#Rough Diamonds Trusted Vendors

[seiberries]

bachira meguru : as aladdin hcs

warnings: mention of death but no one actually dies.

+ but guys he’s just so cute :( if you guys like i’ll make a longer version, this is just an idea that came to me suddenly! :>

aladdin!bachira meguru who, while poor in material things- is rich in heart. a diamond in the rough, some might say. while he had to steal to eat, he didn’t necessarily enjoy it. outsmarting the palace guards who never seem to catch him was another thing entirely though, he quite enjoyed the chase.

aladdin!bachira meguru who falls for you at first glance. enamored by your appearance, he is fast to notice you being threatened by a vendor for giving fruit to a beggar without paying. ah, you were kindled spirits, no? providing you with assistance, he fools the vendor and leads you away with him peacefully... until his pet monkey is caught with stolen jewelry.

“guards! a thief!”

aladdin!bachira meguru who grabs your hand and runs. you see the light hit his face as you two runaway, together. you were enamored too, it seemed. over buildings, under bridges, you see the world in a new light with the still unnamed boy. he holds you hand the entire way until you reach a point of dead end, for walking, at least.

aladdin!bachira meguru who waits for you. he had used a pole to get to the rooftop of the building across from where you were, brave, and courageous without a doubt. you on the other hand, were terrified. what if you fell? you could get injured from head to toe... or even die; you could feel your face drop in worry at the consequences. father wouldn’t let you hear the end of it if you were captured either, you had to run.

aladdin!bachira meguru who you see briskly laugh from his spot. his gold-like eyes looking at yours, he smiles knowingly at your expression. opening his mouth, he voices out a question to you.

“do you trust me?”

a pause of silence occurs. you undoubtedly did trust this stranger, nodding as a response.

aladdin!bachira meguru who catches you in his arms when you land. his arms were tightly hugging your torso, your hands positioned at the back of his neck. you look up to see his face in close proximity, his eyes really were golden. they shined brighter than anything you had seen before. you pulled him in closer subconsciously, not realizing the red on the boy’s cheeks.

aladdin!bachira meguru who feels shy under your gaze. you looked at him like he held the world, though he owned nothing in it.

[savannalocalminers]

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[caratbeeblogs]

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[rrasado]

• Serpentine Warning •

A long ago written fic finally seeing the light of day. Talk of a lavishly thrown banquet had reached your attention, will you risk the seeping venom to partake in the labyrinth of genuine deceit?

Semi Slow burn, potential enemies to lovers, set in an older time period.

Tag a snake stan perhaps?

The estate where the Asim family resided can be described by an array of metaphors, usually falling among one of three classifications. A genie’s threshold where anything you wish regardless of foolishness, may be granted by miracles possible in wealth. An endless catalyst for the wonders of the very scalding sands merchants traverse in the name of prosperity. And the more unpleasant.. A den of vipers waiting to feast on sinners unworthy of the world’s finest gold. Just how exactly these whispers of two way grandeur came to be, was a tale left to be told by whoever managed to avert their longing.

Despite the countless uncertainties that surround the estate, we are but only human where it’s in our nature to go after what we can’t reach in hindsight. Ambition? Desire? Greed? Time and time again these fickle reasons plague the human heart, try as you might but not even the rush or lack of blood can disprove the temptation whenever one lays their eyes on the doors looming the visage of fools. Had you been none the wiser…would you have turned away? Or did the venom already entice you before you could take one step on the embellished tiles?

How pitiful…then again, so was he.

—

The heat wasn’t all that forgiving, neither was the vendor you tried talking to in hopes of gathering a bit of knowledge regarding that diamond in the rough, a building that can never be missed for a mirage in this literal desert. A subtle sneer left their lips before finally caving in due to your state.

“That gold den-er- estate is where Asim and his family live, with more children than a run of the mill town, there ain’t wondering why it beats the property size of the capital…”

Eyes blinked in thought over what the vendor said, a promising beast tamer such as yourself had seen many things over your travels, a wealthy family isn’t inherently new but this was a different case. One may even call it dire.

“Asim… say, sir. How well do they take to guests.?”

That vendor soon relished in his fit of cackles, hand waving before reaching for the side of his stained turban. It was obvious he didn’t think of the question seriously, much less taking this new face traveler in a genuine manner. How can he? 

“Listen kid- they may not be royalty or sultan in status but trust me when I tell ya that-”

A mere single coin was thrown over his counter, the gold glint of maddol caught the vendor’s eye but he merely shook his head before pushing back the money over to you.

“-regardless of tipping, this is just friendly advice. Call it hm..good deed? Good karma? Whatever the shaftland folks call it- unless you’re a big shot yourself you’ can't exactly waltz over to their door and expect to be received lightly”

The traveling beast tamer could only sigh in response, but his honesty was appreciated at least. Old eyes scanned your reaction, it wasn’t entirely rare for merchants to just come and aim for a hook with the Asims but observing you told him that you had pure intentions. He coughed to get your attention to which you gingerly complied by looking back up at him.

“Buuut those folks are holding a public banquet or something along those lines- rich folk get bored in confusing ways honestly” 

With newfound hope and turning on their heels they gave one final wave to the vendor, before turning their gaze over to him once he was a good distance away. Pulling down the hood of their worn out cloak to flash a genuine grin.

“I’ll take your word for it, thank you again”

He could only grin in giddiness when he found a few of his fruits gone in exchange for twice their price. Maybe Shaftland morals work after all, he thought.

What exactly was your goal here? Simple really… as simple as trying to find a place to stay for the week is. Let’s rewind shall we? The worn out cloak on your back covers the brooch one called Dire Crowley bestowed on you, as his student in the art of beast taming. Yet it’s that very same man who gave one ambitious assignment before you can be truly called a full fledged beast tamer.

‘Reach the other end of the map, your prize and insignia as a beast tamer will wait for you. Aren’t I so gracious for molding you into a fine veteran of your field~? But a good beast tamer must be able to withstand the curses of the world just as their beast can withstand the orders of their master. Use any means necessary, just make sure to get to your destination.’

You can still hear the echoes of his frivolous laughter in your head, or were the effects of the sun’s heat already taking effect? Either was just as bad as the other truth be told. Recalling the old vendor’s words, you hoped that you’d stumble upon a kind host within that banquet, the sun was at its afternoon peak so you should still have a bit of time to prepare. An inn would’ve been an option if you actually manage to find one not crawling with greedy thieves. The last one you tried had almost stolen your brooch! Life was hard, even you  understood that, resorting to a life of crime isn’t gonna keep you on the brighter side of life… that’s what you’d like to believe anyways.

Your train of thought came to an abrupt stop when you harshly bumped into someone, two grunts collided rendering you both to retreat. Lost in your own lamentation you failed to notice someone carrying what looked to be bags of fruits and vegetables…a bit too much for one simple family dinner you thought.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t looking-”

“Don’t, no need…”

Velvet like voice ringed in your range of hearing, only now did you observe the man you’ve had the misfortune of bumping into. Dark hair cascaded down his back in sets of braids embedded with bits of gold. You immediately kneeled down to help collect the scattered fruit muttering a string of apologies to which he didn’t say much on rather, focusing his attention on reorganizing his bought goods. You look up only to be met with deep charcoal gray eyes, laced with neither gratitude nor disdain. Perhaps the sun’s heat was beginning to take its toll on your senses but all you knew was that he had already finished recovering from the nasty fall.

Without being given another chance to apologize he briskly stepped past you and left the scene, earning a scoff on your end for his rude conclusion but then again you did admit that it was partially your fault… And yet you couldn't help but to feel a tad bit irate with how passive he was with your sincerity, the least someone could've done was communicate normally, yes?

The thought only made your head hurt, refusing to succumb to the heat’s effects. You shook your head and allowed your steps to take you to a well shaded area. The formation of the dry plants along the stone benches told you that this was supposed to be some sort of park. Was it well kept? In a way perhaps one could call it that… So with a heavy sigh you rested until it was time.

—

Any blemish within the estate's reputation burns and disappears on certain nights. Just like this moment where your feet are leading you to the tall gold encrusted doors where guests of all status are pouring in like moths drawn to a flame, the open banquet was truly an enchanting fire to behold. With the occasion being held by none other than the merchant Asim, said to be a monarch of the trade world but such descriptions were never left spineless. This open banquet where even the poorest of street rats or the richest of peacocks may make merry in the name of festivity. Was this a flaunt of wealth? Power? Influence? A warning? An invitation? It always depends on who's asking. 

The outside should've given you a sufficient heads up for what lies beyond the doors, the towering structure against the twilight sky felt ethereal from afar sure but when the heel of your shoe made contact with the carpet…

“-to your liking is it?”

Gaze locked with sharp serpentine like eyes, your attention piqued the moment the tall male gave a small smile. It was the same man from earlier...only now did your eye catch the circular bronze tray under his arm, was he a staff here perhaps? It didn’t take you much to notice his mannerisms. They were attentive with an air of caution. A small nod was given in return to his inquiry, laced with the slightest bits of bittersweet respect.

“Yes, its reputation precedes it…”

He gave a slow nod, when he first bumped Into you he didn't think much of the accident, simply writing it off as that- an accident. Your attire did gave him a vague idea but now that you stepped foot on the family's estate? He couldn't tell whether you'd still remain as a forgettable face on today's boisterous event. Jamil subconsciously gripped the tray tighter, deeming your presence as something to try and minimize contact with. He needed to do that while everyone was at their lightest, he heard your conversation with that old vendor earlier- a beast tamer at a time like this? It posed a threat to his otherwise calculated plan of action.

There was something about his gaze that made you feel on edge, yet it wasn’t the type that urged you to stay away. Earlier you could barely observe any display of emotion under the scorching sunlight but now it's effect was the opposite, the feeling left you standing where you stood, eyes lingering to his distanced figure. 

"You should scurry along then…loitering won't do you much good"

And here you thought he'd at least hold the hospitable front a bit longer. Your first impression of him had no immediate mark but now he was finessing his way over to your iffy list. Gingerly following his advice you gave an instinctive scoff, hastily walking to a safer spot where you wouldn’t be blocking the entrance. What was it with him? Dropping by and whisking out of your sights the next, it was as if he was purposely doing it. The mere thought was provoking on your end and had you been none the wiser perhaps you would've tailed that man. 

You did your best to put those thoughts to rest, making small talk with most of the guests in hopes of finding a good host for travelers such as yourself. Standing next to these lavishly dressed personnel felt humbling, truth be told, each parading their utmost worth for the public eye. You weren't too low on the tier of prestige, showing elements of sage Island fashion with the addition of your dearly loved brooch pinned to the left of your chest. A prospect beast tamer like yourself earned you your fair share of charismatic talks, perhaps associating with that oh so gracious bird kept your social ammunition full and loaded. 

Talk led you down the line of guests, eventually coming into contact with the king of merchants himself. Despite being new around these parts there was just a certain air of luxury radiating off of the grinning man you're currently conversing with. If you possessed a keener sense of smell there were faint traces of foreign herbs laced on his person here and there. 

"Why- if it's a place you need then I have rooms upon rooms for guests of your sort! It'd be a shame if a student of Crowley couldn't even be treated accordingly!"

You had to suppress a cough when he patted your back with the slightest bit of force, lost in his own glee of receiving yet another fine guest at his humble abode.

"W-why thank you for your hospitality sir. I'll be sure to inform my mentor of your gracious act"

This was what earned your ticket to a safe haven of rest, you thought, not catching the way he called for someone to come over.

"Oh you're too kind my child- your field is an art to behold! I'm quite a fan myself if I'm being honest, Oh the menagerie you'd love it! Who knows you might be even able to assist in taming this new find we had shipped from the north!-  ah but where are my manners? Look at this old man bombarding the youngster with his nonsense- I'll have you escorted by someone to your quarters."

The shared smiles on your faces dropped when you saw who exactly your escort was. They say once was happenstance, twice was coincidence and third…

"Oh? If that's the case...then I'll see to it that they arrive there safely"

...three times is enemy action.

"Thank you Viper, you're in good hands here my dear guest"

"Is that so…"

The grand chandeliers reflected a golden hue over his expression, displaying sharpness for whatever he was intending to do. You of all people would know what that foretold, reading a beast's mannerisms were part of your skills and only few would admit that it was the same with people.

Jamil in turn observed your expression, it was one he himself had to be cautious of. He's served this estate all his life and that guard you refuse to lower would either hinder or work in his favor. Keeping formalities in mind he gave a partial bow to your figure where even his master can see the servant's deed. Subtly extending an arm forward for you to take.

One week, for one week neither of you are free from the other's thoughts. And had you known it would have cost you your tranquil peace of mind, you wouldn't have jumped into this den of venom. Nor would've you accepted his hand for guidance, calloused yet tender warmth left as soon as it met your own skin.

A/N: This is a starter fic, should demand call for it then a continuation will be given 👀. Jamil is fun to write and He'd be more fun to characterize in a situation where his priorities and morals will be compromised.

[snackhobi]

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 11.8k / genre: tea witch!reader, nonwitch!jimin, growing up and finding your place in the world; fluff

summary: be careful, his mother would say. witches don’t care for mundane humans. be polite, do your business, but then leave. don’t linger. it’s not safe.

park jimin feels lost and alone and he’s still looking for home. but something unspoken leads him to your door—a witch who brews tea to match the stories and sadness that spill from his lips. a witch who gives him a question that he has to repay with an answer. (after all, you always have to pay a witch their dues.)

warnings/rating: SFW - talk of negative self thoughts, but that’s it I think! (so I suppose it’s a little angsty but it clears up dw :) )

a/n: thank you to the lovely @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this, ily queen!! the majority of teas mentioned are by the company bird & blend, and where possible I’ve inserted links to the exact teas I’ve included (so I suppose you could buy them yourself if you wanted to 👀)

edit [24/09/20]: please see the end of the story for an extra author’s note. -- Jimin is wet.

Jimin is tired, and sad, and lonely, but these are all things he's intimately familiar with, monochrome burden curled around his limbs and his heart, dragging him under their relentless weight. A familiar Sisyphean torture. Struggling against gravity only to be brought hurtling down once again. Yes, he's used to it by now.

But the wetness? That's new. Rain paints him with messy strokes, laid slick and cold across his body, soaking through clothes to skin to bone, reaching and curling chilled fingers into the heat of his insides. His shivers are full-bodied, every atom of his soul dripping rainwater, and Jimin—

Jimin wants to go home.

(He just doesn't know where that is, now.)

(Doesn't know if he's ever going to find it here.)

People rush past him. A sea of lifted hoods, unfolded umbrellas, crumpled newspapers— an array of protection from the downpour, some effective, some less so, but each offering at least a modicum of shielding. Hasty armour against the heavens. 

Jimin is not so lucky. His pockets are empty and his jacket has no hood. Sodden blond hair guides tributaries down his face, the back of his neck, rainwater rivers that touch him so soft, so cold. Just more weights on the scale that are tipping him down, down, down.

(He's so tired.)

(He's so lost.)

The city becomes a different beast in the rain, grey and hazy, heaving with bodies, and Jimin has been swept up and spat out, road signs useless, phone dead, passersby more intent on their own destination than his. Too busy to spare a glance for the soaked boy who stands aside, out of the shifting tides of people, out of place.

(He's used to that, too.)

But then: a touch. Feather-light. A breath of wind, the gentlest curl of fingers as it brushes over his rain-slick cheek; a summer breeze, dappled sunlight and rose tinted warmth.

He turns into that touch, turning his head into that ephemeral hand, chasing the sensation of sun-hot air, and then, it hits him—

the smell.

(Sea salt and pale waves, a view that stretches on forever and falls into nothingness, endless skies and deep waters; cold across his skin and in his nose as he breathes in Songjeong beach, fills his lungs with the mellowed chill. The sand is a familiar soft roughness under his feet as he stares across the horizon, out to the world beyond, so close he can almost touch it.) 

(Frying pastry, sticky street food, the smell of hot oil as the vendor flips the ssiat hotteok; air sweet with brown sugar and warm yeast, round and plump and full of seeds, a delicious crunch against his teeth. Laughter fills his ears and his lungs, as sweet as the sugar on his fingers, his lips, warmth and happiness and light.)

(Fish tang, salt and wet; the bustling yell of the fish market, fat shrimp and slick squid and rough oysters, fresh from the sea; everything breathing and shuffling and so alive, air full of the brightness of it all, edged with brine, sharp. He cuts through the choppy waves of people, treading a path that’s drawn by his steady feet, guiding him through this place he knows so well.)

Here, Jimin stands in the rain of Seoul, and all he can smell is Busan, Busan, Busan.

All he can smell is—

All he can smell is home.

(Home, that place of comfort, carved out in the heart of his memories, when he was younger and smaller and burned brighter; rose tinted and past perfect, unchangeable.)

Something stirs in his stomach. Something far reaching, but light, that soft curl of salt air brushing past the cold rain that's filled him.

He follows it.

(After all, it couldn't possibly take him somewhere that's worse than where he already is.)

--

Jimin has only met two witches in his life.

For the first, he was young, all chubby cheeks and small hands—he’s lost the round cheeks but the small hands have stayed.

He can easily recall the grizzled edges of the witch’s face and the deep solemnity in his voice. He’s a cliffside of a man, unbending and awe inspiring in his earthly solidness, almost terrifying; skin with pockmarks like crags, sandstone rough and chipped, eyes flint-hard and unchanging as he squats down to look at Jimin. The only thing that keeps him from bolting is his mother’s presence at his shoulder, hand warm in his, holding him tight and safe.

The witch is a monolith, and that scares Jimin. But whatever concoction the man passes over to Jimin’s mother—after she gives him jars of their family-recipe kimchi, spice and salt and sour—finally clears up the cough that’s been lingering in his throat for weeks, squeezing his lungs and throat, so he’s happy. (Even if his lips taste like sickly sweet aniseed and something deeper, something he still can't name).

For the second, he was all pubescent awkwardness, limbs still so short and yet so ungainly and gangly, a cygnet still shedding the grey plumage of his youth—desperate to reach the signature elegance and grace of a swan, all curved neck and crystal feathers and perfection.

This witch is all hard, perfect edges, glittering diamond, beautiful, untouchable; hair a dark waterfall around her face, lashes long, lips red, perfect curves and yet still so sharp. Terrifying. She eyes Jimin with something bordering on disdain, but disdain would require him to be worth her time. (He’s not.)

But he comes with payment, bundles of samphire he picked from the coast with bare hands, fat and green and salty, and so she deigns to give him a moment of that time. The metal charm is cold in his palm, ice and fire, but it works—Jonghee finally notices him, sees him, smiles at him. (Even if their relationship only lasts two weeks, a short lived school romance, she never would have looked at him twice without the charm that’s tucked in his pocket, drawing her gaze.)

Both witches had carried power like a cloak about their shoulders. Heavy around them, magic weighty and dark, smoke and fumes. Both were so different, but cut from the same cloth; clouds in the distance, sparking with lightning and weighty with rain.

Never cross a witch, they say. Always pay your dues, they say. Never approach a witch without knowing what you want, and never approach a witch without appropriate payment, ready to strike an accord, reach an agreement. One thing for another, tit-for-tat, keeping the scales even.

Witches are dangerous, they say.

(Be careful, his mother would say. Witches don’t care for mundane humans. Be polite, do your business, but then leave. Don’t linger. It’s not safe.)

(But witches keep their word. A promise from a witch is ironclad and unbreaking, written in stone. They’re dangerous, and you should always be wary, but there are rules they cannot and will not break. 

In a way, it’s easier to trust a witch more than anyone else, because they’ll always honour an agreement. Jimin might not have spoken to a witch in years, now, but he knows this: if a witch gives you their word, it’s worth more than its weight in gold.)

--

Jimin’s feet—so skilled at treading the sea slick sands of Busan’s beaches—are unsteady on the firm concrete of Seoul’s streets. But still, he follows them. They tread a path he doesn’t know, tracing directions he cannot see, but it’s impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

Ley lines cross. They settle here, a soft X drawn in smudged pencil on a finger-worn map, and Jimin stops. 

The sign in the window says closed. At least, Jimin thinks it does, but then he blinks, and it’s almost like the words have rearranged themselves: open. 

The building is unassuming, nestled between two others, a stunted tree surrounded by towering redwoods, but it’s this shopfront door that draws his eye—duck-egg, blue green, the colour of new life, the morning sea, the ebbing tide. The sign that hangs above is wooden, a little faded, but in a way that suggests comfort and not disrepair; like an old jumper, worn soft with age, but still warm, still loved.

Aurora. 

A spark of light catches his eye. A glint, a dazzle, pulling his gaze towards it: below the sign, windchimes, circling a piece of quartz, catching the sunlight that's swallowed by clouds. It glitters at him through the rain. Even in the harsh breeze, the chimes are almost still, gently singing, soft voices whispering under the sound of falling water.

The door seems to swing forward at the lightest touch of Jimin’s gaze, already open, opening further. Beckoning him in. 

The smell of sea fills his senses.

The quartz throws refracted light over him, lines between each colour sharp and defined despite the rough hewn edges, a rainbow that shines even brighter on the dark wetness of his clothes as he steps through; the windchimes ring out, a crystalline murmur, and then the door eases shut behind him.

It’s warm. It’s warm, and dry, and serene. Light slants in through the windows, dulled by the rain but still painting the room in white and gold. Everything is in its place, neat and quiet and cheerful, a spray of pastel crocuses in a lopsided, handmade clay vase on the counter. The counter is clear while the rest of the room is full; busy shelves and wall hangings and a garland that has the shifting phases of the moon, crescent-quarter-gibbous-full; glittering geodes, polished crystals, water smoothed pebbles; half burned candles, jars and bottles and shells, all crowding against each other.

The whole place hums with magic. But unlike the magic Jimin has felt before, sulphur sour at the back of his throat, burned tobacco in his lungs, this is gentle, all encompassing—like a kitchen warmed by a busy oven, full to the brim with bread, filling the room with its scent and heat. 

Jimin feels out of place. He’s wet and dark and sad, drip-drip-dripping dirty rainwater on the hardwood floor. Hair hangs into his eyes, and he’s small and cold, almost bowing under the wet of the weather that clings to him. He shivers, caught up in the chill.

“Jinnie? Are you back already?”

A voice calls to him, out of sight. Jimin looks away from the mug and open book that lies on the counter, ring mark caught by the sliced geode coaster, sparkling copper green and jade.

“Did you forget to bring your charms? I told you to double check your bag before you left. I’m not done yet, anyway, I—”

Blink, blink. Wide eyed, soft and slow, surprised into stillness.

You look like comfort. It’s like someone’s taken a soft winter’s evening and turned it into a person—jumper big and thick weave warm, hair a softened mess, dangling earrings that look like little cherries, bare feet, skin touching the warm wood floor, mug in hand that coils with steam. Like a fireplace that flickers warmth and light in the cold.

Your pretty mouth is a little open, poised to speak another word that fails to come as you blink at Jimin.

“You’re not Jin,” you say, instead.

Drip, drip. Shying away from that doe-eyed gaze, Jimin looks down at his feet.

“The sign said open,” he mumbles, wanting to fold in on himself, a sodden origami crane that collapses under its own weight.

“It did?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your tone, but then a drip of rainwater trails down Jimin’s nose and falls, a teardrop of crystal. Your voice turns soft. “Oh, dear. No, of course it did. You’re soaking. Come on, come in. Take your shoes and coat off, leave them by the door. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

You leave no room for argument, disappearing back the way you came. Jimin is shocked into stillness, but then you reappear with a soft cream towel, an uplift to your eyebrows that looks expectant. Jimin pulls his worn shoes off, leaving them in self-created puddles at the door, jacket hung on the curved arms of an old coat rack.

The towel is warm around his neck and in his hair, cotton soaking up wetness with unnatural ease. The warmth of his surroundings is seeping in, chasing away the chill that’s settled in his bones, and when Jimin perches on the chair you’ve pulled out for him, he feels a little better. Not much, but a little, and that’s more than he can ask for.

The tea room is cluttered, racks of glass jars, some full to the brim, others almost empty, washed-out white and green and brown, some bright with full flower buds, some muted with dried berries and fruit; strings of dried orange slices hang from the ceiling above, surrounded by scatterings of bundled flowers and leaves. And yet, somehow, under the smell of bubbling water and dried tea, that tang of salt lingers, light on Jimin’s tongue.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to talk about it?”

(In Seoul, no one has time for Jimin. Their eyes are closed off, hard, absorbed in themselves, their own problems—Jimin understands. Life is difficult, and it can be an uphill struggle, everyone so hungry, starved. Just like him. Trying to scrabble for a foothold in a mountain that’s been worn smooth by generations of grasping hands before him.)

The look you give Jimin is soft, and warm, and open; the look a mother gives a child when they fall and scrape open their knee. No pity, no judgement, just empathy.

“No,” Jimin says. Then: “Yes.” Then, after a long, lingering silence: “I don’t know where to start.”

You let out a little hum, patient, encouraging, reaching for two mismatched cups; one, soft camellia pink, the other, dark blue, bumpy ceramic, deep ocean waves.

“How about you start with how you’re feeling?”

How he’s feeling?

(How is he feeling?)

(Lost. Lonely. Alone. Like he’s caught in a riptide, and no matter how much he swims, the shore is growing further and further away; adrift and out to sea, swallowed by merciless waves.)

(Like he should have listened to the cautious words of everyone back home. Like he’d set himself up for failure from the moment he’d set his sights on Seoul, on success.)

(Like he’s never been good enough, will never be good enough, and he should have known that.)

Jimin doesn’t—Jimin doesn’t want to show you this raw, aching part of him, fit messily between his lungs. 

He doesn’t have to tell you anything. He doesn’t have to peel back the skin of his chest and lay himself bare.

--

But for the first time since he’s stepped foot onto Seoul’s soil, Jimin feels seen.

--

His words are slow and faltering.

Jimin is out of practice, talking about himself, the things that he keeps small and folded away in quiet corners of his heart, but you listen. You hum and shift and move, opening jars, closing jars, weighing out loose leaves, eyes intent on your work.  Maybe that’s what makes it easier. 

You’re not staring at Jimin, watching as he strips himself raw. You’re watching the fire that flickers on the small burner, water bubbling and almost boiling, but not quite. Not yet. You’re watching your careful hands as you scoop the blend into a cast iron pot, burnished darkness. You’re not watching him, but you’re listening: how he’d come to Seoul to pursue his passions, his dreams, how it’s left him lonely and lost and aching. A ship on a course without map or compass, sky overcast, no stars to guide him.

“Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed in Busan,” Jimin murmurs. His head is bowed forwards, eyes caught in a knot on the wood of the table, lines coiling together. “Everyone was right. I’m never going to make it.”

The cup set in front of him is empty.  Your fingers are curved around the handle as you turn it towards Jimin, and he notices little clouds on your nails, fluffy white against pastel blues. You hum lightly at his words, lifting the iron pot from its woven mat, steady as you pour.

(This is unlike any other place he’s ever known.)

“Do you want to go back to Busan?”

The tea smells lovely, a little floral, a little sweet, mellow and warm. It flows over the sharp salt that’s coating Jimin’s senses, sweeping away the last drops of rain that cling to his bones; washed fresh and clean. It settles in the pit of his stomach, lies light against his tongue, warming him from the inside out. 

(A blanket that’s tucked over his shoulders and wrapping him tight.)

Suddenly, Jimin wants to cry.

He swallows down the tears, the rising tide that threatens to spill from his eyes. He thinks about his answer—does he want to go back to Busan? Back to the salt and the sea? Back to the world he knows so well, misses so well?

“No,” he admits. “I miss it, but… no. I want to find my place in Seoul.”

I want to be good enough. I want to find a new home.

The answering smile on your face is a small, tender thing.

The tea stays hot, no matter how long Jimin takes to drink. Rooibos, coconut, lavender, cocoa, earthy and delicate flavours mixing across his senses. His hands wrap around his cup, the shifting blue waves steady around the liquid inside, cotton towel around his neck crowding even closer as his shoulders bow inwards. 

He notices, then, that he’s dry, somehow—every inch of him, from his skin to his hair to his clothes, whisked away by some unseen, ephemeral hand. Like he’d never been in the rain at all. His hair is soft on his head, clothes unwrinkled, and he smells like citrus and light, a shimmering garden. Not like rainwater and muted sorrow.

“You’re a witch,” he realises, suddenly. 

He knows this place must be home to magic, but he’d figured you some sort of assistant, apprentice, as soft and unassuming as you are. 

But, no. The magic he feels in the air, butter rich and sugar sweet, isn’t from the building. It’s from you.

He shouldn’t have told you anything. Witches are dangerous. He owes you now, undeniably so—for the tea he’s drunk, cup empty and cooling in front of him.

No one ever denies a witch their dues. No one would dare. But he has nothing to give you.

“I don’t have anything to give you.” Jimin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t have any money.”

“Jimin.” Your voice is a murmur, but it does nothing to quell the spike of worry in his heart, the realisation that he’d never told you his name, not once. But of course you know it. Witches see the unseen. Witches read the unknown. “You don’t owe me money. Please, don’t panic.”

Jimin tries to swallow down that panic.  There’s nothing in his pockets but his phone, dead as it is, an old bus ticket stub, his keys, plain and unadorned save for the tiny puppy keyring he’s had for years, but doesn’t remember the origin of. Nothing a witch might be interested in. “Then what can I give you?”

“You’ve already spilled your heart to me,” you say. “That’s half of the payment. A confession of feelings.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He can’t help his eyes darting over you, reading the signs he’d missed before—you might not stink of magic like coal dust and smothered fires, but instead it rests like a garland of flowers about your head, woven into the wool of your jumper like silken thread, gossamer. Delicate and light but undeniable, a fleur-de-lis that blooms over hard marble, strong and steady.

“What’s the other half?”

“That’s up to you.” You tilt your head, little cherries in your ears swinging with the motion. “A secret. A memory. Something you’d like to share. That’s the price; a story you want to share. The final half of the transaction.”

“Do you… keep it?” He’s heard of witches stealing the memory from people, leaving them hollow shells, but you shake your head with a soft laugh.

“No. You share your story, Jimin. You don’t give it to me. Your words and history are yours, not mine. I promise you: anything you give me remains your own.”

A witch’s promise. Unbreakable truth.

(What does he have that’s worth a witch’s time?)

A memory. A good one. 

Climbing the trail of Geumjeongsan, warmed by the sun overhead, filtered by the arching trees, his brother beside him, his parents behind. He was still young, too young to climb all the way up the mountain route, bundled into the cable car that had lifted them towards the heavens, world spread at his feet, a feast for his hungry eyes. Their dinner had been roasted duck, fatty and crisp, leaking oil over his lips and cheeks as he’d eagerly bit in after a day of hard work. His family had been laughing, surrounding him with their love, liquid sunlight spilling over him. Happiness.

Your chin rests in your palm as you listen, hair a soft frame around your softer eyes, smile lingering at the edges of your lips. Jimin’s words trickle and slow, and for a second he wonders if it was enough, if this years-old memory, fuzzy around the edges, pays his dues—but as his mouth curves around the final syllable, listing the room back into warm quiet as he smiles at this remembered joy, he knows. Something in his heart knows. It is. It’s enough.

“Thank you for sharing that happiness with me, Jimin. It was lovely.” 

For the first time in a long time, Jimin’s heart feels less like a broken thing. It feels like someone’s starting to take liquid gold to the cracks in his heart, protective resin that brings his broken parts together, the soft touch of kintsugi that shows his flaws but also lets him see that his heart can work despite them. 

Broken and imperfect but still here. Still whole.

(He may have paid off his debt, but Jimin feels like he’s taking away something that’s more than just a cup of tea.)

His shoes are dry when you return to the door, and when he reaches for his jacket, it’s like he’s just peeled it off a washing line, smelling of sun and fresh laundry. His trainers fit better on his feet, not rubbing at the heel like it should. Small, little things that change so much.

“It’s still raining,” you say. “There’s an umbrella in the stand that you can have.”

The umbrella is a long, sturdy thing, plain black, but when Jimin lifts it, there’s a small charm tied to the handle. A tiny string of rose quartz beads, polished pale pink.

Witches never give things away for free. Jimin knows this. 

“The price is that you have to share it with the first person you meet who needs it.” The words fall from your smiling lips before Jimin can ask. “You’ll know who it is when you see them.”

The arms of the umbrella spread so wide above him, engulfing him in protection, keeping him dry and safe. He turns to look at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, still barefoot, fingers that bear the sky barely peeping out of the sleeves of your jumper. Untouched by the rain and grime of Seoul, a lit candle in the night, vanilla scented wax, dribbling hot and sweet. So unlike any other witch Jimin has ever heard of.

There’s no smell of sea, any more. No lingering memories of Busan. Just petrichor, rain and concrete, an undercurrent to the fresh smell of his clothes, his hair, washed clean by a magic that’s softer than anything Jimin has ever known. 

The only thing that’s softer is the smile on your face, the curl of your fingers as you wave goodbye. The door swings shut as you step back, windchimes trembling at the gentle parting, quartz throwing glitter over Jimin’s cheeks and catching in his lashes.

(The sign in the window remains untouched.

As Jimin turns away, it says closed.)

The rain has lessened, a drizzle that threatens to sweep over him, but the umbrella keeps him safe, draped over the air around him, warding away the cold that tries so desperately to claw back into his chest. Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, just like before—but he steps onto the street and immediately stops.

The string of rose quartz pearls swings into his wrist. 

“Hello. Would you like to share my umbrella?”

Jimin has to hold it up high, shorter than the long-limbed boy who stands in front of him. His eyes are dark and almost solemn, sliding across Jimin’s face as he seems to pull himself out of some faraway, unseen place. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain that’s starting to soak through his clothes, peppering his handsome face with small, cold kisses, but then he smiles, gratitude written across his grinning teeth.

“Hello.” His voice is so deep. “Thank you.” And then, after only the briefest pause: “My horoscope said I’d be helped by a Libra today.”

Jimin startles, umbrella scattering rain with the motion. “How did you know I’m a Libra?”

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Kim Taehyung. With a witch’s blessing warm in his belly and overhead, umbrella a shield against the heavens.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Jeon Jungkook. With Kim Taehyung at his side, a witch’s charm around his wrist, rose quartz a soothing calm against his skin.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin starts to build a home in Seoul, brick by brick, larger hands working alongside his own; Taehyung’s palms large, Jungkook’s fingers steady, laying the foundations to happiness. Together.

--

His feet find their way back to Aurora again and again, a moon that pulls at his waters, caught in its gravity. Quartz to citrine, aventurine to hematite, windchimes singing like bells whenever he passes underneath them, door swinging open at the lightest of touches.

Your wide eyed surprise ebbs like the tides. The second time, and then the third, and fourth, you’d stopped in your tracks at his arrival, hands a tumble of confusion whenever he’d appeared at your door, but now you’re always ready and waiting.

(“How did you find this place the first time?”

Today’s tea is sencha, salty sea-buckthorn, bright spearmint, delicate lemon verbena, tinged blue with cornflower and butterfly pea, the ocean waves in a cup, brewed just for him.

“I followed the sea,” Jimin answers. “The salt air. Didn’t you do that?”

“No.” The same tea lies in your own cup, a shared moment in the past and present. “You called out and you were answered. This shop is older than you or me, and even Jin doesn’t know the magic that lies in its walls. We don’t control this place. We just live here.”)

The stories he pays you with change over time, memories from years past, growing closer and closer to the present, an autobiography that lays out the peaks and valleys of his life; the happy, the sad, the embarrassments, the triumphs. The tea changes every time, too, mellow greens to bright fruits, smoky blacks to delicate whites, whisked matcha and woody lapsang souchong. Matching the timbre of his voice, reflecting his words, letting him dwell on happiness, or pulling him out of sorrow.

Sometimes Jin is there. Oftentimes, he isn’t. The tea room is sacred ground when Jimin is paying his dues, stories and secrets falling from his lips, but otherwise Jin will bundle in, all energy and noise, leaving plates of flaky pastry and tiny biscuits and soft bread, brioche lined with chocolate, melting and hot. They leave Jimin warm and full, no matter how much or how little he eats. Two kitchen witches that give, and give, and give.

Jimin pays for a plate of rose shortbread with a recollection of the time he’d spilled juice over his brother’s homework, only to blame the dog, who was refused his usual after-dinner gravy bones. Jimin still lives with the guilt. Jin laughs, and you smile, flower petals soft and sweet in your mouth as you listen to him speak.

He wants to bring Taehyung and Jungkook, share the brightness with them, with you, the things that make him smile and laugh; lifting him out the deep waters of sadness and towards the sun, light dappled waters, bright coral reefs, a multicolour display of life. But Aurora doesn’t call to them the way it calls to Jimin, which means he goes alone.

Taehyung’s eyes widen when Jimin mentions his disappointment.

“Jimin-ah.” His mouth is round with shock, a sweet pomegranate, red flushed lips. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?” 

Jungkook’s cheeks bulge with lettuce and samgyeopsal, but he swallows it down in one go, a gannet with the metabolism of a god. (Lucky.) “Finding witches in Seoul is hard,” he says. “You have to actively search them out. Do you?”

Jungkook has met more witches than any of them, a little golden spark of magic nestled deep in his chest, a magnetised needle that points him forward like a compass. But even he can’t find Aurora, no matter how much Jimin tries to guide him.

“I just… walk,” Jimin says, unsure. “I just feel it and I walk.”

“I’ve alway wanted to get a cup of tea from that shop. They say the best way to solve your problems is to share it with a witch, but I’ve never been able to find it, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” says Taehyung. An empty leaf of lettuce lays in his palm, curled up, almost sad in how small it looks. (The same would be a riverboat in the tiny cups of Jimin’s hands.) But rather than jealousy sparking in his eyes, he just seems happy for Jimin, toothy grin appearing on his face. “You’re so lucky, Jimin-ah. I bet it’s incredible.”

--

(Jimin is a nightjar, a singing bird, calling out into the darkness. The dawn bursts over the horizon, light heavy, laden with brightness, aurora shimmering rose and gold, welcoming hands.)

(Jimin sings. You listen.)

--

This time when he finds Aurora—or maybe it finds him—it’s snowing.

Seoul is blanketed in white, pavements worn smooth with a thousand busy feet, roads salt slick and slush. The wind bites at his cheeks, apple crisp and sweet, the air a soft whisper that runs its chilled fingers through his hair and turns his head.

(The rose quartz lies warm around his wrist.)

The winter sun overhead casts short shadows, pale light flushing down Jimin’s face as he leans into that fleeting touch. It’s not Busan that fills his senses this time; it’s the smell of mulled wine, hot cinnamon, melting chocolate, but more than that—dark evergreen and sweet cherry-wood fires, dusty pepper and star anise, sticky caramel.

(Homely.)

Open, the sign says.

Today, the windchimes circle a shard of snowflake obsidian. It trills out a greeting as he touches his fingers to the door, tiny bells that tinkle their hello as Jimin steps over the threshold, Aurora just as warm and inviting as it had been the last time he’d stepped foot here. As warm and inviting as it always is.

(Closed, the sign says.)

He’s warm too, today. He’s wrapped up against winter, hand knitted hat on his head—a recent project by Taehyung—and his hands are nestled in his pockets, curled around the small hand warmers that Jungkook sneaks into his coat without comment. Reminders of the love of his friends even when they’re not beside him. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his eyes are sparking happiness, smile wide as he stomps snow off his feet.

But there’s no one to greet him. No candles are lit, no half-finished drink on the counter, an unintentional offering to the quiet building. It feels like a held breath, light, heavy, ephemeral, weighty.

(Every moon hanging from the garland is waning.)

Jimin’s socked feet are quiet as he steps the familiar route to the tea room, hallway beckoning him forwards; the door is shut, and he hesitates, but even as he watches, it quietly swings open, untouched. 

You’re bowed over the table. A hand rests over your eyes, your body held still, a rictus of—of deep thought, maybe? The weight of decision, indecision. Maybe. Something that hangs heavy about you, usual shimmering magic pulled down, osmium heavy; still glittering and beautiful, but sharper edged, burdensome. 

The cup in front of you is dry, empty, matte ceramic the colour of bone, muted white, brittle cream. There’s no smell of warm tea today. Just still air.

(No matter how many times Jimin has seen you laugh and smile and tilt your head, the truth is that you’re a witch, and Jimin has only just started to map your world. He’s a cartographer with nothing more than his own hands and the aching need to find the stars, to trace those celestial bodies overhead that shine out so bright.)

The floor groans under Jimin’s unmoving feet and your head snaps up.

“Jimin?” Your eyes are wide and startled. All at once the air lifts, sunlight seeping from the floorboards; an open window that’s been thrown open to pull in the summer breeze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

(The windchimes had been as loud as always, announcing his presence.)

“I’m sorry,” apologises Jimin. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You shift away from the table and straighten, magic coiling around your neck like a scarf, thick and warm. (Covering your mouth and muffling you.) “I just wasn’t expecting any customers,” you say. “You never have to apologise, Jimin. Come on in, take a seat. What do you want to talk about today?”

Jimin had wanted to share his happiness. He’d wanted to talk about Taehyung, and Jungkook, and the dancing job that’s turned steady, all the bright little pieces of his life, glistening opals, precious stones. But he realises, then, that’s not what he needs, really. 

(Not what he wants, really.)

“Nothing,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet, white milk bread, fluffy and light. “I just wanted to see you. How are you?”

The fire under the water flickers, a sun flare that dies as soon as it’s born, settling into its usual ring of tiny flames. The magic around your neck turns into a stole, slipping away from your mouth, settling about your shoulders. You’re silent, for a long moment, as if you’d been in some unseen place and Jimin has pulled you back.

You glance at him through the curl of your lashes. “Busy,” you say, eventually. “Distracted, I suppose. Trying to work things out.”

Why? Jimin wants to ask. Work what things out?

But he knows better than to pry for a witch’s secrets, as open armed and soft palmed as you might be. So he just says: “I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure you’ll find the answer.”

The bundles overhead shift in an unseen breeze, dusty cinnamon sticks and fat berries and handfuls of clove, stirring the spiced smell of winter. Jimin would swear he hears the windchimes singing, a tiny choir of voices that swells and breaks as quickly as a wave crashing against the shore. 

You let out a small laugh. It’s edged with something Jimin can’t put a name to. “Oh, this is the kind of answer that’s given, not found, so I have to wait, even if I think I know what it is,” you say. “And it’s… not one I was expecting. Witches don’t do well with being unable to take control of the situation, but I can’t do anything about it.”

Jimin pauses. He realises then, in a way, he’s been selfish—always speaking, never listening. But you don’t offer yourself up in the way Jimin does. A witch is a library of knowledge and secrets, locked to the outside world; Jimin wouldn’t dare to try and find the key. It would burn his hands, sear itself into his palm. The door has to be willingly opened by whoever’s inside.

He thinks about those words he’s heard you so many times, now, mouth so gentle around the syllables, the lilting question. A flickering constellation that guides his feet. One that he can trace, lines between the stars.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile you offer him is one he hasn't seen before, crooked, a whispered secret. Sending the pages of all those books fluttering, stirring on their shelves. “Do you want to strike a bargain, Park Jimin? I give you a story, and you pay me in turn?” 

A tiny shiver prickles over Jimin’s skin. Your question feels like a test you both know he can't complete, but—there's something inside him that flickers bright at that challenge. 

He’s not a witch and has no magic glowing in his spirit, but a contract takes two people, mundane or not. He’s never considered himself bold, softer and gentler than he wishes he was, sometimes, but—there’s that unrelenting part in him, reckless and brave, hungry for more, that pulled him from Busan and set him in Seoul, that bruises his knees and rubs blisters on his feet from his endless dancing; the part that brings him to a witch’s door, over and over, heedless of the magic that lingers like crystallised sugar about his wrists and ankles, almost painful were it not so sweet.

(Bravery isn’t always about being bold. Sometimes bravery is trying again, and again, even if it seems hopeless.)

“If that would help you?”

The delicate hanging chains of your earrings tremble, tiny sparkling hearts of crystal, your eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Witches are forces of nature, relentless, but for a second—just a second—Jimin stops you in your tracks. Not as an imposing seawall built against the crashing waves, but rather, a soft hand that’s lifted, palm first, fingers spread wide.

(Bravery is this, too: being gentle and open where others might expect you to be cold and distant, worn bitter by the cold world around them.)

(Jimin has always known this, but you’d reminded him, when he’d almost forgotten.)

The air smells like mulled wine, heady and sweet, a bonfire of spice and tannin. For a moment, Jimin fears he’s misstepped, craggy cliffs crumbling underneath his feet and throwing him into the merciless waves below—but then you step back, cast your hand at the wall of jars, almost endless in width and height.

“What tea do you think I need today, then?”

Jimin smiles, all full lips and shy teeth, and says: “You have to tell me your story first. That's how the transaction goes.”

And for the first time, Jimin sees you truly laugh. You shed every piece of armour that’s girded about you; you might be quieter, and gentler, but your magic is coiled close, plate metal that shines so bright but falls so soft. Your heavy iron door opens, just a crack, the smell of leather bound books and old manuscripts curling outwards, letting Jimin catch a glimpse of the wonders inside. 

“I can’t tell you a story that hasn’t finished yet, but I have plenty of memories,” you say. “Hm. How about the day Jin and I found this place?”

Jimin doesn’t know how to blend tea. He doesn’t know how to balance flavours, top notes, heart notes, base notes, curling tastes together in a way you do so effortlessly. But he knows how to follow his heart, and as always, Aurora helps guide him.

He listens to your words the way you listen to his, with soft encouragement and gentle laughter, eyes bright as he swallows down the secrets of witchcraft that are banal to you but utterly fascinating to him. A glimpse into a world he’s barely touched. He traces unseen vibrations in the air, reaches for jar after jar, none of them labelled, but perfect each time he pulls them open and breathes in their scent. Almost jumping into his hands. He thinks of a feeling, a flavour to match each memory you lay in front of him, and the magic responds; not under his control, no, but letting him drift in its flow.

He plants a garden: fat rosebuds, yielding petals, bright lemongrass, earthy raspberry leaves, flaky cocoa shells. 

(Jimin doesn’t know these ingredients, but you do, eyes intent and sharp as you watch him move with an ease no one else has ever displayed here, moving around the room that’s entirely yours—a part of your heart nestled safe in Aurora’s walls, one that even Jin could not traverse, if he tried.)

(But here he is. With no magic in his bones, here he is, treading a delicate path through this sanctum, weaving the energy around him without knowledge or thought. Just human, but also so much more.)

The iron pot is heavier than Jimin realised, a solid weight that you always heft with ease. The scent that fills the room when he pours is delicate and light but it washes away the spicy scent of winter warmth, and instead smells like floral enchantment. 

He slips into the seat across from yours. It’s a reversal, tipping the world on its head, an entirely unfamiliar perspective; the wall behind you isn’t lined in the tools of your trade. Today, Jimin sits in the master’s seat. Today, you are silhouetted by the dried bouquets that hang from the crooked branch that coils from the ceiling, muted colours even quieter in the nimbus of your magic, dawn light and warmth, dripping honeycomb, gold and saccharine.

“Would you ever leave Aurora?”

(Even the fleeting thought sends disappointment through every part of him, an echo of loneliness for something that hasn’t happened. Jimin’s always been possessive, in a way, wanting to keep a tight hold of the things he cares about.)

(You’re one of those things, now.)

The smile you give Jimin is answer enough. “Once a witch finds their home, there’s no turning back. No matter how long I’m gone, or how far I go, I’ll always find my way back home.” And then there’s a little glitter in your warm eyes, gold dust under a sun-laden river. “Time for tea, I suppose?”

It’s rosewater sweetness, dark chocolate bitterness, a citrus undercurrent that flows around it all. Biting into Turkish delight, coated in rich chocolate, yielding to the press of your teeth, an explosion of flavour. Jimin has never tasted anything like this— rich and creamy but also fragrant and light.

Judging from your wide eyed stare, you haven’t, either.

(It’s perfect.)

(It takes that indecision that’s been settling around each of your bones, sweeps it away, Jimin’s eyes as large as the moon and just as bright. This cup is so much more than just a warm drink, a hot touch down your throat; it’s the world telling you something, showing you something, something about Jimin, something you thought you'd been wrong about.)

(Jimin has no magic of his own, but he burns so bright. A lovely, sweet, strong, talented boy, stronger than he knows, lovelier than he knows. The world fits around him so well, a backdrop to his beauty, shaping itself to his touch.)

(Your magic shapes itself around him in a way that's as easy as breathing, and it should frighten you.)

(But it doesn't.)

With any contract, the witch sets the price. Your story for this cup of tea should be enough, a parting of the curtain into a world he shouldn’t be allowed to see—but something still pulls in Jimin’s stomach. He feels a little empty. Like he’s eaten a meal and could be content to finish now, but he’s waiting for that final course, that bite of dessert. Something to satiate his lingering hunger.

You still need to pay the final part of the price.

“You need to give one more thing,” says Jimin, reciting the ancient law that he’s never been taught but sings in his bones. 

Your silence is summer lightning. Light sparks in the distance, flashing hot and bright, but without the weight of thunder, without the promise of rain.

“A secret,” you decide. “I’ll give you a secret.” 

If a witch’s word is worth more than gold, then a witch’s secret is worth more than rhodium; stronger, rarer.

“I’ve told you that Aurora answers people who call out, if they need our help?”

“Yes.” Jimin remembers this well, thinks about it every time he’s led back here, the guiding hands that helped him find the path he’s treading now. “You’ve told me that.”

“Witches can find the shop and come here often,” you say. “They come to buy things and leave again; they have to keep their magic safe. You see, a witch’s power is most potent in their own home, and weakest in another’s, so you’ll find witches won’t drink one of my teas, or eat Jin’s food, unless they’ve left the shop. It’s a sign of absolute trust to do something like that.”

You snack on Jin’s biscuits all the time, spread homemade jams over freshly-baked bread, watch Jin drizzle honey into soft camomile, slip lemon slices into hot Earl Grey. Mixing your magic and trust together like a tangle of fresh sheets.

“But humans, without magic? Even if you try, you can’t find this place unless it wants to be found. Neither Jin nor I control that, really, but the sign helps control the flow,” you continue. “If we put it on closed, the shop won’t beckon people in. But if it’s open? People come with their burdens and their sorrows, and I’ll sit, and I’ll listen. My magic isn’t what helps them. Sometimes all people need is a listening ear and that’s what I offer: a single moment of quiet in their busy lives before they leave again. You want to know what the secret is, Jimin?”

“Yes,” says Jimin, eager. Not just as a payment of something that’s owed, but for his own curiosity, digging its fingers into his stomach and lungs. “I want to know.”

The smile you deliver now is the final jolt of lightning, white hot and flooding the air with crackling energy, before the clouds part to reveal the quiet night sky, the vibrant colours of the Milky Way naked for the eyes to see. 

“My secret is this: you shouldn’t be able to keep finding this place. I didn’t realise anyone could, but here you are, again and again. You’re the only non-witch who’s ever stepped foot in here more than once.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: you are the only thing in my life that I cannot answer with magic, and it’s completely out of my control. Even if the sign says closed, you can walk in, regardless.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: I know I won’t be able to find that answer I'm looking for, because it’s not in me, or my magic, or my shop. It’s something in you.”

Clink. 

Three falling secrets that fold into one. A handful of coins tumbling over themselves into the waters of a wishing well, slipping into that liquid quiet. Throwing ripples across the glass surface.

Jimin has always thought that witches were gods of their domain, endless fonts of wisdom, magic cast over the world around them that catches knowledge in its weave, Indra’s net. “But I’m—I’m just human.”

Your eyes are soft. “There’s no just about it, Jimin,” you say. “Witch or not, we all have our place in the world, as small or large as it may be.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Jungkook does, and even Tae does, a little.” He always knows when to say bless you before someone sneezes. “But I’m just… completely mundane.”

“I know you don’t have magic, Jimin. But do you know what the word mundane originally meant? It doesn’t mean boring, or dull. It’s rooted in the world. The earth. There’s nothing more powerful. Don’t you know how brightly you shine?”

Jimin tilts his head away. The truth is that for all the happiness that’s started to grow across his heart like blooming roses, trailing wisteria, some days the river at his feet feels less like sun flecked waters and more like tar, thick and dark, ready to pull him back under. It’s not so easy to cast off sadness once it’s found you. Sometimes his chest feels like it could cave in under the weight of his own failings, each and every one of his flaws stacked up high, pressing on his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t feel like he shines.

“Oh, Jimin. You really don’t see, do you?” The magic that curls around him is silken, light. Touching the rose quartz around his wrist with recognition. “Remember earlier, when I said the answer I wanted has to be given, not found? It’s because you need to find it. You can give it to me, once you do.”

“What if I never find it?” He looks back at you, back into your eyes, endless and deep. You’re a witch with power that drapes about you, a cascading mantle spun from silver and gold—if you don’t know the answer, how could Jimin possibly find it? “What do I do then?”

“I promise, you will,” you say. “You will. Sometimes the things we need to find appear when we’re not even looking for them. After all, you found your way here, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jimin answers, truth settling quiet between his lungs. Easing that weight that presses down on them. “I did.”

--

He did. And he does. And he will.

--

You stand in the open door and watch Jimin go, wrapped up once more, a Christmas present of woven wool and thick socks.

“By the way,” you call, and Jimin stops, turns back. “You said that your friends wanted to come here too, right?”

“Yes,” answers Jimin. Taehyung asks him endless questions and Jungkook might pretend like he’s not interested but he’s always nearby when Jimin recounts his tales of the witch’s shop. “They really do. But we can never seem to find Aurora when we try, even though Jungkook is normally so good at finding magical places.”

“Next time, don’t focus on Jungkook.” Above your head the windchimes tremble, obsidian spiralling. “You said he was a compass, didn’t you? But he’s not the one with the map. You are. Don’t forget that, okay? Trust in yourself, Jimin. Be your own guide.”

--

The next time Jimin stands with his friends flanking him, he thinks about the moon. How its silver light is loved so dearly, even if it’s just a reflection of the unseen sun, shining with someone else’s flames. 

He might not have the strength of fire, but he can still shine.

The windchime’s call is throaty as Aurora comes into sight, brushed by a stone of lapis lazuli, door falling open at their arrival, the building filling with sunlight as Jimin steps in. Welcoming him. Jungkook and Taehyung are far more hesitant, staring at Jimin like he’s a voyager into unknown waters, here there be dragons, at risk of being swallowed whole, never to be seen again.

Jimin laughs at them. The lapis swings into the windchimes in a way that sounds like a giggle, too.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says, once he’s inside. A candle sets alight. “Jimin, what the fuck.” Another. 

“It’s Jimin-hyung,” Jimin says, but Jungkook ignores him, staring at the candles that start to catch flame one by one as he watches them.

“It’s so nice, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s eyes are huge. “Aren’t those flowers pretty?”

On a nearby shelf, the bowl of pansies blooms brighter under Taehyung’s gaze, every plant in the room standing tall, trying to catch his attention.

But of course, the thing that’s stronger than any of the candles or plants or trinkets here—you, stepping into sight, every inch as overwhelming as always, swallowing the room with your magic. Souffle soft and sweet, with all the rich headiness of melted chocolate.

You’re barefoot, as always, cardigan overlarge and draping, nails adorned with tiny butterflies. Jimin’s never met another witch like you, but now that he knows you, it’s almost laughable how he hadn’t noticed from the instant he’d seen you; you’re a witch, through and through, magic dripping through the air like nectar, ambrosia. God touched.

“You finally made it,” you say. “Jimin's told me a lot about you both. Your timing is perfect; I’ve just put the water on to boil. Who wants to go first?”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Jungkook. 

The final candle bursts alight when you smile.

--

Jimin is always surprised at his capacity to find new happiness.

His parents had been heartbroken when he’d announced his decision to leave Busan, and pain had turned to anger, and anger had turned to arguments; he wanted too much, asked for too much, was never happy with what he was given. (All has been forgiven, now, but as always, the memory still lingers.)

Seoul had been so lonely, at first. He’d felt like the bottomless pit his parents had accused him of being, hungry, demanding ceaselessly for more, more, more—his heart had felt like a shrivelled thing, only good for holding onto sadness and bitterness. No room for happiness in any of the weeping corners of his soul.

But, now, Jimin realises that he’s sated. 

He’ll always strive higher, work harder, that little edge of hunger in his core, but life has been given to him in its fullest measure. Unconditional friendship stuffs his heart full, but it can grow and grow, more and more, shuffling around to make room. Taehyung and Jungkook, and now Hoseok, then Yoongi, then Namjoon, each one burning bright, another star in his growing galaxy.

(Things he’d needed to find without knowing, appearing when he hadn’t even been looking.)

He still doesn’t know what answer it is he’s looking for, to give to you, and really, he’s not sure what the question is. He’s been given so much, and he’s so grateful, but there’s still that tiny hollow inside him, waiting for his hands to close around the final puzzle piece. Waiting for him to slot it into place. 

But winter passes, sliding into spring, and then spring rolls into summer, and Jimin realises—he has time.

He has time. There’s no rush. He’s so used to chasing and running and aching, and that momentum will never leave him, but he’s starting to learn that it’s okay not to always sprint forwards. He sparks bright with progress, a glistening shine, but the things that shine out greater still are these: the moments of stillness. Taehyung and Jungkook sprawled around him, cheeks full of takeaway food. Hoseok in the dance studio, all the energy of his limbs brought to a quiet standstill as he sits and drinks water, staring at Jimin in the mirrors and wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi beside him on the subway, eyes shut as he listens to the music coming from his earphones, tilting his head at Jimin’s questioning touch and taking one bud out to share. Namjoon, brows furrowed as he reads the book in front of him, large hands flipping the pages with such care, but turning his attention to Jimin the second he appears.

You, ankles hooked around the legs of your chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in front of you, letting the steam curl over your nose and cheeks. A cup of the same tea in front of Jimin, sometimes made by his own hands. Not often, but enough to find out more about you, the building blocks that have shaped you into who you are. 

Jimin learns about witchcraft, and magic, and how it’s far less complicated and somehow entirely more complex than he thought. You’ve pulled the library doors wide open and invited Jimin to browse at his leisure, through ancient tomes written in languages he doesn’t understand, vellum covered in calligraphy too faded to be read, but you’re his Rosetta stone, translating it all. He always thought that magic was a secret thing, and it is, but you’re letting him look in. You give him knowledge, and patience, and time. You give him an open door, a place that always welcomes him, no matter the time or weather. 

He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Jimin doesn’t have to wait for Aurora’s call any more. He doesn’t have to wait for that crest of that nascent dawn on the horizon. He follows the curvature of the earth and walks towards the sun himself, chases that luminous aureole and finds it all on his own. And there you wait for him, at the base of that shining star, your magic a halo that’s settled in your hair, the north on his compass. 

He still comes empty-handed, no answer to offer you; but you seem content to wait, so Jimin is, too.

He’ll wait.

He has time.

--

Jimin returns to Busan for the weekend. He sleeps in his childhood bed, eats food that never tastes the same when he tries to cook it himself, thinks about how tall he feels compared to his parents now, even if he hasn’t grown at all. He feels a little off kilter, like he’s pulled on an old t-shirt that used to fit him perfectly, but doesn’t anymore; too loose around the neck, too tight around the arms. Wearable, but different. Still comfortable, but not the same. He’s outgrown it now.

(Busan will always have a piece of his heart, but it’s not home anymore.)

(Home is somewhere close, he knows, but he’s still waiting to find that key, final tumbler of the lock sliding perfectly against its metallic teeth. He’s close, so close, but not there. Not yet.)

He’s walking past the fridges in the supermarket, on a quest for fresh radish for his mother, when he catches a smell that dredges up an old memory, smoke and ash. 

Jimin turns his head.

The witch looks just the same as before: ageless and perfect. Long dark hair in perfect curls, nails and lips blood red, eyebrows perfect arches, imperious ice. She’s already staring at him, and once their eyes touch, a flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then surprise, gaze darting over Jimin.

“Well, look at you. You finally grew into those cute cheeks of yours. I thought you would.” Although her words might be patronising, Jimin is shocked at her tone. It’s polite; almost friendly. Nothing like the aloofness she’d shown him all those years ago, when he’d come to her with the reckless desperation of a youth in love. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself.”

Jimin’s jeans are ripped more from wear than fashion, his shirt is from the discount rack at the Lotte mart, and his trainers are scuffed and worn. He might have grown into his face but nothing about him shouts success—and yet this witch is looking at him with something like mutual respect. “Pardon?”

“I can smell the power of the magic on you from here,” the witch says, and Jimin startles. “Like warm banana bread. Or the bark of a maple tree. It suits you.”

“That’s—that’s not mine,” Jimin admits. His heart races in his chest. He hadn’t known that he carries some brightness of your magic with him, some sweetness, motes of light swirling around him even after he’s left Seoul. He hadn’t known that other witches could smell that magic the way he can smell theirs.

(He hadn’t known that he would smell like you.)

The witch tilts her head. Her earrings are interlocking hoops, circling each other, sliding at the motion. “Oh, I know that,” she says. “It’s been given to you. It’s not yours, but it’s a part of you. It just takes a special kind of person to control that flow of power, and I’ve never met a mundane who can do that. Surely you must have realised?”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He mixes tea, sure, but—that’s not him. It’s the shop guiding his hand. Isn’t it?

It’s been given to you. It’s not yours.

That promise you’d made Jimin, last year, the first time he’d stepped over your threshold, dripping rainwater and sorrow, so sad, so small: Anything you give me remains your own.

You just hadn’t mentioned it was the same for you, too.

(Hadn’t mentioned that you’d given him anything at all.)

(But you’ve given him so much, haven’t you?)

(It’s a part of you.)

(Jimin is changed by every person he meets, the sum of every part that’s ever been given to him by someone else. But he’s also more than those parts; he’s himself, something he’s made, is still making. Working towards being the best he can be.)

(He's himself, controls himself, the world around him. When he lifts those jars from the shelves, he's following his heart. He's his own guide. He trusts himself. Oh, it's not the shop after all, is it?)

(Is it?)

“Ah.” The witch lets out a knowing hum. “Understanding will come with time. Magic can seem such a fickle thing to the mundane, but it’s not. A witch’s magic is a reflection of who they are.”

He thinks of your magic, warm and honey-sweet. Dawn light; sun bright. A reflection of you. One that adorns him with its brilliance, even when you’re miles away from each other. You’re the silver lining to every cloud in his sky, when they’re white and wispy, or heavy with rain, torrenting water, weathering every season that turns in his heart. In the bittersweet death of autumn, the cold loneliness of winter, the emerging life of spring, the buoyant joy of summer. You’re a shelter against the elements. You’re the place Jimin feels safest in. You’re his—

Oh. 

Oh.

(There it is.)

(Home isn’t a place. Home is a feeling. You carry it with you, in your heart; that comfort, that belonging. Somewhere you want to come back to, that you know is waiting for you at the end of the day, any day, every day. That knowledge of love. Your friends; your family. Familiarity. Contentment. Feeling at peace because you know no matter where you are or where you go, home will always be there with you, and waiting for you back where you started, or wherever you finish.)

(Dropping that answer into his hands, feather light, rays of the morning sun cast over his palms, weightless in his grasp.)

(The key finally fits into the lock, and turns, door bursting wide open, letting life and light into Jimin’s heart, filling something that he already thought was full.)

The dark haired witch gives him a smile that’s equal parts pleased and self-satisfied. She sweeps away, leaving Jimin lost, and found.

--

Jimin steps down in Seoul with an utter lack of grace. Like the world has been pitching beneath his feet and has only just turned steady, sea legs buckling on the solid earth.

His bag is heavy with everything he’d brought to Busan for the weekend, and he’s tired after the train journey, and it’s hot, so hot, the summer heat oppressive in its height and weight, pressing sticky hands over his sweaty skin. Even so, he’d spent almost all three hours of travel with his leg jiggling up and down, wound up, pent up, every thread of him coiled around the knowledge he holds. The answer he’s been looking for, inside him all along. 

Part of him wants to run. That hungry part of him, still scared of not being good enough, terrified that if he doesn’t grab something with both hands it’ll slip away like quicksand; that the river at his feet will pull the earth up in its rush, leaving an empty canyon in front of him, lonely and deep.

But another part of him—the part of him that’s grown so bright, watered by the love of everyone around him—quells that fear. It’s the part that gently reminds him that he has time. It’s the part that carries him gently in its current, guiding him through the swell of bodies and busyness that’s all pervasive in Seoul, guiding him north. 

(His north.)

His feet aren’t a stumbling rush. He doesn’t have to hurry, after all. No matter how long he takes, he’ll get to his destination. 

(Home is always waiting for you at the end of your journey.)

The windchimes orbit rose quartz today. The same pastel pink that circles his wrist.

“Hello,” says Jimin. “I missed you.”

The windchimes shiver and spark out a note of happiness, and Aurora’s blue-green door swings open. He’s hit with a burst of cool air that pulls the sweat away from his skin. Stepping into the shop feels like a shot of caffeine in his veins, and, besides, he’s found what he���s looking for.

He has the question, and the answer. (He’s had it all along.)

(Where is your home?)

He sheds his shoes and bag, cast carelessly on the floor, and doesn’t hesitate to step forwards. The door to the tea room swings open before he reaches it, as always, feeling his urgency and responding without being asked.

And there you are.

Your hair is bundled up out of your face, arms and legs bare in the summer heat, tiny pineapples on your nails, a sweating pitcher of tea dripping rivulets of water on the table as you pour yourself a glass, ice tumbling around slices of fresh peach. You glance up at his arrival, and when you smile, Jimin feels how the magic in the room lifts and swirls around him. 

It’s the tart sweetness of fresh-squeezed lemonade; the soft chill of vanilla ice cream; the rich cream of mango parfait. It’s all happiness and tender affection, and Jimin wonders how he’s never seen the depth of it before now.

“Hi, Jimin.” Your voice is brighter than the summer sun outside, stronger still. “Did you just get back from Busan? You must be exhausted. How was your family?”

He answers by stepping forwards and wrapping his fingers around your glass. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts it to his lips, swallowing down the mix of flavours; rooibos, apple, hibiscus, rosehip, orange peel. Peach melba, sugary and mellow against his tongue, cold biting pain against his teeth.

He wipes away a stray drop of tea from his lips. Sunlight ripples in the room as your eyes flicker over his mouth. “Ask me.”

Your eyes tear back up to his. He can feel how the magic in the air slides away from you, pooling on the floor, swirling about your ankles; it’s like the brush of sand against his skin, treading across wet beaches, sticking to the soles of his feet. “Ask you what?”

“I need to pay for the tea. Ask me for a story.”

Jimin can feel the tug in his stomach, that telltale sensation that he has to pay his dues. Still, you seem surprised. “Okay, Jimin. What story do you have to share?”

“I met a witch, once. I was sad, and lonely, but she listened to me, every time I went to see her, again and again.” Jimin can feel your magic rising with each of his words, the gentlest tide. “And one day, she let me listen to her, too. She asked me to give her an answer for an unspoken question. But she didn’t press me for it. She just let me come back, again and again. She gave me a part of her magic. She’s not like any other witch in the world.  I’ve been waiting to find that answer to give to her, but then I realised I had it all along.”

(Where is your home?)

Your mouth drops open, but Jimin speaks over your intake of breath. That tugging in his stomach is still there. That pull towards you. “Ask me for a secret,” Jimin says.

“Okay, Jimin.” Your voice is quiet, but your magic has never felt stronger, spilling out of you like morning dew, shimmering, opalescent. “What’s your secret?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says, feels how the magic in the room swells, but he knows he still has more to give. “Ask me for a confession.”

“Okay, Jimin.” A whisper. Your magic is as bright as a solar flare, glimmering crystal, spun sugar. “What’s your confession?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jimin confesses.

And then he does.

Every window and door flies open, every plant bursts into bloom, every candle catches light, windchimes singing, breeze rushing through every room, but Jimin doesn’t notice any of these things. All he can feel is the warmth of your mouth against his own, the sweet taste of peach, how your magic fizzes on his tongue like champagne, a heady rush. 

Your breath is a flicker of candlelight in his mouth, one that grows into a bonfire, one he readily fans, watches how the flames leap high. One kiss turns to two, then three, your lips fitting so perfectly against his own, parting so readily at the first press of his tongue; your mouth a sweet little curve, dripping honey and syrup, as lovely as the rest of you. The world narrows down to this, to you; your hands warm where they cup his face, run through his hair, soft touches, how perfect those feel. 

He’s breathless when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against your own. The magic is a heat shimmer, glistening air, surrounding the two of you in its embrace—but it doesn’t shine as brightly as you, your beauty, the sheen on your lips, kiss-swollen and exquisite.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh, Jimin.”

You’re so warm under his hands. The summer air that fills the room is swirling motes of brightness, brushing over you both with its delicate touch, and Jimin breathes you in. Not your magic, but you; a little salt, summer sweat, a little sweet, perfume soft. You feel so perfect like this, wrapped up in his arms, a powerful witch that’s opened up for him, the yielding petals of a flower, the sweet nectar at its core. Jimin’s always hated feeling so small, almost dainty, a slip of a thing compared to Taehyung’s height or Jungkook’s strength, and yet you fit so perfectly against him. 

For all the magic that drips from you like liquid gold, divine and powerful, here you are: all comfort and tenderness and affection, open arms, calling him home.

“I’m giving you my heart.” Jimin presses his words into the lovely swell of your cheeks, the line of your jaw, your neck, lips trailing over your skin, drinking down the way you shiver. “It’s still mine, I know, but I’m giving it to you, too.”

The smile on your face is all open happiness, laughter brighter than every star in the sky. “A witch never lets a payment go unreturned,” you say. “My heart for your heart. Sound fair?”

Jimin’s answering laugh is echoed by the windchimes outside, tickling and light. “I think that settles the score.”

--

(Where is your home?)

(Wherever you are.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

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[24/09/20] author’s note: hi, guys. so I’ve recently been on a bit of a rereading binge, digging up old favourite fics of mine and enjoying them all over again, and I was horrified to discover a scene in a fic that’s eerily similar to something I’ve written here: namely, the scene where Jimin first comes across the shop and pays for a cup of tea with a happy memory. 

I genuinely had not read the fic in over two years and don’t recall many details at all, but I must have remembered it without realising and echoed it in my own writing. I was reading the fic and my heart genuinely stopped in my chest and I started to freak out because I would never, ever want to plagiarise someone else’s work, intentionally or unintentionally. 

however, on a reread of both the other fic and my own, the scene in question is somewhat similar but not the same. I just feel uncomfortable at the idea of benefiting from someone else’s time; writing is hard work and publishing things online takes a great deal of courage, and I know people who’ve had their work plagiarised, and how much it hurts. so I want to state for the record that when I wrote finding home it was without reference to anyone else’s story, so any similarities were coincidental. 

[kenemaglobalinvestment]

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[pettyelves]

you will know

[ source of letter ]

Between her thumb and pointer finger, Eilithe smoothed the length of her left ring finger. Special attention was given to the scarab beetle that rested, more precious than a diamond, in between her first and second knuckle. 

“This wasn’t here.” His voice echoed against her ear and for a moment she felt the way he had held her until dawn. Soon after, they were married. Missus An’diel was like a slap to the face now, as much as it made her feel, for the brief moment it was uttered-- whole.

For years she had looked at the missing ring finger on Kurel’s own left hand with malice-- as it symbolized what she thought she could not have. At present, she considered nightly removing her own ring finger.

“A letter, ma’am,” came the utterance from the crack of her office door. If it was Clarcius or Den, she didn’t look. Eilithe did not look at most people these days, she looked through them as though they were a shadow obscuring her view of something behind them, and how she hoped that behind every shadow she might find Kurel there. 

She read the letter three times.

Mother Mirage,

I wish I had more time to know you. If we survive, I would still like to. If we don’t. I am so sorry. I wish I had something better to offer you. A promise. My loyalty. My life.

Maybe one day, in the distant future we can sit across from each other and share a meal. I can share with all your children the stories my father shared with me. If ever this sect is whole again, you can see it. And I can walk you down the streets. And you can reach out and feel the silks on the vendors carts, drink the crisp water of the oasis wells, and breath in the strength of the strongest army you have not yet known.

He walks at the front of our caravan alone and sits through the night the same, awake, with a pendant in his hand and conflict on his shoulders. He eats only with his two most trusted and only the one with red hair delivers his commands.

If I have done wrong, I did not realize I was doing so.

 ~ Eronal Dawnseeker  

It did not occur to her until she made her last pass over the letter. Kur’elnth An’Diel, first son of Vishak An’Diel, King of the Black Mirage. In marriage, by the desert standard, she was Mother Mirage-- yet Eilithe wondered how she could even claim such a title thousands of miles from the sands. How could she do anything when it all-- when he felt so far. 

All she could do was write. Who knew how letters got to where they were supposed to-- but when it arrived somewhere in the desert it read in Eilithe’s looping handwriting:

Eronal Dawnseeker, 

My husband is a lonely man. I think that I am a lonely woman and by fate-- cruel or otherwise, we found one another in the dark and lonely space that thousands of years of living creates. 

The red head is called Saeris. Did you know that he is the reason Kur’elnth and I ended up together? He once told me that Kurel was like Fire and Air-- that I was like Water and Air. You see Air fuels Fire and Water soothes it. If ever you are given the chance to find love, I pray that you are like Air and Water too, Eronal. That is a wife’s real power-- to fuel and soothe her husband’s Fire. 

The other is Mavas-- he is how I learned to speak the desert’s tongue. I know he can be rough and haughty, but understand that there are few men on Azeroth I respect more than Mavas Hawke. He is what held Kur’elnth together long before I came along and I hold onto hope that he will hold him together as I cannot now.

I am not the type of woman who believes it is her duty to obey her husband, Kaldorei do not understand such a thing. However, this time I know that I cannot do as I please and march across the sands to aid you or Kur’elnth. I hope you know that if I could find it in my heart to go against him on this-- this one thing, I would. But I cannot. 

The first story he ever told me was of the Fire Maiden, weaving her crown of bramble. I must say that I think I fell in love with him-- or maybe the Desert in that moment. This is to say that while I cannot stand beside you now, I can and will read every letter you can write. Tell me your stories until the day which we can walk hand in hand through a desert that knows peace. 

You said that you wished you had something to give to me. I do not want your life-- I want you to live.  You said that you wished you had time to know me-- you will and you do. 

You will know me in the way he caresses that stone, knowing that in seconds I could be at his side. You will know me in the way he marches forward to do what he must for us. You will know me in the small light that twists with his soul. You will know me because every piece, every part of me I have given to him. He carries them with him and that is why his shoulders sag and he drags from the weight. With every step, he is carrying me with him.

Stay safe. Stay strong. 

Ei’Lithene An’Diel

@kurel-andiel​  @eronaldawnseeker​ @shaded-hawke​ @crymsynlotus​

[svucarisiaddict]

Hello :) please could i request the reader working at SVU and a suspect comes in, he's in a gang and is rough but turns out he's known the reader since they were kids and were high school sweethearts till their lives went in different directions (i/e him in a gang and the reader becoming a police officer.. theres some flirting, catching up etc and either Sonny or Nick (Your choice:-) ) is dating the reader and starts to get really jealous/annoyed about the exchange in the precinct and her past?

“Got my CI coming in later,” Fin announced. “He might be able to shed some light on the recent gang activity and the rapes.”

“So, you not only have a rope guy and more CI’s than the number of people I know. What else you got up your sleeve?” you asked with an amused smile on your face.

Fin chuckled. “You’d be surprised.”

“I’ve known Fin - for what is it 20 years?- and he still surprises me,” Liv said.

“Sergeant. You have someone here to see you,” the uniformed officer said.

When the man rounded the corner you would’ve been less surprised to see God walking toward you than your high school sweetheart. Still the same tousled hair, and crooked grin. His ear still held a diamond stud and his face held the scars and multiple broken noses.

“You know most of the squad. This is our newest member-”

“Y/N. I can’t believe it,” Kyle said.

Fin raised his eyebrows in surprise and all eyes turned to you. “Kyle. How have you been?”

“Good. Got my life in order. Living the straight and narrow. Running the car wash down on Bleeker,” he said proudly.

“That’s great, Kyle.”

“And look at you. A detective. You look great, Y/N. Really you do.” He stepped forward then gave you an awkward hug.

You could feel your cheeks pinking at his compliments. It certainly didn’t help that everyone in the squad room was staring at the two of you and your exchange. Including your boyfriend, Nick. Your relationship had been kept under wraps until a few weeks ago when Liv saw you and Nick at the park holding hands. You had a feeling the others suspected something was going on between the two of you.

“Uh. thanks, Kyle.” When you looked over to Nick his eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched.

Thankfully Fin stepped forward. “C’mon, Kyle. Let’s step into one of the interrogation rooms.” He placed a hand on Kyle’s shoulder directing him to the farthest room.

“Good seeing you, Y/N. We need to catch up soon. Tell your folks ‘hi’ for me,” Kyle requested.

You nodded your acknowledgment.

After a few seconds of awkward silence Liv returned to her office and Amanda pretended to do paperwork, Sonny busied himself on his computer.

As you went to sit back down Nick leaned over your shoulder. “Buy me a coffee?” Not waiting for a response he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair.

You sighed and rolled your eyes but followed him out nonetheless. Nick had jealous tendencies. His ex did a number on his trust and anger issues but he had made improvements since you and Nick got together.

Nick was leaning against the brick wall of the station when you stepped out into the cool autumn air. He fell into step beside you when you walked past him. “Two coffees both with two creams and two sugars,” you said to the vendor when he asked you order.

“I got it,” Nick said as you were getting ready to pay. He handed you the styrofoam cup then pointed to a nearby bench. “How do you know Fin’s CI?” Nick pulled the tab back on the lid and blew on his coffee.

“We lived in the same neighborhood growing up. Our families are old friends. We pretty much grew up together,” you answered. The steam from your coffee curled up into the cool air and you blew across the hot liquid. You took a measured sip then licked your lip. “We were high school sweethearts up until junior year.”

Nick nodded. “Right.” He sighed heavily.

“Kyle got into some dangerous things. Drugs, boosting cars, then he joined a gang. That was the last straw for me. I tried to help him but he thought he had to do all that stuff to make his older brother proud,” you said shaking your head in disapproval.

“So his brother was in a gang too?” Nick asked.

“Yeah. After his Mom died his Dad kinda checked out. So his only mentor was his brother, Kenny.”

Nick’s expression softened. “Can’t imagine losing my Mom so young.”

“The last I heard Kenny was in prison for the murder of another gang member. Kyle served a stint in prison for drug trafficking and grand theft. Their Dad died while they were both in prison.”

“When was the last time you saw Kyle before today?” Nick asked. He slugged back the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the trash.

“Oh, wow. 10 years ago. At least. He moved away after his release.” You took Nick’s hand in yours, intertwining fingers. “I’ve never had my hand fit with someone as perfect as yours.”

Nick looked at your joined hands then turned his gaze to you. A smile crossed his lips. “Me either.” He brought your hand up and kissed your knuckles. “Any other felons in your romantic history?”

“You want a list?” you teased.

Nick paused for a second then chuckled when he realized you were joking. “Get over here.” You sat the coffee down just in time before Nick pulled you to his lap then lean you back. “Thank you for always being honest with me and loving my crazy ass.” He kissed you quick the sat you back up.

“Your ass is my favorite thing about you. Well one of my favorite things,” you said with a giggle.

[19mrs-barnes17]

My friend broken-hearted-barnes is having a rough time lately, she loves Marvel. Could you write something for her to cheer her up?

Carnival

Summary: Spending a little time with your boyfriend Bucky takes a turn when you decide to go to a carnival on his day off.

Part:1/1

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Warnings: fluff?

Word count: 1,168

A/N: I’m sorry to hear that and hope this is fluffy enough to make them squeal with joy. This one is for you @broken-hearted-barnes . Hope your days grow brighter! Enjoy!

“Hey babe? Have you seen my jacket?” Bucky sauntered around the corner eyes scanning the room before landing on you. “Ah. There it is.”

You smiled innocently as you snuggled deeper into the leather, eyes sparkling with mischief. He scooped you up in his arms leaving you giggling and swatting at him.

“Guess I’ll just have to take you too.” You were in a fit of giggles muttering a few nos here and there. “Sorry, but I need my jacket. So you’ll just have to come to the meeting with me.”

“But I’m not an Avenger.” He smiled so sweetly at you, muttering that you were to him, and your body seemed to turn to jelly.

Placing you down on the couch, he leaned over you as he stripped the jacket off of you. You sent him a pout and crossed your arms.

“You have plenty of my hoodies to wear.”

“Not the same.” He raised a brow as he slipped on the jacket. “That one makes it feel like you’re here.”

He chuckles, shaking his head at your childlike pout before tenderly placing a kiss to your lips that had your head spinning.

“Well, how about we do a night in tonight then? Hmm?” You beamed up at him, nodding in agreement. Now you could force him to watch Umbrella Academy with you.

While he was out you went to the store and grabbed all the binge watching necessities. Food, drinks, and face masks. You were ready to test his limits on trying out the things you liked.

“No way.” He eyed the packages wearily as if they were a talking animal. “If Sam found out I’d never hear the end of it.”

“He won’t. Trust me.” He continued to shake his head at the idea. “C'mon Bucky, they’re really soooothing.”

Eventually you wore him down and the pair of you sat on the couch, green masks stuck on with a bag of gummies and a bowl of popcorn on your lap. Curling into his side you nearly fall asleep until the timer startles you back to reality.

“See? Gorgeous skin and Sam is none the wiser.” You peel off his mask and press a kiss to his lips.

The rest of the night you spend cuddling and chuckling at Bucky’s  dramatic reactions. You are soon out like a light and he continues watching, occasionally casting a glance down at your slumbering form.

When you wake his arms are wrapped around you as you lie on top of his chest. It seems he had decided not to move you from the couch to the bed. His eyes flutter open as you moved to break free and he pulls you in closer.

“Nope. No escape.” He hums contently, a small smile lazily placed on his lips. “Not letting you out of my reach.”

“Who knew you were such a cuddly teddy bear.” You giggle as you give in to the cuddles.

“Another thing you can’t tell Sam.”

“What can I tell him?”

“You can tell him I’m great at air hockey.”

“I beat you the last 3 games.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.” You laugh and shove his shoulder playfully.

“Dork.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He was absolutely radiating joy as he beamed at you. “I think we need some pancakes.”

“Do we now?” He chuckles when you nod fervently. “Alright. Let’s see what we can do about that doll.”

Today was one of his rare days off and you were determined not to waste a minute of it, ideas were swarming your mind. But, first thing’s first, you helped Bucky pour the batter as he flipped the pancakes in the pan. Recently, more of his muscle memory had been slowly coming back to him, like his ability to cook. He was insistent he do a majority of the cooking and who were you to complain.

“I think we should go to that carnival that’s in Brooklyn this week. Looks like fun.” Bucky hummed, intrigued, as he placed the last pancake on a plate.

“I need to grab some things from the tower beforehand.” Curiosity had you pulled on a string as you watched him set the table. What kind of things?

“Okay.”

He was upstairs a while, you had opted to just wait in the lobby, and you grew more curious by the minute. What did he have to grab? All his belongings were at the apartment. Honestly, you were a little surprised when he came back with only his jacket, you hadn’t even noticed its absence.

“Ready?”

It was absolutely bustling, people weaving through crowds and game vendors shouting out lines, so he held you close as to not lose you in the chaos. You went on almost every ride, but he wanted to save the ferris wheel for when it was dark. So instead you moved on to the games, desperate to win one another something.

In the end he won you a giant gray wolf, it barely fit in your arms and you looked a little funny fumbling around with it. To counter this however, you had won him a giant white wolf that seemed to fit much better in his arms so you also won him a giant tiger as well to balance it out.

When it became dark enough Bucky led you back to the car to drop off the enormous stuffed animals before heading to the now brightly lit ferris wheel. He was more fidgety than usual which made you a little nervous. He turned to you as someone was being let off, leaving your pod at the top, and he had this look in his eyes turned you to jelly. His hand fidgeted in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a little black box.

“Y/N.” He opened the box, a beautiful diamond ring sitting inside. “Ever since I met you that day in the park I have been falling for you with all that I am. I didn’t notice it at first, it was like falling asleep to be honest. You feel it coming on a little and then all the sudden you’re engulfed. And it was like all I could think about was how I wanted to keep you by my side and make you laugh. You became the most stable part of my life, and I want to take that a step further. Because, well, I want you want you to be my wife. I never thought I’d find someone in this life. That is, until you came along and changed everything. Y/NN. Will you marry me?”

You were such an absolute puddle, a sappy mess of tears and smiles, that all you could do was nod. Your verbal yeses far too muddled to comprehend. He was beaming as he slipped the ring onto your finger and you immediately after threw your arms around him.

It was the most cliche proposal and you couldn’t have loved him more for it.

~

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! Feel free to keep sending things in!

Taglist: @qtmeryr , @broken-hearted-barnes 

[liv-andletdie]

Kintsugi

Author: liv-andletdie Rating: Teen and up Pairing: TP Zelink  Word Count: 6000+ Summary:  kintsugi (Noun) To repair with gold; The art of repairing metal with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken. “The Hero of Twilight wasn’t unfamiliar with scars; nor was he ashamed” 

Available on Ao3 [x]

Dedicated to Matt, the coolest nerd, and Gigi, the most loving person I've ever met. Without you two this wouldn't be possible. 

<><><>

The Hero of Twilight wasn’t unfamiliar with scars. He had earned his fair share over the years. Accidents from his training with Rusl, burns from a campfire, souvenirs from an overly excitable goat. His skin told the story of a life well lived long before he ever donned the Hero’s green.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with scars; nor was he ashamed.

Each scar was a lesson learned. The nick on his shoulder taught him to keep his guard up, the burns on his arms told him to be mindful of flames, and the crescent moons on his side reminded him to be more aware of his surroundings (and the power of a goat’s kick).

The lessons had grown deeper as he set out on his journey. Bite marks across his torso taught him to be weary of Deku Babas, crosshatches over his shoulder blades taught him not to underestimate a Bokoblin, and claw marks over his legs warned him to be mindful of Wolfos in the snow.

To say he was proud of his scars would be an overstatement. He certainly didn’t carry any strong feelings concerning the marks that littered his skin, good or bad. They were simply reminders.

Ilia had seemed worried when she first saw his new scars. Shaking fingers hovering in the air over his skin, tears welling up in her mournful eyes. Even years after, he could still remember the way her voice shook, heart break present in every syllable.

“Does it hurt?”

Not anymore, he’d told her, mostly to spare his friend any more heartache.

That was, perhaps, the only aspect of his scars that troubled him: they changed the way people saw him. Strangers in the pub cowered when he passed, trainees in the yard spun myths about him, and loved ones cried hidden tears at the idea of him in pain. Uli, Ilia, Rusl... they all looked upon his flesh with a strange mixture of disgust, grief, and pity.

Zelda however…

She was different. She carried a curiosity in her that the goat herder turned hero couldn’t help but admire. No question was asked without thought, each lingering stare was calculating, as if he was a difficult puzzle she was determined to solve.

She had noticed the marks on his neck first. The cruel corner of a Redead’s fatal kiss, peeking out over the top of his starched collar.

The southern heat had finally made its way up north, filling the streets of the city with a thick fog of perfume. The myriad of scents from the vendor's stalls mixed with the stench of the alleyways. To combat the near oppressive heat, Link had taken to pushing his shirt sleeves up and pulling his collar down. Normally such a brazen display of skin would be frowned upon, but in the stables, under shady awnings, no one seemed to care. Not even the Queen.

And that’s how she found it, her eyes tracing over the mark on his neck, almost burning a hole in his shirt with their intensity.

“I hope you don’t think me rude,” She began, her hand dropping from her stallion’s side as she handed him off to a stable hand. “But how did you get that?”

It was a question he was used to answering. Many men and women had shoved pointing fingers in his face, or prodded sharply at his body. He had no issue with it, curiosity was healthy after all. And anyone brave or reckless enough to get that close to him deserved some kind of reward. Usually he spun them some tall tale, the stories ranging between anything from a particularly vicious farm animal to a scorned ex lover. It didn’t matter what lies he told, he was unlikely to ever see them again.

But Zelda deserved the truth.

“Redead.”

He could tell by the look in her eyes that no more detail was necessary. Her brow furrowed in understanding, lips twisted into a slight frown.

“It looks deep. It’s a miracle you’re still standing.”

They both knew she meant more than she said, though neither said anything else.

<><><>

She saw the scar on his arm second. Harsh white skin wrapped over his wrist, curling under the cuff of his shirt.

He’d tried to dress smartly for the occasion, new shirt, new doublet, same old brown brown boots shined up to perfection. After all, image was everything to the Royal Court. He could tell as much from the sea of silks and taffeta that flooded the dance floor. Swirling cyclones made of elegant fabrics that threatened to pull him under and drown him beneath waves of ruffles. Glittering jewels reflecting like stars in a storm against the candlelight. Voices crying out, fake laughter melting into screams.

It was all a bit too much for him.

He found himself on the terrace, the cold wind biting at ears, the rough stone of the balustrade pressed against the palms of his hands, new cotton gloves tucked under his arm. It was silent, and he liked the silence. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here. Perhaps he’d ran? Perhaps he’d snuck out when no one was looking? Or maybe he had appeared here through sheer force of will? Either way it didn’t matter, the terrace was silent nonetheless.

However silence was as fragile as glass - shattered by a touch.  Or the voice of a friend.

“Got out while you still could, I see.”

Zelda stood behind him, silver moonlight shining down on her like a spot. Everything else fading into darkness around her.

“I like the quiet,” Link mused. “Helps me think.”

She stepped closer, the soft swish of her skirts seemed to echo across the space between them. The smallest sounds turned into a cacophony by the relative quiet they shared. He let his eyes leave her, focusing on the stars above him. Each spec of light so far away yet still so tantalisingly close. As if he could reach out and take them in his hands.

“They’re beautiful,” She sighed, leaning against the balustrade, head tilted back, long brown hair falling over her shoulders in a cascade. The silver of her jewellery catching the light of the ballroom. And though she stood an arms length away, she seemed lost to a different world as she spoke.

“I wish I were closer to them.”    

She didn’t seem to be looking for a response, lost in her own thoughts as she was, so Link let her be, his own eyes tracing a path back home. He’d learnt to read the stars from a young age, to search the sky and plot a course to safety through ink black woods. If he was ever lost, all he had to do was look up.

“Link,” her voice was soft, wrapping around his shoulders like silk. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You’re the Queen, you don’t gotta ask my permission for anything.”

She didn’t seem to like that response.

“How did you get that scar on your wrist?”

Tearing his gaze from heavenly bodies to his own mortal hands, he glared at the scar in question. It had been a clean incision. Not enough to end him, but enough to cause worry. Enough to make it difficult to swing a sword.

“Bokoblin.” he grumbled. “Little shit got a lucky hit on me. Too bad for him I’ve always been a little luckier.”

She reached for him then. Silk covered fingers lingering in the space between them, so close yet oh so far. They hung there, in that moment, for what felt like a decade before her hand slowly curled over his wrist. The soft fabric covering her thumb catching on the rough broken skin.

“I shall pray that your luck does not run out,” she breathed and Link noticed just how close they had gotten. The air between them growing warm, puffs of white breath dancing above their heads. The kindness in her voice made his chest ache in the strangest of ways. And as she shifted her weight to stand taller beside him, he couldn’t help but stare at her.

Her hair, so soft, growing tangled in the light evening breeze. Her cheeks, flushed pink from the cold. The candlelight of the ballroom, caressing the apple of her cheeks as a lover would. The moonlight, dancing in her Royal blue eyes. Have they always been so blue? He wondered, transfixed by how they shined brighter than the diamonds wrapped tightly around her throat, brighter than the guiding stars above.

And, before he could find the words to thank her for her prayers, she was gone. Disappearing into the hurricane and leaving him alone on the silent terrace once more.

He hated the silence.

<><><>

The third time she asked about a scar they were in Ordon, spring flowers all in bloom. A country retreat for an exhausted monarch.

He had taken to wearing more casual clothes whilst in the village. After all, there was no one around who could possibly judge him. No stuffy nobles to look down on him. No stuck up dukes to frown at the technicolour patches in his trousers. No countesses to sneer at the fast repair jobs to a well loved shirt. Only Zelda. And, quite frankly, he trusted her to keep any opinion of that ilk to herself.

They lay in the field, watching the goats graze. The warm spring sun beating down against their skin. Zelda had mentioned before how she enjoyed the season, watching the rebirth of life after winter. An ever turning wheel, nothing ever truly being lost. It was a beautiful sentiment.

Zelda could find beauty in anything. An enviable trait, really.

“How do you do it?” he’d asked one night over supper. She’d simply shrugged, finished the last of her wine and smiled.

“You just have to know where to look I suppose.”

Since then he had been looking, gazing at everything. He’d look to the flowers in the gardens, to the fish in the stream, to the clouds in the sky. But nothing ever compared to that pair of blue eyes on the terrace, or the soft flush of pink cheeks lit by candlelight.

He was drawn out of his musing by a soft fingertip grazing against his shin.

Zelda lay with her head in his lap, brown hair pulled back into a braid which snaked over her shoulders. From this angle he couldn’t see her face, something that both saddened and comforted him.

Saddened in the sense that a moment without her charming smile was a moment wasted. Comforted in the sense that he couldn’t see the pained look in her eyes as she fixated on the twisted flesh of his leg.

They’d grown closer over the past few months. Tentative meetings in the hallways turning to afternoon tea for two. Quick lunches surrounded by company becoming private late night suppers. Goodbyes growing more and more difficult. Hellos growing more and more joyus.

As such, they’d come to know each other quite well.

He’d learnt of her love of cakes, her passion for the theatre, her dry wit, and her constant desire to help people. He’d come to know that the marks on his skin bothered her somewhat, a fact which caused his insides to twist as if he’d been run through with a lance.

Dragging himself back to the present once more (since when did he get distracted so easily?) he brought his hand to the back of her neck, fingers playing with the fine hairs there. Her long ear twitching slightly at the sensation.

“It weren’t anything serious,” he murmured, voice dropping low enough so only she could hear. “Just a dumb mistake I made as a kid.”

Her fingers halted in their path along his scar and he took it as a sign to continue.

“I was playing by the creek, slipped on the rocks and tore up my leg something awful. Hurt like a bitch, but I was able to walk it off.”

Zelda let out a short breath, her palm pressing against his shin, warm fingers wrapping around the muscles of his calf.

“I would have expected fancier footwork from the man who bested the Demon King in single combat.”

He could practically hear her smirk in her voice.

“I was only eight, cut me some slack,” her griped softly, too comfortable to hold any real malice. “My footwork has only gotten fancier since then, I assure you.”

She shifted then, lying on her back to face him, a lazy smile curled over her lips.

“I am truly glad to hear it.”

<><><>

The fourth time she asked about a scar it caught him by surprise.

Privacy was a near luxury in the castle. Schedules filled with appointments and meetings and training and lessons and parties and plays and luncheons and dinners and secret suppers and late night talks left very little time to just relax. To stop. To compose your thoughts. To work out stressed and worries. To curl in on yourself and block out the world for a moment. To recharge.

That was why Link found himself here. Late at night, in the training arena. Alone. The straw-filled dummies his only company, the sounds of polished steel against wood the only symphony.

It had become a habit for him. When the days were too long and his mind too full of thoughts to rest, he would sneak into the arena and train. Train until his thoughts were clear and his body exhausted. Running through practice drills he had long since perfected, the repetitive motions as soothing as they were tiring.

Taking a seat on the bench to rest for a moment, he pulled his shirt off over his head. The fine linen, soaked with sweat, clung to his back uncomfortably like a second skin.

It was getting late. The sun would no doubt rise soon, painting the sky in greys and pinks as she arrived. But as beautiful as the dawn was, Link didn’t fancy staying up to greet her. Pressing his face into the damp fabric of his shirt, he attempted to wipe the sweat from his brow. He wished he could lull himself into exhaustion. He’d been at this for hours. And, while his body now craved rest, his mind still raced. Brown hair in a braid and royal blue eyes swimming in his vision everytime he blinked.

“I’m so sorry,” a voice called out, her tone achingly familiar. “I hadn’t expected anyone else to be up at this hour, I… oh… Link?” Draping his shirt around his neck, he twisted his head to look at her.

Zelda stood, partially hidden by shadow. She looked embarrassed, like a child caught doing something that they shouldn’t be.

“S’alright, I can go if you’re looking for some privacy.” He started to stand, but her outstretched hand stopped him in his tracks.

“No! I’d hate for you to leave on my account.”

“I was practically done here anyway, Zelda.” A lie. “It’s no bother.” She seemed to deflate slightly, eyes dropping to the ground as she wrung her hands in front of her. “Or I can stay. If you want the company, that is?”

Despite the distance between them, Link swore he saw her cheeks flush pink. A small “thank you” tumbling from her lips, tripping over her shy smile. And, not for the first time, he cursed the silver moon for not being bright enough. For not allowing him a glimpse of his Queen as she shifted around in shadows. Why is she so far away?

“So,” Zelda started, trying to break the silence that had grown between them. “What brings you out here at such an hour as this?”

“I could ask you the same thing. If you must know, I was practicing my fancy footwork.” He felt his heart skip at the sound of her soft laughter. Barely concealed giggles echoing around the empty arena.

“I wasn’t aware my teasing had such an effect,” she chuckled, arms pulling her robes tighter. “I’ll be more mindful in the future.”

“Don’t change on my account.” He smiled, cheeks heating slightly. “I like you just the way you are.”

He wished he was closer to her. Wished he could watch as her cheeks flushed and her eyes widened. Blue shining like sapphires in the stars. Wished he could hear her clearly as she mumbled back, “I like you too.”

Patting the seat next to him, he fixed her with a questioning gaze. His invitation silent but clear.

“I wouldn’t want to impose-”

“It ain’t an imposition if I’m offering,” He cut in, hoping that he didn’t come across as pushy or rude. He didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable when she was already upset about something.

Zelda stayed silent for a moment, her eyes distant in thought. She looked like she was weighing pros and cons, or maybe she was trying to find a polite way to reject him. Bracing himself for the worst, he was pleasantly surprised when she took the space beside him. Her body pressed against his, the cold silk of her robe biting against his bare arm.

In the light of the torches he could see her more clearly. The nightgown she wore, a soft shade of pink, that fell down to her mid calf. Her legs were covered by a pair of warm, brown britches. Her robe was pulled high over her shoulders, covering her collar, Her hair, left long and loose, fell like a curtain in front of her face.

“You cold?” he asked, nodding his head to her unusual attire. The summer had long since come and gone, the heat of the days making way for the chill night winds.

“Something like that.”

Link didn’t push for an elaboration. He knew Zelda well enough by now to know that she’d give him one if she wanted.

The silence between them grew, but Link found that he didn’t mind. He enjoyed just being with her, sitting with her, watching the stars pass by. Her head resting on his shoulder, her hair draping over his skin as soft as silk.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the scars on your back,” she warned, low voice shattering the silence around them. “The claw marks are particularly worrying.”

Link had almost forgotten about those. The memory of their creation foggy and blurred with pain. It hadn’t been pretty.

“They’re nothing.” he lied, shifting to take her hand in his. He felt her breath catch slightly, the sound causing his heart to skip, as he wrapped her arm around his back. Pressing her fingertips to the long white scars that ran down the back of his ribs. Her hand felt like ice against his sweaty skin, but he grit his teeth and bore it. “I didn’t keep my eyes out is all. Wolfos got a lucky hit. It looks worse than it really is. It’s just a flesh wound. Honest.”

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt the need to comfort her. To show that the marks didn’t hurt him as much as she feared. To desperately put her mine at ease.

“I wish you weren’t so reckless,” She sighed. Her touch grew warmer, her palm running circles over his back, her lips pressed against his shoulder. She was hypnotic, and Link found himself relaxing into her with every beat of his heart.

“And I wish you’d kiss me.”

Zelda froze.

Her breath stopped short against his skin. Her palm still pressed against his spine. He could feel her lean away from him. He could feel his blood turn to stone in his veins. For months he had kept that wish hidden. The desire to kiss her pressed against his heart, kept a secret from everybody. And now that he’d vocalised it there was no taking it back.

“Link,” her voice was quiet, almost shy. Link dared not look at her, his eyes fixed on the burning torch in front of him. Maybe he could pretend that it had never happened! And then he could-

Her fingers gently held his chin, turning his head to face her. He tried to hide, to avert his gaze but he just couldn’t! Even hidden by shadows her eyes were so shockingly blue.

And then she leaned in.

Her nose bumped softly against his, her warm breath fanned over his chin. Link could feel his eyes close, lips parting slightly. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as their lips finally met. It was only the lightest of touches, but it was enough to set a fire in his blood. He leaned in, desperate for more. His hand found its place on her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin as the candlelight had done months before.

When the two broke apart, Link wasn’t aware of how much time had passed. Nor did he particularly care. He was too preoccupied with the feel of her hand against his jaw and her fingers running up his spine. He bumped his nose against hers playfully, his eyes falling to her smile. Large and toothy and perfect.

“I promise I won’t be so reckless anymore,” he sighed, feeling his own smile grow to match hers, “if you promise to kiss me like that again.”

Zelda appeared to take a moment to think about it. Her grin teasing as she tapped her chin with her finger.

“It’s a deal,” a chaste kiss against his cheek, “but now I should be going, Goodnight Link.” Another kiss, this time to the tip of his nose.

He barely had enough time to whisper back to her before she was gone. The pale silk of her nightgown trailing behind her.

With a resigned sigh, Link reached for his sword once more. He certainly was not going to get any sleep tonight.

<><><>

She didn’t have to ask about the fifth scar.

Her hand, pressed against his chest, pulled at the linen of his shirt. Short nails scratching his skin through the fabric. A rush of warmth washed over his body as he claimed her lips with his. Her soft moans sent a rush of blood to his head.

He felt dizzy, light headed almost. The need to kiss every inch of her consumed him like fire. The desire to press against her, to lose himself in her embrace, drove him wild in the best of ways. He felt like each second was a battle for self control, and he was ready to wave that white flag. Desperate to submit.

They fell backwards onto the sheets, Zelda’s hair fanning out around her like a halo. She was heavenly, angelic in a way words couldn’t describe, and she was his.

Soft hands turned greedy, gentle kisses turned roush. Bites and pecks peppered his throat as desperate hands gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise.

He muffled a groan against her hair as he settled between her legs. Her thighs wrapping around his back, her petticoats rucked up to her hips. A soft whimper left her lips. A silent plea kissed against his neck as her hands tugged at the hem of his shirt.

Leaning back, he tugged the offending article of over his head. Throwing it to the side with a careless wave of his hand, he turned his eyes back to her.

The look on her face stopped him in his tracks.

Pain. Heartache. Guilt. Etched into her features. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her hand hovered in the air between them, inches away from his heart and the starburst scar over it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, crystal tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” he promised, pressing her hand against his heart. The steady drumbeat dancing under her fingers. “The chainmail caught it, I wasn’t hurt. It’s okay, Zelda.”

He pressed kisses against her hair as her sobs grew louder. He murmured words of comfort, reassurance, and love into the air around them. It’s alright, It was just a bublin, they can’t aim for shit. It’s alright Zelda. I’m safe, I’m okay, I love you.

She buried herself in him. Her face pressed into the crook of his neck, her arm wrapped around him like a vice. She kept her palm pressed over his heart, his hand over hers soothing in it’s familiarity.

They held each other like that till morning. Neither willing to let go as she pressed apologises into his skin.

<><><>

Link noticed the mark on her neck first.

Then the one on her shoulder.

Then her face.

Her collar.

Her ears.

Her arms.

Long, deep, lacerations. Relentless in their numbers, aggressive in their style. Powerful slashes against milk white skin. Deadly and familiar, because he knew those marks. He knew the weapon that caused them, the hand that dealt them.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

He felt ill. His breaths catching, bile rising in his throat the longer he stared at her scars. Scars he was so intimately familiar with because he was the one who caused them.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with scars, but looking at her he felt ashamed.

“Why’d you hide them?” Why’d you never tell me? Why did I have to find them like this? By accident as we got ready for bed?

“You know how it is,” she was shaking, a false dead smile curling over her lips. “Appearances are everything here. It wouldn’t do to make people uncomfortable.”

Sickness turned to anger.

How dare he. How DARE he! How dare he hold her in his arms! How dare he kiss her flesh, how dare he whisper words of adoration against her skin when HE was the one who hurt her! It was because of him that she was forced to hide behind unctions and pastes, to cast glamours over her skin for the sake of snobby nobles and gossiping dukes. It was because of him that she now led a life of secrets! How long has she agonized over him finding out? That night in the arena, their first kiss. She had covered herself from head to toe, hid in the shadows. Had he really been so close to her and not noticed? How could he have not noticed!?

The mark on her neck, deep and painful. He had aimed to decapitate. She would be dead if he hadn’t faltered last minute.

Oh Spirits, he could have killed her.

“Do they hurt?” he found himself asking.

“Not anymore.” She sounded so… frightened. Had he frightened her? He could feel his heart twist and he wished that the bublin’s arrow had found its home there.

“I’m sorry,” He choked, bile rising with each agonised heartbeat.

“Don’t be,” her eyes grew watery. “You did what you had to do.”

“I didn’t have to hurt you!” He cried, sickness and shame growing in the pit of his stomach. Why didn’t she hate him?

“It was the only way to stop him.”

He watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, knuckles turning white as she gripped the fabric of her chemise. “These marks are my fault.”

His heart stopped dead in his chest.

“How can you say something like that?” He wanted to scream, but the look in her eyes stole all breath from his lungs. Her false smile was gones, and in its place was only pain.

“If I had chosen to fight instead of surrender, if I had risked my life the way you were forced to risk yours, maybe I could have spared you.” Her eyes turned hollow as she clung to herself. Bright blue growing dim with guilt and heartbreak. He felt her gaze trail over the bite on his neck, a wound that would have killed anyone else. “I deserve this,” she held her arms in front of her, watch the way the light danced across her own scars. “It’s my divine punishment.”

“What the fuck are you talking about!?” He gasped, everything in his body compelling him to run to her, to take her in his arms. Even if guilt held him back.

He reached out, ignoring the twist in his gut as he wrapped his hands around her wrists. He could feel her pulse hammer under his fingertips. “If you’d have fought you’d be dead like the rest of ‘em. You did what you had to do.”

“And you paid the price!” She cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. She pulled roughly out of his grip, pressing her arms close to her chest as she folded in on herself. “You and hundreds of innocent people!”

“You didn’t scar me! You ain’t the redead who bit me, you ain’t the bokoblin that cut me, you ain’t the wolfos that scratched me, or the bublin that fired an arrow at my heart!” He stepped closer, thanking whatever god of hers that was listening that she didn’t step away, that she let him put his hands on her shoulders.

“I got these scars because I made mistakes,” He started, keeping his voice as soft as he could. She didn’t need a shouting match right now. “I wasn’t quick enough or careful enough,” a kiss pressed against her forehead. “None of this was your fault, Zelda.”

“And these scars aren’t yours.”

Her scars. He’d almost forgotten the damage he’d done.

Dropping his hands from her skin, shame burning in his blood. “I wielded the blade,” he choked. An admission of guilt.

“It wasn’t aimed at me,” she reasoned, her hand reaching out for him. “I don’t blame you, Link. I hold nothing but love for you. I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Love?

How could she apologise at a time like this?! She was innocent!!

“How can you love me? Zelda, I could have killed you!” He could see the blood dripping from his blade. Her body slumped in a pool of red. Pink skin turned a sickly green as dead golden eyes stared up at him.

He could have killed her.

“And I, you. I am not the only one who walked away from that battle with injuries.” He thought back to a scar on his bicep where her rapier has drawn blood. She hadn’t seen it surely? He’d hidden it well enough. “Ganon would have killed you by my hand, Link.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

To blame him, would be to shirk all responsibility Link felt. To blame him would be to pretend that he had never taken up arms against his princess To pretend that he had never wounded her, shed her blood. To pretend that he hadn’t looked upon her face and aimed to kill. It may have been Ganon’s intent, but it was Zelda who took the blows.

He was stuck.

He wanted to free her from the burden he felt. The burden she had chosen to carry. The souls who had been lost as the first wave hit. The permanent reminders on their skin. Her punishment. As if someone so noble was deserving of punishment.

“Do my scars upset you?” he asked, watching her expression out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes… but not for the reason you think.”

Because you blame yourself.

“They don’t upset me.” He kept his eyes on the floor, away from her confused stare, away from his own guilt. He needed a clear head if he was going to get through this.

“Every mark on my body has taught me something. It ain’t always been fun, but I’ve grown ‘cus of it. I’ve become who I am today, and I like who I am today. Because this me… this me is someone who has been through hell and back, and he’s still standing. This me is someone who gets to know you. This me is someone who gets to love you. I wouldn’t change a damn thing because then, who would I be?”

“Link…” a soft hand pressed against his arm. “You’d still be you. You have a good heart-”

“And so do you! You can’t blame yourself for my scars, Zelda.” And, building all the courage he had ever had, he turned as he pressed his palm to her cheek. His thumb grazing over a cut on her lip. “Not when I’d rather be with them than without.”

“And you think it’s different for me?” She pressed her hand against his, holding it to her cheek. “Link, I don’t hide these scars because I’m ashamed of them. Appearance is everything here, you know that better than most. If they saw me like this… with these marks…” she swallowed, forcing a small smile to her face. “They would never take me seriously.”

“Zelda…” They’re not worth it, he wanted to say, You’re better than the whole wretched lot ‘em.

“These scars,” she continued, running her thumb over his knuckles. “They remind me of everything I lost. The invasion was difficult for everyone, I know. But when I see these marks on my skin, I’m reminded of what I sacrificed. And what I gained. I know they hurt you, and I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but… when you look at these scars, please, don’t think about how they got there. Don’t think about that fight. Think about what they show.”

“And what’s that?”

And she smiled, brighter than the sun and the stars and the moon. Brighter than the spirits in their springs and the sacred light they protected.

“They show that, despite everything, all of our losses and our injuries, we’re still standing. We’re still alive when that man tried to take everything from us.”

And how could he refuse her when she looked at him like that?

He was going to say as much, was going to act suave and calm and deliver some real cheesy line about never being able to turn down a beautiful woman. Something dumb to lighten the mood. Then she took his free hand in hers and pressed it to the scar on her neck.

The skin, rough against his palm, reminded him of just how real it was. How close they had both gotten to losing their lives and each other. And all he could choke out was a small, “I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” she sniffed, holding back tears. “But it’s okay. I’m okay, I’m alive. I love you.”

“And I love you.” he choked, replacing his palm with his lips, trailing kisses over her scars. He could feel his tears run hot down his cheeks, but as he wrapped his arms around her he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Spirits, I love you so so much.”

<><><>

They lay facing each other, scars bared openly. Bodies wrapped in furs and silks, sweat slick with exhaustion. Matching smiles decorating their faces, and kisses littering their collars.

Link pulled her close, his hand trailing down her spine and the countless scars found there. “You’re so beautiful” he sighed, pressing a lingering kiss against her forehead.

“I am, aren’t I?”

“And modest too!” He laughed, tucking her hair behind her long pointed ear. “Everything I look for in a woman.” He stifled her laughter with a kiss, reveling in the feel of her smile against his.

“I adore you,” She breathed as they separated. A large goofy grin on her lips, so different than the small smiles she gave at court. “I wish we could stay here forever”

“You’re the Queen, you can do whatever you want,” He chuckled, lips ghosting over the apple of her cheek. “If you want to stay here, then who am I to deny you?”

Her soft laughter echoed through the room like the romantic strings of a violin. Enchanting as an orchestra, a melodic symphony that pulled at his heart.

“You make a valid point.” she gasped, words fading into a soft moan as his teeth trailed over the skin of her neck. Over the large scar that lived there.

Months ago, he would have paused. Guilt and fear seeping into his bones at the very sight of twisted flesh. Memories of polished steel flying through the air, of metal hitting roughly against bone, and screams of agony ripping through the air.

There were some days that were worse than others, days where the memories were too strong and they’d collapse into each other. Loving words pressed against their skin, prayers and apologies and assurances filling the air. But healing is not linear, and as bad as these days got they would never cancel out the good days.

Good days like today. Wrapped in each other, tracing lines of gold. Precious metal swimming in their veins. Their scars becoming beautiful reminders of lessons they’d learned.

Reminders of the lives they had lived, and the paths that led them to each other.

~Fin~

HOLY SHIT I'M BACK?! It's been just under a year since I've really posted anything, I promise that Puppy Love: The Date is on it's way (just life get's hectic y'know) I really hope you guys enjoy this, I'm really proud of it. Also HUGE thank you to Mey and @andelynkinsey for their edits and to @zeldasdiaries for hyping me up. Also thanks to Matt for inspiring me through the first two sections and with conversations about DEEP LORE!

If you're liking what I'm doing here feel free to check me out on Ao3 under the same name. 

Thanks so much for your support guys, I couldn't have done it without you.

[bubblepunk99s]

Tia

Despite having been surrounded by goods for the majority of her life, Tia had never really shopped at a market. Good thing to, as one trip with Met had pushed her to the brink of insanity.

“You need the Falcon-face.”

“I keep telling you there’s nothing here like that!”

“Fine, Chickpea! You call them chickpea.”

They were standing in front of a small stand by the wall of a disused warehouse. The vendor- selling sacks of diamond dates and almonds- looked quizzically at the pair as he handed Tia a bag of chickpeas.

“I call them falcon-face because that’s what they look like.” She held up a wrinkled pea for Tia to stare at. “You can even see the beak!”

All I see is a crazy lady with a shopping bag full of crazy things

Ever since she’d announced that Amara needed further treatment, Met had taken Tia on a madcap tour of the city hunting for ingredients. They hadn’t gone to official market spaces. Oh no; they had gone to private stores, rootcutter stands, alleyway shops and other shady places picking up Goldwood fustic, alum gel, strange herbs Met called ‘mouse-tail’ and ‘hair of the earth’. Even if Met had brought Udana back from the brink of death, Tia didn’t want half of the things they had bought anywhere near Amara.

“So, what do you want?”

“What?”

“To buy. Is there anything you want to buy for yourself?”

“Oh, um...” Dammit why was this woman so good at taking her by surprise? “Well...Amara’s night scarf got burnt in the storm. Maybe we can get her a new one? A really pretty one, though. Nothing cheap.”

“A courting token!” Met seemed delighted. “Though I don’t see why it needs to be pretty, she’ll be asleep when she wears it.”

“I might see it!”

“How would you be close enough to see it?”

Silence. Awkward, sticky silence. Met’s lips curled in a knowing smile while Tia’s own features morphed into a sulky glower.

“Well we can see to that later. Right now, I think I’ll buy you some food and drink.”

Met’s proposed eatery was a gritty little coffeeshop next to one of the main tributary streets that lead to the city’s festivities square. A few stone tables were set against it, upon which were sat a few old men leaning over aromatic bowls of tea as if they were in prayer, coils of fragrant steam moistening their wrinkled faces.

“This is it?” Tia asked

“OK so it’s not a poetry club.” Met admitted. “But you’ll be hard pressed to find a more accommodating place in the whole city.”

Just then two burly men came out, arms crisscrossed with scars and smoking cigarettes down to stubs. They took off a bit too fast for Tia’s liking. As they stepped inside, she wondered what Met had meant by ‘accommodating’.

The inside was pretty much what she had expected: shadowed walls, clustered together tables, an old fan pushing the heated air around instead of cooling it. Faint smell of baking came from downstairs as a young woman brought pastries and coffee pots up to the customers.

“Hey Amniah!”

The waitress saw Met and her rayiha came out as the scent of roses.  

“Met! Pleasure to see you I was beginning to worry...”

“Nothing to worry about, my dear. Two of the usual please, we’ll just be by the cat.”

The cat was a severe-looking star stripe nestled in a corner. Flecks of red dotted its black fur and every so often it would sneeze out a flurry of sparks.

“You know those burn houses down?”

“Oh, we know. But you give a cat some food one day it suddenly feels like its entitled to your whole house.”

Tia rolled her eyes but she could feel herself begin to smile. This place seemed rough, but it reminded her of home. Just a little.

The food was a warming brew- Estakãn it was called – along with some spiced flatbread. Met winked at Aminah, eliciting another spurt of rosy freshness.

“Do you really think we need all this?” Tia said, eyeing the sacks full of things they had purchased.

“Trying to do this without the proper resources would be like trying to pry a nail from a rotten plank with a hammer.” Met ripped up her bread and began to munch. “This requires delicacy.”

Tia didn’t like hearing Amara be compared to a rotten plank but she held back her tongue. She’d been trying to do that more and more lately.

“Just seems like a lot of herbs is all...”

“Where I was trained, pharmacology was called ‘the hands of God’. Trust me I know what I’m doing.” She took a large bite of her flat-bread and a swig of Estakãn. The message was clear: no questioning her methods.

The Hand of God. Strange as this woman was, she wasn’t a god. What Amara had displayed though- that lightning strike, that thunderous Baran- for all the tricks she’d seen and been taught in the Ports, Tia had never seen anything like that.

“What’s wrong with her?”

Met glanced up from her food.

“Do you know what a virus is?”

“A what?”

“A virus. What is it?”

Tia faltered. Her medical knowledge amounted to treating cat bites. Thankfully Met answered before she could.

“A virus is an infectious agent. It can replicate inside the cells of a living organism, cause all kinds of havoc. The dead are much the same- they latch on to the living to grow, infecting their memories with the ones they had in life. Soon the victim exists between life and death, not knowing to which they belong. The dead are buried outside city limits to prevent them from poisoning the living, both their bodies and their souls.”

She took another bite of her meal. Tia’s own churned uncomfortably in her stomach.

“The body has immune factors to repel viruses. But to guide the dead out you need a touch of ritual. I’m sure your temple friend can attest to that. Still, I trust I’ve assured you I’m not some hack dabbling in kitchen herbs?”

A challenge. This time she could rise to it.

“It’s not you buying herbs that bothers me.” She said, trying to imitate the Port master’s dry wit. “It’s the quality of those herbs. Everywhere we’ve been to has been back-alley at best. Surely there’s a proper market we can get them from?”

Met cackled at that. “The Corvus have killed all trade in this city. People can’t bring anything in without being forced to pay a hostage tax that goes up with every new week. Most merchants just gave up after a while.”

Now I know what Kapu was so mad about Tia thought.

“Barely anyone comes to the coffee-shops as a result. You may have noticed it’s pretty thin on the ground here.”

“I just assumed this place attracted a very particular crowd. One you were a part of.”

A man in the corner gave a hacking, grisly cough. Met’s eyes narrowed.

“Surely there’s other ways to make business. Can’t they provide for the Corvus? Cook, translating, anything?”

“No city local works in the nest. People from off world came with them to cook and clean and the like. But no locals.”

“Because they could poison the food?”

Met looked impressed. “You catch on quick don’t you?”

Tia shrugged. “I had a demanding childhood.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked their cups and swigged down their drinks. Tia had tested the water. Now she was going to push out a bit further from the shore.

“Why are you helping us?”

“A doctor’s duty.” She let out a mirthless chuckle. “There’s a high chance that shards of the dead have now worked their way into Khedes. You saw me pull out that piece back when your friend shocked me. If there’s any possibility of her being in danger... I need to make sure what kind of dead thing this is before attempting a cure.”

“If you don’t what kind of dead it is and can’t make a cure without knowing, what’s all this?!” Tia said, gesturing to their sacks.

“Those are the tools that will help me smoke it out.”

“You make it sound more alive than dead.”

“You’ll find the distinction gets blurry around here.”

Silence. Met raised her head and fixed Tia with those lovely brown eyes.

“Khedes is my reason. For everything I do. If I think there’s a threat to her, I will isolate it and kill it without hesitation or reserve. Something tells me you can understand.”

A threat this time, not a challenge. But also, something more, something sadder...

“I do understand.” Tia answered. “And I want you to know- I feel exactly the same way about Amara.”

And the others. But don’t tell Temple girl I thought that she finished internally.

Met smiled. A real smile, full of understanding and a light that broke through the tiredness that had been casting a pall over her face.

“I know.” She patted Tia’s had gently. Instantly she felt a wave of warmth rush up her arm. She could almost imagine Amara being right there by her side. Seems Met really did know.

Just then, they walked in: two Corvus men. Their light briefly stabbed into the darkness, before settling as a halo of wispy light.

“This a red zone?” One said

“Get the guide.”

They called in a new man- one in Soljinn robes but with a head-scarf and goggles that glinted in the half-light. Likely done to protect his identity, Tia realized. No one would want their fellows to know they were collaborating with the Corvus.

“Everyone out.” He said in the Soljinn tongue. “This place is under surveillance”

He turned to the men.

“Be sure to rub your stomachs and En-alqarf. It’s how we express gratitude for the food. A ritual.”

The Corvus nodded, staring at the customers with big, wet eyes. As the people shuffled out, they rubbed their stomachs, emphatically shouting “En-alqarf! En-alqarf!”

It was ridiculous. Tia noticed the translator was struggling to keep a straight face. The last man to file out the room hissed a word at him. Yehjib. The man’s smirk vanished. He followed them out.

Tia made to get up too, but Met grasped her hand. Slowly shaking her head, she directed Tia back into her seat.

“Hey!” One of the men barked. “You ladies hear us? It’s not safe here.”

Still they sat.

“What they doing keeping company like this anyway?” The corvus were now standing over them, their light slithering in ripples over Met and Tia’s skin. “Don’t they know what kind of men come here?”

“Can they even understand us?”

“Maybe they’re from one of the universities.”

“Where the fuck did the guide go?”

“Maybe this one’s a widow. Widows always end up in places like this. Or worse.” He sniggered.

Still no response.

“Nah.” The light around the men brightened and hardened. “They’re ignoring us.”

In a flash, Met grabbed the hands of both men. Their eyes widened and their light began to flicker madly until it gave out entirely. Then they both toppled down.

Darkness flooded back. Met breathed out.

“I hope you think I’m more than a mad woman.” She said. “And be sure to tell that Temple girl you’re her friend. You never know when that chance will be taken from you.”  

[sordidandsublime]

Lucas Roth was a strange man, and he led a strange (but eventful) life. I've no idea what his early life was like, but he doesn't ever really talk to Nayara or his son about that so it's oddly fitting.

He's from a working class background, British, ex military, that's all I know, that's all that's relevant. Sometimes he's affable, a teller of crass jokes, a big laugher, but his moods change easily; all it takes is a little too much drink and someone looking at him wrong while he's telling a story—maybe he doesn't like the way they glanced to the side— for him to haul off and punch or stab them with a knife. Lucas' idea of what constitutes proper work for a man might have made him wealthy three centuries ago, when he could have gone over to the colonial territories, but the age of pioneering was in its dying days when he went out into the world to make his fortune. He oversees logging and mining operations of questionable legality all over Southeast Asia, learns the structure of working a mine. When he leaves Malaysia he takes a ragtag team of similarly minded westerners with him and moves to Brazil, where he obtains a license to excavate and meets Nayara.

Lucas loves the idea of money, of being wealthy, but he also believes in living off the land, of being self sufficient, in knowing how to hunt and track a man in the wilderness, in knowing what plants you can and can't eat, if you were, say, abandoned by companions in the middle of fucking nowhere. He didn't scorn the city, but he clearly preferred the country. When he went into town for supplies, all he did in the night was drink and look in at all the pubs. He didn't trust women enough to spend much time with them; he beats a woman when he suspects her of stealing his wallet during one of his nighttime wanderings. Prone to bouts of paranoia, Lucas would stumble out of his home on camp in the small hours of the morning, turn on all the floodlights and circle and circle it, staring into the darkness for threats only he could see. Once he shot at a collection of moving darkness from his window only to be met by a scream; he'd shot one of his miners in the leg. The man had simply gone out in the night to piss.

Roth admits he learned a lot from his father, although the lessons could have been taught with a milder hand. Lucas teaches the boy to shoot when he can pick up a gun without his hold wavering with the weight. He's made to walk the rough miles back to the camp many times as he was growing up; a handful of times his father leaves him with some supplies in the interior, and tells him to make it back to camp on his own.

He's stingy with Nayara, he pays her compliments but rarely buys her gifts, and when he does they're either piddly little things like a handful of candy bought off a street vendor or ostentatious luxuries, like an emerald and diamond necklace or a ludicrously heavy gold arm band. Lucas stops short of actually hitting her; the one time he tried to give her his hand she fought back like a demon, cursing him and bloodying his mouth. Thereafter Lucas is surly and cautious around her, sometimes gruffly affectionate; when she was in a good humor Nayara was sweet and slow as syrup.

Lucas takes Nayara and Roth to England three times. Roth meets his grandparents once, a taciturn pair who don't seem happy to see their son and give Roth dry cookies that taste like dust on a chipped plate. They don't stay long; the rest of the trip is mostly spent at pubs with Lucas' friends, big, crass men like his father or with his mother as she wrinkled her nose over western fashions.

Lucas' illustrious career is ended one afternoon when he's killed by his angry, underpaid workers. Roth watched from some ways off and didn't try to get in their way.

[bslmgoldgovnet]

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[diamond-song42]

Pone Reviews 91: All Bottled Up

TEACUP

School’s out and it’s time for a new Pone Reviews! Jumping to one of the Season 7 opening episodes for something that I believe needs a little clearing up. Let’s take a look at “All Bottled Up!”

Was there one clear moral in this episode? I took it that there were two. First, “you shouldn’t let your anger get so built up that you go insane.” Obvious connotation there. Just share your feelings, people. Second, “you and your friends are bound to experience a lot of emotions, and they won’t hate you for expressing them.” We want everything to be peachy keen 24/7. But it’s not realistic. Things will make you glad, sad, and mad. It’s not just part of human life; it’s part of every life. So not only is this episode encouraging you to share your feelings, but to not fear repercussion for doing so. Trixie genuinely felt bad when Starlight explained what was bugging her and immediately changed her behavior. If your friends are true, they *will* listen. If not, you may want to get some new friends.

Now onto the plot. While the Mane 6 are off in Manehattan conquering an escape room, Starlight is teaching Trixie some classier magic. But Trixie zaps the Map and it disappears! What will an angry Starlight do? Here we go with an interesting new episode concept for MLP. The Mane 6 and Starlight and Trixie each have their own mini plots. I find this concept can get a little scrambled in other cartoons, but here it is easy to follow. As for character development, I don’t believe it does anything for the Mane 6 and Starlight. But Trixie! Yes, this episode shows us that Trixie has come a long way. We learn she is a bit clueless when it comes to magic that isn’t for illusion, to the point she struggles with a simple teleportation spell. Though she makes jokes about Starlight’s past, she listens to Starlight when the latter vents her anger and is quick to stop her jokes. And she thinks fondly of her friends, as she was thinking of the day she first met Starlight while learning spells from her. We associate Trixie with the cocky stage horse from Seasons 1 and 3, but I think she’s become a wonderful recurring character. She is trying to not repeat the past and genuinely tries. Those are some of my favorite characters.

Here are some more moments from this episode that will be best friends until the end of time: *It is kinda refreshing to get a Mane 6 song after they’ve recovered from their abduction by Chrysalis. *Peanuts. *OH NO MY PART-TIME JOB AND MY OTHER PART-TIME JOB *Trixie was thinking of the spa because that was where she met Starlight and she loves Starlight. That is by far one of the sweetest things I have ever seen in this show. *Twilight trusts Trixie being in her castle yayyyyyy *TEACUP TEACUP TEACUP

And here are some things that can disappear as fast as the Map: *Because the Mane 6 sang a song, they lost to the Griffons. Escape room horse, you have a literal princess playing the room and you’re not gonna give her and her Equestria-saving friends the benefit of the doubt. She could banish you to the moon. And I’d call a Mane 6 song performed live a treat! No one except Starlight realizes the true power of Princess Twilight and that makes me angry. *Starlight’s magic was never controlled by her emotions before. Why is this suddenly happening two seasons after her introduction? *Another introduction: The Map can be moved out of the castle?! What good does it do outside the castle? Why would you want to move it in the first place (aside from a magic accident)? *It is a little sad Bulk Biceps can’t seem to get a good job regarding his weight-lifting talent and he’s stuck as a rough masseuse and a peanut vendor. The job market in Equestria must be really picky. *Starlight may be pissed that Trixie lost the Map, but Starlight chose to teach Trixie in the Map room. She had to have known that risk with how utterly bad Trixie is at non-stage magic. *Nice sentiment to make treats for the Mane 6, Starlight, but how long do you think they’ll be gone? An escape room is a few hours at most and you’re treating it like a camping trip.

To conclude: A zappy episode with dual morals and tasty peanuts. TEACUP. 4.5 out of 5 rainbows 🌈🌈🌈🌈% Thanks a bunch for reading another edition of Pone Reviews. Come back tomorrow where I throw it back to Season 1 for an episode that made me go *wow.* Diamond out!

[galaxygemologicalinstitute-blog]

What Are The Differences Between Diamond Appraisal And Diamond Certification?

Diamonds are wonderful possessions, which are dazzling gracefully and beautifully. Every diamond creation is exclusive, each with exceptional characteristics that establish its worth, rarity, and splendor. How may be a diamond measured? How can one make certain that the diamond being purchased is worth it? There are two ways to gauge a diamond: appraisal and certification.

Diamond Appraisal

The appraisal is completed by an expert gemologist or jeweler. The diamond is inspected whether it's mounted, loose, or as a part of a jeweler piece. It’s given a projected price that supported its features and condition. The gemologist's education, training, and experiences should be checked to form sure that reliable information is given.

A diamond appraisal may be a document used for private information, for re-selling, or for insurance purposes. However, it doesn't give an excessive amount of information on the gem's intricate quality or its worth as compared to other forms. The stated given is just a rough estimate since intricate details of the diamonds aren't checked.

Because there's a fluctuation of monetary values, the gem's value can also vary after a period of your time. It’s therefore advisable to possess the things appraised preferably every two years. To those that are new the method, only polished ones are for appraisal and certification. Additionally, an appraisal should never be used as a replacement for a certificate.

Diamond Certification

A diamond certification of authenticity is an in-depth, precise, and sophisticated document. It’s released by a laboratory specializing in the analysis of loose diamonds. Highly trained gemologists do that by rating and listing every important characteristic that the gem possesses. There are the 4C's which are the idea of certification: cut, color, clarity, and carat weight.

A certification of real diamond is often used over a period of your time since the diamond's qualities don't change unless they're damaged or modified. Advanced technology and techniques are used separately by every personnel specializing in each aspect. As an example, there's a separate professional to review the color while another is to research the clarity.

Independent Gemologist

The gemologist should be unbiased, meaning, he or she must not be affiliated with any jewelry vendor. An independent professional will see thereto that there's not any clash of interest so an honest evaluation is given. Apart from credentials and for references, affiliation with the foremost trusted organizations also will make sure the credibility of the diamond certification and appraisal.

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