#and the one I picked was black leather bound and unassuming

[theworldasheatherseesit]

🤞🏻

[molluskwritesfic]

Where the Roses Grow: Chapter One

The compound on Arvala-7 didn’t house one bounty, but two. Elsi Nokk is an enslaved nanny with more than a few tricks up her sleeve. She’ll do anything to protect her charge, even if it means standing against - and then with - a certain Mandalorian. Rated M.

This story can be found on Ao3 and fanfiction.net.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Mild violence, electrocution, reference to sexual assault, mild language, slavery and associated themes.

This Chapter - Next Chapter

Chapter One

“Subparagraph 16 of the Bondsman Guild Protocol Waiver compels you to immediately produce said asset.” 

The thin metallic voice echoed faintly through the stone halls, but after a lifetime of eavesdropping she heard it loud and clear. Without missing a beat, she scooped up the tiny green creature that had been playing by her feet. To the baby, with his massive bat-like ears, the not-so-distant blaster fire must’ve been frighteningly loud. His dark eyes blinked up at her worriedly, ears held flat to his shoulders. 

She pressed a kiss to his wrinkled forehead. With the child cradled protectively to her chest, she hurried across the room, neatly side-stepping piles of supplies and junk. The baby’s bassinet sat among the wall, small and unassuming among the scattered bits of droid and speeder parts the Nikto mercenaries had scavenged from raiding bounty hunters. 

With practiced ease, she balanced the baby in one arm while opening the bassinet with the other. The quick press of a few buttons revealed the baby’s sleeping space. Small and dark, but made homey by several small blankets and a patchwork cloth frog, all lovingly made in the bright colors. Her fingers ached with the memory of each tiny stitch.  She deposited the baby in its bassinet, tucking in the blanket corners gently. 

He curled his little claws into the top blanket - the red one. His favorite. She smiled down at him sadly, wishing there was something she could do to stop the never-ending noise and violence; to stop him from being afraid. He was unlike any other child that had fallen into her care over the years. If he were, perhaps she could offer more comfort. But he always seemed shockingly aware of the galaxy around him.

He knew there were people dying outside. He knew they were coming for him.

She pressed a finger over her lips. It was something they’d practiced extensively. He copied the gesture, pressing one of his three fingers over his mouth with a self-pleased grin. 

She could distract him, at least. 

Despite the severity of the situation, she couldn’t help but return the smile. She leaned down to press a last quick kiss to the baby’s brow before pulling away and closing the bassinet’s shutters. 

“Subparagraph 16 of the Bondsman Guild Protocol Waiver compels you to immediately produce said asset.”

A few armed Niktos swarmed through the narrow space, causing her to flatten herself against the wall to let them pass. She was of little interest or value to them. An extra piece of furniture that they had to feed. They sidestepped her with the same regard they gave to the half-forgotten piles of junk they housed her and her charge among. Her safety was the absolute last thing on their minds. 

She was far too used to it to be offended. The heavy metal collar around her neck caused others to set her apart and then aside. It had once bit into her skin and drawn blood, but over the years the skin underneath had scarred and calloused. 

Now it only itched.

Knowing that it was up to her to keep herself alive, she tossed a ragged tarp over the bassinet and piled a couple of other odds and ends on top in hopes that if anyone did make it through, they wouldn’t realize it contained what they sought. At least not immediately. Just long enough for her to get a bearing on the newcomers’ intentions. Specifically, whether or not they intended to harm the baby. 

She had no love for the Nikto gang. They were just the most recent in the rather long line of hands the child had fallen into over the past two years - and those were just the ones she knew about. But as brutish as the group of mercenaries could be, they generally left her and the child to their own devices - so long as they weren’t in the way. 

She’d had far worse masters.

But, should the newcomers be successful, She didn’t want to be seen as one of the mercenaries. That was a very easy way to get a bolt through the head. Nor did she want to show any support for the attackers. Should they lose, the Nikto would be sure to express their displeasure. 

She slipped behind a few crates to wait, well out of sight but with a clear view of where the baby hid. Passive defense had served her well in the past, and she saw no reason to alter tactics now.

The battle outside was louder than ever, the usual blaster fire underscoring heavy artillery that made the air vibrate. She waited with bated breath, listening intently despite wanting to clamp her hands over her ears to defend against the volume.

Silence fell. 

She waited. 

There was movement outside. Footsteps. Two, at a guess, but there was no way to tell which side they were on. She stayed hidden.

She was startled by the sound of someone running. Someone close, too close. Before she had a chance to work out who they were and why they’d been able to get so close without her noticing, they were crashing into the barrels she had hidden herself behind and locking a hand around her throat just above the collar.

She wheezed as the grip tightened. They slung her around violently so that she faced them. It was Grod, the leader of the mercenary band. There was nothing particularly special about him - besides him being a little bigger than the rest... and the fact that he currently had the control fob to her collar. 

Grod hissed something at her in Nikto, squeezing her throat tighter for emphasis.

“I��m sorry,” she whimpered, eyes wide and pleading. “I don’t know Nikto.”

It was a lie, of course. But the tide had turned against Grod and she had no intention of assisting him in whatever he had planned - which probably included running. A bad idea in the middle of the desert. Especially while being hunted.

Grod snarled, perhaps having caught the lie. He fished in the rugged leather of his jacket and revealed the fob. It was small - just the right size to fit in the palm of the hand - metallic and black. A dial sat in the center of the object, along with a few buttons. 

She was painfully aware of its function. Cold fear washed over her, but she didn’t back down. 

Grod turned the dial and pressed the button. The collar around her neck seared into her skin. Her vision went white. She crumpled to the ground, mouth open in a silent cry as her limbs jerked and twitched with electricity. 

She wasn’t entirely aware of what happened next, but through the pain she saw Grod turn with his blaster only to fall at her side an instant later. 

Someone loomed over her, no more than a pale shadow in her pain-washed vision. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, unable to get enough air to cry out. Her teeth gnashed and rattled in their sockets. She heard voices, but couldn’t make out the words through the ringing in her ears.

The electricity stopped, but the pain didn’t. She gasped like a fish, trying to force her lungs to draw in enough air to breathe through the pain. Her muscles twitched by their own volition, trying to work out which electrical signals they were supposed to obey now that the horrible surge had come and gone. 

Darkness ate at the corners of her vision. She sank away into dizzying blackness.

. ~0~0~0~

“Nan!” Hetta’s shrill voice sliced through the air, shattering what had been an otherwise peaceful evening.

Elsi Nokk heaved a great sigh, trying to convince herself to be content with listening to her charge’s whiny shouts, so long as it bought her a few more minutes of solitude. She bent over her needlework with redoubled effort, so that when the child finally found her, it would seem that she’d been too preoccupied to notice.

“Nan Elsi!”

Nan, of course, was short for Nanny, as a slave could never hope to be awarded the title of Governess. It was a comparatively small insult, and one she was all too used to. 

She didn’t like being called Nan. It made her feel old, which she wasn’t. Her wavy blond hair had yet to start greying, even if it did look a little mousy tucked away in the low braided bun she always wore. The weathered places lining the corners of her soft grey eyes placed her in her late thirties, though her true age was anyone’s guess. A stressful life had the tendency to age a creature beyond their years, and she was no exception.

Elsi had no guilt at leaving Hetta to search for her. At twelve years of age, the child was spoiled, bratty, and had the wit of a bantha. Each day, Elsi would take her sewing to the riverbank while Hetta took her mid-afternoon nap. She always sat in the same spot, underneath the same tree that acted as a protective screen sheltering her from both weather and prying eyes.

Despite having found her nanny in the same spot a fair number of times, Hetta couldn’t seem to come to the logical conclusion as to where Elsi could have possibly disappeared to.

It only took another thirty odd seconds for Elsi to give up the charade. Hetta was loud and shrill, which wasn’t good for the headache that had already been building behind Elsi’s eyes. She heaved a great sigh and tucked her sewing back into her bag, folding everything neatly and ensuring that the needle wasn’t going anywhere. 

She stood and brushed away the low hanging leaves, parting them and striding out into the sunlight. “Here, Hetta.”

Hetta bounded across the short lawn and stopped in front of her nanny, where she stood bouncing on her toes. She was a blonde-haired bundle of sickeningly sweet pink and lace, a dress that Elsi had slaved over for weeks. Elsi’s keen eyes picked out the dirt smudged across the fabric covering her left knee and the slight tattering on the hem; two flaws that hadn’t been present when she dressed her that morning. 

Elsi tried not to be harsh about it. Hetta was only a child, and she was constantly reminding herself that children were SUPPOSED to play and get dirty. Had the universe been different, Elsi herself might’ve been exactly like Hetta as a child . But she’d learned early on to keep her smocks clean and pressed, as those that taught her weren’t quick to make allowances. 

She subconsciously tugged at the side of her simple blue dress to straighten the imaginary wrinkles. Lessons learned at the end of a whip didn’t fade with time.

Hetta didn’t seem to care that she behaved more like a common street urchin than the daughter of a nobleman. She had the same smug look on her face that she always wore when she knew something Elsi didn’t, which usually ended up being bad for the nanny. 

Elsi was usually quite good at predicting potential outcomes and preparing for them. But an unanticipated scenario meant she had no contingency plan for it, which exponentially increased her chances of being punished for negligence of duty.

Elsi crossed her arms over her chest, jutting out her hip and tapping her foot impatiently. Hetta’s father, Lord Burkisn, might be Elsi’s master, but Hetta certainly wasn’t.

Hetta’s expression faltered under Elsi’s piercing stare. Her internal debate flickered clearly across her face: to bask in powerful sensation of teasing, or to risk some kind of punishment later on. Lord Burkisn cared for his daughter, but since the death of her mother and despite his severity towards his slaves, Elsi had almost absolute power over Hetta’s upbringing. 

Elsi was not afraid to use what little power she had been allotted, and that’s what made her the best nanny an aloof widower Nobleman could possibly ask for.

“Father wants you,” Hetta explained, glancing sheepishly down at her nanny’s shoes. 

Elsi quirked an eyebrow, hiding her unease with a lifetime’s worth of practice. “What for?”

“Dunno,” she said, then quickly adding, “But he wants you to hurry.”

Elsi doubted the child’s ignorance. Despite the threat of being reprimanded for a lack of punctuality, she fixed her charge with her best ‘no nonsense’ look that could cause plants to wilt and waited for her to offer a more acceptable explanation. It was better to be prepared than to walk into any situation blind.

Hetta loathed that look. While she loved to cause trouble, she couldn’t stand being IN trouble. The death-glare was one of the most effective weapons in Elsi’s child-rearing arsenal, and she saved it for special occasions. Although being called to her master seemed arbitrary, having been sent for by Hetta sounded alarm bells for Elsi; it meant everyone else was otherwise preoccupied, and Elsi hadn’t been aware of anything out of the ordinary. 

“We have visitors. Daddy’s special guests,” Hetta started sheepishly. “And there’s a sick baby.”

~0~0~0~ .

Elsi found her way back to consciousness slowly; she had to coax it - her mind and body - away from the relief of dreamless sleep and into the light. It burned her inside and out. 

She groaned softly and forced her eyes open. The dull sandstone ceiling twisted dizzyingly overhead. Nausea coiled in her gut like a serpent. She rolled over on her stomach and retched, but there was very little to vomit up. 

The collar had been on a high setting, higher than the usual level used to punish a slave. Anything above 75% for more than a minute or two, and you ran the risk of causing permanent injury to the slave - brain damage, heart conditions. In other words, property damage - something no slave trader or master wanted. 

If she had to guess, she would say that the collar had been set to somewhere around 90%.

Grod had probably only intended to give her a brief shock, a few seconds of electricity strong enough to break her into compliance. She imagined that he hadn’t expected to be distracted by the blaster bolts cutting down the thick Quadanium door. The Nikto had drawn his blaster, no longer caring about the woman writhing in uncontrollable agony at his feet. 

Movement flashed in the corner of her eye. Elsi wiped her mouth and gathered what little strength she still had in order to lift her head. She found herself looking into the smoking cranium of the IG unit, presumably the same one that she’d heard earlier. 

Panic filtered through her foggy mind. The hunter was dead. Had one of the Nikto killed it? Did she still belong to them?

Oh, how she hated not knowing what to expect. She’d survived this long by knowing how to play her cards; and though they were often shitty, she won by playing the other person.

Not knowing the other players could be fatal.

Instinctively, her head snapped to where she’d stashed the crib. To her dismay, the debris she’d hidden it behind had been tossed carelessly to the side. From her place on the floor, she could see that the shutters were open and the baby peeking out curiously at the man that stood between him and Elsi.

A Mandalorian.

She hadn’t met one before, but the trademark T visor was hard to miss. She’d heard the stories, and she wasn’t sure whether or not she wanted them to be true. They were supposed to be warriors, noble soldiers in shining armor that were indomitable on the battlefield. The best warriors in the galaxy.

Elsi couldn’t speak as to the rest, but this particular Mandalorian seemed to have seen better days. The only parts of his armor that could even begin to be described as shining were his helmet and right pauldron, and those were coated with a fine layer of dust and sand. The rest of it was mismatched, a hodgepodge of dented metal that he wore like scales, painted with rust red or a shade of tan paint that was faded and scratched. 

If he gave a shit about his appearance, he certainly didn't show it. He stood nonchalantly with one finger extended to the baby, who was reaching for it with interested little coos. Although the baby seemed to be at the center of his attention, she could infer from the tilt of his helmet that he was keeping her in his periphery. He didn’t seem to feel at all threatened by her, though. But why should he? From what she could see, he had at least one blaster at his hip and a fearsome rifle strapped over his shoulder. 

More than that, Elsi spied her slave-fob clipped to his belt. 

Feigning another bout of nausea, Elsi grit her teeth. She hadn’t met a Mandalorian before, but from what she’d heard, they could be brutal… and tricky. Some lived by what most species would call honor, others lived by how their own personal code defined it. 

He hadn’t killed her yet, so that was something. But there were much worse things that could be done to a female slave, a bitter lesson that she’d learned very young.

Slowly, Elsi worked her way up to stand on shaking legs. Once up, she kept her hands folded in front of her and her head bowed submissively. The T of the Mandalorian’s visor turned to fix her with an empty stare. 

“What is it?” 

Despite knowing exactly what he was asking, she played ignorant. “He is a child.”

“Yes.” The indignation only just caught on his vocoder. “I was told the target was 50.”

“I can’t speak to his age,” Elsi offered, “but he has been in my care for two years, and he looks the same as he first did.”

The Mandalorian grunted and dropped his hand, which went to his hip. Elsi stiffened, bracing for pain, but instead of her fob, he came away with a canteen. He held it out to her. 

Wary, Elsi accepted it. She uncorked it and subtly sniffed the contents. Water. She took a few meager sips to help wash away the taste of sick, but didn’t dare drink outright. Water was precious in the desert. She wasn’t. 

The last thing she needed now was to outspend her own worth.

She returned the canteen. While he clipped it back to his belt, he asked, “You good to walk?”

Elsi wasn’t optimistic about how far her legs would carry her. She was already exhausted, drained by her collar and subsequent illness. And if that weren’t enough, months of being confined in a compound hadn’t done her any favors by the way of exercise. But, the way she saw it, there were only a handful of responses she could expect from telling a new master that she was too weak to walk and thus work. The Mandalorian had yet to be cruel, and might be willing to allow her to rest a little longer before setting out.

But she couldn’t rule out the other options just yet. The baby was the valuable one. Elsi severely doubted any bounty he intended to collect would be for her own delivery. He could just simply kill her to save himself both time and trouble. Or he could leave her behind.

For the baby’s sake, Elsi couldn’t afford to risk either.

“I can walk,” she said. “But first, may I collect his things?”

The Mandalorian’s helmet adopted a thoughtful tilt, as if he hadn’t considered that the child should need things other than a bassinet. 

He nodded curtly. “Be quick.”

Elsi dipped her head obediently and shuffled off to the abandoned corner she and the child usually occupied. 

Her limbs were still wobbly and ached dully from the collar, but she ignored them and quickly packed the few meager possessions they had between them into a worn russack sack; several of the child’s robes, an extra dress for Elsi, a few days worth of rations and a large canteen of water, as well as a few other odds and ends. 

Last but not least, Elsi’s special needle in its ornate casing was tucked away into one of the hidden pockets she’d sewn into her dress. The casing was made of rosy bronze metal, embossed with finger-worn roses and an image of a needle and thread. It was the only thing of worth she possessed, having inherited it from another slave. Although its contents had long since dried beyond use, she kept it close, waiting for the opportunity to fill it again. 

She finished quickly and padded back to where the Mandalorian stood waiting. Her heart clenched when she saw him holding the little cloth frog she’d made for the baby. He held it up to his visor, turning it back and forth. Elsi held her breath, half expecting him to toss it to the side. 

He didn’t. When he saw Elsi approaching, he returned the doll back to the child’s outstretched hands. The baby squeaked happily.

The Mandalorian held his hand out for the bag. Elsi gave it to him without question and watched with subdued frustration as he rooted through it and upset all of her carefully folded and packed items. 

She picked idly at the bracelet snaked around her wrist. It was the only ornamentation she’d been allowed to keep over the last ten years or so. It was nothing special, just a long braid of twisted leather with little burgundy beads that wrapped around her wrist seven or eight times. It was cheap and looked it. But wearing it made her feel safe, and so wear it she did. 

Satisfied that she wasn’t hiding any weapons from him, the Mandalorian stuffed everything half-hazardly into the bag before thrusting it back in her direction. She shouldered it without comment, hiding her displeasure at how lumpy and awkward it now was. 

Unbothered, the Mandalorian tapped idly at one of his vambraces. The bassinet beeped in confirmation. 

When he led the way out into the compound, the bassinet trailed after him obediently, its passenger giggling excitedly to his nanny, who forced a smile and nodded along to his babbling. Elsi, already dreading the journey, brought up the rear. 

~0~0~0~ .

[notalwayslate]

What Must Be Done

Hello @joylee56​ it is I your Secret Santa. I was thrilled to get you, as I loved the gift you gave me, Fresh Start, at the last exchange! I hope you enjoy!

Prompt: Role Reversal, books, Nealfire

What Must Be Done

Summary: When a magical mishap transports Belle into the story of an old spinner she soon discovers what must be done to save his son.

Read it on AO3:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/28344366

“Ahem.”

Belle looked up from her book to find Rumpelstiltskin standing in the entryway, his dark brown leather apron tightly wrapped around his body, with a look of impatience on his face. She spotted a beaker in his right hand, containing what she could only assume was some magical concoction that he spent the afternoon creating.  

"I have been calling you for the last five minutes,” he huffed shaking his head in frustration. “I am in need of your assistance. That is if you could spare the time from your busy cleaning schedule."

 Unbothered by the jab, Belle had grown quite accustomed to bantering with the Dark One. Although he often feigned outrage over her lack of housekeeping, she was well aware that he placed no real expectation of servitude upon her.  He had gifted her a library after all, and both of them knew that the castle tended to itself. Yet, for reasons she didn’t quite fully understand, they both kept up the pretense that her role at the castle, and more importantly in his life, was that only of a maid.

"Can’t it wait till later?" she pled blinking, as she lay curled up on her favorite reading chaise with a book in hand.

The side of his mouth twitched, and she was unsure if it was out of amusement or annoyance.

"I'm sure the handsome young hero in your book can wait, because I cannot.  Now put it down. I need you to write down the instructions for this spell exactly how I tell you."

Throwing her head back she groaned at the inane task.  "Can't you write it yourself?"

Rumpelstiltskin pursed his lips as his eyes narrowed at her. "And what have another blunder like the one with that simpleton farmer? I still have nightmares about that delivery!'

It had been quite the mishap for poor old Mr. McGill, an aging farmer who had desperately wanted his wife to have a child, after years of trying. Rumpelstiltskin had guaranteed him a baby, for a price of course.  Eager to finally have an heir, the farmer readily agreed and was given the fertility potion along with hand written instructions on how to use it.

 Unfortunately for Mr. McGill, the Dark One’s penmanship was atrocious, and he mistakenly took the vial meant for his wife.  Nine months later, with a little help from a very traumatized Dark One, Mr. McGill had safely delivered a pair of healthy young girls.

"Good point," Belle nodded, letting out a sigh as she closed the book. "I guess I have to wait till tomorrow to see what happens to Baelfire."

The sound of shattering glass startled her, as she looked over to see the broken beaker sprawled across the floor where Rumple stood. She opened her mouth to tease that she was not the only klutz in the castle, but his look of complete bewilderment silenced her words.

"Wh-what did you say?"

Uneasiness settled in the pit of her stomach. “I…” her brows furrowed in a confused worry as she stumbled to speak. Something was wrong. In all the months she lived there, he had never looked that way before.

"I…I was talking about a story," she held up the small leather bound book she had just been reading, as his eyes zeroed in on it.  Her nerves grew the longer he silently stared, so she started rambling to fill the awkward silence.

"Well it’s not so much a story really, but a journal. I mean it jumps around, with no real rhyme or reason, but what I can gather it’s about a poor man who needs to find the Duke's magical dagger to save his son Baelfire."

Slowly, calculatingly, he moved his menacing stare up from the book, and into her eyes. For the first time in her life she felt true fear in the presence of the Dark One.

"Where did you get that?" he snarled his voice inflamed with a sinister tone.

"I...I found it when I was dusting." She glanced down at the journal in her trembling hands with confusion.  How could such an unassuming book draw such a powerful reaction from the Dark One?   "You...you said I could read any book in the castle as long as it wasn't in your laboratory," she spoke defensively feeling the urge to justify whatever wrong she had clearly inflicted upon him.

Taking a deep breath, she braced for his harshness, but cold silence was all she heard.  Although his eyes still bore into hers, it was as if he was looking right through her, lost in his own world. A gnawing guilt crept into her heart at seeing him so distraught.

Timidly she bit her lip. "I'm sorry Rumpelstiltskin. I will return the book to where I found it at once."

Hastily she moved around the large table, keeping her eyes down cast as she moved towards the door where he stood. She intended to pass without a word, but as she neared him, she noticed his entire body was shaking.

Was he ill? The fear for her own safety dissipated as she worried now for his.  She couldn’t just leave him like this, especially surrounded by broken glass.  Quickly she dropped to her knees before him, placing the journal on the floor next to her.  She hadn’t thought this through thoroughly as she had nothing but her hands to pick up the jagged shards of glass.

Carefully she reached for the largest piece, when her hand slipped against the floor, barreling her palm right across the jagged edge of glass.  When she looked down at her bleeding hand, she noticed the journal out of the corner of her eye, now lying in a shifted pool of whatever was in the beaker.  She reached for it, crying out when the wetly coated book made contact with her cut hand.

Her sharp cry broke Rumple from his frozen stupor. He looked down, his brows furrowing in concern as he whimpered, “You’re hurt.”

She felt his arms wrap around her, before everything went black.

X

"Mama."

A tiny voice soon followed by a gentle shake of her shoulder rustled Belle from sleep. She felt the unmistakable poking of straw clipping at her face and hair. If she was sleeping on a pile of straw, there could only be one explanation. Sighing, she opened her eyes.

"Did you really put me back in the dungeon, Rumpelstiltskin," she called out, knowing full well he could hear her from any part in the castle. “I told you I was sorry.”

"Mama?"

Startled by the voice, Belle sat up, to see a young floofy haired boy, looking straight at her. Her jaw dropped at the sight of him. His clothing was worn and tattered. How long had he been down here?

"Are you okay Mama?"

Befuddled Belle looked around searching for whomever the young boy was talking to. She didn’t see anyone else, but even more confounding were her surroundings.  She wasn’t in one of the dungeons at the Dark Castle. It appeared to be more of a shack, a hovel of sort.

"Mama?"

She could hear the growing concern in the young boy’s voice, and turned her attention back towards him. Wanting to comfort the confused lost child, she went to stand, crying out when a rush of searing hot pain shot through her right leg.

"I'll get your staff, Mama." the young boy called out, reaching for a wooden stick against the far side of the wall. He silently placed it in her hand as she slowly stood. How had she hurt her leg?

So many questions raced through her mind, but she needed to deal with the most pressing matter at hand.

"Where is your mama, sweetheart?" she asked the young lad.

"I don't understand, Mama.” he shook his head. “Is this some sort of game?”

“You tell me,” she countered still thoroughly confused as to whom this boy was, and why he kept calling her his mother.

“Are you feeling okay Mama?

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to stop calling her that, but as she saw the genuine look of concern in his big brown eyes, she thought better of it. If she had to guess he was probably around 11 or 12 years of age. He was a handsome young lad, and even though she had never laid eyes upon him before, there was something familiar in his manner, that she couldn’t quite place.

“I’m fine sweetheart,” she forced a smile playing along. “I’m just feeling a little out of sort today.”

“Are you having second thoughts about tonight, Mama?” he inquired. “Are we still running away?”

Her eyes widened in surprise at the odd revelation. Running away? Why would they be running away and more importantly from whom?  

“Well…” she hesitated a moment, trying to figure out the best way to get the answers she so desperately needed without seeming like a complete lunatic to the young child. “Why do you think I want us to run away?”

He hung his head, kicking at the dirt floor.

“Because the Duke has lowered the age to fight again, and they are going to take me away, like they did Morraine.”

Wait, she knew that story.  

“And I know you want to keep me safe Mama, but it just doesn’t feel right to flee.”

An impossible reality dawned upon her, as she looked incredulously at the young boy.

“Baelfire?”

“I don’t want them to look at me like a coward Mama, and…”

His voice drowned into the background, as her head swarmed in a dizzied disbelief. She felt disoriented and stumbled to an old wooden chair nearby. Baelfire was at her side in an instant. She didn’t want to frighten him, but she needed time to herself to process everything.  

Tempering her panic for a brief moment, she mustered all of her strength, kindly asking Baelfire to fetch some water from the creek.  He was hesitant to leave her at first, but she assured him with a false sense of calm that she had merely become overheated, and needed a cool fresh cup of water.  

The moment he left, her refrained composure crumpled as she rocked back and forth in the chair. How did this happen? Why was she here? Closing her eyes, she searched her memory, trying to find any possible explanation for this. The last thing she remembered she had cut herself and ... her eyes opened with a sudden epiphany.

 Her hand had been covered in a mixture of blood and magic when she reached for the journal.  Had she unknowingly cast herself into the book when she touched it? Rumpelstiltskin always claimed that blood magic was one of the most powerful but dangerous in all of the lands.

Taking a long deep breath, she tried to recall every detail she read in the journal.  Based off of her conversation with Baelfire, they were already past the part of the story where Morraine had been taken away by the Duke’s men.

Her heart dropped, as she remembered what came next in the story. They couldn’t flee tonight, if they did they would surely be caught by Hordor and his men.

She would have to come up with a new plan quickly to get Baelfire out of town.

  After a few minutes, Baelfire returned with a bucket of water.  As she opened her mouth to tell him of their change of plans, she suddenly found herself transported to the cold darkened enchanted forest, as an array of soldiers and horses surrounded her.

Having lived with Rumpelstiltskin she was use to the sensation of being magically transported. In her early days at the castle, she had on quite a few occasions suddenly found herself outside the castle next to the clothesline with a basket of laundry. Although she found it annoying, she never was afraid, knowing that Rumple would never send her anywhere dangerous.

But this was not Rumple’s magic.

Her heart filled with trepidation, as the horses circled around her and Baelfire. It appeared the book had a will of its own, transporting her to the scene she had desperately wanted to avoid.  The story had already been written, and now she was forced to follow it.

Her heart pounded in her ears as Hordor spoke of treason, and ordered his men to take the boy.

“Don’t touch my son!” Belle cried out, feeling a fierce motherly protection as she moved Baelfire behind her.

Hordor’s chilling laugh filled the night air as he rode his horse next to her. “Kiss my boot.”

“What?” she asked in disbelief.

“Kiss my boot, and the boy can go home with you tonight. Or” he gave a small shrug, “you can kiss something else of mine.”  

Swallowing her pride she bent over to kiss the dastardly cretin’s muddy boot, but he moved his foot at the last minute, kicking her square in the ribs. As her bruised body started to fall towards the ground, she suddenly found herself sitting in front of a fireplace. Flustered by the abrupt change, it took her a moment to regain her bearings.

She was one again in the same hovel, but this time an old man sat across from her. Her thoughts immediately turned to Baelfire, as her eyes searched the room for him. A rush of relief filled her heart, as she spotted him sleeping on the straw cot.

He was safe…for now.

The old man cleared his throat clearly trying to regain her attention, as she drew her eyes back to him.

“As I was saying, The Duke has the Dark One in thrall. He's enslaved him with the power of a mystical dagger and on the blade is written a name – the true name of the Dark One. If you steal the dagger, then you would control the Dark One yourself. And then no one would be able to take your son away from you.”

Her heart stopped at the mention of the Dark One.  Was Rumpelstiltskin here in this story?   The journal had made no mention of the magical dagger having ties to the Dark One. It appeared that the book had decided to give her more information now, a clearer picture of the the story than what she had previously read.  

“Can you imagine,” the old man continued. “A poor lame soul with that much power. Why you could save all the children…not just your son.”

A spinning wheel, which wasn’t there before, suddenly came into her view.  It was sitting next to the pile of straw that she had previously awoken from.  Flabbergasted, her jaw hung open as she immediately recognized the object as the same one she spent many a day and night reading next to in the grand hall.  Her heart tugged forth a memory.

“Why do you spin so much?”

“It helps me to forget.”

“Forget what?”

Stupefied she pulled her gaze from the spinning wheel as another realization dawned upon her. Stumbling, she found her footing, as she hobbled towards the young sleeping boy. Her fingers brushed against the tattered shawl he had worn earlier which now doubled as his blanket.

Tears swelled in her eyes as she realized she had seen that very shawl before in a room at the Dark Castle.  She had always wondered who the small clothes had belonged to but now she knew. They belonged to his son. This was Rumpelstiltskin’s story.

Remembering she was not alone she spun on her heel, armed with a series of questions, but much to her surprise the old man was gone. Sighing at the sudden erratic changes the book bestowed she went to move the now unoccupied chair, but the scraping of the legs against the floor awoke Baelfire.

“Let me help you Mama,” he called out, but she held up her hand, silently halting him in place.

“It’s fine sweetheart,” she smiled, moving the chair to sit next to him as he laid back down. She gave a silent plea to whoever was guiding this, to allow her a little more time with him, before she was yanked away to face another part of the story.

Reaching out she tussled her fingers through his hair.

“You look so much like your father,” she marveled truly taking the time to look at him.  

“Will you tell me about him Mama?”

The hopefulness in his voice melted her heart. She recalled in the journal that they boy’s mother had left them, but instead of the truth, his father had told him she had died.   She could only assume now with the roles reversed and she here, that he believed his father to be dead.

“Well he was a very handsome man,” she smiled recalling the first time she had ever laid her eyes upon him. “He had a very hard exterior, intimidating for some, but when you got to know him, see the real person underneath it all, well…he was completely and utterly fascinating. I…” she looked down with a small blush to her cheeks. “I couldn’t get enough of being around him. He was such a mystery to be uncovered.”

Baelfire smiled wistfully. “I wish I knew him Mama. I wish he was with us now. ”

Leaning down, she kissed the top of his head. “So do I, sweetheart, so do I.”

Once Baelfire succumbed to sleep, Belle closed her eyes to pray. Although she had unexpectedly been thrusted into this situation, she was thankful for every moment she got with Baelfire. Although she wasn’t really his mother, the love she felt for him rivaled that of one.

As she continued to pray for their safety, a strong odor of smoke tickled at her nose. Concerned that an ember strayed from the fire, she opened her eyes to an inferno before her.

She wasn’t in their home though, she was now standing outside a castle as a fire blazed across its walls. Baelfire was at her side. Instinctively she wrapped her arm around his shoulder pulling him close to her. Looking down she saw a pile of soaked sheep wool, and realized that they must have started the fire with it.

“So what do we do next Mama?”

She wiped the sweat from her forehead, as the heat from the flames grew more sweltering.  Placing her hand on Baelfire’s shoulder she looked him in the eyes.

“You need to go. Whatever comes next I must do alone.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “Go home Baelfire, I will be there later tonight, I promise.”

He turned to go, stopping after a few strides. “Be safe Mama. I love you.”

Smiling she spoke freely from her heart. “I love you too son.”

As he disappeared into the night, Belle turned her focus back to the fire before her. So this was the Duke’s castle, she surmised.  Closing her eyes she took a deep breath, mustering all of her bravery. She could do this. She would do this for Baelfire.  

Opening her eyes she walked towards the blazing castle with a mother’s determination burning in her heart.   Although she was unfamiliar with the layout of the castle, an unknown force guided her effortlessly through every passageway.

She soon found herself in a long hallway with multiple banners hanging from the wall.  She felt an uncontrollable pull to the green one. Lifting the banner back, she gasped as a long jagged dagger, with the name Zoso engraved upon it, sat on display. There was a heavy darkness in the air surrounding it, an electricity of sort that she had felt once before as she passed by a locked room in the Dark Castle.

As her fingers grasped around the handle, she abruptly found herself transported to a clearing outside the burning castle.

As she stood alone in the night holding the dagger, she felt utterly lost.

“I never got this far in the story…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she called out, hoping the book would take pity on her.

She waited for something, anything to happen, but a still cold silence surrounded her. Letting out a sigh, she looked down at the dagger in her hand. Did this really control the Dark One?  It seemed impossible.  If Belle was certain of one thing it was that Rumpelstiltskin was nobody’s puppet. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. Every deal he struck was of his own free will. He didn’t just come to every soul that called upon him.

It suddenly dawned on her. She had called upon a Dark One once before, and made a deal that changed her life, and now it appeared it was time to do it again. Holding the dagger up she spoke.  

“Zoso, Zoso, I summon thee.”

The hairs on the back of her neck rose alerting her to his presence.

“You were asking for me?”

Do the brave thing, she thought and bravery will follow. Turning on her heel she saw a dark hooded figure before her. He took a step towards her, his face still shrouded.

She could tell quickly that this Dark One was very different than Rumpelstiltskin.  Rumple was known for his showmanship, openly strutting around, wanting every living creature near and far to see and know exactly who he was. This Dark One preferred to stay in the shadows, to impose a mysterious fear in the hearts of those who dared to call upon him.

“Wield the power of the dagger wisely. You can wield it anytime now. It's almost dawn. That means it's your son's birthday. I bet Hordor and his men are already on their way to your house. Unlike you he’s not a coward and yearns to fight and die in a battle of glory.”

Stunned speechless by his apparent knowledge of the situation, Belle stood silently looking at him. After a moment, the Dark One started to speak again, as if he was an actor reading from a script, and she had missed her cue.

“What a poor bargain that would be to lay down your soul down to have your bastard son safe. So, I ask you, what would you have me to do?”

Taken aback by his insinuations, Belle could see how a person could become flustered and act purely on emotion to counter this Dark One’s aggressive tactics.  Although she held the dagger, it appeared that Zoso was the one still in control.

“Show me your face,” she commanded.

Tilting his head in confusion, he pushed back the hood to reveal the familiar face of the old man who was in her home. Her jaw dropped at the sight of him.

“It’s you,” her body shook with rage.

“You wanted this. You manipulated him. You took advantage of a father’s love and his desperation. Rumpelstiltskin only became the Dark One to save his son! ” she screamed, as the as the dark one took two swift strides at her, wrapping his hand tightly around her neck.

“Who are you?” he hissed.

“Someone who loves them.”

The Dark One’s grip tightened around her neck, as he lifted her dangling body inches from the ground. “This isn’t your story, girl.”

She struggled to breathe as his grip tightened. As the world around her darkened, her final thoughts turned to Baelfire, and what grisly fate would await him if she died now. She had to protect him. For Rumpelstiltskin’s son, she would do what must be done.

With her last ounce of strength, she lifted her arm, plunging the dagger down towards Zoso’s back.

Jolting upright, she frantically looked around, mentally preparing for whatever scenario was next in the book, when a familiar voice rung in the air.

“It’s okay Belle. I’m here. You’re okay, sweetheart.”

Looking towards the sound, her heart leapt with joy at the sight of Rumpelstiltskin perched at her bed side.  

“Rumple!” she cried out, lunging for him as she wrapped her arms around his neck.  She let out a sigh of contentment as his hands stroked her back.  She could have stayed in his embrace for hours, but all too soon he pushed her back away from him.  

“How do you feel, Belle? Does anything hurt?” he fretted as his tender eyes glanced over her.

“I…I don’t think so,” she replied uncertain.

Checking her right hand, she gazed astonishingly at how perfectly normal it was.  There wasn’t the slightest trace of the deep cut. She had no doubt that Rumple had healed it with his magic.  

Glancing around the familiar surroundings of her bed chamber, she knew she was safe. She was home.

“Belle….I,” her attention turned back to Rumple, who quickly stood up, ringing his hands nervously in front of him.  “My behavior…before…I…”

She cut off his apology. “It’s okay Rumple.”

“No,” he shook his head adamantly. “It was appalling. I want you to know…you are safe here Belle. I would,” his eyes watered, “I would never hurt you Belle. Never.”    

“I know, Rumple. I know.” She gave him a reassuring smile, as he stared at her in awe. Just then a log shifted in the fireplace, as the flames crackled to life.

The smell of the flames brought every memory back. The fire, the duke’s castle, Zoso.

Overwrought with concern her eyes searched the room.

“Where’s Baelfire? Is he safe?”

His brows furrowed at her for just a moment before he schooled his features.  

“There is no one here Belle. You were just dreaming.” With a flick of his wrist, the chipped teacup appeared on her night table. “Have some tea, and relax.”

“No,” she shook her head fiercely. “I was there, in the story. I…I don’t know how, but I was there in the book, Rumple. I was with him.  I was with Baelfire.” Taking a deep breath, she looked into his eyes.  “I was with your son.”

He stood stoically for a moment before his façade fell, and his shoulders slumped forward. He looked so small, defeated. Her stomach twisted in knots, but she pressed forward.

“That journal I was reading, it was yours. You stole the dagger from the Duke; you killed Zoso and became the Dark One to save your son.  

Voice quivering she asked the question she was scared to know the answer of.  “Please Rumple, I need to know, did you save Baelfire?

Moments of a heavy silence filled the room.

“Yes,” he croaked his voice small and timid. “I saved him from the ogres.”

She let out a cry of relief. “Oh thank the Gods!”

Her glee was quickly tempered as Rumple stood straight, a storm of anguish raging in his eyes.  

“Oh I wouldn’t celebrate Mistress. I saved him from one evil, only to lose him to an even greater one….myself.”

Her heart dropped. “What happened to him?”

He turned his back.

“The burden of losing him is mine alone.”

She could feel the pain in his voice, and felt an overwhelming desire to hold him.

“But it doesn’t have to be Rumpelstiltskin.”

Her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, as she slid from her bed.  She was afraid if she approached him too quickly and tried to touch him, he would flee. Slowly she moved towards him, stopping a few feet away.  She didn’t know what to say, so she let her heart do the talking.

“Although my time with him was brief, I can assure you the impact Baelfire made on my heart was everlasting. He’s an easy boy to love…and I do love him, Rumple. I love him like he is my own.  ”

Biting her lip she tried to hold back her tears. “Please…tell me what happened to him.”

With a heavy broken sigh, Rumpelstiltskin kept his back turned as he relayed the sad tale of how Baelfire went alone through the portal to a Land without magic. She stood there quietly listening, as her heart broke for Baelfire and for the shattered father standing before her.

Once finished, he turned to face her, as she let out a tiny gasp at what she saw in his hands.

“I chose this, above my son that day.”

It looked the exact same as when she held it, except it was now engraved with Rumpelstiltskin’s name.  

“When I reunite with my son in the land without magic, I will right this wrong, and be rid of this dastardly thing once and for all.”

“Reunite? He’s…he’s alive?” she asked with a spark of hope in her voice.

“Oh, yes.”

Astonished, she held up her hands. “What are we waiting for Rumple? We should leave at once.” She looked towards the wardrobe wondering what to pack, as Rumple spoke.

“Belle,” his solemn voice cooled her excitement. “We can’t go…at least not yet.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“There is another story you need to hear.”

After handing her the cup of tea, Belle sat back on the bed quietly listening, as Rumpelstiltskin delved into all the failed attempts he made to reach the Land without Magic.

“I will start researching tomorrow Rumple. There has to be something you’ve missed, a magic bean…a portal somewhere. I’ll help you find it, I swear I won’t rest until I find a way.”

A genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Looking down, his hand hovered over her empty teacup, as it magically refilled.  

After taking a few sips, she noticed his face grew more serious.  

“I have found a possible way to the land without magic.”

Her eyes lit up, but he held his hand to temper her excitement.  “But it is a dark path, Belle. A curse. One that would affect many for a very long time.  I have painstakingly been putting the pieces in the place for years. It won’t happen now, but the time is coming soon when the curse will be cast.”

The thought of a curse terrified her, but what shook her even more was her inability to admonish him for it. What wouldn’t a parent do for their child? She herself had plunged the dagger into Zoso’s back to protect Baelfire. A parent’s love was the most beautiful but dangerous thing in the entire world.  

“Do what you must to find him.”

Tears swelled in his astonished eyes. She knew he wasn’t expecting her acceptance, which only made her want to give it to him all the more.

“Although I won’t stand in your way, I still want to try and find another way to the land without magic,” she clarified.  

“I know you do,” he gave her a mournful smile, as his eyes landed on the half drunken teacup in her hand.  “But sadly you won’t remember any of this.”

Her stomach dropped.

“You put something in the tea?” she asked in dismay.

He stood quickly, grasping the bedpost at the foot of her bed.

“You know too much, Belle. You know about the dagger, about Baelfire. The curse.”

A mixture of rage and hurt coiled in her stomach. “You don’t trust me?”

 “It’s now that Belle.” He let go of the bedpost. “I trust you more than anyone else in this world.”

“Then why?” she cried out.

 “There are a multitude of moving pieces that have to fall just right to reunite with my son, and you,” he placed his hands on his heart. “You. Sweet…beautiful Belle can be used as a pawn against me.”

His words did little to placate the betrayal she felt in her heart.

“I would never tell anyone, you know that Rumple. I would never betray you.”

He looked pained, as he dejectedly sat down on the edge of her mattress.

“I know that. Truly I know that Belle. But I have enemies that would use any means necessary to get whatever information they could to destroy me. You can’t know any of the things you do, for my safety…and more importantly for your own.”

Her wet tears fell heavy and hard against her cheeks.

“But I don’t want to forget him. I don’t want to forget about Baelfire.”

Her confession drew him to her in an instant. His warm hands cupped her cheeks, and although she was still angry with him, she did not pull away as his own sorrowful eyes looked upon her.

“We will see him again Belle. I swear it.”

As his fingers wiped the tears from her eyes, she felt a sudden wave of drowsiness.  

“It’s okay sweetheart, it’s just the magic taking effect.

His hands moved from her face, as she felt his arms wrap around her.

“That’s it Belle,” she heard his voice coo as he moved her up toward the pillows. “Sleep sweet Bell, and when you awake everything will be as before.”

As her head hit the pillow, she used what little strength she had left to confess.

“I wish I really could be his mother,” she mumbled.

 The last thing she heard as sleep overtook was Rumple’s faint response.

“So do I.”

I couldn’t just leave it there….I’m a sucker for happy endings!

“I’m back Mama,” four year Gideon called out, as the front door slammed close. She was still struggling to get off the couch, when Gideon excitedly ran over to her.

“Did you and your brother have fun at the zoo today sweetheart?”

Gideon nodded . “Neal and I saw the tigers and they were so cool.” He placed his small hands on her pregnant belly. “Can we take little sister to see them when she comes?”

“Of course,” Belle responded looking up as Neal walked into the living room. Plopping down on the other end of the couch, he rubbed his bone tired eyes.

“I don’t know how you guys do this day in and day out. I swear this kid gets more energy throughout the day.” Neal yawned.  “Does he come with an off switch?”

Laughing, Belle lifted her son’s arms, pretending to search. “Let me see, do you come with an off switch, Gideon?”

Howling with laughter, Gideon shook his head. “Nope,” as he wiggled off of his mother’s lap, barreling straight for his older brother, who caught him with a resounding, “umph.”

It warmed Belle’s heart to see the bond between the two brothers despite their staggering age difference. With Henry now 16 and living primary with his mother Emma, Neal was able to give much of his time to his younger brother, who thought the world of him.

“Where’s pops?” Neal asked as Gideon settled into his arms.

“He went to pick up dinner, chinese alright with you?”

“It could never be wrong,” Neal said with a smirk.

The reconciliation between Neal and Rumplestiltskin had been a long fought journey, but in the end the bond between father and son was stronger than ever.

“So how did everything go today?”

Resting her hands on her belly she smiled. “Good. The doctor says everything looks great, and she’s developing right on schedule.”

“That’s great, Belle.” Neal stated as Gideon crawled up to wrap his small arms around his neck.

“Why do you call her that?” Gideon asked as Neal looked at him puzzled.

“Cause that’s her name, silly!”

“No,” Gideon countered. “Why don’t you call mom, mom?”

“Gideon, honey,” Belle started to speak, when Neal cut her off.

“No, no it’s okay Belle, it’s a valid question.” Turning his attention back to Gideon, Neal explained that he lost his mother when he was younger. Upon hearing the news Gideon eagerly volunteered to help him find her.

“I’m really good and hide and seek. I bet I can find her.” Gideon crowed.

Biting her lip, Belle gently explained that Neal’s mother was not lost.

“Do you remember what happened with your pet hamster, Gideon?”

Bowing his head in sadness, Gideon spoke. “He went to heaven.”

“Well that is where Neal’s mother went,” Belle explained.

Belle watched as Gideon turned his attention back on his older brother, before giving him a hug. After a moment Gideon looked up at Neal with bright eyes.

“I know…my mom can be your mom too.”

“Gideon,” Belle chided, but he continued.

“We have the same Dad, and I’m sure Mom will be happy to be your Mom too, wouldn’t you Mom?” Gideon asked looking over at her.

Caught off guard Belle found herself speechless. It was true that she was Neal’s stepmother, but the fact that he was actually four years older than her, made for an awkward situation at first. But as time passed they fell into a caring friendship, and truth be told, she took on a motherly role often consoling and counseling him through obstacles he faced in his life.

“Of course I would Gideon but…” she didn’t quite know what to say, when Neal chimed in.

“I’m game if you are?” Neal asked smiling.

Belle’s heart fluttered at the idea.

“I would love it,” Belle responded with a smile.

[avecorviidae]

Fic: nor any more youth or age than there is now

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Rating: T Relationship(s): Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims Word Count: 6512

Ao3 Link

The rumour started with Mary Fleming, who volunteered with her son’s Primary five class every Tuesday, and who had become close enough with most of the P5 teachers that she was considered a mostly reputable source, as far as these things were concerned. She had mentioned it to Katy Hooper over tea, who had texted it to her playdate group, who had repeated it in scandalized whispers and concerned murmurings and oh-have-you-heard phone calls until the news had thoroughly saturated the entire village:

Mrs. Cunningham, the stern older woman who had taught Primary two for as long as most people could remember, had quite suddenly and without warning or reason, retired and left town. Being the only Primary two teacher at the school, this was something of a concern.

For a few days, the Primary two class was shuffled awkwardly between other classrooms, taken largely by whoever had enough empty chairs or floorspace to accommodate them. On Wednesday, they sat cross-legged on the colourful carpet of the nursery room, the sudden shock of being absent a teacher and the abounding well-my-maw-said rumours being quite enough to keep them occupied and mostly out of trouble.  By Thursday, the children had realized that they were free of the bounds of formal education, and attempted to turn poor Mr. Bone’s Primary one classroom into a Lord of the Flies recreation, leading to a few pupils being sent home early with a stern warning. On Friday, they were firmly instructed to sit quietly with the Primary sevens, who were watching a documentary that day. During said documentary, a wolf killed and ate a deer, causing Molly Brown to become inconsolably upset.

The situation was clearly becoming desperate.

In this part of the country, formally trained teachers were in short supply, and for the most part, it was a life term. A post was vacated when the individual retired, or, well, retired.

On Monday morning, the parents of the Primary two class were invited with a strained enthusiasm to join their pupils in the classroom to meet Mr. Sims, who had apparently agreed to take the job on extremely short notice, and who would be teaching the P2s for the rest of the year, or until the school could track down a more suitable, more permanent replacement.

Mr. Sims, perched delicately on an office chair at the front of the classroom, put one to mind of a particularly bedraggled crow. Small frame, narrow face, narrow shoulders, scar-riddled skin, and he peered at the gaggle of children in front of him with flat black eyes, long fingers fretting at a crease in his trousers. His hair, dark as the rest of him, hung in a limp ponytail at his neck, and was streaked through with grey that didn’t quite match the cowed, nervous youth of his face. There was a trepidation to the way he was braced, to the way he glanced, quick and furtive around the room, and it was reflected back in the way the parents watched him carefully, fingers twitching, ready to snatch away their offspring at the first sign of trouble from the odd, scarred little man. The children were immediately fascinated, to the point of being entirely enamoured, having never seen a grown-up quite so openly strange.

The head mistress was stood at his side, waiting with a mild impatience for the chatter to settle. The crease of concern on her forehead had, sometime over the weekend, started to become a permanent wrinkle.

She made brusque introductions, stiffly thanked Mr. Sims for stepping into the role, made some half-hearted assurances to the parents about an environment of stability, an attempt to smooth over the frazzled discontent that hummed through the room.

Mr. Sims coughed, blinked in surprise when he seemed to realise that the head mistress was done with platitudes, that he was, presumably, expected to speak for himself.

“Ah, right,” he mumbled, and pushed his glasses up his nose with two fingers. He cleared his throat, addressed the room at large, though his eyes were skittish, seemed to avoid lingering in one place for long. “As Mrs. McMillan said, my name is Jonathan Sims – though, I suppose Mr. Sims will do, for the classroom. My training is primarily based in academic research, not, ah, education, and while I will be unable to provide the proper curriculum and teaching that experience and time would have afforded my predecessor, I can assure you that I will attempt to fill this role to the best of my ability, and would welcome any input you may have over the rest of the year.”

Mr. Sims turned his attention to the circle of cross-legged little gawkers at his feet, then, and his voice gentled a touch when he addressed them, a rueful smile on his face.

“I know it must be strange to have a new teacher so suddenly, in the middle of the year. And I may not be very good at this. So I do hope you’ll all tell me if I do anything wrong.”

Directly under his nose, Finlay Robinson’s hand shot up into the air.

Mr. Sims blinked. “Yes?”

“Do you know the Queen?”

Another blink. “I- No?”

Finlay’s hand remained up. Mr. Sims nodded for him to continue. “Then why do you sound so posh?”

In one of the chairs at the back of the room, Mrs. Robinson went rather red. Mr. Sims just laughed quietly to himself, however, and replied, “Ah, I suppose that would be because of my grandmother.”

Molly Brown’s hand went tentatively upwards.

Mr. Sims looked at her with a slight apprehension. “Yes?”

“Is your Gran the Queen?”

<0>

Heather tended to get nervous, at the end of the day.

The playground was just – big. Not big the way it was during break, when her and Molly would chase each other laughing and squealing across the pavement like little wild things, but big in a way where the iron bars of the fence around the school loomed horribly, and as her class was slowly picked up by their mums and dads and teachers stalked around like wolves looking for straying soft things to hunt, Heather always became certain that she had to stand very—

very—

still.

Or else it would see her. And if it saw her, it would get her.

Last year, Mr. Bone had held her hand, at the end of every day, had let her stand close to his comforting largeness until Dad waved at her from the gates, and she could run the short and awful distance to his arms. Mr. Bone was bald, and very tall, and outdoors his head always looked very shiny, and she had been sure that as long as she was stood beside him, his big fingers tight around hers, it wouldn’t be able to see her.

Mrs. Cunningham had been smaller, hunched and unassuming, but Heather had thought that it might not be able to see through the drab brown folds of her skirts. But Mrs. Cunningham had told her not to be silly, to go and play with the rest of the class until she was picked up, to grow up and behave like a big girl. And the Primary ones got out an hour before the Primary twos, so she couldn’t hide at the side of Mr. Bone anymore, so it was going to see her. So she had gotten very good at walking to a spot beside the bins, trying to keep her footsteps soft, quiet, and holding herself in their shallow shadows, and keeping very, very still.

Mr. Sims was not too much like Mrs. Cunningham. He did not snap at them for talking a little during individual work time, and hadn’t even told off Logan for getting up to sharpen his pencil, even though he hadn’t raised his hand to ask, and didn’t hold a ruler to his open palm like a threat, like he was looking for any excuse to use it. But when he’d read them a story, Heather had watched him frown, mutter to himself that Bea and Arthur were silly for going exploring without telling their parents, and by the time the last bell rang, Heather was quite sure that if she asked to hold Mr. Sims’ hand, he would frown at her, and think she was being silly, and tell her that she was too big to need to hold hands in the playground.

The class lined up at the big front doors to go outside, and Heather stood at the very back. If everyone else went outside first, it would watch them, and might not notice her as she went to her spot by the bins.

Mr. Sims was waiting for her when she finally reached the doorway. She had been thinking about how she was going to walk, looking at her feet and practicing making them be quiet, so she almost bumped right into his legs. He was frowning, and she felt her lip wobble, a little. She didn’t want to cry, even if he called her silly. She was too grown-up for that.

“Miss Lewis?” he said. It was odd, to be called that. Last year, there had been another Heather in her P1 class, so she had been Heather L, and the other one had been Heather M, but Miss Lewis made her feel grown up, and she smoothed her palms down the front of her pinafore, suddenly embarrassed of the holes in the knees of her tights and the scuffs on the toes of her shoes.

She looked up at him. He wasn’t as tall as Mr. Bone, and he was leaning down towards her, peering at her over his thin glasses. She didn’t want to start crying. She didn’t want him to think she was silly.

“May I ask who’s coming to pick you up?” Mr. Sims asked softly, just like how the pupils were supposed to ask, like Miss may I go to the bathroom—

“My dad,” she said, softly, back. Out in the playground, she heard someone squeal. She didn’t look over Mr. Sims’ shoulder, sure she’d see it looking for her, even though she’d never seen it before. Mr. Sims wasn’t as big as Mr. Bone, no, but his jacket was big and thick and rough, with soft leather patches at the elbows, and all of him looked there enough that she thought it might not be able to see her hiding behind him.

“Your dad,” he said, and it sounded different the way he said it, fancy. Like the Queen. “Well, Miss Lewis. Would you—do you need to—Damn, how to… Would you prefer to wait with me outside, until your dad gets here?”

Heather realised quite suddenly that Mr. Sims knew about it too. Knew that it was going to get her, that it couldn’t see her when he was there. She nodded, and gripped the leg of his trousers as tight as she could, and felt all shaky in the knees with fear and relief as she walked outside with Mr. Sims, his hand near her shoulder, not quite brushing her jumper.

She looked up at him, and he was watching the playground, frowning, but not angry. Not afraid, either. So she copied him a little, since it couldn’t see her if she looked for it now, and looked around at the big game of tig that always went running around at the end of the day, and at Stuart and Duncan wrestling by the big wall, even though Mrs. Cunningham used to shout at them for getting their uniforms dirty, and at Molly, who was skipping at her mum’s side, skirt and pigtails bouncing, and at Tom Mackenzie, who was picking grass out of where it sometimes grew up from between cracks in the pavement, looking up now and again at the big front doors, waiting for the S3 class to be let out so his older sister could walk him home. And it—

wasn’t—

there?

She looked up at Mr. Sims, suddenly, not sure why. He looked back down at her, and smiled, then. “Better to be a watcher, than the watched, I suppose,” he said, very quietly, and she wasn’t sure he was speaking to her, not like he was when he then told her, very firmly—

“It doesn’t like to be seen. And I can see it. You’re safe, while I’m here, Miss Lewis.”

And she had the funniest feeling that she’d known that was true, even before he said it.

She felt his hand nudge her shoulder lightly, and he nodded towards the gate. “I believe that’s your father, now.”

Dad was there, smiling broadly and waving like he did every day, and she smiled back at him, even though she was still feeling a little wobbly, because otherwise he’d worry, and think she’d had a bad day, and try to take her for ice cream, and she would feel bad, because she’d had a good day, she was just scared. He held out his arms, open and waiting for her, because she always ran right into him, running quick enough until she was safe with him, until it couldn’t get her anymore. But if Mr. Sims was watching—

She let go of Mr. Sims’ trousers, and took two careful, tentative steps forward. Still, it wasn’t there. She looked back over her shoulder at Mr. Sims’, and he was still watching her, still there. “Have a good afternoon, Miss Lewis,” he said, mildly, but he was smiling a little, still, and she smiled back, and turned around and skipped into Dad’s arms.

<0>

Underneath the desk, Robbie pressed his knee to Emma’s. He felt her press back, and she smiled at him, but it was strained, nervous.

“It’ll be fine,” he told her, with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt. “Your wee brother has Sims, right?”

Emma shrugged, nodded. “Yeah, likes him well enough. Better than that hag Cunningham, anyways. But that doesn’t mean he’s—”

Sims shouldered into the room just then, arms full, and Emma’s mouth snapped shut. He was smaller than Robbie expected, honestly. Then again, he’d only really seen him in the hallways, trailed by twenty tiny wee five-year-olds, so he had probably looked tall just by comparison. Between the tweed and the glasses and the greyish hair, he had a bit of a librarian vibe, but up close, he could see all of the scars that Emma’s mum had been talking about, after all the P2 parents got to sit in and meet him. You could just about write off all the pockmarks on his face and arms as some properly rough acne, if you were ignoring how big they were, but one of his hands was a shiny pink mess of skin, like one big blister scar.

He was probably in a nasty accident a long time ago, Mrs. Mackenzie had said to Tom during tea, after the third or fourth question about his new teacher. It’s not polite to stare at that sort of thing. Just you act like he looks completely normal, alright?

Emma’s mum was a practical lady, and Robbie quite liked her. It was good advice, and he should probably take it to heart. Or at the very least, he wasn’t planning on being too obvious about trying to get a better look at Sims’ hand.

Sims tossed a glance at the room as he set his things down on the desk. “Sorry, everyone,” he said, with a tight smile. “Short notice, I know, but apparently Mrs. Sinclair has come down with something, and my class is on a field trip, so I was the only one available. I have some, er, notes for your class – apparently you’re working on a midterm project?”

The class made some unenthusiastic assenting sounds, which Sims took as confirmation. “Well, very good. I’ll just leave you to work on that, then, once I’ve taken attendance.”

Robbie felt Emma go stiff at his side. He hated this, properly hated this, the resigned dread on her face as she prepared herself to be embarrassed. He remembered how often she’d looked like that last year, when they were still sneaking around with it, him helping her change into a pinafore in the toilets in the mornings, trying to ignore it when her dad and Mrs. Sinclair and that fucking hag Cunningham had tried to suggest that she get a haircut, the way she winced every time someone called her the wrong name.

Sims went down the attendance sheet with clipped professionalism, quick and brusque, and Robbie was so nervous on Emma’s behalf that he almost forgot to say anything when his name was called. They got to the Ms, and Robbie found Emma’s hand under the desk. Her palm was a little sweaty, and so was his, but she grabbed on tight and squeezed, and Robbie wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to that, to her soft fingers between his.

It was Andrew Macintyre right before her on the sheet. Sims nodded at him when he called out a here, looked back down. “Ti—Hm.” Robbie watched Sims frown, cut himself off. Robbie wasn’t exactly sure what happened, what changed about Sims’ expression, except that his eyes seemed to go a little unfocused for a few seconds, before he blinked, in a properly weird way. “No, I don’t believe that’s correct.” He looked up and around the class. “Miss Mackenzie?”

Emma went a little pale, her fingers flexing in Robbie’s, but after a few seconds, she quietly said, “Here, Mr. Sims.”

Sims looked over at her, nodded, businesslike. “Right. And your name was…?”

“Emma,” she answered faintly. Sims just nodded again, checked her off on the sheet, moved on with the list, calling out for Toby MacLeod.

It felt like him and Emma must’ve let out a breath at the same time, slumping back into their chairs, her hand still in his. All that worry for a few seconds’ worth of talking. What a nightmare.

“Tom must’ve told him,” Robbie whispered to her. “Mentioned that he had a big sister, or something.”

“Don’t know why he would’ve,” Emma whispered back, but she was smiling, all faint giddy relief. “I don’t really care, yeah?”

Robbie smiled, squeezed her hand, smiled some more when she squeezed back. “Yeah. Miss Mackenzie.”

“Oh, shut up, Rob.”

<0>

Jen always went to the Co-op after Molly’s swimming lessons on Saturday, even though it was always pushing seven by the time they finally got home and started making tea. Easier to take care of the shopping while they were already out, rather than make another trip into town.

Molly had wandered off to pick her crisps for next week’s lunch, so Jen was alone when she saw the man by the dairy, squinting at a tub of butter, and it took her a moment to place him as Molly’s new teacher. She didn’t think she could be blamed for not recognising him at first; whenever she picked Molly up from school, he always looked much the same as he had during the parent meeting, put-together and buttoned up. He clearly hadn’t put quite as much effort into dressing to go to the shops, his hair pulled up in an untidy bun, neat jacket replaced with a faded sweatshirt that seemed to be about five sizes too big for him.

Ah, she thought, a moment later. Of course. The true owner of the sweatshirt seemed to have made an appearance in the form of a blond man, taller and more broadly built than Molly’s teacher, walking up behind him and pressing himself close against his side, poking at the butter in his hands. It looked rather a lot like a golden retriever bothering a magpie.

Jen had been ready to leave well enough alone, but that was the moment that Molly came skipping up behind her, already calling out. “Mr. Sims!”

Both men startled, but the teacher – Mr. Sims – seemed to recover quickly when he caught sight of Molly, bending down a little towards her. “Ah, hello Miss Brown. How are you?”

Molly beamed. “Good! We just went swimming at the baths. I’m doing back stroke now, and the teacher says I’m pretty fast.”

Mr. Sims nodded along well enough, seemed genuinely interested in Molly’s little story, but Jen noticed he was shooting quick, nervous looks between the three of them, seemed caught between stepping closer to the man standing beside him, or pulling away.

It was a fair enough worry, and maybe ten, even five years ago, he would have been right to have it. The village had been a different place, back then. But these days, just about everyone knew that Helen and Mary up the road had been waiting out their husbands so that they could spend their widowed years together, and Jen had her suspicions about Hugh from the corner store, and frankly after everything with the Mackenzies’ oldest, everyone had become a good deal more comfortable with quite a lot, lately.

So Jen put a hand on Molly’s shoulder, held the other one out to him, smiled warmly. “Mr. Sims, right? Jennifer Brown, I’m Molly’s mum.”

Sims took her hand firmly, handshake as brief and professional as his strained smile. The feeling of it lingered on Jen’s palm, though, the slick-smooth of scar tissue, and the distinct impression that her fingers had slid into the grooves of his marred hand perfectly, like a key slotting into a lock.

“Jon, please,” he said, “at least outside of the classroom. Good to properly meet you, Ms. Brown. We won’t keep the two of you, though. It is rather getting on.” It was a clear dismissal, as bluntly polite as the English ever managed to be, and Jen didn’t take particular offence to it. It was, after all, getting on, and chatting with her daughter’s primary teacher and his mystery man in a Co-op was not her idea of an ideal Saturday night.

“Of course. Goodnight, Jon,” she said, hand on Molly’s shoulder already gently nudging her towards the tills. “Come on, Molls.”

“Good evening, ladies,” Sims said, and nodded primly down at Molly. “See you on Monday, Miss Brown.”

Jen supposed she understood, now, why the class was so taken with the man. She had no fondness for poshness and stuffiness, but Sims wasn’t necessarily posh in that way that demanded poshness in return, and sniffed up its nose at you if you dared not to have an Oxbridge degree and speak in perfect RP. It was more a quiet, self-imposed dignity that reminded Jen of her own grandmother, like the way that he held himself, conducted himself, was important to him, and it made you think just a bit about how you were holding yourself, made you want to rise to meet it. Molly’s shoulders straightened a little under Mr. Sims’ attention, and she walked to the tills with a look on her face like she felt like a well-mannered wee lass, like a proper Miss Brown, and Jen snorted to herself quietly, glanced over her shoulder at the man himself.

His boy was saying something close to his ear, smiling, and he was softer-spoken than Jen might’ve expected for being the size he was, just the sound of his voice carrying a bit, a hint of a tease in his tone.

Sims’ laugh carried far more, deep and full, and he pushed the man’s shoulder gently, a gentleness that kept in his voice when he said, “Oh hush, Martin.”

“Mum,” Molly said, tugging at the trolley insistently. The limits of her put-upon properness had apparently been pushed by her appetite, and she kicked her heels and whinged. “Come on. What’s for dinner?”

<0>

Contrary to what some of his mates might have attested after seeing him a few pints in down at the local, Colin did, in fact, possess a sense of shame. So it was red-faced and sheepishly that he ducked back into the Primary two classroom after his fourth or fifth failed attempt at putting Ally down for a nap.

Maybe it had been overambitious of him and Vera, to assume they’d be able to both go to the kids’ sports day, hand off the babe and the nappy bag throughout the day depending on whether it was Cath with the P7s or Stuart with the P2s who had a race next, no need to pay one of the neighborhood girls to nanny, with the added bonus of getting wee Ally used to being around a lot of strange people. Not that Ally was a pet that needed to be socialized; Vera liked to tease him for that, the way he sometimes talked about her like she was a feral kitten that needed accustomed to handling. But the point still stood.

After Stuart’s class had finished with their last egg and spoon race, the teacher – Sims? – had herded them all, sweaty and exhausted, back into the classroom, and they were all sat around chattering and playing in informal groups, working their way through the impressive pile of snacks that the volunteer parents had brought in. He’d told them to do as they liked when one of them asked if they had to still sit in their usual seats, so a few of them were in wee clusters on the floor, half-watching the film that one of the other parents had managed to set up on the old projector. Colin appreciated Sims’ attitude, overall. Not that a good work ethic and a bit of discipline weren’t a good thing to have, but kids that age weren’t really made for sitting still and working quietly, he didn’t think, and the wee ones seemed quite happy amongst themselves. Unfortunately, it meant that they were making far too much noise for him to be able to get Ally to sleep.

Fool that he was, he’d sent Vera off to Cath’s relay race alone, having thought that when the afternoon rolled around and Ally started to yawn and scrub at her eyes with chubby wee fists, Colin would be able to give her a naptime bottle, bounce her on his shoulder for a bit, and she’d drop off straight away, just like at home. Instead, she had gurned and whined around her bottle, cried and wriggled when he tried to rock her down, and for the last hour, she’d quite solidly refused to close her eyes for longer than it took her to blink, and she seemed properly angry about needing to do even that much. It seemed like every time he got her to relax for a few minutes, someone in the class laughed a bit too loudly, made her startle and blink and try to wriggle out of his lap to go see what all the fuss was about. So he’d kept trying to bring her outside and walk her up and down the hallway where it was quieter, but it was chillier out there, and his footsteps echoed strangely, so she hadn’t much liked that either.

Sims glanced up at him as the door clicked shut behind him, and Colin gave him an apologetic grimace. Sims hadn’t complained or shot him any dirty looks yet, but Colin couldn’t imagine that anyone much enjoyed having a fussy baby in their room.

To his surprise, Sims stood from his desk, shooting him a sympathetic smile. “Want to hand her off for a bit?” he offered quietly, nodding to where Ally was still squirming, propped on his hip. “She might need a change of pace, to help settle her down.”

Colin wasn’t the sort to hand his baby off to just anyone, really, he wasn’t, but Ally was exhausted, and it was making him exhausted, which she was feeding off of, and all in all, he was desperate enough that he all but dumped her into Sims’ arms.

He took hold of her a little awkwardly, jostling and shifting her with the bewildered caution of a man clearly unfamiliar with the weight of a moving, heavy baby, and Colin hovered anxiously, waiting to catch her if Sims—dropped her? Turned her upside down? He wasn’t sure what his worry was, exactly, just that he was worried.

Sims got her settled eventually, though, one hand propped under her bum and the other resting on her back, and he murmured, “All right, hello, little one. Let’s see if we can’t give Dad a break, hm?”

Sims lowered himself carefully into his desk chair, shifting Ally on his lap, and she stared at him, momentarily distracted from her awful mood by the new man with the funny voice. Sims kept a steadying hand on her wee back as he leaned forward, fussing with some of the papers on his desk. Colin watched as he nudged aside a stack of worksheets covered in scrawling crayon, and plucked out a manila folder, stuffed with papers and pockmarked along the top with paperclips and binder clips. “I think this one is relatively tame,” he said, rather matter-of-factly, presumably to Ally. Ally, by all appearances, was listening to him very intently.

Ally only started to fuss a bit when Sims leaned back in his office chair, the open folder propped up on his knee in one hand, and Ally shifting to tuck close against his chest under the other. She made a small, angry noise as he tried to coax her to lie down, and he tutted, said with a stern, gentle firmness, “Yes, I’m aware I won’t be quite as comfortable as Mum, but do try to sit still. I prefer not to be interrupted, once I’ve got going, and it doesn’t take kindly to interference after the introduction.”

To Colin’s great and unending shock, Ally settled with a little huff, her cheek resting on Sims’ brown jumper, one little fist coming up to clutch at the collar of his shirt, poking out from the neck of it. Sims patted her back primly, said, “There we go, thank you.”

Colin was always one to admit when he was outclassed, and was quite willing to go find himself a seat and defer to Sims’ apparent magic touch with the wee ones, but then Sims cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“Statement of Callum Thompson, regarding an uninvited party guest. Original statement given February twenty-first, 2001. Record recalled by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, retired. Statement begins:

I didn’t invite her. I’m sure of that. I know my mates, and I know my mates’ mates, and all their birds and sisters and that, and I didn’t know this bird, so she weren’t invited, right?”

Sims… told a story. Colin didn’t really know how else to describe it. Put on a proper voice and all, this Callum character speaking high and thready, Sims’ crisp, proper public-school accent giving way to something a lot harsher, more “street”.

It was about some girl that showed up to the kid’s house party uninvited, acted a little strangely while she was there, and for all that he talked about her, the odd twist of her joints, the stare that set his teeth on-edge, he never seemed to actually getting around to describing what she looked like. It was like, anything properly tangible about her, her hair, her eyes, her clothes, just slipped off the mind, oil-on-water. It gave Colin the proper shivers, the way a good Steven King used to when he was younger, and he blinked himself out of a daze when Sims stopped, coughed lightly, said, “Statement ends.”

Ally was fast asleep against his chest, and Sims had one hand stroking absently down her back, eyes still skimming the folder in front of him. “Poor girl,” he murmured into Ally’s wispy hair. She didn’t stir from her doze. “She must have been quite lonely. Still, no harm done to anyone, it seems, and nearly two decades on and outside the purview of the Institute’s resources, there’s not much to be done, hm?”

Quite suddenly, and all at once, Sims seemed to remember that the rest of the world existed, and he blinked owlishly up at Colin. “Ah, seems as though she finally wore herself out. Did you want to-?”

Colin couldn’t help it—he laughed, just a bit, at how sheepish the guy had gone, now that he’d snapped out of his wee trance, and that he was trying to hand off the little one, even as he was still patting her back, curled around her protectively, sitting carefully still so as not to jostle her.

“Nah, she’s all yours, pal,” Colin said, grinning. “Just you get comfortable, and I’ll come save you when she starts crying, alright?”

Sims sighed, smiling back. “Doesn’t seem that I have much choice in the matter. Do try and make sure the class doesn’t stage a mutiny while I’m incapacitated, Mr. Ferguson?”

“Deal, Sims.”

<0>

Jon didn’t take nicely to Walt Whitman, liked to say that if Martin was going to subject him to the nineteenth century Americans, he could at least have the decency to make it Dickinson. Martin would then usually make a case for Emerson, which would make Jon recoil in only partially-feigned offence, and in the ensuing rant about the damned transcendentalists, the argument would usually be dropped.

Privately, though, despite the somewhat overenthusiastic patriotism of the man, Martin had a soft spot for Whitman, for the loping rhythm of his words, for the way he talked about people, about love, almost as a thing that he was, rather than just a thing that he felt. And it was always Whitman he thought about when he saw Jon, these days, Whitman’s insistent and unapologetic love springing to mind when he caught sight of him amongst the sea of bright blue uniforms as Martin slipped into the playground. He was stood by the school doors as he usually was, Heather Lewis tucked close to his side, holding his hand. It was Whitman that best put words to this nurturing thing that had taken root in Jon, turned him soft and watchful over his little brood, and Martin smiled softly to himself, heard the quiet click of a tape recorder in the back of his mind. Maybe he would remember to write that down, but no harm done if he didn’t. It was enough to watch, he rather thought.

He remembered, all of a sudden, one of the first times he’d ever properly seen Jon, storming through the research bullpen in the Institute, crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off the sharp lines of his forearms, his wrists. His hair had been shorter, then, slicked back away from his forehead, tucked no-nonsense behind his ears. He’d been all angles and scowls, the kind of look that had barely brokered a friendly tap on the shoulder from a colleague, let alone any kind of gentleness towards a child.

Here, though—

Well, Jon had changed, had let himself be changed. Everything about him was soft-touch, these days, the gentle maroon of the cashmere jumper, and the loose hairs that strayed from his braid and fell around his face, and the easy delight of his smile as he caught sight of Martin. So much about him was gentled, yielding to the herd of little ones that tended to crowd around his legs, yielding to Martin as he stepped into Jon’s space, head tilted back to kiss him with a murmured, “Oh, hello, you.”

“Hello, yourself,” Martin said, pulling back just enough to take hold of Jon’s other hand, the one not already occupied with Heather.

“Hello, Mr. Blackwood,” she said, quite politely, considering she’d just had to watch her teacher snogging someone, and he smiled, inclined his head to her. Jon had been grumbling the other night about the trials of persuading the little ones to zip up properly when they went out to the playground, but Heather, at least, was quite solidly bundled up, wearing a puffy anorak over her uniform and wool tights underneath it, topped off with a cozy hat that had a rather silly pompom on the top. It had been getting chillier, Martin supposed, though he was less inclined to notice the cold until his fingertips went numb, so he had just taken to keeping his hands in his pockets – or Jon’s, as it were.

Jon, too, was bundling up a little more, and he grinned when he saw that he was wearing the scarf Martin had finished knitting last month. It was an awful, hideous thing, knobbly garter with more than a few holes where Martin had dropped a stitch or two, only actually making it to completion under the careful eye of Mrs. Robinson, who had sewn in all his ends and frogged back a few of his particularly egregious mistakes. Nonetheless, Jon had it wrapped snugly into the collar of his peacoat, mouth and windburnt pink nose tucked into the chunky wool, away from the worst of the wind. Mrs. Robinson had given him a pattern for some matching fingerless gloves, and judging by his progress so far, they would be equally as ugly, and Jon would quite as equally insist on wearing them.

Jon’s class drifted off piecemeal, calling out to him as they went. There was a steady stream of, “Bye, Mr. Sims,” “See you tomorrow, Mr. Sims,” as they trailed off out of the front gates, holding hands with parents and grandparents and each other, rucksacks and lunchboxes swinging, and Jon called back to them, wished them a good night, reminded them about spelling lists and worksheets and whatever whatnots they had been working on that day. As the older forms were released, one of Jon’s went off swinging between two of the older teenagers, and all three of them cheerfully and dutifully chorused, “Good afternoon, Mr. Sims,” as they wandered by.

“Robert, Emma, Tom,” Jon recited, nodding to the three of them. Heather went next, skipping off towards her father, waving at Jon and Martin from the gate, and Jon waved back, with a smile that was all fondness.

Mrs. Robinson had been… unsubtle, with her knitting lessons. He always seemed to find himself with skeins of big, chunky, soft wool, and when she went digging in her folders upon folders of ancient, yellowed patterns, the ones that found themselves spread on the coffee table for Martin’s perusal had a bit of a theme. Garter stitch booties, baubled newborn hats, lap blankets.

Urge and urge and urge, he thought, a touch wistfully. Always the procreant urge of the world. Maybe Whitman had had a point.

Still, it wasn’t a question he’d asked, yet. Not a question he knew how to ask, of himself, really, let alone of Jon. For now, he rather thought he was content to wait. Content to be content, to help watch over Jon’s little flock until they were bundled up and sent home safe, and after, to find their own way up the winding road home.

[thepurpletrunk]

Chapter 1

The Purple Trunk

The first time I witnessed the man carrying the deep purple trunk was while waiting for my eight-minute-late train. He stood gaunt against the platform as snow christened the ground, turning the world white. He was dressed in a black trench coat and hat, creating a stark contrast against the snow, like a shadow in a flash of white. There was an air of familiarity surrounding him that I could not put my finger on; it was as if I had seen him before. A deep breath distracted me from my companion, and I watched as it curled into the night air to reunite itself with the sky. I look down at my phone, catching it as the numbers on the screen change from 9:08 to 9:09. Like a fascinated child, I peeked up from the screen of my phone to catch glimpses of the man, watching to see if he would move. He did not move, not even an inch. A statue looked more likely to budge. It was in my musings of his statuesque nature that I looked down at my phone to solve the riddle that popped up only to look back at him...  gone, leaving only the trunk remaining on the platform.

What in the world! He was just there? I glanced around in the hopes of seeing him in case he moved, but no one was around. Strange? This platform is usually busy around this time.

I decided to approach the trunk, easing my way over and making sure the coast remained clear. Getting a closer look, I saw that it was pretty well kept for a trunk that looked like it could be hundreds of years old. It was made of a deep, worn, purple leather framed in iron. It had the name Bryan Smyth etched into a gold tag near the handle. It was laying closed on its side, but the latch seemed to be popped open, enticing any passerby to take a peek inside. I looked around once more before I gave in to my compulsive thoughts and lifted the trunks lid open.

It squeaked open to reveal a ladder. A ladder? In a trunk? How is that even possible? An old metal ladder descends into a depth that is unreasonable for being inside a trunk. I lifted up the bottom in hopes to see a hole, but, when I lifted it, there seemed to be nothing in the ground.

“What in the world is this?” I whisper aloud, peeking further into the trunk. The bottom of the ladder is visible and meets a metal floor, similar to an old bunker. It looks to be about 15 feet to the bottom. Grabbing the hair tie that was settled on my wrist, I hung it over the opening and dropped it down. It soundlessly fell on the ground undamaged and unbothered by the environment around it.

Now, this is one of the weirdest things I have seen outside of a book. I can either walk away like a sane person and go home, OR I could go down into a magical trunk …

I looked up and around one last time. I am NOT missing a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something magical; a satyr never escorted me to Camp Half-Blood, and I can’t keep waiting for a late letter from Hogwarts.

I gently propped the lid of the trunk open and began my descent into the trunk. Once I reached the bottom I was greeted by a short hallway that led to a metal door. I reach down to retrieve my hair tie and pull it back onto my wrist as I begin my inspection of the door. It was an unassuming door, and, much like the trunk itself, it looked to be hundreds of years old. I crept to it and tested the handle.

Dang, this is heavy. I struggled to pull it open, getting only a few inches before I was able to peek inside. The first thing my senses picked up on was the smell of salt in the air and sand drying in the sun. Rays of light escaped through the cracked door, and I could hear rhythmic waves breaking on a beach. I pushed the door even further to venture into a familiar landscape mouth ajar. Memories of the dream I had the night before came rushing back to me in an instant. A white sandy beach, with a smooth stone path leading to the ocean and a cloudless horizon. I follow the stones with memories from the dream guiding me as I walked along the same path I once did.

As I approached the crashing surf, I could see the figure I saw on the platform. He turned to face me and shared a soft smile. Getting a good look at his face I could see his gray hair reaching through his short hair and onto his face in a rough looking beard. He looked like the kind of man you would see toting around a grandchild in his arms around Disney world.

“I was hoping your curiosity would bring you here.” he states in a baritone voice.

“Who are you?” I state defensively.

“Bryan Smyth,” he gives a slight sigh. “I suppose you don't remember me then? Then again, not many people remember their dreams.”

“What do my dreams have to do with this? And of course I don't remember the dream I had last night, they always go away in the morning.”

“You’re dreams mean all the difference. I suppose I should explain The purpose of this place — Aisling — is to redream a dream.” I look at him dumbfounded as he continues, “Dreams can do many things such as reveal something crucial about us, or reveal our true feelings and desires, they may even give us a look into future. Dreams are powerful.”

“Why am I here then? And how do you know my name?” I bite back.

He chuckles a bit showing a genuine smile, “I guess you could say this is your lucky day.”

“My lucky day? I'm not gonna lie, that sounds super suspicious. And you still haven't answered my question. How do you know my name?”

“I guess I should rephrase that then,” he looks off into the sea before saying, “I guess you have been chosen to be the next carrier and protector of the trunk, and, as for your name, I learned it when I hopped in your dream last night.”

“Chosen? And hopped into my dream? You're speaking in riddles?” I spout out as I begin to back away from him. This guy is kinda creepy.

“Personally, I think I was speaking in clear English sentences. I have the ability to enter people's dreams as they sleep, and I just so happened to enter yours where we had a lovely conversation.”

Then a memory hit me like a bag of bricks. The feeling of familiarity is justified as my brain begins to connect the dots to the dream that took place last night. Unrecognizable snippets of a conversation, with the man that stood before me, are recovered, and I now understand why he was familiar.

“Okay, say hypothetically I believe you, what's the catch? Am I gonna get cursed by the trunk if I'm its ‘carrier.’” I scrunch up my fingers in air quotes along with the word carrier.

“There is none. Do with the trunk as you like. Keep it to yourself and relive your wildest dreams, or share it with others. Whichever you choose, it's up to you. And don't worry about anything, this trunk is fairly safe.”

“So why are you giving this to me? This doesn't seem like something someone just gives away.”

“I’m too old for this thing. I barely use it, I want to give it to someone who will.”

“Thank you ... I guess? So how do I leave this place? As much as I love it here, I have a life and family I have to get back to and a train that's running late.”

“Submerge yourself in the ocean and let it take you where you want to go.”

“When I leave will I see you again?”

“Whenever our dreams cross paths.”

I stare at him for a moment before I nod and begin my walk into the breaking waves. As I walk into the sea I am submerged by the crystalline water that soon fills my lungs; however, the water flows through me as air would. I drift slowly in the peaceful ocean with its heartbeat against the shore lulling me into a content sleep.

...

When I open my eyes next it is to the shining lights of the Metra’s carriage and the thumping of the progress of the train along the tracks. I am leaning against the window with a slight dribble of saliva running from the left corner of my mouth. I quickly swipe it away and begin to sit up and gather my bearings at the abrupt change in scenery.

Was it all a dream? I think as I look around for Bryan and his signature hat amongst the rows of seats. I get up to see if he is on the lower level of the car when my leg bumps against something hard and  I stub my toe causing pain to shoot up my leg. I release my breath through my nose as I reach down to cradle my now injured foot. I look up to see the culprit of my injury and see the deep purple trunk. My eyes widen, Bryan’s trunk? What is it doing here? As I look closer at the old leather bound trunk I notice a name inlaid in a gold where Bryan’s once was.

Aisling Green

Before my thoughts could run rampant I heard over the speakers, “Arriving at 100 W. Main St. Cary” My stop! Panic runs through me as I grab my backpack and begin to make sure I have all of my belongings still. Finishing up I look down again at the trunk at my feet once again. As the train comes to a stop I grab the handle and heave it up as I begin to make my exit.

As I exit the train the cold in the air once again sends chills down my spine causing me to shiver. I begin the trek to my car with the trunk firmly in my grasp.

[b-does-the-write-thing]

Teach Us Something Please

I was deeply honored (and terribly excited) to get @thestraggletag for Secret Santa this year. I really wanted to write something worthy of my deep admiration for you and I hope it comes through in this little (okay not so little as usual I got carried away) Hogwarts Professor AU. 

It has a lot of callouts to the books and I formatted it to fit the same story structure so I hope you enjoy it! Happy Rumbelle Christmas in July, straggle. Sincerely, one of your biggest fans. 

(Note: I did not get to brit-pick this as well as I would have liked so if you see something, say something and I’ll update!)

Chapter One: Summer

June

There was a light deep in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

In this forgotten place, there were trees older than most civilizations but it had been eons since anything unknown to them had strayed this far into their dominion. Around them, the night was ripe and ready, potent with promise. It was just minutes from midnight and magic hung in the air as tangible as a summer berry ready to be plucked.

A branch creaked as a tree leaned closer to get a better look. The light spun, illuminating the inquisitive tree, but also revealing a witch’s young, pale face.

Her eyes were as bright as the bluejay’s breast.

Her hair a rich brown, the same shade as the maple wand she held in her hand.

Satisfied the creak had not foretold danger, the witch turned to continue forward, following the protected path deeper and deeper into the woods. As she arrived at a grove of aspens, the witch faltered for a moment, pausing to dig out a small book from her robes. Though there was no breeze, their silver leaves shivered and shook as the trees chatted amongst themselves. Nearby, a river gurgled and bubbled in interest.

Her wand tip lowered to the pages, revealing a scrawled map. The map was still, save for one small dot that was moving rapidly across the page. Keeping the book in one hand, the witch threw a cautious look over her shoulder before she carefully placed her wand in the palm of her hand. “Point me,” she whispered.

The wand hurried to obey. It spun once, twice, three times before it jerked to a stop sixty degree to her right. Well off the path. With a weary sigh, the witch continued onward, casting occasional glances to her right but keeping the octavo open in her hand.

Bound in black leather and stitched with golden thread, at first glance, the book looked like any other Hufflepuff memoir. Perhaps why it had been left undisturbed for over a century, hidden in plain sight amongst the other books in the library.

As the Hogwart’s librarian, Belle French had numerous obligations to the school. First and foremost to make sure its students were safe. Books could be very dangerous things, and even the most unassuming book could cause lasting harm to the unwary. After all, knowledge was a dangerous thing.

The book in her hand was an excellent example. If Belle had not been searching for some light reading on Bridget Wenlock, she may not have ever noticed the small book. It had been nestled in amongst the countless Helga Hufflepuff biographies and Belle had assumed that was what it was as well. That was until she had lifted it to get a better view and felt the tingle of dark magic race down her spine.

Pushing cautiously through the overgrown branches barring the path, Belle was careful to keep on the trail. Robin had warned what might happen if she stepped so much of a toe out of the protective wards. He had wanted to go with her, but the book was clear: only a winged maiden of sound mind would be able to seek and find.

Seek and find were the words of the book. A winged maiden could have meant anything but Belle suspected it meant a daughter of Ravenclaw. She was not descended from the line but she had been sorted into the house. She hoped that would be enough. As of sound mind… she felt far from sane at the moment.

“Are you sure about this?” Professor Lucas had demanded when Belle had started asking questions about the forest. The Care of Magical Creatures Professor knew all too well what lurked in the forest during the full moon.

The attack had been two summers ago now. Ruby had been lucky to escape with her life. While parents had not been keen on a werewolf teaching their children, Headmistress Ghorm had pointed out there was hardly a better-suited teacher for the role. Thus, Professor Lucas had been allowed to stay, with some safety measures in place.

As if sensing her thoughts, there was a howl in the distance. In answer, a branch broke nearby as something hurtled through the underbrush. Belle froze, waiting until it had passed. After several long minutes, when nothing stirred, she began again, but her heart was thudding sickeningly in her chest.

She walked on for what felt like hours, occasionally stopping to check the map. The dot on the map had come to a stop up ahead but she was still a fair ways away and the path was overgrown and slick. Belle had cloaked her steps to make no noise but her feet were sore and her back grew tight. She was pressing on- when all at once, the path stopped.

A great tree had fallen across the path. The trunk was nearly seven feet high on its side. Belle considered it for a moment. She could easily levitate over it or remove it from the path entirety but she suspected that was exactly what something wanted her to do. Upon closer inspection, she saw the tree had been recently felled. She hoped and despaired all at once.

Steeling her spine, she spoke into the wind. “I seek the one who sees all,” she said to the gloom surrounding her. “Let the seer be seen.”

The wind rustled the branches, and for a moment, the only answer was the shivering of leaves. Belle bent her head back to the book, murmuring a sharp “Lumos.”

The tip of her wand flared brightly as a torch, illuminating not only the map but the face of something reptilian and cruel which sat crouched at her feet. Belle would have shot backward, and nearly did so, before she recalled nothing could hurt her on the path.

Still, she trembled when she lifted her wand out towards the creature to find it safely outside the path’s border. Belle released the breath she had been holding when it stood, revealing it to be more man than creature.

“You would look upon the seer,” it hissed. “Look your fill and then release me. I have my own business this eve that does not pertain to you, child.”

Belle’s fingers were thick and clumsy as she raised her free hand to the neckline of her robe. Slowly, she pulled at the chain at her neck until it fell free, revealing what appeared to be a small charm. It was shaped like a crooked lightning bolt but on closer inspection was a dagger. It was heavier than it should be and cold as ice against her skin despite the warm night air and her evening exertion.

An artifact of untold power with the only clue to its purpose the single word etched into its surface. Few wizards or witches would have recognized it for what it was, but Belle had delved deep into the tomes detailing the darkest of arts. When it had fallen out of the octavo’s pages, Belle had suspected it for what it was the darkest of dark magic.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Belle said, faltering slightly as she recited the unfamiliar word writ upon the dagger. “I name you.”

A crooked smile revealed jagged, yellow teeth. “As did my mother.”

“Dark powers are gathering. War is coming.”

“It is already here,” the creature told her cheerfully. “And it will fall upon Hogwarts before the next summer solstice.”

It was as if he was stating a fact and not the end of the world as she knew it. Belle lifted her chin. “I have need of a seer. Need of you, the one connected to the Darkness but unbent to its will. I have sought you out to free you from your binds.”

“And how do you know I am what you say I am?”

Belle held up the book. It had been vague in details in some places, but rich in others. It had spoken of the seer, a creature tainted by the Darkness, bound to the Forbidden Forest.

Belle bit the inside of her cheek. “I am here to seek and find-”

“Seek and find?” he began to laugh. “All you have found is death. I see your end, child. Alone. Afraid. Surrounded by books. Blood seeping into their pages. You are still. You do not move.”

If he thought to scare her with foretellings of death, he misjudged her. “So, I will not die here tonight at your hands,” she said with a grave nod. “Good. Then, we can speak frankly.”

Belle transfigured a nearby branch into a chair. “Tell me how you came to be bound to the Darkness.”

He raised a clawed talon to his breast, raking the sharp claws down his scaled chest as he considered her. There were remnants of leather hide clinging to his arms and shoulders but they were in tatters, shredded. Belle wondered how long he had been out here.

“Four centuries,” he answered, golden eyes unblinking. “As for my origins, I sought protection from the Darkness by joining with it and found more than I had bargained. I found power beyond telling, a power that meant I would never be afraid again. The cost was madness.”

“You don’t seem insane to me.”

He cackled as he sank back down into a crouch. “Says the child who wandered into the woods alone. Haven’t you ever heard of what happens to maidens who enter the Forbidden Forest?”

“I am no maiden,” Belle said curtly. “Now, as I was saying-”

“Where did you find that?” He gestured to the book which was now open in her lap.

“That would be telling,” Belle responded just as blithely. “Why do you want to know?”

Without warning, his hand shot out as if to grab for her. Belle leaned backward, nearly toppling over in her transfigured chair. His talons stopped just shy of her.

He was grinning. “I am tied to that damnable piece of steel. I have searched every inch of this forest. I have dug through the dirt, broken stones, climbed to the top of trees. I have plundered the bottom of the Black Lake and for not. A spell has been placed upon it, binding me to this land. Even if I wished to join the gathering Darkness, I could not so long as that dagger remained out of my possession. So, I will ask you again, where did you find it, child?”

“I am not a child,” Belle snapped, losing her patience as usual. “I am the head librarian of Hogwarts-”

“The library!” Rumpelstiltskin hissed. “A dirty trick. He knew I could not cross the castle’s wards.”

“Who knew?” Belle was annoyed at herself for giving it away, even unintentionally. She would have to be more careful.

“My son,” he spat. “All I did, I did for him. But he could not see past what I had become. He bound me here, left me here to rot.”

Belle swallowed. “Then, attend me well. I have a deal for you.”

“Oh?” He sidled closer. “ I like deals. What shall it be? You wish for freedom. To see the world. You wish for knowledge. You thirst for adventure. You long for something more-”

“This is not about me,” she snapped, afraid of what he might reveal. “This is about the fate of the wizarding world.”

“Spare me,” he said with a shake of his head. “It is none to me what happens to it. I ceased caring long ago, child.” He gestured to his tattered clothing. “I have my problems.”

“Then, I have a beneficial solution for us both. Come teach at Hogwarts,” she proposed.

“Teach?” he hooted. “Teach what, child? The Dark Arts?”

“Divination,” Belle replied as the pieces fell into place. “Our divination professor foresaw her death and fled. The students leave for summer term shortly. Come on the first of July. If you swear no harm shall come to anyone who calls Hogwarts home, the wards will be open to you.”

“And why would I want to do that?” he snarled. Saliva dripped down from his curled lip. “You would have me swap one cage for another,” he murmured. “A nicer cage, true, but a cage nonetheless. Give me freedom.”

Freedom would allow the seer to return to the Darkness from which its power originated. And with a seer as powerful as the creature before her...whose very existence thrummed and hummed with secrets of the past, present and what would be...if Belle freed this being from its binds, she would condemn all of wizardkind.

Belle shook her head. “I cannot do that.”

“You could,” it sang, sliding back into the shadows.

Belle took a risk. “It very well might be swapping one cage for another, but this cage has running water.”

Rumpelstiltskin scoffed.

Belle pressed on. “If there is to be a battle, you may do as you like, fight or flee back to the forest. All I ask in return is that you give us counsel. Warn us of what you see.”

Warn you? Very well. I’ve seen you,” he said quietly. All traces of insanity and monstrosity vanished. “If you offer your hand to me, I will take it. But,” he held up a finger and wagged it at her. “Once I take it, you will never be free of me.”

Belle cocked her head to the side. It did not sound like a threat...more of a warning. “I’ve come all this way,” she told him. “If my freedom is the cost of knowledge, so be it.”

She reached her hand out across the path border.

When his scaled fingers curled over her’s, they were warm.

July

A cup of lukewarm tea was cradled in her hands. Belle had barely touched it, too caught up in searching the forest line, waiting with bated breath for Rumpelstiltskin to emerge. She had been waiting since morning. Hours had passed and now the light was fading as the sun started to sink in the western sky.

It had been a long two weeks. She had emerged from the Forbidden Forest the morning of the Summer Solstice and gone straight to the Headmistress. Reul Ghorm was one of the most powerful witches in the wizarding world as well as the wisest but it took all of Belle’s collective powers of persuasion, stubbornness and determination to get the Headmistress to agree to let the seer into the castle, much less award him a role on the teaching staff.

In the end, Belle had not been completely forthright. She had shared the book, told the story of her encounter with the Seer in the forest, and shared her plans to use his powers to continue to protect Hogwarts. But she had left out his true name and the matter of the dagger currently hanging around her neck.

Footsteps approached from around the back of the groundskeeper’s hut. She turned to find a wizard standing over her, but not the one she was expecting.

Robin hoisted his son, Roland, upon his hip and nodded toward the untouched cup in her hand. “My tea’s not that bad, is it?”

“Bad tea, Daddy,” the toddler insisted, struggling to get down.

Belle shook out of her reverie and stood. She murmured a wordless apology as she swapped the teacup for Roland, gathering the boy in her arms. His curls, so like his mother’s, tickled her nose. A rush of sorrow washed over her as she thought of Marian. She would have understood.

To hide the sadness in her eyes, Belle pressed a kiss to Roland’s forehead, and the boy giggled. “Down, Belle!” he begged but she didn’t dare let him down to run, no matter how much he wiggled and whined.

The sound of someone else approaching caused her heart to jump up into her throat. But the figure was coming from the castle, not the woods, draped in a familiar red cloak. “No sign?” Ruby called out as she neared the hut.

Belle shook her head. She should have known Rumpelstiltskin would keep her waiting. If he was even coming at all-

“Do you have such little faith in me?” came Rumpelstiltskin’s voice from behind her.

Roland took one look at the scaled creature and began to wail. Robin had his wand in his hand in an instant but Rumpelstiltskin waved a lazy hand and the wand skittered out of Robin’s grip and flew high and far out of range. For a horrible moment, it looked as if Robin meant to tackle Rumpelstiltskin, who was already grinning nastily.

“You will do no harm to those who call Hogwarts home!” Belle reminded him over Roland’s terrified cries.

Rumpelstiltskin bared his teeth at her just as Ruby’s spell hit him square in the chest. He froze before teetering backward to crash across the kitchen table at his back. Cookery went everywhere as the petrification totalus spell kept the Dark One from twitching so much as a muscle to stop his fall.

“Ruby!” Belle cried out as the Gryffindor came charging to the rescue. She accio-ed Robin’s wand as she charged past Belle into the hut. Belle couldn’t get to her wand to stop them, not with a screaming Roland nearly choking her in his terror. Small bursts of magic were emanating from the toddler, which could turn dangerous quickly. “Stop! He wouldn’t hurt anyone!”

At her exclamation, Robin and Ruby paused in the doorway, between her and Rumpelstiltskin. The two Gryffindors considered the creature bound on the floor but they did not sheath their wands.

Belle pushed past them, handing the sobbing Roland to his father. “Take him outside,” she murmured, patting the boy’s back as he clutched at Robin’s shoulders.

The groundskeeper looked as if he might argue but he only cast one last look at the creature on his hut’s floor, surrounded by shards of wood and pottery before he did as she suggested. Belle could hear him murmuring platitudes as he attempted to calm Roland down.

Belle knelt among the ruins of the table, careful to keep her face in clear view. The dagger free from her robe’s neckline “Rumpelstiltskin,” she greeted. “Took you long enough.”

“Belle,” Ruby wheedled, clearly frustrated. “This doesn’t feel right. We should get Mary Margaret. ”

Belle didn’t need a host of well-intentioned Gryffindors telling her what to do. “Give me a minute,” she said over her shoulder. When Ruby did not move from the doorway, she sighed and stood. “Ruby, please,” she said quietly, though she did not doubt Rumpelstiltskin could hear every word. “You said you’d trust me on this.”

“I trust you,” Ruby said, looking over her. “I don’t trust that thing.”

“Ruby,” Belle said softly, hearing the loathing in Ruby’s voice. “He’s not the creature that bit you.” Her hands were gentle as she laid them upon Ruby’s right forearm.

The witch wrenched her arm away, holding it protectively. “Could have been one of his pets,” she argued. “That’s just what I mean, Belle. It’s evil.”

Belle did not feel much like arguing. She had her doubts about all of this, but it did not change the facts. They had sent the students home across Great Britain and every day she woke wondering which ones may not come back.

“He can help,” was all she said.

“Yes, because he’s a great and powerful seer,’ Ruby mocked. “He doesn’t seem all that powerful if he didn’t even see a second-year level spell coming straight at him.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Belle whispered, all too aware he could hear every word. “Don’t you remember anything from Divination classes?”

Ruby bristled. “I’ve been more interested in astronomy these days, so forgive me if I don’t recall the intricacies of fortune-telling.” She brandished her hands out at Belle, palms facing upwards. “Remind me. Where’s the line that says I was going to turn into a bloodthirsty animal every month for the rest of my life?”

Belle’s temper flared. “You went out into the woods to find what was killing the unicorns. No one made you-”

“I went out there to stave off the Darkness from encroaching into Hogwarts-”

“And I did the same exact thing!” Belle finished breathlessly. “I went out in the woods, the same as you, for the same reason.”

There was no more time to cross one’s fingers and hope for the best. They had to defend themselves, defend Hogwarts. With knowledge. With foresight. With whatever they could.

“I had to at least try. We,” she added. “We have to at least try. I’m not saying you have to like this...but access to a true seer...one linked with the Darkness but not bent to it? It’s not much...but it’s more than we had before.”

Ruby stared at the creature on the floor for a long, long moment. Finally, she nodded but she wouldn’t meet Belle’s eyes. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Belle.”

Me too, Belle thought miserably but she managed a smile. “Go help Robin?” she suggested gently. Outside, Roland’s crying was only growing louder and pops of what sounded like fireworks were starting to go off.

Ruby disappeared back out into the warmth of the early evening, leaving Belle alone with Rumpelstiltskin. Her hand went to the dagger around her neck, a constant chill against her skin.

Taking a deep breath, Belle turned to kneel back down beside the seer but she did not take off Ruby’s spell, not yet. His eyes were calculating, something hidden deep in their depths. “I hope you can help,” she said quietly. “Merlin’s beard, I hope you can help.”

She murmured “finite” and braced herself for an attack, physical or magical but none came.

Rumpelstiltskin merely raised himself to a sitting position and took a look around the hut. “What a sty,” he grumbled and with a casual wave of his left hand, everything straightened around them. The shattered table repaired itself, the crockery mending. The sink suddenly splashed to life, submerging the dirty dishes in soapy water as the soot started to scoot across the floor and out the door.

“His wife died last fall,” Belle said as she got to her feet. “She went to Diagon Alley for a pixie deterrent for the pumpkin patch. She didn’t come back.”

Belle offered a hand to help him up but the Seer did not take it. He rose to his own feet in a graceful motion, dusting off his leather breeches as if he had not been utterly at her mercy moments ago. “Explains his less than hospitable hosting skills.”

“He’s had a rough time of it.”

“And what’s the werewolf’s excuse?” he grumbled.

“She gets a bit...snappy around the full moon,” Belle said with a shrug. “We’ve gotten used to it.”

His strange golden eyes flickered to the sunlight where the two Gryffindors stood. They were both waving their wands so hundreds of colorful bubbles billowed out of the tips. Roland ran between them, his head thrown back in laughter as he rushed one way than the other.

“Everyone here has a story of being touched by the darkness,” Belle added quietly.

His eyes turned back to her. “And your story?”

Belle hesitated, just for a moment. “Ask me again at the end of this year,” she said quietly. “Come on, I’ll take you up to the castle. We set up rooms in the Divination Tower.”

August

The Charms professor was mad as a hatter.

That was the only reason Rumpelstiltskin could think of for why Jefferson had taken to coming to his office every day when most of the Hogwarts staff had decided to steer clear of him. All but the Charms Professor, the castle’s healer, and of course the librarian.

Rumpelstiltskin stood at the window, looking out across the Black Lake. The Giant Squid propelled along the surface, basking in the summer light as it had done for the past century. Behind him, Whale was reading the paper while Jefferson lounged on his back, spinning his hat idly round and round his finger.

“Someone spilled the beans,” Whale whistled as he folded the Daily Prophet and flung it over at Jefferson. The Slytherin caught it and flipped it open in one smooth motion without so much as missing a beat.

Rumpelstiltskin glanced over at the paper, and the photograph of a bombed-out building stared back at him. Flames flickered in black ink, the moment captured on magical film to be replayed over and over again for all of time. He turned away from it, back towards the sun, lifting his face to enjoy the Scottish summer breeze wash over him.

This he knew. This is he remembered. He had not forgotten the ways of wizardkind but a lot had changed since his Hogwarts days. He had spent the entirety of July ensconced in the tower reading whatever the Librarian had brought him and still wasn’t caught up.

Belle, a voice whispered in his head. Her name is Belle

She had not given him her name but he had heard it upon the lips of the others. Until she gave it to him herself, he would continue to call her the Librarian.

It had been what he had called her before he had known her.

He had known her the instant he had laid eyes upon her on the summer solstice. He had even warned her...and still, the foolish, brave girl had given him her hand. Sealing their fates.

How often had he seen her in his visions? The bright light at the end of the dark, long tunnel of his existence. He had seen their future, saw their lives entwined in ways he had not thought possible. His destiny stamped as clear as the printed word upon her fair face but he could not find the courage to give that truth voice. So, he told her of the other things he had seen: Her death. The fall of Hogwarts. Everything she was scared of.

But he left out the other parts. For those were the things that scared him.

Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice the first owl that flew by the window or the second. It may have been the fourth or even fifth owl he finally saw, but soon the entire sky was full of them. His brow furrowed at the flurry of wings. Jefferson joined him at the window, wordlessly handing him the paper.

The paper was opened to the headline “Newest Divination Teacher: Monstrous Minion of Darkness”. The article went on to explain in graphic detail how he had supposedly run off the old Divination Teacher (a young woman named Astrid Nova) and took her place, bewitching Headmistress Reul Ghorm and bending her to his will.

He tossed it aside. Ghorm had already been bent to the Darkness’s will. Even if she did not yet know it. He did not know how the Librarian had convinced that one to let him cross the castle boundary, but he suspected it was only a matter of time before the Darkness in the headmistress's heart overwhelmed her. He could see the shadows on her face whenever she gazed at him, considering, wondering. She would come to him by the end of the year with her questions.

There was a knock at the trap door. Ever polite, his Librarian. He waved a hand and the trap door flipped open for her to emerge with her daily peace offering, a tray of tea. “Master Whale,” she greeted as Victor took the tray from her. “Professor Jefferson.”

“The Dragon was just telling me my fortune,” Jefferson said with a sorrowful grin.

The Librarian knew all too well what his fortune entailed. Day after day, Jefferson only asked Rumpelstiltskin the same question. “And how does your Grace fair today?”

“Thriving,’ Jefferson answered proudly, though his sad smile did not brighten.

Jefferson and his family had encountered the Darkness early in its rise. After Jefferson had barely survived the attack that had claimed his wife, he had sent his only daughter to the continent to attend Beauxbatons, praying it would be far enough. She had not spoken to him since, nearly three years

“And you, Master Whale?” Belle asked, though not as warmly.

It was clear that the Librarian did not quite trust Whale’s interest in him. Rumpelstiltskin could have told her that Whale had lost a brother years ago and had kept his body in the hopes of finding some magic strong enough to reanimate him, to bring him back. But he doubted that would do much to alleviate her suspicions. The healer was harmless. For now.

“Happy to be here,” Victor responded flippantly. “But like all good things, my time with you all has come to an end. The Nolans are stopping by the infirmary for an informal check-up.”

The Defense against the Dark Arts professor and her husband were expecting their first. They had been going to St. Mungo’s but with the rise of violence in London, it did not surprise him that they had opted to stay closer to Hogwarts.

Rumpelstiltskin exposed his fangs in a grimacing smile. He did not care much for Mary Margret Nolan. She had been the most vocal against him taking residence in the castle and been a thorn in his side ever since. “Send along my congratulations,” he said as Victor started to descend the spiral staircase. “Emma is a lovely name.”

The Librarian sighed. “They were going to have it be a surprise,” she chastised him as Victor’s laughter floated back up to them.

“Oh?”

He wasn’t fooling her but he had come to enjoy teasing the smile out of her, it was happening more and more frequently these days, which should have worried him.

Jefferson cleared his throat. “I’ll go and give Leroy a hand with the owls,” he said with a tip of his hat. The trapdoor swung shut behind him, leaving the two of them alone.

“Owls?” she echoed in confusion. Rumpelstiltskin nodded towards the paper on the table. The Librarian picked it up, scanned the headline and groaned. “Curse her,” she muttered, tucking her hair behind her ear. He watched her from beneath his curtain of hair. The Librarian always wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail, using whatever scrap of ribbon was at hand, but tendrils always escaped to fall about her face. “I’m going to wring her neck for this. She knows how important you being here is-”

There was little love lost between the defense teacher and the librarian but he had not expected such violence on his behalf. “Pregnancy does strange things to the mind,” he said, remembering all too well his own wife’s pregnancy and the mood swings that had accompanied it back in the days before modern medicine’s miracles. “It matters not,” he said even as more owls flew by. “Hogwarts is still the safest place in England. Those who do not send their children put them at great peril.”

The Librarian poured a cup of tea, absently sending it floating over to him as she began to pour another. “I hope I was right about all this,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

He could have told her she was. That her destiny had been written long before she had been born, that she was following a path already laid out for her. But then she would ask him too many questions. He had did not always know when, just what would be.

So, he said nothing.

She let the paper drop to the table and sat in Jefferson’s vacated chair. Her fingers went to her throat, idly playing with the necklace hidden beneath her robes. “Why do you wear that?” he asked as he sat down across from her. “Inanimate magical objects can be dangerous things.”

“I’ve heard,” Belle said drily as her hand fell back to her lap. “I thought it better to keep it close than to risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

Rumpelstiltskin had thought the same thing. He could still remember the splitting pain...the emptiness that had never left him. To this day, he could feel the hole where his soul had been ripped away.

They didn’t say much after that. They took their tea in silence as owl after owl flew across the summer sky.

Read the rest on A03

[texanredrose]

Countdown (Pt 1 of 2)

Here’s your only warning: angst ahead, but with a happy ending. Promise. For the Free Day.

Day -195 Winter awoke to her alarm much like every other day despite the realization that she'd turned twenty seven while she slept. Her final birthday, a marker she'd seen coming and watched with equal parts dread and grim acceptance. How else should she regard the milestone? Sitting up in bed, she cast her gaze around her military lodging. Per regulation, she would be discharged one hundred and eighty days prior to her death day, which gave her only two more weeks amid familiar surroundings before she would have to move her meager belongings into one of the funeral motels- a distasteful reality, to be sure, but a necessary one. They only existed for people like her, those too stubborn or too far gone to be welcomed back home for their final days. Getting out of bed, she grabbed her scroll and headed for the kitchen area. No doubt Weiss would call, try to arrange for some manner of bonding. Although it had taken them a few years, the sisters had improved their relationship substantially during that time, no longer at odds now that they'd similarly distanced themselves from their father. Without him constantly driving a wedge between them, they got on rather well, and their brief contact with their mother similarly proved much easier without his interference. Then again, it might be her imminent death that moved them to mend bridges rather than remaining silent until the end. That Winter, the eldest daughter, would only live for twenty seven and a half years while her mother and sister had over eighty years each seemed unfair to some extent but... it also made her invincible, in some ways. She didn't fear death. She didn't have to consider the long term health effects of strenuous work or balk at suicide missions. She didn't have to worry about anything. Twenty seven years... in the grand scheme of things, she couldn't do much with that, aside from what the military offered her. She couldn't have a family of her own because leaving them behind would be unfair. So she adopted her soldiers and defended them viciously. It won her more accolades than she could count.

But she would be lying if she said she had no regrets. It lingered in the back of her mind- children, a wife, a family of her own. A dream she wanted to chase but couldn't. Her scroll ringing snapped her out of autopilot, only then registering the bubbling of coffee and the bread toasting, as close to a breakfast as she felt necessary. She picked it up, unsurprised to see who it was calling her. "Good morning, Weiss." "Happy birthday, Winter." She chuckled, pinning the scroll between shoulder and ear as she continued making her meal. "I'm not sure if that's entirely appropriate, given the circumstances." "I don't want to be morbid about it; just because it's your last doesn't mean it can't be a good one." "I suppose you have a point," she replied, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. "How are your cases going?" "Ah, right, I... probably should've informed you already." A pause, anxiety gripping her sister then, almost audible in her concern. "I've opted to stop practicing business law." "Oh?" She raised a brow. "Have you found a different calling?" "Family court." Her other brow joined the first. "I've found that the work suits me a little better." "Really?" She lifted the mug to her lips, needing the bite of black coffee to prepare her for the day. "I would think watching families tear themselves apart would be the furthest thing from what you'd want to pursue." "Actually, I tend to think of it as ensuring the best circumstances for the children," she said, her voice turning to steel. "I'm rather tired of seeing children awarded to the parent with the most money. It's hardly a fitting scale for the child's welfare. It certainly did us no favors." "I'm glad to hear you aren't in it for the money." Her toast popped up, and she grabbed the jam from her fridge to spread across the slices. "Any noteworthy cases?" "None I'd like to discuss at present." Weiss paused, obviously hesitant to voice the next sentence but doing it all the same. "I'd rather talk about your living arrangements." That made her pause. "I already told you-" "Come to Vale. Stay with me instead of one of those wretched death motels. It's no way to spend your last six months." "I only planned to use one for the final two; there's some traveling I'd like to do beforehand," she said, sighing. "But I can make Vale my first stop... and I'll consider returning for the last month. Did you talk this over with your girlfriend?" "Blake's been the one pushing for it." Weiss admitted with a fond little laugh. "If you met her parents, you'd understand. It took her a while to reconnect with them but she's now very adamant about supporting familial bonds. Our friends may or may not be an equally strong influence." Rolling her eyes, she took a bite of toast to mull it over. "Very well. I'll be discharged in fifteen days. I'll book my flight to Vale as soon as I finish breakfast." "Excellent! I think you'll like Vale-" "I've been there before, remember?" "Right, right, but I think there's a few spots you haven't experienced fully..." Winter listened as her sister went on a long speech, expounding all the things she'd yet to see in the kingdom of Vale. She couldn't help but smile; at least she could rest easy knowing Weiss' zest for life wouldn't suffer from her passing. Maybe she could spend a bit more time in Vale than she'd originally planned.

Day -180 Winter stood outside the terminal, bag slung over her shoulder. She'd opted to travel light, having already sold or gifted her worldly possessions while going through the process of leaving the Atlesian military. In the unassuming drab olive bag sat a few changes of clothes and her hygiene kit; she needed nothing more. Well, except a ride. Checking her scroll, a frown touched her lips as she noted the message Weiss had sent her a good two hours ago, warning that her meeting with clients ran long and she'd be sending a friend to pick her up. Really, she wasn't in any hurry, so it didn't truly matter; she had one hundred and eighty days to wait. She'd accepted it. All her affairs were in order, lightly tapped into line over the past few months, and she had nothing left except seeing a few sights and spending time with the only family she cared to claim.  As easy an end as could come. Various vehicles came and went, waving goodbye to loved ones bound for airships or welcoming them back, and she contemplated taking up smoking in her final months- because, really, what harm could it do? Her aura, the life force that sustained her, would give out far before her lungs would. It wouldn't be accurate to say she didn't notice the roar of a motorcycle coming around the bend, seeing as it was rather impossible to miss, but she didn't expect for the rider to make a short stop in front of her, a bit of smoke rising up from the skid marks as she kicked out a leg and lifted her helmet clear of her head. "Wow, when Weiss said 'look for an older version of me, but more pissed off', she meant it literally!" Lilac eyes that sparkled like her smile, an unruly mane of golden locks, and skin tanned and kissed by the sun- Yang Xiao Long, if her memory served, though her sister's description of the woman hardly did her justice. "It's nice to finally meet you! Weiss talks about her big sis all the time!" "And you must be Yang," she replied, offering a hand. "She's mentioned you as well." "All good things I hope!" She laughed, shaking Winter's hand with a strong, firm grip, flexing muscles beneath her skin tight leather jacket. "Sorry I don't have a car; I prefer riding and didn't know you needed a lift until I was already out." "It's no trouble." She shrugged her shoulder to indicate the bag. "I'm traveling light." "Hey, sounds good to me!" Then she turned, digging into a saddle bag attached to the bike and fishing out a helmet. "Here. I really hope it fits alright." Winter smiled, a bit bemused. Weiss mentioned that Yang could be caring bordering on motherly from time to time and took other people's feelings seriously, but she hadn't expected someone quite so... well, genuinely kind. "I'm sure it'll be fine." "Great!" She waved a hand towards the city beyond. "Officially, I'd like to welcome you to Vale! Where do you wanna go first?" And she didn't know why, really, but she felt a smile tug at her lips. "Surprise me." And the expression was mirrored back at her. "I'll do my best."

Day -166 Two weeks later, Winter found herself with a... strangely active social life. She'd never exactly sought out friends or companions- she fell into step with some fellow service members from time to time, sure, but she didn't actively try to come across others or spend time with them. It just seemed like a futile effort, seeing as she would only have a handful of years with them. Why make her loss even more felt? But, as she'd quickly learned, Yang Xiao Long was a very hard woman to turn down. "C'mon!" The blonde laughed, smiling wide enough for a dimple to appear in her cheeks. "How have you never been to a carnival?" "I just never saw the point." She shrugged, finishing off the last bit of her coffee. They'd opted to meet for brunch on a gorgeous Saturday, when Yang's job permit her time off. "Cheap rides and cheaper prizes- I don't see the appeal." "It's about the experience!" She spread her arms wide, voice taking on a rather whimsical quality. "I mean- the music, the screams, the cotton candy, the flashing lights, the pings of the ring toss, all of it's great! And the view of the city from the top of the Ferris Wheel? How can you pass that up?" Raising a hand, she conceded defeat. "I'll at least admit that you make it sound far more interesting than I thought." "Hey, if you're still skeptical, why don't you give me the chance to prove you wrong?" She jerked her head. "There's one down by the docks. I could pick you up around five?" On the one hand, it would at least be cool enough by then to bear, seeing as she hadn't quite acclimated to Vale's warmer climate yet. On the other... "I find it hard to admire the lights you've mentioned with the sun up." "See, that's the beauty of it." She waved a hand. "We go a few rounds on the bumper cars, we play some games, maybe a ride or two, and then we can grab some good, greasy carnival food and catch the Ferris wheel as the sun sets." She smiled again, eyes sparkling. "What do ya say?" "Count me in," she replied, finding herself more and more agreeable with Yang's suggestions. Ever since the woman opted to surprise her with some of the best food- home cooked at that- she'd ever tasted and a trip out to Beacon Falls when she first arrived in Vale, Winter couldn't really fault her self appointed tour guide's tastes. "But at the end of the night, when we're both lamenting how much time we'd wasted, I want you to remember this conversation." "Oh, I will."  Winter didn't know she could enjoy someone's company so much. She'd never really had a best friend before but Yang... she made it impossible not to consider her for the position. An infectious laugh, a kind and caring demeanor, a penchant for joking- a proverbial sun to brighten her day. While she couldn't quite return that- razor sharp her wit might be, but it tended towards the biting sort, not the funny kind- she somehow provided the woman with something, considering how often they met for little talks like this. It made her heart ache a little. With her time so limited, it would've been nice to have known Yang earlier in life. Perhaps they could've been more than friends.

Winter sighed, relaxing back into the seat as the Ferris Wheel began to turn, raising them into the twilight sky. As much as she hadn't admitted it aloud, she'd found their activities at the carnival were a great deal more entertaining than she'd expected. She'd won a cheap teddy bear at the dart toss, and felt more than a little proud of that, and Yang had won a stuffed dog of some sort at the 'test your strength' game, proving the muscles in her arms and core weren't just for show, even if the air had turned a bit cool by a Valen's tastes for the halter top she wore.  "So?" Yang turned towards her, settling an arm across the back of the seat. "How lame are carnivals?" "Very well, I concede defeat." She rolled her eyes at the woman's wide grin. "This was a lot more enjoyable than I expected. Truly an experience worth having." "See, now that's what I'm talking about!" She chuckled, waving a wand in front of them. "And this is the best part! I mean, look at this view!" Blue eyes roved over the cityscape, lights beginning to flicker on as the sun sank beyond the horizon. "Personally, I'm partial to the roller coasters, but this is nice." As they ascended, the wheel stopped to admit new passengers, until they sat at the very top. "Ya know, some people think that Ferris wheels are kinda romantic." She returned her attention to the woman beside her, raising a brow. "And why is that?" Yang had her own gaze trained on the sights below them, a small smile on her lips. "It's kinda intimate? Alone, on top of the world, night falling... seems like the perfect time to sneak in a kiss, yeah?" "That does sound rather romantic." Again, her thoughts turned to her single regret, that she would never indulge in the secret, strong desire for a family of her own. A partner to kiss at the top of a Ferris wheel- how bittersweet that the night would provide her with both a wonderful experience and a daydream that would never be fulfilled. Then she noticed Yang turning, the arm she'd rested on the back of the seat curling around Winter's shoulders, trying to coax her closer as the woman's head tilted. She quickly put a hand on the blonde's shoulder, stopping her advance immediately. "Huh?" Yang leaned back, blinking at her a bit owlishly as a blush began to rise in her cheeks. "Oh, I thought- sorry, I just-" "There's no need to apologize." She offered a small, sad smile. "If I had more time, I'd take you up on that offer. But as it stands, I've less than six months. There are better uses of your time." "Wait, what does that have to do with anything?" Confusion splayed across her expression as the wheel began to turn again. "Just because your time is running out doesn't mean you stop living." "That's a nice sentiment." She chuckled, touched by a bit of dark humor. "But I've lived all I wish to; now, it's just a matter of waiting out my remaining days." "So, what? You're just going to give up?" She withdrew her arm, running her hand across her bicep where a long, golden dragon tattoo wrapped itself around a white rose. "Haven't you ever heard it's better to have loved and lost than to never love at all?" "I've never seen the sense in that," she replied, sighing. "I've lived my life without regrets and without apologies. I've become exactly the sort of person I set out to be. Were I to become involved with someone now, it would just be a blip- nothing meaningful. There's no reason to pursue something I'll not have the chance to finish." "You never 'finish' loving someone." Yang slumped slightly in her seat. "It doesn't work like that." "At any rate, I'm afraid it's one of the many mysteries I'll not have the chance to unravel myself." "You mean, you won't take the chance." "Semantics." As they approached the platform, she glanced back at Yang. "How long do you have? If you don't mind the question." She gave a mirthless chuckle. "In total? One hundred and forty six years. Plus some change." "Oh." She blinked. "That's... quite a long time." "Runs in the family." A sigh left her lips. "Downside is, I'll end up watching a lot of people die. I'll get left behind. But, at least, I can choose who leaves me behind like that now." She shrugged. "And I'd choose you." "Forgive me for sparing you that pain." As the attendant raised the bar so they could exit, she looked back at Yang. "Save it for someone who can give you years, not months." "A month from the right person is worth years from someone else." She said nothing in response even as Yang fell into step beside her, the two heading for the parking lot. A rather sour end to an otherwise pleasant experience but she tried not to dwell on it. In the end, it was for the best.

Day -162 Winter pressed her lips together in a thin line, maintaining her sister's stare for a few moments longer. Then, she relented. "What would you have me do?" "You're more than entitled to conduct your affairs as you see fit," Weiss said, a thread of annoyance in her tone. "But you did lead Yang on; you could've made it very clear from the beginning that you didn't wish to entertain anything romantic." "She knew very well why I'm here. She could've drawn her own conclusions." A bit unfair a claim, perhaps, and maybe she'd noticed that the attention she'd received from Yang wasn't the platonic sort, but it still should've been obvious. "If the circumstances were different-" "The circumstances, as you call them, and entirely within your head." Her sister wagged a finger at her, and she had to be a bit proud that Weiss somehow learned to stand up and buck those whom she admired. "Yang's aware of the situation and still wants to try. If you're turning her down because you feel it's a waste of your time, then tell her that. But don't try to blame her for it." "That's not-" "That's exactly-" "HEY!" They both stopped, turning to look at the Faunus frowning at them from the kitchen. "Stop fighting about it. Weiss, I appreciate you sticking up for Yang, but it is Winter's decision. Winter, you could've turned Yang down in a better way than making it seem like having a shorter countdown is a reason to not consider a relationship. You could've just said you weren't interested." "That would be a lie, though, and I still don't see the error in my logic," she said, not nearly as inclined to quit the field just because Blake had spoken up as her sister. "It's perfectly sound-" "Almost everyone will die before Yang." Feline ears flicked back, a subtle display of her mounting aggravation. "She's known that since she was young. Most people don't have the sort of aura she does, the sort of time, and it puts a lot of people off. They don't want to get involved with someone they know will outlive them by decades and they always say it's for her sake. She's just tired of people making that determination for her." Winter sat back in her chair. She hadn't considered that angle before. "But some don't, correct? Use that excuse, I mean." "I didn't." Blake shrugged, disappearing back into the kitchen for a moment before returning with two mugs of coffee, setting them down on the table for the sisters. "We didn't date for long, but we learned a lot about ourselves from the experience." She bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of Weiss' head. "That's how I found out I need a little more friction from my partner. Someone to challenge me." "Which I certainly do, some days more than others," she replied with a fond smile, tilting her head back for a proper kiss before Blake went back for her tea. "But more to the point, relationships- or dating in general, for that matter, it's not about finding forever right away. It's about the potential." "Except, there is no potential here." She spread her hands. "My time's almost up." "And when it is, are you certain you'll be at peace with never knowing?" Weiss raised a brow. "Perhaps you and Yang aren't meant to last anyway." Blake sat down beside her, wordlessly offering her hand so they could sit, side-by-side, fingers interlaced, their chosen beverages in their other hand. "But perhaps she'll be there at the end." Winter's gaze lingered on their hands before she looked away, busying herself with her coffee. For a woman already slated to die... would a taste of ambrosia really be so terrible an indulgence? And if it turned to poison on her tongue, what could the harm be? Perhaps it wasn't too late to mend one last bridge. She still didn't think pursuing a relationship would be wise but she could at least reach out and apologize for her thoughtless words.

Day -157 If she didn't know any better, Winter would be very hard pressed to think anything could be remiss. Yang seemed in high spirits as they walked through downtown, heading to a little restaurant that didn't get nearly enough attention considering the quality of their cuisine, according to the blonde anyway. In fact, she seemed just as upbeat as ever. But she didn't quite press close like she used to, verging on invading personal space but not quite crossing the line. Her gaze seemed focused elsewhere, rarely on Winter, when it seemed like her attention rarely wandered before. Most obvious of all, however, was the complete absence of teases and jokes, those little flirtations that had fallen from her lips so freely. This could not continue. "We don't have to do this," she said, her voice soft. "We can be cordial without overt acts of friendship." "What?" Lilac eyes snapped to her, then immediately darted away. "I mean- I, uh, I'm not following." "I'm saying that, if I make you uncomfortable, just say so." Yang pressed her lips together, looking down at her feet for a moment. "It's not you; I'm just... I like you, Winter. I wanna get to know you a little better, ya know? But I get it, you don't want that, so it's gonna take some time for me to... get over it." Her brows pinched together. "You mean, you're still interested in me? How?" For a moment, they just blinked at each other, and then Yang started laughing, shaking her head as she walked. "You really don't see it, huh? You're a heartbreaker, Winter." "I beg pardon- what do you mean by that?" She hurried to catch up to the woman, a frown on her lips. "You're just- you're kinda amazing!" She glanced over. "You've got this poised and dignified thing going on, like you're above it all, but then you turn around and you swear under your breath and you get annoyed over things like anyone else. You've got a sweet side that you don't always show and I like coaxing it out. And you're just- you're steady. You're like the ground beneath my feet." She shrugged. "It's hard to put into words but I just... feel good around you. You laugh at my jokes and you listen to what I have to say and it makes me feel invincible." "I don't see how-" "Hold on, lemme finish." Lilac eyes sparkled, though there seemed to be a hint of sadness about them. "See, I know if I see it, others can, too. Have you ever thought of how many people have fallen in love with you without you ever being the wiser?" She hummed. "I suppose I haven't." "Yeah. That's what I meant. You've probably broken a lot of hearts, just being you." Another shrug. "So, yeah. I'm kinda bummed you aren't interested, and it's going to take a while to get over, because I still look at you and see marble over steel, silk over iron, and it still gets me. It just takes time for it to... not. I'll get over it, eventually." They walked a few more steps before Winter spoke up. "I never said I wasn't interested in you." "You aren't interested in a relationship," she said, waving a hand. "Same difference." A shrug. "Perhaps my thoughts on that have changed." That brought Yang to an abrupt halt. "Wait, did I hear that right?" "You did." Winter nodded, clearing her throat. "Now, you must understand that this will only be temporary-" "Hey, don't ruin the fun!" She smiled wide, enough for that dimple to reappear, and linked their arms together. "We both know we're on a clock. That doesn't mean we have to focus on it!" "I suppose you're right." She chuckled, both amazed and a little proud that something so small could make Yang so happy, and that she'd been the one to cause it. "And try to give me some... slack. I don't exactly have much experience dating-" "Then I'll be your teacher." She laughed, a happy and free sound. "Lesson one? I'm gonna be your rock. So lean on me if you need to and don't be afraid to speak up, alright? You can always hit me up just to talk." She tapped the side of her head. "I'm a pretty good listener." "As long as you'll do the same," she replied, tone turning serious. "I do prize honest communication." "I picked up on that." Yang smiled, leaning her head to rest against Winter's shoulder. It felt... words couldn't describe it. Having someone so close, actually touching her, being so... she'd never allowed herself to focus too heavily on what she'd be missing, not pursuing that single daydream she harbored. Now, she could tell with utmost certainty that it would be her only regret. Still, despite the melancholy, she couldn't help but feel warmer and lighter with Yang beside her. Perhaps it would never satisfy her deepest desire but maybe she could still enjoy what she could while it lasted. "Oh, and one more thing. Just for the record." Yang hummed curiously and a smile curled her lips. "I think you're quite amazing as well." A chuckle and a squeeze of her arm were all she received in response.

Day -143 Dating Yang, as it turned out, was akin to breathing air. She fell into it much easier than she expected- or perhaps it only felt like that because the woman seemed patient to a fault. Either way, it became habit to grab her scroll and send a text before even getting out of bed, wishing Yang a good day and hoping she slept well. "Are you sure-" "I'm fine, Snowdrift! I got this!" Talking to her became as easy as before but their conversations turned deeper, more personal. Yang confided in her- her fears, her worries, her weaknesses, her triumphs. How she felt more than a little cocky after showing up some rude customer who'd tried to con her into giving a discount, how she cried for a week when her favorite character in a tv show died, how she had to restrain herself and busy herself with other things to keep from hovering around her little sister, how she worried that, in the end, she would have little to show for her long life span. Winter learned that beneath the cheer and jokes lay a glass heart- golden and true, yes, but pieced back together after being scratched and gouged. "Sundrop. I'm right here." "I'm getting the hang of it!" Yang loved freely and she'd been hurt for it but she threw herself into everything with the same vigor regardless. Perhaps more cautiously, perhaps with more restraint, but with no lack of fire in her soul. Winter admired that, adored it even, and she'd swallowed her pride and admitted Weiss and Blake were right to talk some sense into her. It would break Yang's heart when she passed but, for every minute they had together, they made them count. And she'd emerge all the stronger for it. "Yang." Lilac eyes flashed her way, one of her stubborn streaks possessing her as she clung to the rail for dear life. "I said. I got this." "It's been fifteen minutes and you've moved two meters." Winter raised a brow, nodding towards the little entry door to the indoor rink. "I'm not saying it's an insurmountable task; I'm merely offering a shortcut." Perhaps ice skating, though, wasn't the best suggestion for a date. "Look..." Yang tried closing the distance and standing up straight but nearly lost her balance again and went back to clinging to the rail. "... okay, fine." She puffed a breath up, ruffling the golden bangs peeking out from beneath her cap. "I've never ice skated before." "I surmised that." She chuckled, holding out both hands. "Give me your hands." "But-" "Trust me." Such a simple phrase. Such a powerful one. Without another moment's hesitation, Yang took her hands, awaiting the next set of directions. "Now, just try to focus on your balance." And then she was skating backwards, dragging her girlfriend with her, and bracing as best she could against the jerks and hesitations from the woman as she tried to find her balance. It amused her, how off kilter she seemed, but Yang did her best to not use her superior strength to her advantage and bring them both crashing to the ice.  Which, in itself, was rather telling. "Okay... I'm getting the hang of it." She nodded, tongue poking out in that little way she had as she concentrated. "Indeed." Winter smiled, noticing she could lead them into a gentle turn without a jerking motion to answer her. "It's almost like you've stopped feigning inexperience." Blonde brows climbed high before she barked out a laugh. "Can't get anything past you!" She shrugged, pushing off with her skates and adding to their momentum. "I learned when I was really young but I haven't skated in years." "Then why pretend otherwise?" She didn't really concern herself with the little fib, not until she'd uncovered the reasoning at least. "Isn't it obvious?" She chuckled. "I didn't want to embarrass myself! I'm still trying to impress you!" "Impress me?" Now, she laughed, shaking her head. "You needn't worry about that. You're perhaps the most impressive person I know." "C'mon." She rolled her eyes, using the next turn to turn herself around and skate beside Winter, keeping one hand clasped in hers while the other swung wide. "Your sister is a lawyer, she's dating a community activist, you're practically famous in your own right- that's a lot! And I'm just-" "Hold on now," she said, wanting to correct a few misconceptions immediately. "What makes my sister impressive, in my eyes, is that she broke away from a toxic environment and built a life she can be proud of in doing so. Next, what makes Blake impressive is that she's made mistakes in her life and found a way to not only overcome them but make amends as well. And the only thing I find impressive about myself is how I'm incapable of boiling an egg without step-by-step instructions but can disassemble an Atlas Paladin and put it back together in less than two hours without so much as glancing at a manual." Her expression softened. "And you are not 'just' anything. You started your own business and built it from the ground up, working out of your own garage until you could open a proper shop. You provided for your sister and supported her through university. And you did something only three people can even claim: you changed my mind." She skated a little closer, lowering her voice. "Frankly, you've yet to do something that doesn't impress me." "You really think that highly of lil ole me?" She tried playing it off with a laugh but her cheeks turned a bit redder, and it had nothing to do with the cold of the rink. "Gotta say, I didn't expect that." "Then you probably didn't expect this, either." She smirked, shifting her weight and pulling on Yang's hand as she switched to skating backwards, now in control of their momentum. As her girlfriend struggled to keep her feet, Winter lead them to the middle of the rink, the stopped short, bringing them close together- close enough for her to lean down and steal a firm, deliberate kiss. At first, she stiffened, caught off guard, but then she came roaring back to her senses and held her close, fingers digging into Winter's jacket. When they parted, she wore a dopey grin on her lips. "Well... got me there. Didn't expect that either." "Not as intimate as the top of a Ferris wheel, admittedly," she said, aware of the various eyes upon them, the little awes from adults and either confusion or excitement from children, but ignored them all. "But I do hope that was sufficiently romantic." "Hmmm," Yang replied with that twinkle in her eyes. "I dunno. Might need to try it again for a real comparison." "Where's the next carnival?"  She'd planned on some manner of travel, simply to pass the days. This proved to be a much better use of her time.

Day -139 "What's on your mind?" Winter blinked, turning away from the view outside the airship window to see her girlfriend's expression pinched into concern. "Nothing." Yang watched her for a moment before sitting back in her seat. "Alright." She winced. Fooling the woman turned out to be much harder than she'd anticipated and it just made her feel lousy besides. "It's just... Weiss is keeping secrets from me." "How do you know that?" Something about lilac eyes watching her carefully made her think that perhaps the odd behavior she'd noticed had an explanation- one her girlfriend seemed privy to, for some reason. "Usually, Weiss allows me free roam of the house, whether or not she's there." She frowned. "Lately, I've noticed she tries to... steer me clear of wherever Blake is. Not in overt means, of course, but I've hardly seen her in the past week for some odd reason." "Well, it might not be the solution you're looking for, but why don't you move in with me?" Yang shrugged. "Maybe they just need some space." Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You know why Blake's avoiding me, don't you?" "Yeah," she replied instantly, expression twisting. "But it's not my place to tell. I get where they're coming from, even if I disagree with how they're handling it." Winter hummed, slipping an arm around Yang's shoulders, coaxing her girlfriend into leaning her head against her shoulder. "You think that if I moved in with you, it would improve matters?" "Something like that." A short chuckle. "Plus, I just like the idea. Sometimes, I can be an opportunist, ya know." She remained silent for a moment. Frankly, she'd been ill accustomed to roommates, having never shared a room as a child and often finding herself in positions where she had single housing while in the military. Moving in with Weiss and Blake came with challenges, but they'd adjusted well.  Now, however... "I suppose we could move in together," she said, a smile curling her lips. "I don't have much in the way of personal belongings, outside of what you've bought me." "Hey, some of that stuff is hand crafted!" She playfully corrected, then sighed- content. "We could pack up your stuff when we get back. Have you set up in no time." "Would I have my own room?" The airship began to descend, making to land in Vacuo. They'd opted to combine the search for a carnival with Winter's desire to travel, Yang more than capable of turning the shop over to her crew for a week or two. Silence for just a moment too long. "I mean... my bed's big and comfy. I've got room in my closet. The bathroom's attached and it has a killer tub." As always, Yang offered her a choice while making her own thoughts known. Not an outright refusal to utilize her guest bedroom but a tempting sell on sharing the master. "We haven't slept together."  It was both an excuse and not. Winter hadn't wanted to delve into the physical side of a relationship- somehow, she connected sex with the sort of bond that was meant to last, not one under a time limit- and Yang hadn't objected. However, with every kiss, she found herself wondering... would a little more be so wrong? A little more friction, a little more heat, a little more passion- what could they explore together, what could Yang teach her, what could she learn for herself? "Yet." Her girlfriend offered, voice soft. She turned her head and pressed a kiss to golden locks. Yang had a point.

Day -126 Winter lay spent, sweat cooling on her skin and panting, listening to her girlfriend's attempts to catch her breath. Although she'd moved in upon returning to Vale a week ago, they hadn't actually done anything aside from sleep in the same bed until tonight. Not for lack of willingness, from either party; rather, it stemmed from a touch of romanticism on Yang's part, and she'd cooked a full meal that they'd shared by candlelight to build the atmosphere. "Hey... Snowdrift?" She turned to see the wide, lazy grin on the woman's lips. "Anyone ever tell you you're a fast learner?" A laugh burst from her chest, invigorating her for a moment to roll over, laying on her girlfriend for a moment and hovering, staring into those lilac eyes. When they kissed, it wasn't the heat from before- slow, languid, reveling in the feel of their skin pressed together, hearts slowing in tandem. Winter hadn't been a prude before- one in the service would inevitably be exposed to carnal descriptions, either in jokes or just the complete lack of boundaries between soldiers- but she'd always discounted what she'd heard as exaggerations born of boredom and poor prioritization. Better to make it sound like a worthy investment of time than merely an aerobic exercise. Experience, of course, gave her a new perspective. "I have a superior teacher." Yang laughed, wrapping her arms around her, indulging in more kissing and cuddling before her expression turned downright wicked. "Just you wait. There's a lot you don't know." Despite the promise, they both found themselves settling down after that, preparing to turn in for the night. Yet... she found herself not wanting the contact to end, not very keen on returning to their usual opposite sides of the bed sleeping arrangement. "Sundrop?" "Do you really want to go another round?" Her girlfriend teased, lightly pushing at her hip to encourage her to move. Which she did, rolling onto her side and watching the woman settle for bed. "No, I have a different request in mind." "Oh?" Yang stretched her arms above her head, yawning wide and relaxing fully into the mattress. "Wuzzat?" "May I... touch you while we sleep?" A frown touched her lips. "That's perhaps poor wording-" "Are you asking to spoon?" She perked up, excitement replacing the mischief in lilac eyes. "... spoon?" Yang laughed. "C'mere, you." After a bit of shuffling, she found herself being cradled in her girlfriend's arms, Yang's forehead resting against her shoulder blade. "How's that?" Winter breathed in deeply. "... better..." "But?"  Her girlfriend seemed genuinely confused, and she hurried to clarify. "Is there any way... I could hold you like this?" A hand stroked along her hip as Yang laughed. "You wanna be the big spoon, huh?" A kiss pressed to her shoulder. "I'm super okay with that." They switched positions, allowing her to nestle among golden curls. "I'm not on your hair, am I?" "Nah." Her girlfriend yawned, already falling asleep. "Night, Snowdrift." "Good night, Sundrop," she replied, closing her eyes and nearly dropping off but kept awake by two mumbled words. "Love you." The deep breathing that immediately followed proved that the woman hadn't said them consciously, had probably meant to kept them to herself but groggily let them go. Winter's eyes opened, watching the sliver of broken moonlight catching in golden strands as her heart swelled. Just two months of knowing each other and dating for half that... it felt like a whole other lifetime. A new life, one where she'd been able to indulge in every idle fantasy, and in that time, she'd come to believe the words herself. "I love you, Yang." Carefully, she leaned over to press a kiss to her shoulder before settling back down. She would say them again in the morning- as many times as she could. Avoiding love had seemed like the pragmatic answer before but now that she'd allowed herself a taste, she couldn't drink enough, and Yang made it so easy. She loved wholly and freely, let her fall as deep as she wanted, strong and steady enough to catch her but trusting enough to buckle and lean against her as well. It felt... well, like she'd always imagined. Yet, better, because Yang could be as unpredictable as a storm, as passionate as fire, and as quick as lightning. "And I owe you an apology." She whispered into the night. "This is meaningful." To her, at the very least.

Day -125 If Yang's reaction to waking up and hearing 'I love you' served as any indication, it was meaningful to her, too. And Winter learned a little bit more that morning.

Day -113 Winter sat across from her sister, noting ever nervous pick at her sleeves and skittish glance. In public, perhaps she'd be so concerned about her appearance, but not in the comfort of her own home- not that she seemed comfortable in the slightest. Weiss and Blake had taken the news about her change in living arrangements well, though a bit of guilt lingered in their expressions, and they'd seemed more at ease for a time. However, a hushed conversation between Yang and Blake the night before during a double date dinner seemed to prompt some sort of change, hence the invitation. But a pot of tea later, Winter couldn't tell what seemed to be preying on the woman. "Weiss-" "We didn't plan it." Their gazes met briefly before she ducked her head, drawing a steadying breath. "We weren't sure whether or not we should tell you. If it might... bother you. It wasn't intentional-" "Weiss, I'm still not sure I know what you're talking about." She raised a brow. "You've yet to mention that part." Her sister winced, though her lips appeared to be at war, caught between smiling and frowning. "Blake's pregnant." Immediately, her expression brightened. "Congratulations!" Of course it stung. Frankly, it might've hurt worse two months ago. But now? She wouldn't want Weiss and Blake putting their lives on hold, waiting for her time to be up. She would never know her niece or nephew or any of her sister's children... but that didn't mean they wouldn't know her. "How far along is she?" "We just got the confirmation a few weeks ago." Now faced with Winter's approval, Weiss glowed with happiness, smiling wide. "We're hoping for a girl. Blake's family is predisposed to them too, so there's a good chance. The morning sickness has caused a bit of an adjustment but..." Winter smiled and listened intently, reveling in her sister's excitement.

She heard Yang come through the front door even as she set up the scroll, leaning it against a book on her desk in Yang's little tinkering room. "Snowdrift?" "In here!" She called, waiting for her girlfriend to find her and greeting her with a smile and a kiss. "Welcome home." "Heh, thanks." Lilac eyes fell to the scroll. "Whatcha up to?" "Weiss told me the happy news." She nodded towards the device and papers laid out in front of it. "I thought I'd record a message for the little one to watch when they're old enough." "Oh." And she saw something, then, the spark of an idea that would no doubt be brought up again later. For now, it got filed away, as Yang instead smiled and nodded. "That's a really nice thought. I'll go get started on dinner while you do that." "I could-" A sharp look silenced that offer; after her last attempt cooking dinner, she'd gotten into the habit of ordering some manner of delivery before her girlfriend got home. She'd just forgotten today. "If there's anything I can do, let me know?" "I will." Yang started heading back towards the kitchen. "Focus on that for now." "Right." She nodded, looking at the camera on her scroll and sighing. "Right." Reaching forward, she started the recording, glancing at the notes she'd made to ensure she covered everything she wanted to say. "Greetings." She paused. She sounded stiff and formal- a realization she'd come to after being around her girlfriend's much more relaxed demeanor. So, she stopped and tried again, restarting the recording. "Hello. I'm your Aunt Winter..."

Two hours later, she emerged to find Yang settled on the couch, watching some show while their dinner stayed warm in a pot on the stove.  Wordlessly, she went to her girlfriend, not bothering to announce her presence until she'd curled up beside her. Yang merely chuckled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "So? How'd it go?"  "I accomplished my mission," she replied with a frown tugging at her lips. "I just hope it conveys what I want it to." "Can I watch it?" She smiled. "I can give you a one hundred percent unbiased opinion." Winter raised a brow. "Okay, ninety-five percent." Even that number seemed too high but she relented, hoping Yang wouldn't inquire as to how many tries it took to get right. She queued up the video and held it out, watching her own countenance fill the screen. "Hello, little one," the recording said, a small smile on her lips. "I'm your Aunt Winter and, by the time you're old enough to understand this, I'll be long passed. However, there are some things I must impart upon you before I go." Her expression turned a bit more somber then. "I'm not sure which surname you will bear when you're born, little one, but Schnee blood will still run through your veins. With that heritage comes certain standards, ways to conduct yourself, and a single rule you must follow." Her shoulders straightened, chin tilted up, eyes piercing as she continued. "As the next scion in a long proud line, you absolutely must pursue your own happiness." Every feature softened as she continued. "We're headstrong and nigh impossible to dissuade, so it's important you remain focused on the right priorities- yours. Don't bend or bow to those without your well being in mind and don't compromise yourself; believe me, you'll be stronger from surviving those who'll try to break you. I have no doubt your moms will fully support you doing so." She sighed. "And try to give your Mother some slack. Her heart's in the right place and, when you're old enough, you'll see that you'll do the same thing; being passionate and being right don't always align. It's a challenge we Schnees face: having patience and respect for others rather than just our own goals." She paused. "Or... perhaps that's just me. It's something I learned perhaps too late. My life hasn't been very long but I've managed to learn my fair share of lessons along the way. I'll pass what wisdom I have to you." Her smile pulled a little wider. "Know that you're loved, little one, even now and it will only grow with time. Know that, sometimes, it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. Know that your Mother Weiss is trying her hardest and doing an excellent job and that your Mommy Blake is much stronger and more brave than you think. Know that they didn’t start out that way, that the challenges they overcame helped them become the people you see before you, and that you will grow like that, too. Know that your Aunt Yang is no doubt going to sneak you cookies before dinner and will always guard your secrets and your Aunt Ruby can literally build anything and will always look out for you. Know that you have before you untold opportunities and untested abilities. Know that the only person who will determine how far you go in life is yourself and, know, even if you stumble and stutter and fall, that your family will be there to help you back up." Her gaze deviated then. "I wish I had the time to know you. No doubt I'd love you just as dearly as the others; I already love you so much now. But if an after life does exists, I'll be your guardian angel; speak to the north wind and I'll hear you. You will never be alone." Tears gathered in her eyes but her voice remainder strong. "Play often and rest when you can. Fight when you must and try not to hold grudges. Above all else, enjoy your time, because no matter how long you have, it's going to feel far too short." Then, she saluted. "March on, little one, and hold your head high. You're a Schnee, and you've already made me so proud. Keep it up." The video ended and Winter looked to her girlfriend holding back tears. "Yang?" "It's good," she said immediately, scrubbing at her eyes and laughing. "It'll mean a lot. They- I think they'll really like it." "Yang, what's wrong?" Worry colored her tone as she set aside her scroll and gathered the woman into her arms, stroking through her hair gently. "Talk to me." After a few minutes to compose herself, she started, turning into the embrace and clinging to Winter. "It's just- my birth mom, she ran out on me, yeah? And I just- she could've done that. Left me a message, done something to let me know that I'm- that I wasn't a mistake or a waste of her time." She drew a steadying breath. "She didn't have to mean it but... it would've been nice to hear." "Oh, Sundrop." She believed that it constituted part of the reason for the reaction, sure, but something about the way Yang wouldn't meet her eyes had her concerned there remained more to it than that. However, best to handle one thing at a time. "You're certainly not a waste of anyone's time. Please don't think that." "I know, I know, I just- it's hard not to think about sometimes." A watery laugh. "And thanks, ya know. For calling me Aunt Yang. I know Blake's gonna ask me to be godmother and all but hearing it... you hit the nail on the head." She smiled. "This kid is gonna be loved. No doubt about it." Winter nodded, waiting for a few moments before gently prodding. "Is there anything else on your mind?" For a moment, she thought Yang might break. But then she just shrugged. "I dunno. I mean, I think the message is great, but I also don't think those two are the kind to stop at just one kid." "A valid point," she replied, opting to set her concerns aside for the moment. "But I think I should eat something before I try making another one." With that, they got up and went to fix their dinner, but Winter kept a close eye on her girlfriend for the rest of the night. Something seemed to be on her mind... but she would have to wait for it to come to bear.

Day -107 Winter made a few more videos over the week, mostly addressed to any subsequent kids Weiss and Blake might have. Her sister seemed genuinely touched she’d made them and Blake all too happy to safeguard them in the meantime, though the couple tried- in vain- to insist they wouldn’t have a big family. Maybe one more, they said, but she could see the way they looked at each other and didn’t doubt for a moment they’d have four or more.

But she found her attention pulled away from making more videos by Yang’s odd behavior. With just a little under half her remaining time spent, perhaps it was the looming deadline beginning to prey on the woman’s mind.

At any rate, it required further investigation.

The moment she heard the door open, she closed the book she’d used to preoccupy her time. 

“Hey!” Yang set her motorcycle helmet down and shook out her hair. “What’s up, Snowdrift? No welcome home kiss?

She offered a small smile and got off the couch. “My apologies. I’m afraid my mind’s been a bit preoccupied.”

“Oh?” After their kiss, Yang kept her close, hands on her hips. “Wanna share?”

“I feel like you’ve been acting a bit odd recently. As if you want to talk with me about something but keep refraining.” She ran her hands up and down the woman’s back, noticing the way her posture changed, eyes looking away, body turning as if she wanted to break contact. Yet, when Winter ducked her head, encouraged her to meet her eyes, her girlfriend didn’t balk. “You can tell me anything, you know. I promise I’ll listen. No judgments.”

“You... really don’t want to hear this.” Yang mumbled, shaking her head. “It’s just a stupid thought-”

“Is it important to you?” Reluctantly, she nodded. “Then it’s not stupid. Regardless of my opinion on it, it’s not a stupid thought. Tell me and let me form my own opinion.”

This time, her girlfriend did pull away, but took one hand in hers and led her to the couch, sitting both of them down. She then took a moment and composed herself, choosing her words with care. “What if I stopped taking my birth control?”

“Why would you do that?” Of all the topics in the world, this happened to be the last one she expected they’d discuss. “Is it... making you sick or-”

“Well, aura pregnancies are pretty rare. We could leave it up to chance-”

Winter jolted, sitting up straighter and incidentally pulling away from her girlfriend. “Aura pregnancy- Yang, what are you talking about?”

She remained silent for a moment, drawing in a steadying breath before taking the plunge. “I want the chance to carry your child.”

“No,” she replied, instantaneous, getting to her feet and pacing. “Do you even realize what you’re talking about; I’ve hardly three months left.”

“I know that.” Yang got to her feet as well, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know there’s a big chance it won’t happen anyway and I know that, even if I do get pregnant... you’ll be gone before the baby’s born... but...”

“There is no ‘but’ here.” She shook her head. “I’m not going to leave behind a child that’ll never know me-”

“They’ll know you, the same as Weiss’ kids.” A frustrated sigh. “Look, I know it isn’t what you want-”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” Winter looked at her, the pain in her chest nearly crippling as those secret daydreams she’d entertained flashed before her eyes. “You don’t know how badly I want a child, a family- you have no idea what this life has denied me.”

“You mean what you’ve denied yourself.” Yang’s lips twisted, a bit of anger coloring her tone. “I get it, I can’t understand what it’s like having so little time. But you don’t have to give up on everything else. There’s ways around it, to try- it might mean only having a taste but it’s something.”

“Not now.” She shook her head, waved her hand, denied as best she could. “Are you even listening to yourself? It’s- it’s impossible, Yang. I don’t have a chance for a taste of anything- it’s too late for me. I can’t just leave you alone to raise our child by yourself.”

“My dad did it.” Her expression softened slightly. “Being a single parent... yeah, it’s hard. It can be hell. But it’s not impossible and at least, this way, our kid would know they’re wanted, that if you could be here, you would. That- I don’t think you understand how much that means. That could be enough-”

“How could it possibly be enough?” Winter sighed heavily, turning away. “Please understand, in any other life, I’d be with you. I’d- I’d marry you, I’d start a family with you, I’d be completely devoted, every moment of my life, because I would have that time to give to you. In another life, there wouldn’t be any hesitation on my part.”

“But this is the only life we have, Winter,” she replied, crossing the room and putting a hand on her shoulder, turning her gently so their eyes could meet. “This is all the time we have. And when it’s over, if all I have left of you are memories... I won’t regret this, because I love you, so much it hurts and scares me. But... to have a kid, a little bit of you living on- that means something to me, too.”

The words were born of a helpless sort of anger and pain but they left her lips too quickly for her to catch. “Then you’re being selfish, wanting to have a child purely so you can cling to past memories.”

The hand on her shoulder disappeared but Yang didn’t say a word for a long moment. When she did, her voice sounded heavy with tears that wouldn’t fall. “Yeah... maybe you’re right.”

Regret lanced through her heart. “Yang, I didn’t- I’m sorry.”

But her girlfriend had already turned her back, heading towards the bedroom. “I’m gonna change. Get out of these clothes. Call for pizza. I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

“Sundrop, wait-” The closing of the door sounded much louder than it should’ve and Winter stood there, flinching at the sound.

She thought about following Yang into the bedroom- watched the door for half an hour before the pizza arrived while she debated- but ultimately decided to give the woman some space. Plus, she needed the time to properly formulate an apology; her words were harsh and unnecessary, she didn’t want to hurt her girlfriend and she shouldn’t have lashed out at her.

For the remainder of the night, Yang stayed in the bedroom, only leaving to grab some of the pizza. She avoided eye contact but Winter could see her puffy red eyes, the dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

Winter opted to sleep on the couch that night.

Day -106 When morning came, Winter waited in the living room for Yang to come out. She hadn’t slept much, plagued by the argument from the night before, but at least she’d decided on what to say. Provided she had the chance to do so, of course.

The moment the bedroom door cracked open, she shot to her feet. “Yang-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Lilac eyes didn’t even glance her way as she made a bee line for the kitchen, ignoring all else. “The conversation’s over, case closed.” A mirthless chuckle. “I told you it was stupid anyway.”

Seeing as words would do her no good for the moment, Winter crossed the room, heading her girlfriend off before she could slip into the kitchen. She wrapped her arms around the woman’s waist, pressing back to front, and rested her chin among golden locks. Her embrace wasn’t so tight as to completely prevent Yang from escaping- any pressure and she’d relent- but it at least made her give pause.

“It isn’t stupid,” she said, her voice soft. “Before I knew how long I had, I had dreams. I wanted a wife and a family, children of my own. I wanted to raise them better than my parents raised me.” Winter paused, closing her eyes and tilting her head so she could rest her forehead against the back of Yang’s head. “But then I became old enough to understand how little time I had left. I wanted to be there for my children and support my wife; bereft of that, knowing I wouldn’t be around to protect them... I couldn’t abide it. So I put those dreams away. Until I met you.” A sigh, heavy and deep. “I’m sorry for accusing you of being selfish. For the longest time, I convinced myself that it would be selfish of me to pursue those dreams, knowing I wouldn’t be around to see them through. It... assuaged the regret of never trying, thinking I’d taken the nobler path... but that doesn’t excuse my behavior last night. I am sorry.”

Yang sighed, not quite encouraging her embrace but not breaking it either. “Apology accepted. We both got a little heated last night.”

“But you were right. I did give up on those dreams.” She held her girlfriend a little tighter. “What does it mean to you? Having a child?”

She turned in her arms, encouraging Winter to open her eyes. “It’s an expression of love. Finding someone I love enough... that I want to see a part of me and a part of them, together. I mean- you’re not entirely wrong. It is a way to hold onto the past, onto you. But it’s not just you- it’s both of us. Every time I look at them, I’m going to be reminded of this.” Slowly, Yang drew her into a kiss- soft, sweet, and slow. “I want this part of you to live on and, in my heart, you always will. But there’s a chance another part of you could live on- a part of you that’s also a part of me.”

“Very well.” She swallowed thickly, trying to hold her emotions in check. “Make me a promise.”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me they’ll know.” Winter did her best to keep her voice steady but it broke anyway as tears slipped. “They’ll know how much I wanted to be there for them. That I love them even though I’ll never know them. Promise me they’ll never think otherwise.”

Yang gave her a small, sad smile. “That’s a promise I look forward to keeping.” 

A nod as Winter leaned forward, burying her face in her girlfriend’s hair. And she sobbed, clinging to Yang, because in her mind, she could clearly picture it- the blonde laughing and playing with a small child with lilac eyes and white hair, both happy and content, and she so badly wished to be part of the picture.

But she never would be. As much as it hurt, it also brought a smile to her lips, because there stood a chance she could see it from whatever afterlife she’d earned for herself. And maybe, in time, before her end came, she could take solace in knowing they would carry on even after she fell.

That would be her legacy and she could ask for nothing better.

“Did you mean what you said last night? In another life, you’d marry me?”

“I’d marry you in this one if you’d let me,” she replied softly between sobs.

“You still have to ask.” A small chuckle and a kiss pressed against her jaw. “Even if you know I’m going to say yes.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of asking someone to marry me?” Winter confessed, stifling her tears long enough to draw back and look at the woman properly. “I hope you’re ready.”

“Hit me with your best shot, Snowdrift.” Yang smiled, wider than she had in weeks. “Blow me away.”

Part 2 is coming shortly.

[pink-ink-goblin]

Better Off Lost - Chapter 2

A collab between the lovely @lostcybertronian and myself! Part 3 will be from them!

Chapter 1   Chapter 2 (You are here)

Pairings: Dark/Host

Warnings: Mild Blood

Based on this post

Host found himself frozen in place, his fingers still held in the cold hollow where his most important book of all should have resided, hidden amongst so many others, layered in dust and sometimes blood, so that it may never be grabbed by mistake.

But this was no mistake.

For someone to take this one - his journal, his only documentation of his past deeds, his own private world - would not only be foolish, but a calculated maneuver against him.

And he knew only one person whose agenda conformed to that.

His trench coat fluttered behind him as he turned to to race back to the bedroom, his jaw set firmly in a rage he hadn’t felt since he’d become this ghost of his former self, pulling the popped collar closer around his neck to fight the chill through his nightshirt.

Memories stirred like dusty beasts from the base of his skull, rearing back their heads and giving him their screams as reminder of all the things he done with that small, unassuming journal. Of all the lives he’d ruined. Of the people he’d abused just so he could get his desired end. Of those he killed simply because the story just wasn’t turning out right...

Of those ‘things’ he’d created with the soul purpose of fixing what he thought wrong with the world.

He shook his head to clear it, letting out his anger on the bedroom door as he threw it hard enough to ricochet against the wall, the hinged barricade returning with enough force to nearly close itself behind him. The sound startled awake Dark who flew upright in the covers, looking surprised but not frightened, that is, until Host grabbed him by the shoulders and leveled himself inches from his face like he was looking directly into the demon’s eyes.

“Where is it?” Host hissed, his fingers squeezing into Dark’s shoulders in a way that would have had Dark wincing in pain if his body were capable of such human feelings anymore.

“Is this some new kind of foreplay?” Dark bit back with a scowl, irate at being awoken so rudely and sitting absolutely still as he watched Host grit his teeth agitatedly.

“Don’t be an ass,” Host warned, push Dark back and standing upright to ‘look’ down at him. “I won’t ask a second time.”

“I can’t be of any kind of help if I don’t know what the hell it is you’re talking about, can I?” Dark replied flatly, throwing back the covers to stand too, cracking his neck as he did so and wincing at the crunch.

“My. Journal,” Host seethed, hands balling into fists at his sides. “I know you have it. No one else in this house of idiots could have possibly known of its existence, apart from maybe Wilford, but he’d sooner use a gun than a pen. You’re the only one I know who could benefit from its use.”

“I was unaware that you even still had that old thing,” Dark replied nonchalantly. “I thought you’d tossed it ages ago. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t mind borrowing it.”

“Dark-!”

“Oh for God’s sake, I don’t have your damn journal!” Dark snarled, the unnatural ringing picking up behind him with the sound of a gunshot. But Host was unintimidated.

“Then where would it have gone?! It wouldn’t have just walked away!”

“Why not just be rid of it?” Dark scoffed, reigning himself back in as he felt his shell threaten to crack. He couldn’t do that to Host. Not again. “It’s nothing more than a gruesome storybook now anyway.”

“I can’t. It’s where I keep my -” Host bit his tongue, face turning away from Dark as everything about him seemed to fall. “Look, it’s important that that book doesn’t fall into the hands of someone liable to use it. Not only would they be in danger, but so would everyone around them. It’s more than a book, it’s a -”

“Pocket dimension, yes I know,” Dark affirmed exasperatedly, but after a moment of watching Host hunch in misery, he slowly drew the man into his arms with a sigh, feeling the warmth of fresh blood on his neck as Host eventually leaned in. “I never forgot.”

“Then you understand how dire this is, and why it’s important that I find it.” Host returned gently, regretfully, wrapping his arms around Dark’s waist loosely.

“Can’t you deduce its location by narrating?” Dark asked, his own irritation easing away as Host reigned his emotions in.

“I hadn’t tried,” Host admitted with a frown into Dark’s neck. “I was so sure it was you. I just assumed… I’m sorry.”

Dark pursed his lips, something stirring in those abyssal eyes that rang a familiar bell in Host’s mind’s eye, but it didn’t remain long enough for him to place it as Dark simply said, “Try now.” Host sighed and unwillingly stepped back, a hand sliding down Dark’s arm until it reached the demon’s own chilled hand, twining their fingers as he took a deep breath… and slowly released it. He took another much slower one...

And then narrations came.

His form stiffened, words flying from his lips faster than they could be caught, his quiet near mumbles filling the air around him, and yet he couldn’t hear a sound. All of his focus drew inward, and then exploded forth from him as his awareness expanded to envelope rooms, buildings, entire cities.  

Images flashed before his eyes, perfect pictures of places he had traversed, and others he had not. He could see objects flying by, leaving trails of colors in their wake as they flew past. Blue, grey, red, pink, brown… stage lights, street lights, moonlight… starry skies, open windows, and the slumbering figures within them. He saw them, heard them, felt them; all their warm dreams and terrible nightmares. Of things done, and things planned for the future. Happiness, laughter, sorrows, he felt them all… and then he was plunged into blackness.

A void, dark as pitch and yet bright enough to see, called to him, filled to the brim with clouds of vertigo-inducing miasma. A place no mortal would ever find themselves within on accident. Yet amidst that foggy smoke sat a desk, lit by a single spot of dim light like a beacon.

And upon that desk, a very familiar leather bound book.

“Host…” He heard, but he was too absorbed to consider it, already walking forward to retrieve it in only the way he could. Thank God, thank God, it wasn’t lost. It wasn’t in the hands of those he most feared, and yet… he felt he had a great reason to fear it’s existence in here of all places.

“Host!” He was being shook, violently, and the world around him began to blur. But he was so close! His fingertips were inches from its spine, trembling at the happiness of having it back.

Or was that from the exertion on his body?

“HOST!” A force enveloped him, filled with reds and blues, and suddenly he was being tugged backwards screaming through a blur of rooms. Back over wispy outlines of people waking confused. Back through open windows that slammed closed behind him. Back through the orange glow of sunrise, through the streetlights that blinked off and across an empty stage. Brown, pink, red, grey blue.

And suddenly he was slammed into his own body, stumbling to fall if someone hadn’t caught him. Someone cold as death, and calling his name around an ear splitting ring. He struggled violently and was dropped for his effort onto the carpet below, breathing and trying to reorient himself as he felt those cold hands return to him.

“Are you with me?” A deep voice asked, more panicked than his tone would imply. There was concern in that voice, but Host was beyond it and rounded on him immediately.

“It’s in your office!” Host yelled, shoving Dark away drunkenly as his normal headache set in from abusing his powers of sight. He could feel fresh warmth running down his face in frankley concerning amounts, the cloth he adorned too full to take on anymore of the sticky blood. But he didn’t care. He was seething.

Dark LIED to him.

But Dark was looking down at him, searching him, cogs turning and twisting in his mind as he tried to understand what this could possibly mean. More lies. They had to be.

“I can’t fucking believe you!” Host spat, taking a shuddering breath before moving to stand, using the wall as leverage rather than Dark’s outstretched hand. “After everything we’ve been through!”

“I haven’t touched your journal,” Dark reminded with a dangerous sort of calm, but his tone was filled more with curiosity. He was standing upright now, eyes sharp and fully clothed, standing in that prim and proper way he did when was when working.

“Then what, are you saying someone framed you?” Host retorted back sarcastically, finding his fury calming to replaced with cautious bitterness. This situation had him on edge in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Not since… before. It was making him question everything, and Host hated questions he didn’t know the answers to.

Dark resisted smiling at that notion. “I don’t believe they would go to the trouble of framing me, considering our limited list of suspects. No, if it’s been placed this way - in a way I would discover if you had not - then I do I believe… someone wants my attention.”

Host scoffed, already making for the door. “I doubt they know what they’re asking for.”

Dark’s face remained flat, but Host could feel something twist in the demon at his callous words. Too callous. Host was angry, but the rational part of him realized that was uncalled for and he grimaced. But Dark didn’t seem fit to deign the jab worthy of response, so Host pressed on, almost to the door when he felt a hand snatch his wrist.

“What?” Host growled.

“Shortcut,” Dark replied simply and drew Host into his side, not waiting for the blind man to accept his help as he walked them through the door.

A cold chill passed through Host, that frosty breath of the supernatural shroud that Dark moved himself about in, but when that feeling didn’t disperse despite finding himself once more on a stable plane, Host knew they were there. Dark’s office.

“Even curiouser,” Dark muttered, leaving Host to walk to the desk by himself.

“What?” Host asked, but as he drew closer, he could see what Dark meant.

His journal was open, right down the middle, and that was not what he saw in his vision. The book had been closed then. It had been moved. Was someone still lingering in the shadows that overhung Dark’s place of business? They couldn’t be, Dark would sense them immediately if Host didn’t. Then how…?

But unfortunately, Host didn’t get a greater chance to dwell on it as he realized that Dark was already peering into the last thing Host ever wanted him to see, the book itself open to the last words he ever wrote on their death encrusted pages.

‘Perhaps the past… is better off lost.’

Dark’s eyes had taken on that look again, something deep and full of emotions that the demon would never willingly share, so Host made to prompt him, when a cackle was heard.

Coming directly from the book.

Shit!

“Get back!” Host cried, but it was too late. The book exploded into a whirlwind of fluttering pages, swirling around them both with all the violence of a tornado. And he could feel it sucking them both in. He grabbed the table, and the demon grabbed him, but the force only grew and grew until they couldn’t take no more.

Host yelled as his fingers slipped, hearing Dark roar from beside him as his own grip upon Host was lost, both of them succumbing to the book’s suction as they were pulled within. He heard the demon yell to him, but his words were lost among the wind.

Suddenly, Host was left to tumble into the darkness on his own... and the last sound he heard was the dull thud of a book snapping closed.

[azkaabanter]

We are Animals

5k of SMUT AND ACTUAL PLOT… but mostly smut. I upload from my phone so I can’t italicize anything. If you want to see the version with italics, I’ll send you a link to where I posted the story. ANYWAAAAAYYYYY … I also apologize, but I don't know how to enable the 'read more' feature on my phone. I know it's annoying but unfortunately I can't do anything about it.

AU STORY!!

-

This is a Drarry fic based on a video on YouTube of the same title. Kind of post apocolyose/ homophobe universe. Hardcore smut so… yeah

-

“Men. The only animals in the world to fear” - D.H. Lawrence

-

“Findings from the National Center of Disease control released the results of a study which shows that the lifestyle of some homosexuals has triggered an epidemic…” The garbled voice of a newscaster comes out of the radio, along with small blasts of static. I walk down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, my shoes covered in red dust and the sun beating down on my shoulders, heating my brown leather jacket. I keep my hands in the pockets to keep them from shaking as the small radio I keep in the lining spits out more information.

“The ‘Gay Plague’ is the center of a political storm- the Moral Majority claiming that AIDS is God’s punishment for the gay lifestyle.” I close my eyes hard and use my shoulder to wipe the sweat out of them, and my messy black hair sticks to my forehead. In a hidden part of the thick jacket I can just hear the minute clinking of small pink pills that I live on in a small prescription jar. The pills in that jar, though, are anything but legal. The announcer continues.

“This isn’t just a disease we’re talking about here! These people are capable of murdering other humans when they-” The voice becomes inaudible from all of the static emitting from the cheap radio, so I take it out and hit it against my jean-clad leg until the voice is understandable again.

“C'mon…” I huff to myself, hitting the small box once again when it continues to cut out, until it finally continues.

“-and 50% of U.K citizens are favoring quarantine. We’re putting them in a nice, comfortable place-” The voice of the announcer is cut off suddenly by another person shouting into the microphone.

“Just isolate them!” The newcomer says, and I continue to listen, though it hurts. Looking up, I see the outline of a tall brick enclosure in the distance as my radio spouts more slurs. I would switch to another station, but these news reports are all that are broadcasted anymore. The second voice continues, though in a calmer tone than the one previously used. “We have received proof that the free world is, once again, in danger.

The radical group of homosexuals, known otherwise as the Death Eaters, have rallied together, more determined than ever to destroy the means put in place by our scientific and medical communities that keep us all safe, and healthy. Although we have created a protective quarantine, no one is truly safe.” I turn off the radio, no longer able to listen.

I can hear my mother’s voice in my head, pressing the bottle of pink pills into my hand. ‘Hide, Harry. Hide in plain sight, be a nurse, do whatever you can. Just don’t let anyone know who you really are.’ So here I am, in the middle of a field on a dirt road in August.

Eventually reaching the gate of an eight foot tall barbed wire fence, I look up and sigh, pushing it open and walking inside the quarantine zone.

The road is deserted, with various posters blowing about in the street, and the rusted shells of forgotten cars lining the outsides of empty buildings. My green eyes scan the chain link, looking at the various posters tacked up.

Seeing some of them closer, they look to all have some extent of coverage from green or black paint. I can even see a poster of the Queen with a large green skull with a serpent tongue covering her face. I reach out to touch the poster, but in pulling my hand back, the tips of my fingers come away glistening with green liquid. I then take a step back, look around, and continue on my way, eyes trained on the ground in front of me, and hands stuffed in my pockets, with the muffled sound of men’s screams permeating my ears.

I continue walking through the desolate streets until I reach a heavy metal door with the words “Caution: Quarantine inside. Enter at your own risk.” I don’t think twice before pressing my shoulder against the door to open it.

Inside, the sounds of suffering are clearer, but I continue on my way. Close by, I can hear someone with a hacking cough, a side effect of the numbing agent.

“Hey-” A hoarse voice calls out, and I look up in surprise. “you’ll help me…” An unkempt man sitting in a pile of trash lunges at me, trying to grab my ankle, though I manage to jump out of the way. “Help me!” He screams at my back as I walk away. “You selfish pig! You’re just like the rest of us!”

“L-leave me alone.” I say quietly, continuing, albeit at a quicker pace, towards my destination while the man screams behind me.

“You’ll get yours one day kid! You just… you fucking wait…” Is what I hear before he breaks down crying, and I keep going out of fear.

I turn a corner a small ways from the man to the front of an unassuming building, manned by two armed guards wearing respirators over their mouths and noses. The man on the left looks me up and down, before stiffly asking- “Identification?” I take out my security pass and he runs it under a machine, which beeps to signal my clearance. “Put out your arms.” He says, taking out a metal detector and waving it over my whole body.

As it runs over my side, I pray with every ounce of my sinning soul that the pills won’t be detected, even though they never have been before.

“He’s clean.” The guard says once the detector has run over me multiple times. He gives me a look of sadness, and motions to his partner to open the door. “Good luck in there, Potter.” I nod in response and walk through the door into the cool, dark building.

My whole body shakes as I walk to the bathroom, the intercom of the building playing more messages like the one I heard on my way to work. “Several members of the Death Eaters have been arrested for vandalizing property, writing messages that spread their hate and lies…” I listen intently at the door to the restroom to make sure that it’s deserted, before entering and locking the door behind me. “The authorities have transferred the detainees to a nearby clinic for immediate neutralization.”

I walk to the sink, not bothering to look in the mirror because I know what I would see; the tired eyes of a liar, and the messy hair and smile-less lips of a sinner. I take the plastic container out of my pocket and crack it open, depositing the pills into my hands, looking at them with distain and distaste, before I hear a creak behind me. I look up and turn to the side, the sudden appearance of a heavily freckled red-haired man taking me by surprise, causing me to drop the container of pills and drop to my knees, scrambling to pick them all up.

“I-it’s not what it looks like-” I stutter, fear taking over my whole being, because if he knows what these pills do-

I look back at him after all the pills are put away, and I see a sad smile on his face.

“I should have known you were on Celibron-” he says, his accent thick. I narrow my eyes at him before looking away, my heart beating a million miles and hour. “I know exactly what you’re going through. You’re doing a really good thing-” I look back up at the man, who looks hardly older than I. How could he possibly know what I'n going through?

I narrow my eyes again, and stand up straight, slipping the bottle into my pocket. “I can’t eat… I can’t sleep… these- these things are fucking poisoning me-”

“These things saved my life.” The other man says calmly, resting his hand on my arm, which I immediately pull away. I turn my back, and put my hand on the doorknob, figuring I can just take the pills somewhere else. “Do you want to get better?” He asks, and my grip falters, before steadying again.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” I say. “It’s just a precaution.” And I walk out of the room, leaving the red haired man alone, once again.

About an hour later, I’ve nearly forgotten the experience. My mind is numbed by the Celibron coursing through my system, and my shoes loudly hit the ground in the quiet hallway leading up to my patient’s room.

I’ve traded my leather jacket and jeans for dark red scrubs, and my hands are unable to stop fidgeting as I walk up to the one-way glass that shows me my patient.

I look in and see him sitting on a table, wearing nothing but white shorts, and I swallow thickly, before mentally berating myself for it. He has neat bleach blonde hair and wears a look that would seem horrible on anyone except for him. His lean arms are pale and his stomach is toned and blemishless. When he looks up I can see stormy grey eyes and a strong chin. I open the door and walk into the room, trying to avoid eye contact with the beautiful man.

I go to the cart positioned directly next to the man, whose feet are bound to his padded medical chair. I pick up his file and graze my eyes over it, before having them rest on his name. 'Draco Malfoy’ I glance at him and look back at the chart blankly when I find that he’s looking back at me.

I walk around the back of him, glancing at his forearm and seeing a tattoo of a green skull and serpent right beneath the hinge of his elbow. His voice takes me out of my stupor.

“So… what’s it like?” I return to his side and look him in the eyes, before glancing away again. “When they cut it off?” Draco asks me morbidly.

“You’ll be anesthetized-” I reply quickly.

“Mm-mm. No, I want to feel everything-” my neck heats as I feel him look me up and down. “even pain.” He says everything with a confidence that I don’t understand. I don’t understand how he could be confident and level headed in the situation that he is in.

“We can’t do that. That’s… inhumane.” I tell him, still keeping my eyes on the tools that I’m fiddling with for no reason other than to distract myself from the strength of his gaze. He thinks for a moment before replying.

“Since when did that stop anyone?” I pause for a moment before continuing my distraction.

“I-I’m sorry. The government requires that every patient be numb from the waist down for this procedure…” His eyes burn into the back of my neck and I can feel the pills working against the feelings rising up inside of me. He smirks.

“What do you feel down there, nurse boy? I could smell you a mile away. Your body’s strong… it’s resisting those pills-” I turn to face him, an easygoing smile decorating his features, and anger boils up inside of me.

“How did you know that?” I ask with a mixture of anger, fear, and curiosity. His blonde hair flops into his eyes and he brushes the strands away with gentle fingers.

“Did you ever break sodomy law?” I stop again, the heat from my neck spreading to my cheeks.

“T-the what?” I stutter, trying to play innocent as I lean back against the wall. He just smiles and shakes his head, as if he can’t believe my ineducation on the subject.

“Sodomy, sweetie. Mmm, sodomy.” The blonde nearly hums the words, before turning back to me with an amused expression. “C'mon, everyone knows that the clinic staff are all a bunch of gays…” He looks me up and down hungrily, and says more quietly, “my nose never fails.” And my anger boils over. I slam the supplies on the cart, push off the wall, and walk right up to Malfoy. “Look, I don’t know what shit you heard, but it’s wrong. I’m straight.” I tell him matter-of-factly, walking to the other side of the room to pick up the sphygmomanometer. He clicks his tongue.

“Yeah, so is spaghetti 'till you get it wet…” He pauses before continuing at a whisper. “and hot…” His eyes are filled with lust, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep my composure under his grey gaze.

“I-I need to t-take your blood pressure-” I keep my eyes trained on the ground as I walk the few steps over to him, my fingers brushing his warm skin while I strap the contraption to his right bicep. He breathes in deeply,the muscles in his chest rising and falling as he chuckles and softly says

“You’re strapping it to the wrong limb-��� I cut him off.

“You’re about to be castrated. Doesn’t that bother you?” I ask him irritably, giving in to my want for just a moment to rake my eyes up his body. He still acts indifferent, and I can’t tell if he’s really courageous or really stupid.

“Hell no.” He says, and I begin pumping up the pressure in the arm band of the sphygmomanometer. He throws his head back and then looks at me with a grin. “Turns me on, what can I say?” I rip the Velcro and take the band off of him, throwing it to the side in anger.

“This isn’t a game! People are dying because of this!” I exclaim, running my hand through my already disastrous black locks, and he suddenly turns serious.

“I live out there…” He looks down at his bound feet for a moment, before bringing his eyes up to mine once again. “I know what it’s like.”

“You’re a freak.” I say, going around to the other side of the chair back to the cart, my anger boiling over. I look at him again and his sarcastic smile is back.

“Might be hard- er, difficult- to do the procedure, if I’m… y'know.” He says, and I look up. He flicks his eyes downward, and I notice the bulge in the thin cotton pants.

“Oh… yeah…” I say.

Suddenly, Draco’s lunged out and grabbed my hand, pulling me to the side of his chair on my knees, putting my hand over his growing hard on, pressing it down, and moving it so that I’m cupping him. He’s strong; even as I’m struggling against him, I can’t get my hand away from it’s place against his cock.

“How does that feel?” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Yeah, just squeeze right there-” he exclaims to me when I inadvertently clench my fist around him. I can’t say that I’m not enjoying feeling what must be a rather large cock through those thin pants, though I know it’s so fucking wrong.

I stop struggling, and look away guiltily as I squeeze down his cock, though not bare I can feel its’ heat, and I have Draco writhing in his chair. I can tell that his moans are hardly contained and I have to thank god for these scrubs hiding the bit of hardness that I’ve acquired despite the pills.

“Fuck-” he moans quietly, more like a gasp when I flick my wrist hard. His hand is gripping my wrist as I go faster and faster; my panting becoming audible. It’s so…

wrong.

But…

It’s also… so

right.

“Fuckfuckfuck…” Curses spill from his lips as I take my hand off of him just to put it down the waistband of his pants and actually touch him. He’s heavy and throbbing and I have the sudden urge to put my mouth on him, but banish it from my head immediately.

'This is plenty wrong enough…’ The thought crosses my brain when I swipe my thumb over the head of his dripping cock, lubricating my hand in his precum as I continue to jack him off.

His other hand is pulling on my hair as moans continue to fall from his mouth.

“Tell me your name. Tell me your name so I can shout it when I come.” He gasps to words, and his cock twitches in my hand.

“Potter.” I say, and he’s already started his orgasm.

His hand grips my hair roughly and he arches his back. I bring my eyes to his face; grey eyes closed, and biting his lip in ecstasy.

“Fuck Potter!” He gasps and I can feel his come on my hand as he pants and moans and curses, finally collapsing in the chair, his chest rising and falling quickly. “You… you’re good at that-” he says as I stand up not a moment before the door opens behind me, causing me to run into the cart in surprise.

The surgeon walks in, completely indifferent to my reaction, and walks over to the cart, turning to me. My white covered hand is hidden behind my back.

“Where’s the scalpel?” He asks me, and I look over at Draco with wide eyes, who smirks, winks, and lunges at the surgeon, putting the blade in his neck and pulling it back out when the man has fallen to the floor.

He then takes my wrist in an iron grip and pulls me out the door and through several hallways.

“C'mon c'mon!” He says back at me, before throwing me against the wall near a guarded door. He attacks the guard, taking him down by brute force, punching him several times, then coming over to me, hauling me up, and dragging me over to the door.

“Open the door.” He says into my ear, raising hairs over my entire body, but I still struggle against him, until I feel cool metal against my throat. “Open. the door.” He repeats, pressing the scalpel in more, until I relent and put the code into the door.

Once unlocked, people come rushing out of the armored room in hysterics. All homosexuals. All people like Harry. I turn to run, but he’s come up behind me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks me, picking me up.

A sudden hit on the the back of the head has me out cold, and I can vaguely feel myself being thrown over a shoulder and carried…

-t.s-

“Ow…” I say when I awaken with a pounding headache, rubbing my forehead. I look around, and my heart rate rises when I see that I am no longer in the clinic.

I’m in a cloth tent, alone.

I scramble to the door, ignoring my headache and climb out into the light of a setting sun. Music, laughter and yelling reach my ears from somewhere nearby, and I decide to investigate. I know that I’m getting close, as I can hear Draco’s voice:

“Yes! My fellow Death Eaters! I promise you that we will stab at the opposition! We will be treated as people in this cruel world! We. Will. Be. Victorious!” He screams, the voice of the man permeating my ears. An excited scream rises from the other people in the group. “Stripped of our dignity, under the guise of a disease, an epidemic, that has nearly wiped us out. And now we appear! Without out meds! Because we won’t hide anymore. This is OUR freedom!” His speech hits a crescendo when I round the corner of the rocky path, and crouch behind some bushes.

In the clearing I can see Draco, standing on a rock next to a blazing fire, and a rather large group of cheering followers who are dancing and talking. Among them I swear I can see the red haired man from the bathroom.

I crouch lower behind the bush when I see Draco looking around the edges of the clearing, praying that he won’t see me. But he does. His eyes lock onto mine and I swear I see him lick his lips, before I back up, trip a bit, and then run as fast as I can in the other direction, thoughts racing through my mind.

'I’m not one of them. I’m straight, I’m normal. I won’t be killed and there’s nothing wrong with me.’ Desperate thoughts fill my head as I run, and I can hear him perusing me.

“You can’t go back! You have nowhere to go-” he yells after me, but I just keep going, my chest heaving and my legs burning, yet I still run with tears in my eyes.

I run until I trip, falling to the ground on my back, and within thirty seconds Draco’s reached me.

He kneels behind me and pulls me up onto my knees, one hand on my throat and holding my ear to his mouth, and his other arm around my stomach holding me in place as I struggle against him.

“You can’t go back. The government’s declared you a renegade-” He says into my ear, his fingers and thumb digging into my cheeks and squishing my mouth.

“I-I can’t be a part of this-” I say, and he stretches my head back so that my neck is completely exposed, and puts his lips next to my ear.

“You’re here, just do it.” He says, and pushes me down so that I’m flat on my back, his knees on either side of my hips and his hands on either side of my head. I stare into his eyes, which have a softness that I didn’t see in the clinic.

“You felt something didn’t you?” He asks with a smile, stony eyes gleaming. I swallow thickly and try to ignore the pangs of want throbbing in my chest. “That’s the pills wearing off.”

Our breathing heavy and deep, it’s my turn to talk. “Was that your plan? To hold me hostage until the pills wore off?” I challenge him, and he smirks at me, his lips now mere inches above mine.

“A man’s not a man until his pills wear off…” He looks at me thoughtfully. “I’m doing you a favor.” He licks his lips, and takes the hem of my shirt in his fist, ripping it over my head, leaving my tanned chest gleaming in the darkening sky. His eyes look at me hungrily.

“What are you doing?” I ask, though all logical thought is being clouded with lust.

“Freeing the dragon.” He smirks, and all thought goes out the window. With a surge of strength, I push Draco off of me onto his back, and reassume his old position on top. The man beneath me looks vaguely surprised, but he doesn’t have long to retain the face because I’ve started attacking his lips.

I kiss him with a passion I’ve never felt before. His lips are soft and supple, and when his tongue snakes into my mouth it feels like it was made to be there. I bite his bottom lip hard in ecstasy, and when I grind my hips down into his for a split second, he groans into my mouth.

I rip his shirt off of him, running my hands over ever inch of uncovered pale skin all the way up his arms to his wrists, which I pin over his head while I start attacking his neck with hard bites and kisses, all the way to his collar bone. We’re both panting like animals at this point, but I couldn’t possibly care less.

“Shit-” he gasps, pressing his hips into mine, presenting me his already throbbing cock through yet another pair of thin pants. I take my hands off his wrists and he immediately puts one in my hair, and the other is running down my back, pushing me onto him.

He grabs me by the sides, hauling me into a sitting position without ever taking his lips off of mine.

Draco licks all the way down my neck and onto my collar bone, his cock pressing into me and mine prodding him in the stomach. I grind into him and he throws his head back in a loud moan, thrusting his hips up against me.

“Fuck…” I sigh, because it seems to be the only word in my vocabulary right now.

Within seconds of my moan he has his fingers in the waistband of my pants and is almost ripping them off, leaving me bare in his lap. I immediately climb off of him and pull his pants off of him, but the second they’re off he’s got me back on top of him, assaulting my lips and squeezing my ass.

My thighs are wrapped around his waist and every time I move my cock rubs against his stomach until I can’t take it anymore.

“I-I need you-” I gasp in his ear, and his mouth is immediately off of mine.

“If you want me, you’re going to need some preparation.” He whispers in my ear, not taking any more time and putting me down on my stomach, spreading me, and putting his tongue in my hole.

“Goddamn, Draco!” I gasp as he puts it as deep as it can go, working me loose. My hands pull at his once neat blonde hair, and he works his tongue in me until he has me writhing. But he doesn’t stop there. He puts two fingers in his mouth, covering them with saliva, and puts them in in place of his tongue. I moan, and he starts to talk.

“You’re going to look so fucking gorgeous with my cock inside you.” He pumps his fingers faster, earning himself a strangled gasp. He takes my head and turns it so that my eyes are on him while he finger fucks me. “You’ll be taking all eight inches whether you like it or not, baby.” I throw my head back in reply because he’s started curling his fingers and I can’t comprehend anything but the feeling. He smirks, grey eyes crinkling. “Good.” He says, taking his fingers out and leaving me with an empty feeling. “I need you to lube me.” I quirk an eyebrow, and he chuckles. “Suck me a bit. Just a little. I don’t know how long I would last in that mouth.” I blush but bring my mouth down to meet his glistening head all the same.

His cock is warm and full in my mouth and I try to take it as deep as it can go, getting it as wet as possible. All too soon he’s pulling it out.

“I-I can’t…” He pulls me on top of him again, but doesn’t have me sit. He looks me dead in the eye. “After I’m done with you, you’re not going to be able to sit comfortably for a week.” He growls the words into my ear and I moan. He takes that as the signal to start lowering me onto him.

Inch by inch he fills me, and it burns and hurts but it hurts so good that I don’t know whether to scream or moan. His girth is stretching me and I wrap my legs around his waist. After a bit of adjusting, Draco is in me all the way to the hilt, his tip brushing lightly against my prostate every time he moves. He puts his forehead against mine and kisses me when he starts thrusting; slowly at first. In the beginning it hurts, and he swallows my cries. But then it starts feeling good… suddenly, he isn’t going fast enough.

“Faster.” I gasp into his ear, and he has no problem fulfilling my request. My cock rubs against Draco’s stomach with every thrust, giving me more pleasure than I know what to do with. My nails scratch at his back roughy, surely leaving dozens of marks.

“Faster.” I say again, because I want more. So much more. “Harder.” And he goes harder, but still not hard enough. I pull his face down to meet mine, and look into his darkened stormy eyes. “Fuck me ask hard and fast as you can.” I say to him, and he grins.

“As you wish, Mr. Potter.” He says, before pulling out, putting me on my hands and knees, going back in, and fucking me so hard that he hits my prostate with every thrust.

“Draco!” I scream, his hips slapping my ass where they meet, and his hands pulling me by the hips to meet his frantic thrusts. I take myself in hand and jack myself off harder and faster than ever before because I’m so painfully hard that I don’t know what to do with myself. Soon, I can feel the coil tightening inside of me. “I-I’m going to-” is all I get out before I come the hardest I ever have, and he’s still fucking me as hard as ever.

Draco pulls me up so my back is against his chest and he takes my now soft cock in hand, moving his hand in time with his thrusts until I’m amazingly hard again, and he himself is grunting. But his orgasm comes with dirty talk.

“I’m so glad I got to fuck you open. I want to split you down the middle with my cock, and never stop fucking you. I got you hard again so I could suck you, feel all 7 inches of you, Harry. Fuck… Fuck!” He screams, riding out his orgasm inside me. The second he stops coming, he pulls out, moves down and gives me the most aggressive blowjob ever, which ends with my come all over his face.

“Scared, Potter?” He asks me, panting.

I give him a wry grin.

“You wish.”

-

“And so, in response to this new aggression, we are launching a new effort…”

[screamingatthevoid]

Silence

Since a couple of things featured in this fic (brothers of silence and Jenetia Krole’s casual wear) came up on @askjenetiakrole, I re-edited it to fit (well, more or less) with new canon from Inferno.

When rare, perhaps unique, pariah twins brought into the Silent Sisterhood create unexpected complications, Knight-Commander Jenetia Krole asks Malcador the Sigillite for help.

[Silence on AO3] [My works on AO3]

SIX EN-DOGS RACED down the street towards the girl, viscous chem-stimms sloshing within vials bonded to their spines that clattered with the roll of their shoulders. Green eyes glowed faintly above mouths filled with rows of razor-sharp ferrosseous teeth, ropes of saliva trailing as they bayed for blood. Behind them came the witch hunter, furred cloak whipping behind her, red leather boots pounding against the rockcrete paving.   She skidded to a halt, bringing a bolt pistol held in a studded leather grip to bear. Her quarry had reached a dead-end.   The en-dogs had closed within five metres of the girl when they, too, suddenly stopped. Their barks faded into whimpering growls as they lay down. The witch hunter frowned, the lower half of the expression lost behind the barred half-helm of bronze. She moved her free hand to the wire bound hilt of the sword at her waist, slowly drawing it as she stepped cautiously forward.   “Please,” pleaded the girl, her back against the wall, palm held out as if it could ward off an attack from the witch hunter.

  The witch hunter drew level with the en-dogs, eyes widening as she caught sight of the obsidian pendant hanging from the girl’s neck. The sword snapped into a guard position, the hunter now scanning the buildings on either side.   It was too late.   The boy dropped from a first floor window, rock in his hand smashing against the red eagle tattoo on the witch hunter’s forehead. The witch hunter collapsed, blood streaming from her forehead as if the ink of the tattoo were running. It trickled over her shaved scalp, staining her hair a dirty pink where it was drawn up into her topknot.   “Vahn, don’t,” said the girl as the boy picked up the fallen sword. He wore an identical pendant, the black stone carven with the ancient mark of the twins. He looked around him, snorting in amusement as the en-dogs crawled backwards, bellies to the ground, to maintain the same five metre distance from him as from his sister. His lip curled into a sneer as he turned back to the fallen witch hunter.   “She has to die, Pierin,” he insisted, raising the sword with tip pointed down above her heart. “Or we have to – and I won’t let anything happen to you.”   The bronze plate resisted three times before at last the blade plunged through the witch hunter’s battle-bodice and into her heart. Emerald eyes clouded without life to sustain them, and a palpable sense of relief washed over the twins. The en-dogs howled, jumping to their feet and running back whence they came.   “Damnit,” cursed Vahn. “They’ll bring the others. We need to go, now.”   “I’m going to find them,” Pierin stated matter-of-factly, as if it were somehow the logical course of action.   “Are you mad? They’ll kill y- Hey!” shouted Vahn, hurriedly picking up the fallen witch hunter’s blade to chase his sister as she set off after the en-dogs.

The en-dogs stalked about the witch hunters’ heels, now leashed by two witch hunters holding lengths of thick chain attached to their spiked collars. Another three levelled flamers at the twins, barrels bathed in the blue glow of their pilot lights. They wore plate armour from waist to eye, each with a topknot gathered in a ring of bronze in the centre of a shaven crown revealed by their half-helms. Between white loincloths hanging from their waists and the fur cloaks at their backs, iron scale-mail could be glimpsed disappearing beneath thigh-high boots.   The last was similarly attired, but for the fact that her plate armour continued down to brazen boots, marked out as their leader by pteruges descending from ornate eagle pauldrons, and as the eldest by the length of the ebon topknot which fell to her armoured elbows. She alone had a giant power sword drawn, active and raised en garde.   Pierin walked directly towards the witch hunters, daring them to shoot. As she approached, she felt icy dread grip her heart, congealing with every step closer.   “We’re not witches,” she told them. “Why are you hunting us?”   The leader stepped forward, lowering her weapon and gesturing to the others to do the same. For all the barrels were pointed to the ground, the witch hunters remained alert, fingers on triggers ready to aim and fire at a moment’s notice. The leader pointed to that held by Vahn with a raised eyebrow.   “Oh yeah, she’s dead,” he boasted, wildly brandishing the stolen blade. “You’ll be next if you don’t give us some answers. Bet you think you’re invincible in your fancy armour – well, she probably did too. Now she’s just-”   He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of his sister’s exasperated stare. Shut up, idiot, she mouthed silently at him. The leader of the witch hunters continued to stare at him with her icy gaze, unfazed by his empty bravado. She made a series of quick hand movements and a young girl stepped forward from behind the witch hunters.   She wore a simple white robe, bordered in red and held at her throat with a bronze clasp depicting an owl in flight. She was markedly younger than the witch hunters and, her face not obscured by a half-helm, had an altogether more human aspect. Vahn presumed she must still be in training, her shaven head a blank canvas where the topknot and eagle tattoo would one day follow. In the company of the witch hunters, it was little wonder her unassuming presence had passed him by.   The leader continued to make hand gestures as the girl began to speak, and it finally dawned on Vahn that the witch hunter must be mute.   “I am Ihlia Ahava, proloquor to the Oblivion Knight-Centura Teresa Lexovien,” the girl pointed to herself, then to the leader of the witch hunters in turn. “On behalf of whom I give voice. You are not witches, you are something far more pure and rare. You are pariahs, anathema to the witch. This comes at a cost, as you have no doubt discovered.”   Pierin’s brow was furrowed, mouth slightly agape as she wondered if, for the first time, someone apart from her family really did understand her. Vahn was incensed, taking a step forward with stolen sword raised. The blade was heavy, shaking in his outstretched hand as he fought against gravity.   “You don’t know anything about us!” he shouted. “Now go, hunt your witches or pariahs or whatever. I don’t really care. Just leave me and my sister alone.”   “You do not have to be alone any longer,” Ahava continued, translating Lexovien’s signage. “The Silent Sisterhood is a refuge for our kind, the like of which you will not find elsewhere in all the galaxy. We offer you a chance to live a life unfettered by the contempt our gift draws out in others, in service to the Emperor of Mankind.”   Vahn was about to launch into another tirade, but his sister stepped towards him, placing one hand over his mouth while the other lowered his sword arm.   “I’ll go with you,” said Pierin, receiving a look of wide-eyed disbelief from her brother. “But not without him.”   Ahava looked uncertainly at her mistress, awaiting a verdict. After a considered pause, Lexovien signed her decision. Whatever she had said, it caused Ahava to blink in shock, eyebrows threatening to disappear into her hairline.   “Your terms are accepted,” she said, adding directly to Vahn “You will pay the debt of Sister Valdis’ life in service to the Silent Sisterhood.”

The chamber perched at the very tip of the brass spire of the Somnus Citadel. The walls rose straight up for ten feet to accommodate the statued alcoves and colourised crystal windows depicting scenes of bronze-armoured huntresses that alternated around the circumference.   It was an aphonorium, constructed from sound-deadening materiel to produce a space of the most absolute silence. The Vow of Tranquillity, inscribed in truesilver filigree in a spiral curving up the domed ceiling, was the only words ever to have been spoken within. The chrome orb of Terra glittered through the obsidian-crystal portal at the apex, eternally held in the gaze of the citadel’s eye by Luna’s tidal lock.   A ring of floor at the chamber’s edge fell away into a circular stair, forming a moat that separated the stone simulacra of the Silent Sisterhood’s founders from the central stone mosaic depicting the totems of the cadres flying or running through the heart of a blizzard, each according to their nature. The few that were not animalian were carried by the same brazen huntresses that stalked the windows, anonymous in full helms as they joined the wild hunt.   In the very centre, astride the soaring majesty of a great, gold eagle clutching lightning bolts in its talons, stood Teresa Lexovien. Her topknot merged into her voidsheen cloak, hanging just above the eagle’s pinions in perfect stillness, the distinction between hair and fur blurred by streaks of steel-grey. She was armoured, but unlike the sisters on the hunt eschewed the full helm in favour of the more common half, that she might witness the vows to be made with her own eyes.   Up the stairs came two sisters-in-waiting, robed in white with freshly cut eagle tattoos livid upon their brows, scalps newly shorn for the last time. They stood at the head of the stair facing Lexovien, making the sign of the aquila as they prepared to swear their sacred vows beneath the stone gaze of legendary Witchseekers Pursuivant, and before the piercing blue eyes of the Oblivion Knight-Centura.   Ihlia Ahava and Shana Taika, marked Lexovien. You have served with honour as sisters novitiate. It is my judgement, with the assent of Sister-Senior Mundt, that you have earned the honour of becoming Witchseekers of the Silent Sisterhood, forsaking the medium of speech.   If there is any fact that prevents your true and faithful service to the Emperor, beloved by all, speak now, or forever hold your peace, accepting that the judgement for betraying the Vow of Tranquillity can only be death.   Silence, both of sound and of motion, greeted the ultimatum.   I, Teresa Lexovien, Oblivion Knight-Centura, will receive your oaths. Let these words be the last to pass your lips.   Lexovien drew her execution blade, resting its tip on the heart of the golden eagle. One hand rested on the pommel, the other free to continue marking.   Novice-Sister Ahava, she marked, waiting as Ihlia Ahava stepped forward to kneel before her, and before the gold eagle of the Emperor, upon the black raptor of the Knight-Commander’s guard.   “We are mute, but not without power. We are silent, but not without resolve. We are untouchable, but not without courage. We are sisters, and have but one father. We are seekers, and we shall find our prey. We are warriors, and woe to those we oppose. The Emperor’s mark is on our brow, all who deal with the Warp must beware. His judgement and vengeance are ours to deliver,” she recited the oath, long memorised, without hesitation or pause.   She leaned forward, touching her lips to the eagle that formed the quillons of Lexovien’s sword, then rose making the sign of the aquila.   In your silence, you are a Daughter of the Emperor, Sister Ahava, Lexovien marked.   Ahava took her place behind Lexovien’s shoulder as the other sister novitiate was summoned forward.   Novice-Sister Taika.   Shana Taika took a knee in the same manner, repeating the process as she swore he own, identical, oath.   In your silence, you are a Daughter of the Emperor, Sister Taika.   Lexovien pivoted to face the two null maidens, bringing her sword up to a salute. She too kissed the eagle quillons, accepting their oaths to the Silent Sisterhood, before returning it to its scabbard.   Go forth now as Daughters of the Emperor, she marked.   By His will alone, all three marked as one, making the sign of the aquila. Ahava and Taika bowed as they exited the aphonorium.

Below the aphonorium lay the highest of the citadel’s reservoirs. Water ran from it through a network of pipes, the tear ducts of the citadel’s eye, passing through smaller reservoirs that serviced the numerous docking bays, to the very foot of the brass tower on the bleached plains of the Palus Somni. Here, a little of the precious liquid was allowed to escape, feeding into a glittering biodome that hung like a single tear threatening to fall from the Somnus Citadel into the Sinus Concordiae.   Within, the water ran freely in unordered streams through a garden filled with a cornucopia of vibrant plant life. An old man picked his way along a path of packed earth that followed one of these, winding between blooming flowers and willows leaning protectively over the flow burbling over its rocky bed. The path, like the rest of the garden, was a work of loosely controlled chaos, created by the feet that had walked it over the years rather than for them, causing the old man to lean heavily on his staff as he traversed the uneven ground.   An eagle wrought of gold perched at the top of his staff, glowing in a haze of perpetual flame. The chirping emitted by unseen vox-grilles conjured the amusing illusion that the burning raptor was singing.   Above him, false sunlight shone out of an entoptic blue sky, rendered in imitation of the sky above Terra in millennia past, before the oceans were boiled from the cradle of humanity. The perfectly hemispheric limits of the biodome were the only geometric regularity to be found in the garden.   He stopped where the packed earth gave way to grass.   In the middle of the biodome, or near enough without a hand to guide, the water pooled into a miniature lake, koi glittering golden beneath the prismatic shimmer of the surface. A woman sat on the shore, barely visible behind a torrent of fiery hair so long that it pooled in the grass around her. When she rose, it fell past her waist despite the height of the topknot in which it was gathered. She smiled, the lower half of her face almost the same snow white of her dress where it was normally hidden behind an aquiline half-helm.   She stooped to pluck a rose of blood red from a multi-hued cluster of flowers, then approached the old man leaning on his staff. Barefoot beneath the floor-length gown marked only by the black totem of the Raptor Guard, she seemed to glide rather than walk.   Her proximity caused the fiery halo of the eagle to die down to a weak, flickering glow. She leaned into his voluminous hood, lips brushing his cheek like the touch of frost on a seemingly warm day. He fought to suppress a shudder, and met with only partial success.   It’s good to see you, Mal, she marked.   “Always a pleasure, Jen,” replied Malcador, forcing a smile against his every instinct.   Liar, Jenetia Krole smirked.   “Well, maybe pleasure isn’t quite the right word after all,” conceded Malcador.   She passed him the rose, her fingers as cold and pale as her lips. Malcador inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of a relic of ancient Terra. He thought it likely the phenomenon existed only in his mind, but the artificial blooms one found elsewhere in the Imperium never smelled as sweet. A smile, genuine this time, creased his wrinkled features.   “Elliana is doing a wonderful job,” he commented, gesturing expansively at the riotous life of the garden.   I’m sure she will be pleased to hear it. It seems an age since I have been able to leave the palace to enjoy it. The Emperor’s gardens always seemed too artificed - too controlled, a dark look descended on her as she paused. I expect Elliana will be sorry to leave it behind when she makes for Prospero.   “Ah, I did think it unlikely the Knight-Commander would bring an old man all the way to Luna to discuss botany.”   It’s not about Prospero.   “Then the matter beneath the-,” his question trailed off as Krole continued to mark.   Not directly, anyway. There is an issue in the ranks, and a dismissal would be…, her hands were briefly still as she sought the right word, settling on mouthing indelicate before continuing. I thought you might have use of a pariah.   “I’ve never known you to have a problem with a Sister that you weren’t quite capable of dealing with yourself.”   Not a Sister, a brother, replied Krole.   Malcador’s eyebrow arched, his head turning slightly in feigned surprise.   Krole rolled her eyes at him. One of my Knights-Centura brought him in. It would not have been my call.

He circled the edge of the ring, eying his opponent. Instinctively, one hand reached for his hotshot laspistol, forgetting the holster was empty. His sword was sheathed at his other hip, but he made no move for it.   When his opponent charged, he sidestepped easily, turning the motion into a pirouette that ended with his shock maul connecting without its customary crackle of actinic discharge. It was only a combat servitor.   He ran to meet it as it turned, knocking its outstretched combat blade to the side. It actually seemed to be getting more stupid, somehow. He leapt, free hand planted on its brainwashed skull as he performed a one-handed handspring over it. Its momentum carried it headlong into the wall. Behind it, he turned on his heel, tails of his mesh cloak flaring as he mimed drawing and firing his absent pistol.   The servitor was used to dealing with opponents that stood their ground and fought it head-on. It was ill-equipped to deal with his staunch refusal to stand still.   A grimace crossed his face as he spotted the glint of silver and obsidian on the floor. Running forwards, he slid between the servitor’s legs. The maul whipped out, knocking the legs from under his opponent to topple it. Skidding to a halt, he slipped the pendant he had retrieved from the ground back over his head – this time making sure to secure it under his tunic.   Letting the servitor regain its feet unmolested, he resolved to meet it on its own terms. Maul and combat blade clashed time and time again, but he quickly found himself on the back foot. Hard pressed to fend off its relentless flurry of blows now that it was in its element, he found himself forced gradually backwards across the ring.   He spun away to disengage, catching sight of a sister watching him from the observation platform above the training ring. Now that she wore the regalia of a fully-fledged null maiden, he almost didn’t recognise Taika with her face obscured behind a half-helm.   He smiled at her, almost sustaining a serious injury as the combat-servitor’s blade swung at his exposed back. The alarmed look in Taika’s eyes alerted him in time to duck, the servitor scoring only a glancing blow across his cloak.   “That was deliberate!” he shouted with a wink.   You’re supposed to use your sword, Vahn, she marked, the ThoughtMark gestures inflected with a scolding tone.   “Your wish is my command, my lady,” he bowed mockingly, this time receiving a blow to his bent back for his showmanship.   The mesh prevented the blow from cutting, but it was hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground. He rolled, throwing his maul into the servitor’s face as it raised the combat blade for another strike. It staggered backwards, blood trickling from its nose down a vacant face.   Rising, Vahn drew his sword. With a flick of the wrist, he disarmed the combat servitor to trigger its automated shutdown.   “It’s way too easy, you see,” he explained as he reclaimed the fallen maul. After placing his weapons on an arming rack, he exited the training ring and raced up the steps to the platform, grin stretching from ear to ear as he pulled Taika into a hug.   “Congratulations, Pierin! A null maiden at last.”   Taika gave him a look of mock-disapproval as they separated.   “I know, I know, it’s Shana,” Vahn shrugged. “I’ll never get used to it.”

Malcador listened closely as Krole explained how Vahn had come to join, informally, the Silent Sisterhood.   “You accepted Teresa’s decision because to do otherwise would have lost Shana,” he summarised.   Krole nodded. By the time the black ship returned to Luna, both she and he had proven themselves potentially useful. I admit the fact that they were twins played its part.   “A curious thing indeed,” Malcador agreed. “Has such a thing ever been documented?”   Not to my knowledge.   Krole had at her fingertips hundreds of years’ worth of data on psykers and pariahs, possession of which would earn anyone outside the Sisterhood a swift execution. If she knew not of any such occurrence, it was not unlikely that the twins were the first example of co-gestated pariahs since the Age of Strife.   “I understand why you did not dismiss him outright, but why keep him in the Sisterhood?”   You’re playing the devil’s advocate.   “Humour me.”   There are few places a pariah can truly belong, and I was – I am – unwilling to give him to Culexus, the gesture to form the name of the assassin clade conveyed her contempt, a product of the bad blood between them. Promise me you won’t give him to them.   Her eyes bored into his, seeming to penetrate into his mind. He reflected on the irony that under normal circumstances he was the mind-reader. There was an intensity behind those blue-grey discs that assured him the common belief that a pariah had no soul was quite untrue.   “You have my word, Jen,” promised Malcador, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.   He quickly withdrew it, physical contact with the Knight-Commander making him uncomfortable in his soul. It was a feeling difficult enough for a normal human to fight, much less a psyker.   “To dismiss him would leave him without purpose, and any pariah knows how that feels – where that leads. I expect it would also alienate Shana, and so soon after swearing her oath.”   The thought had crossed my mind.   “Why the need to remove him from the Sisterhood at all, then? After all this time it seems he is a reasonable fit.”   There are concerns he has grown too close to one of his sisters.   “Ah, there’s the rub,” Malcador mused idly, twirling the rose in his hands. “‘The course of true love ne’er did run smooth’.”   Krole fixed him with a withering glare, recognising the melodramatic tone that entered the Sigillite’s voice when quoting obscure writings of Ancient Terra.   The Emperor’s great work teeters on the brink of ruin and we go to censure a Legion for the first time since- she caught herself before she could give the forbidden thought form. The Sisterhood is stretched thinner than we have been for a long time. 'True love' is a distraction I can ill afford.

Taika was waiting for him in the arming chamber when he emerged from the shower, fresh tunic thrown carelessly over his still-damp body. She leaned on an empty arming rack, which had until recently held the polished plate she now wore. An identical suit waited on the adjacent rack, glinting in the light of the lumen strips as if to entice its owner. Evidently Ahava had not yet come to claim it.   Vahn smiled, brushing a dripping strand of hair from his face. He walked past his sister to his own arming rack, comparatively sparse with only the mesh cloak. He lifted it from the rack, always surprised at how heavy the armoured weave hidden under the leather made it, no matter how many times he had hefted it before, or how recently.   Things will be different now, you know, marked Taika.   “Sure, sure,” Vahn waved his hand dismissively. “I never really listened to you anyway.”   That earned him a jab to the arm, putting an indignant expression on his face. I didn’t mean me, you idiot.   “Ow. That was uncalled for,” he complained. “I’m sure I’ll get by. Ihlia says I talk enough for the two of us anyway.”   That’s true enough.   The two of them turned at the sound of footsteps echoed beyond the door. Ahava walked in, smile seeming to light up the room – though perhaps it was simply the glittering shine of her selenite mail bodysuit. Worn under a suit of the Silent Sisterhood’s vratine armour, it would fill gaps in the protection offered by the reinforced pates without compromising flexibility.   Somebody called, marked Ahava, winking as she added And I’m guessing it wasn’t you, Shana.   “Did you hear something? I didn’t hear anything,” replied Vahn, making a show to look around him for the source of some sound.   Only this annoying mumbling sound, but I’ve had that pretty much all my life, marked Taika, gestures describing the problem as serious and chronic.   “So the sense of humour does survive the vow!” laughed Vahn. “Good to know. Seriously though, Ihlia. Congratulations – Sister.”   The emphasis is creepy, marked Ahava.   “Isn’t it just,” Vahn agreed, stepping in close to lock his lips with hers. Ahava’s arms wrapped around behind the high collar of his cloak, fingers running through the wet curls of his hair as she held him in the kiss. When they pulled apart, Taika was nowhere to be seen.   That’s awkward, marked Ahava.   “Bye Shana!” shouted Vahn, stressing his sister’s new name to the point of absurdity.   Ahava glared at him pointedly.   “What? Some of us can still communicate without line of sight.”   You’re an idiot, Vahn.   “People keep saying that,” he muttered. “Or thinking that? Marking that?”   Ahava shook her head with a smile. Any further mutterings were silenced by her lips pressing back up against his.

“As I recall,” said Malcador, in a tone that suggested he was absolutely certain his recollection was correct. “The Vow of Tranquillity evokes no measure of celibacy.”   An oversight, marked Krole, dismissively. I don’t think anyone seriously considered the notion of two pariahs suppressing their instinctive mutual revulsion for an extended period, let alone in a combative order dealing with the horrors of the warp on a daily basis.   “He shared a womb with another pariah, grew up with her,” Malcador considered. “You think this has inured him to the pariah effect?”   I think he feels more comfortable with the pariah effect than without.   “Why are you so sure this is a problem?”   If it were a passing thing I would be inclined to agree with you and ignore it. It is more than that, though. I’ve been there, and it compromises operational efficiency. Every time.   The false sunlight illuminating the biodome was beginning to fade, imitating the slide into twilight as the light of Sol was obscured from Luna by the intervening orb of Terra in the true sky beyond the dome. The debate could yet go on for hours, but Malcador had come to accept the futility of it. Other, more pressing duties beckoned, and could not be long ignored.   Malcador sighed. “I suppose you may be right. In any case, you have listened to my counsel and, since you maintain your original stance, I will deal with the situation. Let it never be said I would not help a friend in need.”   Thank you, Mal.

Ahava walked over to the arming rack on which her newly forged suit hung. Her fingers traced the contours of the interlocking plates, finding the seam between the halves of the cuirass. Lifting it reverently, she slipped it over her torso.   Give me a hand, marked Ahava, struggling with the buckles that fastened the two halves.   She had often aided Sisters in arming during her time as a sister-in-waiting, but only now did she understand how much harder it was to don one’s own armour unaided than it looked. Vahn stepped up behind her, taking the buckles out of her hands and securing them. He turned to the arming rack, retrieving the rerebraces for her upper arms.    “You should at least be able to do it yourself, don’t you think?” he remarked as he fixed the armour in place.   Why bother when I have my own squire, she shot back.   Her arm movements caused him to drop the piece of armour he held to the floor. It resounded deafeningly as it bounced from the basalt flagstones, rolling across the chamber floor.   “You’re going to need to not speak until I’m done,” scolded Vahn.   She pursed her lips, narrowed eyes staring resolutely at the wall ahead as she allowed him to finish arming her without moving an inch. After her vambraces, he affixed her voidsheen cloak to her shoulders before concealing its mountings under curved pauldrons. Finally he fastened her sword belt around her waist, handing her studded gloves of the same red leather to complete her apparel.   The helm?   “It’d be a shame to hide such a pretty face.”   She smiled, taking him by the hand. I love you, she mouthed, planting a kiss on his cheek. Her eyes flicked to the right, indicating the helm still sitting on the rack.   “Fine,” answered Vahn, backing towards the rack. I love you too he mouthed.   Hey, just because I can’t say it any more doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear you say it.   “I love you,” said Vahn, slipping the half-helm over her head and kissing the barred mask that now concealed the lower half of her face.   She was about to mark something when he tilted his head to the side, pointing to his ear to indicate he was receiving a vox transmission.   He raised his arm to speak into the mouthpiece mounted on his wrist. “Vahn, receiving.”   As he listened to the clicks of Orsköde in his ear, his face took on a look of confusion, giving way to surprise.   What is it?   “It appears I have become something of a celebrity,” replied Vahn, puffing out his chest. “I am summoned, by the Knight-Commander no less, to an audience with Lord Malcador the Sigillite. Don’t worry, I won’t forget you little people when I’m created High Lord of the Senatorum Imperialis.”   What have you done this time? marked Ahava, her exasperation conveyed through the inflection of ThoughtMark.   “Yeah, I guess it is more likely I’ve done something highly illegal,” Vahn conceded with a wry grin.

Vahn found the Sigillite sitting on the bough of a willow tree in the garden. His staff was planted in the ground in front of him, blazing like a beacon to signal his position in the fading light. It seemed to Vahn that the fire crackling around the eagle was in constant danger of setting the whole biodome ablaze. The Sigillite held out a hand as he approached, bidding him to stop a few paces away.   “My lord,” Vahn intoned as he bowed to the First Lord of Terra, the most powerful man in the Imperium after the Emperor and the Warmaster Horus Lupercal.   “Vahn,” Malcador stretched the word out, rolling it in his mouth as if tasting its quality. “The Brother of Silence.”   Vahn nodded, waiting silently. Malcador toyed with a rose for a moment before looking up to meet his gaze.   “How does that work, exactly? A brother of the Silent Sisterhood?”   “The bond between sisters is not diminished by their having a brother,” answered Vahn, the response long practiced in explaining the matter to sisters-in-waiting who had not yet learned to reign in their curiosity. “Neither in a biological family, nor in the Silent Sisterhood. I am a brother to the sisters, without being of the Sisterhood.”   Malcador chuckled. “You speak a great deal, for a Brother of Silence.”   “The irony has been pointed out to me. I will never be allowed to take the Vow of Tranquillity, the sisters only call me ‘Brother of Silence’ because, well, they don’t know what else to call me,” Vahn shrugged. “As you say, I am something of a novelty.”   “What, then, is your role in the Sisterhood?”   “I have always been treated broadly the same as my sister, though I expect that’s going to change now that she has sworn the oath. It seems likely I shall forever hold a position not unlike a sister-in-waiting.”   “Would you like to pursue a career where you are not limited in that way?”   “Are you offering me a job, my lord?”   “A single task, for the time being,” explained Malcador. “I have need of someone with your talents. After that – who knows? I’m sure it will not be the last time I have such a need.”   The Sigillite held out the rose to Vahn, proffering it as a physical representation of his offer. It occurred to Vahn that the beautiful bloom atop a cruelly spiked stem was an apt metaphor for Malcador’s reputation.   “May I ask a question, my lord?” asked Vahn.   “Certainly,” Malcador smiled at him indulgently.   “Why me? There are others more powerful and more skilled than I.”   “Indeed there are,” agreed Malcador. “The Sisterhood is, however, required elsewhere.”   “The entire Sisterhood?”   “Some will remain on Terra,” Malcador affected a stern look. “Some must always remain on Terra. Many more, as you can imagine, sail the stars the length and breadth of the Imperium as we speak. As many as can be spared, though, will soon be departing. That leaves you, unless I wish to draw the ire of Commander Krole,” he leaned in close to Vahn. “Even for the First Lord of Terra, that would not be wise.”   “It sounds like I don’t really have a choice,” Vahn’s voice took on a confrontational tone.   The corner of Malcador’s mouth turned up in a half-smile, amused by the boy’s boldness. “No.”   Vahn stepped forward, reaching out for the rose. He hesitated, withdrawing his hand, then snatched the flower with a sigh. The Sigillite seemed unfazed at his proximity, making him wonder just how powerful a psyker he must be. He ran a finger through the petals, narrowed eyes staring into the shadow Malcador’s hood cast over his features.   “My sister?”   “I will make sure you have the opportunity to see her whenever possible. For now, you should say goodbye.”   Neither of them mentioned Ahava, and each was glad of the other’s silence.

Beyond the blue tint of the docking bay’s integrity field, an Aquila Lander hove into view. It passed through with a ripple into the vaulted space, the craft comically small in the vastness designed to accommodate on of the infamous black ships. It flew towards a smaller sub-hanger sunk into the wall, wings folding as it landed with a metallic clang on magnetising struts. Taika watched the disembarkation ramp, fists balled into fists as she fought back tears. Her brother Vahn stepped out, a rose wrapped with a silver chain in one hand. Her sadness was reflected in his own face. She had left her half-helm in her chambers, leaving her face exposed as she smiled weakly at the sight of him, for what would be the last time for an unknowable period.   They told me you’re leaving.   “Yes,” he replied after a long pause, for once seemingly lost for words.   Why?   “What choice do I have?” he smiled sadly, placing his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you.”   Taika nodded, tears welling in her eyes.   “I’m coming back,” he promised.   He held out the rose, the obsidian disc of his pendant nestled in the crimson petals, trailing silver chain wrapped around the spiked stem. His sister took it without a word. They embraced, holding each other tight - as if for the last time.   Tears trickled down Vahn’s cheeks as, almost choking on the words, he whispered in her ear. “Tell Ihlia I love her.”

[AN: Ihlia & Teresa go to Prospero in Saga of the Traitor]

[misc-oneshots]

Present

Request: DC imagine where the reader is Lady Joker. Joker can't stand it when the reader "steals the show" but can't help being captivated by the reader.

For: @theshe-wolfwaits Words: 1,840

Leto!Joker x Reader – Didn’t really know where to go with one to be honest.

“Don’t you like my desk?” You asked innocently. You leaned back into your luxury leather spinning chair and rested your feet on the large oak desk in front of you. It had taken five of your men to bring it into your office. The thin, unassuming man on the other side of the desk rubbed his hand together anxiously. “It’s nice.” He squeaked. “Thank you!” You gave him a beaming grin which didn’t relax him. He was your informant, one of The Joker’s men. The Joker. You’d met just a few times but you loved to piss him off whenever you had the chance – call it flirting.

“So, when is Jokey taking the bank?” you asked him threading your fingers together and acting almost like a professional. The informant looked nervous, “You’ll make sure that Mr J can’t get to me, that’s what you said, right?” You jumped up from your chair so fast that it was still spinning as you walked around the side of the desk and perched against it in front of him. You placed your hand on his cheek and spoke softly like a mother calming her child after a nightmare, “I promise that mean old clown won’t hurt you.” “Tomorrow morning.” He told you and pulled a file out from his the inside of his jacket. He handed it to you and you quickly read over it. It had all the details of The Joker’s bank heist.

Great, now you knew where to find him. It was a lot of trouble to go through just to see your crush but you weren’t a quitter. “This is just what I needed.” You thanked the informant and placed the folder down on the desk, picked up your gun from beside it, turned and shot him between the eyes. His body flew back from the close range and crumpled into a bloody pile in the middle of your floor.

Behind your desk Veck, your right hand man, tutted in disappointment, “Do you know how much it costs to get a carpet cleaner who can get blood out and keep their mouth shut?” You pouted at his berating, “I know that you’ll handle it Vecky. I kept my promise, The Joker never touched him. Besides, I hate rats.”

----

“Mr J, there’s a problem.”

The Joker sneered at his henchmen and shoved him aside. He stalked into the bank, flanked by his men. The bank was trashed and empty of people save for you. You were stood in the middle of the empty bank with a shot gun leant on one shoulder and a large satchel bag on your other shoulder.

“What took you so long?” You asked and tapped your bare wrist with your finger as though you were tapping a watch. He scowled and looked around the empty bank. “Oh, I put everyone in the vault.” You said flippantly.   He said nothing but his eyes took you in.

You pouted, “I went to all the trouble of putting this together and you won’t even talk to me?” “What do you want?” The Joker asked, his raspy voice making you grin. “See that’s better!” You beamed, “Maybe I just wanted your attention. See, I even got you a present.” You threw the satchel bag over to him. It landed at his feet and he regarded it curiously as one of his men held it open to show him the bundles of cash inside, no doubt stolen out of the vault.

He sucks in a breath and inclined his head while he considered accepting the bag, “What have I done to deserve a present?” “I’m just a big fan.” You grinned.

You stepped forwards to leave, making sure to walk past him on the way. He turned sideways as you passed him, your eyes locked with his and your chests brushed as you slowly moved past him. He let you go and watched the doorway where you’d left before turning back to the emptied bank. There was no destruction to cause, nothing left to rob, no show at all! He stalked over to a nearby desk, took a hold of it and flipped it over.

Where was his fun now?!

Snarling, he glanced back to where his men waited with the bag full of money that you’d given him. His snarl turned to a smirk. Maybe there was still fun to be had.

---

The Joker sat back on his plush sofa, arms lay across the top of cushions. “So boys, what have we got this time?” He asked two of his men who had set up a projector in front of their boss. It was littered with photos and maps of all of your recent illegal activities. Every escapade that he’d planned, you got too first. He’d been upstaged at every turn and it had made him obsessive. You’d certainly caught his interest and his eye.

They loaded up security footage from a night club that The Joker often did business at. He watched as you turned to the security camera, gave a dramatic wink and then blew a kiss at the camera. He grinned to himself a mirror imagine of the mad grin inked into the back of his hand. “This is the most recent thing , Sir.” One of his men told him as he pressed play and your manic grin filed The Jokers projected screen again. He watched as you walked with Veck, The Joker had done his research into your associates, into a meeting only for the man that you meeting to pull out a gun and open fire.

It was a clear view of Veck tackling you to the ground, your shoulder instantly spewing blood before Veck practically carried you out of the fray while your men opened fire on your attacker. The Joker sucked in a harsh breath, his head tilted as he pointed at your assailant now paused on the screen, “Bring him to me, we have business to talk about.”

----

“Stop pouting.” Veck told you but you crossed your arms, flinching as your shoulder throbbed again, and pouted more. “My shoulder hurts and The Joker is ignoring my flirting, I think I deserve a good pout.” You answered. Veck rolled his eyes at you and you did a little mocking dance over to where you had a man bound to a chair with thick duct tape. You pushed his forehead with two fingers until he tipped all the way over and crashed back onto the floor. He tried to scream but it didn’t make it past the duct tape across his mouth that you’d painted with a mad grin. Sitting on his chest you traced the smile with your finger, “Shh. I found out that a lil Bat has been look all over town for you, apparently you want to rat on Mr J. I don’t like rats so I’m going to make you an example and you’re my last shot of getting Mr J’s attention. If he still hasn’t warmed up to me after I give him you then maybe it wasn’t to be.”

You rested your elbows on your knees and your chin in your hands and pouted, you didn’t want to think about giving up on The Joker but he just didn’t seem interested. “Y/N, you wanna see this.” Veck’s voice caught your attention and you sighed pushing yourself up from the man’s chest, he grunted as you moved. Joining Veck by the window you peeked out of the window through the blinds to see a purple Lamborghini parked outside. The car door opened and The Joker’s green hair was the first thing that you saw until he looked up and made eye contact with you. He gave you a smirk before stepping into the building with his men in tow. You let out a squeal of excitement, jumped away from the window and started to fix your hair. Sitting yourself down on oil drum behind the man who was still taped to the tipped over chair, you waited for him to come in. Veck stepped behind you and gently moved some of your hair into place and you thanked him just before the door swung open.

The Joker stepped through the threshold, his eyes on you instantly, he moved towards you, his expression intent. He stopped only when he reached the man on the floor, noticing the rat duck taped for his convenience for the first time. “For me?” He rasped. You nodded, “I thought you’d like it.”

He stepped around the man towards you and stopped so that he leant over you sat on the drum. Veck tensed and you raised a hand to stop him interfering. The Joker leaned down so that his face hovered over yours, “Its perfect.” You resisted the giggle that tried to bubble up inside you and instead offered him a grin. His face was close to yours still when he added, “I actually brought you something.” You felt heat rise in your cheeks, “You did?”

“Well, you got me a present so this was only fair.” The Joker told you as he turned to gesture for his men to bring something in. your face was split in a grin again when the man who had shot you’re a few days earlier was dragged into the room by his foot. He was unconscious and his face was covered in blood and snot.  The Joker noticed you looking at his injuries, “I hope you don’t mind, I saw what happened.” His fingers came up to gently brush your injured shoulder and your stomach flipped at the contact. You brought your hands up to either side of his jacket and pulled him down to you so that you could kiss him. He responded with earnest, his hands finding your hair and pulled you towards him with it in harsh, rapid motions. You pulled apart from him and smiled, “It’s a wonderful present.” He leaned back into you and bit your bottom lip lightly before answering, “That’s not even the best part.”

He stepped away from you to take his a bundle of black material from one of his men, he took it over to an aged table and rolled it out so show all of the weapons hidden inside. Hatchets, cleavers, screwdrivers, some so pristine that they made your eyes water while some where rusted, dull and painted with dried blood. You clapped your hands together excitedly and jumped off of your drum to stand beside The Joker in front of the table, “What a beautiful date idea!” His arm wrapped around your waist pulling you in front of him so that he could kiss your neck and hiss in your ear, “The first of many.”

[a-scribbling-intruder]

Fanfic Recs pt.1

Soo this was long overdue. I don’t really read fanfic that often, and when I do it is mostly things other people have reccomended to me. So i’ve always wanted to create my own rec list to return the favour, but somehow never got around to it. So yay years later, here’s at least a start. Will probably sort it better if i update it. Anyways if fanfic and any of these fandoms are your cup of tea, enjoy. Mostly gen and either humour or horror, it think. Fandoms included: Harry Potter, Death Note, MCU, LOTR, Sherlock Holmes, Original Fiction and weirdly, Samurai Champloo

Harry Potter (and Crossovers with Harry Potter)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/9238861/1/Applied-Cultural-Anthropology-or Applied Cultural Anthropology (Or how I learned to stop worrying and love the Cruciatus)  (Hermione/Tom Riddle) Really well done, pairing is not the main focus (they’re not even together yet), instead hermione being her usual brilliant self but being sorted into slytherin. She isn’t just suddenly evil, she’s still righteous and wants to better the world. But exactly this (with a little help of a unassuming black diary) leads her down a slippery slope. (Ongoing.)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11160991/1/0800-Rent-A-Hero 0800-Rent-A-Hero. Harry has finally gotten rid of snake-face and settled down with Teddy and Andromeda. Cue inter-dimensional space vortex opening in his living room. Summoned from his finally peaceful life by Dumbledore and the Order to solve their voldemort problem, Harry is less than pleased. But can he truly just ignore them? Grudgingly „Harry White“  accepts the free post as divination teacher at hogwarts and starts befriending his female interdimensional counterpart, Iris Potter, all while wanting to get revenge on Dumbledore and trying not to get too involved with Tonks… The beginning is a bit grizzly but overall it is definitely  more on the humorous side, and also poking fun at so many fandom chliches! (Last updated 6 months ago, so there is still hope…)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/10954546/1/Framed-Fractured Framed and fractured. During the fiendfyre-incident in the Room of Requirement Harry barely escapes through some kind of black hole. Now he’s stuck as a painting in the RoR, with a surprisingly sane, young and healthy looking Tom Riddle as the only visitor. The painting only decipts a bleak room, the door is shut and strange shadows lurk in the 4th wall whenever the RoR is not used. There is also an old diary there, speaking of monsters just outside of the room… – very interesting start, tom and harry haven’t really interacted yet but the descriptions of the timelessness in the painting and the “unexplained horror” vibe are fab. (Ongoing.)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/10136762/21/ The Case of the Man who was wanted. (Harry Potter x Sherlock crossover) Harry Potter lives as a fugitive after being accused and imprisoned of a string of murders after the defeat of voldemort. Sherlock gets called to solve the case of the mysterious death of the Dursley couple in Surrey and finds known terrorist and fugitive Harry Potter inside, who, unexpectedly, claims to be innocent. Sherlock gets involved in not only the world of witchcraft and wizardry, but also in a strange man who seems kind of hollow and has many well-kept secrets… (Again, the kind of lovecraftian creepy horror vibe i love. Ongoing.)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11115934/1/The-Shadow-of-Angmar The Shadow of Angmar. (HP x LOTR crossover) Harry gets summoned by the witch king as „the master of Death“. Broken and battered, he starts searching for a way home in an unknown world where his magic doesn’t work. Has FANTASTIC world building and a very bitter and world-weary Harry. (Ongoing)

Marvel Cinematic Universe

http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/425428 The Calculator by katsu. THIS IS MY FAVORITE FANFIC IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD. Just imagine Good Omens but more superheroes-and-supervillain themed. Loki is not going full villain like in the thor movie, but instead is more of a chaotic-neutral kind of guy more keeping the supervillainery for appearance’s sake and the occasional meddling to aleviate the boredom. But then he takes the meddling a bit too far, and karme comes to bite him in the butt. Big time. I really don’t want to say more about the plot bc it is so brilliant and original. Just read it. Also, have a quote (this is only a footnote, actually, so imagine what the real fic mus be like): “yes, he had filled several little leather-bound diaries with childish scrawls of red ink that read things like, “Die Thor” and “You never really accepted me!” And then he’d attended a few sessions of primal scream therapy and taken a modern dance course at the local community college. Between finding a constructive way to express his anger and making some lovely friends that he still had tea with every Wednesday afternoon while they chatted manicures, fashion, and lap dogs, he felt much more comfortable in his own skin these days. All it had really taken was escaping the poisonously macho atmosphere of Asgard, which according to Kevin was something like living in Omaha and not being interested in Football.“

http://archiveofourown.org/works/5460221 Genesis by teaberryblue. Reluctant to make the truth about their secret weapon known, the American Government tells the world that Captain America is a man named Steve Rogers.  According to public record, he died, tragically, in 1945, and he became legend.In 1998, the Avengers find a body trapped in ice. She’s alive. Her name is Eve. She has Captain America’s shield. Featuring a slightly different cast as the Avengers and brilliant discussion of gender issues, kinda whimsical-poetical writing style. (Oneshot, completed.)

Death Note

http://archiveofourown.org/works/461685 Murmur in the Shell. Light Yagami’s dead, L is dead. Yet the idea of them stays in the world, embodied by black notebooks that always will fall. History repeats, even if nobody wants to be a part of it. After all, there will always be new players. (Near, new!Kira. Really nice, jus a short ficlet about the roles we sometimes must play and the ideas of dead men  we pick up along the way.) (Oneshot, completed).

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/9380249/2/ Rationalising Death. Light Yagami finds the Death Note, we know the rest. But in this story, light talks all his steps through with his inner voices (like „Test It“ aka „Death“, Moral which everyone kinda ignores and also could be called Caution, or Practice). Its less cracky than it sounds now, i promise. Rather, it’s a very interesting character study bc it doesn’t just paint Kira as a sociopath with a god-complex (well, that too -) but explains his actions as being very, very human (while not excusing them). Seems to be dead at 10 chapters but i still would recommend reading it bc its brilliant, the style is a bit like hpmor’s. It explains the thought processes of everyone (L, Light, Misa, Ryuk, all that jazz)) very thoroughly and is also quite amusing (light comparing hinself to batman consantly, e.g.). But the best part is probably Misa’s characterisation (i’m not gonna spoil it for you but omg) –> https://m.fanfiction.net/s/10580913/1/Rationalising-Fiction Rationalising Fiction also check out this nice lil’  timestamp (recursive ff?) of another author wherein Misa realises she is a fictional character. Very meta, very lovely.

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/8415898/1/God-of-the-Machine God of the Machine by The Carnivourous Muffin. The OC/SI Anna Jones suddenly appears in Light Yagami’s bedroom. When you read about fictional characters they can fall kind of flat, not that they’re not interesting but you always know they’re not really like you. Light seems less scary, L less creepy and Misa… well Misa always seems insane, even in the Manga. So Anna Jones is fucking terrified, curses herself for not paying better attention to the details in the manga and has to consider her survival and the prices she’s willing to pay. (Yes, this is the Self-Insert Trope but played so well. Also very philosophical. Ongoing. Also, go read everything by this author while you’re at it.)

Other

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/9915682/5/ The Last Christmas. A industrial engineer takes up the mantle of santa claus and gets some dangerous ideas about the true meaning of Christmas… (No fandom, or is that like the mythology fandom?, anyways, it’s creepy and give’s you some food for thought, although the story itself isn’t that polished. Very interesting and original take on santa claus!) (Completed.)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/2865379/1/Nenju Nenju. Samurai Champloo. Because no anime has ever kindled a bigger need for a love triangle. This one’s fairly good and really long, with a nice dose of angst but a happy ending. (Mugen/Fuu, Jin/Fuu, Mugen/Yanusha)