all. Something wet and watery drips down the wall. The cells are silent and empty. Cassandra, standing all and alone in a dark corridor, takes a deep breath and regrets it almost at once.

She’s in full guard armor, the bronze polished and shining, her curls forced under the tight helmet. Her gloves are crisp on her hands, the halberd stiff in her palms; her stance is straight and her eyes unwavering from the door. Every few minutes she’s to turn from her post to pace up and down the corridor for a routine check before she returns back to the door at the end of the hall.

It’s a joke of a job. It’s a job for newbies and rookies and guards with their heads too full of pride for sense, and here she is. Stuck here until Rapunzel either breaks her silence—unlikely—or until the King cools his temper, which…

Well.

She’s probably going to be here for a while, she knows, and as she stops before her new post, she closes her eyes, breathing in deep through her teeth.

Gods, she has no idea what she’s doing here. Cassandra is skilled and she knows it. She’s wasted here, and the fact she’s only been posted here as punishment for Rapunzel’s actions only furthers the insult. She’s not—resenting it, really, or at least she’s trying not to. It’s not Rapunzel’s fault. That the King is punishing Cassandra in order to punish Rapunzel… it’s more than insulting. It’s downright infuriating.

Not to mention being replaced by Elias, of all the guards. The boy is… new is almost too kind a term. He’s barely not a trainee, and while he’s not a bad kid, Cassandra suspects that kindness won’t stop him from reporting Rapunzel’s every action to the King.

They’ve been back for only a scant three days, and already, most of Rapunzel’s worries are proving justified. If this is destiny, Cassandra wishes she could punch it into submission or something. First the Dark Kingdom, now this—for gods’ sake, don’t they all deserve a break?

But no, of course not. And so Rapunzel’s confined in the castle and Eugene’s walking on so many eggshells he decided running was the better option, and Cassandra is here: stationed in the deepest, darkest, most boring corridor in the dungeon, waiting for nothing.

She closes her eyes. “Look around,” Rapunzel had said. “Keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll find something everyone else missed.” But gods, how is Cassandra going to find anything if she’s stuck miles underground for eight straight hours a day? She’d mentioned the idea of wandering around to listen in on the prisoners herself, but in the secret depths of her mind, even she can admit it’s basically a worthless task. Who on earth would spill the beans when guards lurk around every corner?

She wants to help, but this—

It feels terribly like being shunted. All. Over. Again.

Cast aside and left in the dark, something in her whispers, dark and bitter. Cassandra sets her jaw. There isn’t even a guard on duty to take over once her shift ends— there’s nothing here to guard at all. This job is a joke.

She turns hard on her heel, walking away. To hell with it. If she’s stuck down here, she thinks grimly, she can at least explore. As useless as it is, at least those cells aren’t empty.

The air is like ice around her; the winter cold turned something subzero in the freezing hold of the underground stone. Each breath puffs like fog before her. In her armor, the metal is so chilled her fingers flex on impulse to get blood flow going. She turns down the twisting halls, eyes passing blind over the shadowy cells and water-rusted metal, the withered skeletons of the ruins of the ancient castle. She breathes in, breathes out. Nothing appears. Nothing happens.

Nothing’s ever going to happen.

Who is she even kidding? She’s going to be down here for hours, for days, for weeks. She wants to help but she couldn’t even see Rapunzel herself; the princess had to find a way to her instead. Rapunzel may be trapped in her room, but she already knows how to slip free— and Cassandra’s chains are so much tighter. She has so much more to lose.

And if things do go wrong, guess who’s going to suffer for it? Her, probably. Definitely. She loves Rapunzel, gods know she does, but so much of this mess is just—!

Why did she let Varian go? Why didn’t she ask them? Why hasn’t she explained? What little Cassandra knows of the labyrinth is just that—just the little. Just the bare minimum. She’s not asking for a play by play, but if Rapunzel is going to release known criminals, couldn’t she at least give a real reason? She’d said it was because it didn’t feel right, but what had that even meant? Feeling has no place in politics. No place in acting queen, or princess…

Even after everything, she’s still weak.

Cassandra stops mid-step.

She feels struck, stunned still by her own thoughts. Her hand rises to her head. A wave of dizziness overcomes her, shame like a blooming poison in her gut. The cold of the dungeon bites at her skin like a beast.

That’s… that’s a cruel thing to think. Sure, Rapunzel is a little much at times, but she’s been growing too, changing, becoming more and more sure of her place every day. More confident in herself, even if Cassandra doesn’t agree with all her choices. And—and Cassandra knows that, she understands that, so why—?

“…Cassandra? Is that you?”

She jumps, just barely avoiding dropping her halberd. She whips around, breath caught, weapon raised—and the confused face of a guard blinks back, almost bemused.

She stares at him, mouth open in shock—lowers her weapon rapidly, heat climbing in her cheeks. “I— sorry. You snuck up on me.” She pauses, abrupt. “Wait, what are you doing down here?”

The other guard frowns at her. “Cassandra, this is my post. Aren’t you stationed in the lower dungeons?”

“I…” She looks around, rapid, and realizes he’s right—the walls are lighter, the stink stronger. This isn’t her post at the lower dungeons. This is the first sector—the private prison, for top-priority prisoners, serious threats to the kingdom. Once upon a time, Varian had been kept in this sector, only one floor above her. When had she…? “Apologies. I got lost in thought.”

His scowl deepens. “Look, I know the demotion must sting, but that’s no reason to leave your post. What would the Captain say?”

Cassandra flushes, her lips pulling away from her teeth. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

The guard is glaring.

Abruptly Cassandra remembers herself. She cuts herself off, breathing in deep through her nose. Her fingers clench white-knuckled under her gloves, curled tight and shaking around the halberd. “…No, never mind. You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

She turns away hard before he can say anything more, marching off down the stairs. She doesn’t look back. The guard shakes his head and turns away, pulling the door latched behind him, back again at his post.

She leaves the private dungeon behind, and slams the door tight behind her. She walks quick, her stride furious. Her footsteps echo off the walls. Just like that: alone again.

Water drips uneven on the withered stone. The darkness slithers and seeps in the corners. The lanterns flicker. Unknown even to herself, Cassandra shivers once, and hugs her arms tight.

And in the darkness of a cell just out of view, someone else watches her seethe—and smiles.

“Oh, yes,” the prisoner says. Their voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper; their smile bares feral in the lanternlight. “I agree.”

Cassandra opens the final door, the exit to the prison floor. A sharp, foul gust of air howls through. The lantern flickers. For one shining moment, the prisoner’s eyes glint bright and green.

“She’ll make a wonderful disciple.”

For a moment, Varian doesn’t understand what he’s hearing.

He stands there, before the market stall, hands cold and heart growing colder; the screams, distant, are indistinct to him. It could be cheering, he thinks. It could be celebration. It could be nothing at all.

Except then Yasmin grabs his arm and yanks him back, and people have started to run, and then all at once he hears a boom like thunder and sees shrapnel fly, and he thinks—cannons—and he realizes.

The harbor is under attack.

A whisper drifts by his ears, paranoia crystalized to reality. The wind hisses like a curse. I warned you, child. Now it is too late.

The ground rocks with the force of the explosives; Varian stumbles sideways and just barely keeps to his feet. He can hear laughter, distantly, in the crowd, faint above all the screaming, mingling with the shrieking steel of sword against sword as the guardsmen of Port Caul rush in. But that doesn’t make sense, he thinks—how could it all happen at once, so soon? Or had these attackers planned this, had they snuck in with the market crowd and waited amongst the people for the attack to begin?

Another blast of cannon fire shakes the stonework, cutting his thoughts short. This time Varian isn’t so lucky—he falls hard on his knees, unable to stand on the shaky ground.

A hand grips his arm, nails digging into his shoulder—Yasmin drags Varian to his feet, supporting him against her. In the alchemy stall, the owner has vanished. Varian lists sideways in her hold. “What—”

“Pirates,” Yasmin hisses, and they both stumble when the ground rocks again. Cracks line the street. “I knew they were getting bold, but this is—!”

The jeering grows louder, closer to them. Yasmin pulls him up to his feet, and this time Varian needs no instruction. The pound of blood in his ears, a looming threat coming ever closer—he knows this feeling, this metallic tang in the air.

The labyrinth has etched this lesson into his bones.

He runs, and Yasmin runs with him. The crowd, once comforting, has turned confining; bodies shifting like a living thing, people on the ground, someone crying. Varian shoves his way through, trying to get away. A piercing scream makes him falter, then push on, but Yasmin turns back, vanishing momentarily in the crowd.

Varian stumbles, stopping too, turning back less because he wants to and more on instinct. Panic coats his tongue. He pushes through the mill of people, searching—and finds Yasmin on the ground, kneeling down to help someone up.

“To your feet!” Yasmin is saying, pulling the poor bystander upright. “Hurry! Get others off the ground! We will all be trampled at this rate.”

“Yasmin—!”

“Boy, what are you standing there for? Go hide!”

“I—” He wants nothing more than to run, but her moment of altruism has sent a cloud of shame through him. She’d stopped at the screams and cries for help. He had not. “I can, I can help—”

“I think not.” Yasmin grabs his arm, pushes him away; the crowd swells and ebbs around them. “Go to the buildings, you are small, hide by the crates—this crowd will kill you if the pirates don’t get there first, now hurry and—”

A shrieking sound rets the air, the awful screech of metal sliding against metal. Yasmin cuts herself off, whipping around; Varian stares over her shoulder, numb and horrified. There is a body in armor fallen to the ground, and red smeared across the cobblestone. Above the body there is a pirate, pale like a fish’s belly and smiling with teeth like tombstones, pulling free a crude sword dripping with blood and gore.

Varian claps a hand over his mouth, bile sour in his throat. The sight of blood makes his head spin. He’s never—he’s never seen someone die before, he realizes. Not like this. Not so brutally. He’s never…

Yasmin grips his arm so tight her hand spasms, hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds him, and Varian pulls his eyes away from the dead guardsman with difficulty, swallowing back the sick. Yasmin tugs him behind her, as if to shield him, and herds him back as she steps away from the scene, moving out of the pirate’s line of sight slowly and silently—

And the money pouch in her pocket, still untied and hanging out from her pocket from when she’d opened it, minutes ago, to pay for Varian’s alchemy ingredients—dips, opens, and spills bright golden coins all across the street in a clatter.

Yasmin freezes, her eyes going wide and horrified. Varian’s breath slams shock-still in his throat.

The pirate’s head snaps up. He stands, sword in hand.

He looks right in their direction.

Yasmin says a foul word in a language Varian doesn’t know, grabs his arm, and turns to run.

Varian scrambles to follow, his heart stuck in his throat. He can hear the pirate behind them, beginning to laugh, cackling with a bright and bloodthirsty sort of glee, drunk on something far worse than wine. “Pretty lady!” the man coos over the screams of the crowd and the cannon fire. “Pretty lady, you look like you might have gold!”

“Fuck,” Varian says, distantly, and then Yasmin shoves him into an alleyway. Crates and barrels and open buckets of produce line the dirty side-street, and despite the lack of people it’s nearly a maze to his eyes. Varian dodges crates and spilled fruit, following Yasmin’s sprint best he can—and he thinks, in that moment, he will make it. He can see the other side, the open street, and he is close, so close—

He bursts out of the shadowy alley into the sunlight—and then the ground tremors with a force more than cannon fire, and sends Varian crashing to his knees.

His vision flips. White bursts like stars behind his eyes. The ground rushes up to meet him and he catches himself badly on the stone, cobble scraping up his hands, the street rocking beneath his palms like a bucking horse. Small cracks break through the rock. He doesn’t understand. This can’t be from cannon fire. This is—this is—an earthquake?

He can’t see Yasmin anymore. His head is spinning. Varian pushes dazedly to his feet, and feels so turned around he falls right back down again. His breaths rasp distant in his ears. His hands are shaking. He gets to one foot and lists hard to the side, stumbling sideways until he falls heavy on the thick glass window of a shopfront.

Varian fumbles blindly for purchase, and his fingers catch on the window frame. He gets one hand on the shopfront wall and pulls shaking to his feet, standing hunched and wheezing in the burning daylight. The glass of the shop window shines cold in the sun. He looks beside him, and the shop window reflects back at him, a distorted image of himself. In his reflection he can see the blood on his face, the shadows under his eyes. The fear and confusion clouding his expression.

And behind him. Behind him—

The man. The pirate. Blood on his coat and a smile like death. He is still laughing. Still standing. It’s as if the earthquake hasn’t touched him at all. His eyes burn green in the windowpanes. His hand is raised, and his sword glints bright in the winter sun.

Varian should run. Varian should fight. He doesn’t, though. He can’t. He feels cold. He feels frozen all the way to his bones, all the way to his navel. Like an icy cord has been pulled taut—like a hand on his neck, holding him in place. A weight in the air that is more than fear… an anticipation that is almost supernatural.

All those dreams. All those sleepless nights, trying in vain to fight the exhaustion and the dark. All those whispers in his ears. The memory of it chokes him. The memory holds him still.

The pirate lifts his blade. In the window, Varian’s reflection shimmers like a ripple effect. For a moment, someone else stands in his place. A woman, terrible in her familiarity, with stone-dark skin and eyes glowing yellow like a moon.

Hello, child.

The pirate swings.

Did you miss me?

His right hand is searing with pain. His veins feel like molten metal. The world flashes white, and the pirate’s laughter, behind him, cuts off into a scream.

And like something from Varian’s deepest nightmares—the black rocks begin to grow.

They come out of nowhere: the dark rocks bursting all at once, a starburst of deadly intent. They spear through the cobblestone like a hot knife through butter, crisscrossing and tearing up and down the street in a deadly wave. Dust bursts up in the air like a fog, the streets turned to rubble and ruin. Through the distant ringing of his ears, Varian can hear the rising screams like a final curse.

In the mirror, the Moon smiles. The icy touch at the back of his neck burns like a brand. His hand spasms with a pain white-hot and bleeding, and Varian drops to his knees.

His vision whites. Exhaustion hits him like a physical blow, the drain so sudden it makes his head spin. He blinks, and then—just like that—she’s gone. It is just him in the mirror, now. Just Varian, staring wide-eyed and horrified at his own reflection, blue eyes gone empty and cold with remembered terror.

“—get up!”

A hand pulls at his shoulder, and Varian fights on instinct, struggling to pull away. His limbs are weak, his body aching—he bites back a sob and tries to throw himself back. He hears someone curse.

“Boy, snap out of it! We need to go!”

At last, familiarity seeps through. That voice. He recognizes it.

“Varian!”

Yasmin.

His eyes clear, and he finally recognizes her. Her grip on his arm is almost bruising in its force. Her eyes are wild. There is blood on her cheek.

“Hurry!”

This time, when she pulls him up, he does not fight her.

Varian stumbles to his feet, wavering back and forth. He feels very far away. He feels like he’s drowning. He’s barely breathing at all.

Yasmin is running. Yasmin is dragging him with her. The satchel thumps heavy against Varian’s side like a promise, or a reminder. His hand hurts, but the pain is fading, needle-like piercing turned to dull aching. He feels cold. He feels so cold. He doesn’t want to know.

He looks behind him anyway.

People are crying. People are still screaming. It rings in his ears like the distant toll of a bell. Smoke and dust cloud in the air and drift soft like a fog onto crumbling streets. People are lying still. People are lying silent. He cannot see the pirate at all.

There are rocks, too. Black rocks torn through the ground like a spiny crown, ripping apart the streets. They are everywhere. They are tearing through the city like they once tore up his home. Needle-like and deadly, and each and every last one of them is pointing right at the sea.

His hands are numb. He feels so cold. In the back of his mind, he can hear laughter on a distant breeze, and for the first time he’s not sure if it’s only a memory, or perhaps something more.

Something worse.

Hello, child.

Varian looks away.

In a grand ship by the eastern coast, Lady Caine watches the distant sprawl of Port Caul go up in smoke.

Her hand is outstretched, reaching—her fingers curled as if to grasp the air itself. Her lips have peeled back from her teeth; her dark scowl cuts into her pretty face. The ship is empty but for her, her crew gone out to battle—armed only with their swords and a spare vessel for cannon fire. She is alone here. She is the only one watching. The only one to see exactly when the battle started… and the only one to see how it ends.

It is only Lady Caine that sees the rocks rise up, black towers hanging heavy over the city skyline. Only Lady Caine that sees her crew fall back to the sea, their numbers gutted, their white shirts turned red from bleeding.

She drags her hand away from the water, and her scowl turns to a snarl. She watches, white-knuckled and furious, as the black rocks rise up over the city. Tens upon tens of deadly spears, that lethal black stone slanted and sure, each and every needle-tip edge pointing right towards Lady Caine in her ship.

“Is that a threat?” she hisses, and turns away from the sight, pacing furious across the deck. “No one said the gods would be involved.”

She pivots on her heel, the wind whipping at her hair. Her eyes fix bright and poisonous on Port Caul. Her muttering darkens. “What happened to the Moon being too weak to make an appearance, anyway? I thought she needed a conduit for that. But that fucking moonstone is gone, and all reports say she’s an avid hater of mortals, so how…?”

She trails off, the words falling short. Her pacing stills. She holds herself tall and stiff in the shine of the winter sun, and her hands clench tight into fists. Her nails cut deep in her palm.

Something shudders across the deck. A shadow, a cloud over the sun. The boat creaks and groans like a rusty hinge. Frost crawls along the side of the boat. The wind whispers. Lady Caine closes her eyes in thought.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, the rage falling slowly to contemplation. “Maybe she did choose a mortal vessel. For some reason. Against all reports of her personality.”

A pause. Lady Caine tilts her head.

“And, say, if the Moon did choose a conduit...”

Her eyes open. She looks at Port Caul with fresh eyes. She traces the path of the black rocks. That deadly slant. That unbreakable sword. Those cruel, uncontrolled towers, and the unerring accuracy of their direction, the blade pointed right at her.

Slowly, surely, Lady Caine starts to smile. She watches as her men flee like cowards, running from the dark rocks like cities from a plague, and laughs under her breath. “Someone who can summon the dark rocks, hm…? Sounds like someone we could use.”

Another pause. She tilts her head. She turns to the shadows, to the empty air beside her, and smiles with all her teeth. In the midday shine, the green of her eyes nearly seems to glow.

“Well?” says Lady Caine. “What do you think?”

#tts #tangled the series #varian #rapunzel #rta #rapunzel's tangled adventure #tangled #cassandra #eugene fitzherbert #tangled varian #tangled rapunzel #iza fanfic #fic: labyrinths of the heart #fic series: the long road back to home #fic: faults of the mind

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emospritelet · 5 years ago

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Homecoming - chapter 15

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] AO3 link

Last time, the family travelled to Willowbrook Grange, on the site where the town of Avonleigh once stood, and where, unknown to them, Belle lived one of her past lives

The air was frigid, and Belle shivered, sending Ogilvy a smile as he handed her down from the carriage. She clutched Ava and Nicholas close to her, the latter grumbling about his empty stomach, and Ogilvy ruffled his hair comfortingly. Lady Tremaine had stepped forward to greet the Professor. She was a slender woman with light brown hair and a strong jawline, her eyes alight with excitement.

“Oh, Professor Lowe, it’s so good of you to come!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been quite beside myself! It felt as though there was nowhere else for me to turn, and then Lady Fortescue pointed me in your direction. She can’t recommend you highly enough, so I’m delighted you agreed to come all this way!”

“Not at all, not at all,” said the Professor heartily. “May I present my good friend Mr Ogilvy?”

“A pleasure,” said Lady Tremaine, as Ogilvy took off his hat and bowed his head. “I understand your knowledge of the dark realms is almost equal to that of the Professor’s.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle noticed Lord Tremaine roll his eyes a little, but he said nothing.

“We shall do our utmost to assist in whatever way we can,” said Ogilvy smoothly.

“And I presume this is Mrs Ogilvy?”

Lady Tremaine was looking expectantly at Belle, whose mouth fell open as she felt a blush rise in her cheeks. Alice snickered, and covered her mouth with her hand as though she had coughed.

“Ah,” said the Professor. “May I present Miss Annabelle Marchland? I believe I mentioned her in my letter. She’s our assistant, and a most competent one, I assure you.”

“I - see.”

Belle shot him a surprised look, and the Professor winked at her. Lady Tremaine looked Belle up and down a moment, a crease of confusion between her eyes.

“Forgive me, Miss Marchland,” she said. “You look frightfully familiar. Have we met?”

“Your Ladyship may have seen me once or twice at Furton Grange,” offered Belle, and Lady Tremaine’s expression cleared.

“Ah. I daresay that’s it. Some soirée of my dear friend Lady Ella Deville, no doubt. She’ll be here for New Year’s Eve, you know. Well, come in, come in! We shall all freeze to death out here!”

Belle was spared from explaining that she had been Lady Ella’s governess as Lady Tremaine turned on her toes, bustling off into the house. She had completely ignored the children, and Alice was biting her lip to hold in her amusement. It was a relief to step inside, a tide of warmth flowing over them as the heavy doors were closed. Ivy and Hatter had disappeared, following the other servants carrying in the trunks, and Belle was led up a sweeping staircase where two suits of armour stood guard with long pikes. That sense of familiarity was there again, a creeping tingle down her spine, and she shivered. The house was different to Furton Grange, its decor a little old-fashioned with its deep reds and golds, the wooden panelling and staircase giving the entrance hall a darker, heavier look. It suited the building, though, this red-brick mansion in the dark and cold of the far north of England. Belle wondered what it had seen over the centuries. The stories it could tell.

Dinner was a relatively quiet affair, for which Belle was grateful, two days of travel having taken their toll. She was escorted in by Henry Mills, an American writer wed to Lord Tremaine’s daughter from his first marriage. Mr Mills was a handsome, dark-haired young man, pleasant and attentive, and Belle found herself seated between he and his friend Mr Branson. Mrs Mills was seated to the right of Mr Branson, and seemed a lovely woman, but Belle couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t get along with her stepmother. Mr and Mrs Mills were expecting a child in March, but informed her that they already had a daughter, Lucy, who was the same age as the twins. Mr Mills suggested that the children could keep one another amused for the duration of their visit.

“There’s a well-stocked nursery,” he added, as he took a sip of his wine. “Jacinda and I came over from Seattle in the summer, and Lucy seems to enjoy the change of scene. I’m sure she’d be happy to show your two around the old place.”

“Nicholas and Ava had a difficult start in life,” said Belle carefully, thinking of the unsuccessful spelling lessons, and the words the twins could teach Lucy, if she wasn’t around to stop them. “Mr Ogilvy was good enough to take them in and give them a home. They may not be the kind of playmates that Lucy is used to, but I assure you they’re good children with good hearts.”

“Oh, street rats, huh?” said Mr Branson, in a tone that made Belle want to frown. “Well, I guess Lucy spends enough time with the servants. She’ll be used to their kind. She can keep ‘em in line.”

“Don’t be unkind, Nick,” Mrs Mills chided. “They’re children. I’m sure they’re just as well-behaved as Lucy.”

“Hmm.” Mr Mills looked resigned at that. “God help us all.”

He shared a chuckle with his wife, and Belle joined in.

“Well, I guess they won’t be able to get up to anything too terrible,” he went on. “The woods and fields around the house are perfect for exploring, but with all this snow, something tells me they may want to spend their time indoors near the fire.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Mr Branson muttered under his breath.

“Careful,” warned Mr Mills, with a twinkle in his eye. “Her Ladyship might leave you at the tender mercies of her ghosts while the rest of us go shooting.”

The two men chuckled, casting a look up the table to where Lady Tremaine was chatting animatedly with the Professor and Ogilvy, her husband’s attention solely on his food.

“What do you know about these strange occurrences that the Professor has been asked to investigate?” asked Belle curiously, and Mr Mills gave her a somewhat rueful smile.

“I can’t say I’ve seen or heard anything myself,” he said, shooting a glance at Lady Tremaine. “But perhaps I’m not as sensitive to these things as Her Ladyship. She says there are strange noises at night. Banging and knocking.”

“Of course there are, it’s an old house,” said Mr Branson dismissively, cutting a piece of beef.

“Well, no doubt she’ll tell you more tomorrow, Miss Marchland,” said Mr Mills. “Her Ladyship has an excellent imagination, and something of a flare for the dramatic. She’s an interesting character.”

“Interesting enough to put in one of your books?” asked Belle, and he groaned.

“Don’t, I’d never hear the end of it. Tempting though it is.”

“I think there’s already a tale with a wicked stepmother anyway,” murmured Mr Branson, and Mrs Mills shot him a quelling look tinged with amusement.

Ogilvy woke when it was still dark, heart thumping in his chest as the last oppressive scenes of a disturbing dream faded away. The dream had been formed from his own memories, and his heart sank as he faced the days ahead of them, darkened by shadows of the past. He was looking forward to returning to the city, and leaving the ghosts of this place to rest.

As usual, Hatter seemed to sense when he was awake, and was soon at the door with hot water for his morning shave. It made him feel a little better, and having established that Doc was still asleep, he dressed warmly in a tweed suit and his thick wool overcoat. The house was silent as he made his way downstairs, and the butler, Thwaites, let him out of the door and into the cold, crisp morning.

The sun was just sneaking above the horizon, sending long, scarlet fingers through the grey wisps of cloud, and he sensed that it would be a sunny day, at least at first. He closed his eyes for a moment to remember his surroundings as they had once been, letting memories crowd in on him, joy and guilt and grief clamouring for his attention. When he opened his eyes, he half-expected to see the town of Avonleigh as it had been centuries earlier. The house where he had spun his thread and made his deals and where he had loved Isabelle so many times. The square where the market had been held, and where the townsfolk had danced at the birth of spring. The space where the gibbet had stood.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on happier times, and blinked rapidly, glancing to the east as he set off to explore the land around the house. It was cold enough to make him cough, and he pushed his chin into his scarf, using his walking cane to pick his way across the frozen ground.

The river that had once powered the mill’s wheel in Avonleigh must have been dammed at one point, and a lake now filled the lower part of the valley where much of the town had stood. Most of the lake was coated with a layer of snow-covered ice, but there were patches kept clear to allow the fish beneath to break the surface, and birds to drink. Ogilvy walked slowly, watching the water ripple, weak orange sun gleaming on the ice and making the snow glitter. The winters had not been so harsh in their old life, the snow infrequent and light in its appearance. In the lives to come, he had wondered at the colder climate, and how many lifetimes it would last. He had wondered if it would always be winter without Belle.

The crunch of footsteps behind him made him turn, and he smiled as Belle appeared, a flush in her pale cheeks and breath coming from her in plumes of white. She wore a heavy woollen skirt above sturdy boots, her long coat tight around her slim figure and her hair pinned up beneath a black hat. He reached for his own, lifting it in greeting as she approached.

“i wondered if anyone else was awake,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Alice said she wasn’t leaving the house until after breakfast, but I thought I’d make the most of the morning.”

He smiled, settling the hat back on his head and offering her his arm.

“I was about to take a walk around the lake.”

Belle beamed at him, slipping her arm through his, and they set off at a comfortable pace. The chirps of birds were coming from the trees that stood at the eastern edge of the lake, and Ogilvy headed for them, thinking that the snow would be lighter on the ground beneath their boughs.

“How are the children?” he asked, glancing at her, and Belle smiled.

“Homesick, I think,” she confessed. “I woke this morning to find them both nestled in bed beside me.”

“Ah,” he said. “Not what you expected when you became governess, I daresay.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, with a chuckle. “In fact, it’s encouraging to think they might come to me for comfort. I have no desire to be one of those governesses that the novels warn us of.”

“Which kind?” he asked, with a grin. “Terror of small children or scheming seductress?”

Belle giggled, her blush deepening as she clapped a hand to her mouth.

“I would hope that I fit neither description,” she said primly, and his grin widened.

“Then I shall rest easier in my bed knowing that you don’t intend to murder me and steal my fortune,” he remarked.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for the festive season, would it?”

“Best wait until we get home, then.”

She giggled again, and he felt her squeeze his arm as she moved a little closer.

“I take it the twins will be having their breakfast upstairs?” he asked, and she nodded.

“The maids brought it in just before I left, but Alice offered to sit with them while they ate. I’m told that we’ll have ours in the breakfast room from nine-thirty.”

“I’m sure we can work up an appetite by then,” he remarked.

“If we keep at this pace, I have no doubt of it.”

Ogilvy laughed, her presence lightening his mood, and they walked on, feet crunching and squeaking in the snow. He let his eyes roam over the familiar slopes of the surrounding fells and the purplish peaks of distant mountains, the cold air making his teeth hurt when he breathed it in. Belle let out a sigh.

“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “Desolate, but beautiful.”

“It is,” he said, and hesitated a moment. “How - how do you feel, being here?”

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully, but if she found his question strange, she didn’t say anything.

“It’s the oddest thing,” she said eventually. “There’s something familiar about it. I was trying to remember if I had ever come here with Lady Ella. I don’t believe I have, but I feel as though I know this place. As though when I turn the next corner, I’ll know exactly what’s in front of me.”

“I understand,” he said. “It feels that way to me, too. Except here around the lake.”

He glanced at her, expecting her to agree, but she shook her head.

“The lake feels familiar too,” she mused. “I must have been here before, there’s no other explanation. Perhaps I just saw it from a carriage once, or something.”

“Oh.” Perhaps she has. Why wouldn’t she? She’d have no reason to avoid the place, would she? Not like you, you coward.

“Perhaps it’s one of your past lives,” he said tentatively, and she smiled at him.

“And were you ever here, Mr Ogilvy?” she said teasingly. “One hundred lifetimes must span a long time indeed. I imagine you must have seen all manner of changes.”

“The lake wasn’t here when I last walked this way,” he said, matter-of-factly, and she laughed, as though he had made a joke. It was surprisingly painful.

They circled the farthest edge of the lake, where fir trees clustered close enough together to provide a needle-covered patch of ground clear of snow. Ogilvy could feel the cold beginning to sink into his feet through his boots, and he glanced at Belle, wondering if she was getting chilled. She seemed to feel his eyes on her, and looked around with a faint smile.

“Are you starting your investigations today?” she asked.

“So I believe,” he said. “Doc asked Lady Tremaine a few questions last night, but we’ll look over the house today, while we have the benefit of the daylight.”

“I hear there are a great many guests due for the celebrations this evening,” she said. “Mr Mills told me of some of them, including Lady Ella, of course, and many of the inhabitants from the nearby towns. It’s a grand occasion, it seems, with music and dancing.”

“Perhaps we can put Her Ladyship’s mind at rest quickly, then,” he remarked. “I’d hate for her evil spirits to spoil the mood.”

Belle smiled at that.

“Do you believe there are really evil spirits here?” she asked, her tone sceptical, and he hesitated.

“I believe that she believes there are,” he said eventually. “Sometimes that’s all it takes: an old house with creaking floors and an impressionable owner.”

“That’s what Mr Branson said.”

“However, I like to keep an open mind,” he added. “I have no doubt that there have been restless souls in this place. That dark deeds have been done, and innocent lives taken.”

She gave him a curious look, but he said no more, guiding her around a stump of wood.

“The Professor called me your assistant,” she said. “I’m not sure what Her Ladyship made of that. Nor of how much assistance I could be.”

Ogilvy smiled at her uncertain look, and patted her hand.

“Good sense is always in demand, Miss Marchland,” he said. “Your input will be welcome, I promise. And rest assured that no matter what we may face in this investigation, Doc and I will protect you.”

“I’ll do my best not to be a liability, fainting in fear at every creaking floorboard,” she said, in a dry tone that made him grin.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I still have the obsidian wand the Professor gave me,” she added, and his grin widened.

“Good.”

They continued around the lake, the rear of the house coming into view with its ordered gardens and large orangery, and he felt her shiver.

“Cold?” he asked, concerned.

“No - I mean, yes, I am, but—” She shook her head. “Just that odd feeling that I’ve been here before, that’s all. I’m sure it will pass.”

“Perhaps it will,” he said grimly. “Come, let’s pick up the pace. A hot breakfast would be welcome.”

Belle agreed readily, and they quickened their pace, rounding the lake and heading back uphill towards the house. He steered them towards one of the gravel paths used by the servants, where the snow was lightest, and Belle shivered again as they stepped out onto the sweeping driveway at the front.

“A chilly day for a walk, but I daresay it’s good for us,” she announced, and turned to him with a smile as they stopped just outside the door. “It’s certainly reminded me that I’m very much alive.”

“Yes,” he said softly.

Her eyes were sparkling in the morning sunlight, threads of red in her dark hair, her skin like cream and her lips soft and pink as rose petals. His fingers itched from wanting to stroke her hair, to cup her cheek. His mouth ached from the urge to kiss her. Belle smiled a little dreamily, glancing back towards the woods.

“I look forward to the spring, Mr Ogilvy,” she said. “Snow-laden trees are all very well aesthetically, but I long to feel the sun on my skin and smell green, growing things. I think morning walks with you will be far more pleasant when we’re not worried about freezing to death.”

You always loved the spring, when the flowers began to bloom and you could run through wet grass with your feet bare, laughing up at the sky. I loved seeing you so free. I loved laying you down in the heather and kissing your sweet mouth, making you cry out in pleasure as the sun warmed our skin. So many years we missed, my love! How many more before you know me again?

Belle was looking at him expectantly, and he swallowed hard, past the lump in his throat.

“I should be delighted to spend each and every morning with you, Miss Marchland.”

His voice was lower than usual, roughened with emotion, and she smiled at him, gazing up through thick, dark lashes as she blushed a little. He returned her smile, the fond look in her eyes sinking into him, warm as sunlight, comforting his tortured soul and chasing away the shadows of the past.

“Come,” he said, offering his arm to her again. “Let’s have breakfast.”

#fic: homecoming #ogilvelle fic #my fic #ogilvelle #rumbelle fic

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travelwiide · 5 years ago

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7 things that astounded me when living in Vienna, Austria

What astounded me the most when I moved to Vienna, Austria? I've needed to expound on it for quite a while. I went through a year in Vienna and this experience showed me a great deal and in some sense changed my perspective. I concede I didn't encounter any social stun because Austria and Poland share a considerable amount for all intents and purposes. In any case, there are a couple of things that astounded me when living in Vienna, Austria. Here are some of them.

1. Snow-capped spring water in a tap.

One of the principal things that astounded me in the wake of moving to Vienna was the way that there was an extremely little choice of packaged despite everything water in the close-by grocery stores. Following a couple of days, I discovered that it is because everybody is drinking faucet water here. Maybe for some of you, there will be nothing peculiar in it, however in where I originate from, it isn't so self-evident. Drinking faucet water without bubbling it or sifting it? No chance! altered my perspective when I was clarified that Viennese water originates from Elevated mountain sources (look at: Where the Alps start and Climbing in the Viennese Alps). Springwater is provided to Vienna by a 120 km reservoir conduit, which, as I heard, was worked for the Sovereign and his court, yet later it was chosen to make this gem understood water accessible to others. What's intriguing, the watercourses through the hydroelectric force plant, delivering 65 million kilowatt-long stretches of vitality, which is sufficient to cover the power request of the whole city of Vienna! Smart, right? I need to concede that Viennese water tastes great. Also, there is nothing more invigorating than having a glass of cold water on a sweltering summer's day. You don't need to place it in the ice chest, toss ice 3D squares, etc. You simply turn on the tap and drink. Furthermore, there are sources in the city where you can empty drinking water into your jug. It's something I miss when I don't live in Vienna any longer.

2. How the Danube stream looks these days.

Let me come clean with you. Before I moved to Vienna, I had never been there. I knew this city just from photographs and I had some thought about what the city would resemble. I'm certain the majority of you know the well known three-step dance "The Blue Danube" formed by Johann Strauss II. Each time I heard this song, I envisioned a blue, wide stream that streams stately by delegate structures and noteworthy dwellings. I don't have the foggiest idea, possibly I believed that the Danube in Vienna looks somewhat like in Budapest. What's more, truly, what I saw shocked me a piece. Nonetheless, I imagine that Johann Strauss II himself would likewise be stunned on the off chance that he perceived how the Danube looks today. Over the previous century, the Danube has been controlled and is currently totally not at all like the stream it used to be. It is somewhat further from the notable focus of the city and separated by a portion of land into two troughs: the Danube (Dunau) and New Danube (Neue Donau). The water that streams close to the old town is the Danube Trench (Donaukanal), the arm of the Danube. Likewise, there is additionally the Old Danube (Alte Donau). No big surprise a few voyagers are somewhat befuddled. The Danube Waterway, which streams close to the old town, additionally looks very explicit. The dividers are painted with spray paint, there are gardens where individuals develop vegetables, flower child bars and some road fine arts. Try not to misunderstand me, I like the vibes of this spot and when I lived in Vienna I frequently strolled there, however it's simply not what I envisioned, so it totally amazed me.

3. The island in the city.

'I will be on the island this evening. Will we meet someplace at Depressed City or Copa Cagrana? I heard that they have great beverages in Sansibar. What do you think?' Did you comprehend anything about this? Provided that I hadn't lived in Vienna for some time, I wouldn't understand what it was about However, let me disclose everything to you. Indeed, in the focal point of Vienna is an island with seashore bars, grill territories, bike and roller ways, and even nudist seashores. Danube Island (Donauinsel) is now and then called 'Spaghetti Island'. This is a direct result of its shape: it is limited and more than 20 km long! It was made because of the waterway guideline and partitions the Danube into two troughs: the Danube (Donau) and New Danube (Neue Donau). You can likewise find out about it in my blog entries: Fascinating realities about Vienna and 5 elective activities in Vienna. The island, which was worked to shield Vienna from floods, has become a most loved recreational region in the city and a gathering place for local people. Depressed City and Copa Cagrana are particularly well known in summer nighttimes. It is the waterfront with various bars and cafés associated by the Ponte Cagrana barge connect. Some bar names are very entertaining, as Sansibar. If you have additional time, make certain to visit this clamoring and laid-back spot in Vienna.

4. Spittelau and some other peculiar looking structures.

One day when riding the U6 metro I saw the brilliant arch of Spittelau over the structures. I thought it was a castle or a sanctuary. I could never have thought it was only a city squander incinerator! Even such common things can astonish you in Vienna. As I found a workable pace city to an ever-increasing extent, I began to stray from the generally accepted way to go. At that point, I found other bizarre-looking structures like Hundertwasserhaus, KunstHausWien, Willa Wagner II, Vienna Harmony Pagoda and that's only the tip of the iceberg. You can find out about it in the blog entry: Top 10 most odd structures in Vienna.

5. Proficient titles all over.

Dipl. Ing., Mag., MSc, Mama, Dr. and the various expert titles. There is a great deal of them and now and again it is hard to make sense of it. Likewise, in Austria, they are composed all over the place. So on the off chance that you are a guaranteed engineer (Dipl. Ing.), you will have this title composed in reports like a graduation endorsement as well as on such inconsequential things as a metro ticket or even your IKEA card. Same with the ace, specialist, and the rest. Additionally, proficient titles are likewise composed by the names on the radio board, at the passageway to the apartment. Consider the possibility that somebody lives in a disconnected house. At that point frequently a sign is joined going back and forth or veneer of the structure saying that an educator, specialist, ace or confirmed architect lives here. On the off chance that in my nation somebody, aside from perhaps a clinical specialist who has a private center at home, would do something like this, individuals would discover it, in any event, bizarre and neurotic. Be that as it may, in Austria, this is flawlessly typical and nobody is astounded.

6. Contrasts between standard German and Austrian German.

The contrast between standard German and Austrian German is a broad theme. Furthermore, there is likewise the Viennese vernacular. So on the off chance that you just considered Hochdeutsch, you might be a little astonished how individuals talk in Vienna and not see a portion of the words. I never considered German at school and when it worked out that I would have the chance to go through a year in Vienna, I started to concentrate all alone. I purchased books, introduced a few versatile applications, and attempted to discover some new information consistently. All things considered, my language abilities were immediately checked the following morning after moving to Vienna. I went to the market to purchase something for breakfast and heard Grüß Gott rather than Guten Morgen. At the point when I needed to purchase rolls and requested Brötchen, the salesman said they had Semmeln in Austria. I additionally recall that when I needed to purchase cream, I was unable to discover Sahne anyplace. Later I discovered that there is Sauerrahm (harsh cream) or Schlagobers (sweet cream). There are numerous instances of contrasts between standard German and Austrian German. At the point when I understood that what I realize all alone now and then isn't valuable in Austria, I tried out a German course at the College of Vienna. There, aside from Hochdeutsch, I was likewise trained the Austrian rendition of the words and I could generally inquire as to whether I had any questions. Since some interesting circumstances have happened frequently. I recollect one day I needed to purchase frozen yogurt in Tichy and I saw that there is another taste called Weichsel. Inquisitive, I composed the word in the interpreter on the telephone and saw the name of the Vistula Stream in my country Poland. I needed to purchase this frozen yogurt to discover that it is sharp cherry. I could make reference to a lot increasingly such contrasts, perhaps some time or another I will expound more on it on my blog.

7. Drinking matured grape juice.

Toward the start of pre-winter, soon after the grape gather, the Viennese race to the close by vineyards to attempt Sturm. What is that? The sort of mixed beverage I previously expounded on in the blog entry about Top 10 activities in Vienna, Austria. In the Czech Republic and Slovakia, it is called burčák or burčiak, in Germany: Federweißer, Super, Sauser, Neuer Süßer, Junger Wein, Neuer Wein. Sturm is a semi-item made during the creation of wine, which can be expended only a couple of days after the beginning of the maturation of grapes. So at the end of the day, it's never again grape juice, not wine yet. What's more, not Beaujolais. Sturm isn't yet clear, has a wonderful sweet taste and is marginally shimmering. It is hard to decide the liquor substance of this beverage, it is generally 4–10%. In Vienna, you can purchase both white and red Sturm. By and by, I incline toward white, however, it merits attempting the two adaptations. Visiting a winery is the best thought, however, if you don't have a lot of time, you can purchase Sturm even at the general store. It is sold in plastic containers that are not curved (the item is as yet aging), so it's better not to place it in a bag! Did any of the things I referenced here additionally shock you? Have you at any point lived or live someplace abroad? What astonished you in a remote nation?

source https://www.travelwiide.com/2020/04/7-things-that-astounded-me-when-living.html

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shipmistress9 · 6 years ago

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This Cold Night

Fandom: How to train your Dragon

Rating: T

Genre: Romance, Angst

Summary: AU. Hiccup would take any risk to see his beloved Astrid tonight. But maybe, with that snowstorm coming, he was pushing his luck too much.

. o O o .

“So, you’re going? Again?”

The voice coming from the doorway to the little chamber he shared with his fellow junior millers didn’t surprise Hiccup, not really. In fact he’d expected nothing else. “Yes,” he replied simply as he picked up his coat and threw it around his shoulders. Then he straightened and turned to look at his friends.

There was no hint of surprise on their faces either. Fishlegs looked anxious, worry for his friend clear on his face, but that wasn’t anything new. “What if her father ever catches you? He'd break you in half just for getting close to his precious daughter!”

“Maybe,” Hiccup replied with a small smile. He doubted that the man was actually against a union between him and his daughter, but he wouldn’t let that slip. So far, he hadn’t told anyone about Master Hofferson’s apprenticeship offer, and he intended to keep it that way. “But that’s why I'm going tonight. He's going to be away for a day or two, off to the market in town to deliver some goods. We'll be safe.” Right from the beginning, Fishlegs had been against this secret relationship, so by now Hiccup was used to his friend’s worries.

But Snotlout didn’t look happy either, and that was new. “You know, coz, usually I’m totally behind you in this. Odin, that girl looks amazing! I’d definitely hit on her myself, but since you’re family I won’t.”

“Yeah, and the fact that she threatened you with a knife last time you tried is surely of no importance,” Hiccup replied dryly.

“But seriously, you shouldn't go tonight,” Snot went on, unperturbed. “There's a nasty storm coming, some elders were even talking about snow. You'll freeze to death before you even reach her.”

Sighing, Hiccup rolled his eyes. “I'm touched by your concern, Snot. Really. But it's only five miles to Hofferson’s forge. Hardly enough to freeze to death, even if those old fishwives are right and there'll be a bit snow tonight. I won't miss this chance to see her.”

“Your decision… But keep in mind, if the storm gets you, I’ll happily… ‘comfort’ her over your death.”

Shaking his head in something between annoyance and amusement, Hiccup pushed passed the two men. “Lovesick fool,” he heard Snotlout mutter, but didn't bother to react. His cousin was right, after all. Hiccup loved Astrid, the blacksmith’s daughter, and no amount of well-meant advice or warning would ever keep him away from her. Even just holding her while they slept was worth every journey.

Feeling light with the prospect of spending the night with his beloved, Hiccup sneaked out the backdoor of Jorgenson’s mill. There were indeed dark clouds closing in and a few minutes later a handful of scattered snowflakes flew around him. But even that couldn't dampen his mood as he got on his way.

. o O o .

Half an hour later, Hiccup had to admit that staying at the mill would have been the wiser choice.

Within only minutes, the handful of scattered snowflakes had suddenly turned into a solid snowstorm, and the wind was biting through his too-thin clothes without mercy. Being out in a storm like this was pure insanity, Hiccup knew that. All that kept him going was the knowledge that the way back was just as long as the way ahead. As soon as he reached the forge, he would quickly warm up again; at the fire, with a bowl of hot broth, and with Astrid’s warm body in his arms.

On and on he went through the ever-growing storm. The wind became stronger, the air icy. Before long, his teeth were chattering, and his thin cloak, usually enough for this time of year, was not sufficient to keep the cold at bay. He became slower, every step harder than the one before as his one good leg became heavier with every minute. The prosthetic that had replaced the leg he’d lost to the millstones two years ago was already solidly frozen, the spring not working anymore, and the icy metal biting painfully into his hurting stump.

Walking was pure agony, the pain and cold nagging at him until he could barely think anymore. Mechanically, he placed one food in front of the other, flesh and metal, until nothing but the memory of Astrid’s brightly gleaming eyes kept him going. Finally, after what must have been an eternity amidst the snow, Hiccup caught a glimpse of light ahead. The promise of warmth gave him a second wind, hope fueling his hurting limbs as he stumbling crossed the remaining distance.

Knock - - - knock knock - - knock - - - knock - knock - knock - knock

Hiccup barely felt his hands anymore as he knocked their usual sign against the front door. He leaned heavily against the wood, ready to fall into the warmth inside as soon as she opened him. Dimly, he registered noises from inside, footsteps … and voices! She wasn’t alone. Hiccup recognised the deep baritone of her father, and realised in an instant that he was in trouble.

Apprehensively, he waited for the door to open, for Master Hofferson’s deadly glare, and for whatever punishment the man deemed appropriate. Because there was no way he could explain away his presence at his house, in the middle of a night when his daughter had been supposed to be alone.

This is it then, he thought weirdly giddily, arms wrapped tightly around his trembling body. He’d wanted to keep the promise he’d made to his uncle, to help in his mill for three years. He’d wanted to save the money he earned there, scratching together every coin he could before he went to ask Master Hofferson for his daughter’s hand. It wouldn’t be much of a bride price regardless, but he had hope to pay him back in other ways.

But apparently, the Gods had other plans. Mentally preparing to confront his hopefully future father-in-law, Hiccup waited to be let inside, for the inescapable yelling and the chance to explain himself.

But the door didn’t open.

Seconds stretched into minutes without any further reaction from inside, making his heart sink with trepidation. Anxiously, he knocked again, louder. He could hear voices again, but that was it.

“P-please,” he gasped, his breath freezing the moment it left his mouth. “Please, open the door.” Anxiously, he glanced up at the dark sky. There was no sign to be seen that this storm might end anytime soon. All he could see was darkness, the wind whirling thick snowflakes into snow drifts as the cold crept deeper into his bones. If he stayed out here for much longer, he would really freeze to death. And he didn’t want to die... he had so many plans...

Again he knocked, frantically now, and called louder, begging those inside to let him in. He knew that he’d made mistakes, had gone about all this the wrong way. He should have listened to Snot, should have stayed at the mill tonight. Odin, he should have listened to Fishlegs, shouldn’t have started this secret relationship in the first place, should have waited. Or he should have done as Astrid had suggested, should have talked to her father right away. But now, it was too late for all these options, and all he could do was wait, hoping for another chance to see her, to tell her how much he loved her. To make things right.

But even as the cold seeped away the strength in his legs and he sank to the ground, the door stayed close, unyielding.

. o O o .

Worrying her lips, Astrid prepared dinner for her father and herself. It wasn’t anything special, just a simple stew, something to keep them warm. Despite her general lack of any kitchen skills, this was something she could do. It wasn’t difficult or complicated, just throwing the same ingredients as always into the pot and letting them boil.

But today, even that was almost too much for her concentration.

Why, oh why, had this snowstorm come tonight? Thor, why couldn’t it have hit them even an hour or two later? By then her father would have been long gone, would likely have reached the town already after a hurried ride. He would have been gone and Hiccup would have been here. Everything would have been perfect.

But no, of course things weren’t that simple. The storm had come up just in time to keep her father from leaving at all, and now she couldn’t help but feel anxious.

She longed to see Hiccup, had so looked forward to this night. For two weeks now, she’d only seen him from afar a couple of times, and she missed him. She wanted him to be here, to feel him close, to listen to his voice as he painted the picture of their future.

But what would happen if Hiccup came now? What would her father say? He wouldn’t like the idea of any young man visiting her, not at all. Astrid knew that her father was relatively fond of Hiccup, had been impressed by his nimble hands as they’d built Hiccup’s prosthetic together last year. But if he showed up here without being invited? No, her father would not be pleased.

And what if he didn’t come? What would that mean? It was fairly late already. Usually Hiccup would be here by now, and she hoped that meant that he’d stayed home. That he was safe. But the storm had hit so suddenly... what if it had surprised him on his way? What if he’d gotten lost in the storm and was freezing to death right now? The thought made her heart cramp painfully, and she dropped the sharp kitchen knife she was using to slice some vegetables. With a loud clank it landed on the stone floor, making her father look up with a raised eyebrow.

“Pay more attention, lass,” he reprimanded her grumbling. “That knife is sharp enough to cut off your toes if you’re not careful. Your mother, may Hel watch over her, never was that careless.” He turned away and focused more closely on his work; with a murmur that she could tell wasn’t intended for her ears, “And here I thought with her weapon-work, she’d be more handy with a knife...”

Astrid didn’t react to his comment. She knew that her father only grudgingly accepted her manly hobbies – hunting, weapon practice and the like. But she also knew that was because he feared those hobbies would put off eligible suitors. And Astrid didn’t want a husband who didn’t accept her the way she was anyway. Hiccup accepted her. He loved her, not despite but because of who she was. And she loved him too. His warm, lopsided smile. The way his dry comments always made her grin where others often didn’t even understand them. How he could make her knees weak with nothing but an intense look from his deep and honest eyes. Gods, how she missed him...

Turning to hide her face, she bent to pick up the knife. “Of course, Father,” she murmured dutifully. “I’m sorry, I was careless for a moment.” Forcing her conflicting emotions out of her mind, she continued with her work at hand. Yes, she missed him, but it was better if he didn’t come here tonight. At least… If he’d stayed home and hadn’t gotten lost… The thought nagged at her, but there was no way she could explain why she wanted to go outside in such a storm, so looking for him was impossible.

They kept working in silence, her father polishing a piece of armour he’d finished today, until someone knocked on the door. Astrid’s heart skipped a beat as she recognised the rhythm, a melody Hiccup often hummed to her. So he’d come after all? Through this storm? Relieve filled her at knowing that he hadn’t gotten lost after all. And joy, because he was here.There was anxiety too, because she wasn’t sure how her father would react. But she didn’t let that thought deter her.

With gleaming eyes, she hurried toward the door, reaching for the heavy key that hung from a chain on the wall. But her father beat her to it.

“What’s this?” he demanded, brows furrowed as he placed his broad hand over the key, keeping her from unlocking the door. He scrutinised her, his expression turning dark as he caught her excitement. “Who is that?”

“It’s… He came to see me,” she said in a steady voice, eyes firmly on her father’s.

“Who? And why is he here?” he inquired angrily, indicating toward the door with the hand that wasn’t holding the key.

Now or never, Astrid thought, and straightened her shoulders. She’d respected Hiccup’s wish to save money before he officially asked for her hand, trusted him. But now, there was no point in hiding anything any longer. The tone of her father’s question left no room for speculations; he knew exactly why Hiccup was here. But Astrid gladly took this opportunity to explain herself. “Because I asked him to. We’re in love.” It felt good to say these words out loud. Right. With a confident smile she waited for her father to understand, for his shoulders to relax, for his expression to soften into confusion, and then maybe into a smile. He liked Hiccup, she was sure of that. He wouldn’t mind him marrying her. Surely, he wouldn’t…

But his expression didn’t soften. If anything, it grew even darker. With an angry growl, he snatched the key from the chain, shoved it into his pocket, and without another word returned to his work.

Baffled, Astrid gazed after him. Then she followed him in a hurry. “What are you doing?” she asked anxiously, trying to scramble for the key, to let Hiccup in. Outside, the storm was still raging, he had to be freezing. “Look, I know we should have told you directly. But–”

“No,” he snarled, pushing away her searching hands.

The knocking on the door came again, louder this time. Frightened, Astrid glanced in the direction of the sound and then back at her father. “Father, please. Please, let me open the door. He’ll freeze. Please, Dad, just–”

“No!” he yelled this time, standing up to tower over her, glaring down at her. “What were you thinking? You know I can’t give you much of a dowry to tempt good men to marry you. All you have is your beauty and your virtue. And what do you do? You throw it away the moment some random boy woos you? I thought I’d taught you better than that.” With these words, he turned away, clearly declaring the conversation to be over.

Astrid stared at him, disbelievingly shaking her head. Did he really think–

There was more knocking, frantic now, and she could hear Hiccup’s voice through the thick wood. His words were unrecognisable, but he sounded desperate, pleading. It was tearing her apart.

“Father, please,” she begged, desperate now too. “You can’t just leave him there to die. You can’t!”

“It’s his own fault,” he grunted. “He never should have come here.” He turned away from her, arms crossed in front of him, unyielding.

Once more, Astrid glanced at the front door behind which Hiccup stood in the cold. If she didn’t open him, then he would be dead in the morning. So she made a snap decision.

With a few quick strides she crossed the room and grabbed the knife she’d used before. “Open the door,” she demanded; holding the knife with a shaking hand. “Now!”

But her father just gave her a condescending smirk. “Or what? You’d attack me? Don’t be silly.”

“No, I won’t,” she replied, voice shaking now too. And raised the knife’s edge to her neck. “Open that door, or I’ll cut open my throat.”

Under different circumstances, seeing her father’s eyes widen in surprise would have been quite a victory. But not tonight. All she felt was desperate determination. He had to open that door.

“Don’t be foolish, child,” he snarled, hands raised as if to placate her. “It’s hard, but it’s the only–”

“I love him,” she blurted out, interrupting him. She was shaking all over now, her voice, her hand, her entire body. The sharp edge nicked her skin, and a small drop of blood ran down her neck. But she didn’t care. If Hiccup died tonight, then she didn’t want to live anymore either.

“Astrid, don’t be daft,” he said, more urgent now, eyes following the dark red liquid oozing from the cut. “It’s not love just because he thrust his dick into you. When he’s gone he can’t go around and tell anyone what you two did. Your reputation will stay unblemished and you’ll still have the chance to find a good husband. I even have one in mind already, I–”

“But I only want him!” she cried, angry tears clouding her vision. “And it’s not like you think at all. I’m still a virgin. He’d been here over a dozen times now, but I’m still a virgin. Hiccup’s not like that. He loves me too. We want to marry.”

From one second to the other, the dark expression vanished from her father’s face and got replaced by one of surprise and confusion. “Hiccup?”

. o O o .

Hiccup was barely conscious anymore when the door finally opened.

He registered the dim light pouring through the open door, even through his frozen-shut eyelids. He heard the frantic voice that was calling his name over and over, her sweet sweet voice, even though his mind barely took in anything else. He felt how his body got jostled, even though his skin was so numb, he barely felt anything anymore. Nothing but a pair of hot lips on his forehead, on his cheeks, his nose, his mouth. Over and over, she kissed his face, frantically calling his name.

He wanted to kiss her back, to reassure her that he was still alive, even though he wasn’t entirely sure that was the truth. She could be a Valkyrie after all, here to lead him to Valhalla. But no, he was no warrior. He didn’t deserve to fight alongside the heroes of old, wouldn’t get escorted by one of these divine warriors, so he had to be alive.

“...love you,” he mumbled weakly, the most important words, before he gave up and drifted into unconsciousness.

. o O o .

Astrid didn’t leave Hiccup’s side that night, not for a single moment.

She let her father carry him inside, quickly arranging furs and blankets into a makeshift bed near the hearth to warm him. Slowly, he warmed up again, the colour returned to his ashen skin, his breathing becoming more steady again. At one point, he seemed almost lucid and she managed to feed him a few spoons of the warm stew before he drifted off again.

Her father watched her from a few steps away, his expression unreadable. Astrid had no idea what he was thinking, why he’d so suddenly changed his mind, but she didn’t care either. Hiccup was save inside their warm house, and her father didn’t object as she crawled underneath the blanket to cuddle to Hiccup’s side, using her body heat to further warm him. In fact, he didn’t say a single word at all, just watched, and when it became clear that Hiccup was out of immediate danger, he left them alone in the living room, retreating to his own bedstead for the night.

. o O o .

Hiccup woke only slowly.

His head felt like it was filled with wool, his joints hurting and his skin weirdly prickling, numb and somehow sensitive at the same time. It took him some minutes to understand where he was, what had happened.

He remembered the darkness and the cold, the howling wind. How tired he’d become, how all he’d wanted was to curl up and sleep. Dimly, he remembered her hands and lips on his skin, how she’d frantically rubbed his hands and his chest, had called his name. He almost wrote that part off as nothing but a dream, but then he realised where he was.

In the middle of the Hofferson’s living room, wrapped in warm furs and blankets…

With Astrid cuddled to his side, sleeping peacefully…

And Master Hofferson sitting in a chair nearby, watching them.

Inhaling sharply, Hiccup stared at the broad man for a second before he made careful attempts to detangle himself from Astrid without waking her. But Master Hofferson made a calming motion, gesturing Hiccup to stay where he was. Apprehensively, Hiccup lay back again, not daring to enjoy the comforting weight of Astrid’s head on his chest.

For several minutes, the older man just gazed at him, making him nervous, before he asked in a low voice, “For how long?”

Swallowing, Hiccup’s gaze shifted to the mess of golden hair over his shoulder, before he looked back. “For about six months. A bit more,” he croaked. Seven months, one week, and two days since she’d first kissed him, to be precise. But Hiccup doubted the other man was interested in every detail.

The blacksmith frowned. “So, when I offered you an apprenticeship a couple of months back–”

“We already were a couple, yes,” Hiccup admitted, averting his eyes. It had sounded too good to be true back then, living under the same roof with her, working together, seeing her every day.

“And yet you didn’t accept right away? Asked me for another year before you could start? Boy, I already thought you crazy back then for turning me down in favour of yet another year of working in the mill. But now, it makes even less sense.” There was an expression of suspicious bafflement and confusion on the older man’s face.

“I–” Hiccup began, but had to pause, coughing. Carefully, he shifted into another position, laying on his side with Astrid’s head now resting on his upper arm. “Back then, I wasn’t as sure about her… about us as I am now,” he explained in a low voice, tenderly caressing her hair. “And I didn’t want to go behind my Master’s back for something that might turn out as nothing but an infatuation.”

“So, you thought going behind my back before you became my apprentice was a better idea?” he asked, disbelievingly, and it made Hiccup squirm. Phrased like that, it sounded pretty stupid.

“If this between us hadn’t worked… then I wouldn’t have accepted your offer. I wouldn’t have burdened her with living with me if things between us had gone wrong,” he murmured, eyes resting on Astrid’s sleeping face. “And I’d planned to officially ask for her hand the day you would have taken me in.”

The man nodded, but still didn’t seem to be completely convinced. “And why didn’t you accept my offer the day you realised your feelings were true? You could have started working in the forge on any day. Astrid said you two already agreed on marrying each other, why the delay?”

Hiccup understood the question as what it was; a father making sure that his daughter’s suitor’s intentions were genuine. He could hardly begrudge that. And the answer was easy anyway. “Because I had promised my uncle to work in his mill for another season. And I tend to keep my promises,” he said calmly. “And I also wanted to gather as much of a fortune to offer as bride prize as possible.” Again, his eyes lingered on her face – on her small nose covered in freckles, on the tiny scars she’d gotten from running through the woods, and on her pink lips, turned into a relaxed smile – and he added, almost inaudibly, “She’s worth everything to me.”

After that, the other man stayed silent, and it didn’t take long before Hiccup’s eye became heavy again, exhaustion tearing at him. It should have been weird to be lying there with his beloved in his arms while her father watched them, but somehow it wasn’t. In the end, it was everything he’d hoped for after all; that Master Hofferson would accept their relationship, would welcome it even. The last thing he noticed before he drifted off into sleep once more was Astrid sighing happily as she snuggled closer against his chest, enjoying their closeness just as much as he did.

. o O o .

Osmond Hofferson, the beefy old blacksmith, watched fondly as the young couple in his living room went back to their well-earned sleep. Neither of them had gotten enough rest last night, and he knew very well that that was his fault. To think that he’d almost let the young man die…

Osmond sighed, and once the couple’s low breathing told him they were fast asleep once more, he stood up and quietly walked back into his small sleeping chamber. It took him a bit of rummaging about in the various shelves and trunks, but eventually, he found what he’d been looking for. It was a wooden carving, nearly two decades old now. The wood was dark, almost black even, the surface smooth. Skilled hands had carved the figure, the hands of a friend.

With a heavy heart, Osmond gazed at what once had been a gift as well as a token for a promise. A promise he’d nearly broken this night. After tugging the figure into a pocket of his warm coat, he left the house, leaving the sleeping couple alone for now. Once outside, he took a deep breath of the pristine winter air that had followed last night’s storm, and then walked up a small hill behind the forge. At its top stood an old tree with twisted branches, inviting everyone to climb them. Fond memories rose in Osmond’s mind, accompanied by a smile as the past came to life once again in his mind’s eye. But then he sobered up again as his eyes landed on the large stone he’d brought up here himself almost twenty years ago. It wasn’t a headstone as there was no grave beneath, but it still served as a reminder.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” Osmond murmured, one hand resting on the stone’s charred surface. “I almost failed you. But from now on, I’ll take better care of your boy, Stoick. I promise.”

He stayed there for a while longer, reminiscing about times long gone with the wooden figure in his hands, before he made his way back to the house. When he entered, he was greeted by cheerful chuckling and the sight of his beloved daughter as she gazed at the young man with those familiar green eyes, holding her in a loving embrace. She looked happier than he’d seen her in years, and that alone should have been enough to convince him of the man’s worthiness. It shouldn’t have needed the fact that he was the son of his lifelong best friend, or the promise he’d given on said friend’s deathbed. The fact that he was apt and had clever hands in addition to a natural talent for forge work and more intricate mechanics surely helped; a reassurance that his workshop would be in good hands. But all that really mattered was that gleam in Astrid’s eyes as they parted from a kiss. All that mattered was that she was happy.

The young couple parted quickly as they noticed him, a slight blush on both their faces as they continued to set the breakfast table. Osmond reacted with a grunt, turning away to hide his emotions. He had no doubts that it wouldn’t take long until this house was filled with life again.

As they all sat down to eat the leftover stew – which suddenly tasted much better than it had last night – Osmond placed the wooden figure on the table in front of the man. Hiccup, he reminded himself, gave it a confused look before he reached for it.

“I… know this style,” he said hesitantly, eyeing the dark wooden dragon from all sides before turning toward Osmond, frowning. “Is this–”

“Take it as a early wedding gift,” Osmond interrupted him, muttering. “From your father.”

. o O o .

Okay... explanation...

This short was inspired by a song, what else. The song is "Diese kalte Nacht" by Faun, a German medieval-style band. The title means This Cold Night, and here's part of the lyrics translated (Credits to Faun):

This night is cold And the wind is blowing And who's outside now is a poor fool Or on the way to the loved one who'sworth every journey

Oh Open up, let me inside Your lover stands in the moonlight This night is so cold So open up Because tomorrow it will be too late

My father watches over house and yard My door is blocking by an iron bar And I do not have a key for it There is no way to me tonight

Okay, so, I'm not a poet. But I guess you get what the song is about. And well... I just had to write this down to get it out of my head... hope you liked it :)

Comments, likes, and rebloggs always welcome! :)

#hiccstrid #hiccstrid fanfiction #hiccstrid Shortstory #hiccstrid one-shot #Hiccup and Astrid #Hiccup Haddock #Astrid Hofferson #httyd #httyd fanfiction #httyd fandom

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yourfriendlyneiborhoodneerdowell · 6 years ago

Text

Waxing Poetic

Ship: Samwise Gamgee x Frodo Baggins

Rating: G

Tags: tooth rotting fluff, sam wants kids, Frodo talks in his sleep, post-quest fix it fic, slight pining.

Description: Sam wonders why he doesn’t feel right having a traditional family.

It was a bright, sunny day in the shire. Spring had brought the flowers to bloom and the grass to feel cool and sweet beneath the feet of the hobbits who inhabited the little land.

Beneath an old oak looking over the rolling hills surrounding bag end lay a peculiar hobbit.

Not of the sort of cheerful folk who walked pushing their barrows to and fro from the market to their cozy smials, but one with a creased brow from countless days of worry and a tired, almost upset look in his pale eyes.

For indeed Frodo Baggins had seen more of the outside than the average hobbit had the mind to. Scars from a chain weighted with an unfathomable burden lay on his breast. A cold wound like a freezing burn still ached on his shoulder.

His small body was worn, for all the healing that had been done simply could not erase the brokenness his journey had caused.

“Ah, here we are Mr. Frodo. I've made summat special this morn for tea. Chamomile and honey, some apple butter gifted last fall by the Took family.” The other hobbit bent to join him on the grass with a sheepish smile, “ And I tried my hand at making some of Mr. Bilbo’s cinnamon scones, hopefully they turned out as good as I'd hoped.”

Frodo rose slightly to grab one of the lovingly prepared, if not misshapen pastries.

“Dear Sam I have told you time and again to address me as Frodo. Nor mister or master, you are no longer a servant. However I thank you kindly for thinking of me, you needn't have gotten up so early and tended to tea. Honestly, you think of everyone but yourself and you know just as well as I that we are both in need of rest.”

He was right, despite the weight he had gained back and the cheery smile which had greeted him. Behind it all there was a definite exhaustion surrounding his friend.

Trusted, faithful Samwise, Frodo thought to himself. If ever he were to settle at bag end with another they would have to be comparable to his dear friend. Not that he ever intended to. For no lass in the shire could bring warmth into his often hollow chest, sense his unpredictable and often times un-gentlehobbitly like mood, and ask nothing in return quite like the gardener of bag end.

As he enjoyed the pleasantries of Sam’s company and the sweet, rejuvenating food the two recollected fond memories as if they were dreams only faintly remembered after deep sleep.

Bilbo’s 111th birthday party, marvelous fireworks and all. The peaceful summers which came after in which Frodo had taken up as the young master of the smial, carefully watching Sam out in the garden. Of the times he had brought out some ancient Sindarin book through which they could puzzle out meaning with their combined knowledge of the elvish language.

It was not long before Frodo realized he had kept on in his dreamlike state and gone back to thinking about Sam. It seemed these days that every pondered road in his mind eventually brought him back to his friend.

Not sure of the meaning he shook himself to reality.

A fondness was what it was, he was simply fond of Sam.

How could he not be? They shared an undeniable bond. Sam had gone without during their days of hunger, braved roiling waters, and even carried him when the weight of the cursed object was to much to bear. In all respects he was loved as family, loved closer than a friend. There was no word which came to mind to describe the feeling woven so deeply in Frodo’s heart for his gardener so fondness it was.

“Sam,” he asked, butterflies starting to form in his stomach. “I was wondering...what will you do now, I mean now that our journey is over?”

Sam took a thoughtful sip of his tea and looked into the distance as if studying something far away.

“I suppose I’ll be tending to the garden as I always have, no reason to let such a splendid thing go to waste.”

Frodo cracked a smile and laughed.

“Of course you will. But beyond the smial? What will you do with yourself Samwise? You’ve a long life ahead and surely you must fill it with more than gardening. What about..” Frodo’s throat suddenly tightened without he himself quite knowing why,

“About Rosie Cotton, you once told me that you dreamed of settling with her?”

Sam piled the tea tray with the leftovers, cheeks turning unmistakably pink as he did so.

“Aye, I did. Or at least I thought so. We’ve been so free with our time lately I’ve been doing a lot o thinkin’. Too much I reckon. The more I think about Rosie, the less I’m thinkin’ about her. Which don’t quite make sense I suppose.”

“No I don’t suppose it does.” Concern filled Frodo, he wished dearly for his friend to be happy after all they had gone through and the thought that Sam was conflicted reminded him of poor Bilbo. He wished very much that Sam wouldn’t find his heart elsewhere and live properly happy in the shire.

“What about your thoughts is troubling you, if I may ask?”

Sam’s eyes shut and he leaned back into the grass as if reaching deep inside himself for an answer that might sound more clear.

“Well Mr. Fr-erm I mean Frodo. It seems fine to think about at first. A house full of bustling babes and a caring, fine lady like Ms. Cotton.”

Sam paused again to think, “However, sometimes I wonder… is it really her that I’m looking for? Begging your pardon if it sounds selfish sir, but I think perhaps it might just be the family I’m missin’. Almost like I can’t wait to have a family of me own. No mistake I’d choose Rosie over any lass in the shire, but I wouldn’t if I could make my own little hobbits without her or any other so to speak.”

Unable to contain himself any longer Frodo tore a handful of grass from his side and watched as it fell gently on his friend’s head, then burst into an unrestrained fit of giggling. He watched as said friend went from pink to a darker shade of red.

“You silly hobbit!” He exclaimed, “You want to be a pa! Without a lass? You sound like Bilbo dear Samwise! I’m sorry I shouldn’t poke fun, but do you intend to be married?”

“Of course married!” Sam huffed indignantly, “Just not to any lass in the shire! I mean if I had to pick I would pick Rosie,”

“Then perhaps another lass?” Frodo’s teasing was starting to become insufferable. “Tell me sam, would you have an elf? Perhaps a fair woman of Gondor? Even a dwarf?”

Frodo immediately regretted such a bold jab when he saw the gardener frown and cast his eyes to the ground, clearly deeply upset.

“No,” he half whined, half whispered. “A hobbit.”

“A hobbit, but just not anyone from the shire. Everyone knows everyone else around here, but truthfully I can’t see meself’ settling with anyone here, if you catch my meaning.”

Frodo, looking puzzled, clasped his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I can’t say that I do, but we will think on it together.” He paused, “So you want a family, and a hobbit lass to settle down with, but no one in the shire strikes your fancy?… Samwise you are a riddle of a lad.”

A soft wind began rustling the leaves on the tree above the two, sweet scents from the garden began to waft in their direction and birdsong had ceased. Frodo yawned unnecessarily loudly and rolled to his belly. He hardly felt the tickle of the turf on his cheeks as began to feel himself doze a little in the pleasant damp of the lawn.

In fact he was on the edge of sleep when thought he felt strong hands around the crook of his legs and back. He settled into the floating feeling, It must be the wind that made him feel as if he was suspended above the ground.

In the briefest moment he thought he caught the sight of golden curls bouncing above him. Someone was looking down at him with tender eyes and soft smile about their lips.

He was sure now that he had fallen asleep, for he recognized the face as his beloved gardener. His hands felt light, drawn toward the figure above. He reached out and cupped sam’s cheek. It felt rough from spending time in the blazing sun.

Sam leaned into the touch and his eyelids fluttered. At this point there was no doubt in Frodo’s mind that he was deeply asleep.

Rationally it was not the wisest of ideas however easy it would be to brush off his talk as rambling. Without the common sense of an alert mind he dared now to call out to his friend.

“Beautiful Samwise who is always at my side when I need him. How I adore you so. How I wish you knew…” He was sad to remember that only in dreams could he express the unexplainable feelings in his small chest to Sam. However it was such a welcome outlet that he continued.

“ Bright as the summer sun, and sweet like the first harvest of fall apples. Strong and diligent in duty. Enviously handsome. My heart beats only for you…”

***

Frodo awoke to a savory smell. He was a little perturbed to find fresh linen about him and a plush pillow underneath his head. Perhaps Sam had carried him to his room after all? He dearly wished not. Although it was not a habit of his to speak whilst sleeping the thought that occurred to him made his body feel frozen and prickly.

Of course it had to be a flight of fancy. Even as a child he had been a quiet sleeper. It was not possible in any conceivable way that any of his thoughts had become audible. This soothed him in the slightest, allowing Frodo to slip from the bed out of his nightshirt and into proper clothes. That was probably Sam’s doing too…

At last he conceded that the only way to be sure of what had actually happened was to go about the rest of the day in his normal fashion and watch for anything peculiar.

And peculiar his day was going to be for as soon as he stepped into the kitchen to see the short figure in dusty brown overalls he heard a distinct clatter as if a cooking utensil had been dropped.

The other hobbit continued to chop the carrots on the counter, his movements getting quicker with each step Frodo took into the room.

“So you’re finally awake then?” A pause like the quiet after a thunderclap echoing behind the words. Frodo already knew what Sam was going to say before he spoke.

“ I never knowed you talked in your sleep sir.” The voice tried to sound casual but the crack in the middle gave away his nervousness.

My god, Frodo thought. He’s heard, he’s heard everything and now he thinks I’m repulsive. He won’t come back after finishing his cooking, tomorrow his father will be up here to inform me that his family no longer wants to have anything to do with the Bagginses. I am a fool, a disgusting fool who should not even dream of being closer to Sam.

Frodo’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t even answer, his throat swelled and he fought viciously to keep tears from his eyes. He wheezed the only reply that would come out of him.

“You’ve done enough today, perhaps you should go home Sam.” Yes, home and as far away as possible from me.

The chopping stopped and Sam turned, body facing Frodo but looking away as if something down the hall was interesting him greatly. The other hobbit wanted to roll into a ball underneath his bedsheets, why had he left his room at all?

A sniffling sound caught his attention. Sam’s eyes hid behind his hair but by the tears dripping down his face Frodo could tell he was Very upset. No longer able to hold in his own feelings the other began sobbing into his hands.

Nothing would be the same again, now that Sam knew.

He waited for the words to come. Vile, horrendous, repulsive. Those were what he felt in his heart.

The sniffing got closer but Frodo couldn’t force himself to take his palms from his eyes. Was Sam so truly upset that he should think of something like hitting him? No, Sam was too kind, too gentle to harm any form of life.

Instead of a smack Frodo felt his right hand gently pulled away by warm, calloused fingers. He could see his friend frighteningly clear now. His hazel eyes deep with overwhelming thought and tears still falling down his flushed cheeks.

“Begging your pardon…” Sam hiccuped, “ Mister Frodo...Blast it! Frodo, would you mind if we had lunch in the living room today?”

He simply nodded in reply fearing the shameful whimpering that may have escaped instead.

At this Sam visibly relaxed, eyes brightening a little. He wiped his eyes and nose across his sleeve. Hurriedly he set about piling together the tray of cold meats, vegetable soup, cheese, crackers and tart jam that was intended to be their lunch. Sam was in and out of the room like a bee at work in a patch of wildflowers. Soon enough Frodo could hear fire crackling in the hearth and the clink of Bilbo’s silver mugs as each was filled with light ale.

Nervously the young master made his way to the next room and then threw himself down on the plush armchair where he often sat to read. This time he quite wished that he could see nothing entirely so he buried himself among the pillows and the old throw blanket on which he was sitting.

Sam came back to quite the sight. Two pale blue eyes, puffy and red about their edges, peeking from beneath a mountain of fabric. Sam didn’t look much better but he had refused to hide like a swatted pup. Seeing his master so afraid hurt indefinitely more than whatever had brought him to tears and he was desperate to clear the look of fear from his eyes.

“It’s ok.” Sam said gently, “ You ain’t hurt no one and I ain’t mad.”

A nose appeared from under the bundle, followed by the rest of Frodo’s head.

“How much have you heard?” His voice trembled audibly.

“Now hold your horses, I asked you if you would eat with me so you could hear me out and help me. What I have or haven’t heard isn’t the topic of conversation. If we started there I fear I should become biased when trying to tell you this darned tangled thought.”

Sam sat near the fire and exhaled to expel hesitation from himself. After offering Frodo food from the tray and making sure he was sipping at least enough of the ale to feel less trapped like a hunted rabbit he judged that it was a good time to restart.

“I’ve had more time to think since this morning, about having a family. I’ve however not been thinking about any sleepy ramblings you’ve been doing.” Sam looked a bit sleepy himself as he lapsed into memory.

“I never noticed the surroundings when thinking about the family I wish for. I’d only thought to notice how happy I was imagining telling your stories to a little hobbit lass sitting on my knee or playing near the garden.

I tried very hard to see what else lie in my daydream. Where I was, who was with me. It weren’t no use. Then I’d noticed you fell asleep sir and well I couldn’t just leave you to lie outside. Seeing you so relaxed put my heart at ease and I was smiling like some dopey tween asked to their first dance. It made me think how glad I was that you’re healing. Maybe you aren’t healed completely, but every little bit feels like a victory for me. Then you looked up.”

Frodo, lightened by the alcohol and the pleased tone of his friend’s voice but not enough so to shed the old blanket, rose and sat next to him inquisitively. Sam let him get settled so as not to rush anything important he needed to say.

“I looked up and?” Frodo’s sniffled.

“And, I knew the answer to my problem. It was like someone had taken my noggin and set it so I was seeing straight again. You looked up and I felt my daydream flash through my mind crystal clear. Me and the young one at bag end. Digging in the garden, rolling down the hill, racing to the door for elevensies. Cold winters sipping cider by the fire, just me and my beautiful family.

Celebrating Yule, watching the summer fireflies together while the babe was tucked up in bed.

Always I would look up to Bag End and sitting on the bench beneath the trees smiling bright as I ever seen one smile, there was you.”

He smiled bashfully, wringing his hands and looking away. Sam knew in his heart why he fancied no lass in the Shire, he knew and as was his nature he’d been honest as best as words could convey. Even if Frodo felt nothing more than a familial bond with him it was enough. Love for the sake of love filled his heart in a way that he should be content no matter the outcome. He had said his piece and was no longer afraid.

Frodo was caught unawares and tongue tied in the worst possible moment. Sam had heard him and refused to take his sleepy ramblings as a confession. He had waited patiently until Frodo could truly confirm the words he spoke. Understanding clocked him over the head like a brick. Sam hadn’t been crying over what he said, he’d been crying about finally resolving a question that had been eating away at him for longer than he had guessed. The great weight lifted off of his shoulders was such a relief that even stout hearted Samwise wept with relief. Still, he didn’t want to assume wrongly, even if he had guessed right. The only way to know was to ask.

“Sam, why were you crying in the kitchen earlier? I was afraid I upset you terribly by some things I might have said. But you found a reason to stay, which didn’t make sense to me at the time.”

“Why never,” a boldness came about the gardener, whether to comfort his friend or express his feelings was beyond Frodo’s guess.

Sam reached out and clasped his hand gently, the sudden contact almost made the young master pull away but Sam’s sturdy reassuring grip calmed him.

“I thought you’d think me a delusional ninnyhammer when I told you that I had figured out what I was missing. But to understand and feel wonderful love that I had not understood before left me right confused.”

Frodo was in definite danger of falling into tears once more. His eyes stung and his heart beat wildly. He did the only thing his body would allow him to.

Throwing the blanket from himself he lept forward into Sam’s arms and buried his heat against his chest. Sam smelled like grass clippings, tulips, sunlight, and all that was beautiful in the world. He was warm and comforting and Frodo could feel the tattoo of his heart against him. Sam pulled him in close and wrapped his arms about the other hobbit.

“If I have said as I think I have, It is true. Oh Samwise, dear Sam, I mean every word with my whole heart. You are brave and faithful, kind and generous. More beautiful than the halls of Lothlorien and more precious than the mithril of the lonely mountain. Sweet as the air after spring rain. I am not simply fond of you Samwise Gamgee, I adore you with all that I am. I apologize for waxing poetic but I just cannot seem to stop myself.”

As easily as if he had done the action a thousand times over Sam lifted Frodo’s face and kissed him gently. There was no over eagerness in either hobbit. Both treated the other as if they would break at the slightest pressure. It was chaste and full of endearment more intimate than any other profession of love one could imagine. In that time they exchanged their hearts, saying all that could not be said in all the languages among middle earth.

It was Sam who finally broke the kiss.

“I’ve always loved your poetry my dear Frodo.”

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