#There's a part 2 to this but I'll post it tomorrow

[shaiyasstuff]

Request for youuuuuuu:

zayne's a librarian at your uni library. He sees your names in books he loves to read all the time (in those check out library slips). You two start leaving notes to each other between the pages (a post it here, another there, commenting on how this one line in the book spoke to you or him).

On the recommended tags in the bookshelves, you sometimes slip in a tag yourself (even though you're not an employee working in the library yourself), knowing zayne will end up finding it bc he's the only one who spends the most time looking for books and recommending books to people who spend the most time there.

I'll leave the ending up to you ;D just needed librarian!zayne cuz he's been stuck in my head for far too long

OHOHOHO I SEE YOU I SEE YOU! Lemme see what I can cook, librarian Zayne oh lord how did I never think of that? Sksksk here is, librarian zayne fluff dedicated fully for @blessdunrest

I finished this in record time omg you can tell how excited I was to write this. LOL hope you enjoy! And please tell me if i cooked :D

Was going to post this tomorrow but then I finished my other draft so I thought I’d give you double treats :))

It was supposed to be a normal day at the library for Zayne.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the high windows, casting a warm, dappled glow across the wooden floor.

The scent of old paper and quiet settled around him like a familiar blanket. He had just finished shelving the last of the returned books—most left in disarray by hurried hands and careless minds.

He didn’t mind, not really.

There was something grounding in the ritual, in the quiet order of things finding their place again.

With a quiet sigh, he sank into the worn chair behind the desk, reaching for the thick, lined library slip book.

One by one, he flipped through the entries, scanning the familiar handwriting.

Natasha, Year 3 – Fundamentals of Molecular Science.

Ada, Year 2 – Cosmos Within, a sci-fi classic.

Then—

Y/N, Year 3 – The Sun and Her Flowers.

His hand stilled on the page.

Something in his chest tightened—not in alarm, but in surprise, a subtle ache blooming beneath his ribs.

That book.

It wasn’t just any poetry collection.

It was his book.

The one he’d carried in his bag long after he’d read it, pages dog-eared and underlined, ink smudged from restless nights.

It wasn’t something people around here cared about—too tender, too raw, too honest for most.

Especially not anyone in his year. No one ever borrowed it.

Until now.

His fingers brushed over your name. Familiar, yet distant.

You weren’t someone he spoke to much, not directly.

You were always there, though—in the same lectures, across the hallway, once in a quiet corner of the library with your headphones in and your eyes half-lost in the page.

But now, you held a part of him you didn’t know he’d shared.

And somehow, it felt like fate had just nudged him, ever so gently, across a line he hadn’t realized he’d been standing on.

He closed the slip book slowly.

And for the first time that day, the silence of the library didn’t feel so solitary.

—•

When you came to return the book the next day, Zayne was tucked behind the counter, half-lost in a page of scribbled notes and quiet thoughts.

The world outside was muted—just the soft hum of the air conditioner, the occasional creak of floorboards, the rustle of paper.

He liked it that way.

Predictable. Still.

Until your voice broke the stillness.

“Hey, I’d like to return this.”

He froze.

The pen in his hand paused mid-word, ink pooling slightly on the page.

Slowly, he looked up—and the moment his eyes met yours, something in him shifted.

It was subtle, a quiet unravelling.

As if time, that steady companion of his, had faltered.

You stood there, framed by the light pouring in from the glass panels behind you, The Sun and Her Flowers held gently in your hands.

There was a calmness to you, but your eyes—there was something in them he hadn’t seen before. Not just curiosity.

Not just politeness. But softness. A quiet depth, like a poem waiting to be read aloud.

And for the first time, he noticed you.

Really noticed you.

The way your hair caught the light, the way your fingers held the book like it meant something, like it had left traces on your heart too.

You weren’t just a name in a slip book anymore.

You weren’t just another student passing through the quiet halls of his routine.

You were real.

And radiant.

And standing in front of him holding the very thing that had once made him feel a little less alone.

He cleared his throat, but his voice felt like it had to pass through miles of thought before it could reach you.

“Was it… good?”

He didn’t mean the book.

Not really.

You giggled—a soft, melodic sound that made something stir in the quiet corners of his chest.

Then you gave a small nod, placed the book gently on the counter, and turned to leave without another word.

Zayne stood there, momentarily caught in place, lips parted slightly in awe.

Like he’d just witnessed a small miracle, something fleeting and beautiful that brushed past him before he could reach for it.

His fingers hesitated before closing around the book, still warm from your touch.

He didn’t mean to open it again.

He’d read it a dozen times before. Knew the verses like he knew the beat of his own pulse.

But now, with you lingering like sunlight after a storm, he found himself drawn to it—not for the words, but for the trace of you that might still linger between the pages.

As he lifted the cover, something fluttered out.

A small, folded note.

It landed softly on the counter, and with careful hands, he opened it.

‘I notice everything I do not have, and decide it is beautiful.’

A line from the book.

Yes.

But in your handwriting.

Zayne stared at it, breath caught in his throat.

The words weren’t addressed to anyone. Not signed. Not meant to be found.

And yet—

It felt like a secret.

A whisper of something unspoken.

Like a sliver of your soul had slipped into his hands.

His heart stirred with something quiet and inexplicable. Longing, maybe. Recognition.

The faint ache of possibility blooming in his chest.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a quote.

It was a mirror.

And for the first time in a very long while, he felt seen.

—•

That night, Zayne didn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, the glow of the city lights casting quiet shadows on his ceiling, the note still echoing in his mind like a song he couldn’t forget.

Over and over, he replayed the moment you stood in front of him—the way your eyes lit up, the way your laughter lingered even after you left.

He thought of a hundred things he could say to you.

A hundred ways to start a conversation.

Maybe ask what part of the book moved you most.

Maybe tell you it moved him too.

But no matter how many versions he rehearsed in his head, something held him back.

It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was something softer. A quiet reverence for the way it had all unfolded.

Because this felt like your thing. The book, the note, the brief but meaningful collision of your worlds. A fragile thread tied in silence and serendipity.

And he didn’t want to pull too hard and unravel it.

So he made a decision.

He reached for one of his favourite books—Letters to a Young Poet, the worn spine evidence of how often he’d returned to its pages.

With slow, deliberate care, he opened it to the passage that had once given him comfort on a lonely night and slipped his own note inside.

‘Perhaps somewhere, in the quiet, we’re already speaking the same language.’

No name. No explanation.

Just the possibility of being understood.

The next morning, he shelved it beneath his recommendations display, straightening the spine with a kind of quiet hope.

He lingered for a moment, fingers brushing the cover one last time, as if to will it toward you.

Then he stepped back, heart thrumming in his chest, and waited.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t begin with grand gestures.

Sometimes, it begins with a shared page.

He waited.

Each day, he kept an eye on the entrance from behind the counter, feigning focus on paperwork while his gaze flickered toward the door every time the bell above chimed.

The minutes ticked by in soft, library-quiet rhythm. Students came and went, laughter echoing faintly from the courtyard beyond.

The book remained untouched on the shelf, nestled between other titles that meant far less to him.

And then—

You appeared.

Just like that. As if you belonged in that moment.

Zayne’s breath caught in his throat.

You moved with quiet purpose, your gaze sweeping the shelves, fingertips trailing along spines as if reading by touch.

There was a crease in your brow, that same thoughtful expression he remembered from the other day. You were searching.

Maybe for something you couldn’t name.

Maybe for the exact book he’d left behind for you.

He didn’t move.

He just watched—heart pounding, chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name. Hope, maybe.

Or longing.

Or the fragile beauty of watching a possibility begin to unfold.

The way you walked, the way your hair caught the morning light—it all felt like a scene he would’ve once written down and tucked away for safekeeping.

And in that moment, watching you reach out toward the shelf where his secret waited, he didn’t need to speak.

Because some silences said everything.

And his, just then, was quietly pleading.

You reached for the book—his book—and he swore time held its breath.

Your fingers wrapped around the worn spine, and with a small, satisfied smile, you turned on your heel and made your way toward the front desk.

Toward him.

Zayne straightened instinctively, his heartbeat loud in his ears, though his expression remained composed—habitual restraint masking the storm beneath.

You placed the book gently on the counter, the very one he’d chosen for you, with the note nestled like a secret between its pages.

“I’d like to borrow this,” you said, your voice soft but sure.

He met your gaze and nodded, careful to keep his hands steady as he reached for the library slip book.

He scribbled your name beneath the title, signing off with the date.

It felt strange, somehow, how something so mundane could feel so momentous.

When he handed the book back to you, your fingers brushed his—just for a second—and it was like something sparked beneath his skin.

You smiled at him, small and genuine, a quiet thank-you in the curve of your lips.

And then, just like that, you turned and walked away.

He didn’t call out after you.

Didn’t ask if you’d find the note.

He only watched, the image of your retreating figure imprinting itself on some tender part of him.

And still, he hoped.

Because now, it was your turn to read.

And maybe—just maybe—you’d understand what he hadn’t been able to say aloud.

—•

You returned the book a few days later, the same gentle grace in your steps, the same soft air of quiet that always seemed to surround you.

But this time, there was something different—a faint smile tugging at your lips, one that wasn’t there the first time.

Something knowing.

You placed the book on the counter without a word, just a small nod in his direction, as if acknowledging something unspoken between you.

As always, you turned to leave.

And Zayne felt it—

That sudden ache of something slipping through his fingers.

The almost. The maybe. The not yet.

His heart, though carefully guarded, wilted slightly with the weight of that silence.

But then—

Something fluttered out from between the pages.

The note.

His own handwriting stared back at him first—his quiet offering. The line he had hoped would reach you.

But beneath it, written in a different hand—your hand—was something more.

‘Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.’

A passage from the same book.

But this time, it wasn’t just a quote.

It was an answer.

Zayne stared at the words, the corners of the paper trembling slightly in his hands.

And then he smiled—

Small. Real. Disbelieving.

Because he understood.

You had read between the lines.

And you had answered in the only language he had trusted you to understand.

—•

It became a quiet ritual.

Every few days, Zayne would slip another book onto the recommendation shelf—never flashy, never obvious.

Just something thoughtful.

Something that meant something.

Between the pages, always the same—a note.

A single line, a question, a passage underlined just for you.

And somehow—without fail—you’d find it.

He never saw you take the books. Not once.

But they would vanish from the shelf by the end of the day, and a few days later, you’d return them with that same gentle smile and a new note waiting for him inside.

It was wordless magic, threaded between pages and ink.

A quiet conversation unfolding one borrowed book at a time.

He began to choose the titles more carefully.

Books that mirrored the seasons.

Books that carried pieces of him.

The ones he had clung to during sleepless nights.

The ones that had taught him to hope again.

And every time you responded, your words felt like echoes of something he had longed for but never dared to name.

It wasn’t a game.

It wasn’t even courtship.

It was something purer.

Something softer.

Like trust blooming in the silence between hearts.

He began to look forward to mornings—just to see if the book was gone.

Just to see your handwriting again. Just to know that somewhere out there, you were reading his words and choosing to answer with your own.

And in the quiet of the library, amid the soft turning of pages and the hush of footsteps, Zayne began to fall in love—with the mystery, the stillness, and the girl who spoke to him through stories.

Sometimes, you left little traces of yourself behind.

Not just in the notes you slipped into returned books, but in the soft, handwritten tags you began sliding beneath his recommendation shelf.

At first, they were small, almost shy—just a few words scrawled in the corner of an index card, barely noticeable unless someone was truly looking.

But Zayne noticed. Always.

“This one hurts in all the right ways.”

“Read if your soul is tired.”

And once—

“For Zayne.”

That one stayed with him the longest.

He found it tucked just beneath the worn copy of Norwegian Wood he had placed out that morning.

And the moment he saw those words—so simple, so personal—he felt the breath catch in his throat.

Like the air had grown too thick, like the space between you had suddenly narrowed into something unbearably intimate.

He never asked how you knew which books were from him.

He never had to.

Somehow, your heart always seemed to find what his had quietly left behind.

Those tags became a part of the shelf, a secret language only the two of you spoke.

And each one made his chest ache in the most tender, bittersweet way��because they weren’t just about the books anymore.

They were about understanding. About being seen.

And for someone like Zayne, who had always spoken best in silence and stories, it felt like falling in love without ever having to say the word.

And then—suddenly—you stopped.

No new checkouts. No returned books. No quiet notes tucked between the pages, no soft little tags beneath his shelf.

Just… silence.

A hollow kind that wrapped itself around Zayne’s chest and refused to let go.

He flipped through the library slip book again and again, hoping he’d missed something.

But your name—your name—hadn’t appeared in almost two weeks. And that absence, so small on paper, felt unbearable in reality.

Something wasn’t right.

The unease gnawed at him—restless and sharp.

You’d become a part of his world in ways he hadn’t realized until your presence slipped away like mist, and suddenly the quiet of the library felt colder, lonelier.

As though even the books missed you.

So he began looking.

Between classes, after closing hours—his gaze lingered at corners of the campus you might pass through, eyes searching, heart pulsing with quiet desperation.

And just when he thought he had imagined you into something too delicate for reality—

He found you.

Sitting beneath a tree in the far stretch of the campus field, where the sun filtered through the leaves and spilled golden light across the grass.

You were curled up with a book resting in your hands, its cover closed, your fingers still turning pages like you were searching for something within.

The expression on your face was distant, thoughtful, touched by something fragile.

Zayne hesitated, standing there for a moment, heart thudding like it was about to burst from the quiet he was about to shatter.

Then, for the first time, he stepped closer—not as the boy behind the counter, not as the name beneath your borrowed stories, but simply as himself.

And you looked up.

As if you knew he would come.

As if you’d been waiting.

“Took you long enough,” you said with a soft giggle, eyes warm as they met his.

Zayne stood there, breath caught, as you held the book out to him—its cover familiar yet unknown, as though it had always existed but waited for this moment to be seen.

“Here,” you murmured, placing it gently in his hands. “It’s for you.”

He looked down.

The title read: The Quiet Love I Found in the Library.

His fingers curled around the spine, the weight of the book grounding, reverent.

He said nothing—couldn’t.

But his eyes lifted to you, and in them was every note you had exchanged, every shared silence, every book passed between trembling hands and hopeful hearts.

The wind stirred the grass around you.

And in that quiet, unremarkable moment, everything changed.

[royalarchivist]

Pac: I'm gonna see if I can manage to... to raise my- my kids [minimes], Fit.

Fit: Ok, yeah yeah! If you need any help with that, let me know, ok? By the way, here– [He tosses Pac some green mushrooms] Take a few of these. You might have to feed those to the kids [minimes], and it's like, a pain in the ass to get, so...

Pac: Fit, are you raising kids, like, underneath a van and giving them mushrooms??? What are you doing!

Fit: [Stammers] I'm a Florida man, I'm a Florida man!

Pac: Ok, yeah. Ok, yeah, you're a Florida man, everything makes sense now. [Laughs] You are a good parent, you are a good dad.

Fit: I try. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much Pac. [He pats his chest, over his heart, and laughs]

[ Full Transcript ↓ ]

—

Pac: I'm gonna see if I can manage to... to raise my- my kids [minimes], Fit.

Fit: Ok, yeah yeah! If- if you need any help with that, let me know, ok?

Pac: Yeah! Ok, ok, I'm gonna create the room, and later on we can chat!

Fit: By the way, here– [He tosses Pac some green mushrooms] Take a few of these.

Pac: Oh! Wait, what is this? Mushroom?

Fit: You might have to feed those to the kids [minimes], and it's like, a pain in the ass to get, so...

Pac: You- you have been feeding your kids with green mushrooms? [Laughs]

Fit: Look– they wanted 'em! So– you know? I mean–

Pac: Fit, are you raising kids, like, underneath a van and giving them mushrooms??? What are you doing!

Fit: [Stammers] I'm a Florida man, I'm a Florida man! I'm a Florida man.

Pac: Ok, yeah. Ok, yeah, you're a Florida man, everything makes sense now. [Laughs]

Fit: Yeah, yeah, yeah...

Pac: You just do some shenanigans with them, that's all! Yeah.

Fit: Yeah, exactly, you understand! You understand, yes yes.

Pac: You are a good parent, you are a good dad. You're a good dad.

Fit: I try. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much Pac. [He pats his chest, over his heart] Thank you. [Laughs]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 3: Enveloping Feelings.

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 4)

[elvisqueso]

Times they had to say goodbye — [3.5/4]

Pocahontas (1995)

[accirax]

with many people speculating that the identity of the culprit will finally come to light next episode and many theories running abound, i'd like to make a masterlist of all of the theories people have written out guessing who the culprit will be. that includes the main murder of Arei, the attempt on Ace, and any theories synthesizing the two. i think it would be fun to read up on before the episode, and fun to look back at once all is said and done :D

so, if you've made a theory speculating about the murder, please leave a comment on this post (preferably with a link to the theory)! i'll only be adding the theories of those who comment on the post, just so that i don't accidentally make anyone feel excluded/highlight someone's post that doesn't want to be shouted out.

all i ask is that you only submit whatever the most current version of your theory per character/combination of characters. for instance, if you wrote a theory based on the evidence from part 1, but wrote a new version taking into account what happened in episode 12 or 13, i'm only going to add the newer one. if you only have a version from part 1, though, that's fine!

(also, for all theoretical theorists out there, a reminder that i made an episode guide that breaks down all the episodes into easier-to-find sections. i just updated it for 2-13!)

[ilkkawhat]

[esaari]

honk

[overly-verbose]

Seriously, bro's a professional yapper lmfao

Tbf it's not completely unprovoked and he does just want to at least try explaining some things, if in a roundabout way, to make people more at ease (if not in the moment then overall) but, well-

sometimes it has the opposite effect lmao 😂

Also like, it's absolutely hilarious how I thought

'oh but this is just, like three scenes - how long could this be'

but all the freaking talking and stuff that everyone's doing is making Part 8 the second longest in the series 😂😂😂💀😂

(I fear for my poor brain, man - we've only just barely almost covered the Detention Center Arc

(and a little bit of the VS Mahito Arc Mahito Gets Curse PTSD Arc but I do wanna fill in some of the gaps between those)

and it's already gonna be over 40k words???

Why am I being so ambitious for my first ever proper writing project frrr *perishes a bit*

but I do hope to get it to the end - and beyond because there's no way I wouldn't constantly add to the post-main-plot shenanigans lol - however long that takes heh (just try to be patient with me pls I try my best here 😂) 👍)

[seventh-district]

7am, eating cold leftover teriyaki stir-fry for breakfast and crying over blorbos

[tardis--dreams]

There's been interesting developments at work and i need to do a lot of work for university so i think tonight is the Perfect time to finish beyond evil

[samaniala]

Villain Fang AU

(aka an au where fang gets seperated from kaizo and ends up getting raised by Borara and his gang instead)

The concept kept me awake at night so i had to let it out!!

The start is same as canon timeline where fang's planet is under attack by Borara and his team and the brothers are facing him... The only difference, kaizo could not stop fang from getting sucked into the blackhole and Borara ultimately ends up getting both Fang and Enerbot and escaping.

(TAPOPS arrives late to the scene and kaizo ends up blaming himself for his brothers death and also hates TAPOPS to the core)

But on the other hand Borara regretfully finds out that only direct descendants of Fang's family can activate and use Enerbot to it's maximum ability. (It's a family heirloom afterall)

But when Yoyo (i don't remember his teammates name at all damnit) suddenly comes in to inform that fang, who he assumed had died due to his attack is found to be alive afterall and is now out of the blackhole.... in a deep sleep but overall unphased, Borara decides it's destiny. If he can't use the power sphera himself then he'll create the perfect little minion who will use it for him!

And thus Fang's journey as a part of Tengkotak gang begins.

[pocket-lad]

Another Holiday special? 🥺

Maybe it's Ian's or Adelaide's birthday. 🧁🎂

Going into the cultural differences on how/if holidays are celebrated between Borrowers and humans. (For humans birthday are dreaded, another year when your youth is sapped away😔🙄. For Borrowers a birthday is a celebration that they are alive and made it through another year without dying 🥳🎊🎉)

HOLIDAY SPECIAL TIME! [And stay tuned for a part 2 ;) ]

~

“How old are you?” Ian asked.

“23,” Adelaide responded distractedly. She was focused on patching a hole in her pants.

“You - you keep track of that sort of thing?”

“If you didn’t think so, then why did you ask?”

“To see if you uh, keep track of that sort of thing. Are you mad?”

“What? No?”

Ian smirked to himself. Women always got offended by that question, and he never understood why. Sometimes it was nice to be able to talk to someone with no concept of societal norms or pressures.

“Well, wait, what day is it?” Adelaide asked.

“December 14th.”

“Oh, never mind. I’m 24.”

“When is your birthday?”

“December 14th.”

Ian blinked. “And you don’t celebrate?”

Adelaide didn’t look up from her pants. The thread was too short to complete a full, secure knot and she was growing frustrated trying to tie one. Every time it slipped out of her fingers, her mind slipped closer to madness. “I am celebrating.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

Adelaide set the needle down on her leg. “The world is dangerous. I’m not always guaranteed another year. So I’m pretty excited to be here today, but I don’t know how I would even celebrate something like that externally. I can’t be loud. I don’t have friends. So…”

“I take offense to that.”

“You know what I mean,” Adelaide smiled.

“I don’t, actually.”

They held eye contact for a moment, waiting for the other to break first. Adelaide couldn’t tell if Ian was lying. He was. He had a good idea about what she meant but he always liked to hear her talk about it. Adelaide broke first, despite her natural hesitancy toward explaining her life in the walls.

“You know I don’t want Beans to know I exist, right?”

“Yes.”

“And celebrations are usually loud.”

“Yes.”

“And if we were loud, the Beans would hear us.”

“Understood.”

“I don’t know what else there is to explain.”

“No friends?”

“Yeah, I mean…” Adelaide hesitated. “There were other families spread around the motel. I talked to some people my age occasionally, but never enough to make friends.” She knew Ian long enough to know he wouldn’t use this information against her or others like her. In fact, he almost definitely already gathered that more borrowers lived in the motel probably. It just felt wrong to say out loud.

Ian either didn’t pick up on her hesitation or he ignored it. “Well, you have me, and uh, moreover, you have access to the - to the whole world through me. So what do you want to do?”

“I want to fix these stupid pants.”

“Right."

“What do you do for your birthday?”

Ian smirked. “I throw a…wild party.”

Whether that was the truth or not was anyone’s guess. “Oh, okay, me and all my friends will throw a wild party,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“You asked!”

They sat in silence for a couple minutes while Adelaide continued to fiddle with the knot. Finally, she got it, hissing in triumph.

It was a very poor patch job. The hole would probably tear open again next week, but that was a problem for next week. Adelaide already knew her future self was going to hate her present self for this decision and she absolutely did not care. For now, it was fixed.

Ian knit his brows and couldn’t help but smile at her exclamation. Even he could tell the stitching wasn’t going to last, but her excitement was contagious. “Now what?”

Adelaide frowned. She wasn’t necessarily a planner, so she didn’t really think about what was next unless there was a need. And if there was a need, she’d borrow. But again, it felt wrong to announce to a Bean when she went borrowing. So, she shrugged.

“Do you need anything?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, I need more thread. This needle is also getting dull. And it would be excellent if I could find someone who was good at this,” she sighed.

“Hm.”

Ian shot to his feet and walked away. It took Adelaide a second to register it, then another second to realize what he was doing. By that point, it was already too late to stop him. He returned with a small needle and a whole spool of thread.

“I was going to get them myself,” Adelaide said flatly.

“I know.”

“I can do things on my own.”

“I know.” Ian bent down and set both items on the floor underneath the couch, right next to the entrance Adelaide used to get into the walls. Then she wouldn’t have to climb with them or knock them to the floor herself. He stood back up and held out his hand to her.

“What are you doing?”

“Give me your old needle. I’ll get rid of it.”

“I can do-”

“-do that yourself. Yes. I know. Can I do this for you, though? Because it’s your birthday?”

They entered another staring contest, and Adelaide broke first again. God, she was getting soft. She delicately set the needle in his hand, making sure not to poke him with it, no matter how much she was tempted to do so.

Ian disappeared again but shortly returned, this time with an apple. “I unfortunately do not know anyone who can uh, fix your pants. I offer you, instead, an apple.” He didn’t wait for a response as he shoved a slice into her hands.

Adelaide was forcibly pushed backwards from the impact. She managed to stay on her feet but had to recalibrate. “Why?” was all she could think to say.

“Uh, did we - did we not establish that it’s your birthday?”

“Yes, but-”

“Do you want to go to the park? The…non-Jurassic one?”

Adelaide had to restrain herself. She wanted to yell at him for ignoring her and interrupting her, but he was trying to be nice. He was doing a nice thing. Or, well, things.

And the park did sound nice. They’d been outside a couple times here and there but she hadn’t been back to the park since that first day. That was also the first time she sat on Ian’s shoulder and (regrettably) in his pocket. It was a hectic, scary experience, which is why she never thought about returning, but they’d been through a lot since then. The park sounded like a breath of fresh air.

“Sure.”

Ian held his hand out and Adelaide noticed the way he didn’t just scoop her up. Oh, so he was being nice nice. Maybe she should milk this birthday thing.

The park was relatively uneventful. They people-watched. Adelaide munched on her apple slice. At one point, a very large honey bee also found the apple to be quite intriguing. Adelaide whipped out her knife as soon as she heard the buzzing and held the slice behind her back. The stinger pumped menacingly as it floated around her. But Ian just gently shooed it away before she could stab it.

Adelaide pushed Ian’s hand out of her personal space. She refused to admit how nervous it made her to have Ian blindly wave his hand around when she was so high up. She refused to admit how nervous the bee made her. “It might come back. You should’ve let me kill it.”

“They’re good for the environment.”

“Hmph.” Adelaide worked just a little harder and a little faster to finish her apple in hopes that the bee, or any of its friends, would not return. As luck would have it, no more bugs interrupted their afternoon.

The setting sun was warm, the air was crisp, nature hummed, and time passed leisurely. Adelaide lived by extremes, oscillating from extreme adrenaline to extreme boredom. Though her time with Ian lessened those extremes, it was rare that Adelaide found herself in just a plain old pleasant situation, feeling plain old pleasant. It was nice. And she couldn’t imagine spending her birthday any other way.

“When is your birthday?” she asked.

Ian smirked. He didn’t expect anything for his birthday, but he was deeply curious to see what kind of plan Adelaide would conjure. “June 29th.”

“How old are you?”

“38.”

Adelaide’s eyes lit up. “Wow, that’s…awesome!”

Ian laughed. “You are quite - quite possibly the only person in the world who uh, thinks so.”

“Why?”

“Uh…people don’t like to age. Beauty fades. Puts us one year closer to death. I imagine it reminds us of all the um, the time we wasted, all the things we didn’t do and currently are not doing. Waste of time to even think about it, though. Trivial, if you - if you ask me.”

“I’d kill to die of old age.”

“You don’t think that will happen?”

“Unlikely. Didn’t even think I’d make it this far, to be honest. I’ll probably get taken out by a rodent or fall off something high, who knows.”

Adelaide didn’t seem very bothered by that fact. Ian frowned. The casual way in which she regarded death was morbid, but fascinating. But he didn’t know Adelaide to be emotional or philosophical. She was practical. She had to be. And he respected that.

“Hey, Ian? Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Adelaide leaned against Ian’s neck and yawned. She could feel his pulse beneath her and the cool breeze on her skin. And as the sun sank below the horizon, she saw it. For the first time in her life, she truly saw it. No clouds blocking the way, no windows to peek through, shining bright against the darkening sky. After twenty-four years, Adelaide saw the stars. And that was perhaps the best gift of them all.

[afairmaiden]

The Others (Part 4)

For the Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge). A continuation of The Others, immediately following part 3.

Thursday morning I walked into the kitchen and saw Sarah holding a knife.

I had woken up early—or so I thought—feeling surprisingly well-rested given how long it had taken me to fall asleep. For a long time, I had simply sat on the edge of the bed and tried to wrap my mind around what had just happened, and failing that, remembered the food Ellen had brought earlier. There were fried potatoes again, and a slice of apple pie. I ate in darkness, remembering the candles in the drawer, but not daring to light them, and feeling that, in any case, darkness was the safer option. My headache had returned, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

I dropped the necklace in my backpack, then found my pajama pants and a first aid pouch with some pain reliever. Then I lay awake for what seemed like hours, trying to decide on the best course of action.

Stick to the objective, I imagined Gina saying. But what was the objective? Would I be able to escape, let alone make my way back to civilization? Would it even be worth trying to get the kids out as well? Strange as they were, they seemed nice enough, and it felt wrong to simply leave them in such a place, though I couldn’t see any help for it.

Suddenly it occurred to me that this might all be a test. We’d always known there would be one, before we became full Lightbringers, and now—there was a moment of brilliant clarity. Of course I was being watched; they were always watching. And of course I wouldn’t be able to rely on my powers. Could I prove myself worthy without them? Could I stay calm in the face of chaos and confusion? Could I open the eyes of the blind with only my words? I was grasping at straws now, but it was enough. The idea sent a thrill through me, followed by a wave of relief. At last I felt myself start to relax and soon drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to the sun streaming in through the window. The house was quiet, and for a moment it all seemed so normal that I wondered if I hadn’t dreamed up the events of the previous night. Then I tried to move and instantly felt sore all over, almost like I had a bad sunburn on top of my already aching muscles, and found that the headache I thought was gone had come back with a vengeance.

I took some more pain reliever and tried to meditate with little success, then settled for lying still and taking deep, calming breaths. Finally, the pain subsided enough that I could get up and start looking through the clothes Ellen had brought. There were two long skirts, in reddish-brown and gray, three button-up shirts, in faded yellow, pink, and white, a large apron, long socks, caps in various colors and styles, and a number of smaller items I assumed to be undergarments. I chose the white shirt with the brown skirt, then brushed my hair as well as I could and tied it back, embarrassed as I felt how greasy it was, before making my way to the kitchen, where the first thing I saw was a child with a knife.

There was a moment of panic, but I tried to sound nonchalant as I asked, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to start a fire.”

She didn’t look up. She was crouched in front of what I realized was an old-fashioned wood stove, the door open, a small pile of crumpled paper and broken twigs inside. In her other hand I saw what looked like a metal rod. She held it close to the pile and quickly ran the knife down its edge a few times, sending out showers of sparks. A few moments later, I saw a small flame.

I quickly looked around to see if the others were safe. David and Elizabeth were sitting at the table reading. The cat was perched on a shelf above them, glaring down at me. James was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s your brother?”

“Out getting more wood. Aunt Ellen isn’t home. She had to leave early this morning to go to the Coopers’ and probably won’t be home ’til late. We’ve already done our morning chores and had breakfast.”

She kept her eyes on the fire as she added more sticks. David and Elizabeth smiled and said good morning as I sat down at the table, but immediately went back to their books. I couldn’t help noticing that they seemed less open than the day before, as though they were now as nervous of me as I was of them. I felt a twinge of satisfaction at the thought that we were playing on level ground for a change, then realized this was wrong. I told myself that I didn’t want to scare children, and I certainly wasn’t afraid of them. I was here to help them, and their aunt had given me the perfect opportunity. Although the more I thought about that, the more I felt anger rising up within me, and for once I wasn’t afraid of it. Of course I would never hurt them, but she couldn’t have known that. It was irresponsible, neglectful even, to leave them in my care.

Before I could get too worked up, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on light thoughts—tolerance, empathy, compassion—and as I repeated to myself that I was going to help them, I felt my mood start to lift, as fear and anger were replaced with a sense of calm, collected benevolence and magnanimity that the Lightbringers were known for.

The feeling lasted only a few seconds before James came in and dropped an armload of wood by the stove.

“I guess that should be enough for now,” he said, then looked at me. “Good morning.” And then, “Oh! What happened to your eyes?”

I suddenly felt self-conscious as they all looked at me.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Why, are they red?”

They nodded.

“Did you have trouble sleeping?” asked Elizabeth.

“A little,” I answered, hoping they wouldn’t press further.

Fortunately, they seemed to accept this, only suggesting that I drink more water and try to rest later. I considered asking how they had slept and whether anything unusual had happened the night before, but decided not to press my luck. Now it occurred to me that they had clearly been up for some time.

“What time is it?”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized it was a stupid question since they probably wouldn’t have a clock, so it came as a surprise when Sarah looked out the window and promptly answered, “About ten-thirty. We were just about to make lunch.”

“We were going to make chili,” added David, casting a somewhat dejected glance at a pot on the counter, “but we forgot how long the beans have to cook for, so that’ll have to wait until dinner.”

I looked at the pot, and then to the stove. It seemed dangerous, as well as wasteful to use so much firewood for one meal.

“Maybe we could just eat them plain,” I suggested, but Elizabeth shook her head.

“Uncooked beans are poison,” she informed me very seriously. “They have to soak overnight and then come to a full boil for at least half an hour before they’re safe.”

I tried to contain my shock as I mentally added food poisoning to the long and growing list of dangers outside the city.

“Oh. Well, you know,” I said, “we never had to worry about that in the city. There you can just order whatever you want from a machine and have it come out fully cooked in a minute, just like magic.”

The children looked politely interested, but not particularly impressed.

“We know,” said Elizabeth.

“You do? How?”

“The others told us.”

I couldn’t help staring as I tried to understand what she had just said. I waited, but she did not elaborate.

“Well, we’ll just have to figure something else out,” said Sarah, setting the pot on the stove. “We still have some bread, and jam, and we might have enough eggs for French toast.”

As they began discussing this, I heard the sound of something approaching outside, and the next minute, the conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Before anyone could move toward it, I stood up.

“I’ll get it,” I told them, ready to act as the responsible adult, even as my heart started racing at the thought of meeting more people.

I opened the door to find a tall, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties, dressed all in black and holding a large wooden crate. Behind him stood a horse-drawn cart that looked like something out of a history book. He was, of course, shining with the same light as the others, a fact that was no less irritating today than the day before, but which I was now determined to ignore. Still, this came as less of a surprise than the fact that he looked strangely familiar. He seemed surprised to see me as well, and held my gaze a little too long.

“Ah, excuse me,” he said finally, “but is Miss Hall at home?”

“She left early for the Coopers’,” said James, suddenly appearing behind me.

“Already? It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” the man asked, then, without waiting for an answer, glanced back at me and added, “You all managing alright on your own?”

“We’re okay,” James said. “We were just talking about having some lunch.”

“Well, maybe this will help. Eggs, milk, and butter,” he said, setting the crate in the doorway, “as well as some of your aunt’s books I’ve been meaning to return. Tell her thank you for me.” He hesitated a moment longer, then gave a quick smile and a nod and said, “Well, guess I’ll see you all Sunday.”

“What’s happening Sunday?” I asked James once the door was closed.

“Church,” he answered. Then after a moment, “You are going, aren’t you? Everyone’s going to be there.”

I froze. It was a trap and I knew it, but in that moment, my desire not to offend them overrode every other instinct. I was just about to say of course, I’d love to come, when he seemed to remember something.

“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to.”

With that, he turned and hurried to put the books away, leaving me standing in the hall in growing confusion. By the time I returned to the kitchen, I found Sarah already cutting bread, while David and Elizabeth took dishes and utensils out of the cabinets and drawers. James set out a few ingredients and put the rest away before going back outside. He returned a few minutes later with a small brown paper package which he set on the counter, then started setting the table.

I felt like I should do something, but since I didn’t know anything about cooking, I contented myself with supervising as they worked.

At last, the meal, such as it was, was ready, French toast with butter and three kinds of jam. The children gathered around the table, and as I had observed the previous day, didn’t immediately sit down, but remained standing a minute as they repeated the words of an evidently familiar prayer. It was strange, and might have been almost amusing to hear them address their god as though he were actually present and listening, if there wasn’t the smallest fear in the back of my mind that it might actually be true. Maybe I was imagining it, but I thought as they spoke, their light seemed to glow a little more brightly. Fortunately, the moment passed quickly.

“What’s your aunt doing at the Coopers’?” I asked once we had all sat down.

“She’s a midwife,” said Sarah.

“A what?”

“She helps deliver babies.”

“Oh.”

I said nothing, but felt my heart race as I considered the implications. Of course they would have babies. Where else would the children come from? What was more, apparently they were born with enough regularity to justify employing someone just to deliver them. I remembered Ellen’s words from the previous day; they had lived here for two hundred years and somehow not only survived, but actually grown in population. They probably had no concept of birth control, let alone genetic testing or prenatal screening, and I shuddered to think how much needless suffering and death there must be as a result. Of course there was death in the city too, but with rare exceptions, it was by design, something that was carefully managed, planned, chosen. The idea of leaving life and death up to mere chance seemed almost as incomprehensible as leaving them up to God, and for all their apparent light, the idea of anyone choosing this sort of life seemed to be another undeniable proof of deep mental and moral darkness.

I gasped as I realized another thing.

“We should be quarantined.”

The children looked at me in confusion.

“She shouldn’t have gone,” I explained. “It isn’t safe. You don’t know—I could be carrying something—frankly, it’s reckless and irresponsible—” I realized, too late, that it was probably inappropriate to be telling them all this—it wasn’t their fault, after all—but they needed to understand the dangers. They seemed shockingly unbothered.

“We knew you weren’t sick,” Sarah said with a shrug.

“But you didn’t. Not really. See, there are these tiny organisms that are too small to see—”

“We know what germs are,” James said flatly.

I realized I’d better quit while I was ahead, and bring it up with Ellen later. I recalled that she’d also mentioned the children’s mother had died. I wondered what had happened to her, and if there might be a discreet way to raise the subject sometime. At the moment, however, I decided on another question.

“What other jobs are there around here?”

They immediately began listing off every occupation they could think of. I learned to my surprise that while most everyone had some sort of garden, most of their food, as well as their clothing, came from animals—cows, sheep, goats, pigs, rabbits, turkeys, chickens, ducks, geese, and quails—and raising animals was apparently considered a full-time job. There were a few normal jobs—doctor, nurse, mechanic—but most were related to the manufacture of some sort of product—carpenter, blacksmith, potter, stonemason, glassblower, leatherworker, and at least three different jobs related to the manufacture of clothing. There was also the butcher, the brewer, the beekeeper, the bookbinder, and people who made paper and ink and soap. Their father and uncle, I learned, were away—they couldn’t say exactly where—getting salt and fish. The list seemed to go on and on, but finally, they came to an end.

“I feel like we’re forgetting someone, though,” James said thoughtfully, finishing off his toast.

They all thought for a moment.

“Is there a leader?” I asked.

There was another moment of silence before Elizabeth shouted out, “Oh! We forgot about the pastor!”

“That’s it!” said James. “I think that’s everyone.”

“He’s not exactly in charge,” David explained, “not the same way as a governor or a president. He can’t make up laws or anything like that. But he is responsible for the church here.”

I wondered exactly what that entailed, but before I could ask any more questions, Sarah announced that the beans were ready. Now that everyone had finished eating, David and Elizabeth cleared the table while James went to the counter and began dicing up the other ingredients, an onion and bacon from the package he had brought in earlier. In a few minutes, he fried them up and added them to the pot, along with a small jar of tomato sauce, a jar of corn, and some peppers.

Before long, the dishes were done and the children began discussing what they would do next.

“I’m making more lights,” David said.

James nodded. “Good idea. I want to see if I can’t split and stack the rest of the wood Jordan dropped off last week.”

“I don’t know,” said Sarah, looking at her sister, “but I was thinking we could surprise Aunt Ellen by doing the laundry.”

I listened in silence, feeling somewhat uneasy as it occurred to me that I didn’t have the slightest clue what to do next or how to make myself useful. I was absently running my fingers through my hair when Sarah suddenly looked at me.

“Oh! Do you want to wash your hair?” she asked. “You could have a bath too, if you like, but we’d need to get more water.”

If I had known how much effort it would take, I might have said no, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get clean after nearly a week of not bathing. And so Sarah went to light a fire in the wash house, while I followed the others out to the well, where they grabbed buckets and started hauling water. As we ran back and forth over and over again, I quickly grew tired and increasingly irritated as their seemingly boundless energy and undaunted cheerfulness began to grate on me. Again I wondered what sort of life this was, and how they ever managed to do anything when such simple tasks took so long. It was more than half an hour before everything was ready.

There was a large wooden tub, and above it, a simple shower, and Sarah gave me a bar of soap, shampoo, and towels. The arrangement was undoubtedly primitive, but nice all the same. The room was quiet and fairly dark, the only light streaming in through some high, narrow windows. I didn’t realize just how tense and sore my muscles were until I sank into the warm water, and then I just sat there for I don’t know how long, until the water started to cool. Then I bathed quickly and washed my hair once, then twice before rinsing off. The shampoo felt strange, and didn’t lather up like normal shampoo, but it seemed to do the job.

When I stepped outside, it was clear that some time had passed as the shadows were starting to grow longer, and though the woods now appeared bright and almost welcoming, they were beginning to feel a little too close for comfort. I guessed it was around two, and wondered how long it would be until Ellen came home. Before I could think much more about it, I saw James coming from the side of the house, looking tired and dirty, but grinning widely.

“Wood’s done!” he announced, stopping by the makeshift sink to wash his hands and face.

I followed him inside, where we found David at the table, pouring a thick liquid into a long, narrow container filled with rushes, Sarah putting wet clothes through some sort of wringer, and Elizabeth mopping the floor.

“Well, I guess we have managed pretty well on our own today,” James said as they finished up what they were doing. “What do you suppose we should do next?”

“We could always get a head start on tomorrow’s lessons,” Sarah suggested, then laughed as the others all made faces. “Alright then, how about a game?”

The others agreed. James and Elizabeth immediately left the room while Sarah and David finished putting their things away.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“The living room,” said Sarah. “It faces west, so there’s more light in the afternoon.”

I couldn’t see that the kitchen looked any darker now than it had a few hours earlier, but I said nothing as I followed them to the living room, where the others were seated on a rug in front of an open fireplace, looking though the contents of a basket. To my right I saw a large window overlooking the road and a field, in front of which sat a couch and two large chairs around a small table.

“What sort of games do you play?” I asked, taking a seat on the edge of the couch.

“We have checkers, chess, dominoes, cards,” said James, pointing to different boxes. “There’s also Bible Bee and finish-the-hymn and answer-the-question-as. Or we could read a story.”

“What did you do for fun in the city?” asked Elizabeth, looking up at me.

My mind momentarily went blank as I racked my brain for activities that would appeal to children, figuring the honest answer of scroll the socials and sleep probably wouldn’t cut it. The most exciting thing I could think of was the displays, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to explain that to them yet. Fortunately, I quickly snapped out of it and jumped into tour guide mode.

“There’s lots of fun stuff to do in the city,” I said. “There are shops and restaurants and museums where you can learn about anything you want, and every building has its own gym and a pool where you can go swimming, and just outside the city there’s a nature preserve with a park people can visit to see all the plants and animals.”

“Were there any libraries?” asked Sarah.

“Well, we don’t really have many print books,” I explained. “They take up a lot of space, and they can get lost or damaged. But we have digital libraries you can access using a phone or computer, and you can borrow any book you like, as well as movies and music.”

“Any book?” David asked skeptically.

I hesitated a moment as the conversation from the previous day came back to me, but then I remembered—

“As a matter of fact, we do have Bibles.”—Kept strictly as historical artifacts, but no need to tell them that.—“We even have churches.”

Not that I knew anything about them, but they did exist.

The children looked unconvinced.

“We’ve heard,” said Sarah. “Mr. Walther said they all chose to change with the times, and hardly anyone goes there now, and the ones that do don’t read.”

I was spared from having to answer when out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something moving outside and turned to see a hooded figure coming down the road. David followed my gaze and looked out the window.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “It’s Nan!”

“Who?”

“Our great-grandmother.”

Before I could say anything else, they all ran out into the hall. I rose to follow them but stood frozen where I was, listening as I heard the door open and all of them talking at once, then shuffled forward and looked out to find them gathered around a woman in a long, dark green cloak carrying a covered basket.

She was old, there was no doubt about that. Her gray hair peeked out from a ruffled cap, and she made no effort to hide her wrinkles, but despite her great age, she stood tall and straight and seemed to be in full possession of her faculties, and her light was clear and strong. It struck me, from her manner and the way the children addressed her, that she must be a very important person.

“What’s the matter?” James asked her. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” she answered, “but I was hoping to speak with your aunt.”

Now David noticed my approach and gave me with a bright smile before turning back to the woman and taking her hand.

“Nan, this is our friend from the city, Miss Bree.” Then turning to me, he said, “This is our great-grandmother, Mrs. Eleanor Hall.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said awkwardly.

“Welcome,” she said. She looked me over with an inscrutable expression which quickly turned to concern. “What are you doing up? Come, sit down, sit down.”

She ushered us into the living room and had us all sit down again before asking, “Have you eaten yet?”

“We made French toast for lunch,” said Sarah, “and there’s chili on the stove for dinner. Would you like some tea?”

“I would, thank you. Tea will go nicely with this apple bread from your Aunt Rachel,” she said as she uncovered her basket.

As Sarah left the room, she turned to me. “Now, how are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t notice my nervousness.

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but seemed satisfied for the moment.

“Good,” she said with a brisk nod. “You seem to be settling in well.”

I didn’t know what to say, but fortunately she didn’t seem to expect a reply.

“We got our chores and lessons done,” David told her, “and we were just talking about playing a game.”

“Excellent,” she said. “And what have you decided on?”

They began going over their options again. I tried to listen but found myself unable to concentrate any longer, as though a sort of wall had fallen around me, leaving everything outside in a muffled haze. It occurred to me that whatever force was blocking me from connecting was now interfering with basic cognitive functions as well, and I felt almost certain it had something to do with this new visitor.

The haze lifted slightly after a few minutes, when Sarah returned with the tea and the bread was sliced and distributed, and soon they decided on a game that involved building a tower of long wooden blocks, then removing them one by one and placing them on top without causing the whole thing to collapse. It was almost absurdly simple, and I doubted such a game could have held the interest of any child in the city, but it was clearly one of their favorites. In between turns, I found myself continuing to drift in and out of focus, as the conversation generally focused on happenings in the town, and I wondered that they seemed to enjoy each other’s company so much. It was strange—everything was strange, I really did need to find another word to describe things—especially considering I hardly felt comfortable interacting with people my own age half the time. I wondered if this was just how families were here.

Now that things had settled down slightly, I found myself growing bored and wishing I had my phone. I’d barely thought of it in months. The tech had seemed almost laughably obsolete. But now I would have given anything…

Still, it was something of a relief to be able to just sit and watch without having to join in too much. They played for a couple hours, until the sun hovered over the horizon. From time to time, they would glance out the window toward the road. Still, Ellen did not return.

They had just taken a break so Mrs. Hall could start a fire in the hearth and light the lamps, and Sarah could check on the chili and make some fresh tea, when at last we heard the sound of horses. This time James was the first to look out the window.

“It’s Pastor Hansen and Dr. MacDonald,” he said. “What could they want?”

“Oh! You don’t think something��s happened, do you?” Elizabeth asked, looking worriedly from her brother to Mrs. Hall.

“Don’t fret, dear,” said the old woman, patting her hair, “I know what it’s about.”

She stood and went out into the hall, and a minute later we heard her open the door and greet the visitors with, “You can come in, but she isn’t here.”

There were a few more words exchanged that I couldn’t quite catch, and then, “Well, there’s no sense in running out at once. Will you stay a few minutes for some tea?”

The next moment, she returned with two men. The children quickly rose to greet them, and I followed their example a half-second later. I was once more introduced as their friend from the city, though I was almost certain that the introductions were entirely for my sake, as they undoubtedly already knew who I was.

“Well now,” Mrs. Hall said to the children, “it’s almost time for supper. Why don’t you all go on and set the table, and we’ll be along shortly.”

They nodded and ran off, and Mrs. Hall invited the three of us to sit down and talk a while.

“So,” began the doctor, once the tea was poured, “how are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” I repeated, trying to smile as I kept my eyes fixed on the cup in my hands, grateful for the fact that we weren’t sitting directly across from each other as the combined light of him, the pastor, and Mrs. Hall was now nearly blinding, as they sat facing the window, fully illuminated by the golden light of the setting sun. I felt a migraine coming on.

It must have shown, because he refused to drop the subject. He asked a few more questions about how I’d been sleeping and what I had eaten before coming to the question I’d been dreading for the past two days.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I–I remember—I don’t know,” I stammered. Fortunately, I was holding it together, but just barely, and mentally kicking myself for not having an answer prepared, and wondering exactly how much they already knew.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, then a moment of silence before the pastor spoke.

“We understand this is difficult for you to talk about,” he said in a low voice, “and you don’t have to tell us if you’d rather not. But you should know that you’re not alone here.”

Before he could say another word, I jumped as I heard a sound outside, and the next moment we heard the door open and Ellen call, “I’m home.”

I thought there was something unusual in her tone. The others seemed to notice too, as the doctor and pastor looked at each other and Mrs. Hall was up faster than I would have thought possible for someone of her age.

“What is it? Is Anna—?”

There was something like a gasp, followed by a long pause, and then—

“Anna is fine. She had a healthy baby girl a little after one. But I’m afraid we’ve had quite an eventful afternoon.”

Ellen came in looking more upset than I would have thought possible for one of them, though upon seeing us all gathered, she seemed to collect herself a little. It was somewhat alarming to see her so unsettled, and now the rest of them as well, but almost comforting in a way, to have proof that they were only human. Even so, their lights continued to shine as brightly as ever, not dimmed in the slightest by this new disturbance. I most definitely had a migraine now, and took the opportunity to quietly excuse myself from the room.

“Well now, what’s happened?” I heard the pastor ask.

“Julia Thompson.”

“It seems that Mrs. Thompson has been rather busy lately,” Mrs. Hall said dryly. “What exactly did she do now?”

I didn’t hear any more as I practically stumbled into the hall, now half-deaf and almost completely blind, and feeling like I would be sick. I just barely made it back to my room before collapsing onto the floor and curling up in a ball, willing my hands to stop shaking and my breathing to return to normal.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. I might have even passed out. Then suddenly, it was over. The attack seemed to pass just as quickly as it had come on. The nausea subsided, my hearing and vision returned, and I found myself standing, once more, just outside the living room, where everyone, including the children, now gathered.

“I have a question,” I heard Elizabeth say.

“Yes, what is it?” Ellen asked.

“Has Aunt Julia gone mad?” she asked seriously.

I risked a peek into the room and saw that for a moment, Ellen almost looked as if she might laugh. There was a long pause before she finally asked, “What makes you think that?”

“Well—I mean—I don’t know—”

She looked helplessly to her sister, who sighed and spoke up.

“It’s because yesterday at the quilting party, she was saying things that sounded just crazy. I mean, we all know what she’s like,” she glanced to her siblings, who all nodded in solemn agreement, “but whenever we were near her, she started going on and on about a stolen ring, and jewels, and how you and Father…”

The adults all exchanged glances. Ellen seemed to grow a bit pale, while Mrs. Hall turned quite red.

“There aren’t really any jewels, are there?” Elizabeth asked.

“As a matter of fact, there are,” Ellen said, her voice somewhat strained. “Some family heirlooms that had been in your aunt’s family since before the town was even established, some of which, by all rights, should have gone to your cousin when she comes of age. But you remember your uncle had that accident a few years back that left him unable to work all summer, and since your aunt was too proud to accept charity, as she called it, she insisted on selling them for food. Needless to say, your uncle was not pleased when he found out, but he felt better once your father told him we had them and would keep them for your cousin. As for the ring—”

Her voice faltered, and she looked to Mrs. Hall.

“Don’t even think of giving it to her,” she exclaimed vehemently. “She has no right—”

“I know, I know, but…oh, I am tired.”

Now the pastor spoke, his voice low and even. “Mrs. Hall is right. The ring is yours by right and by law, there’s no question of that. And even if there was, she would be the last person with a claim to it. But now,” he looked to the girls, “public slander is a very serious charge. Do you know if anyone else heard Mrs. Thompsons’ accusations?”

“I’m sure everyone did,” Sarah said. “She was hardly trying to keep her voice down. And Maggie Shaw said to her face that it was an awful shame to speak such nonsense, and she didn’t believe a word of it. You can ask Mrs. Hansen about it, or Cecily, or Joanna. They all heard her.”

The pastor nodded. “I’ll do that.” Then, to Ellen, “I have to apologize. I see I’ve been quite negligent in my duties. I might have guessed something like this would happen—”

“You’re hardly the only one,” the doctor interjected.

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Hall. “No doubt we’ve all let far too much go for far too long, and it’s high time something was done about it.”

With that, it seemed a decision had been made, and in short time, the pastor, the doctor, and Mrs. Hall had taken their leave and gone out into the night. Ellen once again told the children to run along to the kitchen and that she would be along in a minute. For some time she simply stood in the hall, her eyes closed, an unreadable expression on her face. When she finally looked up, she seemed to have regained some of her old energy.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I'm alright," I lied.

"Good," she said briskly. "We've had a long summer, but they say the first frost will be here any day now. There are a few times in the year when we need all hands on deck, and this is one of them."

I found out what she meant the next morning, when I was awoken before sunrise by a loud knocking at my door. Ellen entered without waiting for a response and threw a jacket and gloves onto my bed.

"Get dressed quickly and put these on. We're heading out to the west field."

The field was about a fifteen minute walk away, and I learned we would be spending the morning picking fruit.

"It's late enough in the season that a good deal of it has been brought in already, but we can't afford to let anything go to waste," Ellen explained.

A handful of others were already there. A few acknowledged our arrival, but fortunately no one seemed to want to talk much. The one exception seemed to be when the pastor and his family arrived a few minutes after us, and he greeted everyone with a shout of, "This is the day that the Lord has made!"

And everyone responded in unison, "Let us rejoice and be glad in it!"

"The earth is the Lord's, and the fullness thereof!"

"The world, and they that dwell therein!"

I grabbed a basket and a ladder and moved to the very edge of the field, where hardly anyone else was yet.

A couple hours later, I had filled what seemed like dozens of baskets full of apples, pears, peaches, and nectarines, as well as some odd bumpy red berries I couldn't identify, and still the empty baskets kept coming. By now the field was filled with workers, and every single one, as far as I could tell, had the same unearthly glow about them. I stayed on the very outskirts of the field and kept my back to them as much as I could, and when I had finally gathered all the fruit there was, I slipped behind a large tree and simply waited until it was time to leave.

As the trees grew bare, the others also slowed down a bit, taking longer breaks and talking more. One group in particular was walking about and stopped directly in front of my hiding spot.

"Has anyone seen Mrs. Thompson?" I heard one woman ask.

"I don't expect we'll be seeing much of her anymore," said another.

"Did you hear there's going to be a trial?" exclaimed a third.

"Yes, though I can't see much point in that. We all know what happened."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it!"

"All the same, these things must be done properly. Matthew 18 and all that."

"I don't expect she will change, though."

"Can't say I do either. But we can hope."

"And pray."

"And pray."

Listening to them talk, I couldn't help feeling sorry for her, whoever she was, and thinking they were taking things a bit far, over what likely as not had been only a few careless words.

The signal to leave finally came a little before noon. The rest of the day and most of the next were spent in cleaning, sorting, peeling, dicing, cooking, baking, drying, and canning. No more was said of Mrs. Thompson, but a good deal was said about Mr. Campbell's prognostications for the coming winter, the state of the Longs' herds compared to the Johnsons', and whether we'd need to buy more blankets. Finally, on Saturday evening, the temperature dropped, and we looked out to see frost covering the window panes. Winter had arrived.

***

Sunday morning, I woke to an empty house. It was strange. The night before, I had excused myself from their nightly gathering as usual, but as I lay alone in the darkness, I toyed with the idea of joining them for church after all. My mind kept going back to James’ invitation, followed by his sudden change of mind. The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed and the more my curiosity grew, until I was nearly ready to go out and tell them that I would be there, whether they wanted me or not. All the same, it was something a relief to find that the decision had been take out of my hands, and I now resolved to make the most of my time alone.

It didn’t take long to realize, however, that this would not be the nice, relaxing break I’d been hoping for. After a week of busyness and chatter, the silence felt unnerving. I continued to feel as though I was being watched, found myself jumping at the slightest noise, and nearly screamed when I opened the door and felt the cat slip in past my feet.

I found breakfast—an omelet, pickles, and something like hash browns—waiting on the table, ate quickly and washed up as well as I could, and was just looking at the books in the living room when I was startled by a knock at the door. I froze and instinctively ducked behind the couch as the thought of meeting any more people, especially alone, set my heart racing. There followed a long enough silence that I began to hope I might have just been imagining things again, when suddenly there came another knock. I took a couple of deep breaths and finally forced myself to peek outside the window, and in an instant, any apprehension I had felt evaporated, leaving only the most profound confusion.

There was a woman, early thirties, blonde, average height, utterly normal except for how completely out of place she looked here. In the first place, she was wearing pants. That alone seemed so striking that it took a moment to register that I could look at her without wincing.

She caught my eye and waved nervously. I waved back, then hurried to let her in.

“So, you must be our latest guest,” she said warmly, offering me her hand. “Julia Thompson.”

“Bree. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

And it was. Though I might have hoped she was someone from the city come to track me down, the knowledge that the were normal people around here after all was a relief beyond words. And the fact that she was now at the center of the town's gossip made perfect sense.

“Well,” she began, “I suppose you’ve heard all about the little incident a few days ago.”

“I…did hear something about a ring.”

She grimaced. “It was all just a terrible misunderstanding, but I do feel bad about it. I was just coming over to see Ellen and apologize for the whole thing, but”—she peered past me with a look of mild disappointment—“I guess she’s not at home?”

I shook my head. “But, as long as you’re here, would you like to come inside?”

I realized as I said it that it might not have been proper to invite guests into someone else’s home, but I was aching for some company. Maybe she was too, because she smiled brightly and followed me into the kitchen.

It was fortunate there was still a small fire in the stove, and the kettle was still hot. I found some cups and the tea without trouble and laid a few things out on the table. For a moment we simply sat in silence.

“So, how are you finding the place?” she said at last.

“It’s…certainly been interesting,” I offered diplomatically.

She laughed. “That’s one way to put it. Nothing like the city, I’m sure.”

“No.”

She laughed again. “Imagine coming from the city and waking up at the Halls’. I heard they don’t even have water these days. I think I would just die of shock.”

I stared.

“You mean…it’s not all…”—I waved a hand around vaguely—“like this?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, like I said, it’s absolutely nothing to the city, but we are somewhat civilized. I told my husband before we got married, I refused to live in a house where I had to draw water, and he made sure we had a working pump and decent plumbing. But some people just prefer to live in the past.”

“I guess so.”

I couldn’t help staring at her clothes. Upon closer inspection, they might have been handmade, but they looked a good deal more normal than what I was wearing.

“It’s not a religious thing, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, eyeing my long gray skirt, “though some people might like to say it is. The truth is, back when the town was founded, they only had one seamstress, and I guess it must have gotten to be too much for her, because one day she pitched a fit and declared that if people wanted pants, they could make them themselves. She finally relented a bit for the men, but the ladies just had to make do until a new seamstress came along. These days, well—”

She took a sip of tea.

“Well, you know how small towns are.”

I didn’t, but I nodded anyway.

“People will look for any excuse to gossip, and eventually you decide, well, if I’m never going to fit in, I might as well give them something to talk about.”

The visit lasted about half an hour longer before she finally looked out and announced that she would have to run along and catch Ellen some other time.

I saw Ellen and the children coming down the road ten minutes later, and with them was a younger woman dressed all in black. I cleared away what remained of the tea and decided I would tell them about my visitor another time.

I heard the door open, and the next minute, Ellen popped her head into the kitchen and whispered, "Bree? Someone here to see you."

I followed her into the hall and came face to face with the woman in black. I felt her staring at me. I kept my eyes fixed on her dress until my eyes could adjust a little to the light. There was a long moment before she spoke.

“Bree? Sam told me it was you, but I couldn’t believe it.”

Her voice sounded vaguely familiar. As I met her eyes, it was all I could do not to scream. It was Jess.

[part 6]

[foster-the-moths]

just wrote 1,400 words of catalyst but worse au i think something bad happening to me (and by that i mean. hyperfixation.)

[raitrolling]

Life Update

=> A new video has been uploaded to Velour's channel!

[Transcription below]

Hello everyone, welcome back to another Velveteen Vanities Vlog. It's been a while, hasn't it? I apologise again for the radio silence, but if you've seen the statement I put out on Twitter and also on the community page here a couple weeks ago, you probably know that I've been on a mental health break for some time now. But, I thought now might be the time for me to keep you all updated on what's going on. Firstly, I'm here to tell you all that I am okay! This break has been doing wonders, as someone who has been working non-stop since I was around six sweep old, all this rest has been quite welcome! I've even picked up a new hobby, which is drawing more than just my fashion sketches. It's been difficult as I've never drawn so many faces and hands in my life [laughs], but! It is also very rewarding, and I highly recommend it to anyone who has wanted to start drawing to just pick up and pencil and have a go! It doesn't matter if your first attempt is not perfect, as every new sketch is a new learning experience! Secondly - and probably what you have all been waiting for the most, - I do have to say that at the moment I will be continuing my hiatus for the most part, but I do plan to slowly working myself towards a proper schedule again. This was also at the behest of the professional I have been consulting with, who thinks this is the best course of action. And I agree! Sometimes it is better to dip your toes in the water first, rather than jumping straight into the pool and discovering that it's incredibly chilly! So, you may see the occasional video from me for time to time, but at the moment there will be no set schedule. I hope you guys are looking forward to my return, and I'm looking forward to getting back into the swing of things once more! Slowly, of course. Thirdly, and following on from the last point, while I still will not be making any public appearances or interviews for the time being, I will be reopening my custom outfit commissions soon! I will be taking on a smaller workload than usual, but just like my videos, I do plan on easing myself back into a more consistent work schedule. I will be putting an interest check up on my website shortly, as well as readjusting my prices and terms of service. Finally, I have one more special surprise to tell everyone... Which is, well... I have a moirail now! Yes, you guys might not have seen it coming, and we weren't sure the best way to announce it, so... Consider this a soft introduction? We're still working out on if my partner would like to make a public appearance on the channel, or if he would prefer to stay out of the spotlight, but! Whatever decision he makes, please do show your utmost respect for his wishes. It's been wonderful having him by my side during my hiatus and I cannot express how grateful I am for him with words alone. He's a real darling, and I do hope you continue to support me and my new relationship for the future. And, well... That's all for tonight! Thank you again for listening and continuing to support me during my hiatus, and I look forward to seeing you all again in my next video, whenever that may be! Have a great night everyone, this is Velour, signing off!

[Transcription ends]

[twstjam]

October 10th is my birthday so as a treat to myself I might start blocking accounts that like my posts but don't reblog them <3

FR it's been so annoying seeing only likes and no reblogs. Don't like my posts if you can't be bothered to reblog it. I don't want to see you in my notifs