#I sent these ficlets in wax-sealed letters

[skyeventide]

When I, jittery with fury, came to her, she sat me down by the far expanse of the sea. She took my hair, unmade my plaits, she took my hands, unmade their fists. She took my face, unmade my spirit entire. She did not say, my wife-to-be, set aside this jaw-clenching anger, rather word by word she took it, shed light on it, and like the retiring tide it retreated, newly insignificant. We kindled a fire on the shore, warmed our fingers, roasted the crabs. We built castles in the sand for the water to take. We built castles in the air for the ages to ruin. But when I came to her and, gazing in her bright eyes, forgot my fury, I knew that Eru makes many, yet when He made her, my wife-to-be, there would not be another. When He made her, He broke the mould.

— Feanor/Nerdanel for @aipilosse

I sang the winds, and I sang your breath. The sparrow and the hunting hawks, the morning trills and the shriek of the eagles. And you who marvelled at the stars, I sang your lungs to call, your eyes to see, your throats for words. And light air to feed the flames, and the lightness of the ashes, which I carried on a breeze. Scattered as your children in a cold lightless night, I carried you on a breeze past the veil of the world, as I never could carry my own brother, and you were the mirror of his ruin, most cruel of his crimes. To spoil what he could have been, and spoil it twice.

— Manwe on Feanor (and Melkor) for @nyarnamaitar

Kneeling next to Nelyo, I held my father burning. I must confess, while the night came apart, with my nose full of the stinging smell of overheated metal and melted flesh, that I knew despair. I must confess, as I was left with smoke and scorched fingers, that I knew defeat long before it came. I must confess that I knew our approaching failure intimately, even during the years when we held true that we could cheat doom. I must confess that spite, love, and duty kept me living more than breath. Tonight, Nelyo kneels next to me and holds me dying. I do not burn, but that comes as no surprise.

— Curufin and Maedhros for @bleuarte

No such thing, I say, as taming the hawks. I call them, my fist sky-raised, and they perch on my hand, their talons puncturing me through my glove, the ghost of a caress. We enter in a bloody covenant, the hawks and I: they the hunters, I the hunter-lord, and we share in the meat of the trophy. Would I have the heart to hood their heads, shield their eyes, clasp their ankles, and call them mine? Would it that I could. But I lack the heart, the will, the strength. Irisse, thou art the hawks.

— Celegorm/Aredhel for @nailsinmywall

[shamrockace]

A Letter Of A Broken Promise.

This short ficlet is a follow-up to the raid fic It Was Only Supposed To Be Night Flight Training (IWOSTBNFT). This is technically part one of five short follow-up ficlets surrounding the aftermath of the raid fic.

Word Count: 684

TW: Mentions of death/near death/injuries/comas/amnesia, mild hurt comfort, spiralling thoughts, crying, catastrophizing.

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Anemone was sat at the desk in Morgana's home in Bally Owenath. She stared dully at the blank sheet of parchment and ink pot and pen resting on said desk. Her eyes were half glazed over with unshed tears. She choked back a sob.

 She had only just come back after checking on Eamon and Morgana's states. Aiden was still by Morgana's side at the doctor's, so he wouldn't be back until the doctor forces him home.

 Anemone could scarcely believe it, despite having seen it before her. And then she volunteered to write a letter explaining to Morgana's sister that her last living family member nearly died. Anemone desperately tried to blink back the tears.

 What was she going to write? Róisín deserved- no, needed to know about what happened to Morgana.

 God, how was she supposed to explain in a letter that Morgana got caught up in a raid alone and nearly died? How was she supposed to explain that Morgana expended nearly all her magic and was now comatose? How was she supposed to tell Róisín that Morgana might never wake up again? Or that if she did wake up, that there would be a high chance she would have amnesia?

 A fear tears escaped down her cheeks so she wiped them away with the corner of her sleeve. Morgana had nearly died. Could still nearly die. Might not ever wake up. Might never remember anything.

 Anemone's chest heaved as she repressed her sobs. She had promised Róisín that she'd look after Morgana and keep her from doing anything too stupid. And now she had broken that promise and Morgana was comatose.

 Anemone wondered briefly if this is how the Lords had felt after the first attempted assassination on the King's life.

 Anemone blinked to clear her tear-blurred vision and took a few deep breaths. “I can do this. I can write a letter to Róisín. Doesn't matter if it's in a clinical tone. I just need to inform her of Morgana's situation.” She mumbled to herself.

 She picked up the quill and dipped it in the ink. She focussed on her breathing and then began writing out the letter. The scritch-scratch sound of the quill on the paper was soothing.

 Word after word, she wrote. A few stray tear drops splashed into the parchments and Anemone didn't have the energy to redo the letter on a clean piece of parchment.

 The tea she had made not long before settling down to write the letter had gotten cold but Anemone didn't care. It was another familiar thing she could latch onto as she wrote the letter. She felt numb.

 She signed the end of the letter, folded it up, put it in the envelope, and placed the wax seal on it. She would have to go tomorrow and find a messenger to get the letter to Róisín.

 She stumbled out of the chair and sat down on the floor beside the door. Once grounded, she let all her repressed sobs bubble up.

 She wasn't sure how long she sat there, crying her eyes out and contemplating the fate of her friend. Midway through she had realised that had Morgana not been found, she likely would have died and been resurrected as a minion for Anti. She would have become the thing she died fighting. And that thought, that thought of Morgana dying and becoming a minion, it terrified Anemone. She never had to really face the consequences of this war between the Lords and the Enemy. She and Aiden had been lucky, their parents were happy and healthy with their mundane and simple jobs, far from any danger of the monsters and minions of the Enemy. Neither she nor Aiden had actually ever fought or seen a raid, not until last night. Not until they saw Morgana so laying so still in the Western Forest.

 Anemone didn't notice that Aiden was home until a pair of arms wrapped around her in a hug.

 The letter could wait to be sent until the morrow, for now, Anemone needed to rest.

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@dumbthinmint

[triggeringthehealing]

If we met at midnight

Summary: Their kingdom is small, dependent on alliances with their neighbours. When Stiles was barely ten, the strongest one was forged again, with the Hales of the Wolf Kingdom. He was too young to be anything but a bystander, but he remembers the night they met.

A/N: Written for the Full Moon Ficlet challenge on Livejournal - prompt #220: correspondence Title is from Hanging Tree from the Hunger Games soundtrack.

Derek/Stiles || G || ~1k || AO3

It was only ever meant to be letters. Rectangles of paper sealed with wax, containing sheets filled with words carefully written out with ink and quill. Missives carried across the border by messengers sworn to secrecy, the contents and existence kept away from prying and disapproving eyes.

And they were nothing but letters for years. Simple, easy, without gravity and free of consequence. Just words exchanged between people who knew almost nothing of each other before the first message crossed borders.

When Stiles sits down to write, it’s with the memory of the ball that started it all. The last one that his mother attended before falling ill, the one that he went to willingly, despite the need to dress up in clothes he found restricting. He danced with her, even though he was barely ten years old and nowhere near tall enough or skilled enough to be a worthy dance partner. She never let him believe that though, always whispered into his ear that she preferred dancing with him than anyone else, Stiles’ father included.

“Your father steps on my toes,” she’d say, smiling fondly, then she’d laugh when Stiles would look down on where he was standing on her toes to make him that little bit taller.

It was an important night. The ball was held to celebrate an alliance with the kingdom in the north, the Wolf Kingdom as Stiles knew it. His father spent most of it conferring with Queen Talia of the Hales, leaving his mother free to entertain Stiles, whom they knew to get bored at functions.

When Claudia got drawn into a conversation with the Hales’ eldest daughter Laura, Stiles snuck out into the gardens. The night was growing long and the function boring, since most children had been sent to their beds by then. Stiles, as the hosts’ offspring, had been given a later bedtime than usual, and he was planning to make the most of it. There was a spot in the garden he’d rarely seen at night, only allowed there in the company of his parents, and he headed straight for it when he slipped out of the ballroom.

He walked down the torch lit path, then into the darkness when he reached the end. The corner of the garden he was going to was off limits at night to anyone, though his mother brought him there a few times, and he knew that his parents visited it occasionally -- he’d seen them from his window when he couldn’t sleep.

Stiles knew what was past the rose arch at the end of the path, and yet he was still trembling in anticipation when he walked through. Even during the day, it always felt like he was walking into a different world, into somewhere magical and not yet discovered. At night, it looked even more so.

The tree was looming over the open space, casting shadows as the moonlight tried to slip past the leaves and branches. Around the thick trunk, Stiles could see the flickering lights of fireflies that made the place look ethereal, bewitching. It was why he snuck out here, to see it without disturbing the peace with chatter -- whenever he was here with his mother, they’d taken to telling each other stories of fairies and witches and sparks.

He was too mesmerised by the play of shadows and light to spot the boy who sat on the rock just out of Stiles’ line of sight. When he did, surprise was quickly pushed out of the way for protectiveness and caution.

“Hey, you shouldn’t be here,” Stiles said, barely louder than a whisper.

The boy didn’t respond, but looked at Stiles like he’d wanted to say the same right back. There was just enough light cast on the boy’s face that Stiles recognised him.

“You’re a Hale…” he said. “Derek.”

He saw the nod, but still no words of acknowledgment or any sign that Derek knew who Stiles was. It was impossible to not know, the Hale family had been introduced to the Stilinskis a long time ago, and then again whenever new members came for visits or negotiations.

But it was clear that Derek didn’t want to talk, and that was just fine with Stiles, since he came here to experience the place in silence. He spared one more glance to his companion, and then walked over to the tree trunk. When he sat down on the ground between the protruding roots, it felt like the fireflies took notice. Stiles lifted his hands towards them and a few of them flickered as they moved closer to his fingers.

When the tips of his fingers tingled and let out a few sparks, he heard the intake of breath from the rock where Derek was sitting.

“You’re magic,” Derek whispered then, low enough that Stiles almost missed it.

This time it was Stiles who refused to respond, and he focused back on the hints of magic that he knew he had, but hadn’t learned to wield just yet. Minutes passed, and Stiles amused himself with sparking back at the fireflies as he watched them approach and them fly away again.

He was about to lie down on the ground to watch the play of the moonlight and fireflies between the branches when he heard Derek moving.

“Mietek!”

Stiles scrambled off the ground and turned around sharply, coming face to face with his father.

“You’ll be the death of me one day.”

“I’m sorry, father,” Stiles said meekly, but he knew he didn’t sound convincing at all.

“Come on, your mother’s been looking for you,” King Janusz said.

When Stiles looked up, it wasn’t him whom his father was looking at, but Derek.

“My apologies,” Derek said quietly. “I needed a little bit…”

“I understand, son, but you should head back now. Your family was looking to retire to their chambers.”

Derek nodded and slipped past the King, vanishing in the darkness with only a glance back at Stiles, failing to disguise the soft smile on his lips. Stiles smiled back, but the smile faded when he looked at his father’s disapproving face.

“Come on, it’s time for you to sleep, Mietek.”

Stiles frowned at his father’s use of his given name, far fonder of the nickname that his mother has been using since he was little. But he followed his father down the path and to the castle.

He asked his mother to help him with the first letter the day after the Hales left.

[shamrockace]

Please Don’t Die, We’re All We Have Left.

This short ficlet is a follow-up to the raid fic It Was Only Supposed To Be Night Flight Training (IWOSTBNFT), A Letter Of A Broken Promise (ALOABP), The Broken Promise Letter (TBPL). It is also a follow-up fic to the non raid related piece, Connor, Missing In Action. This ficlet is technically part four of five short follow-up ficlets surrounding the aftermath of the raid fic.

Word Count: 788

TW: Mentions of death. Implied death/near death/injuries/comas, Panic, Crying, etc.

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 Róisín was walking down a hallway in Fort Stiofán, on her way back to her room after a long day of work. She was concerned, it had been a few days since the raids that occurred all of the Kingdom. She couldn't help but worry over whether Morgana, Anemone, and Aiden were okay or if they had gotten caught up in a raid. She desperately wished there was a way she could contact any of them to check.

 She was pulled out of her thoughts when a voice rang out through the halls followed by running footsteps.

 “Ah! Wait! Excuse me! You don't happen to be Róisín Spewraith, do you?” The person speaking sounded very out of breath.

 Róisín stopped walking and turned around to face the speaker and to let them catch up. The speaker looked vaguely familiar. “Yes, that's me, why do you ask?”

 “Oh good! I've got a letter for you! Uhh, from a girl named Anemone? She put the first wax seal before deciding to go career, and so took the old seal off, put the payment in, and then resealed it with the special career seal.” The Career Runner rambled, rummaging around their mailbag for the letter before handing it over. They looked awfully anxious the entire time.

 Róisín smiled. “It's fine, I believe you.” She took hold of the letter. “Thank you.”

 Then she carefully broke the seal and opened the letter. Spying the money at the bottom of the envelope, she fished it out and handed it over to the career runner.

 The career runner took the money with a smile. “Thank you! Have a nice day! Bye!” They said, immediately sprinting away, probably to go deliver the next bit of mail.

 Róisín started walking back to her room again but her worry for her sister caused her to start reading the letter as she walked. Immediately she noticed that the letter's parchment was slightly warped from water damage and it looked like it had caused the ink to run slightly in a few spots. She frowned and checked the envelope which was crisp and undamaged.

 A feeling of dread crept up on Róisín. It couldn't have been the career runner if the envelope was fine. The damage must've been caused before Anemone passed it to the career runner.

 The parts of the parchment where it had warped and where the ink had run looked similar to damage caused by tears.

 Róisín scanned the letter quickly. It was short. But not too short. Róisín let a sigh of relief felt somewhat hopeful. The letter was too long to be a K.I.A. or an M.I.A. letter. That was good news.

 Her relief did not last long though. Once having ascertained that this wasn't one of those letters, she read the letter from the beginning slowly. The dread she felt early returned after seeing the first sentence.

 She felt a sickening wave of nausea. She lifted her hand to cover her mouth as her eyes brimmed with tears. “No, no, please no.” She whisper-begged as her eyes read that first sentence again and again and again. Nearly the exact same first sentence as Connor's M.I.A. letter had. She felt sick. She felt like the floor was falling beneath her feet and that the world was crashing down upon her, suffocating her.

 Scrawled in Anemone's familiar scrawl, were the words 'I regret to inform you of your sister's current state.'

 She felt overwhelmed as the memory of her opening Connor's M.I.A. letter and seeing the first half of the first sentence; 'I regret to inform you of your brother's current state.'

 Róisín gripped the letter in her hand tightly, holding back sobs. She let go with one hand to wipe away her tears so she could keep reading.

 Every word she read sent her on a rollercoaster of conflicting emotions and by the time she reached the end, she felt so drained and so terrified.

 Her back hit the wall and slid to the ground, the letter clutched against her chest.

 She needed to see Morgana. She had to be there for her, whilst she's in such a dire state.

 She dragged herself to her feet and stumbled her way back to her room as tears blurred her vision and started to pack. She wouldn't be gone long, just until Morgana got better or…

 Róisín stifled a sob, shoulders shaking with the effort.

 She would have to apologise to Nurse Dawn for leaving so suddenly. She knew she had so much paperwork unfinished but she desperately needed to see Morgana.

 She couldn't lose her, not like how they lost Connor.

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@dumbthinmint